#hm…

[iiischeckeredsocks]

Wonder what kind of shenanigans ii would be down for if he didn’t have to stay stationary behind his kit…?

[h3lian]

redraw for cooldown— will attempt to finish him later 🫡

[starsnsparkl3s]

you hated satoru with everything in your body.

you hated how his stupid white hair and his stupid blue eyes got both women and men alike. you hated how strong he was and how he could crush you easily. you hated his smile, how bright is was. his humor, how it’s exactly like yours. you hated how smooth he was with his words, words sliding off his tongue like butter. you hated his touch, how it was soft and gentle, knowing he’s killed many and will kill again with those very hands.

you’ve known him since his first day as jujustu high. one of your professors had everyone have a buddy-system. despite your initial connection with shoko, you were put with satoru gojo. and he pissed you off bad. you didn’t even know how anyone liked him, with his constant teasing and flirty behaviour you assumed was for everyone. and everyone fell for it, except you.

you just hated him.

but why, when his hand touches yours, bolts of electricity shoot through you?

but why, when you walk him to class, your heart flutters as he speaks?

but why, when geto and shoko tease you, you just roll your eyes and smile, pushing them away?

but why, when he comes up to you at a party, tipsy but still aware, touching your waist, your heart rate quickens?

but why, when you wake up in his bed the next morning, his arms wrapped around your form, you feel.. safe? like you’re at home.

do you really hate him, or are you just in denial?

[madbard]

Thinking about how the Long Quiet outsources change. As the embodiment of stagnancy, it was never meant to exist on its own, never meant to exist as sentient being which, by necessity, must adapt and change to survive. And it handles this by creating the Voices, mental embodiments of trauma responses and attitude shifts and altered worldviews and everything else, externalized advisors embodying the changes it cannot personally undergo.

It accepts these Voices as guides because it needs them, but it refuses to be altered itself. Each princess and each story bring with it a physical change that horrifies it, and every time, it resets those changes, kills the new voices and returns to its original state. Theoretically, it stays the same as it always was.

But still. As it continues forth, it can’t help but remember. With each story, memory returns. Against its will, against its very nature, it changes, because it isn’t only stagnancy. There is a splinter of the Shifting Mound in there as well.

Thinking about how the Princesses exist as mere facets of the Shifting Mound, how the Shifting Mound is scattered among them because personhood requires a certain amount of stability and stagnancy that she cannot perform all at once. How the Shifting Mound cannot exist as a single, stable perspective because even the continuity of thought is contrary to the concept of change and destruction and evolution and death, expanding always and infinitely and away.

She pulls herself together from limited experiences and ideas, rejecting the possibility of being any single person.

But still. At the end of each story, she greets the Long Quiet, offers it comfort and company in the way she knows how. The progression of their relationship, though it is by necessity a story of change, is also a tale of repetition and familiarity. The Long Quiet asks the same questions. She gives different answers. But it is ultimately the same conversation, again and again. And she is capable of that because she is not just the Shifting Mound – there is a sliver of the Long Quiet in there as well.

And the Shifting Mound is only able to reform itself because the Long Quiet makes different decisions each time, bringing her fresh perspectives – because despite being the manifestation of stagnancy, there is a piece of the Shifting Mound to motivate it. And the Long Quiet is only able to try and remain stagnant because the Shifting Mound is able to wipe its memory and reset it – because despite being the manifestation of change, there is a whisper of the Long Quiet to stabilize her.

They weren’t meant to be separated. They weren’t meant to be sentient. As separate beings, they fail. As separate beings, they greet each other with violence and hunger and desperation – the fury of their essential conflict warring with their frantic desire to be reunited, to never have been torn apart. Two people who never wanted to be people. Two people who want to be the same thing and try again and again to join themselves together through bloodshed and love.

Movements synchronized, moving as one. As if they were still the same being because, in a sense, they are.

There is a reason they always appear to be dancing.

[darryscrow]

I couldn’t help myself with this doodle from Born a Grease @everyandanything

[g1ngerbeer]

havoc has been at this job for 4 years and they still bully him

[haetrack]

GUESS WHAT IM FINISHING SOOOON

so u know what that means… if u wanna be tagged… like or reply to This post (reminder: if you don’t have your age somewhere on ur account i won’t tag you)

ITS COMING ALONG NICELY ACTUALLY… i have abt hmm three more scenes to go so it WILL!!! be posted soon 🫂❤️

[kingcunny]

erm….. saw people on twitter complaining about the headcanon that alicent is the one who discouraged helaena from dragon riding but i kinda like it… pre aemond claiming vhagar she doesnt care as much but after… all of her children have a freedom that she does not have access too. all of them can leave her. helaena should be Hers. she deserves to Keep one of her children. assuming aegon and helaena are married shortly after driftmark and helaena getting pregnant not long after… that gives her the wedge she needs. ‘you cant go flying when youre pregnant/have babies its dangerous :(‘ she can keep helaena grounded. like her.

[ghost-bxrd]

The whole Cobb kidnapping Dick part in canon?

That was with Ric Grayson (uggghhh...) but let's ignore that mess. It's just our Dick who gets kidnapped.

What if Calvin is still with the court at that point...and finds himself face to face with his friend from the circus, the friend who was to be taken by the Owls, but escaped, leaving Calvin to be taken instead...

Calvin would probably feel his heart drop all the way down past his feet and straight into hell. He’s in hell.

See, nobody forced Calvin to join the Court. They gave him a choice, and he accepted. Was actually thrilled to begin his training with them. The whole “realizing the Court is evil” thing came much later.

The moment he lays eyes on Dick, in the clutches of Cobb—even if Dick doesn’t recognize him behind the mask and the suit— Calvin begins devising his escape plan. He’s not watching the Court corrupt his best friend. He won’t let them snuff out the light in him.

A short time after, Dick finds himself pulled along by a strange Talon through a maze of underground caves. A Talon that, curiously enough, does not seem to want to hurt him…

[tw0ism]

thats a croissant

[kismetmoon]

that’s her officer, thats the woman who lived in my head rent free for over half a decade

[Plain text ID: A monochrome bust drawing of Nora Vigenere, a stylized, original Flatland character. She has dark grey skin, a large eye with a slit pupil in place of a head, a sharp point on top of her eye, long eyelashes and a teardrop-shaped necklace with a silver frame and a black gem in the middle. She is looking to the right with a neutral expression. End ID.]

[claradesvoeux]

roses are red, violets are blue,

sugar is sweet and you are too !

- have a very good night, my dearest

from your.. secret admirer :)

ouh.. why thank you ! this is wuite vexing im really not that likable.. you have a lovely night as wel !

[madbard]

Thinking about how the narrative of The Magnus Archives can be traced in the pattern of Jon’s scars, the way the apocalypse was triggered by the marks that had been carved into his skin, a legacy of violence and trauma.

Thinking about how Gerry was torn from death and kept as a tool long after his heart stopped beating.

Thinking about how Daisy tried to cut ties with the Hunt, only to experience withdrawal and starve half to death.

Thinking about how Melanie was forced to mutilate herself to escape the Eye’s ownership.

Thinking about TMA as a story about ancient and omnipresent concepts; embodiments of fears and uncertainties that both directly and indirectly enact violence against and exert ownership over (primarily queer) bodies.

Thinking about how, despite all of this, there are moments of joy. The characters laugh and talk and smile and fall in love. And if some die alone, even more die together.

Thinking about how, against all odds, against incomprehensible forces of violence and terror, against the end of the world, some of these characters do the unthinkable.

They survive.

[lonely-coconut]

Here's a blinkie I made :] I think it's the funniest thing ever

You know I kinda adore this one because it reminds me of my amnesiac oc who’s currently having a time related crisis. That is so freaking specific, what are the odds? Super weirdly accurate wtf. Stealing this for my oc now lol

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

those tags… WHY MUST YOU HURT US ALL LIKE THAT?!?! I WAS FINE AND HAPPY TONIGHT BEFORE THAT!!! NOW IM SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY

what about demonrry being able to feel the exact moment Nimbus and Onyx die because of their telepathic bond, and it causes him to stumble as they’re running away because he feels all their pain and hears their last words.

The scars on his chest feel like they’re being ripped into his body all over again as fresh wounds, but he chokes down a sob and forces himself back onto his feet, wiping at his drenched face desperately as a new wave of tears fights against the back of his eyes. His voice is a raw croak, tight with emotion. “We have to keep going.”

Y/N is by his side, her arm wrapping under his and around his torso, her enhanced strength supporting his weight securely. He probably would have crumbled to the ground again without her.

She hoists him steady, glancing behind them to make sure they’re not being followed. Her eyes reflect the light of a distant fire, which envelops the windows and balcony of their apartment several blocks down. The sound of sirens can be heard echoing from the street, their red and blue lights casting colors around the corner.

Y/N whips her gaze back down towards Harry, arguing in sheer disbelief at his decision. “Harry, we can’t just leave them—!”

“We can.” He states in a low mutter, his eyes flitting between black and their usual jade as he struggles to keep his composure. He screws them shut, a new flood of tears escaping in the process.

She watches them streak down his cheeks, which are blotchy and red in the dim lights of the street lamps. It’s as if his entire nervous system is being overwhelmed. As if he’s feeling too many things at once. As if he’s feeling more than just his own emotions at once…

The realization hits her like a knife to the chest, causing the blood in her veins to freeze over. She can’t control the strangled cry that emits from her collapsing chest.

“We can.” Harry reiterates with a firmer voice, but she can tell he’s barely keeping it together— it’s evident in the tremble running under his words.

She knows that the repetition of the phrase is his way of breaking the news, because he can’t find the heart to say it aloud directly— it’d feel too real. It’s his way of begging her not to push the subject further, or he might completely shatter. They don’t have the luxury of time on their side; they can’t mourn properly right now, given the circumstances. The best she can do is simply oblige and push forward.

Harry had made a plan for this years ago and had walked his girlfriend through it many times. She always joked about how paranoid he was, but as much as he hated dwelling on it, he had a looming suspicion it would come in handy one day.

He’d built a safe house of sorts in a secluded area, which took after their regular apartment and included an arsenal of supplies that could wait out an apocalypse. He’d guarded it with warding against both angels and demons, courtesy of a spell made of his own devising. He’d cloaked and concealed it with magic, as an extra layer of protection. They just had to make it to the portal he’d created in the city.

Harry had the power to summon and close it whenever, so he’d willed it into existence the second he sensed what was coming. He’d opened it far enough from their flat to avoid detection, but close enough to reach during an emergency. The route obviously takes longer on foot, but it’s not impossible. If he or Y/N were to use their magic in any way, they’d be tracked down in seconds. His car and motorcycle are easy targets to follow. It’s stealthier this way, especially at night when they can camouflage into the shadows.

Once they arrive, he can seal the shelter from the inside by completing the last line of spell glyphs with his blood, right across the entrance door that’s identical to the one in their real home. The place should hold them for a while.

“Make this worth it.”

Onyx and Nimbus’ last message rings inside Harry’s head, incapacitating his senses and giving him vertigo as he charges forward blindly, confiding in Y/N to guide them to their destination.

He’d heard their final words right before he felt their life forces be torn from his own; the bond of a hellhound to a demon, being severed permanently by what can only be one thing. The only way to cut such a profound tie.

Death's unique type of pain was also familiar to him, from his first interaction with it seven centuries ago. First it’s sharp and searing hot, overwhelming your whole being, then it drops to an invasive numb cold, like being boiled and then plunged into ice water. Then comes a feathery, lightheaded ache at the base of the skull, as if your very soul is detaching from where your mind is anchored to your body, and then it feels like you’re floating away, being carried off by a swift draft. Then nothing. Just a vast emptiness, so hollow and desolate it’s suffocating.

From his experience, he’s found no other form of pain that could possibly feel that deep and condemning. The sensation is one of kind, and therefore undeniable.

He lurches forward with newfound energy, gritting his teeth through the pounding in his head, tapping into his grief for fuel. He won’t let their sacrifice be in vain.