#if you guys didn't know :3

[mitamicah]

Oh look at that 👀👀👀 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳three weeks t- anniversary 🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳🥳

I love the fact that you are quicker than I can make the voice updates x'D

Thank you tho, Jay :'D

[artist-rat]

some epilogue vibes (an excuse to draw some hugs. and my durge so many times)

[lazylittledragon]

so how about that durge

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Heh...Literally nothing personal, kid.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[son1c]

cooler than cool

[tabooiart]

hey girl your boyfriend is leaking blue goo everywhere. yeah okay just wanted to make sure you knew.

[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.

[uncanny-tranny]

Shoutout to all the other adults who have acne or any other condition of the skin that you are expected to outgrow or "just deal with."

Adulthood isn't this magical time where everything just disappears, and the reality is that these skin conditions are largely genetic. It isn't your fault (nor your skin's fault) that you are an adult with different skin than other people. In fact, it's neutral (and even, dare I say, good!).

[flamingtoads]

Inspired by @blossom--of--snow's fanfic Right to the Heart of Me an AU based off the movie The Bodyguard for @cassiopeiasara!!

[lost-in-fandoms]

I have written this. sort of. somehow even mushier than i thought it would be. cw: probably completely inaccurate medieval-esque terms

Daniel sits in the tent with his head bowed, eyes closed, enjoying the temporary peace. He knows he should go find someone to help him get out of his armor, knows he should get cleaned before the feast, knows he should maybe get his shoulder checked out, but his limbs are heavy and the tent is quiet.

It was a good tourney, lots of old rivals and new faces showing up for it, many exciting duels, but Daniel feels like he's getting a little too old for all this. His shoulder, where he had been hit over and over, aches terribly. He can feel the sweat mixed with dirt dry on his skin, a feeling that used to be associated with a good day of work, but that now only feels uncomfortable.

He should get up.

Before he can force himself to do it, the flap of the tent opens, sunlight and voices streaming inside, making him wince. The person holding it up is for a moment just a silhouette gesturing to someone outside, but Daniel doesn't need anything more to recognize them. He would know Max in the dark, with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back, just from the way his soul seems to get lighter in his presence.

He should get up, now more than ever. It's against protocol to stay seated in the presence of the King.

He closes his eyes again, doesn't move. The flap closes.

Max is quiet as he walks closer, even the sounds of his clothing seemingly muted, but Daniel doesn't need words to know when it's the moment to open his eyes. He has to look up to meet Max's, who's now standing right in front of him, face unreadable. If he hadn't just won the tournament, Daniel could be tempted to think he was unhappy. As it is, he knows Max is only trying to gauge Daniel's own mood before molding himself to it. As if he wasn't the King, owner of Daniel's whole life.

Max brings up a hand, gently cupping Daniel's cheek and swiping away some dust with his thumb, before moving further back, carefully slipping his fingers through his sweat matted hair.

"You did well today," he finally says. Daniel closes his eyes once more, wishing they weren't in a dusty, too-warm tent, but in Max's (their, really) bed up in the castle, cool linens against their skin, a solid door between them and the world.

"My King," is all he rasps out, voice as dusty as his body. He doesn't need to say anything more, Max bending down to kiss him, careful but solid, with the same unyielding certainty he governs with, unbothered by the dust coating his tongue.

"You should take a bath before dinner," he tells Daniel when he pulls back, still holding the back of his head. Daniel belatedly realizes his hands are still resting on his knees. His thoughts are tired and slow.

"I'll call..." Daniel starts to say, but Max interrupts him.

"I already sent for warm water and sent everyone else away."

When Daniel finally opens his eyes again to look at him, Max is smiling Daniel's favorite smile, the one that's a bit downturned and that makes him look soft and young.

"Let me take care of you."

Daniel should say no, it's not the King's job to help his knight get out of his armor, clean himself in the bath, but right now this isn't the King. This is Max, wanting to love Daniel. And Daniel has given up a long time ago on refusing him.

He nods, and Max gets to work.

They don't talk as Max undoes the leather straps of his besagews, carefully putting them to the side. One of them is bent, and as soon as it's gone, Daniel's pain lessens a little. With each piece of armor Max takes off, Daniel feels himself coming back a little, finding his center again.

He likes tournaments, they're exciting, they're fun, they're an opportunity to see familiar faces that are usually in other kingdoms, to eat and drink and get out of more boring duties. But it feels like every year it's a little harder to get into that persona, the Honey Badger who was almost King. Every year, he feels like he would prefer to just sit in Max's place, on the dais, and let him tourney instead. He knows he misses it, now that it's too dangerous for him to properly compete.

Max is on his knees, getting rid of Daniel's greaves, when the tent's flap opens again, a sliver of sunlight painting Max's hair golden. The page is wise enough to not open it fully and keep his back turned. Just because they're both clothed right now, Max's action would be scandalous enough to get the gossip mill going once again. Not in the palace, nobody bothers with that anymore, not after all these years, but there's enough people coming from other kingdoms around it could become unpleasant.

Daniel watches as Max pushes to his feet. He doesn't let anyone in, accepting the warm water instead, going back and forth twice to the wooden tub in the corner. When he's done, he shoos them away, saying something Daniel doesn't catch.

"Let's get you in before it goes cold," is what he tells Daniel. He makes quicker work of the rest of the armor, piling it all carelessly in a corner, but as soon as Daniel's undergarments come off, he pauses, fingers grazing over what Daniel knows will be a bad bruise on his shoulder.

"Do you need a cold compress?" Daniel shakes his head, even if he probably does. It would be too much work, to go ask for it, and he just wants to be clean.

He wonders, far from the first time, what people would say, if they saw Max like this. Their King, the feared Lion, on his knees, helping Daniel out of his braies, ducking under his arm to guide him to the bath, wetting a rag to clean his face.

It doesn't matter anyway. Nobody gets to see this. This is for Daniel only. This Max, the one who giggles at Daniel's jokes, whose cheeks blush crimson with his kisses, who unravels under his fingers, who gets on his knees again and again, uncaring of his title. This Max has always been Daniel's, even back when they were both just knights, Max as green and bold as they come. Daniel's, even when he got a crown on his head and Daniel got a permanent spot on his right. Daniel's, through the hard years, the summer droughts and long winter nights.

He reaches up as Max washes his hair, grabbing his hand and kissing the ring on his index finger, the twin of the one Daniel wore on a chain.

"Thank you, Max" he says, leaning his head back to be able to look at Max's face.

Max brushes a wet curl off his forehead, eyes soft.

"Always."

[katblaze]

My designs for these goofy guys

Click for the full image :D

[dreamynocturne]

new hyperfix orz

silly Aster belongs to @logicpng !!

oooo u guys wanna check out their ugakaka (Rigel/Vega, Aldebaran) sooo bad (it's super good and well written !! I recommend doing a little digging if you want to fork up all the easter eggs that are easy to miss <3)

[mars-ipan]

so we all saw @dr2-hell's updated bunnymaeda design right. because i sure as hell did

[kerryweaverlesbian]

Dean Winchester of Supernatural fame is NOT reading parenting books he is putting on Cheaper By The Dozen, Daddy Daycare and Honey I Shrunk The Kids taking notes.

[feroluce]

Made a FANTASTIC discovery today regarding the meaning behind Boothill's fourth eidolon, I'm so happy!!! Most of it is just cowboy references, like

Eidolon 1: Dusty Trail's Lone Star- cowboy lingo, the Lone Star of Texas

Eidolon 2: Milestonemonger- more cowboy lingo, someone who roams and wanders

Eidolon 3: Marble Orchard's Guard- yet more cowboy lingo, a term for a graveyard (a fave of mine, because for me it evokes the image of a Church Grim <333)

Eidolon 4: Cold Cuts Chef- ????

Google didn't really provide much on Eidolon 4 like for the first three. Before today I had assumed it was just another movie reference of some sort, since Boothill is like entirely based on/inspired by old Western films.

"Cold cuts" are basically lunch meat/deli meat. It's precooked meat that doesn't need any kind of preparation- you can literally just eat it cold. Since it didn't seem to be a movie reference, I thought oh, maybe it's a nod to his lifestyle? Boothill is unhoused and lives on the run from the IPC with little rest, he doesn't really have the means to cook. Precooked, easy food like that would be a godsend for someone in his circumstances.

Anyway the original Chinese text gives it an entirely different, MUCH wilder meaning fjadskljfkld

love how they chose "celebrity chef" to show his expertise and/or fame in this fjkdlsja

Because no, "cold cuts" isn't cowboy lingo for anything, but cold meat specifically is.

It's how you refer to a corpse.

"Cold Cuts Chef" is not a title talking about his cooking ability, or his life's circumstances, or anything as mundane as that, IT'S ABOUT THE FACT THAT BOOTHILL SPECIALIZES IN DEALING DEATH, THIS MAN IS EXTREMELY SKILLED, AND GOOD AT WHAT HE DOES, AND WHAT HE DOES IS MURDER!!!!!

[henwilsons]

911onabc: 3 week countdown 😘