#alma birds

[dragonsdendoodles]

LOOK WHAT I GOT

[cauls-antique-pepperbox-pistol]

My fav el gee bee tee old people (okay two of them are like. Middle aged)

Happy fruity month everyone 🌈

[evil-feather]

!AI GENERATED CONTENT!

It's entirely @minha-xuh 's fault that I threw Perekoo into the bing image creator. And now I'm even more obsessed with them, help 😭

[panzershrike-pretz]

Spoilers for the end of The Desolations of Devil's Acre ahead!!

I just think its so sweet of Miss Peregrine to remake the loop a day earlier so the kids can have peace without bombs falling from the sky every single night

And also, the trees in the form of Miss Avocet welcoming the kids with open arms is extremely kind

She didn't have to do it, she could very well kept the loop being on September 3rd, 1943

But she moved it so they could finaly be at peace after all the war and stuff against the Wights and the stress of being on the run and I just can't get over how much she loves the kids

[rowenas-my-fave-child]

The bird ladies!!

The one with the red hair is from the Serafina Series and the other two are from mphfpc just so no one gets confused

[all-too-random]

Okay, I know I said that I didn't like the second trilogy of MPHFPC, but I don't want to only focus on the negatives, so here are some things I enjoyed about it:

The Peculiar Children interacting with the modern world.

Getting to see more of their personalities.

Getting to see more of the Peculiar World.

More Ymbrynes!

Millard and Lilly (I'd read a whole book about them, I'm not even kidding. I wish we'd gotten to see so much more of them- I don't reread the second trilogy, but I do reread their scene together).

Fiona being brought back :)

Thats all I can think of for now. But for anyone who thought I'd hate them for having a differing opinion, I promise I won't. I didn't care for the second trilogy, but I can still find good parts of it. And if you did enjoy it, that's wonderful! Even if you prefer it, that's still wonderful! I only asked my question because I was curious, not to spread any sort of hate in our already small fandom.

[jazzdailyblog]

Charles McPherson: A Bebop Torchbearer

Introduction: Charles McPherson is an illustrious figure in the jazz world, revered for his mastery of the alto saxophone and his unwavering dedication to the bebop tradition. Born eighty-five years ago today on July 24, 1939, in Joplin, Missouri, McPherson’s journey through the realms of jazz has been marked by significant collaborations, critical acclaim, and a rich discography that spans over…

[msperegrinesimp]

«simping over alma peregrine» ep.№1

oh my god—

the way she acts so at ease >>>

me when miss Peregrine:

[yellowcry]

My grandfather's clock

[egoschwank]

al things considered — when i post my masterpiece #1281

first posted in facebook march 2, 2024

heitor dos prazeres -- "o tintureiro" (1962)

"dying fabric is easier than you think" … martha stewart

"a true multidisciplinarian, brazilian composer, singer, designer and visual artist heitor dos prazeres was born in rio de janeiro in 1898. a pioneer of samba — music that originated in the afro-brazilian communities of bahia in the late 19th century and early 20th century, continuing its development through the urban communities of rio — dos prazeres was part of the first samba schools of brazil, innovating sounds now synonymous with the region. interestingly, today, he is probably better known for his paintings but this chapter in his career came much later in life" … keshav anand

"there is no point to samba if it doesn't make you smile" … alma guillermoprieto

"samba is like a bird, he who catches owns it" … sinhô

"posting is easier than you think … but there is little reason for me to post at all, if it doesn't make a few of you smile" … al janik

[birdirectory]

squirrel cuckoo (Piaya cayana) by Ivo Zecchin

[ceilidho]

prompt: forced throuple au; Ghost decides that you and Johnny are his (part 1; ghoap x reader) masterlist

-

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately.

Ghost listens because the periods between missions are long and colourless—he fills the time with paperwork, PT, exhausting his muscles in the gym, and dissociating in a booth at the only good pub on base when Johnny drags him along—and it’s better to tune out the thoughts in his head and replace them with something else. Besides, for as much as he gripes about poorly trained dogs barking too much, he enjoys the sound of Johnny’s voice. It quiets the faint ringing that follows him wherever he goes, an agitated humming that leaves him, on his best days, on the brink of rage.

“Tinnitus,” a doctor says when he brings it up during a routine check-up. Can you shut that fucking noise up?

“Best we can do is get you hearing aids.” Apologetic, sincere even. Stained, as always though, by a trembling, noxious unease. It emanates off the doctor in waves. 

Hard not to feel uneasy around a man in a mask, Ghost assumes. That’s all part of it though. He doesn’t cultivate comfort, doesn’t attempt to engender soft feelings or put the mind at ease. His body and persona are designed to put the body and mind on the knife’s edge of fear, and then tip it over. He leaves the sweet talking and charming to men like Johnny, who babbles red language in a tongue like larkspur. 

Ghost’s first language is oil slick. It stains and it covers and it darkens everything it touches. 

And now, Johnny’s talking about a bird.

A couple months after Las Almas, the first picture comes out. Not a folded up keepsake tucked away in the pocket of a bag or a wallet or the inside of his jacket, but right on Johnny’s lockscreen on his phone. He disapproves at first glance. Not of the girl, but at the thought of keeping something so valuable on display for anyone to see. It’s not how he functions. Everything sacred is burned, destroyed, or—if precious enough—buried so deep underground that salt miners might greet it on the way down.

“Pretty, eh?” Johnny goads, nudging Ghost with his shoulder. He’s all wide grin, eyes electric-blue like the flames of Kawah Ijen. 

She is pretty. Pretty as pie. Not a speck of grit or blood on her; if there’s any edge to her at all, it’s tempered by her smile in the photo on Johnny’s phone. A sugar sweet cunt, by the looks of it, sure it’d taste like candy if he got his mouth on it. He angles his eyes with Johnny’s lips and wonders how many times he’s eaten her out, if hers was the last cunt he ate. Likely. His boy’s the loyal kind, hard to shake off once he’s got his teeth in. Swapping spit or blood, he doesn’t leave once he’s got a taste. 

“Where’d you find her?” he asks instead of agreeing, and takes a swig from the bottle in front of him. The bar’s hardly filled out yet; the two of them come early because Ghost’s an old man—that’s what Johnny would say—and doesn’t like to be around people once the sun’s set. It’s a burnished gold now, sun hovering low in the sky when Ghost turns an eye to it. 

“Florist. Met her when I picked up flowers for mam’s birthday.”

Nearly a month then. “And I’m just hearin’ about this now?”

Not in this same pub three times a week since then. Not on the tarmac, suited up and sweating already beneath two layers of gear. Not in the shower beside Ghost’s, fingers reaching over the side for a bar of soap because Johnny can’t be arsed to get his own. Not with his head slumped to let Ghost shave the sides of his head nice and neat, thick fingers splayed over the delicate bone of his skull that Ghost knows would take nothing to break. 

It rankles him until he looks back down at the phone in his hands—the one he’d plucked from Johnny’s fingers even while he whined about Ghost always stealing his shit—and feels his heartbeat slow. It levels out like staring into the scope of a rifle, the molecules of his breath melding with the molecules of the air until even the sound of his heartbeat dulls to the insects around him. 

Johnny purses his lips. “…Wasn’t sure then. Am now.”

“Cunt’s a cunt. What’s there to be sure about?”

“No.” Johnny shakes his head vehemently. “She’s no’ like that. She’s special—I’m telling ye, Lt—” he stresses when Ghost snorts, the sound thick with scepticism, “—she’s a good egg. Smart one. Sweet as pie.”

Sweet as pie. Mutt half-shares his thoughts these days. They must have brought more home than just shellshock and keloids. 

Johnny squawks when Ghost unlocks his phone and thumbs through his photos, trying to wrench it out of Ghost’s hand to no avail. He’s easy to hold back. All he has to do is put down his beer for a second and get a handful of hair and jerk, and there it is. Peace and quiet. A wince bleeding into his peripheral vision while Johnny mumbles something under his breath about him being a mean bastard. 

He snorts again. Even from Johnny, he’s heard worse. 

There isn’t much left of him these days. A tired husk and a taste for Guinness. He bleeds and shaves and wipes it off, smells the viscera still staining his mask that he hardly ever washes, can’t bear to honestly. Waste of fucking time, as far as he’s concerned. Just going to get dirtied again, soaked in blood again within the week. Shaves his head too just to have less to deal with, less to distract him from the single-minded intensity he brings to the job. He’d dematerialize if he could, become a ghost in name and shape, if only the laws of physics allowed. 

Instead he’s saddled with a body that echoes back his age in creaking joints and low back pain. Scar tissue that aches when it gets cold. 

In the months he’s known Johnny, he’s never let himself think about the world outside their bubble. His rank demands a certain level of socialising, and while he doesn’t schmooze with the brass like other lieutenants might, Ghost hardly has the privilege of isolating himself all the time, but still he can count the people he considers close on one hand. 

Not family, but close. The thought of family is sheathed within him; he knows to leave the knife in lest he bleed. Still, Johnny’s fought his way onto the list and now he has to pay with his pound of flesh. 

There’s a switch that’s been off for years, closer to a couple decades, and it flips back on when he finds this man that trusts him without question, that follows his orders and looks up at him with these big, puppy blue eyes. It twists something in his chest. It turns him into a thing that says maybe it’s better to take than just covet. 

There are other photos of the girl in Johnny’s phone, some likely not meant for present company (Johnny flushes red when Ghost flips to a picture of his bird in a pretty little number, lace cupping her tits and ass, sitting on Johnny’s bed back home and looking back at him over her shoulder with a little grin). Still, it interests him to see this side of his boy; he’s maybe thought of it before in abstract terms. He knows that Johnny’s no stranger to a wandering eye, not with the way he’s built and his pretty boy face. He’s well acquainted with Johnny’s dick, hard not to be in such close quarters; it’s a nice, pretty thing, just like him, a good handful. Nothing like the ruddy battering ram in between Ghost’s legs. The one Johnny once got a glimpse of in the showers after a two week long stint in Kyrgyzstan and paled, mouth gaping open while he stared until he could finally laugh it off. 

Ghost remembers thinking detachedly about how lovely that little gaped open mouth would feel around his cock. 

Surprising that it took this long for him to cotton on to his own desires. 

“Bring ‘er around then. I’ll see for myself how sweet she is.”

Johnny scowls at the sudden uproar from a nearby table. “No’ a chance in hell. Dinnae trust any of these fuckers to behave around her.”

Ghost hums. He’s not wrong to be wary; under the table, Ghost runs a hand over his bulge and gives it a squeeze, lifting his thigh to readjust. She has a lovely mouth too. 

He’s been breathing fire and brimstone recently. Hungering to hear something break. It takes Johnny’s hand on his arm to hold him back, every cigarette puffed down to the filter. The pictures on Johnny’s phone make it seem easy though. 

Johnny’s been bragging about a pretty bird lately, preening at every opportunity to show her off. He doesn’t know that it takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost’s brain to file the girl in Johnny’s phone under mine, slotting her right under Johnny in that category and isn’t that just perfect because it also takes approximately eight seconds for Ghost to imagine what she might look like under Johnny. 

He hands Johnny back the phone, face down. “You get one week. Then I wanna meet your bird.”

[cauls-antique-pepperbox-pistol]

Alternate ending where Caul doesn’t die, but is left with no legs ❤️

[evil-feather]

HAPPY LOOP DAY FROM DEVILS ACRE! <3

Visited the place where the loop is, while I was in London and my best friend took these for me :)

[goddesstrolls]

>> ...Jeeze.

"I...Understand. And I apologize for the assumption."

>> Ashira seems baffled at the reactions of the two adult trolls, and is about to say something else when you shoot them a glare. They smile in a false cheerful manner as they realize that they're in trouble for real this time, and turn around to dart off. "See ya back at camp!"

>> They call as they run, and you all but deflate, heaving a sigh.

"...I am...Very sorry for their behavior."

>> You bow to Almata.

"I tend not to share details of my personal life with them, so they were left to infer, I think."

>> Straightening and shuffling your feet uncomfortably, you rest a hand on the pommel of one of your swords as you clear your throat and try to regain your composure.

>> Normally you might try to escape as quickly as possible to recover, but you just got done saying you weren't trying to avoid her...

>> Surely that was... You hearing wrong, right? Even if your face is burning just as much, if not more than, Okahni's. Why in the world would Ashira think the two of you were going on a date? You've only ever met this man once!

"I... N- No...."

>> You're just... Going to ignore that! Best thing you can do really. I mean you wouldn't be opposed but--

>> Stop it Alma get ahold of yourself.

"I was shaken, yes, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to see you-- OR-- WELL--"

>>You stumble over your words, trying to find a proper way to express the feeling you mean so it won't be misinterpreted in the newly presented possible context.

".... Im glad to see you again, is the easiest way to say it. That you've at least been giving yourselves time to breathe with moving around so much."

[bweoo]

Ooooh I would LOVE to learn more about Dominik 👀 he’s very pretty

There’s not much to say about him, Dominik is “just” an edgy bastard who has some compulsive obsession about killing people and being obsessed with you. Here’s some random fun facts about him:

Dominik is not the type to use pet names or call you by nicknames, it’s “you”, “hey” or just calling you by the name.

He seems quiet but he actually talks a lot, he likes (?) to ask you (or his victims before killing) about random stuff. Eh, he's weird.

Speaking of being weird, be prepared to be stared at a lot by him. Dominik enjoys observing people, watching how they react when they eat something they like, or something they don’t… Or how they react when he stabs his knife on their tight… 

His sketchbook is filled with grotesque drawings (sometimes there’s drawings of small animals, mostly birds)... Oh? There’s also some drawings of someone… It looks like… You?

He used to “work” alone before being hired by Valentine, now he works together with Liam, Cannibal-chan, Almas and Silas.

He will force you to kill someone even if you don't want to, he wants to see your reaction.

Oh, be prepared with his sudden affection. He’s not very affectionate, but sometimes he will wrap his arms around your waist and nuzzle on your neck, or caress your cheeks gently before pulling into a kiss.