An Archivist Found A Long Forgotten 8mm Film Reel In An Old Metal Box, Marked "Philipines 1942". Thinking

rub one out

u got it boss

Mystra showed him the secrets beneath the veils. The gossamer veils first, draped across the Weave. The delicate veils next, draped across her body. 'Chosen One' she whispered, as she slipped them off completely.

poor gale :'(

- the dialogue is from ea gale's explanation about his folly

- i kinda like that she ended up looking like a mother-of-pearl inlay lacquerware!

- oh this was a subconscious choice, but Gale is sitting in seiza which is a posture for showing respect especially to elders. it's also known to be a painful position to sit in for extended periods of time, which is why it was sometimes used as a method of (morally dubious) punishment. however, experienced people can maintain this posture for much longer. food for thought :-)

- (idk how credible this is but i think this position also leaves the person sitting pretty vulnerable to attacks compared to a cross legged sit? in that sense it would be an even greater show of deference) edit: apparently this isn't exactly correct! I think this applies mostly for inexperienced people, but those who are trained a) their bodies adapt to the discomfort and b) they use techniques to get back up without using hands

Fullmetal!!! ⚡⚡⚡⚡ Commission for a friend

Damn

oh, to be a little witch of the woods 🦋✨️ with a garden of nightshade and moonflower and henbane 🌿🌺 a cluttered hut with tomes and oddly-shapen vials of glittering potions and ghastly elixirs ⚗️🕯 nestled secretly in the midst of the forest, between an ancient god-tree and a snaking river 🌙🔮

until !! a little wild boy tries to steal from your fish trap !! and has the nerve to threaten you !!

"i'm not a boy!" he warbles, all impish and stubborn. in his hands is a cherry-stained bow, small and fit for him, carved with runes that read foreign. "i'm a dragon!"

"oh, yes, of course," you muse, suppressing a wicked grin at the untamed of sight of his blonde hair as he huffs it out of his baby-face. "how could i overlook your long and scaly tail or your forked tongue?" when you hiss, his nose scrunches up, surrendering a giggle. "tell me, little drake, what exactly are you going to be killing me for?"

the confidence in his big, brown eyes falters and they dart away, down to the overgrown herb garden near your feet. silence trickles by as his shoulders rise, shy suddenly.

"is this your home? or your fish?" you're answered by the drop of his hands, bowstring going lax as he frowns at the grass; a scolded little beast. "ah ha, i didn't think so." dirt clings to his round, pink cheeks, and you lean close enough to swipe it away, turning his chin up. "though it would seem i have no choice but to offer something else in exchange for the safety of my trout."

you're bestowed a toothy smile.

without fear, the little drake stomps into your home, beastly with his manners as he begins to peer into jars and poke at your literature. dust makes him sneeze when he wanders too close to your bookshelf, and he wipes his nose on the front of his tunic.

"come, come, hatchling," you wave a still-warm loaf of bread around like a jewel, beckoning him away from the prick of your thorned roses. "i hope you'll find sweet apple jam a suitable replacement."

his blonde eyebrows shoot up, sitting on his knees at your small round table. precariously, he leans over flickering candles and fares too close to a bubbling cauldron, attention stuck to the green jar you pull from the cupboard; a clumsy little boy, in all manner of the term.

near drooling as you slather down two thick slices of oat bread, digging into them without so much as a thanks as you give him — and his forthcoming mess — all the space he should need. out of reach, you make quick work of stowing away spells that eyes as young as his should never see.

"does your mother know where you are, little drake?"

he gives a small shrug and wipes the back of one hand across his messy face, jelly sticking between his little fingers. "she's gone."

your attention is his instantly, watching from across the hut as a chill runs down your spine; so nonchalant, for such a revelation. "and where has she gone?"

"i don't know," big brown eyes drift to the crows that chatter in your window, watching them as his grip tightens on his delight. "father says she and my sister were taken by bad men."

despite his initial approach, you realize then just how kind he looks: chubby cheeks and a round face, slow-blinking lids and a wild mess of silky, ashen hair. small, for how intelligent he seems, and too trusting.

this would not be the first time you've known such heart-wrenching news, but still — yours breaks for him.

the war still rages to the north, though it hasn't touched this realm in years; regardless, greed among men poisons all, an illness that festers and spreads as spores on a summer wind. there's a very good chance a boy as young as he never even knew his missing family, and, quietly, you thank your gods for such a mercy.

you clear your throat of its itch. "and where is your father, then?"

the little drake pauses, biting at his lip as he thinks — before taking another massive chomp. "at home."

one parent, at least, that hopefully has been strong enough for the both of them, though you doubt the little boy's presence in your home is doing well on a poor father's nerves. a treasure is what you've found in the heart of these woods, one you must return.

"come then," you sink a hand into his tousled hair, which earns you a frightful little glare. "you've been away long enough."

whatever directionless path brought him to your neck of the woods is as clear as day, little feet obvious in their trample of weeds and broken branches. the little drake leads, unafraid and talking loud of all the goblins he's killed in your forest, how good he is with his bow and the tiny knife he keeps strapped to his quiver.

you don't mention the barrier you've set up, to keep the evil in its place, and instead listen to the wild flames of his imagination. it's amusing, at least, and reveals him in slow, secret ways; it's clear the measure of strength he's set is in the shape of his father, and that he thinks being able to defend oneself is the highest skill one can have. they're important things, good things, and you tell him so — but you can smell the fear bleeding through.

it paints a small picture of the man rearing him, one that must be desperate not to lose what little he has left. you think of your own grief and your stomach churns, eager to return him to safety.

"shall we take a shortcut?" at the edge of the river, you pause, calling on thick roots to curl up from under their trees and span across the the rushing water. they creak as they grow, unending, bringing about new sprouts of life as they bend to your will.

"woah!" the wild boy shouts, jumping up and down in place before darting forward. you hardly catch him by the back of his tunic, holding him in place as the bridge evens out. "how did you do that?"

"should you live to see your sixteenth year, i will show you!" you snap, frowning down at his impatience. his cheeks pink, offering small apologies as he vows to stick by your side.

still leading, though he's true to his word and dares not to run ahead any further. the only time his impatience sparks anew is when a cottage breaks your line of sight, surrounded, too, by a swath of thick trees. glee marks his face and you return it in full force, allowing him to take you by the arm as he starts to shout out for his father.

—but at the feel of eyes on the back of your neck, you freeze, hands going up in surrender as a sharp tang of fear sours in your mouth; it's been a long time since anyone has gotten the jump on you. "daddy drake, i presume?"

"huh?" the little boy turns to make a silly face at you, mouth wide open like you've just spoken a foreign language — but the looming beast steals all his attention. something digs too deep into the skin of your neck, and the boy erupts. "father!" he cries, eyes going impossiblely wider. "stop!"

at your throat, the blade hesitates but never recedes. the low voice tickles the shell of your ear, and you repress a shiver. "you've got until he closes his eyes to get the fuck outta here, or i'll skin you myself."

you hum, hiding a burst of adrenaline at the threat, and it earns you a impatient tch. "well, that's not very kind, is it, for the woman that's found your hatchling?"

before you have a chance to even consider a countermeasure, you're shoved roughly against the base of a tree, a hand fisted in the front of your robes. the man before you is — big, and you have to look up to see the expanse of his furious, unshaven face. in him somewhere, you see his son; hair bleached and untamed, a shared sharp nose, even their brows turn down to the same degree.

it would make you laugh, if a singular red eye was not tearing through your very being. if you did not know at once who stands before you.

"dragon, indeed."

"i'll fucking kill—"

"father!" the boy tries again, hurrying to beat his little fists into his father's thigh. "stop! stop!"

it takes the man back a step, though he still keeps you in close range. with an all-encompassing hand, he grabs both of the boys' and tugs him until he's hidden behind the wall of his back.

"stop! she's my friend!"

"she's a witch, boy!" the beast snarls, temper flared like wings. "and you've brought her straight here!"

"she helped me!" he shouts, digging little heels into the ground to steady himself as he tries to yank free. "and fed me! and—"

"fed you?" all at once, his hand drops and in a single swift movement, he's on his knees in front of the boy, gripping his cheeks as if to stop him from swallowing something long gone. "what did she feed you? the hell did you take from her?"

you scoff, offended, though the father continues searching his son's throat. "i do not delight in poisoning children, your grace."

both of their eyes snap to you, wide and full, and the little one murmurs "father?" quietly as the man rises to his feet. when he tries again, he's silenced with a low, guttural grunt. the curved blade in his hand gleams crimson in the light of the setting evening, reflecting nearly the same shade as the thick, crude jewels in his earlobes and peeking out from the collar of his tunic. with nearly the same intensity as his eye.

rumors have taken flight, of an exiled king that lost a war his arrogance began: bonded dragon slain in battle, an eye taken, long braid cut. family torn. the scar eating up the right sight of his body and face speak to his loss; an unending reminder of what pride made of him.

"go inside, hasaru."

bakugou katsuki: fire housed in human form.

the little boy — bakugou hasaru — is quick to take advantage of his father's surprise, darting to stand in front of you, like a small, wooden shield. you can't help but to smile at his bravery, his flickering defiance. "only if you promise not to hurt her."

"boy—"

"no, promise!"

"little drake," you let out a chime of laughter and crouch to his height, cupping his cheeks when he turns to you. "all the valor you have shown today gives me great courage, and i think—" you glance up at his father, smiling wistfully at his flared nostrils. "—i might be able to handle myself. it's not my wish to trouble you any further." the little frown you receive has your own lips turning down, and you pinch at his chin once, serious. "but should you ever encounter danger in these woods, do not hesitate to find me, hasaru."

"enough." the once-king grits, lips pulling back over his teeth. "get. inside."

you watch the little boy scurry off, shoulders slumped as he eyes his father distrustfully. as he reaches the top step, he looks back once over his shoulder, cheeks round and full with the pout he wears, and fat tears well in his eyes as he waves a final goodbye.

as soon as the door closes, you're digging your nails into the tree bark, passing back and fully through it to avoid katsuki's deadly swing. it catches in the wood, but he makes no move to free it, stepping out so that his singular gaze can burn into your cheeks.

"if y'know what's good for you, you won't come back here."

"i only mean to warn you, daddy drake," you sing, far out of reach and smiling at how bright his glare becomes. "that the next person to find your hatchling in the woods might not be so kind."

his left hand raises and you feel the sorcery before you see it, though it airs differently; heavy and yet smooth, like the calm lap of waves against a shore. innate is his fire, not something he's had to study, like you.

embers pop at his fingertips, smoke swirling. "that a threat?"

"not at all," you try to mimic him, thinking hard on the handful of kinetic spells stored in the tome of your mind. "just—he's a chatty little thing, you know? might want to watch out for that."

"i don't need advice from you, witch," he spits, "now leave us."

your attempts at softening his steel are fruitless and so you drop the smile, stepping as close to him as he'll allow before rearing his defenses. "i should hope they never find you or your boy, your grace—"

"don't ever—

"—but if they do," you continue, "know that i am not far."

he weighs your words, their honesty, searching your face as he considers; whatever kindness he finds is deemed untrustworthy, though you can't say you blame him. "why the hell would i believe you? because you want to help?" he snorts, turning his face so that the scar of his pride is on full display. "i'd have burned these fucking woods to the ground, had i the chance."

"oh, i don't doubt that," you murmur, retreating a step when he huffs. "but i lost the ones i love, too, once, and i would have ripped the world to pieces just the same, if it meant they would be returned to me."

the steel warms, giving away the true shape of his grief for only a moment before hardening again; the once-king says nothing, only grunts before turning with his own retreat.

"not far," you repeat, light, when he pauses on the steps of his house. "over the river and near the god-tree. the little drake will know the way."

his arrogant eye meets you over his shoulder, now weary, clouded, and he nods. wordless is an understanding such as this.

as soon as he reaches for the door, it swings open and hasaru is sticking out his little head before his father can finish gritting out his name. a toothy smile reaches you, and then katsuki as he turns to him, relieved that you are not kindling for their hearth. at the sight, the once-king warms again, offering a small tug of his lips before pressing a firm hand on his son's head and steering him back inside.

katsuki looks out one last time, as you let the wind take the petals of you away.

generally i find it so difficult to imagine katsuki with a beard, but quirkred's art is just. woof.

u know when something wont send for ages and ages but when it finally sends it goes 40 times. thanks for nothing technology you bastard.

two cats 🐈

Awake but at what cost

this is really important so i’m posting it here because it’ll probably get removed and the original poster may be banned, but this is literal documentation and proof that terfs and transphobes are directly connected to the far-right and have roots in racism, homophobia, misogyny, and antisemitism. it really is all part of the same oppressive system, so there is no disconnecting transphobia from conservatism. there is no such thing as a progressive transphobe as much as they may want you to believe. it has nothing to do with biology or protecting women or children, none of it is founded in science or logic, it is purely hatred and and attempt to justify bigotry.

“Femme Fatale” by Susan Kane

[From The Femme Mystique, ed. Lesléa Newman]