#i need this very badly though

[astrum-aetherium]

hi dear

no because i love anything domestic and mundane and with henry even more.

you know those sweet little things. like washing the dishes, drying them, cooking, glances across the room, reading quietly together, falling asleep on his lap, oh and if i saw one of those small smiles adorning his lips i would never stop grinning ( or sobbing) while looking at him ( honest id love to see what he'd do if he saw me staring at him with a big smile upon seeing one of his smiles). i so so so need this.

im violently sobbing rn

-A

i, too, am immensely fond of domesticity and the simple things, specifically applied to a character as cool and otherwise indifferent as henry. it's very mellowing, so tender, and comforting beyond all comprehension. i wholeheartedly love the few ideas you've pitched in the request, they're marvelous. let me see what i can conjure up on the basis thereof.

doing the dishes for him after a long, taxing day; knowing he is merely situated in the adjacent room, working; being reassured of the fact by the waft of smoke curling its way into the kitchen. washing mugs that previously harbored tea he'd made for you, precisely the way you like it; drying plates that were previously used to serve a meal you'd brought from home for the two of you, a loving gesture he appreciated so much he couldn't help but press a gratuitous kiss into your forehead, specifically because he had been so busy lately he couldn't even bring himself to cook. but there you were, swooping in, and saving him from the brink of giving up on himself once more.

finishing up the dishes and tiredly lowering yourself into his couch with a book as he sits at his desk in the same room and continues working on something so tremendously important to him. flicking through the pages placidly, calmly, at utter peace — lighting yourself a cigarette when and if you feel like it, having wordlessly snuck one from the pack of luckies lain by his dominant hand. indirectly and passively listening to how he breathes, how his pen scratches ink into the firm paper, how he turns over book pages of his own and sighs every now and again with a heaviness that awakens sympathy in you. all the while, you read, immersed in either a story to get your mind off of your studies or matching henry in productivity by reading something on the curriculum.

soon enough, he would rise, and flick off the desktop lamp — thereby marking his work time done for now. without detaching your eyes from your book, you'd know that his would be looking for you, only because mere moments later, you'd feel his tired, large frame sinking into the very same couch you're curled up on. he would gently grab hold of your legs and place them on his lap, tenderly caressing them through the dark tights posing a barrier between his digits and your bare flesh. you'd sigh, then, laying your book aside — only to be met with a mellow, soft glance exuding from him. he'd smile upon having locked eyes with you, albeit lightly — tiredly. that smile would simultaneously cause your heart to swell and bleed, aware of how much relief your presence provides him but also due to the bitter recognition of how much he needs said relief in the first place due to constantly being burdened and plagued by his studies, his environment, and his problems.

"read that to me, please," he'd request, then, nodding at the book you will have lowered in your lap. "and come a little closer, if you'd like."

because of his kind, meager proposition, you'd be propped against his shoulder, his arms tenderly encasing your body, in no time. you'd be lowly reading to him, regardless of whether he is familiar with the content of the book or not; he would merely delight in listening to the velvety, quiet flow of your voice. every now and again, his lukewarm fingertips would drift across the stretch of your arm, your waist, or your legs — whatever he will be holding onto. once you would end up falling asleep on him in this way, he would slowly lull you into a more comfortable position, and then light himself a cigarette — descending into contemplation and worry once more, ready for yet another sleepless night, which would merely be sweetened by your warm and comforting presence asleep in his grasp.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Good morning, Sleepyhead.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[grimstrawberry]

If I don't make light of everything, I'm gonna explode.

[creativity-deficient]

South Park fans! How many things do you have in common with your favorite character(s)? I’m curious!!

[wonder-worker]

Wild how we know that Elizabeth Woodville was officially appointed to royal councils in her own right during her husband’s reign and fortified the Tower of London in preparation of a siege while 8-months pregnant and had forces gathering at Westminster “in the queen’s name” in 1483 – only for NONE of these things to be even included, let alone explored, in the vast majority of scholarship and historical novels involving her.

[wra-1-th]

the reason netflix cancelled dead boy detectives is because they're working on a show called alive girl agents btw

[thepersonperson]

I can’t believe we got an infodump on simple domains AGAIN over a Sukuna backstory.

More complaining under the cut.

Usually I am one to give Gege the benefit of the doubt and will read heavily into what little information we are given. But I can't defend this chapter themes or character wise.

Even if this turns out to be a fakeout, going in painstaking detail over a show-not-tell battle in a way that lacks characterization and heartfelt emotion sucks to read. Even if the new shadow style and simple domain debacle goes somewhere, having it the main focus after an extremely traumatic battle instead of characters processing their emotions sucks to read. Even if Gojo is alive and that's why they're this chipper, everyone ignoring his sacrifice and efforts along with Choso's sucks to read.

I'm happy Yuta and Higuruma are alive but why was their revival off-screened? Yuta was so defensive over Gojo and everyone treating him like an object just 8 chapters ago. What happened to that? Why is everyone treating this battle like it was no big deal? (Also why the fudge did Kusakabe tell Yuji, a 15 year old, to his face he should've been killed while disparaging Gojo for protecting the life of a child???)

After the Shibuya Incident, there was a whole segment dedicated to how this affected the average person. The Culling Games ended and there are still bloodthirsty freaks running around. What happened to them? Is Angel hunting them down and that's why Hana is missing? Infodumping on anything except the battle would've been better.

I doubt we'll get any more info on Sukuna, Kenjaku, and Tengen at this point. We'll be lucky if there's a funeral for even Geto's body. Shoko was absent this entire chapter which makes me thing she's still trying to save Gojo or she's preparing their bodies for a funeral.

Anyways. This is the worst JJK chapter for me hands down. My hopes for the final 2 are mostly dashed. Crunch and poor working conditions really do ruin art my goodness.

[pien-art]

Moiraine Sedai

( click image for optimal quality )

prints available here ! and it's also on my redbubble !

[notbecauseofvictories]

Big mistake to go into a career that is 50% reading contracts, when sometimes, the very sight of a contract makes me physically ill.

[bonefall]

How close was Bramblestar to accepting Hawkfrost's deal in this? Since isn't it Mothwing who intervenes and it's only then when Bramblestar makes his choice to fight Hawkfrost.

He was considering it. But not much differently from canon. If left to his own devices, he would have hesitated for about the same amount of time before deciding killing his leader was too far.

See like... BB!Bramblestar means a lot to me in that he didn't have to become what he did. He will lie and let others take the fall for him, blame everyone else for his own faults, but he MINDS being a bad person. He's capable of love and kindness, occasionally says something very wise, and can display compassion...

But he doesn't. He might not cross a threshold into killing someone for power, but he'll still abuse and control his mate. He'll disown his kids on learning he was lied to, and is too proud to apologize and the bridge becomes too burnt to even try. He CAN be better, GOD he's SO close to it.

But he never does. And... you can't do anything about that.

But in THAT moment, it matters. He hesitates, but still jumps to Firestar's defense. Mothwing moved quicker, and he's ashamed of that.

[danwhobrowses]

Slightly mini Callowmoore thing from 103 but I liked how Fearne used 'Professor Emperor' with Grog in reference to the shard and her previous attempt at passing as a professor - which Ashton backed her up for. And the instant Grog tries to move her Ashton steps in with 'we have an appointment', and further protests as she's pushed.

[dominote]

i think light yagami is "socially adept" in terms of being able to reason out relatively well what to say and do to come off as a harmless and good and polite young man who is likeable to be around. however i do not think "socially adept" (or "neurotypical") typically comes with having to preface every other normal-passing action and statement with a minor crisis of "ah shit. quick, what would i say/do in response to this if i was light yagami, a normal and nice and respectable young man?"

everyone likes to talk about him talking about kira in third person but can we acknowledge that he also talks about LIGHT in third person. i'm not adding manga panels at 3:57am but y'all know exactly which ones i mean

[beastsovrevelation]

Michael's so stern, and laconic, she's honestly just... Cold. But, I think she'd be so gallant towards a female love interest.

Damn... Imagine her kissing your hand (and refusing to break eye contact as she does it).

One could swoon. I'd say she definitely goes on one knee to propose.

Her Spartan demeanor does soften in her love interest's presence. A fond smile lights up her lips, and her piercing eyes shine with adoration. She mindlessly does things like brushing a lock of her so's hair behind her ear, putting her arm around her, or having her sit on her lap.

I also think (since she's the Champion) she has a pathological need to protect. Honestly, it might cause tension as she gets patronizing, even controlling. She's used to being obeyed without question, after all.

[ehlnofay]

Pax should have said no.

Damn it all, they should have said no. Should have said go to hell and fucked off back – stop contacting me, sort out your own shit – but they didn’t, fuck knows why, and now they’re stuck here.

(They know why. They know exactly why; absolutely anything would be better than fucking off back to Cyrodiil. What’s for them there?)

But there’s nothing worth staying for here either, and now she’s crammed in between strangers on a long table, everyone dressed in fabrics she’s never seen with dyes so saturated they seem almost gory, eating stuff that isn’t food and talking loud enough to make her want to hurl a glass into the wall. It’s bizarre. The woman next to her, ruddy-faced and bald, wears a headpiece that shines like the sun the Isles doesn’t have; the other side is taken up by a stranger in a bone-white porcelain mask who has not moved but to swill the wine around in their glass. There’s scarcely room for Pax’s chair. It all feels like such a baffling pantomime of aristocracy (she's known the real thing well enough – feasts and toasts and luxurious gifts she had no use for, and if she doesn’t stop thinking about it she actually will throw a glass), bright colours and rich settings and a god taking offerings at the head of the table.

At least, Pax thinks, no-one tries to talk to him; they’re too busy fawning over their lord. Which is probably to be expected; but it all feels so strange, so unsettling, the way they all lean in towards it like flowers turning to face the sun, like seaweed dragged at by the inescapable pull of the tides. They grow towards it through the cracks in the air, matter moving toward the inevitable centre, as if they can imagine nothing more than this.

(Even more unsettling is the way it responds in kind, listening attentively to anyone who speaks to it, leaning in as though to kiss them, as though to swallow them whole. All hell, why did Pax agree to this? Why did they come?)

(They should have told it to fuck off. Should have said no way, I don’t want to help you, don’t want to get involved in anything you’d need my help for. I don’t owe you anything. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything to do with you. I’m done.)

(Pax is done. Pax is sick to death of all this shit; doesn’t want to deal with this, the vaguely described problems of a god that picks people apart like it’s unravelling a thick yarn shawl. Doesn’t want to deal with anything like this. He’s had his fill of gods.)

(Why is he still fucking here? Why did he agree to this? This is no better than eating in that weird fucking inn in town. This is no better than –)

(That’s a lie. It’s a bit better than Cyrodiil. Just as much a shithole, but it pulls the rug out from under him often enough that he doesn’t have time to think too much.)

“Not hungry?” says a prowling voice, coiling catlike into the plaits in their hair, and Pax jumps enough to jostle the masked bastard sitting ramrod straight next to him.

He looks up.

At the empty placemat across from him sits a figure veiled in gossamer, glittering in the glow of the lit-up lichen on the distant throne; the fabric of its endless shawls pulls apart at the ends, peeling away from itself, shedding patches like iridescent insect wings every time it shifts. If Pax squints, they can see through it to the grand marbled wall behind.

She glances back at the chair at the head of the table, where something lounges, eyes dripping gold, intricately carved cane laid across its knees; its too-many fingers are laced with the hand of a man whose gown blooms floral. Flatly, she says, “What the fuck?”

“Aren’t you hungry?” Sheogorath asks, pouting; she can hear it laughing down the other end of the table. “It’s a proper feast. We pulled out all the stops.”

Pax shifts their eyes away to peer down at their plate. “You have served me worms,” she says. She flicks the dish with a fingernail. “In jelly. With flowers.”

“Larva, actually,” Sheogorath replies. It’s still at the other end of the table. It doesn’t seem eager to explain this. When it smiles, the gossamer falls away; its whole face splits in half.

It’s all so fucking stupid. Pax takes a deep breath – in through the nose, ignore all the odd spiced smells, and out – and does not yell at it, or try to hit it, because she’s gotten herself into a situation where that’s not really an option, because she’s a fucking idiot. Why didn’t she just say no?

(She knows why.)

The Mad God’s teeth flash bright as the ornate silver cutlery. Its chair scrapes back from the table. “It melts in your mouth,” it tells her, eyes glittering, “but I won’t make you try it. Walk with me?”

The figure still sits at the head of the table, snatching something from someone’s plate, always, always laughing. Its limbs sprawl like tentacles, like the silken threads of a tapestry, to encompass the whole room. The dinner guests stare as though bewitched, bedevilled, beguiled. Not one of them is looking at Pax. If he were to drop dead with his face in the food his corpse would not be discovered until sunrise.

Pax sniffs and shoves his chair back from the table. He lets Sheogorath (the second Sheogorath – but it must be, what else could it be?) lead him through a narrow door into some winding hallway, the walls lined and rimed with ornate coloured-glass windows. (It’s so much quieter. Still as garishly bright, but Pax is getting the sense that that is inescapable, here; the clothes they wear, as crumpled and covered in travelling-grime as ever and startlingly out of place against the odd jagged finery of the dinner party, seem unimaginably dull in comparison. Everything seems unimaginably dull in comparison.) Outside the windows, they can catch glimpses of the city – its winding, lamp-lit streets, the jumbled mess of its architecture, the sky arcing above it like a child’s attempt at watercolours. Pax wants to smash it, tear it down.

There’s no sun here, but still it’s night. The sky has shifted to purple and black.

“Isn’t it nice?” says their companion; when they look back, it’s nothing more than a shifting impression in the stained-glass window, a series of hairline cracks. It still manages, somehow, to smile at them.

It’s not. The sky is a shadow and the flamboyance of the palace is scraping at their spine. “Sure,” Pax says flatly. When she flexes her fingers, the bruising staining the base knuckle of her thumb aches.

Sheogorath looks at her – an ancient man leaning on a stick, a flickering painting, a bloody corpse, a little girl in velvet-red skirts, a breath. In its mercurial shifting she catches the flowery blossom of the man at the table’s collar, an unpleasant glimpse of her own braided hair, the smell of sulphur. It tips its head. She can’t focus on it anywhere but for the eyes.

“You don’t like my dinner parties,” it announces, as though it’s a revelation, a tragedy; its body crumbles like sea cliffs slowly eroded by the ways. It’s annoying – bloody obnoxious, and incomprehensible, and kind of weird that it noticed, that it would even care. (She’s never liked dinner parties. Nobody ever commented on it before.)

I’ve had well enough of them, Pax could say, or no, I don’t like you, but it’s the fucking Mad God, Daedric Prince of – Pax doesn’t even know what, he’s never known much about this shit, only that it’s well worth avoiding. Prince of the mad and the missing and the foolish, of breaking and breaking and putting yourself back together backwards. She should have said no, but she didn’t, and who knows what would happen if she went back on that now?

It's slinking closer. All that stay static enough to make out are eyes and teeth.

“Pax, yes?” it says, soft-voiced – a hand lands on his arm, small and dry and shivering, the skin as thing as a mouldering leaf. “You have no obligations here. If you want to be on your own, be on your own. We’ve plenty of space for it.”

Pax’s eyes narrow. He does not jerk away from it.

In the light of the coloured sky, the coloured windows, its face is phantasmagorical. “If you don’t want to be here,” it continues – still so skin-pricklingly gentle – “then your hand will not be forced. I’ll speed your way home if you wish.”

They can’t help but twitch at that. It’s setting their teeth on edge. (It’s lying – has to be. After its ages of coaxing them in, meting out information, not telling them where they were until they were on its doorstep, it would not give them the chance to leave.) Rough, still covered in road-grime, Pax asks, “Why should I believe you?”

(None of them have ever given them the chance to leave.)

Sheogorath, a figure of hollow skin and bone, inclines its head. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Pax,” it says. Its eyes are wide and bulging, whites on full display like a frightened horse; it grins again. “Others might. But we’re not a monolith. We’re not even especially similar.”

Pax bites down on the flat edge of their tongue. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

The light coming in through the windows flickers. The Mad God turns to meet it.

“I’m the youngest,” it says, its voice glittering like mist on the air. “Did you know that? I don’t remember the world without you in it.” Its form spasms, volatile, wings and limbs and eyes like a snail’s on stalks sprouting and choking and subsiding back into its mass. “I’m closer to you than any. I understand, almost.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Pax repeats. She’s gritting her teeth, tonguing at her gums where two are missing. Are two devil-gods not enough to deal with for a lifetime? Is there really going to be more of this now, too?

Rolling through the air like smoke, the voice says, “It will.”

Pax presses purple-green knuckles to her mouth. Her teeth dig into the soft meat of her lip.

Sheogorath turns to face her, hair moving as though blown by the wind, as though tugged by the tides. It sighs. “You don’t believe me,” it says. Its tongue pokes through its teeth. “That’s perfectly fine. Clever, even. But if you want to leave, all you need to do is tell me so.” It pauses, then; the train of its strange, gnarled crown shifts over its shoulders when it moves its head. “Or just leave. The door is still open.”

“You’d be fine with me just leaving,” Pax rasps around his knuckle, “after weeks of not leaving me alone?”

(Of begging him to come, poorly-hidden agitation giving way to blatant franticness, half-swallowing the fear that choked its face in every mirror it spoke to him through. Of begging him still, after he got here, after he met it – begging in a roundabout manner, casual as anything, its every motion reeking of fear. Its abject terror when he turned to leave. You’ve come this far. Why not hear an old man out? Pax told it that it wasn’t an old man, that he didn’t give a shit either way, and it slid through a child, a monster, a sulphur-burned body coughing blood, his own shuddering form in armour he hasn’t seen in months, and it said please.)

(Regained its composure, its gentleman’s face, immediately afterward. But it – the Mad God, unknowable, inconsolable – said please. Pax still doesn’t know what to do with that.)

The Mad God, now, shrugs. Taps at the hairline cracks in the stained glass windows. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” it says, one pair of hands braiding something intricate into its beard. The hand on the glass slips down. “I told you. I do need a champion.”

“And I told you,” Pax bites, something aching and ugly surging in their gut, “not to call me that again.”

A smile, bloody-mouthed and beaming. “But we will abide,” says Sheogorath, and digs its fingers into the cracks of the stone. One brick slides loose, mortar dug up under its nails. It offers it up.

Pax licks their teeth and takes it.

The brick shivers, momentarily – crumbles, in their hand, like sand slithering through their fingers, and left in their palm is a hardy slip of bone. Spiked and sprawling, carved with intricate patterns; it arranges itself around an oval of empty space, the perfect size for four sharp-knuckled fingers.

“You can always leave,” the Mad God tells them, and for a moment it does look so very young and strangely, staggeringly hopeful. “But give it a chance. I think you could love the Isles, if you choose to.”

[lumii-nosity]

i finished the raven king two days ago and now my heart hurts. WAUGH. I MISS THEM ALREADY.

[oozeandgoo-art]

had an odd dream that i was reading a comic book. sketched a couple of the pages i could remember.