#idk about you but im dead

[me-beef]

@strangeravatar made a great point

i was gonna focus on the spike-hotboxing-celestia aspect but i got distracted somewhere along the way and i think i forgot what joke i was trying to make

but dont you think its interesting how many guards of the exact same color/body type she's managed to accrue?? i do

ooohh you want to go look at our stickers so bad

[swiggity-swexual-i-am-asexual]

We all know the semi-canonical ‘all the Robins know to hide/duck inside of Batman’s cape, even as adults’ thing.

We also know that Danny ‘is LITERALLY a ghost’ Fenton sucks at remembering his own intangibility while ALSO forgetting to look ahead of him.

All I’m saying is, Danny Fenton (or Phantom, if you’d really like) would absolutely SLAM into Batman on accident while running on roof tops and Bruce ‘Brooding Instinct’ Wayne doesn’t even think twice about letting the kid hide and scanning around for danger before there’s a record scratch of ‘wait who tf is this?’ kicks in.

[thankstothe]

this show rewires you fundamentally in 60 seconds and then just goes on to have more seasons. audacity

[andrewknightley]

saw someone saying something like "do you really think veilguard story would be better if you could do evil choices?" and actually yeah. i think if they let us act more like the dreadwolf on the "you are a paralellism to the dreadwolf" game, it would be more significant when the story tells you "you are a bit like him/you are nothing like him" because , thats how you chosed to play it.

[elsecrytt]

curse technique concept:

your technique can make anyone fall in love with you. it's not permanent, but the emotions are extremely real, and powerful, wearing off over time unless refreshed.

the technique is activated by eye contact.

you've also taken a binding vow - you cannot activate your technique at will, it's always on. this makes your technique much stronger than it should be.

so you run around with a blindfold, much like gojo, just to prevent making random people fall in love with you.

it's not so bad, really!

growing up, your parents would wear eyepatches - with only one eye making contact, the technique was half as effective!

except... if the effectiveness of the technique increases proportionally with the number of eyes... well...

[applecranberryjuice]

My only Morro predictions

Secret third option: he just doesn't show up at all. The leaks were wrong, everyone was wrong, he's not even in the script notes, mass deception.

Awful hand writing transcriben under the cut:

1. Hey guys, MORRO here to show you how even good, or the people we look up to make mistakes BUT ALSO to remind you that the mistakes of the student aren't also the master's and that relationships between LEGOTM are complicated .

2. So glad we are on good terms after that one special everyone watched anyways I'm here to bully this stinky loser teacher Mcvisions into an accurately depicted panic attack bcz hes stupid dum dum and even HE couldn't break the cycle

[dovewingkinnie]

poppy playtime should add a evil scientist for their next villain and im not saying that because it would be hot no :( im saying that ebcause it would be hot

[necromancer-snail]

WOAH Edwin art‼️

[xenazaria]

Just had an idea for a Danny phantom au that potentially gets very dark.

Danny goes down to investigate the portal alone.

Danny dies in the portal.

Like, fully dead.

Maddie hears his screams from upstairs, and runs to investigate.

She finds her son's corpse lying in front of a swirling green portal.

The portal needed a sacrifice to open.

The portal is open.

[heartorbit]

just how can i protect your smile?

[shepscapades]

GLAD EVERYONE ENJOYED THE ANDROID INFO UPDATE ABOUT INTERFACING DFGJNDGKGNMXGHNCBNM

[yuwuta]

gojo would kill your work husband. but if he were the work husband, that's a different story

REAL!! he’s such a hypocrite because if someone mentioned you had a work husband, his entire world would stop and he wold devise the absolute worst plans to make sure that your co-worker, everyone at your job, and everyone in the next building over knew that he was happily committed to you 

but if he is the work husband, he’s very........ dutiful in his role. there’s a loose office/lawyer au in my head where satoru is your secretary, and for all intents and purposes, your personal assistant, and he’s good at his job, but mostly because he considers his job to be pleasing you. he has coffee for you when you arrive, he moves your schedule around without you asking, he has answers to questions before you can even ask them, he has fresh flowers on your desk weekly, pokes into your meetings to pretend to hand you a file that’s really just maybe a single document in a manilla folder with candy on top of it—he’s made himself your business, your partner; he’s made himself irreplaceable, and he loves to remind everybody of that fact. 

he’s also extremely loyal. sure, he could day a week’s worth of work done in about a day, but that doesn’t mean he’ll just use his talents for anybody. he’s your secretary, so he’s at your beck and call, and everyone knows it. they know he’s the best, but also that he’s off limits—not because you won’t share him, but because satoru won’t let himself be shared. 

he also extends his duties beyond work, of course. when he hands you a print out of your schedule for the day and you’re confused by the three-hour block of time you have in the middle of the day, satoru just helps you shrug your coat of your shoulders and smiles, “that’s for the lunch date you have with me, of course!” hanging up your coat in your closet for you, “i’m paying, see you soon, sweets.” and because you’re great at your job, and satoru helps you be great, nobody really questions when the two of you have time for a 13-course tasting menu at 1pm on a tuesday afternoon. and if they did, all satoru would say that you two had a lovely date 

[weirdo-from-bonesborough]

I THOUGHT that it was my stupid southern accent fucking up my pronouceation again and that normal people prounced it Bat-son like some Southern Californian generic fucks BUT NO Batsin is the correct pronunciation. So instead of joking about him being Batman’s son instead people should be joking about a guy named sin protecting the seven deadly sins!!

[mohntilyet]

Personal headcanon about the "you picked the wrong dellamorte" line, I don't think illario actually likes rook outside the context of them being someone close to lucanis. Like rook on their own isn't much to him, but when they meet it's yet another person talking about his cousin (why isn't he good enough for whatever job they're hiring for?) and on top of that they somehow bring him back from the dead (another whole can of worms for illario). Now he starts turning on the charm, but whether he's actually interested or this is just one more thing his cousin has that he doesn't and it gets under his skin, who knows. Either way, rook ignores illario, the guy who lives off his charm, and is instead interested in the guy who's never even dated before and thinks giving someone a knife is how to flirt. Infuriating

NO THANK YOU !! i am genuinely sorry if i have ever implied illario is into rook like i see some takes about it and unless it like ties into your rook's personal backstory i don't seriously think he's romantically jealous. at all. my enjoyment of that line stems from illario's pathological need to make it about himself and not see his strengths but what lucanis has, and therefore what he doesn't. he's annoyed enough to try and goad you in the middle of a fight about the 'wrong' dellamorte and completely blind to the fact that the venatori are at best, a stupid fucking alliance, and at worst, a cult that will devour the crows from the inside out and illario would have been the one to give them the keys. he sees lucanis make allies, needs his own, and instead of charming the other talons/houses as he should, he (probably spitefully) picks the venatori. or maybe he just thought it would be easier. ugh he makes me want to telekenetically throw him around

[pinep-ne]

one shot idea- charthur cuddling for warmth???

mmm the classic.... here you go!! thought this would be more entertaining as an... almost developing relationship...? theres tension you just gotta squint...

anywho. i hope u enjoy ^^

-----

It had all become a haze very quickly. An ungodly amount of snow, swept like dust across the Grizzlies.

There's not much to see as there is to hear. They've both flipped up their collars to ease the damned wind. That's already proven itself futile. Arthur can only hear himself speak.

Unfortunate, he feels.

He trails behind Charles, and it's like peering through a pencil-tip hole through a sheet of white paper, trying to make out his silhouette. In attempt to counter this, narrow as the path is, a meager game trail, he's been riding as close to Taima's rear as he can, as much as both horses can tolerate.

God damn mess.

The trail widens, and Arthur squeezes Elijah in, flank to flank. He grabs for Charles' shoulder.

He jumps, torso twisting just to meet Arthur's eyes. Arthur bites his cheek. Adjusts himself in the saddle to lean as close as possible without slipping off. It ends up being closer than he anticipated— their brims and collars brushing slight, like shields to the outside world, connecting and forming this little reprieve between the two of them. It dulls the blaring white, and the wind, and he breathes the space in, trying to focus on getting a single audible word out.

Charles squints at him, obviously desperate to get out of here. They're awfully close, Arthur thinks. But it'd probably be more awkward to back away suddenly, so he stays leaning. Maybe a little further, as Elijah sways, and he nearly falls onto Charles.

Arthur stabilizes himself, hand still on his friend's shoulder. Huffs, "I've come through this way before, scoutin' on the way back from Colter." He tries to keep his voice level, "Little huntin' cabin maybe... quarter mile off this trail..."

Charles nods and turns his sights to... nothing... ahead, then back to Arthur. He shivers, and it's a powerful little thing, and Arthur watches him with a pulling, pleading look on his face. He barely catches the 'alright' from Charles before the man's settled back in his saddle, halting Taima a moment to let Arthur lead.

Arthur gladly picks up the pace as soon as they get on. Eager to get out of this mess. Eager to get this whole trip over with. He'd suggested it in the first place. That map Hosea'd given him, he went and showed it to Charles all giddily not long after. Planted a finger on it, south of Grizzlies West, and figured they could catch a moose, or something alike. But he didn't tell that part to Charles. He only mentioned it was big game, and that was enough to sound like he knew what they were getting into.

Obviously, that didn't work out. He's been a fool.

They reach a thicker part of the forest, where the beast is forced to calm itself, stifled by the trees. Arthur groans with relief, finally out of the whirlwind. Back to his senses, if only slightly. When the cabin comes into view he thinks it's what arriving at heaven must feel like, if he should ever experience that. He looks back at Charles, who gives him a tired look. Feels a pang in his chest, that it must be resentment.

He takes to the horses as they settle, trying to corral them where there's more sun— or where there should be more sun. It's hard to tell. He imagines it's nearing evening, anyhow. Prays to whatever superior being to let all this up by morning, so they can at least have a chance at finding their way home. The adrenaline, the urgency, melts off him in waves. Leaves his body to the cold and hell, if it doesn't hurt. Hell if he doesn't think about the fire that must be in the cabin, being stoked by Charles. If theres enough room in front of it for the two of them to sit. He treats both horses to all the fresh fruit left in his saddlebags, and hops over to the rugged thing.

When he enters, Charles is, indeed, blowing over a small flame. Arthur hangs up his hat and looks around. One of everything— including a bed. Definitely not abandoned. Seasonal residents, maybe; likely for the summer. There's a thin film of dust over most of the furniture. Disturbed, now— a dense, blue fog, filling the room, drifting up like coffee steam. Dully lit, where the snow reflects slight and seeps through the threadbare curtains.

"Arthur."

He starts. Charles is looking back at him, still crouched at the fire. Arthur sniffs, brows furrowed. Charles exhales, long and tired. He sits back, knees drawn up, hugging them loosely, and softens. There's a subtle tilt in the corner of his lips when he speaks.

"You're letting all the cold in," he says, turns back around, and Arthur would take it as something agitated or distant if it weren't for the oddly fond look on his face.

"Oh. Right," he says. Takes a second, shoulders raising, then fumbles behind him for the handle.

Shutting the door, he steps into the center of the room. Charles stands and undoes his scarf, hair cascading down like linen curtains. He bundles it, and throws it on the floor with his boots, and hangs his coat. Arthur, mirror-like, follows him in undressing, keeping as many layers as necessary.

At some point, Charles goes out to collect water. To brew something, if Arthur can guess. He sits on the bed and waits, slumped and done with the damned day. Done with the damned cold. It seeps under his skin, pulsating with shivering bouts, and it aches. His muscles, both tense and limp with exhaustion, make their soreness known. He shakes his shoulders, breathing harsh. Whispers a string of curses. He supposes whoever hates it more can sleep at the hearth. Soak up the last bit of warmth for the night. He adds in a few logs.

The sun sets as if it were falling. Or maybe the horizon's just that far beneath them. Charles returns, and pours a mug for him and Arthur, and there's enough room for the two of them to sit at the fireplace. Arthur leans back on a hand, not entirely parallel to Charles, askew enough to easily catch the soft line of his profile.

He looks down at his mug. Chamomile, Charles had said. Not his favorite, but no tea really is. Not so far at least. He thinks it's selfish of him to tell Charles otherwise. To take the tea for the simple fact it was brewed for him. Satiate that itching part of him that likes to be cared for.

"I can take the floor," he says, and waits. Picks the skin at his lip. He can feel Charles looking at him. Smiling, probably. His face burns.

"Mm. And take up all the heat?" He looks at Arthur, and moves to grab their mugs. He stands to discard them as Arthur sputters.

"Well, y'know, I dragged your ass out here for nothin'. Figured the bed would be a little comfier, but if... if you want I can grab the blankets from the horses, and our bedding, and you can—"

"They're probably all frozen, Arthur." Charles sits back down, closer. "I don't mind sharing."

"Sure." Arthur breathes. He hums, still stumped. "Though... both our built asses might just cave the whole thing."

Charles laughs. It's brief, but full. It makes Arthur laugh, too. He feels like his heart could stop at any moment.

Not for the first time, this gap between them makes itself very prominent. But not of distance. More like an unfinished piece, slowly unfurling itself. How light it makes his breath, his touches. It's so easy that it's suffocating. Consumes him greatly with those implications. He wants to smother it once more, as he has every other time.

But the air shifts, and he lets it, and he realizes they've both sunk into this dance once more regardless.

He thinks that maybe he should say something. Something about turning in, or hitting the hay, or going out for a smoke. But he doesn't, and neither does Charles. There is only the sound of their thin breaths, and the rustling of clothes, and the wind hitting the outer walls of the cabin, and the crackle of the dimming fire.

Charles rises then, and puts it out. Crosses the room to dim the lantern till there is only swallowing darkness, and the faint blush of moonlight off the snow. He walks to where Arthur sits on the bed, waiting. Aimless, blindly brushing the back of his hand across Arthur's bicep, shins hitting the edge of the bed.

Goodnight, he whispers. Arthur watches him get comfortable on the wall-side, sprawled out on his stomach, before he settles down himself, on his back. He mouths the words back, trying to preserve the syllables, or the softness it was said with. He does it again for good measure, enough to hear, to which Charles hums, a lot like a purr.

"It's cold," he says, the low timbre of his voice filling Arthur's head, nestling deep somewhere under his sternum.

"I know," Arthur whispers. He can feel a palm on his arm, frighteningly warm. It slides down, finding the skin of his wrist beneath his sleeve, and he tenses, sitting halfway up. Holding himself up on his elbow, his shadow blanketing. Charles lies on his back, now, hand still wrapped around Arthur's wrist, pulling. Beckoning. Arthur gazes down at the scene, and it hardly does anything to smother the blooming feeling in his gut.

He wishes he could see Charles right now. To decipher the knowing offer he has twisted into his wrist by the gentle features he'd much rather scrutinize. Tempting could be the right word, but Arthur feels he's stepped into something terribly domestic instead. Terrible that it is requited, apparent with only the guise of necessity— because of course they'd both be warmer that way. Of course the night is so cruel, as well as the singular bed, and the storm that snuffed their whole trip, to coerce them so. To persuade his own palm to reach beneath the layers of fabric and find the soft skin there, where neither of them have ever breached so carefully before.

And Arthur realizes then that it's not a apprehensive proposal, but rather an answer.

So he gives the question, and lies back down. Steps into this home they have built together. Finds a spot to nestle himself into, pulling the warmth towards him, as if he could burrow himself beneath it. He all but wraps himself around Charles. Feels a similar motion behind him, now holding each other, facing each other, entirely encompassed. And it's strikingly familiar, being held. In a way he hasn't experienced it before, but that was inevitable from the beginning. He feels Charles hands wander across the expanse of his back, catching on the folds of his shirt, and he says the word again in his mind. Home.

He turns his nose into the pillow, reaching for that closeness again. Voice breathy, and muffled, "You better?"

Charles gazes up at him, and Arthur can't see it, but he can feel it. "Yeah," he hears, silken and hushed, somewhere near his neck.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.