#kinda lots of angst

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 28

Thomas stared down at Bruce-no- Danny as he led him by the hand toward what he had dubbed as his "Secret Lair" which was just an old fall out shelter in the woods that had been well hidden and forgotten about. The door to it was old and still buried under years of dirt and plant growth, requiring Danny to phase them into it which made Thomas wonder how his grandson had found it in the first place.

Inside was surprisingly high tech. "You have a secret lair filled with all this equipment but don't have any weapons or armor?" Thomas asked, making mental preparations to fix that.

Danny sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck and explained his only allies were two other 14 year olds who were also untrained, unarmed, unarmored, and unsuper-powered which would explain why Danny was so excited to be working with an adult vigilante who at least knew what they were doing.

The kid didn't even mind when some of his more evil or harmful rogues "stopped showing up" thankfully no one would really question the reclusive Vlad Masters "going back to Wisconsin" only to never be seen again. No one saw much of him before coming to Amity Park, it made since he would become a hermit again once he had his fill of human interaction.

And if hes later found dead in his cheese castle? Well, the body had decomposed too much to really say what killed him. His will left everything to a Daniel James Fenton/Daniel James Masters which visibly infuriated Danny. Thomas mentally patted himself on the back. It was a good call to get rid of that one. The will was a surprise, though one that can only benefit Thomas in his crusade of protecting his grandson. Its not like he can return to a timeline that no longer exists anyway.

Unfortunately this doesn't stop the bats from hearing about "Batman" operating in a city in Illinois for the past few months...

[blueteller]

You guys ever think about how funny it is that the whole reason why Cale did not have try at all to impersonate the original Cale, was because no one actually knew anything about him, despite the fact that everybody knew about him? On an international scale, even??

Cale: (doing an absolutely terrible job at being trash) Everybody else: That doesn't sound right, but I don't know enough about Cale Henituse to dispute it

[justaz]

merlin slipping up early on around arthur and trying to assuage his fears by assuring that the gods would look out for them and arthur pauses before asking “the gods?” and they have a awkward lil conversation where merlin is like “yeah i worship the gods of the old religion” and arthurs like “why?” and merlin goes “well why do you worship the god of the new religion? we just believe in them” and arthur takes in this new information and is eventually like “yeah. sure. i guess its not illegal in escetir is it?” anyways thats it. it doesnt get brought up again until later on

when arthur + the knights and merlin and in that shrine and the knights aren’t taking it seriously and merlin goes “in the time of the old religion, they built shrines like this to appease restless spirits. we shouldn’t be here” and the knights brush it off but arthur knows merlin truly believes in it all so he redirects the knights away and later on its him and merlin at the well and arthur is there to calm merlin after he sees the visions from the raid. merlin’s crying and pleading with arthur to leave, that they shouldn’t be here. arthur agrees and goes to leave when merlin calls out to him. arthur stops but doesn’t turn. merlin wraps his arms around his middle

“you were here”

arthur doesn’t say anything more and walks away

[jesuistrestriste]

art donaldson who is obsessed with his looks.

just less in a vain way, and more in a “i desperately want them to notice me” way.

he buys body scrubs and protein-rich hair masks and salicylic acid facial toners and sheet masks and luxurious lotions and—

everything that he’s seen people use online; all in hopes of catching your eye.

he wants to look clean. he wants to look soft. he wants to look smooth. he wants to look good. he wants you seeing his bouncing blonde curls and shiny muscles and moisturized body, and think ‘wow, this guy is exactly what i’ve been looking for!’

i mean, what purpose would he serve for you if he wasn’t attractive?

he doesn’t even have to end up becoming your boyfriend, he’d settle with just being able to touch you under the covers if that was all you wanted from him.

a little piece of the whole you would be better than nothing.

sometimes he gets a little embarrassed when he’s in the middle of shaving his chest in the shower, but he reminds himself that it’ll all be worth it when you take one look at him—shirtless on the courts—and see how much he looks like a model from a designer catalogue.

because he does.

…doesn’t he?

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

gojo always seems to be off in a world of his own.

a little detached, you think. awkwardly long limbs constantly on the move, eyes stuck in a direction no one else can follow, a trajectory you don’t think even he knows. one blink and he's gone, just like that. too far ahead, too far above, even on the occasions he slows down and lets you catch up.

flimsy, maybe. like he’ll get carried away by the breeze when spring rolls around. like he’d turn into seafoam if you reached out and touched him.

satoru gojo is an anomaly, a blurry cluster of stars. or maybe more like a planet, big and blue, spinning around its own orbit, out of reach for every single star in the sky. high and mighty, cocky and cool, silly and bright — but there's a softness to him when he's alone. something that almost seems fragile, under the light of the moon, when the dark sky casts a shadow to obscure the contours of his face — and no one’s around to notice if his smile isn't as big as it should be.

no one except for you, anyhow.

(you wonder if your presence is really that inconsequential to him.)

the beach is entirely empty, save for you and gojo. and summer’s ending, burning into little cinders, sputtering out before your very eyes.

tokyo is just beginning to dip its toes into autumn, the frost and chill, the hiss of the biting wind. the rusting of leaves, contaminated by a muddy hue, turned orange and brown and red beneath your heavy feet; littering the murky, empty streets of the rainy towns you cross. smelling of rotten apples and cinnamon, old books and burning wood.

it’s dark out. painted a thick gray, the sky is blanketed by heavy clouds, the entire world hidden behind that coating of wool. not a single sliver of starlight slips through, but there's a comfort to it, that feeling of being cocooned — safe and warm. a feeling cruelly stripped away by the nipping of the wind at your bare skin, but you digress.

everything smells of saltwater. a little like rotten fish. every breath you exhale turns into a flurry of vapour, mingling with the breezy seasalt of the open air; scattering away into the thin layer of mist all around you, until you can’t tell which is which. 

and a sense of foreboding sinks into your veins.

(you look out at the jagged rocks piercing the surface of the sea, and dully wonder how they’d feel piercing your skin.)

something shivers, to your right. a flicker of movement, a barely audible chatter of teeth. and then, a white puff of vapour.

”man, it’s cold.”

gojo looks displeased. 

only vaguely, a little crease between his eyebrows as he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his puffy baseball jacket. moving his feet a little, to warm up, snowy tufts of white hair tousled by the ocean breeze. his shoes are muddied by the wet sand, but he doesn't seem to mind.  

a soft scoff leaves your lips, mostly harmless. maybe just a little smug. ”told you,” you click your tongue. 

gojo whines. his sunglasses are starting to fog up, you notice. ”it’s still summer!” he pouts. ”i thought the sea would be nice and breezy!”

an unimpressed look smooths over your features. gracing him with a raise of your brow, you don’t fully manage to bite back the soft smile that follows. don’t even really attempt to.

it’s been a long day. evidently not long enough for gojo, seeing as he dragged you down here — even though he knew it meant missing the train you were supposed to board after successfully finishing your mission. he just had to get a closer look at the sea. just for a moment or two. 

and he was insistent, persuasive. awfully whiny. assuring you that he’d be quick, that you wouldn’t miss the next one. 

(what made you agree was simply the thought of spending some more time with him. not like you could ever tell him that, though.)

so there you stand. two juveniles, shivering and shifting from foot to foot, on the brink of nightfall, the edge of summertime. watching the sea stretch out into infinity, across the gap between this world and the next. a murky blue. easy on the eyes.

the noise of the sea fills your ears; waves crashing into sand, the whistling of the wind, seagulls crying out in the distance. and faraway, the chatter of a rattling train. a cacophony of sounds, buzzing and crackling, melting together. scattered across the beach are countless tiny white seashells, and the occasional green glimmer of drift glass — mermaids’ tears, shed for lost sailors, or so you’ve heard.

you wonder if the mermaids ever shed tears for lost sorcerers. probably not.

a shiver runs through your body, down to your cold hands, the tips of your fingers. reddish and itching for warmth. you tuck them into your pockets with a breathless exhale, still shaking a little. 

in truth, you and gojo aren’t very close. you’d like to call him a friend, but it's kind of hard; when he's so enamored with suguru, so animated around shoko. with you, he always seems kind of —

stiff? 

or maybe more like bored.

he doesn't laugh as loudly, doesn’t act as cocky. doesn't flaunt his knowledge on sorcery, and isn't as clingy as he is with the other two.

(you've never liked people touching you. it's not hard for others to discern, with how you flinch away when they get close.

still, you can't help but feel a little jealous when you see him tugging suguru and shoko around.)

deep within your chest, like a stunted seaweed, sprouts a tiny pang of disappointment. it’d be nice if you could grow closer, you think.

just a little would be fine. 

”i like the sea.”

you turn your head.

gojo looks a little lost in thought. gaze trained on that expanding ocean before you, those splotches of blue and gray, the waves that bruise the edge of the sand. forlorn, maybe.

a hum buzzes in your dry throat. ”do you?”

”mm.” little white breaths slip from his lips. you wonder if they’d taste as salty as the air. ”’ts nice.”

a silence stretches out before you. delicate, like a sheet of glass. gojo picks at a piece of lint on his sleeve, and you shift from foot to foot. then he closes his eyes — a flutter of his dewy eyelashes.

”kinda makes you feel like everything’s about to end, huh?”

you look at him, but don’t see anything. a single glimpse of his closed eyes is all you gain from the glance you cast his way, but it’s not enough. not enough blue to fall into, no expression to savour. he looks the same as always.

but you’ve never heard his voice sound like this before.

”… end?”

and with that, they flicker open. there it is, you think. that vibrant blue. only to be obscured once more, when he turns to you fully, a smile playing at his glossy lips. ”don’t think so?”

a second passes. you look forward.

what you see is as follows: waves upon waves upon waves. the same blue and gray, as far as the eye can see. a sea big enough to drown each and every one of your worries. 

something comes over you. a sensation of loneliness, something close to longing. a feeling of being rather lost. searching for something. your heart feels heavy, an anchor sunk to the bottom of your gut. little fish nipping at your ribcage. your eyes trail over those jagged rocks, again; the mermaids’ tears, that all-consuming sea, right in front of you. like it could open its maw and devour the world.

you think of the lost sailors.

(one jump and it’s all over.)

a breath. salty on your tongue. ”… i guess i get it,” you whisper. a soft murmur, mingling with the mist. 

silence.

out of the corner of your eye, you see gojo shift. one moment he’s looking at you, the next he’s staring at the sea. in tandem, the two of you, stuck within that shade of blue. and you think he looks a little mesmerized, like he’s seeing something not even he can fully comprehend.

(maybe he just hasn’t had many chances to go to the beach before. something to do with being a clan kid, maybe?)

but then he clears his throat, hands moving to brush some sand off his puffy jacket and jeans. turning on his heel, hair ruffled by the breeze. he tries to sound chipper, but there’s something else there. you don’t know what it is, but…

”anyway,” he chirps. ”let’s go. we can still make it to the next train if we hurry.”

you look at him. his retreating figure, a head of white hair, surrounded by mist. a little like an apparition. then you turn towards the sea.

”… nah, that’s fine.”

a pause.

gojo stills, just about to take the first step forward. but you stay rooted in place; unmoving, staring at the blue before you, a deep longing reflected in your eyes. 

”let’s stay a little longer,” you hum, unsure of where the words came from. but you know you aren’t ready for the moment to end, just yet. that you aren’t quite ready for summer to pass.

…

all he does is stare, for a second or two. attempting to find some humour in your voice, you assume, any signs that you might just be joking. but he doesn’t find it. uncharacterstically silent, gojo stays frozen in place. 

then he puffs out a breath — amused. 

”you wanna freeze to death?” he grins, and you can hear it in his voice. you turn to face him, almost smiling. a little cheeky.

”you’ll warm me up, no?”

the words fall from your lips before you can think to reel them in. meant to sound a little snarky, you think, something akin to a chuckle — but instead come out sounding a little too much like an honest request. 

the tips of your ears feel a little warm, suddenly.

a sense of surprise smooths over the contours of gojo’s face, and his grin falters. you can’t see his eyes, can’t tell if they widen or not, but his lips part, and you note that they look soft. 

and it’s back. that grin. toothy, boyish. his cheeks are rosy, from the chill of the air, or so you assume. then he’s taking a couple strides forward, broaching the distance between you.

he throws an arm over your shoulder. a heavy weight against you, grounding, causing you to stumble. friendly, tugging you close. into his orbit.

(no infinity, you note. you can feel his body heat seeping through the fabric.)

it's nice. he's tall, and he's warm. cozy, protecting you from the bitter cold, like your own personal furnace. no wonder suguru never catches any colds, with someone like this draped over him all the time.

gojo speaks. there’s a sweetness to his voice, a mellow kind of contentment; bubbling up like seafoam, spilling from his glossy lips. you can feel his warm breath on your skin.

”well, duh.”

when your gaze falls on him, he's already looking at you. leaning closer, sunglasses slipping a little further down the bridge of his nose — enough to expose the blue of his eyes, the tiny splotches of white scattered across his aquamarine iris. like a cracked marble. or a summer sea.

he’s speaking again, and you almost don't hear it. distracted by those cracked marbles, the strawberry red of his cheeks, the warmth shared between you. the pitter patter of your heartbeat, like waves crashing against the sand. mesmerized. not daring to look away. almost like you’d cease to exist, were he to close his eyes. like your existence hinges entirely on the blue of those eyes.

(and maybe it does.)

he nods towards the sea, and grins. a mischievous glint in his eyes. ”wanna take a dip?” he asks, and you can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

it makes you laugh, either way.

”do you want to freeze to death?” you raise a brow, exhaling amusedly. subtly angling your body closer to his, hoping he won’t notice.

gojo honest to god giggles, at that, and you fear your knees might give out beneath your weight. fuck, has he always had dimples? why are you only noticing them now? 

”hehe. i just think it'd be fun!” he chirps, still draped over you like an overgrown cat, and you almost find yourself saying yes. just to keep the summer from ending, keep him from being swept away by the breeze.

but summer is ending. slipping away, second by second, like two juveniles drowned by an ocean wave. never to be found. and in comes autumn, the smell of rotting apples, the crunch of sand beneath your feet; an arm over your shoulder, an intake of breath. the taste of nice, crispy air on your tongue. 

a chuckle flows from your lips. all you see before you is blue, a murky shade, a vibrant hue. you think you could drown in it. you’re not sure you’d mind.

”maybe next time,” you whisper.

gojo’s eyes widen. ever so slightly, barely enough to even notice, until they bloom — with a kind of bubbly excitement. unconcealed giddiness. there’s something awfully precious about it, like a child buying cotton candy at their first fair. it makes you want to tuck him into your pocket. keep him safe.

you like him, unfortunately. inevitably. you think you may even like him a lot, a little more than you should. a little more than he could reciprocate. 

satoru gojo. high and mighty, cocky and cool. silly and bright. a seaborne boy with his very own orbit, born to carry the weight of the world, spinning so close that you can almost delude yourself into thinking he feels the same. 

almost.

(gojo glances at your lips. he wonders if they’d taste as salty as the air.)

[bleue-flora]

Ok, I recently wrote an essay [here] talking about the definition and duties of civil engineering as well as the ethics because of the brain rot @swordfright gave me with calling Dream Sam’s ultimate engineering project. So, because I actually am a civil engineer I took it upon myself to design the title and summary of quantities sheets just like I do at work for roads but with Dream as the project instead. And in honor of angst day sponsored by @sixteenth-day-event, I figured I’d share it because I feel like it kinda works for the prison of the mind prompt.

“Sam’s “ultimate engineering project” he deemed too damaged like a bumpy road or crumbling building that wasn’t worthy of patching and filling in the cracks or reinforcing, that’s too eroded to be fixed and preserved. So, Sam strived to tear him down to the bedrock so he could remake, remold, and reengineer Dream according to his design for the common safety, public health and well-fair.”

{These are very similar to the actual sheets I make day to day, which I shall not share for the sake of doxing my location, but yea pretty much everything has a significance. Some of it doesn’t necessarily make sense but that was because I was more so taking inventory of what we see in lore (so you know I counted ;) lol)}

[thepearlyalbatross]

"Virgin Sacrifice

Mary Ann

'Edwin'

Cost"

"Turn Key to See"

This is my birthday present to meeeeee

[fairyrona]

@andiwriteordie singlehandedly ending my artblock with her new fic !!!!!!! go read the hearbreak prince!!! now!!!

pt. 2 with Mike, Crown Prince of Corazzia!!

[hanaonesflower]

Iwaizumi finds himself looking at you, puzzled at the way you shy away from his touch. He doesn’t quite get it. But he doesn’t want to push. Hajime does what he knows how to do best; talks it out. Or he tries really hard to. Ever since he’s been more comfortable around you, his arms often swing behind your shoulders and his hands usually are intertwined with yours but he hasn’t stopped to notice that you don’t openly accept his touches.

“Honey, stop.” His tone far from harsh but it still manages to stop you dead in your tracks. You turn to see him, finding your lover standing a couple feet away from you, his arms unoccupied, flinching with the itch for wanting to hold you.

“Hi? Is something wrong?” Regardless of how it may seem, Hajime is not good with his words. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times only for hopeless croaks to escape his throat. He looks, sad. So, so sad. His arms are being brought up, holding out as if he is collecting a reward, well in this case the reward would be to hold you longer.

“Can you come here, please?” Oddly enough you don’t protest, you don’t try to question him. Instead you step towards him as if someone has possessed you, Hajime looks relieved, he doesn’t have to fight for it. Even though, we all know that he would. “Can you, can I — can you let me hold you, please?” Oh. Yeah. You think. It still doesn’t occur to you that Hajime caught onto the way you shorten every hug, halt every kiss before it gets too deep, shake your hand away from his grasp. Physical touch makes you feel queasy, and it is oh so unpleasant. The direct linkage of physical touch to sex makes you uncomfortable, feeling like each touch has to be accompanied by sexual intimacy. Why does it have to be like that?

Once the distance between you decreases he quickly pulls you close, wraps his arms around your torso tightly. Afraid of losing you.

“D-don’t pull away just yet, okay?” You stay, without saying a word. Hajime doesn’t say much either, it doesn’t take long for your breathing to sync with one another. It was peaceful, tranquil. His hand instinctively travels lower towards your waist, and just like clockwork, you pull away, resisting the strength of his arms. You should have known by now that Hajime can rage storms with his eyes but shut them down just as fast with the way his arms bring so much peace.

“Why?” He asks. This isn’t a normal look for Hajime, he looks like he is on the brink of tears. And you feel yours begin to pour. He doesn’t deserve this. You don’t get to treat him like this. Poor boy just wants to show you what genuine touch feels like and you refuse to give him a chance. “Why can’t I touch you? Why can’t I hold you?” He feels so bad. Hajime tries to rethink about all the things he might have done that led you to feeling unbearable being held by him.

Resolve crumbling at your feet. Physical touch is his way of expressing his love, it’s always something that has always bring him comfort, stability, it has grounded him in many situations. He wants to feel close to you, but he has never felt so far away. It feels like a part of himself is always missing, hiding within you. This is cruel. This is isolating.

Without saying much you crouch to reach him, arms wrapping his shoulders, snuggling your head in his neck, situating in its rightful place. You two don’t share much words in this moment, not much is needed to be said anyway. The way he’s breaking down, longing so badly for the touch of his beloved, so much it hurts. The way his neurons fire, sending chills down his back and the way his skin heats up at the moment you make contact. You hold him and you don’t let go. You stay until you both are spent from the tears you shed. “I’ll hold you like this forever if I could, Haji, I’m sorry.” You believe that you finally get it now. Physical touch doesn’t have to feel evil, it can feel just like this. His hands find your torso again, timid, but he’s willing to try. he sighs into your touch, so relieved to be reconnected with the part of himself he once relinquished to you.

[lovesickeros]

☆ you sow; & thus you shall reap what you are owed

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, violence {☆} word count 0.8k

You are dying.

Gold melts into the dirt, bleeds into the very earth that you'd molded by your own hands – a familiarity you do not understand the source of – you know it to be true, yet you do not remember it as Teyvat does. It weeps, in turn, for the way you bleed upon it, the way your lungs strain for breath.

It is fury and sorrow and fear and hatred so raw that your mind buckles.

You will die.

"A dying godling and its judge, it's jury – it's executioners," The voice is hollow and cold, sweeps across your broken body like the first chill of winter, "Archons who saw themselves Gods, now brought to heel by their own hubris."

A cold hand upon your cheek, the brush of a thumb across your lip, the gentle caress of cold across your skin. You know her – you don't remember, you shouldn't recognize her but you do – and she knows you. The cold beckons and you follow, let her kindness settle in the hollow space of your chest. You want to speak, to cry and scream and rage, let the world burn around you in a fit of flames so hot even she cannot contain it – but she silences you, quiets the anger seeping into your blood, quiets Teyvat itself.

"Do not speak, little godling. Guide my hand," She is cold; her hands are not gentle, yet it is bliss compared to the callous, cruel hands that have shattered you. She is cruel and cold and brutal but she is love in the way she kisses the crown of your head. She is love in the way she is the bulwark between you and the world that has scorned you – she is fury in the way she brings them to their knees. "And I shall enact judgement most divine."

They will pray for forgiveness, and they shall find themselves wanting.

"It wasn't our fault!" They cry, but you cannot recognize the voice – it breaks and cracks like glass. "They were too human. How were we meant to know? We– we thought they were.."

Silence.

You watch your judge – the executioner, the blade that shall carve their sins into the very marrow of Teyvat, stand above you like death. As cold as winter and just as brutal. Your temple has been painted in the gold of your divine blood, and she shall complete the masterpiece with their own. The Archons shall become the grandest art in the world – this temple the canvas, their blood the paint and their bodies the palette. The cold that cuts sinew cradles you – it sings to you, whispers sweetly in your ear and carves bone from body in the same breath. The cold presses it's lips to your wrist and it cradles a heart within it's palm – judges them and finds them guilty.

It is her spear that rests between their ribs, her sword that dissects and her dagger that carves – the cold devours.

In the breadth of this divine sanctuary, the Archons dwindle. They become the pieces of a divine work of art, they bleed and bend and break upon her hands. She shakes the heavens and carves mortality into the bones of the divine – your word is Law, and you weave their deaths into the roots of Teyvat itself.

They shall know of their grand folly in every moment henceforth and longer still and they shall weep.

And as the curtain falls, as the world crumbles beneath fist and blade, she cradles your face between hands too cold – as gentle as a shard of ice between your ribs, as brutal as the kiss of gentle snowfall. The world buckles at the loss of six, but she alone does not allow it to break – you will have to mend the wounds of the world when you are well, but today you weep and Teyvat weeps with you.

And alone, the cold remains.

Stone has eroded, the wind has ceased, the flames have been extinguished, the storm has been silenced, the forests have gone quiet and the seas go still.

But the cold remains, bathed in gold.

It wraps you in thick furs, cradles you against the winter storm that brews beneath a veneer of composure. It brings you home – lets the world settle into a stillness and silence that inspires only dread and still she presses a kiss to your brow.

It is cold, but there has never been something so warm.

Where hands have broken you, she drapes you in furs, wipes away the thick gold that clings to your skin. She pieces you back together where you have been shattered, reshapes you where you have been bent – makes of you something new. Not a god and not a mortal but something wedged between them.

But you are yourself.

And you are where you belong.

They shall put you back together and you shall know only the worship worthy of the divine. They shall carve this world into your image, tear out and burn away the rot that festers.

All you need to do is say the word and they shall be your tools to make this world your own.

One word and those who wronged you shall burn, too.

Just one word. That's all it takes, and they shall take away your pain.

[somegrumpynerd]

A bunch of doodles of Dream and Nightmare having fun as kids

From a perfectly normal lighthearted tiktok

[drawnfamiliarfaces]

I’ve been simping over your ‘human’ Nomicon design since it came out in Ninja-November. If you have any headcanons about them, would you please share?

ah, a fellow monster/eldritch horror enjoyer I see! thank you! <3 tbh that Nomicon design was like an one day revelation, because while I love all the human!Nomi designs I've seen over the years (and there are some banger ones, man), it hit me that we as a fandom really underutilize all the uncanny aspects Nomi possesses. So ye. I do have a couple hc.

Nomicon is an entity that doesn't have its own face and voice.

Whenever Nomicon talks to Randy it uses proxies in form of art/images/drawings/scribbles/writings. It gives strangely non-verbal vibes for something so cryptically eloquent! And whenever it does use a voice, its voice of the First Ninja (or more accurately his VA xD) , its first owner/wielder. When it uses a face, its usually the static/unmoving marble-like faces of Art or silly pen scribbles - both of which hold that uncanny valley look of something that looks human but really isn't. Not to mention the fact that it once literally stole Randy's face/body to teach him a lesson.

I like to think that Nomicon has a library of faces/visages/voices it can take on, but all of them are creepily unsettling because - what would a book know about how to be human? It's face moves wrong, the eyes are too wide open, its body is creepily still, the voice uses inflections like its copying someone else (and sometimes voice warbles and changes/overlaps with other voices because it has so many).

All of it gives these fae/cryptid vibes of creatures that steal voices/faces to trick people, but in this case Nomicon collects those faces/voices from its owners along with their memories (which is another messed up thing we collectively forget is very creepy lol).

Nomicon is an entity that doesn't have a body, and most importantly - hands.

The reason I gave Nomicon so many shadow hands is because, well, Nomicon is a book. Hands hold those books, so the hands are very important to Nomi. All those shadow hands? Are memories of all the hands that held it (mostly previous Ninjas, but also the Creep and some others). It remembers everyone who held it.

The fit- the hat and the cape are kind of obvious, it look like center of the cover and the cape looks like covers on either side with pages underneath. The weirdest addition I made - is the spaghetti noodle-doodle 'hair'.

It constantly fascinates me that Nomicon, besides the Greek Key/9 motif, has those sort of concentration circles that are also present during Mask/Suit transformation. It gave me thought of sort of weird halos i guess?? Which adds to creepy vibe, but in this case its biblically accurate angel / holy deity type of vibes.

Nomicon has very basic understanding of humanity.

For all the experiences/memories/personalities it was created from and it absorbed over the years, human things are a rather alien concept for the book. It's the reason Nomicon is so bad at its timing whenever it buzzes Randy. It just doesnt care that you are at school Randy, its trying to teach you how to be a better ninja!!! In some sense, it absorbed the most prevalent quality of First Ninja - the dedication to duty, the whole reason for its existence - to serve Ninjas to be the best they can. So, such human/mortal things as good grades/video games/a good nights sleep are very nebulous concepts to it.

Less of a hc but more of an observation/gripe but-

COME ON ITS NAME??? Ninjanomicon as in Ninjanecronomicon??? Because lets be honest its not just a book/guide for Ninjas its a book full of DEAD NINJAS??? LIKE??? In some sense all previous Ninjas, when they go through Ultimate Lesson, 'die' in the real world (because they are no longer Ninjas) and are preserved in Nomicon. And First is like deadass dead? (Plop plop too lol). So I feel like there should be more creepiness about that.

Anyway thats basically most of it, and sorry for silly doodles but i cant really draw creepy stuff xD

[total-drama-brainrot]

Noah is canonically the youngest of eight sibling. Eight.

You don't grow up in a family that large, as the youngest and therefore the favourite victim, and not have a super casual relationship with touch.

This guy is light enough to be literally blown away by a strong breeze; if you think even for a second that his family didn't take turns carrying him around like a briefcase and abducting him from whatever he was doing into a Family Pile™ then you're objectively wrong.

(You also can't convince me that he wasn't spoiled rotten as the baby of the family.)

So frequent platonic touching is pretty normal for him, expected even, and he tends to be more tactile than his personality or demeanour would suggest.

He gives Owen side-hugs and pats on the arm every time the two interact, and wilfully flops himself onto Eva whenever he's overwhelmed and wants the company of someone comparatively quiet (she always uses it as an excuse to carry him to the gym and encourage him to bulk up, though it never works). He tries to tire out Izzy's boundless energy by play-fighting and grappling with her (much to his chagrin) despite him essentially ending up as her glorified chew toy, and often times passes out due to being a stick insect in human form.

It's unexpected, just how casually clingy he is to the people he trusts/likes.

But you know who isn't used to physical contact?

Cody E.J. "my parents forgot my birthday" Anderson

This wet noodle of a boy bigs himself up as a ladies' man and a hot commodity but wouldn't know what to do with himself if someone held his hand. The concept of affection of any kind is so foreign to him, especially positive physical contact- I wouldn't be surprised if he could count the amount of hugs his parents had given him on one hand.

And this is backed by his canonical desperation for acknowledgement! Every time he pursues Gwen, even when he's directly shot down and sometimes harshly rejected, he still tries to win her affections and festers the delusion that she likes him. After all, everyone who's supposed to care about him does the same! His parents, 'friends' or lack thereof, ect.; they all ignore/rebuff him so it must be a sign of endearment.

Additionally, he sleeps with a stuffed emu at the ripe age of 16/17- as stated by Sierra, which he never denies (not that there's anything wrong with that, stuffed animals are top tier imho). You know who else sleeps with stuffed animals? Touch-starved people.

Cody is incredibly attention-starved, touch-starved and, post World Tour, in all likelihood somewhat touch-averse- at least when it comes to other people initiating contact.

To elaborate; Sierra is constantly breaching his personal bubble non-consensually, which would inadvertently condition anyone into being at least a little haphephobic, but Cody himself is more than happy to instigate contact with people he trusts (i.e. hugging Alejandro when he protects Cody from Sierra overnight in Rapa Phooey!).

...See where I'm going with this?

We see these two cuddling twice in canon; once in the Awake-a-thon and again in the Celebrity Manhunt. Once is happenstance, but twice indicates a pattern or coincidence but I'm going to gloss over that for the sake of this post.

Plus, with their consistent proximity during Action, they had plenty of time to form some type of relationship be it friendly or more.

(Wouldn't you want to at the very least get some closure from the guy who kissed you/you kissed for the world to see? It would be awkward to completely ignore each other, and they literally shared a cabin at one point so it's not like they were strangers either. So of course they're at least cordial from Action onwards.)

Then, as Noah becomes more comfortable around Cody, his tactile tendancies come to play.

Cody, predictably, reacts skittishly at the alien phenomenon known as friendly touch and tries to play it off to preserve his cool-guy image. Except Noah's not falling for it. He's observant, if emotionally illiterate, and watching the guy you just backpatted in greeting jump five feet into the air and screech like a falcon is a flashing red alarm for even the most empathetically challenged people.

Eventually, Noah gets Cody to divulge his issues with human contact and offers his assistance to the brunette. If giving his pal a hug every now and then, and letting him in turn initiate whatever he's comfortable with, would help him overcome his rocky relationship with touch then Noah is more than happy to oblige. It's not like it's out of the norm for him, so he doesn't mind at all.

Then, gradually, Cody loses his touch aversion.

But a lifetime of isolation won't be magically cured that easily, and he finds himself craving Noah's embrace more and more. Again, the taller of the two is content to give him what he wants. Their agreement evolves into the duo napping together and feeding into Noah's sleep-hugging habit, or just spending quality time in a heap of pretzeled limbs under a weighted blanket.

(Whether their relationship is platonic or romantic is entirely up to interpretation, though I'm partial to the two being friends who are just Like That since it allows for the funniest potential character interactions. The bromance is real.)

That's as good a place as any to end the post, before I end up writing a whole drabble.

[sygneth]

" 'Alas, Holmes, I fear that is it one of sin and shame!' cried my friend. 'But from you, I shall have no secrets' "

Holmes College Adventures Masterpost Chapter 2: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8 AO3

At first, I wasn't sure if I'd like to show the events from the book or not, but eventually, I decided to do it briefly. (Also, maybe I wanted to include some details that Holmes omitted in his narration......) Anyway! We're one page to the end of this chapter, but the next one is going to be long. And by long, I mean longer than any that I have drawn so far, and I'll have a busy end of the week, so I'll have to hold you all on the edge for a couple of days, I suppose. (But the reward will be worthy, I hope.)

[reblogglelog]

Sad Boy Hours: Billy Batson

He's trying so hard to get the screaming adults in the room to just stop screaming at each other and be reasonable.

He is immediately dismissed and storms off, justifiably insulted.

And Billy goes right back to blaming himself, trying to figure out where he went wrong, how he could have fixed things, managed the emotions of the room better--even though he is 100% correct and the adults are absolutely failing, and badly.

"Even if he's wrong...I should respect him." Honey, the thing that's eating at you is the absolute dogshit way they act and then expect you to just accept as normal. These grown-ass heroes should not be hitting each other.

And a degree, honey. Several of them.

He sounds like a teacher trying to get the class to behave and that script keeps failing him. Over and over the adults around him dismiss him for his optimism, ignore his calls for reason. And they're heroes. They're the good guys and they tear into each other regularly and viciously. And Billy is fifteen years old in a room of adults screaming at each other. The team is sometimes down right abusive, and this child is trying to keep them from falling apart.

I worry about him, ya know?

(anyway, thank you for coming to my Sad Boy Hours)

[43sol]

i can finally go back into the tiger and bunny tag ヽ(*。>Д<)o゜