#suffering this last week

[waspgrave]

I hate downloading cc and starting up legacy families but I love having cc and legacy families

[acuar-io]

Home

[bluespiritshonour]

here's 18-19 year old aang sketches. been hearing aang is ugly discourse—no he ain't. he was just 12.

[djservo]

dykes to watch out for

[http-byler]

☆ NOT STRONG ENOUGH ☆

[einsatzzz]

H.K. & H.K. 🥹💖✨ khr x sanrio collab will always live rent-free inside my brain

[pumpkin-spice-ed]

everyone on blackbeard's crew thinks he's almost supernaturally gifted at predicting the weather. he simply doesn't tell them the real trick is having a bad knee that will start acting up approximately one (1) day before a major weather change

[raineandsky]

#87

The hero shoves the villain into a seat at an agency desk in cuffs and abandons them there. The most of the outside world they’ve seen since they got here a month ago. “Where’s my supposed visitor then?” the villain snaps.

The hero ignores him in favour of walking back through the agency. Naturally.

They’re starting to suspect this is a test—left alone, apparently waiting for someone, the double-doored exit right in front of them? Come on—when the hero returns with someone in tow. Young, an absolute nerd, and not in cuffs. A citizen. 

The villain scowls as the hero gestures him into the chair opposite with a lot more grace than the villain ever gets the luxury of seeing. She has to keep up appearances to the innocents, they assume.

“Hello,” the civilian opens. Oh, he speaks like a nerd, too. This should be interesting.

“You have half an hour,” the hero says, pointedly aiming it at the civilian. “I’ll come back then.”

He nods and with that she’s off. The civilian adjusts his glasses on his nose for a moment. The villain stares at him in the hopes that they can unnerve him into submission.

“I’m studying psychology at the city university,” he says after an awkward pause. “I’m in need of a case study for my dissertation. I thought someone like yourself would make a good person to examine for my report.”

Clearly he’s had that little script written up somewhere. He throws them a smile, lopsided with nerves, and the villain scowls in response.

“I thought human experimentation was frowned on with the do-gooders,” the villain says shortly. That breaks the civilian out of his clearly practised speech; he positively blanches at the insinuation.

“Wh– I– It’s not experimentation.” The last word comes out like a swear—hushed, spat out like a bad taste. “I’d like you to be the subject of my dissertation. I want to be a therapist, you see.”

“A therapist,” the villain echoes flatly. “What, you’re going to CBT me into being an outstanding citizen?”

The civilian laughs, slightly. He seems like he’s not entirely sure if he’s meant to laugh at that. “If you’re open to it.”

“I’d love to see you try.”

The civilian leans back with a huff, resting an open notebook on his knee like a journalist. “So, where’d your interest in crime start?”

“Do I not get an incentive?” The villain tuts with dramatic annoyance. “You want me to tell you my tragic backstory for free?”

The civilian sits with that for a moment. His pen taps rather irritably against his book. Then, a ghost of a smile, a lot less lopsided than before and a lot more confident than the villain likes.

“If you give me something of note I could” — he waves his hands about rather broadly — “theoretically advocate for you. Prove that none of this is your fault and get you released.”

The villain was expecting him to offer a bag of sweets or something. That’s not an incentive to talk, it’s a goddamn reason.

The villain clears their throat. Shuffles on their rickety little chair. Heaves a deep breath.

“Well,” the villain starts, and everything that comes out of their mouth after it is a lie.

Why wouldn’t it be? This kid’s stupid if he thinks a villain is going to let him pin them down as a person. Besides, they don’t need to be studied—they like crime and they like doing it even more. Not exactly a mysterious case needing to be psychoanalysed.

The civilian hangs onto every word though, the naive kid he is. He scrawls notes furiously the entire time the villain’s talking, nodding enthusiastically and asking more questions here and there. The villain entertains him as much as they entertain themself.

“Half hour’s up,” the hero drawls upon her return. The civilian hops up with half a notebook of scribbles and a beaming smile. The villain would feel bad if they cared.

“Thank you, [Villain],” he says brightly, clearly ecstatic to have a villain on his side. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’m excited to work together.”

“Pleasure’s all yours,” the villain says plainly, and with another unsure laugh the civilian turns on his heel and sets off. The hero takes on the brave duty of lugging the villain back to their dingy little cell.

The villain has no intention of changing, of course. The civilian’s little project will be a fun way to pass the time. If they just make note of the tale they’re weaving, they can tell him the most ludicrous stories and he’ll fall for them hook line and sinker.

Makes for good entertainment in an agency prison, after all.

[thesovereignsring-if]

Despite the fact that Sieghardt has blue hair I'm pretty sure whenever I read or think of him I just imagine white hair, maybe it because to be Sieghardt seems like a name someone with white hair would have

I've been bullying Sieg all day so here you go, Anon. Sieg will always be my silly blue hair bookie, but there's no deny the white + gold combo is 🤌

[ah-bright-wings]

Sound - A Triduum Story

Malchus can feel the heavy gazes of the others. He ignores them. His own eyes are pinned to the door they guard, listening to the drip of water condensing and dropping onto the floor. There is no rain, but the air is damp, as if the heavens are drawing out the wet stores of the earth in preparation for a storm. 

Customarily, the chill would make him wish for his bed. He’d grumble with his fellows about the weather, about the work, peppering complaints with a few stout curses. But there is no discussion tonight. Malchus sits hunched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, and he waits.

What are they waiting for?

Cold fingers touch the lobe of his left ear. He turns to see Jesse, who’d touched him, withdrawing, fingers curling into his palm. The apology is gruff. “Just wanted to see.”

That’s a lie, thinks Malchus, turning back to the door. They’ve already seen tonight. What’s left is to believe.

Malchus doesn’t ask permission before he rises, taking the flask which hangs on a wall hook, and the keys there beside it. The eyes of the others follow. He unlocks the door and slips in, shutting it behind, and then pauses, palm flat on the wood. He takes a breath. 

Drip.

Drip.

The Nazarene’s hands are chained so that he must stand. His head bows, forehead resting against the bruised back of his right hand. He lifts himself when Malchus enters. His lips, which had been moving silently, still.

Malchus holds out the flask. Then, as an embarrassing afterthought—the man is in chains—he uncorks it. 

“It’s just water,” he assures when the man doesn’t move to drink. He tips the flask close enough to meet the cracked lips. The Nazarene swallows twice and then pulls back, chains jingling. His face is wet. Tears, Malchus thinks, until he hears the drip of water dropping onto the man’s head. It slides down his temple and dirty cheek, carving a clean track through the crust. Malchus re-corks the flask.

It’s not quite fear that he feels. He had felt fear on his knees in Gethsemane, blood down his neck and a howl on his tongue. The world was silent, then, and shrieking, dizzy with pain and the terror of new loss. When strong hands cupped his face, he clung to them. He grabbed hold of words he could not hear but lips he could see moving, breath he could feel on his face, brown eyes he could see.

And then, he could hear. 

It was as if he’d never before heard sound, not true sound, but only echos, half-formed, half-heard, until that very moment when he heard truly. Each noise was crisp and new. Around him were the night birds stirring in the trees, the puffed breath of the disciples, the crackle of licking flame, the creak of leather belts. He heard them all, and he hasn’t stopped hearing since. Creation is vibrating, uncountable voices overlapping in the same tremulous song. Even the breeze seems to have a voice, and the water running on stone. Even his own heartbeat. They cry out when the rest of the world is silent.

“What did you do to me?” Malchus asks, voice barely above a whisper, for everything is new and he cannot make sense of it. 

The Nazarene’s smile isn’t mocking. It’s as quiet as his voice, and it crinkles the corner of his good eye. “I know how long you’ve waited to hear.”

They’ve never met, of course. Of course not. This man doesn’t know him. How could he? Malchus has taken great pains to hide his gradual loss of sound. Each year, the muffle covers his ears a little more, stealing his senses, deadening the world to him. If he misses a call, he plays it off. If he cannot hear his wife calling, he feigns captivation by his task. He does it well, he thinks, well enough. Perhaps his wife suspects. But only he knows, only he and his God. And this backwater Nazarene with an accent pulled from Galilee’s fishing waters—because Malchus can hear the accent now—cannot know Malchus. How could he? No, he does not.

But he knows. 

Malchus is sure, standing before this man who made him more than whole, that he is known. Known, and known truly. And here stands Malchus, his jailer. His enemy.

“How could you know?” he asks, eyes searching the Nazarene’s. The water drips, drips. A rat scritches at a bit of stone. “I can’t do anything for your case. They’re bringing you to Pilate.” His grip tightens on the flask—his only offering—and the stale water it holds. The words pour out of him. “I’m a guard. They told us to go, so we went. I had no stake in it, see? See, we were told to go. I was told to go. I never intended—”

“Malchus,” the man says softly, almost fondly, as if he is interrupting a brother and not one walking him to his death. “Will you pray with me?”

The request startles Malchus out of his own thoughts. He pauses, wary of some trick. Without meaning to, his hand rises to touch the warm outer shell of his ear, tracing the connecting point between the cartilage and his skull. There’s not even a seam to show where it had been severed.

Mouth dry, Malchus finally nods, and the Nazarene closes his good eye. The water slides again down his temples. His words fill the damp space, and Malchus recognizes them at once, joining the recitation:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

and naked shall I return.

The Lord gave—”

The man breathes in, and Malchus breathes with him.

“—and the Lord has taken away;”

Their breath stirs the stale air of the room. All has finally gone quiet. The Nazarene opens his eye and tips his head to look up, past the stone roof, past the courtyard and the trembling earth, to the heavens, spread out over them like a tent. The water no longer falls. The rat is silent. 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he says.

[cautionszz]

day five! disciple doodles

[internetcatholicism]

Please pray for my back to heal quickly so I can keep training and be ready for the race coming up.

[valgeristik]

Пускай всё чаще угрожают мне расправой, Но я и в драке хорош собой!

The more time passes, the more Chicory looks like a runaway theater actor playing a musketeer.

And I wouldn't change a thing <3

(he/she/they)

AND IT IS ALL THANKS TO КИШ

[aircommandr]

sorry guys im hyperfixing on horses (theyre mt special interest) so i cant draw anything but horses.

so kinda an artblock and ive lost the touch (pun intended) with drawing transformers

[clitfisto]

WHO UP FEELING LIKE SHIT AND ASS

[lord-squiggletits]

Bolts upright from my bed

In an AU where Pharma lives the Adaptus thing and comes back on the Lost Light, wouldn't he find out that the crew had to deal with being cornered and nearly killed by the DJD and a bunch of other Decepticons?

And then Pharma could get to be like "oh I see :) you were under threat by the DJD :))) why didn't you just run? Oh you couldn't and had no means of escape? Funny :)))) didn't you call for help? Oh you did right??? And did anyone come???? :)))))) did anyone come in time to save you from the DJD????? DID THEY????? DID YOU JUST CALL FOR HELP AND RUN AWAY AND THE DJD JUST LET YOU GO????? :))))))))))) OH THE DJD BLOCKED COMMUNICATIONS AND HAD YOU SURROUNDED????? OH HOW TRAGIC I GUESS YOU COULDN'T ESCAPE AFTER ALL AND A LOT OF YOUR FRIENDS DIED :)))))))))))))))) AND THE ONLY REASON YOU WON WAS BECAUSE YOU HAD A LOT OF SUPERPOWERFUL FIGHTERS ON YOUR SIDE???? WOW IMAGINE WHAT MIGHT'VE HAPPENED IF YOU HAD NO FRIENDS AND BARELY ANY MILITARY SUPPORT AND THE DJD CAME HUH??? WOW WHAT A RELIEF THAT DIDNT HAPPEN"

-

In other words, I'm pretty much convinced that the reason Pharma is remembered as "the evil cowardly doctor that murdered innocents to save his own skin" instead of "the Autobot that got mindbroken by Tarn into thinking that making a plague and killing everyone was his only way to escape" is because he got introduced before the DJD were established as a pants-shittingly evil and sadistic group of freaks, and unlike Rodimus' crew he didn't have the luxury of being a main character whose thoughts and experiences were shown on screen. Pretty much his reputation as "crazy token evil Autobot" was sealed from MTMTE #5 and by the time MTMTE #50-something brought Dying of the Light, Pharma was a footnote in the story and never got to have this new information about the terror of the DJD factored into his own character.