#AND IT IS V UNPLEASANT!!!

[maxinemartinsdrill]

to the person who invented breakfast bars with those high seat? I applaud your whimsy but I hope you feel regret.

[ever-animatezzz]

Combine interests WOOOOO

[veryaren]

netease is fast but im faster

[sportsthoughts]

ek skates and laces - 29/2/24

[satans-knitwear]

I forgot what i was supposed to be doing 🙄

✨My links✨

[chronicallychthonic]

came back from work and so tired and my bed (I mean, the bed I've been sleeping in) is all twisted into a kind of nest and full of crumbs and trash Again!!

[theprinceandthewitch]

NA/EU IDV fans: "Alice and Orpheus are THE siblings 😊😊"

Me who actually read the lore and knows the main plot stems from Orpheus wanting to kiss Alice so bad it turned him into a villain:

[vampstel]

Doing quests and leveling up in royale High is so therapeutic until I get the Rainy Day Champion quest…

And then suddenly a nice way to waste spend my time turns into a stressful shouting fest that leaves my throat hurting. God, I love raging at RNG based minigames 🥰

[fishermcn]

@zcrayas // x

Rather than being reassured or comforted by the notion that this is a passing spell of ill-feeling, Crow seems all the world to be even more concerned. Even from behind the tattered cowl so often covering his expression and beneath the likewise unkempt hat atop his head, there's little hiding the furrow of his thin brows or the quick cutting of his gaze across Rya's person. Whatever he's searching for Crow doesn't seem to find, given the undertone of frustration to his rasped words. "Pardon? Tryna tell m'this ain't no new thing? That ya been having spells o'this sort ya whole life?"

Without waiting for another word, the depraved perfumer turns back towards the bubbling pot of something only-half realized, and none too gently works towards snuffing out the flame. All the while a slew of muttered oaths unfit for ears of any age storm out from his coarse throat, only coming to a halt when he's at last dealt with the brew and marched his way back towards Rya.

"Ain't forgiving no damn thing. Not till we sort out what's going on with ya." This close, the bitter smell of smoke and the likewise acrid scent of miranda powder is strong on Crow's person. So too is clear that worry within his words, no matter how masked he would prefer it remain beneath his otherwise blunt demeanor. Carefully, almost anxiously, a stained hand touches at her elbow. "Should sit. Could tell me what all ya feel. Might can fix something for ya."

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

my fibro meds have truly destroyed my tolerance for antihistamines

[merrilark]

I did not expect to be jumpscared checking my dash today but really might as well at this point.

Of all the One Piece characters you could use, Tumblr, why that one?

[thelastspeecher]

elishevart replied to your post: “elishevart replied to your post: “I’ve seen it pop...”

Ford founds out Stan has an alien organ because Stan cut himself and his blood wasn’t red anymore

​Or some alien features started to show up on Stan

Lmao we are operating on the same wavelength here, because I had basically the same thought. I drove roughly eight hours for work today (four hours to the site, four hours back, and also three hours at the site standing the entire time) and my mind got stuck on this concept and just sort of ran with it.

(So expect a write of some sort when I have time to sit down and write it.)

Anyways, my thought was specifically that Stan gets a spleen transplant. The spleen is part human, part alien (the thing I am planning on writing will elaborate on that). Since the spleen has a heavy influence on blood cells, that results in a visual impact on Stan's blood. The aliens have purple blood, and after the transplant, Stan's blood is now purple as well, though a more reddish purple than the aliens'. I'll also elaborate more on that in the thing I'm gonna write.

Ford finds out about the transplant when Stan strolls shirtless into the kitchen and Ford sees the scar from the surgery. He asks, and Stan explains. Later on, it's eating away at Ford, and Ford asks more questions, and Stan purposefully pricks himself to produce a drop of blood to show Ford.

Ford is...well, shocked, to say the least.

[tierra-paldeana]

<<What happened? You OK?>>

Did she know sign language? She was about to find out.

☠🌏– Rika stays still, sitting in the chair with a more-than-usual stiff pose. She turns her head very slowly to look at her namesake, who proceed to gesture with her hands. Ah... Navita had definitely told her she knew sign language before. But sadly, she didn't know any, though she more or less can tell from context that she's probably asking about her, because she's pointing at her. What she asking if she was okay? She wasn't quite sure.

Her breath is labored, and it's very clear she had spent a few minutes trying to calm herself down. There was a lot of noise in her head today despite this being her day off - perhaps that lack of a distraction had caused her mind to wander to unpleasant places? Notably, there's a lot of wrinkles on the shoulder part of her shirt... Almost as if she's been tugging at it.

She tried to look at her but her eyes fidgeted, her chest feeling tight. She opens her mouth for a couple seconds, but no sound comes out.

''...''

She, however, manages to rise her hand and extend it towards her. She isn't quite sure what to do with her fingers, so they twitch and open and close. If she hadn't halfway calmed herself down, she would've been trembling right now.

''...Nn.''

That's all the sounds she can make right now, and it's barely audible.

[fluentisonus]

genuinely feel there's such a clear & distinct line between pre and post 9/11 star trek

[merge-conflict]

wip wednesday

more kerry bullying (sorry kerry). he gets his revenge eventually, don't worry.

content warning: threat of violence, suicidal ideation

And because the knife that Goro used to cut the scallions is just sitting there on the marble countertop, beautiful and balanced and sharp, V picks it up. Before she can think about what she is doing (what she is about to do), she reaches out, hooks Kerry by the collar and pulls him close until the point of the knife is pressing into the skin of his neck. The brief shocked silence that follows lasts only a moment before Kerry asks breathlessly, “Johnny?”

<V, what the fuck are you doing?> Johnny demands, and she can feel him squirming at the edges of her control. But he’s very careful– because even with the best package Trauma Team offers and a highly trained bodyguard standing just a meter away, there’s no cure for death by rapid exsanguination.

“Do you think–” V asks flatly, “–that you have nothing left to lose, Johnny? That you can fuck me around whenever you please?”

“V–“ Goro says, calmly. Carefully. Moving just a little bit closer, as though he cares whether Kerry Eurodyne bleeds out onto his expensive kitchen tile. More likely that he is worried about the possibility of Trauma Team breaking down the front door, and the unwanted attention that would follow.

<Alright, V, you’ve made your point. Now let him go, he’s got nothing to do with this.> It’s the first time she’s ever heard Johnny walking on eggshells, like he’s handling a bomb. There’s genuine surprise in his worry, but it capsizes under anger as he feels her own surge of satisfaction.

“I’ve done everything I planned to do,” she says. “So which of us stands more to lose? I don’t need to obliterate an entire city block to make my point.”

“Johnny,” Kerry grits out. It’s a good knife, and there’s a line of blood running down the bright gold of his cyberware. She eases up the pressure.

“Working on it, Ker,” Johnny says, with V’s voice, which she didn’t even know he could do. But he doesn’t try to take over her hands, which is just as telling about his level of confidence.

Goro watches, jaw clenched but otherwise calm. She wonders if he is willing to let her do it. Whether he understands. Whether this will be the thing that finally makes him see how desperate and pathetic she always has been.

“If I asked you to shoot me,” she says, meeting his eye. “Would you?”

Shock flashes over his face, which then goes frighteningly blank. “I would not.”

[hitogeki]

Portrait of a Viera Hoplomachus, 1570 -Sirius cen Juventus, b. 1528, Sixth Astral Era

An interesting subject. The Garlean army recruits from its conquered nations, certainly, but viera make up very, very few of its numbers. This viera, who I am under good authority is named Pasha, was dragged out of the Golmorre Jungle kicking and screaming. Thankfully, cohort II of the IVth Legion proved their excellency in breaking savages. Now he's a productive, talented soldier- though reports say he can still be disagreeable one on one. Further attempts to recruit other viera resulted in expeditions returning only with genuine volunteers, if they returned at all, all female; considering the nature of his acquisition, Pasha was likely a young buck when pressed into serving our glorious Garlemald. Any older, and he may have proven too much for his captors. He serves mainly in Ala Mhigo, as per the tradition of sending recruits to countries outside their home to prevent fomenting rebellion.

Incidentally, Pasha aan Golmorre is reported to have been one of many who died or disappeared during the Battle of Carteneau. Recent reports say a viera matching his description has been spotted back in Ala Mhigo, now calling himself Minka Vasiliev. It is uncertain if these are the same person.

[cw violence, sexual assault implications; endwalker spoilers]

Dmitri eyed the portrait. It hung in the slightly squalid home, the frame damaged, but considering the end of the world was rapidly approaching, it was amazing its artist had hung onto it at all.

The artist, Sirius cen Juventus, sat before him then. Older- the painting was easily twenty years old at least, and he hadn't been young when he did it- hunched under a blanket to ward off the chill. Dalmasca could be cold at night, being a desert, and the ruins of Rabanastre were no different.

Dmitri paid no heed. He was used to it, even if Golmorre was better at keeping in the heat. "You met him, then?" he asked, voice low, rumbling.

Sirius nodded thoughtfully. His eyes, too, were fixed on it, eyes going over the brushstrokes, the way the lights seemed to catch at the eyes. "We didn't talk- he barely spoke, and I was told that was normal. He just stared. It was quite captivating, really- I couldn't tell if he was staring at me or just through me."

"Did they treat him well?"

"As well as they treated any savage- no offense." Sirius must have caught how his lip curled. Dmitri kept himself quiet, waiting for him to continue. "They were fond of him, certainly. Like a mascot. When I told his manipulus I wanted to paint him, they were excited but explained they couldn't pay. Not with money, anyways."

The old man took a deep breath, letting the sound of the fire (tiresome, overdone, just made the room stink of smoke in such close quarters and made him sweat) breathe life into the silence. "A very talented boy, that one."

The only sign of Dmitri's current mood was the grit of his teeth. He kept himself composed otherwise. "I see. You said he disappeared?"

"Aye, at Carteneau. I got ahold of some witnesses. They say he saw the meteors, saw Bahamut, and went mad. Took over some magitek armor and started firing on his own. Guess you can't completely civilize them." This time, Sirius didn't apologize, just reached over to the endstand nestled next to the chair he sat on to take a sip of his tea. "There've been sightings of him recently, too, or-"

"Someone who might be him," Dmitri finished. "Minka Vasiliev."

"Aye. Gridania first, I heard, then he made quite a name for himself at Ishgard. If Minka is Pasha, then he certainly was brave coming back to Ala Mhigo, considering everything he was personally responsible for there." The man laughed. "Recently he was seen at Radz-at-Han. That's when my contacts dried up. Since, you know."

"The end of the world."

"The Final Days."

The reason he was out of the jungle, after twenty years of his cousin being missing. After a nearby clan was almost entirely wiped out- nearby on their terms, considering the viera liked to stretch themselves out. After one of the survivors, a young girl, had turned into- into-

He couldn't even think about it without his gut churning.

The sky in the jungle was red and burning. The sky in Rabanastre wasn't entirely dissimilar. From what he had understood, they were dealing with much the same- as was the world, which was cold comfort to him, that the viera weren't alone. But they were strong. Together, they could hunker down and weather this, tend to the Wood and remain strong. They just needed their matriarch, his- and his cousin's- grandmother, Vilmenja, to remain steadfast.

(And as much as he hated her, had hated being raised by her, seeing how she turned his cousin into a warped version of her that he'd spent far too little time trying to iron out, it was still bizarre to see her refuse to get out of bed. To hear her only mumble his cousin's name, her favourite grandchild, the one she'd always lamented turning out as a buck.)

(And it was his fault, really. For not dragging his cousin back from the interlopers, for not coming back quickly enough. So it was only right if he fixed this, even if it seemed like his cousin had no desire to return home.)

(Even if the Green Word would now no longer be theirs to follow. Even if the jungle would reject them, in all probability.)

"Old Sharlayan, too," the old man added in afterthought. "A lot there, though I don't know if that will stay true."

None of these names meant anything to him. Dmitri nodded and turned to the door, where his spear was resting.

"Now, can I ask why you barged into an old man's home? Surely not just to ask questions about one of his many portraits."

He paused as he reached for his spear, contemplating for a few moments the heft of it in his hands. "Hm. I'd been asking around for this viera. Someone said you might have information. Isn't that obvious?"

"Truly? Seems an odd time to be looking." Sirius laughed again, this time harsh, bitter. "We're all going to be dead here soon, the way this-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence, of course. Dmitri spun around, hurled the spear- and, gloriously, it found its mark in the man's chest. Through a lung, if the strangled, wheezed cry he let out said anything. White hot fury, barely held back through the entire encounter, surged through him; he watched rather than felt as he stomped forwards, grabbed the haft and used it as leverage to throw the man out of the chair onto the ground. Mechanically, almost dispassionately, he ripped it out and stabbed down, again, again, until his pants were spattered with blood and the old man, while twitching, was silent past low groans.

There must have been noise. He didn't hear it; the blood had been rushing in his ears too loudly. Ordinarily, he loathed violence, abhorred taking a life if he could drive off the person instead.

There were always exceptions.

'A very talented boy, that one.'

Dmitri felt his stomach heave, though he swallowed it down. Turning again on his heels, he walked out of the house, quickly as he could, hoping that he could either leave before anyone came to investigate or that the dark of night and how dark his own clothes were hid the gore. (If anyone did care to still investigate such disturbances; they feared the monsters- blasphemies, they were apparently being called- quite a bit)

Minka Vasiliev. His cousin, Minka Vasiliev. He’d changed a lot since he’d last seen him in that portrait alone- that was the shortest he’d ever seen his baby cousin’s hair, and even in portrait form, there was something off in how those eyes looked- but it was him. It was undeniably, unmistakably him.

Radz-at-Han.

Gridania.

Ishgard.

Old Sharlayan.

Wherever these were, whatever blasphemies they were besieged by, Dmitri Vasiliev would go there. He would find Minka and drag him back to the safety of the Wood's embrace, and even if they were the last people still on earth, there, the viera would be safe.

He just had to find him.

[canvas texture overlay courtesy of here]