continuous glass


Petals fall
With every motion
Taking all
Of my emotion

Carried away
By the breeze
Maybe someday
I’ll be at ease

Finally finished my glass flute painting. I’m in the midst of busy moving so there won’t be much for a while. After the move I’m excited to start on Fisheye Placebo and Knite again, as well as continuing the glass instrument series (I think I will do drums next).

I also aim to get a laser cutter and 3D printer to explore art in different mediums. I love digital, but it’s nice to work with something tangible as well :)

“My dear, a knight is more than a soldier. They are a symbol.”

Stunning art of Aedos done by the wonderful @laskulls

the white album explained (part 1)
  • back in the ussr: the beatles are the red beach boys (they forgot their sunblock)
  • dear prudence: "hey prudence farrow you haven't eaten in days stop meditating won't you come out to pla--wait omg stay there i had an idea" -john lennon
  • glass onion: can everyone shut up paul isn't dead (yes he is)
  • obla di obla da: life goes on, brah (still the red beach boys)
  • wild honey pie: george's wife wanted to end the beatles
  • bungalow bill: john tries to get yoko and the other beatles to hang out with each other
  • while my guitar gently weeps: george likes eric clapton
  • happiness is a warm gun: the beatles take a break from the hippy shit and preach violence
  • martha my dear: paul likes his dog
  • im so tired: oh john can't sleep at night, but just the same, i never weep at night, i call your name
  • blackbird: paul is a little late to the civil rights movement but that's what dying can do to a guy
  • piggies: reverse animal farm (regular farm)
  • rocky raccoon: he was a fool onto himself
  • don't pass me by: ringo,,,,good job
  • why don't we do it in the road:
  • i will: he will
  • julia: john writes a song about his mom à la paul style
Due South Archive | Archive of Our Own
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

GUYS.  The import of the DSA - the old DUE SOUTH ARCHIVE founded in 1994 - into the Archive of Own is complete!  If you had stories in that archive and you didn’t get an email, check in and claim them - some stories didn’t have email addresses attached to them. If you’d already put your stories up on your AO3 account, you likely got an email inviting you to add them into the Due South Archive collection.  Please do! You can also add your other Due South stories to the collection whether or not they were in the archive originally! Lastly, if you got the story uploaded and added to your account, please feel free to go in, edit, change formatting, prettify, standardize with your other fic, remove my archivist note etc.  You can now take advantage of all the AO3′s features!

AN ENORMOUS ENORMOUS THANK YOU KINDLY for the members of Open Doors and ADT for making this happen!!!


My little red riding hood au - Sebastian is a friendly wolf ฅˋ•ω•ˊฅ | part 01

Stolen Clothes - Peter Parker

Prompt: Reader is afraid of thunder/lightning and there is a freak thunderstorm, and her best friend, Peter Parker, has to comfort her.

Words: 2,499

Warnings: None- fluff mainly.

Bolts of bright light cracked across the dark sky. The constant breakouts of lightning flashes through your thick curtains. Booming of ground shaking thunder shook your dead apartment unevenly. 

You were curled up in your bed eye glued on the TV screen out of fear. The storm knocked out the satellite being the reason you were staring at a frozen screen for the last half an hour. You hid your body from the horrid weather under a mound of warm blankets fresh out of the dryer.

Fuzzy socks covered your feet and a steaming cup of hot chocolate rested untouched on your nightstand. Paralyzed with fear you didn’t dare move a muscle. Even though you hated thunder storms you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the rain pounding against your window. It was like the scene of a car crash, the best thing was to avoid the mess but it was almost impossible to think about anything else.

A loud crash hit your window earning a screeching yelp from yourself. The stray branch from a tree outside blew in the wind knocking the glass continuously. You parents fell asleep in pure bliss to the tempest leaving you to wallow in your lonesome. 

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Memory Lane

A belated birthday gift for @destieldrabblesdaily! Have some Witch!Cas and accidental magic shenanigans :)

Sorry this didn’t get posted on your actual day of birth, life became VERY BUSY recently for some reason but HERE IT IS NOW.


“So, what does this do again?”

Dean frowned as he brushed his fingers along the dried-out tentacle from something that Castiel had hanging up along the wall in his work room, alongside several bundles of herbs and various other ingredients that Castiel used in his potions.

Castiel paused his chopping to glance over at his friend.

“It’s highly poisonous, and I would recommend not touching it.”

Dean made a small noise of surprise in the back of his throat and jerked his hand back.

“Jesus, really?”

“No, but please don’t touch it anyway. It’s very rare.”

Nonetheless, Dean rubbed his hand on the front of his jeans as he sat at the table across from Castiel, just in case.

“Not to rush you or anything, but are you about done?” Dean rested his chin in his hands as he watched Castiel begin scooping up the finely-chopped bits of fire beetle and gently poured them into a small vial. “I’ve been dying to try out that new burger place and I’m starving.”

“I have tea in the kitchen if you want something,” Castiel murmured, his concentration never wavering from his work.

“I said I’m hungry.” Dean flopped down into a pout, knowing how much it bugged Cas whenever he dropped his attitude to the age of a twelve-year-old. “You said we could go out to eat today, so here I am.”

Castiel let out a long sigh and wiped off his knife on a napkin.

“Yes. I did. I’m sorry.” He put a stopper in the vial and looked up, a pleading tension in his eyes. “Give me just a few more minutes to finish this. I didn’t realize I was going to have so many potion commissions this week, and I really need to get them completed.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright.” Dean stood up from the table and ruffled Castiel’s hair as he passed.

As much of a hard time as he gave his friend for being so busy now, Dean couldn’t help the swell of pride he felt whenever Castiel mentioned his small business. Trying to get it up and running had been an upward battle for the past two years and that was only after spending the seven years before that honing his craft and practising his magic. Dean had been there for every step of the way; he couldn’t be prouder of Castiel for finally succeeding.

Even if that meant they didn’t to get spend as much time together as Dean would like, anymore.

At least now Castiel didn’t have time to date anyone. Not that he had dated before his business began to boom.

And not that Dean cared.

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I finally wrote part two! Tween Lance is a devious little munchkin that just wants his mom… Also, I don’t know Spanish at all, so please correct me if I messed up anything!

(Part 1) (Part 2- You’re here!)

Keith blinked incredulously at the boy in his arms before hearing the roar of multiple lions landing in the tall grass outside. Three pairs of feet pounded into the lab and stopped cold at the sight of their teammates huddled on the floor.

“Are you guys alright? What’s wrong?” Hunk fretted. Keith lifted Lance to his feet and couldn’t help but join in the chorus of gasps. Lance stood a solid foot shorter than normal, and his clothes hung off his prepubescent frame. “He’s… younger?” Hunk echoed what everyone was thinking. They all jumped when Lance began to speak.

“Ay dios! ¿Qué quieres?” He began spouting what sounded like gibberish, backing away from Keith. 

It suddenly clicked in Pidge’s brain, and she turned to the other paladins excitedly. “It’s Spanish!” They all stared at her in confusion, and she explained with a hint of irritation. “Something here caused Lance to revert, body and mind, to a younger version of himself that obviously didn’t know English yet. He came from Cuba, right?” She adjusted her glasses, continuing, “The only question is, how old is he now?”

“I, uh, actually have another question,” Hunk interjected. “Where did he go?” The team looked at the now empty spot where the tween had been last, but a crash caused them to whirl around and see a terrified Lance dashing out another hole in the wall opposite the one Keith and him entered through, glass shimmering at his feet. Keith began to run, but Shiro stopped him with an arm.

“If we go after him, we might scare him,” he explained. “We need to figure out a way to approach him. Does anyone here know any Spanish?” He was met with blank looks. “Maybe not. Okay, let’s just take it slow; Pidge and Keith, stay here and figure out what changed Lance while Hunk and I go find him.”

Shiro and Hunk ran into the jungle, and Pidge looked at Keith with an accusatory expression. “What actually happened?” Keith avoided her glare guiltily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Pidge narrowed her eyes, and he gave in, picking up the beaker that started it all. “He found this full of some weird juice, and I fell for his stupidity,” he mumbled.

The green paladin snorted, ruffling through a stack of nearby documents. “Pretty sure you did that a long time ago.” Keith was about to question what she meant when she held up a yellowed scroll triumphantly. “Is this what is was? The beaker shapes match.” He studied the paper before nodding, recognizing the blue liquid depicted in the drawing. “Do you know what it says?”

Pidge whipped out a small orange device and scanned the parchment. “It’s the language of a species that died out several decapheebs ago. Liorug, Ye Lior Piqn. Liorug, the Life Liquid.” Her eyes widened, and her gaze shifted to the red paladin. “Keith,” she whispered. 

“We may have just discovered the secret to immortality.”

“And Lance just drank it.”


Well… she did know how to open it… (Anna and Remington (my ocs) and 2017) Happy New Year!

Join Us

Writer - @damndescendants

Requested - yep by: @dbpie (Personal for Delaney)

I was thinking a Harry Hook imagine, where I’m the daughter of the queen of hearts and he tries to win me over?

Disclaimer - I do not own any of Descendants’ characters and/or ideas all credit goes to the creator and producers of Disney Descendants

Pairing - Harry Hook x Delaney 

Summary – While meeting up with Uma, Delaney Heart, daughter of the queen of hearts, catches the eye of a certain hooked pirate.

Warning(s) -

Originally posted by butterflywingednight

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Title: Dive

Pairing: Female reader x Dean

Theme song: Dive by Ed Sheeran

Summary: Dean’s catching feelings for the reader and needs to be convinced to dive in

A/N: This song just has such quiet bar vibes. 

Word count: 2,000ish

Your name: submit What is this?

The old bartender working the quiet Tuesday afternoon shift had poured Dean another glass of whiskey before he’d even opened his mouth to ask for it. Dean looked up from his hands long enough to give a nod of thanks before pulling the new glass to his lips and taking a sip.

The bartender returned the bottle to its shelf and smiled behind his wiry beard.

“Thought you could use another,” he said, “You’ve got that look.”

“You’re not wrong,” Dean said.  The man waited; Dean said nothing.

“So what is it?” he pressed. “Love? Money?”

“Those the usual culprits?” Dean asked. The bartender kept his smile, waiting. Dean looked down at his glass again and turned it slow in his hands. Pushing away from the counter, the old man grabbed a mostly dirty rag and started away, taking the hint and his leave.

“You let me know if you need another,” he said over his shoulder.

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So, @ernmark‘s Penumbera musical post got @typehere452 and I a bit inspired, and we wrote Juno and Peter’s Rex’s love song for the end. We’re planning on actually putting up a recording of us singing it tomorrow, but until then, we figured we’d post some of the lyrics as a sort of teaser.

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Ten Shards of Stained Glass

Photo: Collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, Gift from the Trumpauer-Mulholland Collection.

Just two weeks after the March On Washington, on September 15, 1963, white supremacists planted a bomb under the steps of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The explosion killed four young girls attending Sunday school. 

This terrorist act was a brutal reminder that the success of the march and the changes it represented would not go unchallenged. In the face of such violence, the determination to continue organizing intensified. These glass shards are from the church’s stained-glass window.


pairing: klaus mikaelson x reader, past matt donovan x reader

word count: 2462

a/n: not a request xx

You were tired.

That’s the excuse you had used, at least.

Tired and drunk.

You two had been talking for so long. His presence had filled you with a sense of content, his voice lulling you into warm sleepiness. You had no idea how many drinks he’d bought you. You knew it had surprised him, you initiating the kiss, and you’d like to say that you surprised yourself, but that wasn’t exactly the truth.

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Song of Fire Epilogue

I don’t know man, I just decided to go with it and write one more chapter. @chaoslaborantin advice is always goals. Answering asks about Kira has also made me want to write her a little older and I also came up with a somewhat realistic plan for Mare and Cal… so roll with it I guess??? (some adorable fluff ahead, but also like serious shit too so be prepared)

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anonymous asked:

Rowaelin-both have the same target/break into the same place and run into each other?

Rowan sucked in a deep, steady breath before propelling himself off the roof of a building and through the open window of the building adjacent to it.  Curling himself into a ball at the very last second, the white haired thief just barely made it through the window pane without hitting the edges.  Hitting the carpeted office floor, he somersaulted once to ward off any possible injury and hopped to his feet in one smooth, graceful motion.  Rolling his shoulders back, stretching the muscles in them and his back out and warming them out for his next task.  His job was a simple one: go in, retrieve the wanted item, and get out before anyone realized he’d ever been there.  Step one was complete.  He was in the office building of one Athril Dearst, the ‘people’s champion’ and current D.A. for the city of Wendlyn.  He’d stolen something from his boss, the notorious mafiosa of the neighboring metropolis, Doranelle, Maeve, and she wanted it back.

Rowan didn’t know what exactly Athril had stolen from Maeve, and he didn’t particularly care, but he knew enough to locate what had been taken. Maeve had told him he’d find it somewhere in Athril’s desk.  A file.  That’s what he’d been told.  A thick one, too. With a plastic, evidence bag containing a small, golden ring inside.  Once he discovered the ring, Maeve had ordered, he need not to look further.  Vaguely, in the back of his mind, the white haired thief wondered how Athril–or one of his minions–had gotten so close to his boss to steal something of any real value, but it wasn’t his place to ask.  Asking questions would amount to nothing, anyway, except, perhaps, his death.  But Maeve knew who she was sending in to do her dirty work.  Rowan Whitethorn was the best Cleaner in the country.  If you wanted a mess cleaned up, you called Rowan.

He was a third of the way through his schedule, now he just had to find the file and get out without being seen.  That had never been a problem for the thief before, so he couldn’t fathom it being one now.  He was an efficient, calculated worker.  He’d scouted the area for forty eight hours prior to his infiltration.  He knew the custodians schedules by heart.  He knew that even if the lawyers and interns weren’t going home to their families they weren’t sticking around to work on a Friday night.  And he also knew that due to a construction project occurring down the street–one that was not fully up to city code and regulation–the power lines to the city block would be down for a grand total of two minutes and thirty seven minutes, security cameras included.  That was more than enough time for a professional such as himself.  

Yes, everything was going exactly to plan.  That is, until he opened the door to the D.A.’s office and found a young, pretty blonde woman sitting behind the desk with her legs stretched out atop it, one crossed over the other.  Her gaze was down turned towards the file that laid in her lap, and turning over and over across her fingers was Maeve’s gold ring.  “Took you long enough,” the woman said by way of greeting.  “And here I thought you might prove to be a challenge.”

“What’re you doing here?” Rowan growled, his green eyes narrowing on her form.  It was casual, but almost too casual, like she was luring him in to a false sense of security.  He didn’t need to ask who she was–her looks and behavior answered that question easily enough.  Before him sat Adarlan’s Assassin.  Rumor was her name was Celaena something or other, but the white haired man didn’t put much stock in rumors.  Her real name was irrelevant, however.  The more pressing question was what was an assassin doing in the D.A.’s office?  Followed quickly by and why does she have Maeve’s file?    

The assassin hummed noncommittally, keeping her gaze on the file before her.  “Same as you, I’d expect.”  She finally raised her gaze to his and only Rowan’s years of training kept him from blinking appreciatively.  She was beautiful, even with a skin peeling smirk cutting across her full lips.  She was dangerous.  Every cell in Rowan’s body was screaming at him that she was.  But then again, he thought as a smirk pulled at his own lips, so was he.  

“Now, as far as I can see it we’ve got two options here,” she explained, removing her feet slowly from the desk and standing.  She flipped Maeve’s file shut and tapped the manila cover with her pointer finger.  “We could either fight over this thing and probably use up the remaining minute we’ve got left before the security comes back on–which would be pretty rutting stupid,” she gave him a pointed look, as if daring him to be that stupid.  “Or,” she quirked a brow and pushed the file across the desk, “you take the damn file and we go our separate ways–pretending like this conversation never happened.”

Tilting his head a bit, he asked, “That’s it?  You’re just going to give up your prize without a fight?  What would your client say?”

Shrugging, the assassin cocked a hip and rested her hand on it, “I’ve already read through the juicy parts.  I don’t need the actual thing.”

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth, Rowan stepped up and secured the file.  He opened his mouth, about to inquire about the ring, when suddenly the blonde haired woman was standing right next to him.  Stiffening, but not moving away–she was fast, he internally cursed himself for not monitoring her movement, for letting his guard down even just a bit–he peered down at her.  “I’ve heard about you, you know,” she purred, her blue eyes glinting in the dim light.  “Rowan Whitethorn, infamous Cleaner.  Second to none.” Patting his upper arm, she lightly drew her fingers down his bicep.  “The rumors never mentioned how handsome you were.  They’re not doing you justice.”  A pretty blush bloomed over her cheeks, and Rowan realized suddenly how young she was.  She couldn’t be a day over twenty.  If that.

“You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” Rowan responded coolly.  He wasn’t about to be fooled by a pretty face.  This woman was a viper’s nest, just waiting to strike.  

She blinked, shock shattering through her carefully crafted mask.  Rowan quirked a brow and grinned victoriously.  The girl had created a name for herself, no one would doubt that, but the assassin was hardly a spy.  And seeing her youth, her inexperience shown through.  She was a good killer, but didn’t have the discipline for espionage.  Maybe in a few more years, Rowan mused.

Snatching her hand back as if she’d been burned, the assassin’s blush grew and she timidly looked down at her feet. She began to shift her feet restlessly, another sign of her inexperience. Fiddling with her fingers, she murmured, “Celaena.”

“Nice to meet you Celaena,” Rowan chuckled, and watched as Celaena’s face twisted into a scowl.

Pouting, the assassin pushed the file further into his chest and huffed, “Ugh, just take the stupid thing and leave!”  Then, in a dramatic fashion that could only belong to a teenager, Celaena turned heel and disappeared down the hall. Shaking his head and chuckling a bit more, Rowan figured he had about twenty more seconds before the power came back on and quickly made his escape out the building and into the faceless city streets. 

It was only later–much, much later–that Rowan realized that in getting caught up in Celaena’s dramatic, teen-aged bull, he’d completely forgotten about Maeve’s ring. Stopping in the middle of the street, he slapped his hand to his forehead and groaned.