#drowning in stardust

[finnthenorthsheep]

Artfight 2024 (Team seafoam)

Attack for @alleesaur Memories of drowning flowers!

First year, first drawing! I think It's really cute

[lithi]

Andersen’s The Little mermaid Seiusa AU…. Woah… My brain….

[theliterarymess]

The full spredges collection as of October 2023

[n0va-daamnn]

Japan woman :0

//not such a new art, I just remembered this game and decided to post it

[moxie-girl]

friendly fire attack on @snowyeclipse!

(filterless ver under the cut)

[rev3rb]

Last I checked, the river that Kakyoin was standing in for foreshadowing in the Last Train Home ED was Denial

[amaryllisthegheist]

Stardust in Her Eyes - Snippet 2

Previous

| | | |

Riot lifted her head coolly, keeping her chin just out of reach of the hands gripping furiously at her upper arms and clawing at her wrists. If there was one benefit to having four arms, it was that those with only two tended to struggle against a superior grip. She watched the fury burning in Ms. Power’s eyes steadily growing fainter by the second as salty ocean water flooded her lungs, bubbles streaming from her nose as she struggled. Frankly, Riot was impressed by the tenacity the woman was showing, determined to the very end to kill another member of her species. How typical of a kaladorian.

Finally, her struggles grew weaker, her super strength seeming to fade into the normal powers she would possess on any other planet. Riot’s lips curved into a dangerous smile, happily showing her fangs to the rapidly fading woman. She wants this bitch’s last memory to be of her fucking smiling while her vision grew darker and darker.

The winged woman made sure to keep her underwater for another minute after her struggles back, trying to ensure the drowning was as thorough as possible. Her skin may have been unblemished, the flesh unable to be torn because of the enhancements earth gave the waste of space, but her lungs were as vulnerable as any other gas breathing species in the galaxy.

Serves her right for laying a fucking finger on Namielle.

She gave the corpse one last, fierce and sharp little shake to startle her awake if she was faking. Satisfied that she was dead, she left the body floating for a brief moment in time to pop back onto the shore to retrieve a pair of large, fairly heavy rocks and thick-braided ropes. She made quick work of wrapping it around Ms. Power’s body, releasing it in the center of the ocean. She watched it slowly begin sinking to the bottom of the ocean where it would rot and decay and, crucially, Becky wouldn’t find out until she was grown up enough to understand the situation. Riot cocked her head as it finally vanished from sight.

“Hmph,” she grunted, and promptly buzzed up higher into the air. She kind of wished that she had the same strange, levitation style flight that Wordgirl and Ms. Power did – her wings were so loud when she moved. Especially so when she was moving quickly – she was just lucky that Hairiel sending her off on various missions over the years had primed Becky to hear her buzzing around the edges of the city, which kept her from investigating.

Riot touched down lightly on the sand, her antennae waving around in the air, picking up even the faintest scents in the area. She kind of wants to do a study of the effects that the strange radiation from earth has on various aliens – kaladorians seemed to gain immense super strength, flight and breath abilities but lexiconians got that, laser eyes and super hearing. Then there was Riot – her natural flight had been boosted and though she hadn’t gotten any breath powers or eye lasers (how come Becky got all of the coolest stuff?) but her second stomach usually reserved for honey had begun producing other honey with… interesting qualities. One was essentially a form of acid, another was mostly just glue.

Another feature had been her sense of smell.

Hearing had never been very important to her people – the sensitivity of their wings often alerted them to those approaching them, the force of their steps vibrating them while allowing the scales of their wings to tremble in time to their movement and their antennae typically picked up on any of the scents released by a potential predator. Between the two, hearing just wasn’t the greatest necessity for them – and she figures that’s why the planet chose to enhance her sense of smell.

She was thankful.

Because when Cuddlesworth sprung from his hiding place, shrieking and screeching in – what she was willing to admit was justified anger for her cold eyed murder of its caretaker – she was able to grab it by the throat with her upper arms, watching it with a slightly tilted head.

“Loyalty is an admirable trait,” she told the creature, watching it steadily become alarmed. A pang of sadness resonated throughout her chest, a soft sigh leaving her chest at the creature’s angry beady eyes. This creature was the same species as Hairiel. This was another hakuchan. One totally and completely brainwashed, fully dependent on the same species that drove theirs to functional extinction. She lifted a palm from her lower set of arms, stroking his face gently. “I hope you’re rewarded endlessly for it wherever it is you go when your kind moves on.”

Then she walked it to the shore and repeated the process.

Maybe Power has an execution-blaster in her ship, Riot mused to herself thoughtfully. She almost hoped so – it wouldn’t bode well if she did, given what it would mean for a kaladorian with executioner’s equipment to be on earth, but it would help them out in situations like this. If there was a proper-advanced blaster, she could give it to Hairiel to reverse-engineer and perhaps modify to work regardless of any superhuman resistance the field around the earth granted them. It would make her feel better about executing hakuchanians, whose only true crime was that they’d fallen for the lies and revisionist history fed to them in the carcass of their ruined planet.

At the very least, their lung capacity was nothing compared to a kaladorian’s. Riot had held Power beneath the salty shores for what felt like an eon before she finally weakened and was counting passing clouds waiting for her to finally succumb to drowning. And Gigglecheeks’ arms weren’t long enough to get in her way, no matter how much he clawed.

When the life finally left the creature, she dug up a shallow grave and dumped the corpse inside. As much as Power deserved to die alone, Riot would at least begrudgingly respect the concept that Gigglecheeks would probably like to be dumped into the same part of the sea as she was. So the rhalochyrril would – reluctantly – toss him out to be with her later, once he’d rifled through the ship.

Stepping away from the buried creature, she made her way back towards the ship – the true reason Hairiel had sent her out to search through it for signs. Signs that Power wasn’t the only kaladorian in the area, signs that she and her colleagues had been watching the earth for a while – signs that there was trouble brewing. She did her best to ignore most of the junk scattered throughout the ship, various bits and bobs from her conquests pinned to the walls and displayed proudly upon the shelves in a vile mockery of the various species whose worlds they destroyed.

“Bastards,” she snarled, scowling as she ran her palm across a silken-cocoon. The suffering that poor nymph must’ve gone through, boiled alive in their own chrysalises because some self-centered jackasses wanted their cocoon and refused to just use the cocoons of already pupated nymphs. Still, might as well not waste it – as an imago herself, Riot could no longer spin silk, and she’d been wanting to give Nami- Becky, something nice for her up-coming fifteenth birthday.

She tucked the bundle of unused fabric beneath her lower left arm, as she crouched below the mainframe. Kaladorians prided themselves on advanced technology, but experimental ships like the one Power was apparently piloting were often sloppily put together, meant to be private models used to design even better ones. So it was nymph’s play to remove the bottom panel and simply rip out the cords associated with the ship’s broadcasting system, preventing it from sharing its location. She fiddled around in the wire mess for a bit longer, checking for anything suspicious - black boxes weren't common on test ships like this one, but they weren't rare either.

“Nothing,” she murmured to herself, sitting up. No blaster, no black box, not even a miscellaneous inventory tracking chip from what she could tell. It was like Power had fished the machine out of a dumpster somewhere far on the ends of the galaxy. She used her secondary arms to push herself back into standing, “Power must not have been as high ranking as we thought…”

If anything, the picture the rhalochyrril was beginning to get was that Power was an exile. The small test ship, no back up swooping in when Wordgirl fought back, no frantic message from Hairiel that he'd found other marks - it seemed Power was alone. And her irritating desperation for awe and worship were the hallmarks of an exiled kaladorian. The idea should've soothed her, but instead it made her worry - the presence of exiles tended to draw the attention of full status kaladorians looking to swoop in and steal what little glory could be obtained by those removed from the hierarchy. Sometimes they even placed inconspicuous looking bugs within the ships so they could track them across the galaxy.

“Fuck,” Riot said, running her fingers between her antennae. Ship mechanics were far above her know-how. She only knew the basics of repairs, like any regular spacer would, but tiny, unnoticeable tracking chips? She barely knew what was standard on a kaladorian ship given she spent most of her life around lexiconians.

Which meant she had to turn to the expert.

It was time to bring Hairiel into it.

[shea-like-the-butter]

Thursday, March 23rd 2023

Stuck on a little hot mess

[vendettavalor]

@tacticalvalor said: That slight nod you give before their lips are pressing against yours -> ghost and mari

⚔️ Those Seconds Before The Kiss Prompts // CLOSED ⚔️

There's a sweetness to the moment. A secret understanding that only they share. It's without words or explanation - the story behind the small gap between them is much too long and much too painful to think too deeply on, much less talk about. So they don't. He answered what she needed him to anyway.

She asked his name and he told her, and her whispered voice made his knees weak. She asked about the mask, and he said he wasn't willing to talk about it. So she didn't press. She asked if someone had hurt him and he answered. So she didn't ask for details. She asked him to come closer, and he did. She asked him to lean down, and he did. She asked if she could touch him, and he said yes. So she did. She ghosted her fingers over the cheeks of his mask. Her gentle fingers bled warmth though the fabric and heated his cheeks until they blushed with such fervor. His breath hitched and trembled, a familiar anxiety creeping in his chest as she touched him. Contact always made him nervous. Even with her, that deep-rooted reflex to push her away, to fight back against the contact, no matter how much he wanted to accept it. It took all of his willpower not to go on the defensive and immediately shove her away.

When it finally waned, he felt himself relax just the smallest fraction. Increment by increment, his shoulders slumped. Coiled muscles unwound and slumped, his frame sagging just the smallest bit as he leaned into her. So warm. Her hands were so warm. The scent of the sea and sweet blooms clung to her and melted his senses. Her touch was so gentle and so kind, it made his eyes burn. Then she whispered and he felt his heart melt too.

"Simon... can I kiss you?"

He looked at her for a moment, the prospect of jumping right into a kiss making that creeping anxiety flare up again. He was scared but... God he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kiss her so badly. He'd been in love with her for so long, and now she was here. So close. She was touching him and she was so close and she looked so beautiful. He couldn't help the nod he gave and the way he reached up to roll up the bottom portion of his mask until it was just past his lips. He felt almost giddy, shushing her as she mumbled that they could go slower if he needed it. But he insisted that he could handle a kiss from her.

When his hands fell, hers returned to his cheeks. Still slow. Still ginger. A little hesitant, but so was he. For a moment, they lingered there. Just a few inches apart, separated only by hesitation.

Then, they meet each other halfway. They let their hearts melt together as their lips meet. It's gentle and cautious; a silent question being asked. But soon it is warm and kind. Two lovers getting to know each other for the first time and getting swept up in their quiet excitement.

There's a sweetness to the moment. A secret understanding that only they share. It's without words or explanation. But they don't need to say anything. Not when they've come this close.

[zaebeecee]

Drowning in Stardust

🦌 RadioDustTober: Short Story Edition 🕷️

Day 15: New Threads

Alternate Universe (1930s gangster AU, secret relationship)

CWs: Period-relevant racism

If Alastor is going to pose as Anthony’s new bodyguard, he has to look the part.

Word count: 1290

•••

Purchasing clothing was a foreign concept to Alastor.

He had clothing, obviously, he wasn’t some Philistine traipsing around ‘naked as the day he was born’ (as they said back home). That clothing, however, had all been hand-made by his maman and later by Alastor himself once he cultivated his sewing skill enough to tailor things. In the little village outside of New Orleans, where he grew up, there was a shortage of things like professional tailors and the newfangled idea of ‘ready to wear’ clothes you could buy off a rack; there had been more options in the city, of course, but they didn’t cater to people like those who lived in the village, so their only option was the one small store that sold a limited variety of cloth and sewing notions.

The building in front of him was not a place where you could buy plain cotton fabric or a pack of sewing needles. No, this was a New York City bespoke tailor, the kind of place where they gave you champagne and let you sit on soft velvet chairs while men with measuring tapes around their necks practically begged to cater to your every fashion whim. There was even a sign in the window that said, in no uncertain terms, WE CATER TO WHITE TRADE. WAITING ROOM FOR COLORED ONLY, with an arrow pointing around to the back of the building.

“Somehow, I don’t think I’ll exactly receive a warm welcome here,” Alastor said lightly, tilting his head enough to look at his companion. With his slicked white hair, entirely white suit, and matching white hat and shoes, his boss (boss’s son, strictly speaking) couldn’t have looked any more like a gangster; it only took one glance to see why so many who worked for the Family called him the Ghost.

“Does that bother you?” Anthony asked, casting Alastor a sidelong glance as his lips curved into a smirk.

Alastor returned the look with a smile of his own. “I think you already know the answer to that, sha. I simply wouldn’t want to waste your time if they’re only going to refuse service.”

“No one refuses the Mezzasalma Family’s money,” Anthony said, his smile growing darker as he took hold of the door handle. “Not more than once, anyway.”

Alastor followed Anthony inside and looked around at the interior that was just as posh as he imagined it would be, the interior all polished wood and fine carpet and largely uncluttered by the usual bolts of cloth and shelves and bins. Instead, cloth samples lined one wall in a neat little row, a large section of the interior dedicated to a seating area and a raised dais with full-length mirrors surrounding it in a half-circle. It was mere seconds before a man strode over to them with a speed that made his attempt at dignified posture downright hilarious, and he stopped near Anthony, clasping his hands together.

“Mister Mezzasalma,” he began, casting Alastor more than one glance from the corner of his eye. “I— This is quite the surprise, we were not expecting to see you.”

“Wasn’t exactly expectin’ to be here myself,” Anthony said, straightening the lapels of his jacket as he glanced around. “I’m in need of a couple of new suits and my usual tailor won’t be back in the city for a few weeks. My father speaks highly enough of your work, so I figured I might as well give my patronage to someone who’s already been good to my people.”

“That… that’s very kind of you, sir.” The shop attendant glanced at Alastor again; Alastor smiled at him, and the attendant’s face blanched to an interesting color that reminded Alastor of bad milk. “We would be more than happy to clear our schedule for you, but I am afraid your man will have to go around to the back of the building for the entrance to the waiting area.”

“Oh, no, he won’t,” Anthony said, clasping his hands behind his back and strolling over to where the cloth samples stood. “They’re for him. He’s recently come close into my employ, you see, and he requires clothing that… befits the position, so to speak.”

The attendant looked panicked. “Sir, I-I’m afraid I must insist, it isn’t just our policy, the law dictates—”

He fell silent when Anthony glanced his way. “Ain’t that a shame,” he said, turning back to the cloth and taking what looked like some expensive gray tweed between his thumb and forefinger, feeling its texture. “I suppose I’ll have to obtain a different recommendation from my father, then. He’ll be very disappointed to hear your establishment didn’t meet my needs, but the law is the law.”

If the attendant looked unwell before, now he looked positively ill, like he might vomit where he stood any moment. While Alastor might have rolled his eyes at the indirect passive-aggression of veiled mafioso threats, he had to admit it was very funny to be on this side of it. “Oh, n-no, sir, it isn’t— I didn’t mean—…” He cleared his throat, gathering himself. “Your father has always been a very valuable patron for us. I’m certain the owner wouldn’t mind making an exception.”

Anthony smiled. “Well, that’s very good to hear. Alastor, come on over here.” When Alastor stepped up beside him, Anthony dropped his voice and said, “Let me know if anybody here says or does anythin’ even a little… inappropriate, alright?”

“You got it,” Alastor murmured with a smile. “Are you planning to shoot them if they do?”

Anthony chuckled. “Nah. Might get someone to accidentally burn down the building, though.” Alastor stifled his laugh as Anthony shushed him, trying to keep his own laughter from bursting out in a giggle.

The fabric was nothing like Alastor had ever held before, and he took his time in making his selections while Anthony told the attendant, in no uncertain terms, that they required the suits as quickly as possible. He negotiated a two-week turnaround that made the attendant sound like he was close to an apoplexy, but he agreed and had Alastor stand on the dais for his measurements.

They returned to the store for fittings three times—Alastor had tried to tell Anthony that he didn’t need anything so extravagant, and Anthony had countered that he enjoyed spending as much of the family money as possible this way—and when Alastor finally stood in a completed suit of light gray cashmere, looking himself over in the mirror, he hardly recognized himself.

“Leave,” Anthony said to the shop’s employees, and as they scuttled away, Alastor watched him in the mirror as he stepped up onto the wide dais and walk up behind him. “What do you think?” Anthony asked, dropping his voice to ensure they weren’t overheard.

“It’s different,” Alastor said. “But I can’t say I hate it.”

“Most positive thing I’ve ever heard you say about somethin’ bein’ different,” Anthony chuckled, and Alastor felt hands on his waist as Anthony leaned in close to his back.

Alastor smiled, leaning back in return as he fixed his cuffs. “I think I could absolutely get used to this.”

“Good. And besides…” Anthony leaned in close to Alastor’s ear, whispering, “I think both these suits will look fantastic on my bedroom floor.” Alastor felt his face heating up as Anthony’s tongue darted out, flicking the shell of his ear, a little bit of that ‘playing with fire’ he was so fond of. Then, he backed off and turned away. “Let’s get out of here, then. Next time, I’m takin’ you to Rosie.”

Alastor took one last look at himself, smoothing his hand down the front of his jacket, before he turned to follow Anthony out of the building. He could definitely get used to this.

•••

[samwisethewitch]

Excellent, excellent addition, and I 100% second everything @powersandplanetaries said here. How To Keep House While Drowning is excellent and I highly recommend it to anyone who struggles with cleaning.

One other thing I would add: if you live in an older home or one that has been poorly maintained by previous owners, you'll have a fourth category of tasks that you might call "Structural Maintenance" or "Managing Wear and Tear." Our house was built in the 1970s and has had some shoddy "repairs" done by previous owners, so we occasionally have to do things like fix a leaky faucet or patch a crack in the ceiling. I want to emphasize that this is normal for older homes.

For me, this category of tasks is lower priority than Health and Safety or Utility tasks, but higher priority than Mentally Restful tasks. Dealing with small wear and tear before it becomes a bigger (and often expensive) problem will take a lot of stress off both you and your home. It's much easier, cheaper, and less stressful to replace caulk on a bathroom faucet than to repair water damage from an unmanaged leak, for example.

It's 110% okay to pay someone to do these fixes if you have the funds, and if you're renting your landlord or building maintenance should really be taking care of these things. But you can do a lot of home repair tasks yourself! I have ADHD and multiple chronic illnesses and zero experience in this area, and I've managed to teach myself how to do a lot of these small, simple fixes. It's been really empowering for me to know that I can repair my own living space.

A resource I've found really helpful is the book Safe and Sound by Mercury Stardust, who you might know as the "Trans Handy Ma'am" on TikTok and Instagram. It's a really thorough and compassionately written guide to the kind of basic maintenance I'm talking about, and has lots of gorgeous illustrations!

*takes your face gently in my hands and looks sincerely into your eyes* listen. your home does not need to look like a showroom. homes are meant to be lived in, and that means a certain amount of mess. it's okay if there is clutter on your desk or if you don't remember the last time you cleaned your oven. mess is morally neutral. but at the same time, you deserve to live in an environment that is safe and comfortable, and that means someone has to clean sometimes. things like mold, spoiled food, and dirty litter boxes are genuine health hazards and need to be dealt with before they make someone sick. think of cleaning less as "my home needs to be completely spotless" and more as "I am an animal and I need a habitat that is free of hazardous material." it's okay. *kisses you on the forehead and tucks you into a blanket*

(and of course it is always acceptable and even good for you to ask someone else to help you with cleaning if it's physically or mentally difficult for you. even if you're paying them to do it.)

[myths-of-fantasy]

Again y'all - here me out

First Snip

| | | |

Riot lifted her head coolly, keeping her chin just out of reach of the hands gripping furiously at her upper arms and clawing at her wrists. If there was one benefit to having four arms, it was that those with only two tended to struggle against a superior grip. She watched the fury burning in Ms. Power’s eyes steadily growing fainter by the second as salty ocean water flooded her lungs, bubbles streaming from her nose as she struggled. Frankly, Riot was impressed by the tenacity the woman was showing, determined to the very end to kill another member of her species. How typical of a kaladorian.

Finally,ally her struggles grew weaker, her super strength seeming to fade into the normal powers she would possess on any other planet. Riot’s lips curved into a dangerous smile, happily showing her fangs to the rapidly fading woman. She wants this bitch’s last memory to be of her fucking smiling while her vision grew darker and darker.

The winged woman made sure to keep her underwater for another minute after her struggles back, trying to ensure the drowning was as thorough as possible. Her skin may have been unblemished, the flesh unable to be torn because of the enhancements earth gave the waste of space, but her lungs were as vulnerable as any other gas breathing species in the galaxy.

Serves her right for laying a fucking finger on Namielle.

She gave the corpse one last, fierce and sharp little shake to startle her awake if she was faking. Satisfied that she was dead, she left the body floating for a brief moment in time to pop back onto the shore to retrieve a pair of large, fairly heavy rocks and thick-braided ropes. She made quick work of wrapping it around Ms. Power’s body, releasing it in the center of the ocean. She watched it slowly begin sinking to the bottom of the ocean where it would rot and decay and, crucially, Becky wouldn’t find out until she was grown up enough to understand the situation. Riot cocked her head as it finally vanished from sight.

“Hmph,” she grunted, and promptly buzzed up higher into the air. She kind of wished that she had the same strange, levitation style flight that Wordgirl and Ms. Power did – her wings were so loud when she moved. Especially so when she was moving quickly – she was just lucky that Hairiel sending her off on various missions over the years had primed Becky to hear her buzzing around the edges of the city, which kept her from investigating.

Riot touched down lightly on the sand, her antennae waving around in the air, picking up even the faintest scents in the area. She kind of wants to do a study of the effects that the strange radiation from earth has on various aliens – kaladorians seemed to gain immense super strength, flight and breath abilities but lexiconians got that, laser eyes and super hearing. Then there was Riot – her natural flight had been boosted and though she hadn’t gotten any breath powers or eye lasers (how come Becky got all of the coolest stuff?) but her second stomach usually reserved for honey had begun producing other honey with… interesting qualities. One was essentially a form of acid, another was mostly just glue.

Another feature had been her sense of smell.

Hearing had never been very important to her people – the sensitivity of their wings often alerted them to those approaching them, the force of their steps vibrating them while allowing the scales of their wings to tremble in time to their movement and their antennae typically picked up on any of the scents released by a potential predator. Between the two, hearing just wasn’t the greatest necessity for them – and she figures that’s why the planet chose to enhance her sense of smell.

She was thankful.

Because when Cuddlesworth sprung from his hiding place, shrieking and screeching in – what she was willing to admit was justified anger for her cold eyed murder of its caretaker – she was able to grab it by the throat with her upper arms, watching it with a slightly tilted head.

“Loyalty is an admirable trait,” she told the creature, watching it steadily become alarmed. A pang of sadness resonated throughout her chest, a soft sigh leaving her chest at the creature’s angry beady eyes. This creature was the same species as Hairiel. This was another hakuchan. One totally and completely brainwashed, fully dependent on the same species that drove theirs to functional extinction. She lifted a palm from her lower set of arms, stroking his face gently. “I hope you’re rewarded endlessly for it wherever it is you go when your kind moves on.”

Then she walked it to the shore and repeated the process.

Maybe Power has an execution-blaster in her ship, Riot mused to herself thoughtfully. She almost hoped so – it wouldn’t bode well if she did, given what it would mean for a kaladorian with executioner’s equipment to be on earth, but it would help them out in situations like this. If there was a proper-advanced blaster, she could give it to Hairiel to reverse-engineer and perhaps modify to work regardless of any superhuman resistance the field around the earth granted them. It would make her feel better about executing hakuchanians, whose only true crime was that they’d fallen for the lies and revisionist history fed to them in the carcass of their ruined planet.

At the very least, their lung capacity was nothing compared to a kaladorian’s. Riot had held Power beneath the salty shores for what felt like an eon before she finally weakened and was counting passing clouds waiting for her to finally succumb to drowning. And Gigglecheeks’ arms weren’t long enough to get in her way, no matter how much he clawed.

When the life finally left the creature, she dug up a shallow grave and dumped the corpse inside. As much as Power deserved to die alone, Riot would at least begrudgingly respect the concept that Gigglecheeks would probably like to be dumped into the same part of the sea as she was. So the rhalochyrril would – reluctantly – toss him out to be with her later, once he’d rifled through the ship.

Stepping away from the buried creature, she made her way back towards the ship – the true reason Hairiel had sent her out to search through it for signs. Signs that Power wasn’t the only kaladorian in the area, signs that she and her colleagues had been watching the earth for a while – signs that there was trouble brewing. She did her best to ignore most of the junk scattered throughout the ship, various bits and bobs from her conquests pinned to the walls and displayed proudly upon the shelves in a vile mockery of the various species whose worlds they destroyed.

“Bastards,” she snarled, scowling as she ran her palm across a silken-cocoon. The suffering that poor nymph must’ve gone through, boiled alive in their own chrysalises because some self-centered jackasses wanted their cocoon and refused to just use the cocoons of already pupated nymphs. Still, might as well not waste it – as an imago herself, Riot could no longer spin silk, and she’d been wanting to give Nami- Becky, something nice for her up-coming fifteenth birthday.

She tucked the bundle of unused fabric beneath her lower left arm, as she crouched below the mainframe. Kaladorians prided themselves on advanced technology, but experimental ships like the one Power was apparently piloting were often sloppily put together, meant to be private models used to design even better ones. So it was nymph’s play to remove the bottom panel and simply rip out the cords associated with the ship’s broadcasting system, preventing it from sharing its location. She fiddled around in the wire mess for a bit longer, checking for anything suspicious - black boxes weren't common on test ships like this one, but they weren't rare either.

“Nothing,” she murmured to herself, sitting up. No blaster, no black box, not even a miscellaneous inventory tracking chip from what she could tell. It was like Power had fished the machine out of a dumpster somewhere far on the ends of the galaxy. She used her secondary arms to push herself back into standing, “Power must not have been as high ranking as we thought…”

If anything, the picture the rhalochyrril was beginning to get was that Power was an exile. The small test ship, no back up swooping in when Wordgirl fought back, no frantic message from Hairiel that he'd found other marks - it seemed Power was alone. And her irritating desperation for awe and worship were the hallmarks of an exiled kaladorian. The idea should've soothed her, but instead it made her worry - the presence of exiles tended to draw the attention of full status kaladorians looking to swoop in and steal what little glory could be obtained by those removed from the hierarchy. Sometimes they even placed inconspicuous looking bugs within the ships so they could track them across the galaxy.

“Fuck,” Riot said, running her fingers between her antennae. Ship mechanics were far above her know-how. She only knew the basics of repairs, like any regular spacer would, but tiny, unnoticeable tracking chips? She barely knew what was standard on a kaladorian ship given she spent most of her life around lexiconians.

Which meant she had to turn to the expert.

It was time to bring Hairiel into it.

[stardusted-hearts]

Anonymous asked: Never have I ever nearly drowned, Stardust and Shadow ---

Never Have I Ever - No longer accepting for Stardust [he's WASTED]

"..." They're lucky that Sonic is already drunk. But he's suddenly oddly quiet. He takes his sixth shot silently.

"Let's lay off the death related ones, shall we?" Shadow does not take a shot.

[yanderenightmare]

ooooh what kinda mythic creatures are the jjk boys?

Gojo, Sukuna, Toji

TW: implied noncon, yandere, the supernatural?

gn reader

Gojo Satoru Hybrid between angel and human

His hair is pearlescent and so are his wings—soft feathers, sharper than blades when he wants them to be. His halo can only be spotted when the sun shines extra bright—like a ring of stardust slowly orbiting his crown.

He doesn’t know his parents, nor which one of them was the angel. But it’s not something he cares much about. People call him Icarus, and he tries to live up to it the way he drowns himself in another’s embrace every new night—never the same one.

Never the same one until you. Another hybrid. No part of Angel, though…

He falls in love with it—all of it—the points of your teeth, the tiny horns that protrude from your hairline, the slim tail adorned with that pretty arrowhead, and the equally sharp look in your eyes as you glare at him with disgust.

He wants to know more. Do have markings in unseen places? How far does your tongue stretch, and is it split down the middle like with a snake? Is it venomous? Is it sweet? Does your skin burn to the touch like the sun does when he flies too close? Or will it be warm and soft and pliable?

He and his angel eyes freak you out. You advise him to leave you alone, the point of your tail threatening to slice his throat open. You’ve been shunned enough by humans—you don’t need to add a snooty angel boy to the fray. 

But then he calls you beautiful. And no one’s called you beautiful before.

Ryomen Sukuna Hellhound

The few times humans have dared try to tame him have all been devasting days of fire and death. Silly humans, thinking they can make him do his bidding like another mutt on a leash—he’ll make them all burn.

But then there’s you. You’re not like the other humans. You don’t come to him with any intention of collaring him. Instead, you have your hands folded together in prayer—sweet scripture leaves your lips, soothing his singed skin until it stops burning.

You wear holy robes and a kind smile on your face, you don’t avert your eyes even as he glares at you with the embers in his own, even as he growls and bares teeth. You don’t ignore him when he speaks, either, even when his tongue comes out split through the middle and all his words reek of smoke. You bathe him in holy water and rinse the soot out of his fur—telling him he’s a good boy.

He feels no desire to bite your hand as you pet his head and stroke his ears—he just ends up wagging his tail. But then again… he is still a hellhound. And you should know better than to feed monsters in the dark…

He leaves his room in the chapel and sniffs yours out—nothing, not even so much as a seal on your door to keep him out. You have too much faith. Your door creaks open, but you remain peacefully asleep—all soft snores as he mounts you with drool dripping down his canines…

Fushiguro Toji Hunter

Rumor has it that something far worse than ogres and trolls travel the forest. Beware of the hunter—all you little nymphs, fauns, and fairies. Some say he’ll stuff you in a bag and sell you, while others argue it’s his appetite that makes him hunt—some even mean it’s just for sport, that he’ll kill and stuff you and mount your head on the wall.

You, a poor forest nymph, are unfortunate enough to get yourself caught in one of his nets. You’re a crying little mess by the time he comes around—begging him not to sell or eat or skin or harvest your wings, barely breathing between the words.

He chuckles and promises you he won’t do any of that stuff, but the smile on his face is enough to convince you he’s possessed by some sort of demon. And as he hauls you up on his shoulder and starts carrying you further into those places you’ve never dared venture, into the thicker parts of the forest where the trees all seem riddled with some type of disease—you can’t help but believe all those rumors you’d heard.

He tells you that his snares and nets are meant for rodents and that he didn’t think fae-folk were dumb enough to get themselves caught by them as he starts cutting into the net to free you—only, he doesn’t stop at the net—but goes for your slik garb next. Whistling as he bares your pretty skin while pinning your small wrists above you in one meaty hand.

His grin is sharper than his knife when he advises you not to struggle, saying he would feel awful if he were to accidentally cut you.

♡ Nanami, Fushiguro, Naoya ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[locktheundeadworker]

Fight fight fight

HELL HATH NO FURY LIKE A WOMAN SCORNED

[kyrios-i]

Dreams

They say our dreams will take us far [Eyes fixed on the ground] So I tread carefully To not suffocate or drown

Our dreams will carry us far, they say [Eyes fixed on the

g r o u n d] So I am not another dove shot To crash and burn

Up! Up! I say my dreams are made of stardust and silk [EYES FIXED ON THE BEYOND] A never-ending light Guiding those on the never-ending road Surrounded by bright flashes and dull sparks Of things that never will or be

I walk.

created on 03/18/2023

last edit on 11/27/2023 @ 12:47AM

Inspired by "Eyes Fixed on the Ground" by EDEN