#i fixed a lil typo

[kinslain]

@chidoricry asked:

Sasuke proceeds to drag his brother by the ear. “You’re coming home for your birthday. Oka-san is expecting you.”

Amidst the rush of gathering last-minute supplies for his party and reconnecting with familiar faces from school, Itachi had lost track of time. Although his mother had urged him to be quick, he finds himself seated on a stool, bewitched by a plate of dango. A birthday treat from one of his aforementioned school friends. It would be impolite to refuse, he reasons, mouth watering in anticipation.

“Itadakima-ouch!” A sudden jolt disrupts his reverie, drawing Itachi’s gaze to the disgruntled expression worn by his little brother. For a fleeting, yearning moment, his gaze flits back to the dango, only for his attention to be redirected as tiny fingers clamp down. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!” Before he can devise a plan of action, Sasuke tugs, and Itachi, knowing resistance could cost him dearly, acquiesces by sliding silently off the stool. “You can let go now.” The pleading falls on deaf ears and Sasuke, holding his ear hostage, continues his march of shame through the Uchiha compound. Walking while hunched is an awkward affair, so Itachi wraps a hand around a small wrist and stops, compelling his brother to pause mid-stride.

Lowering himself to a crouch, Itachi places both palms on Sasuke’s round cheeks and smiles at the distorted expression that greets him in return. “Thank you for collecting me.” Then, effortlessly, he hoists his brother up and onto a hip. His ear burns and continues to do so as Sasuke refuses to let go of it: at least until he has safely escorted his charge to his intended destination. Which is fine. At least Itachi can walk properly now. 

[sweet-marigold]

Full impsona ref!

I love her sm

[chasing-faith-and-fate]

Moon 1

Moon 0 | Moon 2

[mmercurii]

Keeping up this week with Homra--

Will Kusanagi ever get a break? And will Mikoto ever give a single fuck?? Stay tuned for the next episode

---

Might need to open the first image in a new tab :'))

[mothiepixie]

Thinking about Symbiote NM au. Lil fic, i suppose.

Dream will notice the extreme distance between Motti and him has made their relationship almost nonexistent. It's beyond normal, he notes, and it hurts him deeply.

He didn't want to reject Motti. There was nothing more than wanting to accept her feelings when she confessed. Bring her into his arms and relish in the love radiating off her body into his very core.

But now, he only knows the cold air. The lingering fragrance of her perfume. He doesn't remember the last time he heard her laugh. That cute snort when she laughs a little too hard or the crinkles at the corner of her eyes.

As he confronts her, the air around her is so thick with negative feelings. Dream wonders did his rejection really hurt that much?

"I haven't seen you for months. You do not come for practice anymore." He tells her. His voice filled with grief that he attempts to overshadow with a calm concern.

Motti can't look him in the eye. She looks like an animal trapped in an corner that it sends alarm bells throughout Dream's body.

"I've just been really preoccupied." Motti finally speaks, not once glancing up to look him in the eyes. He feels waves of her lies wash over him and it twists his nonexistent stomach.

"I have been so worried about you. I miss you." He speaks gently, almost cautionary as not to spook her.

He is overwhelmed with a wave of resentment. Thick miasma of confusion and hurt. Motti bites her bottom lip, looking as if she is fighting within herself.

"Don't say that to me." Her voice sounding pained.

Dream was more than worried now. Something was terribly wrong. No sooner reaching a hand out to place on her shoulder, he drew his hand back as if he had been burnt.

His eyelights shift from his simmering hand back to Motti and felt a sense a dread wash over him.

Black ooze seeping around her shoulder Dream had just touch. Tiny and sharp like thorns. Slowly, tendrils of black ooze start to encase around Motti's face.

It pooled around her left eye like a blackhole. A brilliant aquamarine eyelight shot open from the abyss.

A deep gritty voice chuckled, "Hello, brother."

Dream's body went rigid, "What- I thought you were-....what are you doing here? Inside her??"

Nightmare hummed with a twisted smile, a tendril coming to caress Motti's cheek, "Picking up the pieces you broke."

[milk-lover]

Y’all help me, my paper has a 5 page limit, section 1 of 4 is 3.5 pages already.

[waywardsalt]

bellum x linebeck chapter summary drafts that won those polls:

chapter 8

chapter 14

chapter 20

[avengier]

overnight, where there was once nothing now found many places in the city plastered in a multitude of (honestly, to be frank, gaudy) posters, accompanied with a small pamphlet of what to expect. upon closer inspection, people would deduce that it was an advertisement for a large dance, hosted in the mistwoods at a lavish castle hidden away in its forests. of course, the pamphlet itself describes that anyone — and everyone — was welcome to show up as they pleased and to leave whenever they were done.

not only that, but there was no need for an invitation, that emphasis all stated clearly in broad, bold letters at the bottom of the page.

food and beverage would be provided, with permission to wander its halls and grounds being allowed by its host, as well as there being music and other forms of entertainment beyond dancing to be had whether inside the castle walls or in its outside court areas. and though it decidedly says ball, none can deny that the entire description reads off more like a generalized party than something pointedly elegant, even if there was an encouragement to dress in your finest. regardless, any who found this were all welcome to attend.

regardless, whoever decides to show up would be welcome until morning calls.

——

how do you do, fellow isolans? on the evening of may 6th, jalter here has decided to host an all expenses paid large, extravagant party at her castle in the mistwoods! honestly, she has no real reason for doing it other than being kind of extra and wanting to, especially with a personal home at her disposal to do it. everyone is welcome to participate and use this little activity for prompts as they please and if you decide you want to go, there's also no need for your characters to get all fancied up unless you want them to despite her labeling it as a ball, so don't worry on that! you can show up in your normal every day clothes or all glammed up, whatever you fancy for the night.

while the party officially starts and takes place for a single night on MAY 6TH, 6PM EST, you're also welcome to use this as a prompt for starters or other things as you please for a few days after the fact, up to may 10th, so everyone can have a chance to join in if they'd like to. this is also just a fun dash activity and not anything like an official event or anything like that!

[whyoneartheven]

For the first time in my time on this website I’m tired enough to be making constant typos and it’s a strange feeling that is for certain

[yuridotcom]

just watched scream 6, it was saur good

[the-dragonlich]

Girl help, I forgot how much having a rare pair kind of sucks

[unproduciblesmackdown]

oh the broadway world review of summer stock (a) loved it as much or more than anyone (b) has as much or more info than anyone and (c) generally has the most vivacity thus far

Summer Stock made its world premiere at The Goodspeed Opera House to a most deserving enthusiastic standing ovation. Based on the 1950 MGM film starring Hollywood legends Judy Garland and Gene Kelly, Summer Stock is a spectacular production with phenomenal dancing, feel-good music, and a sweet story, all modernized for today’s audiences.

Audiences will recognize and love hearing classic songs by Irving Berlin and from The Great American Songbook, including “Happy Days are Here Again”, “Accentuate the Positive”, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows”, “It’s Only a Paper Moon”, “Me and My Shadow”, “Red Hot Mamma”, “’Til We Meet Again", and “You Wonderful You”. Summer Stock’s writer, Cheri Steinkellner, takes the original film story to a whole new level that both contemporary and classic theater goers will absolutely adore. Steinkellner provides additional lyrics to upgrade the story to first class. It’s hard to believe that she “got the call” to write Summer Stock in October, completed the workshop draft by March, and had the rehearsal draft ready by June for a July opening. Steinkellner clearly works well under pressure - Summer Stock is a diamond.

In the Writer’s Notes, Steinkellner elaborates on the restrictions of bringing the film to stage (like how heavy farm machinery wouldn’t fit up on the Goodspeed stage) and how she tackled answering the many questions that the original film glossed over: “Why is a Shakespearean matinee idol starring in a musical in a barn? What happens when you make show-people wake up at sunrise to muck out the stalls?” and more. She repositioned and repurposed the film’s original songs like “Howdy Neighbor” and “Dig for Your Dinner”, so the classic elements that film fans are looking for are still there - only, frankly, much much better. Lastly, she addresses the challenge of “crafting a [contemporary] story to support a diverse cast of characters with intention, authenticity, and care.” Steinkellner rose to the challenge, knocked it out of the park, and created a great musical in record time.

The story is simple and sweet. Set just after World War II, we meet Jane Falbury (Danielle Wade), a doting daughter working the family farm with her father, Lt. Henry “Pop” Falbury (Stephen Lee Anderson). The Falbury Farm is in trouble thanks to the devious and ambitious Margaret Wingate (Veanne Cox), who has grand aims for a monopoly over the Connecticut River Valley. Scheming with her naive son, Orville (Will Roland), they will stop at nothing to own the farm. Meanwhile, Jane’s showgirl sister, Gloria (Arianna Rosario), has moved to The Big Apple to make it on Broadway. She wins a spot in the chorus line of Joe Ross’ (Corbin Bleu) brand new show. With his sidekick and music director, Phil Filmore (Gilbert L. Bailey II) in tow and a Shakespearean star, Montgomery Leach, ready to take center stage, they hit a snag when they lose their rehearsal space. Gloria suggests uprooting the show to rehearse in her family’s barn. Jane, who is fresh out of farm hands, reluctantly agrees to let the actors stay in exchange for earning their keep. The company’s tight harmonies might not charm Jane at first, but they certainly had us swooning. I won’t spoil the entire plot, but will say that hilarity ensues, hearts flutter, dreams are realized, and it’s wonderful.

When I first heard about Summer Stock, I cynically thought that it felt too familiar. The show is set on a Connecticut farm whose owners have fallen on hard times and risk losing their livelihood. They turn to their Broadway friends, who are amidst the usual uphill battle of making it big in show business, and agree to put on a brand new production in the barn to raise funds to save the farm. It’s based on the film of the same name, features music by Irving Berlin, and includes incredible tap numbers, and spotlights America’s sweetheart Corbin Bleu. Hearing that alone, I’d think this was a copy/paste of Tony Award-nominated Holiday Inn: The New Irving Berlin Musical, which opened at The Goodspeed in 2014 and went to Broadway in 2016. We’ve seen a number of Irving Berlin musicals, including White Christmas, and the most recent Broadway production Nice Work if You Can Get It, starring Kelli O’Hara and Matthew Broderick. So, what more is there to add to this Broadway subgenre? If you’d asked me before, I would argue there’s “Nothing More to Say”. I was very wrong. Summer Stock raises the bar with phenomenal choreography, clever storytelling and humor, beautiful orchestrations, and unparalleled performers.

Speaking of unparalleled performers, the cast is perfection. There’s not a single throwaway line or character. They’re all exquisite gems and I’m running out of words to compliment them all. The “city mice” dancers and ensemble features Erika Amato, Hannah Balagot, DeShawn Bowens, Ronnie S. Bowman Jr., Emily Kelly, Francesca Mancuso, Tommy Martinez, Corinne Munsch, Gregory North, Kaylee Olson, Jack Sippel, and Cayel Tregeagle. Danielle Wade sweetly croons just like Judy Garland and swept audiences off their feet. As I left the theater, I overheard two ladies praising Wade for her stupendous performance, saying it was perfect likeness of Garland, yet even more meaningful. Arianna Rosario, as the sugary sweet sister, is absolutely delightful. Stephen Lee Anderson, as  the veteran and father, tugs our heart strings. Gilbert L. Bailey II and Will Roland had the crowd roaring with laughter as the feisty music director and innocent corporate heir. Veanne Cox, as the melodramatic mother and CEO of Wingate Agricultural Corporate, had the crowd roaring with laughter from the moment she spoke her first line. Not to be outdone, J. Anthony Crane, as the over-the-top Shakespearean star, brought down the house with his entrance alone. Together, Cox and Crane generate instant heat, which is especially appropriate since they rock the stage with Red Hot Mamma. The cheeky, interspersed Shakespearean innuendo is fast-paced, clever, and had the audience hooting and hollering. I would see the show again for this duo.

Last, but far from least, Corbin Bleu, as the show’s director, gives the performance of a lifetime. Bleu radiates pure joy and leads with heart, inviting his scene partners to shine with him. Audiences instantly fell in love with his gorgeous, velvety voice, and, understandably, swooned. Bleu previously won the Chita Rivera Award for Outstanding Male Dancing in a Broadway Show for his portrayal in Irving Berlin’s Holiday Inn, and his transcendent tapping in Summer Stock shows he’s not stopping there. Bleu’s dancing is out of this world! You can’t miss his charming and virtuosic spin on Gene Kelly’s iconic solo dance, featuring the world’s most unexpected dance partner. Corbin Bleu is a national treasure.

The 8-piece orchestra, lead by Goodspeed’s resident music director Adam Souza, performs the remarkable orchestrations, by Doug Besterman, beautifully. The score is demanding, but the musicians don’t let us see them sweat. As much as I’m gushing, I would recommend shifting the show to one hour earlier and give it a little trim. Not a haircutter’s inch, but a discreet tidy-up. As it turns out, I was in slight agreement with the obnoxious subscribers behind me, who disrupted a precious moment to voice their complaints, “This is two hours and forty minutes? Way too long!” I nearly turned to fisticuffs in defense of this phenomenal cast, but chose to deliver an icy, yet effective, glare. I digress, but Goodspeed subscribers are truly spoiled with top-rate performers straight from the Broadway stage. In any case, we could use a couple more developmental scenes to fully flesh out the plot, and I’d be willing to sacrifice by shaving a bit off some of the longer dance numbers (“Everybody Step” and “Dig For Your Dinner”) and songs. (Not too much! Just an inch! And don’t dare recast any characters!)

That isn’t to say that the dance performances weren’t epic: Summer Stock has the best dancing I have ever seen, hands down. The virtuosic ensemble, lovingly called “city mice”, perfectly deliver wildly acrobatic displays all with impossibly high-energy and make it look easy. Director and choreographer, Donna Feore, has made an unforgettable, magnificent Goodspeed debut. Feore makes use of every inch of the stage, making it feel larger than life, and her attention to detail is unsurpassed. The choreography is out of this world! Wilson Chin, scenic designer, set the stage beautifully. The Technicolor New England farm-turned-theater is framed with classic red-sided barn, delicate florals climbing the walls, and hurricane lanterns lovingly displayed as accent pieces. Summer Stock is Goodspeed’s best original production ever. The 12, which opens next, has very big shoes to fill. Summer Stock has its eyes set on Broadway. Does Summer Stock deserve a Broadway run? Absolutely. In this critic’s opinion, it couldn’t get there soon enough.  Perhaps my favorite aspect of the production were the many comedic theater flourishes. Broadway audiences will cry with laughter when they watch the city mice (actors) learn how to play the part of farmhands: “What is the farmer’s motivation?” “E-I, E-I!” Frankly, I want an original cast album yesterday. Finally, when it opens on Broadway, you’ll wish you had seen it at The Goodspeed first.

[shy-sapphic-ace]

A Night In Venice

(a short story I wrote)

In Italy, a certain time ago (though it still stands today, I'm sure) there was a city called Venice. It was beautiful, and lively, with its old buildings and old statues and canals and gondolas. It was old, yes, but also full of life.

And in that city, there lived a girl.

Her name was Eleanor, but she preferred to be called Lea. She was looking for the mayor, who was her brother. But she couldn't find him, so she wandered the streets of Venice in search of him.

This was a little difficult for her, as the streets of the town were quite busy that night. You see, that night there was a carnival, a procession of dancers and singers in masks and costumes parading down the streets. It was always some carnival or another in Venice... Venetians loved their carnivals.

(Do they still today? I haven't been there is so long.)

-

Lea walked, and walked, through the masquerade and the costumed dancers and the merchants by the street-side and the gondolas in the canal, and she met some people.

-

On her way, she met a baker, her apron covered in flour and sugar in her sandy-blonde hair. Her eyes were warm and cheerful.

"Hello," said the baker. "Would you care for a pastry?"

"No thank you," said Lea, looking at the display in the bakery's window. "But they look delicious."

In the window, she saw cakes of every height imaginable; icing of every colour, with sugar-spun flowers gently resting atop little cupcakes and jam tarts and chocolate croissants, nut pies and berry pies and fruit pies and cream pies, large loaves of bread and twisted pretzels, bumpy buns and round flatbreads and long baguettes, sugar-dusted doughnuts with colourful sprinkles and cookies with nuts and raisins and chocolate and dry, crispy biscuits ready to be dipped in hot tea or warm chocolate.

"Have you seen the mayor?" Lea asked once she turned away from the window. "I'm looking for him."

"Oh, yes! I did," the baker smiled. "He went over there, I believe."

She pointed down the street.

"And here," the baker added, "for you. Good luck finding him!"

She gave Lea a little sweet, wrapped in white-and-gold paper.

"Oh," said Lea, "thank you!"

She ate the sweet, which tasted like honey and meted on her tongue, and she walked on.

-

"Come, come join us," cried a dancer who was wearing a bird's mask, feathered in brown and grey and white. His arms were hidden under feathers so thick they could have been wings, and he had a grey feathery tail. "Dance with us!"

"I'd love to," said Lea, "but I have to find the mayor. Have you seen him?"

But the dancer had already twirled away, flapping his arms like wings.

So she walked on.

-

She walked on, and she met an old woman.

The old woman had long, straight grey hair that hung heavy on her shoulders and she was sitting on a small bench, holding a bag of breadcrumbs and feeding the pigeons that fluttered at her feet.

"Hello," said Lea.

"Hello," said the old woman. She turned to Lea and gave her a small, wrinkled smile. Her eyes were a startling, bright blue.

"Do you know if the mayor came this way?" Lea asked. "I'm looking for him."

A pigeon flew up onto the bench beside the old woman as she thought.

The old woman nodded. "He stopped to feed the pigeons a moment, and then I believe he left to go that way." She pointed down the street, towards a bookshop. "Would you like to feed the pigeons?"

"Alright," said Lea, "but not for long."

She took a handful of breadcrumbs from the old woman's bag and scattered them on the ground. The pigeons flapped towards the bread and cooed.

One pigeon landed on her shoulder. Lea laughed, and it flapped back down in alarm.

"I should go," Lea said. "Thank you."

The old woman hummed. "Thank you as well."

So she walked on.

-

"Come," said a dancer, dressed all in yellow with a sun-shaped mask and ribbons hanging from their arms like streamers that flapped when they moved. "Dance with us!"

"No, thank you," said Lea. "I have somewhere to be."

The sun dancer shrugged and moved away.

So she walked on.

-

On her way, she met the bookseller, standing outside his shop.

"Hello," said the bookseller with a friendly smile and a wave. "It's a nice night, isn't it?"

"It is." Lea returned his smile.

"Would you care to come in my shop and see my books?" He asked. "I'm sure I have something you might like."

Lea looked at the shop, and she saw warm light coming from inside. There were a few people there, browsing the shelves and taking out books and placing them back.

"I have books that could make you sail the seas," the bookseller said. "I have books that could help you leave everything behind, and live between their pages instead. You could touch the sky and taste the clouds. You could fight beasts of old and fall in love in a hundred different ways. You could shiver with fear or you could laugh with joy. You could live the legends of eons past or see the future through another's mind. Won't you come sample my books?"

"That sounds lovely," Lea said with a small smile. It did. "But I have somewhere I must be. Please, tell me; have you seen the mayor?"

"Why, I have," nodded the bookseller. "He passed by not so long ago. He went in that direction."

The bookseller pointed down the street.

"Thank you!" Lea said brightly. "Enjoy the evening."

So she walked on.

-

"Oh, won't you dance with us?" Asked a dancer, face hidden behind a flat, square mask, painted half pale purple and half grey, with clothes similarly split between the two colours. The mask's eye-holes were so thin Lea couldn't see the eyes behind, and a large white hat hid their hair. "Come, join the celebration!"

"I'd love to," said Lea, "but I have somewhere to be. Do you know where the mayor is? I'm looking for him..."

But the dancer had already turned away, arm in arm with another masked stranger.

So she walked on.

-

She walked on, and she met a painter, standing on the side of the street and painting something on an easel with various paintings leaning on the wall behind her.

The finished paintings on the wall were lovely to look at; Lea saw a sunset, so low that the sun was a red sliver on the horizon and the sky had faded to a quiet purple and black. Little sprays of white paint were splattered on the sky like stars, and the top half of the painting was mirrored in a rippling reflection on the lake below the sun.

Another painting on the wall was of people at the carnival; they had colourful masks of all shapes (long and thin and round and square) and equally colourful clothes of all patterns (diamonds and spots and checkers and stripes). The people in the painting were all dancing; the moon bright and full above the canal behind them as they twisted and turned like wisps of smoke, captured in the painting like a moment snatched from time.

A third painting was of the canal during the day; but there were no people in it. There were gondolas floating in the water, unmoored and empty, and the water looked flat and calm. The whole painting was in shades of blue and grey, the brightest blue being the sky overhead and the dullest grey being the empty gondolas.

Another painting was of a woman in a dark blue dress. Her back was turned and so was her head, her arms outstretched up, up, so that her fingertips just brushed the top of the canvas. Her hair was painted the palest yellow, almost white, and it flew loose and untied around the woman's shoulders. Her dress was flying in an unknown wind, too, and the canvas behind her was simply painted in a few different shades of green. The shapes in the distance might have been hills, or mountains, or perhaps a forest.

The last painting was still on the easel, unfinished, and the painter was peering at it.

The painter had light brown hair, pulled up in a black cap, and sky-blue eyes. No... sea-blue eyes. Grey, green, blue, always shifting. She had a scattering of little paint droplets on her face that looked a little like freckles. There was paint on her clothes and hands as well.

"Oh, hello," she said once she noticed Lea.

Lea waved. "Your paintings are lovely," she said.

"Thank you," said the painter. "Tell me, what do you think of this one?" She pointed, with her paintbrush, to the easel in front of her and went back to mixing paint on her palette.

The painting was of a woman, from the waist up. She was wearing a brown vest over an olive-green shirt and was holding up a white feathery quill. Her skin was painted the richest brown and her hair was charcoal black, curling to her shoulders. Her eyes were grey, dark, and mysterious. She seemed to be staring into the distance, lost in thought. The paint on the eyes and hair was still wet.

"Beautiful," Lea said, amazed. "Who is she?"

"I love her," said the painter with a sigh. She added another shade of black over the hair on the painting. "But I cannot seem to get her hair right. Her hair is raven's wing black; this is charcoal black. It doesn't softly reflect the light of the moon as she does. I can't seem to finish the painting, just as I can't confess my love."

"Maybe you should talk to her," Lea suggested. "Show her the painting. I'm sure she'll love it."

"Ah," said the painter, "but I couldn't. It's unfinished, you see. The hair isn't quite perfect and I can't seem to catch that sparkle in her eye as she concentrates."

"Oh," said Lea.

"Her words are beautiful, and perfect, as she is." The painter lowered the brush and inspected the result. "I would need for this painting to be just as beautiful and perfect for me to believe it worthy of her."

"I see. Well, good luck," Lea said. "Have you seen the mayor? I'm looking for him."

"I think he want that way," the painter said, pointing down the street, to a shop with flowers around its entrance.

"Thank you!" Said Lea. "I hope you can finish your painting."

"Thank you," said the painter, swirling purple and black and blue and grey together into the colour of a raven's wing, "and I hope you find the mayor." 

So she walked on.

-

"Join the dance!" Called a dancer, her long red-and-white striped dress swirling around her ankles. She wore a white half-mask, covering one eye and cheek. Her hair was dark brown and tied into a loose braid. She extended a red gloved hand to Lea.

"I'm sorry," said Lea. "I can't. But I'm looking for the mayor. Do you know where he is?"

But the dancer shook her head and shrugged. "No. But forget about him— just dance!"

"No thank you," said Laura. "Enjoy your evening!"

The dancer twirled away, skirts swishing.

So she walked on.

-

She walked on, and she met a florist, selling his flowers in front of his shop.

"Hello," said the florist. "Might I interest you in some flowers?"

"Hello," said Lea. "No thank you. I'm just looking for the mayor. Have you seen him?"

"Hmm. Let me think." The florist scratched his red-brown beard, considering.

While he thought, Lea looked at his flowers.

They were beautiful, and looked as if they had been freshly picked; there were the reddest roses and the most vibrantly orange carnations and the yellowest tulips and the greenest stems and the bluest cornflowers and the brightest purple violets and the whitest lilies. They all smelled like the richest of perfumes.

"Your flowers are lovely," Lea said with a smile.

"Thank you," proudly replied the florist. "And I do recall seeing the mayor; he went that way."

The florist pointed down the street, towards a small café with tables overlooking the canal.

So she walked on.

-

"Dance with us!" Said a dancer who stopped in front of her for a moment, a young man with black-and-purple patterned clothes and a long black cape, with dark skin and eyes and hair and a round, swirling purple mask that covered his eyes and forehead. "Come on!"

"I'd love to, really," Lea said with a smile. "But I'm looking for the mayor. I have to find him."

The dancer tilted his head at her, but then pointed down the street, pointing to the same café the florist had pointed at.

"Thank you," Lea said, and the young man bowed and turned, cape swishing, to re-join the other dancers.

So she walked on.

-

She walked on, and she met a poet, sitting at a small table in the café that had a nice view of the canal.

On the table in front of the poet, there were many papers strewn about, most covered in writing and splashes of ink. The poet had skin of the richest brown, and raven's wing black hair that caught the moonlight when she shook her head. There were ink stains on her fingers.

"Hello," said Lea, walking up to the table.

"Hello," said the poet, looking up. She handed Lea a paper. "Does this seem right to you?"

Lea read the paper. It said;

Your hands have the skill of a creator You shape with those hands, worlds Worlds of beauty, of life Of sadness, of strife I see in your eyes inspiration, vision And I think, my love, Would you let me hold those hands Those hands that shape my life?

"Oh," said Lea, handing the paper back. "It's lovely."

"But is it perfect?" The poet sighed, placing the paper back down and picking up another. She crossed out a few words on that one and started writing again. "I can never quite find the right words. They slip through my fingers like the wind slips through the tall grass; teasing, just barely there, and it just doesn't sound like I'd want it to."

"I think it's rather beautiful, still," Lea says. "But I'm not a poet. I suppose you'd know best."

"I love her," sighs the poet. "But I cannot seem to find the words to tell her. I write her poem after poem, word after word, but I never have a poem perfect enough to give to her. She paints, she creates art, she puts beauty into the world; I want the words I write for her to be as breathtaking and perfect as she is."

"I see," Lea said. "Well, good luck. I'm looking for the mayor; have you seen him?"

"Oh, I think I did," the poet said. "I believe he went that way."

She pointed to the left side of the street, to a little shop with someone sitting outside it.

"Thank you," Lea said. "I hope you can find the right words."

"Thank you," said the poet, and she turned back to her paper, writing, I would climb to the heavens and pick all the stars for you if you needed them to mix into your paint. Then she placed the paper aside and picked up a new one.

So she walked on.

-

"Join the dance!" Offered a dancer in a forest-green dress, long-sleeved and high-collared, with frills from the waist down. They smiled from beneath their green-gray mask that was shaped a little like an upside-down triangle, with leaves and small vines tangled in their waist-length red hair.

"No, thank you," Lea said. "I can't right now. I'm looking for..."

But the dancer had already glided away to twirl around someone else.

So she walked on.

-

She walked on, and she met a clock-maker. He was an old, wizened man with a long beard and small glasses, sitting on a chair outside his shop and tinkering with a watch as he watched the people dancing.

"Hello," he said when she walked up to him. "How are you?"

"I'm well," she said. "Thank you. And you?"

The old man chuckled, fishing a little gear out of the watch with a small pair of tweezers. "I'm all right, I suppose." He hummed. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

"It does," Lea agreed.

"You still have so much time left," he said, peering at her over his small glasses. Then he looked down again and twisted something in the watch. "Best not to let it fly away too soon, eh? Though it doesn't very much like being kept in a cage. In my experience, I've found that it's best to simply make friends with time, and it'll fly by your side at an easy pace."

"I'll be sure to remember that," Lea said. "Have you seen the mayor? I've been looking for him."

"Yes, he was headed that way," the clock-maker said with a smile, pointing down the street.

"Thank you!" Said Lea, and she continued on her way while the clockmaker wondered why it was that on carnival nights, time that flew and rushed seemed to stop, and let the night dragged on, as if it, too, wanted to wait as dance a while with the music and life of the carnival.

So she walked on.

-

"Hey!" Called a fiddler, who was playing a catchy and upbeat tune for the dancers to spin to. "Come join the dance, won't you?"

He was wearing blue clothes, lined in silver, and a silver mask that was lined in blue; the mask covered his forehead, his right eye, and his right cheek. He was wearing a large blue cap that flopped to the side, and his golden hair was tied back in a short ponytail at the base of his neck.

At his side, there was a flute player, who nodded at her in acknowledgement but didn't stop playing. He was wearing red clothes, lined in gold, and a gold mask, lined in red. His mask was the opposite of the fiddler's, and hair was brown and short.

"Oh, I can't," Lea said. "I'm looking for the mayor. But your music is lovely."

The fiddler laughed, and played even faster, and the dancers around them spun faster and exchanged partners again and again.

"I don't know where he is," the fiddler said, "but he probably went to the inn— it's that way."

He gestured with his chin to the inn at the end of the street.

"Thank you!" Lea said, and she went in that direction.

So she walked on.

-

She went to the inn; she didn't need to enter, however, since she saw her brother, the mayor, coming out and laughing about something.

"Oh!" He said when he noticed her coming her way. "Lea! Hello. What are you doing here?"

She rushed to embrace him. "Nothing really. I just wanted to see you."

He laughed again and embraced her back. "All right," he said with a smile. "And now you've seen me. What now?"

"Let's dance!" She said, taking his hand and pulling him towards the celebrations.

So they danced.

(And time danced alongside them, enjoying itself so much that the night stretched on, and on, and on.)

[paradoxiii]

I've wanted to get thumb grips for a while but I had a hard time finding any that I felt would look nice with my case (it's called "Once Upon A Time In Fodlan"; the screen protector part had a typo though so I copied the design & just replaced the text with a fancy little border thing & had someone on etsy print it for me, although sometimes when I stick the switch in the dock it hits the vinyl & made it scrunch up so that's why the one corner is missing) because most switch grips are either cute/pastel or the darker ones are usually for games I have little to no interest in lol, but I came across the master ball grips & I think they suit it nicely!

And I couldn't resist the deer grips, they're just so cute!!!

(I got both grip sets from GripsPro on etsy btw)

[wanderer-six]

THE GALA - A Clone Dating Sim

You are a Jedi General. The Council has assigned you a very important mission: the infiltration of a Separatist gala on Raxus. But you will not be going alone--you are allowed to bring a date on this adventure. In the heart of enemy territory, who will you count on to watch your back?

PLAY HERE: THE GALA

Ideal play experience is on desktop! (I think you can play on mobile it just looks a lil yuccy)

Clone bbs x Fem!Jedi player FEATURED CLONES: Sergeant Hunter, Tech, Crosshair, Wrecker, Captain Rex, Commander Wolffe, and ARC Twins Fives & Echo

RATING: 18+ MINORS DNI - The paths can be SFW or NSFW depending on your choices (2nd option is always the NSFW one!) - general warning for smut if you make those choices, more specifics below the cut!

Additional (less relevant) info beneath the cut!

HAPPY MAY 4TH! ENJOY MY LOVES~~

COMPREHENSIVE WARNINGS LIST: In general, lots of flirting, innuendo, pet names. Established relationship for all

Hunter: LOTS of flirting (he is a whore), p in v sex

Tech: Oral (f receiving)

Crosshair: Fingering

Wrecker: Not much for him honestly, implied canoodling (p in v), oblivious boy ♥

Captain Rex: dirty talk, praise, oral (m! Receiving)

Commander Wolffe: rough! p in v

Fives & Echo: Multiple clones (no clonec*st), lots of flirting, Echo is self conscious!

-ART ASSETS I drew all of the Clone art! I found the most nakedest screencap I could of any of them (SURPRISINGLY DIFFICULT) and then traced the base, then looked for Star Wars Male Fashion (WAY FUCKING HARDER) to draw on them and dress them up! I think for Hunter and Fives/Echo I just went crazy but for all the rest lmk if u can spot who I stole the outfits from, i deadass dont remember at this point For Background art I found them all on google images - from what I recall, it's mostly concept art and screenshots from games! -ENGINE I made this in Twine, an incredible tool for making text-based games! I highly recommend looking into it. It's really easy to use and there are a ton of tutorials online!

AN: Thank you so much for playing! Please let me know what you think, I had so much fun making this✨✨ it is so phenomenally cringe but I hope you all enjoy ♥ (also if you spot any bugs or typos, please feel free to let me know and I will fix!!)

TELL ME YOUR FAVORITE PATH I like Rex Crosshair Wrecker the best I think

"""taglist""" - @shinyshayminflower @starrylothcat @pb-jellybeans @jediknightjana

[dinogoofymutated]

First born Headcannons! Multi/Fem!Afab! Reader - Angel, Colossus, Nightcrawler, Gambit OKAY FUCK I don't know what came over me it just happened okay??? This whole thing started thinkin about colossus and a lil baby and then I was thinking about Warren taking the nightshift with his own baby and I spiraled from there. Warren's is like twice as long as everyone elses my bad yall. If there are any typos don't make fun of me ill fix them tomorrow I'm so tired lol TWs: Childbirth mentioned (Not described tho), Babies, wholesome shit. I know that some of these characters have had kids in the comics and that these hcs may be ooc, but I do not care lol. Little bit of anxiety and panic, but everything is okay.

Warren Worthington

Warren is such a dad. I don't even know how to describe it. Like, he's not as effortlessly fatherly like Piotr is, but once he has a kid he's devoted to making sure this kid gets all the emotional, physical, and financial support they would ever need.

He had such a rocky childhood with his own dad, so he hates the idea of his child ever going through the same sort of thing.

He might be a little clueless with the actual baby things, like when to feed, how to dress, and what to feed his little one, but he does take diaper duty as his sole purpose in life. He does adjust for the things he lacks though, and gradually adjusts to be better at them!

He's strangely good with babies, even before he had his own! There's just something about him that makes them stop crying. He's also an expert at nap times.

    It’s an early weekday afternoon. The sun is shining through the blinds in warm golden rays, the sink clean and the dishwasher running. There’s a click once the message on the answering machine stops playing, and you have an uncertain frown on your face as you take it all in.

    The house is silent, brightly decorated with pictures of your close friends lining the walls of the hallway. The sounds of your husband quietly shushing your infant son gradually become easier to hear when you reach the cracked door of the nursery, pushing it open as quietly as you can.

    Warren’s back is facing you, fluffy wings almost glowing where the sunrays touch his feathers. Your newborn is sleeping in his arms, napping after a lunchtime bottle. He’s bouncing the baby just slightly, and you swear you can see his smile without ever having to see his face. It’s a sweet moment you want to crystalize in your memories. You lean against the doorway, smiling just as bright as you’re sure he is.

    "Hi~" You say sweetly after a moment. You were right. Warren’s happy smile is bright and blinding when he turns to look at you.

    "Hey," He says quickly, lifting your sleeping son so that you can see him better. "Hi Mama, say hi Mama!" Warren whispers as he lifts the baby’s pudgy little hand to wave at you. You can’t help but giggle, walking forward to kiss both of them on their cheeks- your little one not stirring from his nap. You take a breath afterward, leaning against his side as you debate telling him.

    “Something wrong?” Warren asks, one of his wings stretching out to wrap around your side and pull you closer to him. Normally you giggle, but today you bite your lip, unsure.

    "Your dad called." Your words are soft when you say it, and Warren immediately laughs in a way that sounds more like a scoff.

    “His secretary, you mean.” Warren attempts to correct, and his joking tone makes you frown a little, rubbing his upper arm in an attempt to be soothing.

    “No, not her, honey.” Warren stays silent after you say it, his brow furrowing as his face turns into a reflection of confusion and sadness. You can see the conflict as he turns the words over in his head, cooing and shushing your son back to sleep when he starts to stir a little, feeling the atmosphere shift. 

    “...what did he want?” He asks, voice low and quiet.

    “He left a message on the answering machine if you want to listen to it.” You tell him. “He, well… He wants to meet his grandson.” Warren scoffs at that, shaking his head as he starts to pace the room a little. You stand there, grounded as you watch him process the sudden contact.

    “He really said that? After all he’s put me through, he wants to meet our son… What a joke.” You grimace when Warren starts to laugh. He finally stops pacing to gently lay your son back in his crib. He leans against the side with one hand as the other rubs his eyes before it slides up to run through his hair.

    “Do you want him to?” You ask after a moment, stepping over to his side. He leans into your touch when you reach out to hold his cheek.

    “I-” Warren stops himself, taking a deep breath as he takes your hand in his own. “What do you want to do?” He asks instead. You shake your head at him, taking hold of his hand in both of yours, tracing the wedding band on his finger.

    “He’s your dad, love. It’s your choice.” You say softly. Warren is still frowning, and he lets out a long breath, deflating a little bit. He turns around to face you, pressing a kiss to your temple and holding you there for a long moment. You wish you had even a fraction of Jean’s or the Professor’s power, if only you could see what was going on in that head of his. He pulls you into a side hug, and the two of you spend a long while looking at your infant in the crib. The perfect mixture of the both of you. Certain to be a mutant in his own right. You can tell Warren spends every second thinking about it.

    When he steps away from you, He’s silent.

    “Warren?” You call out for him as he leaves the room. You’re about to follow when you hear the distinct sound of your son about to wake up, the little whine catching your attention as you coo him back to sleep instead. The door to the nursery is open, and just faintly down the hall, you hear the sound of the landline starting to ring.

    “Hey, Dad, it’s Warren. Is Saturday okay?”

Piotr Rasputin

GOD this man is so good with kids. I mean, have you seen those comic panels with him and his sister??

This man was made, built, forged to be a dad. He's protective but encouraging, and although he may be blunt, he knows when his kiddo needs some comfort.

He takes all the classes with you during the pregnancy, and he knows he'd never hurt his baby, but there's always a lil bit of worry in the back of his mind. He's a little too strong, and he hates the thought of slipping up and accidentally harming this fragile little soul the two of you brought into this world.

He gains confidence with time, and when the baby arrives he's always carrying them securely on one thick arm, belly down as they sleep soundly against him.

    His baby is so small when they hand her to him in the hospital. She's tiny. Smaller than the width of his arm. He looks like a giant as he holds her, sat next to your bedside as you recover from her delivery. He's in awe as he looks at her, a tiny little life, the greatest gift you've ever given him besides your hand in marriage. 

    You and others had always joked that his baby would be huge, big-headed, 99th percentile, and he never minded it. It was no secret that he was a big man, and he didn't mind what size the baby was as long as it was healthy, and looking at the little bundle of joy in his arms, he decides he wouldn't have it any other way.

    It's almost comical, how small she is. Hell, even you might have doubted the paternity of the baby girl if it hadn't been for her head of pitch-black hair, and pretty blue eyes. Almost a carbon copy of himself.

    “She has your eyes.” You say once her cries quiet down, and she begins to fall asleep in her father's arms.

    “No.” Piotr hums, gingerly touching his daughter's face. “They look much more like Illyana's.” You hadn't thought about that before, but now that he mentions it, the resemblance is undeniable. You giggle at that, Scooting closer so that you can lean on his shoulder.

    “The nurse said that she's waiting outside, when you're ready. I'm sure she's beyond excited to meet her niece.” You mumble. Piotr has placed a finger in the palm of your baby's hand, both of you smiling when the little fingers do their best to try and close around his fingertip. Piotr cannot wait to see the face of his sister when she sees your baby, but he'll be the first to admit, he'd like it if this moment could just last a little while longer.

Kurt wagner

Kurt is such a good dad oh my god.

He's always talking about you and the kids, bragging about literally everything you do ever. He's the kind of dad that has endless photos of his kiddos in his wallet, car, locker, everywhere.

And he's so devoted, too. He'll do anything you ask him to do during the newborn stage (and after) and is beyond supportive. His goals are happy Spouse, Happy kids, Happy life.

He's also very sentimental :) he thanks god every day for you and the blessing that is your baby.

    Kurt’s side of the bed was empty when you woke up this morning, and despite the normal amount of anxiety you normally feel when that happens, you feel peaceful. You’re smiling at the empty mattress, rolling over to his side to push your face into his pillow, taking a deep breath. Used to, you would be worried. You would wonder where he was, or if he was safe. If he had gone off on some x-men mission without telling you (which he never did). But today, you know exactly where he is. You’re smiling now as you think about it, pressing a kiss to his pillow before standing up.

    There’s a soft humming in the house, quiet and soothing. It’s not hard to figure out where it’s coming from, the path to the spare room having become second nature to you- although, it really wasn’t much of a spare room anymore. You try not to be too loud when you enter the room through the cracked door.

   Kurt is humming sweetly, your son laid out on the changing table as Kurt finishes worming his pudgy little legs through a new onesie. The baby whines a little, squirming around as Kurt attempts to change his clothes. 

    “Patience, Mein kleiner Schatz. This won’t take long.” Kurt says sweetly. Your son isn’t really having this whole changing business, and it makes Kurt chuckle. His tail is wrapped around a bottle of milk, and he sets it to the side right before he snakes his tail over the crib. He brushes the spaded end lovingly over your baby’s cheek as a distraction, and the infant coos as he finishes getting his arms through the sleeves. His tail takes over from there, buttoning the onesie's clasps as he turns to grab the bottle of milk instead- stopping for a split second when he sees you in the doorway. Kurt smiles.

    “How are my boys?” You ask, voice a little rough from sleep.

    “Gut! And lively, it seems.” He tells you. He passes the bottle off to his tail again when you walk over, taking you into his arms as he shakes the formula up a little more. Kurt kisses you sweetly on the lips, pressing his forehead against your own when you separate. 

    “Guten Morgen, Schatz. How are you feeling?” You swear you fall in love with him all over again each day when he greets you like that. You shrug your shoulders in response, smile dropping just a little bit.

    “I’m okay. Still tired, and definitely still bloated, but I’m okay.” You admit. Kurt frowns a little, brushing some hair from your face.

    “Did you see the medicine I left for you on the nightstand?” Kurt asks, and you immediately make a bit of a silly face, remembering that you didn’t exactly get up on your own side of the bed today. Kurt knows what that looks means and begins to laugh, just as your son begins to whimper and whine to be held and fed. You try to go pick him up, but Kurt stops you as he picks your baby up instead, bottle at the ready.

   “Go take your meds, I’ve got him, Liebchen.”

Remy LeBeau

Remy is a little nervous to be a dad.

Not in a flight way!! He's just a little worried that he'll be a bad influence on the kiddo. and well, I mean sure. If you're worried about the kiddo being a little rager and being into a few to many wild hobbies I guess (usually comes with the cajun territory)- but overall, Gambit is such a sweetheart, and if anything his kiddos would be so respectful and loving towards their parents.

Remy's very protective over your baby. The protectiveness is at it's height around 0-3yrs of age, but it never, ever goes away completely.

He might talk some smack about how a little bit of dirt/germs never hurt anyone, but He's actually the kind of dad that makes everyone put germex on before even thinking about holding the baby.

He's on top of feedings, and never fears a blowout when it comes to changing diapers (no matter how much he might gag). He might not have the diaper back stocked and loaded 24/7, but he's doing the best he can.

    When you wake up, It’s about 3am. Your eyes blink oper wearily, and the light from the alarm clock is practically burning into your eyes. You want nothing more to curl up and go back to sleep, and you almost do, until the time actually registers.

    3am. Its 3am, and you went to bed at 10pm. This is the first time you’ve woken up since then. Your veins feel like ice when you realize that you haven't heard the baby cry once. You rip the cover off of you, breaking out in a panicked run across the hall to check on your newborn. You don’t even realize that Remy isn’t even in bed until you slam the door open and see him standing there, your daughter in his arms as he rocks her to sleep in the rocking chair You breathe a sigh of relief as he looks at you with a tired smile, but your anxiety still remains.

    “Remy? Is she okay?” You whisper, practically leaping over to his side to take the little one out of his arms.

    “She’s Okay, Cher.” Remy replies softly. He stands from the chair, wrapping his hands around your back, the infant snug in between your bodies. You sigh again, taking a moment to look at your daughter carefully, eyeing her chest as it rises and falls, and straining your ears to hear her breathing. Remy gives you a second to get situated, yawning just a bit as he sways the three of you as you stand there. You relax as he holds you both, resting your head against his shoulder.

    “Why don’ you go back to bed.” Remy says after a long minute. “That was the longest I’ve seen you sleep in a while.” You frown. He’s not wrong. Your newborn has been a bit colicky lately, crying for nights on end since you brought her home with very few things to keep her comfortable. She has started to grow out of it, but the effects still remained. She cries a lot at nighttime, and it makes you wonder if that’s why you had slept so long, because of Remy staying up to keep her quiet.

    “And leave you here? Remy, how long have you been awake?” You ask, looking up at his face. He shrugs, smiling still as the three of you sway.

    “I’m fine. I can stay up all night if I need to, as long as you get to catch up on some sleep.” If it were any other circumstance, you might have swooned at the words. As sweet is he is, you can’t let him do that! He begins to step away to place your daughter in her crib, and you hold yourself back from trying to take her from him and commanding him to just go to bed.

    “Remy-”

    “Ah ah ah, Cher, don’t wake ma petit, now.” Remy cuts you off with a whisper, turning around to place a finger against his lips in a shushing motion. He almost makes you giggle, but instead, you simply shake your head at him. He pulls you into a loving kiss when he’s close enough, running his hand through your hair. You know he’s waiting for you to pull back, to retreat into the bedroom to sleep like he asked you to, but you’re still hesitant. He knows your stubbornness firsthand and chuckles when he pulls back a little.

    “Do I need to tuck you in, too?”