#i am not nice to my muses

[lunanovakat]

Sneak Peek of a Future Project

This is barely even half of this first chapter and it keeps growing... I wanted to share the rough draft before it gets too big and seven-years pass before it's one day uploaded.

I've just been so in love with Marvel/DC crossovers lately, I have so many DC or Marvel crossovers tbh, and honestly I have so many WIPs that leaking peeks of them are probably how half of them are going to be able to see the light of day.

Feel free to pester me in curiosity bc I'd love to rant about my never-ending list of work and maybe also use them as an excuse to not feel hella stressed.

Still thinking of a name for it, so we'll see how that comes out.

Sandman's in jail for the millionth time - exhausting as always but worth it - the general destruction the man was known for having been kept to a minimum, thankfully, and Spider-Man waved away by shifting cops who aren't really sure how to treat the hero-framed villain-vigilante. And it's nice, even if he's going home to a too cramped one room apartment he could barely even afford without any friends or family to make him think life was worth living.

Something under his skin mourned his life - maybe grieving with him, it was a funny thought considering no one knew who Peter Parker was anymore and anyone who would've had moved on to better things or died.

His chest aches - he pushes it down, he has the funny feeling Mr. Falcon was disappointed in him.

Has a funny feeling several heroes he knows or knew were slightly disappointed in him for some reason, and the thought of them made the gaping void in his chest twinge-

Actually, his chest is aching, painfully, enough that Peter cringes and tries to swing towards a roof to check if he received a wound he hadn't noticed - something like Mr. Dr. Strange panicky and worried about magic as Peter's spidey-sense screams like a Banshee. His hand phases through his web, not misses or is unable to reach, the web phases right through his hand mid-swing and he starts to fall - and fall -

And fall.

New York dusk, a colorful kaleidoscope of faint smog and red-orange-yellow, turns into a darkly dreary cloudy smog filled night, but Peter's head hits concrete and all he knows is unconsciousness.

He doesn't wake up for three days - he doesn't feel as human when he wakes up either.

The first thing he realizes, brain melting out of his ears and his organs humming, is that he's not in New York anymore.

He's not even in the same dimension.

"Um.. Excuse me?" A young, familiar voice whispers to her - a voice she's heard on patrol since she'd been a child, again and again - and it has Barbara already rolling her eyes at Dick's antics before she even knew what they'd be - always a bother and a brother, and great at doing both.

She loved him, she did, too much blood spilt for the other for either of them to ever be anything less than family with one another but she was busy and, unless Dick had coffee and some good news, she wasn't really in the mood for one of his playful 'cheer-up' schemes. Dick would understand, obviously, once she had a chance to explain herself and relax when the livelihoods of others weren't actively hanging over her head but she was wrung thin for the moment.

"Not now, Dick - you know B wants this report tonight." They needed to find the missing teens and they needed to find them quickly, they'd already found too many bodies already. And still no reason as to why, which might bother her just as much as the death toll.

Half of her suspects magic, the other half of her hopes it's just a new killer hoping to make a name - either way Barbara is tired and the deaths are wearing away her conscience.

Barbara expects a gusty sigh, or an audible cringe, something so like Dick that her tension melts away and she, for a moment, is able to relax in the presence of family she knows will look out for her - instead, horrifyingly, she's met with a quietly stuttered out, "Oh.", and she snaps her head up to find the wide-eyed baby-face of a child looking back at her.

One that looks so much like the Dick she grew up with, had worked as Batgirl with, that Barbara feels winded for a few seconds and unable to restart her brain.

"Sorry," The boy starts after an awkward bit of silence, "I didn't - I'm sorry for bothering you." And he goes to turn away, shoulders high and anxious, and she can't let that happen.

"No!" Barbara snaps quickly, cringing at the flinch the boy offers her action in return - god, he was like a skittish pre-teen version of Dick, except his hair and eye-color were wrong - sitting up as straight as she could and plastering on an apologetic smile, "I'm sorry - really - I thought you were a friend of mine named Dick."

There's a dark, ugly purple bruise on the kid's cheek and Barbara feels sort of sick noticing it. And the darker, spotted with irritated red, bruises she can see under the collar of the kid's rough looking shirt that climb up his neck like he had been strangled don't make her feel any better. Something sits, angry, in her gut at both being on a poor kid that looked like Dick got frisky with a brunette without protection - and, well, just a small kid to begin with.

God, had Dick had a secret child? No. That couldn't be...

But maybe he had - Dick had had a wild series of flings when he was eighteen and the kid looked like he was around ten.

If she wanted to stretch it, she could say he was ten through thirteen - or, maybe, fourteen or fifteen but really young looking, but he looked too young to just look young.

"Like Tom, Dick, and Harry?" The kid asks, still tense and awkward but trying to ease himself into a false sense of comfort, offering Barbara a smile that's too much like Dick's it makes her heart squeeze with how out of place the kid looks like he feels.

With how out of place it looks on someone who isn't Dick.

"Exactly, kiddo." Barbara confirms, a flicker of amusement at the boy's disgruntled look stoking a warmth to replace the heaviness in her gut, and she motioned towards the phone on the desk next to her, "A friend of mine said he planned on dropping by soon - since it's so late, I assumed you were him. I've just been so busy with my second job that I didn't realize the person speaking to me didn't have the same voice as my friend - Dick'll have a field day with that, but I'm not going to tell him."

By now, the kid was relaxed - still tense in a way that made her heart ache and something angry and hot want to crawl up her spine, but far more relaxed since she accidentally insulted him. He still looked too much like Dick that her mind was trying to connect the two and was short-circuiting when no leads or explanations came up for her to grapple around with.

Barbara had been there for Dick whenever a pregnancy scare or scam happened to him, knew almost every past flame Dick had as much as she didn't want to, but she knows there had to be an explanation. A piece to the puzzle was missing or she was overlooking something, and she couldn't let the kid leave just yet without a possible answer to her question - for all she knew, some past flame had been severely unhinged and stole a used condom or something, stranger things had happened.

"Now that that's out of the way - sorry, again - what can I help you with?" She smoothly added on, still keeping up her friendly smile to the mini-me of her best friend, "If you're looking for a specific book or curious about what our library has to offer, you can ask me any question you'd like."

Mini-Dick, because he looks so much like him - so terrifyingly identical in a way she nearly thinks cloning at first, but then saw the lighter skin and the warm brown eyes and the dark brown hair and way his jaw curved more upwards instead of staying in Dick's diamond cut - and she doesn't know his name, flushes slightly when he offers her a wider and relieved smile. It's Dick's smile, the way it crinkles a dimple in one cheek and not the other and makes the kid twinge his nose just a little as his eyes squint and his brow-bridge twitches, and it takes Barbara's breath away.

If this kid wasn't Dick's son, she'd fight condiment king in her civilian clothes without a single complaint for a month. Cloning would make the kid more similar to Dick, only minor patches in Dick's genetic code needing to be corrected with someone else's, and even if someone knew that Dick was Nightwing there wasn't anything overly impressive in Dick's DNA to make him worth cloning.

It could be a ploy to get to Bruce, as Batman, but something in the bottom of her lungs told her the kid was too genuine and too skittish to be some sort of plant - Dick's smile altered enough, nose twitching the wrong way and the outer corner of his eyes crinkling more than the inner unlike Dick's that did both equally, the kid could claim it as his own. Alike but different, not a replica but just how the kid was.

"Oh, thanks - I, um, I was wondering where the public computers are?" The kid starts, a tension in his frame leaving in minutiae milliseconds, the shape of Dick's eyes warming like the honey-brown of his irises, "And, uh, if you had anymore of those 'Welcome to Gotham City' pamphlets? A.. Nice lady at the diner nearby said there was one…"

Dick's kid - because it has to be his son, not a brother or cousin or clone when he looks so much like Dick but different too, and so distantly like Dick's parents who she's seen photos of mixed with pieces of some people else - shifts on his feet, small and awkward and wary, and Barbara's heart all but shatters in her chest at the realization the kid is running from something. No one came to Gotham willingly, and never with a good and happy reason either, add in the bruises she can see as plain as day all over the kid -

The tip of a thick scar, jagged and crude, peeks from the collar of his shirt when leans in on himself a little too much - hiding himself, hoping he'd be small enough no one spots him, shifting on his feet silently and waiting to flee, aware of his surroundings but pretending not to be-

Barbara knows a kid in a bad situation when she sees one - she feels like crying at seeing Dick looking so small and wary and scared, even if the kid was pretending he wasn't. Trying to hide his wariness as much as possible instead of focusing on Barbara, a known friend of Dick and the Oracle, pretending he was okay even when he wasn't - either he was a kid who was really just running, the greatest actor she's ever seen, or a kid being used and terrified of it.

He was so tiny, either way.

She could barely breathe, he was too tiny.

[mappingthesky]

not a prompt necessarily but I’m always down for planymphia angst 🙏🙏🙏

in response to multiple asks i’ve received for planymphia angst… here is this <3

i know baby, no attachment

None of this had been in the plan.

It was the first thing they’d talked about that first night in Jane’s apartment; Neither of them were looking for anything serious. They were both unavailable, incapable of making any promises. Not now. Not yet. It would be clean, simple, no strings attached. Just two people using each other. Innocently, admittedly using each other, but using each other nonetheless.

They’d been on the couch in Jane’s dimly lit apartment. Jane was an obvious sort of gorgeous. It was the first thing Nymphia had noticed about her, what drew her in on that first night they’d met: she’d been wearing something meant to lure you in, hypnotized by the clinging of her clothes to her body, the wave of her hair, her eyes tightlined and sharpened like knives. Jane was almost lethal to look at, all done up and primed to kill; the most magnetic friend-of-a-friend Nymphia had ever been introduced to. She was somehow even more gorgeous now, sitting on the couch in her casual clothes, her face aglow in the light of the television, her auburn hair pulled up into a messy top knot. She was painfully, effortlessly attractive, and, much to Nymphia’s surprise, only so much of a smooth talker. She came off suave at first, all punchlines and quick remarks, but after a while Nymphia could start to see her thinking. Jane would be in the middle of a sentence, flying through it, hurtling towards some revelation, and then she’d catch herself. She’d pause, freeze on a word and scoff at it, like she was considering whether whatever she was about to say would be worth the sentiment. And then she’d go a bit shy, averting her eyes and playing with the pilling on the upholstery, giving away just how carefully considered she was. And just when Nymphia was starting to think that Jane was completely nervous to her core, that Nymphia might actually have the upper hand in this situation, Jane would bring it back. She’d pick her head up and let the words go, say something so stunningly direct and devastating. It left Nymphia a little breathless, a little too endeared, a little too eager to kiss her.

They could have guessed at the chemistry, but it didn’t come close to the real thing.

What happened when Jane’s skin hit Nymphia was the sort of collision that produced suns and planets and supernovas, flinging particles off into space with enough pressure to form entire worlds. Nymphia could practically see the stars behind her eyes, fluttering shut when Jane was hovering above her, hand between her legs, finding some undiscovered place that Nymphia didn’t know had been there all along, waiting to be found. Jane turned Nymphia’s body into something more than it was before, transforming her irrevocably. Jane was a comet crashing through her atmosphere, and Nymphia was awe-struck, staring at the sky and watching the sparks shower. You can’t be prepared for such life-altering things, it's what makes them so devastating.

What neither of them could have predicted was the ease of what came after - the lying in bed, talking about it. The debrief. Nymphia was a bit too happily fucked, and unwilling to share the extent of her satisfaction. She was worried she would come off easy, inexperienced somehow. Jane, however, was endlessly attentive. She wanted Nymphia’s experience of the encounter, all the details - what she liked, what satisfied her the most, what she wanted more of. Her sheer desire to please was enough to pull the details out of Nymphia. She was rewarded when Jane allowed her to relive it, this time through Jane’s eyes. Jane’s gaze was far off with remembering, a smile playing at her lips as she recounted her experience of Nymphia in such erotic detail, every telling arch and shudder, and the whole thing was so overwhelmingly flattering that it sort of made Nymphia want to do it all over again.

Nymphia had known better than to pack an overnight bag. She thought she had, anyway.

Her eyes were closed and she was nearly asleep when she’d mumbled, ‘I should be going soon.”

Jane just chuckled. “You’re half asleep already.” Her fingers trailed up the curve of Nymphia’s thigh. “Just spend the night. If you want to.”

Nymphia's eyes were suddenly open, “Yeah?” Jane traced stars onto her hip.

“Mhm,” Jane hummed, eyes flickering up, then back to the curve of Nymphia’s waist.

Nymphia closed her eyes, savored in the feeling of Jane on her skin. A long moment passed.

“D’you cuddle? Or is that against the rules.”

Jane’s hum was an amused look at you asking so soon. She was already pulling Nymphia to her chest.

That first night turned into a three-day sleepover, because of course it did. Nymphia and Jane stretched themselves over the long arc of the weekend, sharing the sort of welcome, unexpected ease that you can’t put down, the kind that you’ll happily destroy your routine over and resign yourself to picking up the pieces after the fact. One weekend became another, and then occasional nights at Nymphia’s apartment with the door shut and her duvet crumpled at the end of the bed. And then they added the weekday rendezvous: Nymphia meeting Jane at her place after work on Thursday evenings, promising not to keep her up late and failing miserably, leaning her head on Jane’s shoulder in the morning as she locked the door on her way out. And then Nymphia was bleeding into Jane’s week, her Tuesdays and Wednesdays, her breakfasts and dinners, her late-night ice cream cravings and subsequent walks to 7-11. And then it was all too regular: Nymphia and Jane, Jane and Nymphia.

It's been a few months now, and there are so many things Nymphia loves about Jane.

She loves how Jane drives with one hand on her thigh, or with her fingers in her mouth. How she looks over to the passenger seat with that special look that's reserved just for Nymphia, and makes her feel like the only person she's ever wanted. She loves how she listens to her music loud, sings along when she’s drunk and tossing her hair, or when it's Sunday morning and she’s at the stove and there’s a record spinning in the living room. Nymphia loves how unabashed Jane is, how bold. How she never hesitates when it comes to the people in her life, how to be loved by Jane is to be fiercely defended by her. Nymphia loves how Jane kisses her in the middle of her sentences, especially when she's talking too much. She loves that Jane is so rough. How she can fuck her like she hates her. She loves how Jane can be so tender. How she can fuck her soft and slow, as reverent as religion. How Jane can make a mess of her, then put her back together again.

There are so many things Nymphia hates.

She hates that Jane is so impulsive, how she strikes so thoughtlessly, how she has to return to the wounds later to draw the venom out of them. How Jane is so stubborn, so set in her ways, so inflexible. How there’s two Janes - the one she’s with now, the one she is around her friends. The one who doesn’t kiss her, hardly touches her aside from a possessive arm around her shoulder or a tap on her knee. How the real Jane, Nymphia’s Jane, emerges as soon as they’re alone together, the one who will see her downturned gaze on the way home and coo what can I do, princess? Hmm? What can I do to see that pretty smile? Nymphia hates that she forgives Jane so easily, that she crumbles every time, that she loves Jane completely and entirely and beyond any measure of hurt that she could unknowingly inflict upon her.

She hates that she’s still sitting at this party, long after Jane promised they’d leave. She hates that Jane’s friends clearly like her; they laugh at Nymphia’s jokes, compliment her shoes, send knowing glances and winks across the room every time Jane so much as mentions her name. She hates how, when they ask what they are, Jane is all too quick to brush them off.

It's obvious that Nymphia’s upset by the way she pounds up the stairs, by the way she wordlessly digs through her purse for her keys, by the way the anger and the hurt and the disappointment emanate from her like poison.

“I just can’t believe they asked that,” Jane scoffs. Nymphia says nothing, gritting her teeth as she turns the key in the lock.

It should be obvious, but Jane is a bit too self-absorbed to notice.

“Like, we don’t even know what we are,” Jane says, and Nymphia feels sick, because she thought she did. “Why would she put me on the spot like that? In front of everyone?”

Nymphia pushes into the apartment, beelining for the kitchen.

“I mean, it was weird, right?” Jane continues, relentless. “Why do they need to know so bad?”

“Yeah,” Nymphia’s voice is hard, laced with venom. She chucks her keys onto the counter with a little too much force. “Why would they?”

“Right,” Jane doesn’t notice. “It would be nice if they could just let us-“

“I don’t know why they could possibly be so confused.” Nymphia interrupts, working off her thigh-highs.

Jane misses a beat. “Wait. Are you-“

“I can’t fucking imagine why they’d think that we’re together.” Nymphia lets her boots drop to the floor, one gut-wrenching smack after the other.

Jane blinks, brows knit together. Nymphia straightens up, fumbles with things on the counter that don’t need to be fumbled with. “Are you upset about this?”

“Why would I be upset?” Nymphia picks up a stray mug, sets it down again. “You just told all of your friends that we’re nothing serious. Why would I ever be upset about that, Jane?”

“I didn’t say that, Nymph,” Jane starts, already on the defense. “I said that we’re something.”

“Oh, right. My bad.” Nymphia scoffs. “We’re something. Let me know when you’re ready to illuminate me on whatever the fuck that means, Jane.”

Jane recoils at Nymphia’s profanity, unfamiliar with her frustration. She’s never seen her like this- so hurt, so ready to retaliate.

It's not funny. Jane shouldn’t laugh. She really shouldn’t, but she’s viscerally uncomfortable and horrifically unprepared for this situation, so she does anyways. “Are you really angry about this?”

The whole thing is white hot and embarrassing, and Nymphia has tears in her eyes when she turns and whips her purse to the floor.

Jane jumps. “What the fuck?” She’s wide-eyed, both hands held up in shock. “Nymphia. Are you serious right now?”

“I don’t know Jane,” Nymphia bites. “Are you serious?”

“What?”

“I kinda thought you might be,” Nymphia steps over her bag. “Y’know, because you cut me a key to your fucking apartment. I thought maybe that constituted we were more than,” she curls her fingers in the air, “something”.

Jane shakes her head, jaw tight and temple pulsing. When she speaks, it's in a lower voice, almost ashamed. “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You never want to talk about it!” Nymphia’s voice cracks, a desperate wail. Jane’s mouth opens, already halfway towards defending herself until she looks at Nymphia and sees her bottom lip quivering, the spilling over of her tears. Jane looked back with a concerned, almost panicked expression, lips frozen and slightly parted.

“Do you love me, Jane? Do you even fucking like me?”

Nymphia surprises herself with the question. She’s so amped up, so high on adrenaline that she lets it all out- the culmination of weeks of words she’d bitten back, suddenly pouring forth from where they’d been collecting in a lump in her throat.

“No, seriously, do you? Because I can’t fucking tell. I think you do, because- because you say all these beautiful things, and you spend so much time with me, and you take such good fucking care of me. So you must fucking love me, right? But when your friends ask, I have to sit there and listen to you tell them that we’re something. Like it’s so fucking confusing to you. Like it's a goddamn secret. Do you know what that feels like?”

Nymphia is fully pacing now, walking the length of the kitchen over and over again. Jane follows her with wincing, pained eyes.

What Nymphia hates, more than anything, is that she doesn’t hate Jane at all. Not for any of it.

“I’m fucking in love with you, Jane, alright?” Nymphia whines, hands whipping through the air with frustration. “I’m so in love with you, and everybody fucking knows it. Your friends, my friends, my mom, everyone! But no one seems to have any goddamn clue if you love me too. And you know what? I’m not sure if I do, either.”

When she finally expels the last of the words from the hole in her heart, Nymphia looks up through her tears. She can barely stomach the sight of Jane, lips parted and wordless, unsure of what to do with the outpouring of Nymphia’s heart. She stares at her, eyes twisted in pain, then looks to the ground, like Nymphia’s words have slid off her and collected in a puddle at her feet. Nymphia just cries, a pained and exhausted whimper on her lips as she pushes past Jane and into the living room. She collapses on one end of the couch, pulling her knees to her chest and hiding her face behind one hand, hot tears sliding down her cheeks and into her mouth.

Jane stands in the center of the room with her back turned, still facing the phantom of Nymphia’s words that may very well haunt her kitchen forever. Her head is spinning, because how the fuck did this happen. Nymphia is openly sobbing behind her, and the sound is so gut-wrenching that Jane is nauseated.

Nymphia makes a horrible, shuddering gasp for air and Jane finally breaks, crossing the room and dropping to her knees on the floor where Nymphia sits. She doesn’t even look at her, just sobs, and Jane can physically feel her heart fucking breaking.

“Nymphia,” she says, placing her palm on Nymphia’s knee. “Nymph. Hey.”

Nymphia shakes her head, face contorted with tears. She flinches at Jane’s hand like it fucking hurts, and Jane winces as the guilt slices through her. She exhales a sharp puff of defeat and drops her head in hurt.

Nymphia just cries and cries, and the reality of the situation sinks in Jane’s stomach with every sob. She’s sick to her stomach with concern, worried that Nymphia might actually fucking hyperventilate, and then she’s gently begging the girl to breathe. She goes to reach for Nymphia again and pauses, scared to reach out, scared to hurt Nymphia, scared that she’ll recoil from her again. It’s then that Jane knows, for the first time in all of her life, what she wants. She knows, right as it threatens to slip out of her hands.

“I’ve never done this before.”

Jane hears her own voice. Her words hang in the air for a moment, floating like smoke between Nymphia’s shaky, shattered breaths. Jane looks up.

“This,” she says, a tentative hand on Nymphia’s knee. “What you and I have. I’ve never-”

The words are hard for Jane to stomach. They don’t pour out like Nymphia’s do. They catch in her throat, feel wrong in her mouth. She’s not sure they’ll be enough.

“I’ve never had this with anyone,” she says. “I’ve never wanted to. Not until now.”

Nymphia wipes at her eyes, shudders a bit as her breathing quiets.

“I, um,” Jane glances down, scared to look. “I don’t know how.”

Nymphia finally looks at Jane, so small and nervous and crumbling at her feet. She wants to take her hand, to show her, to be endlessly patient even if it kills her. The desire is so enormous, even now. She almost hates herself for it.

“I know I’m fucking it up,” Jane says to the floor, her voice tiny and wavering. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

“I just need to know,” Nymphia whispers.

Nymphia swallows hard, and then Jane looks up and its so fucking harrowing, so moving, because Nymphia can see the guilt in her eyes, the desire, the glimmer of words she can’t figure out how to say. She watches as she considers, catches herself, lets it go.

“I do.” Jane says. Nymphia’s heart plummets, because she knows what she means.

“I don’t want to say it now,” Jane says. “I don’t want it to be an apology. I want you to know I mean it. Is that okay?”

Nymphia nods and Jane mutters over and over I do, I do, you know I do.

It's beautiful and tragic and overwhelming, and Nymphia wants to crash into Jane, to merge together and surpass the need for words entirely. It's too soon to know yet if it's for better or for worse, only that she does it - that she reaches out and takes Jane’s hand.

“I don’t know if I’ll be any good at it.” There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, a bit of Jane laughing at herself. “But I want to try.”

Nymphia just nods and feels more tears streaming down her cheeks, and Jane’s crying too, and then they’re crashing into each other. Nymphia is leaning down and throwing her arms around Jane, who is sitting forward and clinging to her like she’s scared to let her go. Like she caught a shooting star in her bare fucking hands.

It's a whisper against her hair, but Nymphia hears it. “Can I try again?”

Nymphia could hate herself for it for all of forever. She’s prepared to. Jane doesn’t know what she’s doing, and she doesn't either. Nymphia nods anyway.

It's a new world, one of their own making. It's unexplored, uncharted, and they’re venturing into it together, hand in shaking hand. It's dangerous. She’s doing it anyway. She might hate herself for it. It might be the bravest thing she’s ever done.

[andtheyreonfire]

thinking about giant/tiny modeling. tiny models advertising a product by sitting on/in it directly. nothing like seeing a billboard for a box of chocolates with an actual, tiny person curled up next to the sweets. tiny models that sit in teacups, on plates, next to a watch or a pencil or literally any common, household object. tiny models with a lavish dressing room they can't even get around in, because the vip room happens to be 20x their size.

tiny models that may only be the size of your finger, but still effortlessly command your attention when you see them across the room. with the way they act, not even squirming as a dozen agents and journalists loom over them, they're obviously used to the attention. you can't tell if they're only used to it because they expect it, at their size. they're such a cute, pretty little thing. how could you not adore them?

on the flipside, the way a giant model commands your attention is an absolutely breathtaking experience. every distant movement is like watching a living natural disaster. they're so gentle with the scenery around them, but you get the feeling they treat it more as beloved play set. giant models that lean next to buildings, blocking off multiple streets just for a single, quick shoot. giant models hunched a team of makeup artists readying them for the camera. leaning down for a dozen ladders, even holding a stylists in their hands. giant models that don't even fit in the frame. you'll see their lips, their eyes, the whorl of their fingertips in magazines, far sooner than you'll see their entire body.

giant models that make you freeze, instinctually, when they meet your gaze from across a warehouse. you can't help but cautiously wave to them. the slight chuckle from massive, painted lips rumbles through your chest, even across the distance between you. butterflies squirm in your stomach when they wink at you, a movement practically broadcast to the entire room. with the way they look like a fallen angel, and the fact that every second only reminds you how massive they are, you know you're faced with something far, far more dangerous than a simple hurricane.

[ride-a-dromedary]

the darkest of nights, in truth, still dazzles.

a halsin fanmix  [listen]

01. Heart of Spring - david arkenstone | 02. Cé Hé Mise Le Ulaingt? / The Two Trees - loreena mckennit | 03. Pussywillows, Cat-tails - gordon lightfoot | 04. Maybe Tomorrow - f&m | 05. Don't Stop Me Now - queen | 06. I Was Born Under a Wand'rin' Star  - bryn terfel  | 07. A Tenuous Bond - derek duke | 08. Closer - nine inch nails | 09.  Into the Darkness - jeremy soule  | 10.  Colorblind - counting crows | 11. Natural Light - ludovico einaudi | 12. Under the Greenwood Tree - royal shakespeare company | 13. The Grove - bear mccreary | 14. Blood Upon the Snow - hozier & bear mccreary | 15. A Quiet Darkness - houses | 16. Spellplague - alderfall | 17. Empty Chairs at Empty Tables - jonathan antoine | 18. Only Everyone Can Judge Me - crywank | 19. Blue Skies - kathryn calder | 20. The Buzzard - old blind dogs | 21. Constant Craving - k.d. lang | 22. The Cave - mumford and sons | 23. Jim Cain - bill callahan | 24. I Won't Back Down - johnny cash | 25. The Ash Grove - laura wright | 26. The Wind - yusuf/cat stevens | 27. To Someone From A Warm Climate (Uiscefhuarithe) - hozier | 28. The Logical Song - supertramp | 29. Tapestry - don mclean | 30. Big Yellow Taxi - joni mitchell | 31. Eat Your Young (Bekon's Choral Version) - hozier | 32. The Flock - david maxxim micic | 33. Changes - david bowie | 34. Ri Na Cruinne - clanaad | 35. The Moments of Happiness - ken page | 36. My Back Pages - the byrds | 37. If This Journey - tom hanford | 38. Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There is a Season) - Live - pete seeger

[starrysharks]

zeno's ultimate pokemiku tierlist ⁉️(it's all his opinion and he loves them all regardless⁉️)

[bonojour]

taming the wolf

[dangaer]

shout out to people who's muses have rizz ... if i were to label my current dynamics i have, all of them would have my muse fitting into either the ' i'm going to confess to you on valentines day ' meme or the ' can i rizz? PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ' meme.

[the-kipsabian]

IMPORTANT POLL TIME!!

vote on this based on whatever merits you wish, but make sure its based on the garment and not rest of him or the outfit, the era, the character, etc. the images are just a very basic examples as hes had multiples of each variation, i will provide more if necessary

im just asking out of my own pure curiosity, personally loving the longboys he has now but also the shorts make me feel so im just wondering which preference others have

youre more than free to reblog this (and let it escape my bubble) for bigger sample size and tags are open for discussion. i think. keep it civil, please

[lightningstruck-arch]

i know i haven't been here in FOREVER ( i apologize ) but would you guys still write with me if i potentially move medea back to my multi?

[rpmemes-galore]

i want my muses to feel love and affection and be happy

but i also want them bloodied and crying and full of angst, you feel me

[ride-a-dromedary]

I have no base for this, but Halsin seems like the type who would settle in the middle of the group with fruits (that he likely foraged) and little wooden bowl in tow and just start cutting them unprompted and offering them to everyone else.

[zangyo]

[Every day I suffer because Nanami is so difficult to ship on a romantic level which always make me lowkey worried it comes across as me uninterested when in actuality, my muse is just difficult to ship fkjdshfks. He is canonly avoidant of relationships to this extent because he doesn't want anyone to suffer that kind of loss, and getting into a serious relationship like that with someone is setting them up for that when he knows he can die at literally any time. He's strong, but all sorcerers have their limitations and all sorcerers, if they continue their line of work, will eventually encounter a curse or curse user that can counter their abilities either through cunning usage of their own, through a misstep (i.e., arrogance), or just a difference in technique / power. In his mind, it is irresponsible for him to get close to someone to that extent as a result of this; hence why he prefers waiting until he retires to attempt to live some semblance of a normal life. So there is work involved to get him to take that kind of chance even knowing how much it would hurt the other party.]

[fivekrystalpetals]

So, my headcanons were actually canon lol

Love how sincerely mochijun informs Break can't cook (ig she is like please sorry for breaking fangirls' hearts but your man sucks at cooking)

Lottie's a surprise knives whips cooking okay girl you go

Plus, Break's profile for quick reference heh

Both are lying about their age lol we are ~24 years old totally

source: x, x, x

[jennycalendar]

this is a lil silly and sappy but i think i am really glad i chose not to try and figure a way to participate in the calendiles secret santa this year and instead acted as administrator, simply because it is so absurdly meaningful to see how many people contributed without me being as fandom-present due to real life factors! this would not have been an event with so many heartfelt and excited participants like five years back, and the fact that this is my third year running this thing is soooooo :') like kind of exactly what i needed right now specifically. to know that giles and jenny are doing really great and we're all contributing to that as a society.

[hidefdoritos]

in other news, today I bought new boots

[gu6chan]

Overworked, sleep-deprived Anima Inc. employee in 2003, on the verge of giving out: can i please go home its been three days since ive seen my family Square Enix: no i want to see the texture on his fucking shirt