#char did this not me

[hinamie]

10 years later

[drbtinglecannon]

In Knives Out Blanc wanted to do the murder mystery investigation with Marta so bad, but she was certain she was guilty so she spent a good amount of the movie avoiding/hiding stuff from him

Meanwhile in Glass Onion Helen was fucking carrying the investigation, even while accidentally getting drunk, and even went to investigation lengths Blanc was hesitant to do

[zazagundam]

[galedekarios]

You feel the tadpole quiver as you realise Gale is letting you in. Into the dark.

[daz4i]

greatly enjoying my time in penacony

[daily-yin]

Can u draw paper and yin being best buds

Day 16

[makesthemring]

finally releasing some concepts for this au to the public I've done a lot of thinking on what the actual ramifications of kanako absorbing clover's soul post (ut) true pacifist would be I decided that it wouldnt be kanako or clover at that point, (given their respective states and how long they had been like that) but someone new, packed with their memories (thats all for now but feel free to throw any questions abt this in my inbox! i love to ramble)

[somdxr]

wanted to wait a little before i posted this but. oh well

[kidatanaka]

tanaka & friends

[mxmorel]

button up your overcoat (late night reprise)

[confusedtravelermari]

[hinamie]

sry i have chronic only draws megumi disorder the doctor said it's terminal :/

[naarinn]

Happy bachiversary!

[petrichorium]

pluvi begging you to expand on gojo not wanting what happened to his mother to happen to you 🙏

warnings: it’s all a dream so nothing is real aside from the flashback stuff but pregnancy as horror, (sewing) needles, implied gore/eye trauma, implied child harm, gojo is messed up yo!!! and its bc of his mama!!!

he dreams about her.

it’s an odd thing, really. gojo isn’t much of a dreamer—not much of a sleeper, all things considered, but it’s difficult not to give in when you drag him to bed and curl up in his arms. the soft rise and fall of your chest, the steady thump of your heart, the sound of your breath; it soothes him into slumber.

and he dreams about her. she was always young. he’s older now than she ever got to be. frail, thin; borderline skeletal, robes hanging from her body like webbing. she sits in a chair facing a window, swathed in moonlight, the silver of her embroidery needle glinting with each stab. her face is veiled. her stomach is swollen with child.

she doesn’t turn to him, but she beckons without noise. his feet take him easily to her, and he kneels at her side as she sets aside the embroidery hoop to let him place his head on her knees.

her hand is cold as it threads through his hair. it’s gentle, at first. then harsher a moment later. she grips firm, tugs him up by those electric white threads, stares down at him through all that elaborate lace.

he imagines she’s weeping beneath it. his mother never wept before him, but she was pretty in the aftermath, eyes puffy and pink and shining. they were a cold kind of loving when they regarded him. she must have been beautiful once, elegant and lithe and willowy, cruel like the heartless sea and sharp like a brilliant diamond, but whatever was there is long gone. he thinks all sons must empty their mothers, bleed them dry from within, because his was always a shell.

she trails her hand down the side of his face, and he turns into the palm and closes his eyes, and she is silent as she sets down her embroidery to lift her veil. she is silent and hollow and eidolic as her fingers brush down his jaw and tilt his head up to look at her.

but it’s your face that he sees when he opens his eyes.

it’s your hand against his cheek, your eyes pink and puffy and pretty, your stomach bulging by his own doing. it’s your fingers that pluck up the needle, still attached to a thread of brilliant cerulean, and raise it to his eye.

his mother never was able to pierce him with that needle. she stopped herself, each and every time, dropping it and tugging him close in shame. she never doted, never was kind, but she never did manage to harm him.

you do. he lets you. it’s only fair. whatever thing is in your stomach can’t be human—whether god or demon what does it matter, at the end of the day—and didn’t he put it in you himself? if his mother never got the satisfaction of spilling his blood, shouldn’t you?

but he wakes just as the tip pierces his iris, and you hold him in your lap, eyes wide with concern and not puffy from weeping, and you hold no child within you. your hands thread through his hair and they’re warm, your lips plush when you bend to press a kiss to his brow.

he turns inward to press his face into your (empty, blissfully vacant) abdomen. the wetness he leaves there, falling from his so very coveted eyes, is colorless.

he thinks it ought to be brilliant crimson.

[bulecelup]

(very guilty) redraw

[charcubed]

and what if I told you that even here Art’s repressed bisexuality is blatantly haunting/informing the narrative and everything that’s happening throughout (which of course also means that the absence of Patrick is also haunting the both of them).

how the moment where he decides to tell Tashi that he wants to retire is shown with a slow pan down his body with the open closet in frame, and then focus on his wedding ring…. then Tashi looks large in frame while he looks very small… and there’s a closeup when he says “I’m tired,” and then right after that there’s this specific shot of him framed as being in the closet as he starts saying, “I don’t want to be one of those guys who doesn’t know when to walk away, okay, it’s embarrassing to still be doing this shit when you’re 40.”

which is a conversation that happens a few hours after…

“Well, I don’t miss playing with you, man. I’m too old for it.”

(“We’re not talking about tennis.”

“What the fuck else do i have to talk to you about?”)

((“Tell me it doesn’t matter if I win tomorrow.”))

(((“I don’t matter?”

“Not even to the most obsessive tennis fan in the world.”)))