#god. this show my beloved.

[autumnalfallingleaves]

Did the sketch for this in my sketchbook during internship then lined and colored it in digital because lads, I'm short on time nowadays.

Anyway, happy fifth anniversary to this wonderful show! Absolutely delighted that season three is on the horizon, and while I'm sad to see it go, this show has brought me so much joy that the happiness is outweighing the sadness.

reblogs are highly appreciated, and please do not repost my art

[aunmenosheteroenespanol]

2.12 Chimney Begins - 2.09 Hen Begins - 2.16 Bobby Begins Again - 7.04 Buck, Bothered and Bewildered

Tommy's family arc

[chiakery]

Dropout newsletter this week:

Me:

[hg-aneh]

I think it was about time I introduced tumblr to my book Crowley... who eventually became a walking love letter to Latino culture lmao

(You can think of him as a Book Crowley who spent way too much time in south america)

Language wise, he's an amalgamation of all latin american spanish dialects (+pt-br) so,, have fun translating some of the things he's saying

[pharawee]

"You have nothing to apologize for."

—MONSTER NEXT DOOR · Episode 11

[starryarts]

made a cover for my soriku playlist

[mobius-m-mobius]

You wanna hear a good story? Listen to this one.

Mobius + comfort

[tumblerislovetumblerislife]

rewatching charles' death scene and overthinking things again!

i've seen it discussed that edwin didn't mention hell to charles until he was convincing him to go with death (*cough cough* @dont-offend-the-bees' stunning soulmate au)

but i thought about something else, and i don't know if it was deliberate or not: edwin doesn't gesture with his hands during the death scene. like, at all. he holds the lantern out to charles, but the next time he really uses his hands is the "you stay and i go" -- and even that is a very simple gesture, hands out and then folded over his chest. compare this to all edwin's fun gestures in the main series, which are twirly and elegant and unselfconscious

my theory is that this was supposed to convince charles to stay, just like the mention of hell should have. edwin had spent his life being judged for the way he moves. he was called names and bullied and ritually sacrificed for it, everyone reading something in it of him that he hadn't even had the chance to realise

but here is a boy in an attic, dying to the same sort of boys that existed here seven decades ago, and there is no one else but edwin. the thought of someone else dying with the loneliness he felt is unbearable, so he can keep him company. never mind that this boy would not want him close if he could see what everyone else did. edwin can keep himself under control, can fold himself away into the image of a normal boy, can clasp his hands properly in front of him or clench them around his knees, for the few hours it will take this boy to move on to the heaven he is meant for. because if charles saw the echoes of his sixteen years of life and his seventy-three years of hell in him, he would never wish to stay

except that charles rowland does

[s0fter-sin]

soap and ghost, after months of flirting, of having each other’s backs and saving each other’s lives, of knowing the other better than they know themselves, finally getting together

ghost letting himself free fall onto the bed, soap following, always following his lead. they barely pull apart enough to get their shirts over their heads, hands running over muscles and scars and holding close

soap kisses every new scar that’s revealed to him, from the thick keloid divot over his ribs from some kind of puncture to the innumerable slashes and stitch wounds holding his torso together until he’s mouthing over his collarbones; the tips of his fingers lightly caressing the edges of his mask

ghost who’s been so quiet, so overwhelmed by soap’s touch that all he can do is sink into him, panting gasping breaths, finally pushes out, “don’t ask me. please…”

soap freezes, mouth hovering over his skin. “ghost…?”

ghost’s face is tilted away, eyes held so tightly shut they tremor while the rest of his body stays lax beneath his. desperate. resigned. “please don’t ask me, johnny.”

soap lets his hand fall from the mask, coming to run soothing circles over his clothed hip. “why?”

“because i’ll say yes,” he confesses and it’s great and terrible; a warning and a relinquishment laid at soap’s feet. “i’ll always say yes to you.”

for a long moment, there’s nothing but their shared breaths, nothing but their hearts beating for the other. until soap finally leans down to press a kiss to the corner of his hidden mouth; his lips meeting faint raised scar tissue he might never see

“i’ll never ask.”

ghost’s eyes drift open and they catch on soap’s; on a sea of promise and fierce protection

“i swear… i’ll never ask, ghost.”

[alasforher]

MOST IMPORTANTLY: DAVID SIGHTING

[shortnotsweet]

[ “SOMEBODY TOLD ME”]:

BREAKING MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME. SEVENTEEN TRACKS AND I’VE HAD IT WITH THIS GAME. A BREAKIN’ MY BACK JUST TO KNOW YOUR NAME—BUT HEAVEN AIN’T CLOSE IN A PLACE LIKE THIS.

— The Killers, Hot Fuss (2004)

Princess Rhaenyra’s insolence is wearing her stepmother’s patience thin. Queen Alicent is not ten years her senior, but even during her own sixteenth year, she cannot recall herself behaving so brazenly. She would never burst into courtly discussions in nothing but gilded armor and the underskirts of her riding leathers, awash in blood. (She would never be spotted in blood that was not her own, anyway. Alicent has never picked up a sword, not one that belonged to her.) Nevermind that Rhaenyra is attending to diplomatic affairs with bared teeth and scales, no—the crux of the matter is just that, her affairs. Rhaenyra is the Realm’s Delight, a beauty incomparable to any fair maiden, Alicent included. She indulges herself with appetite of a spoiled child, the confidence of man, and the pickings befitting only to her royal blood. Criston Cole. Daemon Targaryen. Harwin Strong. Laena Velaryon. She’s full of love, isn’t she? That selfish, foolish girl. What does Rhaenyra Targaryen know of love, of duty? She is a child in so many ways—she thinks killing makes her a man, thinks the throne is hers despite being a woman, thinks she can have her knight and her uncle and her protector and Laena Velaryon in one fail swoop. She’s wrong. She doesn’t know herself half as well as Alicent does. Alicent, who sees her for what she truly is, who wants to see all of her and more of her and none of her. Alicent has been stolen into the Keep by her own father—both of their fathers—but Rhaenyra is the key to this place, is the window to everything barred. Rhaenyra Targaryen has a dragon. Rhaenyra can fly.

That’s what Rhaenyra had promised her once, with her lips pulled back in a grin, exposing the white of her teeth like the violently radiant creature she was. “Perhaps when you grow tired of plotting against me, we shall ride on dragonback together,” she had said. The tease.

Alicent had yanked her into an empty corridor by the silk of her sleeve, ready to chastise her for her ill behavior. Conversing with the lords and ladies of the court at a feast was one thing, but chattering about her bloody encounters in battle over the pudding tureen were another. The lord at her elbow was going green. Alicent’s own face was likely red; her heart raced whenever Rhaenyra got like this. Alicent had never seen the battlefield—only seen battered men in dented armor and the slumps of corpses lined along dirt roads in the aftermath of war—but her own imagination terrified her like nothing else.

(Rhaenyra is better with a sword than half of the knights in Westeros, and more lovely than the lot. Her reign has not yet begun, but already the commoners flock to her—lured in by tales of her beauty and fine hair—and soldiers would follow her into battle. Alicent would not follow, but she would watch and bite her nails down to the quick.

She thinks of the figure Rhaenyra cuts in full armor, the heat in her gaze underneath the slots of her helmet. Alicent remembers the weight of her own hand in Rhaenyra’s—which was gloved—when the princess rode up to the spectators box and grasped it in her own, bringing Alicent’s knuckles to her lips. She thinks of Rhaenyra murdered in the sky, skewered with another man’s sword, plummeting to the ground, torn in half, streaking crimson across the clouds. Alicent would scream, or cry. She might laugh. She would throw herself from the window of her tower. Rhaenyra’s bloody exploits terrified Alicent for reasons she could not identify, and excited her for reasons she refused to.)

“I’d sooner be confined to the castle for the rest of my days than get on the back of that bloody lizard,” Alicent scoffed. Rhaenyra only tucked her hand over Alicent’s, where it was resting on her forearm. She flexed her fingers, moving to release her grip on the dark fabric, but Rhaenyra intertwined their fingers and held them fast.

“You’re confined already. You are already accustomed to such a thing. I know you. But—”

“But you forget yourself. You think you’re invulnerable, Rhaenyra. You don’t know who you are.” Alicent intends for it to be a sneer, but instead it comes out quietly, and too gentle for disdain. She can’t know. Rhaenyra is as trapped as she is, but they’re trapped together. They belong together. She belongs with Alicent.

“I am Rhaenyra Targaryen, Heir to the Iron Throne and all of Westeros. I am a dragonrider. I am—I am your daughter. In a way. Your sister, too. Your enemy. Your sword, your shield.”

“And what am I?” What else is left for me? Alicent wonders.

“My Queen. For now.” Rhaenyra cocks her head, and the gleam in her eyes burns like fire raining down. “When I am Queen, you will be my lady.”

[lua-gbtt]

castlevania nocturne got me out of my cave happy new year I guess

[milkymooshi]

I sometimes think abt Ed’s submarine…bc he absolutely could’ve built it to be piloted by one person. He 100% could’ve. He built the thing. From the sonar system to the rest of it. It was all his work. He could’ve built it to be piloted by just one person and handle only one person, but he didn’t.

The fact that’s he didn’t will forever be my Roman Empire for Nygmobblepot (besides the library scene) bc he 100% planned to leave with Oswald. He wanted to take Oswald with him.

He WANTED to take Oswald with him.

AND!! He came back to the GCPD to fight for Gotham for Oswald. Bc truly, he didn’t care for the city. He didn’t care abt the people in it. He didn’t care abt the GCPD anymore. The underground. The Narrows. He didn’t care and was willing to throw everything away, but he wasn’t going to leave Oswald behind.

He never planned on it.

When Oswald said that his blood was in the concrete this city was built? When he said that he saw Gotham as himself? When Ed came through saying “I like this city the way it is”?

Ed loves Oswald the way he is and Oswald loves Ed for who he is. It’s everything to me…

[piowasthere]

Human Lunar redesign!

[l-bubee-l]

More Cowboy Poseidon!

I'm a teensy bit obsessed, if y'all couldn't tell.

—

[thecryptidbard]

“Oh fuck it these can’t all be clever” my girl. My beloved Guide. My sweetest blorbo who did absolutely 100% all of the crimes, who did so in the most elaborate dramatic way possible, who literally put on such an unnecessarily extensive show for…I can only assume the documentary crew and her own enjoyment and satisfaction?? Who sat kicking her legs, head propped up in her hands asking Laszlo if he’s *suuuurre* he doesn’t want any help??? Who came to see them all in their cages and LITERALLY said *teehee 😁* . Babygirl really said I am going to snap so goddamn fucking hard and completely, but I am going to do it with SHOWMANSHIP and PIZAZZ, she made SUCH a good murderboard (that says *OUCHY!* on it!!!) and then after all that just went….oopsie!! My bad!! Truly my hero you GO babe you’re doing GREAT please please never change