#i present to you my babies

[star-anise]

I really wonder if trauma theorists who say things like "Humans are the only animal that will be in a fright state when physically safe" or "the rest of the animal kingdom doesn't get PTSD" have ever, like

Do you think they've actually ever met an animal?

[saturnstrays]

Hello ULTRAHUSTLERS please accept this extremely rushed silly comic that I started on Christmas eve have a merry ultrachristmas or just an ultra day!!!

[sharkylad]

Thinking about the fact that Mabel and Dipper didn't know they had two great uncles.

Yeah they are 12 and at 12 I had a shotty understanding of my family tree- But really? Nobody brought up their great uncle? Stanley? Especially since they'll be staying with his twin brother, Stanford?

Shermie never went to Stan's fake funeral, which to me means the twos relationship was strained on some level. If Shermie is older that means his view of Stan was poisoned in some way, that even as kids they weren't close. If the Shermie is younger then he never even got to meet Stan and all he knew about him was how he failed his family. Hell, people probably barely mentioned Stanley TO Shermie.

The fact that Stan had become a black stain upon the Pines family name makes me so vividly upset. Stanley faked his death and the family just- seemingly decided to strike him from the record. To pretend he didn't existed to spare themselves the sadness and shame.

Stanford and Shermie Pines. The only children worth mentioning of Filbrick and Caryn Pines.

It was never Stanford that was lost to the world. It was Stanley, ever since he had to leave New Jersy- it was always him that had to be struck from the record. Change his name, change his state, change his affiliations, destroy the remains of ghost that was Stanley Pines. Kill him so the family doesn't bring him up, doesn't ask questions, stops asking "Stanford" about his twin.

I just keep thinking about the fact that since the day he made one single mistake all the way up until Ford walks out of that machine- Stanley Pines was killed and did not exist. And Stan himself had no one to blame, he had to play the part in his own demise- He is the only one who ever knew Stanley was alive and has been for decades.

He lives in the multitudes of every personality he's ever taken, all in the hope that he himself can stop being Stanley Pines.

[hellcifrogs]

Let's give Naruto fox summons! What could go wrong with 9 adorable fox summons?

[bonecarversbestie]

Don’t mind me just having my weekly cry thinking about Lucien wrapping Solstice gifts for everyone when he knows he won’t get one in return.

Like just imagine him sitting on the floor with scissors and tape making sure the creases are perfect and tying little bows on top 😭

[egophiliac]

redesigning my headcanon for Sebek's parents, based on important new information (SCALES)

(you can't see it but they're both wearing crocs)

[demaparbat-hp]

Want to know what I believe? It's right here

Dig a little deeper and it's crystal clear

.

(WIP)

[chyarui]

WE WERE ROBBED OF SCENES WITH THESE TWO

It could have been SO good

I just feel like their dynamic could hold just as much if not more mutual understanding than even that between aizawa and shinsou

anyways dadmic and shinson forever 💜💛

[feketeribizli]

little ant in his new ride + a bear friend

[taiso]

jarvis cocker (pulp) trading card from melody maker magazine (1995)

scanned from my personal collection ^^

[silusvesuius]

testing out drawing maormer 🪸🐚🪸 and a nelvas 🧣📜🩷 i'll ramble about maormer a bit in the tags

[stxrysnow]

contents. fluff. a little angsty if you squint. just pure skinship.

to say that satoru isn’t on tenterhooks right now would be a lie.

a sugar-coated lie coated in a sweet, sweet ganache of what they called ‘delusion’— oh, as if that lil’ fucker already did not possess a diabolical sweet tooth.

(and he absolutely devours it every single time.)

“now what?” he murmurs. there’s a faint smile on his lips— just a little tilt to the side, careful, as if contemplating on what to make of the situation. it’s not forced, yet it’s there, a manifestation of his own instincts— an escape from reality, a path which led right towards that sweet little lie of his.

(a reality which wasn’t shielded by his infinity.)

“now what?” you repeat. an almost teasing undertone to your voice.

(you little brat, satoru thinks.)

“ah, ah, no playin’ sly, darling,” his eyebrow twitches, “you’re the one who asked me to deactivate my infinity.”

“perhaps so,” a small, amused huff escapes him when your hand sneakily drags itself across the leather of the couch between you two, almost tantalizing with the way it stopped just short of touching him.

(a hair’s breadth away.)

satoru swallows.

“uh huh,” azure eyes stare straight into yours, and if you look closely, there’s a hint of a foreign glint in them— a glint that’s perhaps a little darker.

(perhaps a little uncertain.)

“. . .”

“. . .”

a pause.

“why d’you think i made you turn your infinity off?”

satoru turns his head to look at you.

really look at you. the way the mocking grin on your face has somehow morphed itself into something much more softer. the way you gaze at him— eyes so full of longing that he might just throw up from the sheer amount of love you have for him. the way you’re just. . . there.

no, he doesn’t bother with his six eyes.

(he’s looking at you through his soul.)

satoru knows exactly why you asked him to turn his infinity off. yes, his mind tells him, but something gnawing at his heart won’t let him admit.

“no,” he breathes out.

(a pause, again.)

his hand shakes a little, so he scratches his head to hide it. but really, he knows you’ll know. you never have to try.

(you always know.

and he knows that.)

“. . . i want to touch you,” you whisper. “really touch you.”

(a pause, yet again.)

a soft breeze raps its knuckles at the frosty windows of your bedroom. with the way it constantly knocks at your abode, it’s a bit disappointed, perhaps, and a little lonely. you wonder what it wants.

some company, perhaps? but it knows it can’t have one forever. something so vagabond cannot afford such constant homes, right?

it stays for a while, then goes away— as if resigning itself to its fate of being untouched, simply because it was the wind.

(you don’t touch the wind. it touches you.)

“so touch me,” satoru breathes out, finally deciding to place his trembling hand back on the cold leather of the couch again. no boundaries.

(just you and him.)

and you do.

finally, finally giving up that miniscule space in between— your hand meets his own.

so warm against yours. they’re a little sweaty, you notice, but you don’t mind. you don’t mind the look of almost disbelieving awe in satoru’s eyes when he gazes at you, thinking you’re not looking. and you definitely don’t mind when he engulfs your hand in his, as if touching you for the first time in his entire life.

(but this isn’t him. it’s you who’s touching him.)

“your hands are cold,” he mutters, a small huff escaping him— you barely suppress a fond sigh when you see that he’s scratching his head.

(so much to hide the shakiness of his free hand.)

“c’mere,” you say, and oh the wind is knocked out of his lungs when you wrap your arms round him. his heart stutters, and he finds himself going tense for a split second— like a deer caught in headlights, a deer frantic for normalcy once again— the normalcy of his sweet little lie, his infinity.

(but then, he pauses. normalcy is home. and home—

is you.)

“. . . eager, aren’t cha,” strong, trembling hands touch your waist— hesitant, like he was wondering whether this was right or wrong; but your touch wasn’t worthy of such materialistic proclaims. your touch was just. . . home.

“shut up,” you laugh, and he breathes.

(satoru gojo had never breathed quite so freely without you being in his arms.)

@stxrysnow on tumblr. do not copy or post any of my works without my permission.

[givemedamage]

ultimately!

[st4r-t3ars]

Reasons to watch Clone Wars 2D Micro Series:

Anakin’s Pout 90% of his screen time

Incredibly competent clone troopers

A look into Yoda’s drama brain

Start of the Punching Droids Saga

[s0fter-sin]

ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.

ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.

just for both his broken halves to be rejected.

what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?

his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.

how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?

did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.

who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?

his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.

johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.

he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.

simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.

ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.

whole, in any incarnation.

[detco-fixation]

Something else I appreciate about Halloween Bride is how much more personality Conan has.

Sure he still kept cool and held all the cards when he got abducted, "taken hostage," and tricked Plamya into revealing where her ultimate goo bomb was. And snapping his fingers to cue the next slide on Kazami's highly classified PowerPoint presentation how the hell

But he also got jumpscared by Sato, panic-ran when the pipe peeled off the side of the building, panic-jigged when Plamya was machine gunning through the door, and fell off his skateboard in the end game.

He's just more often silly and vulnerable in this movie i think. Like, i actually remember that he's still a 7 year old who isn't omnipresent and can still screw up and get hurt.

And that even mentally, he's only 17 doing dumb shit.

With a high IQ. Which just means he's going to process doing the dumb shit faster.