#Maybe it’s a conflict of interest

[ironunderstands]

Genuine question, where are yall getting the “robins eye dots + the stuff behind her are Xipe colors” from?

Because like I don’t see it, like at all. Xipe has like every color under the sun behind them and the shades aren’t similar to Robin’s at all, they aren’t in the same order and there’s like three million other colors mixed in there. I do think the “that rainbow behind her represents moon lesbians” is a little silly because even if it looks like the flag I doubt hoyo’s devs know what those are (I learned about them today 😭).

However, the other colors on the traffic lights and her cheeks straight up look like they are meant to look like a lesbian flag or at least a pastel version of one, and for the life of me I can’t see where people are coming from when they say it’s related to Xipe. I guess her eyes cover the other colors, but purple and yellow are still missing if she truly wanted to represent them on her face alone

Idk man, let me know your thoughts

[mysterycitrus]

their relationship is complex and not entirely definable but if u look me in the eyes and tell me that dick grayson isn’t bruce waynes first kid im not gonna take u super seriously. sowwy

[sergle]

man, you know, nobody asked me, but I have such conflicting opinions on some of the fat falin art, where on one hand: it's always nice to see A Fat Body in fanart anywhere + it's being done in positive ways, for funsies and on the other hand, there is something so familiar about how you are automatically The Fat One if you are a woman simply standing next to a more petite woman, bc I've had a 0% hitrate in seeing people change Marcille's body type and keep Falin's, or change both of them. it's just Falin

[spacedace]

So I've seen a lot of "Jazz works as a therapist at Arkam" in the dp x dc fandom, and while I like the concept, I also feel like Jazz would take one look at the place and immediately be like "what the absolute fuck" at just the everything of the place.

Like, she either nopes out after the tour during the interview or quits not too long afterward starting there, not because she can't take it but because she's so appalled by what's going on there and can smell the corruption rolling off the place and knows no one sent to there is ever actually going to get the help they need.

So Jazz decides to open a private practice instead while still being absolutely determined to work with the various rogues in the city, she is here to help and nothing is going to stop her.

So she just starts showing up at known hangouts of rogues and during their heists/schemes/sprees, and even fights between them and the batfam, just like

"Hi! It’s so nice to meet you! My name is Dr. Jasmine Fenton/Nightingale/whatever last name she’s using and I was hoping we could talk!"

Casually kicks a baterang away without looking because she's being polite and professional!

"I understand that your experience with therapy through Arkam has been nothing but atrocious and that you are rightfully -"

Kicks Batman away without breaking eye contact or a sweat.

"Suspicious of attempting therapy again, and Idon't want to force anything on you, therapy should be on your terms after the experiences you've had but -"

Grabs Robin out of the air as he leaps at the rogue she's talking to and tucks him under her arm, ignoring his feral hissing and all attempts to break her hold.

"-I really think that you'd find it beneficial, even if I'm not the right therapist for you."

The rogue in question is having the time of their life and takes Jazz's business card - and a few extra to pass around - not really intending to actually ever book a therapy appointment with her but way too entertained and excited to share this madness with everyone else.

But then one of the rogues actually looks up Jazz's website and sees all the various safe guards she’s put in place to ensure that any villians that come to her will be protected while seeing her - soundproof therapy room, regular sweeps for listening and tracking devices, the most insane firewalls and protections anyone has ever seen on her network, and ooh she provides snacks and drinks!

So someone finally books an appointment with her, half convinced she's either going to turn them in or is a villain herself intent to experiment on them, but then it’s actually really nice??? And they feel a lot better afterwards?? She doesn't even say anything to indicate that she wants them to stop being villains, she just wants them to be okay??

So more and more rogues start going to her, and Batman was already losing his mind about this woman before - Oracle can't hack her system?!? And her background check shows a totally normal Psychiatrist?? - but now half of Gotham's heavy hitters and a dozen or so other minor league villains are seeing her regularly and every time he tries to get info on any plans the rogues might be scheme via her office it fails utterly. Nightwing got knocked out with something called a creep stick and when he tried to break in himself to get answers she just appeared out of no where and gave him the most scathing lecture about doctor-patient confidentiality before bullying him off her property and threatening to sick her brother on him if he tried again?

And because she's become such a figure in the Gotham underworld, she gets the attention of Joker.

And everyone, rogues and Bats alike, are terrified that she’s going to try and take him on as a patient like she has so many other villains in the city and that's just a recipe for tragedy.

But then the Joker is on his way to the hospital with two broken legs and the fear of god beat into him babbling about eldritch nightmares and whenever anyone asks Jazz what happened she just shrugs and just says things like "I refused him as a patient, he's not my problem." Or "My brother doesn't like clowns." And just, does not elaborate.

Batman is losing his mind over it all. Jazz is just happy to be able to actually help the rogues. Arkam is less happy about how she absolutely destroys their reputation.

[kate-apologist]

hey disney what the fuck do you mean ncuti's second season will also only have 8 episodes and a christmas special i'm holding a fucking gun to your head

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Up High!

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[jaggedjot]

the notion that queer men can be flamboyantly theatrical, perform in drag, even occasionally refer to themselves with female pronouns, and nevertheless willfully uphold and enforce patriarchal norms, would have been a well worn complaint in any given 1970s lesbian collective, and yet

[movie-robotnik-positivity]

If you think about it, a majority of Sonic lore consists of undiscovered islands and ancient civilizations. Makes you wonder why so many of these advanced races just....vanish.

Every civilization that attempts to harness the power of the chaos emeralds meets the same fate. I just find that interesting.

[snakes-are-kinda-cool]

💝 kiss kiss 💝

I want to get better at drawing kissing. The genius solution I’ve come up with: live vicariously through vervaine.

[vaguelyaperson]

as much as i understand shigaraki's death, narratively speaking, i'm also so goddamn tired of society needing martyrs.

what made me fall in love with shigaraki is that he's an excellent villain. all his character development built towards him becoming a more competent, driven, effective villain. he became an incredible symbol of fear just as deku became an incredible symbol of peace. this is who he was, in entirety. there is nothing else shigaraki could be.

when shigaraki told izuku, in his final moments, to pass on the message to spinner that "shigaraki fought to destroy until the very end," it really emphasized how it would have dishonored him to be vegeta'd, as it were.

shigaraki made it his mission to tear down hero society. this was his noble mission. this is what made him a hero to the league of villains. because he saw the systemic evils, he saw the evils that hurt his friends, and sought to destroy it all.

there's something to be said about trying to change someone who doesn't want to change, but for shigaraki, it was more than just trying to rehabilitate him from mass murdering. because to him, and the league of villains, what he was doing WAS the right thing. to tell shigaraki not to destroy would be akin to telling deku not to save. "you may not understand, but that's what makes me the villain."

there was a binary choice here: either he'd be left free to complete his mission and destroy everything, or he'd be stopped, permanently.

Izuku, by reaching tenko's heart, but ultimately stopping shigaraki, was choosing the only third option he had: declaring that he would not let all of society be destroyed, but not without promising that he'd do everything he can to reform it here on out.

shigaraki destroys. deku saves.

that's it. that's the bnha narrative in its most basic foundation. horikoshi did not fail to tell that story.

I think what ultimately fucking sucks about this ending is that it's too realistic. society often DOES need a martyr - or often martyrs - to realize that they fucked up, that they let an evil persist too long. they need a shocking enough tragedy to point to and swear they'll never let it happen again. society needs to be rocked to its very core before people can be motivated to get their heads out of their asses and work together towards reforms.

and that in itself is an evil, that people can't see how much harm they're causing or condoning without some horrific tragedy.

i think we're all mad at horikoshi for failing to follow through on the story because we didn't WANT the realistic ending. we wanted the hopeful one. the against all odds one. we didn't want another story about society using the image of martyrs to get its shit together. because we already know that story. and we're so so so tired of it.

especially when we know it only leads to a temporary peace.

because people forget. they put in enough reforms to feel good, and then get comfortable and ignorant again. when does that cycle end? when can we finally notice the evil in time to PREVENT it? so that everyone, 'heroes and villains,' get a happy ending?

I think our anger with the bnha ending is good. we want different - not just in fiction, but in real life. we're willing to hope for different. we should hold onto hope and fight for different.

[lizzylucky]

Draxum hadn't accounted for the fact that when he gave four hatchling turtles the DNA of a human being in order to give them greater intelligence, he would effectively be making himself a surrogate father to actual children, with wildly different needs.

When he sent his gargoyles to obtain a sample of DNA from Big Mama's prized warrior, the intention was to create his own. They were to be the prototypes for an army of simple creatures with just enough heightened intelligence to learn combat and follow commands, that he might defend Yokai kind with.

Instead, he quickly discovered the integration of human DNA had been a little over successful in allowing his test subjects to learn and think and feel in a civilized manner, going so far as to override some of their natural instincts as turtles that would otherwise allow them to learn to care for themselves. He had to feed them, by hand, with bottles.

Like infants.

They were easily distraught by unfamiliar things, and quickly became dependent on Draxum in every sense of the word. They babbled, they cried, they explored things with their hands, their tails, their mouths.

It was an unplanned adjustment needed to be made, but no matter. If anything, learning to understand the new hybrid emotions of these turtles would allow Draxum greater advantages when they grew enough to safely learn combat. Preferences, likes and dislikes, needs, diet, and so on, all became more complex areas of study.

Even a couple years in, he found himself continually surprised. Brain scans had shown that the turtles were more intelligent, still, than anticipated. They, truly, seemed more human in mind and function than anything else, with only some base instincts and behaviors left to influence their personalities. They retained many reptilian traits, but overall had the bipedal anatomy and function of humans and some Yokai. It had been an infuriating discovery at first, but Draxum had to admit that over time he became fond of it.

Each turtle had developed his own personality. The eldest, for example, had a love of plush toys, and showed a fierce protective instinct over the others. The youngest, Draxum had learned, was contrastedly reckless and excitable, not nearly so reserved or gentle as the first. Additionally, he was, decidedly, to be kept away from any and every writing utensil unless under strict supervision (unfortunately, this was learned a little too late, as was evidenced by the clear markings left in several work benches). Then, of course, were the slider and the softshell, who had the most bizarre relationship. They were constantly fighting with each other, but utterly inseparable, and each showed an incredible and unique curiosity, constantly exploring and watching and studying, with concentration filling their eyes in ways Draxum had never seen in other children so young.

Embarrassingly, it took another couple years before Draxum realized he couldn't simply refer to them by their species' names. It certainly was effective, but they were not the mild, simple creatures he had once expected them to be, and he knew that they never would.

Now, they were vocal, playful, inquisitive... energetic. By the gods, were they energetic. They never stopped moving, never stopped talking, never stopped eating, never stopped wanting or needing.

...This is why Draxum never had children of his own. It took all the time and energy he had to spare, and then some. Although it would be a lie to say he wished they were any other way.

They had so much capacity to learn, and with their emotional propensity could one day come to understand exactly why Draxum was doing this, which he knew would be an edge in their combative styles.

As he introduced them, slowly, to more of the world's culture and knowledge, he felt, in a new way, that their very existences were revolutionary. A perfect, synergistic unity between two entirely different families of genetic material, with numerous enhanced abilities. And they were children. They maintained all the properties of regular children, but had so much more in store! Such grand destinies! They would be, inarguably, the greatest warriors of their time when they were grown. They would be the compassionate, skillful heroes of all Yokai, the first of a new generation of super mutants, and the key to overcoming the evils of the humans who had overtaken the surface and posed such threat to all who lived below.

It was with great reluctance that he allowed himself to accept, however, that not all of mankind was evil. There were many forms of art, beautiful in different ways, there were some rare people filled with kindness, inventions that utilized resources in ways Yokai kind had never thought to. Perhaps he had been a little stubborn in his ways, a bias cementing over time that blinded him to some of the beauty that did yet exist in such a species.

Make no mistake, humans were a threat. Innocent families lived in fear, in hiding, of the governments and ruthless sciences designed to invade, to blaspheme the name of knowledge, with no regard for the safety of this people.

Draxum could live with being an outlaw to the Yokai if his experiments would lead to their salvation. He may be their villain in today's papers, but in history books he would be a hero.

Still, he wished to amend some of his practices. Even if only to his turtles, he would be known for his ability to change and understand. He would be fair, and he would be truthful.

And so it was that he told the turtles the nature of their existence. Perhaps he muted some of the details, to protect their minds until they had more understanding, but he would not lie to them about their DNA. He told them of Lou Jitsu, and their human genetics, and he begrudgingly allowed them access to the culture of the humans. He would let them choose their interests unbiased.

In the process, he came to know of some of the revolutionaries of human history. Though he wasn't particularly inclined to believe there were no evils involved, he was intrigued by the strange moral code that the humans boasted from their different time periods. The turtles, as well, were fascinated by the stories of war heroes and generals, seamstresses and inventors, artists and royalty.

Initially, when it came time to redesignate his turtles, Draxum had been inclined toward the names of those whose legacies persisted in the humans' culture even today- perhaps a president for the slider, a scientist for the softshell, a great general for the snapper, and an artist for the young box turtle. It seemed, somehow, clandestinely right; carefully considered to exemplify each of their personalities.

And although he had begun to get used to the possibility of names like "Monroe" and "Edison", his indecision on the matter seemed to be working against him. He was taking too long, and the boys were growing smarter.

It was a day in August, later that year, that he found his two youngest arguing over a Renaissance book, oddly enough. The elder two took to a game of knocking "secret patterns" on each other's carapaces, which he dismissed before he could allow himself the confusion that came with wondering why a five year old would want to knock on a spiked shell for fun.

After breaking up the fight and confiscating the book (which, as it turned out, the youngest only wanted because it had pictures in it, much to the chagrin of the other, who insisted that reading it was much better than just looking at the pictures), Draxum found himself idly flipping through pages of rustic images and rudimentary ideas, developed by people with strange names.

Maybe he was simply too tired to consider it properly, but, feeling defeated in his endeavor, he chose four names at random and assigned them to the young turtles, deciding it had been long enough.

It took a while to get used to, but soon "Raphael", "Leonardo", "Donatello", and "Michaelangelo" truly fit.

Over time, the boys grew... ravenous. They devoured everything- food, information, technique. They were learning quickly everything Draxum taught them. They practiced with Huginn and Muninn, leapt up, around, over, and through everything in the lab, and took special interest in action-filled films.

And Draxum grew fonder. He wasn't entirely surprised, of course; it's natural to develop some sense of sentimentality when caring for anything this long. Even if they had been the simple minded turtles he expected, he knew this was inevitable, to a degree.

What startled him was the sudden sense of fear that came with watching them train. The alarm that made his heart beat harder when one of them fell from somewhere high or any time they ran simple drills with weapons not blunted and made from wood.

He subtly began to intensify their defensive strategies, taught them where they were most vulnerable so they could protect those spots, insisted on perfecting their abilities to parry, block, and dodge before anything else.

And, over time, he found himself training them less often than before, thinking, "I must preserve their innocence and prolong their childhood experiences". After all, it was an essential part of development, was it not? If it were tarnished too much, they might become unwise or unjust as warriors. And, really, Raphael was only 8 years old, and he was the eldest; they were much too young to be exposed to the harshness of what their combative training was really for.

He told himself that, time and time again. He told them that, making certain they understood that their training was not a game. It wasn't untrue, certainly.

Really, he just wasn't ready. He wasn't ready to admit to what extent he cared about them, because it was too much. It was more than he could ever have been prepared for. It was more than that passion to protect Yokai kind ever was, and if he ever realized that, he might become the compromise to his own purposes, to the very reason these turtles exist this way to begin with, and then what? What was he to tell them, why was he to train them, who did they exist for if not the inhabitants of the Hidden City?

No. He couldn't do that. He simply would not allow it, not when so much was at stake.

And yet...

More and more often he desired simply to watch them. He was growing weary with worry, and with that tight feeling that arose in his chest each time one of his boys so much as frowned.

Raphael loved to carry his brothers on his shoulders. And he prided himself on being the big brother, in every way. He liked repeating instructions Draxum gave to the others, and tended to play caretaker anytime someone was sad, or had a bruised knee. He often played the "bad guy" in their made up games so the younger ones could "win", he was the mediator in big decisions, like what book they should read before bed, and he seemed always ready with an armful of stuffed animals when he wanted to express affection. So strong, incredibly strong, but soft spoken and sweet.

Leonardo adored Raphael. Just as Raphael did Draxum, Leonardo liked to imitate and repeat instructions. He tended to take charge in many of their childish endeavors, and had a propensity for dramatics and heroism, often pretending to rescue his brothers. This seemed to irritate Donatello to no end, unless he was also playing the hero, and often times he was. The two were usually glued to the hip, though Leonardo liked to make a point to tell all his brothers about everything that went on, and would take a movie night with the three of them over a one on one outing with Draxum any day. He was exuberant and joyous, and very driven by the concept of justice.

Donatello, similarly, seemed to care very dearly about maintaining a bond with all three of his brothers, but he was peculiar, often more reserved and enjoying his alone time. That child read and read like he might never get a chance to again, and he absorbed what he read like a sponge. Quite a few times Draxum found him pulling apart whatever he could get his hands on, and though an effort was made, there was no hiding place the boy couldn't discover in his quest for Draxum's tools. In spite of his quizzical, sometimes stoic nature, Donatello was sensitive, and very thoughtful. He would spend hours talking about his books and his ideas- some of which were very clever- and he was expressive in secondary ways- sitting nearer his brothers even without interacting, crafting things out of paper as gifts. Even the little heart-shaped mark on the back of his soft shell seemed a fitting part of him- he wore his heart on his sleeve, so to speak, and didn't even realize it.

And Michaelangelo. There was an innocence and joy and goodness about the smallest turtle that had struck Draxum. Even when he was younger he always wore a smile and liked to see the good side of things. And he idolized his brothers. With him had grown his creative inclinations, filling every colouring book, drawing on every wall, and absolutely plastering the other turtles with stickers. They were a pain to wash off, but Draxum couldn't bring himself to mind it, especially given the elder three always loved their baths. Ironically, it seemed Michealangelo did not, enjoying it only under specific circumstances. Heat, bubble bath, and bath toys had quickly become a necessity. So too did bath crayons, the need to express himself coming through even when bathing. Everything about the ornate box turtle was bright and colourful.

Draxum... loved them. Dearly. Every facet of their personalities and growth. Every unique trait and behavior.

It was terrifying. He couldn't afford to love them. He couldn't afford to see any more goodness in the humanity they showed. He couldn't afford to change his goals right now.

So he continued disregarding the feeling, trying to reason that everything he did for them was to nurture their instincts as warriors, as science experiments, as specimen.

But a pained scream one day, different from any of the ones he heard when they were frightened as infants, when one of them tripped and fell, when a spat led to hitting, sent his heart into his throat and had him racing through doorways with more urgency than he had felt for anything before.

He had demanded an explanation, panic translating to perceived anger, and three of his boys looked up with teary eyes. Three, but Donatello remained curled up on the ground, wailing his little heart out without ever looking up, and it was one of the most heart wrenching, painful sounds Draxum'd ever heard.

Raphael sat not far from the smaller boy, looking over his shoulder seemingly at nothing, at Donatello, then up at Draxum and back again. Both Leonardo and Michaelangelo burst into frantic, panicked explanations, none of their words coherent enough to understand through their tears.

When Raphael stood, exposing red-tipped spikes on his shell and pointing frantically to Donatello's, it didn't take long to figure out well enough what had happened.

It became quickly a very long day. All four turtles were distraught, and though Draxum had more than enough first aid knowledge to address the situation, bile had threatened to rise the very moment he pulled out the suture kit.

The cuts were deep, and jagged. And poor Donatello cried the entire time, even after a numbing agent had been applied.

Draxum had never thought that in depth about Donatello's soft shell. Not like that. He chose a softshell for the experiment because it would provide greater flexibility, greater agility. It gave an advantage that the hard-shelled turtles did not have.

Now, here... The soft carapace, spongy and leathery and bloody...

It was an accident. Of course it was, Draxum never doubted that. He had to assure that none of his boys were in trouble, no one was in trouble, no one had done anything wrong.

But for the first time he had to be honest with himself. For the first time he couldn't deny how much he cared about the turtles. His turtles. His boys.

He wouldn't, either. If this was what it was, if this was something that could happen again because he insisted on making them into warriors, into fighters- if this could happen on purpose, if this could happen worse, if this could happen with malice and hatred in mind...

Draxum wasn't unused to physical affection, by now. All four boys adored hugs, although Donatello was usually more reserved about them. Now, Donatello clung like his life depended on it, sniffling and whimpering, having cried so long he had no more tears. Draxum clung back, idly smoothing over the edges of the bandages, holding the frightened, exhausted turtle to his chest, cradling.

He did so until well after Donatello fell asleep. He couldn't bring himself to put him down. He accompanied the others to bed, assuring them once more that things were alright, and then simply stood in the walkway, holding his boy tightly.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't go through with it. They were children, every bit as innocent and deserving as the Yokai he wished to avenge and protect. He could train them, prepare them to protect themselves, but he could never send them into battle, ask them to put their lives on the line, much less demand it.

How could he?

It took months of processing, of agonizing his way through the healing process with Donatello, of watching the other boys proving their humanity, their curiosity, and their innocence time and time and time again. His mind was constantly at war with itself, his heart constantly in turmoil and distress, worsened by the turtles' confusion at his sudden change in behavior.

What was even worse was that they would.

They would absolutely sacrifice everything they had for his approval, and for what they understood as "right". He could see them, easily, being willing to submit their very lives to a greater cause if he asked it.

But was he "right"? Even if this experiment had gone exactly as planned, was he right for ever considering putting these turtles into the station of a warrior? Even if they had remained turtles in mind, if they never expressed complex emotion, if they could not speak, if they did not have distinct and colourful personalities, would it have been right?

Was what he saw in them now what they would have been at heart, regardless of circumstance?

Or was it the humanity, that he stole from Lou Jitsu?

Perhaps... perhaps it was time to learn. To consider the root of his motivations.

He couldn't do this to them.

How could he?

[scarapanna]

[WIP] Some more updates!!!

I've been quiet recently, but got a bunch of stuff in the works for y'all!!

I'm still working on those paper puppets for a little project regarding intertwined opposites (Possibly one of the most ambitious things I've ever worked on so far) and found a proper way to introduce that new au I'm working on!!

Here are two more paper puppets for the big pmv

And a few sneak peaks for the new au!!

(Doodles+notes alongside a silly little meme with a sprite edit of pewpaw)

I'm working on an info post for it, progress has been slow however since I wanna prioritize the pmv again (Started it on june, stagnated a long period, and went back to work on it. I'm dead set on finishing it this summer AND stubborn/silly).

[Personal reminder: Beetle stop starting wips when you're already busy/silly]

[yashley]

marisha said laura I see your GET THE GIRL motivation and I raise you KEEP THE GIRL

[prince-sawgrass]

I wish we could trade places.

(ft @rainwingsfruitsalad’s Princess Beecatcher (left)!)

Two closeted trans siblings who feel they’d be much more suited in the other’s role.

[revelisms]

His hands are not delicate—though he carries himself with the ease of someone whose should be; lazes pirouettes the way the wind may caress a sheet of silk; treads footpaths with feline-footed grace.

No, his hands are not delicate. Not velvet-touched, not pianist-thin, not gentle—though he tries.

The years have worn on him. Liquored lines and tobaccoed stains and eyes that have seen too much by cursed magic and stolen youth both. Chipped nails that have dragged a body of bones from a pit of dissolution, cracked fingertips that have bled off battered keyboards more than the ritual twists of their blessed knives, strong forearms and shoulders that carry a boulder of a world and the hand-stitched cloak of a king on his back.

He is harsh wrinkles and harsher laughs: hair dark as pitch scattered across his brow, in brows sharp as shards, on arms and wrists and down down down the silk-sliced V's of his shirts: a body that is rugged in its refinery, was built for brick and stone more than a stage, is a fanged beast chained in a royal's beauty—

But, oh, is he beautiful.

Crooked smiles, snaggle-toothed canines, white as moonlight and Devilish to match. The Morning Star, indeed, with the glitter he beckons in every purr. Hugs that smother with a furnace's warmth, and nuzzle like a stray after a kind hand.

He didn't ask for this. Mangled opposites in a jeweled coffin. Soft and harsh angles at every turn, every feature, every crushed-gravel honey-sweet silkened breath.

He picks at cigarette marks on half-callused fingertips and nips at nails painted black. Scrubs and scrubs his palm over the brushwork of black down his arm. Stuffs his knuckles into the crook of his elbow, swallowing and fidgeting and twitch-smiled in a body that is so small for the endlessness of him, so finite for a soul straining to be infinite.

Demon and man and not quite either. 

Not quite anything, at all.

It feels like the eye of a storm, most days; like standing at the green-grassed edge of a cliff: the kind cool and rain-misted and violent, overwhelming in its limitless—sea and horizon and plummeting life and death, so tangled together in their divinity, their wildness. 

One wrong step and down down down one goes—back to the violent crash of the sea. To the sands where all were born.

Back to the winds that must have carried him here.

He stands at those cliffsides, often—the broiling engine of his car still ticking in its click-keyed silence, a lazing heat of metal and gloss against his legs—eyeing the edge of the world with an eye that has Seen it all and seen nothing, in turns; that is steadfast on seeing This, for only a moment.

A twist of a ring around his finger. Smoke on his breath. Not his father, not his mother, not Papa, now—not here.

Just a soul mangled in the binds of his own flesh.

A lifetime of restless tides.

Amalgamations of contrasts, spun by hands that could kill as easy as they could bless, that are not gentle—though he tries.

His fingers twitch over his sleeves.

Hell, he tries.

terzo / contrasts

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

the entire third act conflict in s5 was so stupid and forced, even back when i watched it for the first time, i couldn't take it seriously.

first off, we have what's supposed to be an 8ft tall invincible warrior lady who is extremely nerfed for the sake of getting tortured repeatedly by a catgirl with no powers. so it's no surprise at this point that she can't defeat the big bad by herself.

secondly, the big bad evil villain has the personality of cardboard and absolutely no connection to any of the heroes, so there's no reason for the viewers to engage with this character or see him as anything more than a mild inconvenience. and so in order to raise the stakes, the writers had to drop in the threat of adora dying via self-sacrifice. really solid writing there, fellas.

and thirdly, as if four seasons of abuse wasn't enough, the writers were scared that the viewers wouldn't like a nice, supportive relationship between catra and adora so they decided to make catra act like a little bitch one more time so that there's ✨ a n g s t ✨

what a mess this season was.