#anyways. where was I going with this

[bizarrebazaar13]

what if your doppelgänger wasn’t evil it was just a person. what if your doppelgänger wasn’t trying to replace you it was just trying to learn to be a person and you were the best model it had. what if your doppelgänger looked at you with your eyes and said with your voice that it just wanted to be loved. what then.

[riacte]

not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing [what would happen between earth and the moon if the earth stopped spinning as illustrated by xkcd randall munroe]

[soulswordlesbian]

that david shrigley lino print made me feeel things

[hinamie]

post-graduation trip airport looks

[inkskinned]

this is just my opinion but i think any good media needs obsession behind it. it needs passion, the kind of passion that's no longer "gentle scented candle" and is now "oh shit the house caught on fire". it needs a creator that's biting the floorboards and gnawing the story off their skin. creators are supposed to be wild animals. they are supposed to want to tell a story with the ferocity of eating a good stone fruit while standing over the sink. the same protective, strange instinct as being 7 and making mud potions in pink teacups: you gotta get weird with it.

good media needs unhinged, googling-at-midnight kind of energy. it needs "what kind of seams are invented on this planet" energy and "im just gonna trust the audience to roll with me about this" energy. it needs one person (at least) screaming into the void with so much drive and energy that it forces the story to be real.

sometimes people are baffled when fanfic has some stunning jaw-dropping tattoo-it-on-you lines. and i'm like - well, i don't go here, but that makes sense to me. of fucking course people who have this amount of passion are going to create something good. they moved from a place of genuine love and enjoyment.

so yeah, duh! saturday cartoons have banger lines. random street art is sometimes the most precious heart-wrenching shit you've ever seen. someone singing on tiktok ends up creating your next favorite song. youtubers are giving us 5 hours of carefully researched content. all of this is the impossible equation to latestage capitalism. like, you can't force something to be good. AI cannot make it good. no amount of focus-group testing or market research. what makes a story worth listening to is that someone cares so much about telling it - through dance, art, music, whatever it takes - that they are just a little unhinged about it.

one time my friend told me he stayed up all night researching how many ways there are to peel an orange. he wrote me a poem that made me cry on public transportation. the love came through it like pith, you know? the words all came apart in my hands. it tasted like breakfast.

[anna-scribbles]

adrien in my outfit from a few days ago✨ feat. my claws out converse

bonus:

[aurumacadicus]

I don't have the words for this but. Art and science are always hand in hand.

The perfectionism of artists has them researching stuff in a way that only scientists can compare. Some artists become experts in biology or anatomy. Other special interests have them going down rabbit holes to make them better at their art.

Disney animators said "we are perfecting the code for this snow if it kills us" and researched and invented code until it acted like real snow in Frozen and snow scientists were like hey. Did we just fucking solve the Dyatlov Pass mystery. And the animators answered no. We made snow. YOU applied the knowledge and did the experiments to solve what could have happened at Dyatlov Pass.

And it was a team effort because of course it was. You can't have art without science. And you can't have science without art.

[emberglowfox]

birds of a feather

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Yeah, I don't know about you, Fidds, but I'd fold at this 🙏

Previous!!

Next!!

First!!

[walkerrenee]

sometimes i randomly remember how insane maggie stiefvater was for making ronan lynch—a man that can create reality—a man of god, when he himself is a god of a man. then to take this man and have him be not only in love with, but a literal soulmate of a man named adam. parrish. adam parrish. who, mind you, lives above ronan's very own place of worship. and is the namesake of the first of mankind that the bible says god made from the literal dust of the ground (adam parrish: comes from nothing, hair "dusty" in color) and appoints him to care for the garden of eden (adam parrish: sacrifices himself to ronan's sentient forest). then has adam viewing ronan as a god and ronan saying "maybe he dreamt (created)" adam???? like who just fucking writes that and goes about their life?

[frownyalfred]

in the realm of like, rich kid problems, I want to someday read/write a fic where Nightwing is slowly establishing himself as a full-fledged JL member and everyone is relieved because finally, there's a nice Bat on the Watchtower who doesn't just shoot down their plans and deny their mission requests. but. while Nightwing is kind, and polite, and charming in all the ways the Bat isn't, he's still Dick Grayson. and Dick Grayson grew up as a very rich kid's suddenly very rich kid, which is to say while Bruce might not take it personally, Dick has been fending off people almost his entire life who were trying to use him for his Dad's money. which is to say, I think once Nightwing is on board and the relationship between him and Batman is at least somewhat well-known, there is suddenly a rush of younger, less-experienced members trying to take advantage of Nightwing, mistaking that kindness and openness for willingness to either voluntarily, or involuntarily, infringe upon and cross Batman's clear-cut boundaries. bribing Dick for a better monitor shift with Batman is one thing (it doesn't really work, Dick can't bribe Bruce with much as it is) but trying to convince Nightwing to lie to Batman? to go against him? his dad? the man who pulled him up when he had nothing and gave him meaning again? that man?? and then comes the inevitable, chilling realization, that while Nightwing might wear a different mask, might wear an open smile on the Watchtower and with friends off-shift, there are some lines he won't cross, same as Bruce. he won't, sure as the sun rises and the rot rolls off the Gotham Harbor in the morning.

[soapbbox]

Elsewhere:

Part 1

Even apart they’re still facing the same struggles 😔 Not that they’re thinking about each other or anything. Why would you suggest that.

[allthewhumpygoodness]

Big fan of when a character's grief/trauma/guilt manifests as physical symptoms. Big fan of characters keeping things so tight inside them that it makes them sick. Big fan of when the line blurs between a character's mental trauma and physical illness until it's hard to tell which is which anymore.

[coddda]

I wish we could have met in some other way.

Lawlight Week Day 2: Soulmates

If you saw me repost and re-edit this several times uh No you didn't </3

Still frames/Individual gifs:

If you know what every frame is from you get a free cookie. by the way

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo: Why have they changed it? These colors are awful. I– ew! I actually hate it! Where– what happened to the orange? Why’s it purple?

Tubbo: [Realizes] OH—

Tubbo: Oh, I'm actually– I'm actually a bigot, it’s Ace Race, I get it. Ohhh, ohhh that’s awkward. Ohhh, that's awkward. I’m a bigot. Oh, I'm a bigot. Oh, I'm a bigot. Ohhh. It’s crazy that they let bigots into MCC these days! Well actually, they’ve always done that.

[starry-bi-sky]

I am loudly pushing the batdad agenda i am loudly pushing the— DPxDC Prompt

“Woah. You look like shit."

Granted, that’s probably not the first thing Danny should be saying to the guy that just bit the curb, but in his defense; he’s not running on 100% right now either.

The man -- tall, towering, and broader than Danny is tall -- whips around on his heel, black frayed cape flaring out impressively. Danny would've whistled in appreciation, but he takes the time instead to wipe the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood running from his nose across his cheek.

"Sorry." He blinks widely, not even flinching as the man with the horns zeroes in on him. "That was rude of me. I have a really bad brain-to-mouth filter; Sam says its what always gets me into trouble."

And she's not wrong either, per say. His smart mouth is what landed him in this situation -- with blood blossom extract running through his veins and cannibalizing the ectoplasm in his bloodstream. Thanks Vlad.

The man grunts at him; a short, curt "hm" that shouldn't make Danny smile, but he does because he's somewhat delirious and probably concussed. The man keeps some kind of distance, sinking towards the shadows of Gotham's alleyway like he dares to melt right into it.

If it's supposed to scare Danny, it doesn't work. Danny's never been afraid of the dark; he's always been able to hide himself in it. He blinks slowly at the mass of shadows.

"You look hurt." The shadows says, blurring together around the edges. Danny squints, and licks his lips to get the blood dripping down his chin off. Ugh, he hates the taste of blood.

"I am." He says, "My godfather poisoned me. M'dying." The agony of the blood blossom eating him from the inside out looped back around to numbing a while ago, so all he feels is half-awake and dazed.

"Hey," Danny stumbles forward towards the man, a bloodied hand reaching out to him. "You-- you're a hero, right? You're not attacking me; which is more than I can say for most costumed people I've met." Maybe it's a poor bar to judge someone at, but he's already established that Danny's not in his right mind.

The man makes no change in expression, but Danny realizes blearily that it's hard to tell with the shadows on his face. He stays still long enough for Danny to latch onto the cape -- stretchy, but almost soft under his fingers.

He looks up blearily into the whites of the man's eyes. "Can you help me? I don't-- I don't wanna die." Again. He doesn't wanna die again. He blinks slow and lizard-like. "I mean- I'll probably get to see mom and dad again, but I told them I'd at least try and make it to adulthood."

There's a clatter down the street, and Danny's ghost sense chills up his spine and leaves a bitter, ashy taste in his mouth. He immediately knows who it belongs to even before the deceptively gentle; "Daniel?" echoes down the way.

"Daniel? Quit your games, badger, Gotham is dangerous for children."

Danny's mouth pulls back, and blood spills against his tongue. "Please." He rasps, and grabs onto the shadow's cape with both hands. "Please. He's going to kill me. Please--"

"Daniel? Is that you?"

His lips part, dragging in air to plead with the darkness again. He doesn't need to, the whites of his eyes narrow, and the cape whirls around him before Danny can blink. Soon swaddled in shadows, the Night lifts him up, and steals him away.