#i've decided to do this more often

[mintjeru]

rough day?

open for better quality | no reposts

[deoidesign]

My comic is so pretty...

The hiatus is letting me take a little extra time on these episodes, and I'm definitely putting it to good use!!!

[rin-may-1103]

[imminent-danger-came]

[id: a drawing of callum from the dragon prince. he looks scared at the viewer. one of his eyes is normal and the other is white with possession. his hands loosely cover his face. lightning shoots behind him. end id]

Nothing but trouble

[spotaus]

Thinking about Orchid and her connection to my take on Gender (because this was meant to be about her and the Crew but it just devolved into a character analysis kinda??? More trauma-dumping maybe???) This is very much an oc/personal rant so feel free to ignore it 🫡

So, Orchid started off as a character I didn't really think much of (hear me out this is going to be relevant) because I wanted to add a 'girl' character but didn't know what to *do* with her, y'know? She was always going to be the strongest one there, she had the odds stacked in her favor with her parents. She was always going to be the gloomy side-character to match Reset's energy. But I think she's gone through every stage of Generic Woman I could possibly find.

At first she was angry and abrasive (think Fell!Sans) where every other word was a curse and she was likely to throw the first punch then laugh as she kicks her enemy while they're down. This was when Reset was a cartoonishly self-centered villain whose goal was simply to prove others wrong. Then Orchid became a sort of sisterly figure. This was short-lived, but she was the one comforting people who Reset would torment, but would ultimately follow his orders, because at this point he was actually a danger and sadistic. And then there was the phase where the story mellowed out and she became the token Goth Girl who, yes she was strong, but was heavy on the 'whatever' energy. Then there was her Era of deep self-loathing and anxiety about her worth that held her back and made her a much more timid and meek character who would only lash out on occasion.

Now, Orchid is the best of those iterations I've written yet. She's calm, level-headed, and a natural leader. Her father raised those traits into her. But she's very reactive, and can be silly, and when she's comfortable it's likely that air of importance transforms into something more comfortable and familiar. She laughs loudly and grins wide, she likes loud video-games but loves to read in the quiet. She's extremely disciplined, and normally no one can get through her tough exterior besides her best friend, Reset. She does what she does for her own enjoyment, sure, but she's thought of every angle and makes her choice to help Reset and control the others with her whole chest. She still worries she won't live up to her invisible expectations, and that and her loyalty are her two driving forces.

I know that Orchid is important to me because she's the longest-running female oc I've had. I have a rough relationship with womanhood/girlhood and I know looking back that Orchid recieved every ounce of my distaste for being a woman that I could shovel into her. That never made her less of a character, she was actually always one of my favorites, and rarely was she a 'punching bag oc'. I just... projected onto her a lot. And she's a good sign of how I've learned who I am. I've decided that my own femininity is something I could live without. I'd rather not associate myself with it, and I'd like to leave it in my past, focusing on a future where I'm not tied down with any gender roles or expectations. That won't happen, but I've come to terms with it myself. Orchid though? I figured out through her that I don't have to hate women characters. My own distaste for my circumstances doesn't mean I have to push it onto my characters (on God I've never expressed anything rude to actual people, that'd be rude as hell and uncalled for, but I have a bad habit of disliking fictional women in media). So, Orchid is a well-roubded character finally. She has motivations abd goals and a *lot* more depth than I ever expected her to. She's happy with being a woman, she's content. She's not treated differently for it in unfair ways by those she cares about, so she doesn't mind it. She likes to wear pretty outfits and lets Reset add bows to her ribbons. She doesn't let being a woman hold her back in the slightest.

So, yeah. Orchid is one of my babies. If I ever leave this Fandom behind for good, she's one that's coming with (Ichor, Orchid, and Pretender all have human designs I can use elsewhere lol-) but in the meantime I'll just rotate her around in my brain for a while longer.

If I'm right, she's been with me for nearly 5-6 years and I went through a *lot* with her as an outlet. So, she's kinda just like an old stuffed animal. A lil ripped, matted fur, maybe a stain or two, but there's a story there and that makes it important beyond belief.

[evilkitten3]

But listen, if Izuna had said yes to Hashirama's help after he was injured and he still died, would Madara rampage like in canon? Would he still chase the infinite tsukyomi?

the thing is, hashirama never offered to help izuna. i'm actually not sure he could have - the hiraishingiri pretty much cut through him like butter. moreover, while madara himself lauds hashirama's medical prowess, we actually know very little about his capabilities with medical ninjutsu. he could heal wounds without any hand seals, that's mostly all we know.

here are hashirama's words immediately after izuna is injured:

「マダラ・・・お前はオレには勝てない・・・もう・・・終わりにしよう・・・忍最強のうちはと千手が組めば・・・国も我々と見合う他の忍一族を見つけられなくなる・・・いずれ争いも沈静化していく」

"madara... you can't beat me... let's end it already. if the strongest shinobi, the uchiha and the senju, form an alliance... the country won't be able to find another shinobi clan able to counterbalance us... the conflict will eventually calm down"

he doesn't acknowledge izuna at all. whether he intended an offer of medical aid to be implied or not, it's never addressed. a bunch of people have claimed that this makes hashirama a jerk, and while i definitely get that viewpoint, i do think offering to help izuna without being absolutely certain he was capable of doing so would've been a terrible move, politically speaking. madara might have known that hashirama isn't the sort of man who would do something like this, but the rest of the uchiha clan would have no reason not to assume that hashirama didn't just take advantage of madara's kindness/trust/desperation/whatever to ensure that izuna died while potentially leaving room for madara to feel indebted to him for trying in spite of all the reasons he had not to bother.

hell, the clan might even come to the conclusion that madara intended for izuna to die so he could get his eyes, given what ended up happening in canon, so his fallout with them might actually happen even faster (and without the uchiha ever joining konoha at all, although without madara around to counter hashirama, i have no idea if/how the uchiha would manage against the senju from there)

all that aside, if hashirama had indeed offered help and izuna had agreed to take the risk and died anyway and the uchiha clan trusted that that was what had actually happened, i think pretty much everything else would've proceeded according to canon.

there's definitely plenty of fun possibilities to play around with concerning madara's path in life, but tbh i personally believe that without a massive deviation from canon, he would've eventually become who he became. hashirama definitely fucked up here and there, but i honestly don't think there was anything he could've personally done alone that would've changed madara's fate short of killing him back when they were kids, which he was never going to do. he was always doomed.

[thesilliestrovingalive]

Marco and Tarma Moodboard

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[ereborne]

Top 7 Comfort Films

Tagged by @piratefalls Hi Kelly!!!!! I also watch the same movies on rotation lol

The Three Musketeers (1993)

The Swan Princess

The Blues Brothers

Hansel and Gretel, Witch Hunters

The Martian

Charlie's Angels (2019)

Logan Lucky

Tagging: @goingsparebutwithprecision, @acountrygirlsfun, @tulmultuous, @zahnie, @ialpiriel, @alwaysboth

[fragilecapric0rnn]

show me the place where he inserted the blade; a fanmix.

inspired by this fic by my wonderfully talented friend @cheatghost <3

Listen Here // Read Here

| playlist guide below the cut |

I. Before

II. After

III. Searching

IV. Hope

V. Home

[applesaucesims]

Pt. 2: Babies and Chores (1301-1303) Light TW for child loss

Nikolaus and Klara have picked up new hobbies, since there isn't all that much to do outside of their farm chores.

Not sure if you can see, but Klara no longer has her baby bump. Their first daughter, born in 1301, unfortunately was a stillborn. Her name would have been Dorothea.

Well, this means getting to work on the second attempt as soon as possible.

Nikolaus being smelly and fishing for dinner. And also looking adorable because just look at his lil smile!

The fish is immediately prepared for a grand dinner. It has been a while, but I know for sure this was for Easter. Since the original rules start in England, but I based my game in Germany, I researched which holidays were celebrated in Germany at the time and the traditions for them myself.

The second child and she made it! Her name is Helene Huber and she was born in 1302.

Work on the farm doesn't wait. So, even after giving birth, Klara is right back to reaping the harvest. I also may have been harvesting a bit too often at first, but I changed that later because it was getting too easy.

Anyways, you know what also doesn't wait? The need for an heir. So here we go again trying for a baby!

We're currently in 1303 and Helene has grown into a (sad) toddler!

But thankfully the farm animals are there to cheer her up! Yeah, she also has her parents, but they are busy with the farm.

Speaking of the farm, here's what it currently looks like! We've got a big field of crops and a bunch of animals, accompanying the little typical medieval German farm house. The toilet is, of course, outside in the outhouse and there's a small hot spring pond under the biggest tree on the lot.

Pt. 1

[thefaeriefeatherdark]

I do think the wildest part of the Skyrocket/Connie concept is that Visaggio seemed to legitimately believe that Kon-El is like... a D-List superhero. Which is just like, a wild thing to believe considering the Comic Kon won in a fan poll hadn't even finished coming out at the time she pitched her idea.

[gillianthecat]

Thought my physics lab was two days late and I had only three hours left to get it in at all, but it turns out that there was no lab this week at all.

Hallelujah 🙌

I fucked up absolutely everything else last week but at least I accidentally didn't fuck that up.

[giantkillerjack]

Ya know. I spent most of my life with horrible painful soul-crushing social anxiety.

And after about 25 years of continuous hard work, suddenly, people started pointing out - to my utter bafflement - that I had, in fact, achieved my lifelong dream of being charismatic. I'm 29 now; I feel comfortable in most social situations, and it is a very rare person whom I cannot make laugh.

I am, undoubtedly, finally, charismatic.

But do you know what I found?

I found that now that I have an understanding of which social rules serve which functions -- Now that I have an understanding of just how much damage my awkwardness was doing to people, well,

I found that, actually, my awkwardness never really hurt anyone at all. People were just judgmental dicks to me about it.

Now that I have the skill-level to (most of the time) creatively vocalize what is in my head as soon as I think it and without fear, I can confirm once and for all what I had always suspected:

I was worth talking to when I was quiet.

I was worth talking to when I was awkward, and when the words in my head took time and patience to hear, and when most of my jokes didn't land. I was worth talking to the whole time.

So I just... I hope that if you've ever wondered whether you are worth communicating with, the answer is yes. Absolutely yes. Each of us has a soul worth sharing - and if you and I were talking, I would happily wait for you to speak (or communicate in other ways) without condescending, and I would never shame you for that harmless awkwardness that so many people feel the need to violently stomp out.

You are worth talking to. You just are. And you deserve people who will speak to you with kindness, with patience, and with the basic immutable respect owed to all people.

(I talk about this with some frequency, both on tumblr and in real life. At some point, maybe I'll gather all my thoughts on the matter into one post. At some point, I wrote about my personal experience trying to build my social skill. But I felt the need to say at least a little bit tonight after seeing this other lovely post, and I'm glad I did. It will happen again.)

[forcedhesitation]

I really cannot believe that there are so many dbd players who are more enamoured with david, shittorio, or god forbid FELIX, than gabriel. gabriel is the most handsome man in dbd. there isn't even any competition. he's gorgeous, the very picture of a dashing sci-fi hero. I can somewhat forgive people obsessing over david, since he's been in the game forever, like dwight, and people develop attachments. but it's the whole-damned fruit salad to pretend that he, or the two none pizza with left beef bozos listed, are even remotely as hot or cool as gabriel. gabriel's "actually a clone" lore is fucking awesome and super creepy. great criticism of capitalism/humans playing god too, just like the whole chapter is. he's a total badass and the sole survivor of an attack carried out by a violent, terminator-like AI gone rogue. literally a final boy. I would play an entire video game just about him and his adventures on dvarka, if bhvr made one.

[bunnihearted]

❄️🐇❕