#under a cut for length

[skycapt4in]

NOAH LIGHTFOOT, PRINCE OF THIEVES. / fantasy verse.

Growing up the bastard son of the local lord and having a mother who loved but left him at a young age, Noah's life seemed to either be cursed by the gods or not of their concern. The middle child of three, Noah was tasked with an impossible task for any child and that was to not only keep himself safe and fed on indifferent streets and keep his younger sister, Nadine, safe too, while helping his older brother, Nicolas, provide for all three of them. Noah learned from an early age to resort to whatever means he thought might bring him some form of advantage or aid, even doing his time in the fighting pits to earn measly coppers to buy stale bread, though Nicolas would quickly take the role of fighting for money from his brother, not wanting to witness him bringing hurt to himself.

He learned also, that the skill of listening in and being unseen was a most useful one, people seemed uncaring while delivering secrets to others, secrets that once Noah had overheard, could provide more value than coin.

It was in his teens that Noah's skill for listening and gathering whispers and secrets from the realm caught himself a kind of positive attention, in the form of a visitation from a man who claimed to be part of a group known as the Underground Men, a guild of thieves. Leaf was the man's name, brought to town on guild business and training his young son, Torrent, in the ways of the organization and both had witnessed Noah's ability to sneak around and go unseen by the locals, noticed his dirt covered clothes and, shockingly, polite demeanor while buying fresh bread with coin earned from sharing one Lord's secrets with another. The politeness disappeared almost completely once Leaf and his son had made their light stalking known, though the offence barely lasted once Leaf offered the three siblings a chance at something better than living in the woods, all but begging for scraps.

Nadine and Noah showed themselves to have the ability to sneak around better than Nicolas, and thus Nicolas's training mostly consisted of proper fighting, teaching him how to defend himself against attacks, how to blend in with his surroundings, and also how to read and write. Noah and Nadine's training was similar enough, but they were taught skills more aligned with the guild's main trading of thievery for coin.

Of the three siblings, Noah is the only one who stayed with the Underground Men. Both Nicolas and Nadine leaving at different points, once they'd been trained how to better survive in this cruel world with different aims, Nadine set out to see what else it had to offer, Nicolas set out to find a life for himself. Noah stayed and quickly climbed the ranks and notorioty among the large group, eventually by the age of 19, finding himself as the right hand man to the leader of the Underground Men, a man by the name of Solas. Like Leaf had years before, Solas had seen promise in the young man's talents and commitment to the work the Underground Men would do.

It stayed that way for a few more years, together Noah and Torrent would become brother-like in their friendship, they would complete many a task together, stealing from the rich, giving to the poor, trading in lies and secrets a like to the benefit of whomever paid highest. Solas continued to train Noah in the ways of leadership and how to successfully run and enforce the rules of the Underground Men, and continued to do so even as he grew sick and became sicker. By 26, everyone within the guild's compound was aware that Solas was not meant long for this world, and that instead of giving the title of Prince of the Underground to the man he'd grown up with and lifelong best friend, Leaf, it was a title going to Noah, all that is, except Noah, who seemed to be living in an almost childlike obliviousness to the whole idea until it finally came true.

Trying to reject the title was unacceptable, considered to be a high form of disrespect upon the previous Prince, and not wanting to be cast out of the first family he's truly known, he accepts the role and it's responsibilities albeit reluctantly, appointing Leaf as his right hand man and advisor to keep him, and thus the organization on the right path.

By the age of 30, the workings of the Underground Men had expanded through the kingdom and stretched into international waters thanks to Noah's guidance, though it comes at the small price of their workings becoming more known and common to hear about above ground, many rumors surround them and many of those rumors hung around Noah's name, some painted him as a savage who'd stole power for himself and would happily strike down anyone on his path, others painted him in a more fair light, a true robin hood, folk hero type. Noah has yet to make any attempt to do anything about those rumors, leaving them be might be in his better interest.

[salamispots]

dream logic means freshwater sharks are more dangerous than ocean sharks and that they can be out of water/glide across sand on reinforced fins lmao

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Star Wars: The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x fReader

Fic Rating: E (explicit)

Chapter Rating: Mature

AO3

ONE

Everyday—

Everyday is the same. Morning’s light shines, spackled and fractured through the tattered, burlap curtain. You raise your arm to shield your face. You cringe. You groan. You sit up. There’s a satisfying crackle when you roll your head from one shoulder to the other. Convinced that you should go to work, you stretch, then drag yourself out of bed (if you can consider a blanket on the floor and a rolled up shirt for a pillow as a bed). Still it’s better than waking up, face first in dirt. You’ve been there before and you’d rather not be there again.

Work is work. Food is food. Drink is drink. Evening is evening, but with that you can at least drown the dull life you live in copious amounts of liquor. Numb reality away and drift—drift in an imagined haze of a life where you’re free from this drudgery. And that’s exactly what you do today. Drink. Drink. Drink until you nearly disintegrate. Same as every other.

But this day is not like every other. You stumble out of the local bar and wander by the apothecary’s humble shop. There’s an agitating jingle that wraps itself around your head that’s just begun to throb as a breeze blows through, rustling the makeshift set of chimes near the smeared window. Grasping the corner of the building, fist closing as you wrap an arm around your waist, you steady yourself. A deep inhale and exhale and your stomach gurgles, lurches, threatening your evening and maybe even tomorrow morning too. Doubling over, you swallow, and gulp, and will the contents bubbling in the back of your throat downward. Downward into the pit of your stomach where it belongs.

“Not looking so good.” There’s a tsk. “I can help with that.”

You glance up to see an unfamiliar face that’s half smiling at you, eyes mostly hidden in the shadow of the hood of his cloak. That’s not the apothecary you know. It doesn’t matter, not when your insides want to be your outsides. You try to shove back some of the hair sticking to your temples and suck in fresh air. Even though it’s evening, the air is stale, and ripe with wet blanketed heat. It only makes matters worse.

“Please, I’ll take anything you’ve got,” you manage to croak.

The apothecary shuffles away and reappears after what feels like an eternity, a small vile in hand. He pops the cork and offers the vial. “It’s bitter,” he warns.

Throwing your head back, you dump the burning liquid down your throat and bitter is an understatement. Still, its effects are immediate. You straighten out, palm still pressed to the side of the building.

“Better?” He asks.

You give a nod. “How much?” There’s hope it won’t be your life’s savings but it would have been worth it. Any cost would be worth it to be able to crawl home and not spend the night hunched over a toilet and waking up to the incessant throb of a hangover.

He waves a hand at you. “Consider this one on the house.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you give the empty vial back. “Nothing’s free.”

He folds his arms across his chest. “This is. You’re special.”

“I am not special,” you say.

Nobody’s special.

He throws you a curious smile, a chunk of his dark hair swooping down over his cheek. He leans in a little closer to you. “I think you are.”

He bites down on his bottom lip. Whether it’s to hold back more of what he wants to say or some kind of flirt, you’re too far gone to sort it out or really care.

“And I know you’re wrong,” you reply. “But thanks for the assist anyway.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” he replies.

With a shake of your head, you shove off the wall, leaving him behind as you continue your trek back to your hovel of a home and pass out.

[jztr-77]

A story in 3 drawings or 3 first attempts at using procreate featuring solangelo as my labrat

Connor stole something from the Hecate kids, tripped and dropped it on Will. It made his hair grew longggggg (insert Willpunzel let down your hair joke here) before his date with Nico.

While Will went to find some assistance, Kayla scolded Connor (with an arrow for good measure).

。。。ミヽ(。＞＜)ノ

Will ended up 15min late since the Aphrodite kids had a blast with his soft long hair. Luckily the bunnies were very patient with his arrival.

Nico was about to be a drama queen but he got blinded by Will's unexpected appearance. (how dare he looked stunning without telling him first?? Now Nico looks underdressed)

ε===(っ≧ω≦)っ

It was a successful date! The bunnies are fed, the lovers are whipped, couldn't ask for anything more.

(っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) ♡

[non-un-topo]

More clothing studies, this time from my fic Axis. I was aiming for authenticity while also trying to have each of their personalities show a little bit in their clothing choices. Two for Nicky, to show his layers.

[gogmstuff]

1908 (August) Les Modes - Mlle Madeline Dolley Robe d'après-midi pour villes d'eaux par Paquin - photo by Paul Boyer & Bert. From gallica.bnf.fr; fixed flaws & spots w Pshop 1444X2198. Princess-cut skirts are appearing in 1908.

[mr-t-stark]

~ 𝓉𝑜𝓃𝓎 & 𝒶𝓋𝒶 ~

"You know I only agreed to this because I am friends with Natasha," Ava says as the elevator door closes infront of her and Nick Fury. Ava didn´t like new people, so she did need someone she knew if she was going to join. He looks at Ava with an annoyed expression, Ava smiling sweetly back at him, because he didn´t know about her anxiety issues. "I don't care if you're the president. I'm not changing just because I'm going to be saving people," She points out making Fury roll his eyes and look straight ahead. Ava liked being all sassy and flirty and tough around people. Then she could break down alone in peace. "Just try to be nice? I know Natasha puts up with your shit, but not everyone will," He says, making Ava nod slowly. Truly? Fury intimidated her, however probably most people did. But Ava was intimidated by most when she didn´t know them, that why she used her sass and brattiness and flirting to get ahead without issues. And the fact that she had ADHD probably didn´t help with the fact that she just simply didn´t like doing things wrong. So if she got the impression she wasn´t liked or something like that, she pulled away instantly.

"I can't wait for you to meet her. She's the life of the party," Natasha says and sips her water, pacing a bit as she waited for her friend to arrive, but then she did and Natasha smiled and walked over. "Ava! I´m so glad you finally agreed to join! I can´t stand all the testosterone," she spoke making Ava snort. "Yeah, I can see that," she spoke before going around the room greeting everyone, however when she came to Tony she smirks and looked at him. "Anthony Stark. The playboy himself," she spoke and hummed. "You´re more handsome than I thought you would be," she spoke honestly and held her hand out for him to shake. "I´m Ava."

When Natasha had told the team about Fury recruiting a new member that happened to be a friend of hers, Tony had at first been skeptical. It's taken some time for him to get to know the team, build their dynamic, all that shit. And though he'd never admit it, he's becoming quite fond of them. They're growing on him. Sure, some people can act like dicks at times, but, well, he is one, too. Sometimes. Perhaps most of the time, if you asked Pepper. Arguably all of the time, if you asked his exes.

So the thought of a new member joining was... How does he put this? Unexpected, one could say. A new member entailed a lot of things.

But since Fury's decision was solid, he knew he had no say in it. Doesn't mean he didn't try to complain, though. Futilely.

Ava Thompson was her name, Natasha had told him. She didn't say anything else. Their history, how they met, who she actually is; only a brief description of her abilities, a 'you'll see', and a wink.

So, as any person would do, he looked into her records, her history, everything he could find with JARVIS' assistance. People call it 'a breach of privacy', he calls it 'using his abilities to ease his trust issues against new people'. Not the same thing.

She seemed pretty ordinary. Natasha said something about her being in some sort of magic cult or whatever. What was it? Karma touch? Something that sounded funny. He finds no trace of that.

But if anything, he finds nothing else that seemed suspicious. No ties with bad parties, no crime records, nothing to hint she may be some Nazi undercover or something.

So though he may be a little wary of whoever she may be, the information he's got of her so far does ease some of his nerves. Natasha seemed to have a positive impression of her, anyway.

When the day comes for them to meet this Ava Thompson, Tony is, and hopefully not visibly, a little uneasy. They're at the team's meeting room--aka The Doomed Room Of Inevitable Boredom, if Cap's endless rants about fire safety and stop, drop, and rolls is anything to go by--Tony sat where he usually is, fiddling idly with a pen.

He watches Natasha pace back and forth, muttering one thing or another. It's only a moment before he sees Fury, and a certain someone trailing at his side, enter through the door.

Natasha greets her, and she introduces herself to the team. Tony stays a bit behind, observing. His research seems to be accurate, visually. She looks like how he had expected her to look.

When she approaches him, however...

"The one and only," he replies with a boyish grin when she immediately recognises her. When she then starts to flirt, Tony sees it as a challenge. She accepts her hand with a firm shake. He lowers his voice and lays that Stark charm thick, taking a moment to look her up and down. "Honey, I'm more than what you see from those cameras."

He lets go of her hand, shoving his own in his pockets, and says, "Welcome to the team. Have you gotten a tour of this place?"

He's always one for some fun.

[batshaped]

twitter stop fucking up for one second challenge (impossible)

well,

here’s the thing. it feels like social media is changing lately. every social media site seems to be fucking up or getting worse in its own special little way. i recently read and thought a lot about this article which coins the term “enshittification” and describes the process by which every social media platform eventually becomes so greedy as to become unusable. it makes me wonder if the social internet is due for a big shift in the near future. 

for a long time, twitter was the best place for me. for all its issues, it had the audience that i could reach the easiest, that was the most invested in my art. i got (still get) a lot of awesome replies and really great analysis of my work on twitter, which i didn’t receive on any other platform. i was able to encourage those readers by retweeting their comments and theories to show that i liked hearing their thoughts. i could use the Moments feature to organize my art and make my comic easily readable in order. and anyone could look at my twitter, account or no.

ever since the site was bought out, twitter is getting worse. i can’t use the app on mobile anymore because every reply section is drowned out by blue checks and choked with ads. the Moments feature was disabled and people couldn’t easily read my comics in order anymore. and this is without even touching on the bigger/more serious issues the buyout has brought to the app. these are just the ways it has made my personal experience of being an artist on there worse. and now, apparently, you can’t even look at my work unless you have an account.

it’s been pretty common in the past year for the new management to implement a bad feature and then undo it after backlash, and maybe this too will be reversed. but even if it is unimplemented, the platform will continue to get worse. all platforms are getting worse right now. all of them are becoming untenable to use without 7 bespoke browser extensions to block ads, hide specific unwanted content, force chronological order, and so on. on mobile i don’t even bother. apps are unusable. 

on top of that, i have the personal issue of not being the type of creator who is particularly good at staying on top of more than one or two platforms daily. twitter has been my main for years now, so i’m pretty good about updating it very regularly. instagram is trailing behind, i usually remember to post there daily (especially as i’m remaking mine right now and posting my entire backlog) but sometimes i forget. and that’s kind of my limit. every other site falls by the wayside because i just don’t want to spend my whole day or life updating platforms. i know there are tools that can do it automatically for you but i don’t want to do it that way and then i’d have to figure out a new tool and get yet another account on yet another app and install yet another extension to use it.

i just want to draw. i don’t know how we arrived at this place where we need to be 700 other things when we are just artists. i draw and write, isn’t that enough? if i wanted a presence on tiktok i’d also have to be a video editor who pays close attention to trends and makes sure to transform my artwork into something people on that app are interested in. even if i just wanted to have a strong presence on say, twitter/instagram/tumblr/tapas/webtoon i’d have to take on another (unpaid) job as my own social media manager, meticulously managing my uploads across 5+ apps and making sure everything is up to date and tailored to what “works” on each particular platform. i already have a day job—i’m a storyboard artist. the art i post online is supposed to be made and given freely for my own enrichment first and foremost, and for the joy of sharing with others as a close second.

i wonder if we’re due for a mass rejection of this increasingly draining cable-wars-style model of spreading ourselves thin across multiple platforms just to reach the exclusive audience each one provides. i’m starting to feel done with that concept, but i still want to share my art. i want to hear my readers’ thoughts. i want to create things that connect with others. i want to do it without these ever-mounting obstacles.

what i’m doing about it is creating my own website at my own domain that belongs to me. i doubt i’ll be quitting social media when it’s done. social media is still where the audience i cherish lives. but you can bet that when that website is ready to be shared, i’ll be talking about it on every social media account i own. i’ll be telling everyone there’s a place to look at my art where you don’t need an account, you don’t have to struggle through a morass of ads, and you don’t have to line the pockets of a billionaire who bought a social media app on a whim. it’ll just be you and my art. alone together.

by the way, to @whatthehelljake​ i apologize for writing a fucking SAT essay on a screenshot of your reply. any exasperated tone here is not directed at you at all. it’s directed at this sea of obstacles that disrupt the simple concept of “i made art and i want to share it with you.” your reply is how i found out today that twitter made this change. i cherish the fact that you want to connect with my art so much that you alerted me to this. i wish that wasn’t necessary. i want to make my work on my own terms—and want you to be able to experience it on YOUR own terms.

all that to say, i think the website is going to be the main answer to this issue. i don’t see myself having the energy to update tumblr that much more often than i already do, though maybe i’ll try to pick up the pace a little now. we’ll see. holy shit if you read all this go drink a glass of water or something get up and stretch. ok thank you bye <3

[transrevolutions]

a short story

a scorpion, unable to swim, asks a frog to carry it across the river. "do you take me for a fool?" asks the frog. "you'd sting me if you let me on your back!"

the scorpion considers this for a moment. if it stings the frog, it will surely drown. yet due to its nature, it cannot ensure that it will not do so, no matter how illogical a course of action it would be. "you know, you're right," sighs the scorpion. "it is in my nature. I will find someone else."

the frog hops away, grateful at its lucky escape. the scorpion ponders the situation, and after a bit of study and reflection, seeks out a turtle and asks it to carry the scorpion across the river.

"but you said it was in your nature to sting whoever carries you!" says the turtle.

"I know," replies the scorpion. "I sought you out because your thick shell can withstand the sting, and neither of us will be harmed in the process."

the turtle, however, fancying itself a good judge of morality, declines. "it's the spirit of the thing that counts," it tells the scorpion. "my inability to be harmed by your sting does not lessen the depravity of being willing to sting one's benefactor. why should I take such pains to help you if your nature can do nothing but harm me in return?"

-

the scorpion is stumped once again. aware of its own contradictory impulses, it is at a loss for how to cross the river. noticing its plight, a long, silver fish approaches. "do you need help crossing the river?" it asks.

"yes, I do," replies the scorpion. "however, I cannot breathe underwater, and you cannot breathe above it, so any attempt to cross together would be a failure for both of us."

the fish acknowledges this. "unfortunately, I think this is indeed the case," it says. "I wish you luck on your endeavor, regardless."

"I appreciate it," says the scorpion, though no closer to finding a way across the river. such is the way, sometimes, of nature.

-

now nearing despair, the scorpion is about to resign itself to another stranded night on the wrong side of the river. but at that moment, a large spider emerges from its hidden web.

startled, the scorpion jumps back, stinger poised to strike. the spider is not deterred, though it does not come any closer. "what do you want from me?" asks the scorpion in a rather sharp manner.

"hear me out," intones the spider. "I know your dilemma. it is in my nature to trap and bite, just as it is in yours to sting. I can see you yourself are afraid of me, as some whom you asked were afraid of you. but please do not judge me too quickly. I might have a way to help."

"what do you propose?" asks the scorpion, desperate.

"I am a spider," says the spider. "I cannot swim you across the river on my back, as I cannot swim or breathe underwater myself. though my exoskeleton is strong, I cannot guarantee it would withstand your sting, nor that you would be able to escape my web. but I believe that more than one skill will be necessary to cross the water."

the scorpion is silent again, waiting for the spider to elaborate.

-

the spider scurries off on its eight legs, then returns moments later with the frog and turtle, as well as the fish (who remains in the shallows of the river).

"why have you brought them here?" asks the scorpion. "I've asked each individually, and they all refused."

"that was your mistake, and theirs," answers the spider. "now, listen carefully."

the scorpion listens, as does the others. the spider begins to speak once more.

"the fish offered you aid when the others would not," it says. "but you both observed that the fish could not emerge from the water, nor could you as its passenger descend beneath it. it was willing to help, but your mutual natures prevented this. however, the frog can breathe both above and below the water. the frog can ride safely on the back of the fish."

"but I cannot ride on the back of the frog!" says the scorpion. "it is in my nature to sting! it would not be safe!"

"ah, but this is where I must turn to the turtle," says the spider. now addressing the turtle directly, it says, "turtle, I understand your grievance. you do not want to aid someone with a nature so predisposed to harm you. but is the scorpion really the guilty party? it sought you out in the first place, aware of its nature, not wishing to harm the frog. is it the nature of the scorpion that you truly despise, or is it the notion that you were only asked for help because of your capability or perceived usefulness?"

the turtle, who had never really thought of it that way, considers the spider's words and finds them somewhat accurate. "you're correct in that I resent my assistance being requested on my ability alone," it says. "the river is wide with a rushing current, and I am tired after a busy day. I should not have lashed out and blamed the scorpion, but I should not be obligated to carry out such a draining task just because I am technically able to do so."

the spider pinches its chelicerae in acknowledgement. "I see," it tells the turtle. "I appreciate your apology for judging the scorpion so quickly. perhaps a compromise is in order, which respects your exhaustion as well as the scorpion's need. would you be willing to carry the scorpion on your back if the frog can ride the fish in front of you and signal which direction to go?"

the turtle thinks about it for a second. "alright," it says. "that seems fair enough to me."

content, the spider returns its attention to the scorpion. "well, shall you set off, then?"

-

as directed by the spider, the frog sits atop the fish so as to better focus on the river in order to provide directions to the turtle. the scorpion climbs on the turtle's shell and this second pair proceeds into the water after them.

"thank you for your help," the scorpion tells the spider, who is standing on the river bank.

"you are very welcome," says the spider. "though I cannot physically aid your journey, I hope my advice was useful."

"very much so," replies the scorpion, and the foursome set off across the river. midway through, the scorpion stings the turtle, on instinct, due to its nature, but the turtle's thick shell protects it and no harm is done. following the frog and fish, they reach the other side of the river with relative ease.

"thank you," the scorpion tells the other three once it has been safely deposited on the shore. they all exchange friendly farewells before going their separate ways, with a new understanding of each other.

-

from its vantage point at the centre of its web, the spider watches the encounter, pleased with the solution the group had devised. though no creature was both able and willing to act as the scorpion's sole guide, together they were able to safely cross the river. each one participated in accordance with its ability, as well as in a form compatible with its need.

one's nature, the spider decides, is both as constant and traversable as the very river itself.

[botanikos]

Queen Beelzebub's Masquerade is tomorrow, and Stolas has, at long last, finalized his attire! He hoots with excitement, setting everything carefully up for the festivities to come.

Stolas' attire for the ball:

Atop Stolas’ head rests an almost menacing and powerful crown composed of sharp points. Its design is reminiscent of the lunar phases and asteroids. 

Accompanying the crown is an intricate half-mask of burnished gold and black abstract designs, the mask features openings for both sets of eyes with the focus of its ornamentation being brilliant red feathers fashioned into the left side. These feathers belong to @umbravotum, traded in exchange for a few of his own for the special occasion. Centered in the mask’s design is a dark and polished stone of benitoite. 

Moving to the metallic piece set in a similar fashion to a low collar is the same type of design style as the mask, with dark and burnished gold designs. A larger benitoite stone rests at the center, with much smaller, nearly iridescent fragments of rainbow moonstone around it to mimic stars. This piece rests atop a dark, navy pleated shirt of a lightweight and glossy material to contrast the heavier, darker fabrics of the coat and cloak. It has a high neckline lending the appearance of something Gothic, and almost priestly in style. The shirt is tucked neatly into trousers.

Worn overtop of the shirt is an intricately and sharply tailored coat, fitted at the waist and flaring slightly at his hips to allow Stolas’ tail to maintain its rightful and comfortable place at the center. It is embellished with brilliant gold embroidery in a Baroque style to match the cloak, concentrated richly upon the lapels, sleeves, and buttons. The fabric of the coat is a textured brocade and bears an authoritative appearance with the structured collar. Upon the lapels of the coat is a metallic rendition of his demonic form, offering something dark, powerful, and predatory to add into the mix. 

The matching cloak is voluminous and floor-length, with the same grandiose, golden embellishments flowing outwards from the shoulders and along its edges. The fabric is a deep and bruising navy, the underside and interior lining is composed of Mulberry silk and imbued with magic. The silk is a brilliant bruising of colours such as dark navy, deep plum, and small areas of scarlet. If one were to look closely, they might witness a galaxy shifting within it. 

Stolas will be wearing slim-fitting matte black trousers to provide a sophisticated and regal appearance with a wide structured belt. A matching benitoite stone rests within its center, though it is not as captivating as the other other accessories and details. 

At last, we come to the final two pieces: in a change of pace, Stolas dons a pair of pristine, calf-high, black leather boots. Similarly, though far more elaborately decorated, he wears a set of black leather gloves fitted to his hands. An ornate chain and moonstone bracelet connects to one, delicate, regal, and looping to cuff his wrist. 

[flowercrxwned]

Second Chances @lettherebemonsters

She normally didn't watch the exterminations when her former husband went to Hell once a year to kill their children. One, because it was so painful to see her babies slaughtered and two, because their poor souls had nowhere else to go but to her and the safety of Purgatory. She was quite busy soothing them and letting them roam free in this grey wasteland of nothing, only her to keep them company.

But when she saw that Adam had bumped up a second one for the year her attention was grabbed. She sat on the concrete ledge her fountain, peering into its depths as they attacked a certain building. Her heart quaked, she had a terrible feeling.

That feeling proved to be true when her love, her companion that she was made from, was stabbed and died there on the unforgiving ground of Hell.

"NOOOOO!" She screamed, simultaneously with one of the other angels. Her hand reached out instinctively and disturbed the cool liquid, turning the image into nothing but tiny waves bouncing against the edges of the pool.

In grief and disbelief she knew what was to come next. His soul would go where all souls who didn't belong in Heaven or Hell went, to her. But she couldn't wait for it to appear here. She had to carry him personally. This was not the way she wanted to see him again.

She opened a portal to the spot where the group of Sinners had left him, looking down at the face of the only man she had ever loved.

"Come now, my love. I'll take good care of you. At least we'll be together again, even though I know that's not what you wanted."

She bent down to take his soul but somehow it never released itself to her. She looked at his body, confused. Then it started changing, horns growing where it had been on his mask, skin changing to a greyish color, eyes turning from gold to red. He stirred and she stood above him, only staring.

"Adam?"

[asexualjedi]

Tried to pick the best of the photos. The photo in the bathroom, with my mirror kinda dirty was so good I was not able to recreate it once I cleaned the mirror. I forgot to take photos until like the end of the day when I was sweaty and very tried except the middle one. So. Not quiet my best work lol. I had fun tho and I was able to wear my respirator over the wig/extra bump it wig attachment and veil.

[gravesung-moving]

this bit is actually so cute. from the actual WHOLESOME romance plotline of this manga (AKA SILLIES BETWEEN TWO PPL OF THE SAME AGE) & it's also very chiaki-core.

[bearlytolerant]

Fandom: Star Wars: The Acolyte

Pairing: Qimir x fReader

Fic Rating: E

Chapter Rating: M

AO3

ONE TWO THREE

Today—

Today is the same. Morning’s light shines, spackled and fractured through the tattered, burlap curtain. There’s dust motes floating. Were they always there? You raise your hand to shield your face. You squint. You silently sit up. There’s a satisfying crackle when you roll your shoulders back and when you twist from side to side. A tilt of your head and a flicker from your dream smiles at you before it dissipates along with your sleepy, sleepless haze.

You must go to work.

You must go.

You must.

Clothes on, boots up, fingers wiggling into synth leather fingerless gloves, you leave the dust motes behind as you step outside. The town comes to life with overcast skies. Lights in fog and residents hurrying along and there’s a fight breaking out in the alley but you're a passerby.

Work is work and you grow weary. The crates are heavier today. Or maybe you’re just weaker? Who’s to say? Food is food. But wait, you forgot to eat and now your stomach chastises you. Drink is drink. You had coffee and water when you arrived on the job, right? Right?

The hours drag, just like your feet and when you finally leave your mundane job, not all inventory is accounted for but it’s tomorrow's problem now. Halfway home, the rain splatters thick and almost viscous on top of your head.

You look up and the light sputtering catches your eye. You’re at the apothecary again.

A hesitation. Then you’re stepping inside.

This will prove a reprieve from the rain.

“Oh—hello.”

The apothecary tilts his head and smiles. There is something familiar about that expression. That tilt of the head. But you can’t quite grasp why as he gestures to you with a warm welcome. He is handsome, you notice, now that he’s without his hood. His bangs still swoop down around his cheeks, moist with sweat from another hot day. The rain just makes everything sticky, not cool.

There’s a bit of herbal residue smudged on his forehead.

It’s—endearing.

The apothecary is indeed a reprieve from the rain. Man or building? You know which is the truth, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“Hello,” you reply.

“Hi.” His smile grows. “You again.”

“Me again.” You offer a half-smile. “Not completely trashed this time. Just coming in from the rain.”

“You look tired,” he says. “Come in. Sit. You hungry? I was just preparing sandwiches.”

“A sandwich sounds nice.” You find a chair situated near the grimy window. Taking a peek, there’s nothing that can be seen outside with the rain hitting the glass.

The apothecary hums to himself while he makes the sandwiches and you opt for small talk.

“You’re new here.” It’s a statement. Should have been a question.

“Am I?” He replies and he wanders over to you, offering a sandwich.

“Yes.” You remember the previous owner. They had to stand on a stool to tend to any needs, eyes hovering just above the countertop even then. “Nej wasn’t as friendly as you. Was mostly a ball of grunts.”

“You think I’m friendly?” His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Have you met the other people here?”

“You seem friendly.” He hands you one of the sandwiches.

“Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Exactly that,” he says as you reach for the sandwich.

Without hesitation, you take a bite. It’s the best you’ve eaten in a long while. There’s a savory sauce slathering the bread that melds all the flavors together perfectly. “Thank you,” you murmur after swallowing. “This is delicious.”

He bows his head slightly.

After devouring your meal in record time, he offers you a cup of tea which sits in your palms, perfectly warm and properly balanced. You miss the weight of your usual preferred drink. The burn of it, as it slides down your throat, lightning liquor souring your stomach just so. It makes you forget. But this tea—this tea, it’s bitter and tangy and—

“How is it?” He asks, eyeing you with hopeful expectation, worrying at his bottom lip.

Pleasant.

“It’s tea,” you say, sipping slowly. “It’s good.”

A grand smile and again you think, he is handsome. Too handsome. His easy smile and effortless charm put you at ease. At ease. You’ve placed a small trust in his hands.

Your eyes dart around the apothecary, pulse quickening as you realize you’ve let yourself be comfortable in the presence of a stranger. A kind stranger no less, and you remember the faces of kindness. The faces of strangers who became family. They wore their kindness as masks and told you to be grateful, thankful that they wore the mask. Without their benevolence, you’d still be orphaned on the streets. Dead or starved. And you were grateful. You were. But what about all the times their masks were deliberately placed on the table? Hands on your throat, you gasp for air and a plea never escapes your lips. Why won’t your mind forget? Forget their face? Forget the mask, the words, the past? The more you ask yourself, the more their words play on repeat: “Go to your room and meditate on what you have made me do.” It wasn’t the first time they said it but after—after—it became the last.

A deep breath and you shove your own voice down into the deepest recesses as the teacup rattles in your hand.

The teacup falls.

One breath in.

Shatters.

One breath out.

Meditate on what you have made me do.

“Are you okay?” The apothecary’s hand is on your shoulder and you startle, shrugging out from under it.

“Don’t touch me,” you snarl.

As the memory fades, you regret your words.

You know it matters that he asked after you first even if it can’t quite quell the turmoil stirring within you.

You scramble to your knees, that voice that isn’t yours but could be, screaming at you to clean up your mess, and branding you with cruel words as you use your hands to gather up the broken pieces.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you say.

What you should have said all those years ago too.

“It’s alright. Let me take care of this.”

“You’ve done so much already. Please. I will clean it up. I can’t repay you with credits.”

Your debt with this man is already outstanding.

“At least let me get you a broom,” he says. His hand reaches for your shoulder but he withdraws it before it lands. Another small smile that lights up his face, shines bright in his eyes and again, you wish you wouldn’t have snapped at him.

His kindness isn’t a mask. The instincts you could once trust tell you this but you can’t dwell on it and you can’t trust that instinct after everything. After before.

He disappears and you’re left hunched over a million shards of porcelain and when you flip your hands, you see the blood prickling to the surface of the fresh cuts delivered by your own faltering. Your own dwelling on the happenings of years ago. Inability to cling to the present lays scattered at your feet. This has always been your struggle. Ruminating. If only you could translate this skill into true meditation and find peace. If only you could be something much less useless.

It’s not supposed to be like this. It wouldn’t have been like this if you hadn’t been so incredibly weak and ran into this place from the rain. You would have been wet. That’s it. The memories would not have resurfaced. The cup would not have broken. And the shame—the shame—the shame would not have sunk its fangs into your mind and begun bleeding you dry.

There’s tightness in your chest and you want to cry. It’s there, that old familiar feeling and you can picture a smaller, frailer version of yourself curled up in a ball, silently succumbing to sleep with tears streaming down your face and dribbling away onto your pillow. That feeling only winds tighter as the blood on your hands continues to pool. Maybe this is how you cry now? With another breath, the tenseness in your chest unravels and your eyes meet the apothecary’s before his eyes land on your hands.

“That looks like it hurts. I have just the thing.” He rests the broom against the wall and shuffles toward the shelves. There’s some clattering and he hums to himself again before returning with salves and gauze. “May I?” He offers his hand with brows lifted.

Does he even know how much it means to you that he asked first?

Tentatively you reach out and he grasps your wrist so gently, steadying it in his lap as he squats over the broken shards with you, brows furrowing in concentration as he first wipes away the blood. He is tender with his touch, swiping along those cuts, careful not to snag the fabric on your skin. He applies the salve the same way but even softer with how he handles you, finger pads kissing your skin as he lightly taps them against your own fingertips before grabbing the gauze. For a moment you wonder if what he said is true. Maybe you are special. Special to him? But that’s not possible. You glance up at his face as his unhurried care eases away the ache in your hands and in your head. He catches you staring and smiles, fastening the gauze tightly and squeezing your hand lightly before letting go.

“There. Better?”

“Yes. Thank you,” you manage to murmur, flipping your gauzed hand over and resting it on your knee as you slowly rise to stand.

Broom already retrieved, he holds it outstretched to you. “You know, if you’re really not happy with acts of kindness and need some sort of absolution, I am in need of an assistant.”

The broom stills in your hand as you glance up at him curiously.

“You’re wondering if I can read your mind aren’t you? I can’t. You’ve just got that worried and defeated look. I understand that look. Know it well, believe it or not.” He wanders over to the counter and hops onto it, knocking a vial over that he fumbles with before managing to catch it and puts it back properly. You almost laugh. “I was considering a droid to assist but—” He shrugs.

Relief washes over you. You are used to quid pro quo. That you can handle. Besides working for this man seems far better than your current job. Couldn’t be worse.

“I’ll do it,” you say, picking up the dustpan and sweeping the porcelain into it. “Um, but what should I call you.”

He chuckles. “Right. Right. Introductions.” He tilts his head and smiles, hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Qimir.”

You utter your own name as you hold the dustpan in one hand, taking the two steps over to him to offer your empty one. Future tomorrows will not be the same and maybe—just maybe, you think with a glimmer of hope, that it’s a good thing.

[danger-tits-lute]

In the Garden of Eden~ (closed guitarspear week starter for @dick-meister)

As a lesser angel she wasn't privy to the plans of Father and Seraphim, but she was so curious as she began to hear rumors and snippets of information about a project being worked on.

Eden.

That's what she had heard it called, supposedly a vast Garden with new creatures being created! She wanted to see the creatures so badly, sadly her duties didn't involve going there. Her job was only to contribute her energy to Father, singing his praises so that he could do his work.

She was quite talented, one of the top angels in her class. Her voice was unrivaled as she used it to weave spirit and life into Heaven. Enochian was a powerful language and she manipulated it with expert skill, closing her eyes and letting the sounds flow through her. She hoped she was helping create a magnificent world, one she was never allowed to see.

That is until she snuck into the Seraphim courts out of unbridled curiosity, it was so risky but she just couldn't contain it any longer. Her soul was going into it, shouldn't she be allowed to at least glimpse at what it looked like? The surface of the orb rippled as she approached it and she gasped.

It was so green! Tall things with green papery things sticking out of brown arms were all over, there were so many colors in other kinds of green things and the floor looked furry. She leaned in, mesmerized by all the things she'd never seen before. It was beautiful! Father was truly the most wonderful creator!

She saw movement and began to see creatures that inhabited the green and brown parts. They looked soft! some were brown and some were orange- small, big, ones with skin and ones with stripes and so many things!

"Oh!.... ahh!" She felt herself lean too far into the orb and she was falling! Falling where though?! Blurs of the same green hues she was looking at passed by her vision and she realized. She'd accidentally fell into Eden! The orb must have teleportation properties as well. Admittedly, she didn't know how it worked, just that the Seraphims used it to check on the cosmos.

She felt weird. Something about her was changing but she didn't know what. She still had her wings so she tried to take control of the herself during this downward spiral. She was getting close to the ground! she flapped them vigorously but they didn't feel normal. Come on! You can do it!

She screamed a little as she struggled but couldn't manage to catch the air underneath them. She hit the ground with a painful thud and everything went black. She didn't realize she no longer looked like an angel. She didn't know that only the Seraphims could maintain their angelic forms on earth. She was disguised as one of the flying creatures of Eden- a little black, white, and gray one with bright yellow dots similar to her eyes on its face. She didn't know very much at all, because she was lying unconscious on the bright green grass.

[splinter-sister]

 🌿 Rach + Tommy - Ik he's not technically on the blog yet, but when has that ever stopped us?

Mistletoe

When Rachael ordered a handful of the Fleshings to help decorate some of the bases, she didn't think to check what decorations there were to begin with. Even then, she ASSUMED common sense would be in place while going through what was available. She should have known better. Truly, at this point in being second in command, she should know by now.

Some wise guy had found all the mistletoe and took it upon himself to put up as many as possible in as many hidden doorframes and hallways as they could. Just barely out of sight. Rachael did not find that amusing and wondered why they even had so many to begin with. As she went around, ripping some of them nearly out of the walls, she gathered a good handful of them up in her arms.

"Fleshling!" She barks out for the attention of someone ahead in the narrow hallway.

"Take these up to th' house will ya -" Oh great. It's Macks newest recruit, Thomas. Rachael isn't exactly happy to see him, and it shows in how she stopped herself. Their first impressions to one another were less than to her liking. Rather than breaking stride and her facade along with it, she holds out her arms with all the mistletoe tangled up in them, expecting him to take them.

"Git these put away again. There's a wise guy within our ranks somewhere." She rolls her eyes at how ridiculous of an amount of garland there is.

"Keep them eyes peeled fer more-" She starts and stops. She missed one. It's above them, tucked between the rafters.

". . . Mother fuckah." She curses, hushed. Rachael usually prides herself on keeping with traditions, especially ones like these. Very few exceptions have been made so far and she's not going to start now.

"Now I gotta kiss ya! Slippery sonnova bitch... Lean down a bit, will ya?"