#Pre-2021

[cuteoff]

32 Accessories Brand Floral Summer Nightwear Pajamas From CuteOFF.

[canonkiller]

looming

[mantasunray-art]

The Eclipse (2021), a reinterpretation of The Kiss by Klimt

[giggly-squiggily]

This is classified as Romantic!Reader for Dr. Stone, hehe if you don’t mind. I headcannon that before reader and Ukyo got together, every time reader is near Ukyo, reader’s heart beat accelerates, and we all know Ukyo has very enhanced hearing so he can hear reader’s heart accelerate. When he does, he teases reader about it. He knew reader liked him before they could even confess due to their heart accelerating but he prefers that they tell him face-to-face. So Ukyo made reader admit the reason to the heart acceleration with dem good ol’ tiggles. (Then reader gets flustered by the fact that he already knew and just wanted them to say it.)

The way this headcanon left me on my knees it is SO GOOD. God I love the "character with really good hearing can hear heartbeats" troupe so much you don't even KNOW! This is majestic- thank you anon! :D

“It’s racing again.” Ukyo spoke softly, watching you fluster. Oh one of the many perks of having good hearing. Sure- there were downsides too, but the ability to hear your heartbeat race made them worth it. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“I don’t know- you make me nervous.” You looked away, trying for cool. His soft laughter made your face grow hotter- and you could feel your heartbeat racing again. “It’s that hearing of yours. It’s eerie.”

“You don’t mean that.” He was closer, hands on your sides and fingers poised. “I can hear it in your voice- you’re lying.”

“No- it’s eerie and creepy and freaky!” You puffed more- starting to twitch when he curled his fingers. “You’re like that one blonde kid from Demon Slayer!”

“Pfft-” Ukyo laughed, face against your back as he hung onto you gently. “Pleahahahse- that’s so cruel!”

“It’s the truth.” Another lie. Ukyo snickered.

“Okay, liar pants; I guess I’m just gonna have to get the truth out of you the only way I know how.” He attacked quickly, digging into your sides and running his hands up and down them. You wished you could say you didn’t respond, or that you were immune.

Instead, you burst into laughter almost immediately- dancing and squirming in his arms as he carried on tickling. “Nohohohoho! Nohoohoho you sohohohn of a hahahahahah! Gheahahha, Uhuhuuhukyohoohooho!”

“Yes, (Y/N)?” He asked, voice teasing. “Got something to tell me?”

“Lihihihike hehehhell I dohohooho! Aheahhaa-GHAHH OOHOOHKAY OHOHOKAY FIHIIHINE!” He went for a spot he knew would break you- leaving you to fall to your knees and cough through your laughter. Seconds later, he presented the water canteen. Where’d he get that, you didn’t know- but you were grateful all the same. “Thaahhanks..”

“Of course. Now- you were saying?” He asked, sitting across from you. You felt your face heat up again before sighing.

“I…really like you. That’s why my heart races whenever I see you.” You waited for him to laugh, to gasp in surprise- to do anything.

But he only hummed, nodding. “Knew it.”

“HUH?” You yelled, wide eyed as he grinned. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not exactly subtle, (Y/N).” He laughed- the sound increasing tenfold when you lunged at him for revenge tickles. “Whahahait wahahhit I’m shahahaharry!”

“You’re gonna be, you gremlin!” You cried in return, giggling the entire time. Your heart was still racing- much to Ukyo’s enjoyment.

Send me a headcanon and I'll write a 300-500 word dabble for it!

[st-dionysus]

People will say some fascinating shit about me, like, it's bewildering to observe the game of telephone that's been played over the past three years. A major game of one truth and twenty lies per every post.

[funkbun]

lookin at some older stuff again and it was so funny when the dlc came out and revealed who Alegander was cause i was instantly like "OH SHIT!! THAT'S THE GUY IT'S THE GUY I KNOW HIM I DREW HIM LIKE A YEAR AGO WAA!!!"

(this second image was drawn in 2021 as stated in the previous drawin)

im still surprised that i was Kinda, Slightly right about his whole deal (being on Snaktooth but not with Lizbert's expedition, he has a snak pet guy with Joey, and that he's a loser lmao)

[elrielffs]

I've never feared that we weren't getting an Elriel book.

I fear SJM's ability and lack of good editors to deliver a satisfying book.

[allphatauri]

you know who else tested for Meyer Shank Racing…

[umlewis]

"Happy Birthday Bestie. No amount of words can even come close to describing you. The most loyal, hard working, barrier breaker, thrill seeker, most grateful snd humble person out there. To you brother I salute you. You always have my back, you support me, you push me to make me the best version of myself. Your support and loyalty will never go unnoticed and that means the absolute world to me. I love you brother to the moon and back and always got your back forever and no matter what. To many more memories, history being broken and life to be lived. 🤞��� @.lewishamilton" - january 7, 2024 📷 @.fencer / instagram

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: A Pretty Lie

Rating: G Pairing: f!Mahariel/Zevran Word Count: 2,454 Summary: Zevran has traveled with the party for a week now, and despite Mahariel's reassurances to Alistair, she hasn't let her guard down. Her trust is put to the test when she sustains a wound that won't heal...and Zevran offers to help. Also on: AO3 Notes: Back on my Dragon Age bullshit: played Veilguard twice, decided the whole series needed a replay, returned to Origins/Zevran hell. I missed this Thedas place.

Hours had passed, and still, the wound stung. That boded ill. The healing poultices that Lyna carried, made by her own hand, had always done the trick before, numbing the pain and closing the wound quickly. She wondered what filth had been on that bandit's blade.

She filled a small bucket from the cold, clear stream near their campsite and carried it to the spot she'd prepared on the bank: a large burlap sack to protect from the cold and damp; her wound kit, all the pockets that she might need unfolded; fresh linen, cut in useful lengths for more bandaging; her weapons, axe and dagger, never far out of reach. She set the bucket down on level ground beside the cloth, and then sat down herself.

Her feet gave a little throb of relief. They never seemed to stop aching, these days. She'd roamed far and wide with her clan, but not at this pace, not without respite. But the Blight was on their heels; there was no time to rest.

Carefully, she peeled up the edge of the bandage, dismayed to find the wound still bleeding. She ladled a bit of water from the bucket and poured it over the gash. With some of the blood washed away, she could see that the wound had widened since that afternoon, the edges ragged.

"And here I thought I would have to carry out my chores in lonely solitude. You, dear Warden, are a sight for sore eyes."

By the Dread Wolf, she hadn't even heard footsteps. She covered her wound with a clean bandage and silently admonished herself. She could not let down her guard, not even for a moment. These were not the forests and wilds of her youth; these were ugly, desolate places, danger waiting around every corner.

Danger like this new stray, Zevran, who sauntered up to the stream lugging a bag and a bucket, as guileless as if he hadn't tried to kill her a mere week ago.

Alistair thought she was mad for taking him in. Sometimes she, too, wondered about her own judgment. Her reasoning had convinced her fellow warden, at least for now: the Crow had sung his secrets very willingly and readily, had sworn an oath, and had proved incapable of overpowering four of them on the road even with all of his hirelings. What chance of success did he have here, alone, if he still intended to kill her?

He could have done it, just now, if he'd kept his mouth shut a little longer. He hadn't, which Lyna told herself counted for something.

Instead of carrying out an assassination, Zevran set down his bag and bucket. The bag clanked a little with the impact. He untied a length of burlap from around his neck—he'd been wearing it like a cape—and spread it on the ground beside hers. She'd assigned him several camp chores, hoping it would at least give her a break from Alistair and Morrigan's constant squabbling over whose turn it was to do the washing. Hoping, too, that it would reveal some character flaw, some impatience or bitterness, that would show her more of who he was—or at least keep him too busy, too tired, to plan her death.

Zevran had not complained. He had taken up the tasks assigned to him with good grace, and she'd been left watching him out of the corner of her eye, wondering if this would finally be the decision that proved her undoing.

"Stay with us long enough," she said finally, "and you will crave lonely solitude."

He chuckled good-naturedly, laying out the battered plates and cups. "Do you speak of the relentless attacks on the road? Or perhaps your companions, bickering over how to properly roast a rabbit?"

"Either," she said. "Both."

He flashed a sidelong smile at her, as if she'd amused him, and she told herself to harden her heart. It was not easy. His warm charm had undoubtedly saved him from many scrapes before, and he was not hard on the eyes: the moonlight gilded his blond hair, cast intriguing light and shadow on his well-muscled shoulders and arms, and even in the relative darkness, his eyes sparkled like the glint of a copper piece polished to full shine.

"It's still bothering you?" he asked, now looking at her arm, where she still held the bandage to the wound.

"It should have started closing by now, with the poultice I used earlier," she told him. "It just won't stop bleeding."

"Might I have a closer look?"

She hesitated, studying his face. He looked back at her, meeting her eyes without flinching. There was no trickery in that gaze that she could see—but what did she know of the world? Until the disaster at Ostagar, until the long, bitter weeks on the road, she had never known how sheltered she'd been.

"Why?" she asked guardedly.

"Your poultices are good." At her raised eyebrow, he shrugged. "I looked them over. They should act quickly on a normal wound. On a poisoned wound, though, they would only stave off the inevitable, not heal."

Was this just an excuse to close the gap between them, to get close enough to strike quickly and without warning? Would the wound make her too slow—just a hair too slow—to scoop up her axe and dagger and defend herself?

Just then, there was a rustle in the bushes, and Assan pranced happily into the open. He carried a bone in his mouth, which he settled down to chew, his back end on Lyna's burlap sack. Instantly, some of her fear eased. She'd seen the mabari tear a man's throat out; if Zevran made one false move, Assan would spring to action.

Besides, Zevran was mostly unarmed. Only a small, utilitarian knife hung at his belt, sheathed. He'd left his daggers back at the campsite.

"Ah, a chaperone," Zevran sighed, and tsked at Assan. "I will only sully your lady's honor with her enthusiastic permission, this I swear."

Assan pointedly ignored him, though he did pull back his lip to show a bit more tooth than was strictly necessary as he gnawed on his bone.

Lyna, too, ignored the comment. She held out her arm to Zevran. "You have experience with poisons, then?"

"Am I a Crow," Zevran said, with a wide grin, "or not?" He shuffled a little closer, just enough to take her left hand gently in his, and peeled away the bandage to inspect the wound.

She tensed; she could not help it. She was still afraid of him, despite his warmth and flirtations, despite his oath. She did not know if she would ever stop being afraid of him.

But he held her hand so delicately, and when he leaned over her arm to inspect her wound, she felt the ghost of his breath on the back of her wrist. She had not felt another's touch very much at all since leaving her clan, and this was…nice. To feel taken care of.

If only she could be certain exactly how he would "take care of" her.

"No clotting," he murmured, frowning; a wrinkle formed between his brows. She hadn't yet seen him look quite so focused, so serious. "You have a fresh bandage?"

She picked up a short length of linen from the pile beside her. He took it from her and pressed it, hard, to the wound. She hissed; the pain sharpened significantly when pressure was applied.

The hand still holding hers squeezed, lightly, as if to comfort her. She didn't know what to make of that.

He looked up at her. "Describe the pain?"

"Sharp," she said. "Worse when water touches it, or with pressure."

"Radiating?" he asked. "Do you feel it when you flex your fingers, or make a fist?"

She did both; his fingers moved with hers, captured against her palm by her own. "No," she said, shaking her head.

"Any headache? Dry eyes?"

"No," she said again. "What would that—"

"Ah, good," he said. "You will live."

"What does that mean?" she asked, trying not to betray her alarm. Assan stopped chewing, lifted his head, and gave a low growl.

"Keep pressure on this," he told her, indicating the wound and bandage, and took his hands away. "Relax," he added, this directed at Assan.

With her free hand, telling herself she could still reach her dagger plenty quickly, she applied the same pressure he had. He, meanwhile, unbuckled a little leather pouch from where it was fastened at his hip. He flipped the metal buckle on the front open and began to carefully rummage through the contents. She heard soft, gentle clinking, like glass bottles brushing one another. Assan watched with curious eyes, but he'd stopped growling.

"There are a few poisons that could produce such an effect," he told her. "The worst of them would have spread by now. That one would be beyond my power to fix." He pulled a tiny vial from the pouch and held it up, squinting; reading the slip of parchment affixed to it, perhaps. "This, though, is just the aftereffect of a very strong acidic coating. Keeps the wound open, the blood from coagulating. Not nice, but rarely a death sentence."

"And that vial is…?"

He lowered it and patted the pouch. "I keep treatments and antidotes handy for all the common poisons, just in case. This one will neutralize the acid, encourage clotting, and allow that excellent poultice of yours to do its work."

"That's clever," she said, impressed.

He had the nerve to wink at her. "I have many talents, I promise you. All at your disposal."

She had to suppress a groan. He laid it on awfully thick, but she was only flesh and blood, after all; she was not immune to that brief, wicked look in his eye, like he was sharing a joke only the two of them knew, like she would laugh at the punchline.

"Lucky me," she said. "I…suppose you should apply it, then. If you can spare some of your supplies."

"We can always find more," he said. The wicked gleam was gone; he eyed her thoughtfully instead. "From the right buyer, for the right price."

"I'm sure we can arrange that."

Lyna glanced at Assan, but he had gone back to his bone, clearly unperturbed by whatever the vials contained. Zevran gestured for her to lift the bandage; she did, this time without hesitation. Quickly, he unstoppered the vial and let three small drops of the thick amber liquid fall to the wound. Instantly, some of the sharp sting eased. She let out a breath of relief.

"You thought it might be poison," he said. There was nothing accusatory in his tone; he merely stated facts. He stoppered the vial again. It was still three-quarters full.

"It crossed my mind," she admitted. "There's writing on the vial, but I don't know Antivan."

She reached for another length of bandage. He brushed her hand aside and picked up the bandage himself; with practiced hands, he spread the healing poultice over the wound—the bleeding had already slowed—and wrapped her arm with just the right amount of pressure.

"That was a risk," Zevran commented. Before she could respond, he showed her the vial. "Coagulante/acido—roughly, a coagulant that also neutralizes acid."

"Ma melava halani," she replied. He cocked his head to one side, frowning a little. "It was a risk," she clarified, "but you helped me. And so, my risk teaches me something, as all risks do."

"Ma melava halani," he repeated, slowly, carefully. "That sounds…very beautiful."

"You don't know any Elven?"

"Very little. Andaran atish'an, ma serannas—that sort of thing."

"Perhaps you can teach me Antivan," she said, and began to pack up her wound kit. "And I can teach you what Elven I know. So much of it is lost, but…" She cleared her throat, letting the grief of missing her clan pass through her. "Andaran atish'an—enter this place in peace—is very formal, used with outsiders, primarily. We would say aneth ara to one another, instead."

He packed his kit of antidotes away and resumed the business of setting out the dishes for washing. "We would say buon giorno—good afternoon—for most of the day. Or ciao, bella, more informally, for both hello and goodbye."

"Ciao, bella," she repeated.

"Well, bello, if you are addressing me," he said, with another of those terrible grins. "Bella is for a beautiful woman, like yourself."

"Flatterer," she said, folding her wound kit back up.

"Only if it is untrue," he said mildly, "and it is not."

He got to his feet, picked up his bucket, and went to fill it at the stream. She tucked her wound kit away in her pack and scratched behind Assan's ear; he tilted his massive head into her touch, panting happily. Zevran returned with the bucket, got out the scrubbing brush and soap, and began the thankless task of cleaning the dinner dishes. She hesitated for only a handful of seconds before pulling her own scrubbing brush out of her pack and picking up one of the dishes.

"Many hands make light work," she said, only a little irritably, in response to the look he cast at her. "Or so they say."

"Mmm," he said, smiling. "Flattery will get me far in this camp, I see."

She rolled her eyes. "You know, if you know the ingredients, I could probably help you make some of the antidotes," she said. "I'm not bad at herbalism."

"A woman of many talents," he remarked. "You will have this archdemon defeated next week, I'm sure."

She laughed, because he sounded so warm, so certain, even if it was a pretty lie. She let her guard down, just a little. He taught her more Antivan as they scrubbed the dishes; she gave him pieces of Elven in return, watched the quiet delight on his face when he correctly mimicked her pronunciation. Assan eventually gave up his work on the bone and began to snore.

As with every city elf Lyna had met, she wondered. What was Zevran's story? The whole story? He'd told her, on hands and knees, at her mercy, that the Crows had bought him as a child—another pretty lie, the better to play on her sympathies, creating the possibility of a second chance for his blade to strike true? Or just a callous truth, one that rightly made her heart ache, imagining one of her people bought and shaped into a killer?

She did not think that this was a trick, but only time would tell.

[formulaheaders]

lando norris

◦ lando's contract extension photoshoot ◦ like/reblog if you save or use and please don't repost ◦ © piastricc

[ilovejevsjeans]

2021- Pre Season- Dan and his teammate recorded a song (that i dont remember them ever releasing?!)

[lochallthedoors]

A September 2021 interview in which Noel manages to bring Liam up, unprompted, four times in a total of fifteen minutes:

- Rob asks Noel if it's never occurred to him to try singing in another language. Rob asks the question in present tense, as in with NGHFB, but Noel says, "Not sure Liam would have been thrilled about doing anything in Welsh!" And then suggests "Live Forever" in Welsh and turns to smile at the camera. (Noel's said before that Liam watches his interviews.) - Noel talks about his love of Seinfeld and mentions as he has in other interviews that Liam doesn't like it. - When Noel talks about the Knebworth doc, he says when he was watching it he was struck by how much his younger self was obsessed with how history-making it was, and then he says, "And, of course, Liam was taking the piss all the way through" (whether he means back in 1996 or during the production of the doc is unclear, but see also this bit of a 2022 Liam interview where Liam makes fun of Noel for what Noel wanted to title the doc). - Last mention is Noel praising Liam at Knebworth: "Liam is very, very, very, very good in it. It's him at his absolute peak."

[moe-broey]

Wait.

Holy shit...

Prototype Moe........ with the backwards hand 😭😭😭😭😭😭 I remember liking this pose SO MUCH TOO I was DEVASTATED when I realized. Wait. NOOO..... 💔💔💔

This is so crazy though like. That is fully just a different guy. But it is SO funny you can See the elements, here...

You see the golden bangles (only a Glimpse, in the first one, but they're there!). You see the funky gloves (little less funky, just standardly edgy now). The painted nails. The wings on the back of the outfit. The idea that Moe itself customized its clothing to its liking. The red ribbons tying off the shoes (I imagine Moe's are more like leather straps, though!). The orb and feather motifs (now stored entirely in the staff). Pretty sure this Moe had a ribbon tied in front, too! It definitely did, when wearing the robe. That has always been the case, even waaay back when I'd attempt to stick to canon (hooded "Kiran").

AND. AND. THE FANGS. Changing the fangs into angel fangs piercings was HUGE for Moe's development!! Goes CRAZY with the storytelling -- the way that Moe wants you to believe that it's sharper than it truly might be. The way Moe postures itself to be a Monster -- some sort of complex about otherness and having fangs and claws so scary no one dares touch you, no one dares to even come close. See also: autism.

Hm. Thinking about this actually. Because the monster complex/body mods runs in tandem with the transgender metaphor, too. "Still painfully human"...? Doesn't feel quite right in this context. Born human, without fangs, but somehow still Wrong. Othered for it, dehumanized. Was only able to "earn" humanity, through learning it and performing it (see: Mani). Was unable to keep performing it. Lean into the wrongness, subsequently othered and dehumanized, but Not This Time. This time, I reject the "humanity" that has rejected ME. MY choice, now.

Something something autistic masking and cisnormative gender expectations/norms/roles have done a number on poor Moe. Oh, poor thang! In my heart, it truly is just some Thang. The Thang has personhood, but I honestly cannot say it's "still human" as like. Any sort of validating statement. Low-key feels like when somebody tries to reassure you, by putting down other people who are Like You who you may even identify yourself closer with than the person doing the "reassuring" ("Oh, but you're not like THOSE [Insert Statement Here that only communicates that you've deemed me palatable enough to earn your "respect", and if I Didn't meet your threshold of palatability, you would ostracize me too. Also those are my friends, you asshole.]")

Anyways, WAY off topic, the BIGGEST REASON THIS PROTOTYPE MOE IS A FAKE ASS MOTHERFUCKER.

IT DOESN'T EVEN HAVE ITS HOOVES!!!!!!!!!!!! YOU BITCH‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[jupiterswasphouse]

I'm honestly glad I changed the entire deal of this blog to a full blown interest blog rather than aesthetic blog, because like- don't get me wrong, I'm an aesthetic blog enjoyer too, but also things would be a lot different for me right now if I kept going with the original purpose of this blog, which was entirely just reblogging images of honey and bees and indie rock bands

[unes23]

Grace Hartzel for Versace Pre-Fall 2021