#hi I haven't posted anything in a while

[eveningrainstorm]

cycle knots

[teddiecircus]

guys i think they burnt the soup

[cruelplatonic]

ruminating on 'the vees died despondent nobodies' thoughts

velvette interrogates vox after she hears him give various conflicting and bombastic accounts on air. a selection of these include: blew his brains out on live television, administered the death penalty for killing his "bitch wife," a tragic accident involving two shetland ponies, dubiously legal iranian yogurts, and a whole lot of cocaine. the actual cause was shockingly ordinary- a heart attack in front of the television, alone, his corpse only recovered after two weeks passed. he was watching a game show and his last mortal regret was never even learning who won, because he died during the commercials.

[varpusvaras]

Something was going on.

Fox could see it from the moment Breha walked into his room. She was trying too hard to look like nothing was wrong, but the expression on her face looked forced, like her skin had been painted over with hardened wax.

She walked over to his bed and sat down. Fox watched her every movement carefully, just waiting for her to open her mouth and say what it was. He watched as she breathed, laced her fingers together, and then decided otherwise and instead reached for Fox's hand, taking it into her own. Fox watched as she stroked her fingers over the back of his hand, slowly, gently, like she was trying to calm down both herself and him.

Fox couldn't take it anymore.

"What is it?" He asked. "Did something happen?"

He was suddenly very aware of the fact that it was only Breha in the room with him. Bail was still supposed to be on Alderaan. He had said that he didn't need to leave for another week. Why was he not here? Had something happened and-

"Bail is alright", Breha said, like she had just read all of his thoughts. "He is just outside the door, actually. We just thought that it was for the best if I came in first and explained this all a little bit first."

"Explained what?" Fox asked. Breha breathed in deeply again, and squeezed Fox's hand.

"I'm afraid we haven't been entirely truthful with you", she started, "please believe me when I say it wasn't because we didn't trust you, the situation was just very delicate, with your health and what is going on in the Galaxy now."

There were too many questions in Fox's mind now, none of which he knew how to ask out loud.

"But everybody is alright?" He asked. Breha smiled at him a little.

"Of course. We just want you to meet someone", she said. "Someone we haven't yet told you about."

She turned around, to look at the door.

"Bail, love", she called. "Come in."

Fox watched as Bail walked in, his eyes immeadiately finding the little body resting in his arms, and his heart jumped up to his throat.

"Fox", Breha said, as Bail stopped next to the bed. "This is Leia. Our daughter."

Fox stared. Stared at the baby in Bail's arms, tinier than even the smallest of Cadets Fox had ever seen, dark brown hair covering its head and its tiny hands grasping onto the front of Bail's shirt.

"I'm sorry we didn't tell you right away", Bail said, apologetic tone in his voice that Fox barely heard over the rushing of the blood in his ears. "The situation was...difficult. You needed to heal, even a little bit, and we didn't want to lie to you about her."

Fox finally managed to lift his eyes from the baby back to Bail and Breha, who were both looking at him with guarded eyes.

"Lie to me about what?" He asked. "This isn't...you didn't have to tell me anything, I'm just-"

"Fox", Breha interrupted him, before his spiralling thoughts could come rushing out of his mouth. "You are part of our family, just as she is. You deserve to know just as much, but we didn't want to stress you out with all of this, before we knew that you were stable enough. We trust you with this knowledge, just as much as we trust each other with it."

"I don't understand", Fox said. He really didn't. Bail and Breha had always talked about wanting a child, so much so that Fox had started to sometimes give himself a permission to want one too, to imagine what it would be like, with all three of them and a little one who would look up to him and call him buir. What more was there to know about that?

Breha squeezed his hands again.

"She is the daughter of Padmé Amidala and Anakin Skywalker", she said, leaving no room for any more questions in Fox's mind.

Fox looked at her. He looked at Bail and his somber eyes, and he looked back down at the baby, still fast asleep in Bail's arms.

There was still one question left, after all.

"Why did you tell me?" He asked. "I'm a breach in security, now. If they find me, they can make me talk."

"They can make me talk, just as easily", Bail said. "They can make Breha talk as well. You are part of our family. You deserve to know just as much as both of us do."

Fox looked at the baby. Leia. Her name was Leia.

It was-

He swallowed hard. There were still things he wanted to say, but he had lost the trust in his own voice.

There was a moment of silence between them, before Bail moved.

"Do you want to hold her?" He asked softly.

Fox looked up at him, and back to Leia.

She was so small. So very small and soft and delicate and important, and Fox wanted nothing more than to make sure that no one or no thing was ever going to hurt her, including himself.

"I-" He tried to say so, but there was something in his throat. "I, I can't, I-"

Have done some many horrible things. Have hurt so many innocent beings already. Have no idea how you can even ask me that.

"You can", Bail said. "I'm going to just lay her on your lap. You don't need much strength in your arms for that. It's alright."

His body had been the last thing Fox had been thinking about right then. The range of motion of his upper body had gotten a lot better recently, even if he still couldn't hold even his own weight up yet. The realisation of that made him feel better, actually. He was too broken to hurt anybody, even a little baby.

He looked at Leia, then up at Bail, and nodded.

Bail smiled, and carefully leaned over and carefully laid Leia's little body on Fox's lap and arms. She was so light Fox barely even felt her, but weighted more than all the stars in the universe.

Even though Bail had tried to be careful, as soon as he let go of Leia, her face scrunched up and her eyes, already darkened to brown, blinked up at Fox.

Fox expected her to cry. To scream. To want back to the warm safety of Bail's arms.

She didn't. She stayed quiet, staring up at Fox, and Fox could almost swear that he felt something tugging at his mind and heart.

Then her face shifted again, and she smiled at him, reaching her little hands towards Fox, and Fox-

Fox cried.

He didn't try to stop it. He just let the tears fall down his face and to his neck, and he let Breha wipe them away without a word.

"You know we don't expect anything from you", Breha said then. "It's entirely your choice to stay with us. But, if you want...she can be yours as well. She can be ours. If you want."

There was still something in Fox's throat, there were still tears running down his face, but he pushed past them to answer.

"Yes", he said. "Yes."

[taminoamirfouad]

photographed by: charlie gray 2023 (x)

[everye]

tw blood, gore

My Heaven

sh1 locations usually don't get much recognition so i feel like adding some explanatory notes on it (just in case)

the place is the secret chamber in Green Lion Antiques where distracted from prayer alessa is having a tender moment gazing at the point where God's painting is supposed to be

(GOD- IM TRULY BEWITCHED BY THIS GAME THE WAY IT NEVER THROWS STRAIGHT FACTS IN UR FACE AND WISELY KEEPS ATMOSPHERE OF UNDERSTATEMENT TILL THE VERY END SO FKING CHARMING–)

whatever ceremonial stuff it is, it had started to burn before one of harry's passing out

and due to perspective in my drawing alessa stands directly on it ..

i'd like to sum up the post w little art comparison bc i also pursued the goal to redraw one of my old drawings

the first one is pretty rough for sure still luv both of them tho

june 2021 august 2022

seems like i had come to better understanding of what im trying to achieve in terms of composition COLORS and whatnot

ьььь

[here-comes-the-bard]

12 am thinking about the fact that yaevinn gave nithral the prey animal rage stare when nithral tried to stop him from, let's be real, waltzing into his fucking death. and then later was like. hey get in my arms. no shut up let me hold you. why aren't you scared of him he could kill you he has almost killed you

^ immediately after typing this i realized that these came off as yaevinn thoughts in third person lmao i was kidding but man imagine yaevinn having time to become aware of his body count (in the "missed his calling as an assassin" way. his other body count is 2. and the second body was a mutual decision he made with his partner that he is in a monogamous relationship with. abyway that's so not what this post is about god i need to go to fucking bed dude)

[aletheialed]

Right now, wine glass in hand and staring vacantly into the dark corners of the room in which he dwells - Barok can't help but think about his brother. To think about Klint during hard times, the man who he's always admired so much, has always come naturally to him - but it can't bring him any comfort now.

The truth is, Barok doesn't know what he should feel more betrayed about. The fact that the brother he'd wanted to emulate all his life was nothing but a killer, who's actions resulted in the ending and ruining of so many lives, including Barok's own? Or... is it that, until the very end, Klint was too afraid to share that horrible truth with him, even when that fear allowed him to be controlled into committing the most heinous acts imaginable?

It makes him want to laugh with a bitterness he hasn't felt in years. It makes him feel ill; desperate and angry and like a fraying rope about to snap. Perhaps it's sinful, and a sign of Barok's own weak character, that Klint's lack of trust in him might be what hurts the most. Had he thought Barok would break under the weight of the truth, and sought to protect him from that fate? What's worse is that Barok doesn't know how he would've reacted deep down. What's the scarier thought - that Barok would've turned away in despair and been unable to carry on just as his brother feared, or that he would stand with Klint, perhaps even turning a blind eye to his crimes...?

...There's no point in thinking about it now. But if he doesn't think about Klint, then there's no shortage of other things to take his place at the forefront of his mind. Such as the true identity of the Reaper, and how Barok had been complicit in his crimes for the longest time - allowing himself to be used and manipulated like a puppet on a string, even when he didn't see the full extent of it all.

His whole life, these past ten years in which he thought he'd endured so much, all for the sake of the people of London... what were they all for?

When he hears the knock on the door, it's tempting to ignore it entirely - he barely has the energy to stand, anyway. He doesn't know who it could possibly be, considering everything, but... in the end, he rises like a man possessed, and finds himself walking to open the door as if in a trance. What he sees when the door opens is the last thing he expects.

"Mr... Naruhodo...? You... pray tell, what are you doing here at this hour?"

@tenacquity ( starter! )

[smile-files]

i continue to find ii3 baffling. why did they make it (this isn't to hate on the season, i'm genuinely curious)

[batsplat]

casey also talks about sepang 2015 what do you think of that

oh in that podcast? uh... lemme listen again...

yeah idk it's not really anything new I'd say? he's said basically all the same stuff in more interesting and extensive ways elsewhere. I think casey inevitably has a very 'well feuding is bad and helps nobody' point of view, has expressed that before in the past, does it here again, and he's also drawn a parallel between himself and marc on several occasions. which... well, of course there's similarities in terms of public discourse or whatever, but the parallel really falls apart whenever casey argues the feuds cost valentino. like, I do think it's sometimes important to just. keep in mind. it's interesting that casey draws this comparison in his mind but that doesn't necessarily means he's right about this. I'm not sure how you'd argue that starting a feud with casey cost valentino anything competitively? you can argue it didn't help him I guess, and then we can have a debate about the ins and outs of the 2008 season. we can also have an argument that in a hypothetical world where casey isn't ill in 2009, valentino doesn't break his leg and casey isn't on a piece of junk in 2010, and valentino isn't on a piece of junk in 2011-12, then actually maybe valentino sparking open animosity with casey COULD have cost him. but we don't know that! didn't happen! I wish we could have found out, but we never got the chance! as it stands, the tally on this is pretty straightforward: casey won the title when things were reasonably civil between them in 2007, and valentino took control of the following season at the exact moment he worsened the relationship between the pair of them in 2008. obviously, it's all more complicated than that and casey would of course argue laguna didn't negatively affect his subsequent performances... but it certainly didn't help them. like, at the very worst valentino escalating tensions in 2008 is a complete net neutral. after 2009, them being bitchy to each other every other tuesday was completely competitively irrelevant beyond maybe affecting how they approached occasionally fighting for a podium position. hey, maybe casey used that feud to fire himself up through sheer spite throughout the later stages of his career, but that doesn't actually support his anti-feud stance - it's basically the exact same thing as what valentino does. they're both quite similar in that regard! always so hungry to prove a point, to show how someone else is wrong. kinda half the point with this feuding business is to get yourself going, get yourself motivated, yeah. he straight up openly admits to using yamaha's repeat rejection of him as a way of giving himself motivation, and at the end of the day that's really not all that different?

anyway, what else does casey say... oh yeah, that him and the other aliens were already kinda prepared for this and had learned vale's tricks. that valentino had only been able to get into the minds of the previous generation. welllllll *wiggles hand* sure, I mean, he did clearly have to change his approach... he couldn't just use the exact same playbook to get to them, either on-track or off-track. but that's why he did change up the playbook... again, whether you want to believe valentino won his final two titles 'in the head' rather than just through pure pace kinda depends on how you assess the evidence, but it is at the very least a debate. and, y'know, it's always worth remembering that valentino's most important mind games with casey didn't happen in a press conference... it was on the track. and the on-track stuff really is just embedded in how valentino approaches winning. speaking of aliens, this is what dani and jorge have said:

like, valentino's entire approach to his riding, even to the way he's setting his bike up, is deliberately about directly fucking with you... he's not actually always trying to be faster than you as much as he's trying to give himself the tools to make your life miserable, to pressure you into mistakes, etc etc... and again, especially with casey (if anything because he was so mentally sturdy), the off-track stuff was really just window dressing. (I know they bicker a lot after 2009 but it's just so fundamentally irrelevant to actual on-track competition.) so you can be aware of those tricks, but it also doesn't necessarily help you when someone's being nasty to you on-track in a way you just fully do not enjoy. which is what it was like for casey! for casey, a lot of this comes back to the truly unpleasant context of how he was perceived by the public, how he was treated as mentally weak or 'broken' or whatever partly because he had the misfortune of coming up against a bloke who had the reputation for breaking rivals. I think it's quite natural to end up with a bit of a hardliner 'actually I've never been mentally affected by a result in my life' stance - and of course casey is a lot tougher than a lot of people give him credit for. that being said. sometimes your rivals affect you, shit happens, it's part of the game. it's fundamentally a nice idea to think that valentino's tactics weren't just morally wrong but also ineffective, which is kind of the appeal of this narrative, right? you want to believe you're above that, you want to believe you were adequately prepared and wise to valentino's tactic. it's unsurprising and understandable that casey does tend to tell the story that way, but again it's *wiggles hand* also hard to describe it as completely factual

uh. what else. oh I'm thrilled casey does canonically know valentino and marc were friends, he has said he wasn't following motogp too much during that time period so you couldn't be sure of that. does this mean anything? does it tell you anything? well, no, but it's just a pleasing thought to me. I like that. oh also 'provoking particularly aggressive riders isn't a good idea' is kinda a funny take from casey? like, he of all people would hate the idea of being cowed by someone's reputation like that... casey's right that provoking fast riders can potentially be dangerous, but y'know I do think that's probably not news to anyone almost nine years later. um. that's all I've got I think

[xcziel]

the VIP photocards?!?!!!

[skrunksthatwunk]

ok i know everyone says "love like you is soooo xyz shipcore" but i need you to know it's kuwameshicore to me. song's got yusuke written all over it arright. in case you don't have the lyrics memorized like i do here they are

[arsenicflame]

the fundamental basis of a 'sams izzy' for me is that he has to be someone canon izzy looks at and thinks "... i could have had this?"

i dont think everything would have gone perfectly if izzy had gone with sam, but i do think maybe he would have been happier than our izzy is when we see him, and i want our izzy to see that and just... wonder. wonder if he made the right decisions. was he right to go with edward? is he happy with his life?

[bosspigeon]

the past upon a funeral pyre

A backstory snippet for my Tav, Pyre. Warnings: references to past slavery/abuse, survival sex work, and misgendering

When he breathes the air on the western coast of the Sea of Fallen Stars for the first time, he almost weeps. So far from Thay, the skies are clearer, brighter blue. There is so much sky beyond the rocky cliffs and cruel stone walls and bleak darkness.

By now, his master’s grand manor must be nothing but smoldering embers and unnatural corpses finally given rest. When the master died, so did every last undead servant that staffed the wretched place, collapsed over whatever task they tended when the magic animating them fizzled out. He left behind a mausoleum, fled under cover of night, with as many valuables as he could conceivably carry to pay his way to Aglarond.

It was not an easy journey. His master had him trained in all manner of art and conversation, fine literature and the other myriad entertainments befitting the highest class of concubine, but none of those arts included the means to survive on his own. He could only guess which of the things he grabbed in his blind panic were actually of worth. The intricacies of economics are not terribly important to the work of a disgustingly wealthy man’s personal whore, and so he never learned them. He didn’t have much trouble, at least, when he was handing over fist-sized jewels for something more discreet to wear than the skimpy finery his master preferred for him. The merchant was left gawking at the pile of fine silk and gold ornaments he left behind. His new clothing is roughspun, dull, and poorly fitted, but he does not stand out beneath the drab grey hood, which is exactly what he wanted.

There are no doubt enough riches left behind in the smoking ruin of that cage to fill a dragon’s hoard and then some, and he takes a grim satisfaction in knowing that most of them likely burned to nothing the same as the body of the man who kept him prisoner.

By the time he made it to Aglarond, his bag was significantly lighter. It was a long trek, and he traded cut jewels and mithril chains, candlesticks and gilded mirrors for food, transport, and reasonably safe sleeping accommodations. It was uncertain going for one who had never set foot beyond the walls of a grand manor house populated by milky-eyed corpses drenched in perfumed oils to hide the smell of decay and puppeteered by the will of a madman. He left behind a life of miserable luxury, and the reality of freedom is cold nights and blistered feet and hunger pangs, but he knows that a gilded cage is still a cage, and he would sleep on cold stone floors and bleed through his ill-fitting boots for a hundred years more before he would return to the life he left behind.

When he reaches the end of his stock of stolen riches, he drops the last of his coins into the greedy palm of a sunburnt youth who tells him the comings and goings of the ships in Aglarond’s harbor, and points him towards a privateering vessel bound for Westgate in the morning.

He buys his way aboard the ship with a bottle of wine and the only skill he was taught that has any use beyond the high-echelon backbiting and peacocking of the archmages of Thay.

He hasn't told the captain his name, but then again, the captain has not asked. He's called him all manner of pet names, crude "compliments" babbled in the throes of pleasure, but never so much as bothered to ask his proper name–the one drawn in delicate script over the surface of the bottle sitting in his quarters, the one sealed with a painted succubus kiss.

A few weeks confined to the captain’s quarters tending to the man’s carnal desires is a paltry nothing compared to a century of miserable servitude, and it passes with a sort of hollow dullness. He spends much of the time lying on his back, staring numbly through a porthole at the endless sea and sky, the animal grunting and curses and tedious filth fading away under the sound of the crashing waves, the calls of the gulls wheeling by, and the siren song of a new life beyond the horizon.

"You could stay, pretty devil," the captain purrs over his shoulder. He draws his cloak more tightly around him, shuddering at the man's slimy tone, heavy with innuendo. "The ship's never had such luck on such a long voyage. I lost no men, we weathered no storms. You've been a blessing from the gods, my lovely."

He feels the captain crowding closer behind him, but he keeps his gaze resolutely on the docks, close enough now that the crew on the deck below are calling back and forth to one another, the vessel shudders and bobs beneath his bare feet as the anchors are dropped, as the sails are hauled in.

My lovely.

His lip curls as he feels the captain's breath against his cheek, hot and moist and making the golden trinkets in his ear sway and tinkle against one another. It smells of bitter liquor and salted fish. In his mind's eye, the man over his shoulder is dark-haired, elven, only just showing the signs of his seventh century in the creases on his dour face and grey at his temples, not a stocky human man marked by scars and weathered by years at sea.

His eyes do not leave the dock, closer now, the ship smoothly gliding to a stop. Just a bit closer, and the crew will lower the gangplank, and he will finally be free.

He thinks of his wings, left mounted over the grand fireplace in his master's study, a testament to his first and last flight, his first and last attempt to escape while his master still breathed. He wishes more than ever he could fly now, when freedom, true freedom, is so close he can taste it on the balmy saltwater breeze.

His wings are likely one of the few things that will have survived the fire that consumed what was his grand and gilded prison for nearly a hundred years.

"I never got your name," the captain croons in his ear like a lover. "I would have it painted on the hull of my ship, so she could always bear your gift. I would have a likeness of you carved as the figurehead, and have you warm my bed and bring my crew luck for the years to come."

Pretty words, prettier than the things the captain called him while he was beneath him, like they shared something romantic, rather than the truth of it–a transaction. It was simply the price he paid for a way to leave the ashes of his old life, could it even be called a life, behind.

The ship jolts and shudders to a final stop, he sways with the motion, and the captain sways too, but uses the momentum to slide a hand beneath the cambion's loose-fitting clothes to grope possessively at his chest.

It's instinct. His body reacts without thinking, fire blazing under his skin and bursting outwards. The captain cries out, stumbles away, and the flames dripping from the devil's skin follow like slavering hounds. He turns to face the flailing, screaming human and he can feel sparks dripping from his eyes, licking from between his bared teeth.

"You may call this ship a tomb when she sits at the bottom of the sea," he snarls as the wood begins to hiss and smoke and crack beneath his feet. "And you will never touch me again."

He does not wait to see the captain's fate. He traverses the ship's deck and crosses the gangplank, leaving a burning trail in his wake. It doesn’t take long for the crew to notice the rapidly spreading flames, and while a few of them try in vain to put them out or at least to slow the spread, others simply jump ship and swim to safety.

 He holds his head high as he turns his eyes to the sea, to the horizon where, far beyond the ship slowly being engulfed in hellish flame, sits a crumbling pile of ash and blackened stone, a funeral pyre for the man who held him prisoner, and for the girl he used to be.

[fordanoia]

I was thinking about stuff again and looking into the transcript and this exchange really does just pull some unspoken weight in it

Stan: How did things get so messed up between us? Ford: We used to be like Dipper and Mabel. The world's about to end and they still work together. How do they do it? Stan: Easy. They're kids. They don't know any better.

Of course we know Stan and Ford’s whole deal, but the whole sentiment here really just pulls a tragic note

There’s this unspoken acknowledgement that they both want to have a relationship, but (at this point) it’s treated as something that just... can’t happen

There’s a sentiment a lot of times that if you really love someone and they love you - that things turn out fine. Or at least, on the surface you’d think ‘well why would we ever stop being close?’ because logically, it doesn’t make sense

But in practice - it happens. It’s a falling out where you still both love each other, but now there’s this obstacle

really love the show for having this moment between them btw

And here in the show - Stan and Ford both see so much of how they used to be in Dipper and Mabel

Even here though where Ford directly draws that parallel though - he’s not connecting how they’re able to not squabble when everything’s going wrong - how they pull together instead of apart when the stakes turn high

and Stan saying it’s because they don’t know any better-

It just really paints a picture of how behind the pair of them are to Dipper and Mabel - especially after the Mabel-land episode

The Little Dipper episode is an instance where Dipper and Mabel have a similar squabble to the Stans’ petty hand-holding debacle, but afterwards they open up to one another and stuff is fine again.

-

The thing about this whole thing - it’s not that Dipper and Mabel never have moments of broken trust between each other or insecurities or anything like this - it’s that when this stuff happened they were eventually able to open up to one another and that’s how they got through it and came to work together without bickering

Because it’s not about blind or naive trust - it’s about that trust and putting in the effort to show some vulnerability and even talk about stuff instead of burying it down

Stan and Ford’s relationship acts as an obvious cautionary foil to Dipper and Mabel’s own, and it’s tragic because like with Dipper & Mabel you can see how Stan & Ford could also have possibly reconciled.

And the tragic thing in this set of lines is that, they really don’t understand and they still view it as this near-impossible thing for themselves.

[floweroflaurelin]

I've spent the beginning of January moving, settling in and getting into the school semester which is why I've been gone for a little while. I'm hoping to be back with new paintings again soon! 😊