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The people yearn for more bloody Gale ✋🏻

my moniter is fucking with my eyes man idek which colour looks good smh

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Art by liquidcoco李奎德

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My manager asked if I've been drawing anything recently and I didn't have it in me to explain whatever this is lol

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Just found this again. It's so very pretty. I want to figure out how to do a kind of digital stained glass version of this.

(I bet Conroy would love that. heh. feels like the painting scene.)

Day17-Hemorrhage (TW gore/ blood)

Whumptober 2021 @whumptober2021​

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(Last chance, skip this if blood’s gonna freak you out.)

So this is and is not Spoilers for my story Captured.

Nor is it an entirely literal depiction of what happened to Harrow-

But if you could see Magic, this is literally what happened to Harrow.

Warlocks and Holy Relics do not mix.

Please do not take this art and stick it anywhere else. Reblogs Very Welcome!

Art Taglist, ask to be added: @yet-another-heathen​ @distinctlywhumpthing​

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i hope im a positive influence on somebody’s life

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will this ever end up in a written chapter? We'll see.

"We don't make deals with devils!!"

"No? I do it all the time; saves effort."

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i hope im a positive influence on somebody’s life

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personal opinion (because this is a conversation I had with my friend) but slow burn can be one shots too. slow burn doesn't have to be exclusive to only multi-chapter works with 50k+ words.

it depends on how you plan your story. if your work is a one shot with 3,000 words in total and the main characters spend about 2,800 words being enemies before they confess their love to each other in those last 200 words, then I consider that a slow burn.

the same can be applied to a fic that is 30 chapter long with 100,000 words too. if the main characters fall in love after only 2 chapters, 6,000 words in then I won't call that a slow burn.

my point, slow burn has more to do with how the story / relationship is planned out throughout the entire work and less to do with word count or how many chapters a fic has. thank you for coming to my ted talk.

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To anyone who'd like to answer, what little thing, like a minor inconvenience or an accidental misfortune, frustrates you the most?

Holly: Just missing the tube. It's so annoying when the doors shut right in your face. I get why they do but-- it tempts me to risk the traffic.

Mulch: Have you ever been eating something soft and then your whole skull shakes with an unidentified hard object between your jaws? That, but with soil.

Juliet: When any of the parents at the twins' school try to talk to me. They know I'm not their mom, and so they try to ask "friendly" prying questions. I've started telling them I'm not allowed to talk to civilians.

Myles: Yes, that approach makes us very popular.

Beckett: For real! Juliet is the most popular not-mom in the school! A lot of boys from school want to come over to meet her.

Myles: That's my annoying inconvenience.

Foaly: The lack of centaur-friendly seating-- anywhere.

Root: HR.

Butler: Mine is when boundaries I thought I'd established are breached without warning.

Artemis: Mine is passive aggression. On a completely unrelated note, because I cannot for the life of me conceive of a smooth segue: what are you wearing?

Butler: I found it in my room. I assumed it was part of some bizarre scheme you didn't tell me about.

Artemis (laughing): Bizarre scheme, assuredly, but not mine.

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They look like agreeable and pathetic men

Utterly unhateable

They look like wet cats

men of progress!!

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thank you ford "go choke on glass" pines for your service. i'll let you get back to filing that interdimensional restraining order now

bonus:

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Why did you animal crossing them

Who are they

They look sad and squishable

men of progress!!

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fealty

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The courtyard is small and square, a scant span of paving tiles boxed in on all sides by the austere concrete walls of the building. Although sunlight glints off the windows of the highest floor, none reaches the ground. In the centre, a square bed of weathered and greening wood supports a clump of struggling, anaemic greenery.

There are two benches, their design functional to the point of brutality. The first hints of rust are just starting to set in where the grey paint begins to chip. On one of them sits a girl with her knees drawn up into the body of her oversize hoody. Sky blue sneakers peek from under the hem. She is reading a slim paperback, its corners crumpled from rough handling.

The general is a tall woman with steel-gray hair. The decades have added fat beneath her chin and around her middle, but her back remains straight as an arrow and her brisk walk does not tax her stamina. The sharp shoulders of her uniform jacket do much to conceal any softness beneath. 

The girl only looks up from the page when the general stops directly in front of her.

“You are Nikef,” states the general. “Called the Annihilation.” “That’s my name.” “I am General Dejhain. It was my understanding that you are to be supervised at all times.” Wordlessly, the girl points at the camera affixed to the side of the building, its unblinking lens watching over the courtyard.

“You will be part of the Andrazh counter-offensive,” the general continues. “Yeah.” “That places you under my command.” The girl has not moved from her position. The book remains open in her hands. “Are you looking for my handler?” she asks. “No. I came to speak to you, Nikef.” “I don’t really do that.”

“I make a point of speaking to as many of the people under my command as possible. Especially the exceptional. And you are the most exceptional that there is.” Her tone does not make it a compliment. Exceptional – an exception, an abnormality. “All my orders go via my handler. That’s the protocol.” “I understand the protocol. I’m not here to give you orders. I’m here to understand you.” “That’s not part of the protocol.” “It is my protocol.”

The girl closes her book. It disappears into the voluminous front pocket of her hoodie.

“You want to understand me? Go watch the Tempest footage.” “I have studied the failure of the Tempest Project. I have seen the footage. You are very impressive.” “That’s not what most people call it.” “I am a military woman. I am not squeamish, and I know the value of a weapon when I see it. You are very precious, Nikef.” The girl’s upper lip twitches, but she says nothing. “Or did you expect me to be afraid of you?” The general’s smile is a thin, worn thing. “I’m not afraid. You are a patriot. A hero. I have no intention of abusing you.” “Glad to hear it.”

For a brief minute, there is silence. The general has the unmoving parade-ground posture of a lifelong soldier. The girl has a different stillness. She still sits casually, knees against her chest, hands buried in her pocket with her book. But there is a wariness in her, the subtle tension of an animal poised to flee – or to spring. Her eyes never move from the eyes of the general.

“Come,” the military woman breaks the silence. “Walk with me. It’s warm inside, and the cafeteria has snacks.” “Aren’t you worried about disrupting my diet?” The general quirks an eyebrow. “I’m not aware of any dietary restrictions.” “Maybe you should check with my handler.” “I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of selecting your own food. Or abstaining, as you prefer. Come on.”

Reluctantly, the girl slides her legs out from under her hoodie and stands up. Above her brightly colored sneakers she wears plain, dark sweatpants. The general turns, and doesn’t look back, fully confident that the girl will follow. She does, but she casts a long look over her shoulder at the watching camera as she does.

“I’d like to get to know you a little,” the general says once the outside door has closed behind them. “You’ve read my file. You’ve seen the tapes. What else is there to know?” “Your loyalty and your commitment to your duty are remarkable. I get the impression that you aren’t often acknowledged for this, but you should be. You are an example to us all.”

The girl remains silent, trailing several steps behind the general. Soldiers stop and salute as they pass.

“I’d like to understand what motivates you, if you would be willing to share.” “It’s very simple.” The girl shrugs her shoulders, although the general is not looking at her. “I’m a weapon, there’s a war on. What else would I do? Hide under a bed until the enemy come for me?” “After what was done to you, it would be difficult to fault you for turning your back on military life.” “I think most people would find it very easy to fault me.” “Well, perhaps. It’s as simple as that, then?” “It’s as simple as that.”

“Would you like anything to eat?” the general asks as they approach the double doors of the cafeteria. “Or a beverage, perhaps?” “Nah,” the girl says. “I ate already.”

The general continues on. The girl hesitates, falling a little further behind, but she follows until they come to a single door flanked by a pair of soldiers. They salute smartly.

“What is this?” the girl asks. “An office I have appropriated for the duration of my visit. Don’t mind the honor guard, their presence is a matter of formality. I thought a little more privacy might make our conversation more comfortable.” At a gesture, one of the soldiers opens the door, and holds it open for them. The girl hangs back. But after a second, she follows.

The general pulls up a chair and sits not behind the desk but to one side, inviting the girl to do similarly. The girl does not sit. She watches the door close, then turns dark, untrusting eyes back to the general.

“I can see that I am failing to set you at ease. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” “Talk to my handler instead?” the girl suggests. “I have a question that I would rather ask you directly. It is a little personal. I would wait until I knew you better, but I’m not sure when I will next have the chance. I am only here for the afternoon.”

More silence.

“Perhaps I should cut straight to the point.” The girl says nothing, but she tilts her head very slightly. “Have you put any thought toward the topic of reproduction?”

The girl blinks. “What?” “Reproduction. Having children. I know it is early.” “I’m fifteen.” “Not too young to have thought about it. Many girls your age already know whether they want children. Do you see that being a part of your future?” “I haven’t thought about it.” The girl’s tone is flat. “I would like you to think about it. Not to put too fine a point on it, it is a matter of national military interest. It’s likely, after all, that your children would inherit at least a portion of your exceptional ability.”

Very slowly and casually, the girl slides her hands out from the front pocket of her hoodie to let them rest by her sides instead. “I want my handler,” she says.

“I’m not asking you to make any decisions now. And obviously you are still too young to bear a child. I would just like you to think about your options.” The girl is silent, and very still. The general appears to take her silence as a cue to keep talking. “If you have no interest in raising children, you also have the option of contributing your genetics without needing to have any involvement at all with the children. There are medical procedures to extract eggs from the body – it’s a very small and safe surgery, nothing to be worried about. Your medical records indicate that you’ve reached reproductive maturity, so you could contribute your eggs at any time, if you so chose.”

“I want my handler,” the girl repeats.

“No one is going to force you to do anything. I merely wanted to make you aware of the option.” “I will not accept surgery.” “Of course, I understand. You could be awake for the entire procedure, if that would make you more comfortable.” “I’m not going to have surgery.” The girl’s voice is clipped now. “Any surgery. I’m not going to make children for you. I’m not going to give you babies to make – a new Project Tempest, to cut open, or whatever you want to do to them. No. No way.”

The general remains unruffled. She does not frown, but she exhales slowly through her nose.

“I see,” she says. “I must say I am disappointed. I had expected a soldier of your commendable loyalty to understand the importance of your unique abilities to this nation. We must all make sacrifices–”

Blue-white light floods the room as the girl lights up from within. The nerves beneath her skin glow blinding-bright Cherenkov blue.

“Do not talk to me about sacrifice,” she growls.

The general begins to raise her hands in a gesture of placation.

The door behind the girl is thrown open.

The girl does not turn, but before the soldiers are even inside the room, slivers of steel have begun to peel from the barrels of their guns, rising as dust into the air like twisting plumes of candle-smoke.

One drops the gun immediately. The other cries out, but keeps a hold of the disintegrating weapon.

“Touch me and die,” the girl says flatly. “No one is going to touch you,” the general insists. “No one is going to force you to do anything.” “I want my handler. Where is my handler?”

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an incomplete taxonomy of christmas music