#anyways i'm blabbering

[meziniart]

my bf has informed me that Snake wears a corset so i made him this

[ladyrijus]

one of these days someone needs to make a desi centric oc picrew especially one that is fantasy related

[nekrosmos]

Nikolai and Price going to an evening game of poker with some of Nik's "friends", John sitting with his guard up as he's surrounded by a group of dangerous international criminals, all of them carrying guns, all of them glancing at him with a curious look. Price is uncomfortable but doesn't show it, while Nikolai is awfully relaxed considering the situation.

The evening goes on, drinks, cigars and hearty laughs are shared around the table, the bets reaching numbers Price doesn't even make in half a year. It would be a problem, if he wasn't winning most of the rounds, piles of cash gathering around him as he feels the tension build in the room. One of the younger guys, another russian speaker, starts getting an attitude about it around two hours in, and Nikolai immediately puts him in his place with a single sentence Price doesn't understand, his voice booming, as intimidating as he could be, a heavy silence falling inside the room as the lad with an attitude sits back down, eyes not even daring to look at Nik. The silence is only broken by Nik again, a warm laugh leaving his lips and the other men joining him, their nervousness barely hidden.

It had been so easy for Nik to command the room, and even after the tension had diminished, Price could see how much respect these men had for him, while also clearly being scared shitless of the man. Price had rarely felt more attracted to him as he did at that moment, and the wink and smirk Nikolai gave him when he noticed him looking in his direction absolutely did not help.

John eventually left the table, excusing himself for a moment but squeezing Nik's hand briefly as he got up, moving deeper in the building they were using for their game.

A minute later and it's Nik's turn to excuse himself, quickly finding Price who immediately grabs him by the collar of his open shirt and presses his lips against his, Nik hungrily returning the kiss and pushing John against a nearby wall.

When they return to the table, hair tousled, face flustered, all it takes is one glance from Nikolai to shut the others up. This is his territory, this is where he's comfortable, surrounded by dangerous men who show him respect and never dare to cross him.

It's easy for John to forget how natural this all is for his partner, and if Nikolai brought him here tonight to assert his dominance and show off a little, just so he could impress John, well, that mission sure was a success.

[solarisfortuneia]

— 𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐬.

and the smell of camphor dancing in the wind.

✦ info: he didn't know he'd lose you so soon. (come back, please. even if it is just for five more minutes.)

✦ featuring: alhaitham.

✦ warnings: angst, character death (reader), heartache, 1.2k words, somewhat proof-read.

✦ notes: i cried so goddamn hard writing this. why is my first work after hiatus pain. why did i pick up the angst wip. but!! i'm writing again, so that's good. (more notes at the end.)

he didn’t know that it was your last day together. 

he didn’t know that the smile you gave him that afternoon, your eyes sparkling like sunlight upon the serene waves of the ocean, would be the last he’d ever see. that the playful light in your gaze would fade so very soon, slipping through his fingers like sand.

he didn’t know that last night would be the last time he held you close while you drifted off to sleep. he didn’t know that today would be the last time he’d wake up with you.

he didn’t think he’d lose you like this. 

he didn’t think he wouldn’t be able to save you from that blow. 

“please, please,”  he begs, both to you and to whatever force that is just barely holding you together. “just stay with me for five more minutes, please. until i can get you somewhere.” 

the rain soaks him to the bone, clothes and hair sticking to his skin. your lips stay motionless, eyes shut.

“wake up, please,”  he bargains. “you can have all the five minutes of extra sleep you want later, i promise. just—”  his vision blurs, and something shines on the ground before it is gone, swallowed by damp earth, lost amidst drops of falling rain. 

desperately, he tears off parts of his traveling cloak to staunch the bleeding. deep inside, he knows it is futile. he knows your wound is too great. he knows what lies ahead. but he cannot help but press the cloths to your wound and pray. 

please, please tell me it’ll be okay. 

please stay with me, beloved. i’ll read you all the books in the world. i’ll sleep in with you everyday, even if we end up whiling away our time. 

please. stay. stay with me. i can’t lose you yet.  

“— just wake up, beloved.” 

by some miracle, your eye flutters. just a bit. just enough to set hope ablaze, just enough for the grip on his heart to loosen a tiny bit. he buries his face in your shoulder, resting his head against your neck, uncaring of the blood that stains his clothes. your blood. on his clothes. his hands. everywhere. 

no. no. this can’t be happening.

he feels you strain beneath him, your unwounded arm gently, weakly brushing his back. he jolts upright, eyes trained on your face. you send a frail smile his way. he clasps your face softly as you nuzzle into his palm.

“alhaitham—” 

his full name. archons, how long has it been since you called him that?  

“— take good care of yourself, okay?” you tell him, chest heaving, your fingertips touching a tear on his cheeks. “i love you. so much.” 

those are the last words he hears fall from your lips. he presses a kiss to your forehead, to your eyelids, and to your cheeks and to your lips, over and over and over until he feels your breath slow, hoping they’ll say what he knows he cannot manage to choke out.

i love you. 

he stays there next to you for who knows how long, holding you until the rain slows and a faint rainbow smiles in the sky.

until he can’t smell camphor anymore.

—

every person has their curiosities. 

they’re just the little traits that set them apart from others, the things that make them tick just a little bit differently, the things that make them, them.

for instance, someone may be obsessed with collecting tiny furniture, while another eats the crusts off their sandwich before actually consuming it. someone may have an affinity for the most niche aspects of linguistics, while another can accurately predict the next raindrop that slides down a window pane.

after all, no two people are exactly alike, are they?

alhaitham knows he’s got his fair share of these curiosities himself. his aversion to soup and all things that resemble it, to name one. and with you, he’d noticed two things. 

number one: the scent of camphor that seems to linger on every inch of your person. 

he’d caught whiff of it almost immediately the first time you met. you were but one of his juniors in the akademiya, filled with bright-eyed curiosity and anxiety to match. you had tripped over a stair and bumped into his table in the library, bringing the mountain of books in your arms crashing down.

and with subsequent coincidental meetings, he learnt that the subtle scent of camphor dancing in the air meant you weren’t far away. 

you were, unfortunately, one of the poor souls who seemed to be cursed with constantly recurring minor illnesses, and almost always walked about with a stuffy nose. and so, you always carried a small disc of camphor in a handkerchief, as well as in your pocket.

you swore up and down, left, right and center that sniffing the vapors helped make breathing easier.

‘it’s my grandmother’s remedy, alhaitham! camphor always works wonders. well, that and eucalyptus oil.”

alhaitham may not know the validity of your claim or the legitimacy of the cure, but he knew to never, ever question a grandmother’s remedy. that, and he’d much rather refrain from starting a back-and-forth about something so small.

and number two: your neverending pleas of different variations of ‘just five more minutes!’ 

“five more minutes, ‘haitham. please.” you’d whine grumpily when he woke you up to start your day. “let me sleep in for five more minutes.” 

“five more minutes, habibi,” you’d ask when he put down the story you’d requested he read out to you before bedtime. “read me the part where she finds the music box?”

“five more minutes, baby,” is what you’d tell him when he asks how much longer you’d take getting ready. “you can’t rush perfection!”

those five more minutes were never five minutes long. 

but he’d always, always indulged you and those pleading eyes of yours. as stoic as he appeared to be, you lived in his heart. of course he could never deny you anything under the sun.

—

alhaitham remembers that silly little song you sang over and over, the one you’d learnt from a kid in the bazaar. he’d taken you to see one of nilou’s performances, and, friendly soul that you were, you’d struck up a conversation with some of the eager audience members before the play. 

“oh, how i wish i was a bird flying free,

i’d see the world, every mountain and every sea!

oh, how i wish i was a cloud in the sky,

wouldn’t you like to wave to me as i pass by?”

you’d hum that rhyme on every idle afternoon.

loss is inevitable. he knows that, with how logical and rational and straightforward he is. he’d lost his parents, but he was far too young to remember. he’d lost his grandmother, but she passed in her sleep of old age, serene and wise.

but you? he didn’t think you’d leave him this soon. a singular wish sits in his soul, making its home in his bones. 

a wish that you’d come back, somehow. 

he wishes you gave him five more minutes, just as he always did.  but he knows that you could’ve given him five more hours, five more days, five more years and five more decades and it would still not be enough time spent with you. 

a blue feathered bird comes to perch on his shoulder, interrupting his musings just as he raises his face to the sky. he sees the heart shaped cloud that floats idly above sumeru city.

 he thinks of the rhyme again, and something in him tells him to wave. and so he does. a scent so familiar lingers, faintly brushing his nose in the wind that picks up.

“alhaitham, it's time to go.”  kaveh calls his name softly.

 alhaitham doesn't move. “five more minutes,”  he says, echoing your favorite phrase. “i smell camphor in the breeze.” 

✦ extra notes: my alhaitham characterization for this fic stems from how i believe that when alhaitham is attached, he's attached. so i focused more on that, and less of all that rationality and whatnot. this one loves deeply, yk?

that camphor thing is a real grandma remedy in our household (my mom would tie some in a hanky and put some under my pillow and still to this day reminds me to do it when i'm sick) which is what originally sparked the idea for this

when i'd initially started this wip, i didn't expect it go this way. usually i write with my brain, but i think i wrote this one with my fingers working faster than i can think hsjhsj so sorry if it's kinda out of place lmao but yk what? i'm happy with it still even though i feel like it doesn't have my usual quality.

thanks for reading.

[meirimerens]

i shan't lie for a few months i've been making an imaginary movie in my mind in no small part inspired by the greek mythology and art classes i'm having But Different my mind filled with rites and rituals and armor and shields that i twist around and fantasy-ize and strip the male gods from and give women weapons and i shan't lie the characters of this Amazons-like warrior city well they awfully look like diana and artemida and petra and stasia (she can stay bald) and [...] under different names and sporting bronze breastplates and painted hopla (plural of hoplon) (the hoplites' shield) and being priestesses [petra's case] [high off her own supply]. they already look dope as fuck why make more

[multidusk]

wait a minute.

so they DID sneak dark sector into 1999

[tubbytarchia]

Thinking about how happy joel was for jimmy making it to the finale only for one of his allies to kill him before he reaches top 10. This ones got a little kick!

"This one's got a little kick!" you say as I roll on the ground throwing a tantrum smearing the floor in tears before I spontaneously combust

[gingermintpepper]

🌈 or 🌥️ (or both if you're feeling it)

EHEHE thank you very much for the ask! Gonna mix both prompts and give something soft with my favourite dialogue of this piece (and it's not even a wip actually, this is just a completed bit of writing I have on hand that I'm not really planning on doing anything with) which asks the question I'm pretty sure only I have asked: what if Apollo was the one to tell Heracles that he had to head to the Underworld after he'd lost Hylas during the Argo Expedition (also he consoles him a little).

"It'll never get easier, will it? This life."

Phoebus Apollo doesn't answer him. Before, Heracles would've blamed it on ego, the vanity of the gods who think themselves so much better than the mortals they yank about with their power. Now, Heracles thinks he's just a figment of his imagination, another twisted trick brought on by that bitch of the Heavens. The silence stretches on and on, only the sound of his digging and the quiet rustle of fabric fills the space between them. Were Hylas still here, he'd happily fill this stale air, nattering on and on about herbs or the colour of the fish in the lake, or the beauty of the stars between the treetops. Now, the silence is oppressive. Dense. Like the weight of water pushing all the air from his lungs.

Heracles quickly takes the bundle of Hylas' meagre things and throws it into the hole. Best not to dwell on it. Especially not when an Olympian was right beside him. (Maybe it's a good thing that this illusion is so placid. Gives him space to breathe. To think.)

He spits, picks up the flint. "Can't answer that one either? How about an easier question then," the sparks catch on the edge of Hylas' silk belt, quickly eating up the precious gift. Hylas only got to wear it once when they'd celebrated the night before the Argo set sail. He'd wanted to bring it home for his mother. "Was I also cursed to be alone for the rest of my life? It's not enough that she took my family, she's going to take everyone that treats me well too?"

Phoebus Apollo remains silent, fire turning his body warm gold. Heracles clicks his tongue, anger mounting. First Megara then Pholus and now Hylas. Man, woman, beast, it didn't matter at all, did it? All would die if they loved him. Everything would melt away like ash on his tongue and she would keep him alive just to see him squirm.

"Don't just sit there fiddling with your cloth damn it, answer me!"

Phoebus Apollo looks up then. Eyes so gold they seem to burn their own colour, calm brow, stern lips. This wasn't the playful god who refused to let him take his sister's hind without proving his worth, nor was it the distant prophet outlining the sentence for his crimes. This was someone, something else entirely and Heracles can only swallow his tongue in the face of it.

"Come," he beckons with the slightest tilt of his chin, "sit here." Heracles does. "You ask difficult questions. Ones I have no intention of answering." Slender fingers do not falter in their sewing. Heracles watches all the fine bracelets and rings jostle only slightly as the god makes his stitches. "For that, I must apologise."

Heracles snorts, dismissive and looks out into Hylas' fire, "You lot have never cared to inconvenience me before. What is one more disappointment to add to pile?"

A grim smile dances at the edge of his painted lips, "What, indeed."

"If you aren't here to answer my prayers, then you must have another errand for me." And doesn't that just make his blood boil? Even now, when Hylas' pyre has not yet burnt out, the gods still demand more from him, still drive him harder. He digs his nails into the tooth of the rock they share, hopes it is enough to keep him from laying hands on his divine slave-driver's throat and ripping it right out. "Make it quick. Even you must understand the rules of mourning."

Phoebus Apollo's smile widens. He ties off his thread and cuts the excess length with the side of his fingernail. "On the contrary, I've come bearing a gift." Unfurling the length of cloth reveals a gorgeous chamlys, etchings like constellations dotting its dark length and shimmering even in the firelight. "A gift and a word of warning"

Heracles swallows thickly, such rich cloth would surely need to be hidden from his cousins. "If you think a fancy cloak is enough to gloss everything over -"

A laugh, soft and musical. Lighter than Hylas' chuckles, sweeter even than Megara's hidden giggles. How dangerous. How lovely. "Alcides, be calm. I have nothing to hide and there is nothing you could possibly give to me. You already have my gratitude for not harming my offspring, it would please me greatly if you also accepted my boon."

"The cloth is hexed?" It feels no different from a usual chamlys, maybe just a bit softer. Phoebus Apollo laughs again, richer this time so that it resonates in the very base of Heracles' bones and sends little electric sparks shooting all across his body.

"Indeed. It will keep you hidden from the eyes of the Lord and Lady of the Underworld. Do take it with you when next you set foot in their kingdom."

A terrible chill slithers down his back. Hylas' fire pops. "What's the meaning of this?" And Heracles forgets himself, digs his hands into the lush fabric of the god's chiton and wrests him close, "You think it's funny delivering my funeral gown now? When Hylas' body hasn't even cooled?"

Phoebus Apollo hums, brilliant eyes gazing calmly up at him, "I think it should be a great boon if ever your spirit wishes to wander in the great fields of Asphodel should you make the trip."

[callmegaith]

Down the Rabbit Hole pt.4

LOOP CONCLUDED

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

comic/David playlist

thank u everyone so much for joining me and David on this small trip. Hopefully there will be more to come in the future :D

And again, thank u for encouraging me and supporting me to create something so special about a character that I love so deeply 🥰

[sirenvrse]

Don't think about bugs always having a mandatory love interest and how that affects daffy. Don't think about it. Don't think about how one second daffy is spending the night bantering and joking with bugs, eating the dinner he knows is made for him and him only. Reveling in the fact that bugs was expecting, anticipating, if not, then maybe even hoping that daffy will show up and bugs *prepared* a dinner for him. And then the other second having to look at every single piece of merchandise and media pushing this picture perfect relationship of Bugs and Lola. Don't think about how Daffy had to sit through each and every love interest that bugs had. Whether that's honey bunny or Penelope or currently, Lola. How he watched as bugs allegedly, "fell in love" with them, as far as the audience knows. And don't think about how, maybe somewhere in the haze, he started to doubt bugs himself. What if he *did* fall in love and everything daffy sees is just a delusion? What if all they've been through is just that. A circumstance. What if the mandatory love interest is more? More than they ever were?

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter. Daffy isn't ever going to be some one who bugs is in love with. And that has nothing to do with bugs' feelings, no, it's just how the universe works. They weren't meant to be, not in the official sense.

[sisterdivinium]

Now is the time to place your bets on whether or not this hyper self-indulgent doctor superion Vampire the Masquerade AU fic will or won't get to 100 handwritten pages...

[the-leyline-directory]

"You're kinda weird. You know that right?" "Hah, yes. A dear friend would often say so."

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

Hey the Vana'diel raids are going to kill me.

-> Short context, my ff14 WoL is literally my ff11 character; lore wrangled through the 11 alt timeline of 'failing to beat Promathia' - but the emptyness wiggled a little bit to be The flood of Darkness of the 13th \o/ happening at the same time as the Contrememoria on a different continent, Thus Silvaire [The Warrior of Crystal] becoming an archfiend voidsent who claims San d'Oria as his domain for millennia+ even though the beast doesn't remember why. ((There's literally a 60page document that explains it and more, but also is hyper condensed info/skimming over things cause its too much lore. Been developing this fool since 2003/2004)) -> he eventually goes from side villain foil of the WoL, to actually being part of the team (and earning a WoL title) and post Dawntrail he's just trying to recover some pieces of himself with genuine friendships and a support network.

but yeah. Love Silvaire. Love Prishe. I'm emotionally compromised so fucking much and it's not even november yet.

[manasurge]

@hollythame omg I didn't think anyone would notice me mentioning that alksjf. I wanna reply properly to the ask either tomorrow or saturday when I have more time so I can have time to add some doodles to it as well to my response.

[narcpocalypse]

Me when I show up to the manipulative competition but my opponent is an empath/j

[pencilofawesomeness]

Polaris, the Northern Star, Queen of the Celestials

Since she won my OC poll, here's the face reveal of Polaris! (I should have figured she would win, lol. I've been meaning to draw her anyway.) Er, face reveal in the sense that celestials can change form, but you know what I mean.

Finally, the infamous mother of Loke and (former) Celestial Queen from HTRYDS gets an image to her name. I had a lot of fun designing her and it was nice to finally go all the way. And to throw in those easter eggs and tiny clues :)

[sanchezsimp]

Thoughts on Morty curling up next to Rick and Rick leaning his head on Morty when they thought they gonna die in Solaricks (Season 6 episode 1)

I LIVE FOR THAT !!

When they're physically affectionate with their hugs I just jdnwjdhsjdh

The fact that they're 100% okay with dying together, CUDDLING-- Call me sensitive, but I wanted to sob, they mean so much to me<33

(Probably not as much as they mean to each other, though)

I wish we saw 'em like that more often