“This Is The Man, The King, The God Of This Shit, Nick F’N Gage. You Already Know What It Is. It’s

I know those eyes // Following me // Dark and familiar // And deep as the sea // I know that face // Strange though it seems // Younger and kinder // It haunts all my dreams

They haven’t met before. But Smajor swears, there’s something so familiar yet wrong about the situation before him. He just can’t put his finger on what.

[rb > likes 💞]

rb if ur mutuals an followers can infodump in ur inbox, even if they won't answer the ask

Reblog if you are ASEXUAL, SUPPORT ASEXUALS, or really really want to WEAR A REALLY FANCY BLACK CAPE

CRIES

why is your cat green?

She’s built different 😌

And here’s the rest of my spop screenshot redraws I drew to count down to the series finale last year :’’) (Plus a bonus Catradora kiss bc hell yeah)

So, Third life huh?

here’s one without the text

REBLOGS OVER LIKES please

No one:

Orange Cassidy: 

Aletheia, a Scott centric Empires SMP x 3rd Life fanfic

No warnings, 4301 words. Past Scott/Jimmy. Angst and emotional hurt. 

Read on ao3 here! 

Summary:

Aletheia: unclosedness, unconcealedness, disclosure, truth; the state of not being hidden, the state of being evident. Opposite of Lethe, meaning oblivion, forgetfulness, concealment.

Scott remembers Third Life, as much as he would rather not. He’s an Emperor, now, with an Emperor’s business to attend to, and that includes meeting with the ancient deer deity of his kingdom, who is far more perceptive than he would like.

Or, Scott does not want to talk about Jimmy, but that matters little when your new god can read your thoughts.

Excerpt:

He meets the Guardian of Rivendell in a small clearing of stone and spruce in a jagged crack in the mountainside only accessible by air and by magic.

It’s snow-frosted, like everything else in Rivendell, crystals hanging from pine needles and glittering in the afternoon sun, grass crunching beneath his footfalls. The trees are tall and dark and reaching for the sky in their cloaks of wintergreen, berry bushes and brambles a circlet upon the earth’s burdened brow. The berries are holly, yew, toxic-bright, like splashes of blood, like eyes. The thought startles Scott, heart throbbing in his throat, and he tears his own eyes- blue eyes- away.

He is alone and then he is not.

Why did you call me, Guardian?

You are troubled. Now, come and talk with me a while.