#the third is just fucking adorable

[piperslovebot]

jeia + autumn colors

[laddertek]

etho said actually you _don't_ understand the intricacies of how tango is my boyfriend and bdubs is my ex

(and how tango and bdubs kiss too)

Scar: We went on that little adventure, you know! Etho: Yeah, yeah, we had our adventure, that's true, that's true. Scar: You disparaged your teammates. That's it, all right, no more spoilers. Etho: (laughs) Our team has -- our team has some weird dynamics this -- this season. Cleo: (overlapping) Really, Etho? Is there trouble in paradise? (pause) Who's third-wheeling with you, again? I can't remember. Etho: (laughs) Uhh. The -- Cleo: Genuinely can't remember. I know it's you and Bdubs. And...Tango? Tango. Tango. Etho: (loudly) Why -- Why is Tango the third wheel? Why -- why isn't Bdubs the third wheel? Cleo: Because it's you and Bdubs. I'm sorry. I understand how that relationship goes. Etho: (dissatisfied) Hmm.

[bandtrees]

they would get divorced in one universe just to find eachother in another one

alternatively titled: sometimes you're the level-headed token flesh-head impulse-control-and-polycule-member of a stubborn, eccentric, and hearty telephone-headed drug addict, and there's cruelty in the world you deem fit to suicidally fight, and that either goes about as well as you'd expect it to, or you learn about love and the value of your life and junk along the way

[n0bluev]

@fushiglow hmm….wonder who i’d draw this for all of a sudden and why… 🤔🤔

[littencloud9]

i love u nekoma & karasuno i love you SO MUCH

[narugen]

keep thinking abt hoshina and mina GOD.. (spoilers for manga and kn8 bside)

given what hoshina said about his previous division treating him like a burden/parasite just because he can’t handle firearms and specializes in his swords… how tiring must it have been to have to work with those people each mission despite having a common goal?

and how tiring must it have been to be constantly told off by his own father for wanting to continue his family’s tradition, or to be told to give up on being part of the jakdf by his own teacher -

before mina, a high ranking commander personally reached out to him, to recruit him into her team?

the fact that she didn’t see him during joint trainings and think: why bother with that? why bother with blades when bigger kaiju will appear? when she personally deals with bigger kaiju herself.

but she instead saw him and thought: he can help me, he can cover my weaknesses (mina not being able to handle a vegetable peeler is hilarious) and he’s someone i can trust

she sees potential in him, she sees how he can excel within her division, she saw hoshina and as captain - has probably heard everyone talk shit about him but she was still certain that he’d be one of her division’s greatest asset

(and even when platoon leader ebina refused to let hoshina help out, mina stood firm on her decision and her claim that hoshina would be useful. when she asked him if he could take down the big kaiju, and he could only promise saving the child within it - she believed him, took his word for it and waited until he carried out his promise.)

and now hoshina is the vice captain, putting faith in a new recruit whom most people wouldn’t have believed in… full fucking cycle..

tldr: it makes me rly fucking emotional to think about how hoshina was given a reason to continue improving with his swords after being told to give up all this time… and how mina had never once thought his abilities were useless 👍

also makes me crazy how protective he is of his position as vice captain, as the person who stands by captain ashiro’s side…

[transmasc-tabris]

.

[lanternlightss]

nameless bard with glasses ……. cute ……….

[quietwingsinthesky]

the thing that does suck about potential supernatural s16 is that their two options are 1) do destiel (which will be bad) or 2) don’t do destiel and get massacred for homophobia crimes.

[chthonicarcher]

Happy New Year! It’s Dove Strider Sunday :D

[holdingcaulfields]

i love noah kahan. so much.

[goddess-of-graphite]

The Great Notes App Exodus: Gothic Dragons

Gotham has always been protected by a Dragon, even before it was ever Gotham.

There was a way about the land Gotham stood upon, that was all twisted magics and darkness and feral energy that never quite fit in man’s modern world. America had but one Guardian Dragon - except for Gotham, which was near a law and country unto itself.

Gotham was a sanctuary for the supernatural, but it was not kind. Those non-humans who risked its dark streets were the brave, or the foolish, or the terribly desperate. Gotham was a dark city, and it’s people adapted or were driven out.

(But should a threat ever come for her, all of Gotham would rise up in response.)

So Gotham had its own Guardian, but the Dragon guarded the world outside from Gotham’s brutality just as much as it shielded Gotham from those that would rend her apart.

But, of course, Dragons were only so many, and new blood must be brought in - human blood, as it often was, and so the trend of Dragon blood “skipping” a generation emerged.

And the bloodline of the Guardian Dragons of Gotham withered, bit by bit, because it is far easier to kill a human of dragon blood than it is to kill a Dragon of human descent.

(And Bruce Wayne has never hated this truth of the world more - because his parents had been Skipped, human, and if they had been dragons, they’d still be there with him.

But they weren’t.

It was just Bruce, a fledgling Dragon, and the butler left to care for him.)

-

Although Gotham had only ever had one Guardian Dragon, it had at one time had a whole lineage of Dragons capable of taking up the mantle. As the Dragons intermarried, however, more and more lines broke off with human kin, occasionally producing dragons.

But the Guardian Line had been reduced to one untrained hatchling. And that hatchling didn’t much care if it was a Dragon or a dragon that was Guardian of the city, just that there was someone to Guard it.

The problem is, of course, that the hatchling needs training - but he cannot get that in Gotham.

So he leaves.

He comes back ready to pull his city back from the brink, by force if (when) necessary.

Here’s the thing - Bruce is no Dragon, because for all that he is the last of the Guardian line he doesn’t adhere to the rules of that duty.

A Guardian’s duty is to the supernatural beings they protect.

Bruce has already decided that that is not enough. Human or Magical Being, if no one else will step in, then he will.

Bruce might have been the Gotham Dragon, but that didn’t mean he was the only dragon in the city.

The thing about dragon blood is that it tended to turn up dragons unexpectedly in families that had been mostly human. A dragon ancestor could have human children, and their children have human children, and then a dragon. It was a recessive trait when introduced into human bloodlines, and especially if it was paired with yet more human lines, but it also was tellingly stubborn - a human may only have a single draconian ancestor hundreds of years back, but they could still unexpectedly turn up a dragon hatchling.

It was just sheer dumb luck that a bunch of said unexpected hatchlings turned up within the span of the same generation.

[hirazuki]

For the flower language writing prompts, would you do thyme for Mairon, please?

Thyme | Courage, Strength | What mercy means

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

The winds blow cold along the coast, vague whispers of snow from the high mountains running headlong into the salt spray spewed by a sea that is still black, still writhing, as unsettled as his thoughts.

But not cold enough; not high enough.

It is all painfully mild against the memory of lurching cliffs and burning ice -- a landscape that he would carve out a portion of his very soul to be able to complain about, just one more time, that now lies immeasurable fathoms below his feet.

The death throes of Angband had been violent: a beast crippled and cornered and drowned. Mairon had lingered, despite his orders, to try and get as many out as he could, to try and save what little remained of his wolves, to --

All pointless. Once Melkor had been removed, the water had come. The lower levels stood no chance; the upper levels, a mere ghost of one. Stone; metal; flesh -- all gave way under the pressure, and even dragon-fire was doused.

(He thought that he, too, would be drowned, insofar as an Ainu can -- have his body stripped from him, at the very least; he should have drowned. Instead, he awoke to find himself securely tucked away on this strange new coastline, entirely unharmed, strings of seaweed clinging to his body and the scent of storms upon his skin -- residue, that he has been studiously ignoring.)

Mairon can still hear the screams.

He has no care for elves or men or other creatures that the Valar like to fancy themselves as keeping, but he is -- was, he reminds himself, with bitterness and bite -- a leader of armies, and, as such, knows warfare and all its aspects intimately. The sheer number of casualties the other side has suffered -- including what must have been non-combatants, continent-wide -- has to be exponentially larger than his; staggeringly so.

The Valar finally deigned to interfere in the affairs of those beyond their rose-colored isolation, in order to save these people, presumably.

Mairon cannot help but scoff. His lord, in all his pain and anger and malice, was kinder, in the end.

Is this their idea of mercy?

Is this what they consider an acceptable loss?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ☽༓☾. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sea swells and roars as flashes of fire cut across the sky, and the island breaks apart with a sound that shackles his mind to a horror he had thought safely left behind in the previous Age.

As the wave rises, a churning shadow looming at almost the entire height of the Meneltarma where he stands, echoing past mercy bestowed so acutely that it seems he could have been walking the halls of Angband only yesterday, something twists and snaps inside him --

And he laughs.

Mairon -- Tar-Mairon, Zigûr -- laughs at the sight of the chasm opening up before Númenor and at the sound of falling hills that reaches his ears from Aman's distant shore and at the smell of lightning burning the sky and the touch of it that scorches his skin when it strikes at his feet, grazing him, and at the taste of despair in the suffocating air all around; laughs and laughs and laughs, until his laughter is indistinguishable from screaming.

A voice -- female, piercing -- somehow manages to capture and hold his attention, from where it darts and flares like wildfires in high summer.

Tar-Míriel, last Queen of Numenor, bereft of rule and -- soon -- of realm, climbs the final stretch of this so-called Holy Mountain, pulling herself up from its steepness and onto the small ledge at its peak.

He had offered her a ring some days ago, and, in her pride, she had rejected it. That pride seems to have buckled, now, under the fear of the yawning tide that promises to devour them all, man and god alike, and she runs to him, hand outstretched, shouting --

The wave crashes down.

Too late, again, he mourns, a last thought as he is plunged into the sea's cold grasp, water rushing into his nose and mouth and eyes, too far gone from both grace and Middle Earth's coasts for anyone to risk their lord's wrath for his sake this time.

Always, always, he is too late, for the things that matter.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ☽༓☾. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Firelight flickers across the walls, casting soft shadows all about the room, the smell of damp earth seeping slowly into his sluggish awareness.

He flickers, too, sliding in and out -- of consciousness, of corporeality -- ever-shifting, struggling to stay.

Pain is at his throat; the blood is flowing, freely, running, never stopping, he needs to --

No.

That is not --

That happened long ago. A different forest. A different wound.

Funny -- how he always seems to find refuge in the woods. He should examine that. Had he more energy, he would examine it.

Cold.

He is so cold. Someone -- Khamûl? -- has draped blankets over him, over what purports to be his form, and despite his own weakness to the element, apparently, has set the hearth alight; but neither does any good. It is the fire within, that sputters; almost more ash than flame; almost out.

Khamûl... yes, that is right. Khamûl is here, running the fortress. Allowing him to rest. Has he thanked him? He should thank him.

Papers lie scattered next to him, reports of the world beyond this hilltop that he barely has enough substance to hold in his grasp. Accounts of the kingdoms of old falling to ruin and elves fading to naught more than mist, decrepitude creeping into all things in the wake of the last Age's ending.

Why do they bother, clinging to rusted dreams and corroded glory? A tighter grip will not stop water trickling from one's grasp.

Sail west or fade. How magnanimous of them. How merciful. How hardly a choice.

He had been given such a choice once, too.

And he had stayed. He had stayed, the only one, along with the elves and the men and the orcs, had stayed to --

Why was he bothering, again?

What was he doing?

... He cannot recall.

Tired.

So very tired.

He curls further into the furs and fabric, futilely seeking warmth, and considers closing his eyes and fading quietly alongside this failed world.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ☽༓☾. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The earth crumbles and collapses, taking orc and beast and tower with it.

As his body falls in one direction, his ëala is wrenched in another, until it rips from form and coherence both: a moment and an eternity of blinding pain, of unmaking, of gold melting and rejoining with fire.

It is gathered up, eventually, from the voiceless agony it has dispersed in, by a pull that it -- he -- has neither the strength nor the means to fight.

Westward, it compels him to fly, like wind unseen, passing over forests and mountains and lakes and the ever-widening stretch of ocean, until he lands -- a displacement of air, a dull shimmer -- before Máhanaxar.

There is nowhere to go but forward.

But, even as he places one foot before the other -- old thoughts newly wrought in washed-out hues -- his mind shutters unequivocally around something he had decided long ago:

If this is what mercy means, he wants none of it.

• ────────────────────────────────────────── •

This was soooo much fun to write! Thank you sending this in!!! I've been in a creative slump lately, and this was exactly what I needed ♡ Hope you enjoyed it! ^^

[hylianane]

If the rumors about a NEW avatar series coming out are true I hope to god its another girl cause I could NOT handle the instant Korra slander that would happen if it was a guy the men would get SO annoying

[trashquisitor-shirozora]

I just wanna gush over your newest art for a sec: everything about luke (from his body language to the bit of his expression we can see) is so so protective and i love it so much. I wanna hug this art.

Hello there, Anon! Y'know, that was the very first thought/feeling I had when I started sketching it out. One could argue that's been a very trying and testing time in the Mandalorian corner of the Star Wars fandom, and I just wanted a softer landing for Din, someone who will catch him when he falls. And - personal bias here, shocking I know - I was geting some similar vibes between how Disney Wars has handled Luke and how they're now handling Din, and thought, "Who better than Luke?"

I bet he gives great hugs and I know he is a safe place to be when the going gets tough and you just need a break.

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

the only good thing about the three houses engage ring being all three lords in one ring is that edelgard is forced to put up with and cannot escape the boys making out and flirting with each other while they're all cooped up in the ring and not in combat or hanging out in somniel