if this doesn't get notes nothing will

anonymous asked:

Captain Sid going walking around AU Geno and Sids house and he's looking at all of their pictures and crying a little for this life he doesn't have. When he gets to Evans room he breaks down sobbing, quietly of course because he has nothing to cry about when Genos son is missing. But he can't help thinking that even though other Sidney doesn't have hockey he has Geno and a family.

oh man that’s depressing well on a happier note can you imagine baby Evan staring at his Dad and then at NHL Sidney and being so confused like in this video as the two Sidneys pass him back and forth 

AU!Sidney: Alright, can I have my son back–
NHL!Sidney, holding Evan and backing away very slowly: Just….two more minutes…..

Long post. Hit J on your dash to skip.

(1/3) Ficlet prompt fill for @oddlyexquisite, who picked museum, exhalation, glasses. I was a little loose with it…

I’ve been skewing pretty hard into self-indulgent angst recently. This sort of scene has been done to death and back (and for good reason), so now it’s my turn! Written to this and this, played at the same time.

Theed’s Holy of Holies lies on the outskirts of the palace grounds–a memorial grove filled with sacred, glass-petaled chime trees. One for each life come and gone. A museum for Naboo’s noble dead that lives and breathes, thriving atop ashes and inhumations alike.

The air is clear, still, and tastes clean—it had been grey for so long, thick and greasy with ash as the city’s funeral pyres burned for a week straight. It’s quiet here now, and the place is nearly empty of mourners for the first time in days. The tree Obi-Wan stands beneath is young, the dark soil at its base is freshly packed around a slab of white marble inscribed with only a name.

Chime trees are rare and exquisitely beautiful, but that’s not why they’re held sacred.

Obi-Wan cups his hands and leans in close to the nearest, low branch. He blows gently in one soft, sustained exhalation—and the heat of his breath alone is enough to set the brittle, blush-colored fronds into motion. One leaf quivers, begins to spin in slow, lazy circles, clinking against its neighbors until they, too, take up movement in a ghostly chain reaction. Along slender twigs and branches, spreading up and outward through the lush, vitreous-pink crown, the chime tree shivers into life—and it sings.

The tree sings to him with the beautiful, catastrophic dissonance of a hundred thousand tiny, shattering glasses. 

It’s a basic matter of thermal physics–a calculation of heat flux and temperature difference and transfer coefficients that, on Naboo, simply translates into the breath of one becomes the breath of all. Obi-Wan closes his eyes and listens, silent and reverential. It’s a sound he hopes to hear in his dreams tonight, instead of the bone-shaking vibrations of Theed’s power generator.

Eventually, off to his right, the grass stirs in time with the halting shuffle-thump gait he supposes he’ll just have to relearn now.

Obi-Wan looks up quickly, out of the corner of his eye. Just long enough to see that the newcomer looks like a scraggly, dead tree that looms grossly out of place here. He’s immediately disgusted with himself for the intrusive thought. “You shouldn’t be walking yet,” the young knight calls out. “And certainly not alone.”

Qui-Gon comes to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him, leaning heavily on the forearm crutch in his left hand. “I’m not,” he says mildly, indicating with a tip of his head. At the far edge of the grove, his companion med-droid—its vocal unit muffled with medical tape—lurches off to one side, vegetative. Its disassembled power unit dangles out the back.

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes, because even the lingering trauma of battle is no match for his inborn sense of propriety. “Don’t be troublesome, Master.”

Qui-Gon smiles, placid. “Far too late for that, my young apprentice.”

It’s an easy, slip-of-the-tongue endearment, and it hits Obi-Wan like a crack across the face. He nudges his toe into the overturned dirt at the base of the tree, silent for a long moment. The elder Jedi gives him space for his thoughts, expectant but unhurried.

“This one was your grave,” Obi-Wan finally says. “Gifted to you from the royal house of Naboo, for an honorable death in its service.”

Qui-Gon shifts on his feet, nods once in understanding, and pulls his robe tighter around his body. He breathes in deeply, for the sake of tasting the sweet, fresh air after weeks in the medbay—and then breathes out slowly to diffuse the resultant working-pain of his mangled lung. He digs his toes into the grass. “I wouldn’t mind dying in a place like this.”

Obi-Wan flinches. “Please don’t say that.”

There’s a tiny ignition of worry from Qui-Gon, and the feeling curls like smoke between them in the Force. It’s the Master’s turn for silence. Slowly, palpably, he begins to realize that he’s come upon something much different than a man paying his respects to Theed’s fallen. That smiling and attendant and Congratulations, Knight Kenobi, you have done well have nothing to do with being well. 

“Forgive me.”

Obi-Wan huffs out a strange, short laugh and braces himself against the tree, nearly brought low by two words for a poor turn of phrase. He fears, briefly and madly, that he’ll lose himself and sink to his knees entirely, never to get up again. But, no—the Force would never be so cruel, he thinks, to require the sort of balance where he must fall so that Qui-Gon Jinn may stand.

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon pleads softly. “Padawan. Look at me.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t. “A resting place here is an honor afforded to very few,” he explains softly, then smooths his fingertips over the tree’s peeling, snowy-white bark. “There was no shortage of those upon which to bestow it.” He shakes his head to clear it, then pushes himself upright. “The space didn’t go to waste. It belongs to Yané now.”

“Why won’t you look at me?”

Because he’s not the man’s padawan anymore, and because he already knows what he’ll see—Qui-Gon, thin-thin-thin, grey-faced and stooped with exhaustion and newfound chronic pain. His beard is scraggly and his hair is down because he doesn’t have the mobility or dexterity fix it himself anymore. Beneath his Jedi robe he’s still wearing his med-tunics, and very likely the flimsy, blue slippers that look spitefully comical on a man of his rank and manner. It’s wrong, and it’s too much for Obi-Wan to bear in this of all places.

He’s too tired, too worn down for anything than a graceless deflection. “I’m really quite alright.”

Qui-Gon exhorts him the only way he knows will work. “Then do it for my sake.”

Obi-Wan is so new to knighthood that he can’t disobey a direct request like that. He stiffly folds his arms into his sleeves and turns to face the older man. Neutral. Obedient. Composed. He doesn’t resist when Qui-Gon takes his face between those large, thin hands and tips it up, stroking his thumb over the tiny mole on his right cheekbone.

The lines of Qui-Gon’s face are filled with sadness as he gazes downward. “You’re allowed to grieve, Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan is staring at his chin, stubborn and tight-jawed. “For what? My braid?”

The joke is frail and bitter, a last-ditch effort to avert the terrible self-revelation Qui-Gon has backed him in to. It only makes the moment worse, and Obi-Wan seems to realize that just after the words leave his mouth. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard.

Qui-Gon shakes his head and his expression sinks deeper into heartbreak. “For anything you need to, padawan.”

When he finally raises his eyes to meet Qui-Gon’s, the spiderweb-fractures inside Obi-Wan give way. He shatters, and what’s exposed within him is not so much grief as it is desolation. A bleak and scoured chasm that had once been home to the kinder pieces of Qui-Gon Jinn—the ones which Obi-Wan had fought and scraped so hard for, for so long, and tucked away so carefully.

All of it wasted wholesale by a Sith, a slave child, and a short-sighted old fool.

This quiet, black emptiness is enough to undo him, too. Qui-Gon would willingly, stoically abide the weight of his own wounds, but he’ll never, never allow the same of his padawan. He drops his crutch and doesn’t embrace Obi-Wan so much as subsume him. He pulls the young knight into the protective, wiry frame of his own body, wraps him up in the warm depths of his robe. “Oh, my Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispers down into soft, auburn hair. “I’m here. I’m still here. I haven’t left you.”

Padawan, Padawan, Padawan… he’ll say it over and over, he thinks, and keep them locked in this place until that hollowed-out space within Obi-Wan is full again.

Obi-Wan bumps his forehead into Qui-Gon’s chest, blinks and stares down at his master’s ridiculous, knobby toes poking out of their thin, too-small shoes. “Your feet…” he whispers, overcome but dry-eyed, into the folds of brown cloth.

The wind picks up around them, bolstering the dying notes of Obi-Wan’s breath in the branches high above, setting the chime tree into motion anew. Qui-Gon smooths his hand up and down the back of Obi-Wan’s bent head, picks a frail, glassy leaf out of his hair. “They’re just slippers. Nothing more,” he murmurs, “nothing more.”

I had a dream last night that my comic finally took off. I checked me phone to find over 30 notes (which weren’t just a spam of likes from a single person and were actually reblogs), a dozen new followers (who reblogged the pages), a handful of comments (with praise and helpful feedback) and just about as many asks (that were inquisitive and indepth and enthusiastic).

Then I woke up and there was nothing.

Needless to say I’m going to be working on some promo stuff this week. The introduction will wrap up Saturday and it feels like a great time to start spamming the tags. Patience is hard, and I am going to see that this project gets into everyone’s hands. It’s been a year in development. It will take over a year to get through this. I’m pushing it.

So get ready next week. Things are going to get busy.


my attempt at being chloe price 💣

anonymous asked:

Whenever Oliver goes to conferences, he leaves small cute notes under Connor's pillow for him to find later. But Connor never mentions about finding or reading them but Oliver keeps it still every time he goes. One time Oliver is getting late for his early morning flight so he doesn't leave a note this time, not being sure if Connor even reads them. Upon landing, he receives a snapchat of Connor holding his pillow showing nothing under it with the note "where is my note? :("


  • Society when protesters are rioting: God they need to just calm down! Violence doesn't help solve violence, what's the matter with them?? Don't they just want to be peaceful, why are they acting like animals? If they were just peaceful people would listen to them!!!
  • Society when protesters are peaceful: OMFG! These people are blocking traffic, keeping everyone from getting to work, marching in the streets, it's ridiculous. I'm all about your cause but get out of my way! You're not doing anything but being annoying!
How the signs react to you showing them a meme.
  • Aries: uses it for the next week or two
  • Taurus: does the exhales through nostrils laugh
  • Gemini: pity laugh
  • Cancer: already saw the meme but doesn't have the heart to tell you so they laugh anyway
  • Leo: thanks god it wasn't another grammy joke
  • Virgo: genuinely laughs
  • Libra: doesn't get it
  • Scorpio: already saw the meme and tells you
  • Sagittarius: they made the meme
  • Capricorn: look at scorpio
  • Aquarius: tells you what meme they prefer
  • Pisces: says the word "dank" after looking at it

anonymous asked:

Hello! So, I don't know if you noticed, but they released the whole list for the YOI CD, and the last track is a DUET of Stay Close To Me, so, if that doesn't mean a pair routine, then I don't even know anymore... In another note, I really love your blog (/^ ❤ ^)/

I saw!!! I’m so anxious with the idea of a pair skate. I really, really hope that’s what we get. It is listed as a Skate Track cd, so it implies it won’t just be background music. My heart is doing so many funny things. I don’t know if I can last until the last episode.

And thank you so much. That really means a lot to me. My blog and I are nothing special, but knowing that people enjoy it anyway makes me very happy.

Originally posted by zaanarkand

alifeofrandomness  asked:

I want to thank you for your "If you want to become a comic creator, all you have to do is make comics" message; it struck a nerve with me like nothing else I've heard, and as we speak, I'm working on two ongoing monthlies, an annual, and a graphic novel. Publishing doesn't matter right now; I'm just having fun creating and telling stories -- so thank you.

Nothing makes me happier than getting notes like this.

the ted talk was really hard. i am so glad people are making comics because of it.