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Here she is, and don't underestimate her: Cassandra Eugenie Fox Miss Fitzfox, 16. Anything but clumsy or shy. Bard’s younger sister. Bold, bratty, beloved. Skives off school at the record store, still gets top marks.

If I Never Saw the Sun will be on Tapas starting on November 18! art by @xylavie!

It’s 1980 in Northern England. Margaret Thatcher is Prime Minister. Punk is getting boring. And it’s raining. What good can come out of this? Music? Love? Both?

I’ll be introducing the characters of If I Never Saw the Sun starting on Monday, with a cover reveal on Saturday!

Art is by the wonderful Xyra Brittney @xylavie!

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I AM LOSING MY MIND

This is so good!

This man is a treasure. I got this cameo just two days after I ordered it and it is perfect!!

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The Main six Baldur's Gate Companions

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Secret kisses in the hallway

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Happy Halloween 🎃

I had so much fun with the prompts Haunted House & Haunted Objects for day 31 for @huxloween!

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No Retreat

No Retreat

A Post-TRoS gingerpilot Fic

Two enemies converge in the woods....

Poe Dameron is supposed to be recovering from the emotional wounds of the war at a forest retreat for veterans. But he’s doing anything but feeling better. The only interruption from the constant cycle of panic attacks and therapy sessions is the increasingly unbearable restlessness.

Armitage Hux is supposed to be recovering, too. Granted a measure of mercy for his “services to the Republic” in acting as a mole, he’s in secret protective custody until he’s in a fit state of mind to stand trial. But his nightmares and terrors show no sign of abating.

The two are avowed enemies, but when they unexpectedly cross paths under the trees on a cold night, they find that understanding can come from the most unlikely sources. Alone, with no one else who comprehends their pain, they form a bond that neither of them wants and neither can resist.

Chapter 1 Excerpt

Poe Dameron awoke with a muffled groan and a shout. Cold with sweat, he pressed his fingers to his face, searching out the cuts and bruises, the clotting blood. But he felt only slick skin and the scrub of his newly-grown beard. Shuddering, he forced himself to open his eyes. In the darkness, the shadows seemed to converge to become one inky figure, looming over him. The figure’s face was hidden, but its voice, though sickeningly distorted, was one he knew. A shake of his head, and it was gone, but Poe knew he wouldn’t find sleep again. He stood, wrapping himself in his blanket, and went to sit on the porch of his cabin and wait for sunrise.

The place where he was had no name. Its anonymity ensured his own, and that of the other war veterans in the enclave of cabins among the sighing fir trees. Each was spaced so that it couldn’t be seen from other cabins, but that was a false solitude: The occupants met in small groups once a day in the large, central building. Poe’s group had three other Resistance veterans; all of them dutifully pretended that they didn’t know who he was until they introduced themselves in the first meeting.

But they did know who he was, no doubt about it. Poe was the pilot on recruitment posters, his X-wing behind him, posed with his flight helmet under his arm, gazing into the sky.

Where is that Poe Dameron? he asked himself. If he ever really existed at all. He had thought he did. But then he had been tortured on a First Order star destroyer; then there was the destruction of a whole star system, billions of people — gone; then he had lost a whole squadron of bombers to destroy a First Order dreadnought; then he had seen Amilyn Holdo sacrifice herself for the Resistance after he had fomented doubt in her leadership; then another planet obliterated — and the guilt of his fleeting first thought: Good. A planet of misery, of bad memories — for him. To others, it was their home; they were gone with it. And Poe had thought Good as if only he mattered. And then General Organa. His North Star. Poe felt as if he were unmoored, drifting through space.

He had kept up his public face — the cocksure flyboy, the unwavering friend, the Resistance die-hard — for as long as he could. Until four months after the battle of Exegol, when Finn had found Poe trembling in the dark on the floor of his Chandrila apartment. They had convinced him to come here — Finn, Rey, Rose. His friends. They were counting on him to get well. Counting on him for the work they all still needed to do. Well, how was he going to do that? He couldn’t shoot down post-traumatic stress disorder with the cannons on his X-wing.

PTSD. That’s what Dr. Tivari said. Nothing to be ashamed of, he said. Poe had been on the front lines of a war that spanned generations. His mind needed to heal after all that he’d been through, all that he’d seen.

And all that I’ve done, Poe added inwardly. He still had never said it aloud.

Poe pulled his blanket tighter around himself against the cool air and settled into the deep seat of the wooden chair. His cabin faced the direction of the rising sun of this planet, whatever it was, and there was a faint blue glow coming through the trees and the foggy air. In an hour, the delivery droid would be by with his breakfast — caff and toast and eggs and fruit. Then he would meet with his group at ten, return to his cabin to do whatever assignment Tivari gave them — journaling or mindfulness meditation or stretching for kriff’s sake — and then lunch in his cabin, one-on-one therapy session with Tivari, then dinner, then sleep, then all of it over again. Sometimes he would read a book — his datapad had no access to the holonet, but it was loaded with the literature of at least fifty systems — but he found it hard to concentrate, losing track of the plots and characters. Most often, he took walks through the quiet forest, never seeing another person. The schedule and the bounds of where guests were allowed to roam ensured that none of them had contact with one another outside of meetings. This had been Poe’s life for the last four weeks.

The routine of this place, the isolation, had a lulling effect. The only sense of time came from the movement of the sun and the alarms that reminded him of meetings. A minute or an hour passing could feel like the same span of existence. Poe kept track of days with hatch marks scratched into the frame of his cabin’s door, the way he had once counted the TIE fighters he shot down on his flight helmet. He found himself napping, something he had never done. But when he napped, at least, he didn’t dream. The nightmares came only at night.

The solitude was part of the treatment, to keep Poe from falling into his coping mechanism — which was to charm every person around him. He had to learn to “sit with himself,” Tivari said. In the first two weeks, Poe had ten panic attacks. Each time, a nursing droid came to his cabin and talked him through it. By the end of the third week, he could mostly do it himself.

But this was the start of the fifth week, and Poe was ready to climb the walls.

Read more

[the-call-from-the-light]

No Retreat

No Retreat

A Post-TRoS gingerpilot Fic

Two enemies converge in the woods....

Poe Dameron is supposed to be recovering from the emotional wounds of the war at a forest retreat for veterans. But he’s doing anything but feeling better. The only interruption from the constant cycle of panic attacks and therapy sessions is the increasingly unbearable restlessness.

Armitage Hux is supposed to be recovering, too. Granted a measure of mercy for his “services to the Republic” in acting as a mole, he’s in secret protective custody until he’s in a fit state of mind to stand trial. But his nightmares and terrors show no sign of abating.

The two are avowed enemies, but when they unexpectedly cross paths under the trees on a cold night, they find that understanding can come from the most unlikely sources. Alone, with no one else who comprehends their pain, they form a bond that neither of them wants and neither can resist.

Chapter 1 Excerpt

Poe Dameron awoke with a muffled groan and a shout. Cold with sweat, he pressed his fingers to his face, searching out the cuts and bruises, the clotting blood. But he felt only slick skin and the scrub of his newly-grown beard. Shuddering, he forced himself to open his eyes. In the darkness, the shadows seemed to converge to become one inky figure, looming over him. The figure’s face was hidden, but its voice, though sickeningly distorted, was one he knew. A shake of his head, and it was gone, but Poe knew he wouldn’t find sleep again. He stood, wrapping himself in his blanket, and went to sit on the porch of his cabin and wait for sunrise.

The place where he was had no name. Its anonymity ensured his own, and that of the other war veterans in the enclave of cabins among the sighing fir trees. Each was spaced so that it couldn’t be seen from other cabins, but that was a false solitude: The occupants met in small groups once a day in the large, central building. Poe’s group had three other Resistance veterans; all of them dutifully pretended that they didn’t know who he was until they introduced themselves in the first meeting.

But they did know who he was, no doubt about it. Poe was the pilot on recruitment posters, his X-wing behind him, posed with his flight helmet under his arm, gazing into the sky.

Where is that Poe Dameron? he asked himself. If he ever really existed at all. He had thought he did. But then he had been tortured on a First Order star destroyer; then there was the destruction of a whole star system, billions of people — gone; then he had lost a whole squadron of bombers to destroy a First Order dreadnought; then he had seen Amilyn Holdo sacrifice herself for the Resistance after he had fomented doubt in her leadership; then another planet obliterated — and the guilt of his fleeting first thought: Good. A planet of misery, of bad memories — for him. To others, it was their home; they were gone with it. And Poe had thought Good as if only he mattered. And then General Organa. His North Star. Poe felt as if he were unmoored, drifting through space.

He had kept up his public face — the cocksure flyboy, the unwavering friend, the Resistance die-hard — for as long as he could. Until four months after the battle of Exegol, when Finn had found Poe trembling in the dark on the floor of his Chandrila apartment. They had convinced him to come here — Finn, Rey, Rose. His friends. They were counting on him to get well. Counting on him for the work they all still needed to do. Well, how was he going to do that? He couldn’t shoot down post-traumatic stress disorder with the cannons on his X-wing.

PTSD. That’s what Dr. Tivari said. Nothing to be ashamed of, he said. Poe had been on the front lines of a war that spanned generations. His mind needed to heal after all that he’d been through, all that he’d seen.

And all that I’ve done, Poe added inwardly. He still had never said it aloud.

Poe pulled his blanket tighter around himself against the cool air and settled into the deep seat of the wooden chair. His cabin faced the direction of the rising sun of this planet, whatever it was, and there was a faint blue glow coming through the trees and the foggy air. In an hour, the delivery droid would be by with his breakfast — caff and toast and eggs and fruit. Then he would meet with his group at ten, return to his cabin to do whatever assignment Tivari gave them — journaling or mindfulness meditation or stretching for kriff’s sake — and then lunch in his cabin, one-on-one therapy session with Tivari, then dinner, then sleep, then all of it over again. Sometimes he would read a book — his datapad had no access to the holonet, but it was loaded with the literature of at least fifty systems — but he found it hard to concentrate, losing track of the plots and characters. Most often, he took walks through the quiet forest, never seeing another person. The schedule and the bounds of where guests were allowed to roam ensured that none of them had contact with one another outside of meetings. This had been Poe’s life for the last four weeks.

The routine of this place, the isolation, had a lulling effect. The only sense of time came from the movement of the sun and the alarms that reminded him of meetings. A minute or an hour passing could feel like the same span of existence. Poe kept track of days with hatch marks scratched into the frame of his cabin’s door, the way he had once counted the TIE fighters he shot down on his flight helmet. He found himself napping, something he had never done. But when he napped, at least, he didn’t dream. The nightmares came only at night.

The solitude was part of the treatment, to keep Poe from falling into his coping mechanism — which was to charm every person around him. He had to learn to “sit with himself,” Tivari said. In the first two weeks, Poe had ten panic attacks. Each time, a nursing droid came to his cabin and talked him through it. By the end of the third week, he could mostly do it himself.

But this was the start of the fifth week, and Poe was ready to climb the walls.

Read more

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i’m just drawing some stuff i’m not used to drawing haha

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Dishonored AU The Royal Spymaster I played Dishonored 2 twice in a row so of course my mind went Kylux and I wanted to try drawing in the style of one of these in game paintings you have to collect. I tried.

Keep reading

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I’m so late to the party but let’s begin! Counting down to Halloween - Kylo ren as Ziggy Stardust.

Send me your ideas for characters + costumes <3

Now available on Society6! (x)

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All done and completed 😌😌….these two Evil space husband will be sent off to their new home soon :)!!!

Ps…I hate Kylo…lmaooo! His hair was the worst thing to do…hahha 😂😂😂

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The release of the Hux comic is not too far off now, so here are my suggestions for the variant covers.

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Just what in holy vampire lore is going on here?

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The cinematographer was smitten with him. He’s next level beautiful in this.

Domhnall Gleeson in “Goodbye Christopher Robin”

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Co-emperors

Life update under the read more. 

Keep reading

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Chapters 14 and 15 of Arkanis Is Mine are now up!

Chapter 14: I Can’t Help the Way I Feel

The constable who came to St. Mary’s took the descriptions of the men from Armitage, but Armitage didn’t mention their connection to First Order Manufacturing. Cassandra still hadn’t explained what the police might have wanted to know about what happened at Brendol’s house, but she told him it was best not to get their father involved. Sister Magdalene insisted that he ring his mother at work — she hadn’t been able to reach Bridget to inquire about Cassandra’s absence. Armitage managed to get by with his story about locking himself out of the house and assuring her that he was fine.

Sister Magdalene fixed him in a disapproving stare when he replaced the receiver. “Sins of omission, Mr. Hux,” she said.

“Sister, my mother has enough to worry about. I’m sure I don’t want to tell her over the phone that her son has been pursued by villains whilst in his pajamas. I won’t fail to fill her in on the details tonight, I promise.”

Sister Magdalene raised her eyebrows. “How many details do you manage to keep from her with that silver tongue and roguish look, I wonder,” she said.

Armitage realized he quite liked Sister Magdalene. “I couldn’t have a better compliment,” he said, and she waved him back to the infirmary.

Chapter 15: It’s Written All Over My Face

Some minutes passed before Ben came to Armitage’s door, not with the burst through it as Armitage expected, but with a quiet knock that sounded almost tentative. Ben must have crept up the stairs; Armitage hadn’t heard him approach.

Armitage sat himself up and smoothed the wreck of his hair off his forehead as best he could. He was grateful to have an excuse to have closed curtains and hoped his voice didn’t sound too desperate and injured when he said, “Come in.”

The door opened so slowly that Armitage almost groaned from the tension. He saw the mop of dark hair first, then the dark, concerned eyes and eyebrows drawn together. Armitage could hardly believe it. Ben was peeking around the door, like a child sneaking out of his room at night to watch telly.

Arkanis Is Mine

A slowburn Benarmie romance, set in the post-punk scene of a rainy industrial city

Armitage Hux is determined to be a rock star someday. Only trouble is, he doesn’t have a band. Then, one day, he meets a tall, dark-haired boy named Ben.

—

Chapter 1

I’ll Tell You the Story of My Life

It was raining. Then again, it was almost always raining in Arkanis — not that the slight, slender boy standing in front of the window minded.

“Armitage Patrick Hux,” he said, proclaiming himself to the weather outside, “twenty-one, clumsy and shy — thin as a sheet of paper, and just as useless.”

He threw out his arms and took an exaggerated, dramatic bow.

But paper wasn’t useless, Armitage knew. That was what his father said, and his father didn’t know the value of paper — paper printed with words already written, blank paper with the promise of words yet to be written. The only paper his father cared about was worthless: money — pound notes and cheques with an excess of zeroes.

There was a pounding on the door of his tiny bedroom, and Armitage quickly straightened. His straight, light copper hair flopped over his forehead as he turned toward the door.

“Oy, Armie!”

It was his younger sister, Cassandra. He cracked open the door and she was peering back, with the same green-flecked-with-gray-and-gold eyes as his, her nose crinkled, and her mouth twisted in annoyance.

“The General has seen fit to grace us with his presence this morning, just when it’s most inconvenient,” she said. “Get your arse downstairs before he bombs the moors or something.”

‘The General’ was Brendol Hux, their father — General Manager of First Order Manufacturing, the largest employer in Arkanis. Its factory was source of the gray smoke that darkened the already-always-gloomy sky.

Armitage pushed back his hair, tucked in his shirt, and took off his glasses, which his father told him made him look like a “bloody swot.”

“Such is the lot of bastards, eh?” he said to Cassandra as he stepped out of his room. “Always to be at the beck and call of the whims of their illustrious sire.”

—

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The Supreme Leader sends his regards. 

– Companion piece to my other painting The Grand Marshal sends his regardsHere’s the Supreme Consort/Grand Marshal getting his hands dirty for his husband. (I painted everything but the background, that’s a photo bc I have to go to bed early).