#something something pacing. i dunno

[princema-k]

Detective Layton, Case 1: The Living Museum

Our story begins for our detective and her assistant at The Natural History Museum; reports are pouring in from visitors all over that the exhibits have come alive! Dinosaurs walking, artifacts randomly moving, and paintings blinking and melting before everyone's very eyes! Naturally, it's up to the Detective Layton and Emmy to solve the case once and for all. Can they solve the mystery of the Living Museum?!

(au info/flora | emmy)

(PLEASE IGNORE THE FACT I SPELLED MUSEUM WRONG IN THE PIC OK TAHNKS)

[sentientsky]

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

[pkmoth]

got thinking about hollow knight so i had to draw them together :>

[gamebunny-advance]

Vs. DJ Subatomic Supernova Heaven Studio Mix (v 0.1)

So, I remade my original Vs. DJSS mix in Heaven Studio. Actually, I've been sitting on this for a while, but tumblr just didn't want to upload the video for whatever reason.

Since HS doesn't have every game from this mix in it yet, I had to do some substitutions. Of note, Sick Beats was replaced mostly by Fireworks and Launch Party and I had to change the last game, but the original "joke" is still intact.

I didn't do too much with the visuals (except the very last part), and the skill star is messed up, so I'm not going to release the playable version until I get all that fixed. I'd really like there to be some cleaner transitions between games, and maybe even do some custom graphics. We'll see if either happens.

[fluffs-n-stuffs]

good sir I diagnose you with found family syndrome, you are these kids' dad now

[coockie8]

I do wanna lowkey apologise if I've been unnecessarily critical of Hazbin Hotel in any way, there is a very high possibility I'm taking out a lot of shit on things I was disappointment with due to what's been going on in my life.

I'm sure the show's not terrible, and there are some things I am very interested in that have happened, I'm just very raw emotionally in general, and the negatives are not something I wanna pile on top of everything else, regardless of how inconsequential a cartoon is in the grand scheme of things.

[pendraegon]

also. maybe it's because i was a hot fucking mess until i hit like 25-26. so im like...how are you 22 and having your shit together. genuinely like. if ur 22 years old and u have even an OUNCE of an idea of what you're doing. you're doing fucking golden. if you don't, you're still doing fine and there's an entire world waiting for you.

[unknownarmageddon]

aka cross looking at the sun like “man it sure is bright”

and killer is like kneeling over him desperately shaking him and begging him to wake up to open his eyes

AUGH what the hell!!!!!!!!!

[monarchisms]

man, after not watching almost any AH content for *checks calendar* almost 2 months, pausing to watch this year's fishing jamboree just felt really nice!

like, after [gestures at the rt shitshow of october 2022], i was relieved to just easily watch the video and not feel like i missed 2 months worth of news or inside jokes :)

[meownotgood]

Realness from u I'm still reading part 2 just in case of smth happens but CSM part 2 is getting slow for me 😭🙏 still love that series ofc but u know Fujimoto WTF are u cooking

no seriously... I just... haven't really cared much for chainsaw man part 2 in the last couple months... I was really interested at first, but as time has gone on I've just stopped. it's not bad or anything, I just don't really care for it, especially compared to how much I love part 1.

maybe I was expecting too much? fujimoto did say it'd be really different from part 1 after all lolol

[kookoofufu]

I am having A Moment with this fic and feel very much like a loser hack fraud, so here's a bit of the beginning which I'm proud of and the only part I'm confident about not changing because if I don't post something somewhere I will go insane.

Summary: In a certain town in a certain island of the Grand Line, a young waitress thinks she’s got Sir Crocodile figured out. She couldn’t be more wrong.

Week 1

In a certain town in a certain country of the Grand Line, the arrival of ex-warlord Sir Crocodile just a few days after the events of Marineford caused a stir. Norah, waitress at the seaside cafe-slash-bar Caffe Dante, pretended to read as her fellow townsfolk gossiped about their encounters with the scarred man in town.

“That warlord is a hell of a smoker. Bought up all my cigars,” said Luka, the smoke shop owner, while drinking bourbon.

“They came to my shop for custom suits,” said Giovanni, the tailor, over a glass of wine. “Didn’t say much. Bodyguard flinched a bit when I measured him. Seems like they’re injured from the war and recovering here.”

“Then this is the perfect time for the Marines to come get them!” cried Bianca, the hotelier, banging her stout onto the counter. “Corner them in their room! They could slip out any day now!”

“Then why don’t you call?” asked Leo, the bar owner and Norah’s boss, drying glasses behind the counter. 

“Hell no. Don’t want to get mixed up in that high-level stuff. Besides,” she added with a whisper, “what if they found out?”

Then Norah saw them herself.

She was alerted during her mid-afternoon Wednesday shift when the patrons inside started murmuring and casting fearful glances toward the outside seating area. When she looked up, her heart dropped.

Norah played rock-paper-scissors with her fellow server Marlon and lost.

“W-what can I get for you gentlemen?” She clung to her notepad like a shield. He was her height when sitting down.

“Whisky,” said the warlord around his cigar, draping his fur-lined coat over the seat. It probably cost more than she made in a year. He didn't look at her as he flipped open the newspaper and leaned back, making himself comfortable. 

“Tea, please,” said the bodyguard, arms crossed. His face was unreadable from behind his sunglasses.

Norah got the drinks. Her trembling hands caused her to spill tea on the newspaper skewered on the warlord’s golden hook. When she looked up, his eyes were on her.

“Nervous?” He sneered, blowing smoke in her face. She didn’t answer, blinking away smoke-induced tears and quickly walking inside.

“Are you okay?” All eyes on her. The patrons looked ready to bolt, if only they could leave without him noticing. She nodded, then rushed to dry-heave into the nearest trash can.

“I’m calling the Marines,” said Leo.

“Good idea,” she replied from the trash can.

-

The Marines weren’t coming. Something to do with structural reorganization and paperwork over a special bounty for the criminals who participated in Marineford. Ridiculous. “Try to keep him around,” said the Marine on the other end of the line. “It helps us to know his location.”

The warlord seemed to like Caffe Dante, to Norah’s dismay. When the customers outside abruptly left and she smelled that unique smoky blend of leather and tobacco on the wind, she knew they had returned without needing to look.

“Oh. You’re… back.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment out of her voice as they took up the same positions and casual attitude as last time. She went through the motions of tucking the serving plate beneath her arm and plucking the pencil from behind her ear to take their order, almost able to hide her shaking. Almost.

“Calling the Marines didn’t work, eh?” Of course he knew. And despite Leo’s warning not to say anything, she couldn’t help but deadpan:

“I didn’t call them, my boss did.”

He stared. Then, God help her, he cackled. 

“Brave one, aren’t you?” He commented after calming down. “A rare find in a world full of cowards. What do you want, Daz?”

“Tea, please,” Daz said, uncrossing his arms.

“Whisky.”

She brought the drinks and made herself scarce. The rest of their stay passed without incident until he beckoned her with his ringed fingers to pick up the check.

Her eyes widened. “You tipped?” She blurted out, disbelief overriding any sense of fear or self-preservation.

“Yes?” 

“You didn’t last time.”

“You called the Marines last time.”

Touché.

[retiredcultistredux]

tw//blood (also long post)

[CHAPTER 1 FINALE]

After enough time, and plenty of comforting pats given to Prince Fluff to reduce his pain, Kirby seemed to have had enough of Ester's 'shenanigans'. With a sudden sense of determination hidden under a bit of nervousness, he stood up and walked closer to Ester.

Ester looked at Kirby, not taking him seriously in the slightest. He let out a small laugh.

Ester: "And I mean, seriously, you're the one who managed to defeat Void Termina before? Like, from what I know, you had to get all your friends to help...so, by yourself, you're really just a little gumball, haha! But still..."

Kirby: "H-Huh...?"

In a flash, another shadowy appendage shot out of the ground, grabbing Kirby. Ester's eyes began to glow, and he smiled.

Ester: "...Hehe...alright, no more stalling."

In an instant, Ester--along with Kirby and Hyness--were covered in a cloud of shadows. Once the shadows cleared, all three of them were gone, leaving Zan and Prince Fluff alone in a state of shock.

[END OF CHAPTER 1.]

[Ester, Hyness and Kirby are unavailable for questions until further notice (funny how Hyness is the main character but nah he's officially been kidnapped, we'll check back with him later). Zan and Prince Fluff are still available, but for now, let's shift focus back to Magolor, Fran and Flam to start off the in-between chapters segment, shall we? It's been a while (and they have no idea what's been happening on Jambandra).]

[diamondnokouzai]

by nature din am 40% anxiety and 20% media criticism

[rainey-staerie-daize]

Those boots from Hell that I think are so cute, I gave to my sister last night. Got to talking about Christmas presents with my mom earlier, this morning, and I'm wondering if maybe I should've put a bow or two on them and said "merry Christmas."

Too late now. Her face lit up when she realized that they would probably make her the tallest of her friend group. They're white heeled boots with black platform soles and black laces. So cute, but I walk too damn much for them.

[1am-impulsive-writing]

"You know, Joel, you always go around. You always go around saying that you're so tall, strong, handsome... smart..."

Joel snaps up to squint at where Etho sits leisurely on the sidewalk. Already, he can smell the challenge.

"And that's because I am," he says, rising to the bait anyway.

Etho, slowly and deliberately, raises a singular eyebrow at him. He then very purposefully pans his view down to where Joel is fiddling hopelessly with his most recent attempt at a home-designed redstone farm. Void, this man's infuriating.

"Hey- what's that look for?! I don't appreciate your doubt, Etho," he snaps.

Both Etho's eyebrows raise this time, and his hands raise with them. "What, I didn't say anything! Jeez Joel, so reactive."

"Yes, but I could sense it. We both know it Etho, we both know what you really think about me," Joel huffs, looking back to his redstone.

"I-I- well- I just don't think- I just think you're not being entirely truthful, you know? You go around, spouting all of this," there is a deliberate pause, where Etho adjusts his mask, "a-and you never give any justification! Evidence, Joel, evidence," Etho hurries to explain. When Joel frowns back at him, the other man clasps his hands over one knee.

"Evidence? You don't think I'm handsome, Etho? Surely I don't need to give extra evidence for that- I'm right here!"

Admittedly, elbow deep in the mangled wires of a dispenser, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead- Joel probably isn't exactly looking his Sunday best.

Before Etho has a chance to point this out, Joel hurriedly continues.

"And of course I'm tall! Just put me next to Bdubs or Grian, I tower over them. Because that's just how tall I am."

Everyone towers over Bdubs and Grian. Really, the only exception to that may be Joel himself. Maybe he should commission Cleo for some thicker shoes...

"A-and smart? Are you poking fun at my- at my in progress, experimental redstone? Why, invent the hopper clock first try, did you? I'll have you know, I'm a genius in disguise. You don't know what's coming Etho, one day my name will be in all the history books. Even more than you," he finishes. Etho's eyebrows have raised so far they're receding behind his headband.

"...uh-huh," he says, pointedly.

"Oh, shut up Etho! And I know that stupid headband is to hide your hairline. You can't fool me," Joel snaps.

Etho coughs weirdly, and then breaks out into laughter. It's the loudest sound Joel's ever heard him make.

"Wha- where does my hairline come into this? There's nothing wrong with my hairline!" he chuckles, playing up offence.

"Your hairline comes everywhere into this, and you know it," Joel sasses. Etho seems to find this extremely funny.

"I'm not messing around! What was the other thing you said? Strong? I'll show you strong!"

Joel abruptly stands and takes a couple strides over to where Etho still sits doubled over in laughter. Then, with the air of an executioner readying to swing, he wipes his redstone covered hands over Etho's pale tunic.

"Hey! What?" Etho stumbles to his feet and hops a couple steps away, still giggling as he tries and fails to brush the red dust off his back.

Joel points one finger at him, and then lets out a triumphant "HA!"

Etho scoffs halfheartedly and points back at him, jutting his hip to the side, "you call that strength? Is that the best you got? Wiping your hands on me?"

"Oh for the love of-" Joel grumbles, and spins on his heel to spot the closest, large heavy object he could reasonably lift. His eyes fall to the redstone components on the ground- no, Etho wouldn't be phased by that. He probably carries around hoppers all day every day.

Across from him, Etho puts his hands on his hips, head cocking to the side- but only just slightly. And wow, is that how it's gonna be?

Joel scoffs fullheartedly, and stomps forward towards the other man. Etho levels a challenging gaze at him, fading quickly into confusion as Joel doesn't stop.

Really, for how much Etho was poking at him, picking him up is absurdly easy.

One arm scooping under the knees, pulling up, the other arm falling to catch under the armpits as Etho yelps at the sudden loss of ground beneath his feet. Joel spins on his heel, just for a bit of extra flair.

He points a grin at Etho's frog-face.

"Strong now, huh?" He boasts.

Etho just stares at him. Clearly, speechless at Joel's profound strength.

He scoffs, it's his turn to raise the eyebrow now.

"Pathetic."

Very quickly, Etho turns beet red. Joel blinks for a moment.

"Hey, Joel! What's- Oh my gosh."

Gem's eyes are as wide as dinner plates where she stands just across the road from them. She quickly raises her hands and backs away down the stairs- out of sight once more.

Joel feels vaguely walked in on.

Very promptly, he drops Etho. He yelps again as he hits the pavement.

"That- that was your fault," Joel blusters. Is he flustered? He's not flustered. Why would Joel be flustered? Gem clearly must've misunderstood. He should go over there. And tell her. That she misread. Yep. Leave to tell her right now.

Etho wheezes some strange noise on the ground.

"I'm gonna go. See what she wants," he mutters, stepping over Etho (he's fine,) and walking heavily over to the staircase joining his base to Impulse's.

On the ground behind him, Etho curls over and groans pathetically.

i can see this legitemately happening in hermitcraft. that's all i'll say

(art reqs are open btw! i got some already but i'm trying to draw more so any ideas you might have would really help - also despite my blog being like ninety-nine percent joel i do like drawing any of the esmp/ hermits lol)

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

The boy reading with Halo font

I expect him to vanish behind closed doors with "someone" and we'll see him if he's hungry....

Or wandering.