#(that we know of)

[theelmoarchive]

An extreme cringe Jam post because ‼️‼️‼️ i am free

Id like to remind everyone that they are cringefail losers 🎉🎉🎉

Also please Ignore that I mispelled mischievous

[emerald-oceans]

So how many tattoos does Ford canonically have now?

[ghostinthegallery]

Necrons are younger than sharks

citation here

[jonathanbyersphd]

Stranger things is unrealistic because Jonathan hasn't been targeted by an army recruiter

[captainjonnitkessler]

Eddie makes a reference to this in Deadloch. I thought they made it up but I guess it’s true.

If this doesn't become a plot point in season 2 I am gonna be so disappointed

[avegetariancannibal]

Jack: Doctor, are you and Will having an affair?

Hannibal: can’t two men be close friends without this kind of assumption

Jack: I apologize—

Hannibal: Furthermore, can’t I sniff a male friend’s neck or urge him to have children with me or occasionally buy him sexy underwear??

Jack:

[lavender-loo]

Sun and Moon sketches!!! Help wanted 2 came out a bit ago and I've never drawn these two >:))

[nobodymitskigabriel]

Gabriel crit because he could've used his trickster powers to summon the down with cis bus and maim campus transphobes but never did

[dragoninahumancostume]

I think biology is hard to learn and I don't enjoy it enough to want to try, but damn it if Lindsay Nikole makes a three hour video essay about exactly ONE type of creature then I sure as shit will watch it all

[cenobitebf]

Uh. New collab just dropped last night?? I guess?!?!??!??

[banbusbjorn]

the couch is just their go-to spot for sex, huh? Who needs beds anyway, way too outdated

[cosmic-walkers]

thomas canonically being a homewrecker, and sleeping with married men's wives is something i like to play with in my aus, because he'll certainly ruin relationships, but let him catch someone he's with cheating on him he'd probably go ballistic

[harryhandstan]

welp it finally happened..a snake got in our house

[twentydaysofdrabbles]

The Concierge Goes Tracking - Pounce (Part 18)

You don’t miss the number of familiar faces dotting the streets as you make your way over to a stout apartment complex, box of pie in hand. Women sitting at an al fresco cafe, coffees in hand. Men jogging along the street. All of them look at you, then look away just as quickly. 

A small downturn of your brows is the only indication that you found any of it out of place. It seemed as though they were waiting for something. What exactly, you can only guess.

Tap tap tap go the heels of your shoes as you move from pavement, to stone, to tile. The sound echoes in the stairwell, then the hallway, until you finally come to a stop in front of a plain apartment door. There, you pause. Long enough that you can focus on the soft breathing on the other side of the door, on the soft scent of pie crust and freshly cut grass. She’s here. 

Knock knock.

Nothing. Not even the skip of a breath, a slightest shuffle of feet. 

You try again. Knock knock.

“Who’s there?” comes a soft, firm voice. Entirely human sounding. 

You hate that you have been acquaintances with Sans long enough that the first thing that comes to mind is a knock knock joke.

“Howl.” Well, technically it isn’t far from what you’ve been doing the whole afternoon. 

“...howl who?” Oh goodness, she sounds so perplexed yet curious. Is this how you sound when you react to Sans’ puns?

Well, nothing for it. “Howl you know if you don’t open the door?”

A soft snort, a stifled giggle, and finally the soft shuffle of feet. The deadlock to the door opens, along with a whole host of locks. When the door finally swings open, you have to look up and up to meet the former Queen’s dark eyes. Only slightly shorter than King Asgore, if you had to guess, with small horns, long ears, and luxurious white fur. Her broad shoulders fill the frame, her plain green dress doing nothing to hide her build. 

But she...

You take her in without a shift of your eyes. She looks haggard, the fur around her neck ruffled and flattened, as though she had smoothed her fur over the skin, as if there were a missing patch. The way she holds an arm tells you that her bicep aches, that she won’t be able to lift it past her ribs. Something happened to her.

The goat monster only shakes her head at you and ushers you in quickly. “That was a terrible joke,” she says with a small smile, closing the door behind you as you step in. But not before she casts a glance at the hallway behind you - empty.

You hate that you gave into the urge to use such a joke, but it did work. Your notes indicated that she was fond of such things, and far be it for you not to use it to your advantage. “Good afternoon, Miss Toriel,” you incline your head, the pie balanced between your hands. “My apologies for interrupting your day.” Then you extend the boxed pie to her, freshly baked and burning against your gloved hands. “Please accept a housewarming gift.”

Toriel looks at you sharply, already backing away with her hands raised in a defensive posture. “I should have known--!” she hisses, fire sparking between her fingers in an intimidating show of magic.

The taste of it is heavy on your tongue, ash building on your taste buds. And yet you do not move, the pie still held before you. “Peace, Miss Toriel.” The intensifying heat in the apartment causes your breaths to linger in your chest. “I come on behalf of those who wish to see you unharmed.”

“Unharmed but captured, is that it?” the former Queen growls. 

You don’t blink, you don’t flinch, you don’t move. “No. Unharmed and safe.” Slowly, you open the top of the box and immediately the warm scent of butterscotch fills the air. “I come on behalf of the owner of the Continental Hotel. She wishes to invite you to high tea with her.”

Toriel still looks suspicious, though the heavy taste of ash dies down. “A bribe.”

“An invitation.” Like the pie still held out to her. “A bribe would have been snail pie, but I have it on good authority that I would be hard pressed to find one better than what you can make.” You make sure that your tone is even, with no inflection. 

The fur on the back of the former Queen’s shoulders rise. “On whose authority?” She sounds less wary even though she still looks tense. Good.

Without hesitation, you answer, “Mx Frisk.”

White furred hands fly to her snout and she gasps. “Frisk! Oh, my child,” she breathes out shakily into her cupped hands. “Please, is Frisk--is my child safe?”

“Safe and waiting at the Continental, Miss Toriel.” Your head tilts deliberately in a silent question. Why is she so worried if she was the one who left Frisk alone in the first place? You can only think it has to do with the increased activity in this area. Someone has taken an interest in her, but not in Frisk. 

It’s almost as if she deflates on the spot, staggering and slowly sinking into the couch. “Oh stars...Frisk...” But she caught your question, eventually looking up from her hands and gesturing you closer. When you do, she takes the pie from your hands and smiles through her tears at the freshly baked pie. 

“Please, sit. Did you want some as well?” She heads for the kitchen.

“Certainly,” you say with an incline of your head, sitting primly in the armchair adjacent to the couch from where she had sat. The former Queen bustles in the kitchen for plates and a cake knife and cutlery. Letting you inspect the apartment without scrutiny.

Bare bones, sparsely furnished. Curtains drawn. A lamp here and there to illuminate the room, but no overhead lights. A safehouse perhaps? The former Queen clearly does not want to be found. 

“Here,” her paw comes out from your peripheral vision, offering a slice of butterscotch pie and a little fork next to it. 

You nod, taking it. “My thanks.”

For a while, there is no sound save for the clinking of cutlery on porcelain, of the soft sounds of eating. You, too, slowly take measured bites of the pie. Not because you dislike the taste, but out of habit. Best not to ingest too much lest you need to exert yourself later. 

When the former Queen is finished with her slice, she finally speaks up, her doe-like eyes fixed upon her plate. “Asgore is a fool. More heart than sense,” she bites out, her eyes flaring as she looks up into your impassive face. “I told him to stay out of human politics on that scale, but he never listens to me. And now look where we are, more eyes on us that we can afford.”

Toriel grinds her teeth, the sound louder than even the rattling of her plate as it trembles in her grip. “All I wanted...” Tears fall from eyes squeezed shut. “I just wanted to live in peace...”

You can only listen quietly, your plate cradled on your lap. It is odd. To listen to someone just...pour their heart out to you. In all your years, that has not once happened to you, not even with the Manager who can boast to be the closest to your heart and you to hers. 

Feeling endlessly awkward at being unable to say anything, you elect not to, maintaining a polite expression as you listen to her. 

And that seems to be enough for Toriel. The goat monster wipes away her tears and sets her plate on the coffee table, sighing heavily. “What did my child say about Asgore, when they asked you to find me?” She looks at you, gaze expectant. 

Oddly enough, you find yourself compelled to answer. Interesting. “That he could not be trusted.”

Toriel nods sharply in response. “Gorey--that is, Asgore. He wants me...” She groans, as if she was struggling to force the words out. “Safe. Or as safe as he thinks I can be. I didn’t agree with his version of ‘safety’.” Though she does not gesture to her neck, you can tell what the bare ring of skin indicates. 

The King wanted her safe. At all costs. 

The former Queen lets her head fall back into her hands with a groan, muttering under her breath, “Fucking Alphys...”

You pretend not to hear it. For a few minutes, you stay quiet, allowing Toriel to gather her thoughts. 

“Did Asgore get what he wanted?” She doesn’t lift her head from her hands.

How to answer that question. “No,” you answer evenly, placing your half-eaten plate on the coffee table. “But they are now bound by the rules of the Continental.”

At that, the former Queen stirs. “I thought that might happen,” she breathes out slowly. Finally, she scrubs at her face and sighs. “Then...” Blazing doe-like eyes burn into your dead ones. “Would you kindly escort me to the Continental Hotel, Concierge?” And from a pocket of her dress, she pulls out a gold coin. 

Dead eyes flick from hers to the coin, and then back again. A polite smile spreads on your face. “Of course.” 

You take the coin.

And all hell breaks loose.

[heyclickadee]

Honestly, my pet theory for where Tech is right now is that he’s not dead, not in Hemlock’s custody, not in Tarkin’s custody, and not picked up by pirates or smugglers (yet—I think he will be), but that he was found by a really nice little group of Ewok-Adjacent (not Ewoks but same kind of idea) folks living hidden in the mountains right under Tarkin’s nose, and that they managed to patch him up enough that he didn’t die and he’s extremely grateful, but very confused because he doesn’t speak the language, his data pad and helmet are busted, he has no way of contacting anyone off world, and he’s a little stuck. He’d try to get to another settlement to find transportation off world or steal a ship from nearby imperial complexes, but he hasn’t been able to move his legs since he fell, he’s still trying to adjust, and he doesn’t want any of his new not-Ewok buddies to put themselves at risk. He’ll get off-world and start looking for his family eventually, but it’ll take time.