reduced head

Some backstory of today’s AU comic

  • Marco and Jam were on a routine patrol mission, it’s the first time Marco brought Jam along after he finished his training.
  • The monster is called Riesenwurmer among the human survivors, but Marco nicknamed it Alaskan Bull Worm.
  • When the grenade plan didn’t work, Marco was going to cut his arm off so he can escape, but everything changed when the worm got Jam.
  • The monster’s nervous system is slightly above it’s own mouth, that’s why Marco didn’t throw or kick the grenade into the monster’s stomach, since the monster could suvive even if reduced to just a head, Marco couldn’t take any risk that might endanger Jam.
  • Jam never once smile after Marco’s death.
  • Once Jam figured out how to travel back in time with the Time tape, the first thing he did was try to save his father by going back to the past. But for some reason, he failed to save him no matter how many time he tried, and before he knows it, there’s only enough energy to make two more time jump. So he decided to go back to the time before Stapocalypse happened, to prevent it from happening in the first place.

Altean ears:

Most prevalent galra ears (from the flashback episode. Zarkon’s ears are also like this but I can’t get a profile shot):

(Ezor also has this type of ears despite not being fully galra, although her lobes may be slightly longer than full galra)

Half galra half altean ears:

Lotor’s ears seem to be an even mix of altean ears and prevalent galra ears. The top part is more angular and slightly longer than altean ears and, though he doesn’t have the elongated lobes of the galra ears, his lobes do seem significantly different to the alteans- more pronounced and squared.

I don’t know if these are deliberate design choices but I’d like to think they are and the vld crew is as nitpicky about design as I am.

If they are deliberate, I can’t help but wonder about Acxa:

Her ears look even less galra than Lotor’s, with the top part almost identical in shape and length to altean ears. The difference is with the lobe, where Acxa’s, similarly to Lotor’s, are more pronounced and squared.

This design choice (and her more ~human~ appearance than the other generals) makes me wonder what exactly Acxa’s background is. Combined with her obvious future significance (apparent by her meeting Keith in the weblum and then the time taken to animate his recognition of her) I find myself yet again asking:

Who is Acxa?

colourspectrum1  asked:

Your sims are all so stunning!! My sims end up looking all the same - do you have any tips to increase the diversity of faces in the game?

Thank you so much! I’ve held on to this ask for awhile because I just don’t feel like an authority on this subject. I think everyone has a sim style, and I don’t always feel like my faces are as variant as I would like them. 

That said, I had a few tips and ideas to share!

1. Study Faces.
I’ve been fascinated by the human face my entire life. I studied to be a portrait artist so I’m always looking at people and imagining how I would draw them! 

You don’t need to be an artist to be fascinated by faces though. Start collecting images of people whose faces strike you - I have a whole Pinterest board of them! You can use these images to base entire sims off of, or you could find just one particular facial feature inspires you. 

2. Proportion.
Here’s a very basic guide to human facial proportions. I like to make my sims feel a bit more realistic, and I’ve noticed that the default sims 4 faces have very large eyes and teeny tiny noses. So the first thing I start with is reducing the eye size and increasing the nose. I’ll also usually reduce the head size as well. 

Then, once things are feeling more human, I mess with the proportions to create interesting shapes. Maybe one sim will have really wide-set eyes and a long nose; someone else might have a very small mouth and longer chin. Don’t be afraid to make non-conventionally attractive people. Play around and have fun! 

3. Use Different Presets.
This is kind of an obvious tip, but if you always use the same presets, it’s going to be hard to make different-looking sims. I am guilty of this - there’s a particular jaw that I prefer and I only use the eyes without eyelashes so I can use cc eyelashes. But try to stay out of preset ruts!

4. Profile.
Don’t forget to visit the profile. You can have the best looking sim from the front, and then you turn to the side and they look like a frog. You can adjust the individual features as well as the depth of the entire face. 

5. Touch Every Slider.
I make a point to touch every slider, including in the detailed view, for every sim I make. Some will just have small changes, but I don’t leave anything exactly how the preset is. 

6. Don’t underestimate the power of Skin Details.
Skin details bring sims to life. Freckles, eye bags, nose masks, mouth corners, overlays, etc. – they all contribute to making your sims feel alive and unique. I have a collection of my favorite skin details here.

7. Step away and come back.
Work on your new sim, then take a break and go do something else. When you return with fresh eyes, you will notice things you’d like to change that you didn’t see before.

Hope these tips are helpful. Have fun! 

Jayceesquats was a cheerleader with some tremendous strength potential but was fighting against her own body image and genetics. Taking up heavy lifting set her on a path she was always destined for.

She has a 400+ lbs. squat so far and her lower body development has become insane.

She’s living proof of several things…

1) Embrace your body’s potential strength, encourage it and work with it instead of fighting against it. The results will amaze you.

1) If you want to truly thicken up then lift HEAVY and work hard. It will happen with time.


jayceesquats There was a point in my life when I shamed my body and absolutely detested my lower body, particularly my legs. A few years back I tried everything from seran wrapping them to running my ass off in hopes that my legs could fit in Abercrombie jeans- in hopes that I could get rid of my thighs so I could finally be a flyer on my cheerleading team. The idea of wearing shorts or dresses fucked with my head and reduced my confidence to nothing. Nowadays, I adore and appreciate my strong, powerful legs. The once insecure, little girl with thunder thighs, took every fiber of muscle and metamorphasized it into raw strength. She looks at her body now and values the painstaking effort and energy that has transformed her mind body and soul. This body has endless potential, these legs have valued purpose, my mind is the pilot.
#physique #workout #gym #fit #legs #gymlife #instafitness #lift #inspire #gains #newyorkcity #strong #photooftheday #fitnessmodel #strength #fitspo #igfit #motivation #inspiration #fitfam #fitness  #fitspiration #progress #ambition #beastmode #goals #squats #nyc #instagood #igdaily
I hate you

Request: I’m in for some angst with the reaper. Maybe he discover he had a son with s/o, but his son is already 18-19 and is with overwatch to protect his mother for talon(hearing that talon was hunting down old agents). The angst part? The sone adore so much his mother that he claims to hate his own dad when he is just confused and shit :3



You barely knew your father and quite frankly you didn’t want to really know him. “He can be rotting in a hole for all I care” You’d often said. You remember always asking about your father when you were a child, your mother would always smile but she would never say anything about him. All you remembered was being five years old standing in your kitchen asking mama where papa had gone. It was your nineteenth birthday, a celebration you’d come to hate as much as your father. You put up with it for your mother’s sake, every year she went all out. Cake, candles, presents, everything. But for once, all you wanted was just to spend time with her.

There was a knock at the door, You mother swore under her breath as she answered it. Hand on her hip and a distinct fire in her eyes.

“Caught him smoking in the alley again, Mrs. Reyes.” An officer stated.

You growled and fought his hold.

Your mother grabbed you before you could do anything stupid, “Thank you, officer. Have a good night, I’m sorry about this.”

You wandered into the kitchen and as always it was decorated with birthday decorations. A happy birthday banner hung over the kitchen table, your favorite flavored cake sat elegantly in the center of the table, one pinata hung in each corner.

“I’m a little too old for Pinatas don’t you think mom?” You asked.

“You’re never too old to hit things.” She lightly slapped your cheek. “But you are too young to be out passed curfew smoking, that’s horrible for your health!”

“You never scold Jesse for it and he’s been smoking as long as I’ve been alive.” You snorted and rolled your eyes, tucking your hands into your pockets.

She sighed affectionately and shook her head, “What am I going to do with you?”

You rolled your eyes and as per usual, your mother told you to blow out the candles on your birthday cake and handed you your present.

“Happy birthday baby.” She kissed your forehead.

You glowered at the candles.

“What are you waiting for? Make a wish silly.” Your mother smiled.

You hung your head, “How much longer mom? I’ve had to same wish for the last fourteen years. It’s never going to come true.”

She frowned not having to ask what your wish was. You told her when you were six, you said: “If I wish hard enough papa will come back”. You pulled a picture from your pocket, the only picture of your father in the whole house. Every year you tried to burn it. Every year you tried to get rid of any trace of his existence. An argument erupted between the two of you and your mother tried to snatch the picture back, tears in her eyes. With a growl, you stuffed it into your pocket and ran out into the rain.

    Hours passed and you wandered the streets of Dorado with your hands in your pockets and your hood pulled over your head. You loved her to death but you knew you were hurting her, “He looks so much like him” You’d heard your mom say over the phone one day. With a sigh, you disappeared into your usual alleyway and slid down the wall. You pulled the picture from your pocket and took a good hard look at it.

    Fifteen years ago for your fourth birthday, your mother had talked your father into a family trip to the zoo. The three of you were posed outside the exhibit of your favorite animal, you were perched on the shoulders of a man you couldn’t remember, your mother’s arms tangled around his bicep. They looked happy, their temples pressed together and warm smiles on their faces. Your father had rich mocha skin and a black goatee, his hair blended in with his black beanie. You couldn’t tell in the picture but something told you his eyes were dark brown and that the smile he wore was rare.

A scream shook the vacant streets of Dorado: Your mother was screaming your name at the top of her lungs.

“Shit!” You scrambled out of the alley and charged towards home.

The door had been kicked open and for a moment your hopes sank. You should have known better what were you thinking? You knew Talon was in active search for Overwatch agents. While you had never had the pleasure of joining the legendary agency your mother had been a member. That was where she met your father, you remembered the story as you ran home. “Your father was such a stubborn man.” She had said with a smile. “I was a new recruit and they’d put me on his team, he was a loudmouth and a hot-head but believe me when I say he always looked out for his men”.

“Mom!” You shouted as you charged through the front door.

“Is this where I say, Honey, I’m home?” A raspy voice mocked.

You grabbed the baseball bat meant for the pinatas and walked on cats feet towards the kitchen.

“You wouldn’t shoot me.”

“Get away from me!”

You peaked around the corner, your mother on the floor cornered between a man in black and the counters. She snarled despite the shaking pistol in her hand. You knew the entity that stood in your kitchen - The Reaper. A mercenary of Talon who wielded shotguns, a leather cloak, and a white mask. Horror washed over your mother’s face when he removed his mask. The bat tightened in your hands and you raced forward, the bat struck his head and reduced his form to wisps of ebon smoke. You stood in front of your mother and held the bat ready to strike.

An ear-splitting screech stabbed your ears as the reaper scrapped his steel-clawed gloves against the kitchen floor as his form resolidified. He chuckled and slipped his mask back on before you could see his face. His back straightened and he pulled a pair of shotguns from his cloak, they were aimed right at you.

“This is the man of the house?” He cackled. “You’re just a kid.”

You snarled, “Better than a deserter.”

“Oh, how original, he has daddy issues.” He fingered the trigger. “When does daddy get home kid? I might be courteous and let you all die together.”

“Dunno don’t care.” You twisted the bat in your hands. “I hate him more than I hate you and your terrorist buddies.”

You charged him and swung the bat, your mother screamed as a shotgun blasted. Splits of bat scattered throughout the kitchen and your head slid across the floor, you groaned and tried to move. Blood soaked your shoulder and the Reaper roared, a piece of the bad had embedded itself in his forearm. Black blood splattered the ground as he ripped it from his flesh. The two of you charged body slamming to the floor, you kicked, punched, and rolled.

“Stop it!” Your mother threw herself over you. Her water leaking eyes were on the reaper. “He’s your son! Gabriel, he’s your son!”

That was the first time you heard your mother speak your father’s name in years. The shock hit you just as hard as it did the Reaper, he stood still.

Your mother panted. “H-He’s yours…don’t you remember? We had a little boy, t-then Switzerland happened and y…you never came home.”

“Mom…mom everyone died in Switzerland.” You shook your head. “He can’t be…no it…” You stared at him. “I hate you…I hate you!”

Shotguns clattered to the floor. The Reaper removed his mask and you swore your heart stopped. He was just like the man in the picture from the zoo only older, his cornea black and pupils red. His skin a pale gray color. If it were possible for him to cry you swore the Reaper had tears in his eyes as he sulked towards you. He dropped to his knees and pulled you into a hug you didn’t know you needed.

His hand slapped the back of your head, “My boy.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks as your mother joined in the group hug.

Your birthday wish had finally come true.

joannalannister  asked:

I would love to hear all of your book!feelings on book!Ned's teachings about "he man who passes the sentence should swing the sword"! 💕

Oh, you’re kicking my butt into gear here, Lauren. I’ve been planning a post about this very subject but I’ve only gotten to the point of throwing random sentences into my drafts and shaking my fist at the sky. Which surprisingly was not productive at all. Shocker!

But gosh, that scene!! I just love that scene so very much. Bar the prologue, this is the very first chapter of the whole series, the one that gave us the first glimpse of the Starks and started building their characters and the story at large. And the beauty of George’s writing is that that one scene between Ned and Bran perfectly encapsulates the ethos of Ned Stark, the character whose ideology drives the entire narrative whether through his teachings living through his kids, or through the legacy he left behind, or through one of his most defining acts: saving the infant that would grow up to be crucial to the survival of mankind. That scene crystallizes Ned’s characterization in one single conversation, which is one of the reason I find fandom’s tendency to decontextualize the phrase “the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword” and only focus on this one phrase out of the entire scene so minimizing to Ned’s character, in addition to being a misinterpretation of the message he meant to convey.

On its face, and if taken out of context, that phrase can send a contradictory message to its core meaning. Simply saying that the Stark way necessitates that you swing the sword yourself restricts the message to a simplified uber-macho exclamation of “We Starks do our own killing” *slaps chest because masculinity* which completely loses the entire conversation between Bran and Ned its meaning. Mind you, there is a gendered overlay to the scene because this is Ned having a conversation with his seven-year-old child after said child watched an execution, which carries the idea that this is a rite of passage for Bran, an immersion in a violent culture that glorifies violence and attaches so much weight to men doing violent activities that it becomes the mark for bravery, masculinity and leadership. But I actually think that the true message of this scene defies Westerosi martial mores that glories in violence, because while Ned is essentially instructing Bran to kill by his own hand which is a violent activity, he is actively rejecting such sentiments as “a dead enemy is a thing of beauty” and “a bloody sword is a beautiful thing”. Ned’s intent fights against glorifying violence and against attaching a beautifying veneer to it, and instead calls for facing the actual truth of what taking a life is and demands it be treated as the monumental thing it is. In that scene with Bran, Ned is calling for recognition for the value of life.

Keep reading

the wonder woman movie

- the amazons did not have american accents 

- had amazons of all races

- had women of different body types

- never shamed any character for their body type

- flipped the script

- faced over used stereotypes that reduced women head on

- has stated that wonder woman is bisexual in the movie universe

- faced the ‘glasses making a woman less attractive’ trope

- had an actual native american play a native american

- did not pretend that the native american’s loved america 

- showed people as people not just one dimensional characters


Prologue: The Penance Passover

Part 1 of the Elorcan Hades/Persephone Series! I’ll be absent for this coming week as I’ll be flying out of country with no complimentary data. In return, I decided to post this dull introduction as a slim means of compensation. Trust me, the action and angst will come. 

It is not clear why we choose the fire pathway

Where we end is not the way that we had planned

All the spirits gather ‘round like it’s our last day

To get across you know we’ll have to raise the sand

Monday: Elide Lochan

Elide counted away the seconds in the silent cell, sucking on her bottom lip. The flares of pain latched onto her ankle never faltered, an obstinate obstacle ousting her will of lesser fortitude, marring her own feeble attempts to simply endure the anguish.

She released her lip, wobbling. The chain shackled to her ankle thrummed against her own marred skin, slick with sweat, rubbing against cold metal. Her shoulders rolled back, and her back cracked at the next fleeting second.

Her own body danced to a frenzied cacophony flaming the unwritten despair reflected across her dark orbs, darting within the darkness. Her muscles moved without meaning, tendons twitching, throat run dry and barren, a desert of all words never spoken and severely silenced.

The mute marathon rolled on, an endless momentum of memory and mishaps. She waited for the simple sounds of twelve strikes, the sounds of subservient release, drowning in her own single sea of sorrows.

When the jarring bolls tolled twelve times—as they did, shaking her out of her stupor—the devil in her dreams would fling open the wooden doors—mocking her limpless and limping figure—and unclip the cruel chain. A recurring sorts of twisted fate, the vicious cycle glazed with vices sewn across her every step.

Elide expectantly stared at the door in front of her, waiting—the only laborious action save for the strength to breathe. Her ribs shuddered at the familiar jangle of keys rattled.


A click chimed, inserted through the keyhole.


The key twisted, and jerked upwards. 


A series of other traditional beepings followed, unlocking the additional security codes to the room.


The finger and eye scanned sequence pierced through the room.


Elide watched the door fling open, and shivered at the dark robes peeling into her vision. A phantom hand wrapped around her, choking her air and silencing her words. The boots scraped along the floor, an ever familiar leer coating a stubbled and warped face bent in as if reflecting the distorted sense of crookedness.

Uncle Vernon.

Her own overseer of wretched slavery and dreaded torture, worming through her mental barriers and twisting through every pore.

“You’ll be serving two very important guests of mine today,” her Uncle rasped. “Make a mistake, and I’ll chain you with snakes. Impress, and the chains will not compress.”

It must have been a very occasion indeed if he were to bribe her, Elide mused, and roughly swallowed, forbidding any strangled sound to slip. A meaty hand gripped her chin, nails digging into her flesh. Pale, porcelain skin slathered in grime’s filthiness lathered away all the bruises and cracks and fissure, all the rage and despair and melancholy bubbling inside of her, hissing in no sight of no means of escape. Hope held no clean facade, stringing away all inches of hope, dragging her under each plate of cold touch.

Her Uncle had served her raw, bloodied on a plate.

Upon drawing the first drip of liquid sopping to the ground, he released his hold on her, curling his ragged nails back into his large fist.

“Understand?” he hissed, dark, unfathomable eyes cutting through her.

She meekly nodded, a weak sound of confirmation escaping her throat.

Satisfied, he reached down to unchain the shackle from the wall. It was an irony of strained sorts, watching him bend over to slightly free her. Some days, when the taunting ran high, he’d loosen the chains, just enough for her to breathe, and for her to feel a forbidden future. It only left the little falsities of hope to run dry within her, no longer appeasing her or alleviating even the smallest sliver of stress.

The chain now dangled, clasped at her ankle. For every freedom, she still remained chained. She choked on the bitterness, swallowing day by day the crucifixion of her own sanity without a resurrection of any reassurance.

Before he yanked her out the door, she squared her shoulders, channeling the last ounce of stripped strength within her.

“Uncle Vernon,” Elide said, her voice firm and solid. “I have a bargain for you.”

For a man who held all the power in the world, he had everything to lose, and if a simple bargain from the bottom of his bearings could usurp him, then rest assured the supposed power would crumble to ashes at his feet. While he found ground by the need for more, a dark domination of descent, the inherent, fundamental need to survive drove her. And here she toiled away into the abyss forever tunneled by that futile fall.

The door creaked, halting halfway through.

A pause.

“A bargain?” his voice snarled, thickened with pure distaste. “You think you have a position to do so?”

“Afraid?” Her voice cracked, but did not waver—a feeble willow blowing in the fields, firmly rooted in the soil.

Atrophy held her captive, battered down with assault. At the bottom of the abyss ran numbness, an insensitivity to fear. Great winds of the withering whirled around her, wrecking shards of ruins within her. Trickles of trepidation traversed across her body, urging an awakening tsunami of tears.

The figure in front of her whirled around, hand flying outwards. Her cheek stung, pain flaring, but she did not move her hand up to cup her red-hued skin. Instead she remained as stone, reverberating in her spot from the shock.

“Seems I haven’t beaten you enough.” The door slammed shut, vibrating vice’s finality. “You think I have to be afraid of a mangled girl?”

Elide lifted up her chin. Instead, she merely asked, with a mask of indifference, “Do you?”

The scars burned over her skin as the shadow, her ingrained nightmare, stalked over her. Her heart thrummed faster as the chain clasped within the hands of her captive. This is it, she thought to herself, swallowing harshly.

The door flung as easily as it closed, and the figure of a tall woman stood at the crux, neither divine nor infernal. The hue of white-moon hair enamored Elide’s vision, a different type of dark aura pulsing around the room—one that even took her Uncle aback.

Vernon’s grip on her neck tightened, and Elide could not push away the cry that escaped from her throat. Both heads twisted towards the exit, which Elide had never seen as an entrance nor an element of euphoria.

“Is this our evening entertainment?” the woman said smoothly. She flicked her red cape around her, revealing long nails that promised sudden and deeper pain than the chains littering the cracked floor. Not human, a voice whispered scratched out in Elide’s head.

Vernon hissed and dropped Elide into a bundle on the floor. A sliver of severed synergy, a curdled connection, swept through the dimness, a strand of Elide matching the otherworldly woman’s dark and deadly, vicarious and vicious vibes.

Elide shivered—and flinched when a foul breath clouded over her ear.

“We’re not done yet,” her Uncle snarled under his breath, and Elide knew each syllable rang true with his penchant for pernicious promises. “I’ll teach you fear. Thoroughly.”

The woman raised a brow. “Vernon,” he snapped.

“What?” he growled, sandpaper grating thoroughly into the grave.

“Hear out her deal if you want ours to continue.”

Elide swallowed, and slowly watched Vernon turn around, a nasty scowl on his sunken face. If her Uncle saw her shoot the other woman an appreciative glance, he’d exacerbate her evening beating.

So she kept her eyes on the ground.

“Talk.”  The white-haired woman looked at her expectantly, orbs a glaring dark gold.

Elide squared her shoulders. “I want—” She rubbed her arms, goosebumps running rampant over her skin. Her practiced words vanished from her head, reduced to ashes. “—I want love.”

The woman craned her head down, a flicker of disappointment flashing across her young and ancient features. Vernon smirked, and her tongue felt swollen. Perhaps this was why it was better to never speak, with the stolen sounds to be sucked out from her soul into the soiled.

“Easy,” Her uncle simpered, a touch of early triumphant written on his face. “I’ll give you seven days—one week—from today for a man to prove his dying love for you. Even out of your home. You can’t say I’m not generous.”

Elide ignored the bait. “And if I do?” Find love.

A sick smile. “Then you’re free.”

“And if I do not?”

A sure smile. “Then you become my slave.”

Her Uncle and the white-haired woman left the room, the latter’s red cape sweeping the air in a graceful swirl. The former left the door open, light creeping through the sunken darkness. And she—she slowly raised herself up, and hesitantly balanced herself on her mangled ankle.

Seven days.

Elide wobbled out of the room, palms flat against the walls, shadows shimmering through the sinister space, spiteful shapes swallowing the sincere and secure. The single hall led down in a silver, shattered spiral stairs, and each step send flares of agony shooting up her leg.

But all of it could not triumph over the new promise set in stone, numbing the suffering and all of his sensations. She did not look to savor the stale static, the deformed doors, the pale portraits,or  the crooked chandelier. She did not hear the fleeting flutterings nor the fear’s flaws flying forward. She did not stop at the scratched, peeling paints coating the grimy and ghastly walls.

She did not bother to look back—did not want to see the two shapes of dark shadows staring out from the marbled windows, watching her flee—as she shoved upon the heavy door with all her weight’s worth, and was blinded by the strength of the sunlight.

Monday: Lorcan Salvaterre

 Despite their sadistic, flashing grins etched on their blood-coated faces with leather torn and ragged, all the fully armed mercenaries could agree on one thing: the run-down warehouse was no place for a woman.

The half-naked, snarling men in the ring halted their blows, the chanting at the side subsiding into hushed growls. The ringleader’s head whipped to the entrance so hard his neck cracked with a pop.

A curtain drew over the walls hanging an ornament of weapons, ranging from crimsons coated spears to palm-sized daggers. The hilts had long faded to reveal the bony structure underneath, mended over with spare material. Lorcan’s own hatchet slung lazily in his hand, rubbed with chalk. Dust filtered through his eyes, squinting at the sight before him.

Lorcan’s opponent gaped at the dark-haired woman striding in, her skirts swishing delicately around her ankles, a slight tilt in her gait. Lorcan merely rubbed his jaw in frustration, as time would have told ten seconds ago he would have pummeled his puny partner.

But this was a new punch. Never before had silence so quickly fallen in the night rush where money wormed out of pockets and tongues eased into lucid speech. 

“Can we help you, ma’am?” The nearest bloke managed to stutter out, wiping perspiration from his forehead. The brute miserably failed to tuck in his pit stains, the bulge from the belly of his stomach boasting and belching all things bloated and beastly.  

The money no longer slid to the referee, hands instead gripping the ruffled clothes, eyes sliding to soak in the figure of a female. A bark slipped from Lorcan’s throat, and he easily hurled himself over the cage.

There was something so inexplicably ineffable about this woman that drew him to her, and the horny, haunted faces of all the males around him only drove the edge of his enmity over the thin line. And though he had entered this illegal place to take down that feeling to a notch, it seemed that the devil couldn’t treat him kindly today—nor ever.

The onyx-eyed female held a darker spark in those orbs than the males around her, save to match the storm in Lorcan’s own. The woman held her ground as Lorcan stalked towards her, raising an eyebrow at the rivulets of sweat running down his roped arms and torso. He refrained the urge to devour her whole, leave his scent over smooth—and scarred—skin, claiming, marking, holding her as his.

“Does he leave the bed cold?” A man crowed. “I can offer better company.”

Before Lorcan could snap another neck, the woman turned towards the nearest man, who proceeded to give her a mock bow, eyes raking unabashedly over her form.

The woman sniffed in distaste. “I’d prefer an actual man.” Dismissing the leering male with a glance, she turned towards Lorcan, who watched her carefully. “I’m looking for Lorcan Salvaterre, bodyguard. I hear he often frequents this place.”

Lorcan Salvaterre’s eyes narrowed. Then he abruptly grabbed the woman’s elbow and yanked her towards the door, ignoring the sharp whistles piercing the air. When she stumbled, he easily tossed her over his shoulder, ignoring the tiny fist pounding against his back and curt cries slithering down his ears.

He brought her to her toes as soon as the door slammed shut, the bouncer waving them past with a curious glance that only meant trouble. Pulling her several feet forward, he slammed her spine against a dumpster.

“What do you want?”

“Figures you wouldn’t have manners,” she huffed, and massaged her knuckles. Her eyes glassed over, and he had to crane his head forward—and down—to hear her. “I shouldn’t have expected more.”

Lorcan decided he did not like those judging, doe eyes staring at him. “What business do you have?”

“I’m looking for Lorcan Salvaterre. He’s a renowned bodyguard.”

“I know who he is. And his services are not cheap.”

Dark eyes flashed. “What’s cheap is that you have the audacity to drag me to this—” she waved her hands around, nearly smacking the stubble of his chin— “dark place, and demand of me.”

His mouth curved up into a smile. “But did you not demand of Lorcan Salvaterre?”

Her own lips formed an o, and his pants suddenly seemed all too tight. This woman oozed precious pureness tainted with temerity beyond the torn, trampled, and tortured. The gleam in her eyes hinted wariness, and he noted the spread stance of her legs beneath her skirts that seemed to be stolen of the hangers from the nearby shops.

“I—” her face flushed, and he could not stop himself from bringing the pad of his thumb to caress over the curve of her cheek, slowly stroking her soft skin. “I have a request.”

He studied her gaunt face, and the thinness of her arms, the rest of her horribly slim body covered by the pile of laces and silk, hem already muddied and ripped—which did not seem to faze her in the slightest. Onyx eyes skimmed over the sunken, hollowed face and curved over the column of her throat, exposing the outline of her bones, and down to the slope of her breasts.

“My eyes are up here,” she snapped.

He snorted. “And your breasts are down there.”

Lorcan didn’t have time to think before pain shattered through his lower area, a growl rumbling through his chest.

“And your groin is down there,” she equally sniped back.

He grunted, briefly closing his eyes, warily carefully the woman caged in front of him. When the pain subsided, he snarled in her face, the tip of his tongue laced with malice.

She beat him to it. “Don’t lecture me about pain when you hand it out willingly—as in the ring.” The woman hiked up her skirts, and he skirted back a respectable distance from her, cautious of her next strike.

The breath left his lungs. A thunder escaped his throat. Pure, undiluted rage flashed through him. “Who did that to you?” he managed to gut out.

Mangled and marred skin straight to the marrow, marked with the branded outline of crisscrossing chains that would undoubtedly follow her no matter how far nor how long she walked, reddish and purplish and brownish blemishes painted her ankle in a patterned painting.

A chain could either mean the sex or slave trade, but by the clear, unmarked neck from the collar, none had manacled her. Someone did—because she needed a bodyguard. This was a different type of vermin swarming the streets, something cruel enough to lock something up, but not tarnish the beauty enough to ruin her hopes and dreams.

Lorcan could only prolong the inevitable end. He could tell her that it was pointless. That unless she was filled with testosterone, could handle the blood and fists, and drank the fill of blocked, hazed emotions, she would not outrun her own personal demon.  

“How much?” she croaked out. “Before my other ankle looks like that.

His fists clenched. She saw his reaction, and knew that he could not turn away now. Bitch, he thought bitterly to himself. This was exactly why he allowed his emotions to diminish into a pulp, and allowed his brashness and brawns do the talking. This was exactly why he only worked with men who desired one simple life lost in the wind, or the occasional jealous, embittered woman who wanted another one gone.


If he refused, he would live. But this woman would not. And that was that.

The woman stared at him, eyebrows slightly drawn together, a fatal, focused look washing over her face. He wondered what inner demons ate her up—or if her outer one feed on them to sustain his own body. He wondered if she looked through a shattered mirror and saw the pieces of herself staring back, forever fragmented. He wondered if he would take part corrupting in her soul—and if that demon would be able to handle her.

Because whatever was stewing in this woman’s body was not human. It was past beyond the mortal scent, breeding hatred, hollowing hope, and secreting obscurity. The tip of her nails may have been human, but what they were willing to grasp and choke certainly was not.

And it was that curiosity that had him inclining his head towards her just as the bouncer had followed them here. And it was toeing the line of the unbridled unease that had him reaching for his hatchet slung low on his hips. And it was that last glance towards the abused ankle that had the weapon whistling through the air and solidly sinking through the chest of the other man.

Lorcan stalked over to the fallen body, careful to not step in the seeping pool of crimson, and jerked the blade out. He nudged his head towards the other end of the alley, and the woman—devil forbid—smiled at him, and swished around—and did not look back.

And Lorcan Salvaterre strode behind her, guiding her to his home and hell.

Where Do Babies come from? Part II

The day started out like any other. For once the weather was in their favor, staying calm and clear, allowing the large boat to gently rock on the waves without much trouble.

The siblings had woken to the wonderful smells of bacon breakfast, the nurses had started nagging Pops for his drinking habits and Marco was peacefully watching from above enjoying the sounds of his family go about their lives.

His eyes gently roomed the top deck, smirking at the group of men who were sweet talking the nurses into a dance- the idiots always looking for a reason to party. 

“Peaceful isn’t it” Strong arms warped around him, causing the blond’s smirk to melt into a gentle smile. Ace’s naturally warm body heat was one of his favorite things in this world. 

He’s glad that’s it’s his privilege to enjoy it whenever he likes.

“Yes yoi.”  He leans back just to allow Ace to rest against his side. The raven hair man fits perfectly under his chin, due to his shorter hight- something he would never admit out loud to Ace. Marco liked being alive- and it’s so great to just exist with the other like this.

Watch duty during the day wasn’t as eventful as the night one since no one dared to attack the strongest man in the world and so they could enjoy hours of just them in the crow nest overlooking the family. At the same time, the horizon from where they stand looks like the sea is opening her arms to them, inviting them for an adventure and freedom.

It’s like a separate world, a little part to call their own.

With the man, he loves in his arms.

The thought makes Marco want to kiss Ace, but he knows his boyfriend is mesmerized by the view which means he wouldn’t be up to making up right now. Instead, he presses a kiss to Ace’s temple, earning him an honest to Sea Maiden giggle.

Marco stores that away in a part of his mind labeled “Adorable and cute”. He isn’t surprised that most of it is build around Ace.

“Thatch said there was going to be a party with guests soon? Some kind of tradition, apparently. Mind telling me about that?.” Ace whispers half hiding his warm cheeks and shy little smile into Marco’s chest. It’s a poor attempt to distract the older man from his ahem manly chuckle, but the older man is willing to play along.

“Yes. It’s something Pops started when one of his sons had a child. We basically pick an island and everyone allied with Pops meets there to celebrate being a family. Crewmember’s spouses and children show up too. ” Marco smiles softly thinking of the thousands and thousands of nieces and nephews eagerly waiting on the shore side.  “It’s actually really cute yoi.”

“Wow.” Ace breathes in a voice Marco hates. It the voice he uses when hears of basic interactions of a family that love each other. It’s almost as worse as the one he uses when Marco tells him I love you “That sounds amazing, to think-”

“Hi, misters! Where’s my daddy?.” 

Both males jump at the toddler that was suddenly standing right in front of them. A little blond boy whose bangs were pinned back with two bunny hairpins, wearing blue goggles over his eyes and smiling with a thousand watts up at them.

His bunny hairpins matched the one on his white t-shirt, though it looked odd under the black child tailcoat. His shorts were a nice light shade of blue. 

He was clutching the straps of his black bag while rocking on his heels, the railing groaning under the movement and that was dangerously close to the edge of a twenty-five-foot drop!

“Holy shit, get down from-” Ace started a big brother knee reflex to worry. He was already moving to grab onto the baby when the kid perked up at his words.

If possible the child’s smile got wider, cutting him off the frantic man with a cheerful “Holy shit!” 

He tilted backward when he spread his arms out with his shout. Marco saw his life flash before his eyes as he started to fall-

Moving so fast he may have shifted, the fireman snatched the baby out of the air, spinning around to carry the giggling child into his arms and away from certain death.

“Holy shit!” The strange little one says, kicking his feet “Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit!”

“No.” Marco groans, shakingly falling onto his ass- he just lost ten years of his life-, watching as horror blossoms on Ace’s face. If there is one thing his boyfriend hates doing, it’s cussing in front of children. “No, don’t say that. That’s not what good little boys say”

The blond head tilts to the side, lips forming a pout. Its the only warning he gets before the kid bursts into tears. He starts screaming at the top of his lungs, reaching a pitch that a tiny body like his should not be able to reach- it makes both men ears ring “Wahhhh! Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!

The Whitebeard commanders are not in their element. 

“Do something!” Ace screams over the toddler. He tries rocking the kid like a baby but it only works in making the little one more upset.He kicked his feet more franticly while waving his arms around, struggling in Ace’s hold. Tears and snot were rolling down his chubby face now, and it was turning an alarming shade of red. 

“What can I do yoi!?” 

“I don’t know! Just- make him stop!”




The explosion shook the whole ship. The kid jerks to a stop, obviously scared and the two men are relieved to hear the silence before he picks up right where he started. This time sounded louder.

Marco jumps to his feet looking as another explosion rocks the ship, his family screaming. He jumps off the crew nest shifting into his Phoneix form just as the wind carries up the words they are shouting.

“There’s an intruder!”

“Someone stop him!” 

“Get a commander-watch out!” 


“Tiger! Where are you!?” On the deck, a man Marco has never seen before screams, jumping over a sword, dodging a bullet and punching Ichigo in the face all the while desperately looking around.  “Tiger!”

Marco seeing everything he needs to see, he takes a dive rapidly approaching the blond with one of his talons. Just as he about to make contact the blond man spins around, parrying his strick with a Haki induced pipe.  

Livid blue eyes meet his own as the man sneers “Where the hell is Tiger!? What did you do to him!?”

The first commander’s response is to twist his waist and aim a kick to his unguarded side. He nails the intruder on the side of the head lunching the younger man into the main mass.

It’s only a few seconds later that he remembers Ace and the toddler are still up there. A loud wet shout of “DADDY!” echoes from above.

The blond man is on his feet in seconds, stands ready for battle but he looks pale and he keeps glancing up. Marco looks at him really looks at him taking in his blond hair, his black trench coat and oh. Okay, he sees what’s happening here now.

“Ace!” Marco calls weary eyes on the blond man.  “Come down- bring the kid”

The blond’s whole poster stiffens before he launches forward, swinging his pipe in a blind rage with a war cry “Give me back my son!”

Marco matches him blow for blow, he’s very impressed with the attacker. It’s no wondering the family was having a hard time with him. He’s on par with a commander easy and certainly doesn’t lack combat experience. 

If he was up against Ace, they would evenly match but the Phoniex is his opponent, and Marco had been a pirate for a good twenty years now. He is no wet behind the ears rookie commander like his boyfriend.  

No he’s the one that created the commander role.

A few attacks, a few close calls, and a few bruises later he has the other pin. He managed to slam his feet into the stranger’s knees, and had both arms in a tight grip behind his back, stopping all of his movement just as Ace landed.

 The toddler hiccuping loudly in his arms. “D-hic-addy!”

Tiger!”  The man under Marco’s foot shouts. “ Don’t hurt him! He’s just a baby! Please!”

“We aren’t going to hurt him yoi” The blond commander says indifferently as more crewmembers start to gather around. They had cleared an area for the blonds earlier watching from the sidelines in case Marco needed saving. “Just calm down and stand down.”

Blue eyes flickered to him with a rebellious glare, causing him to wonder if the attacker would try to break out of his hold again. The toddler, which he thinks is named Tiger sobbed “Daddy! Sc-scare! Daddy!” causing the man to stiffen before slumping down in place admitting defeat.

Nobody moved for a moment before Marco nodded his head at Ace. The raven hair man gently puts the kid down, and the little one imminently rushed forwards. His chubby arms stretched out and he was gasping for air- poor kid must have been crying the whole time.

The blond lets the man go just as the little one gets close, picking up the pipe so the intruder doesn’t have a weapon anymore. The other doesn’t seem to care beacuse he scrambles to desperately hug the toddler to his chest, whispering reassurance to the distressed child.

Thier father walks over, as both blonds- one old and one- start crying into each other holds. The baby hiding his head in the older man’s shoulder.

“Well, when Dragon said you were a hand full I didn’t think he meant this,” Pops says smiling in satisfaction when the stranger jerks his son to the side, shielding him from the emperor.  “Now Sabo is it? I gave you permission to come aboard my ship as a favor to an old friend. I would hate to have to take back the invitation due to you attacking my children.”

“Don’t touch my child and we’re good…sir” the blond says slowly adding the sir as if though it pained him to do so.

Oh Marco likes this one. Fiesty. Kinda of like Ace when he first arrived, not to mention knows how to through a punch.

Pops grin “We understand each other then. Now, you asked to come here seeking one of my children but refused to explain any further. What could the Revolutionary Army’s Cheif of Staff Sabo-”

Next to Marco Ace made a strange choking sound

“-possibly want from my son?”

By now the sobbing of the little one had reduced to sniffs, his head tilted in a way that would indicate he was staring up at Whitebeard. The man hesitates to answer, glancing around the many curious eyes.  “Can we discuss this somewhere more priv-”

“Whatever you have to say you can say it in front of my children,” Pops says evenly causing the blond man’s lips to purse. The kid goes back to hiding his face.

Ace takes a shaky step towards the pair catching Marco’s attention. He looks away from his father and the stranger, to gently rest a hand on one tan shoulder. It shakes under his hold. “Ace, are you okay yoi?”

The other man doesn’t respond, wide eyes locked on the blond. 

Sabo looks like he’s counting to ten before he coos at the toddler until Tiger raises his head, then gently removes his goggles. They reveal a pair of silver eyes Marco has seen only one other person, though they are a little red and puffy it’s no denying the cany likeness. 

Since the goggles were so big on the child, they covered most of his cheeks but now the freckles he bore were standing out against his milk coffee toned skin a bright beacon grabbing attention.

Marco thinks back to when they first meet Tiger, and the large smile he sported. Now that he really stops to exam it, that smile holds a very family cure of the lips and a fine sense of mischevious glee he is very familiar with edged into the corners.

It’s almost like…

Holy shit.

“Okay fine..this may sound weird but…I need DNA from Portgas D Ace so our lab grown son can stay alive and I would really appreciate it if he like gave me some of his blood or something ” Sabo blurts out holding the little one to his chest. “Also this is Tiger…your grandson?” 

The deck is stone cold silent.


That’s why when Ace fainted, the sound of his body hitting the wood echoes across the waves. 

Sink Or Swim.

Titled: ‘Sink Or Swim.’ 

Warnings: Language (mild), angst, cliffhanger, injuried!reader, Winchester bro feels, etc. 

Pairing: Dean x sister!reader x Sam

Word Count: 1,812

A/N: The reader is 12 years old in this fic. This is also my submission for @daughters-and-winsisters Writing Contest. So I hope you like this! 

Tagging:    @sincerelysaraahh @ilostmyshoe-79 @abaddonwithyall @audaciousdean @winchesterwhisper @waywardsons-imagines @winchester-writes @winchesterfics @winchesterenthusiast @winchester-clique @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @soaringeag1e @spnfeelstrain @msimpala67 @ivvitm1109 @mkay-chan @the-mrs-deanwinchester  @one-shots-supernatural @mysupernaturalfics  @supernatural-jackles @bringmesomepie56 @youwerelikeadream @mysteriouslyme81 @zombi3gyrl07 @beatlesobsessionlove @wanderer-08 @madelineannmolder @feelmyroarrrr @girl-next-door-writes @oh-goodness-loki @chantillilace @mysupernaturalfics @castielohcastiel @castiels-sweet-little-grace @torn-and-frayed @supernotnaturalcas @atc74 @mommaton @ilostmyshoe-79 @my–heroine @curliesallovertheplace @blacktithe7 @pureawesomeness001 @little-red-83 @deansbaekaz2y5 @ellen-reincarnated1967 @chaos-and-the-calm67

It was either sink or swim. Unfortunately, you felt like you were sinking. You were struggling to keep your head above the water, due to the spirit dragging you down and submerging you in the water. You were losing this battle, and you didn’t know how much longer you could keep resisting. 

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Only Slightly Stabbed

Not my favourite thing that I’ve written, but I have been away for a week with no signal so I suppose I should post something! (Also, not a request)

Summary: OUAT Peter Pan x Reader. You are kidnapped by pirates and Peter, Felix and the Lost Boys come to save you. The blood loss and the magic used to heal you do take affect though, and you’re disorientated to say the least as Pan and Felix try to look after you.

Word Count: 1,130 Words


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anonymous asked:

What if.... What if Furura did all of these super peace for Rize's sake. He did killed all the Washuu except Matsuri who happened to stay alive. Trying to destroy V and unite the ghoul and human kind so Rize will finally be able to roam free without any fear of the V, Wahsuu or the government anymore. Idk about you but I feels like Rize will be the last walking pure washuu in the story, finally be free from all the past that haunted her even thought the trauma will probably stay

So let’s enertain this idea for a second, kind of just brushing idea the slightly problematic notion of “I hurt you in this horribly dehumanizing way because it was the only way to save you”, (I’m not implying you’re saying that anon, just covering my bases here).

Furuta seems incredibly attached to the fairy tale notion of the one eyed king’s power being able to grant life.

He also apologizes to Ui after the fact and seems disappointed that he could not bring his dreams to life. Almost as if he wanted to be able to bring Hairu back but knew himself it was unfeasible.

The primary thing that Rize in her insane state mutters over and over again is “I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry.”

Kanou theorizes much later that insanity in ghouls is a byproduct of hunger. We also know now that RC Cells are probably what the body uses for kagune production, so Rize at this moment having to reproduce her kagune over and over again might not be insane from the pain of kagune farming, but rather a complete and total lack of RC Cells that even the meat Yomo is feeding her is not enough to heal her mind. Also consider this, we know Amon was being experimented on but we also know his body overproduces RC Cells by default, so his lack of insanity after the fact could make sense in his weird amount of sanity after being broken out of the labs.

Eating 100 Oggai, and also 100 Oggai that explicitly had RC Cells and kagune stole from Rize, so whatever dragon produces might be just enough RC CElls to be compatibly returned to Rize.

After all, Washuu, and Nagaraaj both relate to a Hindu legend about searching for an immortality elixir. So, in a roundabout way (this isn’t defending his actions at all). 

Furuta could quite recklessly have been planning to just keep her in a tube, so she would be out of the Washuu’s control. (She just might find herself pregnant could be a reference of Rize attracting too much attention from the CCG, and getting dragged back into the garden, which is something she was y’know recklessly doing). 

Of course this is Furuta though who is only capable of destruction even in helping the people he wants to help. His response to getting Kaneki to work with him to stage his play to get both sides to work together is to utterly destroy Kaneki’s faction, and also his mind. His way of helping Ui, his present towards him in the form of Hairu’s head reduced him to an almost equally desperate state.

There’s also the Kaneki/Furuta and Rize/Touka parallels, where the acting king basically reigns down destruction that the latter probably would never want all for the sake of his “queen”, when really Kaneki cannot stand to lose Touka and Furuta cannot stand to lose Rize, because both women act as tethers for their own existence. Rize being the connection to Furuta’s younger days and only genuine memories of happiness. 

The shared theme of genuine selfless love that both boys wanted to exhibit for the other, slowly becoming more and more perverted and selfish over time.

Anyway, once again not defending Furuta’s actions. If he really wanted to protect her he could have you know, not dropped the steal beams on her, but just like Kaneki Furuta’s incapable of imagining a scenario where everything does not hinge on him, and he’s not entirely in control of things. If he does have some desire to protect or restore Rize after what he did to her, there’s still an extreme amount of posessiveness on display, as Furuta needs to be both the one to destroy her and save her. Even if Furuta’s last wish is to be consumed by Rize so she can herself be restored and have her sanity restored, that also means Furuta is basically denying her autonomy one final time by using her as the prop to his suicide the same way that Kaneki used Hinami during his black reaper phase. 

I was so nervous to post this piece because I feel like it really takes away a lot of the magic to see just how much work had to be put into it in the computer.  The original artwork is much flatter than the finished piece - I had to add a lot of dimension and push values in Photoshop.  I’ll keep this brief, as a lot is pretty self-explanatory (and redundant, if you’ve seen my other original vs. finished posts).  All of the highlights were added in PS.  I don’t have the patience or an effective technique to really nail highlights with watercolor.  A lot of color correcting went into the piece as well - brightened some areas, pulled some values out.  It’s also sort of hard to notice but I reduced Kylo’s head a bit.  Not much, maybe only by 10%, but it definitely is better in the finish.  I also had to retouch Finn’s profile a bit as the likeness was not where I wanted it.  He’s much more Boyega-like on the right ;).  This piece is actually a great example of just how much further/more complete I can take a piece with more involved digital icing.

S3E13 'The Wrath of the Lamb' Notes
  • Before hitting ‘play’:  Oh please, please, don’t let me be destroyed…

  • Attempting-to-be-comforting!Will always makes me happy.  😊

  • Oh, no… not the Norman Chapel again… please, no…

  • O___o  that suit…


    …I understand you’re excited, but… perhaps you’ve overdone it…

  • Ahh, the stilted conversation of two ex-lovers who aren’t ready to admit they’re hurt or wanting the other back again…

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Tom Vs The Forces Of Evil (Au), Chapter 10

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“Tom?”, Marco opened the door to his friend’s room and peeked his head through the door, “We got school today, why aren’t you up?”

Tom was lying in his bed, covered in blankets, he wasn’t dressed, and his hair was still a mess.

Tom got up early to get ready, at least he usually did.

Marco walked over to his friend and shook him, “Tom? Tom you have to get up we’re gonna be late….”

“Marco…..”, Tom grumbled and looked at his friend, “I don’t feel well…..”.

Marco sat on his bed, “You’re sick?”

“I think so….I just….I don’t feel ok, I-I don’t think I can go to school today…”, He pressed his face into his pillow, “I think today I should just stay here and rest, just tell my teachers i’m sick today and you can bring me whatever I have to work on I guess….”

Marco reached a hand out and felt Tom’s forehead, “I could stay too If you want? I Don’t want you to be alone…”

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Saturniidae moth’s caterpillar & Saturnia pavonia moth

The family Saturniidae (order Lepidoptera), commonly known as saturniids, include the largest species of moths such as the giant silkmoths, royal moths and emperor moths. These moths are characterized by large size, heavy bodies covered in hair-like scales, lobed wings, reduced mouthparts and small heads, sometimes brightly colored and often with translucent eyespots on their wings. Together with certain Noctuidae (chiefly Calpinae and Catocalinae, such as the genera Ascalapha, Erebus or Thysania), the Saturniidae contain the largest Lepidoptera, and some of the largest insects alive today.