#//It's his very CORE aspect

[dutybcrne]

Forever love the idea of Kaeya feeling both Distress but also Anger in the face of realizing just much he likes or even loves somebody.

[sublimerences]

I have absolutely no idea how they’d do it but I constantly daydream about a death note part II musical… give mello and near the duet they damn well deserve

Like. The original musical does such an insanely cool job of incorporating the each character’s instrumentals into the musical, I’d kill to see how they’d tackle Mello and Near oTL

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

Is gojo truly selfless? Most people think he does it for an ulterior motive and for his personal beneficial reasons & it’s kinda calculated. Like he can gain benefit out of it exp: saving yuuji from execution and saving megumi from his clan, to make his vision/dream of transforming the jujutsu society come true. So it’s kinda selfish more or less?

see . the thing about gojo is that he’s constantly walking on the fine line between ’extremely selfless’ and ’extremely selfish.’ the reason i often call him selfless is specifically in regards to how i see him acting when he’s in love — i think that if gojo loves you, what’s most comfortable for him is to distance himself from you and watch you be happy with someone else. even if it it irks at him. he would do it because he believes it’s best for the both of you.

but you could also make an argument that it’s very selfish because he’s ignoring what he feels for you and what you feel for him, making a decision that’s less paralyzing for him but making it for the both of you — etc. that’s kinda why it’s difficult. at some point selflessness and martyrdom spins back to selfishness; but either way i think gojo exists right at the gap between them. he's an extreme case.

relationship aside though, i’d call canon gojo selfless for very similar reasons — because his entire goal centers around the idea of everyone leaving him behind. i agree that gojo is calculative, and that both saving megumi and yuuji was apart of his dream to nurture powerful allies, but i also think you’re ignoring an extremely important part of gojo’s character by implying that’s all it was. gojo’s main character motivation is the preservation of youth — and another point that’s important to him is personal autonomy. he wants kids to be kids, and he wants people to get to choose how they live their lives. both of these motivations are more important to him than his selfless/selfish dream of being surpassed.

so, basically — i think gojo is very logical and calculative at his core, and he doesn’t do what he does out of the kindness of his heart — he does it because it’s important to him. protecting youth is important to him. being a mentor is important to him. he does what he does for himself which could be called selfish, but he also deliberately does things that bring him more pain, and more isolation, which could be called selfless. so it’s tough. overall i think it’s wrong to treat gojo like a saint but also wrong to treat him like some mastermind — gojo does what he wants, and he mostly wants things that are good.

[ruvviks]

finally found the time to draw beckett :^) he's one of the first (sort of) successful test subjects of arasaka's serpent projects but he doesn't go there anymore. got adopted into vulture's mercenary roster instead and is now one of her bloodhounds :^)

taglist (opt in/out)

@velocitic, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @mojaves;

@shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption, @ncytiri;

@calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm, @strafethesesinners;

@fashionablyfyrdraaca, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian, @estevnys, @elgaravel;

@aezyrraeshh, @carlosoliveiraa, @userbatwoman

[grimalkinmessor]

Was reading tsukinousagi's latest fic (as one does) and xie said that people tend to base their characterization of Light off a certain scene/point in the timeline—and it took me a minute to think about it but mine is probably this one:

[amhrosina]

was talking to my best friend about frank castle and how i feel like i’ve never understood a character as much as i do frank and she just nonchalantly goes

“do you think that’s because you relate to him?”

and i was taken aBACK like bitch i did not need you to point that out to me but thank you for the absolute crisis this is going to cause me

[imminent-danger-came]

Part of me, deep deep down, wonders if we still may have a scene of MK on his knees versus his friends a la 4x07

[longagoitwastuesday]

ngl it sort of pisses me off the way adults regard Gojo in Jujutsu Kaisen at times. Which could be a very interesting and poignant point in a good way if well written, but as it is it becomes mainly just frustrating and sad in a negative way.

Nanami saying Gojo never cared about anything or anyone other than himself crashes interestingly with Kusakabe saying the whole situation was just all his fault because he refused to kill Itadori. The students are very aware of those aspects of Gojo's personality, but overall they seem to regard him with way more kindness and fondness even when at their rudest, not truly coinciding with either Nanami's or Kusakabe's views.

[trans-rights-coastalmangoes]

y'all ever have that piece of media that you genuinely really love and it's got a huge active fanbase for it and everything but you can't really engage with the fandom at all because your experience with it was so so different than what other people are posting about

[sheila--e]

I wish more people understood Sheila E. so I could talk about the way I think they would've gotten on if Clara had lived. Like you're all about "everybody lives" this and "modern au" that. ok then, answer me this; how do you think Sheila's life would've been if Clara had lived and how can we apply that to her perspective during the helicopter crash/Night Bird Flying scene? answer, and quickly.

[ruvviks]

finally got around making a proper outfit reference sheet for nathan! he likes wearing dark clothes which really emphasizes just how pale he is. he was a STEM developer at MOBIUS for nine years what did you expect </3 click for higher resolution and to get a closer look at all the details! outfits from left to right: his gear for the evil within 2, 1am convenience store trip, his mobius gear, and an improvised outfit for my own fictional the evil within 3 =^)

taglist (opt in/out)

@shellibisshe, @florbelles, @ncytiri, @hibernationsuit, @stars-of-the-heart;

@lestatlioncunt, @katsigian, @radioactiveshitstorm, @estevnys, @adelaidedrubman;

@celticwoman, @rindemption, @carlosoliveiraa, @noirapocalypto, @dickytwister;

@killerspinal, @euryalex, @ri-a-rose, @velocitic, @thedeadthree;

@jacobseed, @swordcoasts

[upsidedowngrass]

man. my interpretations of liam and amelia end up as like . liam 🤝 amelia seeing themselves as Already Dead

[takkton]

And every day I wish he didn’t amen

[foldingfittedsheets]

So one thing I’ve noticed is that people’s DnD characters may vary but there is usually an underlying thread that they all have in common. This thread is typically related to what that person struggles with the most.

For instance, my betrotheds DnD characters: a bitchy warlock we had to bust out of two different pacts, a sassy barbarian, a reformed drow cultist, and a sunshine fighter cleric.

All these characters were wildly different but at their very core struggle was them grappling with their self worth. My betrothed struggles with their worth a great deal and even with different facets showing their characters all have that too.

Mine all tend to contend with different themes of loneliness and acceptance. Surprise, surprise, the little autistic gremlin yearns to have been met with more love and lasting friendships.

So we’re at breakfast. I am meeting a new friend of my betrotheds for the first time. It’s been twenty minutes since I’ve met this man. I say my theory. He laughs. He starts to describe a few of his characters but specifies that he often has healing aspects. He gives a very broad overview of their character arcs.

I ponder for a moment then said, “Would you like to have my assessment?”

He laughed, “Sure!”

“We’ve just met. It’s gonna get real.”

“Bring it on.”

“I think your struggle is that you feel you must offer something of value or service to people to be worthy of their love.”

His jaw dropped. His fork froze midway to his mouth. A potato fell. He stared into space as this sank in. Quietly he said, “Oh.”

[blindmagdalena]

Night Terrors

1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic. gif credit.

It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.

Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful. 

Tonight is not most nights.

The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him. "John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him. "Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!" "John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John." His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that “Homelander” doesn’t. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.

You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm. 

God knows he's suffered enough. With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain he’s endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be. Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, décor, the life you’ve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isn’t a lab. It isn’t an incinerator. It's home. "Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. It’s agony to wait, but you don’t touch him before he’s ready. You fist the bedsheets, you don’t stop talking. I’m here. I’m right here. I love you. You’re safe. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.

The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if it’s your own. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken. You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would. "You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much." He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. “I could feel it,” he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. “It hurt. Every second of it, and they just–they all just watched.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where it’s damp with sweat and your own tears. “You’re safe now,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isn’t enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.

His grip on you tightens. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap you in half.

That scare you? He’d asked you once. How easily I could break you?”

No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to. It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care. 

You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word. Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this. "Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of." He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. It’s that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.

Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.

His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, it’s something he has to bleed for every time. He’s perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable. 

If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.

Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever." You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. You’ll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be tainted–destroyed–by your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that he’ll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and he’ll be able to forgive himself for the human way his god’s heart bleeds. "I know. I know that.” You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. “I love you, too. Every part of you."

Even the parts you hate. Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while he’s holding you. Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, you’d open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.

"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful. "Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense. To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there. 

Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.

You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.

[viir-tanadhal]

no no listen i see the vision

what were the other ones then