#so we will finish this later

[iwrite-sinsandtragedies]

was the lack of sleep worth it? Absolutely.

[northernfireart]

read the whole story> here by @clarionglass :)

[soranker]

98 lovemail doodles >_<

[isjasz]

[Day 96]

Together they become GUY!!

(Context: On the stream yesterday they were joking about just combining into one player for decked out LOL)

(And Hermittober: Day 1 Frost ❄️)

[arrowheadedbitch]

New idea: Shinsou is supposed to be babysitting Eri but he has to do something so he leaves Denki in charge for a little bit, he comes back expecting the house to be burnt down but instead he finds Eri begging Kaminari to let her re-dirty up her room so they can clean it together again

[homielander]

i'm sorry but hotd positing that all women are innately cautious and peaceful and compassionate while men are rash warmongers is not a feminist win! i could see the value in everyone being hesitant to go to war at the onset of the story because it intensifies the tragedy of this house tearing itself apart, but at this stage, rhaenyra has as much reason for bloodlust (if not more) as the men on the show. it's pretty heavily implied that the shock of her usurpation killed her daughter, aemond killed lucerys, and one of aegon's kingsguard snuck into her quarters with the intent to assassinate her. most importantly, she has felt entitled to the throne since she was named heir as a child. she should be incensed! rhaenyra's inaction in the season 1 finale due to a sudden aversion to violence was already stretching believability -- this is the same woman who expressed nothing beyond mild shock at vaemond's beheading, who plotted with daemon to have an innocent man killed to facilitate laenor's escape while declaring that the realm should fear her. to have rhaenyra insist on peace at this point in the story, when war is already well underway, is incredibly irrational.

this problem is not limited to rhaenyra. alicent ordered larys to kill mysaria's network of spies and any suspected traitors in the red keep, presumably without any due process, and neither of these decisions was depicted with the gravity they deserved for a character who was once horrified by any bloodshed. meanwhile, aegon had a few extra ratcatchers executed, and not only was the direction sufficiently ominous, but we also got a lengthy monologue from otto about how it would spell his doom. it is probably pointless to bring up rhaenys because she is written less like a believable human being and more like a mouthpiece for the writers to assert whatever political opinion they believe is correct in a given episode -- but she did very much kill dozens if not hundreds of smallfolk last season. she did do that and very clearly did not care. why is she an advocate against war? for both alicent and rhaenys, there is a strange dissonance where their actions are at odds with their attitudes about opposing large-scale war for the good of the realm. i'm not saying this dissonance cannot exist, but it should at least be acknowledged.

helaena raising concerns about the losses suffered by the smallfolk might have worked in isolation, but for it to accompany everything above is exhausting. can none of these women be allowed to feel for themselves?

[soy-s4uce]

Jungle Gym

[son1c]

after months of agonizing over it, he's finally here: the sonic variant from my original shatterspace! syzygy, or "ziggy," has a bad attitude, and no powers at all. that's right! after creating a sonic variant that's basically a god in terms of his power level, i've decided this one doesn't have any superspeed.

instead, he uses extreme gear to get around.

as for why he doesn't have a wisp... well, he used to, but it met an unfortunate end when he was still very young. since then, he became prickly and closed off. at least, that's what most people think.

in truth, the twist to his character is that he's the embodiment of sonic's "power of friendship." he's rescued several kids from certain death situations, and has formed his own little gang of superpowered loyalists. among these kids are this universe's cream, ray, and kit. more about them will come later...

also, something to note about this shatterspace: since the world is fractured in two, i figured it would only make sense for space to be like how it is in "treasure planet". so, there's breathable air up there. syzygy and his little friends spend most of their time traversing the cosmos, searching for a way to fix the planet--a goal that most people on earth have all but forgotten about.

[dollopole]

I should find another hobby

Anyway, if Merlin was set in modern times, Arthur would have called Merlin his “gay awakening”.

[wine-dark-soup]

so much of the criticism towards dawntrail is straight up unhealthy and people would feel better by just cancelling their subscription for a few months.

Like, at some point i dont even want to see if your points are valid criticism or not, if you're out there, disgusted by the mere thought of logging in but feel like you have to anyway, and keep posting negative rants because you can't keep the game out of your mind by virtue of logging in everyday even if you don't want to, i think it'd be better to just stop playing altogether. I mean this in the most gentle way. Play another game or whatever else. Come back in a few patchs. Get the whole thing out of your mind. Let yourself process the story instead of ruminating on it. You'll be able to move on that way

[coatl-cuddles]

" WIP DELETE LATER 🤪🤪🤪" ok who gaf?

[thelonelyshore-if]

Ravi Winter Drabble

Happy Holidays again, here's a present for you all <3

When is a funeral not a funeral?

When nobody died? When he isn't home but instead crowded in the foyer of a friend of a friend? When he's wearing a wool jacket and a plush scarf and thin leather gloves instead of his usual suit?

When it's a party?

Ravi stands hunched in the nook beside Yasmin Bakir-King's front door. His arms are folded across his chest. One hand is tucked in his armpit; the other clutches the thin stem of a chapagne flute like it's his lifeline. Impatience makes him antsy. He keeps raising the glass to his lips and trying to take a sip, even though he drained it dry ten minutes ago.

He doesn't know what to do with the damned thing, is the problem. It's empty, and he has no desire for a refill, but walking it to the kitchen would require pushing through a crowd of faces that swim and spin in his vision, strangers in all but name.

He can't put up with the staring.

Better to lean with his back against the door, hoping upon hope that the cold green metal does something for the scorching heat of the room. The wool of his jacket is too thick; a rivulet of sweat has started carving a path down his spine, and the skin around his neck itches, but removing either the coat or the scarf is a surrender.

So instead of surrendering, Ravi prays. He waits, holding one of Yasmin's glasses hostage and silently begging god and the Fog and literally anything that will listen that you'll just hurry up and get back to him.

How did he end up here?

Most years he spends the night before the Squall huddled in his office, listening to music and knitting, or doing a puzzle, or tucking into a book. It has never bothered him that everyone else in town is having some sort of get together. He isn't everyone else.

Yasmin throws one of these things annually. It's his first time in attendance. He wasn't invited. You were invited.

Jay tries to drag him along to this every year, and he declines. He should have said no when you asked, too. Even when you turned your pleading eyes to his and explained that you wanted to see what the whole 'Squall Party' thing was about.

It makes sense, that you're unfamiliar with the Squall. It's so very Easthaven. Ravi knows the power of it better than anyone, so it comes as no surprise that things are different in the outside world. He could have told you anything you wanted to know bundled up together on his couch, in truth, but…

You were curious. And he can't resist you when you're curious.

It's something about the way your eyes light up when you have a new mystery to solve. Like you see the world as a puzzle—so long as you get all the pieces you might finally be content. Your thirst for knowledge infuriates and fascinates him in turn.

Plus. Well. Ravi struggles to deny you anything.

So he’s at the party.

At the very least, he’s near the party. Waiting by the door, with this damn glass in his hand, eyes frantically searching for a sign of you.

The heat in the house is becoming unbearable. Ravi loosens the scarf around his throat, seeking out any ounce of relief he can find. Should he go out for a smoke? The night air would provide the respite that he craves, and a cigarette would calm his nerves.

Ravi reaches behind his back with his free hand and grabs at the door handle. The shiny brass knob is cool under his fingers, and that’s enough to convince him. He’s about to open it when–

“Leaving without me?”

He drops the doorknob like it burned him, whirls around to face you. His heart jumps into his throat and instant relief unburdens him, sending a looseness throughout his body that summons a warm smile. He can't help it. The mere sight of you calms him.

The relief fades somewhat when he notices Yasmin following you, eyeing him suspiciously. You shoot him an apologetic look before turning to finish your conversation.

"Thanks again, Yasmin," you enthuse, expression shifting into a smile, "This was great."

“It’s no problem–it’s best you get home before the storm starts up,” Yasmin gives you a friendly nudge. She pauses and looks at Ravi, some of the warmth draining from her face. Her brow furrows, and she says, “Are you stealing that?”

Ravi grimaces and looks down at the stupid glass in his hand. He can’t exactly tell her that he was scared of walking it back to the kitchen. Because that would be ridiculous. Instead he offers Yasmin a pained smile and explains, “I was just finishing it.”

She rolls her eyes and holds out her hand. He hands it over, relief and chagrin making him all the more eager to flee right fucking now. Yasmin takes the glass, bids you a safe journey home, and vanishes back into her house.

“Sorry it took me so long. Got caught up with some of Jay's friends,” you explain, pushing past Ravi to get to the door. He trails gratefully out after you. The moment you pull the door open a brisk winter wind tumbles inside, brushing against his face and soothing some of the warmth.

“It’s fine,” Ravi says, and then realizes how short he sounds. He clumsily rushes on, stumbling, not wanting to hurt you–especially because it is fine, he agreed to this, he just wants to go home, “I’m…not very good at these things.”

You lean in and press a kiss to his lips. His eyes flicker shut and he immediately melts into it. Your lips are gentle against his. Warm—but nothing like the sweltering heat inside the house. This heat is pleasant, liquid, and it takes all he has not to swoon like a teenager with their first crush.

Your touch is grounding. For the first time in half an hour he feels solid; like a human being rather than a ghost hovering at the fringes of reality. He reluctantly pulls away, because the two of you can't make out in Yasmin's front yard, but he's left smiling.

Ravi steps around you, off of the porch and toward the sidewalk. You start to follow, but before you get far you stop short. He glances back. What…?

Ah.

The night sky stretches overhead, precisely the color of ash. You stare upward, head tilted as you take it in. Snow twirls on the breeze. Ravi makes note of the wind, the amount of snow falling. Not bad enough yet that he should worry–you should still be able to get home safely.

“Is this it, then?” You turn and ask.

“The Squall? Not yet. This is just…winter."

"Hm."

You reach a gloved hand out. Snowflakes land and start beading on the thick yarn, the cold bolstering them, saving them from melting into oblivion. Ravi watches you, fondness wiping away all of his panic and discomfort until all that remains is affection welling in his throat. He wants to kiss you. He wants to wrap his arms around you, pull you down into the snow, feel your face pressed against his neck. He wants to—

The wind picks up. It turns the snowflakes sharp. Minuscule shards of glass that slice and cut. They sting at his eyes, at his cheeks, and he knows that the longer you both stay out here, the more risks you’re taking.

He wants to take you home.

Your safety is paramount. Typically Ravi could keep you safe from anything the Fog might throw at you. He knows it and it knows him. It wouldn't take you from him, and is curious about you on top of it all. It would only hurt you to keep you.

He hopes.

But the Squall is different. It's something wild and untamed, something that goes beyond his connection to the Fog. Better not to mess with it, to get you somewhere secure to ride out the storm.

Ravi turns to tell you that it’s time you both get to the hearse, but before he gets the chance he finds you crouching at the edge of the sidewalk. You’re bent over, faced enough away from him that he’s unsure what your hands are doing. He hesitates for just a moment before slowly approaching. Did you drop something?

You turn a mischievous smile up at him and whip something in his direction. A bundle of snow, wet and cold and altogether unpleasant, smacks him in between the eyes. He takes a stumbling step back. His hand darts up to his glasses, foggy and beading with sudden moisture. 

“Oh, shit, Ravi, I didn’t mean to hit you in the face!” you gasp.

You rush up to him. He ensures his glasses are in one piece and wipes away some of the snow. He meets your eye and finds you holding back amusement. Ravi smiles at you–the smile that is just for you, nobody else gets to see him so soft–and it gives you permission to laugh. The sound tumbles out of you like music.

Maybe he can be reckless, just for tonight. The Squall won’t come until morning, not truly, and he wants this moment to last forever.

Ravi takes one calculating look at the snow piled up on the yard before wrapping his arms around you and throwing you both to the ground. It takes you by surprise and you let out another breathless peal of laughter, this one a little scared and a little excited, as you both tumble into the snow bank. The snow cushions the fall and he lands, his face pressed against the icy wetness, his arms still holding you tight.

“Call this my revenge,” he announces, satisfied by the surprised look on your face.

“Bastard,” you grin, but it holds no bite.

The world comes to a pause. Snow falls all around you both. He feels the coolness of it on his cheeks. Watches it bead in your hair and on your collar like droplets of water, except the flakes are crystalline and lovely. The night air is fresh and clean-smelling. Quiet.

It’s his turn to kiss you.

Ravi doesn’t have to go far to catch your lips in his. You’re bundled together in the snow, clutched close to his chest, like the precious thing you are. He wishes he could keep you there. 

He kisses you, and it’s warmth and joy and peace and relief. The party doesn’t matter. The Squall doesn’t matter. All that matters is the way you press your face close when he cups your cheek with a gloved hand. The feeling of your lips, hot and sweet as they brush against his. You pull back for just a moment, your lips still ghosting over his, and he can taste your breath.

“We should stay here forever,” Ravi whispers.

“In Yasmin’s yard?” you tease, giving him another quick kiss, snaking your hand behind his head until your fingers are tangled in his hair. His breath catches in his throat. He watches you, enraptured, as you add, “Not the best place to ride out a blizzard.”

“They wouldn’t find us until spring,” he joins in on the fun, playfully tapping his forehead against yours, “It’s romantic.”

“On that terrifying note,” you smile, rolling onto your back and sitting up. You brush some of the snow off of your shoulders. He doesn’t want you to leave, doesn’t want to be responsible. Just a little while longer. Wind howls through the trees, though, and you’re right. The longer you stay out here, the worse the storm is going to get.

Ravi detaches himself from the snowbank, clamoring to his feet. He holds out his hand and, when you take it, pulls you upward. You smile and hook his arm into yours. Press yourself tight against his side. Maybe it isn’t staying curled up together in the snow, but it’s incredible. You’re here. You’re together. 

Now you just have to ride out the storm.

[itsybitsybatsyspider]

here's my contribution to the Project Hail Mary fandom

[mangozic]

my son that I literally never draw, I’m holding him up proudly for everyone to see

[ghost-proofbaby]

thinking about how eddie munson probably has a ridiculous collection of guitar picks. little jars of them. some collected at shows, some he picked up for a nickel at the only local music shop he's ever trusted to do work on his Sweetheart, some he was gifted for free at his local record shop that he's been frequenting for years now. the little old man running the record shop even gets excited when new vinyls are sent out with promotional merch, and he knows it's a band or musician eddie is into. probably even called eddie in at times and handed him a handful of metallica themed pics, hardly worth much, but solely because "i knew you like them and will find a good use for these, son".

my point is, he's got a pick for every occasion. shitty plastic thin ones for just fucking around with. thicker, nicer ones that might have been proper holiday gifts to him. the kind that are meant to hook on his fingers like rings (he tried using them a few times, especially for rifts, but ended up saying he played better when he felt the strings against his skin instead while picking away). novelty ones, ones that just looked plain cool. so on and so forth.

and he's got his collection just sitting in little jars across his room. he used to keep them in other things, like old ash trays or tin cans he'd cut and mold to be good containers. but then he started dating you, and you insisted on lending him any empty jars you weren't using. you had your own collections in yours: pretty stones found down by the creek, bottle caps of the sodas you and eddie get every time you stop at the gas station right on the edge of town by lover's lake - you even had one of every single crumpled up note eddie had ever given you over your time of dating. a few jars of those, actually. so what was lending him a few spares? at this point, the jars were a collection in themselves, and... well... it was prettier to see his vast collection in those glass jars anyways. being able to pick out the vibrant tones of the guitar pick you'd been with him as he'd purchased two weeks prior, or the pick from the show you'd gotten him tickets to last christmas. it was nice. a cute reminder of time spent, of what made eddie munson tick.

the important thing is, eddie munson isn't blind. he sees the way you look at that collection, especially after he fills the jars with it.

how some days, he'll be strumming away on his guitar, softly humming, and you'll just grab a jar to pick through. interrupting his nonsensical playing to ask him where he got one you didn't recognize, sometimes asking for the stories behind ones he knew you already knew. he'd caught on to the way you just liked hearing him talk, especially about the things he cared most about.

you also really, really liked the pick he wore as a necklace. it was probably your favorite in his collection, and you knew it was his favorite too. giving it as a gift to you was never an option, because it had been given as a gift to him originally by his mom.

so he does the next best thing.

he figures out your favorite pick in his collection. the one you always go back to, the one you ask for the story behind on a nearly weekly basis. one similar to the one always resting against his collarbones. pearly sheen, marbled tones, a slow indent the shape of his thumb being worn into the old tortoiseshell. it's a little less red, a little bit brighter, and he can't even strum it against his strings anymore without thinking of you. it's somehow become his lucky pick - the pick he cherishes most aside the one from his mom.

and the one he chooses to turn into a necklace, for you.

does it all himself. carefully piercing a hole through the top just like his own, picks out a nice chain that costs two paychecks of his, takes an old pocket knife to it and spends weeks carving your initials into the shiny material. he's gentle as hell with it, finishing it off with some gold paint to fill in the carving that matches the chain and swirling tones of the picks.

a week before christmas he nearly backs out of the gift idea, and almost begs wayne to help him go to the mall and pick out some other basic but safe gift for you. a perfume/cologne, a nice sweater, anything. wayne refuses to let him, and the only thing the gentle old man will offer is a nice box for eddie to place that necklace born of love into.

the look on your face on christmas morning, sitting in the center of the munson's living room, on the verge of happy tears as you lift the homemade necklace so gently, soothes away every single doubt ever had about it all.

and the look on wayne's face is a simple, caring, stern vision of i told you so.

[icewindandboringhorror]

Little bright colored outfit with a fun vest ~

(shoes from ebay like 10 years ago. everything else is thrifted)