this isn't fanfiction

wow the quality really went out the window here.

@jaxonsilva do you think voltage would suspend my account if i emailed them a POC MC idea every ten minutes for three weeks straight?

because it’s tempting.

anyways @lovestruckvoltage if you’re listening please give us a chubby/poc/ non generic MC thanks here’s my idea for one to get you started

are u ever reading a fanfic and u get to a specific scene and ur like ‘wait i’ve read this before’ but u know u haven’t read the story at all because it was only published yesterday but u SWEAR you’ve read this scene somewhere and it’s like fanfic déjà vu and u can’t for the life of u remember where the hell u remember it from

Of Hidden Talents (Feysand Fluff)

So this just popped into my head last night when I couldn’t sleep. Set post-ACOWAR and contains nothing but fluff.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” Feyre found herself commenting, smiling slightly as she tried not to groan in pleasure under Rhys’ hands.

He chuckled from where he was seated behind her, the sound sending a thrill through her spine, even decades into their relationship. “I should hope so; I have to keep my High Lady entertained somehow. Wouldn’t want her eternity to get boring.”

“Boring? How could I ever get bored with a mate who thinks so much of himself?” She shot back, though its effect was lost when she leaned further into him, her hands running over the legs that were on either side of her. She could feel the delicious heat of his bare chest so close behind her, the thin nightdress she was wearing a poor barrier between them. 

Rhys’ fingers continued to comb through her hair, expertly separating it into three equal parts. “I take offense to that.”

Feyre let out an aborted snort. “No, you don’t.” 

“No, I don’t,” Rhys agreed, in a blithe voice.

They fell into a comfortable silence then, built on years of learning how to just be together. Neither of them felt the need to always fill the air between them with pointless chatter. Oh, they liked to joke and bicker… but they also knew when to let words fade away and just enjoy each other’s company.

It had been happening more of late, likely because Rhys had refused to leave Feyre’s side for the past few months. He was a constant presence at her side, though he did his best not to hover too much (he knew all too well how she loathed feeling locked in, how it still made her bones lock up in fear, even after all this time). He needn’t have worried; Feyre never, never felt tied down by her mate, never felt confined by him. She knew that even now, when he was so concerned about her, he would give her space if she asked.

(He’d once told her, in a fit of hopeless romanticism, that he would give her the very stars above Velaris if he could. Feyre had believed him, of course, if only because she said she would do the same for him.)

So Feyre was quiet, letting Rhys gently braid her hair as if he’d done it hundreds of times before. She’d been utterly surprised when he’d offered to do it for her earlier, after he’d heard her curse in front of the mirror while she struggled with trying to tame her wild locks into something more manageable. Feyre was so tired these days and sore too, the heavier she got. And she was constantly hot then cold, her hair always in the way and, Cauldron, she didn’t care for it much now and all the work it took to keep it neat, not when she was already so uncomfortable. She’d been beyond tempted to just chop it all off, had Rhys not stepped in when he did with his innocuous offer.

At first she tried to deny the existence of a problem but she really couldn’t hide anything from Rhys; he knew her too well, felt her struggles through their mating bond and tried to ease her discomfort as much as he could. (Rightly so, Feyre sometimes thought when she particularly annoyed with how limited she was lately, considering he’s the one that put me into this situation in the first place.) 

So here they were, Rhys’s gentle hands working wonders on Feyre’s nerves, his fingers softly tugging at her hair as he built the braid into something spectacular; Feyre herself was usually no slouch when it came her hair (at least when she wasn’t so cranky), but she had the feeling that Rhys was even better. So many hidden talents, this mate of mine.

“Where’d you learn to do this?” she finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. She’d felt his hesitancy when he first offered, that pang of grief that he’d been unable to conceal from her.

“My sister,” Rhys said after a long pause. His voice had lost that light-hearted edge from earlier, filled instead with wistful regret. “She’d come to me when our mother was too busy for it. She could have asked the servants, of course… but she liked to spend a few moments with me, I think. She continued to ask even long after she could do it by herself. I never had the heart to say no.” 

Feyre’s own heart ached for her mate, for the family he’d lost so long ago. He rarely spoke of the little sister she’d never meet, even less so than his mother. From what she’d gleaned over the years, his sister had been quite a bit younger than him, had looked up to him in a way no one else ever had. Feyre couldn’t even imagine what it had been like for him to have to bury her broken body.

She rubbed her thumbs comfortingly over the sides of his knees. I’m sorry, she sent softly to him through their bond. I’m sorry

Rhys’ mind caressed hers. Me too.

Feyre kept running her hands soothingly over him, tempted to turn around and pull him to her, wrap her arms around those broad shoulders of his. She didn’t though; the act of braiding seemed to calm him… like coming home to something he’d thought he’d long forgotten. (Still, she wished she could protect him from all the pain he endured… but that same pain had made him into the wonderful male he was today.) 

When he was finally done, she saw his finished work briefly through his eyes, the image flashing through her mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Feyre said with a smile, reaching up to run her fingers over the intricate pattern he’d managed to weave her hair into. “Thank you.”

Rhys’ strong arms around wrapped around her body, finally pulling her back to rest against his chest. “I figured it was about time I got some practice,” he whispered in her ear as he moved one hand to cover her rounded belly. “I wouldn’t want our poor daughter to be left with an inept father.”

Feyre tangled her fingers with Rhys’, holding them over her stomach, where their unborn baby was slowly growing. “You could never be an inept father, Rhys,” she told him softly. Rhys only pressed kiss under her jaw in response, though she could feel his quiet gratitude for her faith in him. “Besides, how do you know it’ll be a girl?” Feyre continued, turning her head so she could arch an eyebrow at him.

Mischief lit his violet eyes. “Perhaps I asked Elain.”

Feyre leveled a look at him. “Elain would never tell you, even if she knew.” Her sister had become quite the responsible seer over the years, never revealing more than was necessary. (Well, that and Feyre had wanted it to be a surprise, telling Elain in no uncertain terms not to let Rhys charm the answer out of her.)

“Then let’s call it a father’s intuition,” Rhys replied now, unable to stop his grin.

Feyre laughed, leaning her head against the edge of his jaw. “She’s going to have you wrapped around her little finger, isn’t she?” 

“Of course,” he kissed her forehead, his happiness a near tangible thing. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Feyre could only cuddle in closer. She looked at where their joined hands were resting on her belly. Don’t worry, baby, she thought, we love you already, no what you turn out to be.

(A few years later, when their daughter runs up to Feyre, her hair braided in a crown around her head, little flowers carefully tucked in the midnight blue strands, she doesn’t need to ask who did it. Rhys’ proud smile is answer enough.)

Life Without You

Part Two

Masterlist

It was odd, really. He pretended that you meant nothing to him, like he’s never met you before. He gave you that warm smile, introducing himself, saying it was a pleasure to meet you. You would think that he would at least show some kind of emotion. Sadness, hurt, joy, anything. His lack of emotion was getting on your nerves.

Maybe he forgot who you were. No, no that couldn’t be it. He knew exactly who you were and what he was doing to you. The question is, why? Why is he torturing you? Did it give him some kind of sick pleasure?

Then it happened.

You didn’t expect it, at all. Your heart breaking into smaller pieces. This is my girlfriend, Megan. Megan, this is (Y/N), an old friend. An old friend? Is that all you were to him? You looked over at her, instantly regretting it. She was perfect, much skinnier than you, taller, prettier, absolutely stunning. Of course Harry would fall for someone as amazing as her and not you. You were boring, nothing unique. It hurt much more than you’d ever admit.

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anonymous asked:

I'm new to your blog and I am madly in love with it! Also, I wanted to ask what would Bucky's reaction be if his girlfriend dressed up as a pinup girl to tease him?

So, as a pin-up girl, imagine yourself something like this, but along with the long black stockings, held up by garter belts.

You’d be dressed to the nines, cherry-red lips and neatly quaffed hair, pinned down to a side, hair in perfect ringlets, bouncing down your shoulders. The blouse tied down, just enough to accentuate your best assets and that mini shirt would leave very little to his imagination.

Your look would what be describe as the one the brings your man down to his knees.

You’d give yourself a final look, making sure everything is just as described by your boyfriend, only then you’d be satisfied with your look. Bucky had once disclosed to you about one of his fantasies, that being seeing you in a pin-up dress.

And just the thought of him seeing you like this would make you jittery.

You’d be sitting by the dresser, fluffing up your curls when he’d walk in. Your eyes would meet looking at each other through the mirror watching him give you a double check with his blue eyes. He’d be surprised for sure. Then slowly, a smirk would pull at his lips, as he’d take his steps forward, practically strutting towards you.

“I see someone’s been busy,” he’d mummer as you stand up to face him. “God, who told you it’d be fine to wear this without giving me a warning?”

You’d capture your bottom lip between your teeth, eyes feigning innocence, as you’d casually slide your arms around his shoulders locking yours wrists behind his neck.

“Oh, no. You don’t get to act all innocent, doll. Not after wearing this,” he’d chuckle lowly, the blue of his eyes disappearing as they’d land on your half exposed breasts, his hands would travel down to sneak under your skirt, grabbing a fistful of your plump flesh in his hands. You’d squirm and squeal, the scarlet color of your lips matching with your cheeks, in part embarrassment when Bucky would give one of your ass-cheek a sharp spank.

“Now, I tell you what, we know this little number won’t last longer than one night,” he’d start to back up and leave you standing right in the middle of the room. “So we’ll take a picture or two, with you posing for each of them as I desire. Okay, sweetness?”

“Okay, Sarge.” You’d smirk, watching his eyes turn darker at using his rank.


also welcome to my mess of an account!!! 

Water Under the Bridge: A Nessian Smut Fic

For @blogtealdeal, who loves Nessian wing sin and who has blessed this fandom with Moriel fanart I never thought we would get to see. You are an absolute *blessing* Nicole. Thank you for all of the amazing work that you do. I wish there was more I could do to say thanks because that Moriel fanart killed my heart and brought it back to life again. <3

Title comes from the Adele song. It doesn’t totally fit lyrically for this fic, but it’s all I listened to while I wrote it and I don’t really do music while writing, so… yeah.

Summary: Nesta discovers in a fit of rage that Feyre isn’t the only one who can summon Illyrian wings at will. After a particularly long day of flying leaves her body aching, Cassian is there to sooth the pain in ways Nesta has never experienced before. Featuring Illyrian!Nesta and much wing sin. NSFW.

AO3 Linkage

Water Under the Bridge

The first time Nesta discovers she has wings - she’s screaming at Cassian.

Not just a faint whine of annoyance. Not a simple shout over some shallow disagreement. Not torn up words spat inches from his face.

But top of her lungs, blue in the face, going to kick his ass into the new year screaming.

The argument was stupid, as usual. And when it’s over, she can’t even quite remember what horrible thing it was about. The war had ended. Cassian had fought what little he could. Nesta had left to do her part. Maybe there were bitter words exchanged over still bleeding wounds. Maybe not.

All Nesta knows is that one moment she is so absolutely enraged at the jab Cassian let slip (that she knows he did not truly mean) and the next, her back feels the way her lungs do drowning at the bottom of the ocean, swimming up, up, up in a desperate search for air until finally that bubble of water bursts, and the muscles of her back split open in agonizing pain and -

She has wings.

Great, glorious membranous wings that stretch wide around her and seem to absorb all that wasted energy she spent and threaten Cassian for her.

Cassian - whose jaw had promptly hit the floor at the sight of those wings as they unfurled and cast red and gold shadows about the ground in the sunlight.

Nesta had stood back smugly that day at the way Cassian stared at her. She didn’t even fight him or pretend to stay angry when he stepped close, slid his hands around her waist and up along her back to the base of the wings as if to touch them, and she saw the sparkling in his eyes like diamonds as he whispered, awestruck, in her ear, “Nesta.”

That had set her grinning ear to ear.

It takes weeks for Nesta to figure out how to summon the wings at will. Whatever magic the Cauldron gave her over them, it’s not easy to figure out. And once she has mastered bringing the wings out at will, they’re weak and untrained. The muscles are loose and imbalanced, unable to support the size of her wingspan and Cauldron is her wingspan massive.

(Cassian eyes it for weeks trying not to compare.)

At first, Cassian insists she refrain from flying. She has to do stretching exercises to build up her strength, but Nesta grows restless rather quickly. Another shouting match between them - You may literally die if you attempt to jump off that cliff Nesta Archeron - has her threatening to have Feyre train her, or Mother help him, Rhys. And so finally, Cassian relents.

And then… Nesta is flying. Soaring high into the sky over Velaris.

She can only handle a few minutes at a time, but fuck if it doesn’t feel glorious. The world is stretched out below her and she feels like she could control it all from where she swoops and bellows above it. Every time she lands, every time the muscles scream with pain and tiredness, she hates it and forces Cass to help her keep training, keep going because damn it - she is going to master this.

It only takes one time - that first time in the air and Nesta doesn’t know how she can live again if the Cauldron hadn’t given her this gift. Maybe this was the Cauldron’s way of making up for the other awful things it did to her. She doesn’t quite mind.

Minutes eventually stretch into longer episodes. An hour. Then a few. Until she can fly just as long as Cassian. He wouldn’t be surprised if she could go longer than him.

But it’s a struggle getting there. Her wings are so large and her body has become one hell of a beast to support up in the air. And all Nesta wants to do for months on end is fly. So naturally, Cassian finds himself on the receiving end of many an endless, salty landing with Nesta.

“Again,” she snaps at him.

“Nesta,” and it’s a warning.

Nesta swivels on her feet and those wings flex behind her, Nesta’s own brand of warning. “I said, again.”

Cassian crosses his arms with a wide berth at his legs and tosses one of those taunting little smiles she both loathes and adores. “You didn’t say please.”

But Nesta doesn’t back down. Not by a long shot. She doesn’t even stand still. She takes two great strides bridging the distance between them and leans right up into his face as far as she can on the tips of her toes, her leathers groaning around her body as she reaches. “You didn’t earn it, sweetheart,” she snarls. “I want to go again.”

He knows she’ll kill him if he lets out the chuckle he has locked inside his chest. So instead, he gently grips her shoulders and leans down until their foreheads are almost touching.

And thank the Mother she doesn’t pull away from that touch.

“Nesta,” he says. “You just flew for an hour straight. That’s farther than you’ve ever come before and Cauldron, I’m proud. But you need to rest. I’m not joking when I say you could kill yourself if you go too far.” His hands slide slowly, sweetly from her shoulders to her neck until he cups her face, but Nesta feels so tight - so tense in that hold. His little spitfire in all that raging spirit always. It makes him feel light as air. “I’d really prefer it if you didn’t die, hmm?”

Nesta’s eyes soften for just a moment, her shoulders slumping. She dances up on the tips of her toes again and Cassian thinks she might lean into him finally, maybe even kiss him the way she sometimes does after she’s been flying for the day and the wind has left her breathless and she takes Cassian home to discover entirely new ways of feeling the rush flying creates in them both…

But just when her lips graze his own, Nesta teases out, “I said again, Commander,” and Cassian curses, “So we go again.” And Nesta can tell by how close they’re standing that Cassian’s other Illyrian skills are kicking into overdrive.

He takes a great breath, adjusting his stance and likely certain other parts beneath his pants, but releases his hold on her. “Alright, Ness. We go again.”

They do. And with the wind in her hair and the sun on her skin, it is heaven.

Cassian insists they limit themselves to ten more minutes only.

So naturally, Nesta flies for twenty.

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Craft vs. Art

I was thinking about @jenroses’s answer about the arbitrary nature of what constitutes the line between fanfiction and original fiction, and I started thinking about how it relates to the supposed differences between craft and art, and also why doing something that’s considered more of a “craft” can sometimes be more creatively freeing than working on “art.”

Given that I do needle arts, this craft vs. art thing is an issue that comes up a lot. Crafts seem to be things that people classify as something to keep your hands busy. The implication is something small in meaning. “Not something that would go in a museum.” Pleasure, not “real work.” Cross-stitch, needlepoint, embroidery, knitting, crochet, quilting, weaving (basket and cloth), beading, but also woodworking and blacksmithing and pottery. These are all things that are seen to require skill to do well, but the end results are only rarely held up as examples of “art,” and are thus not often seen as truly creative endeavors by people outside that crafting community.

If the work isn’t seen as 100% the maker’s original idea, no working from instructions or patterns at any point, is it really art? they ask.

Does it matter? I counter.

When I started writing fic this past June, I hadn’t written fiction of any kind in 16 years. Nor had I drawn or painted. My artistic creativity, as I had been told to define it, had seemed burned out, gone, dead. All I’d been doing in those years (“all”) was extremely complex cross-stitch, temari (a Japanese form of geometric embroidery), and knitting. It was the temari that really grabbed me, so I worked hard enough at it that I started to get some recognition for making original pieces, which, in the temari world, means combining techniques that are centuries old in possibly novel ways, or at least novel colors. And at this point, people started asking me what it was that kept me coming back to temari. Why did I keep doing it, sometimes variations of the same design again and again? The answer I came up with was this:

I like the way temari sets up rigid constraints that you must work within (the geometric divisions, the stitching techniques), but then challenges you to be as creative as possible within those constraints. Sure, I did that particular pattern five times in a row, but each time I varied the colorway, or I explored how changing just one element would affect the overall final look. And that spurred me to greater and greater creativity.

Fanfiction is very much the same for me. Exploring how to be as creative as possible in a few areas while operating within a set of constraints is oddly freeing. I can experiment with changing just one aspect of canon and explore how that would change the overall dynamic of the established world, or I can push everything into an AU setting and work to keep the character dynamics recognizable even with everything else changed. And if creativity within constraint is what’s inspiring me to actually write/draw/stitch, I’m not going to look down on that.

Nor should anyone.

Blur that line in your mind. It’s all art. It’s the value judgements that are fake.

Opportunities

Anon: College Klance, where Keith’s sick but he has a really important test in one of his classes so he goes to class anyway. Keith and Lance happen to have that class together, and normally Lance just tries to ignore the other boy, but the Keith waddles in wearing a big coat, scarf and a wool beanie. It’s like 80 degrees out, so he knows somethings off. Bonus: For Keith being light headed and having to be carried back to his dorm room. (PS Thank you for writing awesome fics)

A/N: So I heard you guys liked pining Lance. Cashing in the bonus, someone should draw Keith in winter gear with the scarf covering his face up to his bright-red nose.


Lance hadn’t noticed the boy before. He hadn’t noticed that mullet hair, or that red jacket, or that little glance they shared when the boy would walk in a minute before class started-

Okay, maybe he’d noticed. But that’s just because the guy sat in front of him in the lecture hall! How could he not look at the way his stupid hair turned up at the ends or the stupid way he twirled his stupid pencil with his stupid nice fingers-

Okay. Maybe he’d done more than notice. Maybe he’d put in some extra effort into trying to see the boy’s name on his test. Maybe he’d lost track of class while watching the boy lazily doodle on his notes. Maybe he’d seen ‘Keith Kogane’ on the list of packages at the front desk of his dorm hall and almost choked. Just maybe, though. Probably not. Definitely not.

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Batman Isn’t Real

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader // James Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Nat Romanov

Warning: Just cute fluff//silliness

As you step off the elevator you hear voices followed by a squeal of joy from your son, before sudden silence. You and Nat exchange a look as you come into the kitchen, a whispered voice coming from your husband hits your ears.

“Shoot that’s mom.” Followed by a baby giggle. “This was Sam’s idea.” Steve whispers.

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2

It had been so simple, really.

Go back.

Learn.

Return.

The scrawl on the inside of his wrist was messy this time. As if written in a dazed hurry.

‘You’re here. You’re here. You’re alive. You’re finally here…’

And on it went.

Over and over again.

The words disappeared and reappeared.

The elegant slope of each letter almost mesmerizing, even in this obvious state of distress the writer was in.

Alas: nothing ever went according to plan in his life.

There was a flicker of something in the reader’s mind. Something that had been eerily dormant until then. Something he hadn’t known was missing.

He was so screwed.

The Boy-Who-Lived clenched his fist and clutched the special time turner around his neck protectively.

This didn’t make any sense.

He didn’t have a soulmate.

But the hopeful scrawl on his arm seemed to mock him happily and clearly suggested otherwise.

What really confused him, though, was that the black calligraphy looked so… familiar.

Familiar because it brought back memories of pipes and obliviate and-

“Ah, Harry Potter, I assume?”

Said boy’s head whipped around to take in Dumbledore, who stood at the office’s entrance with a warm smile on his face.

And a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

- Tomarry [Time Travel + Soulmate AU]

we tried hard to stand it. we

were barely human. we were bodies

stacked with pain. we never said sorry,
didn’t wanna. you were always drunk
& sad & too far gone for that. I was
terrible & I didn’t care about being better.
but now you’re standing in my bedroom.
now you’re scared & you say you
wanna get into heaven. you wanna

stand in some form of light that isn’t
filtered through clouds of crude smoke.
good luck, & who knows, maybe god
will forgive us for all of this. the stones
we threw, the ankles we bit, the people
we kissed. showing up at the gates
with our tails between our legs.

starved & mad, two dogs who missed
their last meal, licking our wounds &
itching for a fair fight.

there so much to get mad about.
go ahead pick something. imagine
if it helped. imagine if mattered.
I didn’t cry when you left. I just
circled ‘round the block & waited
for you to come back. because
you always do. because I know
how this goes. we pretend we
aren’t the same & then we realize
we are & we pretend we don’t care.
we need each other & that’s all we do.

it’s crazy the things you do for a friend.

it’s crazy the way you’ll act for love.

(Zimbits, slight AU, 2.8K, under a cut because it got long.)

They asked him every year. Sometimes, even more than once a year if he wanted to be on Samwell’s promotional material.

Jack said no every time because he really didn’t have any interest in having his face plastered on billboards and on every brochure and course calendar they handed out to students, both prospective and current. He’d had enough secondhand publicity from his parents’ careers and he wasn’t going to go seeking it out while he was at Samwell.

The only allowance he made was when he was photographed with the rest of the hockey team because he understood that hockey was a big selling point when it came to convincing people to attend their school. One of the team photos was enlarged and put up in the sports complex, right between the women’s volleyball team and Samwell’s dance team. It had already gotten vandalized this year by some drunk LAX bros and had to be replaced (which the university was not happy about and last Jack heard, the bros responsible were on suspension from the team).

The university couldn’t get Jack, but they got Ransom and Holster to agree to photos other than the team one. There were some of them pretending to study in the library, or looking happy and not-stressed as they socialized. These ended up on the cover of last year’s Campus Life magazine and both Holster and Ransom both joked that they were wasting their time at school when they should be modelling instead. It still didn’t stop the recruitment team from continually asking Jack who refused to change his mind.

Little did he know it was about to be changed for him.

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On a Really Basic Itty-Bitty Level

Fandom: Thomas Sanders/Sanders Sides

Pairing: Logicality/PTA Sanders (Logan-centric)

Summary: “ No matter how long you’ll live, you’ll never touch another human being.”  Based on @the-prince-and-the-emo‘s post, Logan struggles with the weight knowledge can bring, and Morality comforts him with his own weird perspective.

Warnings: angst (with a happy ending), existentialism(?), dubious science

Hi there! So this is my first Sander’s Sides fic, and the first thing I’ve written in like three months, lol. I’m trying to get back into it. I really hope you enjoy, let me know what you think and if i should write more :)

@sanders-sideblog​ asked me to tag, so here you go, thank you so much for the encouragement! I’m going to go ahead and tag @prinxietys​ and @dan-yuna​ because they’re also cool inspirational writers (hope you don’t mind) 

Now that that small novel is done, let’s get to the actual fic!

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some reminders for artists

  • it’s okay if you can’t speedpaint like the people on youtube do
  • it’s okay if it takes you longer than an hour to finish a piece
  • it’s okay if it takes you longer than a week to finish a piece
  • it’s okay if it takes you longer than a month to finish a piece
  • it’s okay to take however long you need to finish a piece
  • it’s okay to never finish a piece (unless someone commissioned u and u got money for it. then u need to pick it up, but communicating with the person you’re working with is always better than not! 9 times out of 10, they’ll be understanding)
  • it’s okay if your art gets 5 notes
  • it’s okay if your art gets 1 note
  • it’s okay if your art gets 0 notes
  • it’s okay if you paint on thousands of layers
  • it’s okay if you paint on one layer
  • it’s okay if it takes you hours on one part of the picture to get it to look right
  • it’s okay if you spend more time or less time on certain parts of the piece than on others
  • it’s okay if you draw lots of fanart
  • it’s okay if you draw just for fun
  • it’s okay to take breaks between drawings that last long, long times
2

Soulmate.

He still remembered the looks full of pity he received whenever his friends saw his empty wrists.



He had a soulmate.

Knowing that the person who was supposed to love and cherish him unconditionally was simply not there was— right beside the absence of his parents in his life— the most painful thing that could have happened to him.

Merlin. He had an actual soulmate!

Whereas his first instincts had been to panic, there was now an indescribable feeling of hope and longing bubbling in his chest.

Because, if the words on his wrists were anything to go by, his soulmate had been waiting for him just as much as he had for them.

You’re here. You’re finally here. Thought you were dead. You…

Never mind that the familiarity of those letters still caused an inexplainable rush of anxiety to run through his body.

With newfound determination, Harry Potter followed his new head of house, a certain Professor Slughorn, down into the dungeons until they were standing in front of the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

Maybe this insane mission Dumbledore had sent him on wouldn’t turn out to be so bad after all. At least he could, besides trying to get useful information out of Riddle, try to find his soulmate.

The first thing he noticed about entering the common room was that nothing had really changed from what he could still remember from second year. It was still gloomy, the lake right outside the windows still cast green shadows upon the walls and there was a small fire crackling in the hearth.

He tried to ignore the constant dripping sound echoing throughout room but that still didn’t prevent the flashes of dark chambers and black serpents to dance before his eyes.

The second thing he noticed was that all eyes were on him.
Every person that had been reading, chatting or simply dozing off before was now staring at Harry.

“Listen up, everyone! This-” a hand was placed on his shoulder “is Harry Potter. He’s a transfer student and I am proud tho say that he has been sorted into our house.”

There were quiet whispers traded back and forth now.
Curious expressions on the other’s faces.

But as of now Harry was glad to say that he hadn’t spotted Riddle, yet.

He let his fingers ghost over his wrist. Internally wrestling with the impulse to check it again for any new words.

“… Now, without much further ado, I ask all of you to be kind to our new addition. But maybe someone could volunteer to be Harry’s guide for the first few days until he knows where his classes are and has become a little more familiar with this new environment?” Slughorn let his gaze wander over the crowd questioningly.

Although Harry suspected that he was actually searching for someone specific whom he expected to answer.

His musings proved to be correct when every student simultaneously turned their head the slightest bit in the same direction and a few stepped aside to let a rather tall, brunet male through, whose blue eyes were fixed on his in a predatory manner.

He wished those flashbacks would just s t o p but he simply couldn’t tune out the low hissing of Parseltongue and the sound of snake skin dragging itself across wet stones and oh Merlin Ginny was-

“-Tom Riddle.”

Harry blinked. Slightly perplexed when the dark-lord-to-be inclined his head in a polite nod.

There was a pause.

“Harry. Harry Potter.” He answered eventually. Trying to ignore the tingling on his wrist and the unnerving glint in the other’s eyes.

As well as the bile attempting to claw up his throat at the close proximity of the future-mass-murderer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry Potter.” Then, like an afterthought. “I’m sure we will get along just fine.”

Yeah. Maybe when hell freezes over and Salazar Slytherin starts step dancing on top of the astronomy tower in a pink skirt.

Without waiting for an answer, Riddle turned around— apparently expecting Harry to follow— and strutted off into the general direction of one of the staircases leading further down into the dungeons.

That realization was accompanied by a sharp tug of panic and a thought that hadn’t even occurred to him until now.

Was there maybe more than just one path leading into the Chamber of Secrets?

Rip. Tear. Kill. Let me kill.
No no no nonononononono-

A sudden wave of calm and reassurance washed over Harry and he released a breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding.

The still new soul bond inside his mind was vibrating with poorly concealed worry and there was a moment’s worth of confusion before he caught on.

His soulmate had felt his distress and had tried to comfort him.

But that was supposed to be impossible.

He hadn’t even met his soulmate yet. The bond shouldn’t be that strong.

Harry cast a quick glance down at his wrist, catching the hastily scribbled phrases of:

Are you okay? Did something happen? Merlin forbid if something happened….

He ripped his gaze away from the words to turn his attention back to Riddle.

Never turn your back to the enemy.
He had learned that lesson the hard way.

But the other hadn’t moved an inch either. Standing before the staircase with a deep frown on his face and something akin to restlessness in his eyes.

Then his gaze settled back on Harry and his expression smoothed over. “I apologize. I spaced out there for a second. Now, shall we? The boy’s dorm is just down there and we need to get you settled in quickly if we want to get to dinner on time.”

“…right.”

With a foreboding sense of doom, Harry followed the Dark-Lord-to-be down the stairs.

This time effectively shutting out the unwelcome images triggered by the dark stone walls encasing them.

What he couldn’t quite shut out, however, was the soft humming of soothing emotions bleeding over the bond, and suddenly he thought that, just maybe, fate didn’t hate him so much after all.


- Tomarry [Soulmate + Time Tavel AU (part 2)]

Part 1