#so many impassioned rants..

[kralmajales]

What is Harris’ plan to address the leftist infighting going on in my friends’ instagram stories…….

[justsalpals]

"why does no one talk about the ___ princess?? she's my favorite because [many well thought out, beautiful, poetic reasons]"

my guy you are so right

they are all so good

and so many

I am a weak man who's brain can only focus on one of these ladies at a time. give me some time.

[tenacquity]

"So— Let's say you're madly in love with someone, utterly devoted; you'd do anything for them...

But then, something happens to them. You mourn him, grieve him— Eventually, you learn to move on.

You find another who claims your affections.

Only for that original subject to return unexpected—

Would anyone happen to have a map to navigate this situation? I'm asking for a friend."

[artgletic]

PREVVVVVV THANK YOUUUUU i drew another for you ( :

so theres this embodiment of deception...

[stormz369]

☕💖 Can I Get Your Number? ☕💖 Ch. 2

Jason Todd x Chubby! Reader (fem)

A/N: Wow, I was not expecting that kind of reaction! Thank you to everyone who's interacted with chapter 1; I've had a rough week and you all made my day! I wasn't planning on posting chapter 2 until I was a bit further along with ch 3, but I just can't find it in me to say no to ya'll!

Chapter Selection

written with a female reader in mind, first person pov, no use of Y/N, hurt (no comfort) (yet), will probably get NSFW later, let me know if there's anything else I should tag this with!

warnings (chapter specific): chapter includes a brief scene of attempted assault (which will be labeled for those who'd rather skip it) angst, gun violence, some negative self-talk

words: 1.8k

Jason's first call came at exactly 2:05pm the next day. When I picked up I was immediately greeted by his voice seemingly from the other side of a very large room; “seriously, guys! I'll call, I'll call!”

“Too late!” Dick shouted, clearly holding the phone. “Hello! This is Dick, calling on behalf of my idiot brother, Jason! We met at the cafe yesterday?”

I could hear Jason shouting at someone, but it was muffled like he was under something. “Right … So are you going to put Jason on, or…?”

“Well, Jaybird is under the impression that calling a girl the next day is ‘desperate’ and ‘off-putting’, so we've taken up a poll at the house, and surprise surprise; we need a tiebreaker. Your thoughts?”

Before I could respond I heard muffled grunting; someone in the background shouted “no! Get him!” which was immediately followed by a yelp from Dick as Jason growled a bit;

“Give me that!” A door slammed, and all the other voices were gone, replaced by Jason's gentle, almost shy voice; “... Um … hi … still think this is normal sibling behavior?”

I giggled; “... Starting to veer away from normal now. But it's sweet, they obviously really care about you. And for the record - you can call the poll on the side of ‘it’s not desperate or off-putting'; I gave you my phone number, surely I expected you to use it, right?”

“... O- oh, yeah I guess that makes sense … So yeah, I'm using it. … Hi.”

“Hi~”

After that, I spoke to Jason in some capacity or another most every day. Turned out he was a night owl too. Apparently he worked most nights, so, after I assured him that a text wouldn't wake me, he started preemptively sending me a good morning text around 3 or 4am, so it was the first thing I saw when I woke up.

I loved how he could go off on an impassioned tangent; getting him all worked up over literature was especially cute. He did have a tendency to backpedal after a particularly passionate rant, no matter how many times I pointed out that I liked hearing him so excited. We also kept trying to arrange a day to get together, preferably without his brothers hovering this time, but his work schedule was so hectic that we kept having to postpone.

It seemed a bit unlikely, but I started to wonder if I had been right in the first place; that it was all some really elaborate prank. It certainly wouldn't be the first time an attractive man had played with my heart like that, though it would be the first time one had bought me anything before pulling the rug out from under me… 

Nearly a month into our texting relationship, Jason went radio silent for several days. No warning, just gone. I didn't want to be clingy, but I was a bit worried. He had been so attentive until this, what if something was wrong and I was out here thinking the worst about him?

On day 5 without a response I picked up a late shift at work, hoping to distract myself from the whole thing. It didn't work though, and I ended up trudging home at 2am blasting loud, angry music through my headphones. I was frustrated, and confused, and careless. I didn't notice the man behind me until his hand was around my wrist.

 ❌❌❌ -skip point- ❌❌❌

The world moved in slow motion as I was pulled into the alley. The man's mouth was moving, but I just heard a staticy ring. I tasted copper, and everything was too dark. Things didn't snap back into focus until I felt the rough brick slam against my back and I screamed, shoving against him.

All at once, everything was moving too fast; he was grabbing, I was punching and kicking, my voice was cracking. A second felt like an eternity, I couldn't even hazard a guess how long the fight actually took. But all at once it ended; with a loud, sharp sound that left me frozen in place and my ears ringing, the man collapsed in front of me. Red bloomed across his unmoving chest, and all I could do was stare.

❌❌❌ -end skip point- ❌❌❌

Large, leather clad hands gently touched my shoulders, bringing me back into my body. I slowly looked up, blinking. I immediately recognized the masked man who had come to my aid; Red Hood had made quite the name for himself in his time as a mob boss. I heard something droning on, but couldn't focus on any specific details over the sound of my own heartbeat still pounding in my ears. It took him gingerly sliding my headphones off for me to realize the noise I was hearing was just the next song on my angry playlist.

“Miss? Can you hear me now?” there was an electric quality to his voice. I vaguely wondered why more Masks didn't use voice modulators; it seemed more practical than the standard vigilante eye coverings… 

I slowly nodded. “... Y- … yeah?”

The red helmet nodded once, “did he hurt you?”

I looked down at myself, frowning a bit. My shirt was grimed up from the struggle, and I could feel the cold night air on the back of my thighs; my pants had ripped when I tried to kick the man off me. A shaky breath turned into a sob as I gasped, looking up again.

A million thoughts ran through my head at once. I wanted to scream, to curse, anything! But all I managed was a whimpered; “... Th- these were my favorite pants …”

“... Well, your boyfriend will just have to get you a new pair. Let … let me get you home, yeah?” I flinched as he reached toward me again, a gloved finger gently wiping away my tears. He offered me his hand, easing me out of the alley like a frightened stray cat.

I followed without complaint, turning my music off. “... No boyfriend …”

“A friend then? Someone who'll take care of you.” Red Hood led me to a motorcycle. He unzipped a bag on the back, and held out a red flannel shirt.

A watery giggle slipped out of my mouth and I shakily took it, tying it around my waist. “... I don't even know anymore…” 

“Don't know?”

“Well, I was talking to a guy, but … I think he ghosted me.”

“No!” I jumped at the sudden volume and insistent tone, looking up at him awkwardly.

“... No?”

“I … I just mean … a pretty girl like you's not gonna get ghosted. If he hasn't texted back in a few days there's gotta be a reason.”

I looked away, squirming awkwardly. Did an ex-crime lord turned vigilante really just call me pretty? “... Y- … I … what?”

He was silent for a long moment. I got the distinct impression that he was staring at me, but with the helmet on it was hard to tell. “... We should get you home.”

Next thing I knew, I was holding Red Hood's helmet. I hesitantly looked up as he turned, catching just a glimpse of one of those domino masks the other local vigilantes wore. He moved his bag and swung one leg over the seat of his bike, turning back to stare at me expectantly. The prospect of letting the Red Hood know where I lived didn't seem like the smartest idea, but I was definitely not going to walk home alone after all that. So I slid the helmet on and carefully climbed behind him, placing my feet where he indicated. As I arranged the flannel between my bare thighs and the seat it occurred to me how unexpectedly kind it was of him to offer it. I knew he had been spotted working with the Bats lately, but just because they had accepted him didn’t mean he was a boy scout all of a sudden...

Of course, now that I was on his bike I was faced with the rather pressing concern of where to put my hands. I didn’t exactly have handle bars, and I doubted he was going to drive slow enough that I could stay upright; I would have to lean against him. I took a deep, steadying breath, and placed my hands on his shoulders. Hood froze a bit, and after a moment he reached behind himself to grasp my elbows. He gently pulled me to wrap my arms around his waist.

 “It's actually safest this way. Interlock your fingers, and lean with me on turns.” His voice was so much nicer without the helmet distorting it, even if he was doing a truly terrible Batman impression. 

“... O- ok…” I clung to him, feeling my entire body heat up. I wasn't sure how much of that was because I was blushing and how much was because the Red Hood was apparently a living space heater, but either way I was glad he couldn't see my face. I told him how to get to my apartment, and we sped off.

The roar of the engine and the wind whipping past mercifully drowned out anything we could have hoped to say to each other. I shut my eyes just for a moment, trying not to cry again, and suddenly Hood’s hand was trapping mine against his stomach. “... Hey, this it?”

I jolted slightly, looking up at the familiar building. I nodded, slowly extracted myself from his grip, and slid back onto solid ground. He held a hand up to stop me as I started to remove the borrowed flannel.

“Keep it.”

I blinked slowly, having trouble processing what he said. “... But … it’s your shirt … how will I give it back to you?”

He chuckled softly; “it’s just a shirt.”

I didn’t have the energy to argue the matter any further. I slipped his helmet off, holding it out to him.

“Thank you … I can't believe I let this happen…”

He frowned deeply at that, and his voice shifted a bit from a fake-Batman voice into an actually deep, grumpy tone; “you didn't let anything happen.”

“I'm usually so much more observant, if I had just been paying attention…”

“He would have changed tactics. You did nothing wrong. I don't want you thinking otherwise, got it?”

I sniffled softly, looking down at my shoes. “... I … God, I didn't even have my keys in my hand… I was taught better…”

“And I was taught not to kill. Shit happens.”

I blinked a bit, unable to stop the laugh that bubbled up. “… I … I guess so. … Th- Thank you … for everything.”

He nodded once before putting his helmet back on. Before I could step away, he reached out to touch my hand again. “Hey. You did everything right, ok? You drew attention, and you kept him off until I got there. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Got it?”

I nodded slowly, stepping back a bit. “… ok.”

“Good. Now, get inside.” He waited there, watching me. Only after the building's front door was closed and locked did I hear his motorcycle speed away.

Next ->

Divider by: @saradika

Taglist: @jawdropforkpop

(If you would like to be added to the taglist feel free to let me know!)

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU pt 56

part 1 | part 55 | ao3

March

"Steve, honey," Claudia calls from the living room, where he can hear her shuffling around to get her things ready for work — the rustle of a jacket, the clink of keys against her thermos. "Do you need anything before you go?"

"I'm fine, Ma!" Steve answers.

And he is. He is fine. It’s been three weeks, and Steve is fine! He has a date tonight with a girl he doesn’t care about, and he's gonna cheer on Lucas at the championship game, and the other day at work he got a fifty cent per hour raise. And sure, his nightmares are worse than ever and his head aches all the time, and he’s had some weirdly persistent sinus infection or some shit going on, but he only teared up once this week while jerking off to thoughts of Eddie, so.

All in all, not bad.

He shoves a plain bagel in his mouth and rushes to leave the house; passes Claudia on the way out, who's now rapping her knuckles impatiently against Dustin’s door and asking, “Dusty, what’s going on in there? You’re gonna be late!" to which Dustin replies with a panicked shriek: “DON’T COME IN, I’M NAKED!”

Jesus Christ. "Deafen my other ear, why don't you?" Steve mutters under his breath.

He throws Ma a parting wave and heads out to pick up Robin so he can take her to school before his shift starts. She looks nicer than usual, and she won’t stop reapplying her mascara, and by the time Object of My Desire starts playing on the radio Steve is practically begging her to just suck it up and end this will-they-won’t-they thing with Vickie because it’s been months of obvious flirting and Robin still won’t make a move.

“I listen to you, and now look at me!” he argues, as if the handful of pointless dates he’s used to distract himself from Eddie are anything to look at. “Boom. Back in business.“

“Mm,” she objects, a little ‘you’re so full of shit’ frown on her face. “Not the same thing.”

Don’t say it, you bitch, don’t even—

“You ask out a girl and she says no…”

Oh, thank fuck. Steve sags in relief and licks the corner of his mouth as he listens to her rant, grateful that she’s just working the small town homophobia angle and very graciously not pointing out how half-hearted and sad his attempts to move on with his life have been. It’s a small mercy he repays by rambling about girls and boobies and girls who definitely like boobies until she scowls so hard at him that she smudges her mascara and has to apply another coat.

—

Dustin calls the store some time around lunch. Asks if Steve wants to sub in for Lucas at tonight’s Hellfire campaign, which, first of all, fuck you — he’s been helping Lucas practice for months now, he’s not about to miss this game — and secondly:

“What, to hang out with you and Eddie the Freak Munson?” he asks, idly playing with a slinky. “Uh, yeah. I’ll pass.”

"Dude."

"What?"

"You can’t just call him names because you’re pissed at him! That’s not cool!”

Steve rolls his eyes and tugs the slinky so hard it flops off the counter’s edge.

“Look,” Dustin says, his voice dipping into that low and slow and trustworthy thing that makes Steve want to snap the kid’s non-existent collarbones. “I know you won’t tell me what happened, but whatever it was, he’s sorry, okay? He’s really, really sorry. And he asks me about you, like, every day; if I didn’t know any better I’d swear he was in love with you or something.” Steve chokes on his own spit, and Dustin just keeps going; steps right over Steve’s corpse to continue his impassioned plea. “Besides, friends forgive each other! Right, Steve?”

Goddammit. Steve really regrets saying those exact words in that exact order the last time Lucas and Dustin had a fight. “Man, you can’t just use my own brotherly advice against me.”

“I can, and I will.” Wow. What a little shit. “Seriously, dude, come on! How many times do I have to pass on his apology messages before you just talk to him?”

How many times? How many times?

Steve doesn’t know.

He just knows he’s not ready; knows that as soon as he talks to Eddie, it’ll make it all real. It’ll be over for good. Whatever words they exchange next will get etched into the headstone of the thing they briefly had. He opens his mouth to say something, to try and make sense of the vortex in his head, but all he gets for the effort is a fresh migraine coming on.

He’s saved from answering by the doorbell’s chime. “I got some customers,” he says over Dustin's squawk of protest. “Gotta call you back, bye.”

—

part 57

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[tarriecat]

Hey pals! Do you like multi-hour video essays where a blond English person goes on impassioned rants about the rabbit holes they've gone down, with such themes as scammy grifters, scientific and cultural misinformation, and late-stage capitalism destroying the planet, but you've watched hbomberguy so many times you can recite his entire catalog and would like something new?

You should watch münecat!

She does all those things and also SINGS! In case you needed a music video about all the crap Tony Robbins thinks!

Her latest just dropped and it's over three hours debunking evolutionary psychology and is in many ways the culmination of a lot of her recent work. I also think her video on body language experts is a great gateway if you don't wanna hear about gender essentialism for multiple hours. (CW on the evo-psych video for a flashing-lights sequence, which is warned for in on-screen text beforehand.)

(She's also on Nebula if you don't want ads in your three-hour video essays.)

[corpium]

a future excerpt from By Any Means

Harry turns around, good mood vanishing. “Oh, would you fuck off already?” he asks Tom, who’s propped up against one of the trees like the bloody poser he is. Blood’s still smeared across his face from the roses’ thorns.

“Do you not want me here?” Tom asks. “I thought you missed me.”

Tensing, Harry shifts his weight. “I miss you like a hole in the head,” he says.

“Ouch.” Tom pushes off the tree and ambles toward him, hands in his pocket. “Such cruel words, Harry.”

Harry holds his ground, fists clenching. Awareness prickles at the edge of his senses. “It’s the least you deserve.”

Tom comes to a stop before him, a hand coming up towards Harry’s chin.

Harry slaps it away. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls.

Tom stills, assessing Harry with red, snakelike eyes. They jog something loose in Harry’s head. They aren’t supposed to look like that. Harry takes a step back; Tom takes one forward, eating up the space.

“I thought you liked it when I touched you,” Tom says.

Harry shores himself up again and plants his feet. “You disgust me,” he says.

“Do I?” With a clinical tilt of his head, Tom takes another step into Harry’s space. Harry stays in place, muscles practically vibrating with tension. Mere inches hold them apart. “And yet, you allow me so close.” His face tilts downward; his hands rise, one to Harry’s waist, the other up to Harry’s cheek—

Harry punches him in the gut. “Fuck you!” Even as Tom doubles over, Harry tackles him to the ground. He rains punches down on Tom’s face—he wants to ruin it. “You deluded twat!” he rants. “I hate you. I hate you, I—”

Tom’s shock wears off. His legs shift, his abdomen flexing—

He rolls Harry over, and the world rolls with him, and suddenly Harry’s not looking at Tom anymore. He’s looking up at Voldemort in all his snakelike glory.

“What,” Harry croaks, going still. The light’s changed, having darkened to that of an enclosed room lit by a crackling fire. He’s lying back on a bed—a very plush, comfortable bed. Voldemort’s hands are on his wrists. He leans over Harry, pinning him down like some unearthly demon.

“We’re in my dream now, Harry,” says Voldemort, grinning down at him with unholy avarice. “Do I still disgust you?”

Blinking, Harry swallows, the fog of his dream fading. Appease, appease, appease, his instincts scream, a holdover from his time with the Dursleys. “I—I thought you were just a dream.” But this is still a dream, isn’t it? Is this real?

Voldemort’s long fingers clench around Harry’s wrists. He does not move away. “And now you have decided that I am very much myself,” he surmises. “Are you certain?”

Harry inhales deeply, finding himself frozen. He observes his surroundings. There’s a wavering edge to the room, a soft lack of detail in the wood of the walls, an overly warm brightness to the fire. But Voldemort is real and solid above him, his grip much too present and his eyes far too keen. Harry nods, ever so slightly. “What do you want?” he whispers. He tries to think ahead, to plan, to remember what he shouldn’t be saying, but under the weight of Voldemort’s attention, his thoughts elude him.

Voldemort’s eyes drag downward, making heat rise under Harry’s skin. “Everything,” says Voldemort. “Everything that you are. I want it all.”

Wordless, Harry shakes his head in denial.

Miraculously, Voldemort pulls back. His weight on Harry’s legs makes Harry’s stomach twist. “All in good time,” he says, peering down at Harry in contemplation. “It intrigues me, Harry, to observe your reactions to my many faces. Why, I dare say, you may dislike my youthful visage more than I do.” He tilts his head, peering down at Harry. “Tell me, darling—”

The pet name sends a complicated array of emotions coursing through Harry. ‘Darling?’ he wants to yell, but at the same time, no, he really doesn’t. He wants away more than anything. Harry jerks up, legs twisting—

Voldemort pins him down once more by his wrists, nails digging in, his expression frighteningly impassive. It’s that eerie impassivity that stills Harry once again. “What did he do to you?” Voldemort asks quietly.

“He was a psychotic murderer,” Harry snarls. “You were—are—a psychotic murderer,” he adds, half to remind himself.

“That’s not quite it, is it?” Voldemort traces a thumb over Harry’s bare wrist. Harry suppresses a shiver. “No, your hatred runs deeper than that.”

“Stop it,” Harry snaps, squirming and failing to get away. “Stop—bloody guessing. You don’t know anything.”

“He was impetuous, I am certain,” Voldemort says. “Impatient. Too blinded by his need to escape the diary to see what a gift he beheld.”

“’A gift’?” Harry splutters.

Voldemort ignores him. He raises Harry’s wrists over his head and changes his grip to hold them together in one large hand. His other hand, warm to the touch against Harry’s death-chilled skin, trails down Harry’s gray arm, nails grazing the skin. It slides down Harry’s shirt, a fraying, threadbare thing, dirty from working in the garden.

“Hey—” Harry says, starting to squirm again as Voldemort’s touch slips under his shirt. Voldemort splays his fingers out and presses down, holding Harry in place, nails pricking threateningly into the delicate flesh of his abdomen.

Harry tests Voldemort’s hold on his wrists and finds no give.

“Did he charm you, Harry?” Voldemort’s robes drape over Harry, shifting softly as he presses closer. “Did he seduce you?”

The air feels thick. Harry looks away, grinding his teeth.

“Did he break your heart?”

Harry blinks rapidly. His breath shudders. “Shut. Up.”

Voldemort clicks his tongue. “I was quite foolish in my youth.” He strokes his thumb over Harry’s belly, sending a curl of unwelcome pleasure up Harry’s spine. He shifts lower, his face coming unbearably close. (If he looked like the Tom Harry had known, Harry would bite him. But he looks just different enough, otherworldly enough, to utterly baffle Harry’s impulses.) “Would you like me to apologize?” Voldemort murmurs.

“I would like you,” Harry finds himself saying, voice small, “to leave me alone.”

[shizukateal]

Hey, I want to ask you something because I'm in somewhat of an impasse. It's about magical girl fashion. To start at the beginning, I'm planning to design magical girl costumes/clothing for characters from a piece of media. My main struggle is, how to make the costumes visibly a magical form while also retaining its practicality. These characters move around a lot during battle and in general, and even the ones who use ranged weaponry do get to have their one-on-one fight occasionally when fighting enemies. So how do I design a magical girl costume, without sacrificing personality and 'fanciness', so to speak...while also being practical so that there'd be few things for an enemy to potentially grab or things to get stuck somewhere?

The key is always verisimilitude in movement and weight. You don't have to be perfectly grounded in what's practical for the form of combat your character takes, you just have to make something that seems like it at least wouldn't get in their way and which compliments them stylistically.

For a concrete exercise recommendation I give you this: draw your characters in different action poses, with as much range of motion as their fighting style allows. Put the clothes and hair on them. Now, if you find an element in the design that seems to be impractical, ask yourself before deleting it "how much and how consistently can I cheat the physics of this element to make it work with this fighting style?".

Take Batman's cape for example. In real life that would be impractical as all hell (Edna Mode's rant and all), especially since Batman primarily uses martial arts, but the illustrators and animators "cheat" by making it flow in a way that doesn't get in the way of him throwing punches and kicks. If Batman is fighting mano a mano the cape stays neatly behind his back and only the bottom moves a bit without ever turning front. Enemies conveniently avoid grabbing him by it and on the off chance they go for that option then he'll overpower them and use their grip against them. If he's dodging or stalking then suddenly the material is more floaty or almost liquid. If he does a big dramatic jump then the cape will perfectly retain its wing shape mid air for as long as it's needed to really imprint the fact that yes, indeed, he does look like a bat. What's important is that you're never really asking yourself how much Batman's cape weights, even if you understand that it's not realistic. You know that the cape will be more stiff around his torso and shoulders and more loose at the bottom, you get how those differences interact to make the whole, and you also get that sometimes the whole will become a bit stiffer if it's for the sake of maintaining a cool pose. So as long as the cape moves consistently with that in mind no one will give a fuck that it doesn't snag on everything around it.

However, this also means that there's a limit to how acrobatically Batman moves, unlike the robins, because there are only so many ways you can stylize that movement before you break the verisimilitude of the physics involved. Can Batman do a cartwheel with a cape that moves like that? Yeah, sometimes, but to keep the stylization consistent the cape would need to move so slow that it would strain suspension of disbelief for him to do so all the time instead of dodging normally.

That's the "problem" (quotes because it is a matter of personal taste) I have with most modern Precure outfits. Good or bad, the dresses are so charged and the hairstyles so big that the animators can't really move those elements in a way that compliments their fighting style of big jumps, punches and kicks. You try to pose them for a generic jab and you have to contend with both their massive skirts not getting in the way of their stance and their hair not whipping around in a way that would unbalance them, and the result ends up feeling way too artificial because everything has to remain unnaturally frozen in place for it to work. Oops!

But ok, those are practical concerns, what about choosing the stylization itself? Well, movement can still help us a lot on that area.

Let me be predictable as I turn your eyes towards the Holy Quintet once more. First let's focus on Sayaka Miki, who also has an overdramatic cape.

As we can see in this gif above, Sayaka's cape is constantly flaming, not only in the sense of how it moves but in the shape it most consistently retains, always coming from the focalized point of her neck. This loose application of physics makes it move wherever it would help her silhouette look more impactful aided by the short hair not presenting the usual competition that would be present on other magical girls (looking at you Cure Sky), although of course it can stay still and quietly cascading when it's stylish. But even beyond that the movement of the cape matches a consistent motif in how Sayaka moves within her fighting style and what that means in the context of her aesthetic. If you rewatch the show or most of her transformation sequences you'll notice that Sayaka tends to swoop into to or dive into the action. Of the Holy Quintet she's the one who seems to run the fastest and usually in a straight line, because that's what she is: heroic and straightforward.

Now let's make a broader comparison with the 5 members of the team.

Naoko Yamada from Kyoto Animation fame has said that you can tell a lot about a girl from her legs and in this case she's right. Starting from the left, Kyoko has thigh-highs and pirate boots that cinch below the knee, and along her skirt her legs are framed by her long-coat. Her weapon is a spear, a weapon that requires a stance that must be solid but still quick enough to shift, so the weight of her outfit is focused downwards while her shoulders are exposed for mobility but her arms and especially her wrists are protected, and her big ponytail balances the whole thing. Sayaka runs fast and she sword fights, so she's covered in most of the same areas as Kyoko since she needs a similar balance of stance and mobility, but the weight is put more around her torso so she can run more freely and the cape frames her arms instead of her legs, because her sword serves mostly to slash and so her arms will move more stiffly than Kyoko's. It's another genius way to show they're foils.

Mami has very long, stylish guns and uses her ribbons as vines to move around. Stance also matters in her case, but not in the same way as the previous two. She doesn't need to keep standing on her feet, she needs to move around more freely and even crouch or kneel at times, so her boots are very form-fitting, but there's still some ease and looseness with her absolute territory. And since pointing a gun requires a stable grip and quick reflexes on the fingers her arms are heavier and her gloves are finger-less. But beyond all of those practical concerns you'll notice that she's very very fond of twirling around, whether standing on the ground or in mid-jump, so it's important to her that her skirt has that furls and unfurls like a blossoming flower.

Homura's legs are very highlighted. Unlike Mami who jumps around in her loose skirt doing somersaults an adds unnecessary frills to her movements Homura is efficient. Precise. Practically a rectangle. Her stocking-boots protect her whole legs and keep them compressed and strong without sacrificing much mobility were it not for her very high and thin stilettos. There's a limit to how quick she can run in those things before making her run cycle look kinda stupid, so instead her focus is to do as much as she can with the least amount of movements possible. She elegantly falls feet-first and poses into action, her hair moving most of all in a similar manner to Sayaka's cape. When she's Moemura, however, her braids flop clumsily like oversized ears on a puppy. She'll look good with a big gun like Mami since her silhouette is so subdued, but since her specialty are bombs and short guns her uniform calls more attention to her hands.

And last but not least we have Madoka. Constantly perched on her rounded tippy-toes due to her high heels, with bunched up shoulders and dainty gloves that call attention to her wrists. Her outfit is designed to highlight her Girly Run. Kyoko flails her arms, Sayaka dives, Mami twirls, Homura glides and Madoka bounces around, hence her buoyant tutu. But she's also an archer. Now, would a real archer wear those dainty, frilly, white tea-time gloves? Haha, no. But that doesn't change the fact that gloves are a useful thing for an archer to wear. It's credible enough and it fits her style, so why not add it?

Please note however that I'm not saying the Holy Quintet's outfits are the only way to handle their respective fighting and movement styles. Rather, I'm trying to teach you how the elements they use compliment them so you can analyze what you want to achieve and start looking for solutions from there. Here, let's make a comparison between characters with the same core idea and what the subtle differences in their executions tell us about them.

Now, why would two catgirl magical girls both wear round-toed, tight boots that highlight their knees? Well, because cat's hind legs are one big feet up to the knee is why. And if you're gonna stand in all fours then might as well add some gloves for protection. Then add a puffy skirt for bounce and dessert theming and voilá, jumpy acrobatic cat. If anything, however, I'd say Mew Ichigo's fit is better movility-wise, because her bob is lighter and less obstructive, her skirt and boots allow for more range of motion, and her gloves look thicker and more resistant. But both work well for their purposes, it's just that Ichigo is built more around the agility of a cat and Macaron around its elegance.

Then we have Cat Noir, who has 3 ways of moving: his acrobatics -similar to Ichigo-, his bo-staff, and his cataclysm. Notice that his joints stick out from his otherwise form-fitting literal catsuit. This is because he puts even more of his weight into those than the previous two. Ichigo mostly jumps catlike with her legs straight, but Chat crouches and stalks and climbs and slashes with his claws, and sometimes I think he even uses his bo-staff to fence like a rapier. He may be the most practical out of the 3, but on the other hand notice that his feet seem the heaviest both because of how highlighted they are and because the boots seem steel-toed. Chat can contort into positions the other two won't, but he'll likely do less somersault twirls than them because it feels like his feet are too heavy for that. If his tail belt was more alive like an actual tail, however, we might have a different story, because that would provide a counterbalance to the heaviness of the shoes and it could move in a similar way to a skirt.

One last example and I'll be over.

So, I watched The Mandalorian (pirated so that Disney can't legally kill my spouse), and at the end of the first season they give the main character a jet pack. Now, it's important to this character that he wears a long cape because he's brooding and questant and mysterious but with a strict code of conduct and so his pastiche of archetypes includes looking like a crusader knight. So you'd think that getting a jetpack would make him ditch the cape since it's a fire hazard, but no, not quite. Instead he simply gathers it over one of his shoulders, and since the flame of the jetpack is small, so long as the end of the cape doesn't move around to wildly you barely notice that it's there at all. Is it improbable that the whole thing doesn't catch fire? Absolutely. Does it work anyways? Yes!

In conclusion? Find ways to cheat physics. But find them! Don't just stare at your first draft expecting it to do the work for you!

[chryza]

Horndragora right. It’s so much more than just oh they want to kill each other I think they should kiss. Horn and Mandragora is this whole roiling emotional subplot that’s just there in chapter ten. These two women who have been left for dead by their respective leaders, who were betrayed. They were both supposed to die in County Hillock (Harmonie saved them both). They’re both so fucking exhausted and they’re holding on by the skin of their teeth and they care and ache so deeply for the people they lead (don’t be fooled by Mandragora’s ranting, she counts the number of dead at whose hands. She is Dublinn for Tara, for Eblana, not for power). Mandragora killed Cello. Horn killed god knows how many. They were in each other’s way. They are the same. While Horn is in the underbelly of Londinium, Mandragora is on the surface consorting with the nobility. As Horn emerges into the light, Mandragora disappears back into the dark.

Horn wanted to save Mandragora but from what? She decided she couldn’t be saved. Better to kill her. So why didn’t she kill Mandragora? With so many opportunities, surely revenge was possible, easy even. Mandragora’s impassioned speech to Horn claiming to have her best interests at heart? Mandragora isn’t the type to lie to others, even if she’s lying to herself. She claimed she was protecting Horn from Londinium and even if she was absolutely not doing it out of the goodness of her heart, well. Maybe that’s as close as Mandragora could get to someone she hated so much.

They claim to hate each other, they do hate each other. Their thoughts for the other are rife with violence and vengeance. I think they’re also two people who would understand each other better than anyone else. Mutual obsession that became madness in the face of being abandoned by everything they believed in.

[bullet-and-brain]

here’s a rant abt dan heng’s rating pistol results and why they’re weird (bc they are. there’s no doubt that most of the numbers are pop culture/history/etc., but that’s not to say that they don’t have any significance). so if you’re interested uhh look under the cut (i hope i did that right)

there are currently six playable characters who, upon interacting with the rating pistol, are deemed ‘invalid’:

• acheron

• jing yuan

• feixiao

• luocha

• march

• sampo

it’s a pretty widely-accepted theory that these six characters are emanators, seeing as each one is either outright confirmed (acheron) or hinted at in some way, largely through innate connections with their respective paths.

seeing as herta, another confirmed emanator, isn’t on the list, it would seem as though this theory is false, right?

no!!!!! ! i’ve seen people claim that the pistol wouldn’t be able to give her playable form an accurate rating, due to the puppet body she occupies- it would make sense for the number to be misleading, because her true soul is, arguably, not present within the puppet, especially considering how many clones there are.

i don’t doubt this honestly. dan heng’s 5* form prompts a revelation from the pistol that it didn’t detect from his human form- albeit with the same number, but herta’s case is vastly different, as outlined above.

his 4* form is given 88 points (with a question mark at the end, though i truly don’t remember it being there during those first few patches..). this description is written in the standard format that’s used for most of the playable cast.

when you interact with the curio as imbibitor lunae, you get the exact same number- 88? - however, he is one of the few characters who has unique dialogue following the initial rating. here’s his:

The Rating Pistol gazed at Dan Heng: “88 points?” Feeling puzzled, it moved its eyeballs around and suddenly shut its eyes. It seemed to be sulking for being fooled.

> quickly note that the only other character whose rating is followed with ‘?’ is huohuo (& tail):

The Rating Pistol gazed at Huohuo: “0 points? 5 points?” It sized Huohuo up for a while before it looked away into the distance with a hopeless expression.

> it’s possible that the question marks are due to the uncertainty of there being two people to rate at once, but i doubt it- clara & svarog don’t have the question mark, nor does the pistol look hopeless lol

so, basically:

- the pistol is unsure of how huohuo should be rated for some reason, hence the question mark, and eventually gives up

- the pistol is also initially unsure of how to rate dhil, hence the question mark again. HOWEVER, instead of becoming hopeless, its eyeball moves around and suddenly shuts, and we’re told that it appears to be sulking due to being fooled. to me, this implies a realization that occurred after the 88 points were given, but before it closed its eye, presumably to pout.

that being said, i’d like to point out the similarities that dhil’s prompted dialogue has w/ the ‘invalid’ dialogue, as far-fetched as it may be:

“Rating invalid!” Its eyeball swivels around three times before suddenly widening. After a brief impasse, its eye shuts, wearily.

these are the only times that the pistol is said to move its eyeball and to shut its eye. which could very well mean absolutely nothing, but that + the fact that he is very unique in the origin of his powers (even among his own race, which descended from an aeon) makes me think it could be slightly important . even if unintentional, the hazy parallel to emanators is cool to me, considering that we don’t have a clear answer regarding the extent of his powers lorewise, either.

a lot of this is copium from a total drought of permanence lore ajajdh

anyways. even if this is totally dumb i needed to put it somewhere so i don’t go insane

[sustainabilitythoughts]

Talking about climate change

It is always interesting to talk to others about climate change.  Some deny it; some agree the climate is changing but don’t believe it’s caused by humans; some believe in human-caused climate change but don’t believe that individuals can do anything about it; and some passionately want to do everything they can to combat any and all potential causes of climate change.  In most cases, arguing with someone only causes them to dig deeper into their beliefs.  So, how can we best talk to others about climate change and possible solutions?  Here are a few ideas.  The article below features climate scientists talking about how they talk to others about climate change and has some good information. 

Gentle, short discussions are almost always much more effective than long impassioned rants. 

If you are talking with someone who wants to help but thinks the problem is too big, have a few suggestions ready and make it clear that baby steps are a good place to start.  Remind them that baby steps add up. 

Lead by example.  If others see you implementing personal sustainability activities, they may follow.  A TED talk I posted several months ago stated that once a few people in a neighborhood get solar systems, within a short time, many other homes will follow. 

Make it easier for others to participate.  Volunteer to implement programs or changes in your workplace, school, or neighborhood.  

If you know the person you are speaking with, think about their perspective and what explanations might be meaningful to them. 

[sp4ceboo]

Burn: Darth Maul x Reader

A/N: once again the picture is not mine (like obviously i could never make anything as good as that)

Warnings: violence, family problems, mentions of sexual stuff, swearing,

Word count: <1500

You want to curl up into a ball and cry. This isn't what families are for; families are supposed to be tight knit and able to rely on each other for support, not whatever this mess is. Sometimes, they'll come to you to dump their problems on you, sometimes to complain about each other, sometimes to yell at you, to take their stupid anger out on you.

Sometimes, they just ignore your entire existance.

It's okay, you tell yourself. Everyone goes through rough spots in life, and arguements are just a learning experience, right? Mistakes happen, not everything can always be perfect, it will all sort itself out over time, and they'll all heal and make up.

That's what you tell yourself, anyway. For now, you just stalk around the cold hallways of your ship, wishing they wouldn't comm you so often, interrupting the artificial calm you've made for yourself inside your head with their petty words. They like to pin the blame on you, for not being there often enough, for not being there to back them up or disagree with that brother or listen to that parent. Everything seems cold, impassive and uncaring - the glitching blue of their image as they rant to you, the dull grey of the walls of your ship, the dead eyes that stare back at you in the mirror. You're tired of it, and even that exhausting emotion is so familiar you hardly feel anything but that numb sort of cool when you walk bare foot in snow for too long.

The only solace is Maul.

He burns, bright and livid, never passive, never anything but intense - intense in his gaze, in his actions, in his blazing passion. The Sith don't do things half heartedly, he tells you, and you believe him. Maul never fails to make you feel something, whether it's that damned ache in your chest when he holds you at night or the pain that spears through you when you duel. His flames warm your soul to the point of burning, and the pain of love is a relief.

You want him now. Not to trace the black tattoos marked into his crimson skin, not to drag your lips down his sculpted chest, but to fight through the exhaustion until there's nothing left but hardened instincts and the whirl of glowing blades. Grabbing your lightsaber from your bedside table, you stalk through the corridors of the ship on high alert. When you're in this mood, both of you know anything goes for a battle ground - he could ambush you at any moment, he could pop out of the vents in the ceiling, and you'd be forced to react. At some point, he'll recognise the change in your force signature - he may have noticed it already - and you'll temporarily go from lovers to hunters. It barely takes a breath to slip into that headspace; your family is gone from your head, your worries flee, chased away by primal senses that slide into place, snarling and ready for another bout.

Keeping your footsteps quiet, you strain your ears, listening for the soft pad of his deadly footsteps, searching for the way the air warms and wilts around him. It's as if he takes in life, soaking it up and pulling it around his soul like a shield. Something in the air changes, and you perk up, knowing his close. His presence is hard to miss, strong and tantilising, beckoning to you in a way those from the Light Side never did. There is no doubt that he is a Sith, no doubt that the sight of him quickens your pulse and sends your heart thrumming against your ribcage.

The pressure of the air changes. You don't turn, don't let the movement expose your left side to him; instead, you bring your lightsaber up behind your head, blocking the swing that many Jedi would have missed. But not you - you are no Jedi. You are a Grey, your blade shining white, a mockery of purity. You are nothing near pure, not with your dealings with a Sith, not with the things you've done, not with your burning attachment, as bright as a million stars.

Maul's chuckle sounds, soft and near seductive in its tone, and now you turn to face him, a smirk pulling at the corners of your lips as you meet him, blow for blow. You don't look away from his golden eyes for a second, holding his gaze and sinking claws into it, reading every single move he'll make a second before he'll make it. His eyes narrow, watching you.

'There's something different about you today,' he murmurs, his soft, eloquent voice somehow still audible over the clash of your lightsabers. 'There's nothing different,' you snarl.

You can feel yourself slipping. Your upperhand is falling away, because he's begun to break you from the headsapce you were in before. Mention of your family, even indirectly and unintentionally loosens your grasp on your headspace, prying your grip off finger by finger, and you falter, breaking eye contact for barely a millisecond, but it's enough.

Maul takes the chance. Slipping past your normally impenetrable guard, he flicks a foot out, causing you to stumble, and knocks your weapon out of your hand. Chest heaving, he levels his lightsaber with your throat. The bloody crimson of it thrums as if taunting you, mocking you for letting something as stupid as a family arguement to throw you, and you snarl, hurling out a hand in response, attempting to use the Force to send your hilt spiralling back into your fingers.

You don't get the chance to return it to your hold. Maul grabs your wrist, halting your movements, and you glare up at him, a challenge in your eyes. You don't expect to see what you do in his gaze - concern. He's never like this, not when you're fighting, not when both of you should be thinking of nothing but the reflexes and instincts that guide you to move in the way you do: around each other, with each other, lethal yet perfectly secure. You are both partners in a deadly dance and combatants in an elegant battle.

'What's wrong.' You growl, trying to pull out of his grasp. 'Nothing's wrong, Maul.' 'Then why did I feel that in the Force?' He gestures vaguely at your head, knowing that you'll have no problem understanding. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' you hiss, eyes darkening. 'I think you do,' he replies, bringing his face close to yours. 'I don't know why you don't want to admit it, though. So, I'll ask you again. What's bothering you?' You finally manage to escape his iron grip. 'Nothing.' 'Why can't you tell me?' 'Why can't you let it go?' 'Why are you lying to me?' 'Why can't you just leave it?'

Maul falls silent at your tone. In his eyes, concern still lurks, but above it, his temper has risen, golden and burning as his gaze. You don't want to talk to him about this, you want to let yourself deal with it alone, because what can he do? Murder your whole family? Maybe it'd give you some peace of mind, but you really would prefer if he didn't, just because of the stuff you'd have to clear up after it. There are far more important things in the galaxy for you to worry about. You begin to turn away, deciding to walk off back to your quarters and wallow in shame for letting Maul see this part of you, but he leans forward, taking your chin in his fingers.

'I can't just leave it, because it's worrying you. It's weighing heavily on your mind - it must be important. It takes a lot to distract you, darling.' You laugh deprecatingly. 'It's not important, Maul.' 'It is if it keeps you from beating my ass,' he huffs, crossing his arms. 'You almost had me.'

It's obvious to you now that he's not going to stop bothering you about it. You sigh, hugging yourself in your own arms: a desperate attempt to shield yourself from Maul's eyes; eyes that will pick you apart with just a look, able to see through anything you display to the outer world, able to see parts of you you're not even sure you're aware of yourself. There's no escaping him, and maybe you don't want that. Maybe you're just scared he'll think you're weak for letting your family piss you off, but then, maybe he'll think nothing of it. Maybe you should simply stop worrying about how he percieves you.

'My family are being bastards,' you mumble before you chicken out. He smiles. 'There we go.' You cock your head. 'That's it?' 'What else is there to say?' He asks. 'They're bastards for blaming everything on you, then complaining to you about their own shit. I'm glad you've realised that, but I won't kill them unless you tell me to, darling.' You huff. 'You're rude.' 'You know you love me,' he answers.

You let Maul wrap his arms around you. Leaning into his chest, you bask in his warmth, letting the flames consume you, letting the burn thaw your heart and defrost your emotions until you're not numb any more. Until you can feel again.

[cody-the-kirby-used-psi]

Digital Speculation

So imagine, if you will, that the avatars of the Amazing Digital Circus actually meant something to the pre-circus cast.

Like, Jax is a rabbit cause he loved Bugs Bunny cartoons. (But like, he never really realized that Bugs is mostly only a menace to people who wronged him.)

Say that pre-circus Pomni really liked jester aesthetics. Like as a little girl she had one of those sing-along Disney tapes that had ‘Feast of Fools/Topsy-turvy’ on it and she watched it so much she ruined the tape.

And so buried deep in Pomni's brain is a bunch of facts about jesters. And say, on a particularly bad day, Jax calls her a clown one too many times and Pomni goes on a very irritated, very impassioned rant about how she's a jester, not a clown and there is a difference.

And Jax eggs her on, but he's kinda scared because she started the argument by dragging him down to her level and going ‘listen here, you little s$!+’

And it basically ends with Pomni saying something like, ‘I could drag your @$$ over the metaphorical coals, but I don't wanna cause an abstraction today.’

Cause I really want Pomni to have enough of a spine to push back against Jax.

[cryptids]

.

Literally the EXACT kind of stupid ass post I was just talking about lmao, robert kennedy is right wing and endorses trump (it took me 2 seconds to google that too) and he got more votes than the green party candidate below him, plus the next most popular is a libertarian. Both his and kennedy's voters would have voted for trump if they'd only had a choice between the main two parties, so trump would still have won. Like.... why are so many people convinced every third party voter was a lost vote for the democrats??? Even when they're putting this image into their own post they aren't seeing what it says lmao?? And the amount of people blindly believing op in the tags and going off on long impassioned rants about it........ 🤡

[bloodmoonsrevenge]

doodle of errink for a lil drabble below. would be coloured if i had my tablet, but i lost my pen </3 lore out of my god alternate multiverse, where many are considered gods or demigods (eg. cross is the demigod of chaos/vengeance). // Error; He who is called finally answers. In an act of pettiness and revenge against him, one of Nightmare's subordinates had touched him. Frankly, Error had been standing quietly, waiting for Nightmare to finish his short rant about Dream and his ilk. After eons of this fighting, it was old, but this took the cake for stirring shit that didn't need to be stirred. Thanks to Error's broken, fractured core-code, when Soul-bound beings touched him, it ruptured. The code sought to be complete, seeking each exit rabidly, and thus caused mass amount of pain when he was touched by them. The fact that he can't remember who touched him was startling. As he comes to consciousness from the rather violent reboot, staring into the abyssal galactic skies of Outertale, faint blobs and shapes were settled close to him. Long, nimble fingers stained with black ink gently passed over his brow line just before rounded glasses were settled back on his features. Only Souled beings caused him agony. Familiar, bright shapes greet him, a flash of relief somewhere in the faintly blue-yellow star and circle. "There he is." Ink smirks down at Error and the God of Destruction rolls his eye-lights. Ink's talons are slowly passing over his back, helping him to sit back up. His limbs were heavy, and he felt sick. Crashes had gotten so, so much worse over the past hundred and some years. "Are you okay? Seemed like a, ah... pretty bad crash." The comment is cool coming out of Ink, impersonal and distant, but Error knows better. He watches the shapes change in Ink's sockets, fluttering with brief bouts of concern and worry. For such a Soulless being, his capacity for intelligent emotion was wildly more than many gave him credit for. "f-fUckIn fIne, sqUid." Error shifts, letting one of his hands raise to look at the phalanges. Thick, coiling claws are covered in rupturing code, flickering with ERROR signals and thin white lines. "Th- hEy'rE gETtinG woRSe." He murmurs, feeling Ink's talons slowly wrap around his wrist. Impassive, Ink's gaze lingers on Error's features the most. Despite it all, Error is glad he came. As much as he hates (loves?) him, the squid had been with him through more than he cared to remember. Ink makes a soft humming, brushing his thumb across Error's ulna. The motion of comfort does wonders for his broken, sharded Soul. A tiny, scribbly heart makes up his eye-light before he blinks it away. One day he'd tell him. Not today. The stars glitter above them, uncaring and free, and in envy, he wishes he was too. Ink belongs to Comyet Error belongs to Crayon-Queen I ask that my work is not reposted/used without permission. re-blogging is fine, thank you.