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shirecorn · 4 years

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i followed u because of the High Geologist post, but now i'm here because oh my GOD you're so good at horses. i can't believe how good you are at drawing horses, i cannot wrap my head around them and i have got to learn how you do it

My name ain’t shire for nothin!

Actually the thing about horses is...

They aren’t my favorite animal. Rats and ravens are my favorite. But I’m already good at drawing rats so!

I studied my butt off.

Back in 2018, I was assigned to learn how to draw an animal of my choosing and make an anatomy packet for it. I chose horses because they’re the most useful animal to draw as an illustrator. Everyone wants horses but not everyone can draw them. Also my mom owned horses so it was easy to study them.

For four months I studied horses intensely.

I started with gesture

Gesture is the most important part of any drawing. it’s fast and it has to capture Everything important. These are my very first drawings, while later gestures I did NOT outline the legs, but rather used a single bent line to represent where the leg bones were and I added joints AFTER.

I was lucky to have access to living horses, but if you’re studying gesture please watch videos of horses moving and draw that WITHOUT pausing it. That’s the only way to capture gesture. After that, it’s structure.

(source: wikipedia)

I drew their skeletons over and over and over again. I named their bones. I looked at and redrew muscle charts. I drew and posed skeletons and then I drew muscles on top of those skeletons according to accurate anatomy.

I went to the corral with a brown sketchbook and three pens. First, I gestured, like above, with a transparent gray pen, watching the horses move.

Then, I used a thick white pen to draw in the skeleton. Notice how I don’t draw every rib? Just the overall shape of the ribcage is important. it’s also SUPER IMPORTANT to know where the horse’s femurs meet their pelvis. It’s way below the spine! I also draw the spikes they have on top of the ribcage, at the withers, since that is part of their silhouette, but not part of the barrel mass of the ribcage itself. I used a printout of a horse skeleton at first, and gradually moved to memory (I traced and redrew reference images of horse skeletons multiple times before this!)

Then I drew the major muscles using a chart I had printed (and traced and redrawn several times). The proportions of a lot of these studies are pretty wonky!

put together everything and! it still kinda sucks!

That’s ok though. Proportions will come with practice, time, and study. getting the building blocks into place is more important than worrying if each block is the right size. This horse was drawn at the end of those four months and it shows an understanding of the mechanics of anatomy, while lacking in proportion and gesture. That’s fine! If you threw away art for imperfection, your trashcan would be full and your walls empty.

Since then, I consistently use reference when drawing. The high geologist was drawn looking at a picture of a horse jumping, but because I understand the bones/muscles and how they move, I can pose it in my mind while using the reference for proportion.

After intense study, keep using gesture to stay alive, use reference to balance proportions, and practice will bring everything together.

A great way to study is to trace photos (not artwork unless its anatomical studies by a vetted professional [not me!]) and draw where you think the bones and muscles are. Don’t trace photos for profit unless you can verify they’re royalty free stock. But still, it’s better to study and then draw freehand with the knowledge you trained into yourself.

Remember: Trace to learn, not to earn.

With gesture and structure, proportion will follow, and your art will flourish!

Here’s a later 2018 drawing:

And a 2019 drawing where I used reference for the mechanics, but stylized the anatomy and had fun with it.

add in the 2020 High geologist and:

One thing that’s important about me is I AM NOT OBSESSED WITH HORSES!

I was not a horse kid, and I’m still not. However, I’m better at drawing horses than my horse obsessed sister because I studied them, inside and out. Intensely. Because I wanted to and I knew they would be useful for my future as an illustrator.

Anyone can get good at drawing horses, I promise. It takes work but you can do it!

Thanks for coming to my tedtalk

#how to draw horses #how to draw #tutorial #horse anatomy #horse art #horses #shire screams #ask #long post #art tips

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tfwhynoy · 5 years

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Maybe a sort of sequel to my last so where Optimus is more she’d to his horse form, and the male reader, who is human, tacks him up for a ride, and it’s like, sfw and platonic, if that’s okay?

I am not a Horse Person™ and with the terminology being very regional and varied sorry if it’s wonky. I referenced this video for the whole thing and did as much research as I could so I wasn’t talking out my ass but I still have very little knowledge of these things.

A semi-truck didn’t come the first day, nor the second day, by the third Optimus feared that the hours spent waiting were likely going to lose a relic to the Decepticons. After those few days, he had gotten used to it and had fewer issues anyway so he told the team that for now, he would be keeping his alt in favor of working on the icon coordinates.

With him being your guardian since the beginning it meant him taking you to and from the base was taking a bit of a toll on your crotch and hips. You may not be on his back for long but having to ride unyielding metal at least twice a day and having to stretch your legs just shy of pain to even grip with your thighs wasn’t fun.

You had spoken about getting a saddle of some sort with him and Ratchet. Of course, a costume one would have to be made by Ratchet and with their little knowledge of what a horse even is, they drew more so on your knowledge.

It took some research and discussion but everyone decided the more compact English style would be preferable. With some slight modifications and Ratchet making the saddle itself able to shift even smaller when not Optimus could transform into his root mode unobstructed. The bridle reins would retract into a small compartment where they attached and he could freely transform with that too.

Now the only thing is that Optimus needed assistance to equip and remove everything. While you weren’t the most experienced, only having done this once or twice with someone more experienced guiding you as an early teen, you figured you’ll have to get used to it anyway and chose to tack him up for the first time yourself.

You held up the large saddle pad, it might as well be a thick blanket. “Do tell me if anything is placed wonky or anything. Don’t want anything to rub wrong on your back.” Optimus nodded in response and you nodded back before tossing the edge of the saddle pad as far over as you could. You had to run around the other side and pull it over and adjust it to align with his spine.

Did Optimus have a spine like a horse?

You brushed the thought away as you went back to his left side and picked up the saddle. It was heavy in your arms and you wondered how you’d even get it over his back. You didn’t want to think about its actual weight and pretended it was made of lightweight aluminum in hopes that a placebo effect of some sort would make this easier.

Apparently, it worked as you heaved it over onto the saddle pad. You took probably at least five minutes adjusting the two and made a mental note to bring a good stool next time so you weren’t on your toes and so high above your head.

You went back and smiled at the next thing you were to put on Optimus. You hadn’t heard Ratchet scoff harder when you called something like this a breastplate. His protests of it looking nothing of the sort shrugged off since you weren’t the one who named it.

It was easier to put on than the saddle, only asking Optimus to lean his head down to slip it over and around his neck.

It’s only when you grabbed the girth that you realized that grabbing a stool was something you’d have to get sooner rather than later.

A short jog and snatch of the largest step stool in the base you came back. “Gonna need you to stand up so I can put on your…” you visibly cringed at the phrasing and thanked whatever deity that the kids weren’t here. “Next part of breastplate and saddle.” Thankfully Optimus stood and didn’t question the awkward pause and you used the stool to even reach the clasps on the saddle on one side but putting it on at least was simple.

“Okay, you can lay down again. Last is the Bridle so all you need to do is lean your head down.” Optimus nearly laid his head on the ground yet his eyes were still as shoulder height.

You grabbed the large bridle and hold the bit in front of his snout. “Open your mouth real quick please?” You didn’t need to ask twice and simply pushed the bit into its proper place. “Thanks, you can close your mouth and adjust it as you want. If it’s too thin or thick we can ask Ratchet to switch it out since he made several sizes just in case.” Optimus nodded and you could see him open and close his jaw slightly again and again. He wasn’t quite chewing it, just getting used to the feeling in his mouth.

As you slipped his ears into the bridle you thanked that he wasn’t wild in this form. It would be rather hard if the horse wouldn’t listen and kept moving, let alone a metal one at least three times the size of an actual horse.

“A strap is over my optic.” He shook his head slightly but stilled, his ear flicking at the irritation.

“Ya I know give me a sec,” you quickly clipped a strap beneath his head before adjusting the bridle so it wasn’t in his eyes. “There, better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“No problem Optimus. You’re all tacked up so you can walk around to get used to it now.”

He stood carefully with you so close and walked around for a bit. He walks was steadier now, more like an actual horse now and definitely smoother.

A small chime from your phone reminded you that it was nearly nine pm. You had to go home now so you could do your afternoon routines before it got too late. “Wanna test that saddle now and take me home?”

“Of course my friend.” It was harder to tell his expressions at first but you quickly learned that his horse form was much more expressive if you paid attention. With his ears perked slightly and you could tell he was doing the closest thing to a smile as he could while he laid down for you to mount.

#reader insert #my writings #tfp #transformers prime #optimus prime #tfp prime #wild west au #i know it’s not actually but I said I’d tag horse stuff as that

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agri-art-archive · 5 years

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"Gigantic Terrifying Flying Murder Horses" pt.2

I drew some more Maestonian Pegasus doodles today. The highlight being a wonky/rough fullbody of this fine gent, named Llewellyn v1.

I say wonky because a few anatomical issues need to be sorted. Namely, the whole "missing far-side wing" affair, and those uncanny, smol, goatish rear legs. But behind aside, everything mid-back and to the left I'm very happy with.

Are those opposable thumbs?

Maybe.

Now as seen above I also tried figuring out how one would ride a Belven'liol.

At least, how would the Maestonian Cavalry ride a Meastonian Pegasus?

The answer is with a lot of hassle and far too much equipment. The OG Erh'mai elders are torn between feeling secondhand embarrassment for or laughing at them.

Kind of reminds me of Toothless and Hiccup's saddle, but longer.

Of course there's also a bridle.

I'm picturing something more akin to a western-style bridle, it's really just a bit and set of reigns so that the pegasus can still open its mouth and bite things.

Fun facts for today:

As seen in the last picture, cavalry pegasi have their extra fluffy bits trimmed short; this includes their tail, but not their tail feathers.

Usually, only tame-coloured pegasi are used in the ranks. Browns, greys, blacks and some of the more muted tan/white/red/navy blues are ideal.

Generally, Meastonian pegasi aren't as flamboyantly plummed as Seafarer's pegasi.

Al'styr's step-father, Adam Sivirius, is a pegasus breeder. The Meastonian military's prime ressource of them in fact.

#agrimony-art #my art #pencil and paper #gigantic terrifying flying murder horses #meastonian pegasus #also there is no hj7 but thats for another time #al'styr jekyll #j&h #the strange case of dr. jekyll and mr. hyde #jekyll and hyde #worldbuilding #measton #horse creature #fantasy #creature design #the strange case of the mind at heart #the mind at heart #tmh

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sorcha-jayne · 6 years

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Dangerous Rendezvous

Chapter 1: Foul Smelling Inn

The low whistle of the air outside sliding through the ajar window was broken for a few heart beats as the horse outside gave a slight huff and stirred. The night air was cool but yet not cold enough to close the window fully and with the crackling open fire providing an effective counter of warmth, Claire decided to simply lie there and absorb all the sensations and ambience that the Inn offered.

She and Jamie had been riding for two days straight and the break from the saddles and thick brush slapping against her legs and arms was extremely welcomed. As it was no doubt for Jamie whom also dropped from the horse in an unceremonious thud as they reached the Inn around dusk earlier.

Shifting her bottom on the bed, Claire’s gaze swept across the small quaint room. Their room resided on the top floor of a small, dilapidated Inn, with only two rooms for guests at the top of the stairs above a dark and foul smelling bar room with broken chairs and wonky tables. Their room, located to the left of the stairs was, she assumed, the larger of the two rooms. She was confident in her assumptions as the view overlooking the field outside was from her tired memory the reverse view she had as they approached the Inn. The Inn was unlike others they had visited in the last few weeks both externally and internally, she had questioned Jamie of its unusual structure as they approached and he had confirmed her suspicions that it indeed once was a barn, that over the years transitioned into a cottage and then the Inn that stood today.

The walls of the guest room were lined with an amazing array of pelts, no doubt sourced from the local wildlife inhabitants of the surrounding moors. The pelts consisted of various colours and lengths, from deep browns to stark greys, muddled blacks and one brilliant white one which however had been tarnished with what she could hope was stains of whiskey or other dark substances that she did not want to investigate. Similar, cleaner pelts were running under her hands and the different furs that adorned them ran through her fingers as she rubbed her hands back and forth beside her. The sensation of the furs caressing her palms gave a calming effect, that she enjoyed and reminded her of their bedroom at Lalybroch, a place she had not seen for some time now. As her eyes settled on the yellow and orange flames turning and twisting their way along the logs within the stone fireplace she lifted her hands to her face, they were dirty and dry. Each hand showing the tell tale signs of several days ride through mud and thicket. Underneath her fingernails was a mixture of dirt in deep brown and blacks with slight traces of blood and skin left over from an encounter with a lonely British trooper the day before. The trooper had surprised Claire when she was finding a spot to relieve herself, no doubt he had been watching her and Jamie for sometime during their rest stop and being alone had thought this was the best time to confront her. Throughout the struggle Claire had scratched at the dirty face prone over her while his hands tried to pin her down. She recalled herself clawing down his right cheek as she tried to dig her fingers into his eyes shouting at him repeatedly to get off her. Her efforts however were to no avail and just as she thought he had gotten the better of her Jamie had come to her rescue, pulling the trooper off her before plunging his dirk into the side of his throat.

As the young man lay there Claire watched his face drain of life, he was perhaps once a handsome man who couldn’t of been more than 22 years old. Now as he lie looking up at her, his face, which should have been still that of a young teenager, bore the scars of a troubled upbringing. His decision to launch an assault instead of approaching her cautiously told her that his childhood had instilled the logic of shoot first, ask questions later. This was to be the final time he would be able to act out at the world that had treated him so harshly as a child or youth.

Looking back to the fire she took a moment to think of what this most recent attack on her must of been like for Jamie. Witnessing her being attacked once again must of been frustrating. Jamie had seen her assaulted so many times before and she wondered if he would ever think that his life would be so much easier if he had never met her, especially considering that it always seemed to Claire she was playing the damsel in distress needing to be constantly rescued. But she knew that thought would never cross his mind, nor would it hers should their roles be reversed. He loved her too much and she him, to ever ponder life without knowing the others existence and the love that encapsulated them both.

The silhouette that stood beside the fire had been watching Claire this whole time. Jamies large hands were splayed open behind his back encouraging the heat from the small fire to warm them to the bone. As it did the heat cracked and blistered the dried blood and mud that covered his hands that was in the midst of staining them for days to come. As he brought them before himself Jamie sighed at how dirty and scathed they were. He noticed that the blood of the young trooper had weaved patterns along the creases in the palm of his hands. Admiring how the blood managed to fill every little imperfection in his skin Jamie tried to recall the number of lives he had now taken in defence of his beloved lying on the bed, he could not, but he knew it was several and doubted it would be the last.

Returning his concentration back to Claire he watched as she looked upon him and smiled,

“Ya right there Sassenach?”

“Yes Jamie, I am” she said and sat up on the bed lifting the half empty glass of warm whiskey from the table beside the bed and tipping all that remained into her mouth.

Jamie not ever wanting to be a less avid drinker grabbed the near empty bottle from the mantle, raised it to his mouth and filled his mouth to the brim, almost dribbling whiskey down his shirt. The thought crossed his mind that he had perhaps had enough. The whiskey swished around in his mouth, it penetrated the little cuts on the inside of his cheeks, he winced a little and tried to recall how he could have received them, shrugging he swallowed the whiskey with an almighty gulp.

Claire watched Jamies Adam’s apple travel up and down and his broad throat as she admired his neck and firm jawline aided by the light of the fire below. The angle of his head caused the fires glow to light up his neck and the back of his head. His tightly wound red curls glistening in the fire light, she loved his hair and it’s vibrant red colour.

“Why don’t you come over here” she said shifting on the bed and rubbing the pelts once more.

“Aye, if I’m to do that Sassenach I think ya be needing to get out of that shift” he gave a slight smirk as he placed the empty bottle on the table beside him and walked toward the bed.

As Jamie approached, he scrunched up the hem of his shirt and began to slide it over his body, the light from the fire beside him and the candlelight that was thrown across the room from the opposite side of the bed cast a multitude of highlights and shadows across his now naked body, capturing his large chest and divots between his abdominal muscles, Claire sighed in marvel as a deep subtle burn inside her pelvis began to increase in ferocity and she felt her legs part in anticipation. After so many years with Jamie, Claire still had not grown accustomed to the “black magic” or “sexual spell” he held over her when ever their bodies drew closer. Claire chuckled internally at the realisation that again he had managed to control her body without touching her. She thought back to the time when she was almost burnt at the stake for witch craft, oh if only Father Bane knew how much of a devil Jamie was and the sexual voodoo he held over her, perhaps Jamie would have been the one on trial and not her.

As he flung his shirt to the floor Jamie watched as Claire bit her bottom lip and ogled his frame, he paused and looked up at her, gazing deep into her eyes, his hands steady on his waist, the thumb on each hand underneath the waistline of his pants.

“I might need a hand ya ken!” He declared, looking down at his waistline, whilst ensuring Claire’s eyes followed his thus making sure she was able to admire the sizeable bulge at the front of his pants.

To be continued....

(Writer is my hubby, think he is trying to compete with you all! I’m obsessed with outlander fanfic)

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mayhemories · 7 years

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Braids & War Paint (Part 5)

Notes On:

Part 1: / Part 2: / Part 3: / Part 4:

Aelin’s laboured breaths and thundering footfalls were a rhythmic beat in the fog filled castle grounds. Guards saluted as she ran past, Fleetfoot yapping and running alongside her.

Now the spring rains had stopped and Terrasen began their preparations for summer, Aelin had found herself unleashing all her energy into running the length of the grounds each morning. She took a sharp left turn into the main courtyard junction just as her counterpart came jogging out of the rose garden gate, his long strides causing him to reach Aelin’s side from across the courtyard in mere seconds.

“You’re quicker than I anticipated.” Rowan said breathily. The two of them had been running alternate courses over the past day or two, always managing to meet in the junction at the same time. They run the last leg together. Usually the last section of their course was filled with taunts and competitions that never get resolved.

“I’m full of surprises.” Aelin quipped as they slowed to a walk. The training field was busy with soldiers that Aedion and Lysandra had been watching. Galan seemed to take a liking to the male Ashryver cousin better, Aelin only knew it was because Aedion gave him the warmer welcome. But nonetheless, Galan, the eldest out of the three Ashryver descendants followed Aedion around like a lost puppy.

Aelin drew a blunt training sword from a pile and gestured for Rowan to follow.

“Care for a spar, Prince?” Aelin asked, gripping the hilt of the training sword. Rowan’s laugh sent shivers down her spine, her smile reached her eyes as she watched the old stubborn face pull a sword too.

“Be prepared to swallow defeat.” Rowan said charmingly in the accent of his. Aelin was intrigued by the way he inspected the blunt blade.

“I think you underestimate me.” Aelin smirked at the challenge in his eyes.

They walked out into the field until they found an empty space big enough. If the Prince of the Four Winds and the Light-Bringer were to duel there needed to be enough safe space for the onlookers they would ultimately attract.

The sun was directly above head, her presence was a welcomed one by the people of Terrasen.

“How long have they been going at it?” Rhoe Galathynius asked his general and nephew, Aedion Ashryver. Aedion shook his head and laughed, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening. A small wind torrent pushed against a wall of blue flame, sparks flew, though both barriers held. Grunts, snarls and taunts could be heard from the palace gates. The tell-tale sign of fae bullshit.

“They abandoned swords half an hour ago.” Aedion answered. Rhoe was surprised they even started with weapons, even a blind man could see that no one would win with metal. The pair were too equally skilled it would’ve gone to an instantaneous stand still. It was that moment that Aelin sent a small ball of flame at his highness of Doneralle, which blocked it just as quick as Aelin attacked. They were the mirror image of each other, the opposite sides of the same coin. Rhoe shook his head in disbelief.

Their attacks were getting so vibrant and intense that Rhoe could see the pissing contest from the throne room windows. Although, Rhoe knew how deep his daughter’s power went, how she learned what burnout did when she was younger, how she screamed when she experienced her first burnout, that she would be absolutely fine, that her power was so strong it was nearly limitless. He just couldn’t help but be concerned. Although, the whole Prince Rowan situation was something else. Evalin was very worried about the developing attachment Aelin was creating with Maeve’s high ranking official but Rhoe could see what his wife, his daughter and Rowan Whitethorn could not.

Even though Rhoe’s blood had been diluted of any Fae, he still felt a connection to his heritage, he still taught himself about everything Orynth’s great library could offer. He knew a carranam bond when he saw one.

Rowan’s wind tried to smother his daughter’s flames that had now turned into a golden hue, instead Aelin used the battering gale forced winds to her advantage, like she had been taught and fuelled her flames with them.

The Whitethorn Prince had impressive power too. Rhoe stood a fair few yards away from their standoff and his fawn coloured hair flew about, Lysandra was shielding her eyes as she walked closer to the duelling fae, her shouts were swallowed by the crack of Aelin’s wildfire.

Rhoe Galathynius laughed as he bent down to the ground and began to draw the pattern. the wyrdmark of magic suspension. Their magic died down as the mark glowed brighter until they came to a complete halt. Rhoe stood to his full height and walked to the staring contest between his daughter and the forgien prince. They stood like Evalin and he did once, nose to nose, chests heaving, eyes locked. Rhoe smiled, his contests with Evalin were always with words and wit, never brute and grit.

Rhoe laced an arm around his daughter, her eyes snapping to his as he did so. He placed his other hand on Rowan Whitethorn’s shoulder, his eyes filled with the realisation Rhoe had a few moments prior.

“I think we should all go get cleaned up for lunch, yes?” Rhoe said smiling, not in the slightest mad at the singed grass underfoot.

“And then she just there her sword down and started attacking the poor man!” Aedion exclaimed, the whole luncheon table laughed at his recount of Aelin and Rowan’s contest. They had agreed that neither of them won.

Though Rowan knew that she was starting to get frustrated before her father put a cap on it.

He ate quietly, his thoughts about the carranam bond had taken all his focus. His carranam, Rowan Whitethorn’s carranam was the heir of Terrasen. From what Rowan could piece together Aelin had no idea. Though, Rhoe seemed to at least suspect something. What was Rowan expecting, as someone as educated as Rhoe Galathynius would be able to smell a bond like that from a mile away.

“Aelin, Dorian will be arriving tonight.” Princess Evalin said nonchalantly, Aelin’s eyes lit up at the comment. Rowan ignored the green pang in his chest and put together the puzzle pieces. ‘Dorian’ would be none other than the Crown Prince of Adarlan, the one who surprised the whole continent when his raw power was revealed, how the power he had somehow obtained from his ancestor Gavin. Aelin had mentioned to Rowan that she was quite close friends with the Crown Prince.

Rowan looked towards Galan, noted how his facial features tightened when the heir of Adarlan was mentioned, Wendlyn and Adarlan’s relations had been…rocky for sometime now.

“What is he arriving to attend?” Galan asked, his voice tight. At his question Aelin’s mother gave the princess a dirty look from across the table, Rowan tried to hide the quirk of his lip at Aelin’s eye roll. Of course she hide information from the clingy cousin.

“The Beltane Ball. Terrasen holds one each year for all nobility of Erilea.” Evalin explained, Rowan almost choked and chucked his own dirty glance at Aelin. Rowan hated dancing. Rowan hated dancing more than he hated Fenrys’ sense of humour.

“Oh.” Was all the heir of Varesee could muster.

“Dorian always comes a day early to spend time with Aelin.” Rhoe chipped in, his fork pointing accusingly at Aelin before he muttered: “If he offers you another dog you won’t take it.”

While the table laughed Rowan wondered if Aelin liked dancing.

Aelin sat in the drawing room, new book in hand. Her and Rowan had found a quiet spot near the window, as she read Rowan finished more letters, apparently these were letters to the Demi-Fae of Mistward, Rowan was wishing them a happy Beltane. The sun had been and gone, the other stars were out.

Aelin was waiting for Dorian, Chaol, Nesryn and Sorcha. Mainly, she was waiting to hear what Dorian thought of Rowan.

It was dead silent in the drawing room, besides the comforting cracks from the fire in the stone fireplace. Aelin had been waiting in her nightgown and robe, her book that she was ‘reading’ long forgotten. Her eyes were in a constant battle of watching out the window for the Adarlan procession and watching Rowan’s slight frown when he concentrated.

The latter always seemed to win.

She could tell their was something on his mind, something big enough to cause his s’ to be slightly wonky and make him place comma’s in unnecessary spots. Something was big enough to stop him from looking at her, even when her nightwear was silk. Aelin gathered it must have been a big issue if someone wasn’t focused on her beauty.

He only looked at her when the sound of horses and carriages could be heard. The sign of the Adarlan procession.

“Come on!” Aelin squealed, grabbing Rowan by the wrist Aelin ran to the palace doors, dragging Rowan behind her.

They ran down a flight of stairs, turned left into the torch lit grand foyer of the castle of Orynth.

“Aelin!” Dorian smiled, his eyes tight with tiredness. Aelin dropped Rowan’s wrist as she hugged her friend. She said her brief hello to Chaol before giving Nesryn Faliq a hug. Nesryn had been training as a solider when Aelin visited Dorian last year, the best archer Aelin had ever seen and with that compliment they became friends. Sorcha on the other hand was Dorian’s personal healer, they had become close friends when Dorian had injured his hands trying to tame his raw power. In turn, Aelin had become friends with Sorcha because Dorian was.

“I’m so glad you all could make it.” Aelin said, she saw Dorian’s eyes leave her and look over her shoulder where Rowan was leaning against the wall.

“Who’s your friend?” Dorian asked, the Adarlan guests all looked at Rowan at once. Something territorial flared up in Aelin when she saw Nesryn and Sorcha take him in. Aelin blamed that territorial feeling for what she said next:

“This is my Carranam, Prince Rowan Whitethorn of Doneralle.” Aelin thought Rowan would be shocked or taken aback, but he pushed off the wall and draped a casual arm over Aelin’s shoulder. He extended his hand to Dorian.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

It had been hours since Rowan was in the foyer with Aelin and the Adarlan nobility. He laid in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He couldn’t sleep, all the memories flashed across his mind at once, Aelin’s body in the rose coloured night gown, her smile, her intensity, the way she introduced him to the Crown Prince.

She had known that they were Carranam and was happy about it. He couldn’t believe the way she introduced him.

Rowan was more than three hundred years old. He shouldn’t be having butterfly’s in his stomach thinking about the Crown Princess of Terrasen. He shouldn’t be so careless. He shouldn’t be territorial over someone like Aelin. He shouldn’t be thinking about her legs or the swells of her breasts. A body was just a body, but Aelin’s body… that was different.

He was too old to be lost in her light. He shouldn’t be fumbling blind.

But he was and Rowan Whitethorn wasn’t going to change a single thing about the situation.

AN: This part was written for: @2-bookmaster-2 @aelin-and-feyre @illyriangoddess @rowanismybae @sparkleywonderful @cassiancalore @igniscorde7112 @illyrian-high-lord @daughterxofxnight @bigsis227 @crazybookladythings and @gcarroll

Thank you all for the love and support :)

As always, if you have fic requests, prompts, ideas, questions or just wanna chat, drop me an ask or leave something in my inbox.

Much love and many thanks,

-El.

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dexondefense · 7 years

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I am not sure if this can be done in 500 words BUT..would love a Zimbits where Bitty meets Bob and Alicia

I have owed you this for almost six months so I just sat down and did it all in one go and there are 5000x mistakes but here we go. I love Alicia.

For the Monster Haus AU, featuring JötunnJack and Bob, Witch Bitty, and Demi-goddess Alicia.

“You’ve met them like, at least ten times Bittle.”

Bitty resisted the urge to roll his eyes the entire way back into his skull. This was not the first time this exact argument had been had over the past week, and as neither side seemed ready to concede or accept any credibility in the other’s argument, it was highly possible it would be had again before they reached their destination.

“Yes, Jack, but not as your boyfriend,” Bitty explained for at least the fifth time. “And not at your house. Like, your actual house that you grew up in.” Bitty frowned, doing his best not to play with the edges of the Saran wrap covering the top of his latest masterpiece. At least, it had better be a masterpiece. He had been working for days on his newest recipe of chilled pie. It was a chocolate and pecan cheesecake, with just a hint -or possibly a full cup- of acceptance and positive charm added in.

Bitty was certain it was not enough.

From the diver’s side Jack huffed a small laugh, the window fogging for just a moment as his cold breath passed over the glass. “You’ll be fine, Bittle. They already love you.”

Bitty heaved out a breath, preparing for another volley of arguments but Jack reached over the console to grip his hand and for just a moment he forgot what he was going to say.

The fact that Jack had taken his hand was only part of the reason. A very small part of the reason, actually.

“Mother of God.”

Bitty had known Jack lived in a mansion up in the woods of Quebec. He had known that. He had also known, through multiple stories of Jack’s childhood home, that just as much of the structure was made of ice as it was of wood, but accepting the reality of an ice castle existing anywhere, much less a place where he would one day come across it, was much different in person than in theory.

“Well, my mother’s mother was a god, so…grandson of a god, really?” Jack teased with a half smile, his dark eyes bright as they pulled up the driveway.

It was hard to look at, Bitty decided quickly. The sun was bright on the ice, reflecting the world back at him, wonky and distorted. It looked like a sprawling woodland manor that was slowly being infected with a plague of ice for the past few decades. Perhaps infected was a harsh word, it didn’t seem the house minded the encroaching cold very much.

Jack heaved their bags on his shoulder as Bitty closed the passenger side door behind him, eyes locked on the impossible structure rising up before him. It was a lot of take in, from the high wooden logs that made a fortress of the front, to the icy spirals that rose up above what may have once been a roof to continue in their own design of ostentatious towers, like icicles flipped upside down. On one side of the house, the woods continued on in a never ending line, the trees enormous and snow dusted, and something deep in Bitty’s gut told him they were not safe to travel alone. The other side of the property opened up into sprawling field of snow. Bitty could just make out two creatures that looked like horses with far too many legs pawing at a frozen lake before a movement on the porch drew his attention away.

Standing between two columns made of sheer ice stood Bob and Alicia Zimmermann. The door behind them was enormous, far taller than necessary even for a frost giant, with elaborate sigils carved into the old wood. It looked like the entrance to Valhalla itself, with two gods waiting to take him home.

The jarring fact that he had referred to Vallhalla as home in his head almost overshadowed his nervousness at re-meeting his boyfriend’s parents. Examining his religious priorities would have to wait.

“Hello!” Bitty greeted, lifting the pie in his hands in a vague gesture of offering as he grinned up at the Zimmermanns, trying not to let his nerves eat him from the inside out. He had baked muffins of pure confidence that morning, and he could feel the spells fighting a battle with his anxiety in his gut. Or maybe that was the bananas. He really hoped it was the confidence.

“Hello, Eric!” Alicia grinned. Her smile was wide and white, and the sweater she wore looked old and comfortable. So much about her reminded Bitty of his own mother, though he thought both women would be flustered to be told so. Despite the imposing fortress behind her, everything about Alicia was warm and inviting.

Except her eyes.

“Don’t look her directly in the eyes,” Lardo had told him over a year ago, when the Zimmermann’s had come to visit. “I’m not kidding man, don’t do it. Try to look at the lines instead.”

He had truly believed she had been joking, until he had met Alicia. She had all the appearances of a human woman, except the impenetrable blackness that rested where her eyes were supposed to be. They were outlined by jagged black lines that extended out across her eyebrows and down her cheekbones, like aftershocks on her face from whatever had happened to her sockets. Jack had told him she was born like that, but Bitty wasn’t sure he could believe that. He also wasn’t sure that if he actually did stare at her eyes, that he wouldn’t come out a different person for having looked too long.

It had been a while since Alicia’s eyes or Bob Zimmermann’s incredible height or pale blue skin had unnerved Bitty, but it was hard not to see everything in a very new and suddenly threatening light as he hoped very hard they liked him. Or still liked him, whatever the standing may be.

All of this took only a second to contemplate before Alicia was engulfing him in her arms in a tight and familiar hug. He had been right, he sweater was very soft against his face.

“We are so happy you two could finally make it up here for a weekend.”

“Yeah, we were beginning to think you two were going to elope without us ever having dinner together!” Bob teased, taking the steps in two easy strides to stand behind his wife. Jack made some noise of protest at the jest, but it was lost as Alicia overtook Bitty’s attention again.

“Oh, and what is this?” Alicia removed herself from Bitty, looking -or at least Bitty assumed she was looking- to the pie Bitty had carefully protected during the embrace.

“Bittle made you both a pie,” Jack told her before Bitty could speak. His hand was heavy and comforting on Bitty’s shoulder.

Alicia grinned, the heavy cracks around her eyes crinkling, like she hadn’t all ready known Bitty would bring a pie. Everyone knew Bitty would bring a pie to any situation, but her elation made Bitty feel like a weight had been taken off of his chest.

“It’s a chilled dark chocolate and pecan, Jack told me how much you love dark chocolate and I know Jack loves pecans and can’t handle anything too hot, and I thought Bob-uh, Mr. Bob, I mean, Mr. Zimmermann-”

When Bob Zimmermann laughed, it sounded like an avalanche. “Bob is fine,” he told Bitty, before leaning in conspiratorially. If Bitty hadn’t remembered to triple his warming spells, he thought he might have lost part of his face to frostbite at the proximity. “Mr. Bob is my father.”

And just like that, Bitty and Bob were laughing as Alicia and Jack groaned, all awkwardness dissipating. Bob clapped him on the shoulder and steered him inside and Alicia took the pie from his hands as she demanded to hear every detail of their trip.

The inside of the house was no less unusual than the outside, with slippery staircases that seemed to go no where, ornate armchairs that didn’t look like they were actually made for sitting, and the gigantic head of a moose with six eyes and branches for antlers mounted on the mantle above a roaring fireplace with scenes of battle playing out in the smoke.

Except Jack had told Bitty all about his childhood home. About playing hide and seek with his mother in the icy rooms that closed themselves off from time to time at the tops of the icy stairs. About curling up in those regal looking chairs to read any history book he could get his hands on. About racing those creatures outside with too many legs until he felt like he couldn’t feel his own.

All of those memories, those late night confessions and offhanded comments of Jack’s raced through Bitty’s mind as they retired to the living room after dinner. Alicia sat on a couch big enough for ten people, her bare feet curled under her and her black eyes reflecting the dancing firelight as she laughed at Bob’s antics. He was retelling old hockey stories, and as he spoke the warriors that battled in the smoke turned themselves into hockey players, skating above the fire on imaginary ice in a brutally close game. The moose head above the mantle twitched an ear, stretching its long neck down to mouth quietly at the animal cracker offering in Bitty’s hand.

Jack’s laugh rumbled in his chest, the warmth of his boyfriend pressed up against him cutting through any cold the mansion had to offer. Bitty wasn’t sure if Jack was laughing at his father’s story, or at Bitty’s awkward interaction with the living moose head, but he didn’t really think it mattered when he met Jack’s eye. It especially didn’t matter when Jack pressed a cold kiss to his cheek, and though Bob and Alicia both saw, neither said a word about it, but their smiles looked just a tiniest bit bigger.

Bitty decided then and there, pressed against his boyfriend as Bad Bob Zimmermann retold stories of hockey days with men made of smoke, with Alicia teasing him, and a sentient mounted moose head pushing against his hand for more treats, that if this was what Valhalla was like, where everything was strange and surreal, but everything was bright and full of love, than maybe it was better than Heaven anyway.

#monster haus au #check please fic #check please au #monster haus #kleoette #it has been AGES since I wrote for the monster haus au #I missed it #it's so weird #my writing

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thatshighlyoffensive · 7 years

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THAT’S HIGHLY OFFENSIVE: MET GALA 2017

Well, well, welcome to the annual skewering of Dummies with Money Pretending They Care About Anything Other Than Themselves AKA the Met Gala 2017 (or as Drew Jordan called it, “a party for relatives of famous people.” I hate most of the people that attended this year, plus my supply of fucks is as depleted as my bank account these days, so the positive reviews are scarce. Cat and I watched the E! red carpet coverage together and tried really hard to care, but it never happened. We were passionate about one thing though: Whoever manned the camera tonight should be fired and exiled to a country where they only photograph people from the shoulders up and then seek treatment for his obvious battle with Parkinson’s. HIGHLY OFFENSIVE. Enjoy!

Giuliana Rancid (who is obviously not at the actual event because she would never be invited to anything other than a Ruby Tuesday’s salad bar ribbon cutting) spent the evening with a bunch of other nobodies in a studio on the west coast and chose to drape her Antz body in the milky exoskeleton of one of her albino brethren.

I hate Katy Perry almost as much as I hate Lena Dunham, so the fact that she has dated my future husband John Mayer is something that whittles away at my black heart daily, and whatever the hell I’m looking at on the red carpet right now just took out another big chunk. I literally cannot, so that’s all.

Lily Collins looks like the Berries ’n’ Cream Starburst guy on his way to a Sophia Coppola sponsored transgender formal.

Kendall Jenner would be 100% perfection if she’d done something different with her hair. Those legs, MY GOD.

Kylie Jenner (as always) looks like Bruce Jenner in a Pretty Woman wig with a Kris Kardashian’s worth of plastic surgery in a girdle and pair of Steve Maddens.

Rose Byrne: The sun’ll come ouuuut tomorrow! Actually, it saw you tonight and decided not to.

Brie Larson looks like the love child of Babette the feather duster and one of my hand bells from middle school church choir in Dorothy Zbornak’s footwear.

Lily James looks like Natalie Portman from Black Swan wrapped in a Swiffer Wet Jet.

Rihanna looks like two Jimmy Dean sausage links wrapped in red licorice, stuffed into a clotted human heart piñata.

Naomi Watts looks more like Nicole Kidman every day. But probably my favorite look of the night.

Celine Dion looks like Jenna Lyons wrapped one of her old, bedazzled J. Crew tees in the Oscar gown she pulled out of Angelina Jolie’s trash can and secured it with the straps from one of the antique electric chairs Billy Bob is afraid of. #teamjolie

Bella Hadid- I don’t love all the weight she’s lost since becoming an ‘it’ girl/I’m insanely jealous, but her look harkens back to the origins of the MET ball aka the OG supermodels and the designers that loved them, so I give her look an A.

GiGi- While I really do appreciate your channeling of Christy Turlington (whether you meant to or not), I can’t say that I fully understand your look tonight. The color is that of a gout ridden tuna, the shape is that of a sushi wrapped tuna, and your panty hose are reminiscent of someone wrapping tuna in seaweed at Hibachi Express. Sanitation grade: C+

Chrissy Teigen looks like she always has: bloated and wild. Her outfit looks like a cotton gin exploded next to a L’eggs factory.

Lupita Nyongo looks like the Toucan Tropicana Barbie and that is all.

Ruby Rose is channeling some ‘She Sells Sea Shells by the Jersey Shore’ shit.

Miranda Kerr looks like a walking, glossy, coral reef, made up by Bobbi Boring Brown, as usual.

Rami Malek went to the Ball as a Twizzler. Or was it a Red Vine? #redvinesfamily

Zendaya: Mac-OW.

Paris Jackson: I have never been so offended by someone. First of all, she has about as much of Michael Jackson’s DNA in her as I do. Secondly, she looks like she put as much effort into her appearance tonight as I did when I dialed Dominos earlier. Also- Express’s formal collection has never looked worse. Also, also, your tattoos rival the mess of ink on a backstreet water rat.

Madonna- I didn’t think I could be more offended by a poseur than Paris Jackson, but again, I’m proven wrong. Her gap-toothed, fake-British bullshit can’t be hidden by all the camo in the world, and certainly not by one hideous dress.

Zoe Kravitz- Big Little Lies made me love her and this outfit does nothing but add to my new obsession. I could do without the sleeve contusions, but I’m obsessed with the rest. Like the finale of BLL, she’s channeling Audrey Hepburn like a boss.

Kate Hudson- Yo ass has looked the same every damn year. This year is the same, just more boring and like you’re trying to channel a Kartrashian aka HIGHLY OFFENSIVE. But also- i love you.

Gwyneth Paltrow looks like she ate Chelsea Handler and borrowed Titus’s pumps.

Tom Brady and Gisele Bundchen: Two canoodling Weimaraners.

Lily Rose Depp: I actually love this. All of it. I am ashamed.

Sarah Paulson: And the cockatoo cried ‘Nevermore.’

Cara Delevigne: The Tin Man and The Nanny Named Fran had a baby. And it was ugly.

Rita Ora: Wasn’t it nice of Russell Stover to cater the red carpet?

Maggie Gyllenhaal: If Dorothy Draper, the Jolly Green Giant and a footless grandpa had a baby.

Halle Berry: Barnacles never looked so good.

Reese Witherspoon: Alexis Carrington would be proud. But that ponytail… She’d snatch it off.

Amy Schumer: So you ate Tonya Harding and then stole some kid’s Scarlet Witch cosplay outfit from their Orlando double-wide and threw it over your hamhocks? You belong IN a trash bag, not wrapped in one.

Kim Kartrasashian: An OB tampon at a Renaissance Faire. That is all.

J. Lo- You’re channeling Jennifer North and I love that, but your horse hair ponytail is highly offensive. And I’m not sure I get the color. But I think you and A. Rod make a perfect couple.

Karlie Kloss- Your shiny face is offensive. Stop. Your shoes are on point like a mosquito’s knee. Stop. Your dress is half terrible/half almost there. Stop. Put on a damn necklace. Stop.

Kerry Washington- Whitney Houston in The Bodyguard with a lisp. Also- your lace front is almost as off-putting as Johnny Travolta’s. OFFENSIVE ON ALL COUNTS.

Blake Lively- I don’t know how someone makes golden chain mail with a peacock’s ass attached to it so boring, but you’ve done it. Also- you’ve done the braid/ponytail to death and made me want to follow suit. Death’s, not the hairstyle’s…

Jessica Chastain- Queen EleaBore of Land O’ Lakes called, she says you look melted.

Hailey Baldwin- I don’t know how dressing like a slutty piece of salt water taffy turned state’s surprise witness in a dog collar makes you a top model, but best regards and kindest wishes.

Nicki Minaj looks like Chun Li’s evil twin going to prom in Cleveland, Ohio.

So, Elle Fanning The Chinless Wonder thought tonight’s gala was an audition to be another boring ass Disney princess?

Mandy Moore- I love you more than anything because you are Rapunzel but NO. You are not Anjelica Huston in Addams Family.

Salma Hayek- you are naturally STUNNING and tonight you look OFFENSIVE and like a character from one of my brother’s anime shows. And not in a good way.

Selena Gomez made my eyes roll out of my head, onto the floor, out the door, into the street, and under the tire of Rachel Leigh Cook’s Volkswagen Rabbit.

Emma Roberts looks like a Jennifer Garner drag queen auditioning for the role of Jessica Rabbit in a high school production of Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

Priyanka Chopra is literally just wearing a trench coat. #carmensandiegoworeitbetter #andwithahat

Kate Bosworth always looks like a creepy Victorian doll with alopecia.

Worst dressed: Daisy Ridley, hands down. She looks like someone sewed fabric from the bargain bin onto one of those built-in-bra pajama dresses from Target and threaded a wonky hula hoop into the bottom. Hideous hair. No jewelry? HIGHLY OFFENSIVE.

BYEEEEEEEE

#metgala #metgala2017 #thatshighlyoffensive celebritiesaredumb

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