#Defy All Limits

[torteen]

This advertisement is for Infinity Alchemist, a dark academia fantasy about a quest that leads three young alchemists toward dangerous truth, legendary love, and extraordinary power from the bestselling and award-winning author of Felix Ever After, Kacen Callender.

The art featured in this image is by Chris Sack. 

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

Defy All Limits.

For Ash Woods, practicing alchemy is a crime. Only an elite few are legally permitted to study the science of magic—so when Ash is rejected by Lancaster College of Alchemic Science, he takes a job as the school’s groundskeeper instead, forced to learn alchemy in secret. When he’s discovered by the condescending and brilliant apprentice Ramsay Thorne, Ash is sure he's about to be arrested—but instead of calling the reds, Ramsay surprises Ash by making him an offer: Ramsay will keep Ash's secret if he helps her find the legendary Book of Source, a sacred text that gives its reader extraordinary power. As Ash and Ramsay work together and their feelings for each other grow, Ash discovers their mission is more dangerous than he imagined, pitting them against influential and powerful alchemists—Ash’s estranged father included. Ash’s journey takes him through the cities and wilds across New Anglia, forcing him to discover his own definition of true power and how far he and other alchemists will go to seize it.

[mizumuu]

>Laughs Out Loud

I thought that piece was just about people focusing too hard on labelling Mizuki instead of letting them be themselves like they ask, not that it was transphobia ._ .

its ok to have ur own interpretation of that piece but its very clear to me that that wasnt ame's intention

[sableprince]

i really want to sit down and make a proper Real lore doc for these goobers and not just the paragraphs of shtuff from whatever-ago, but like....... (buries myself underneath the dirt) lazy!!!!!!!

[weaponsdrawn]

I gen can't go to sleep I'm losing my shit over this comic in the best way imaginable thank you Toontown wiki for having all the storyline Twitter comics now I'm losing my mind why is this actually kind of adorable in that way that two nuclear bombs holding hands and spinning and frolicking off into the sunset is adorable this shit is making me go insane I hope they both explode

[yuelun]

As I'm finally writing more, I needed to just note how much I love Guizhong of Liyue, again.

I cannot describe how much it thrills me to my very core to write a character that is so otherworldly and divine, but is so absolutely humanly curious about seriously everything and honestly, even the little, trivial things that one would think don't matter. And it's the latter that gives me such serotonin to write, to witness in these mental images in my head.

[variousqueerthings]

I'm interested in the fact that many of the cultural genders that historically have allowed a crossing from man-to-woman or woman-to-man, have still maintained boundaries on what the actions of man and woman are (that is, a woman-to-man goes through the actions of manhood as dictated within x culture, and vice versa), which includes modern-day-terminology heterosexuality

want to do a deep dive at some point into

genders that exist outside of or in conversation with man-or-woman (so perhaps fluid or situational, as well as full-time something else)

genders that exist alongside something we may call homo- or bisexuality

[freefallintothevoid]

Dick Grayson's unmatched success as a child vigilante makes a lot more sense when you remember the Court of Owls was a thing and that Dick was meant to be the next Grey Son.

There is no way that someone at Haly's Circus wasn't there keeping an eye on him while he grew up. A future weapon needs to be trained and monitored after all, and a circus, a place where weird skills are completely normal, is actually a great place to secretly train a child.

You know, just some knife tricks that translated really well into actual fighting. How to get out of restraints and pick locks while under a time limit. Death defying acrobatic stunts that coincidentally do wonders for parkouring. That sort of thing. Nothing that seems out of place for a boy growing up around circus performers to learn, but would literally any where else.

I mean, while I fully believe that most kids would want to kill the man responsible for their parents deaths, Dick was weirdly prepared to go through it. He tracked down Zucco with way more ease than any normal child should have too. He became the first child vigilante, for goodness sake. The first Robin! He only started getting formal training after he basically forced Bruce into it!

Bruce himself has no idea that this kind of competency in a child is unusual, considering he was much too blinded by the similarities between his and Dick's tragic orphanhoods.

Alfred is in a similar boat because he’s desensitized to weird children after he somehow managed to successfully raise Bruce 'The Batman' Wayne, so he doesn't clock the hyper-competency as abnormal either.

By the time the other batkids start popping up (Jason 'The Audacity' Todd, borderline-street rat with no fear) (Tim 'the greatest stalker in Gotham history' Drake, child genius, also bullied his way into becoming Robin) (Barbara 'raised by the only uncorrupt cop in gotham' Gordon) (Stephanie 'daddy issues and spite' Brown) (Duke 'Pretends he's the normal one and people believe him' Thomas) it's too late.

It would also explain how Dick got along so well with Damian out of all of them. Similar childhood with different approaches and all that. On some subconscious level, Dick recognises and resonates with the murderous ten year old assassin with strong familial ties to a secret elite assassin organization.

It isn't until after the whole Court of Owls and Grey Son reveal that suddenly Dick realises a whole lot of things about his childhood that suddenly make a lot more sense.

[rugessnome]

Jedi/most people:

Me: no, give me an ε of good and I will find a Koom Valley CaCO3 dejarik stalagmite of a Δ in him with which to get it

[sapphicslut777]

Never perform a death defying act

And I won't fall

I am brave, I can save the very small

I am everything

But I'm nothing at all

You compare my light to the sky

Why do you try to make me

Better than the divine?

It isn't the same

Don't give it a name

Let me remain

Let me remain

I'm everything I've ever been

I'm everything I've ever seen

I'm everything that slowly falls

I'm everything and I'm nothing at all

I will perform a death-defying miracle

For someone with the chemicals to believe

I am brave, but I've gravely understated

I can't save you from what you've taken and leave

You compare our love to the sun

What have you done?

There's a limit to the prizes we've won

It isn't the same

Don't give it a name

Let me remain

Let me remain

I am everything I have ever been

I am everything I've ever seen

I'm everything that slowly falls

I'm everything and I'm nothing at all

I'm nothing at all

I will perform a death-defying magic show

For those of you that want to go someplace else

I'm brave, but I can't save you

From the things you won't change for yourself

You compare my light to the moon

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

It isn't the same

Don't give it a name

Let me remain

Let me remain

I am everything I have ever been

I am everything I have ever seen

I am everything that slowly falls

I am everything and I am nothing at all

I am nothing at all

[torteen]

This advertisement is for Infinity Alchemist, a dark academia fantasy about a quest that leads three young alchemists toward dangerous truth, legendary love, and extraordinary power from the bestselling and award-winning author of Felix Ever After, Kacen Callender.

The art featured in this image is by Chris Sack. 

WHAT’S IT ABOUT

“Magic was once thought to only be gifted to the unique or special, the chosen ones. Now it was commonly known that every single person in the world had the capability to become an alchemist.”

For Ash Woods, practicing alchemy is a crime. Only an elite few are legally permitted to study the science of magic—so when Ash is rejected by Lancaster College of Alchemic Science, he takes a job as the school’s groundskeeper instead, forced to learn alchemy in secret. When he’s discovered by the condescending and brilliant apprentice Ramsay Thorne, Ash is sure he's about to be arrested—but instead of calling the reds, Ramsay surprises Ash by making him an offer: Ramsay will keep Ash's secret if he helps her find the legendary Book of Source, a sacred text that gives its reader extraordinary power. As Ash and Ramsay work together and their feelings for each other grow, Ash discovers their mission is more dangerous than he imagined, pitting them against influential and powerful alchemists—Ash’s estranged father included. Ash’s journey takes him through the cities and wilds across New Anglia, forcing him to discover his own definition of true power and how far he and other alchemists will go to seize it.

[psychotrenny]

The thing with 9/11 is that no one cares that much about the death and destruction itself. Buildings fall down and people die all the time, including in the US. Like at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic you had entire 9/11s worth of USamericans dying on a regular basis. If all that damage was caused by an earthquake or faulty building practices or whatever, there wouldn't have been nearly as much fuss about it. It's not as if the insane response from US population was a matter of "two building fall down"

The reason why 9/11 was so upsetting to the US population was their widespread feelings of Imperialist Chauvinism and the subsequent outrage at seeing it so openly and violently defied. The US was at the height of its Imperialist power at the turn of the millennium, a hegemonic superpower that was dominant in some way over more or less the entire world. Whether they'd phrase it in such a way or not, most people in the US were very well aware of this; as far as they were concerned the US was truly the greatest country on the Earth. For some this was a point of pride, for others it was a simple fact of the world. This made them feel secure; bombings and mass killings might happen in those "shithole nations" of the earth but it couldn't happen over there. The US military could wipe entire cities off the map and like maybe that was good, maybe that was unfortunate and maybe it meant nothing at all. Either way that was normal; the violence flowed from the Core to the Periphery.

Until one day it didn't. One day a group of people from that Periphery, from some shithole group of nations, struck back. Now the sorts of destruction they'd seen on TV were happening right outside their window; the US got the smallest taste of the sort of brutality they had long inflicted on the rest of the world. And they did not like that taste at all. The US people as a whole went mad with grief and rage, not at the death of any people but the death of their sense of unquestionable safety and superiority. And the only hope of getting that feeling back was to inflict a revenge so terrible that no one would dare resist or retaliate again.

If bloodshed was how they'd built their empire, only more bloodshed could keep it safe. And this time they didn't even have to feel bad about it. It's not as if the US empire had ever given the world any peace, but now they had the perfect pretense to escalate it to levels not seen in decades. If they talked about this isolated and comparatively limited attack as though it was some great invasion, the US government and its supporters could take all the moral high ground of "self defence" even as they slaughtered impoverished peoples on the other side of the world. So it made sense to treat the 11 September attacks as though they were the greatest tragedy of all time. 9/11 didn't break the US psyche, it just made them express it in a more shameless way. It's not as though genocidal Imperialist violence was anything new to the USA. Afghans were just the new Apaches; the "Middle East" a new "Wild West"

[satellite-evans]

clumsy

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader

Summary: Your clumsiness is going to be the death of Lando.

Word count: 2k+

Warnings: injuries, fluff, worried Lando

A/N:

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The first time Lando saw you trip over nothing, he thought it was a one-time thing. Maybe you were just tired, maybe the floor was uneven, maybe it was just bad luck. But after months of dating, he realized it was just... you.

You were a walking hazard. A human magnet for misfortune. A professional at collecting bruises, scrapes, and band-aids like they were limited-edition collectibles.

And, unfortunately for Lando, that meant he was constantly on high alert.

“Babe!” His panicked voice rang out as he watched you stumble over absolutely nothing on the kitchen floor. In one fluid motion, he darted forward, catching you before you could face-plant into the counter. His arms wrapped securely around your waist, keeping you from further self-destruction.

You blinked up at him, sheepish. “Oops.”

Lando let out a dramatic sigh, holding you steady. “How does this keep happening?”

“I have my theories.” You shrugged, playfully tapping your temple. “Faulty wiring.”

He shook his head, scanning you for any new injuries with the practiced precision of someone who had done this far too many times. “You need bubble wrap. No, actually, I’m getting you a helmet.”

You giggled, resting your hands on his chest. “A helmet for walking?”

“Yes. And knee pads. And elbow pads. And maybe a full-body suit.” He crouched slightly, running his fingers over a fresh bruise forming on your knee. His lips pressed together in frustration. “When did this happen?”

You followed his gaze, only now noticing the purple splotch decorating your skin. “Uh… I have no idea actually.”

Lando groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Love, you’re killing me.”

You grinned, cupping his face between your hands. “But you love me anyway.”

“Unfortunately.” He sighed dramatically, but the fond smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “I swear, one of these days, you’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I’ll try not to,” you teased, pecking his lips. “No promises, though.”

Despite his exaggerated complaints, he was always there to patch you up. He had a first-aid kit permanently stocked—no, actually, he had multiple, one in the car, one in the bathroom, and a travel-sized version in his bag. He had mastered the art of wrapping bandages, applying ointments, and kissing away the pain (even if you insisted that last part was unnecessary).

At this point, he was convinced he could get a medical degree solely from the amount of practice he had.

And yet, no matter how many times he swore he’d wrap you in protective gear, he never failed to hold onto you just a little tighter, watching out for stray corners, slippery floors, and rogue table edges like they were mortal enemies.

Because, as exhausting as it was, he wouldn’t trade you—or your inexplicable ability to defy gravity—for anything.

Even if it meant keeping an ice pack ready at all times.

As if on cue, you turned to walk away and immediately stubbed your toe on the kitchen island.

“Ow! Shit!”

Lando just groaned, rubbing his temples. “That’s it. I’m putting you in a bubble.”

“That seems excessive.”

“You just injured yourself standing still!”

You grinned sheepishly. “Okay, fair point.”

Shaking his head, he pulled you into a hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” you corrected, snuggling into him.

He sighed, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah. My menace.”

You were chopping vegetables, fully focused—well, as focused as you ever were when handling sharp objects—when you somehow managed to cut yourself with the knife.

The sharp sting made you gasp, and almost instantly, blood welled up from the deeper cut. Before you could even fully process what had happened, Lando was already at your side. He had been watching you closely (as he often did whenever you were near anything remotely dangerous), and the moment he saw the slip, he sprang into action.

“Shit,” he muttered, grabbing your wrist gently but firmly. “Alright, that’s enough knife duty for you.”

His voice was laced with worry, though he tried to mask it with his usual teasing tone. His eyes darted to your finger, the cut deeper than the usual minor scrapes you tended to collect. Without hesitation, he led you to the sink, turning on the tap and holding your hand under the cool water.

“You know, normal people don’t injure themselves every day,” he tried to joke, though his brows were furrowed as he watched the water run red.

You hissed at the sting but still managed a lopsided grin. “I like to keep life exciting.”

Lando huffed a laugh, though there was a tightness in his jaw. “Yeah, well, I’d prefer if you found a less hazardous way to do that.”

After patting your hand dry with a towel, he grabbed the first-aid kit (which, at this point, he always kept within arm’s reach). His movements were careful, almost practiced, as he disinfected the wound. His fingers ghosted over your skin with such tenderness it almost distracted you from the sting of the antiseptic.

“This is deeper than your usual cuts,” he muttered, pressing a sterile gauze pad to your finger before wrapping it securely in a bandage. “It doesn't need stitches thankfully but you really need to be more careful.”

You winced, flexing your fingers slightly. “Well, at least I have you to patch me up.”

He sighed, shaking his head, but the corner of his lips twitched upward. When he was done, he lifted your hand to his lips, pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles.

“There. Good as new,” he murmured, but his grip on your hand remained firm, like he was reluctant to let go.

You wiggled your fingers dramatically. “Wow, a miraculous recovery. See? This is why I keep you around.”

Lando scoffed, feigning offense. “Oh, so I’m just your personal medic now?”

“Pretty much.” You shot him a cheeky wink before immediately reaching for the knife again.

Before you could even graze the handle, Lando snatched it away with lightning-fast reflexes. “Absolutely not.”

You pouted, eyes wide with faux innocence. “I was just gonna—”

“Nope.” He held the knife out of your reach, shooting you a pointed look. “I’m officially banning you from sharp objects.”

You crossed your arms, watching as he took over the cutting board and started chopping with ease. “So, what, I just sit here and do nothing?”

Lando smirked. “Exactly. Just sit there and be adorable.”

Your lips curled into a slow grin. “You think I’m adorable?”

His chopping faltered for a split second, and you caught the way his ears tinged pink. He rolled his eyes, refusing to meet your gaze. “Shut up.”

But when you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, you felt him smile against your touch.

A few days later, the two of you were strolling through the paddock, the soft air filled with chatter. It was the usual pre-race chaos—engineers darting between garages, reporters setting up for interviews, and fans cheering from the barriers.

Lando had a firm grip on your hand, partly because he liked holding it, but mostly because he had learned that letting go of you for even a second increased the chances of you tripping over something by approximately 100%.

Still, despite his best efforts, it happened.

One second, you were walking beside him, mid-sentence about what snacks they had in hospitality. The next, you were suddenly pitching forward with a startled yelp, your foot catching on a stray cable snaking across the ground.

Lando reacted instantly. With reflexes honed by years of racing at breakneck speeds, he lunged forward, his arm wrapping tightly around your waist just before you could crash onto the hard concrete.

“Alright, that’s it,” he huffed, keeping you firmly against him as you steadied yourself. “I’m officially holding onto you for the rest of the day.”

You barely even fought it, leaning into him with an amused grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you not break an ankle before my race,” he muttered, shooting a glance down at your shin. His jaw clenched at the sight of fresh bruises already forming. “How do you even manage this?”

You shrugged as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Raw talent.”

Lando scoffed, shaking his head, though the corners of his lips twitched. He tugged you even closer, keeping a protective arm around your waist as the two of you continued walking. From then on, any time there was so much as a crack in the pavement, he subtly steered you around it, refusing to take any more chances.

Lando’s race had gone well. Not a win, but a solid finish—good points, a few impressive overtakes, and, most importantly, no major mistakes. After the usual post-race interviews and debrief, all he wanted was to find you, wrap you up in a hug, and maybe gloat a little about how well he managed his tires.

But when he finally spotted you in the motorhome, his relief was short-lived.

You were sitting on one of the couches, clutching your ankle with an ice pack balanced precariously over what looked like a nasty bruise. Your expression was sheepish, but there was a telltale wince every time you shifted.

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell happened?” His voice was sharp with concern as he strode over, kneeling beside you in an instant. His eyes scanned over you, heart pounding at the thought of what he might find.

You attempted a grin, lifting the ice pack slightly to show off the deepening purple splotch spreading over your skin. “Well, you told me not to break anything before your race… so I did it during your race instead.”

You let out a small, nervous chuckle, expecting him to roll his eyes or make some sarcastic comment.

But Lando didn’t laugh.

His jaw clenched, his usual lighthearted expression darkened with something much more serious. “That’s not funny.” His voice was quieter now, more strained.

You swallowed, the weight of his worry sinking in. “Lando, it’s just a bruise. I didn’t actually break anything.”

He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his damp curls. “What happened?”

You shifted slightly, the movement making you wince again. “I was walking back from the paddock, and some guy wasn’t looking where he was going—ran right into me. I tripped over a barrier and, well… gravity did its thing.”

Lando closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to contain his frustration. “Jesus, Y/N.” His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure where he could touch without hurting you.

You sighed, placing your hand over his. “Hey, it’s okay. It just looks worse than it is.”

He gave you a look—one of those signature Lando Norris you’re full of shit expressions. “Yeah? So if I press here, it won’t hurt?” He gently placed his hand near the worst of the bruise.

You immediately flinched. “Ow, okay! Point made.”

Lando groaned, rubbing his face. “I leave you alone for one race.”

You pouted. “To be fair, I survived the whole weekend without getting injured until the race. I think that’s progress.”

Lando wasn’t amused. Instead, he carefully lifted your injured leg, maneuvering it so it was resting on his lap as he adjusted the ice pack. His touch was gentle, but his brows remained furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

After a long moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice softer now. “I just… hate seeing you get hurt.”

Your chest tightened at the genuine concern laced in his words. You reached up, cupping his face with your free hand. “I know.”

His blue eyes flickered up to meet yours, searching. “Promise me you’ll at least try to be more careful?”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “I promise to try.”

Lando huffed, clearly not satisfied, but he let it go—mostly. Instead, he leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before shifting to kiss the top of your knee, just above the bruise.

“You’re still getting the bubble wrap,” he mumbled against your skin.

You giggled. “And a helmet?”

“And a helmet.”

[frownyalfred]

I know there’s tons of fics where Dick starts training for Robin and obviously wows Bruce and Alfred with his gymnast abilities, but I need a follow up fic where ten year old Dick is highly suspicious of Bruce doing ANY sorts of flips or gymnastics routines because even though he’s seen Batman do some gravity-defying things, maybe that’s all theatrics.

And then there’s childish awe and a little bit of humor as Bruce does some sort of elaborate rings or pommel horse routine just to make Dick laugh and clap. And Alfred joins in because normally Bruce trains for function (cough, blindfolded) but not for fun, not just to make a lonely child laugh and offer up tips on form/timing. There’s things Dick can do that Bruce can’t, just because of weight/size, and there’s things Bruce can do that Dick can’t do because of strength limitations. But one day he will.

And he trains like that, with that goal in mind; light like Robin, strong like Batman. And that’s how Nightwing is born.

[worldoshaking]

I find Y’shtola so interesting; I think she exemplifies some very fascinating dilemmas, but what’s unique about her is that they’re externalised as ways of seeing the world rather than internal emotional states. Her perspective is also a really important aspect of the story and the world.

The most fundamental thing about her is that she’s a scientist. It’s not just what she does, it’s who she is. It represents her strengths, her ambitions, her temperament, and the way she interacts with the world.

Unlike the other scions, she’s a scientist who grew up outside of Sharlayan’s academic structure, and is unbounded by its strictures and politics. She represents unbounded theoretical curiosity, independent of institutions and all their dampening considerations. It’s a beautiful, idealised vision of what science could be, if unbound by considerations like institutional approval and funding. It’s something Y’shtola learned in part from Matoya, who rejected the confines of Sharlayan academia and accomplished stupendous things in her cave.

I think this complements G’raha Tia, who represents an idealised vision of what academia could be: he explores the limits of what people can achieve together if they can throw aside clout-chasing, nepotism, petty politicking, biases, and the other things that cloud the idealism of academic institutions. G’raha is someone who fell in love with what Sharlayan represented, and came back to point out how they fell short of their own ideals. G’raha is someone who works to reform institutions; Y’shtola simply works independently of them, pushing the limits of what one person can accomplish.

Another very scientific characteristic of Y’shtola is her refusal to acknowledge limits: when she finds a thing that can’t be done, she hammers at it until it budges. She is convinced that there are answers to everything, and that science can find them. This is really something that’s fundamental to the scientific method: the idea that there’s always an answer to the question of ’why,’ and that that answer is something we can find and comprehend. What are atoms made of? Why are there only so many fundamental particles? Why do voidgates form? What is the fate of the universe? There is an answer, and she’ll find it. This is part of her initial clash with G’raha; she is insistent on the truth, and doesn’t like his keeping secrets.

She is also committed to seeing the science through, no matter what she’ll learn from it. She was ready to hear the Ea’s answer about the fate of the universe, no matter how terrible it was. And when she finds it, she’ll greet the unknown with delight; when she meets Zero, she looks the void in the face and smiles.

She’s also just a little remote, in the way of one who has spent too long staring into the heart of things. This doesn’t change the fact that she is a brave, steadfast, loyal companion to her friends, and a staunch champion of what’s right in the world. It’s something very personal; she sees things beyond the others’ sight, and her heart is preoccupied with things that are very removed from the considerations of everyday.

The Sharlayans’ performance of scientific objectivity is shown to be rooted in their very human prejudices, something that’s very true of institutional science in our world too. Y’shtola’s objectivity isn’t that sort of cold, inhumane objectivity; it isn’t a pretext for bigotry, or an abdication of responsibility. It’s something much more remote and whimsical, a commitment to a way of approaching things rather than a badge of superiority.

These are all, in a way, things that characterise the WoL, and I think they underlie the curious solidarity that builds between them post-Endwalker. The WoL, in a different way, is someone who doesn’t acknowledge the limitations of common sense, someone who looks truth in the face without flinching.

It’s also a delightful contrast, because the WoL is someone who repeatedly defies the limits of possibility, and that makes it even more interesting that they’re drawn together. Y’shtola is someone dancing at those very limits; the point where the preposterous becomes fact is where scientific discovery is born.

It’s also a very fun way of seeing science. Science as an institution is actually preoccupied with a kind of individualism - with the performance of individual merit, with the idea of the lone genius. (As we see in post-ARR, Alphinaud is misled by the accolades of the Studium to disastrous hubris.) Y’shtola might be fiercely independent, but she also isn’t that lone genius. She is utterly preoccupied with finding the answers, and not at all with any idea of personal success. The thing that lets her transcend her limits, the thing that lets her accomplish more than Matoya could, is friendship. When she works with the Scions, or Nidhana, or Zero, she can accomplish more than she ever could on her own.

I also think it’s very relevant that she’s a woman; in both our world and theirs, academia is largely male-dominated, and a lot of its flaws have to do with upholding that hegemony and not being open to more diverse perspectives. The ideal of the lone genius is overwhelmingly associated with men.

I think there’s something deeply idealistic and joyous about this unfettered spirit of scientific curiosity persisting through and after the events of Endwalker. We met the god of everything and defeated her in a duel; that doesn’t mean we know all the answers, or even all the questions. We cross paths with a far more technologically advanced civilisation, and Y’shtola is still able to have interesting scientific conversations with them. Even if many things about our world are arbitrary and uncaring, Y’shtola holds to her belief in the scientific method, and is still wholly, exuberantly committed to seeking out truths.

[nightingale-prompts]

Danny has insane abilities but watching the Poindexter episode again I realized something. The only real limit ghost have is knowledge of what they can do. Danny doesn't know he can do things until he believes he can do it or has seen someone else do it.

Most ghosts probably don't change up their arsenal is because they are limited to their mentality. They have what they like and are comfortable with that. To change their abilities would mean they are no longer themselves. It wouldn't even occur to them that they can or should.

Technus could transform into a dragon if he wished to but he would never do that. Skulker could grant wishes but that goes against his nature.

Danny doesn't have that problem because unlithem he can change. He can change his mentality and defy his nature.

So yeah Danny could use the powers of other ghosts. Not box ghost though Danny looks down on him too much to actually have a desire for that power.

So when Danny ascends to the ghost throne he his saddled with the summoning.

Each summoning is just a group begging for shit.

So he has fun with it. Turning into dragons, or small animals. Acting like a mischievous Jin granting wishes that always backfire. Taking Ghostwriter's shtick and trapping them in a Groundhogs Day scenario. He's bored and he's obligated to do something if they go through the effort of summoning him correctly.

It was all fun and games until two kids end up summoning him.

"Robin, I don't think this is a good idea."

"TT. Don't tell me your scared. We need to know what this entity is. As long as we do it properly and don't say anything stupid it's safe. So cover your mouth."

Well, this is interesting.

(Danny ends up making a deal with them that puts him in a Grim adventures of Billy and Mandy. He has to be their best friend forever. It's alot of babysitting.)

[fear-is-truth]

EVERYBODY’S SAYING YOU’RE NO GOOD FOR ME — LOGAN HOWLETT .

⟢ ꒰ tags .ᐟ ꒱ implied (legal) age gap ۶ৎ dirty talk ۶ৎ p in v ۶ৎ oral sex (f!receiving) 18+ . . . headcanons ꒰ note ꒱ ‧ happy bday camryn @newwavesylviaplath love you 𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

logan, who drinks his coffee black and scalding, while eyeing dubiously at your frothy, caramel-laced concoctions… though he does take a grudging sip when you push it toward him, the ghost of your lip gloss smudging the lid. his tongue swipes absently over the rim, but the whole time his eyes stay on you as savours the saccharine sweetness you left behind.

“too fuckin’ sweet,” he mutters, but he brings the cup to his lips anyway. later, when he kisses you, his breath is laced with burnt espresso and the faintest trace of caramel as he shoves his tongue down your throat.

logan, who doesn’t know what the hell you see in him, but he’s not about to question it too hard. you’re too young and beautiful to be tangled up with someone of the likes of him, but here you are, curled up against his chest and looking up at him as if he hung the goddamn moon. moments like these makes him forget all about the mileage on his body.

logan, who catches himself staring at you again, unblinking. he should look away, but he doesn’t. can’t. not when you stretch your arms, shirt riding up to tease the dip of your navel. not when you cross your legs, skirt bunching high on your thighs. and most definitely not when you take a slow sip from a glass coke bottle, lips wrapping around the rim, head tipping back, throat working. the uncomfortable strain in his jeans reminds him that he’s always been a filthy old man when it comes to you.

logan, who never thought he’d still be fucking with such gusto at his age. by now, his libido should be waning, settling into the slow descent of comfortable indifference. instead, you’ve dragged him back into the reckless hunger of youth, where lust eclipses reason. more often than not he finds himself feverish in your presence, aching for you like a goddamn adolescent again.

logan, whose stubble abrades your skin, a persistent friction. he doesn’t shave often—never for you—because he relishes the way it makes your thighs quiver with oversensitivity as he tongues you open.

“s’what you get, doll,” he grunts, rubbing his jaw against your inner thighs, before licking a broad stripe over your slit, “wearin’ those skimpy little skirts around me like that. you wanted to drive me crazy, didn’t you?” nose pressed against your clit as he groans against the mess you make of his face.

logan, who never pulls out until you’re shaky and wrung out, begging in a voice that’s gone thin from overuse. his stamina is inhuman—superhuman, to put it more accurately, and your youthful energy is nothing in comparison, akin to a candle to a bonfire. he’s lived long enough to learn every way a body can come undone, and has no qualms about making you find out just how much you can take.

logan, whose healing factor keeps him in his prime— defying the limits of human endurance. he could go all night, dragging you through orgasm after orgasm until you were shaking, mindless, his name on your tongue like a prayer. and fuck, it made him feel so alive. made him feel young and reckless, like some cocky sonofabitch with something to prove.

logan, who fucks with the same ferocity when he fights: brutal, efficient, and ruthless in his intent.

logan, who doesn’t stop even when your hips stutter and your pussy clenches down on him like you’re trying to milk him for everything he’s worth. and he’ll give it to you, every last drop, but not before he’s wrung you out first.

“please lo, can’t take it—” but he just chuckles, presses his lips to your ear, tells you, “yeah, you can. c’mon, just one more, princess.” while his cock is still hard and throbbing inside you.

logan, whose mind is a machine—more animal than man in the ways it fixates, lingers, obsesses. age has only sharpened that edge, made him more unwilling to let go of the things he deems his. and god help you, because you fall right into that category.

logan, who never expected to find himself so goddamn obsessed with someone, but there’s just something about you that makes his restraint snap like a cheap matchstick every time you so much as look at him a certain way. it’s pathetic, really, how you have him wrapped around your little finger.

logan, who lets you get away with just about anything so he can punish you for it later (in private). passively allows you to bat those pretty lashes and push every single button you know will make him tick. sit in his lap, wriggle against him, whisper things—and then later, oh, does he make you pay for it.

fucks into you nicely but excruciatingly slow, his voice nothing but a low rasp in your ear. “gonna be a good girl now?” he asks, nudging deeper, and you can’t muster a coherent response, can’t even think past the way he’s stuffing you full.

logan, whose patience is worn thin by time but somehow tolerates your worst moods.

logan, who fucks you deep and slow with his dog tags cool against your burning skin.

logan, who ruins you for anyone else. he gets off on the perverse knowledge that you’ll never find someone who fucks you like he does. men your age? they’re all boys to him—soft-palmed, untested, don’t know the first thing about taking care of a lady.

logan, who watches you struggle to take all of him, only to melt when he rubs his calloused palm against your belly, feeling the thick outline of himself buried so deep inside you you swear you can feel him in your belly. “there it is,” he grunts, applying just enough pressure to make you keen.

logan, who doesn’t have the luxury of forever with you, but loves with a brutality that makes up for it. he won’t promise you a happily ever after, but he will give you everything else. his time, his body, his name in your mouth as he fucks you so deep you can feel it the next day. whatever he has left—it’s yours. wholly and completely.