#just kinda playing around with ideas

[ren-or-rin]

What if it wasn’t love that fixed the bishops? What if it was just. Not having to be *Bishops* anymore that allows them to finally heal and become better? What if finally having the weight and pressure of ever-failing deity lifted from you by force gives them the opportunity to truly figure out who they are? And through that, go from being a God to being a Person.

[gay-little-izzet]

Compleat Grist

I often fall back on more humanoid designs for these, it’s nice to draw a real fucking thing for once

I want to be clear, the porcelain plating is completely stolen. Technically there’s a little compleated Grist inside this, but the whole exoskeleton is either stolen, scavenged, or absorbed from some poor centurion who fell prey to the Hunger Tide.

[knockknockitsnickels]

Thinking about how the Tower & the Adversary routes are connected through the Fury, and how you kind of get there by turning one into the other, and how horrified they are by what they become. Tower is about subjugation - she outright says she does not believe the two of you are on equal footing. You get the Fury from her when you assert your independence and fight back, forcing her to take you seriously as a threat and defend herself. Adversary is all about an equal fight - she prides herself on her strength, but also admires yours. You access the Fury through her by refusing to fight, watching her beat you to a pulp and become disgusted by what she does to you. IDK it is interesting how the Tower & Adversary parallel one another, and how you end up with the Fury in each route by doing what their sister route would have wanted you to do.

[hplonesomeart]

Ah nothing stings quite like a doomed friendship. Especially when you’ve got no one to blame except yourself for all those careless, selfish actions that pushed them away. Going as far to hurt them for your own gain. You’ve become the catalyst of your own loneliness. A path you forged willingly. A path you thought would bring you recognition…but it’s only lead to you being forgotten. Irreversibly.

[javierduffy]

thoughts about johm marstlin

[radiance1]

There was a day, a day where there was nothing that needed to be done, nobody to meet, not meetings to schedule, nothing to fight.

A rare, rare day for one Kevin the cat.

As the second in command of his Familia, who the Head delegates most of his responsibilities due to not wanting to do that at all, it is unusual that he no longer has much to do anymore.

With a pretty efficient system in place for each and every division to have an executive and their own second in commands who will soon take their place. It leaves Kevin with not as much to do anymore nowadays, most things being taken care of by other cats.

A meeting between the Familia Heads wouldn't be for the next few moons, and there isn't anyone around for him to fight.

So what does he do, exactly?

Snuggle up to gramps of course!

===

Danny doesn't mind Kevin invading his personal bed and personal space, as he has done it quite often and will most likely continue to do so for the rest of his immortal life most likely.

It seemed to be a pretty slow day, if his observations served anything. Nothing significant was happening, and the overall vibe was calm and slow.

A good day, a rare day, seeing the normal chaos that usually occupied this warehouse. Perhaps asking Selina to buy the surrounding ones proved effective.

Either way, it was a nice day.

Laying down, doing nothing except watching Tv and not really fighting the sleep when it came. He was drowsy, about to close his eyes and fall into a dream.

Then everything disappeared.

He snapped to awareness very quickly, feeling the familiar weight of magic in the air and what was most definitely the pull of summoning. Which is weird, because not many would summon him, most go for the King, which is Pariah Dark, and not the Prince, which is him.

Oh well, whoever summoned him is most likely some teens or adults who had nothing better to do than get together and try to summon paranormal entities and demons or such and such. He would take some of their food for summoning him, and be on his way.

Or at least that was what he thought.

Apparently, he was summoned by a genuine cult this time. He would take teens and adults with nothing better to do, as well as that one time he was summoned by wizards and got turned into a cat over being summoned by genuine cultists any day.

It's just, not for him really.

They did, however, do their research. Very powerful wards that was built to keep whatever was summoned in, that whenever he tapped on actually hurt him.

Drawn with the extract of blood blossoms for ghostly beings from the infinite realms.

A red mist flowed around the room, one that made Danny's lungs felt as if they were on fire and withering all at once.

A mist made from Blood Blossoms.

To top it all off, there were multiple Blood Blossoms scattered throughout the place, most of which were around the circle that summoned him. It felt like someone brought a hammer to his skull and kept pounding, his muscles felt taut and like jelly all at once, barely keeping him standing on his own paws as his eyes stung from the mist around the room and from the Blood Blossoms themselves.

Whoever this was, they knew their stuff, and whoever this was, decided that going overboard was far better than underboard.

He thinks he heard one of them speak, but he couldn't quite make out whatever was said from the ringing of his ears. Eventually, he had to fall, his eyes struggling to be kept open.

He should turn back into a living cat, get out of his ghost form. But he couldn't, the willpower necessary to do so slipping out of his grasp and instead being replaced by pain, pain, and even more pain. Even the very magic in the air was against him, whatever intent those who summoned him imprinted upon it was made to specifically weigh him down, as if gravity itself were his enemy, to go against him at every turn.

Weaken him.

If he could, he would laugh, but he's in far too much pain to do so. In all of his 150 years of existence, he never expected to encounter something like this. Something this strong.

He wondered, if in all of Pariah Dark's infinite power, if he would be able to stand up to something like this. Perhaps he would, infinite power would let him be able to stand up to something like.

Infinite power, while weakened, is still infinite.

But he, Danny, Prince of the Infinite Realms, did not have infinite power. With his title came a recognition of his raw power, of his ability, and given him political power almost unmatched as he was one of the few that reigned over infinity.

But that was mostly it, perhaps a bit of boost to his power, and maybe a distinct signature due to his newfound status. But not much else.

And is this what it granted him? An end, where he was stripped away from comfort, from his home, from his Familia, where each and every breath he took burned and withered. Where his limbs failed him, where his own power was useless due to his willpower being drained by overwhelming agony.

He would not die, no. For he is incapable of death.

Yet that makes it even worse.

Would he spend an eternity like this? Trapped with nothing but overwhelming pain for company, becoming intimate with it as it raked its hands through his fur, under his skin, between each strand of muscle and piercing his brain?

He doesn't know, and that scares him.

===

The Justice League, with help from a few members of Justice League Dark, appeared to prevent the summoning of the Ghost King, known as a tyrant who enslaves worlds and a being of infinite power.

What they found, however, was not the Ghost King. But instead, magicians surrounding a circle in a room of red mist, in the middle of the circle a passed out, glowing white cat floating via magic.

They saw it as preparation to summon the Ghost King, perhaps the cat was a sacrifice? Regardless, they went in, and fought. Eventually gaining the upper hand due to have far more powerful members than just magical practitioners.

The cat, without aid from magic, fell to the floor, and Zatanna was quick to dispel the summoning in case it was in the process of calling forth Pariah Dark from beyond the veil. They took the cat back with them, for surely it had some kind of importance if they were using it for their summoning.

Later on, Constantine would choke as he recognized the significance of the cat, a signature quite similar to that of the King of the infinite, yet different.

They weren't just offering any old cat to the Ghost King, no, they were offering him his Prince, and if the look of how they handled it was any indication, it was planned to use said Prince as a bargaining to get the King into their servitude of some sort.

===

Meanwhile, back at the Familia.

All hell has broken loose, what semblance of order there was broke, the head was gone, missing. Not even the second in command, who was with him the longest, had a clue where or what happened to him.

He was there one second, gone the next.

Not many stays calm about it, the ones who do mostly trying to calm down the kittens after the panic of so many other grown, adult cats.

Kevin, the second in command and de-facto leader whenever the Head isn't involved. Panicking does not help any of the other cats feel assured.

[littlebittyhollowbugs]

I had a dream where everyone's nails began mysteriously disappearing, and Ghost was especially upset about this and enlisted Hornet and Quirrel and Hollow to help search for everyone's missing weapons and eventually Hollow was the only one who's nail wasn't taken (because of Hollow's extreme paranoia about losing it and never letting it go.)

They ended up finding out what happened because a strange little bug attempted and failed to steal Hollow's nail and they forced him to explain and he takes them to this secret place where a giant bug, like an actual giant (like the temple sized bug) lives and is building a home for itself and it's little friend has been bringing it nails that it's been using to build it's home. You know like actual nails, with a hammer.

I woke up before they confronted the giant unfortunately

But it was funny.

[bleue-flora]

Hi! For the wip Game: Only The Best Dream’s Come True

Oooo I don’t know if I’ve talked about this fic much. Basically it’s part of the Sweet Dreams series and it’s a compilation of nightmares Dream sucks people into while in prison. So it starts with Sam and ends with Sapnap camping outside the prison waiting to kill Dream… I’d post some of it but unfortunately I don’t have the chapters that come first written and I think I should post is in order. Anyways, here’s some of Sapnap’s chapter.

He’s not sure how he ended up standing, he could have sworn he was laying down a minute ago. And yet here he is and he feels exhausted as an ache encumbers his body.

Every part of him hurts like he’s standing on hot coals and his brain is telling him to get off of them, but he doesn’t. He continues standing on his legs that feel on fire.

“Why did you get out?!” An angered voice startles him.

It’s his voice.

He looks up and sure enough two brown eyes meet his.

And he finds himself peering at his own face like a 3D mirror. Except it’s obviously not a mirror, more likely a dream but he’s never seen himself in a dream before.

He feels his lips move in response, “Oh, you want me to rot—I was getting tortured. You want me to rot in prison forever?!”

The incredulous sound isn’t his voice though, it’s Dream’s. The all too recognizable tone he wishes he could forget.

Nothing in the situation makes sense. It’s all so inverted almost like he’s not in his mind but an outsiders.

Why is he Dream?

Shouldn’t he be himself?

The only answer he receives is his own words delivered callously back to him, “You’ve been tortured?… Who is torturing you?… You were getting tortured?” Despite the question the tone doesn’t sound curious just skeptical, like a disinterested parent indulging their kid’s wild story.

He never thought his voice would sound so indifferent and hardened in his ears. But facing it now he feels numb.

Did he really sound like that?

The contents intensifying the senselessness of the tone, the heinous words like poison to his ears. The words making it obvious that it’s the memory after the prison break.

“Yeah, Quackity was torturing me.” His own mouth answers definitively and bitter, a shiver spreading through his body as the name leaves his lips.

And if he could laugh he would. He almost laughed back then too. He still can’t believe Dream tried to used his exfiancé as part of his manipulation. It’s actually so fucking ridiculous he wonders how Dream even came up with the idea. Prison must have made him insane because the idea that his cuddly warm fiancé tortured Dream and Sam allowed it is ludicrous.

Unsurprisingly, his reflection voices back the same disbelief, “Quackity was torturing you?… What do you mean he was torturing you? Like literally torturing you?”

“Yes!… He was trying to get the revival book and so he was torturing me.” His body huffs sounding furious as he crosses his arms across his chest.

Playing the other side of the memory feels odd in many ways. For one, his body seems to be playing the part so perfectly that actual desperation tightens his muscles in false affliction and betrayal. It’s like his body is in on the joke and Sapnap is the oblivious audience. But in reality the only hurt Dream felt then is that Sapnap didn’t fall for his lies.

They were lies right?

Right?

It was all a ruse. A play for pity to get his armor back so he could wreak havoc on the server. They were lies.

As if to counter his conviction entirely, he suddenly finds himself strapped to a chair. Where decorative stone was is now dripping obsidian. Where Sapnap was standing dressed in Nightmare, Quackity now stands with a hammer clutched tensely in his hand and blood stains soiling his typically pristine shirt.

“Give me the revival book Dream. Give me the fucking book or—or I swear I’m gonna break every tiny fucking bone in you hand one by one! Do you want me to do that Dream? Huh? You want me to do that? Then give me the goddamn revival book!” Quackity threatens and he feels his heart pound ecstatically in his ears.

An internal pain pulses in him, like every crevice of his body is soaked in liquid pain to the point of utter woeful weariness. Unimaginable suffering would be a tame description and yet apparently his brain has conjured the fantasy despite never having felt such agony in his life.

Through the torment taking the attention of his senses, he meets the scarred face of who’s most likely responsible given the context of his nightmare. At the sight, his mind goes wholly blank as he stares into the luscious chocolate eyes of his exfiancé and sees nothing but violent rage and malice. There’s no spec of love in them. No contagious joy. No life, just a soul eating darkness promising pain.

A strong desire curls in him, to hide. To yell. To crawl into a hole and cry. To clasp Quackity in a hug and fix what has been broken. Anything to avoid having to see those irises of oblivion again.

But he can’t move. He can’t do anything, all he can do is experience it with no control over anything, not even his own body. Well he supposes not his body anyways, but Dream’s body.

[telesodalite]

Woe, unfinished, mildly edited, fulfire fic tid-bits be upon you

-

Like a magnet, his optics kept drifting back to Misfire's face. His stupid, strangely charming face.

For a short while, after Clemency, it had been that face that haunted some of his nightmares. His recalls blurring the lines between the strange reality of Misfire's hands reaching into him to lock his fuel pump back into the very spot he'd pulled it from, and the fear that just as easily he could pull it out again. They had been bloody dreams. Dreams that had him startling awake, gripping his chest in the vain attempt to close what wasn't open, before spending the rest of the day avoiding Misfire's optics.

But now things were different. Not Misfire's face. No, that hadn't changed much. But Fulcrum's dreams had definitely changed. To say the least of what all rolled around in his processor as he slept nowadays.

Some of those newer dreams had crept to the forefront of his mind as he sat there on the couch, staring as the lights of the screen reflected dully across Misfire's plating in hazy blues and greys.

The lighting made his colors seem muddy and faded, but Fulcrum didn't really care, nor did he care to think what it made himself look like. He was too busy bringing an empty engex can to his lips while he watched the crinkle of Misfire's nose as he barked a laugh at something Fulcrum didn't catch onscreen.

He'd started noticing it months ago, all the ways the silvery mesh of Misfire's face would scrunch up with his emotions. Those little crinkles along his optics and nose when he laughed or glared. The creases indented along his cheeks when he grinned. Fulcrum found himself quietly logging away these little details. Idle notes and observations that had suddenly started piling up in the corners of his processer.

He… He'd never really done that before? He'd never really noticed those sorts of things in other mechs.

The faces and expressions of his past colleagues never seemed terribly important. All the details of every smile and frown were never worth filing away, outside of few notable moments where those expressions reflected his work performance. But besides the smile that meant promotion, and the frown that meant he'd screwed up, nothing else was noticeable. Nothing was worth remembering.

But now the memory of every genuine laugh that bubbled out of Misfire sat comfortably besides memories of warm joyful optics that Fulcrum found himself collecting every time Crankcase cracked a rare half-smile for him, or when Krok placed a reassuring hand against his back, or the times Spinister spontaneously pointed out something odd but ultimately nice about his stupid frame.

He didn't really know why he was doing it, memorizing all these mundane little things, just to have them flit through his processer randomly. Maybe it was because those expressions, those details, felt… comforting? Comforting in such a strange and unfamiliar way. But, a good way. A good sort of strange, much like the mechs themselves.

-

-

He had stared for a long moment, the credits and their rolling tune playing somewhere in the background as Fulcrum stared back. But Misfire was never one for personable silence, even as the sound of some likely long dead Iaconian orchestra filled the room.

"What is it?" He asked, a small chuckle escaping him as he brought a hand to his face, "Don't tell me I've poured it all over myself again."

It had taken Fulcrum longer than usual to unstick his glossa from the roof of his mouth as he watched Misfire run a thumb over his lips, but eventually he had coughed out a small, choked, "No."

That had earned him an odd look at first, but with their fields loose and open, Fulcrum could almost feel the exact moment something clicked in Misfire's mind, as the idle comfortable static he projected in pulsing waves evened out into something openly curious and almost subdued.

It wasn't often Fulcrum felt him that clearly.

Misfire tended to keep his field fairly close, though, maybe not as close as the others did, what with how Crankcase kept an iron grip on his, and how Krok's always held an air of strained control, even when it slipped from him. But still, Misfire's was always hard to read, no matter the reach or depth of his field.

Even then and there, with it loose and unfiltered and buzzing with the engex running through his system, there was an ever present undertone of something indescribably jumbled about him, like too many feelings at once, each too vast and hurried for Fulcrum to really feel or understand.

It always seemed to stir the passive anxiety Fulcrum must've been forged with when Misfire's field brushed against his own. As facing the indescribable vague mess of Misfire felt like trying to untangle a pile of live-wires he couldn't even see.

It was almost frustrating in a sense, the need to try and sort and understand what wasn't even his to begin with. But at the same time it was almost exciting as well. It was like a game, like a puzzle he had yet to solve.

-

-

Finally letting his own can go tumbling to the floor to join Misfire's, Fulcrum had brought a hand to cover his face as he drew his legs up and leaned back against the arm of the couch, trying to suppress the fit as the sly look slipped from Misfire's face at the sounds.

While Fulcrum had laughed, and… snorted, embarrassingly, he had felt Misfire's field change again, brushing something fizzy and almost warm against his plating as Misfire's features softened.

"I'm looking at you," Fulcrum had said then between gulps of air, letting his hand fall from his face as he reached out to poke at Misfire's chest, "Dumbaft."

His finger had lingered over the thick plating there for maybe a little longer than necessary, drawing Misfire's attention as it slid down a little before pulling away.

Looking back up again with his helm angled slightly, Misfire had followed the sight of his hand leaving his plating to where Fulcrum let it fall between them.

"Wow…" Misfire had chuckled a little dryly, "I was gonna make it real easy for you. I was going to say something like, ''Do you like what you see?'' or-… or something like that. But now you've ruined it. Good job."

Meeting Fulcrum's optics again as he pulled his own hand back from Fulcrum's shoulder, he brought it to rest between them as well.

"And you're laughing at me," He said next, faking a small pout as his hand drifted closer to Fulcrum's, "Which totally ruins the whole vibe I was going for really. I mean, it's sort of hard to be all nice and suave-like when you're being laughed at. Total vibe killer. Bit of an ego killer too if I'm being honest. So thanks for that loser, thanks for saying I have a funny face."

With Misfire's fingers brushing distractingly past his own, Fulcrum didn't think before the words stumbled out of him.

"I like your face."

It came out almost matter of fact sounding, Fulcrum's laughter having died down while Misfire complained about it. But at the same time the words felt so simple, they came out so easily, and in a weird way they felt nice to say. But Misfire's optics had widened in surprise, his frame frozen and his field suddenly struck quiet, and despite the engex numbing his usual nerves, Fulcrum felt a sudden pang of anxiety because of it.

The silence in Misfire's field was terribly alien. It felt wrong, and something in Fulcrum spiraled to think he had caused it. But slowly, almost as if it were creeping forward, an odd almost scrutinizing uncertainty fanned outward in a careful wave. Misfire moved with it, leaning closer as he searched Fulcrum's expression for something.

"Oh yeah?" He'd said lowly then, and that sly look returned. But that vague uncertainty didn't fade with it, if anything, Fulcrum felt it strengthen. Caught between what he saw, in Misfire's easy smile and dimmed optics, and what he felt, in the growing hollow distance within their fields, Fulcrum found himself frowning and pulling back.

-

-

Growing frustrated with himself, and wanting that feeling back, he had pushed forward, shifting onto his knees as he reached for Misfire's face before the other could pull away from him entirely.

"I like your face." He said firmly, maybe too firmly. His expression still drawn into a frown as he pressed his fingers into Misfire's helm, brushing his thumbs across the silver mesh he'd been staring so intently at before. "I like your optics, and your nose. I- I like the way you smile. When you really smile, and when you laugh. I do. I'm not lying."

And oh there it was again, that little curl of warmth in Misfire's field. Almost a tangible thing, like a brush of ventilation, but Misfire wasn't venting. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, but no breath left him as he stared at Fulcrum with widening optics.

Spurred on by that tiny bloom of warmth, Fulcrum chased after it with slightly slurred words and clumsy hands as he tried to fix whatever he'd done wrong, hoping with each word that Misfire might soften and smile again.

"I like your expressions, and- and I like your voice," He said, glancing down at Misfire's parted lips, and laughing softly, nervously, as he continued, "Even when you say something so stupid. I like- I like the way it sounds. I like your accent, I like the way it makes your words sound. I- I like your- your mouth?"

Once more that weird but nice feeling settled in Fulcrum's chest. Those simple words felt good to say. It felt like a weight off his shoulders, like an admission he'd been waiting to say. About what and why? He wasn't really sure. But the warmth grew, and Misfire took a sharp vent inwards, and that felt right, so Fulcrum kept on.

"I like your helm," He said with a smile, reaching up to brush his fingers over the jutting finials there, before dropping his hands to settle lightly over Misfire's chest. "I like your frame, the colors of it. I like your-"

Before he could finish, Misfire was surging forward, knocking their helms together and nearly bruising the mesh of their noses as he tried for, and just barely missed, Fulcrum's lips.

-

👁👁👍

[throwawayasoiafaccount]

I love that one of the roles fire plays in this series is to represent how all consuming desire can be, and how it’s framed as something that can be world ending when uncontrolled.

So naming unnatural, untamable green fire ‘wildfire’ is therefore a stroke of genius. It’s the representation of how we humans manufacture our own doom in the pursuit power, of how uncontrolled desire will eventually blow up in our faces.

And the fact that barrels and barrels of it sit fermenting under Kings Landing, Westeros’s breeding ground of maniac desire, and the capital the ambitious and corrupt flock to for what it promises? It’s perfection!

[joleneghoul]

the first time u slay a dragon in dai u get a wartable mission that is like "people are throwing a party over you killing a dragon!" and its like ok why am i not invited then? lowkey think they dont like me fr.

[weirfq1]

with all these gaston crackships/rarepairs that are coming out lately it would be so fucking funny if he had a flig with all the main characters (ambar, nina, simon... hell luna too if you want) and they all know it except matteo

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in alt text] my magnum opus

[gophergal]

Any fans of the Thunder God here?

[affluent-havoc]

Sometimes, I feel Kyoko is like the Bonnie of Trigger Happy Havoc.

This sounds very weird to say but hear me out. Or... read me out since this is text.

This is unserious by the way but also a part of me is curious cus my gosh is she a hassle to find a good color to consistently give her.

Basically, in FNAF, the consensus on what the hell Bonnie is colored is all over. Is he blue? Is he purple? Indigo? It's always been questioned. Meanwhile, with Kyoko, though I haven't seen a ton of discussion around this, like, what IS her hair color. Actually. Cus sure. She's always been associated with purple and when you color pick her hair, it's almost always near the purple part of the color wheel. But also like, what color IS her hair?

I've seen it been drawn more purple, sometimes even white or silver. Hell! Her hair is described as silver in the first chapter of the game! So, what gives! Like, it's never consistent, even in official artwork!

Case in point:

This is how pale her sprite hair is btw

Also, it's not that any other character's been consistent with this in the series. Then again, at least I can tell that Byakuya's blonde, Makoto's a brunette, that Sakura has white hair and that Leon's a red head.

Plus, I feel that the shade of her hair is what MAKES it look purple. Which leads me to question more. Is it leaning closer to white? Silver? Does she just have purple undertones but it's not actually purple. And like, did her purple hair lighten with age or something cus novel Kyoko's hair is a lot more obviously purple compared to when we first me the girl. Or, does she dye it? Like, make it look like a darker purple in Dr3? Would she even have access to hair dye with the state of the world?!

And like, girl, I get it. You got your mysterious bit going on. But, dang it girl! Pick a lane!