#YES I KNOW THIS ISN'T HOW THIS WORKS

[jarinnards]

Something something Heinrix when you don't bring him to commorragh something something

please don't let this have been done yet ffs

[slayerdurge]

Durgetash Resurrection AU

"Is that...? That's my body. I remember now. The Morphic Pool. The Elder Brain, it... I was dead. What did you do?" "I made a deal... with Lord Bane."

[prince-liest]

A little bit of celebratory light in the current political climate: I'm working with a local endocrinologist who is versed in gender-affirming care as well as my local LGBTQ+ resource organization to start a quarterly pride clinic that I'm going to run with and staff with the aforementioned endocrinologist. I don't know yet how successful it will be, but we're in a really under-served area and a lot of the local federally qualified health centers are pulling back their gender affirming care offerings due to the recent federal policies so that they can retain their funding, which after speaking to my residency program directer he seems to believe is unlikely to affect us. So I'm going to be working with our program attendings and this endocrinologist to help refer more queer and especially trans patients to myself and one of my seniors who is also really involved in LGBTQ+ health goals for gender-affirming care.

The clinic itself is only going to be quarterly at this time (hopefully monthly in the future) due to the limitations of patient panel sizes and also residency scheduling, but we're hoping that we can also follow these patients in our actual primary clinic, since it will all be in the same building and part of the same system, and the endocrinologist has said she is willing to co-precept these patients (aka. have us forward her the notes and look over them to make sure the care plans are copacetic, as well as get curbsided by us when needed) when we work on hormone therapy in the primary care clinic. I think the main challenge is going to be 1) making sure we have the resources and access to a good multidisciplinary team (main points are mental health resources (gonna ask one of the psych program attendings, he is both openly queer and invested) and infectious disease specialist options that aren't going to result in bad experiences for the patients that we refer that way) and 2) making sure we have appropriate follow-up for patients, which I think on my end is just going to mean me telling our clinic coordinator, "Hey, if it's for this patient panel specifically, you can book me an extra patient per half-day for continuity."

We're also going to be doing internal-ish referral advertising through the LGBTQ+ org, as well as training through the organization and also just through research done by myself and my senior for our co-residents for things like cancer screening guidelines adjusted for risk factors we see in queer people (anal paps, three-site testing, when to screen for breast cancer in trans women, etc, etc). Waiting on my program director to talk to our clinic coordinator to see if there's any way for people to self-refer straight to the pride clinic (probably insurance-dependent) but otherwise it's just...happening.

I think my main wish is that I had more days to directly work with this endocrinology attending to pick her brain. She said she's game for any [redacted weekday] for the clinic once we get things going and I'm on my endocrinology rotation, but I'm mostly working with another endo and only see her twice this month due to her work schedule. She's a great teacher and next time I see her this month I'm going to see if she has time to give me a crash-course on HRT management that will help me synthesize the gender dysphoria treatment clinical practice guidelines I'm reading through from the Journal of Clinical Endocrinology and Metabolism. My PD actually specifically referred a trans patient to us to see that day because he knows I really want more experience with this (and, y'know, she's a great endo doc) so that will be the perfect opportunity.

Anyway! It's a great time to be working on offering more medical resources to LGBTQ patients.

[demigod-of-the-agni]

A DEVIL REBORN

Happy Halloween!!! A detailed ID will be placed under the cut (it's close to being 1K i could literally post this to Ao3)

p1. ड्याम्म (dyamma) - Nepali for "(feeling) full", "hitting something"

p3. Chutiya - Hindi for "idiot", "moron" and other related insults

p5. க்ரீச் (kreech) - Tamil onomatopoeia describing scraping/screeching sounds

[Extended Image ID: DYAMMA! Slamming his hands on a table, Achanba Okram finds himself in the darkness of his laboratory. He is wearing black clothes and a white lab coat on top, and has a bowl cut with rectangular glasses.

His thoughts whirl within boxes that are coloured gold and are outlined with red; they put a voice to the uneasy feelings Okram knows are stirring inside of him. The thought boxes read:

With Pavitr gone, I finally have time to string my thoughts together. Half-drowned answers bleed out of my pores. Coalescing like some great, abysmal creature of unknown origin.

Bracing his hands against the table, Okram is acutely aware of his body, of the gaping holes in his back that bubble with demonic energy. His thoughts narrate, My body quakes when I begin to question, wracked with paranoia. With dread, as if the idea of what I had to face was unbearable.

The holes in back — four of them, spaced evenly from each other — begin to ooze golden liquid, hot like fire and viscous like tar.

And yet, Okram thinks, I felt it all the same: that crawling, scintillating horror of my reality. Of my tainted flesh and blood. My being here is the work of demonic forces.

Golden arms, fluid yet bony, powered by some otherworldly thing, unravel from the void in his back. They flounder and expand around him, filling the lab with a cold glow. The fingers are tipped with talons, and, if he looked hard enough, Okram swears they are edged with blood.

I died years ago, Okram thinks. I lost my humanity to the fire of the devil's madness. Thus, the question remains: what is the future of Achanba Okram, a DEVIL REBORN?

The lights of the lab suddenly brighten, and Okram hears him before he sees him. His arms register the presence of the other person, immediately unraveling and slipping out of reality. Just outside, Pavitr Prabhakar's voice calls, "HEY, DOCTOR OKRAM! Sorry I'm late! Traffic was abysmal today."

Pavitr's entrance catches Okram by surprise, and he stutters out, "PAVITR?! You- ah- you have one of your shifts today?"

His thoughts reprimand him, You CHUTIYA! Pavitr always has his shifts on Tuesdays!

Pavitr is unaware of Okram's turmoil, sauntering into the laboratory while hefting up a white plastic bag. He's wearing a black and white flannel shirt, and he has circular earrings. Pavitr's eyes are trained on the bag in his hand. He answers Okram's question with, "Yeah, I do. I, uh, got a little hungry along the way (I'm always so hungry)." Pavitr whispers the last part as he lifts the bag up. He continues, "so I went and bought some vada pav, and—"

He suddenly pauses, his eyes locking onto Okram. He can't tell what is going beyond Pavitr's eyes, but the other man's analysing gaze unnerves Okram to a degree beyond description.

(In Pavitr's POV: his Spider-Sense was just triggered. Red and gold squiggly lines emanate from and surround his head in a halo.)

Pavitr lowers the bag slightly in concern. "Uhm," Pavitr says "are you okay, Doctor?"

Dread and fear floods Okram's system. Suddenly he is hyperaware of everything in the room, including the golden arm that has sprouted from his back and was lying on the workbench behind him, right in Pavitr's line of sight.

Play dumb! Okram's mind screams at him. Accordingly, Okram replies, a tad too tightly, "Of course I am, Pavitr! Why wouldn't I be?"

KREECH. The golden arm scrapes its taloned fingers across the table, no doubt giving away its location.

Okram chuckles nervously, sweating almost immediately, at which his mind howls, Not that dumb!

Pavitr narrows his eyes at Okram and at the golden arm on the workbench. "Are those...demonic arms?" he asks Okram, a shadow crossing his face.

(In Pavitr's POV: In the back of his mind, Pavitr sees a vague and faded image forming in response to seeing the arms. He remembers Doctor Octopus, the man with two extra sets of arms who had attacked him many years ago; he was one of the first villains Pavitr fought as Spider-Man. But... Doctor Octopus died a long time ago. Perhaps...?)

"Oh, Doctor..."

Pavitr's gaze softens as he asks, "Are you being haunted by demons? Have you been attacked by them? Why didn't you tell me? I'm so sorry this has been happening to you. I can't imagine how stressful this is for you." A moment, and then, "Do you want to talk about?"

Okram hides his face in his hands, quickly responding, "No, I'm alright, Pavitr."

Pavitr walks forward, placing his bag down and reaching down to place a reassuring hand on Okram's shoulder. "But, Doctor, men of your generation have ignored their mental health for too long."

"Yes, I know," Okram sighs.

"It'll be okay, Doctor," Pavitr promises, "we can figure something out!"

"And what?" Okram asks somewhat sarcastically. "You will be here with me 'every step of the way'?"

"One hundred percent!" Pavitr says.

Behind them, one of Okram's demonic arms reaches out to peer at Pavitr and Okram; if an arm could be happy, it certainly was. The arm is seemingly pleased with Pavitr's helpful and understanding nature. /.End ID]

[seyaryminamoto]

Fic-to-Art #39: Gladiator's ELEVENTH Anniversary! (+ BONUS: Fic-to-Art #36...)

And here we are! March 26th arrived and I did not forget about it, but I paid for my ambitious madness with my wrist and forearm. Somehow, I finished my intended pieces on time, but I do not advise that you ever try to make 9 artworks in 3 days. No, sir. Bad life decisions, that's what that was... but this fic, as anyone knows, moves me to do things I never thought possible, starting with writing the fic itself!

It's really crazy every time it hits me that I've been doing this for as long as I have. It's been a complicated, chaotic journey, with its many ups and downs, but ultimately, it has been our journey. For some people, this is just one more fic in the pile: for me, it's been the best adventure of my life so far. Everyone who has ever been touched by Gladiator, who has ever cherished this story, who's looking forward to the big conclusion, who wants to see how the chaotic war is going to end... you're all part of this crazy adventure along with me, and I can only thank you for joining me.

This year, I had no time to make as big a project as I usually go for. Thus, I did a sort of free-for-all edition of Fic-to-Art over at Patreon and challenged myself to draw as many scenes as I could, out of their suggestions. I even sprinkled in a few scenes I impulsively wanted to draw because I loved writing them or because I look forward to writing them... and this is the result!

In order, the scenes are as follow:

Sokka combing Azula's hair, a common occurrence throughout the story.

Azula watching over a convalescing Sokka in the Chase of Jeong Jeong arc.

The outcome of Sokka's final battle in the Superior Gladiator League, namely a moment where Sokka and Azula more or less gave away their relationship's true nature to the public by raising their hands towards each other...

And now, spoiler territory! Some were by my choice, some by Patreon requests:

An important moment shortly after Sokka and Azula reunite.

Azula confronting her father, with a LOT of backup.

Xin Long's long-awaited freedom.

The aftermath of the final battle.

The full-blown confirmation of their relationship to the general Fire Nation populace.

Sokka, Azula and Hotaru's first night together

And the big final one is ACTUALLY Fic-to-Art #36 but hahaha woops I didn't post it here on time because it was super hard to finish since I had a LOT of things going on... but here it is now! :'D it's a glimpse VERY far into the future of this fic's timeline!

Alright, that should be enough talking and explaining. Some things are vague, some things aren't, but ultimately I really hope you guys will be looking forward to the scenes you haven't seen yet, and to Gladiator's eventual outcome.

So now... with all this being said and done, I'm gonna go take a trip down memory lane and watch my Tenth Anniversary video once more! Feel free to do the same thing if you'd like to commemorate the fic, I think it's a good way to experience Gladiator all over again, hahaha.

Thank you if you read all this, and if you read all THAT: 5 million word landmark, here we come! Thanks for hanging out with me across ELEVEN years of Gladiator!

[orionpolanosnox]

Yes!

My boss wants to FINALLY evict the troublemaker in our stable!

She was WAY too gracious with her for WAY too long! She came to us just last autumn.

Everyone knew about her baggage before she moved in and there was a lot of talk about it. She changed stables 7 times in 6 or 7 year which was a huge red flag for everyone. I still kept an open mind because sometimes people are just a little weird and want to find their place plus being the new person can be difficult if the others want you gone. Some stables are bad places because of the people there.

NOT the case here!

She is such a disrespectful, egocentric and wasteful person. It's INSANE! I have never met anyone with such a disregard for other people. Me, Me, Me and then My horse. That's all she cares about!

What would you do if someone with a 3 year old that wasn't worked in a week asked you to wait until she's on the horse before you canter? RIGHT! You are considerate! Well, she didn't care. And there are plenty such cases. We have an app where our people share/announce when they'll be in the indoor arena. People actively change their time and reschedule their fucking days to NOT be in the arena at the same time as her! She fucking writes people individually and tells them to not use the arena because she wants to use it. (WTF?!) She writes that she'll do flatwork but then does something entirely else and hinders everyone else. One evening she put cavaletti in the arena and just left them there and didn't even turn the lights off when she was finished. We (grooms and bosses) are usually gone by 7:30pm. A late bird discovered the state of the arena at 9:15pm and rightfully complaint about it in the group chat.

She KEEPS forgetting to put away her shit or just leaves her halter at the pasture leaving us with nothing in the morning. We still have her crop and she never fucking asked for it back?? I think she knows she fucked up at that point because there was a message every few days to PLEASE collect the equipment left in the arena. My boss was SO done with it that she gave us permission to outright throw everything in the bin we find in the morning. After I found literal garbage (a paper cup) plus a whip, reins and a lunge I was done. I took a picture and posted in the group chat that the owner can find their things next to the bin. (The lunge was never picked up. My colleague took it in the end.) But after that no stuff was left in the arena so the threat worked. Now she "only" throws her shit in front of her stall....

She is a bad rider too. She doesn't mistreat her horse or anything, she is just not good at it AT ALL. I don't even know why she brought her horse. They are such a bad match but she also doesn't work on herself to make anything better either. Not being a good rider isn't shame worthy and I wouldn't make or want a person to feel bad for it but this woman thinks she is the VERY best! Cream of the crop who knows EVERYTHING! She "teaches" a preteen girl who rides her pasture mates pony and I wish she wouldn't. She is such a fearful rider and you know these people that make shit up in the moment just to explain something that just happened? That's her. She is just constantly talking out of her ass.

She is wasteful because she keeps throwing away perfectly fine hay because she is just too lazy to separate it from the horse bedding. Her gelding has a whole bale on his winter pasture and she actually asked us to feed him hay once he is brought back to his stall in the afternoon. He never eats a lot of his breakfast served starting at 6am. He is of the kind that eats until he gets his muesli and then just waits to get outside. He is in his stall by 3pm and gets dinner at 6pm. We don't feed hay/haylage at noon and she knows that! But she wanted us to anyways because her horse has special needs. Spoiler: He doesn't! She just don't know anything and does him such a disservice with her constant pampering.

She put up a hay rack in her stall and we are supposed to ONLY put her horses hay in there but she kept stuffing it to the brim AND threw a bunch loosely in the stall until my boss tore her a new one. If she doesn't put it in the rack neither are we!

And because she thinks that she is SUCH an expert in fucking everything she offers her "services" to "advise" people about their horses diets online. Her credentials? She owned a horse for the past ten years so she knows what she's talking about. Obviously! The punchline here is that a colleague joked and essentially made fun of her TO HER FACE that she should offer her "wisdom" for money because she wouldn't stop commenting on the things people including this colleague fed their horses...

She always likes to annoy the others with her "worries" about their horses.

She seriously told a girl that we don't feed her horse in the evening anymore. Like??? WTF??

The owner of said horse started to pile up hay in her stall in the afternoon because of it. That said she isn't the brightest either... I'm surely no Einstein but that is what she does.... She picks on the weakest or most uninformed. She is sickly sweet and in a good mood at ALL times and has the confidence and presence to confidently spout her nonsense AND seem trustworthy to these very few. 95% hate her btw.

She started to write me directly at some point this autumn if she wanted something but since I told her off that NO, we won't feed your already VERY fed horse in the afternoon, she stopped and I am SO happy about it!

Finally I do wish her the best but she is SO resistant to ANY form of criticism that I don't think she'll change. Like at all. She only stayed so long with us because my bosses can be pushovers sometimes.

We are nice. We were nice! My bosses were TOO nice even! The staff gave her a fair chance but she didn't even try. She takes and takes and takes but doesn't want to offer anything ever. Neither to us and even less to her stable mates.

You will always have some difficult people in a place where 50+ people meet but jesus FUCKING christ I have never met a person less inclined to not piss off everyone and not to be as nosy and obnoxious as possible.

Worst part is that I don't even think she is able to register any of this. She KNOWS when she has fucked up yet again and it shows in her apologetic, defensive behaviour but she just doesn't do anything to better herself.

Joana, I wish you the best but good riddance!

[rainintheevening]

Part I - Part II ... Part XVIII - Part XIX

It hurts to see Peter hurting.

More than the state of their city (still theirs), more than the shattered buildings (he imagines the inferno of Christmas with a little shiver), even more than the dark smudges under their mother's eyes (he and Susan make all the meals during the holidays), it's Peter who wrenches at his heart, ache welling behind Ed's sternum.

He sees how Peter yearns for a sword, an enemy, a way to make all the brokenness around them right. More than sees, though, Edmund knows.

Knows the hunger that eats at the back of the throat, the way a single page in the newspaper swamps security like a tidal wave, the helplessness that weighs shoulders and hands till falling to fury or despair seem the only choices available. Hunger and helplessness had been his old play-fellows, back Before, and now he finds their heads reared again, but he also finds himself too taken up with watching over his brother to pay much attention to them. He forgets himself in his concern for Peter.

Peter does not cry again, not that Edmund sees or hears at least. He sleeps little, laughs less.

The girls too are shaken by the alterations to what had once been their world, but Lucy laughs more than she cries, and Susan steps easily into the motherly role.

Peter does all the shopping. In the span of their three weeks holidays, he also fixes all the bicycles in the garden shed, digs up the whole bed of the Victory garden, mends two broken chairs and a chest of drawers, takes a broken clock to pieces (Ed is the one who finds the problem), and fights four different boys, two of them more than once.

Many of the children who had stayed through the whole of the bombing are quick to sneer at those who did not.

“As if we chose to go!” Edmund complains.

“Cowards,” hisses Daisy Moore as she passes them in the churchyard, and her brother laughs.

“Got scared by a few rockets, and left your poor mother all alone in her shelter, listening to us all burn?”

Ed does not relax his grip on Peter's arm until Daisy and Danny have disappeared, until the tremble of taught muscles under his hand has melted away, until the growl has died in Peter's throat.

“Look,” Ed says with forced lightness, guiding Peter toward the street where Lucy leans against a small tree, singing to herself. “I know it was terrible, but there's no call for talking like that. It might make you feel better for a moment, but it makes someone else feel horrid for awhile, so it's definitely a sum-total loss.”

Peter does not answer.

The next day he and Susan come home from a walk, and his sleeve is torn and there is blood on his knuckles.

“They insulted Susan,” is all he says to Edmund in the mirror, bent over, washing wounded hands.

Edmund is glad when they go back to school.

At St. Maurice’s, Peter's responsibilities are clear, he's respected, he has the wide open sky and the wild moors to ride over.

They step off the train at the village station, and Ed sees him breathing deep, smiling at Colin's enthusiastic greeting, leaping to catch a stolen cap and prolong a wild chase along the platform.

Ed joins Peter very early for a ride the next morning, slapped awake by the cold wet May air, but he sees the light in Peter's eyes, the way he greets each horse in turn, and Ed strokes Rose's neck, tickles under her chin as he smiles himself.

“Perhaps he'll be alright.”

But then this term Wollers is gone, graduated, good, steady old boy off to the war, and the new Head Boy ticks Peter off twice in the first week for ‘interfering’, slaps Alexander Morrow in Ed's form with a hundred lines (in French!) for cheeking him in the hall, and generally does his best to let everyone know he's in charge, while also making everyone hate him for it.

Ed hates it, especially for Peter's sake, when Peter's only a year younger and also named head of the Sixth Form. A few weeks in, Peter joins Ed on the way in to lunch, and his brow is drawn low over still-smouldering eyes, jaw set in a hard line.

“Beaumont”, he says, without preamble. “Trying to tell me what to do about Gilly when it's a Sixth Form matter. Now who’s interfering?”

“Not you,” Ed says mildly, watches Peter's shoulders drop, watches him exhale. “Just don't give him the satisfaction of marking you up for anything,” he adds.

“I know, I know,” Peter sighs. “Jolly well wish I could box him, but I can't unless he starts it. I don't know why they chose him.”

At least Pete has rugger to shine at, Ed thinks. Peter had sat his Junior Cert at the end of last term (and passed with Credit or Distinction in all subjects, which Ed is very proud of him for) so he's more relaxed with his own studies, making time for more tutoring of the young ones, and making the rugby team.

Edmund tries out for the Junior team, gets named a spare. He knows he's not strong, but he is fast, and slippery.

A letter from Dad comes, forwarded from Mum, and it is cheerful, telling them things they already know about the successes in North Africa, expounding on his work learning Arabic, giving a brief written sketch of the desert sunset that strikes up vividly at them like heat from the sand till Edmund can see it as clearly as the view west from Tashbaan.

Peter is quiet though, broody for days after. Ed watches, wonders, worries.

Three months and Peter will be 17, a year off of signing up. Sometimes Edmund is certain Peter would have already gone, fudged his age and signed his name; he doesn't doubt they would take a strapping youth like Peter with very few questions. But he'd promised Mum, and Peter Pevensie is not a promise-breaker.

He's also not the only one hurting, not the only one missing Dad, missing Narnia, but Ed doesn't like to worry his brother, doesn't want to add to the concerns Peter carries.

There are questions sitting somewhere in his stomach, and he tries to ignore them, but they've grown heavier over the days, weeks, months. Time ticking by, another spring, and something about the sunrises, the green flush racing across the quad, rising in the victory garden, the apple trees by the stables bursting into bloom, it makes the longing flare bright in him.

As always the memories stay hazy, sometimes fearfully so, only brought back in sharp relief, a cleared streak in fogged up glass, in odd moments. Ed thinks there's a pattern in it—when a lie hovers on the tip of his tongue, he hears Oreius's voice; when Peter turns with an angry word, he remembers tense council rooms; when an apology fails to melt Edmund's own shame, he sees Tumnus's face. But there are smaller, less specific flashes too, and one day, hard at work with the violin in one of the practice rooms, he gets lost in the music, notes dancing under his fingers, spinning, swooping, diving, soaring, and he plays and plays and plays until he coasts to a halt, stands breathless and a little dizzy, feeling exactly as he had after his first real flight on the back of a gryphon, and his hand on the bow grips involuntarily tighter, as if feathers and fur are slipping through his fingers.

“Oh, don't stop.”

A hoarse whisper making Ed spin round, but it is only Peter leaning in the doorway, yearning writ large across his face, until their eyes meet and it twists into sorrow.

Only then does Edmund realise his cheeks are wet, and he pivots quickly back, lays the violin down gentle, deliberate.

Peter says nothing, but he comes across the room, stands close behind, close enough that Ed decides he doesn't care, and turns, falls into Peter's chest.

Arms wrap strong around him, smile bunches the cheek that presses against his head, but still Peter says nothing, and Edmund is glad. Just for a minute he hides his face in his big brother's shoulder, and lets himself cry. Peter holds him, safe and tight, and he stays, sniffling into Peter’s vest, until Peter says, “It sounded like Narnia. What was it?”

Ed sighs, pulls away to scrub a sleeve across his nose. “I don't know. It just sort of… came over me. Or out of me. Or to me– I don't know.”

Slow grinning pride breaks across Peter's face. “So you're a composer now too!”

And Ed must needs shove him away, rolling his eyes. “I didn't exactly write it down, so I'll probably never be able to play it again.”

“That doesn't change how beautiful it was,” Peter says, hopeful and true like Edmund needs him to be.

He fingers the violin strings, plucking them gently, tick tock tick tock tick, and he says it quiet.

“It's been about ten years. In Narnia. Without us. If the time difference between the professor's visit and ours is consistent.”

“Corin will be a man,” Peter murmurs in the surprised tone of grown-ups talking about nieces or nephews they haven't seen in ages. “And what would you bet Aravis and Cor are married?”

“Peridan and Anna must have several children by now.” Ed’s voice catches in his throat at the thought of his friend, who had sworn he would make Edmund godfather of all his sons, as well as letting him teach them all how to fight. And oh, Ed had stood up at his wedding as best man, hadn't he? While Peter had given Anna away, in lieu of long-lost father or brothers.

“Erah and Pearl–” Peter starts, but can't finish.

“We weren't trying to leave,” Edmund says. “I wish they knew that.”

“We were only following Lucy into another adventure.” Peter has a little half-smile on his lips, and then his arm around Ed’s shoulders is warm.

“The professor said it wouldn't all be easy.” Edmund rests his head on Peter's shoulder.

“Do you ever wish-?” Peter starts, but cuts himself off with a decided “No, I don't.”

Edmund knows, he's wondered himself, once or twice on difficult days, but he always answers the same as Peter. He'll always be grateful they had been brought to Narnia.

But there's one question he does hesitate over, as the seasons change, and the clock ticks on, and he voices it now, barely above a whisper: “Are you so sure we'll go back?”

“Of course,” Peter says at once. “Aslan said we would always be kings and queens of Narnia. We'll get back somehow.”

“You're sure?” Edmund pulls away enough to look hard up into Peter's eyes, searching for a hint of doubt.

“Quite. We have to.” Peter swallows hard, looks away out the window where the rain falls steady in the quad. “We have to,” softer now.

Ed sees the longing in his brother's eyes, and he wishes suddenly that just being here with Edmund and the music and the rain was enough for Peter. But he loves his brother anyway.

“Alright, your majesty,” he says lightly. “Now come on, the supper bell will ring any minute.”

He snaps the clasps on the violin case closed, leads the way out of the room, humming the whisper of wings in a blue sky.

Behind him, Peter is silent.

Next

[indestinatus]

it's interesting and downright sad sometimes when your creativity wave doesn't match the interaction wave of the fandom you know you can't and won't leave but still wish the excitement of others matched yours

[thatonecrypticrobyn]

The many ages of Jing Yuan~

In honor of my man and first limited character finally getting his rerun for newbies in 2.0 (also what a trailer holy-)

Credit goes to the lovely mellon_soup on Pinterest for my pose references.

[moe-broey]

One thing they don't tell you about the Senshi tulpa that WILL inevitably manifest in your mind to tell you to eat better is that. Every time I make myself a coffee via kuerig instantly, I can hear him. Lamenting the fact that I have become so accustomed to convenience and ease that even a standard coffee machine has become foreign to me. I am thinking about how to make coffee without use of a machine in the first place, I am wondering where my french press went, I can see him. In my mind. Showing me how to make coffee in The Dungeon. Dungeon Coffee.

[nekrops-shaped]

what if i cried. badly

[creepbryophyta]

hngghng

(this is like the third thing i've ever animated)

[tardis--dreams]

It's been over a week but here's my obligatory concert photo dump ♡

[butts-bouncing-on-the-beltway]

I know everyone has decided that Bluesky is the new leftist social media or whatever but when the fuck did we remake Jack Dorsey into a guy we want to be chill with either?????

[camellcat]

when in doubt if designing isn't going well just switch the animal ur working on

[micechicken]

The Internet recognizing there are more forms of sign language than ASL, GO