#it's complicated basically

[flustersluts]

r u comfy being included in sapphic n lesbian attraction

yes i am i think !!

[apollos-olives]

honestly if you don't outwardly show support for palestine, i'm automatically assuming you're a zionist. no one has an excuse about being uneducated anymore. everyone who does not support us, either out of ignorance or genuine malice, is complicit in our genocide and i do not trust them at all. if you have not spoken out about what is happening, you are not, and were never, our ally.

[egophiliac]

Since book 7 part 5 (the part where we meet Meleanor/Maleanor 👀) is coming to EN this month, i would love to see your take on lilia’s proposal to meleanor! i mean they were like little kids right? it couldn’t have been that serious…i think the only reason she even brought it up again is because she could tell lilia still genuinely loved her…(even if he didn’t realize it himself?) but, oh well! Let’s think about silly childhood shenanigans to numb the pain! ^_^ (orz)

oh shit?! get ready for a doozy guys, it's comiiiiiing ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

I chickened out of posting the whole thing (look, I get VERY carried away when it comes to these wacky kids and their Tragedy), but I do believe that it probably ended with Lilia getting embarrassed and just shoving the first thing he sees into his mouth to try and cover for it.

(we're just lucky it wasn't a frog this time)

[keferon]

I don’t know if I got their designs quite right. It’s my first time drawing them :)

Monster hunter au lambo twins ehehe

[sorunort]

gonna throw Loop into a multifandom rp group later this week and thought a bit too hard about them glitching and looking like their old self again. hehehahahoh

[shmaroace]

the aroace experience of not telling people you're aroace because you don't want to explain it to them for an hour

[affectionatecorpse]

Me: Oh hey, I actually really like this thing!

Autism: YEAH THIS IS BRILLIANT I'M GONNA MAKE IT EVERYTHING WE CARE ABOUT FOR LIKE A MONTH

Me: Sounds good! A new hyperfixation will mix things up a bit! Plus the main character is complicated enough to expand upon--

Autism: NO

Me: ?

Autism: NO MAIN CHARACTER

Me: But--

Autism: OUR FAVOURITE IS THIS CREATURE THAT'S ON SCREEN FOR LIKE 5 MINUTES THAT ONE IS PERFECT

Me: But they have no fan content

Autism:

Me:

Autism:

Me: ... I'll make my own--

Autism: DAMN RIGHT YOU'LL MAKE YOUR OWN

[corvidaedream]

trying to respond to someone on instagram who messaged me in italian about one of my drawings, and cycling my responses back into english a couple times before i send them just in case google has turned "yes, i drew that four years ago" into "i hope you die" in italian somehow while i wasnt looking

[hardly-an-escape]

Stormy Weather, or: Outside, the Wind (Inside, the Light) | Dream/Hob | 1600 words | Rated T

tags: I recently spent an evening without power therefore I must put the blorbos in a Situation, love confessions, first kiss, getting together, power outages, Hob Gadling throughout history, gratuitious use of mildly accurate Middle English

The wind tears around London like a living thing, a wild animal, a predator, intent on the hunt. It chases birds into their nests and people into their homes, moans around corners and rattles shutters, sending piles of leaves whirling into miniature hurricanes and whipping branches into a frenzy, sharpening its claws on roof tiles and telephone poles.

Except in Hob Gadling’s flat.

The New Inn, and the cozy home above it, is in one of those old buildings that’s actually been loved and maintained – thanks in no small part to Hob’s own care and attention. The walls are thick and strong, the roof is solid. The shutters may rattle, but the windows are double-pane; the curtains and carpets are warm and soft, and no drafts encroach on the sanctity of his living room, where Hob and Lord Morpheus, King of Dreams, are having a movie night.

It’s part of Hob’s concerted effort to introduce the Prince of Stories to the stories he’d missed during his imprisonment. Tonight it’s Blade Runner – the final cut, of course – which isn’t necessarily one of Hob’s personal favorites, but seemed to fit the stormy, rainy vibes of the weather. They’re installed on the couch, with hot chocolate and wine and snacks, which Dream has deigned to pick at. Harrison Ford is eating noodles and wandering through wet, moodily-lit streets. The wind is howling outside, but they’re safe and warm and surrounded by soft things and life is about as good, Hob thinks, as it ever gets these days.

And then his lights flicker. Once, twice; there is the impression of a sort of electrical last gasp, and the room is plunged into darkness.

The wind whips and the shutters rattle. A volley of rain spits itself against the windows.

“Bugger,” says Hob.

Dream says nothing, merely brings his wineglass – which had already been cradled in one elegant hand – to his lips.

“Hang on,” says Hob. “I’ve got some candles around here somewhere.”

He gropes his way to the kitchen. In one drawer he unearths some beeswax tapers and several tea lights, which he arranges on a plate. He rummages in one of the deeper cabinets and makes a triumphant noise as he discovers his prize behind disused mugs and a fondue set from the 1980s: a pair of old-fashioned brass candlesticks equipped with round reflectors, highly polished to catch the light and bounce it back out into the darkness.

“You are remarkably well-prepared for an event such as this,” says Dream, as Hob lights his various prizes and returns to the living room with his hands full of flickering flames.

“Well, you know,” Hob demurs. “When it comes down to it, I’ve lived a lot more of my life without electricity than with it.” He arranges the tea lights on the coffee table and sets the brass candlesticks on a nearby bookshelf. “You never really get out of the habit of preparing for the worst. Although I will say, these beeswax ones beat the hell out of the old tallow jobbies we had when I was young. Got ‘em from a local bloke who keeps bees not half a mile away, isn’t that cool? A beekeeper in the middle of London. There, now,” he says, and having arranged the lights to his satisfaction he plops himself back down on the sofa.

Outside, the wind wails. The lack of lamps on the empty street below and the gentle candlelight within make the night seem even darker, and turn Hob’s living room into something even softer and cozier than it already is.

Dream’s face, in the flickering candles, seems even more otherworldly than usual; and Hob, for his part, truly looks as though he belongs in another century. The very shape of his face has changed, somehow, into something older; taking on a new appearance in the candlelight the way a man’s tongue might curl differently around the syllables of another language.

“I miss it, sometimes,” he says lowly. “This kind of world. Before the wires and the phones and the cars. It was… quieter.”

“You speak often of your delight in change and progress. Do you truly long for your past lives?” asks Dream.

“Yes and no,” answers Hob. “Some things are better now, no question. Antibiotics, wouldn’t want to live without those again. Vaccines and X-rays and chemotherapy and antidepressants – almost all the medical stuff. Mass transportation. Cars and planes have never been safer. Honestly, I’ve never understood the people who moan about the olden days and oh, life was simpler back then. Don’t they know how many people died? How many kids? Because they caught a cold or fell out of a tree or had a case of the runs that lasted a little too long?”

He leans forward to adjust one of the candles, which is dripping unevenly, and when he sags back into the couch there is just the hint of a frown between his strong brows.

“And yet…” he says, staring into the flames, voice quiet. “Nights like this. I do sometimes think…”

Hob trails off for a long moment.

“There was a rhythm to life, back then,” he says finally. “You counted hours by the church bells and days by the tasks that needed done. And there was so much that needed to be done… cows milked and fields planted and clothes knitted or mended. And it was all so important, so… necessary. Regimented. But in the in between time – Christ! your time wast thine.” As he speaks, his voice has slipped into an older register: his Rs grown rounder, his vowels longer, curling from his mouth to mingle with the candlesmoke hovering over his coffee table. “I remember fair hours as a lad, even into my manhood, of which I spent lyende in th’ fields, watching ants in th’ grass. And later, too, we’d hie us to bed with the sonne, the fire banked in the hearth. An’ it happen that if we awakened before dawn, ’twas a simple thing to pass the time in simple ways, be it in prayer or in pleasure…”

The innuendo in his words is clear, but Hob is not looking at Dream; his eyes are unfocused as he stares into the middle distance, revisiting the past via candlelight. Until one of the wicks lets out a small pop, and flares, and he shakes himself, coming back to the present.

“God, sorry,” he says, voice back in the 21st century. “Woolgathering. I’ll go on for an age, me. More wine?”

But Dream’s eyes have also gone unfocused, his lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling with unnecessary breaths as he stares – no, gazes – at Hob. He, too, must shake himself into the present moment at Hob’s offer of more wine. He silently holds out his glass.

“May I ask you a personal question?” Dream says.

“Anything. You know that.”

Dream pauses. Sips. Outside, the sound of the wind has not abated; has grown, if anything, even more dramatic. There is the muffled sound of branches scraping against the side of the building.

“Why,” asks Dream finally, “do you pretend to yourself that you do not want me?”

Hob chokes. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Why do you pretend thus to me?” Dream pursues. “Who has known you longer than any being on this planet or any other; who can know your innermost dreams?”

“What do you mean, other planets?” Hob demands. And then: “Have you been peeking at my dreams?”

“I need not peek, as you put it, to see the truth of the matter. It is writ plain on your face and in your every word and deed. I merely wonder why this truth has hovered before us for over six hundred years and you have yet to press your suit. Do you doubt, after all this time, my affection for you? Do you find me – unworthy?”

Dream sounds, impossibly, almost uncertain. Even vulnerable. Hob sighs heavily and leans forward, elbows on his knees and face in his hands.

“I – God. Dream,” he stammers. “Yes, Christ, I am full of doubts. You stormed away from me when I implied you might be lonely, I… I have never, once, thought I had a suit to press at all. What on earth has brought this on? Now, of all times?”

“I do not know,” Dream murmurs. “Perhaps… this darkness is working on me, as well. Perhaps I am as susceptible to candlelight and nostalgia as the next anthropomorphic personification.”

He smiles, a little quirk of the mouth that contains worlds, and Hob leans over, listing helplessly into Dream’s space as the tapers flicker.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together, turning his head to butt his cheekbone against the sharp line of Dream’s nose. “Art thou rēal? Speak you treue?”

“Aye, my Hob,” answers Dream. “Min herte is treue and bilongeth to you.”

A sob catches in the back of Hob’s throat at the words. “Fuck,” he whispers again, “Dream, I’m yours. I am. I always have been. My Dream, min sweven, my leof. Alwei, allesweis…”

Their mouths find each other, then, finally, lip against lip and breath against breath. They kiss for a long, long moment, desperate and hungry and soft all at once, as outside the wind howls coldly around the corners of the New Inn, and inside the light cast by Hob’s candles bathes their whole little world in a cozy glow.

“Take me to bed,” murmurs Dream against Hob’s mouth. “Make me your lover. Show me how you pass the time by candlelight, and in darkness.”

“Oh, darling. Dearheart,” Hob answers. “Nothing in this world or any world past could make me happier.”

And he suits his actions to his words.

[envysparkler]

early bird

Jason might’ve had a homefield advantage when it came to Crime Alley, but he was under no impression that the streets he remembered as a child were the same as they were today.  Hell, even the streets he’d patrolled as Robin wouldn’t be the same.  If he wanted to take over, he needed to get the lay of the land—where the gangs were, who was calling the shots, who was unhappy about it.

And where the Bats were.

The Red Hood was going to make his big debut after he knew who all the players were.  Right now, Jason was skulking around in all-black gear, armor on, armed with blades instead of guns.  He didn’t plan on killing anyone.  Not yet.

But Jason felt uneasy almost instantly.

The whole city seemed to be holding its breath, the way it did after a major Rogue attack.  Jason had kept up with news of Gotham’s freakshow gallery, and there had been nothing for months.  Plenty of crime, but the big name players were lying low.  There should be no reason for people to act like they’d just gone through a fear toxin outbreak.

Jason was feeling very uneasy indeed.

The first inkling he had that something was off was the goons on the street.  While the gangs in Crime Alley changed territory like a penny changed hands, Jason had gotten used to seeing a few familiar faces.  Now, there were no familiar faces, only full-face masks and a lingering sense of malaise.

The second clue that something was wrong was the aftermath of destruction.  Gotham was a shit place for infrastructure at the best of times, but usually there wasn’t rubble lying on the streets, cordoned off by tattered tape, or gutted-out hollows of burnt buildings.  It looked like a full-scale war had erupted on the island.

And the last thing Jason needed to finish the creeping sense of something’s not right was the glimpse he’d gotten of Batman on patrol.  The Dark Knight swung through the air like a wraith and where Jason looked immediately for red-green-yellow—Replacement, target, how dare he take what’s mine—he found nothing.

No brightly colored shadow.

No joyful laugh.

Nothing but darkness.

Something was very, very wrong.

~#~

It took Jason a couple of days to figure out what had happened.  No one wanted to talk to him, not the semi-stranger nor the cloaked figure all in black.  Jason finally had to bare his face and find one of the working girls he’d known as a kid.  She’d been happy to fill him in, though she’d used a hushed voice the entire time.

A gang war in Gotham.  Boundary lines drawn all over the place.  Some loser calling himself the Black Mask and the False Face Society taking control in an awful five-day wave of violence and brutality.  And then…well, then the story got a little confusing.

No one had seen Robin since the incident.  Batman had apparently gone feral.  Black Mask was in prison with several broken bones.  Nightwing had showed up, permanently if the outrage from Bludhaven was anything to go by.  Word on the street was that Robin was dead.

Jason didn’t know whether to be pleased or not—the pretender was gone, but Jason was supposed to be the one to do it—when his train of thought was abruptly derailed.

“It’s just like last time,” rasped a girl with a too-old-for-her-face stare.  “Robin croaks it, Batman goes cuckoo.”

“What,” Jason said.

“The Bat was scary last time,” another girl shivered, hands rubbing her arms.  “You know he put Johnny in the hospital for trying to take some bread?”

“Hope he picks up another Robin soon,” muttered a girl with a resigned expression.

“No, Stella, you know they’re children, right?  How could you even say that—”

“Look, either we give the guy in a bat suit his emotional support child endangerment, or Batman’s going to become just as bad as his villains.  Who’s going to watch this city if everyone’s a freak?”

Jason slipped away from the group as the girls all began bickering, arguing over whether or not Batman needed a Robin, if Robin was even human in the first place, if they should just pack up and leave.  He didn’t want to listen to a fiercely indignant woman call Batman a child abuser while a darkly resigned one just shrugged her shoulders.

For some reason, when he’d made his own arguments, he’d felt…unique.  Special.  Like he was the only one who could see the truth.  Now—now he was remembering Gordon’s pinched face every time he saw Jason with an injury, all the news reporters that called Batman the worst thing that had happened to Gotham, the comments from Leaguers uncomfortable with child heroes.

Jason wasn’t entirely sure when he’d switched sides in the debate.

~#~

It took another week before Jason spotted Batman again.  His patrols were all over the place, no discernable pattern to them, but when he heard rumors of a planned bank robbery in the Diamond District, Jason knew where to go.

He arrived and found a nook on the rooftop across the street to watch the action.  Sure enough, Batman and Nightwing showed up moments after the alarm was tripped, and Jason watched them take down the would-be robbers.

Batman didn’t look crazy, his movements were as swift and economical as ever as he dismantled the operation, engaged the leader, and began punching him in the face again and again and again.  Jason stared, frozen to the spot with more than shock as he watched Batman pulverize a group of robbers for the crime of breaking into an empty store.

Nightwing secured his opponents and moved to intercede, trying to get between Batman and his victim.  Batman ignored him, and when Nightwing laid a hand on his arm to get him to stop, he flung the other vigilante back so hard Nightwing nearly stumbled into the street.

Nightwing didn’t move to intercept again.

Batman stopped when the man was no longer twitching, and dropped the body where it was, turning on his heel sharply to exit the scene.  Nightwing watched him go, and Jason could see the way the younger man crumpled in on himself as Batman walked away.  Hand over his face, Nightwing slowly went after him, every line of his body screaming of exhaustion.

Robin croaks it.

Jason’s breathing had gone tight and shallow.

Batman goes cuckoo.

In the back of his head, something was laughing.  Isn’t it a great joke, it said between giggles.  Isn’t it the greatest joke of all?

[tsuchinokoroyale]

Sweater season is OVER… nakey time once more…

Miss sassy grumps is back… I kiss her anyways…

[calware]

thinking about doing a month-long event for the homestuck tumblr community to encourage people to make + post fanworks as well as reblog other people's fanworks.... where people can opt-in by being randomly assigned one of two teams (probably red and blue) so that each team has roughly the same amount of members. teams get points for making fanworks and having their posts reblogged, which encourages people to make posts and also reblog the posts made by their team members. and the top 3 people in each team to get the most points get some kind of reward... hmmmm

[shhheep]

au childhood friends to strangers to colleagues

[hiseyeisonthesparrow]

[introvert-slushie]

When the trope is: A being who is preserved as a “monster” chooses to attach themselves to a human whom they deeply relate to, learning more about that human’s life and that the “monster” or being attached to the human starts to feel more human themselves. The human is now pushed into unusual encounters having to deal with the consequences by being with the “monster.” Leading to the “monster” to fall in love and become obsessed with their human.

[batsplat]

this is how i think the valentino/casey rivalry plays out in their minds