#sorry for being incomprehensible

[heirofnepeta]

Ooooo god ohfuckfuckfuck thhus mithta been a mistake oh god whwtbif. Someon3 sees and laughs TwT

[nururu]

You are an enigma..

oh god. a good enigma or a bad enigma........ am I mysterious and cool or just confusing and weird........

[solunstell]

As an extrovert with an anxiety disorder that also assumes the worst of people's opinions of me, I find it very entertaining when I realize my friends care about me. It feels so yellow.

[mourninglamby]

for the ctommy asks, how do you feel about religious ctommy headcanons or the headcanon where butterflies follow him around because they like dead things?

I adore both of these headcanons a lot bc 1. It’s literally canon and 2. The Beauty in the Rot (OBSESSED!!!)

I think Tommy’s faith (twitch prime) is so interesting as both a comfort and a detriment at times… he worships and is blessed by patron saint drista with the sacred dagger to hunt those who hunt him and I am deeply gagged by that (they don’t know what they did) (I love psychosis but also I’m right). With the addition of cdream being religious as well…fucking insaneeeeeeee asylum. Insane. He uses his faith to get what he wants and justify torment or bond tommy to him even more than he already has 🙏☝️+ the whole I’m A God thing. BRUHHHH HIS SACRILEGE WILL KNOW NO PUNISHMENT IG 😭😭😭😭 sorry this became a c!disc ramble

[heshemejoshi]

brand new body

[l3xdrigo]

The concept of Zero

Inspired by someone commenting that like the number zero, Vertin or the role of the timekeeper itself is a concept.

The concept of zero being that it is the placeholder for writing numbers, it is the origin but it is also the one that is merely a concept to get more of an understanding or guide to natural numbers to integers. It is the invisible line from the positive to negative, it is the middle ground.

The concept of zero in a more mathematical sense is that it is a additive to other numbers to make them bigger (ex:100) but the number zero itself is a non existent and empty number, like an equator, it is an imaginary line that helps us grasp the locations and placements of continents. Both are imaginary, both are just man made concepts to guide us to a better understanding.

Vertin's soul number is zero, she is unchanging and is considered one of the middle ground between humans and Arcanist. In a sense, she is a guide to most, but once the storm reaches its end, she will become nothing more than a concept, the role of the timekeeper was created for the very purpose of recording the beginning and ends of eras and braving the storm to one day create the immunity for it. The moment that there is no need for the timekeeper anymore, either the storm ending or finding a full reliable immunity towards it, the more people that gain the ability, the more Vertin's role becomes more of the ordinary.

The role of the timekeeper will soon fade and become only an invisible line, the origin of how it first began, on how civilization reached the immunity of the storm, and how the threat of the storm ended. In the far future where the rain doesn't rise, the term timekeeper and the name "Vertin" will be nothing more of a concept to what once was a catastrophic phenomena that hinder the progression of time, a subtle reminder of how she guided the freedom of humans and Arcanist out of the grueling storm, and into a world where the rain falls and the sun rises; Vertin is the concept of zero.

[ohbo-ohno]

happy new year's eve @luminousbeings-crudematter, here's another version of the purge au (4k) that i forgot i finished in the process of trying to get the first one done lol

(also when i said "it's essentially the same thing but with different smut" i meant... no smut. i didn't post this one bc i couldn't figure out what to do with the smut. but this has some kidnapping and overall rough creepiness!)

cw: noncon touching, kidnapping, graphic murder, blood & violence, unedited bc im lazy

The soles of your feet burn against the hot asphalt, even though the sun’s been set for hours. The flames roaring from the burning high school alongside you are enough to heat the ground, enough to leave you wincing with every step and trying your best to walk on your toes.

You’re not sure if the wetness on your cheeks is tears or blood, or some sick combination of both. You’d wipe it off to see, but your hands are covered in red, and you don’t want to smear it across your face.

It’s impossible not to flinch at the sudden sound of cackling laughter, some indeterminate distance away but clear as a bell. The laugh cuts off abruptly, followed by a high-pitched scream that makes you wince. You speed up as much as you can, breath shuddering in your chest. You feel a few tears slip down your cheeks, just adding to the tacky mixture already covering your face.

The street is crowded with Purgers, people wearing all sorts of different gear to make themselves seem as terrifying as possible. You’d feel lacking in your black pants and shirt, if you wanted any attention like them. Instead you pray that whoever’s looking for fun won’t focus on you, that you’ll disappear with so many other distractions out tonight.

The sound of a chainsaw revving makes you shudder, and you tuck your arms close to your chest. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to come out on Purge night, but there’s no use dwelling on that now, not when you’re still blocks away from home with absolutely no way to defend yourself.

You should’ve known your friend - your now very dead friend - didn’t have good intentions. She’d invited you out with her to vandalize your most recent ex’s house, and like an idiot you’d agreed and walked yourself right into a trap. Your only defense is that you’d had a few drinks before leaving your perfectly safe apartment, in hopes of forgetting all the screams you’d hear outside. It’s the only reason you can think that you were so quick to agree when you’ve got absolutely no way of defending yourself.

Her blood is still wet on your hands. You don’t feel bad about her death, and that makes you feel sick. You’d never thought you’d be the kind of person to actually partake in the Purge, let alone kill during it, but here you are - stumbling home covered in blood with two deaths on your hands. The fact that it was self-defense isn’t nearly as much of a comfort as you need to make your heart beat less erratically, to make the blood stop burning against your skin.

The quick flashes of their deaths won’t stop playing on repeat in your mind - you would’ve died if you’d been any less lucky, and you doubt your piece of shit ex would have made it quick. 

If you hadn’t caught them together - your friend fucking him in the bed you used to sleep in, that fucking bitch - you might not have had the anger necessary to kill them. Might not have had the rage, the energy, to stab them both until they stopped screaming.

Your arms already ache from the force you’d used. You can’t stop seeing your friend’s face, torn to shreds beneath you, blood splattering up onto your own face and neck while your ex’s corpse cooled beside you. You’re not sure if you’re hearing her screams still, or if someone nearby is suffering just like she had.

The only thing you can bring yourself to regret is leaving behind the knife. It would come in handy now, as you walk alone down one of the poorest neighborhoods in your city.

It would come in especially handy as a hand grabs your shoulder, yanking you to the side and into an alleyway, shoving you against rough bricks and ignoring your yelp.

“Well, well, look’it you…” the man drawls, his face hidden by a bright red skull and a black hood covering the rest of his head. “Wha’s a bonnie lass like you doin’ out tonight, all alone?”

You can’t speak, heart thudding painfully at your ribcage as you blink up at him. He’s all you can see, just a bright red skull floating in place.

“Please,” you manage to gasp, hands shakily raised in front of your chest.

“Please? Please what?” His words are sharp, almost bitten off, and he leans closer. “Haven’t even threatened ye yet, pretty thing. What’re you beggin’ for?”

You whimper as he leans closer, hardly inches away from your face, and a loud boom from somewhere nearby shakes the wall at your back. You still can’t tell if it’s blood or tears dripping down your face. You jump at the sound, and your chest hits his. Before you can move back, his hands are on your shoulders, keeping you pressed to him.

“Oh, did that scare you?” He coos, patronizing and mean. “You a little scaredy cat, all alone and afraid?”

You sob, hands pushing at his chest, and he makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a laugh, pushes you against the wall without pulling even an inch away.

“No, no, you’re not goin’ anywhere. ‘S not safe out there for you, kitty. It was so easy to grab you, you want someone else to get a hold of you? They won’t be as nice as me, I can tell you that.” 

“Get- get off!”

He laughs, loud and rough, right in your face. “Oh, I’ll be gettin’ off, kitty. Might take some teamwork, huh? A good way to get to know my new friend-”

He cuts himself off with a sharp Oh! as your knee jerks up into his crotch, the man doubling over in pain and groaning as his head comes to rest against the wall by your face. You barely have enough sense left in you to duck out of his way before his body goes limp against the wall, hand cupping your target.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” you hear him hiss, right before you stumble away, legs weak as you put all your energy into not tripping over your own feet. Your only thought is getting out of the alley, even though being more exposed is probably riskier than just taking your chances with the man in the red skull. Still, there’s some instinct at the back of your mind telling you go, run, and you’re not stupid enough to ignore it.

You hardly make it five steps away before you hit a wall - no, not a wall, a person. 

It’s almost comical, the way you bounce off of him and stumble backwards, losing your balance on weak knees and sending yourself straight to the ground. He’s a monolith above you, a massive figure clothed in all black, the light from the flames behind him almost making him glow. He’s all black cloth and white mask, a skull hovering well past six feet in the air.

The sight of him makes your heart stutter, brings everything into acute focus around you, slowing the world down to a near stop. That same instinct at the back of your mind tells you this man is worse than the last, that you should’ve taken your chances with the red skull. 

You’re jerked back and to the side, shoved roughly against the brick wall. Your face scrunches up at the rough texture against your cheek, your torso flush against the wall and the first man flush against your back. You manage to open one eye and track the new man, your other forced shut from the way your head is angled.

The white skull tilts, and its wearer steps closer. You can’t help the small cry you let out, the way you flinch back into the first man like he’ll do anything but expose you more. His hands are rough on you, one hand locked around the back of your neck and the other harsh on your hip.

The body behind you laughs, push further into the wall regardless of the stinging pain as the white skull steps closer. He stops hardly a foot away, when your vision is eclipsed by only him. You try to struggle against the hands holding you, whimpering when they dig in more harshly.

“You got her?” A voice asks, and it takes a minute for you to realize it’s the new man in front of you.

“Yeah,” the first man pants, holding you close and alleviating some of the pressure against your cheek. “Woulda caught her without you, y’know. She just caught me off guard.”

The white skull rumbles low in his chest, a rejection. You’re not sure if he’s got faith in your ability to escape, or doesn’t trust his partner’s ability to chase. He’s close enough that you can only see the black of his chest, close enough that you can watch him breathe.

“I’m sure. You got a good hold on her?”

The hands squeeze, you can’t help but make a sound disturbingly close to a squeal, and- “Yeah, course, got her tight to me, Ghost. She’s not goin’ anywhere.” There’s an air of desperation in Red’s voice, a strained tension underlying every word. He’s almost eager, but it’s all directed towards the man in front of you - Ghost - instead of towards the prospect of hurting you.

Ghost doesn’t respond, but he steps close enough to press his chest against your shoulder. The three of you are all less than a foot apart, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to get away. Another tear slips down your cheek.

You can feel Red’s chest heaving behind you, and at first you can’t understand why - he hasn’t had to chase you, hasn’t had to fight, there’s no reason for him to be out of breath.

It hits you when you feel the hard plastic of his mask press into the top of your head. He’s eager, and it’s making him pant like a dog. You’d bet he’s drooling behind the mask and the thought makes you shiver.

You flinch when a gloved hand cups your chin, tugging your face up so you’re staring into the eye sockets of the mask.

His eyes are dark brown, so dark that you almost can’t see them past the shadows and the paint over his skin. The flames roar behind him, giving him a monstrous glow.

“Pretty thing,” he hums, chest rumbling against your side. You try to push away from him, but there’s nowhere to go. “You’re gonna be our little toy for the night. Things’ll get worse for you if you try to run. You hearin’ me?”

It’s pure instinct to nod, to give this man what he wants, but you know you’ll still try to run the second they look away. 

“Alright then. Let’s get you home. Johnny,” the man steps away, jerking his head in clear instruction for Johnny to follow and turning away. “Come.”

“Right behind ye,” Red - Johnny - assures, that same eagerness in his tone as he tugs you away from the wall, trotting behind his partner. “It’s gonna be a great night, lass. You and I are gonna have fun.”

You can’t help but whimper at that, letting your body go nearly limp as the man drags you by the elbow. You can’t even fathom the horrors they’ve got in store for you, what fun is to two men hunting for lone girls on Purge night. 

You try to let your feet drag, but they hurt too much for that to last long. You consider going limp, making them carry you, but you’re too scared that they’ll just drag you across the concrete and let you bleed. 

You only manage to keep up with Johnny because he doesn’t give you another choice. You’re practically hobbling from the pain in your feet, forced to walk on the balls of your feet and lean your weight into his hand where it’s wrapped tight around your arm. He doesn’t give you any slack, doesn’t even seem to notice when you struggle to match his pace.

The three of you have walked several blocks - you can’t quite focus enough to count - keeping to the sides of buildings and dodging other people, when you’re tackled to the ground out of nowhere.

It’s impossible to stop the blood-curdling shriek from leaving your throat. Your bare arms feel torn to shreds as you slide across the ground, head bouncing off the ground and leaving you with black spots dancing across your vision.

You’re hardly able to blink, body alight with pain, and the heavy weight over you only serves to make your panic worse. You moan as you roll your neck, staring wide-eyed up at the dark sky and praying the ringing in your ears isn’t permanent.

Your vision is just starting to clear when the man on top of you - and he’s definitely a man, he’s not even wearing a mask and his expression is mean and you find yourself glad you can’t hear what he’s saying - jerks back, his head pulled back until all you can see is his bared throat. 

You can hardly even register what’s happening in the next few seconds. Some distant, detached part of you can recognize that someone slits the man’s throat, that his blood comes gushing out and covers your face.

The first sound you can hear again is your own screaming - it’s an ear splitting sound that melts from the ringing in your ears. When you gasp underneath the man, the corpse, you can feel his blood falling into your mouth. Every breath tastes like iron, and the world is tinted pink from the drops of it falling from your brows.

You can do nothing but pant and shake when the corpse is thrown off of you, replaced immediately by Johnny. You can hardly focus on him, are only really aware enough to know he’s there.

“Hush, bonnie, yer fine,” he scolds, one big hand coming up to cover your mouth, pinky and ring finger holding your jaw shut. “Wanna draw people over? Ye wanna see me and Ghost kill someone else for you, ‘s that it?”

You shake your head on instinct, tears running down your temples, dampening your hair. Your chest aches with the force of your breaths, nose congested from all the crying. 

“Then hush,” he hisses, face so close that you can feel the breaths from his nostrils. You flinch at the loud sound of gunshots disturbingly nearby, desperately pushing against his body to try and see what’s going on. You can hear grunts and moans, the sound of something heavy hitting the ground, and your heart races.

Then, the sounds stop. It doesn’t go silent - not with other Purgers still out, still killing - but the area you’re trapped in is quiet again. Johnny drops a little more of his weight onto you, making it even harder to breathe. 

You have to focus on every breath, deliberately making sure you get enough air so that your lungs stop aching. You only notice the movement on top of you after nearly a minute of slow breathing.

Johnny’s hips grind slow and steady against your stomach, and it makes you sick to realize you can feel his erection through his pants. His chest rises and falls with harsh breaths, and his movements are just harsh enough to force your body to move with his.

There’s absolutely nothing you can do about it. Not with shock settling in, his weight holding you pinned to the ground, and the pain in your head shifting to something closer to a migraine. All you can do is focus on your breathing and stare up at the stars.

“Johnny,” Ghost eventually calls, and you can hear him kick what you can only assume to be a corpse out of the way. You can’t help but whimper when he crouches nearby, his boots splattered with blood. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Need-” Johnny gasps, hips stuttering against you before working even more quickly. “Needed to feel her, fuck, Ghost, she’s so fuckin’ soft. Can’t wait to be inside, to fuck her full, feel her squeeze-”

You whine against the hand over your mouth, trying to pull your face away from his grip and only succeeding in dragging your sensitive head across the harsh concrete.

“You’re gonna fuck her out here, where anyone can see? Doubt you’ll be able to keep her safe when you’re pussydrunk.”

Johnny moans above you, dropping more of his weight on each thrust. “Tha’s why you’re here, yeah? To keep me and the lass safe?”

Ghost grunts, fisting a hand in the strip of hair left revealed by Johnny’s mask. “Don’t be a fuckin’ brat, Johnny. You know I don’t have to do shit for you - either of you. Maybe I want to see my mutt get all defensive, growlin’ over his girl. You ever think about that?”

The whine that slips from Johnny’s throat is nothing less than pathetic, his pace becoming uneven as his eyes screw shut behind the mask. “C’mon, Ghost, I’m close, just let me… just watch for another minute, yeah?”

The scoff from Ghost is mean, and even you feel the absurd desire to try and placate the man. He stands abruptly, stepping away from where you’re pinned and leaving you staring at the cooling corpse of a man you don’t recognize.

“You do whatever you want, puppy. Stay here and get yourself off or behave and heel. You know what you’ll get either way.”

You can’t help but furrow your eyebrows as Johnny hisses out shit above you, hips working desperately against you for a few long moments before he drops his entire body weight onto you, knocking the air out of you.

“Okay,” he whispers, seemingly to himself. “Okay, alright, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

He pulls himself away from you with a long oan, pushing up until there’s no place the two of you are touching but you’re still entirely caged in by him. He takes his hand off your mouth to hold himself up and you wince at the string of blood between his hand and your lips.

“Not gonna fuck ye yet, kitty,” he tells you, staring into your eyes with an intensity you don’t quite know what to do with. “Ghost’ll make the both of us regret it, and ye don’t deserve that on your first night home.”

You hardly manage to bite back a whimper. “Please…”

His eyes crease, like he’s smiling beneath the mask. “God, yer so scared, aren’t ye? I can fucking taste it in the air, kitty. It’s delicious. Cannae fuckin’ wait to have you on my tongue.” You shudder, eyes dropping to his neck when his gaze becomes too heavy.

He forces you to stand before you’re ready, leaving you to lean on him if only to avoid crumbling to the ground like a ragdoll. You ite your tongue against a sob at the sight of three corpses around you, a twisted sense of appreciation and disgust warring in your mind.

Johnny herds you like a dog, pushing you by the small of your back and your shoulders as he tries to catch back up with his partner. You’re left stumbling in front of him, unsure and terrified, not quite strong enough to think running away would be a good idea. It doesn’t take long for you to spot Ghost’s large back on the street in front of you, and a part of you resents the fact that he’s already so recognizable. 

He’s an overeager shadow, unable to decide if he wants to tug you forward or chase you from behind. He ends up almost circling you, shifting from your back to your side to your front and back again, always moving, always rushing. It leaves you unstable and nervous, unable to predict what he'll do next.

Chills run down your spine at the thought of this man… taking you. If you’re this terrified of him fully clothed, you’re loath to think of how you’ll react when he gets you where he wants you.

The two of you only manage to catch up to Ghost because he stops for a cigarette. His pale jaw is exposed when he tugs the mask up enough, and you try your best to memorize the scars covering his face, telling yourself that you’ll remember him, that you’ll never let him near you again once this night is over.

The look he sends Johnny is approving, the look he sends you is distinctly smug. It makes your teeth grind, makes you really wish you still had that knife so you could lurch forward, thrust the blade into the solid center of him and twist, pull out again and aim a little higher, then again, then again, then again-

“Made your choice, then?”

“Yes, sir. Wanna be good.”

Ghost hums, flicking the butt of his cig then dropping it to the ground, the cherry still glowing. “Settin’ a good example for your girl, huh? That’s my boy.”

The sound Johnny makes is animalistic, and despite the harsh grip he’s got on your arm you try to lean as far away as possible. There’s a building energy under his skin, a twitch in his fingers, that unnerves the animal part of your brain in ways Ghost doesn’t. 

“‘Course. Gonna teach her how to be good, too, gonna keep her perfect for us.”

Ghost is completely stoic with the mask tugged back over his face, nothing but his heavy gaze as he stares you down. It’s hard not to jerk away from Johnny and run, no matter how futile you know the effort would be. 

He reaches out a big, gloved hand towards your face, moving quickly enough that you can’t fully flinch away and hide your face in your shoulder or chest. His thumb strokes across your cheekbone, smearing the sticky mess of liquid across your face and huffing a sound just loud enough for you to hear.

“Cat got your tongue, girl?” He rumbles, a faint note of something in his voice lost in the sounds of anarchy behind you.

You try to shake your head, unable to manage anything more than a, “Please.”

Johnny scoffs beside you, wrapping both of his massive arms around your shoulders and holding you close. “Broken record, this one. Hasn’t said much else since we nicked her.”

“That’s alright,” Ghost rumbles, give Johnny one firm stroke over his mohawk. “I’m sure you’ll drag all sorts of pretty sounds out of her tonight. Now, let’s get goin’. Don’t want your little toy gettin’ her nerve up and earnin’ herself a punishment so early in the night. Come, now.”

Johnny laughs, loud and harsh as he tugs you to follow him and Ghost. You know you should be upset about what he’s said, know he should be doing exactly what he warns against and try to get away.

But you’ve got no energy left to fight. Everything hurts, your system is overrun by fear and just the tiniest drop of adrenaline, and your best chance of making it through this night is passing out and forgetting any of it ever happened.  

A few tears, stragglers, drip down your cheeks when Johnny tugs you beside him. The places his fingertips squeeze against your arm have gone numb, and your feet feel like they’re on fire. Your arms are sluggishly bleeding and you’re not convinced you don’t have a concussion.

It’s hard to hold back sobs when you think of how much worse it’s going to get. Staring at the broad back of Ghost, feeling the feral energy of Johnny hardly contained by your side, all you can hope is that they let you survive the night.

You close your eyes as Johnny guides you, take a deep, steadying breath, and pray for your own strength. You tell yourself that maybe next year you can seek them out, find them at the very start of the Purge and get your revenge.

It’s a comforting enough daydream to lessen the aches of your body, to shine a spot of light after the hurricane of your future. 

[21stc3nturyd1gitalb0y]

have you ever decided to diy bottle cap pins for your battle jacket and painted one as a record because it’s circular and a simple design and you chose red and black because your jacket theme was red and black and then you post your jacket in various online punk communities not realizing that your pin unintentionally looks like the the t shirt of a homestuck character and now people are commenting homestuck references and you’re super confused so you ask your chronically online homosexual boyfriend who likes homestuck bc of course he does and he infodumps to you about homestuck but apparently there’s a surprising amount of overlap in the punk rock scene and the homestuck fandom so now people are following you and dm-ing you as if you’re some kind of punk homestuck icon and now you don’t know how to come clean that the resemblance was coincidental and you actually don’t know shit about homestuck…?

cause i have

[mrbluesummers-moved]

I'm too tired to write the full Essay™, but someone said in the tags that Stampede took away Knives' fear and it made me realize that the core issue I have with Trigun Stampede is the fact that the characters lack the emotional depth of Trigun Maximum. Like, I'm enjoying Stampede, and it's emotional, but Knives and Vash especially have had their emotional complexity watered down in comparison to the manga.

In the manga, they were as much at war with themselves as they were with each other and world around them. Knives was expressive, animated, and always playing up the megalomaniac god complex in public, but in private he was exhausted and scared and even expressed guilt towards his sisters for being careless in how he orchestrated the fall. Vash was an upbeat pacifist who was constantly fighting his own urge to take the "easy" way out and kill to solve problems.

It's what made the manga so heartbreaking. Neither of them were entirely right, but neither of them were entirely wrong. Knives shouldn't try a genocide, but he was also a deeply traumatized child who was shown how cruel humans could be to plants. Vash should try to do as much good in the world as he can, but holding onto the ideals of pacifism in a hostile environment does more harm than good and he learns that when he's finally pushed to the point where he has to choose between killing and saving someone important to him.

I don't think it's impossible for Stampede to recover in Season 2, but the foundations aren't great. Changing Nai to being cold as child seems like such a small change, but Knives starting out as the optimist who loved humanity is so central to that internal conflict... I don't know. Maybe they'll come back to the point of Rem being important to Knives and make use of the fact that he intended for her to survive and that might save it. We'll have to see.

[pseudohades]

WAITER. I ordered kinky porn without plot. there appear to be themes of religious guilt and repression and trauma and overwhelming, almost reckless trust despite that in here. What do you mean that's how it's made? Can't they just fuck? Can they not just slonk one another silly style like sloppy swag? It's not even kinky yet. This is twelve thousand words; Bard was supposed to be eating elf butthole and Thranduil was supposed to be begging Elbereth for forgiveness about it and losing his religion by now but instead I'm writing about Thranduil's chronic pain and Bard's childhood. Elven cultural Catholicism/sexual mores are tearing this marriage apart because they both have so much horny and very few things they're "allowed" to do with it. Thranduil is being Neurotic As Hell About Wanting Things. Bard is being Weirder about his hands than Thranduil is, somehow. And they're napping. They're napping and having morning cuddles and there isn't even any morning wood humping. In MY porn without plot. Tell the chef he's shit at his job.

[leather-field]

three healers

[knife-eared-jan]

So this was what exactly? Solas being overdramatic for no reason?

Look at him hunching his shoulders staring at the wall! This guy was scared shitless for his vhenan. Even a non-romanced Inquisitor, he "warned" not to do it. But a romanced one he "begged".

Solas would know what it means when you, and I quote, give up a part of yourself, to an elven god and everything you do is for them from now on.

Now what? Lol, just kidding? How can this choice not matter?

[mikeslawyer]

i LOVE writing in metaphors. no, i will not be elaborating on any of it, that is a YOU job now to figure out what i meant by “mike feels like a phoenix crumbling”

[arsenicflame]

the thing is, right, if izzy WAS evil i would still absolutely love him. hes a fictional character, i don't care about his morals if hes compelling.

but the frustrating thing is that hes not evil, hes not even the antagonist anymore by a long stretch, hes arguably more liked by the crew than ed at the moment, but people still insist that we are reading the text of the show wrong and its going to completely 180 and turn him into a cartoon villain when there is absolutely no sign of that in the show, from the cast and crew, anything!!!

its so ridiculously annoying that i feel i have to defend my stance on a character because some people are so determined to cast him into the roll of a villain he is not, and think that we are the wrong ones for simply reading what the show is putting out

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

HIIIIHIHII mackerel happy sundayyy i hope u r having a good dayyy <3 :] swinging by for my mandatory holding a mic up to u Worm Thoughts?? worm thoughts now that ur through another arc or so?? conjectures & such?? miss militia trigger vision surprise tool to help u later? :33 also i think now u did get to that part where taylor's just sitting in her lair and her her-shaped insect clones are terrorizing the merchants in her territory & lighting people on fire & shit while she's drinking her tea... shes so fucked up <33

HAPPY SUNDAY!!!! I've been in the car all afternoon hi hi hi. last thing I read was the merchants party 0_0 holy shit dude. I have so many thoughts. TAYLOR SAW THE THING. UGH. I dont know what it is about it but I've gotten this with Imps powers too where. taylor will describe something and then the next sentence forget it exists??? and it's SO uniquely unnerving I've never felt that exact feeling from a piece of text before. my brain is like BUT WAIT. ITS RIGHT THERE GO BACK AND READ THE LAST SENTENCE AGAIN but she cant! she's not reading it this is happening to her! I feel as though I am being gaslit by a book. DO U KNOW WHAT I MEAN. it's such an extremely specific writing quirk it's SO good

ALSO FUCK YEAH THAT WHOLE SCENE WAS SO GOOD. BUGS DOING INCREDIBLE VIOLENCE AND THEN IT CUTS BACK TO TAYLOR WITH HER TERRARIUMS SIPPING TEA. THE WHIPLASH. THE CASUAL BRUTALITY OF IT ALL. girl you have fallen so far from the sad high schooler eating lunch alone in the bathroom. holy fucking shit. I love this for her btw.

[fallen-flier]

tell me so i say (jjk x bnha)

[monoma neito-centric]

on ao3

I've been hit with the urge to write Monoma Neito as a Zen'in. I have no words. How did this come to be? No idea.

I very very rarely write fusion crossovers because they're a headache to think about but it would only work well that way, so. Consider:

Zen’in Neito is born as a bastard. Or perhaps worse, from the oldest daughter of Zen’in Naobito, who had the misfortune of being born female in the Zen’in clan. He is born from a romance fraught with inevitable collapse and without much cursed energy. Instead, he primed to develop a quirk, rendering his body useless. A non-sorcerer. Unworthy to bear the family name of Zen’in.

(He is five years old and shunned when he catches the eye of one of his many relatives, a girl with dark green hair and a short bob without much cursed energy either.)

When he is seven his mother dies and leaves him to the mercy of his clan. He is nothing, the inferior of inferiors, his quirk manifesting into a copy quirk. Useless to kill curses and meaningless to train. Instead, he spends days sparring with Maki and half of the time on his back, catching his breath. He follows Mai and runs about doing tasks and hiding from the sneers. He is better off than the twins and learns early on that his only redeeming quality is that he was a son.

(“I’ll never leave you,” Maki promises her other half. She is stronger than both of them and growing greater yet, but still, still.)

Neito learns quickly and establishes himself as a strategist and analyst, beats the few people willing to play shogi with him until they quit playing with him. He hides with Maki in shadowed corners and watches spars with her, trying the moves over and over until Maki beats him with pure strength or he outsmarts her. He is a side character in his own life, watching and waiting for something more.

("We should leave," Maki says, scowling. "They hate us anyways.")

The clan head invites him to play shogi once, and once again. Neito loses again and again, growing to detest the smell of alcohol and an annoyed scowl on his face every time he returns without fail. Too obvious, he is told. Neito has too many tells, anger and hubris spilling from his body. He learns to be loud so he will never be afraid, to be seen and hated. Mai grows apart from him, ducking her head and berating him for being an annoyance.

(“I want to be a hero,” he tells Maki. “I can’t be a sorcerer anyways, and I can’t even get stronger on my own.”

She scoffs. “How can you be a hero if you can’t even win a fight with your weak body?” But she doesn’t refute him, because she’s on her way to becoming a greater sorcerer than all of them.

“The supporting role will upstage the lead eventually! The lazy scum that make up the rest of the clan can’t stop us.”)

Zen’in Neito is fourteen years old when he finds his father’s name and takes Monoma instead. There’s no point in keeping Zen’in if he’s going to leave. Maki tells him she is going to banish herself and become a jujutsu sorcerer to spite the clan, that Mai will be treated better without her around. Maki enrolls in Tokyo Jujutsu High and Mai is forced into becoming a sorcerer to bear her sister’s sins. There, Maki connects him to Nitta Akari, a kind, serious auxiliary manager who gets him enrolled at a public school and drafts up records for him.

(“Get up,” Maki tells him, an annoyed expression on her face. “If you’re going to become one of those conceited, self-centered heroes, you should be better than them.”

Neito gasps from his position on the floor, pushing himself up on shaky limbs. He rubs at his eyes, thinking of his contacts imbued with cursed energy. He couldn’t give them up. Not seeing curses would be worse than not being a hero.)

The students there are the same as the rest of the clan when they find out what quirk he has. When they find out he wants to be a hero. Neito laughs, boasting and proud, because he won’t let them make him afraid, because they can’t make him do anything for them. He studies for the U.A. entrance exam even though he hates written tests and pushes himself to the limit.

(“Monoma, I don’t advise taking the U.A. entrance exam. Your grades don’t reflect an academic interest that will allow you to pass the written exam and the physical exam is impossible without a suitable quirk.”

Neito will not fail. He has nothing left but to become a hero who sees both sides, to kill curses and save people from villains. You cannot be a hero and a jujutsu sorcerer but Neito has enough hubris to believe he can be both.)

a couple of notes:

quirks = balanced cursed energy -> the limited amount of cursed energy in civilians manifested into physical mutations. the more powerful mental quirks probably have more cursed energy and physical having less. in comparison cursed energy is just like. a roiling mass of chaos in sorcerers

neito probably has a better understanding/ grasp of cursed energy than most people considering his quirk because he needs a fundamental understanding of people’s quirks to use them

unfortunately he doesn’t actually have more cursed energy than most civilians. he can copy cursed techniques by technicality but he doesn’t have the cursed energy to uphold most of them. and understanding cursed techniques vs. quirks is like comparing theoretical physics to basic algebra

“how did neito get enrolled in a public school without his clan’s consent” he beat naobito in shogi so he handwaved the request as a gracious gift

neito spends a summer training with maki, yuuta, toge, and panda before taking the entrance exam. he almost gets convinced to dye his hair a dark color before realizing that he would look like naoya once the color starts fading

most sorcerers hate heroes on principle and neito is no different but he sees no future in his clan and he wants recognition. he’s not as strong as maki and can’t rely on copying a quirk if he’s fighting curses so hero it is

would explain neito and gojo's dynamic but i don't think i could do it without writing an interaction and writing the two in one room makes me extremely tired

akari has legal custody over neito because neito doesn't have parents and contacting the zen'in clan over any non-sorcerer affairs would not go over well. neito lives half in the tokyo jujutsu high dorms, the zen'in clan compound, akari's apartment, and then the u.a. dorms. anyways big sister akari supremacy <33 it's a rite of passage for adults in jjk to start taking random kids/ teens under their wing unfortunately