#Had errands

[captainkurosolaire]

I Blade - Choose

Sandal-clogs dashed inside a corridor hidden-away from an Eastern Estate, sweat secreting from a wrinkled forehead, fear written in the visage of a monger, a wielder who manufactured beings-as-weapons, shaped them with causes, purposes, a believed-martyr for those abandoned to darkness.

Blood-pressure accelerating, chest-heaved, padded-black boots now stained red, drew inward... Shriveling plead came, "...Now Rozan; Hoku... We can talk about this. You're unaware the ramifications you'll spill, how deep our cause goes. We're good-guys, our obligation is to carry out-the-will for those incapable to wield." The ploy was to sow further manipulation. Byproduct of damages were written in an almost soulless set of eyes. Seeker vocalized, "I'm not directionless. I'll fight for peace for The Far-East until victory-roars throughout Ruby City-State." Another step came, "But I'm of choice where I'm wielded. You attempted to extinguish that little-bit of light peeking through the crevices; it revealing chain's of deceit were on my hilt." Truth-peered intensely from those glowing-orbs. Star's collapsing on their victims, before certain annihilation. Don of Black Miracle's back-peddled, thoughts of scheme forming in desperation. Word's surely could disarm his renegade-weapon until reaching his trap-room. "I tried to rescue you by sending Hydo after the girl. She'll rust steel; relation's serve corrosive. Haven't I been the perfect-handler for you? What's-she possibly able to offer, I'm unable?!" Expressively trying to instill reason. The Assassin paused, grasping blade-hilt, almost at range. He contemplated from aroma of the contract-flower in-between his coat; sworn to protect, memory's rebooting of tongue tasting that divine liquid of tea that carried weary-travelers heaven, revitalizing senses, subtle movements the Shaman offered in mending. "Soft-Hands. Brightness... Importantly, discovery of my peace." Words conveyed like poetry. Sensations should've been exterminated, tempered from wrathful flames, torture inflicted to soul-crushed discipline. Angered-teeth grated his Manufacturer shouted furiously "Soft-Hands?! Kidding me?! ...That's all!? We could've thrown koban towards any Red-Light District shameless harlot for that. They'd provided all-that aforementioned, gobbling ravenously!" Taking a larger-gap step with a dark motive. Black-maned Lion cornering this bossing rodent squealing, unknowingly didn't desire fleeting reprieve. He slew in that manner. He yearned, more... Wait, when did his identity reveal? A luster-string internally showing a path. ...To Existence of a Heart. Sudden-shifts came as Don Honzo took a leap behind into a room where a detected motion-sensor sealed-up gate of wards offered salvation. The trap-room revealed itself, an insurmountable set of paper scrolls for an inferno spell revealed, all primed upon Hoku's approach soon inevitable detonation. Gloating with maniacal cackling, "Be incinerated you traitorous-tool! Know her weakness; caused your death!" Hand's on hip, proudly. The cowardice-demeanor was just a front of mastered shadow-orchestration. With peerless-composure, Rozan the Star withdrew sword, in instant a magnificent-strike slash of skilled. The preach of weakness foiled wrong, in that desperation moment, he grew stronger... considering that flower needed preservation; life greater than thought. Momentarily becoming weightless... His Don's expression engraved to dumbfounded. Almost worth-tearing to admirable beauty, genuine-fear creeping... The trap scrolls fused-sparks were left blown out like a series of candles, the protective barrier between them; sliced apart. Right as Hoku exhaled, utilizing that perfect technique; his back was unexpectedly smashed from a swinging-secondary trap of a wrecking-ball. He disarmed to instant, hand's in his fall reached out, cradling something from confines; to shield something fragile, collapsing directly in a heap before his Maker. The Don viciously kicked and stomped, "I TOLD YOU, Rust! Reason I'm in-charge, you disobedient, Trash! Ingrate! Vermin!" Kicking continuously, dirt piling amongst garb to slaved-belonging, rib's were being heard rattling cracks, air and spit chucking out of lungs. The twist unseen... seems he needed a miracle.

[Prev:Chapter]: Burned ~ ♪"Renegades"♪

[ardri-na-bpiteog]

Also increasingly aware that a LOT of people "manage" getting through the 40+ hour work week by sleeping less than is healthy and relying on stimulants like coffee and energy drinks to keep them going.

For people who are unwilling or unable to do this...work really does just dominate your life. Like we really should not have to rely on unhealthy practices just to have a social life or keep on top of housework or whatever.

I know I post about this a lot but I'm so TIRED all the time and it's just so depressing that this is how we're expected to spend the one life we have.

[suntails]

happy birthday, silver! ⚔️🎉

[marblerose-rue]

pride 2025

[ac3ofspad3s-on-ao3]

I randomly remembered that one thing of someone asking Techno why he dressed like he was part of the bourgeoise and hie reason was "because styleee"

so uhh, new au where Techno is an anarchist and routinly goes around murdering tyrannical governments. But he dresses like a noble (because he steals stuff from the tyrants he kills). And because he's generally bad at talking to people he ends up at like noble gatherings a lot because people see how he's dressed and assume he was invited.

Which is great sometimes, maybe there's someone at the party he's been meaning to murder. Or it's shit because there's no one at the party but leaving too early would insult the host or something. He doesn't know, he doesn't care to learn the rules of noble society. So he ends up stuck, trying to make sure people realize his cape was the pride and joy of the Tyrant of the North two months ago and his crown and jewels are all pieces missing after assassinations of various political figures.

[ministarfruit]

yuri month day 27: please be here for me ♡

(femslashfeb prompt list)

[mediumgayitalian]

"Don't cry."

"...I'm not."

"Omigods. Will. Don't cry."

"I'm not!"

But there are welled up tears making his eyes looking huge, and even as he bites it his lip still trembles. In seconds there is the slightest of sniffles.

Nico groans, slumping against the handle of the grocery cart. A WASPy mother glares at him in passing. He glares back and sics an errant soul onto her monstrosity of a hairdo for good measure.

"Will," he groans, metal bar digging into his forehead, "Will, it's a lemon."

"I know," Will sniffles, bravely. "Just -- leave it. Let's go."

Nico moves his arm, just enough to watch his too-tall over-empathetic dumbass best friend try and fail to pull himself together in the, and Nico cannot emphasize this enough, very public grocery store in the suburbs of Long Island, where people stare.

And, like.

The staring is not too unusual.

Will is in cutoff shorts and flip-flops. It's early March. Climate change is not that bad yet. The two of them are wearing neon camp t-shirts -- Nico's good, goth t-shirts have been stolen from him to be 'washed' -- and are both, Nico must emphasize again, fifteen years of age, with a grocery cart each full to the actual brim with Pop Tarts, Twizzlers, medical supplies, socks, and silly string. Will is approximately nineteen feet tall. They make a scene. That is a fair evaluation.

But rare is the day where Nico cannot quell the stares by reflecting hellfire into his eyes. Mortals usually flee in terror or at least walk away traumatized. Today they aren't even looking.

"Will," he says, as gently as he can manage. Will looks over, after a minute, and his bright eyes look so glassy and miserable that whoa, hey, Nico can manage a whole lot gentler than he thought he could, can't he. He reaches up and pats a palm against Will's wet cheek, swiping a thumb under his eyes. "Do you. Want." He glances over at the lone, half-dried up lemon on the floor by the produce baskets. "Would you like to take the lemon home with us.

"Yes," says Will quietly. Nico's hand falls away and Will wipes his face, crouching down to scoop it up. He hesitates before putting it in the cart, cradling it against his chest. "It's just." He looks at Nico through his eyelashes. Nico tries to smile encouragingly. Based on the immediate tears and sobbing of a child directly behind Will's shoulders, he is unsuccessful. "If we don't take it, no one will, you know."

"Yes," agrees Nico slowly. "Due to the fact that it is garbage."

Will snatches his hand back like Nico had smacked it, glaring hard. Nico is really starting to consider those bipolar pamphlets Kayla left pointedly on the Apollo table. Yeesh.

"It's not -- garbage! Just because -- just because something isn't as good as everything else doesn't mean it's garbage!"

...Or not.

Ah.

"Ah," says Nico. He clears his throat. "Ah."

Some cultures attribute tact and gentleness to his father -- Death accepts all, and in facts invites all, to reside with Him. He will take your hand and guide you to whence you have never travelled, where you have no kin. He will speak to you in your shock of your life and your triumphs. He, when you have no one, is your compassionate, voluble friend.

Hazel inherited all that, unfortunately. Nico got the dead-eyed stare and fruitiness.

"Uh," he tries, anyway, "if you were a rotten lemon, I would take you home."

Will looks at him skeptically. "You would?"

"Y -- uh, yes. I would make." He wracks his brain. "I would use you to clean surfaces."

"...Oh."

"Yes. Like -- chopping boards, and the like." He makes a karate chop motion with his hand. He immediately takes the hand and shoves it into the untraveled depths of his pocket, which is a challenge due to the fact that it took him forty minutes to paint his jeans on this morning, and vows to cut its quisling digits off as quickly as possible. Why is he alive.

He is grateful at least that his friend is about as stupid as he is.

"That would be a good use for me if I was a rotting lemon," Will agrees. He looks down at the rotting lemon cradled in his hands. "Maybe we will use you to clean."

"Yes," Nico says, gentle coaxing. "Now let's put the lemon in the cart, okay? We're almost done. We just need the nineteen quarts of ice cream Cecil paid me ninety dollars not to disclose to Chiron. Let's go."

"'Kay."

Garbage lemon safely laid among a braid of licorice packages, dead centre in the cart, they move on. The stares follow them, but Will at least does not seem to mind -- used to it, veteran camper that he is -- and slides his arm through Nico's crooked elbow. Nico takes that as the opportunity it is to steer him away from the cake that a nefarious teenager has pushed to the floor, lest that set him off next. They have only minutes until they make it to the cash register, where Nico will pay for whatever Will is watching him scan, and are home free.

"Hey, Nico."

Nico hums, eyeing the self-checkout line. "Yeah?"

"Would we still be friends if I was a worm?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

[liakunemui]

🍃🍊 going on errands comes with a bit of mischief !! (they got told off for riding the carts)

[tazmiilly]

ohhb what's he thinking about

[laurrelise]

i think something interesting about a domestic life post-apocalypse-prevention for five is that he would most likely struggle to cope with the day-to-day in the same way a lot of newly released prisoners do.

in the sense that going to a store and seeing a huge aisle with 9,000 different deodorant brands can be extremely overwhelming for people adjusting to having options at all, i 100% see him getting silently overwhelmed but not really knowing what to do about it. he’s never really had that kind of choice for himself either.

growing up, everything was hand-picked and given to or done for him. in the apocalypse, there was obviously never a choice to begin with. you find something, you take it and make as much use of it as possible. in the commission, i have to assume he was very limited on the things he owned, because there was no reason to be material (if the commission even allowed for it) when the whole thing was a temporary situation he could use to fix his math.

so imagine a physically thirteen five, fresh out of hotel oblivion and finally having found somewhere to stay, going to a store alone to get toothpaste and shampoo and bread and socks. the essentials. and being silently shocked at the sheer amount of options.

also, five is very bad at not over-analyzing everything. everything has a purpose and a motive and a rule of life in his head. i imagine that deciding on something as simple as which coffee maker will be most efficient could feel like life or death to someone who’s never had an option before.

[emsartwork]

Barbie Girls: Elina and Sunburst

In keeping with the disability theme for my modern Fairtopia, Sunburst uses an insulin pump(the back of her upper arm) and she also has a severe food allergy to fish and shell fish (like..... Sparkle fairies can't touch water.... get it....)

[squibo]

Im late but feliz cumpleaños to him🫶☝️(｡ゝω・｡)ゞ

[expelliarmus]

[suntails]

let me out

[song-of-amethyst]

[felsicveins]

When you're talking to Patty, you only have male family members. REMEMBER THAT