#i noticed a pattern

[spiraling-stardust]

There is so much Mal du Pays on my dashboard tonight. We are thriving

[skelebab]

When they each have a designated seat and they also a have couch

[ashcremated]

✨🌙✨

[starspangledsteeve]

despite it all, she's just a girl who is lost and trying to find her way back home

[lexo-is-pesto]

Has anyone else noticed this..?

[beachsideufo]

a strange internet phenomenon 2

[pocketgalaxies]

cannot imagine being caleb widogast btw and having such a fixed view of yourself as this irredeemable monstrous man who wishes for nothing more than to atone for the unatonable while also questioning whether you even deserve to live long enough to do so and then befriending this girl who is notorious for never sparing anyone's feelings when she has something to say and has, since you've known her, intentionally rebuilt herself from the ground up into someone who is real and direct and honest even when it hurts, and for her to lean forward and look into your eyes and say, with a magnitude of brutal honesty that only she could muster, that it Wasn't Your Fault.

[nourtarts]

“Then for the next eleven years, I tried to work up the nerve to talk to you.”

“Without success,” I add.

“Without success. So, in a way, my name being drawn in the reaping was a real piece of luck,” says Peeta.”

- Chapter 22, The Hunger Games

.

One of my favorite scenes in anything ever probably - used it as practice to exercise my comics-making muscles. Let’s just…ignore the random change in Peeta’s hair texture 😅 Hope you enjoy ~✨

[jakei95]

Having depression is not a choice, every person dealing with this will find a lot of factors around them debilitating. Saying things like "you're always focusing on the negative", only adds to the problem. If you can't empathize, then keep your judgments to yourself.

[linkeduniverse]

September Art

[coffeewolfart]

(You see a vision of the unending present.)

Got inspired by @tawnysoup's drawing of what the Bigfrin boss fight looks like from the party's POV, and I thought "what if Siffrin had a special attack like the King lol". So here you go! This would probably show up when Siffrin tries to loop back.

[sandersstudies]

This is purely anecdotal, I have no numbers to back this up, but I think the kids who have the best relationships with their parents tend to practice what I call the Circle Back.

In a space that includes both adults and kids, and is safe enough that kids aren't being directly supervised by their parents, I've noticed most kids with strong family relationships follow the same pattern: they socialize with others or participate in an activity, and then periodically circle back to their family group. They might observe one or both parents for a couple minutes, or offer a hug or kiss or brief conversation, and then they go back to what they were doing, and repeat. Sometimes they have a question (When are we leaving? Can I have a slice of cake?) but often it seems like a totally purposeless check-in purely intended to affirm their relationship with their parent. (Hi. Love you. Bye.)

Kids who are very clingy and don't really move away from their parents, or who avoid or evade their parents for most of the evening, would be examples of those who don't follow the circle-back pattern.

[wonder-and-wildflowers]

Dazai canonically rambling about his loved ones at every possible opportunity is so dear to me.

Mori knew a lot of the things he did about Oda because Dazai told him. Akutagawa also knew about Oda and how important he is to Dazai because of Dazai's ramblings. Random, unnamed PM members know about Oda being very dear to Dazai, because Dazai praises him and talks about how great he is.

Chuuya knew straight away that Dazai had been speaking about him to the ADA. It wasn't something he expressed feeling betrayed or suprised about. It was just an immediate understanding that of all the ways they could probably have known about him and his ability despite it being confidential information in the PM, Dazai's ramblings were most likely the reason.

The way that Dazai speaks about Ranpo to quite literally anyone who will listen. To Fydor, to random cops, to Atsushi.

Dazai canonically brags about the people he cares about in an 'omg omg omg my person my people I love them look how amazing they are' way.

[spongebob-connoisseur]

People like to characterize human Spongebob as some waifish barely 20 years old looking twink but honestly I think he'd be more like Pat from the UK version of Ghosts.

The shorts, the passion for what he does and his craft, the dorky glasses, the positive and all forgiving attitude, the knee high socks, the love of nature and the outdoors, the tie, the love for his friends and family, the shoes, the love of pranks, the OVERALL WHOLESOMENESS AND GOOD NATURE

[lazy-ahh]

Oooooh superhero gn reader x Viltrumite mark, please! During the Invincible War, Mark goes to take reader back to his universe, saying he’s missed them and their life together. Reader rejects him, and makes a deal: if reader wins, Mark has to stop wrecking chaos on the planet. If mark wins, reader will go back with him and whatever ‘life’ they created. And reader ends up losing. :)))

THE WRONG UNIVERSE TO LOVE YOU IN

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (superhero) gender neutral reader

this one wants you back. the problem? you don't belong to him. you belong to the mark who loves eve, the mark who will never know you loved him first, the mark whose laugh still echoes in your dreams. now, as his fingers wipe blood from your face with terrifying gentleness, reality splits open: stay and die for a love that was never yours, or let him steal you away to a world where you were his—where you'll always be second to a ghost of yourself. (he promises to be better. you almost believe him.)

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

the sky is bleeding red when he finds you—a sickly crimson streaked with smoke, the air thick with the scent of burning metal and charred flesh. the distant wails of sirens blend into the chaos, a symphony of destruction that never seems to end.

you’re panting, your bruised knuckles pressed into the cracked pavement as you push yourself up, every muscle screaming in protest. the city around you is a graveyard—skyscrapers reduced to skeletal husks, streets littered with bodies, some still twitching, others long gone. the invincible war has turned your world into a slaughterhouse, and standing in the middle of it all, untouched by the ruin, is him.

mark grayson.

but not your mark.

this one is different—sharp where your best friend is soft, his jaw set in a hard line, his eyes dark with something unreadable. there’s a cruel twist to his lips, a coldness in his stare that makes your stomach knot. he wears the viltrumite empire’s uniform, the sleek, lighter armor a stark contrast to the torn superhero costumes scattered around you. a few blood stains littered the fabric, some of it still fresh, glistening under the firelight. it’s not just from battle—no, this mark wears it like a trophy.

you had just finished killing other variants of him, their lifeless eyes staring up at you, their faces so familiar it made your hands shake. you mourned them, grieved for the versions of you in their worlds who must have loved them as fiercely as you love yours. your breath still comes in ragged gasps, your heart pounding not just from exhaustion, but from the weight of what you’ve done.

and then he arrived.

this mark moves with a predator’s grace, his steps measured, his shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who’s never lost. there’s a quiet intensity in the way he surveys the wreckage—like a king surveying his domain. but when his eyes land on you, something shifts. the cold superiority in his gaze softens, just for a second, before he schools his expression back into something unreadable.

"there you are," he says, voice low, almost reverent, like he’s been searching through a thousand broken worlds just to find you. the way his eyes trace over you—lingering on the blood smeared across your cheek, the way your chest heaves with exhaustion—makes your skin prickle. it’s not relief in his tone. it’s claiming.

and you realize, with a sinking dread that coils like ice in your gut, that this isn’t over. it’s only beginning.

"missed you," he murmurs, the words rough, scraped raw from his throat. his voice is different from your mark’s—deeper, edged with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter. he says it like he’s been holding it in for years, like he’s carved the words into his ribs just to keep them close.

your chest tightens, heart hammering against your sternum. you’ve heard the stories—whispers of alternate marks, warped by viltrum’s cruelty, ripping through dimensions to drag back what they think belongs to them. and now he’s here, standing in the wreckage of your city, looking at you like you’re a ghost he’s been chasing. like you’re already his.

"you don’t even know me," you spit, swiping the back of your hand across your split lip. the metallic tang of blood coats your tongue, bitter and familiar.

he tilts his head, considering you with a gaze that feels like a physical touch. "i know enough," he says, voice dropping into something dangerously soft. "in my world, you were mine." his thumb brushes over a streak of dirt on your jaw, possessive and tender all at once. "we had a life. a future." his eyes darken, something feral flickering behind them. "i’m taking you back."

your fists clench, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. you think of your mark—the boy who scraped his knees racing you down suburban streets, whose laughter was always a little too loud, a little too bright. the one who looks at eve like she hung the stars, while you’ve spent years swallowing down words that taste like rust and regret.

"what happened to me?" you choke out, the question tearing from you like a wound ripped open. "in your world. did i—" your voice fractures. "did i love you too? or did you just force me to?"

his pupils dilate, just slightly, the only crack in his controlled facade. for a heartbeat, he looks almost human. "you begged me to stay," he says, low and rough, like the memory is a blade twisting in his gut. "the night before the viltrumite fleet came. you held onto me like you knew." his jaw tightens. "then they burned our world to ash. but you—" his thumb presses against your pulse point, a mockery of tenderness. "you were always meant to survive."

the air leaves your lungs. you can see it—some other version of you, screaming as the sky split open, clinging to a monster because they didn’t know he’d become one.

"no."

his expression darkens—not like a storm rolling in, but like a door slamming shut. the brief vulnerability in his eyes snuffs out, pupils contracting into something cold and calculating. his jaw tightens, the muscle flexing as his teeth grind together, like he’s biting back words he’ll never say. the softness that had flickered across his face for just a second hardens into something unreadable, the lines of his face sharpening into a mask of imperial discipline.

but his eyes—oh, his eyes. they’re not just empty. they’re hungry.

the way he looks at you isn’t just possessive. it’s devouring. his gaze drags over you like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance, like he can’t wait to break it apart and remake you into something that fits in the hollow of his hands. his lips twitch, not into a smirk, but into something far more dangerous—a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, a smile that says, you think you have a choice?

and then, just like that—it’s gone. his face smooths back into viltrumite indifference, as if that momentary crack in his armor had never existed. but you saw it. you felt it. and that’s what terrifies you the most. "you don’t get a choice."

"then fight me for it," you snap, surging forward until your forehead hovers a breath away from his, close enough to feel the heat of his skin, close enough to count the flecks of gold in his darkened eyes. the scent of smoke and iron and something uniquely him clings to the space between you, thick enough to choke on. he doesn’t flinch—doesn’t even breathe—just holds your gaze with a half-lidded, almost lazy intensity, like you’re a puzzle he’s already solved.

then his eyes drag downward, slow and deliberate, lingering on the part of your lips, the quickened rise and fall of your chest. there’s no shame in it, no pretense—just hunger, plain and unapologetic. your pulse stutters. for one terrifying second, you almost falter, because this isn’t the look of a conqueror assessing his enemy.

it’s the look of a man remembering how you taste.

"if i win, you leave this planet alone. if you win…" your voice wavers as a memory blindsides you—your mark’s face, soft in the moonlight on his rooftop, his fingers brushing yours as he smiled at you with something warm and unreadable. you’d let yourself imagine, just for a second, that it was love. that it could be you.

now, you’re bargaining with a ghost of him.

"i’ll go with you," you whisper.

he grins finally, all teeth, but still disciplined—like he’s savoring the way your breath hitches when he leans in. "deal."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the battle is brutal.

you’re strong—strong enough to have shattered the ribs of other marks, strong enough to have left their bodies broken in the rubble of this war. but him? he’s something else entirely. every hit he lands cracks through your bones like fault lines, every impact vibrating through your teeth until your jaw aches. you dodge, but you’re always a half-second too slow, his fist grazing your cheekbone hard enough to send stars exploding across your vision.

and the worst part? he’s smiling. small and private just for you, but still there.

not the sharp, cruel grin of a conqueror—no, this is lazy, almost playful, like he’s savoring the way your breath comes in ragged gasps, the way your muscles scream as you push yourself beyond limits that should have broken you already. he’s toying with you, you realize with a sickening lurch. not because he needs to, but because he wants to see how long you’ll last.

"you took down six of them," he muses, catching your fist mid-swing like it’s nothing, his fingers tightening until your knuckles creak in protest. "six of me." his voice drops, something almost like pride curling through it. "that’s not nothing."

then his knee slams into your gut, and the world blurs.

you don’t even feel the moment his fist collides with your ribs—just the sickening crunch, the way your body folds around the impact before you’re hurled backward, crashing through concrete and steel like paper. debris hails down around you, dust choking your lungs as you gasp, vision swimming in and out of black.

when the ringing in your ears fades, he’s already there, crouched beside you with all the casual grace of a predator who’s never known fear. his fingers brush the hair from your face, smearing blood across your temple in a mockery of tenderness.

"you put up a good fight," he murmurs, thumb dragging over your split lip. his voice is almost fond, like he’s praising a well-trained weapon. "stronger than most. smarter, too." his grip tightens, just slightly, forcing your gaze up to his. "but you were never gonna win."

your body screams—muscles torn, bones fractured, blood pooling beneath you like a second shadow. but the pain in your chest is worse, a hollowed-out wound no advanced viltrumite healing could ever fix. you think of your mark—his stupid, lopsided smile, the way his voice softened when he said your name, the light in his eyes when he looked at eve—a light that was never, ever for you.

and now you’ll never tell him.

"promise me," you whisper, the words slick with blood, metallic and bitter on your tongue. there’s so much more you want to say—begging, pleading things that claw at your throat like trapped birds. promise me you’ll love me. promise me i won’t just be another trophy. promise me you won’t get bored and break me when i’m no longer new. promise me you won't throw me aside like he did. but all that comes out is: "promise you’ll leave this world alone."

mark’s thumb drags across your cheekbone, smearing dirt and blood in a mockery of gentleness. his touch is warm, almost reverent, like you’re something precious instead of something stolen. "i promise," he says, and for a heartbeat, his voice is so soft it almost sounds like the boy you knew.

then his arms lock around you, lifting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. the sky splinters above you—crimson and gold and burning, the last beautiful thing you’ll ever see.

(and somewhere, in another life, your mark screams your name, raw and shattered, as the rubble of your city collapses around him. but you’re already gone, and the universe does not care.)

1.9k words full of my number one favourite invincible variant!! thank you so much to the anon who requested this one-shot heheheh <33

[bamsara]

Hi Sara! Just wondering, has the lamb always seen Finor as a mother figure, or did they only start seeing her that way as she got older?

The Lamb has always seen Finor (and Ratau) as parental figures. Although they didn't make it apparent for a very, very long time.

Imagine a freshly sacrificed/resurrected Lamb, who's constantly dying in horrific ways because they're not yet accustomed to being a warrior yet, with no one else to turn to but the mentor that's helping them learn how to be a leader, and the follower who they found in that same sacrificial position, who's lost everything as they have, and understands it.

It is also more on Finor's actions that influenced their attatchment. Finor at the start does not join becaue she believed in TOWW, but she joined because she looked at her savior aka this blood soaked tear stained shaking shiver Lamb and went 'oh that baby needs someone'

^ Which is also how Lambert gets some of their more helpful and self-sacrificing tendencies, I think. A lot I could unpack here but alas