#ROTATING THEM

[banitheinabi]

Bees

[rochenn]

not on the list, but what is your favourite flavour of codywan?

Currently it's the flavor that focuses more on war being terrible and superior-inferior relationships being Complicated. Like the ultimate homoeroticism of the buddy system and these two guys absolutely going through it at the front paired with the very, VERY unsavory power differential. That struggle between professionalism and transgression. It's so tasty to me. The sort of dynamic where yes, they're good for each other SOMETIMES while other times they're just not. Like a very hot-and-cold-again dynamic bc of Cody's consent/human rights situation (which would cause Obi-Wan to have his own little moral crisis and distance himself) and the professionalism situation (which would cause Cody to likewise seek distance) until they drift closer again during battle or under high stress.

That's what I'm mainly digging rn if it makes sense? Many thoughts...

[littlefleamart]

(source)

[palossssssand]

Doodles of Maguro and Kinoga! Splatoon ocs are all that have been on my mind…..

[linka-from-captain-planet]

Neve/Rana contemplation of the day:

Neve tortures herself with guilt over Brom's death, which she blames herself for because he was helping her the last time she pursued Aelia - but it wasn't Brom she meant to take with her. She went looking for 'someone I could trust. Rana' for help, originally. So it could have been Rana who paid the ultimate price for 'getting mixed up with [her]'. And isn't that horrible, that as guilty as she feels about Brom, she's so fucking relieved that it wasn't Rana?

But Rana is much more cautious than both herself and Brom - would Rana have had the same fate? Would the entire event have turned out differently? What do you do when you're someone who searches for answers, and there are none? Because things could have all been better, but they could have been worse, and what do you do with that uncertainty when the only certainty you know is that the other shoe is always gonna drop?

[sylaurin]

[krashlite]

Scar and Grian are probably the most unreliable narrators in this series and that’s just so fascinating I think

If you watch any other perspective they look so evil, not just in 3L either!! Grian specifically is mildly terrifying whenever he’s on screen and while Scar is very cheerful, he makes it clear he only has loyalties when it’s entertaining (minus clockers and partially minus desertduo)

Obv they’re more complex than just this but they’re always talked about like these poor sad puppy dogs trying to survive a train wreck when half the time they’re the ones derailing the train in the first place

[vamppeach]

kadolin bad boy amv save me

save me kadolin bad boy amv

[akuma-tenshi]

luchicharles likes to bite x likes being bitten dynamic post now

[chronurgy]

can't stopping thinking about how gortash is a dark mirror for gale

[stitchthesewords]

Hey so like. what if I posted two disconnected scenes from a 'Cleo is a sentient and otherwise fine zombie in the middle of a zombie apocalypse w a commune full of their polycule" au that me and @sleepygraycat started talking about. what then.

---

“Show yourself!”

“It’s me, Etho,” False called up, blocking the bright spotlight from her eyes, She held up the bag of goodies in her other hand; medical supplies, a box of twinkies that by some miracle hadn’t spoiled [did they spoil?], ammunition. Ammunition was getting hard to come by, but there was also a group nearby learning to make bullets. She pulled the bag back close to her as the gate cracked open enough for her to slip in.

It was quiet in the commune. Late at night, only Etho and Jevin up on watch. And False, understandably. She’d been away for a few days, having to trudge just outside their usual reach. Things were starting to get picked clean. A sheep in a far pasture baa’d. She flinched with Etho dropped down in front of her, tilting his head slightly.

“You’ve got some uh, bleeding. There,” he said, gesturing to her arm. False looked down at it and scoffed.

“You’ll never guess – broken glass on a door. Got caught on it as I was leaving.”

“Right. And it wasn’t, say, people wielding machetes that still live in the city?”

False frowned at him and smacked the bag into his chest. He gave her a knowing smile but used it as an opportunity to swipe a twinkie.

---

“Sometimes I wonder if any of this is real,” Cleo said, fixing one of the fingerless gloves they’d swiped from Joe earlier. The bright green of it, even dirty, made the green of their skin stand out so much more. False huffed.

“What do you mean?” she asked, adjusting so that her head rested in the crook of Cleo’s shoulder. The sun was dull today, not that it particularly mattered. It didn’t seem to really affect Cleo, or any zombies unfortunately.

“If a commune full of people who I love, and who love me, and who love each other is just some sort of zombie fever dream and I’ve actually eaten off your face.” The hand dropped down into the grass beside them and for half a moment, False was worried it had detached. She stretched her head and relief filled her at not needing to sew it back on.

“Well, I don’t know, I feel pretty real myself.” She leaned her head closer to Cleo, though her vision was elsewhere. Bdubs was building a new coop for the chickens. They had chickens.

“Sometimes I’m worried something in me is going to break. Is that…not something you worry about?”

“…I think whatever was in me that was going to break broke a long time ago.”

Taglist below

@atherix @braxiatel @greatbridge @ellalily @lesbianwilby @em-mermaid @loombarrow @sparksnevadas @aceofthefandoms

[capricioussun]

For the past few days I have been plagued by thoughts of that alternate horrorfell concept that I cannot for the life of me remember if I talked abt here or not. There's the original one (not like, the first ever, just mine), then the "revamp" that's more just an alternate version since I'm still very attached to the original, and then this version, kind of like...a partial redemption version. I think I may have mentioned it briefly before but ?

In case I haven't, or never got into it too much, this is the gist

At some point between bad and worse, but before it gets its worst, Papyrus actually successfully leads a rebellion against Undyne, winding up with him as King now, Undyne imprisoned, and Sans as his right hand. I believe the primary divergence was that the blow Undyne dealt to Papyrus' head wasn't as severe, so he was able to recover and retain more of himself in the process, leading to the whole successful rebellion thing.

I can't remember exactly how things started improving exactly, but I do know it involved their version of Aliza. It's her sacrifice that seals the deal and enables them to start re-stabilizing as a society. It's not perfect by any means, but it's...better than where they were headed.

It takes a while for Papyrus to really earn trust amongst the people, understandably, but he does, slowly, get there. He even manages to mostly rehabilitate Undyne, but she is barred from holding any positions within the guard or any others that might involve earning more LV.

Since they weren't forced to rely on humans and animals, the mutations never reached the same levels as in standard HF, making them somewhere in between those designs and their former uf selves.

It's still pretty rough around the edges, and everyone is even more screwed up now, but it's certainly better off than regular hf.

Mostly recently, I haven't been thinking up any new lore for it or anything, just daydreaming about their day to day, or maybe random angst or mv scenarios. Would love to. draw them some day. On the fence of if they would have the same hf nicknames or not...

[habibisagi]

ace and shanks tied for best pussy eaters in one piece in my head always. squirt in mouth keeps them alive. canon life purpose etc

[thechaoscryptid]

I’ve spent the last day and a half whittling down a 2.5k excerpt of in the morning i’ll be with you into a 1.5k sample to submit for an application, and holy shit has it been SO fun to really work at honing my word usage and sentence structure. Here’s a bit I’m extra proud of (CW for canon-typical self harm mention and implied past abuse):

Dazai sighs. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture.”

“Let me take care of you, then.” Oda skims his knuckles over Dazai’s ribs, careful not to let the touch linger as long as he wants. 

(And he wants, he wants—he has always wanted Dazai, but has never needed him. This has made all the difference.)

“Rub the marks out, at least,” he continues, swallowing hard as he pulls his hand away.

Dazai’s breath shudders, and he bows his head to hide behind limp hair. “Okay,” he says after a too-long moment. “But it’s not beautiful—know that.”

“You don’t owe me beauty.” Oda cups Dazai’s cheek, smiling sadly as he guides Dazai back into the dying sun. “You don’t owe me anything.”

A grimace flits across Dazai’s face before he twists out of Oda’s grip, silhouetting himself against the Yokohama twilight with a scoff. “I don’t need your pity,” he says. “Or your help. But…” He slumps forward as he digs his fingers into his arm. “Look. See me for what I am.”

Oda sits still as the bandages unwind; ever-dutiful, ever-attentive. Dazai’s beauty doesn’t make him easier to look at. His skin is mapped with scars and bruises, a riot of stark white and fading plum. As more is revealed and Dazai begins to collapse into himself, Oda struggles not to let the unsolicited grief blooming behind his gritted teeth take root.

Like this, Dazai is no executive. He’s not a merciless force of nature, not the man who commands attention through his simple existence.

Like this, Dazai is weak. 

The bandages have dappled him, leaving his thighs rashy. Near their junction, a few inches down from his curls, several rust-red stripes split the skin of each. They look fresh, but Oda’s learned to stop kicking himself for not being able to predict and protect.

“There.” Dazai crosses his arms and looks away. “Nothing much.”

Oda offers his hands, ignoring his trembling fingers. “Come here.”

Dazai’s feet whisper across the carpet as he drags himself forward to push Oda to the bed and climb astride his hips. “Two days ago,” he says when Oda’s touch ghosts across the edge of a cut. “Don’t worry about it.”

“You can’t stop me.” Oda presses up to mouth along the stark line of Dazai’s jaw, pausing below his ear to just breathe. Dazai smells of gunpowder and salt, the sourness of being bandaged under the oppressive heat. 

At least he doesn’t smell of death today.

A tremulous chuckle stirs the air between them before Dazai rolls off, one arm wrapped around his chest. His spine strains against his skin when he curls forward, and he shivers when Oda trails a finger down the knobs. “I need to shower. It’s been a trying few days.”

Without a word, Oda stands and scoops him into his arms, ignoring the grumbled, half-hearted protests that fade when he squeezes gently. Dazai noses against his cheek before initiating a clumsy, fumbling kiss and whispering, “You’re a menace.”

“If I’m a menace, what are you?” Oda asks.

“A nightmare.”

“Well, I’ve always been a dreamer.” Dazai flushes deep into his chest at that, and Oda allows himself a smile as he turns on the water. 

He doesn’t stop clinging until the spray sluices over them both, and it isn’t until Oda asks if he’d like to shower just like this that he climbs down and shoves the shampoo into Oda’s hand. Oda is careful as he works to wash away sweat and whatever sins Dazai is chewing on. His touch draws out a quiet groan, and then a thin, reedy whine that bounces off the tile.

Oda hums, carefully cataloging each noise as he curves his hands over Dazai’s shoulders and down his hips, and Dazai stiffens when the touch skims over the SLUT carving in bold scar tissue across his right thigh. He doesn’t speak of his time with Mori; Oda has never asked.

“I’m sorry,” Oda says.

On the heels of a steadying breath, Dazai shakes his head and laces their fingers over the scars. “You wouldn’t ever do this.”

“No.”

“Mn.” Dazai winds his free hand back into Oda’s hair, pressing himself against Oda’s chest. “Touch me.”

Ango once said—voice thick, something akin to regret lurking behind his glasses—that it’s a privilege to be treasured by an executive. 

He’s wrong.

Loving Dazai is the privilege. To devote himself, and to have that devotion repaid in quiet smiles and late night drinks at the Lupin. The privilege is knowing every puckered scar that mars Dazai’s skin, and to be honored with the trust Dazai grants no one else.

[littleblueberryartist]

Maybe one day I’ll talk about my OCs lol

[victory-ocs]

"send in " nodding off... " for the exhausted sender to fall asleep against the receiver's shoulder, and for the receiver's response to this."

SLAPS THIS DOWN HERE ALSO. FOR THE DROW LADS.

It has been a rough day. And a rough night.

Mer had set up camp for them, in this horrid lands. Darkness that reminds him too much of home. Of mushrooms and blood and betrayal.

And today had been the biggest betrayal of them all. His charges betrothed, now lost to the madness. A creature. His mind empty, except for the thoughts of that damned Absolute.

Viel had asked to stay in his tent, that night. And Merdrin had oblidged. More comfortable with each other, now, Merdrin still keeps a professional distance. His charge is to be listened to. Requests are to be followed.

Viel had asked him to read. Viel likes the sound of his voice. So read he shall. Any of the random books that he's scrounged from the others in the camp. A soft voice, trying to be... Soothing. Soft. Things that he's not.

He damn near jumps out of his skin, when he feels a weight against his shoulder. Alert and at the ready to fight for his life, only to take a deep breath when he sees it's Viel, resting his eyes.

He'll allow it. This time.