It was, refreshingly, a spark of the old and familiar Xanatos. Qui-Gon felt the tension in his shoulders ease at that, and gave a rueful shake of his head. That was not the reaction he’d expected to have to the reappearance of Xan’s manipulative streak, but it wasn’t directed at him for once—at least, not yet—and he was content to just watch.
It was a work of art, truly, the way Xan laid his traps, placed his victims in them and wound the whole construction up like fine clockwork. He felt a momentary pang for the team they might have made in the field—a dynamic that they’d rarely had a chance to push to its full potential in Xan’s Padawan years. Such a form of negotiation, while effective, was by no means ethical. Qui-Gon was happy to take matters into his own hands and ignore the Council’s foibles while dealing with the realities of fieldwork. Xan took that particularly troublesome aspect of his to the extreme.
Would it have made a difference, though, if his skills had been recognised from the very beginning and employed to their most devastating effect? Cultivated and directed, rather than derided and suppressed? Not for the first time, Qui-Gon found himself thinking that his own Master might have succeeded where he had not. Jard Dooku, heir to the countship of Serenno, might actually have known how to navigate the mental minefield that a childhood in House du Crion had left Xanatos with. There might have been some sort of warmth from that understanding.
Then again, Qui-Gon admitted to himself ruefully, his relationship with Master Dooku hadn’t been quite successful on that front.
He was surprised out of his thoughts by a low voice issuing from behind him. “It would never have worked, and you know it.” Xanatos’ drawl almost hid a note of bitter nostalgia. Almost, but not quite well enough.
Qui-Gon turned, startled by the non sequitur that had fallen in so perfectly with his musings. “What?”
“You were thinking of how well we might have fit together, as a pair of Knights,” Xanatos clarified, folding his hands behind him and staring up at the stars, as if trying to put as much distance between himself and Qui-Gon’s thoughts as possible.
A cool night breeze teased Xan’s dark hair, and reminded Qui-Gon what it was like to breathe. He’d felt stifled all day, he realised. Qui-Gon let his gaze fall to the robes his former Padawan wore. Neatly pressed attire, soft, smooth silk overlaid in folds—rich simplicity that still somehow resembled the intricate arrangement of traditional Jedi uniforms. “I was thinking that one does not have to be good to do good in the world, and that perhaps the Order had failed you from the start, by failing to accept your gifts as they were.”
Since the start of the Separatist Crisis, Xanatos had watched the Corps assert their independence with some pride. The Jedi had very quickly and smoothly entered the market as a significant entity in their own right, mostly trading in raw materials, and eventually becoming competitive enough to fill the vacuum left behind when the CIS worlds had broken off trade with the Republic. At last, Xan remembered thinking, someone in the Order had been using their head. He’d been even more pleased to learn that his Master and brother-Padawan had been the architects of this new-found independence.
Of course, the new arrangement meant that negotiations generally involved both planetary and AgCorps representatives. It complicated matters on occasion, but Xanatos found himself overall pleased with the result. The Jinn-Kenobi team had handled many of the early treaties and agreements Sunrise Corporation had been a part of, particularly during the early transition period when most other parties had been leery of opening trade with Jedi. It was mostly for this reason that Xanatos still wanted a representative of the Order present at all Sunrise negotiations. It didn’t matter that the discussion didn’t really involve the Order at this point—what mattered was that they were an important influence on the market, and they leant a certain gravitas to the occasion, particularly since the Jedi had been invited by none other than Xanatos du Crion, head of Telosian Sunrise Operations himself.
Xanatos could tell Qui-Gon sensed his presence at the negotiations was at least superfluous, if not entirely unnecessary. But his former Master seemed content to play along with the charade, devoting the surface layer of his attention to the proceedings. Xanatos felt a prickling charge on his skin, a strange dull pressure at the dessicated stump of what had once been his training bond with this man, all signifying that the true source of Qui-Gon Jinn’s focus was Xanatos himself. He couldn’t help but wonder what Jinn saw.
But, in truth, Xanatos still knew his Master well. There was only one thing he could have been thinking of.
God I need help b/c you know Levi probably didn't hear many nice words after his Mom died and he has trouble sleeping until Eren starts saying sweet things to him and soothes him to sleep and alskabkdk I HAVE SLAIN MYSELF WITH FEELS.
oOFOGOOFOG DDUDUDUUDE, u shouldnt have sent me this bc now i am crying as well ;______; i swear i didnt mean for this to happen but it did so yeah, have a drabble
It’s just past midnight, and as usual, Levi cannot sleep.
There is a very clear line between being INSPIRED by someone, and PLAGIARIZING them. While this usually is used when describing WRITING, on a place like tumblr where people are creating their accounts and putting time and energy into URLs, icons, format, tagging style, “aesthetic,” and writing, it can lead to a lot of people not realizing where the line is to be considered COPYING.
IT IS NOT JUST WRITING. Regardless of whether you just imitate someone’s aesthetic; whether by creating your own theme which is remarkably similar or simply taking the theme a person has already made, copying in tumblr writing and RP does not stop when someone hits “publish.” A good rule of thumb when wondering if you’re inspired by a person, or copying the person, is to ask yourself this question: is this thing I like canon, or is it unique to this blog? Headcanons, graphics, URLs, formats in writing, tags, alternative FCs… these are all things that can make a person feel much less than flattered when they realize that the work they have put into making these decisions were lifted by another person.
“IMITATION IS THE MOST SINCERE FORM OF FLATTERY” This phrase was never, ever meant to mean “it is okay to take someone’s hard work because it means you like it.” One of the earliest examples of this phrase was talking about RELIGION and how mankind should work to resemble divinity. It was about generally NOT BEING A DICK. And, another earlier example of this phrase is : imitation is a kind of artless flattery. This flatters no one.
HOW DO I KNOW IF IT’S OKAY OR NOT: If it is general canon, you are not taking from a blog, even if they posted the headcanon first. If you have a URL that is generally similar but it comes from canon, then you’re not taking from that blog.
If someone has a URL for a popular character that you like but it is not something that was said by that character, about that character, or is generally something that would be taken from canon, then it would probably not be seen as being very flattering.
If someone has a very specific icon style that is not something that is generally seen (aka it’s not something generally basic like a square or circle with a watermark), then using something remarkably similar would likely be seen as copying, and not flattering.
If someone has a very specific AU verse that they developed; or they use a very specific alternative FC who you’ve never seen used in that way before, then ASK before making your own version of this. This does NOT include things that can be easily diverged from canon (example: I have a verse where Kol is put into a different body instead of going to the Ancestral Plane. Anyone can use a body jumper verse, but if someone started using the exact same plot points that I made up, then it would cross from “being inspired by canon” to “directly copying me”)
ALWAYS, ALWAYS ASK. If you like something about a blog and it inspires you on your own blog, A S K that person. A lot of people don’t like doing this because they know they’re going to be told NO if something is too close to that other person’s heart. Use this as a CHALLENGE to create something that you are still excited about, but is entirely original to you and your blog! Whether it is a writing style, word choice, URL, theme, or general aesthetic: keep the general rule in mind that if it’s not actual canon, then that person will likely feel like a bag of crap when they see their work being claimed by someone else.
And always, ALWAYS remember that this is not a competition, nor is writing on here a zero-sum game. You do not need to copy someone because you think that is how you will be noticed. You will be noticed, for sure–––– but definitely not in the way you wanted! Be inspired and encouraged by other people, and you’ll find yourself having so much fun on here, you won’t have time to think about using the work of someone else.
Novak,” Castiel introduces himself in return, firmly shaking the
hand he has been offered, “As my boss has probably already informed
you, I will be your new bodyguard.”
“Will you?” Dean questions as he raises an eyebrow,
unimpressed in a way that speaks of many years of experience with new
bodyguards. Not that Castiel looks particularly unpromising – there
have been many who have made a worse first impression, looking as
though they were only in it for the money or the prestige of being
able to call Dean Winchester their employee –, but also not
particularly promising. Truthfully, he almost seems to have walked
right out of a fashion photo shoot or some old-timey mafia movie,
what with the snugly fitting suit and the tousled hair, but not out of a
well-renowned personal protector agency.
Still, he will have to do for now. Dean is about to go on a
campaign that will lead him through many events and meetings that
have been set up to promote familiarity and intimacy with his
possible voters, meaning that he will have to get up close and
personal with them. Having more than one bodyguard – or one who
looks more like one and less like Novak – with him would interfere
with the whole ‘I’m one of you, vote for me’ vibe he’s going for,
and it’s not like there’s any time left to choose another guard for
himself. Not with his campaign starting tomorrow.
Castiel does nothing more than to quirk one corner of his mouth at
Dean’s pointed question and tilt his head to the side just so.
“Unless you have any objections.” There’s not even a challenge in
his words or eyes, just calm reassurance and a frankly impressive ‘I
don’t give a fuck either way’ attitude.
It drives a small shiver down Dean’s spine, one that’s not
entirely unpleasant, and has him sigh in resignation.
“No,” he waves him off, although he already feels himself
regretting his decision,“none.”
HADES: my love, there is no shortage of things i have given you. i have procured all of the best things from the land above for you. i have offered you gifts, shrines – all these and more. and yet still, still, the sadness dwells within you. what can i do? what can i give?
PERSEPHONE: nothing that you have, shall i ever want. everything you offer, i can only turn away.
HADES: i would give you anything – anything at all.
PERSEPHONE: anything i so desire?
HADES: i would cause realms to shake at your will. i would overturn the highest of kingdoms, bring ruin and destruction to the greatest of men.
PERSEPHONE: i do not want that.
HADES, on his knees: i would beg, plead; i would prostrate myself – right here, in front of you! i would cut out my heart, pull the darkness from the abyss – all for you.
HADES: i would relinquish my power, worship you at your feet.
PERSEPHONE: would you?
HADES: i would.
PERSEPHONE, staring down at him: would you give me this power? this never ending power? would you call me as i am: the Queen at your side? would you? would you?
HADES: i would, i would, i would.
PERSEPHONE: this is how a goddess rules. what you would have me be is a plaything for you to enjoy. who am i to you?
léo’s +500 follower celebration. okay, so, first and foremost - thank so you much everyone for following little ol’ me over here. like ?? why are all of you amazing, beautiful souls here ?? all i do is yell about things, make sitty edits and reblog other people’s amazing work ?? did my mother pay you to follow me ?? jk… i think. the point is, i am insanely grateful that you all decided to have me on your dash and you have faith in my blog and so i want to do something fun to thank all of you, new and old followers, for being here.
i didn’t have the opportunity to do any follower celebrations before this one because of preparation for my surgery… and then my surgery… so this is also my first celebration !! so lets make it a good one together. also a heads up to everyone: i will be changing my url soon to charlieweasey.
r u l e s…
• must be following gregory goyle’s husband
• reblog this post (likes don’t count)
• send in an ask with the corresponding symbols for what you’d like
• you can choose as many of the things below as you want !! get them all if you want.
s e n d i n…
☾ + your favorite planet for a url poem/quote similar to the quotes on my charlie weasley and percy weasley edits, except i will write a short thing like that inspired by your url.
♥ + something that makes you happy for a blog compliment literally i just get to fawn over how amazing your blog is and you get to bask in the compliments because positivity is good for your soul.
★ + your favorite hp character for a hogwarts blog rate i look over your blog, pages and posts, and then sort you into hogwarts categories, assign you a best friend “squad” and both a male and female love interest. format below cut. it’s intense.
3. “The world is black and white until you meet your soulmate” AU for snowbaz? Pretty pleaseee 😊
Thanks for the prompt ❤️❤️
It’s hard to understand just how many shades of grey there are between white and black unless you’ve experienced it firsthand. How you can tell that an apple is the same red as a fire truck without actually knowing what red looks like. How I know that Simon Snow’s eyes are the same blue as the shirt I have hidden at the bottom of my closet, the one I only take out and wear when he isn’t around. How you can tell when someone blushes because of the grey that’s a little bit darker than they grey of their skin, which is a tanner grey than someone else’s, paler than another person’s. It’s a color with so many facets.
I hate it.
Some people are lucky. Sometimes they don’t have a soulmate, and the world is in vivid color from birth for them. They don’t even understand, can’t comprehend what the rest of us are missing, because it’s so normal for them. Others meet their soul mates while they’re still so young that they hardly remember the monotoned world of their childhood.
But some people never meet their soulmate. Some people meet their soulmate and never touch them, just go about their daily life until one day they die still waiting for the burst of color that will never happen.
If your soulmate dies, you never get to see color. If you already met them and they die, the world goes back to black and white and grey, and you know exactly what happened no matter where you are.
That’s what happened to my father.
The call was really a formality, when Watford gave their condolences over the phone. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Grimm,” they said, words that he already knew he was going to hear over and over, because the world had already faded from the colors he’d grown to love into the grey that was beginning to spiral him towards insanity and depression. “She died protecting your baby boy.”
No wonder he hates me. A vampiric toddler instead of your soulmate? What a fucking trade off. What a fucking tragedy. They say that if you love your children enough, you can keep some of the color after your soulmate dies, because you still have a little piece of them, a little piece of that love. It’s his own fault that he’s been plunged into complete darkness, his own fault that his heart is closed off even to his own offspring.
It’s not going to happen to me.
I’ve been sure that it’s Simon since the first time I saw him. Since the Crucible began pulling me towards him and I had to shake his hand, I just had to- except I couldn’t. Because he was my soulmate. Even in my tiny eleven year old heart, I knew that. And I knew what came along with soulmates. Despair. Disappointment. Death and destruction. So I stuck my tiny hand in the pocket of my suit jacket and shook his hand through that, just enough touch to get the Crucible off my back, with just enough of a barrier to keep me from seeing the color I’m sure I would if I ever touched Simon.
It’s happened in my dreams over and over, but I don’t know what colors look like. “Red is like fire,” they tell me, “and blue like ice. Yellow is the sunshine.” I don’t understand, and I’m never going to. Because Simon Snow is my soulmate, and he’s never going to know.
He’s here now, the moonlight streaming in and lighting him up like a star in the sky. Soft snores come from his mouth and a thin stream of drool seeps from the corner of his parted lips. I’ve never seen anything more beautiful. I turn over and go to sleep.
The second closest I’ve ever come to touching Simon was in third year. He was shouting at me, nasty things, and all I wanted was to pound his idiotic face in. All I wanted was to see the blood pour out of his nose and know that it was my fault. I caught my fist mid air, screamed “Anathema” even though we were outside, and ran as fast as my feet could carry me to the Catacombs.
The closest I’ve ever been to touching Simon is right now. My heart is having a wild party in my chest, and it invited all its friends. I can’t see, I can’t hear, I think there’s butterflies in my brain, I think I’m going to vomit. He has my by the collar of my shirt and he’s got one finger pointed at my face, terrifyingly close to the tip of my nose. I stare at it with both eyes, looking cross eyed and tiny and frightened, even though I’ve got a good 4 inches on him and I’m pretty sure I could kick his ass if it came down to it (as long as it wasn’t a magical battle). I can smell the smoke rolling off him in waves, and he’s so close that his breath hits me and he must have eaten bagels for breakfast because in the midst of the morning breath is a hint of cream cheese. He’s so close. I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe.
“Get out of my face, Snow,” I choke, trying to scramble backwards without pushing him away, afraid my bare hand will brush his bare arm.
“Who’s gonna make me?” He taunts me. When he smiles, I can’t tell if I want to spit in his face or grab him by the back of his neck and take him down, kiss him until I can’t feel my lips, not let him up until morning. Probably a little bit of both. If this were a scene in a movie, he’d kiss me and I wouldn’t have to worry about it. Or he’d knock me the fuck out and I’d wake up with the world in color. But this isn’t a movie, so he lets me go and shoves me backwards, both hands flat on my chest and storms out of the room.
When it happens, it’s the dumbest reason possible.
He doesn’t have his fucking shoe tied. Of course he doesn’t, he’s Snow. We’re in fifth year and he doesn’t know how to tie his goddamn shoes. I have half a mind to bend down and do it for him.
I’m about to snap at him, about to whirl around as he follows me about a foot too close to the football field (“There’s no rule against me playing at the same time as you, Basil”) when it happens. When that little fucker trips up on his shoelace and face plants himself into my back.
It’s barely a touch. It’s a millisecond brush of skin, his cheek against the back of my neck, but it’s enough. As I see the shift, I understand why people say blue is like ice. Because my body feels like ice, and the sky is blue, and that’s exactly how I feel.
I run before he has a chance to get up.
It’s disorienting to move as one color after another fades into my vision. There’s more green in the world than I ever would have imagined, on the leaves and in the grass and even my uniform. The sun looks more white than yellow, and it’s still just as blinding. My shoes are bright fucking orange, and I decide right then and there that orange is not my favorite color.
The world in color is a sensory overload. I try to make it to the Catacombs, where everything is dark anyway, but I can’t run that far with my head spinning like this. I fall down over a tree root and curl up at the base of the trunk, trying not to cry.
The inevitable footsteps are Simon’s. I can tell because of the way he’s plodding through the forest, as if he’s trying his damndest to step on every twig and crunchy leaf in the damn thing. “Baz?” He calls out. I’m too afraid to look up. Too afraid by what I hear in his voice, too afraid of the sticky blood I can feel congealing on my face from my fall, what he might think that means. Too afraid that maybe, just maybe, he didn’t see the colors at the same time I did. I’ve never heard of one-sided soul mates, but who the fuck knows? It’d be my luck.
It’s obvious when he sees me. The plodding stops, and he walks up in a gentler manner. Like he’s only trying to step on half the twigs in the forest. “Baz? I think we need to talk.”
“I think we need to not do that,” I say (ever so eloquent, Basil).
“Could you look at me? For once in your life could you not be a prick and could you look at me?” there’s something a lot like pain in his tone. It intrigues me. But I can’t. I can’t look at him. Simon Snow in black and white is difficult enough to handle- in full color, he’d surely kill me at the sight of him.
“I can’t.” I hate how pitiful I sound, so pitiful that I feel his hand on my back, rubbing small circles into it. I flinch away from his touch, as if it isn’t already way too late.,/p>
“We’re soulmates,” he says, like it’s that simple. Like it doesn’t ruin everything.
“Did you know that my eyes are blue? I looked in a mirror. They’re a really nice blue. Did you know that cardinals are red? I didn’t know that. Penny’s hair is purple, Baz, it’s purple. Did you know that?” Have you seen purple yet? I brought a purple flower that I saw. To show you. In case you haven’t seen it. It’s my favorite.”
It’s impossible to hold back the bitter laugh gathering in my throat. When it comes out, it’s stillborn. A dry, ugly, dead thing. It quickly turns into a sob. I look up at Simon, because what the hell else could go wrong, and he’s beautiful. The git.
“You’re covered in blood,” he says worriedly, wiping at it with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Here’s the flower.”
It’s a pretty little thing, and purple is a very nice color. I reach out and take it, realizing that I no longer have to be careful not to brush Simon’s hand with my own. “Thanks,” I manage to sniffle out.
He looks at me like he’s trying very hard to figure something out. “What?” I snap, harsher than I intended.
“I just don’t know what color your eyes are,” he says, almost to himself. “They’re green and grey and blue and brown… Is there a name for that?, ”
“Eyes like that are called hazel,” I tell him, and he nods in recognition of the name. I’m surprised by the information. I didn’t know my eyes were hazel.
“Like the Kelly Clarkson song?” He asks, standing up and offering me a hand. I take it and he helps me to feet.
“Yes, like the Kelly Clarkson song,” I laugh.
“Here,” he says, handing me the bloody sweatshirt. “Clean yourself up, so I can kiss you.”
I don’t understand how some people don’t tag anything. I’m not talking
about tagging triggers & stuff like that, I’m talking about people
who literally do not tag anything on their blog ever. Not even tagging
the url of the person they’re writing with. How do you keep things
organised? How do you find lost replies? How do you keep track of
everything? I couldn’t do it.
I’m laughing bc I realized that there’s the people who’ve been following me for a while and know bits about my life and know my name and what I look like, and then there’s all the people who followed me around the same time for tbt and I was like fuck that’s a lot of new people so I stopped all personal info and I’m just like this mystery person with a weird non-fandom URL who writes things