#For residents of Niles

[dental1234]

"Beyond Borders: Finding the Best Dentists Near Illinois, Niles, and Des Plaines"

Embark on a journey "Beyond Borders" as we explore the quest for the best dentists near Illinois, Niles, and Des Plaines. In the expansive landscape of Illinois, finding the best dentists near Illinois transcends geographical boundaries. These dental professionals redefine the standards of care, offering a comprehensive approach that goes beyond the ordinary, ensuring your oral health journey is characterized by precision, commitment, and excellence.

For residents of Niles, the search for the best dentists near Niles becomes an adventure beyond city limits. These practitioners in Niles are dedicated to providing top-tier dental care, emphasizing preventive measures, therapeutic solutions, and cosmetic enhancements. Your journey to optimal oral wellness in Niles takes you beyond borders, where each visit to the dentist becomes an exploration of superior care and personalized attention.

In the charming community of Des Plaines, the best dentists near Des Plaines beckon you to explore dental care beyond the conventional. Beyond city limits, these practitioners redefine the dental experience, blending advanced technologies with a compassionate touch. Your journey to a radiant smile in Des Plaines becomes a borderless exploration, where the boundaries of conventional care are surpassed for an enhanced and transformative experience.

"Beyond Borders: Finding the Best Dentists in Illinois, Niles, and Des Plaines" invites you to step into a realm where superior dental care knows no bounds. Whether in Illinois, Niles, or Des Plaines, let this exploration guide you beyond borders, where every smile receives the attention and expertise it deserves, transcending geographical limits for an unparalleled dental experience.

[residentialmodernist]

Goodson Residence, Malibu, 1990-93, Edward R. Niles.

[ncydema-hart]

MH DOLLS ☠︎︎ 🎀🕸

🧟‍♂️💬🩸🫧🥀⚡️🌑

▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀ PIXELS {¬ºཀ°}¬ ♱⋆ ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

[nilesmoon]

something really fun about the first resident evil novel is how you get to read weskers pov in the arklay mansion and see how annoyed he is with all the puzzles

[instantespanoramicos]

After all these years, they're still in love

[dailyjaneleeves]

As always, Halloween icons are located in our icon downloads right here.

(And yes, we have a new batch being added this afternoon, which will be our last batch, so we can start adding to the rest of the holiday icons for the remainder of the year ;) )

[why-animals-do-the-thing]

Super cool docent cart at the San Francisco Zoo today! This Nile hippopotamus was a previous zoo resident and his skull is now helping educate guests.

I’ve never see a hippo skull irl, much less gotten to touch their ivory, so I spent a ton of time talking with them. I’ve been super impressed with all the docents I’ve encountered here!

[great-and-small]

I just have to say it’s really refreshing to read your thoughts on the walrus/fairy post, as I also have very strong feelings about it. Thank you for sharing your opinion

For someone such as myself who is very pro-whimsy, tumblr’s collective willingness to believe in fairies is actually quite charming. I would like to be the type of person to quickly and without question accept that fairies are real if one knocked on my door but honestly I’m a bit of a skeptic and that’s not how my brain works. I’m just more of a Scully than a Mulder I guess!

I think my bias here is that I studied wildlife forensics in vet school, and as a result I dare not underestimate the determination of wildlife smugglers. Yes, it would be hard to smuggle a walrus (even a juvenile) into a private residence. That said people have similarly smuggled Nile crocodiles, lions, spotted seals, cheetahs, chimpanzees, and so so many more species. There was even a case of a gentleman who was taken to court for planning to steal a walrus from an aquarium.

I also think some folks are underestimating the athleticism of a walrus. They aren’t lazy slugs that just lay on a beach all day, but rather extraordinarily powerful and intelligent animals. People saying a walrus would never make it up their stairs make me chuckle because walruses in the wild can and do climb 200 ft cliffs. A walrus’ tusks could also glance against a door in a way that resembled knocking. It is highly highly highly improbable for a walrus to be on your doorstep. But not impossible.

If I find a walrus at my door, I have a bizarre but intriguing puzzle that I can immediately start trying to solve. If I find something like the tooth fairy at my door (and am able to discern it is no hoax), I have to re-evaluate my entire understanding of reality. Of physics, and biology, and my perception of the universe around me. That would definitely shock me more than an unexpected mammal in a place it shouldn’t be!

[samissobsessed]

The outfit of Killian at the beginning of the story and Leon's is the same, but I find more resemblance of Sotcn Amen to Leon.

Confession:

"I've seen a lot of people compare Killian to Leon Kennedy, but I can't find any resemblance."

[poptod]

Within You (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: You make prayer to the Gods to be one with your beloved.

Notes: hey lads its been a while. this story is, um, more like a moral-of-the-story than a fanfiction. its about obsession and very deep love (in a healthy way). i talk about it a little more in the notes of the Ao3 chapter. WC: 3.9k Ao3 Link

+

You were staring again.

Most of your mornings were spent staring. You woke up much earlier than he did, after all, and rarely could find the ego to leave the bed without him. Thus you spent your mornings staring.

The sun had just barely risen over the eastern hills, and the winds, typically harsher in the day, were only a quiet brush against the reed shades on the windows. A warm glow began to fill the Prince's bedroom –– slow at first, and then a little brighter, till the sun shone directly through the window's angle, and boasted rays of light like blooming lotus petals unfurling downwards through the air. But this dappled light; the gently floating dust like pollen, the warmly-coloured walls and their painted decorations, were only a backdrop to the beauty of the Prince before you. Ahkmen dozed peacefully in the warm morning, resting on his stomach with his long eyelashes still darkened from yesterday's kohl. 

You reached up slowly, wary of disturbing him, and carefully brushed his hair away from his face. A few loose strands entangled in your fingers and easily came away from him; those you placed in your own hair, like a medallion of the Prince's love. A part of him within you.

It was something you longed for desperately. You loved the sensation of being close to him, your chest pressed against his, hands roaming all across in a plea for more and more of one another. You loved even more the feeling of him being inside you –– always pleasant and warm, and about as intimate as one could get with another. But still something seemed to lack; something was not whole. You were not whole. You wanted to crawl into his mouth and sleep in his heart. You wanted to reside within him.

His eyes fluttered open –– a pale colour made vibrant by the dark ochre and golden skin of his freckled face, framed by his smudged black eyeliner.

He smiled.

"Good morning, merwty," he said, and stretched, raising his arms high above his head, showcasing his ribs and slim waist.

"Good morning," you said with a soft chuckle. "How did you sleep?"

"Alright," he mumbled.

He reached over, and pulled you into him. You gladly acquiesced, and wrapped your arms around him.

"You do know I have to go soon," you said, your voice muffled against his breast. "I may not attend the morning worship but, I do have to clean up after some of it."

"Yes, I know," he said with a sigh, and held you tighter. "Just for another minute, my lotus."

You giggled, breathing in his scent, which only melted you into his hold.

Eventually you had to tear yourself from him –– just as you did every day –– and prepare yourself to go to the temple. Being a low-level priest, you had more freedom and less responsibilities than the High Priest in Memphis, but still had a standard level of cleanliness to adhere to. Most of that cleaning of your body was done on the temple grounds, with water purified from the Nile. For now, you wrapped yourself in white linens, and searched for the wig that you had, last night, tossed somewhere in the room. Ahkmen simultaneously searched for his own wig, and in the process found yours. You found the Prince's wig in the corner.

You set it on your head, and brought it over to him that way.

"What do you think?" You asked, twirling around. His wig was much shorter than yours, with the ends capped in gold, and all braided in fine, thin strands.

"I think you are beautiful," he said, grinning. "Maybe you should wear it for today."

"Really? And what would you wear? Your bare hair?" You laughed.

He laughed with you, and rested his hands on your hips.

"By Gods, no. I have other wigs, you know. This one," he played with the strands now on your head, "is just my favourite. But maybe I will wear your hair today."

"Mine?" You asked, laughing.

He bent down and picked your wig up from the floor, and quickly settled it atop his head. The thick braids were all a mess from being tossed about, but nothing could diminish the brightly glowing grin shining from his face, although his eyes were obscured by the out-of-place hair. You laughed and brushed it away, settling everything in its proper place.

"Well... it's not horrible," you said.

"You think so?" He asked softly, reaching up to fondle the braids.

His eyes widened imperceptibly, and suddenly he was reaching for his hand-mirror, upon which the image of the Goddess Hathor was carved into the handle. Holding it up, he began to move the hair the way he liked it, and smiled at himself. With a small turn of the mirror's angle in his hand, he caught you in the mirror's reflection. His smile grew, and emulated a deep warmth.

"Beautiful," he said softly, his smile coy as it was sweet.

"You want to wear it?" You asked.

"I think so. A piece of you with me. It smells like your oils," he said, "and the incense from the temple."

"Let me fix it for you, then," you said.

He sat down upon the floor, on the reed matting that ran the length from the doorway to the window, and you sat behind him on a three-pronged stool. All the while as you worked he held the shining mirror, watching you in the reflection. Contented, soft eyes followed yours, till at the door of the palace you parted for the day, both waiting eagerly for when you would meet again.

Today Ra seemed to shine especially bright and warm, though the effect might've been caused by your shorter-than-usual hair. Until you arrived at the temple you received no stranger looks. Upon entering the enclosure walls of Hwt-Ka-Ptah, a few people stared, and by the time you reached the sacred lake the higher priests were staring at you. They had just finished their morning ritual, and were now cleaning themselves of the ash and oils burned and smeared across the image of Ptah, the God to whom the entirety of the complex was devoted to. 

"Have you gotten a new wig?" Seshemnefer asked as he stepped out of the lake, his skin already beginning to dry in the sun and breeze.

"Sort of," you said.

Seshemnefer was a chanter of Ptah, accompanying the higher Priests in many of the daily ceremonies. Essentially all of the priests in the complex ranked above you –– including Seshemnefer –– but it was not something you minded. Whilst most priests were, in their time of work, confined to the walls of Hwt-Ka-Ptah, you were allowed free roam, which gave you evenings to spend with Ahkmen. You surmised that if it were not the Prince calling upon you, you too would be set to live in the temple grounds. Still, your ranking made you replaceable, and thus the call of the Prince was given more importance than your duties in the temple. 

"Well," he ran a cloth over his bare head, "it looks nice. Although a little..." he pursed his lips, "... unlike you. Anyway, you better hurry up. The halls need cleaning."

"Of course, of course. Thank you," you said, and hurried down into the waters to cleanse yourself.

Throughout the day you worked dutifully, but just as with every other day your mind always remained on Ahkmen. Thoughts of the Gods would be more proper; love for Them, adoration for Their qualities, and gratefulness for Their gifts and mercies. Your work was good enough, you supposed –– cleaning the floors, dusting the sand away, and doing whatever the higher-ups called on you to do. Ahkmen was your gift from the Gods, this you knew, and so perhaps appreciation for him would do just as good as gratitude directly to the Gods Themselves.

But in the evening, a rare chance presented itself to you. The inner shrine of the temple was off limits to all but the highest of priests, the Hem-Netjer-Tepi –– the first servant of God. The common people spoke their prayers outside the temple, or conversely paid priests to pray to the Gods directly for them. Your work kept you in the temple late into the night, and the Prince had yet to call upon you; thus the higher priests continued to use your labour wherever needed. The last ceremony of worship was performed. The chanting ceased, and the fires inside the inner shrine were put out. Although the incense was taken away, its thick scent and smoke remained, spilling out from beneath the cracks in the large doors blocking the inner shrine from watching eyes. The priests had not tied the binding rope tight enough, and now it fell loose.

You could, of course, go get the Hem-Netjer-Tepi and ask him to tie it back up, or even tie it up yourself. For some reason, however, you hesitated. You stared at the dark slit in the open doorway, and heard a silent beckoning.

You were unclean. Sweat on your skin, dust clinging to you from your dirty work. But there was something you desired more than anything, and now you had a chance to ask the Gods directly; to postulate yourself, and in your own words ask for something you would never admit to yearning for to anyone else. Before you fully realized it, you had dropped your supplies, and your hand was raised towards the parted doorway.

You whipped around, checked your surroundings, and slipped inside.

Without the sacred flame the priests carried inside the chamber, the inner shrine was pitch black, with the only light source being the slit in the doorway, illuminating a thin beam of light across the edge of the God's naos shrine. With wide eyes not yet accustomed to the dark, you fell to your knees and pressed your forehead to the ground. You had yet to even see the image of Ptah, but His presence was overwhelming, and your body began to shake.

"Oh Great God Ptah," you began, nearly whimpering the words into the dust at His feet, "oh He who listens to prayers, please grant me this desire. O Ptah, south of His wall, Who lifts the Heavens with His hands, let me be one with my beloved. Let us not be apart, let us experience the oneness of being complete. Let me return and be his heart once more. O Ptah, I ask this out of pure longing and love. I ask forgiveness for entering Your sacred shrine. I ask for Your mercy. Ptah, Lord of the Life of the Two Lands –– praises and adorations upon Your name."

You continued, rambling in both anxiety and ecstasy, as your closed eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light. Praises and adorations again and again; and the repetition of your one request. When you raised your head, your eyes had fully adjusted, and you caught sight of Ptah looking down upon you, His eyes wide and vibrant against His golden skin.

You fled the shrine room.

Barely within your mind, you put away your cleaning tools, and hurried back to the residence of the Pharaoh.

Ahkmen was nearly asleep by the time you returned. The oil lamp at his bedside was ready to flicker into oblivion, and the wind had settled for the night. His breath was quiet. The door creaked as you closed it, and the sound roused him gently from his passing.

"Good evening," he mumbled, and rolled over from his stomach to his back.

You quickly pulled the wig off your head, and crawled onto his bedframe.

"Hello, merwty," you murmured, moving quick and careful to caress his head.

"Where were you?" He asked.

"They asked me to clean up after the evening ritual," you said, which was not a lie. 

"I see," he said. "Are you tired?"

"Um..." adrenaline had kept you going since you left the shrine. But now that you were in the warm light of Ahkmen's room, it seeped away into exhaustion. "I.. am, yes."

"I'm sorry we didn't get much time tonight," he said, and some of the words slurred together.

"You will have to tell me about your day tomorrow morning," you said as you settled down into his arms.

"Oh yes," he murmured, nuzzling you.

It took only a few long breaths before you both fell asleep.

In the morning, you felt no body next to yours. The strange and unfamiliar sensation jolted you awake.

"Merwty?"

Ahkmen spoke in a panicked voice. At once the realization came to you, and you remembered the previous night. Your prayer to your Maker.

"Merwty, did you really do that?" Ahkmen asked, his breath still moving quick through his chest.

"I... I did," you said. 

The words formed on Ahkmen's tongue, and passed through his lips. Your lips. Each of his movements was now yours –– each of his memories now yours to recall, just as your memories were his.

You both, simultaneously thinking the same thing, scrambled out of bed and rushed to the mirror. Crashing down onto the floor on your knees, you grabbed the mirror and held it up to your face, your knuckles white and frigid. It was a question of appearance; had you taken on Ahkmen's characteristics, or had he taken on yours? Was your shared face now an amalgamation of your features?

To your consolation, your shared face was Ahkmen's face. There was no worry about hurrying out of the palace, lest someone mistake your shared body for an imposter in the room of the Prince.

You let out a shared sigh of relief.

"It's kind of hard to believe," Ahkmen said, touching your face, "that your wish was granted."

"A little," you agreed, "but I know that if the Gods gave me you, then I must be in Their favour."

He chuckled, and though your shared eyes closed, you revelled in his smiling expression in the mirror when he opened them.

"You are sweet. But this will take some getting used to. I think... we should be able to communicate without speaking aloud, right?" He said, still speaking to you through the mirror.

"I think so," you said. 

In the meantime, you grew increasingly interested in moving Ahkmen's face. You stuck your tongue out, pursed your lips, moved your eyebrows about, and finally opened your mouth wide and let your tongue roll out.

Ahkmen shut his mouth immediately, and dropped the mirror. Your face became very, very warm.

"Stop that," he laughed, digging his nails into his palm.

You unclenched the hand.

"You stop that, that hurts," you said, looking down at the red crescents stamped onto your palm.

"I'm sorry, merwty," he said softly, and kissed his palm.

You giggled.

"Let's get ready, yes?" You said.

"Of course. The day will not wait for our play. We shall return to it in the night," he said.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and squeezed tightly, humming in deep satisfaction. To be one with Ahkmen fulfilled all pleasurable desires, and at last satiated the deep sense of longing and separation within you.

You went off to bathe and were assisted by ladies who brought oils of every fine scent. The day was already beginning to grow hot, and thus the cool water was a great relief to step into. With each movement you were filled with enjoyment –– the grace of Ahkmen's feet upon the floor, his slim legs, the gentleness of his lean arms swaying to and fro as the two of you seemed to dance within your body. The ladies watched with wide and curious eyes, and seemed surprised when you turned down their offer to wash your hair and skin. Instead, you did it yourself, lavishing one another in the scent of rose and the luxurious feel of smooth oil dripping down your humid skin.

I adore you, I adore you, played over and over like a mantra, one after another being spoken in each other's voices within your head. Washing yourself was a slow and delicate process that you both relished in, running your hands over your shoulders, thighs, and waist, and pressing your lips against your shoulder in quiet, unassuming kisses.

By the time you were finished, you were already late to meet Ahkmen's father. But you insisted and took the time to get dressed in fine garments of white linen and golden jewels, lavishing yourself and admiring how your tanned skin contrasted and complimented the colours.

"Come now," Ahkmen said to you within your mind, "I do not want my father to be cross with us."

"Very well," you grumbled. "I wish you could carry a mirror around all day, so I could always see your beautiful face."

"You already wished to be one with me," Ahk said, and you left the room, headed towards the court. "I am not sure the Gods would be so merciful to change societal structure to allow us to hold a mirror all day."

You laughed, but managed to hold it inside –– only a smile showed itself, earning you some odd looks from the people you passed in the halls.

The two of you moved through the day with relative ease given your new living arrangements, all the while fawning over yourself in both directions. In times of required silence, you fondled your hands either in front of you or behind your back, running your fingers over your knuckles adoringly, and making subtle kisses with your lips each time one finger tapped another finger, distracted from any outside occurrences. People would, now and again, give you strange looks. From those ranking below you, they were often more curious and befuddled than anything; from those higher-ranking, they were punishing glares, and were a weak attempt to shame you into not loving one another. But you just smiled coyly, like a cat with slim, mischievous eyes, and continued to touch your hands behind your back.

Not being able to see Ahkmen slowly dug at you. Each twist of your shared expression, from the little smirks to the soft blinking of his lashes, was now hidden by virtue of your eye's angle. This little discomfort and dissatisfaction was not the only thing to bother you, either –– there was none of the pleasure of placing your arm around his waist and pulling him in, none of the sensation of feeling his body heat next to yours. You could no longer feel his lips on yours, nor easily stare into his eyes as he stroked your cheek.

All of these things you pushed aside. You were lucky to be able to speak with him and spend the day with him at all; after all, usually you were apart for near the whole day, separated by your duties. 

As the sun set behind the white walls of the palace, you awaited eagerly your dismissal from royal duties. When the moment finally came, the two of you practically bounded back to your room, laughing to yourself as your gold and white tresses billowed behind you. You dismissed all servants from the area, and fell onto your bed behind closed doors. Slowly your eyes shut, and deep breaths replaced the giddiness, allowing a sense of tiredness to settle deep into your body.

"Oh, to be united as one," you said, running your hand over your stomach and feeling the dips and ripples of fat and muscle. 

"Merwty, I miss your face," Ahkmen sighed.

"I miss your face, too," you said softly. "But more than that..."

As you lay there, you could easily imagine Ahkmen's body resting on the bed –– an image called back from your memories of many evenings. In those moments, your beloved lying exhausted on his bed, you would often bring him water or fruits if he desired them. You massaged his feet and legs, caressed his body, braided his hair, and took great joy in any service towards him. Even washing fruit for him to eat felt holy.

"I love being a part of you," you mumbled, "but I miss being of service to you. Like, bringing you pleasure. Now if I want to feed you dates, I have to just feed them to myself. That's no fun."

"You enjoy feeding me dates that much?" He asked amusedly.

"It's not just the dates, it's the principle of the thing," you grumbled, feeling delight and humour bubble in your chest.

Ahkmen laughed, brushing his hands through your hair.

"What does it mean, then?"

You paused and thought. Suddenly, a white light filled you –– a deep understanding of the nature of the soul. 

Ahkmen, privy to your thoughts, understood as well.

You knew what you needed to do.

"Really?" He said.

"Really," you said.

That night, you snuck out of the palace and over the white enclosure walls of the temple, and in secrecy opened the door bolt to the inner shrine. Even being a Prince you were not allowed in this sacred room; it was an honour and duty reserved only for the High Priest. Thus you continuously looked over your shoulder till you closed the shrine door behind you, enveloping yourself in the darkness.

Each breath seemed to echo in the tall space. But with no sense of coordination and no sight to aid, you took only a few, stumbling steps forward before falling once more to your knees. Forehead to the floor you began muttering again, prayers, adorations, and your plea.

"O Great God Ptah, O He Who listens to prayers, forgive me for what I asked of You, thank You for Your mercy in bestowing understanding. I am sorry for doubting Your will in separating us as different beings. I see now it is pleasure to serve personally, another whom you love. Please, may Your mercy extend to us –– may we be of service to one another once more, and continue to serve You, O Beautiful of Face."

With hands clasped in front of your chest you raised yourself, and slowly, shaking, met the eye of the God.

His eyes, strikingly pale and wide, were staring down at you.

You fled the shrine room.

A certain anxiousness kept you in an uneasy sleep for several hours. Neither of you were sure if Ptah would listen; if His mercy would extend to fix your hubris. You had been taught by the priests that the mercy of not being punished for your sins was the same mercy that Gods showed when They did not answer your prayers immediately. Extensions of the same kindness. Humans were blind and could not see the whole map –– where one seemingly good wish led was just as dark and unknowable as any ill-tempered desire, as the effects of human choice could not be seen on the linear timeline that the living experienced. If Ptah was not so merciful to save you from yourself, then He would likely not want to use the energy to switch you back at your behest. Yet it could also be seen as a mercy that Ptah listened to you in the first place; that He afforded you the opportunity to learn and enlighten yourself. You could not tell which circumstance this one was.

These thoughts churned, salted by an anxious sickness, until you eventually fell asleep in the very early morning.

By the time the sun had fully risen over the mountains, you were stirring awake, your eyes heavy with exhaustion. Your head rolled to the side, and beside you lay the sleeping body of Ahkmen. You sighed a breath of relief. 

A few minutes later Ahk stirred, and you moved, shifting to pet his face and slowly wake him.

"Good morning, merwty," you said with a smile.

He smiled up at you, and brushed the hair out of your face, tucking it behind your ear.

"Good morning, my love."

[mh-midnight-wanderer]

[At Heath's residence: Deuce, Heath, Gil and Jackson discusses about De Nile upcoming party]

Heath: The De Niles family's annual high-society-shrieking-ball-soiree is here! And even though common monsters aren't let in, that doesn't stop us from camping out for a peek at the fanciness...

Jackson: Okay, can someone please explain why we care about this

Deuce: It's pretty much the best party of all time. Rich food, richer folks. Its gonna be fun

Gil: They say each gift basket has a live cockatrice inside!

*hears someone knocking the door*

Jackson: *sighs* Guys, in case you've already forgotten, Nefera de Nile is the worst. And that's not just jealousy talking. I'd say that to her face.

*Jackson opens the door. And sees Nefera in disguise*

Nefera: I need your help.

Jackson: You're the worst.

*Jackson closes the door*

[qualityfarmprofessorpaper-blog]

The “Anuak” tribe or people is one of the darkest skinned tribes in Africa 🖤🤍

A tribe whose residents are characterized by dark black skin. They are a Nilotic ethnic group of the Luo peoples, named after their great-grandfather Luo, and the women of this tribe have a distinctive beauty.

They live in parts of East Africa and the upper reaches of the Nile River, in villages spread across southern and eastern Sudan and southwestern Ethiopia. Their language is called Dha_Anywaa.

The number of members of this ethnic group ranges between 200-350 thousand people around the world.

- The “Anuak” tribe has several other names that are similar in pronunciation, including: “Anyuak,” “Agnwak,” and “Anywaa.”

[acupofqueercoffee]

“Offer me the deathless death”

Andromache the Scythian x Female Reader

request ( found here ) by @nightly-polaris

|･ω･) go wild, you said and go wild, i did. i included as much of the provided details as i could. hopefully, you’ll find it agreeable

cw : 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ 18+ // dubcon-ish // ✂️ ✂️😼 // overstimulation

casually quoting hozier for all my andromache fics. that fight scene on the plane and the way she grabbed nile by the jaw tho 😩 wanted to incorporate it in a fic ever since i saw it, and fucking finally did

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Hallucinations. A fever dream.

Anything but reality is what you tell yourself, and what a job you have been doing thus far! Fantastically foolish if nothing else. Cocooned in a bubble of lies that spill forth none other than your lips, and illusions that are carved by your very mind itself, you harbour not a droplet of doubt that the reality in front of your eyes is nothing but bona fide.

People after all are the most masterful at fooling themselves.

Ensnared in a web of deceit weaved by your fingers lie no hapless preys, but you, yourself, who revel in the sweet taste of false security as you do in the richness of the creamy warm chocolate drink that coats your tongue.

Even though business in your shop today is notably satisfactory if not the most profitable, it is not the digits that matter to you the most. Your little shop is borne purely out of your profound passion and desire; obligation is out of the picture. It is where you feel the most at home, doing what you love while bathed in the aroma of freshly ground coffee and cocoa.

Amidst brewing a cup of americano as per the order of a customer with stylish sun-glasses and a striking jawline, your dress is accidentally soiled. Little do you know, the scatter of black and bitter constellations along the pristine white of your sleeve is merely the dawn of a darker, more bitter happening.

──────── ༻✿༺ ────────

Finding you has been relatively easy.

When the familiar dreams begin plaguing her usually dreamless nights, a telltale sign of a new immortal on the horizon, Andromache has half a mind to ignore them altogether. Had she not seen the places that stoke recognition amongst the wild tapestry of images, she certainly would have. But alas, her target, as it so happens, is no stranger to her. By no means does the Scythian know you. Nor you, the Scythian. New immortals bring together with them an assortment of risks, one of them being the exposure of their secret. It is with such knowledge in mind that Andromache feels obliged to set out for you despite her reluctance. You living in the neighbourhood of her temporary place of residence only makes the search all the more convenient.

Being a warrior for many a millennium has developed a vast array of tactical traits into personal trademarks. Those that once upon a time had had to be mindfully exercised, now occur as easily and effortlessly as breathing, involuntary more often than not. Beneath the dark shades of a spectacle perched on a well-defined slope of a nose lies a pair of sage green eyes, scanning the vicinity of wherever she goes like an eagle on a hunt. They have landed on it then, during her visit to a store, standing adjacent to it is a cafe in the name of “Trouvaille”. The Scythian is not one to be easily intrigued, but what a lie it would be to say that the charming building with its vintage air and curious name had not tickled her fancy. Or its owner whom she has noticed is all sweet smiles and dulcet eyes.

Eyes which she has only seen from afar then, now she stares directly into them. Protected by the shades, the intense greens study you with brazen openness, roaming all over your frame, from the tiny clips that decorate your cascading hair like colourful Christmas lights to the butterfly pendant that dangles from a simple silver chain, hovering directly above the dip of your throat, from the little flower prints on your dress, the skirt of which softly caresses your thighs, to occasional glimpse of seemingly soft flesh that teases the Scythian, left uncovered by a pair of white thigh-highs.

It is retrieving you that is the hard part.

Immediately upon arrival, Andromache has read your features for perhaps a trace of recognition. You paying the Scythian a visit in her dreams can only mean one thing after all: that she, too, must have appeared in yours. Yet, no widening of your eyes greet her, only a smile that does not waver.

“Hi, welcome to cafe Trouvaille. What can I get you?”

“Americano will do. Hot.”

Beside the fact that it is broad day light, a few people roam the place. As capable as Andromache is of manhandling you, it is not in her best interest to attract attention. The situation calls for patience. Rushing will spell only more trouble at best. Wait she must, and so, wait she does.

Leisurely, the Scythian sips her coffee, studying you periodically as she does so. It is after some minutes have ticked by, the cup of coffee sitting on the table, empty and cold, that she decides to fish a book, leather-bound and well-worn, out of her backpack. Thumbing through old pages, Andromache spends the better part of the wait indulging in literature, until one by one, people start trickling out of the shop.

In due time, it leaves only the Scythian and you.

The sky has taken on a deep orange hue by the time she stands to approach you. She eyes you surreptitiously, and upon confirming that she is not at the receiving end of your attention, the Scythian moves to lock the door. Ever the diligent wielder of caution, she does not forget to flip the little dangling plate. The letter “We’re closed.” that is carved into the wood will help ward off potential visitors.

Even as she walks towards the counter, you do not seem to notice her for you are kept occupied by the book in your lap, fingers busy scribbling onto paper. It is the tinkle of porcelain on marble as she drops the cup and saucer atop the counter that finally has your eyes zeroing in on her. She watches you watch her. Backdropped by the sunset with her shades finally tucked away into the pocket of her jacket, the sight of the Scythian brings about a subtle shift in your mien. Although fleeting, the furrow of your brows that must have been imperceptible to others, does not go unnoticed.

“Hello, again. I hope you’ve had a good time.”

The smile that you give her is sweet, if not the most genuine.

“Why don’t we save the pleasantries, hm?” The smile that touches her lips, in contrast, has a hint of sourness. “You’ve seen me before.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t believe I have.”

Your answer only brings about a twofold increase in the Scythian’s irritation. Judging by the slightest delay in your response, she knows that you are well aware that she has not meant it as a query, and so, she says as much.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

The adamant denial from you has strong, slender digits tightening around the strap that is slung over one shoulder.

“Do I really have to spell it out for you? You died, and then you woke up, saw a bunch of people you had never seen before in your dream, including me.”

“But, that was- No. Surely it was-.”

“Look, kid-” Forming into a thin line are Andromache’s lips as she takes a moment to compose herself, slowly huffing out an exhale through flared nostrils. “-I know you’ve got questions but I need you to come with me first.”

“No. No, I don’t think so. This isn’t real. None of this is real. Leave, please. I need you to leave.”

Lips that slowly curl into a smirk and a chuckle that comes out dark and dangerous. “It’s cute that you think you have a choice.”

Battered boots that come to rest just shy of polished loafers.

“You know…your folly is, dare i say, commendable. Reality is not just something you can rewrite, and yet, you managed an impeccable job of tricking yourself into thinking what you believe to be the truth is the truth.”

One foreboding frame that looms like a predator and the one that cowers like a cornered prey.

“Alas, I almost feel bad for shattering your little illusion. But then again, I’ve done a great many questionable things in my life having lived as long as I have. What significance would it make to add another?”

“What I saw in my dream. They really happened.” It is a question albeit not being voiced like one. The Scythian does not find the need to answer. Why bother when the answer already lies in your hand?

At her silence, a look of horror dawns on your features. “You’re a murderer. You and your friends. I’ve seen them. I- I’m not- I can’t.”

“Oh darling, a rose without thorns is but a weed, easy to be plucked, to be trampled on. You’re one of us now. You will come with me whether you like it or not, and you will do so this instant.”

Every single step you hesitantly take back is met with an immediate footfall of boots as they fall right onto the place that your loafers have just vacated. It goes like this for a while, you actively ruining the close proximity, and Andromache rectifying it, until there is nowhere for you to flee, and your hips collide with the counter edge.

“Why me?” She parries your plea with a nonchalant shrug, face impassive. “Beats me.”

“Please, I-” Tears glisten in your eyes, murmuring beseechingly. “Let me go. I can’t kill. I know nothing about fighting.”

While her hands grip the counter on either side of your waist to cage you in strong arms, her lips lower to the shell of your ear, breath warm as she speaks. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. You can kill. In fact, anyone can. You just have to listen to me.”

“No! Let me go! I don’t want-” Yells dissolve into a yelp by way of digits seizing your jaw.

“I’ve gone out of my way to exercise great forbearance, but it is running terribly thin. It would do you well not to try it any further.” She husks threateningly, feeling the softness of your cheeks giving under the roughness of her battle-hardened fingers. Salty droplets drench her digits as tears start spilling in rivulets down your cheeks.

“Go on, bite me with those baby teeth. Scratch me with your little paws.” She taunts. “Why, would you look at that! All bark and no bite. How pathetic.”

It is as she says this that your teeth sink into the palm that is pressed tightly against your mouth. The unexpected retaliation has her stance faltering, and although you manage to break free from her bodily confines, the Scythian, being far more nimble and dexterous, hardly has to break sweat in recapturing you.

“You're a stubborn little thing, aren’t you? Two can play that game, although don’t say I didn’t warn you. Breaking men, after all, is considered one of my fortes.”

Wrists locked behind your back in her iron grip, and body bent over the marble counter, Andromache revels in the quavering of your body beneath her own as one wicked hand, like a sneaky serpent, slowly slithers up your thigh.

“Are you-” A whimper flies past your lips when your arms are pulled taunt, shoulders craning uncomfortably. And then, she yanks, hard and unforgiving, until you are forced onto your feet, back colliding with her front. “Are you going to kill me?”

Andromache cannot help but laugh at your question, a rich throaty sound that brings about the erection of soft little hair on the nape of your neck.

Your wrists are released at the cost of your cheeks bearing the brunt of her ire as rough fingers dig into your flesh. They flee from their cage between the two of your bodies to take sanctuary on her forearm, soft fingers grasping the sleeve of her jacket. “Where’s the fun in killing you when I can just have my way with you, hm?” Her hold around one of your thighs remains unrelenting while the hand on your jaw coerces you into craning your neck. Your head rests on her chest with a grunt, and you drown, held spellbound by the intense green of her eyes. “I’d rather enjoy the view of you crumbling beneath me than watch you bleed out only to come alive again.”

Although it douses you in shame, you have to admit that you are not entirely immune to the woman. How can you when she oozes charisma, frighteningly beautiful even as she looms over you with all the grandeur of a great menacing panther.

And then, too many things happen all at once; fingers that crawl into a forest of hair to grab a fistful, with a yank to the side, a throat that is bared for the predator above to conveniently sink her teeth into, the frenzied little flutter of a pulse beneath the flat of a warm tongue, chocked sobs that dissolve into a strangled gasp as a cold hand journeys into the waistband of an underwear.

Previously, your hands have found home on her thighs, fingers grappling fabric, but upon feeling wandering digits inside your underwear, one of them flies towards the offending hand, locking around a wrist.

“N-no. You can’t.”

“You would do well to remember that I am in control here.”

The Scythian’s growl is not only heard, but also felt on your skin as teeth nibble, mouth suck, and lips soothe the stings that afterwards will linger on your body in the form of dark blues and bright reds.

Horror and humiliation dance a wild tango whereas fingers waltz delicately along your folds, a condescending tsk echoing off your nape when they come away wet. Betrayed and backstabbed by your own body, mortification colours your face as not one but two of her sizeable digits sink into your heat with little to no effort. Although sudden, it does not hurt, though it stings, leaves you breathless still. Dewdrops bloom on your lashes and they drop down your cheeks when fingers in your core bury knuckles deep, abuse your tightness. You feel them in the very depths of your body, filling you so deliciously that when they wiggle so much as a little, it is more than enough to sucker-punch a breath out of your lungs.

Between her hot mouth kissing your neck all rosy and sore, her fingers cleverly caressing your insides, and her hand toying with your breasts beneath your dress, it is no surprise that your undoing greets you with a tidal wave of pleasure.

It is, however, a surprise to find yourself being shoved back-first onto the table, legs being pulled wide by fingers twining round your thighs. You are still suffering through a series of aftershocks from your first orgasm when her mouth attaches itself to your quavering folds, that wicked tongue immediately slithering into your hole. It does a cruel little nudge and your fingers wind up entwined in her hair. Instead of a reproach, it is a hum of satisfaction that you earn as the Scythian grabs a handful of your buttocks and devour you like a starved man.

By the seventh one, you are well beyond exhausted, brain foggy courtesy of being fucked into oblivion, and body agonisingly sore, littered with deep hues and teeth marks. Somewhere between third and fourth, if you recall correctly, she has stripped you bare, bar your thigh-highs, and completely rid herself off clothes, magnificent muscles coming into display. You have ogled them with barely restrained awe until your attention is swayed elsewhere by her mouth leaving traces of herself all across the expanse of your body.

Now, once again, you marvel at them, entranced by the impressiveness of her muscles that ripple with every roll of her powerful hips.

You barely recognise the face that is staring right back at you, reflected in the surface of sea green eyes, or the sounds that are oozing out of your lips. Sweat clings to the forehead of the woman towering over you as it does to yours. One of your legs is slung over her shoulder, and the other lies limp and useless between her thighs, as she rubs herself into your core with wild abandon.

“I- I can’t. Too much. It’s too muc- ah!”

“Yes, you can.”

She has taken the hand that goes to rest on one of her hipbones only to weave her fingers with yours. Now, they hover in the air, tightly intertwined, suddenly made much tighter by the white knuckled grip of your hand.

“Slow- nghh please! Be gentle.”

“You do as I say. Not the other way round. Is that understood?”

The desperate nods of your head is met with a bite to the succulent inside of your thigh just above the brim of your sock.

“Answer me.”

“Yes!”

“My word shall be your command, and you will dance to my every desire, won’t you darling?”

“Yes! Yes, I will.”

“You are mine after all, aren’t you? Mine to do with what I please. Mine to use how I see fit. Don’t you agree?”

“I’m yours- ngh- all yours.”

“Good girl.” She moans, movements escalating from lazy strokes to untamed gyrations.

“Andy.” She rasps breathlessly. “I want to hear my name dripping down those pretty little lips when you fall apart.”

And hear she does. Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy. Her name is all you can cry out as your juices mingle with one another’s, the combined essence soiling your thigh-highs as well as the couch beneath you.

Back curving, toes curling, you soar high, high into heaven, swimming amongst clouds, drowning in euphoria. And then, you plummet, down into the pit of hell, down into another one of those little deathless deaths. An intense blinding white replaced by an absolute dark.

When you awake, it is to the heart-melting sensation of lips softly caressing your forehead. You find yourself on the same couch that you have passed out, cocooned in toned arms, face tucked snugly into a warm, musky throat. Reflexively, you begin nosing the soft underside of her jaw before you are startled by fingers wandering down your very naked thigh.

“Look at me.” Obediently, you oblige, reluctantly leaving the pleasant warmth of her neck to do what she desires.

“What have I told you?” All too delicately, or as delicately as the callouses on her hand will allow, the pad of a thumb grazes the apple of your cheek.

Fighting against the urge to slip your eyes shut, you sigh dreamily instead. “That as long as I remain a good obedient girl, no harm will befall me.”

“That’s right. And are you?”

A nod as an answer prompts a pat of a forefinger on your cheek, and then, another. You know what she wants, so you give her just that.

“I’m a good girl.”

Not only do you see the smirk on her face, but you also feel it on your skin as she leans down to drag her lips across yours. “You forgot to mention whose, darling.”

“I’m a good girl, Andy. Your good girl.”

“And will my good girl obey my every command like she had promised?”

“Mmhm.”

A breath catches in your throat as her lips journey down down down, admiring the traces of none other than herself until that ravenous mouth adjourn to your hip, sucking the tender spot on your hipbone to make it all the more vibrant.

Although it has not been the main purpose of her doing what she has done, it is without doubt that Andromache gets a sick sort of pleasure out of seeing you covered in her marks. Every inch of your body and soul, all irrevocably hers.

You have said it so yourself, willingly given yourself up to her. That being said, it is purely her own greed that has her craving more and more and more of you. The scent of you that is sinfully sweet, heady and uniquely yours, makes her ache. The sight of you, like the dewy petals of an exquisite flower, pretty and pulsating, makes her mouth water.

It is with this insatiable hunger swelling inside of her that the Scythian sinks to her knees between your luxuriously smooth thighs.

“One more, darling. Give me one more before we leave.”

And you do, oh how you do even as one bleeds into two and two into three, because a good girl does what she is taught, does she not? And you are a good girl, Andy’s sweet little good girl to do with what she will.

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[blueiscoool]

33 Greco-Roman Family Tombs Found in Aswan, Egypt

An Egyptian-Italian archaeological mission has uncovered 33 family tombs from the Greco-Roman period near the Aga Khan Mausoleum in Aswan, Egypt.

The joint mission, led by Dr. Mohamed Ismail Khaled, Secretary-General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities, and Professor Patrizia Piacentini from the University of Milan, made the announcement earlier this month. The tombs, discovered west of Aswan’s Nile, date back to the Late Period and the Greco-Roman era, spanning from the sixth century BCE to the third century CE.

The Aga Khan Mausoleum, the resting place of Aga Khan III, Sir Sultan Muhammed Shah, who passed away in 1957, now sits above a necropolis with over 400 tombs. Dr. Khaled noted that it adds a new historical dimension to the Aga Khan area. The tombs vary in architectural style, with some featuring arched entrances and open courtyards made from mudbrick, while others are directly carved into the mountain rock. This diversity reflects the social stratification of the period.

Among the notable finds are mummified remains and funerary objects, including clay figures, sacrificial tables, ceramics, and painted cartonnages. An intriguing discovery within a stone coffin revealed the mummified remains of an adult and a child, likely adhered together by embalming fluids. Further analysis is planned to understand their relationship.

Anthropological and radiological studies have provided insights into the health conditions of buried individuals. Dr. Patricia Piachenti from the University of Milan noted that 30% to 40% of the deceased were infants, children, or adolescents. This high mortality rate among the young offers clues about prevalent diseases during that period. The remains of several adult women showed signs of pelvic bone trauma, suggesting childbirth complications or other medical conditions. Other mummies exhibited evidence of anemia, malnutrition, chest diseases, tuberculosis, and osteoporosis.

“Initial studies reveal that many individuals suffered from infectious diseases and bone disorders,” said Dr. Piacentini. “Some adult females showed signs of medical interventions such as amputations and bone trauma, indicating that ancient Aswan had developed some medical practices.”

Dr. Ayman Ashmawy, Head of the Egyptian Antiquities Sector, said that the lower parts of the necropolis were likely reserved for the middle-class residents of Aswan Island, including physicians, artisans, merchants, and storekeepers. The upper parts of the necropolis, however, appear to have been reserved for the wealthier upper class. This social stratification is reflected in the differing architectural styles and the types of artifacts found within the tombs.

The discoveries also include remains of colored cartonnage, clay and stone figurines, wooden coffins, and offering tables. The tombs’ architectural complexity reflects the advanced skills of the ancient craftsmen who overcame the challenges of digging into rock and constructing low-ceilinged funerary rooms and galleries.

The mission has employed the latest technology, including X-ray and CT scans, to analyze the mummies and artifacts. These technologies have allowed researchers to create three-dimensional reconstructions of the mummies and identify items such as bracelets found on some individuals.

By Dario Radley.

[nilesmoon]

I am thinking about him (chris redfield)

[brianbradley]

CLOSED STARTER.ㅤㅤ@limitsofdoubt.ㅤㅤKYLE HYDE.

NILE IS EVERYWHERE. From New York City, New York and Los Angeles, California, to the smallest of towns in the state of South Dakota. Deadwood, South Dakota. Fifteen miles and twenty minutes from Spearfish. It's a small town, but it isn't a noticeably small town. Bradley could blend into the crowd. Bradley had blended into the crowd for two months. He stayed at an older couple's bed and breakfast (the older man reminded him of Dunning — couldn't talk to him, though, how he'd talk to Dunning) and worked at one of the casinos in town. He hadn't stayed anywhere for longer than a month. He'd become complaisant. He'd become careless. And Nile is every-fucking-where. From New York City, New York and Los Angeles, California, all the way out in Deadwood, South Dakota. Two hundred and thirty five residents and eight 'tourists' in the dead of the South Dakota winter: one of the 'tourists' is Bradley, and the seven other 'tourists' are, evidently, Nile operatives. (Who knew South Dakota was a popular hideout spot?) The one who pistol whips him in the parking lot is familiar. Twelve hours tied to a chair in a warehouse, Bradley'd had the time to remember who that pistol-whipping Nile operative is: Ethan Riley. Nothing more than a small time criminal, committing white-collar crimes before committing even whiter-crimes with Nile, who thought he was everything. "You haven't changed much," earned Bradley an open-palm slap that cracked through the warehouse, and Bradley earned another, after being blindfolded, for saying, "Did I embarrass you?" It was worth it, then; two days tied to a chair in a warehouse, with bruises, with a busted mouth, with hair matted with dried blood — it wasn't. Two and a half days tied to a chair in a warehouse, time's becoming blurred. It could be three days, three and a half days. The light that spills into the room through the opening door says to Bradley, even through the blindfold, that it's sunset, that it's six in the evening and is becoming colder and colder. (It's been three days.) But the man who walks into the room is different: the leather soles of loafer shoes, the scent of shampoo and conditioner with cologne that's so familiar that the breath seizes in Bradley's throat before the coughing laughter that follows. The sound of those leather soles, the scent of that soap and that cologne — it could be a delusion born of blood loss and dehydration. "... you stubborn son of a bitch." But, knowing Hyde, it really is that stubborn son of a bitch, that bulldog.