#i need to study them under a microscope

[shanimations]

Vidow on the brain (they are eating away at it please send help)

[futuremrscameron]

“i miss playing with you” now at first i took this as him being a little shit and on the surface it was but this is actually him laying on his back buttnaked baring his belly to art. he misses him not just messing with him, playing tennis goofing around (friends/situationship?) he misses HIM. but art takes this at face value and patrick’s chronic smirk doesn’t help so🤷🏾‍♀️ (god these guys needed to get their shit together so bad)

[seasicksilver]

mischievous barbie

[cornislost]

oughhhh the parallels the details project sekai you make me sick

both of them have a photo of them having fun on holiday (taken from behind them too) on the left and a birthday photo on the right. only kanade has a parent beside her in both. both her parents are equal and active in her life until they suddenly left due to illness. mafuyu is always alone in the photos because her mother is taking the photos and her dad is at work. a mom that is too involved in her life and a dad that barely is. both are happy memories they can only revisit and never experience again.

[sillyshenaniganz]

Peeps on twitter say this one so here yall go

[miraacleworker]

i think they're hilarious together

[jonsihtric]

whhaaaat people actually like bunny corcoran 😳😳😳 that’s so disgusting and horrible…anyways look at my posts about the other awful characters that i love from that book🥺❤️

[itsatorchwoodthing]

gwenjack started to fascinate me because they need each other, they’re nothing without the other yet they cant love each other romantically the way the other needs it, its like every piece of the puzzle fit but that one

[funkyfreshman]

HAHAH SNOTLOU AU

Httyd au for snotlout and it’s basically an analysis of domestic abuse

In this snotlout has 3 siblings each going through abuse from there father and reacting in n diffrent ways

I love picking at people brains

I however do not like fixing my Grammer and spelling mistakes so like Goodluck reading this cause I typed this out at 2:40 in the morning

There is the eldest spikelout who is about 10 years older then snotlout, he’s kinda the disappointment even though he is the eldest, he grew tall and is well built but not built as desired more looking like his mother if she where a boy there his father. He was never able to live up to the expectations because he literally couldn’t and that developed into anger toward authority and elders, he’s kinda to anyone a little older then him and anyone his age and youger but when he’s interacting with older people and people above him, he’s disrespectful, rude, and abrasive. He’s not afraid of the consequences. He also has little self worth often time defending his siblings as he does not care for his fathers approval in the slightest, the only older person he’s ok with is his mother and even then it’s strained as he’s upset she never helped him. She’s kinda but he understandably holds a grudge so he’s vocal with her. With his two siblings he’s very caring, like I said often times taking blame, and blows for the others. He’s also kinda like a second parent as he had to actually raise them a little and occasionally comfort them.

The middle child is spearlout, who is in all cases the “perfect” build of a Jorgenson, except she’s a women, she’s takes all after her father, she’s a tall buff Viking lady. But she’s not a son, so while she never really was physically abused she still delt with emotion and physical neglect as well as verbal abuse from her father, she honestly lives a very unhappy life as she was never able to accomplish what she feels she was destined to do, she feels she can be so much more but her father when she turned 18 forced her into a arranged marriage with another high end family on berk and she has been his wife ever since, of course she can still prove her worth and she does but most of the time she’s put down for it, as it would be seen as unwomenly of her. Her relationship with her siblings are a little strained, she’s not unkind more resined from them, snotlout especially, as he gets her fathers attention and the chances she feels where ripped from her. She has everything to be exactly what her father wants except she just has a vag n stead of a dick so it projects into a lot of unintended disregard of him. Oh and also how she reacts to this is much like how people think of her she does not care for them, they don’t care about her so why should she them.

And finally snotlout my stupid guy, he takes after his father in looks but his personality and eyes is all his mother, he when he was a child was set to be exactly how his father wanted a Jorgenson, and up until he was 7-8 his father was a good dad, like a really good one. He howeve did witness his father being an awful fuckwad of a dad to his siblings, especially spikelout. So his fear of his dad began there. It continued to snowball when his dad finally decided he had to start training him at 8, and this is when his dad gets bad, pushing snotlout way past his limits continuously. Switching from praise to insults to him, claiming it’s for his won good. It all went down hill around httyd 1 where suddenly being a visous dragon killing Viking wasn’t really need and actually unliked, so snotlout went from top dog to struggling to keep up, his dad of course noticed this is also when he began to physically not meet Jorgenson standards with his height, snotlout is still fit but dudes small he’s like 5’4 5’3 small on the actual show. And his entire family is TALL like huge so that to spitlout of a huge disappointment and pushed snotlout harder called him insult after insult further fucking up his already rock bottom self esteem. But how he reacts to this is he NEEDs atthority figures to like him, he need praise and affirmination that he’s doing things right or he feels like he’s gonna die, his body reacts that way to cause in way of he was incorrect spitelout would be a bitch. So he faced a lot of physical and verbal abuse from his father and unlike spikelout grew to suck up to authority figures and in what he assumed was admiration to them was actually fear, while loving authority he’s terrified of them. And with people his age group and youger he’s snappy taking his fears and pain out on others, in this au he’s a bit better then cannon due to spikelout but it’s still bad.

Anyways this au goes into there relationship with eachother there parents and community, how it affects them physically and emotionally, how it affect there day to day lives, there relationships both romantic and platonic. This story goes into a lot of mental stuff and gives little snippets of there childhood between like actual plot of them speaking out about this and spitlout getting actually banished to outcast island. Then aftermath of that.

Oh also spearlout and snotlout have deep resentment of eachother, spearlout as snotlout has everything she wants and snotlout for her because somtimes snotlout wishes everyone wpuod leave him alone

[mellowwhumps]

off-white; sunlight

OCs: Ida, Yuuto (by @qiuthewhumps / @lemlem21) — blogger x art dealer AU

no i did not say i was going to post this a week ago. this isn’t whump, by the way! just an idato au that kinda spiralled into this oneshot!! i liked it so i’ve decided to post it here ^^ happy reading the first and only 2k+ words i will reach

———☆———

He is a storyteller. 

And maybe he isn’t, just there to spread opinions on some dumb blog he made a few years ago, the moment he left all those cram schools and graduated. He comes up with a plot, something to honor or critique as wanted. It’s a simple thing, really, one he does as a hobby. The few people he was followed by were dedicated to his cause, giving their own take after his. It was fine.

The nearest museum to his rented room advertises a new exhibit, people flocking by the masses to the location, merely a small ways away from the nearest train station. It’s free. He laughs, because nothing can be free and good at the same time. 

He’s not wrong. All the exhibits are what he calls nothing but a mess of color. There is no story to be told in lines or blocks or dots, in his opinion, but his fans were likely waiting for his input. What was he to say? Search up the artist and it’s just some rich guy probably wanting to make a dime off others like them. 

He scoffs. Beside him, a lone person makes a small noise, something between a laugh and a sigh. He doesn’t recall the man approaching at all; silently, he curses his half-functional hearing.

To him, humans are just as fascinating as art. Some amalgamation of all the things they’ve been through, each small thing shaping them into who they are now. The person beside him doesn’t scream of money or formality, yet sophisticated enough to look on without seeming too judgemental. Now, this he finds more interesting than the painting in front of him.

“Don’t get it either, do you?” The man smiles, a small quirk of his mouth.

“It’s a blue square. There’s nothing but a blue square and some errant strokes. I don’t see how this would interest anyone.”

“Hm. Well, maybe look at it this way…” The man holds his arms in front of him, then makes a tilting motion. “A courtyard, you see? Perhaps the three lines behind represent a house.”

He tilts his head to the side, angling it ever so slightly. When the man states it like that, it’s hard not to imagine the scene. The blue, vibrant sky, idyllic, a home on top of a hill. It’s not forced. He can truly see it.

“There, you see? Hasty smears by the corner. The flick of an artist’s hand. People, I think, are rushing around. Playing.” He hesitates, studying the image for another while before continuing. “A third character by the corner. Just beside the house.”

“An interesting interpretation.”

“I pride myself on that, thank you.”

Nobody else comes close to the exhibit, taking one quick glance and moving away. They, on the other hand, talk for a long, long time. Then another, then another. 

It’s quite a large exhibition. Once, he would have walked away without any conclusion. Now, his mind weaves tales of tragedy, trials and emotion, together with this stranger that no longer was. Sometimes, they disagree, some petty conflict ending in laughter and smiles. Sometimes he can do nothing but nod his head in silence.

They grab a small drink from the local cafe he frequents as some horrible replacement for lunch before immediately returning, flitting from artwork to artwork. 

Dawn turns to dusk. He turns for a moment to glance at the painting they met in front of, and when he looks back, the presence by his side is gone.

In all that enjoyment, he hadn’t even thought of asking for a name.

——————

His recent posts gain traction. He appears on some small local news site for his skillfully interpretative works on the new exhibition, and has to send a message to tell them not to give him sole credit. To whom else, they ask, and he hesitates before saying that he doesn’t know. 

There is a story behind every person, pieces of a puzzle to be fitted together in an imperfect image. He wants to figure it out. He wants to know who to give credit to.

The man, he learns, is Yuuto Kikuchi. 

There are no records of his past to be found online, merely some odd, fragmented website that details him as an art dealer’s assistant. Too many missing details. Well, he was never someone to source his details secondhand.

Tomorrow, he arrives at the museum, some odd feeling compelling his legs to move. He spots a certain man lurking alone by a painting, lost in thought, and promptly realises all too drastically that he had looked forward to another meeting. 

Just like yesterday, he positions himself by the man’s side. He knows he is seen, from the way the other shifts a little to the right to make space for him. The man called Yuuto asks, “What do you think?”

For once, he knows what to say. It’s like water, the way his words flow, smooth as the blue of that unremarkably memorable square. Yuuto stands in silence, but when he finally turns away from the painting to check on him, there’s a glint in his eyes that Ida doesn’t ever recall seeing yesterday. 

Yuuto speaks, replying, repeat. They throw words back and forth, and regardless of that silence he recognizes that he must have passed some sort of test. It’s a quaint feeling, a strange sort of adrenaline.

They head to the same cafe after. He encourages the other to at least get something filling, and in return gets his entire bill paid for after a full meal of sandwiches, enough for the both of them.

The trip back, he gathers the courage to ask about his job. Yuuto replies, “You know, don’t you?” 

The man smiles. 

He wants to say anything at all. There’s more. There’s always more.

“What’s your name?” Yuuto asks. He hesitates, because he knows Yuuto has the answers too. Yet so it is, and so it is.

“Ida. Seong Ida, but skip the surname.”

The man smiles. He knows he’s caught, even if he doesn’t know how. Still, Yuuto says, “Nice to meet you, Ida,” and the conversation ends at that. In technicality, he still shouldn’t have the other’s name.

Dawn turns to dusk. They talk for the whole day. The evening crowd, now off work, floods into the museum. When he pushes forward and breaks through the masses, Yuuto is gone.

——————

The amount of followers Ida has is officially more than a thousand, comments flooding in like yesterday’s rush hour. He can’t head to the museum today, because like any other non-filthy-rich person trying to survive in this economy, he has to work sometimes.

Ida spends his lunch break scouring the web for more articles. Another name drop.

Mrs. Salomea Nowak. Foreigner. Widowed. Supposedly living alone, though he knows where to check for the lie to break through.

Dawn, dusk, dawn. He doesn’t sleep very well.

——————

“You haven’t slept well,” Yuuto says. Ida does not respond, yawning and attempting to blink away sleep.

“Mmm.”

“Me too.”

The both of them are less tense than usual today, he notes. The atmosphere is significantly lighter. More noticeably, Yuuto doesn’t speak in questions. It makes all the difference. He doesn’t want to break that fragile peace, so he turns to the painting and makes some offhanded, haughty remark, inspired by one stray opinion on his posts. 

He isn’t expecting Yuuto to laugh. 

It starts small. A small bubble of noise escapes his lips, then it escalates, until at last he’s wheezing and gasping for air, eyes crinkled in such a genuine way Ida thinks only Yuuto could pull it off. He finds himself laughing, too. 

The joke wasn’t even that funny.

There’s a weird turning in his chest, a sharp pang of…something. What exactly, he can’t quite figure.

Dawn. They walk around the museum. They’re not even half done with what this exhibition has to offer, lurking around the same general area. He never gets tired of it, and if Yuuto does, he doesn’t notice. Neither of them mind.

Afternoon. Cafe. The barista has memorized their orders, apologising for a certain mix-up on their first arrival here. Yuuto tips them in return. He attempts to do the same, only to find the money in his pocket when they leave. They chat all the way back. 

Ida notices the way their footsteps sync, the same leg first. Yuuto’s looking somewhere else. If he catches the quickening of their pace, he doesn’t point it out.

Dusk.

“Where do you always go?” Ida asks, much too calm to mind his words. The apprehensive atmosphere returns, covering them like a thick blanket.

Cautiously. “Home.”

Curiously. “Where?”

”You wouldn’t know.” 

The conversation ends there. At least, it’s meant to. He messes it up, no doubt.

“Salomea, right? Your mother. Foster.”

Silence.

“Yes. But you never wanted to ask me that, did you?” Questions, albeit as neutral as usual. Not angry, not disappointed, nothing. 

Again. They’re all the way back at the beginning. The man’s expression is unreadable. The museum isn’t quiet, but in their little bubble, it was always the two of them. It was always the two of them. Wasn’t it?

“If you have nothing else to say, I’ll be leaving.” He smiles. It’s genuine. Ida sees the glint of his eyes.

He’s unsure, now.

Nothing interrupts them. Not a crowd, or some circumstance, or a turn of the head. Instead, Ida watches him get further and further away until he’s gone, disappearing somewhere he wouldn’t know.

——————

“Do you think it ended happily?” They’re back at the painting of that blue square. Back to normal. Ida no longer needs to tilt his head to see the image.

“What makes you say that?” The man called Yuuto asks.

“I don’t think the brushstrokes are rushed because they’re happy. I think something happened. A hint of a different hue there, see? A small splatter, not very notable in such a large piece, but they’re present.”

“Huh. I never noticed that.” There’s an odd tone in his voice. “But aren’t those people at the bottom of the hill still having fun? The extra color doesn’t overwhelm anything. The majority of it is still blue.”

“Smudged. The paint is smudged. Judging by this artist, I don’t think it’s unintentional.” There’s something wrong with this painting, looking at it for the umpteenth time. At first glance, unremarkable. On inspection, a story.

Ida is a storyteller. What happens when the story isn’t his to tell? The man called Yuuto is staring at her, words on his lips, unsaid. 

He doesn’t want to argue. Not about this image. Not when they already agreed that it was a happy little image, and that was that. The strange feeling strikes him again, choking and saccharine sweet. It’s wrong. There’s something more, a lost piece of the puzzle.

They move on, anyway.

In the cafe, the coffee tastes more bitter than usual. They chat all the way back, talking about not-quite everything under the sun. Halfway back, a bout of heavy rain begins and they run to the nearest shelter, otherwise known as a museum.

Dusk comes. It’s fine, because the entire thing is a cycle and he could go at it forever, this back and forth of lighthearted banter and chit-chat. When the stranger leaves, it’s normal, because there was never anything wrong about that.

——————

He walks past the cafe on his way home. The silhouettes of yesterdays echo in the closed shop like a painting in motion, unreachable, unreachable.

A poster is plastered on the nearby lamppost, the exact direction he remembers the man looking at. It’s an advertisement for the new exhibit. Tomorrow was the last day, ending off with an auction. An auction of everything that was his world for the past five days, everything under the sun. How did time pass so quickly? Leaps and bursts, perhaps, but fast nonetheless.

He doesn’t sleep. Dawn arrives. He grabs a small wad of cash and runs to the museum, praying it’s enough.

——————

It isn’t enough, of course. Ida takes the first bid to just slightly more than a thousand; it ends in the millions. Nobody cared about it before. Nobody cared about that blue square and some errant strokes, and still it goes to the man with the most money. If the price of art was decided by cash, why make art at all? 

His blog followers would agree. Yuuto might agree. He wouldn’t know.

He stays for a particularly desperate man who does end up getting the final bid on another work, not particularly high but instead just the bare minimum to deter others. He admires the passion, perhaps, or simply the ability to try harder. 

He should have tried harder.

Anything after that doesn’t interest him. He leaves.

——————

There’s nothing in the museum.

Which is an exaggeration, of course. There are still paintings. There are still people. But where the exhibit was, there remains pristine white walls. Too perfect.

He wanders aimlessly. Navigates the rope barriers, first floor, second floor, last floor. No sign of the man he’d spent so much time with, gone like the paintings.

Walking turns into a brisk walk, then to a full-on dash. Out of the museum, into the cafe, barely registering the bell chiming to signal his arrival. Their usual table is filled by someone else. He takes a seat and waits.

The barista asks where his friend is and whether they should prepare the usual order. Inexplicably, he says yes. 

That’s when Ida shatters.

The paintings he likes don’t disappear. Brushstrokes don’t just run away, forever stationary. That’s why he likes them, precisely because they are still images. Paintings don’t change, merely interpretations.

But he did, didn’t he? He’s not the shell of yesteryear, staring at paintings just to judge them objectively.

He knows what that feeling is now. Longing. There is no finality in all this, no entry for him to write about. He doesn’t even know the other’s contact.

It was always going to end. No matter how he looks at it, they are two strangers, stragglers of a world unwelcome.

——————

His boss asks why he skipped work. Not-Ida ceases waiting around and tries to go back to his usual life, away from the nearly five thousand milestone of followers. What use is it without credit?

——————

There is a package by his doorstep and he nearly trips over it on his way in, barely paying attention to the floor. Long, thin. When he unwraps it, it’s a roll of blue.

The painting is a miniature version, small enough to fit on the walls of his room, an accurate replica, albeit with duller colors. 

He hesitates. There’s something wrong with that statement.

It’s not a false painting, he abruptly concludes. The fading seems so natural it can’t possibly be anything but the real thing. He turns it over, and just as expected, there’s a signature.

S. Nowak. 

Seong Ida is not a storyteller. He is a blogger, an art connoisseur, a wanderer, a caged bird. Most importantly, he is a person who won’t stand for an incomplete tale. They will meet again, he swears. There will be no more rhetorical questions, no more formality, nothing less of the truth.

——————

small analysis

[rustyelias]

“A type of body language you have learnt to spot immediately zolf which is both his hands he sort of give a flourish of the fingers” -Alex rqg 192 all I can think about is the fact that zolf and wilde have grown so close they probably can perfectly read each other.

🚨 incoming Wilde and Zolf rant 🚨

Wilde went from suddenly learning he could trust no one in Damascus. Learning that the organization he works for is corrupt. Whilst also digging up a massive conspiracy! Then thinking he has lost the only people he could trust who always expected him to fix everything. To then working in a close group with Carter Barnes and Zolf. And out of those three Wilde knew Zolf. I'm 80% the only reason he trusted Barnes was because zolf could vet him. After all, Barnes court-martialed him. Carter was just there and is “canonically a hottie” (the words of Alex not me). Also Wilde at that time during the time skip would have been dealing with the fact he lost his magic! he would have felt practically useless which Zolf gets he felt the same way during the Paris arc. Zolf would have recognised the self-destructive behaviour. Their trust and with it, friendship would have slowly grown slowly building into a deep lifelong bond. I could go on and talk about the airship arc and so on but I will leave that for another day :) Anyways they both know how each other think and work and I love them

[hasarjunadoneanythingwrong]

im not sorry for brainrotting over karnamas again. it was so cute. arjuna is so cute. karna even, is so cute

[clockworkspider]

Oh we finally reached it, the boiling point??

Tenn you're so...

I mean I think the point with Kujo and Tenn's relationship is that Tenn wasn't entirely groomed to be the way he is, he's a wilful person who's always held similar ideals and decided to follow Kujo on his own, which is probably why he isn't more angry. Like... the fact he's angry on this other kid's behalf but not for himself says a lot about their relationship, I think.

But like... this is the moment where he is once again reminded that he can't cure dad's obsession but cares too much to just leave... Like... both him and Aya clearly knows that Kujo has problems but they also kinda treat Kujo the same way people treat their elderly parent with dementia... Tenn's language and attitude towards Kujo has always been... patient rather than obedient.

Anyway I think any parents can only wish their kid loves them as much as Tenn loves Kujo...

[yuyinator]

thinking about the person who said martin scorsese needed to say shit about marvel movies because he "needs drama in order for people to watch his movies"

[chiisana-lion]

Valkyrie. [puts up a large sign that says APPLAUSE]

[harleyhart]

Imagine looking at a fable and acting like there is nothing of substance in it, other than having a fun little story-as if the moral isn’t the point of the story itself. Or looking at any piece of media that has fictional elements, for that matter!

If they ever went to a bookclub it would be the worst, yet most fascinating thing ever. What would they have to say??

“Man, I tell ya, that hare was a shoe in for that race- so sad that he didn’t win. He must’ve had an off day. he should try for a rematch.”

“What’s with that Lorax guy? He’s always on the Once-ler’s case-Thneeds are a wonderful invention that are important to the advancement of technology, and totally not a symbol meant to represent useless or mundane commercial goods. The Once-ler is just a very smart businessman, who in no way embodies corporate greed or the lack of care for environmental harm done by large businesses. He saw a market, and filled that niche, good for him!”

In any case, the willingness to ignore any and all subtext in media is astounding (in a bad, “holy fuck how did we get here as a society” kind of way)

social media has shown me some very diverse pissing on the poor style reading comprehension takes over the years but i don't think i've ever seen a straight up "fables carry no meaning because they are just stories, something that is famously known to mean nothing"