#posts that make you go uhhh

[egophiliac]

I loved your drawing(and I love your style in general) with Leia in your recent post! If/when you have time can we see more of her in your style? I get so happy whenever I actually see people mention/talk about her and she’s not just forgotten because we didn’t get to see much of her. 😭

thank you! 💙💙💙 Leia/Leah/Lea/whatever is fascinating to me. she is the ultimate unknown. what was she like? how involved (or even aware of any details of the invasion) was she? Silver's basically a physical carbon copy of his biodad, so what did he get from her? like, I understand why the two of them kind of have to stay as these super vague and mysterious figures -- the whole point of them is that their story ended 400+ years ago and they're not really relevant anymore (and. well. the more that gets explained about them, the less that can just kinda be handwaved as "oh the politics were Very Messy") (we can sit here and theorize all day but let us acknowledge that, ultimately, canon gave us almost nothing about them post-Meleanor and we'd just be making things up). I do still wonder about her though! RIP Lea, we never knew you and we probably never will.

actually you know what, as long as we're here, I think I WILL go ahead and just make some stuff up about what Silver might've inherited from her instead.

[kindaorangey]

"are you asking me or making me?" is soooooo interesting to me because i think armand only asks it when he can't gauge whether he's letting louis down. it's barely even sexual - it's a hail mary. it's a show of trust, indirectly admitting that he wants to do something other than what louis expects of him, but that he's willing to obey louis anyway, for the sake of their relationship. it's sort of heartbreaking watching them at the sacré-cœur, because if louis had said "i'm making you" armand would've done it in a heartbeat. he would've taken it as a show of committment on louis' part, and he wouldn't have betrayed him. but louis takes the question just as an expression of disagreement, and so he doesn't play the game. ironically, he respects armand's independence too much to make him turn madeleine if he doesn't want to. and so armand isn't convinced of louis' commitment to him, and he betrays him.

and by the time we see them in san fransisco, louis knows what the question means now, and answers "no, arun, i'm not asking" without question. and armand accepts it without complaint, even as it pains him. companionship really is the most important thing in the world to armand, just like it is for lestat, and he's willing to do any number of horrible things to louis and himself just to keep him as a companion, just like lestat. louis' biggest mistake is not realising how to use that to his advantage sooner.

edit: HELP people are reblogging this again. i misremembered the context of the scene - louis is asking armand to witness the turning, not do it himself. still, if armand had gone along to witness, that would have 100% been taken as implicit permission for louis to turn madeleine (thereby adhering to the first of the great laws) and, in essence, "agreeing" with her turning where before he ordered claudia to drive madeleine out of town. this hypocrisy, and the further bending of the rules for louis' sake (he's given permission to turn a mortal despite neither of them being in the coven), would have been seen by the coven as betrayal. armand knows this; he doesn't think madeleiene should be turned for these reasons; that's why he asks, "are you asking me or making me?"

still. if louis had said "i'm making you" i think armand would've gone along to witness, implicitly giving his permission for madeleine to be turned and functionally changing his allegiance from the coven to louis once and for all. so the core point of the post still stands.

[nyankoizumi]

Honestly this is why I keep calling their ship redsuits in my head because I want a distinction between normal present day spamtenna and big shot spamtenna because they feel so uniquely tasty. Do you guys understand

[sluckythewizard]

PART OF A BIGGER DOODLE PAGE. WHEN ITS DONE ILL TUCK THE LINK INTO THIS LITTLE X RIGHT HERE ----> [X] I REALLY REALLY LOVE THE TOM N JERRY DYNAMIC W EMIZEL N VEX. IMAGINE BEING SO SO HAUNTED BY A LITTLE GUY THATS JUST SSSSOO FUCKING ANNOYING.

[multiheadcanons]

DO YOU THINK WE FIND EACH OTHER IN EVERY UNIVERSE?

mikhail did not want to do this.

he has been avoiding the infirmary like the plague, and avoiding its sole inhabitant moreover. it’s too much to even be in there anymore. he can’t think, he can’t reason, he can’t speak, he can’t exist in there anymore without looking like a fool. without feeling his face flush.

he can’t even go in for a visit anymore without his mind wandering. without slipping away into some asinine fantasy of him, and his own doctor.

it feels so stupid. they were fine as friends. they were fine as friends and mikhail got desperate. seemed fritz was too. and then they just… never stopped past the desperation.

and he knows it’s just him. it’s just him who’s feeling this way. the doctor never seemed to skip a beat. even as he wiped the fluids from his face, thanked the russian for a good time, ensured the cleanliness of his uniform and promptly exited whatever bedroom, bathroom, closet, or vehicle they had momentarily commandeered. even as mikhail stood alone, dazed from the flurry of action, the moment they were done the doctor was too, and they were to never speak of it. he never stayed long enough to talk afterwards. it pissed him off that he even thought about aftercare. what would they even have to talk about?

he can’t go in there anymore.

but he has to.

he took a deep breath and shut his eyes. he can’t blink in there or he’ll lose himself.

the swing of the infirmary door was silent. he was thankful for that. it meant he didn’t have to speak until he was ready to. he took stock of the infirmary. clean. organized. a dull scent of chemical, a whisper of blood under that. it smells too clean. he could change that.

but that’s not what he’s here for.

“ah, heavy! lovely to see you here, it’s been a while. you’ve been avoiding me. is there something i can do for you today?” well, there went his element of surprise. and the jab didn’t go unnoticed either. and that desk. that stupid desk. purposefully moved where it was not visible from the door, but the door was visible from its location.

a passing thought of whether the desk was free from paperwork entered mikhail’s mind, and exited just as quickly. he fully entered the infirmary and allowed the door to swing shut behind him. it’s cold in here. he could change that.

but that’s not what he’s here for.

“i need to speak with you. spare me a moment.”

“ah, i’d love to, but i can’t. i’m busy.”

busy? he walked towards the sound of the voice, rounding the corner to see stacks of paperwork.

“…with paperwork. you’ve never denied me before.”

the doctor gave an uninterested stare over his lenses. “well, the lack of denial towards you, specifically, is why i have all this paperwork. so i can’t today. perhaps another time? i’m sure i can fit you in tomorrow—”

“i am not your patient. we need to speak. today. now.” the doctor’s eyes narrowed, and his response was calculatedly slow. the ice they stand on was already melting, and neither seemed to care about the repercussions of falling into the deep.

“if i’ve never denied you before today, why would you continue to press the matter when i insist i don’t have the time? is it a medical emergency? are you dying? i could’ve caught it if you had come in to your scheduled visits.”

“no—”

“alright, then one more day of waiting won’t hurt, will it? i’ll see you tomorrow.” and with that, the doctor was done with the interaction. just that simply.

if mikhail were an emotional man he’d scream. but he isn’t. so he took a deep breath, and looked around. the blue clad doctor may not be an absolute psychopath like his counterpart, but he’s sure the man has something lying around here somewhere.

“should i leave?”

“if you want.”

jesus christ, he hates this man. if this man were to drop dead within the hour mikhail would celebrate. he perused the infirmary, opening cabinets, purposefully not shutting them, moving things out of the meticulous order the doctor kept them in, waiting for a reaction. and nothing came but silence and the scratching of pen on paper.

very well, he’ll up the ante.

he started peering through files. brute forcing the locks on the filing cabinets to go through them. leaving them open. rearranging the papers with others.

“are you having fun over there?” the doctor called out, the scratch of the pen never stopping. a crack in the stone. maybe.

“absolutely.”

fritz was not going to be happy when he realizes the extent of the damage. this is not a new tactic for mikhail to pull when he attempted to get his way, but the absolute decimation of the doctor’s filing system was grounds for death.

this is a hurdle he will handle later. he needs to focus on the task at hand.

“you don’t have a file for yourself?”

“i don’t need one.”

“hm.” this tactic was a no-go. it’s time to up the ante again. he looked around again. “where do you keep your bonesaw?”

“why?”

“just curious.” the silence told him that he probably should look elsewhere.

“if i give you the bonesaw will you get out? you’re distracting me.” oh, that’s perfect. he gave a satisfied smile.

“yes.” he heard the desk drawer open and metal skid across the floor, stopping at his feet. he grabbed it, finding the most comfortable way to hold it in his hands. “thank you, doctor. i’ll leave you be.” a neutral noise of acknowledgement came from the doctor, and with it, mikhail left.

and all fritz could do was put the pen down, and rub his temples. great. now his infirmary was trashed. he had just cleaned it. did he want to know the extent of it? not right now. he’ll explode if he dared look up now.

there wasn’t enough time to stew on it or let it go when something slapped the desk; spattering red across the stacks of paperwork. he did not bother to look at whatever was just thrown. he knows the sight of blood. his eyes slowly trailed upward. and he was absolutely unsurprised to see the russian standing before him, a pleasant smile on his face. the doctor’s eyes twitch.

“are you kidding me.”

“medical emergency. i need your aid.”

“you are an unequivocal nuisance.”

“i have feelings for you.” and the infirmary went silent. they stared at each other. “will you sew my hand back on?”

“get. on. the fucking. table.” mikhail complied. holding his stump out as the doctor grabbed a needle and thread.

“i don’t know why i like you so much. you’re horrible, when i think about it. you’re rude, and a liar, and—” he played up a wince as the doctor began to harshly sew his hand back on. “heartless.”

“shut up.” the doctor snapped. “i can’t focus.”

“really.” he honored the man’s request with a moment of silence. “i have feelings for you.”

“everyone has feelings for everyone. the sky is blue today. i’ve surgically removed two thousand four hundred and thirty seven various organs from a minimum of eight hundred twenty people and four hundred thirty two cadavers before i lost count. is there anything else obvious we would like to state today?”

“you are a cruel bastard.” that got a smirk. he liked that smirk. “i won’t repeat myself. i know you like hearing things repeated. sad little man with bad hearing.”

“i am already at my limit with you.”

“should i leave?”

“i’d say yes, but knowing you you’d just come back in five minutes.” they stared at each other, and the doctor took a deep breath and refocused on his task at hand. “i don’t want to know what feelings you have. we are coworkers. we shouldn’t be having sex with each other at all.”

“that’s an easy exit.”

“why make it hard?”

“ah. right. your need for efficiency. why live at all?” that stopped the doctor. he took a deep breath.

“you have no. idea. what i know about our lives. if you want to live, go. live freely, live wildly, kill yourself in the effort. be my guest. but that’s not what we’re here for and it will never be.” and he continued to sew. “i liked you better as a friend.” he added, softer.

“as a friend?”

“friend, teammate, coworker. whatever you want to call it. i liked you better then. you were happier. we worked better together. we talked more. but this?” he couldn’t help the snort that left him, though none of this was funny. “i— i hate this! i’m anxious, and i’m irritated, and i’m annoyed, all the time! and it feels like nothing helps, because all i think about is you! and you— you can’t help me. because you are anxious, and irritated, and annoyed. and we are fools.” he tied off a knot on the string, and gave the man’s hand a tug to ensure the stitches were tight. but he didn’t let go. “i’m infatuated with you, if it makes you feel better.”

mikhail processed the doctor’s words as he turned for his medigun to finish the job. they didn’t hurt as much as he thought they would, but he also wasn’t sure if this could be considered a rejection. he wasn’t sure why he was so concerned about this conversation.

“so, how do we go back to friendship? is it possible?” he asked.

“to tell the truth, i don’t know.” he said, flicking the medigun on.

the rays were cold. they are usually cold. it felt nice.

“… friends it is. we can be friends. i can treat you better. we can see what happens from there.” he slowly clenched his now re-attached hand, the feeling returning, and with it, the realization that the doctor never let his hand go.

“don’t say you’re going to treat me better. just do it.” the doctor regained the sense to release the man, turning to shut off the medigun and put it away.

“very well… friend.” the doctor could not help the gag that escaped him. and the stare he gave was palpable.

“actually, i hate you. vehemently. get out.”

mikhail laughed. this stupid little man. how could he ever avoid him? he’s never been so humored. and the smile the doctor fights.

perhaps they would be better off friends.

“so. honest question. do we stop having sex.”

“oh, god, no. that’s the best part of the day.”

“so, what, twice a week?”

“…that’s the best part of the day.”

…what kind of friends does the doctor keep? “you are… strange.” and the doctor’s brow quirked. “i like it.”

“aren’t you sweet. clean your mess and get out. i have to finish— ugh. i have to restart this.”

ah, right. that hurdle he said he’d handle later. he really thought this would go differently. but somehow this still ended up being the repercussions of his actions. so he supposes it went exactly how he expected it to. mikhail gave the doctor a final glance as he returned to his desk, and looked around at the infirmary. the files haphazardly stuffed into already overfilled drawers, the papers within the files no longer matching. this will take him a while.

he’s okay with that.

[cobaltfluff]

happy crossover christmas to me !!! left: crossover / right: AU :3c

[carlyraejepsans]

Halfway to the sofa, they stopped, making a small sound like a grumble of annoyance. For a second, the red glow in their eye grew faint. "Sleep," they rasped out in a low, halting whisper, "I saved you an ache in the neck." It took him a second to register that the kid wasn't talking to him. Mostly 'cause Frisk didn't speak. To him. Or ever.

Sans wakes up late into the night and sees something he shouldn't have.

[howlinghound11]

Ok i said i'd do it, so heres all* my funny Barnaby sketches c|:03

And Wally is in some too @:)

P.S.- Happy Birthday Clown! 🎉❤️💙💛🎉 @partycoffin

Talkin in the tags as usual lol ⬇️

[lanternlightss]

dewdrop leaves

> this was written for day 3: immortality/corruption! and of course i could not pass up the opportunity to write a corrupted venti, and bard’s reaction to it <3

Though Venti does not necessarily feel the sensations such as “warmth” or “cold,” the sheer thickness of Dragonspine’s chill tries its hardest to threaten that motion. It clings to him, weaving around and through the fabrics of his clothing, wrapping his limbs. Frost dapples at the tip of his nose, extending to his cheeks. It coats his clothing, too, the material starting to crinkle, turn firmer, and rigid.

(During his flight to here, his hat had been tossed off, and his cape’s bow had been torn unevenly….. how he quite liked those….)

When he lands, sprawled out onto all fours, sinking into the snow and feeling how it gives in, the beginnings of ice fall from him in clumps, sloughing. He extends his wings, fluttering them, and watches as even more are flicked off from the action.

Going to stand, a sharp pain pulls at his chest, seeming to bounce off of the space where a rib-cage would be, before it spreads throughout the rest of him, pinpricks of blazing flares. He doubles over from it, his forehead and bangs pressing into sparkly white (his braids choosing to sprawl across them instead.)

Making the decision to fully lay his upper half onto the snow, and partly burrow there, wings folding to slide more onto his form, it—for a moment, upon the first touch—feels almost soothing. Rubs at the itchiness lying beneath this imitation flesh, one that strikes and tears and shrieks at him every passing minute that goes by. Each louder, more vicious, than the last.

Venti grimaces.

With a tremble, he pushes himself up, crawling forward to fresher snow—areas where he did not mess with. Raises his hand, watching as the deep blue (nearly a shade close to the night sky, dotted with small magentas) covering his fingers and palm reaches up, up, up, a little past his wrist, in splotches. Racing alongside the blue, is deep, fracturing golden lines and cracks, painted across in random strokes. He flexes his hand, wincing, and noting he has his talons, as well.

(There is a prickle on his back, too, where feathers begin to sprout, beneath the pair of wings he already has out.)

He huffs a breath and continues to stand, shaking off the snow when completely upright. Crouches slightly, one foot forward, stancing for a flight into the sky once more—for as much as he would like to, Venti cannot stay here, it is too close to Mondstadt still, and there is a concerning pressure building within him, one that he fears may blast away everything here.

Wings flap, he leans. Snow then scatters and sprays in various directions, from his take-off.

The corruption worsens as his journey continues—that accursed statue, but its situation was becoming harrowing—sending shocks so severe that it has his wings beating harshly to keep himself righted. Even more terribly is when the ruins of Old Mondstadt come into view, and the extra wings find this the perfect time to sprout in full, snapping out, and colliding against the ones above them.

That has him stumbling into one of the many strong currents dotted around; where he allows them to spin him in a lift, and he dips towards the ground when they let go, upon where he forces his wings to untangle, opening and catching wind. He twists, pivoting, aiming towards the ground, his surroundings a blur—and lands onto a patch in a cloud of dust. Once it has cleared, he remains in his position, sitting on his knees, hands pressed to the sides of them as he leans slightly forward.

(Belatedly, he realizes he has lost his cape, and shoes.)

Venti heaves. The pressure from before is unbearable now. The blue-gold has creeped up his arm, the splotches trailing off in fading dots when it reaches where his archon form’s gloves would end, and he presumes it is the same for his legs—though, he can feel a weight at the back of his head, half-formed, in what could only be a halo. Go and break him down to his more divine forms, why don’t they!!

Bubbling. Too much of it, his grasp on everything fraying, thinning, even as he scrambles in an attempt to keep it locked shut, fingers twisting and flailing—the threads of wind, patches of time, the weather, it slips, becoming fuzzy. A gratitude undercuts it, a vague thankfulness that the ruins have sunken enough to fit the wrath of a thrashing God, a vague thankfulness that Dvalin had been sent away beforehand, before it is overrun by the thoughts—what if this is not enough? Will they fall, to his hands, just as the tyrant had done to them? Will he lose what he has fought to protect, what he has set everything to prevail for?

He cannot lose anyone again—

His imitation heart splinters and spills, the corruption truly sinking in. His vision blurs around the edges, flashes of gold tracing them, his breaths coming out labored..

(He knew, when Dvalin had been corrupted by the Abyss, that he was hurting—if it was to this extent, he wishes he could have soothed away everything.)

Around him, the wind races, becoming erratic, kicking at any surface it can find, zipping across in uneven lines. He leans further, wings curling, and the distant sounds of this place are doused, muffled, becoming white noise—a consistent ringing, overlapping

Underneath his hands and legs, the ground shrivels. The wind grows harsher, rocks being scraped across, propelling into the air and torn asunder, the glowing crystals diminishing to mere crumbles of rock. Both the dirt and grass are dragged from the ground, plucked and ripped. The intensity continues to ramp, the noises becoming overwhelming, ringing in his ears pitching, finding that his hands have raised to grip at hair, that his wings seem to wrap around him completely as he—

As rapidly as it had seemed to start, it feels as though something grabs hold of him and yanks to a halt. Venti gasps, cut hair strands falling around him.

The winds stutter, and the ringing fades. He jerks up, hands still embedded into his hair, and finds that… the place he landed in was not so deserted. Their tree stands, swaying, waving hello.

And, that everything had truly come to a messy standstill; threads of teals dipped in a bleeding mixture of a blue-gold suspended in a whirling vortex, a few parts of the wreckage they had caused gently floating besides in its grasps. The threads are not all the same, some of them cutting in dotted lines as they zoom, some of them having their lines wavering to point it threatens dispersing, some of them are thoroughly solid, some of them are splitting into branches, teal twisting and curling, and—

And—

And…

Blue eyes blink, fluttering as if just awoken.

He rubs a hand at the right one, brows furrowing at his surroundings the more aware he becomes of them. Pure raven-black braids sway, as he swivels his head, and Venti notes with a whirlwind in his mind, that the locks have stray strands flicking out from not only the braids, but the bangs, and hair that frames the face. Windswept. The clothes, as well, are missing the tear in the bottoms of the shorts, the tops of his boots, and his right sleeve. If he were to turn, there would certainly be holes in his cloak, too.

But—if he does not have those, then how is he…?

A gale is thrown into the cliff, repeatedly, tearing apart the ground, as they respond to Venti’s dread.

His eyes widen, then narrow.

No, no, no, no, no. Stop looking at him like that.

Venti hunches into himself, talons clenching and shredding more strands of hair. The gale intensifies, lashing behind him, carving out chunks and causing the ground to rumble in its fury. He bares his teeth—wanting to shriek, to grab at his head and!!!!

Stop looking at him like that!

(Why wouldn't he?

A wind out of control? A wind that slices, destruction in every path? Why would he not back away from it?)

He tilts his head, starting to stand, and his expression shifts at Venti flinching away from his approach, the wind whipping to a higher degree with the flinch. He goes to take a step forward, the grass he steps upon having a simmering, bubbling line of a thread hovering there—and there is a quiet screeching as the threads are forced away, unraveling in spools and flinging out towards the cliffs; it has him jolting away from it, one step taken back, boots hitting the ground and kicking up dust.

His gaze snaps up to Venti’s.

(He has a fleeting thought, a moment where the minuscule inch of himself that the corruption has not touched speaks; that he should fix everything, that this mess has gotten severely out of hand, to fly off deeper into the ruins before he does something truly regretful.

But it is just that—fleeting.

Because at the attempt to follow through with the ideas laid out, the corruption rushes to overtake that last final inch, smothering and snuffing it out without regard. It halts Venti’s hands when he tries to wave them, refusing to let them budge the Bard in front of him, dark blue and gold chaining them to remain where they currently are. You do not truly want that, do you? It whispers, false care and comfort in its voice. You wish for him to stay, so here he will stay.)

That gaze of his shifts once more, briefly scrutinizing, then the ever so slightest of widened eyes, before reaching a blankness. It seems that something has clicked. He tries again, purposefully angling his path to the swirling threads, and Venti grits his teeth as he moves them away, hooking a finger round them and pulling, so that no interactions happen between them and him.

(And, how during this, he sees—for a moment—a glimmer of something magenta across his form.)

And blast it all—

Venti raises himself and situates his legs into a crouch, his wings flaring unraveling from around his form. And bounds.

He crosses the distance between the two of them in seconds. Nose mere centimeters away from his, Venti grits his teeth, watches as the other blinks owlishly at him, as if not expecting to be approached so suddenly, especially not like this, Venti poised in a manner similar to that of a cat pouncing still.

“Keep off from those,” he nearly growls, “Can you not see that they—”

Hands shoot out, to place themselves on his cheeks. Venti falters, words dying in his throat.

“What has happened to you?” He murmurs, gently tipping Venti’s head up, to the side, checking the dark-blue that has climbed up to his face, “Your teal… where has it gone? Have you always had gold?”

He swallows. A twitch goes throughout him, one that does not go unnoticed by him.

And, oh. That was what had clicked.

The words build, his tongue bubbling, bitterness and sweetness coating it. A name he has not said for centuries, a name he has kept clutched close to him, hidden in the palms of his hands, in the place where a heart would be beat.

Venti’s mouth opens, and croaks: “Cecil….?”

He pauses, meeting Venti’s eyes.

“Hello, little bird,” Cecil replies, softness in every feature of his. “Ah—I suppose you would be an angel now, hm? How much you have grown…”

The softness does not last long, his brows knitting as he thinks, a frown replacing that wondrous smile of his. His fingers trace the edges of the colors, outlining them, almost, a silent fury and puzzlement to the actions. “But, my friend—why are these… like veins? Why do you hurt? Did someone else do this to you?”

(I will hurt you, I will hurt you, you need to get away from me—)

“No one. This is my own doing, you see,” he says, offering a reassuring look, “I am not hurting at all.”

And—that is true, if partly. There is no stabbing prodding at him any more, attempting to wrench him towards the ground so he stays there. It aches most certainly, however, the wind underneath his skin thrumming as it races incessantly.

Cecil’s brows scrunch.

He steps forward to pull Venti closer, his right hand falling down to his waist, tracing a tear in his clothing, and… ah. Ah. He revokes everything he had said about snow and their so-called “soothing effects” beforehand, this is so much better than it, he curses them and nearly purrs at the feeling of his friend being a breath away from him, his touch curling into his bare skin so softly, lovingly.

Venti chases it.

All but lunging into him, Venti dives his head into Cecil’s chest, careful of the halo behind his hair—do not want to slam it against him. The rest of his body follows suit, his arms encircling around Cecil’s torso (with his hands carefully closed, knuckles pressing into the fabric of the green vest), knocking their legs together so that he can hook it around one of his dear’s, and his wings complete it all by flaring out to then snake around and envelop them both. Feathers brushing against skin and cloth with every other breath.

(The wind has gone still.)

“Oh,” Cecil gasps, startling at something, “you have six wings? I only saw four… have your limbs been multiplied, too??”

Does he? Venti thinks dazedly. It must have happened when the pain was ramping up, he could not distinguish it under all the other sensations attacking him. He had wondered how far the transformation would go—his most divine form has much more than four wings and a halo.

He does not give Cecil a response. Choosing to nuzzle into his clavicle instead, head going even fuzzier, thoughts narrowing to Safe safe safe, stay stay stay, love love love, here here here.

And—what an idea.

Cecil’s chest expands, as he inhales, exhales. It takes a moment, but he begins to reciprocate, an arm going around Venti’s back, between the middle wings and bottom ones. The other arm lifts to the space above Venti’s shoulders, near his nape, pulling him further into himself. He rubs at those places, in small, circle-like motions, and it has the God wholly melting in his arms.

“Is this alright?” He asks, “Is this helping?”

“Mmmmmhmmmm…..”

Gradually, the threads dissipate, dropping closer to the ground, and having the wreckages they carry collapse against the water around the tree, the dirt and rocks. Twist higher into the air at the end, then wobbling, and falling apart. He watches it all, a steady thrumming sounding in the air the longer he holds onto Venti. For one of them, he tests, to see; what would happen if he nuzzled into Venti’s cheek, patting at his back? The answer: it causes the threads to speed up, swooshing so swiftly, that he hardly has time to blink before the teal is fading.

Eyes wandering, they slide to—

Ah! Cannot have that, can we? Venti blocks his view with his right most top wing, fluttering the appendage to truly catch his attention, making his dear jolt in surprise. See, if Cecil is to stay by Venti’s side, then it should be away from here—the safest spot is the Tower, but he would not like that very much. Perhaps they should cross to the Dandelion Sea?

“Venti?”

“Hmm..?”

Cecil raises his hand up, to tap to the back of his head, his knuckles briefly brushing against the halo. He lets it stay there, for long enough that he can weave strands of hair around his fingers, to light tug at them—a non-serious scolding, for the blocking he did. They drop to rubbing circles on his nape after. “How are you feeling?”

Right, right—conversation happening.

He shuffles backwards, only a few inches, so that his dear is not forced to let go of his grasps—skin still tingling and fizzing with that loveliness. Tilts his head, then, to where Cecil gazes at him, a quiet concern and pure curiosity to his eyes, now.

Another wave of winds zip by them, these ones far lighter, livelier, and peppy than the others from earlier were—however, still the same mix of colors, if slightly more solid, slightly lukewarm in temperature. They swirl around them, teasing at hair and cloth, dancing in chiming sweeps and dives; that of which distracts Cecil for a moment, his hair blowing into his face, a muffled sound of a “wuh” escaping from him when it has strays loosing from the braids he wears. He shakes his head to rid of them, glaring halfheartedly.

A beaming grin tugs at him, at the sight. One that lifts the bottoms of his into soft crescents, slowly revealing how his teeth have grown sharper canines. His pupil—still a lovely teal, though, now captured around blue-gold—shines, constricting to a thin slit, as a glittering gleam dances across his gaze. He hums, unclenching his hands from fists to press the palms of them more firmly into Cecil, scraping the talons across his vest.

“Much better,” he says, a lilting, distorted pitch to it. Extends his right’s hand index finger, while he talks, to prod at his back—tracing a symbol there, one that causes Cecil to minutely shiver from it, unexpecting the action. “Thank you.”

And perhaps it is that, that has Cecil truly understand what has happened; that Venti is really not so much hurt as he is a far, far worse thing, that there is something gripping at him. Or perhaps it is the way he looks upon him, as though he were the sun, a gleeful, thrilled and eager gleam to his gaze. Or perhaps it is the way his wings gradually tighten around his form, not constricting him, yet he suddenly feels the reason they continue to be folded (and twitching, fluttering, so often) is not that Venti just wishes to hold him with everything he has.

Whichever it is, whether it be a combination of all of them, it has him widening his eyes, a near whisper of “Oh,” trailing into the winds. Winds that take the words greedily into their hands, rolling them over—winds that tell him murmurs, almost frantically, a gentle urging in the way the threads crowd further around them both, hushed jingling of bells accompanying it: stay, stay, stay, stay?

Oh.

[flownwrong]

Hard Core Logo (1996) without people

[psilliguykai]

Hey Jashers! So. I’ve recently seen a lot of people expressing how they feel the CJ community has been getting kinda toxic lately. It’s honestly really disheartening to see this happening, especially as this community and Chonny’s music/characters mean a lot to me. I guess this is all to say: if you feel the CJ community is getting toxic, let’s try to actually fix it. And no this doesn’t mean “make 10000 callout posts”. The Jash himself said both on Twitter/X and on the CJFS he’d rather all this (recent incident[s?]) be essentially acknowledged and dropped. If you want to keep this fandom alive and healthy (which I feel for the most part it already is! CJ is active in the discord server and is comfortable engaging with his fans and I think that alone is a really positive sign. Plus we have some incredible creativity and support !) do your best to contribute to the positivity and respectful, good content that we DO for the most part produce. You can make it clear that creeps, those looking to disrespect boundaries/privacy, etc. aren’t welcome here, but please try to do so effectively and only as needed. I know it’s kinda trite, but these people feed off attention and giving them more of it (regardless of whether it’s positive or negative) is only going to worsen the situation. In addition, if you can, please try to adopt the mindset that while flawed, this is an ultimately pretty good and respectful community. The more you express that it’s toxic and disgusting, the more it’s gonna live up to that.

[If you feel the need to distance yourself that’s totally fine and understandable too, just please do it for yourself and not as like. a statement I guess?? Idk I honestly haven’t seen anyone doing this I just thought it could be good to address]

TLDR: This community means a lot to me and I really desperately don’t want to watch it go to shit. Please for the love of whatever, let the toxicity die attention-less in the shade and just . be respectful. foster the actually positive parts of this fandom so they can prosper.

[PS: genuinely none of this is actually directed at anyone!! More just addressing a recent trend I’ve seen I guess??? Anyways uh yeah. Stay cool and stay hyped for chaos week I suppose :]]

[prestonmonterey]

you are spun around the room i am static in the flowerbed

you are safe inside with me i am trying i am trying not to trample on the orchids

[queerofthedagger]

i mean this in the like... nicest way possible, but there is no way to post your writing and/or art on the internet without running the very high risk of it getting scraped, whether you post it on tumblr, pillowfort, or ao3. sites being 'anti ai' does not mean your art cannot be scraped. it is simply almost impossible to prevent, much less guarantee that. I'm not saying this to be a pessimist or to stop people from being rightfully pissed about this. it sucks. massively so! but if the idea does in fact bother you that much, you should know that moving sites won't fix the issue. ao3, as far as we know, has been scraped/is getting scraped. you can set your fics so that only logged in users can access them, but it only makes scraping one step more difficult, and by no means impossible and the otw has stated this clearly.

which, again, this sucks! i don't have a great solution either!! but tumblr is relatively honest, at least, when it tells you that it cannot prevent, only discourage it. ao3 said the same thing. any site promising you otherwise is, to the best of my knowledge, lying to you.

[mc-tummy-blur]

And I’ll get you yet

I’ve got to make you mine

Just know I’m not the sinister type

Click for better quality

Check my pinned post to see links on how you can help the people in Palestine

[ssreeder]

Chapters: 20/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.

[mad-hunts]