2nd of Draecember. Tattoos.
Can you call yourselves besties if you don’t have matching tattoos?
@shanlorel
taylor price

shark vs the universe
Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ

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Mike Driver
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AnasAbdin
DEAR READER

JVL
hello vonnie
wallacepolsom
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@zomborr
2nd of Draecember. Tattoos.
Can you call yourselves besties if you don’t have matching tattoos?
@shanlorel
1. Hugging Someone
The biting cold of Northrend’s winds were something that neither Zaanthe nor Squall were accustomed to. There was something in the environment that seemed to work against the vindicator’s struggling frame, and in this moment Zaanthe seemed that the dead seemed to have yet another advantage on this continent. Each swing from the clattering undead had peppered the draenei in frozen water and snow, which had over time worked to soak his armor’s lining. Each deathless husk that fell seemed to be followed by yet another, and even after Zaanthe had long forgotten how long he’d been fighting, there seemed to be no end in sight. Yet still, his body fought on. He had a goal. Someone to keep safe. By the time the first strike to draw blood from the vindicator had landed, the breaths that came from between his chapped lips were shallow and weak. The nearby scourge didn’t miss their opening to swarm Zaanthe shortly afterward. Five of them began to clamber over his massive pauldrons, huddle around his waist and circle around his back. From her vantage point on the cliff’s edge behind her, Squall could barely see the vindicator’s plate through all of the rotten cloth, rusted metal and yellowed bone. The blood-curdling scream of the young girl he’d sworn to protect was one of the final sounds Zaanthe heard before everything began to fade. With the utter dregs of his strength, he exorcised one of the undead, scorching the unlife out of its form. It toppled over like a stack of children’s play blocks. The second took the vindicator’s maul to it’s chest, which scattered it into pieces over another of the cliff’s edges. The third, fourth and fifth took a few more swings before the draenei let free a burst of radiant light that finally vaporized them. Good. He was tired. Now came rest.His right knee hit the blooded snow first. Then, the rest of him. No arms outstretched to catch his fall, and nothing but snow and the hard earth beneath embraced him afterward. For a while, darkness was all the vindicator knew. It wasn’t death, but it could well have been. Squall, however, had other plans. At Zaanthe’s side she sat, wrapped in blankets and her lame bottom-half covered in snow. Her hands pulled what water she could from the lands around them. Her voice was a constant muttering whisper that begged and pleaded with the elements for aid. Her bargains were accepted. She got what she asked for. Breath returned to the vindicator, and vision soon afterward. Still caked in blood, wet and freezing, Zaanthe outstretched a weary arm that took Squall’s comparatively tiny shoulder. In a single motion, before she could speak, he pulled her down into his chest, locked both of his arms about her, and held her against him in a newfound silent reverence. [Little different subject matter from what I intended to go with, but hey. There’s still a hug.]
Blue
Zaanthe propped his forearm against the table, silverware gripped between his thumb and the nook of his forefinger. He had been working slowly on the meal he’d ordered--braised clefthoof. He hadn’t gotten particularly far with the plate despite the time he’d spent on it. It’d been a good fifteen minutes since the waiter had brought the dish out, yet the draenei was barely halfway through the meat and hadn’t touched the sides. This was atypical of the enforcer; stories were told about him putting away more food in a sitting than the average man would in a day. Naturally, he vehemently denied these stories whenever they cropped up. They didn’t mesh well with the image he was trying to build. Especially so when he was seated across from this particularly sweet woman he’d recently had the pleasure of meeting.
Dinner had been her idea, the location his. It always felt more natural when the decision to meet was mutual. The restaurant was an older one, having been around in Stormwind city for longer than most of its citizens. It had spanned back numerous generations, passed down through the children of the original owners. The restaurant--named rather simplistically ‘Rose’s’, after the founder’s wife--served impeccable food with an atmosphere that was tough to beat in the city proper. The interior was often booked up to capacity, though there were on occasion a few tables set outside when the weather was nice. With some luck and a familiar enough face, it wasn’t beyond one’s imagination to snag a table for two.
Zaanthe and his companion had been conversing for a good deal of the afternoon, hence the vindicator’s largely untouched meal. The woman across from him, a tall and lithe creature with a narrow face and bright eyes, idly chased a straw around the rim of her glass as she spoke. “I don’t know that I would enjoy spending too much time at the Broken Heart. Not that you and your friends don’t have a fine establishment between you all, but… It’s not really my scene.”
“I suppose it isn't for everyone, no,” Zaanthe spoke, his lips curling at their edge as they loosed that amused tone. Waiting patiently for his new friend to finish her mouthful, he stuck his fork in the last segment of his main course, balancing the bottom end of his fork with a single extended digit. “Shame, though. I was hoping we might be able to bump into one another again. We’ll just have to stick to planning.” The cabal’s enforcer spoke with a deep and rough timbre, but it wasn’t too difficult to pick up the traces of humor in his otherwise coarse baritone. The woman’s lips curled into a bemused smile, though her eyes remained fixated on her plate. She glanced up under those thin black eyebrows, bright orbs peering up towards him. Something about her expression sent a buzz through his nerves, a rush of some long-lost emotion gracing him.
“We can stick to planning. It isn’t so bad, really. You picked a fine place this time… I’ll even give you a rest and pick our next locale.” The woman’s tone was playful and relaxed. Zaanthe was finding himself able to enjoy the company of a new face for once; there was no immediate grating of her personality against his, no minor habit that was getting under his skin. He was about to note his luck before two somewhat familiar faces turned up, men with familiar faces but no name to put to them. Boys from the Lucdamis family. Even if he hadn’t recognized them, the well-fit suits with purple pocket squares would have given away their allegiance. The Cabal’s enforcer’s face dropped quickly, his expression shifting immediately into one of distaste and frustration. The woman across from Zaanthe noticed that something was awry almost immediately, causing him to raise a hand, a silent reassurance that she needn’t worry. “I’m trying to eat, boys. Whatever it is that you’ve come to say, it can be left for another day.”
The two were both draenei, relatively young, and while the Lucdamis seemed to stick to the running family’s extended kin, it wasn’t unusual for them to hire outside blood. The shorter of the two men placed his hand on Zaanthe’s shoulder, looking down towards him over a crook nose. “I think now’s a perfect time, vindicator. We’ve got work to discuss,” the young man with thin brown hair spoke, his voice a nasal drag of nails against metal.
“Any work you might think we have to speak of can be brought to me by Nesuros. ...Light, did I just ask to meet with Nessie?” Zaanthe groaned, setting down his fork to reach up and slowly rub at the back of his neck. The furthest of the two men, a taller and thinner black-haired fellow, flinched. His fingers curled and his hand shot beneath the left half of his jacket before the first could stay his movement with a simple gesture, a flat palm faced towards him.
“We need to talk about Taleath. You remember Taleath?” asked the taller of the two, the man in the rear, his hand still tucked into his jacket.
Zaanthe thought for a moment. “Taleath? Doesn’t ring a bell, no.”
The taller man’s nostrils flared and his jaw clenched. Wrong answer, it seemed. His gaze danced for a while between Ayaari, his guest, and the two men.
“The docks, you bastard,” the taller one spoke again, as though losing his cool quickly. His voice faltered, a faint vibrato.
Suddenly, the name had a face. A night elf, the one he’d drowned at the docks. Evidently this was someone close to the man. “Regardless,” Zaanthe began with a rare, cautious approach, “That isn’t a matter for here and now. Nesuros knows what happened. Your whole family knows. It’s in the past, and there’s noth--”
“You’re fucking right there’s nothing we can do. Because he’s dead! Because of you!” the draenei spat. The shorter, fatter one with the crook nose was trying to reel in his friend by now. What’d started as an attempt to rustle the vindicator’s feathers had begun down the path of something else entirely. In an attempt to diffuse the situation, the shorter draenei put an arm across the taller, thinner male’s chest. He spoke in a hushed tone, words never making it to Zaanthe’s ears. With a shove, the taller male pushed his friend aside and in one singular fluid motion had a metal barrel barely an inch away from the vindicator’s forehead.
The restaurant emptied in what felt like two seconds to the sounds of screams and clattering plates. Even Ayaari had wildly scampered away, the bottom of her teal dress billowing away in the wind. Zaanthe cursed internally as the one woman he knew without a red dress had the sense to run away from him. Silence hung in the air for perhaps a second longer, the thinner man naturally hesitant about pulling the trigger. As hot-headed as he was about his friend’s death, he knew that his enforcer’s death would mean an all-out war on the streets, one that he was unlikely to survive.
Zaanthe, however, assumed this young man had no such sense. In a desperate motion, he struck out with the hand that had been at the back of his neck, grabbing the gun’s barrel and forcing it diagonally downward, away from his head. Two shots rang out, and the three men fell to the floor of the restaurant in an almighty crash. Fists flew, elbows met jaws, and flecks of blue blood stained the table cloths. The enforcer could feel an intense, roaring pain in his abdomen, no doubt the sting of a bullet. In a struggle of vice-like grips, Zaanthe finally freed an arm to swing a balled fist square into the shorter man’s jaw. He collapsed awkwardly at his side as the thinner draenei continued to try to wrest control of his firearm. The punch left the enforcer’s arm nigh useless as his nerves flared once more, his shoulder struck by one of the rounds. With the digits of his left hand curled around the gun, he managed to turn the gun away from himself, now pointing it off into the dining area. Slowly, with a brutish yell and a bare of sharp, bright teeth, Zaanthe wrested the gun from the taller man. The thin, black-haired draenei had little time to react, a single panicked word escaping his lips.
“N-No!”
One final gunshot echoed in the street and Zaanthe let the firearm drop with his arm, laying in a slowly growing pool of deep blue blood and unable to summon the strength to push himself up. His lips parted in a gasp for breath, as slowly the vindicator slipped into the all-too-familiar shroud of unconsciousness.
Describe your favorite Pokémon in the shittiest manner possible
Bird Superhero
THE MAW
fu man chu ferret and kaiju cannons
snaggletooth butterfly
A gassy tongue with disembodied hands
Uri Geller
this is a harvest mouse appreciation post
literally the cutest animal ever in history look at this lil fuzz
tiny bean ! friendly bean
they climb on basically everything. probably to get closer to kiss u
if this mouse gets any more disney than this it will probably break out into song
just look at this tiny nugget !!!
harvest mice use their tails for stability while climbing but also to be unnecessarily cute. this deters predators
tiny feet !!!!! tiny toes !
momma with itty puffs
kisses !! 1 hit KO
they are literally too small how dare
harvest mice !!!
harvest mice !!!!!!!!!!!!!!
harv e s t m i c e !! ! !!!
thankyou for your time
@principal-skinrash
Conspiracy theory: hoisin sauce, plum sauce and peking sauce are all the same damn thing.
They're different. I identify as hoisin-kin.
Hrng
Four hours sleep + Five AM alarm --------------------------- Sadtimes
The Cranky Cabal: Merser, Zeenthe, Zermbgor and Hordion
✧*。٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و✧*。
I left work at 5, went grocery shopping to get a couple things and grabbed McDonalds on the way home (you know with all the groceries I got so I could save money by not buying fast food) Sat down to watch a couple epsds of Steven Universe and now its 9pm…
I REGRET NOTHING
ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛʜɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴀғʀᴀɪᴅ ᴏғ
She’s selling baked goods again. He left her with enough money that she could afford to stay at some inns without cutting into her profits. He’s off doing something, Outlands, Aldor, something. She tucks in for the night. She picked this place because she’s stubborn, she’d planned to spend the night here all along, as soon as he told her what the money was for. Only because the place frightened her. Surwich. Never mind that she checked her door three times before cutting the light out, and got a room without a window, no never mind that at all.
Keep reading
Fuck, my tea.
me approximately an hour after every time I make tea (via hacelgrace)
I don’t know who made this, but it is so true….
The pizza guy came and commented on our livingroom/coffee table which is 3 up turned totes with cardboard over top of it. Zaanthe preceded to have a conversation where the pizza guy asked him how many years we’d had it. Three.
No shame. We're not a coffee table household. Totes and cardboard 4 lyfe
New room, old tools.
It was a wonder that Zaanthe had managed to make his way into the smith’s room at all, given the mess he’d made last time. Apparently, letting someone slowly roast not far from his furnace wasn’t ‘what the room was designed for’. This time was different, however; some time ago, the Cabal had allowed Zaanthe a small room of his own which he had put some effort into making it fit his needs. This room remained mostly unexplored, though was left unlocked unless occupied.
The layout was simplistic, and decorated to the point of austerity. The room was relatively small, fourteen feet by ten, and the floor was a simple polished concrete. The walls were covered in a repeating foam pattern, small pyramids that were barely an inch square stretched from corner to corner. Aside from the soundproofing on the walls, the room had a distinct lack of features. Three objects occupied the room at any one time; a small red tool chest sat on four caster wheels in the corner, a plastic bucket opposite that, and a folding chair between the two, settled in the center of the room.
When the room was occupied, it was often only by two beings and those three features. Today, however, happened to be an exception.
“I’d probably do myself a favor if I went to Hadeon, asking him to get me one of these of my own. Broke the last hammer I used, you see,” the vindicator spoke, rummaging through a bag of what he understood to be the smith’s collection of tools. Pulling out a planishing hammer, Zaanthe tossed it up gently into the air with a twirl before catching it, repeating this while he stood up. “It’s a lightweight little thing, but that’s fine. Just makes cracking smaller bones easier,” the draenei’s lips curled into a grin as he made his way beside the seated human.
The man thrashed around on the metal seat, which started to scoot the legs against the floor, scuffing the concrete. An arm shot out toward the man, and Zaanthe’s splayed hand almost covered his chest. He yelped, but his cries were muffled by a thick length of cloth that was jammed in his mouth and tied around the back of his head.
“I’d say something about not scuffing my floors, but to tell you the truth, they get terribly messy anyway. What really bothers me is the sound the chair legs make when they scrape,” Zaanthe explained with a grimmace. “It’s like nails on a chalkboard. I’d rather hear just about anything else,” he continued, before moving his hand to the man’s chest.
The human had calmed down by now. Zaanthe leaned forward, and looked into his wavering blue eyes. They were bright, almost like his own. Maybe he was part high-elf, the vindicator mused. Bonus.
“Do you have a favorite sound? Like… birdsong in the morning, or heavy rain outside your window? Some droll banality like that? I do,” he muttered, before bringing that small-headed hammer high, and crashing it clear into the kneecaps of the writhing extortionist. The whimpering wail from the man was mighty and pathetic all at once. Zaanthe’s lips parted, a bright flash of his white teeth visible in a gleeful grin. “That one, in case you were curious. The one you just made. Unsurprisingly, a lot of people make that noise when you shatter their bones,” the vindicator noted, before straightening to stand once more. He raised his arm once more, high above his head, though faltered when he caught sight of the marred head. It had scuffed, and… was that a notch? Zaanthe brushed his thumb across the metal, wiping away the blood to inspect the tool as the man on the chair continued to wail and whine.
“Shit. Well… Shit,” Zaanthe cursed with a defeated sigh. “This is going to be difficult to explai-”
“ZAANTHE!” came a billowing roar from somewhere else in the complex. With a sharp inhale through his nostrils, Zaanthe shook his head, making his way towards the door to flip the lock.
“You get the idea of this lesson, boy,” the vindicator glanced over his shoulder toward the still-shuddering mess who had begun to coat the concrete in a deep red. “You know where our territory starts and ends, and you shouldn’t try to fast-talk Mosur. It just gets him annoyed, and when Mosur gets annoyed, I get to introduce myself,” he chuckled, before an equally large, far darker-skinned draenei barreled through the unlocked door, causing Zaanthe to stagger backward.
Zaanthe sheepishly raised the planishing hammer with a shrug. “Crazy man. Must’ve done it to himself.”
Papa Don Sowdi by littleliongod
Zaanthe and I bought 6 pints of icecream
i regret nothing