#but I love him so much T-T

[pictuajjx]

MY F/O…. EEEK

[spirk-trek]

erotic fight scene moodboard a la james t kirk

[bacchuschucklefuck]

they tried to rebrand as The Criminals but riz is literally the city council's treasurer and also turns out people in their late 20s don't really name their friend groups. so now they're The Intrepid Heroes

[padfootastic]

you know, what gets me about OoTP is that sirius decided to do the whole ‘don’t you have questions harry. shame.’ routine in PUBLIC. in front of everyone. he could’ve very, very easily done it in private, just taken harry aside for a minute and info-dumped but he didn’t.

and that’s honestly such an important part, i think.

like, for one, he sincerely thinks harry should be getting this information at the same time as everyone else, in the same method. it’s not something that’s meant to be hidden and whispered. he is essentially establishing that harry has a right to this knowledge. that’s something no else has done. even when dumbledore tells harry something, he doesn’t do it because harry should know, he does it bc harry needs to know, at that time.

i also think, another part is bc sirius realises that the kids are involved in this together. he saw the golden trio dynamics upfront in the shack, he knows these kids have his kid’s back and they will either find out from harry and/or they’re in as much danger (virtue of identity, proximity, and curiosity) and therefore must know as well. he can’t force the weasley parents to tell their kids, but he can put them in a position where they might just have to. (low level rebellion incitement lessgooo)

[lasagoofs]

Ghost critters

[muirmarie]

jim being canonically the shortest one of the triumvirate is genuinely so important to me lmao, like yesssssss, let that beefy babe be shorter than both his boyfriends!!!!

[priintiisor]

arti and her weird lookin son (because drawing them brings me joy)

[ghostbkg]

🌱🍅 umemiya hajime

[mitskiluvr]

this dialogue with akechi is set up the same way as the dialogue you get with all ur lady confidants right before you date them Do you know how funny that is. “I need to give him a serious answer…” as if he’s just proposed to you on the streets of kichijoji

[ruporas]

invisible scars (referenced previous talk here)

[ID: A colourless, digital Trigun comic of Vash and Wolfwood talking about Wolfwood's scars. They're both laying in bed and topless. Vash lays on top of Wolfwood, playing with the rosary around his neck. Then, Vash kisses a spot on Wolfwood's chest. Wolfwood asks, "What are you doing?" Vash smiles sadly, "You got shot here. In the last town we visited. You didn't even bother moving."

Vash props himself up over Wolfwood, who frowns slightly. Wolfwood is quiet for a moment before he says, "You remember that, huh?" Vash grabs Wolfwood's left wrist and brings it to his face. "And here." He kisses another spot there. "When you helped free the hostages from that robber..." Wolfwood dismissively says, looking away, "Was a lucky shot." Vash huffs, “Don’t brag. Jeez.”

Half of Wolfwood's expression is shown, eyes returning to Vash who is now sitting up, continuing to say, "And..." Vash goes on and kiss Wolfwood's right palm. "You got cut here, even though that girl was aiming at me." A moment from the past flashes, of Wolfwood grabbing a knife aimed at Vash, his hand bleeding.

At present, Vash moves down and puts another kiss on Wolfwood's right shoulder. "And here, from watching my back." Another memory flashes of Wolfwood and Vash back to back. Vash looks back as Wolfwood grins while holding Punisher, bleeding from multiple gunshots in his shoulder.

"And," Vash combs up Wolfwood's hair to reveal his forehead, "Here." A final memory shows Wolfwood with a regeneration vial in his mouth while getting shot on his temple. The next panel is framed in blood with Vash at the center, eyes wide and stunned in horror. The next panel is a closed up shot of Wolfwood's eye, locked on Vash's face.

Back to present, Vash’s head is bowed down as Wolfwood raises a hand to his nape and says, “Spikey.”

Wolfwood looks serious and frowns as he says, "We talked about this. Those were my decisions. They're not there anymore. Forget about them." Vash looks very sad before he smiles ruefully and says, "I still see them. All the time." He leans down so they touch foreheads. Wolfwood’s sorrowful expression can be seen as Vash says, "You protect so much. I could never forget what you've done to me. And many others..."

In the last image, they're drawn more cartoonishly. Wolfwood sweats and asks, "You don't actually remember every wound, right?" Vash points at a spot on his chest. "Kuroneko left a scratch here 7 times." Wolfwood, startled, says, "Why the hell are you keeping count—" End ID]

Credits for ID here and here

[shaadowmilkcookie]

One of Shadow Milk’s many prop replicas of himself, left behind. Even though the eyes are forever staring straight into the distance… Oddly enough, you still feel like you’re being watched.

But surely, though, it won’t hurt to take it home and touch up the colours, right? :)

[luck-of-the-drawings]

EDYN TIDESTRIDER, CHALLENGER OF THE UNDERSEA, RIVAL OF THE DEEP. WHAT WOULD YOU DO IF YOUR BROTHER WAS CHOSEN TO BE A WEAPON OF THE GODS? HOW WILL YOU UNDO WHAT THEY HAVE DONE TO HIM?

[doeeyedamoeba]

anybody still fw camp here and there 😭🤫😊🐛

[fluffyartbl0g]

Someone get this man a younger sibling that ISNT like. Twice his height.

[toastysol]

Thinking about how, between him and V, Jackie is by far the more personable of the two. He oozes such easy charisma that it's really hard to actually hate him. He's the one with connections all over Night City. V's best friend who always knows a guy. He hooks V up with whoever they could possibly need. Everyone who's ever met him either loves him, or has great respect for him.

And yet. Despite the number of people he knows and who know him, after he dies, V is the one they remember. "Didn't you have someone with you?" Sandra asks. "You did well, V. You and that... friend of yours." Wakako states. Jackie is the one who got them that job. Or at least that's what the prologue sequence led me to believe. V asks him if Wakako had any tips for the Sandra case. Therefore, Jackie was the one who got them hired. I cant tell if Wakako forgot his name on purpose cause she didn't like him/care enough or genuinely doesn't remember. I know Sandra has good reason not to. She was unconscious.

It's just gut wrenching to me. Jackie put in all this work, prolly called in so many favors, to help V get to where they needed to be, and in the end, no one knows his name. He went out with a bang and didn't even get a footnote. Of course, V can change that after the game if they want I would guess. Use their prestige and respect to spread the word about the bestest friend they ever had in nc. He does get his own drink at the Afterlife, but does anyone know who they're drinking? How colorful and full of life he was? Do they know how he died? What he did?

And I mean, his name seemed to be at least somewhat well-known in the valentinos. But that means about jack squat in the merc world. He was supposed to be a legend, but all he ended up as was a ghost.

What makes this worse in my canon, is that the "Major Leagues" was never even V's dream. It always belonged to Jack. When he chases it, he does so in Jackie's place. For him. Not for V. Sometimes he wishes it were Jackie's name he was using, just so someone would hear it and be filled with hope for the future. Just like Jackie was with Morgan Blackhand, Andrew Weyland, and Adam Smasher. He carries Jackie's ghost on his back, every rung of the ladder, and no one even sees it.

[ktsumu]

A CHILDHOOD BEDROOM tw: allusions to divorce/his family dynamic, holiday comfort for the soul

Ushijima’s bedroom is nothing like the one you share. 

His walls are bare, save for a few frames with pictures that are older than the two of you. There’s a bulletin above his desk that’s naked down to the cork, a few tacks littering it at random.

He has his dresser, a small mirror on the wall hanging above it. The room is nearly devoid of colour aside from beige and navy, but the Christmas lights from the house across the street give it some red and green. Not much, but it’s good enough.

You walk along the perimeter of the room, the floors cold, hands tracing over his desk and chair. He watches you from the doorway, the door closing softly behind him as he does. You hear the same floor creak beneath his feet as he crosses to his bed, the frame sighing under his weight.

A print-out picture of him and a redhead (Satori, he’s mentioned) standing side-by-side in school uniforms is framed on said desk, thumbs up on all four of their combined hands. A team in maroon stands tall beside it, and he’s dead center. A three-person family — father, mother, boy — takes up the space beside that, the frame much more sophisticated than the others. He looks about ten.

The clock on his wall tells the time wrong; it hasn’t been reset since he graduated and moved out at eighteen. It looks like it’s a few hours behind, but it’s really telling you time six years back. 

“Your walls are so bare,” you comment, turning back to look at him where he’s sat. He offers an almost unnoticeable, lopsided smile. “Where are all the medals, huh? I’ve heard big things about Ushiwaka the Great, you know.”

You’re joking, but he answers, “In my drawer.”

(You check; it’s full of them.)

Ushijima watches you hold them, looking at all of the engravings before setting them back, the years stretching further back the deeper that you dig. It’s like your chest is swelling with pride over things he won before you knew him. 

“What is it?” he asks, eyes following you as you cross over to his bed, sitting down to face him. His brows furrow, leaning his back against the headboard that looks so comically small; then his lips tug up at the sight of gold around your neck. His teenage pride rests on your chest.

There is something so invasive about a childhood bedroom, about wearing what once was his entire life as he looks at it — a whole life you didn’t have the chance to watch lays itself out in front of you. This childhood doesn’t exist anymore (maybe it never really did) and yet you see it around you all the same. 

(It is invasive, but it is full of love. An empty room that feels so full.)

“Why doesn’t your mother display your medals in the house?” you ask, tilting your head. “Hell, my mom would’ve lined mine up in the window. And your desk is like a trophy factory.”

 “It’s not practical, I suppose.”

“So they just sit in here?”

Ushijima looks at you like he’s in thought. 

He shrugs. “Mostly,” he says, “my father has a few in California. My player portrait is on his office wall. My mother shows her affection in her own way.”

“Can we take some back home?”

“Why? They’re old.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll display them around the room for a bit, swap ‘em out when you rack some up this season.”

Ushijima just chuckles shortly, shaking his head as he moves down the bed, laying down flat. His feet hang off the end a bit, and the pillows are the same as they always were. “If you wish. You know I never stop you from anything.”

You hum. “God, does it echo in here?”

“Sometimes. It never used to.”

“When did it start?”

He knows when. “I’m not sure.”

You know, too. “That’s okay. Our room at home doesn’t echo, at least.”

“No, you won’t let it.”

“Never.”

Ushijima reaches out a hand, his left, and he twirls the medal you picked in his hand. You wear it still, and it looks like it gleams. His eyes flicker up to yours. 

“I love you,” you tell him. “You and your empty room.”

He sighs a laugh, one you taught him how to make, and he pulls you into his chest by the ribbon around your neck. He breathes, your head rises and falls with his chest, and the room comes alive; breathing with its maker, welcoming him home the best it can. You certainly help.

Ushijima looks at his bedroom walls, his broken clock; the house is not resetting, his parents’ old bed will always be half full and half made, but he thinks this is enough — coming back with you was enough. Now, when he leaves, he will remember a warm bed and leave to sleep in a warmer one. 

“Love?”

“Mm?”

“When we find a home we like enough to live in,” When. Not if, when. “I’d like to paint the walls with you.”

“Ooh, what colour?”

“Not white — or beige.”

You grin, angling your head up to see him. Ushijima is looking up at his clock, six years behind like he just got home from training camp, his boxes packed for the city.

(He meets you two years later.)

“Pick a swatch, baby. Just no neons.”

“Oh. I was thinking of a traffic cone orange.”

“Ha-ha.”