#I would've liked to stay longer

[invis-here]

this is based pretty closely on a dream I had the other night so... make of that what you want and enjoy.

(710 words, cults, ssc, lesbians, ocs/self-insert)

Klara stepped into the grand hall of the desecrated church and let her eyes wander. Next to her she could hear the awed mumbles of her coven sisters and she had to agree. Never before had they been surrounded by such lavish decorations, long tables lined with plush chairs and laid in gold and crystal. Red and black velvet were swallowing the noise as acolytes in all black robes hurried around.

The sisters were guided to their seats by one of the robed figures and even though they were seated between other guests and acolytes, Klara didn't feel nervous or scared. She was perfectly calm as the person to her left struck up pleasant conversation. Their face was covered by thick black fabric, leaving only their eyes and mouth free, but it didn't register as odd to her. Everything Klara had learned about the temple so far had prepared her for this evening.

Caught up in pleasant conversation she hadn't even noticed the grandmaster appear on the steps before the alter but as Their attendant announced Them with the chime of a silver bell, the room was quickly blanketed with silence and all eyes were laid on Them. They were robed in blood red silk and velvet, Their face covered by a horned, silver devil's mask with a leering expression.

Their voice was pleasant yet awe-inspiring, maskuline yet feminine. They took great care to welcome the visiting covens that had eagerly followed Their invitation to the feast.

While They had been speaking, the tables had been laid with exquisite delicacies from all corners of the world and once Their speech had concluded, delightful conversation among guests and acolytes picked back up, now underlined by the clinking of silver- and glassware.

The smells of good food wove around a hundred voices and pearling laughter, making the first part of the evening fly by in no time.

Soon Klara found herself standing at the edge of a table, nursing a glass of juice, watching the people around her. As was her nature, she was keenly watching her surroundings, so she immediately noticed the elegantly dressed lady walking up to her.

She was dressed in a flowy gown that bore the same red shade as the grandmaster's, though hers was cut much simpler. The colour alone marked her as an important figure within the Temple, but Klara couldn't place her other than that. The woman's face was slender, framed by grey locks that had fallen from the braid that was draped over her shoulder. A small silver pendant was nestled between her collar bones.

"Good evening, dear," the woman said, holding a hand out that Klara easily graced with the incline of her head and a curtsy as she returned her hand.

The stranger introduced herself as Marice, a name that rang beautifully in Klara's ears. Marice, Klara learned, was kind, intelligent, and an excellent partner in conversation.

Eventually, Marice offered Klara a hand again and asked: "Would you like to dance with me?"

Klara was happy to agree to being led off by the gorgeous woman, she felt safe following her away from the tables and towards the cleared space in front of the altar.

When Marice didn't stop to integrate with the other swaying couples, Klara was confused for a moment but it all made sense, when she was led to the pews that were placed against the far wall and Marice gently pulled her onto her lap, face to face.

"Would you like this?" Marice asked, as she rocked up the leg Klara was straddling, making her intentions clear.

"Please," Klara didn't hesitate to agree, grinding herself back against Marice, making her eagerness clear. She would have never in her wildest dreams hoped to have this but now that it was almost in reach, she wanted to please her gorgeous partner. Even just the small question, obtaining her consent let Klara know that she would be safe. She had absolutely no doubt about that.

"Good girl," Marice rewarded her. "Come here." She gently placed a hand on Klara's neck, pulling her into a kiss. Klara had never been kissed like that. She had never been kissed, period. But this felt so right. Marice was so patient with her and in return Klara was putty in her hands. She could feel how she was soaking through her underwear, the fabric makind the friction against Marice's leg even more intense and Klara wanted more.

----------------------------

idk if I will ever continue this because right around this part is where I woke up lol. I'm also not sure if I'll put this on ao3 but for now, it's for y'all heathens <3

[salamispots]

drew some creatures at the amnh :0

[juiceastronaut]

Im too lazy to hunt for the screenshots AND I recognize that its happened at earlier parts of the story BUT

Laois protecting Marcille from the falling icicles is just the EXACT reason her and Chilchuck stayed despite everything (besides Falin for Marcille of course). Despite the two of them not understanding him, despite them being put off by his mannerisms at times, despite their varying levels of discomfort around monster food they KNOW at the end of the day Laois has their backs.

He will do everything in his power to keep his party safe with zero hesitation or convincing and he does so because he genuinely cares about them. He might not know how to time a Morale Boosting Speech for when people *dont* have a mouth full of food, but they know he'll be there for them when they need him the most.

[shadovvheart]

Do you guys ever get the urge to just. Start over with all of your ocs. Trash some, redesign the rest. Cus I've been getting this urge for a while now.

And what's driving me insane is that i already made so much art with my current ocs. It's not that it's a waste - i had fun, and it was good practice, plus making new art will be exciting, but I'd want to remove all that old art because that's just how my brain wants it :/

[remyfire]

The fact that Trapper is quick to do his usual "So you got yourself knocked up, big whoop, get out," schtick up until the moment that Margaret says "Please," is so fun. I know in large part it's because Margaret has barely ever said please to either of them—she's too keen on giving orders and demands—and that's what tells him that it's serious, actually. But also, for better or for worse, this man is a husband, and if a beautiful, panicked woman shows up in front of him in her robe in the middle of the night, I don't think even a hurricane could stop him from providing some assistance.

[kanronotatsu]

okay this is not related to the new ep but it just occurred to me

after byeongmu is arrested (for the second time, at home) sangcheol asks jeongwoo where he wants to go and offers to drive him

which makes me think: 1) jeongwoo stayed at sangcheol's place for however many days BUT they didn't exactly talk about how long that arrangement will last or anything 2) and because of this sangcheol asks jeongwoo where he wants to go (since he doesn't know and won't assume) 3) jeongwoo at some point decides to go visit nagyeom at the hotel and at no point do we get to know what his answer was to sangcheol 4) that night when they leave ha seol to go home alone and have dinner at sangcheol's place it feels like that's just the arrangement they have now

so my question is: at what point did *jeongwoo* decide to stay at sangcheol's place AND when did he tell sangcheol about it? or was it sangcheol's idea? maybe he knew jeongwoo wasn't going to ask so sangcheol offered?

i want to know exactly how that conversation went 🥺

[hesaprofessional]

Shout out to Seymour and Audrey for possibly being the fictional couple with the worst communication skills. Literally they're so bad that the world ended because of it

[meowmeowmessi]

[lickthehilt]

SCRAPPED Blade x Reader Drabble

a/n: okay so i had this idea in the back burner of my mind but no matter how much i tried to nail the opening paragraphs, i just couldn't. instead of letting this idea die with my creativity for this prompt, i decided to just post it so theres no thing on my part where im stressed about getting it perfect. i might rework it but ngl im at a stalemate with this. im starting to get wordy but its because im tired hee hee.

summary: your business in traditional portrait painting amongst the planet's digital developments is situated in a quaint alleyway. you get all sorts of customers, mostly old and all claiming an eye for art, but one day you get a customer-- more like a pest-- that lingers by your storefront.

none of the drafts are finished ^^

FIRST DRAFT:

There’s a ghost haunting your windows. Well, haunting the outside of your windows. You started to notice a few decades ago, thinking nothing of the lingering shadow. Maybe it was a cat. It probably was a cat, right? There’s plenty of cats in this area in particular, especially in your little alleyway where your shop is tucked away.

This little planet has a thing with cats. Small and big, fat and thin, long or short-haired. It’s unlike your home planet— ship— as your home town had more of a thing for dogs. You think.

The shadow is nothing but another part of your routine. An imaginary friend that remains invisible, a loose hair dangling from your hairline, a hangnail. It's just there.

So one day you're gazing into the direction of the haunted window and expect to see the feline orbs of amber, yellow or green. You pause when you don't.

His gaze is like a stamp branded into your skull; red, like the colour of peppers and ketchup. Rubies and you think you’ve seen a flower in that exact shade. Your heart staccatos under his shadowed gaze to the beat of a skipped stone before it sinks. Your stomach sinks.

When you blink, his visage is gone.

The door bell tinkles as the door swings open. She looks like one of your paintings: hair the colour of finely aged wine and dehydrated pink roses. You like the sound of her heels as she clack, clack, clacks into your store, thumbing at picture frames and—

“May I?” Her finger teases the sheet that you had pulled over your work-in-progress side project. From where you sit by your main easel, by your canvas, you can see the unfinished carvings made into the stone slab that made the torso. A pattern you could, would, never get right from memory.

“It’s not finished.” Your jaw clenches at the way her finger inches the cloth a bit higher.

“I don’t mind.”

A wave of heat blushes your ears, mouth twitching. “I think… I do mind, though.”

“Do you?” When she looks at you, you cower away. She chuckles, crossing her arms. “Kafka,” sticking out a coy hand, she inches towards you. You shy your hand towards her, briefly pausing to wipe your palms against your apron. “I’m here to collect.”

“Collect?”

“A commission.”

“Oh.” The holographic computer flickers to life as you sit back on your wheeled chair to scoot towards your desk and away from your painting. “It’s under Kafka?” Sliding your fingers to scroll through your orders, you pause. “Oh yeah, yeah. One minute.”

When you head into the back room, your heart sighs. It’s quieter back here. Not like it was much loud in the main room, but the quality of air, the atmosphere, is just different.

Your paintings are tucked away, pre-wrapped with clear film and half packaged. On the tables scattered around the room are figurines, sculptures of things, people, animals.

People don’t really commission old-style portraits anymore; too much time and material. Why wait days and weeks for a single picture when you can easily capture one through digital lens?

Adventuring further into the room, behind a dressing panel, is your most prized possession: a diorama. It’s a distant memory. You made this long ago, centuries amongst the stars, and after living for so long you can hardly remember the finer details. Are the bumps that made up their little noses replicating the real life subject accurately? Or is it a placeholder for something that you couldn’t replicate? What exactly was this scene and is it meant to be happy or sad?

There’s a blurry vagueness to it, lost intentions through the simplification of art. The whole thing is meant to move, too. But the key was lost to time, or just lost. When you pried the buildings away from the base, a system of gears are the canvas to dust builds the foundation.

You find Kafka's painting in one of the slots in the back corner of the room, already packaged neatly in a zipped folder.

"Everything alright back there?" Her voice rings closer as she peaks into the back room. "My, my. Is that the painting?" Her pleasant smile is still plastered onto her face as she motions forward.

"Stop!" Instantly you bite your lip, clearing your throat. "Uh, I mean. It's okay. I'm coming out."

She hums.

"Oh, is this room restricted from the public?"

Normally no, but, "Yes... something like that." She echoes you. Her gaze wonders, flickering from the dingy light hanging from above, to where your body blocks the entrance cradled by your dressing panel.

SECOND DRAFT:

There’s a ghost haunting your frosted windows. It lingers and spooks your customers, who glance back as they patter into your studio. They never complain though, well outwardly to you, only taking glances to the figure as you converse with them.

It never harms or interacts with you and whenever you tried to go outside to confront it, it disappears. Leaving trinkets for it does nothing as it never touches them, and food sometimes (on the very, very rare occasion) gets eaten. So you leave it be. The shadow is nothing but another part of your routine. An imaginary friend that remains invisible, a loose hair dangling from your hairline, a hangnail. It's just there.

Well, one day you're gazing into the direction of the faceless thing and pause.

His gaze is like a stamp branded into your skull; red, like the colour of peppers and ketchup. Rubies and you think you’ve seen a flower in that exact shade. Your heart staccatos under his shadowed gaze to the beat of a skipped stone before it sinks. Your stomach sinks.

When you blink, his visage is gone.

The door bell tinkles as the door swings open. She looks like one of your paintings: hair the colour of finely aged wine and dehydrated pink roses. You like the sound of her heels as she clack into your store, thumbing at picture frames and—

“May I?” Her finger teases the sheet that you had pulled over your work-in-progress side project. From where you sit by your main easel, by your canvas, you can see the unfinished carvings made into the stone slab that made the torso. A pattern you could, would, never get right from memory.

“It’s not finished.” Your jaw clenches at the way her finger inches the cloth a bit higher.

“I don’t mind.”

A wave of heat blushes your ears, mouth twitching. “… I do mind, though.”

“Do you?” When she looks at you, you cower away. She chuckles, crossing her arms. “Kafka,” sticking out a coy hand, she inches towards you. You shy your hand towards her, briefly pausing to wipe your palms against your apron. “I’m here to collect.”

“Collect?”

“A commission.”

“Oh.” The holographic computer flickers to life as you sit back on your wheeled chair to scoot towards your desk and away from your painting. “It’s under Kafka?” Sliding your fingers to scroll through your orders, you pause. “Oh yeah, yeah. One minute.”

When you head into the back room, your heart sighs. It’s quieter back here. Not like it was much loud in the main room, but the quality of air, the atmosphere, is just different. Your paintings are tucked away, pre-wrapped with clear film and half packaged. On the tables scattered around the room are figurines, sculptures of things, people, animals.

It's only a brief break before you're hauling the medium-sized painting back to her.

FINAL DRAFT START:

The ghost came to you in a dream. You could hear the distinct ticking of the clock, the beats as it swung side-to-side from your living room.  An itch bloomed from your scalp, in which you patted with flexed out fingers; the beating against your head almost jogged the memory of your dream back to the forefront of your mind as it faded into the crevices of your thought. Your sheets pooled by your hips, a shiver tickling your spine as you wiggled to get out of bed.

Padding downstairs, you pushed through your filed sketchbooks before pulling one out and sitting by your desk.

[bogkeep]

first week back at school and ahhhhhh everything is a little overwhelming currently

- my living space is full of boxes i have simply not had the energy to unpack at all.... hopefully this weekend (but i have also been invited to a Social Event so WE SHALL SEE)

- this school year is going to have So Much Important Stuff happening inbetween the many weeks of practice placement

- such as The Academic Text

- AND i need to finish the big project i was supposed to have finished ages ago

- our teacher this year speaks swedish with a very thick french accent and i speak norwegian with a dialect, we really struggle to understand one another but maybe hopefully that will change over time.... please...........

- i'm stressed about Stupid Bureaucracy Stuff

- and im so so sleepytired :(((

- and it's too humid and warm for comfort :(((((

AT LEAST I HAVE CUTE SOCKS

purchased in a distraught jetlag haze and subsidized by my travel insurance. they're my favourites now

[twpsyn-who]

OMG I I wgehejej I was writing a post about some soulmate AU and and while writing it just occurred to me-

Both Jean and Marco lost their gear during Trost. They both got in a situation where a Titan was going to kill them while having nothing to protect themselves.

Marco was there to help Jean get hold of a gear and survive. Jean wasn't there for Marco aka why he died.

Omg. I'm not crying you are

[moonchild-in-blue]

I'm gonna be super real with you guys. I'm extremely sad and frustrated that I will be in London less than 2 weeks away from Exploring Birdsong's one (1) headliner show. Also in London 🙃🙃🙃🙃🙃

[bunkernine]

society if hoo had them at uni age and the lost trio went to chb and chiron is like "how tf are ANY of u alive and unclaimed". wilderness was just community college.

[blisterthigh]

do you ever think about the people who mailed in letters for the first x-force and cable runs about badly wanting to see more of domino because she was unsympathetic and cold and competent. and then that first solo dropped and she sounded like this and this seems to be what 70% of the people writing her have been going off of to this day

[poisonedfate]

literally in distress over my job rejecting my availability

[anduln]

ok listen if they're gonna put anduin through a meatgrinder like that & show us older thrall (🥺) then we deserve at least to see sylvanas also. my girl better be doing well!!