#that version stays in the drafts

[mylittleredgirl]

thinking about the poll about canon vs non-canon ships that didn't define terms, and the current fandom focus on things "going canon," so i made up a scale.

this is NOT a question about whether canon matters to what you ship (or matters at all), just how to define the phrase "canon ship."

many ships start low on the scale and slow burn their way up, so vote for the point when you would have called them "canon." i agonized over the order (especially #4-6) for a day and a half, but i went with the order in which i think joe random with a nielsen ratings box and no tumblr account would notice/call something a romantic relationship.

[quirkedupkicks]

Iida, bro, you Gotta remember to knock first ...

[xiuminuwu]

A jacket I had originally planned to do for simblreen. For some reason I’m having issues with the uv1 map tho and unfortunately I think I’m too stupid to figure out how to fix it🤠

[lemonwrap]

I’m interested in seeing a Soap who survived Makarov with brain damage and some resulting issues—but by far the biggest problem is that Soap is absolutely, thoroughly, one hundred percent convinced that everything around him is just a figment of his imagination.

Everything. Even Ghost, the man he loves.

[epiphainie]

i'll try to say this in the kindest way possible but what if we don't post bucktommy critical or bucktommy negative posts that people originally censored/kept out of the bucktommy tag by screenshotting them and putting them in the tag? people are allowed to hate a ship. idk what to tell you but they're allowed to have their opinions even if their reasoning seems stupid to you or it very obviously comes with bad faith arguments. as long as they're being decent enough to not cross the line and do keep it in their own tags/blogs, you don't have to be fighting them in our tags. if you so want to, sure do it on your blog, in your dms, in your discord servers. but i'm tired of seeing the blogs i know i have blocked for their silly takes because we keep circulating what they're posting in our own tags. seeing a collage of the stupid, negative, downright homophobic comments curated from all sorts platforms in the bucktommy tag, in fact, feels no different in practice than seeing the antis post in the bucktommy tag, especially when you don't add the useful tags like "discourse" or "fandom criticism" to your posts.

just my own two cents, hell maybe it just bothers me idk, then keep doing it i guess.

[themyscirah]

But look at us Luke, we're the ones left alone, holding some rich monster's pain. All of existence, built on his violence. All of space-time, humming to life with a single inviolate rule. Give the hero something to punch.

[get-more-bald]

what the mercs smoke:

scout: doesn't smoke. gotta have those healthy lungs. would indulge in a vape occasionally but would cough horribly and try to hide it (also horribly). he'd try to bum cigarettes off of everyone around him though.

soldier: likes those big fat cigars but most often he doesn't even smoke them, just holds them in his teeth. he thinks it looks cool and manly but doesn't really enjoy the smoke. he's an american in his prime, recruit.

pyro: who knows. I honestly think they'd like smoke in general but I'm undecided. weed? nicotine? something harder? maybe. full suit hotbox. isn't really a smoker.

demoman: rarely if ever but always from a pipe. he doesn't think much of it. I don't think he'd enjoy smoking though, so probably only when he's stressed. wouldn't really be very interested in anything stronger than a bit of weed - alcohol is his thang. his pipe is neglected and he bites it too hard.

heavy: has tried a cigarette once or twice. didn't like it. he just doesn't think about smoking, would probably decline if offered a hit. if convinced to try it again, he'd inhale, make a funny face, and try to hide a cough. he'd be chill about it though.

engineer: classic smoker. when stressed he chainsmokes, but it's not often and he doesn't make a big deal out of it. tries to usually have a pack on hand, but it's fine if he forgets. might try a cigar if he's feeling fancy.

medic: pipe man. smokes rarely, but if he does, he indulges in harder substances as well. he knows how to use them safely, too. he does care about general health and takes good care of his pipe.

spy: smokes like a pack a day. only the expensive, fancy brands, but at some point he couldn't tell the difference anymore. smokes to stay awake and to wake up and after every match. medic loves touching his lungs because they've gotten such an interesting texture. it's a bigger problem than he'd like to admit.

sniper: only on his off hours. sometimes just lies down in his van and smokes weed. has generally routinely scheduled weed evenings. isn't a huge fan of smoke but it's the easiest way for him. used to smoke as a teen.

[theholeyness]

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[maximusboltaqon]

weird thing about the inhumans is that theyre obscure enough to not really have an audience and also havent really appeared *that* much throughout their entire 60 year existence. however they also well known enough that the mcu took a crack at it and permanently affected their comics and their old roles and sectors are gone to make room for the New MCU Versions. truly such a thing is practically unheard of.

[chiropteracupola]

If it strikes your fancy, for kiss prompts-A king and a herald, 19? (I'm not in any of your other fandoms lmao)

19. a kiss for luck

[regicidal-defenestration]

He ran a finger quickly around the rim of his glass. The note rang out sharp and clear. "A toast," Jonny proposed. "To bad decisions and worse people."

Chapter the last. Death to the Mechanisms?

[beautifel]

the way i’m truly so beyond help

[francesderwent]

it’s not that I think I’m never going to get married. it’s that I am never going to get married the way I thought I would. I am not going to fall in love with a nice young man, get married in a whirlwind of youth and optimism, and have ten kids. I am not going to learn who I am as an adult as part of a team, with my partner by my side. that story is currently going on with my college friends who are celebrating fifth anniversaries and having second kids, but I missed the start of that timeline and it went on without me. I am not going to have that story, I cannot. I am not young and naive enough. I have already grown into who I’m going to be by myself, figured out adulthood and built my own habits without a partner. I cannot have ten kids, I literally don’t have enough years of fertility left. and there’s no conveniently single male friend waiting, Gilbert Blythe-like, in the wings of my life who could turn things around quickly so that I could even begin to catch up. my story will be something else - might be meeting someone in my thirties or forties, probably falling in love slowly because of the trust issues, and maybe having two or three kids, maybe adopting more. it’s a fine story. it could probably make me very happy. but it’s not at all the story I thought I’d have. I always wanted my mom’s life, and I am not going to have it.

[lotussokka]

Tagged by @kittlyns (back in march lol) to share my lock screen, last song played, and last picture saved

it didnt specify how many people to tag so im going to tag 10 people bc kittlyn tagged me on my blog's 10th anniversary: @girlwwx @rudiecantfail @yokoyas @glitteratti @booksnbarricades @sonyachni @ettelwenailinon @smiliestboye @sisyphuslnabyss and @hopefulqueer

[e-louise-bates]

Definitely adding more action to the final quarter of Magic Most Deadly than there was in the original version. Len just punched a butler in the nose and then locked him in a telephone cabinet.