#particular training

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 3: Enveloping Feelings.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4 (soon))

[ruporas]

only human

[ID: Two page comic in color of Vash and Wolfwood from Trigun Maximum. The first page has a black background and the upper half, behind the panels, is splattered with stylized red blood, scattered bullets, and lifeless hands. In the first panel, it focuses on Vash's boots, showing him stepping through the panel and into the bloody scene. The second panel shows his bloody footprints and the third panel shows his face, his down-turned eyes looking downwards. It's a neutral, vague expression with confliction. At the bottom of the page, the back of Wolfwood's head and shoulder is seen, blood dirtying the white color of his shirt and side of his face. Vash's hand reaches out to him from the right side of the page.

The second page shows the entire scene in full, half the page in light and the other in solid black. At the center, Vash leans down onto his knees as he wraps his arms around Wolfwood's shoulders into a hug. Wolfwood's back is turned away from the viewer, his left arm holds onto his bloodied punisher and his right hand sits on his lap. Light casts from the left side of the page, showing the bloodied surrounding, but the held up punisher casts a shadow on the both of them, shielding them from the light. END ID]

[averagemrfox]

Yea ok but if that really is the Summer Maiden behind them and she’s just a kid and they put these two in charge of training and guiding her

The mother who abandoned her own child and killed the prior Spring Maiden both out of fear and the sibling who was loyal to the wrong person until it was almost too late and was unable to save her baby sister… I’m sure they’re coping fine with that responsibility

[turtleblogatlast]

[ cw: death mention / family death mention / ]

Mhmm I sure love thinking of the reality where we did get more time to really know Karai and her dynamics with the bros. Losing her hit hard in the finale, but it would’ve hit much, much harder had we known Karai longer and really saw her relationships develop with everyone.

I especially would have been interested in her dynamic with Leo, as past iterations often have the two of them clash in ideals and the like while still sharing many characteristics. Two sides of the same coin, and all that. Her specifically being the bros’ Gram-Gram also adds a whole new dynamic as well.

Imagine how interesting it would be, to have Karai start off on Leo’s side for once, showing wholly just how alike the two are at their cores and bonding as family without the worry of betrayal or animosity that other iterations suffer through, only to have Karai die anyway. Their parting hug and the desperate look of horror Leo wears later on would have hit that much harder, I feel.

[muninnhuginn]

Oh wow Henderson/Martha as bad end Twiyor. Henderson so focused on his ideals, on conquering ignorance, that he doesn't look at what's in front of him. "Ignorance is a sin", "they wouldn't do this if they were educated correctly". Those ideas taking precedence over any kind of personal life for both Twilight and Henderson. And so Henderson and Martha miss their chance because Henderson is so caught up in his own cause and Martha doesn't recognise her own feelings for what they are. Just as how Twilight is so focused on his mission that he deliberately tries to clamp down on his own connections with others and sees them as a weakness. As he too could miss his chance and leave one day without warning.

It's not technically the end of either of their stories. But the parallels at present read as very deliberate.

[rockingthegraveyard]

"He shot Barbara through the spine! And I know he didn't stop there."

[blackmarquer]

I’m cooking up a comic based on @jellfishjellfish fic Derelection. Check it out on Ao3. Warning. It’s so good you might break into tears.

This story is so heart wrenching, heart breaking,and heart warming; I can’t recommend it enough.

[tswwwit]

[About the ask where you said that dipper blurted out "I'm pregnant" To bill and his immediate response is panic]

Does this mean that bill has impregnated someone??? Or the other way around??

Bill's never sired or sprouted any offspring, and has no intention of doing so!

Dipper was pulling a prank, and it worked very well - because Bill's been around the block enough to not dismiss the supposedly 'impossible'.

[lex-crow]

Eret(completely enamored): I would kill and die for you.

Hiccup(who has had this conversation way to many times): please don’t do either of those things.

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

Here’s a sort of…. Prompt? Headcanon? Idea?? For Danny Phantom.

Let’s go with the,, semi-fanon idea of cores. We see the Far Frozen with ice powers, with their whole little civilization. They are ALSO the only ghosts we see that have any medical knowledge.

So what if ghosts with ice cores had healing powers? Danny is very durable, but he also (probably) has advanced healing.

Idk, it’d be a fun possibility to explore Danny ‘plays as a tank in irl superheroics 4 times out of 5’ Phantom finding out he can heal people while doing a school-mandated cpr class.

[doodleswithangie]

jam session

If you loved Infinity Train Book 4, preorders are now open for Rhymin: A CCJ Fanzine, a charity fanzine celebrating Ryan and Min-Gi! More info and links are available at @ryminzine!

[image description: Fanart of Ryan Akagi and Min-Gi Park from “Infinity Train.” Ryan plucks at his guitar while singing to Min. Next to him, Min-Gi is sat curled up with his keyboard and listens with a soft smile on his face. The colors of their clothes match that of each other’s instruments.]

[woobienation]

It's hard to express how much I love the idea of Nancy Wheeler crawling out of (and into?) Jonathan's bedroom window. She's a stealthy, barefoot, teenage love ninja, and this isn't the 'walk of shame'. This is True Love's Scurry.

Also, Nancy sleeps on the 'protector' side of the bed (the door side). I love that, too. I love that Joyce is handling breakfast while Jonathan oversleeps, and I love that the lipstick on her son's cheek & the girl (shhhh!) scurrying around her back porch makes her happy. I love the uptempo song that's playing: "Open The Door" by Gentlemen Afterdark. I just love all of this so, so much.

[ordinarydoodles]

We don't talk about that

Maybe you'll be okay with it now People change, after all. Everyone changes. But I remember how I saw drag queens for the first time on some dumb daytime talk show And I remember thinking "That's weird but as long as they're happy" Until you sat down and calmly told me that they were not evil, but what they were doing was a sin Talking in your teacher voice I was confused, but I nodded anyways Wasn't a sin supposed to hurt someone? I remember how you watched the Oscars in a furious rage the year Brokeback Mountain came out Curled stone-stiff like a gargoyle at the edge of the couch, And how you sat back with a satisfied huff and said "Good, that's the way it should be" when it didn't win Best Picture You don't even care about the Oscars It wasn't even a good movie, it was just boring and sad and no one got a happy ending But, like, it's not about sad films about men kissing, or sins that don't hurt anyone It's not about women in wigs It's not even about hate It's about the ones called the fathers going out and living lives and the ones called the mothers saying home and getting fucked It's about the boy cousins getting multitools and girl cousins getting bath sets It's about me cracking a joke in first grade and the teacher going "quiet!" And a boy two seats over cracking the exact same joke five minutes later and the teacher laughing It's about someone taking you and forcing you, step by excruciating step, to recognize dirt and clean it, anticipate hunger and feed it, see a grown-ass adult man and know that your five-year-old child self is responsible for his care and upkeep whining and fighting and complaining every step of the way (while the boy cousins play Nintendo) and then later they have the nerve to tell you that women are naturally caretakers. It's about how I'm still not exactly sure if the devil scooped out my brain and stuck a stranger behind my eyes, someone who would adorn themselves in long lashes and hunger pangs, if you would even notice It's about how, until I was 19, the only words I had to describe myself were "girl, but wrong" It's about this guy randomly telling me he had feelings for me and me not feeling anything at all towards him, not one thing, not love or curiosity or boredom or disinterest or pity not one thing and I said "okay" because I didn't know what else to say (turns out that was the wrong thing to say) It's about being body-checked out of the way when some guy lurches forward to pull open the door that I was just about to open and he holds it open like he's announcing the fucking pope and he's half blocking the doorway and then he kind of glares at me when I sort of awkwardly wriggle past him and don't make eye contact and don't say thank you I didn't ask to play a bit part in your street theater improv I definitely didn't ask to be typecast It's about how being a woman makes you less of a man And you can always be less of a man But you can never be less of a woman It's about a game that isn't fun and no one wins and everyone has to play it forever And no one is willing to admit it's a stupid game And the people who do, the people who realize that it can be fun, all the players who say it's not a game want to kill them Like actual death I don't know if I'll ever tell you I never talk to you anyways and I'm pretty sure that if we went to some gallery that was unexpectedly displaying Electric Fan (Feel It Motherfuckers) That even if I explained the story behind it, the deliberate disregard, the lovers torn apart and denied a final comfort, the history of all the people who were erased by their families, (the unspoken question of what you would erase-and-replace on my gravestone) you would still wonder why I was making a scene crying in front of a stupid box fan You're embarrassing yourself Thank goodness we don't have any of that in our family

[ozuzo]

The clock ticks on and on... and all that was bewitching turns into venom and blood

[wyvernquill]

One more snippet of the Dreamling Anastasia AU

...in which we witness Hob and Murphy's very first conversation (spoiler: it doesn't go well). Please enjoy!

Link to the Masterpost!

(Tag list, let me know if you want to be added or taken off: @10moonymhrivertam @martybaker @globglobglobglobob @anonymoustitans @sunshines-fabulous-legs @dreamsofapiratelife @malice-royaume @kcsandmanfan @acedragontype @okilokiwithpurpose @tharkuun @silver-dream89 @i-write-stories-not-sins-bitch)

---

For a moment, the scene unfolding before Hob makes him think he’s stepped into a fairytale - or perhaps a sweet and strange dream, haunting you ever so gently even after waking.

Once upon a time, thinks Hob, there was a Dream King draped in a cloak of midnight, and he held court over the ravens in a silver-winter forest under heavy, snow-laden boughs…

But then he blinks, and the silly, fanciful vision fades. The cloak is but a dark coat three sizes too large and marked by at least ten years’ worth of dirt and wear, the forest only a small and pitiful park fenced in by roads, and the snow a dirty grey, barely more than half-melted sludge where countless feet have trodden it down.

And the Dream King is only some beggar called Murphy, of course, uncanny resemblance be damned.

But there are ravens. Birds of all kinds, really, the sounds of their wings and their various songs nearly managing to drown out the noise of the city around them. Yet Hob is a practical man, and knows that they gather around their ‘king’ only because they’re clever little buggers waiting to be fed, and not thanks to any strange magics.

(Magic died when humanity rose up and brought the Endless low; and what little survived has fled, concealed itself, and would know better than to enchant a hundred or so birds in broad-if-cloud-dimmed daylight.

Magic died with Dream of the Endless, and all that is left are shadows and cheap facsimiles.

Magic died, and nothing will bring it back.)

And yet… there’s potential there, Hob thinks, as he watches Murphy draw his giant coat more tightly around himself, shivering but still holding his head high and proud, surveying the assorted fowl around him as if they were his subjects. There’s a sharp, delicate arrogance in his bearing that will serve their deception well.

And. Christ alive. He does look like him, doesn’t he. Like the Sandman himself, made flesh and bone and sweat and dirt. Made human. If Hob didn’t know, with absolute certainty… he could swear...

Ridiculous thought. Dream of the Endless would never sink so low as to get himself thrown out of a pub swearing and spitting, human or not.

Murphy’s eyes suddenly snap up, and Hob flinches instinctively, contemplates ducking behind the next tree or the column advertising the latest local plays - but the man’s gaze passes over him carelessly, long neck craning out from the ratty scarf wound around his throat as he scans the sky.

It’s the raven. The large, coal-feathered beast Murphy had with him at the pub, with the clever glint in its eye - and in its claws, it holds a whole loaf of bread, clearly pilfered from some bakery or street stall.

The raven drops the bread into Murphy’s lap, and then lands on his shoulder, cawing and nudging its beak against a sharp cheekbone in a strange avian gesture of affection.

Murphy rasps some sort of acknowledgement in his dark, hoarse voice that Hob is too far away to parse, stroking a finger along the bird’s side, before turning his attention to the bread.

His spindly, dirty fingers tear into it with the hungry desperation of a man who remembers with precise clarity when his last meal was, and also that it’s been far too long since then, and Hob’s stomach gives a sympathetic pang. He’s been there. Not so much recently - but he knows the slow gnaw of starvation, and will never forget it.

(He hasn’t gone hungry since meeting Gilbert, who’d rather skip on his own technically unnecessary meals if it meant his young human companion could eat his fill. Sometimes, Gil even hands Hob fruits he’s seemingly conjured up out of thin air, which are never as filling as the real thing, but taste heavenly enough to stave off hunger for a few more hours at least.

There must be some dream-magic there, something to do with Gil being, in all technicality, a meadow - but Hob doesn’t think about it too much. It’s sweet, the actions of a friend who truly cares, and that’s enough for him.)

Murphy raises the first morsel of bread up to his mouth…

…and feeds it to the raven.

Hob blinks.

Watches, as the man takes his own bite, chewing ravenously, and then tears another bit off the loaf, throwing it to the ground, birds immediately flocking around it, picking for their share.

The process repeats. Murphy goes through the entire loaf that way. One bite for the raven who stole the bread, one bite for Murphy himself, and one for the flocks of birds around him. Halfway through, the raven refuses its bites, presumably full, and from then on it’s one bite for Murphy, two for the birds. It’s already not the largest loaf, and a third of it is hardly enough to sate a grown man’s hunger - strangely selfless, this Murphy character. No wonder he’s thin as a rake.

(Then again, Hob supposes there’s strategy in it, teaching the birds that they’ll be well-rewarded for any bounty they bring him.

Altruism, or shrewdness? Hob wonders.)

Soon, there’s nothing left of the bread. Murphy still looks hungry, but it’s an exhausted, resigned hunger that’s there to stay. Hob doubts the man can remember a time he wasn’t hungry. This city is not kind to the starving, to the poor - Murphy might get a place in a workhouse, if he tried, but Hob doubts that quiet pride still shining through the veil of hunger would let him. And besides, they’re dying institutions, these days, workhouses - the modern world is turning up their noses at anything that might help the destitute, even as it churns out more and more of them. It’s a dark and miserable time they’re living in, and none of the glamorous parties the rich so love to throw these days will convince Hob otherwise.

But, well. If their scheme goes off without a hitch, then at the very least the new ‘Dream of the Endless’ will never go hungry again. Hob’s doing a public service here, if you look at it from the right angle - though he’ll be the first to admit that his main motivation is anything but selfless. Immortality is too rich a prize to pretend he doesn’t want it with every fibre of his being.

And he’ll not get it standing idly by and watching, that’s for sure.

Hob straightens his coat lapels, takes off his hat to comb his fingers through his overlong hair, places it back at a jaunty angle - and walks over to finally officially make this Murphy character’s acquaintance.

“Afternoon,” Hob says, still a few steps away, smile widening into a grin when Murphy’s gaze immediately fixes itself onto him, cold and filled with the sharp suspicion of a man most people go out of their way to ignore, and who does not trust direct address.

(The eyes give him away. Dream of the Endless had eyes like midnight stars, the depths of space and the glitter of distant galaxies eternally reflected in them. Strange eyes, inhuman eyes, endless eyes.

Murphy’s eyes are a pale, washed-out blue-grey, slightly sunken in their sockets, and perfectly ordinary.

No matter - they will already have to sell some cock-and-bull story about Dream having been forced into human form, the eyes will be the least of it.)

“What do you want?” Murphy growls, and that is perfect. The voice. Easily his best asset, besides the overall look. It’s right, scratchy and roughened by disuse, but just as deep and sonorous as Dream of the Endless's was. The harsh tone and tendency to curse like a sailor Hob witnessed at the inn will need to go, to be sure, this man speaks too much like a London gutter rat and not enough like the Lord of Stories - but, well, nothing a few lessons can't fix. Nobody else ever got the voice even remotely right, and this’ll already give them a lot more to work with.

“A moment of your time, m’lord. Nothing more.” Hob affects a cheeky bow, and does not waver under the cold disdain he receives in return. Mr. Murphy’s not a fan of teasing and gentle mockery, evidently - unfortunately, that is about 50% of Hob’s personality. They’ll get on just splendidly, won’t they. “Hob, at your service. Are you aware your lady sister is looking for you?”

A quick blink, even as Murphy’s entire scrawny body and haggard face goes very, very still.

“...I do not have a sister.” He says, only the slightest edge of uncertainty and confusion wavering in his voice. And then, “piss off, Robert Gadling” he adds, uncouth and vulgar, a scowl scrunching up his face. Oh, they’ll need to train that out of him, most certainly.

(Hob has not introduced himself as Robert, and certainly not as Gadling. That Murphy has named him thus nonetheless goes over both their heads.)

“No?” Hob smiles. “You’re not Dream of the Endless, then?”

Another blink - and then Murphy laughs, a horrible dissonant sound that seems like it ought to hurt his throat, the raven on his shoulder letting out a single caw alongside him.

“Are you drunk?” He snorts. “Dream of the Endless is dead. Every child knows it.”

“Every child believes it to be so. There’s a distinction.” Hob tries to take a step closer, but the sea of birds at their feet steadfastly refuses to part for him, so he thinks better of it. “You look exactly like him, you know. You might well be.”

“And you would know that, would you?” Murphy raises an arch eyebrow. “I think I’d remember having once been the personification of dreams.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Memory can be a funny thing.” Hob shoots back. “We don’t remember being born, do we? And some lose track of even more than that. How’s your recollection of your childhood, hm?”

Ah. Jackpot. The moment he speaks of remembering and childhoods, Murphy looks away, uncomfortable. Hit a sore spot there, has he? Memory issues. How interesting. How perfectly convenient.

“...you’ve had your fun now,” Murphy rasps, shifting uneasily, no longer so willing to defiantly meet Hob’s eyes. “I want no part in whatever game you’re intending to play with the London Poor, Gadling. Fuck off, before I make you.”

“Now, now, I really do think we’re on to something, here.” Giving up, Hob knows, is for fools who don’t really want to become immortal. “I’m quite certain-”

“Fuck. Off.” Murphy repeats, and turns his pale, unfortunately-human eyes on Hob again.

So do nearly a hundred birds, feathers ruffling and beaks clacking. The raven on Murphy’s shoulder caws, low and threatening.

Hob swallows, and takes stock of his options. Wonders if tactical retreats might not be just the thing for intelligent men who don’t want to die by bird before ever getting to take their stab at immortality.

“I’m only saying-” Hob tries instead, because he’s a reckless idiot.

Murphy’s eyes narrow, and he spits out a throaty sound like a command, the flock of birds rising as one, led by his personal raven jumping into flight with a sharp battle cry.

Shit.

Gilbert glances up when Hob returns covered in feathers and bird droppings, skin smarting where sharp beaks have pecked at him until he fled.

“I take it young Mr. Murphy was not particularly amenable to your proposal…?” He asks, delicately, lip twitching around a politely-repressed smile.

“Can’t say he was.” Hob shrugs easily, only wincing slightly at the way the movement pulls on his skin. “But I think I can convince him, Gil. Given enough time.”

“If you say so, young friend.” Gil, for his part, does not look particularly convinced either. He rarely is, when Hob first pitches his ideas, but he always comes around.

And so will Murphy.

Hob knows it’s only a matter of time… and, perhaps, some clever bribery.