left hand cramping

8

my favorite thing about byun baekhyun (birthday series):

i love how much of a bright person he is. like his super power, he’s like the light. he takes care of fans by giving great fanservice and takes so much initiative around his members in all that he does to show care and concern for them. his kindness makes him glow, almost like an angel with a halo above his head~ but to me, he really just is an angel. a perfectly imperfect one.” - @baehkkyun

“i like that baekhyun is so hardworking. he thinks about his fans and communicates with them. i like how he interacts with the other exo members and how he takes care of them. and how he always tries to stay positive/bright and cheer people up. i just feel happy when i look at him. he’s like a ray of sunshine.” - @wuboxian

Nico has two hands PAP 👏 PAP 👏 PAP 👏

Learning the Mermaid (Jefferson x Angelica)

“Learning the Mermaid”
Series: Hamilton: An American Musical
Genre: Hurt/Comfort
Rating: T for language
Summary: Jefferson and Madison come across a mermaid, but Jefferson is an ass, as usual. Slight Shuylerson-ish…sort of?  
First Published: 4/23/2017 at 4:06 PM on Tumblr
Written by: @rikareena​/ Foxiesango/ @life-liberty-andamindatwork

Tags: @a-schuylerr, @iputmyselfintothenarrative, @hamwriters

A/N:  The original intent was for this to be much more fluffy between Angelica/Thomas, but the longer it got the more I realized that it would take time for them to build the foundation of a healthy romantic ship.  So not a lot of fluff here, but a bit at the end.

As a side note, I don’t condone abusive relationships.  If someone has been mean to you physically and/or emotionally, you should cut them loose and not have anything more to do with them.

That said, I see potential as a follow up to this based on where I leave their relationship at the end, it’d just depend on if I ever get around to writing it.  I tried to make this more emotional though.

Enjoy!


               “T-Thomas…”

               “Yeaaah James…?” his voice was low, distant, distracted. His friend took a deep breath and clenched his fists at his sides, steeling his resolve to push past his meekness.

               “Thomas…you’re…you….you’re a well…”

               “Spit it out Madison.”

               “Y-you’re a jerk!” a pause.  Jefferson turned around and propped his arm over the back of his chair, raising an eyebrow at this colleague.  He chuckled,

               “A jerk?  What are you, five?  If you wanna call me a dick or an asshole just say it.  It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

               “Y-you’re torturing her!” at that, Thomas’ expression shifted from mildly amused to deadpan annoyance. He clicked his teeth, turning back around to his work.

               “I think…that’s a bit of a stretch, James.”

               “Have you seen her?!”

               “Yes.  She’s a scientific commodity and we’ll make a killing off of her!”

               “Unless you kill her first!” At this, Thomas rolled his eyes and fully turned in his swivel-chair (one of his favorite inventions) to face his lifelong friend.

               “James, what the hell are you talking about?  You’re not making any sense!”

               “Thomas, you kidnapped her from her home and you’ve had her trapped in the basement like some caged…animal…for weeks!”

               “In case you missed the memo, James, she’s NOT human.  That’s the whole point of our expedition—travelling the seas for new discoveries, and she is the biggest one yet!”

              “But at what cost?!” James cried. Thomas growled; he couldn’t believe his friend was bailing after everything they’d been through!

              “This could be our big break, and you want to just throw that out the window?! Are you fucking insane?!”

               “Have you tried communicating with her?  You don’t even know what she’s going through!” Madison was surprised at the steadiness in his speech.

               “She doesn’t speak English, James.”

               “Talking is not the only way to communicate with someone.” James said, his voice tight with exhaustion.  It was like trying to break through a cement block.  Thomas rolled his eyes again, swiveling his chair back around to pour over the papers on his desk.

               “I don’t have time for this.  I’ve got work to do,” he bit back.  James sighed, trying to ignore the feeling of his nails cutting into his palms as he turned to the doorway.  A pause.

               “She’s dying, Thomas,” he said lowly before exiting the room.  He didn’t see the inventor still, straightening his back and lifting his head.

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For the readers who want a brief explanation: Petra will be taking a brief hiatus for two reasons: So I can get excited about Petra’s story again AND so I can upgrade my digital workspace to ensure my drawing hand doesn’t cramp as much anymore.

For the readers who want full disclosure: The last Petra comic strip I completed left my drawing hand very cramped and me uninspired and rather scared. This entire arc has been written since early January and was excited to draw the remaining few strips! But when it finally came time to draw them…nothing. I talked to a couple of close friends/fellow artists and they all agreed that I need to take a break from it. As much as I feel like I should do more and just power through it, my drawing hand is starting to hurt and my passion for Petra is starting to fizzle. Both of these things are fixable and I am taking action now before it’s too late.

So for a brief time, Petra will be on hiatus. I want to keep giving Petra the same quality it has had for the past 3 years without making myself physically and mentally miserable. As for my drawing hand, my Cintiq13HD has finally taken a toll on my wrist and so I will be upgrading to a Cintiq22HD to try and prevent this from worsening. Along with a couple of other upgrades to my art workspace, I hope this will keep my hand from getting closer and closer to Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. (Actually, I hope and pray, yes.)

To be VERY CLEAR: I AM NOT GIVING UP ON PETRA! I still love this little bluebird and want to see how her tale concludes! But at the end of the day, this is a passion project. One I WILLINGLY work on because I can and want to. If it means leaving it be for now, so be it.

Thank you for your patience and for reading, and I hope to see you all real soon!

To keep up with any and all updates, visit my Twitter!

Day 6: Died Holding Hands

At 93 years old, Enjolras and Grantaire had been holding hands 72 years.

It had started years before they got together. Somehow, everyone had ended up in Grantaire’s flat, waiting anxiously for the Senate’s same-sex marriage decision.

“Sit down, Enjolras,” Grantaire had finally snapped. He grabbed Enjolras by the hand and dragged him onto the couch. And just didn’t let go. “Pacing won’t change anything.”

It turned out to be the correct decision. Enjolras clung to his fingers for the next several hours while the news broadcaster rehashed the proposed bill. Grantaire could feel him trembling with nerves and squeezed his hand.

Their hand holding continued in that vein until they both naturally reached for the other, even when they weren’t in distress.

“Are you sure that’s totally platonic?” Courfeyrac asked. Enjolras was reading over an essay he needed to turn in later that week and Grantaire was finishing a sketch. “That looks a little not platonic.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Grantaire stopped drawing for a moment. Drawing left-handed always made him cramp up.

“Are you alright?”

“Cramping, a bit.”

Enjolras dropped his right hand and took his left in both of his. “I thought I told you to tell me when that happens, R?”

Courfeyrac watched with disbelief as Enjolras abandoned his schoolwork to massage a cramp out of Grantaire’s hand. There was the faintest trace of a blush on both of their faces, but otherwise, they didn’t show any indications that this was weird in any way.

From there on, it felt stranger to see Enjolras and Grantaire not holding hands. As soon as they came within touching distance of each other, they were holding hands. They held hands during meetings, during shared classes, during rallies, going shopping, walking down the road. Combeferre was the first one to walk in on them in a screaming argument, still holding hands.

Once they started officially dating, Grantaire made a special effort to hold Enjolras’ hand every day… until he realized that they already did that. He felt more than a little ridiculous when Joly pointed it out to him.

“Are you honestly going to complain that you two are so mushy?” Joly very much wanted to laugh, and the only thing stopping him was Musichetta pinching his elbow.

Yes.

“Why?”

“How the hell am I supposed to find something more stupidly mushy to do with him?”

By the time that Enjolras and Grantaire were engaged, they’d found much more disgustingly romantic things to do together.

Grantaire’s favorite was always holding Enjolras’ hand.

It really shouldn’t have surprised anyone that when Enjolras and Grantaire passed away, they were holding hands.

anonymous asked:

For that "The way you said “I love you.“" prompt thing: Eruri, No. 17. Pleeeeease. (The-Eruri-In-Her-Eyes)

whoop here is it (sorry this took me like 4 days) 

still accepting prompts from this list gimme something to do while i run from my responsibilities. 

Read on AO3

#17, when the broken glass litters the floor


Everything is harder. He tried, at first, to sort out his day-to-day tasks in his head, to mentally prepare himself for the challenges that would lie ahead and find comfort in the few things that wouldn’t change, that he wouldn’t have to relearn backwards. But it changed everything, and now everything is backwards. Brushing his teeth is uncomfortable, almost painful, as if he’s doing something to his body that he isn’t meant to do. Fixing his hair takes twice as long, and he hasn’t quite managed to dress himself, the buttons of his shirt slipping and fumbling under shaking fingers.

Erwin tries to keep in good spirits about it– he has to. The commander can’t afford to crack, to break, to be weak, no matter how weak he feels, and it is only when he’s alone, safe behind a locked door, that he allows his frustration to show, shoving a pile of papers off his desk as ink drips onto the wood, his left hand cramping, not used to the strain of being needed, his handwriting looking like a child’s. It’s only a moment, a short break from wearing the exhausting mask that has all but molded to his face. It nearly slips again when he fumbles to pick up the stray papers, finding it difficult to hold his balance while he gathers them, finding it even harder to stack them back up in a neat pile, to destroy the evidence. By the time Levi appears by his side, (hadn’t he locked that door?) he’s buried in his work again, as if nothing ever happened. He pretends not to notice the way the smaller man looks at him, as if he’d been there and seen it all, a thin brow raised and a thousand questions in his eyes that he will never ask.

Levi is something of a godsend bestowed to him in the form of a strange, irritable human. A lovely, brutal miracle. The thought has echoed again and again through his mind over the years, more times than he could count. It’s there when he watches Levi fly, blades drawn, slender body zipping through the sky on cable wires, every time Levi rides beside him as they return to the walls, somehow unharmed, somehow whole. It’s there when Levi pokes and prods at him late into the night, shoving food and water at him as he works endlessly, pulling him from his desk as the candles burn down into useless puddles with the words go to bed as if there’s no other option. When he woke from fevered dreams to find Levi by his side in the infirmary, somehow looking even more tired than Erwin had ever seen him but fussing and prodding all the same. When he returned to his office, still recovering and expecting to drown in a sea of unsigned documents, unfinished reports, only to find that Levi (how?) had gotten to them first.

Levi is something of a godsend and every time Erwin feels himself slipping, Levi is there waiting to catch him.

He’s drinking green tea when it happens, a cup Levi brought for him with breakfast that morning, a splash of milk with too much sugar, the way he likes it. The smaller man is talking, complaining about one of the cadets (“that smug little asshole” he calls him, Erwin is half-listening as he works but can gather he means Kirschstein), about yet another failed attempt at getting Hanji to bathe, the muddy footprints he found in the halls and his ongoing investigation to find the culprit and make them “scrub the fucking floors until their grubby fingers fall off”. Levi’s morning, as always, has been busy, and even as he retains only half the information, it never ceases to amuse Erwin to listen to the smaller man’s biting complaints. It’s a routine they’ve had for years, one he’s come to depend like he’s come to depend on Levi simply being there against his better judgement.

He’s still holding his tea when he rises to pull open the blinds from the window. Levi has moved on into a lament of the two-hour meeting they’d sat through the day before, and Erwin moves to transfer the cup into his right hand.

When the glass shatters, warm liquid pooling around the tiny fragments, standing defiantly against the hardwood, all he can do is stare. He’d nearly forgotten, if only for a moment, one brief shining moment–he’d felt whole–but it’s practically spelled out now in the mess before him: one arm– he’d nearly forgotten.

Levi is crouched in the middle of it before he’s able to come back to himself, picking up the larger shards by hand before he can react. All he can do is kneel beside him, his own hand smacked away by a much smaller one whenever he reaches out to help.

“I got it.”

“I’m sorry–” Gray eyes shift from the floor towards him, and Levi’s voice is soft when he speaks.

“Don’t, Erwin.”

“I’d… for a moment, I thought…” He shakes his head, feeling foolish, embarrassed. Words have always been his best weapon but now he can’t force himself to choke out what they both already know.

“It’s fine. You’re fine.” Erwin hadn’t noticed that Levi had already dragged the waste basket over until he’s shaking the glass from his hands over it, tiny droplets of blood smearing across his fingers.

“Levi–”

“It’s fine.” The smaller body stiffens when Erwin takes his hand and, like with everything else he’s acting against his better judgement when he presses the little cuts to his lips. “That’s disgusting,” Levi protests, but his voice has gone softer still, almost a whisper, and when Erwin meets his gaze, his eyes are wide.

“You never leave my side… why?” Erwin knows the answer and perhaps he always has, but he can’t help asking, if only to hear the other man say it. Levi lets out a breath, a huff that might be some kind of nervous laugh.

“Don’t ask me stupid questions, you know why.” He mutters, giving a weak attempt to pull his hand back, still held gently against Erwin’s mouth. “Let me finish cleaning this shi–”

“You love me.”

“Yes.” Levi swallows, finally jerking away. He rises quickly, turning so Erwin can’t see his face going red. “I need to get a broom.”

He’s reaching for the door when Erwin stands, returning to his desk with a small smile tugging at his lips.

“I love you.”

Levi’s hand freezes on the doorknob, and for a moment he doesn’t move. “Good.” He steals a glance back at Erwin, who has busied himself with paperwork once again, a new calm set over him, one Levi isn’t sure he’s seen before.

They don’t talk about it after Levi returns with the broom and cleans the rest of the mess, but he scoots his chair closer to Erwin’s and pulls the blinds himself. A fresh cup of tea appears on the desk, a splash of milk and too much sugar.

I can’t sing or speak confidently about my love for you, so I write, and I continuously write until it’s early morning and my hand’s cramping. I have bookshelves full of journals with excerpts about you written in between the lines. I highlight the phrases in books that remind me of you, of us, of you and I together. My playlists are full of loud music with meaningful lyrics hidden inside the torturous sounds of drums and electric guitars. I show my love in the ways words are strung together, in the ways where a shiver chills down your spine, with your heart skipping a beat; I love intensively with the power of words. While you’re out screaming “I love you” from the top of your lungs, I’ll be silently writing away into the early mornings smearing the ink with my left, cramped hand.

- L.T // my form of love ( @ltwrites )

3

Day Two:

The cramping of my right arm has happily given way to a far more intense cramping in the fourth and fifth digits of my left hand. Hurray.

Today’s sheets continue the practice of verticals and linking with the intention of developing a coherent slant and easier transition between letters.  This time, I varied between creating solid lines and loops: the letters e, U, u, w, and l, as well as the bases for i and t

These pages are mind-numbingly repetitive; however, by the time that I was halfway down the first page, the mark making became curiously comfortable.  Not in a physical sense – oh gods, oh gods, my poor screaming hand – but in a mentally familiar manner.  Now, if you’re a bit of a smart arse, you may feel like pointing out that the marks might have felt familiar because I’d just made a few dozen of them.  And you’d be right, but I’d still glare at you, and maybe throw something at your head.

This specific feeling, though, was related to the process of visually matching the slant of each line to its predecessor. 

{I should state, at this point, that the entire exercise was done while listening to an audiobook of Middlemarch, and my brain is doing that annoying prose-style-attempted-copy-thingy.  In this case, it’s manifesting as long and convolutedly precise polysyllabic sentences.  I’m annoyed, too.}

Anywho:
There was a period of time in which I did a lot of crosshatching.  Emphasis on the italics.  One of the things that would happen would be a sort of fugue state in which I’d be laying down line after line as quickly as possible, while trying not to change the slant.  Changing the slant changes the surface that you’re trying to describe, and so should only be done purposefully.  Keeping the slant the same lets you build up the illusion of a flat surface.  Layering flat surfaces builds up the illusion of less flat surfaces, much in the same way that a three dimensional model constructed from flat polygons can still emulate a curved object.  Only, y'know, more artistic and less of a 1980’s vision of the future.

I don’t think this way when I write naturally, as the formation of letters is simply muscle memory.  In fact, I’m generally thinking about A) What I’m about to write next and B) Which letters I should be using, and in what order, because I’m distracted by what comes next and just misspelled “the.”

Nothing I’m currently doing is integrated into a strong muscle memory–I’m focusing on these building blocks in order to create that exact thing–so it feels like my brain is falling back on a more familiar experience.  Namely, the crosshatching line-matching.  At the time, I was sorta proud at how consistently I was able to match my slant. 

Then I looked at the pages as a whole and cried inside.  Oh, the wiggly.

X-Files Fic: She’s Beauty, She’s Grace- Chapter Five

Previous chapters: one | two | three | four


“Left turn, one-two-three, right turn, one-two-three, back, back, back!  Arms up high, ladies!  Smiles on!  Shoulders back!  And… left kick- come on, higher than that!  Now sashay right, two, three, and kick!  Kick!  Let’s go, girls, I know your legs go higher than that!”

Scully’s entire abdomen is on fire.  Her breath is coming in short, shallow pants, and it’s taking everything she’s got to keep going, to keep moving, to finish the eleventh repetition of the dance routine with the rest of the contestants.  So far, she’s managed to play it off as being winded- some of the other women are out of breath and definitely lagging behind on their steps- but if they don’t take a break soon, she’s not going to be able to go on.

Scully catches a glimpse of Skinner standing in the wings, with a handful of other pageant coaches, holding a notebook at the ready, pretending to take notes.  He’s looking decidedly concerned, and Scully waves him off with a subtle shake of her head.  The last thing she needs is Skinner making her stand out more than she already does by requesting a break for her when none of the other women are asking for one.  But luckily, at that moment the dance instructor, an obscenely fit woman named Miranda, hits a button on the remote she’s holding, killing the music.

“Okay, ladies!  Ten minutes to stretch and grab some water, and then we’ll finish up!”  Sighing in relief, the women disperse, retrieving water bottles and sweat towels from back stage.  The moment Scully takes a step, however, the shooting pains in her abdomen stop her cold.  She gasps, her hand flying to her stomach.  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Skinner heading towards her, looking extremely worried, probably about to pull her from the case and send her back to Washington… but before he can get there, there’s a voice at Scully’s shoulder.

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