#wholy peak

[brendambois]

OH

OH

OH MY GOD

THIS IS SO PEAK

Back on Track! - Steamers 'n' Stations / Diesel's Depot

Here's some more engines who'll be puffing about in this AU, did these as a practice to get more used to redesigning the engines in this new style!

And wanted to pracitce some enviorment/buildings too, for two key stations nicknamed 'Big Tee' and 'Big Vee' - Why they're called that? You'll have to find out,, 👀

[agonizedembrace]

muse sex values!

aka the place where no one is surprised.

tagged by: @witchcraftandburialdirt ty ily ♥

tagging: @kalijhomentethi (again :3 ), @spirithunts , @deathdxnces , @deathfxnds , @pitgritted and you!

[devilboydogman]

Oh boy! Got tagged by @candyskiez for a late WIP Wednesday... No pressure tags for uhhhh... yeah you know it @redpenbn @ml-nolan @incidentsofunknownorigins and @matamorose , just excerpts from WIPS if you are willing and comfy. (This is an AU of my own Hannibal / Twin Peaks crossover AU that you do not even WANT to know the intentions behind (they are UNGODLY and WHOLY self indulgent. Exactly one person knows what this is and they know who they are.)

Hannibal would not lie, he was rather intrigued about his 3 P.M. appointment. He had a new patient, and those always had the potential to be a relief from boredom or even a source of genuine excitement, depending on the patient, and this pending patient’s records read as potentially exhilarating. 

An F.B.I. trainee. Age twenty-four. Mandated therapy as ordered from his superiors after a traumatic experience involving the murder of a woman and his own injury at the hand of the woman’s own husband. No prior mental health history, but a somewhat complex and rather lengthy medical one. There was so little in his record about his personal and family history, though, he may as well have been a hypothetical made up for a medical or psych school exam.

Most particularly, Hannibal was interested in the fact that he would have a patient involved in the F.B.I. A trainee, no less. So soon after one had waltzed through his door and become too reckless and clever. Hannibal glanced at his wristwatch. The young man’s appointment time was upon them. He stood from his desk and walked towards the door, standing still before it for the barest of moments to listen for any sounds in the waiting room. Pacing footsteps. An agitated first-taimer, then. He swung open the door and was met with the sight of a pale and waifish looking young man who was turning from his current lap of pacing to look at Hannibal very intensely with large, dark eyes. “Dale Cooper, I assume?”

“I would like to preface this entirely unnecessary arrangement by stating that I am perfectly capable of maintaining my own sanity through means having nothing to do with psychiatry,” the boy said, his perfectly natural flow of articulate words tumbling from him with such urgency and insistence that that alone made Hannibal doubt they were true. Funny thing, that. 

Hannibal reacted outwardly with barely more than a blink and a slight nod. “I will surely keep that in mind. Please, come in,” he said, stepping aside and gesturing for the young man to enter his office. He watched as Dale Cooper rocked minutely on his feet, as if considering hesitation, before striding inside with a long and purposeful gait. Tense posture, wide eyes, arms stiff and straight down at his side, drawing himself a cutting figure of intense dynamism rendered as if by lines of black ink in the crispness of his white shirt and raven hair combed and gelled back with a severe sort of fastidiousness. Closing the door to the office, still watching the boy’s movement’s as he strode to the center of the room and peered about with bird-like twitches of his head, Hannibal said, “In case you weren’t aware, since I was appointed for you, my name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I would like to start with informing you of your right to confidentiality. I will not disclose anything you share with me in these sessions with anyone without your informed consent, unless it pertains to the abuse of a child or elder. Now, please Dale, take a seat.” The end was implored with a bit of emphasis because this boy was simply not staying still in the slightest and it was actually a bit irritating. Dale looked down at the chair nearest him, looked back at Hannibal, said, “Okie-dokie,” and sat in said chair with a hesitant tension that implied an expectation of betrayal from the chair itself. Hannibal withheld an exasperated sigh and sat in the chair opposite of him.

“Alright, Dale. Why don’t we get started? Would you mind telling me a little bit about yourself? It could be anything at all. Or, I could continue laying out expectations, or answer any questions if that’s more comfortable for you.”

Dale didn’t seem to know what to do with his own knees. They swayed back and forth, a pivot on his ankles, his hands atop them. But his eyes decided to fix themselves on Hannibal, large and intense, and Hannibal could now note their color; A warm green-brown mixture, a woodland hazel. “Well, firstly, I would actually like to talk about the fact that your suit probably costs more than my prospective future yearly salary at the Bureau, and the fact that you’ve been studying the way I move far too closely than I expect is normal of a psychiatrist.”

Hannibal allowed that the silent pause it deserved for just a moment before saying, “And how do those perceived observations make you feel, Dale?”

The boy leaned forward a bit in his seat. “Like you’re pretentious and rich and not worth my time, Dr. Lecter. And you probably are more self-satisfied with what you glean from psychoanalysis than you are actually helping people. I would be perfectly fine with my daily meditation regimine. I didn’t even try to kill myself like they were worried about. I’m perfectly fine now.” Yes, it most certainly seemed that way. 

This one would be fun, Hannibal decided.

[allthemusic]

Week ending: 5th January

It's 1956! We are officially in the second half of the 1950s, and rock and roll has arrived! I don't think you could fully have said that at this point last year, but come 1956, something hip's definitely in the air. Will our New Year's songs reflect that? Only one way to find out...

Join in and Sing Again - The Johnston Brothers (peaked at Number 9)

This is 10 minutes long! Turns out it's a medley, a Winifred Atwell-style mix of hit popular songs, except with lyrics, this time. I can kind of see the appeal, especially in the 1950s, when it would have been hard to otherwise obtain a compendium of hit songs by different artists. This is essentially the only way to put a playlist on "shuffle" until the genesis of hit compilations in the 1970s. This then evolves into shuffling an MP3 and eventually into the Spotify playlists we have today, and seeing this track in that light does kind of make it make sense, I guess.

I still think it would hit better if I knew the tracks, similarly to what happens with a lot of Winifred Atwell tracks. There are one or two tune I recognised - honourable mention here to Alexander's Ragtime Band and to Bye Bye Blackbird - but generally, songs like I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover or The Darktown Strutters Ball are unknowns to me. Which is probably for the best with the opening track, the stunningly dated Coal Black Mammy. Thankfully it's less than a minute, but still...

Racism aside (and yes, I know that's a bit of an ask) it's a fun record, I guess. The Johnston Brothers previously did Hernando's Hideaway, which I think is a better and more enjoyable track, purely for its recognisable shtick and evocative Spanish instruments. But these songs, despite having completely different messages and lyrics, all do share a sort of boogie-woogie ragtime style. It's borrowing from some really old-school American jazz traditions, and it's good toe-tapping stuff. In particular, shout-out to whoever plays trombone for some top-notch brassy playing.

I also do appreciate how smooth most of the transitions are - there are one or two that are just a stop-start affair, and the circus music at the start of Nobody's Sweetheart is a bit jarring, but for the most part, the songs flow together well, and have a really consistent style and energy. They all fit well together, and I could definitely imagine myself in the 1950s putting this on at a party. I don't think this is what "the youth" are all listening to, but it's not wholy uncool, you know?

Never Do a Tango With an Eskimo - Alma Cogan (6)

Well, the title smacks of novelty. And yes, let's address it. We have more racism here, even just in the name. The term "eskimo" is an exonym (a name for a people group not used natively by those it's supposed to describe) for the Inuit and Yupik peoples of Canada, Alaska and Siberia, and is largely considered offensive and even derogatory. We can't necessarily blame Alma for this - especially since the agreement to use terms like "Inuit" comes from mostly the late 1970s, so people in the 1950s definitely didn't know about all this - but still, worth pointing out, and worth finding distasteful.

Thankfully, the lyrics aren't all that stereotypical, or at least not in a particularly offensive way, I don't think? I mean, if somebody from that culture told me they were, I'd have to change my tune there, but as far as I can see the full joke is just "wow, it's cold there". And so Alma sings about how once those Eskimoses start to wiggle with their toeses / You can bet your life, you're gonna get a chill and about how If you do, you'll get the breeze up / And you'll end up with a freeze up.

You can, apparently, do a tango, with a whole host of other people, which gives you low-key saucy lyrics about how You can do it with a sailor from Peru to Venezuela / You can do it with Apaches in Paris (or is it just me who gets a puerile giggle from the phrase "do it"?)

And the whole thing is wrapped up in some bright, cheery tango music, all horns and trumpets and castanets. It suits Alma's giggly, bright style. She throws in a few jolly little brrrrrrr trills, and a sassy no no no at the end, and generally she just sounds like she's having a whale of a time throughout. It's fun!

So yeah, racism aside (again, yes, a bit of an ask) this is fine. Good fun, even, and to be honest, I think it could have been a hit well through into my childhood - its daftness largely overpowers its offensiveness. I think it's actually better than the Coal Black Mammy segment of the previous track?

I don't massively want to endorse either of these. Neither is at the level of the genuinely execrable She Wears Red Feathers, but they're visibly products of the same culture, and come from the same primordial ooze of disposable novelty songwriting, careless stereotyping and from-the-outside sideshow gawking at people who are somehow "different". Not a fan.

Least objectionable song of the bunch: Never Do a Tango With An Eskimo

[babygirlbdubs]

Hey spook, do you ever think about the mountains in both 3rd and last life?

Grian and scar have monopoly mountain. It's the place they build together, a home carved from the heart of the desert. Safety in a world that doesn't know the meaning of it, sanctuary for those who've pledged themselves wholy to the other. It's a place alliances are tried and tested, bonds broken and bound. Where two souls are destined for bloodshed but still choose to test fate. It's warm sun and sharp words, soft touches and bloodstained sand.

It stands as a testament to loyalty.

Magical mountain is the opposite in every way. Scar is alone on a cliff top, sand traded for snow and lover for enemy. Again and again he is pushed aside, left to memories and crystals. Do you think he sees grian with the southlanders and remembers a different time, one where the laughter and love played out before him was his own? I wonder as the clouds roll in, does he crave a warmth this mountain cannot provide?

It stands as a testament to loneliness.

Grian seeks refuge as far from scar as he can, surrounding himself with others to distract from scar. Always scar. I wonder though, as he looks out of his tower does he remember the desert? Do high altitudes remind him of wind through hair and surveying a kingdom by scars side? What doesn't remind him of that life would be more useful. Nothing is out of the deserts reach. When the southlands are inevitably fractured, do you think he is brought back to another betrayal? Another death by his hands? Do the lonely parapets echo a different home?

It stands as a testament to betrayal.

Scar and grian are both drawn to mountains and heights. Both clinging (perhaps unknowingly, perhaps not) to a life long lost. Funny thing about them though, in the end they both were alone:)

Anyway sorry for my unintelligible ramblings, it's 4 am and I had a Thought. About scarian and mountains, and- well. Heh

-🍂

HELLO LEAF ANON. HELLO. HI. HELLO. THIS HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY INBOX HAUNTING ME BC I KNEW I WAS GONNA GO INSANE ABOUT IT AND I WANTED TO BE ABLE TO PROPERLY GO INSANE

takes a deep breath

leaf i think about this. all the time. they're drawn to mountains because that was their safety. their home. the mountain was where they had that love that never truly left them. and both of them are seeking out that love in a way, aren't they? seeking out what they had-- or seeking to prevent the inevitable from happening again.

but those mountains... do you ever think they look out from their highest points and see each other's bases and long for the one they shared? do you think scar sees grian's tower in the distance and for a moment sees the watchtower of their sandcastle? do you think grian sees the hut on magical mountain and for a moment remembers how warm it was on those cold desert nights?

even in double life, they're not atop the highest peak but they settle high still. a defensible position. and grian... grian, when he can't have a mountain, builds another castle. another fort. another tower. he starts with stripped birch. builds the mountain up with his bare hands if he has to. a sand monopoly. the one cactus on the server...

something something the mountain was home to scar, and a graveyard to grian. something something scar seeking safety and warmth and hearth by seeking out the mountains-- building a home, a monument to what they had. something something grian seeking solitude and protection by seeking out the mountains-- building a watchtower, a way to keep it secure so he won't have to have scar's blood on his hands again.

grian atop magical mountain falling into habits of protecting scar. being his little lackey. even pointing his crossbow at his own allies when they refused to obey scar's rules. it's so easy to pretend with the chill in the air and the harsh winds and scar's warmth by his side, and maybe for a moment scar thinks he's done it. maybe for a moment scar thinks the mountain has worked. but then grian is leaving again, and it's just him, and he wishes that grian would at least have the courtesy to break his heart with his hands rather than his absence.

.... so uh. yeah i think about this a lot thank you for bringing me scarian brainrot again i'm shaking trembling

[chattahoochiecoochie]

A/N: Weeks ago I saw an edit of Kimi with a piercing or two. Tattoos I can fuck with, but piercings are a whole different playing field. So we’ll start with one, just for fun. 600 words. 

And just so we’re clear, it was the white shirt dark wash jeans where’d you get that belt buckle era, for sureeee

“What is it?” She’s speaking through the door, cheek pressed to the wood to hear him better. Theres rustling, and then silence again. He called for her, she’s sure she heard him yelling, but nothings come from the bathroom since. “Kimi?”

“Fucks sake.” More rustling. She can hear his footsteps and then a dull noise. “Fuck.” He must have bumped into something, or dropped something maybe.

“Kimi what’s going on?” Jostling the door handle, she pulls back from the door, wondering if the lock might slip. “Are you okay?”

More silence. Footsteps. Swoosh. There goes the door. Laura stumbles briefly, dragged forward by the handle as the door swings open in front of her. Hidden behind it, Kimi sticks his head out.

Crossing her arms over her chest, Laura leans against the empty door frame, eyebrows raised. “Are you gonna tell me whats going on in here?”

Pressed against the counter, still holding the door in front of himself, he gives her a funny look, color rising in his cheeks. In seconds, he’s flushed down to the bit of collarbone she can see from where he’s standing.

“Its stuck.”

Laura leans in, but before she can get a better look he pulls the door tighter to his chest.

“Kimi just show me.” Putting her hands out, the way you might to a small animal, she moves into the room, reaching for the door handle. “Come on, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Doubt it.” Theres a faint glint in his eyes, and for a moment, his smirk returns. Slowly, he pushes the door towards her.

Shifting her weight, she pulls the handle and pushes the door shut behind her, leaving him exposed in front of her.

Standing in front of the counter, he’s naked save for the towel he’s clutched to his chest and the one threatening to fall from his waist. Laura swallows.

Slowly, Kimi lifts the towel from his chest, dragging it away until suddenly—it catches. Wincing, he looks through his lashes at her, smirk fading.

Barely visible, theres a glimmer of silver. Laura leans in. The unmistakeable shine of metal is peaking from behind the towel—a tiny metal ball. A piercing. The laugh she lets out is wholy unprofessional.

“Come here then,” gasping for breath, she gestures at him, “let me have a look.”

Carefully, trying to hold back another fit of giggling, she takes the towel from his grasp, lifting it from his chest to see where it might be stuck at. A single white thread has wound itself behind the ball of the piercing, onto the bar.

“Okay. You hold the towel.” Removing her hands, she reaches around his arms, hands shaking as she nears his chest plate. It’s only when she grazes his skin that she’s suddenly breathless, laughter long forgotten. “Hold still.”

As gently as she can, she takes a hold of the ball without the thread attached, pinching it between her fingers. With a hold on it, she unscrews the other ball, pulling at the thread with her nail as the bar comes free.

“Good?” She looks up at him, wondering if her face is as red as his. It must be.

“Fine.” He shivers against her, knee knocking her thigh.

“Okay. Let’s um—you can let go of the towel now.”

It hits the floor between them noiselessly. Kimi looks down at her hands. “I can—”

“—I got it.” She’s already screwing the ball back on by the time his hands come up to meet hers. “All done.”

[bluebellwriting]

Love Me Tender Part 5

Walking down the street is harder without your own personal Radio Demon parting the crowd for you, but you make do as you near your sister’s boutique. At first you wanted to be alone, but that’s kind of hard in the most crowded place in the universe, and as you continued on your mindless walk through the Pentagram you realized that being alone might not be the best thing. What you needed right now was a hug and someone to tell you that you deserved far more than whatever Alastor could give you. You couldn’t be alone with your thoughts right now.

The neon from Molly’s sign hurts your eyes from a block away, and like moths to a flame shoppers flock towards the pink light. Molly’s Miracles is the place for those in Hell with an eclectic style and a preference for the sexy. It’s very rare that you find yourself actually stopping by for a reason other than checking in on your sister, but that excuse will have to do for now.

Just like the sign, the amount of glossy white furniture and sequined clothing forces you to blink and adjust your eyes. There aren’t too many people inside, thankfully, just a moth demon posing for her friend in a red dress with the deepest v you’ve ever seen. Not your thing, but the friends cheer and squeal at the sight of it, so Molly must know her clientele quite well. 

“(Y/N)?” Molly emerges from the back, her arms full of some green, glittery fabric. She all but drops them on the checkout counter so that she can properly engulf you in a hug. It’s scary how fast she can traverse a room with all those legs, but your desperation for a proper hug is too great to be startled right now. 

“I didn’t know you were coming by today!”

“I just,” you sniff, “wanted to check up on my baby sister.”

“Aww that’s so sweet!” She squeals. “But I thought you were out with a certain you-know-who? Is he here?”

You shuffle out of her arms and embrace yourself with your own.

“Who told you that?”

“Angie did. Text me this morning that you too had a little date,” she coos.

Of course Angel would find a way to blindly inform your sister about your love life. Except that it wasn’t your love life. Just life. Normal, regular, loveless life. 

“He just happened to have some business to attend to at Rosie’s at the same time as me.”

“But he walked you there.” 

“Molly--”

“And he didn’t have to! But he did! That is so cute!”

“It’s really not, Molly,” you grumble and move deeper into the store. You trail your fingers through the silks and tulle, pretending to be interested in something from the wracks when you and Molly know there’s only ever one article in the store at a time that you would actually wear.

“You okay, hun?” She trails you through the store.

“I’m fine, Mol. Just fine. I made a great deal today, dad will be really happy. Things are going well at the hotel.” You turn to her with a sigh, hoping with expulsion of breath you will also rid you of the sobs bubbling up in your throat.

It works for a minute.

“I’m fine. I’m doing fine.” Your voice cracks at the end and Molly rushes you again, except this time you’re also being surrounded by the moth demon and her friends who apparently can’t mind their own business.

“Oh sweetie, did he hurt you?” The moth asks.

“Men are fucking pigs!” One of her friends -- a wolf -- cries.

As these complete strangers surround you with man-hating indignation, Molly rubs your back and strokes your hair.

“I-It’s okay. It’s just a guy,” you gasp.

“That’s right, it is just a guy. You don’t need him and his nasty ass.” Another friend -- a blowfish -- says as the rest of the friends and your sister release you from their grasp but remain in a circle around you like some Sisterhood Against the Radio Demon.

Oh, if only they knew that was the man they were bad mouthing right now. Actually, you kind of wish Alastor was here right now. You’d pay money to see his reaction to the Sisterhood calling his ass “nasty.” Probably confusion, mostly.

"You know what you need,” Molly chimes in. “A new outfit!”

The friends cheer and you really wish you could just melt into the clothing racks. They’re all sweet, impossibly so, for helping out a complete stranger just because of the universal experience known as “guy problems.” But the last thing you want is to be surrounded by eyes scrutinizing your body in new clothing. Your heart feels like it’s about to implode in on itself and if one person says anything about your love handles or your back fat you are definitely going to ignite this entire city block on fire.

“Molly, that really isn’t necessary--”

“I know the perfect thing! You just head back into the changing room,” she says, making her way to a shelf of silk blouses. Your eyes dart to the door, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Molly.

“Don’t. You Dare.” Her eyes flash a brief red, so you shuffle over to the changing rooms.

---

Alastor sits in Rosie’s office, well, it’s more like he’s lying down on her chez, moaning towards the ceiling, and clutching his gift to you tightly as if it were the last piece of you he had left.

Rosie watches him from her desk, looking wholy unimpressed by this display from the all-powerful Radio Demon.

“Why did I even--”

“I don’t know, Alastor.”

“I never should have--”

“No, you shouldn’t have. As intelligent as you are, dear Alastor, you can be exceptionally dumb.”

Letting out another long whine, he grips the gift box harder and rolls over onto his side. He’s an Overlord. He should not be debasing himself like this in polite company. Or anyone’s company for that matter. But this is Rosie, who was for so long the only person in the history of human existence who he could trust with his truest emotions. But even this exhibitionary indulgence is a new milestone in their relationship, one he wasn’t even ready to take right now. He can’t help it though. Not when his heart feels like it’s being gripped and twisted between two fists. Not when his stomach has taken on this horrible, aching feeling, as if he’s being repeatedly kicked there. 

The worst part is the empty feeling that has been growing deeper and wider since you left him at Rosie’s. For so long now it’s been just this nagging little spot that formed when you first met, situated in the center of his chest, reminding him that he no longer owns the piece of himself that once filled it. You do. And as long as you were with him, close to him, that hole stayed the same, was comforted by its close proximity to its missing piece. But now you were gone, and the hole has become so gaping and so hollow without you, with the thought of truly losing you forever.

“You could always go find her,” Rosie implores, shoving away the paperwork she’s fruitlessly been trying to complete.

“She said she wanted to be alone,” he moans. 

“And since when were you one to respect others’ personal space?” She doesn’t get a response. He just rubs his face deeper into her chez, ruining the fabric with his blubbering. Part of her wants to relish the sight of her egotistical, maniacal, normally heartless friend reduced to a weepling in front of her. But the bigger part of her just really wants to get back to her work and Alastor’s need for validation is in direct conflict of that. 

“Alastor,” she sighs, “I know she wanted to be alone, but honestly, this might be an appropriate time for you to tell her how you feel. Or at least to try and remedy the situation a tad.”

Alastor sits up, shoulders hunched.

“Really?”

“Yes, you emotionally obtuse oaf. Go! Be romantic! Be spontaneous!” Get the Hell out of my office, she wants to add. 

Rosie goes over to him and all but yanks him off the chez. She places a jovial arm around his shoulders but is shoving him quickly through her store, past her girls, and outside.

“Good luck, darling!” She calls as she pushes him onto the street. He whips around, eyes briefly flashing her his radio dials but her motherly wave quickly reminds him of the task at hand. 

The dials disappear but he shoots her an uncharacteristic glare before he puts on his smile. He summons a shadow to traverse the Pentagram in search of you. As his shadow wiggles off, he begins his stroll through the streets roughly in the direction you were heading.

---

Molly brings you a red silk blouse and a red and black plaid pencil skirt. They seem modest enough but you dread the way the skirt will make your curves look, the lumps and thickness it will accentuate. The blouse is nice though, if not a bit tight around the stomach, but it makes your chest look amazing. You try looking for the flared skirt you came in with, but not so mysteriously, your clothes seem to be missing. Thanks, Molly. 

You have two options now. Go out into the store in front of strangers and in front of the giant windows Molly has in the front, or squeeze into the skirt, suffer through it for five minutes, and then demand your clothes back.

Once you actually have the skirt on it’s not... that bad. It digs into your waist just a tad, making your back straighten to make breathing easier. The fabric is thick, wool-like, but soft to the touch. It comes to your knees, probably the only skirt in the store that does so, and much to your surprise, it smooths out every piece of pudge even without tights. You look at yourself in the mirror and you look... lovely. Elegant, with a hint of sexy that looks good on you for once. 

Peaking your head out of the room, you see Molly and the group of friends -- Ramona, Hugh, Paul, and Chandler, you’ve since learned -- eagerly eyeing the dressing rooms. They’re all sitting on the pink, crushed velvet couch Molly has set up for shoppers, their knees bouncing with anticipation. 

You move your body out inch by inch, as if to step out of the room too quickly would cause your body to burst into flames. The closer you get to the main room, the hotter your body burns with embarrassment, the harsher the feeling of invisible eyes feel on you. You know that Molly won’t tease you, that she is a constant purveyor of how naturally gorgeous you are. But somewhere in the back of your head, the harsh words of your mother hammer away. You can just imagine that Ramona and Hugh and Paul and Chandler and whoever peaks through Molly’s windows will have some awful things to say. It wouldn’t be anything new, you’ve heard it all. Doesn’t mean you want to keep hearing it.

Molly spots your hair poking out of the doorway and squeals. Your “new friends” squeal in response and then it’s just a chain reaction of everyone squealing and cheering at you. You creep further into the room and Molly pushes you the rest of the way onto the fitting pedestal. 

“Do a twirl!” Molly yells and the rest of them start chanting until you do, in fact, twirl on the pedestal. More squealing. Their joy and support become infectious, and slowly you pull your arms away from their place shielding your stomach. 

You look head on at the three full length mirrors set up opposite the couch, you don’t shy away. You’re loving how you look in this moment, you find it impossible to fixate on the lumps and bumps anymore. It feels as though you made to look like this, still so completely you and yet as beautiful as you always wished you felt. It’s perfect now.

“Go off, girl!” Chandler yells.

“Your man is going to wish he had you back,” Hugh cheers.

“If he bothers you again you call us and we’ll all beat his ass,” Ramona says and her friends whoop in agreement.

Behind you, you can hear the jingle of the bell hanging from the door. Raising your head to stare at the door through the mirror, (e/c) eyes meet glowing red ones, wide with shock. He has a sheepish smile, not all teeth like his “going out” smile, but just as wide. He has that damn box in his hands, his claws tapping the sides. 

Everything goes quiet and you might as well have been the only two people in the room. Molly ushers Ramona and her friends into the back room before the terror can fully set in and you’re grateful. You don’t really want anyone nearby for whatever is about to happen. 

Once everyone is out of the line of fire, you sigh and turn to face him, willing the confidence from your little fashion show to sustain you for just a little longer. 

“Alastor.”

He doesn’t say anything back, eyes still trained on you, because what is he supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry for taking you to a cesspool of women thirsting after me?’ ‘I’m sorry I’m such a tainted, wretched soul who is so undeserving of you?’ ‘I’m sorry I’m too much of a coward to tell you I love you?’ He pulls the box closer to his chest. 

“You look stunning,” is all he can muster. Not horrible, probably not the best thing either, though.

“I know,” you say back, keeping your face stern.

His smile grows wider but remains sheepish, maybe even bashful, which is impossible because when has Alastor ever been bashful? 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmurs.

“I’m really fine, Alastor,” you lie. “You don’t have as much of an effect on people as you think.” Another lie.

“There are millions of dead souls who would beg to differ but--”

You send him the most seething glare you can muster and he pulls back. He looks back down to the gift, eyeing it as if it has all the answers, the map to getting back what’s been lost between you.

“I apologize if you were uncomfortable. That was not my intention.” 

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” you seethe. “I wasn’t anything except tired and overcome with a desire to see my sister.”

“You’re a horrible liar,” he says as he starts to roam around the store while remaining a safe distance from you. In the mirror, you catch the red glint in your eyes and blink to force it away.

Words start to pour from your mouth, recklessly and unhinged, “And you don’t owe me anything. I don’t need you following me around town after I explicitly told you not to follow me. I don’t need you to “escort” me to meetings just so you can see your girl toys. I’m not an excuse, I’m not a guise. I can take care of myself, lord knows I’ve done so for decades without you.”

“I know.” You were expecting the room to burst into flames and for the sound of radio static to overwhelm you, not for him to remain smiling down at the floor, albeit with a hint of melancholy.

“You know?”

“I know.” He starts to take small steps towards you. “I know you don’t need me, you proved that today. You are more than brilliant and poised and powerful in your own right. I know that. But I’m afraid that what has happened is rather the opposite.”

He makes it to the pedestal and even with the extra inches you are barely as tall as him. But he has never seemed so small to you in this moment.

He is not a man who cowers, he does not beg, that shows weakness and he learned from a young age that you cannot afford weakness. Don’t show your neck, don’t bow your head, stand as tall as you can and bare your teeth. He can’t do that, though, not with you. What you need is openness and vulnerability from him, signs that you bring out something that no one else can.

“My dear, you do not need me,” he whispers and holds out the box to you. Somehow you tear your eyes away to focus on unraveling the bow and peel back the packing paper. There, glittering on a small slice of foam, are two necklaces: one a heart with a keyhole cut out, the other, the matching key.

Alastor dips two claws into the package and takes with him the heart-shaped lock, and to your surprise, he clasps it to his own neck.

“But I, dearly and desperately, need you.” He plucks the key from the box and holds it out to you in the palm of his hand. 

“Alastor...”

“You can say no. You can throw this in my face and I won’t stop you,” he smiles sadly. “But you will always, in a way, have it. You will always have me.”

You’re not an impulsive person, not really, and not compared to your siblings and friends. Now that you think about it, you’ve never actually had an urge like that. Until now. Until the feeling of something glowing and bright moving up from the pit of your stomach, through your throat and your vessels until they reached your chest.

You surge forward, pull him down by his lapels, and kiss him. He tenses initially, and you hear the familiar pop of a radio cutting in and out, before he melts against you. One arm encircles your waist and the other goes into your hair, keeping you securely against him. The kiss itself is a little sloppy on his part, inexperienced and cautious, which makes sense considering his aversion to intimate activities. But there’s a relief in the inexperience, in knowing that you’re one of, if not the, first one to do this with him. It doesn’t go any further than passionate lip-locking, but the way he clings to you and you to him, like two cogs sliding together, is more than enough for you both. 

When you pull away he chases after you and his arms tighten. He’s not quite ready for you to be any less than a few centimeters from him. You release a giddy giggle and lean your forehead against his own, noses nuzzling, heartbeats sharing. You feel cool metal against your neck and look down, spotting your half of the necklace resting against your chest.

“We should go,” you whisper.

“Mm, go where?” He asks as he begins to sway your entangled bodies back and forth.

“Somewhere far away from the eager ears of my sister.”

Alastor’s ears perk up and his eyes dart to the back room, where he can just catch a retreating shadow, presumably belonging to Molly.

“You might be right about that, dearest.”

[ruvigapo]

23 for the ask game! love your stuff (I have thought about your Essek and Beau "I made my dad so angry he died" comic SEVERAL times lol)

😂😂😂 man thank you !! I love that one too, i truly peaked at essek related comedy 😂💪💪💪

23. Oh man... honestly,,, this one's Complicated bc i would love it if people noticed that they did not notice how much work i put into something to make it seamless????

Now i don't think i'm There yet. But the things that are rly good in art ppl don't tend to notice at all. Like shot transitions in movies for instance. I'd like to be good at that some day.

So,, i think in truth i hope people don't notice Anything. Like i want my effort to be invisible. I would like to be in control of when people see the effort i put in. Like when i share wips.

I enjoy the transition of watching a person go "Wow this is magic i can't believe someone made that" to showing them the progress and having the artform slowly dawn on them.

Not as a supperiority thing but just as like.. that's how i fell in love with movies in the first place: bc the disney and dreamworks dvds and lord of the rings all have behind the scenes content that shows the effort that goes into making something feel wholy real and present on its own even if it's all made up.

Man that got deep fam. You get that as a freebie songofwizardry bc ur taste in comedy is impeckable 😂😂💜💙

Thanks for asking!!♡

[themarissaharrison]

No Sleep | Self Paragraph

In, two, three, four. Hold, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four, five. Hold, two, three... Fucking bullshit, she thought as she tried repeating the mantra for the hundreth time in her head. Her eyes were firmly closed as she was trying to will herself to sleep. Apparently, this ‘box breathing’ technique was what the special forces soliders learnt to do to sleep in warzones... She could just give in a pop a few sleep tablets, but the nightmares that usually came when taking those were way worse than anything she could think up conciously. 

She sighed as she breathed out, finally giving in to her mind as her eyes flicked open and stared up at the ceiling above her. Marissa stayed like that for a few moments, just staring. She had to count her blessings that she didn’t feel as if she was suffocating, or like someone was holding her down. Mostly, she just felt kind of... Numb. Ever since she had brought Nicola home from Blue yesterday evening, she’s just felt like she’s been on some kind of auto-pilot. Running through the motions of the day, but not actually being a part of it. When either of them had asked what was wrong, she had just said the same thing; “I’m just tired... I just need some rest...”. That wasn’t exactly a lie, but-- it wasn’t the truth either. The truth was she didn’t know what was wrong, she didn’t even know how she felt. The only emotion she could recognise was sadness... Just that faint aching of her heart. 

The scene she walked into in Nicola’s office kept replaying in her head too. The look on the blonde’s face, the sheer terror in the way she shook when she hugged her. It was something wholy different to what she had witnessed in Chicago, there was this raw intensity that this was something they should all be scared of. Someone they should all be scared of... Part of her wanted to meet this man, this Jackson Kingsley... She wanted to see him for herself, to size him up, and understand. She wouldn’t, of course. She had made a promise to Nicola to stay safe, and she intended to keep that promise in every way she could... But, still, the curiosity had been playing on her mind. She had no understanding or experience of the criminal underworld. The closest she had come to brushing with danger like this was when Delilah disappeared the first time around, back before they even got together. Even now, Marissa didn’t know the whole story of why she had to leave, but it was something to do with gangs, something to do with a hit on her head. 

Delilah... Marissa took in a long breath as she pushed herself up in the bed, resting her forearms on her knees as she let the blanket slip off of her. She looked back, pressing her lips against her shoulder as her eyes fell on the two sleeping women, Cleo’s arm draped over Nicola, Nicola’s arm moving up and under the pillow where Marissa’s head should be. Slowly, she let the air out against her shoulder as she watched them both sleep for a while. She knows that both of these amazing, beautiful, loving women would want to know that she was awake right now, that her heart was hurting, that she felt so fucking lonely... But what was the point in all of them being awake because one of them couldn’t sleep? Of course, if it had been one of them awake, Marissa would list of a million reasons why they should have woken her up... Hypocrisy was a funny old thing.

She thought back to what Nicola had said in the cavana in Montauk, about Delilah and Lauren... Had they been the ones, somewhere in the systems of the universe and ‘fate’, were they the reason their paths had crossed again? Divine intervension... God, she’d of laughed at the idea a few years ago. But, all of this... Cleo coming into her life as well, Dela too... It all seemed like it was timed too well to possibly be pure coincidence. When she needed someone the most, the world gave her both of them... It didn’t make it any easier to get over her fear that they would both leave eventually. Promises had so far proved pointless in Marissa’s life. Everyone she’s ever loved has left, in one way or another. Why would these two be an exception to that rule?

Marissa closed her eyes for a moment before getting up and out of bed, quietly gliding the doors of the balcony opening and wrapping her silk dressing gown around her small body before heading out into the cool New York night. She left the bay doors ajar, just incase Nicola woke up in a panic and needed to know where she was. Walking across to the couch, she sat down, tucking both her feet underneath her as she slid her hand into the pocket of the gown and withdrew a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. She never smoked during the day, but it was one of those things that slowed down her thoughts a little bit... It was this, or alcohol, and she really was trying to make a concious effort not to drink as much.

The warmth of the small flame that flared up as she flicked the lid of the zippo back warmed her face, the first drag of the cigarette warming the back of her throat. She dropped the packet and lighter down on the couch in front of her before adjusting how she was sat so she could bring her knees into her chest and hug her knees. “I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing...” She whispered with such fragility that even the gentle breeze running past might break her words. Her eyes turned upwards, to the dark, inky, starlit sky. There weren’t many places in New York where you could get a real view of the stars, most rooftop buildings were still too low beneath the skyline to get past the light pollution that overcast most of the stars. But, Cleo’s balcony had an almost picturesque view of the beautiful night. 

Her thoughts stayed in the talk she had with Nic in the cavana, about how she speaks to Lauren sometimes... “I wish I could talk to you...” She mutters to the sky, smoke gently dancing around her in the breeze. “Just to-- say thank you... To ask you what you would do right now, because I am-- lost... I know I need to keep her safe, keep her close... I just don’t know how to do that, and I know you know’d how even though I never met you...” Marissa sighs softly. “I’m never going stop trying though, I-- promise you... I know you’re looking after Hayden up there, and-- Delilah too, although she’s probably being too stubborn to allow herself to ever be looked after,” she felt her lips curl up into a smile as a few tears began to run down her cheeks. “God, I miss her... So much...” Riss tightly closed her eyes as she took a long, heavy drag from the cigarette, sniffing up and swallowing thickly as her body jerked slightly as she cried. 

She wasn’t sure how long exactly she was out there like that for. But, she felt the air get crisper and colder, the darkness taking over as the night reached its peak just before the break of dawn. It was the shivering that the sudden drop in temperature cause that caused her to bring her head back up, the butt of the cigarette that had just burnt itself out still resting between her fingers. She flicked it off the side of the building and then ran her hands down her face and stretched her back out a bit. Her eyes rolled back up to the sky, and it was much harder to see the stars despite it being darker up there. Clouds, probably... There was something about the fact that clouds were forming above her as the day was starting that was just... Well, fitting. There was always a satisfaction when the weather matched your mood. 

Sighing, she pushed herself up from the couch and went back inside the bedroom, closing the door behind her as quietly as possible. Her eyes lingered once more on the two sleeping women. She needed to keep them both safe. She didn’t know how... But, she couldn’t lose either of them. She couldn’t lose Nicola again... She wouldn’t... She had so much work to do. 

mentions: @cmlopezofficial | @nicolaeisms

[tirededuxhours]

Name: Jace Greek Age: 20 Gender: Agender Height: 5'6" Occupation: Witch-doctor/Scholar, makes their remedies at their home and then sells them at the markets, or sends out personal orders from their home. Primarily sells in Fi Fo. Area of Origin: Hendise in Queens Land Area of Residence: Odale in Queens Land Generation: Wholies Magic: Poison Personality: They are shy, Soft Spoken and Weary around others, but once home and invested in their work they are confident. Introverted for the most part but once they are someone whom they trust or on a topic they enjoy they peak out of their shell a little. Backstory: Once awakened they where cursed with a poisonous touch and they where left to the only living relative which was their abusive uncle since their parents couldn't recover and ended up dying with the final words being 'Stay Strong'. Jace ended up accidentally killing their uncle after the curse finally being awoken after years of abuse. Being devastated as a tot he ran off leaving the once alive Cal in the house to fester, becoming a street tot for a little while. A kind old mage decided to take in the tot to help teach them how to control their magic though it was more emotional based then actually being able to be controlled. The old mage sparked an interest in Jace to become a scholar/witch-doctor to create an antidote to counter act their poisonous touch so they are able to mingle, make friends and perhaps a partner. Likes: Books, Art, Working on Different Remedies, The Night, Music, History, Sour treats, To Grow Mushrooms and Other Fungi, and Animals. Dislikes: The Heat, Extreme Cold, Mornings, Crowds, and Spicy Food. Extras: They have bird feeders around their house so they can listen tot he birds song. They wrap up their hands in bandages just to be safe when in public or at his stand selling goods and they are extremely fascinated by scars, infections, injuries, and decay. Relationships: N/A Art work, Design, Closed Species and Template: carrottown Character and info: Kiwi-Krentix-Art/Me The quote about their magic on the ref sheet is also by carrottown I loved the description so I used it please forgive me. Also @monty-madam-witch  helped me come up with the backstory, likes, dislikes, the extra bit, personality, occupation, where they where born and where they live(cuz i couldn't decide on one from like six places that I liked). The Da Group you can find Here The Da where you can find the ref is Here More information is Here

[ranchmug]

Dragons.

What if dragons weren't the majestic creatures of mythology? What if, in the world's they inhabit, they're just animals?

What if instead of fish, the oceans are filled with dragons of different sizes? Tiny serpentine dragons, swimming through the waters like our eels. Larger dragons the size of whales, who exist wholy in the oceans and lay eggs in the depths below. Dragons of all sizes, styles, and colors, caught by fisherman for their scales, for their eggs, and to sell as pets in water dragon fishtanks.

What if instead of dogs, cats, and horses, there were companion dragons? Small dragons who would curl around your neck as you walk, peaking out over your shoulder and blowing smoke rings at anyone who gets too close. Medium size dragons who were kept on leashes, obediently walking or flying alongside their owners. Larger dragons, used as pack animals, carrying passengers and cargo between cities across roads and through the skies.

What if instead of creatures of the forest, there were dragons? Small butterfly like dragons, flitting from flower to flower as their iridescent wings reflect the sunlight. Medium dragons, building nests in the treetops, laying their eggs away from the slithering serpentine dragons down below. Larger dragons, with dark scales hiding them in the night, stalking prey who happens to wander too close to their hunting grounds.

A world with all animals, but as dragons.

[king-bleppy]

Water signs +

Water + water: When the river meets the sea the two bodies of water become one so wholy it is impossible to separate the exact parts that define one from the other. It is either perfect harmony or utter absorption.

Water + fire: Boil or douse. It is an exchange of energy and passion like no other. Fire ignites something within like nothing else. But when time turn tough water and fire become each other's destructor.

Water + earth: Mud buddies.; Pleasant and healing to some. Gross and gritty to others. Water hydrates earth which can be a blessing and a curse to some. These two can coexist together but it takes certain types and quantities to get it just right. Stones in the river. A hose over ploughed soil. A rain storm can bring a mud slide.

Water + air: Petrichor. The smell of rain. Water rises to meet the air. Also like waves, stirred up by changing winds blowing peaks and valleys into the ocean. Air brings water up to meet it. Turbulent but invigorating, bringing out something new and cyclical in each other.

[urbanstarzmedia]

'What's Going On' at 50 – Marvin Gaye Motown classic is as relevant today as it was in 1971

#Tags Motown Marvin Gaye ; Motown wasn’t really known for its politically conscious music. Then came “What’s Going On.” Released on May 21, 1971, at the height of the Vietnam War, Marvin Gaye’s album became a monster, spawning three hit singles on its way to becoming Motown’s best-selling album to date. The album also marked a turning point for Motown and for Marvin Gaye as an artist. As a scholar of race and culture in the U.S. and the host of the weekly radio show “Soul Stories,” I am struck by how many of the themes Gaye explores remain as relevant today as they were when he first wrote about them 50 years ago.

Gaye’s evolution

Some of the songs on the album speak directly to the state of the world in the early 1970s. The title track, with its timeless lyric “war is not the answer, for only love can conquer hate,” condemned the nation’s involvement in Vietnam. But the song provides an insight into the evolution of Gaye’s music to encompass overtly political themes. “What’s Going On” contrasts with his earlier work from the Vietnam War era that presents a different perspective. For example, “Soldier’s Plea,” the first single from Gaye’s second album, “That Stubborn Kinda Fellow” in 1962, offers a decidedly romantic view of war: While I’m away, darling how often do you think of me? Remember, I’m over here, fighting to keep us free Just be my little girl and always be true And I’ll be a faithful soldier boy to you “Soldier’s Plea” fits neatly into Motown’s early business model. Both Berry Gordy – who founded Tamla Records in 1959 and then incorporated it as the Motown Record Co. a year later – and the songwriters he brought in mostly avoided political content. Motown singers such as Mary Wells, The Supremes and The Temptations were to be, as the label liked to say, the “Sound of Young America,” not political activists. Gordy told Time magazine in 2020, “I never wanted Motown to be a mouthpiece for civil rights.” While song lyrics did not explicitly mention the ongoing civil rights protests emerging across the nation in the 1960s, Motown didn’t entirely ignore racial politics. The label released the spoken-word album “The Great March to Freedom” on the same day as the March on Washington – Aug. 28, 1963. The release commemorated the Walk to Freedom, a Detroit mass march from earlier that summer, and featured a speech by Martin Luther King Jr. Motown also created the Black Forum label, which released other political speeches by King, such as his 1967 “Why I Oppose the War in Vietnam,” and Stokely Carmichael’s song “Free Huey!” pleading for the release of fellow Black Power leader Huey Newton in 1970. The label also released albums of poetry by Amiri Baraka, Elaine Brown, Langston Hughes and Margaret Danner. By and large, though, early releases on the Motown label were restricted to the apolitical. But the world had changed by 1971. The freedom struggle had taken a more radical turn with the emergence of the Black Power movement, the Chicano Movement, the Young Lords and the American Indian Movement. The first Earth Day, April 22, 1970, focused attention on the emerging U.S. environmental movement. Meanwhile, anti-war activists protested the draft, escalating violence, and the sight of body bags returning from Vietnam. The U.S. musical soundscape shifted alongside these political, social and economic transformations. Art and politics merged through 1969’s Woodstock festival. Meanwhile, Black Power-driven messages started to emanate from the soul and gospel music distributed by the Stax label in Memphis and a host of other musicians who offered searing critiques of U.S. imperialism such as Nina Simone, Curtis Mayfield and Gil Scott-Heron.

Hollering love across the nation

Alongside this political shift came internal pressure in Motown to give artists more agency over their own output. As Motown performers matured artistically, some felt stifled by Gordy’s model and demanded more artistic control. Gaye produced “What’s Going On” himself – a revolutionary act at Motown. The result is a painfully beautiful protest album from first track to last. The opening lines of the album are sung softly, yet urgently: “Mother, mother, there’s far too many of you crying/ Brother, brother, brother, there’s far too many of you dying.” Lyrics grapple with the effects of the war on families and the lives of young men sent overseas. The next song follows one of those young men home to a nation grappling with an unemployment rate of 6%. “Can’t find no work, can’t find no job, my friend,” Gaye laments on “What’s Happening Brother.” The album’s final track conveys frustration: “Makes me wanna holler how they do my life … this ain’t living, this ain’t living.” In between, we have everything from an exploration of faith to the environmentalist anthem “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)” concluding with the refrain “How much more abuse from man can she stand?” Yet “What’s Going On” expresses hope. Gaye repeats the affirmation “right on” – a phrase distinctly grounded in black urban vernacular – throughout the album and on a song bearing that name. We first hear this phrase on the title track, “What’s Going On.” Gaye affirms “Right on, brother” to men who respond in kind at different points in the song. The call and response communicates a sense of shared concern, shared struggle, and shared redemption – an ethos Gaye took from the gospel tradition that informs his musicality. This call and response is repeated in “Wholy Holy,” with Gaye utilizing a multitracking technique to layer two versions of his own vocals: We can conquer (yes we can) hate forever (oh Lord) Wholy (wholy holy, wholy holy) We can rock the world’s foundation Everybody together, together in wholy (wholy holy) We’ll holler love, love, love across the nation

Still a hit

Gordy was initially reluctant to embrace Gaye’s new direction. But Motown could not ignore the album’s success. The title track reached the top spot on Billboard’s R&B chart and peaked at No. 2 on the Hot 100. The album remained on the charts for 58 weeks. Gaye’s classic album still resonates with audiences on its 50th anniversary. The environmental messages of “Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology)” are just as germane today as 1971, as are the powerful statements on race, war and poverty on other tracks. As someone who teaches courses on the history of music in the United States, I’ve noticed that most of my students immediately recognize songs from “What’s Going On” – an album released decades before they were born. In a nation where people continue to protest white supremacy, endless wars, environmental damage, police brutality and poverty, “What’s Going On” remains as relevant as ever. 'What's Going On' at 50 – Marvin Gaye Motown classic is as relevant today as it was in 1971-Author:

Tyina Steptoe, Associate Professor of History, University of Arizona This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article. For More California news VISIT For more Health News Visit Here   Check out more food ideas  on Cali.FM For more Entertainment News visit HERE Check out more great contributor stories, HERE Read the full article