#mislay

[elkian]

Tip: if you 1) frequently draw in sketchbooks and 2) like to do that somewhere like at work or on a trip with family members, I have a suggestion.

Basically, get you a random empty sketchbook (look. we all have at least one if we've got any) and designate it your "Safe Sketchbook". Use some kind of subtle indicator (ie a small flower sticker, post it sticking out, what have you) to separate it from the rest.

This is the sketchbook that you only draw "safe" subjects in - still lifes, animals, etc. No nude studies, no kink, no swear words, hell no queer shit if you're in a conservative area/with conservative people.

This way, if you happen to mislay it or leave it where a nosy person at school/work/on a family trip/etc. can dig into it, it won't have anything potentially incriminating in it. Obviously not everyone needs this but if you're like me, prone to worrying and forced to coexist w people who don't agree with you on certain subjects, it's great for peace of mind.

Hope that helps!

[minusgangtime]

(We can't lose yet...!)

(Alt version without effects below-)

[officalepitet]

Posting my EE oc, Axel + doodles of Her and Gio hanging out!

-🍵

[abutterflyobsession]

filled up that sketchbook in nearly exactly a month *pulls the next one out of the stack*

[wolftails-funkin-arts]

FNF fans (and minus fans too!), better check this mod out! :D

This mod has vibes to FLAnimal and the song, Set Me Free from the Lost Files! 👀

[astrostaydelulu]

Astrology Beauty Notes 💕

Just some personal views/observations about some placement's beauty and impression.

If God desired to crystallize the whole ocean into a small orb, that orb would indeed be Pisces Ascendant/Mc or Neptune prominent people's eyes. There is something in their gaze that causes you to get mislay in them as if you are eyeing a captivating creation of nature. Their eyes can be the mark of serenity and mist.

An individual who doesn't have the standard beauty or the ideal beauty yet still manages to outdo most by their identity and different aura is surely a person with Aquarius/ Uranus prominence.

Ever seen a woman with the appearance of a femme tale who doesn't have Scorpio/Pluto/Lilith prominent? Neither do I. These are some top placements for presumption if a woman is looking like a riddle and intimating while there are also some other placements for it too.

People you have just met but who just feel like home to you and easily became a comfort-giver for you are just some bunch of Cancerians and Moon-prominent people ( with good aspects and placements).

Everything is okay but Mars-prominent people and their muscles. The fire of Mars is just there to enhance their walking s*x allure. They are the most captivating and that redness in them stands for being hot af.

Ever seen a living example of a cottage core well if not yet just see a Taurus / Venus person. Even if they are not particularly interested in that aesthetic, they will surely nail it. Their beauty is natural and effortless, they can look like a character in fiction.

" I am born special; a star and will be till the end of my life, even if you agree or not" - Leo/ Sun prominent people>>>>. Confidence is their beauty.

Juno in-1 house individuals are the ideal wife/husband material. They just give that damn look, the glimpse of living with you till the end of life.

[sassypossumm]

Movement

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

He wasnt expecting to be so captivated by your movemement...

He walked alone in the gardens, as was his nightly ritual of late. Aemond enjoyed the peace and tranquility that the gardens offered, the silence gave him an opportunity to just be.

To simply shut out the politics and games of cloak and dagger. Looking up at the night sky, he took a deep breath, savoring the unseasonably cool air as it filled his lungs.

Overhead the stars twinkled. At one time Aemond might have mused how he'd have loved for his family to have been like those celestial centurions above him. Shining together in perfect harmony each dazzling in their own right, but, together? A masterpiece of light and brilliance. Aemond was, however, beyond such petty sentiment

His family was far too twisted and broken to ever be anything beautiful.

A faint rustling caught his notice in the otherwise silent garden. Turning his head sharply in the direction of the noise, he strained to listen further. Several moments passed before the rustling resumed. Curiosity thoroughly peaked, Aemond stepped quietly over the cobbled path towards the noise.

Stepping over a mislayed twig on the path lest he startle whatever, or whoever, was causing the rustling, Aemond ducked to look through a gap in one of the hedges. The sight caused him to pause.

You. Hair unbound, shoes cast aside, clad in a simple shapeless chemise- that, despite its looseness, left little in way of imagination to the shape of your form.

If those facts alone were not enough to confound him, you were dancing. Twisting and turning about under the singular weirwood tree that remained on the grounds of the red keep.

Aemond couldn't place you. One more mystery added to the numerous ones he was accumulating about you- Aemond didn't like mysteries.

You raised your arms over your head and twisted your wrists rhythmically. Aemond found himself entranced by the hypnotic sway of your hips as your movements slowed. With your face turned towards the moon, her light catching and shimmering in your hair, to Aemond, you seemed an ethereal nymph.

You could've been a mere scullery maid, but to him, with your shoulders free of the rigidity he'd become so accustomed to, and your face unmarked by that casual avoidance so many around him perfected, you were a goddess of peace.

He shifted, and though soft, faint rustle of leaves as he did so seemed to drag you violently out of your trance. Freezing, your head turned, and your eyes locked with his. Aemond similarly froze as though you were a skittish animal that he might startle.

The formerly peaceful silence filled thousands of little thoughts and questions weaving a bridge of tense silence between you. Eyes Locked, you seemed to be cast into a kind of limbo, one neither of you seemed willing to break.

You were the first to break free of the trance, scrambling for your cast off robe and slippers. Aemond blinked as you moved, his mind a whirl once more. He rounded the hedge, but you were quicker. The last he caught sight of was a flash of blue as the train of your robe winked at him before disappearing around a corner.

Turning back towards the tree, he bent to pick up a single red leaf that had fallen to the ground. Studying the intricate veins on its spine, Aemond came to a conclusion.

Even if it came at the cost of the perdition of his very soul, even if he had to face the threats of the Stranger himself, nothing was going to keep Aemond from finding you again.

[xivou]

the beach !

Boothill. not proofread, written prior 2.2. inspiration; "Hunting Knife" by Haruki Murakami. word count; 519.

note. I'd like to say that this is not necessarily an x reader. i merely desired to get this off my mind so, this should not be treated as an actual product ( i want to be free to write for aventurine, I have around 3 ideas. )

‘Boothill.’

The cyborg stirs as you whisper his name into the quietude.

the frail sun concealed with patches of grey clouds hovering. seagulls glide in a delicate pattern against the backdrop of the sky. The water dark in fathoms, it ripples pulverulently against accumulated dark, craggy rocks, lining a hillock. Your white cottage rests atop it, permitting you to overlook the exquisite scenery.

The cottage is of two storeys, with a lucid ocean vision. The front porch adequately wide for your leisure table-chair setting and cream plumeria pots.

The place is silent—omitting the seagulls’ raucous calls— almost too solitary at times. Boothill questions how you manage to live alone in such dull surroundings. Albeit that if you craved company, the town is a hill walk away.

‘do memories still exist when they’re forgotten?’

You blink at him, and he does so, too.

‘gee, sugar!  I ain’t a no philosopher, y’know.. been gettin’ the blues?’

You merely chuckle, at his words. ‘no… I have a feeling… that I am losing memories. I don’t know what exactly, however, I can feel I am gradually forgetting some things. I can't quite explain it. Yet, it’s akin to.. memories leaking out of my mind, palpable in the atmosphere, and out of reach..’

‘I assume it’s related to this gun somehow,’ you pull out a gun from your parka, diligently tracing its polished surface before you toss it to him.

 Boothill stares at the gun in astonishment, he raises the gun before his eyes, tilts his head slightly and shuts an eye as if aiming. ‘woah, peach. That’s some gun ya got there!’

‘found it abandoned here on the shore. Though I prefer to dispose of it.’

Boothill raises a brow, ‘ya sure?’

You nod.

'Sometimes, I have this vision,' you state. 'There is this gun and bullet within. It deep inside the soft part of my head, where memories lie. It does not hurt— it is merely there. And I am witnessing it as if it occurred to someone else. I want someone to pull it out, but nobody notices it's there. And then everything begins to vanish. I begin to vanish, too. Only, the gun and the bullet linger— to the very conclusion. Akin to the bone of some prehistoric animal on the beach. That is the kind of vision I have.’

The next time Boothill visits the seashore is a year after and on the exact day. Everything was left as it was. He glances at the white cottage, its windowpanes boarded, and smoulder emits from its chimney. Nevertheless, he’s conscious that you’ve long yielded life by the seashore. Drawing out the gun you’ve endowed him, he recalls your previous conversation— you’re somewhere out there in the world, strolling, with that bullet adhered in your mind, your memories mislaying an intangible, bubble-ish, blue trail.

And so, he does the same— raises the gun before his eyes, tilts his head slightly and shuts an eye. His fingers pull at the trigger, at the abyss ahead, at the fragments your memories mislaid at this spot.

You’re not there.

And you’ll never be.

jemvia, 2024. do not copy, share, repost, or re-upload my work on any website without prior consent.

[avocado-writing]

Hiii <3 I'm the anon that tumblr ate out- I mean I'm the anon that got their request eaten by tumblr. I'm going to send it again but please don't feel like you have to write it at all!

Basically it was just:

Crowley x wife!reader where human reader nearly dies during the London Blitz so Crowley miracles her into living forever as a type of vampire (he's a demon idk). So now Aziraphale, Reader, and Crowley are friends (possibly more by the time we get to the bookshop)

notes: HEY I AM SO SORRY I MADE THIS SO FUCKING ANGSTY. please forgive me. it just felt like the perfect setup for a bite of sadness.

pairing: crowley x f!reader

rating: T

notes: mentions of death

“You shouldn’t do this.”

Crowley knows. He knows that Aziraphale is not wrong for a number of reasons: his head office will notice, it’s against the rules, he’ll get in dreadful dreadful trouble. Demons aren’t meant to meddle in the mortality of humans. But then again demons aren’t meant to marry humans either, and he did that anyway too. 

It’s your tenth anniversary today. He can picture the wedding like a photograph in his memory: your white dress, your red lips, the huge smile you wore all day like it was stuck to your face. Impossible for you to get rid of. 

He braved the pain of a church to marry you in it, then swept you off to bed to take his mind off his burning feet.

Ten years. Ten happy years. Ten years of your gorgeous, gorgeous smile. He knew it wouldn’t be forever, but he thought that he’d at least have longer to work out what he was going to do when the time came. But there was no way you could have predicted where the bomb would land, the explosion it would cause, the shrapnel that would end up shredding your stomach.

He told you to leave London and you refused to. You refused to leave him.

Now blood soaks through your clothes onto his. You’re lifeless in his arms. Covered in brickdust and mortar. Smile gone.

In that moment he realises that he can’t continue existing without it.

“Crowley…”

“Shut it,” he snaps, far more fiercely than he should, and he’ll apologise to Aziraphale for it later… but for now, he does something very reckless indeed.

He summons the miracle from hell. It’s a big one, to snatch a soul out of the aether as it tries to slip away, but he’s a very powerful demon. He grabs the hazy edges of your spirit with his hand and slams it back into your body. There’s a surge of energy as the two parts of you reconnect, and in a shaky spasm you twitch horribly back to life.

“There she is. There’s my girl,” he whispers, cupping your face. As you work out how to breathe again Aziraphale watches in silence. There is nothing for him to say.

--

He manages to get away with it. Hell isn’t known for its incredible paper trail after all, and it’s pretty easy for him to mislay the documents that prove he ever did such a huge miracle at all. You’re alive again and there are no repercussions.

From head office, anyway.

Aziraphale eventually comes to accept the decision, and the two of you actually end up quite good friends. In fact Crowley feels quite ganged up on sometimes. You’re constantly at the bookshop helping shoo away customers and hunting down good deals for old tomes on ebay. You’ve learned to grow with the times.

But still.

There are times where you seem… distant. He’ll catch you staring out a window, seemingly a million miles away from your body. You don’t blink as much as you should since he brought you back. You don’t breathe as hard either, your chest only raising and falling about once a minute. There’s something not the same.

He cannot bring himself to admit that you came back wrong.

Every time Crowley will come over and give you a gentle kiss, bringing you out of your stupor. You’ll shake your head and return to the moment.

“You alright, sweetheart?” he’ll ask.

“Oh, yes. Of course I am,” you’ll reply, and you’ll smile.

But your smile is never quite right.

-

taglist: @angiestopit@dazed-soul@foolishprincipalitee@smile-eywa@staygoldsquatchling02@underratedboogeyman@specter-soltare@cool-ontherun-world@emilynissangtr@willbedecided@cool-iguana@this--is--music @ilyatan @lxsm2@clarina04@wtfhasmy-lifecometo@mrgatotortuga@wereallbrokenangels @night-affiliate @kimqueenofhell@chewbrry @bajablast23 @h3k3t@am-i-obsessed---maybe

[wildpeachfarm]

this situation reminds me of smth that happened in my city in australia (legal age is 18 for drinking/clubbing). an underage girl got into a club with a fake id. a 19yo boy hooked up w her at the club and they went back to his place and had sex. it came out she was underage, and he was labelled a predator temporarily on social media - but, to him, she was in a place that required identification of being of the legal age to be granted access for entry. the bouncers failed at noticing it was a fake, but this boy had no reason to believe otherwise but got labelled as a predator. and although i am not saying that underage people don’t drink, or that it still isn’t abnormal to ask someone’s age despite thinking they’re of legal age (in general convo/banter), but it also isn’t the requirement to ask age in a scenario where, by all means, legal identification checking had occurred i.e., them drinking at the official, carded after party the night prior to the night in question. i can’t say that george shouldn’t have checked, or asked, or whatever, but i also can’t help but think people are mislaying judgement on people in situations wherein they truly believe they’re with people of a legal drinking age. and we can all say assumptions aren’t good enough, which I Get, but we can’t also deny that playing 20 questions in a situation that comes with non-vocalised cues (such as everyone being of a legal drinking age while actively drunk) is always necessary, esp as nothing sexual in nature occurred.

Yeah while I do think that verifying ages is a good rule of thumb, that is because I have seen it go very wrong before. Other people haven't, and have no reason to believe a person is lying about their age. So I understand why george didn't suspect that they had people lying about being able to drink in their room, it makes sense.

And for people to paint that as him being intentionally malicious or preying on young girls is absolutely crazy because if I was drinking at a bar/party/etc. and other adult people around me were drinking, I would assume everyone is of legal age to drink because thats how the law works. Especially considering he initially thought they came straight from a high-security event.

[pfctipper]

[ shush ] liebgott/tipper 👁️🫦👁️ kiss prompt aaaa

ohhh this is the perfect prompt for these two yna! i definitely said i would go to sleep and write this tomorrow but oh well. had to scribble this down immediately for lovely tip <3

[ shush ] for a kiss to silence the other party

They’re barely past Newfoundland and Joe has already snapped three times — or three times Ed has witnessed, anyway, although he finds he’s never that far from Joe Liebgott on the Samaria. At Guarnere, first, over Sobel even if it hadn’t really been over Sobel; at a Fox Company private who had knocked his elbow in the mess when the ship had rolled to the side, and then stared him down disparagingly until Randleman had intervened; and then, today, at the nervous-looking orderly charged with dispensing the cigarette rations who had refused to give him more after Joe had chainsmoked his way through both of his packets and the Lucky Strikes Ed had liberated from Sobel’s footlocker during their hour out on deck.

It’s their half of the enlisted men’s turn to sleep out in the ship’s corridors tonight, which are only marginally less stifling than the bunks in the steerage deck below. The two of them are crowded into an alcove by a storage room that Joe had tried unsuccessfully to pick the lock of; it’s not comfortable, but they’re at least hidden enough that they can take off their life jackets.

Ed shifts where he’s lying down, too hot even stripped down to his undershirt; by the jacket pillowed underneath his head Joe is hunched back against the wall, all sharp angles and tension and still wearing his own jacket, fingers tapping out a disjointed rhythm against the metal floor.

‘Give it a rest, Joe. He was only doing his job,’ Ed says, placidly, opening his eyes when the tapping gets increasingly erratic. Between the heat and Joe’s grumbling under his breath he’s all but given up on sleeping, and he reaches into his pocket for his own cigarettes and lighter.

‘Bet he’s got all the goddamn cigarettes he wants,’ Joe mutters, eyes flicking over as Ed lifts a cigarette to his own mouth and lights it. ‘Nothing to do but fucking smoke on here, Tip. Fuck. Fuck.’

Ed pushes up on his elbows and reaches up. When he closes the hand not holding the cigarette around the back of Joe’s neck the longer hair there is damp with sweat — and as he takes a drag Ed finds himself wondering, idly, if Joe has anyone to cut it for him — and then he tips his head back to press his open mouth to Joe’s and exhale.

Joe’s fingers stop tapping. There’s the briefest moment where he’s perfectly, perfectly still, stiller than Ed has ever known him to be, and then he inhales sharply, audibly. When the cigarette smoke starts to spill out from between their mouths Ed expects him to pull away immediately – it’s an awkward angle, straining their necks and misaligning their mouths, making the corner of Joe’s lips smear over his chin as he parts them more widely – but Joe doesn’t, just holds his mouth over Ed’s for a few seconds longer, inhales again like he’s trying to breathe Ed in this time.

‘Going to let me sleep now?’ Ed says, when their mouths are still close enough he can feel Joe’s breath against his lips.

‘Fuck,’ says Joe. His mouth is wet and when he leans back against the wall again he looks looser-limbed than Ed has seen him since Toccoa; when Ed settles his head back down, nudging it against Joe’s thigh, this time Joe stretches out so Ed can rest his head there. ‘Yeah, Tip. Fuck.’

(If Sobel mislays his cigarette rations the next day, it has nothing to do with Ed – and for once, he means it.)

[dduane]

Have had this problem for so long: needing to remove text from a cover image for one purpose or another. (Because sometimes the publisher forgets to send you a non-text-bearing image, or else they do and somehow you mislay it...)

...Anyway, this problem’s solved now! (Noting that I still have to do a little touch-up on the image on the right, where the dropshadows from the “A” and “W” haven’t been removed yet. But that’s just a few minutes’ work.)

THIS routine is what finally did the business. Disclosure: I’m not a big fan of Adobe Photoshop, and I use it under protest. (Mostly for image work I prefer Corel Photo-Paint: I’ve been using it for a couple decades now, and I very much prefer not having to think about where my tools are or what to do with them.) But the technique described below does 95% of the scutwork, and saves many frustrating hours sweating over the clone tool...

So if you’ve got Photoshop, and you’ve also got this particular problem, here’s a solution. :)

[minusgangtime]

"Just hang in there, Beta..."

(Alone but (Doomsday) Beta and Mislay sing it)

(FLM used)

[dolphin1812]

And it’s Gavroche’s brothers, who don’t seem to have reached any security without him. The statistical element is sarcastic and cruel, with the police “counting” them for the purposes of the state but not helping them, instead “mislaying” them as if people could be misplaced. 

“As children, they have a right to flowers” is such a beautiful line, and it’s true. The children aren’t harming the people in the Luxembourg Gardens at any time; banning them from entering on regular days is just meant to hide their presence from those made uncomfortable by their poverty. As Hugo points out, appreciating beauty (as one does in a garden) should not mean neglecting those who suffer. His comments on the earth being like a child whose tears quickly dry also highlight that for these children, there would be hope if they were given support. As we saw with Cosette, children are resilient, and - if given love - they can quickly recover from horrible states. These children’s suffering is not natural or inevitable, but their natural strength from youth could help them flourish if they were anywhere near as cared for as this garden.

Hugo’s description of the garden is also really beautiful. It shows here that he was a poet, too. At the same time, while nature is “feasting,” the children are hungry. 

This bourgeois man is so cruel, but he’s symptomatic of a larger problem of waste. Children close to his son’s age are hungry in front of him, but he’s seeing the children as signs of “anarchy” because of their poverty, not as children in need of help. And his child doesn’t need the bread, but feeding the swans is somehow more “humane” and “compassionate” than feeding other people (although I must say, “A person may not want any more of his cake; but that is no reason for giving it away” is a funny line). We also get a pun! But it’s less funny than most puns in this book, probably because it comes from the bourgeois (cygnes (swans) and signes (signs)). 

The children get food, but only by chance. The callousness in this chapter is astounding, but unfortunately, not unrealistic.

I do love that Hugo is judging swans, though. He seems to have strong negative opinions of them, and they’re somewhat funny.

On another serious note, though, these children are another reminder of the losses brought about by Gavroche’s death. He may not have been caring for them any more, but we get a sense that he did this kind of thing regularly as a kind person and as a more seasoned gamin. His loss isn’t sad just because we miss him, but because of its consequences for his community as a whole.

[cacchieressa]

A Note

Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings;

to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain from everything it's not;

to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off;

and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

--Wislawa Szymborska

[pratchettquotes]

Three was a natural number for witches.

And they'd lost one. Well, not lost, exactly. Magrat was queen now, and queens were hard to mislay. But...that meant that there were only two of them instead of three.

When you had three, you had one to run around getting people to make up when there'd been a row. Magrat had been good for that. Without Magrat, Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax got on one another's nerves. With her, all three had been able to get on the nerves of absolutely everyone else in the whole world, which had been a lot more fun.

Terry Pratchett, Maskerade