#poetic or something idk

[asleepinawell]

Irem, the Pillared City: Futures

[dasloddl]

[djo]

I can’t see my city, but I can feel it. The system isn’t working. And it’s rotten, corrupt. But this is our city. Not his. And we can take it back, together. The weak, the strong, all of us... Resist. Rebel. Rebuild. Because we are the city without fear. 

DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN 1.01: Heaven’s Half Hour | 1.09: Straight to Hell

[seumyo]

If ghosts were real—well, Bakugou didn’t believe in ghosts, but if they did exist—they lived in the spaces people left behind.

And you happened to have left behind too many.

It wasn’t just the obvious things. Not the clothes still folded in your drawers, untouched. Not the way your books still sat on the shelves, the spines cracked from overuse, the pages filled with notes in the margins. Not even the stupid coffee mug you always used, the one you once swore made everything taste better, still sitting exactly where you left it on the kitchen counter (because it had his and your face printed on it).

No, the spaces you left behind were quieter. More insidious.

Like the empty seat across from him at the dining table, where you used to sit, eating straight from the pot that one night because, “Why dirty another dish?”

Like the sound of the bathroom door not opening in the morning when he’s actually using the toilet—dammit, you didn’t even have the care in the world to give your boyfriend some privacy—the absence of your muttered complaints about how the water took too long to heat up.

Like the other side of the bed, cold and untouched, where he still reached out in his sleep, half expecting to find you there. Anticipating to hold you closer to him.

Grief was a strange thing to Bakugou.

It wasn’t like pain. Pain was easy. A broken rib, a busted lip, the sharp sting of impact—those things, he knew how to handle. You grit your teeth, you clench your fists, you keep moving. That was what you did. That was the kind of man he was.

But grief wasn’t like that.

It wasn’t a punch he could take and shake off. It was a weight pressing down on his chest, invisible but suffocating. It was the silence of an empty apartment. It was the echo of your voice in his head, the way his brain still filled in the blanks in conversations you should have been part of.

It was standing in the grocery store, staring at the shelf, reaching for the brand of tea you liked before stopping halfway, fingers hovering in the air, before dropping his hand back to his side.

What was the point?

He hated how much space you had taken up in his life. Hated how even in your absence, you still lingered, threading yourself through his routine, his thoughts, his goddamn muscle memory.

But more than anything, he hated how much he wanted it to stay.

Because if ghosts were real, then maybe—just maybe—you weren’t completely gone.

He hadn’t cried. Not when he first got the news. Not when he stood at the funeral, jaw locked so tight it ached. Not when he walked through your apartment alone for the first time, every corner of it filled with your presence, your things, the remnants of the life you lived.

But tonight, he was exhausted.

Physically. Mentally. It comes down on him like something tangible, something inescapable—all at once.

And for the first time in a long time, he spoke into the silence.

“…This is fucking stupid.”

His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse.

Nothing answered.

Of course, nothing answered.

Still, Bakugou exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “You’d be so pissed at me right now.”

The quiet stretched.

Bakugou let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Tch. You always said I was too stubborn for my own good. But look at you. Still haunting me, huh?”

His eyes flickered to the couch, where you used to sit cross-legged, laptop balanced on your knees, pretending to listen to whatever bullshit he was ranting about while actually getting work done.

A strange, bittersweet feeling lodged itself in his chest.

“…You remember that time you swore up and down that ghosts were real?” he muttered, voice quieter now. “I told you you were full of shit.”

Silence.

His fingers curled into fists. “Kinda wish you were right.”

No answer. No sign. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint buzz of the city outside the window.

But in the quiet, he thought—just for a second—he could hear it.

A breath. A whisper of movement. The sound of something shifting just out of sight.

He knew it was nothing. Just his mind playing tricks on him.

But still, Bakugou closed his eyes, exhaled, and let himself pretend.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[hatsbuckets]

[i do not need a fwb situation, i tell myself repeatedly. (i'm in college it'd be way too easy lmao)]

Head Canons (some suggestive stuff in this but not much)

Thinking about John Mactavish volunteering at animal shelters whenever he can. It ends up being like a few spattering of days every month, but he'll spend all day there. He loves being around the animals. And he loves getting to be useful and help wherever he can.

You, a longtime volunteer, there nearly every day, love having the enthusiastic, charming... strong... muscular... funny... extra help too. You were the one who showed John around on his first day, a volunteer event day that he happened upon. A few dozen people showed up, and this mohawked, military man was among them.

He was one of the few who came back to the shelter after the event, and on some random day every week, he's there to lend a hand, listening intently to whatever instructions you give him (he's very motivated to listen to you and help the animals out) and even after a couple weeks of absence, he comes back again, apologizing that work took him away so suddenly.

And after a few months... this silly, mohawked, (might I add effortlessly charming, handsome, pretty?) military man's scattering of volunteer days has become a welcome surprise every time. He's always so sweet when he talks to you, throwing a friendly, "good mornin', love. Survive without me?" Carrying on easy conversation throughout the day, and occasionally something that feels like flirting, but you don't read too much into it.

He's a blessing to have. Dogs need a run? He's the first to grab their leashes. Cats' litter boxes need cleaning? He's there with a scoop in hand. The small collection of rodents' pens need a new layer of bedding? He's already headed to storage.

He comes back drenched in sweat from runs, his tank plastered to his chest. Sweaty thighs peeking out from below his shorts as he squats down to pet the happy, panting dogs. And you pass him a towel, and his smile just beams up at you. God he's adorable and hot all at once.

His arms flex against his shirt sleeves when he hefts the heavy bags of food up onto his shoulder and god if only he'd do that that you.

His hands are so gentle with the tiny new litter of cats that just came in, helping you clean them off and place them safely into the crate with their mum. need I say more

You learn more about each other. Where he's from, what he does for work, and of course you'd pinned military, but he doesn't quite go into the work that he does. He talks about the men he works with, and you start to recognize names like Price, Gaz, and Ghost. He even shows you pictures of the first two. Not the latter though.

And then another few weeks he's not there... You're starting to miss the loud Scottish voice that normally fills the space as you hose down the concrete patio in the back the shelter. Your thoughts drift to how last time you did this with him he had sprayed you very intentionally with the hose. And you nearly tackled him to wrap your soaking body around him. His hand discarding the hose and wrapping under your legs as he hoists you happily up into his arms and oh you were so close, laughing, smiling, teasing about getting soaked. You were definitely blushing as much as he was.

a couple of days later, just like he'd never left, he's back, helping you organize the larger storage closet. Sharing jokes and teasing. Until you have to reach across him and his face is so close to yours and he completes the distance, catching you oh so off guard but you melt into that kiss. and he presses and prods until your job to reorganize is interrupted by the sudden to fuck each other into the next dimension.

and then a few days later it's the same... You had simply gone to grab a new leash from the closet... he had come for a bag of dog food... or that's what he'd told you at least...

And then your bodies are close, his hand at the back of your neck, your hand travelling down and down, his mouth on yours, hot, needy, quick, and amazing. You're both happy to do it. And it seems you both don't think much of it.

This becomes a routine, in his oh too few volunteer days each month, you make a habit of occupying small, mostly private spaces of the shelter, the small break room, the storage closet, his car, your car. It's only been two or three months, and it's not like it's a big shelter, not that many employees, but damn if it doesn't excite you all the same.

And then after one of these sessions, as you're slipping you shirt on in the back of your car, he pecks a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth. "I'll be gone a few weeks this time, bonnie. Jus' though' I might warn ya." (his accent gets thicker when it's laced with lust, you've come to notice.)

And he is, gone a while, that is. And during this time one of your old flings comes to town... some business trip... and God is this one always a good time, so charming and kind, buys you chocolates and all, a good person truly, just not one to settle down. That's fine by you. So, you let them take you home, let them in your bed, and have a good time. And then they head back to whatever the hell fancy job they have in whatever town they live in now.

It's longer than you expect before John comes back. And when he does, he greets you with that charming smile and you put him to work almost immediately, and he's happy to get to cleaning the dog kennels with you. You get to talking, he asks how your past few weeks have been. And John is so easy to talk to. And you mention your old friend you visited, how they visited your home, even bought you chocolates, the goof. But John gets quiet at this... you don't mention it, not yet...

And then of course, he walks you out to your car that afternoon and of course you end up in the back of it (I should mention here that you do not own a small car, after being the animal lover you are, you need the space to load crates in the back seat) and something about how John takes you this time is needy, needier, possesive in the way he nips at your skin and presses against you.

And at the end of it, he leaves with the same gentle peck at the corner of your mouth, but this time there's no quip, no tease, just a "drive safe" and a gentle smile...

A few days later this man returns to the shelter and before he even asks what needs to get done, he's offering up a small box of chocolates with a bashful little smile.

You thank him and accept the chocolates. and then it's back to work. That evening though, after a particularly long day after getting three new dogs and a new cat, when John walks you to your car, you ask if he wants to go home with you. You'd thought about it all day... somewhere between cleaning and intaking the new animals, mustering up the courage to ask. He accepts with that same enthusiasm that the dogs have when someone walks in with their leashes.

You wake up tangled in him, his arm slung heavy over your waist, his chest warm against your back, one leg thrown over yours like he’s actively trying to wrestle you into the mattress in his sleep. And this man sleeps light, military training and all, but the second you start shifting to sneak out of bed, his grip tightens. "Where ya goin’, love?" all rough morning voice and sleep-heavy slur, nose nudging against your shoulder like he could just sink right back into you and stay there. (You do not go anywhere.)

And things stay the same, mostly. He still only comes around every few weeks, still volunteers, still fills the shelter with that chaotic, obnoxious, charming energy. Still gets drenched in sweat from running the dogs, still lifts those massive bags of food onto his shoulders like he’s personally showing off for you (and he is), still sneaks off into the storage closet with you when no one’s looking, grinning against your mouth before pressing you up against the nearest shelf.

But then, one evening, right as you're closing up the shelter, he lingers by the front desk. Hands shoved deep in his pockets. That telltale shift of weight from foot to foot like he's got something rattling around in his skull, something he's been turning over for a while now.

"Was thinkin'..." He exhales sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his boots like they’ve got the answers. "I've gotta go again, but maybe next time I’m back, we go out somewhere. A proper date, aye?"

And fuck. That shouldn’t make your stomach flip. But it does. You should say yes. You want to say yes. But you don't.

Because life is a cruel and petty little bastard, your old fling had waltzed back into town. Just for you. A familiar, easy thing. The kind of person you don’t have to think about too much. And for some reason, you say yes when they ask you to dinner. Maybe because you don’t want to wait for something uncertain. Maybe because John is John—flirty, gorgeous, disgustingly good at making you weak in the knees, but never around long enough for you to be sure. (And John doesn't show it, not outwardly, but it breaks his heart.)

And then John comes back. Finally. And he’s not alone. There is a mountain standing next to him. Big. Broad. Dressed head to toe in dark clothes and hoodie like he’s ready for spying, the lower half of his face covered by a black medical mask. He looks like he could crush a man with one hand and still have fingers left to spare. And his eyes, dark, cold, sharp as a fucking blade, land on you like he’s personally offended by your existence. Oh. Oh, this must be Ghost.

John, completely unfazed, grins. “Ghost wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” Ghost says nothing. Just stares. (You have never felt more judged in your life. The fuck did you do to make this walking fortress glare at you like that? You know he doesn’t know. There’s no way he knows. Right?)

And things go back to normal, kind of. John keeps showing up, keeps doing his usual thing. But there’s something off this time. A shift in the way he looks at you, something quietly considering behind his eyes. It all comes to a head one evening when you’re closing up together, standing in the back room trying to fix a shelving issue. He’s quiet. You’re quiet.

And then, you break first. Spill it out like you didn’t mean to—how your old fling wasn’t what you thought, how you shouldn’t have agreed in the first place, how you let yourself get caught up in something easy instead of something real. And John? He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, listening, nodding along like he’s already pieced this all together. Until you mutter, "And I don’t even fucking like chocolate."

And that is what makes him pause. And his brows pull together. Just a little. And then, in the softest, most John way possible—"...Oh."

And the next time he walks into the shelter, it’s not with chocolates.

It’s with a small paper bag. He hands it to you with a little smirk, and inside.

Fresh strawberries. From the farmer’s stand down the road. You’d only mentioned them once. Some passing comment made one day while you were both cleaning up in the yard outside. And John had remembered. And with a charming little smile, he takes your hand. "Let me take ya out properly." And you blink up at him, caught off guard by how easy, how simple he makes it sound. "I—yeah."

And yes, you go on that date. And yes, you end up back at your place. And yes, you have a very, very good night.

And yes, eventually, John introduces you to Ghost properly. (and Price and Gaz too, ah John and Kyle.)

And yes, somehow, someway, you end up with not just one, but two terrifyingly strong military men helping out at the shelter—John still enthusiastically doing everything he can, and Ghost looming in the doing every little thing you ask without question, surprisingly good with the most feral old cats, somehow terrifying and begrudgingly helpful all at once. (He makes it a point to lift two bags of dog food for every one John carries. Jesus Christ)

And yes, eventually, Ghost ends up in your bed too.

But that’s another story.

Thanks for reading.

[winter-rossie]

POV: You realise how the first time Patroclus saw Achilles, his father, his own father tells him “That’s how a son should be.”

How years later, Patroclus dies on the battlefield in the same boy’s name and armor, making two entire fucking armies belive he’s Achilles?

[lovely-v]

Every time I hear Up The Wolves by the Mountain Goats now I think of when I saw them live a few weeks ago and when they did this song John Darnielle forgot the start of the second verse (“there’s gonna come a day when you feel better”) and no hate to him obviously he’s got a huge catalog of songs it does not reflect on his overall immense talent that he forgot the words to one of them once but I did find it hilarious in the moment because like. Ok. I guess there is NOT gonna come a day when you feel better

[little-mouse-adventures]

Rereading TLC and loosing it at the realization that both No1 and Artemis are fourteen years old.

Like they’re both snarky, pessimistic little shits, with no friends, a ridiculous vocabulary, and vast amounts of power at their fingertips.

Most people would want to give No1 a hug and a hot chocolate. Most people would want to punt Artemis into a muddy ditch.

[raayllum]

I can't lose you like this. You mean too much to me. Callum, I—I... You know what I love about you? Everything.

2x09 / 6x09 / 7x01 / 7x09

[jayvikismylife]

You guys think Viktor ever missed Jayce while he was away in the alternate timeline? And I don't mean a general 'oh, boohoo, my partner's gone' kind of feeling- the Hexcore probably wouldn't give him that much emotional independence.

I mean a *deep* yearning. Some pit that Viktor as the Herald didn't know how to fill, didn't even know what it was from. The same yawning hole in your chest you get when a loved one dies - like some integral part of your very essence is missing.

You ever think he finally realized what that yearning was for, just how much he missed and needed Jayce, when he saw him again? Fresh from an alternate hell and not of his own mind?

You think he realized it a moment before Jayce killed him?

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

ALEX TURNER, RIO DE JANEIRO, BR. by Zackery Michael

[macaroonkitti]

Quick treat for my Zelda followers, thinking about Link post totk <3

[roots-symphony]

what's so interesting is that agatha and nicky clearly had their cons well-oiled, and at the end it seems they even started turning their song into a part of it as well, like i don't think that was the first time nicky sang that song for an audience and they used it to lure witches (i do think it's the first time that it /technically/ didn't work), and how after nicky died it continued to gain popularity and be so well-known it became a legend, and along with that agatha being known as the only survivor of the road and people (like billy) seeking her out to walk it or just for knowledge of it. and i think that had been the idea when they first started using it as a con. making it so they no longer had to travel and scavenge, using it as a lure to bring the witches to them in order to keep nicky alive, but only one small misstep and rio got him anyway

and then thinking about how lorna, who had a generational curse placed upon her family that is going to kill both her and her daughter and who desperately wants to see her daughter survive, heard this song and created her own version to use as a protection spell for her daughter and, like agatha did before her, she made her version so well-known and so popular that years and years after death it's still protecting her daughter, until ultimately her daughter was finally able to use it to break the curse and save herself

idk just.. they're like two sides of the same coin, or distorted mirrors of each other

agathas love was so powerful and so strong that death gave nicky time

lornas love was so powerful and so strong that the ballad gave alice time and even freed her

if nicky hadnt been taken that night, could it have eventually freed him as well? rio said agatha used the dark magic of the darkhold to hide herself from rio, so was that the end goal? they'd continue to lure witches to both keep nicky alive and to have agatha become powerful enough to forever keep them hidden?

[temporary-joyride]

I just finished Disco Elysium yesterday and I have to say my favorite part, or at least that I find the most interesting, is that you HAVE to pass the Shivers check. Every other check in the game can be worked around someway or somehow, but you must pass the Shivers check. You don't have to be smart, you don't have to be strong, but in order to finish the game you're forced to feel. You have to face the music. You have to accept this reality you're in, despite trying to escape it through alcohol. You can't. This is your world. This is your life. Tomorrow is just a whisper away.

[acting-pterygii]

blacked out and suddenly they were on my canvas oops

row 1: redraw of my most popular secret shanghai post

row 2: benmars fist kiss bc it’s on my mind ALL the time (even though i can’t draw a good kiss to save my life) + that one scene in lvc where they’re staking out the train. technically neither of them have their wedding rings at that moment but whatever the world is my oyster and i’m going to eat it

row 3: i’m only like, three weeks late to lunar new year… juliette with sparklers + fishing!! for good luck!! (or gunning i guess..?)

all characters belong to @chloegong from her secret shanghai series, this is the reference i used for the second benmars drawing

[fishing-lesbian-catgirl]

This is kind of a personal ramble but…

In my last semester of high school I had already gotten accepted into college, took no difficult classes, and had the freedom to take 2 art classes in which I was the only person in “art 3” a class that happened in the same room at the same time as art 2. I was basically free to do whatever I wanted.

That semester I decided to make a scale model of Summoner’s Rift, the map from league of legends. I worked really hard on it and was proud of how close I got it. But it was too big to be displayed anywhere and too fragile to be hung on a wall or anything. So I left it at my parents house when I went off for college, where it collected dust.

This year I went back to their house to stay for the holidays, and my mom wanted me to clean out my room. Along with many other things she asked if she could throw it away.

The map became outdated less than a year after I made it, when they added alcoves to the top and bottom lanes. Later years made even bigger changes making it even more outdated. The map is made of salt dough on a piece of cardboard, with the towers being made of hot glue gun sticks I cut and carved that hold wire staves. Everything is painted with cheap low-budget high school art class acrylic paint. I never had time to make a little model of Baron Nashor, the dragons, the shopkeepers, or any of the jungle camps. It just looks barren, empty, and lonely.

The map is covered in dust. It has no function (despite my idea at the time of making it that I could model jungle pathing on it). It doesn’t look pretty. It takes up space. It’s hard to display. It’s hard to appreciate. Objectively speaking it is a piece of junk that is wasting space in my parents’ house. And despite being addicted since 2015, I haven’t even played league in a year.

But it’s something I made. Something I worked hard on. Something I burned my fingers with a hot glue gun far too many times to be seen as junk to me. It’s useless, kind of ugly, takes up space, and yet I can’t bare the thought of throwing it away.

As an art piece it has no meaning, no emotions to invoke when you look at it. It’s some high school kid’s creation of the thing she saw in the game she loved. To anyone but me it is a piece of junk, even if you know what it’s from you have no reason to care. But when I look at it I see all the little details. All the extra touches, all the mistakes I didn’t have time to fix, and all the ways time has aged it poorly.

It would’ve crushed that kid’s heart to see something she worked so hard on destroyed. Did she not already suffer enough from the dysphoria, from the way her friend groups fell apart, the way she got burnt out from trying hard in school, the way everything in her life felt like it was falling apart and the things she enjoyed stopped being fun. She already went through so much, she was so strong and she’s the only reason I’m alive now. So I can’t do it, I can’t destroy it. I took dozens of pictures from as many angles as I could to preserve it as best I can. But it doesn’t feel like enough.

I am her, but I don’t care about it for me, I care about it for her. But she’s not here, she’s gone. Nothing I do now can affect her in my memories. So why do I care?