#tho that’s not too long (yet)

[spaceistheplaceart]

found an old ekurei comic rotting in my files, decided to finish it. upon my rewatch of mp100 i kept noticing how many times dimple was referred to as a pet- but he's not ! ! ! he's a friend :)

[definitelynotshouting]

your half of the ransom

inspired by this post and scar's tweets about secret life :] i speedran this just in time for the first eps of the new season to drop!! as always likes and reblogs and especially comments in the tags are appreciated❤️ enjoy!!

Scar wakes to a field of sunflowers.

The sun itself is a swollen yolk bleeding gold at its edges when he blinks, cascading down from the horizon to melt over the earth with indiscriminate fervor. It dips the petals of each field-flower in honey, honing their silhouettes to supple knife-points— even the soil beneath him, packed firm from countless nights of sleep, has burnished to a fine, patinated bronze. In the amber of its rays stray pebbles transmute to pyrite, the subtle scrabble of roots to filigree, and caught in the open mouth of such gaudy resplendence, Scar digs an elbow into the dirt and hauls himself, reluctant, back to his own unsteady feet.

Even at full height the sunflowers still tower, blocking all signs of hearth and home. But the sun (popped, bleeding, all gored-out gold in the upturned belly of the sky) remains his guide— Scar picks his legs up in a faltering stumble to follow it before catching rough fingers against the stalk of a nearby sunflower. He flinches; this early, it's too easy to perceive each stalk as part of a swarm, a yellowed panoptic presence bearing down on the world-weary muscles of his shoulders.

Their seeds will need harvesting soon. Scar hums, a match-strike against unyielding silence, and casts his gaze back to the sun above to orient himself in the direction of his base.

Until they're ready, he has nowhere else to be.

Trader Scar's is too-empty for so comely a morning, a hollowed-out shell long rebuilt and bristling with more wares than he has those to sell them to. But it's a familiar charade— Scar slips into the back with a single sunflower clenched tight in his palm, bruising the petals and scratching against the insides of his fingers. He changes in rapid, efficient motions; last night's poncho is discarded over a nearby chest in exchange for a brighter one, yellow wool lovingly dyed; his hair is released from its tie, combed through, then braided again; the soft leather shoes he'd worn underneath the stars are left to clump by the doorway in favour of far-keener diamond. Worn in but undamaged, the crystal chimes without dents or scratches— there's nothing left to fight here, anymore.

When Scar steps back out to the front, a ghost is waiting patiently for him at the counter.

Or— the ghost of a ghost, if he's being generous. The outline of a shadow, the flicker of a distant mirage. "Oh," Scar says, and the word scrapes like rust from the well of his throat. He'd recognize those wings anywhere. "Well, hello there, Grian."

Grian's filmy outline says nothing. They never do, when the shades appear for a rare visit. The barrier between living and dead remains a clear divide, a gorge through which Scar cannot pass— all that's left between them now are the soft, faded echoes of what was, and what it could have been.

Still, in the year he's spent here, that's never deterred him from a potential sale. Scar props a hip up against the counter, eyeing the flickering shadow and mustering up his best imitation of an enthusiastic smile. "So what brings you out here to my neck of the woods? Looking for something to buy? Some fine goods to trade, perhaps? Man, I don't think I've seen you around in a dog's age. How about some catching up?"

The back of his neck prickles, electric; Grian's shade is a stygian blot in his vision, a fuzz of static that extends its presence from floor to ceiling. His ghost keeps his silence.

Scar tugs his smile wider, flashing two rows of bright, gleaming teeth in Grian's direction until the strain threatens to choke him. "No? Not even a little bone for ol' Scar? Well, tell you what, don't you go standing on su— se— oh, ceremony! Come in, come in! You make yourself at home, you know how I just love a visitor— how about I make us a drink to share and you tell me where in the world you've been, mister."

He doesn't bother waiting for a non-existent reply; instead, Scar swoops down to snag his fingers against the cupboard he'd installed within the counter months ago, fumbling with the latch before throwing its doors wide open with a gust of musty air. Inside, an eclectic mix of quite high-quality wares and some of Scar's own humble belongings tangle, speckled with cobwebs and the first faint stirrings of freshly disturbed dust.

Scar purses his lips, eyeing each item in turn. A nautilus shell here, a few scraps of wood there, some glass bottles, the handle of a ladle he'd cracked over six months back.... Squinting, he thrusts his hand deep into the mess, sweeping the items aside and shuffling new ones into view until— there!

Toward the back lies a dented iron kettle, brittle with disuse. Scar snaps forward, straining out his arm until the tips of two fingers meet the edge of its dusty wooden handle. With a grunt, he flicks it closer, wincing at the shrill scrape of iron on wood as it inches toward him.

SCAR.

It is not a voice. No mere voice can resonate a single word like that in his chest, trembling in his bones and drumming out from the chambers of his very heart. Like a ripple on the still surface of a lake, it rattles through him, scattering each thought to the far corners of his mind and stripping him raw, flaying open his ribs to splay beneath the scorching sun. The yelp that bubbles up to his lips flies past them unbidden, rocketing out with such force that he jolts, and rams his skull straight into the overhanging lip of the counter.

White-on-red sparks, a cherry-hot bolt of fire centered on his crown. "OW! Oh, oh my gosh, I-I— Grian?"

None of the shades haunting him and this server have spoken. They've never spoken. They've never— so why now, when he's made his peace with that—

Scar wets his lips, tongue dry as desert bone, and drags the kettle out of the cupboard with one quick yank. Clutching it to his chest, he rises back up on shaky feet, holding it up as if to ward off an incoming attack. Some shield; its hollow interior reverberates with a screech when he raps his knuckles against it. "Now— now hang on, mister, you can't just— you— oh my gosh, I-I think you just made my heart stop there for a second." A bracing breath. Two. "Y-You can't just shock a man in his own home like that! You...."

Scar trails off. The misty impression hovering on the other side of the counter remains impassive, impersonal— this is not the Grian he knows.

The Grian he knew.

Deep within the static writhe of his shade, the after-image burn of greyed-out eyes begin to squirm to the surface. Scar flicks his gaze back to the kettle with instinctive, long-honed deference, staring hard into the distorted lines of his own reflection.

YOU WON. Once again the words rip something vital in him, boil up through his veins to tear themselves, wet and coppery, on the limp meat of his tongue. Scar risks a peek up, lump hanging heavy in his throat; each syllable comes out as a squeak, threatening to crack the smooth silver of his voice.

"I— yep, I sure did! I sure did, and— thank you very much, for noticing! I, uh, I still don't know how I did that, what with— oh, you know how it is, with, with the, uh, the— friends situation, how that all panned out. Y'know, actually, I wonder if that's wh—"

The eyes blink at him, asynchronous and blank. Hollow. In the heartbeat it takes for them to train back on his own, a soul-wrenching wave of gooseflesh ripples up over Scar's arms.

He whirls himself away so fast his vision spins. "So, uh— tea! You like tea, right Grian?" Without ceremony Scar scrambles to the other side of the room, forcing the counter still between them, every nerve in his body winding tighter, tighter, kinetic energy in a bottle. "How about, um, a—" he rifles through a new cabinet, clumsy with frenzy— "oh, shoot, now where did I put that— I've got some, uh, some dandelion root! Hand roasted by yours truly, of course. Not that anyone else could do it now, but— oh, oh, and look at the lavender, now that's just delicious, you've gotta try it, G, I know you'll just absolutely love it."

Silence. Scar's hand pauses, braced tight on the handle of the cabinet.

"Grian," he says, slow, quiet. Lets the words drift up, shining soap bubbles, to pop against the ceiling. "Why— what are you doing here?"

To his credit, Grian is direct. IT'S TIME.

Without permission, Scar's fingers tighten around the handle of the cabinet. "It's— what? Wait, wait—" He blinks. Does not turn around. "Time for what?"

Silence.

Scar licks his lips, worrying at the split still stinging at the right hand corner. "Time for what, Grian?"

The distinct pall of burning ozone scalds through the air. Tentatively, Scar shoots a glance back down into the kettle, peering at the distinct smudge still smearing the wall behind him. No eyes in its reflection; some of the tension riding in his shoulders loosens, slackens his tendons and begins to uncurl his fingers from the cabinet knob.

Without warning, a wash of ice wisps forward to numb the small of his back. COME HOME, Grian says simply. The words echo in the gap beneath his sternum, drag themselves up each vertebrae in his spine, and Scar freezes stiff, solid.

"This is home," Scar says, blank.

NO.

Some hot ember, banked countless months ago, sparks back to life in the pit of his stomach. "It is," he says, more firmly this time. "It's— that's it. You said it yourself: I won. And I did it fair and square, I'll say. I followed every rule, every task to the— to the nth degree, and... and now I, um." He falters. Grits his teeth until the molars ache. "I get to live with it."

But a sudden chill that has nothing to do with the shade behind him abruptly slips beneath his skin. Hesitantly, still clutching the kettle in one hand like a lifeline, Scar says belatedly: "... Right?"

Despite the sun nearing midday, the temperature around him plummets. NOT ANYMORE.

"Oh," Scar says. The metal surface of the kettles creaks as his second hand joins the first, digging nails into rust and grime. "I— again?"

YES.

"... And what if I don't want to do it again."

He does not phrase it as a question. They both know his answer.

Scar sucks in a sharp shock of air anyway, rattling the kettle against his chest and daubing a blotch of dust over the soft wool of his poncho. "Is—" he bites his lip— "will everyone... be there?"

YES.

Ah. Scar's eyes slip shut of their own accord; behind them, dozens of veins brim over, webs of blood welling up and spilling to slake a thirst so abyssal it could drink and drink for years without satiation.

"... Will you be there?"

For one long, nightmare-eternity, Grian does not reply. Then, a knife between his ribs: YES.

With slow, halting steps, Scar turns. "Okay," he breathes, and drags a hand over his eyes to cloak them both in darkness, and sags back until his skull knocks against the cabinet door with a dull, tender thunk. Each exhale emerges as a series of shaky puffs, damming up his lungs and swallowing all the air in his esophagus. Scar shudders, scrapes his bitten-down nails against iron, and breathes with the roiling of his gut. "... Okay."

When he opens his eyes again, Grian's ghost has vanished.

The spot it occupied is still frigid when he waves a trembling hand through it; Scar inhales, exhales, inhales again. Rinse and repeat, the perfect cycle, the mantra against extraneous thought. Then, solemn and deliberate, he holds the kettle out in front of him, trailing one wandering finger over its dents and bruises, tracing the paths between the known and the new.

"Guess I'll see you there," he tells it, and lifts its grubby handle up in absent toast.

High above, the bleeding sun strikes noon at last. Scar does not harvest the sunflowers.

[dear-ao3]

i think the japan update of the f1 silly season post may in fact be the thing that kills me. this is all for you all.

[ragingbullmode]

we slowly coming togetherrrrrrrr 😋 !!!

[planetsandmagic]

Butcher

[dietmimo]

The Ex.

Contrary to popular belief, they still get along well.

[satans-knitwear]

Fishnet Friday! (from the drafts!)

Treat me ~ Tip Me ~ More of me

[gabelew]

captain bazz's adventures in demoralizing the youth

featuring teen sidon being just too impressed by his first fancy drink

[ra-vio]

this blog is 11 years old now 🎉

I drew the siblings ever to celebrate as usual

[marimeeko]

I don't think anyone has talked about post epilogue, when Rody someday comes to visit Izuku in Japan!

And what about Bakugou and Todoroki tagging along since they were all together in Otheon.

And Bakugou just CONSTANTLY struggling with his feelings coming from watching Rody and Izuku being besties and even looking like they are just a shade away from being a couple.

Pino hasn't made a single peep OTHER than affection for Izuku, and Bakugou knows what that means.

So Katsuki, who is obviously deep in his feelings for izuku, who is funding and orchestrating the secret support suit for Izuku, is just PINING for Izuku and "the rest of their lives", is just walking around Japan with Izuku, Rody and Rodys two little siblings, just SICK with his own frustration, jealously and anxiety.

But also he's desperately keeping himself in check because he has no right to ruin anything for Izuku. He wants Izuku to be happy. Right now, Izuku is so so happy to be with Rody.

But Rody is also extremely happy to be with Izuku...

Katsuki trying so hard not to hate Rody for it.

Katsuki trying so hard to not be mad that it's not HIM and Izuku out on a date, or a patrol, or even just a walk to the store, instead of Izuku guiding Rody around points of interest as a guest.

Katsuki is even getting to the horrible point in his life where he sees Izuku interacting with the young siblings(and he's always amazing with kids) and imagines them instead as little freckled kids with mops of blonde and green.

To further the illusion, as he stares with icy crimson eyes, he visualizes Rody standing there with a hand on Izukus shoulder instead to be himself, Katsuki "DynaMight" Bakugou, standing proud and beaming over their tiny family.

The thought makes him feel fluttery inside but at the same time, so lonely.

He sneered over how much he craved that domesticity.

Katsuki GROWLING like a territorial cat if Rody takes Izuku by the hand to go look at something new.

Katsuki almost losing it and maybe even having to walk away from the others if Rody starts floating the idea of Izuku visiting or even leaving Japan for Otheon. Telling him there's always room for him in their place(by now he has gotten a better apartment) and the kids screaming YES DEKU COME STAY WITH US!

Katsuki having to collect himself as he can't help but overhear Izuku kindly saying it would be nice to visit someday(but he doesn't hear Izuku go on to say that he would overall prefer to stay in Japan bc it's home and his mom/kacchan is here and his studies, plus a job is already lined up for him at UA....)

Then Todoroki sensing all of this simmering emotion in Katsuki of course and assuring Katsuki with his presence. He let's Katsuki rib him if it makes him feel better(it doesn't)

But Todoroki would also eventually assure Katsuki that "You're underestimating how much Midoriya cares for you. Just because he hasn't said it....we all know he's just not very forward about his true feelings."

Katsuki hopes that's true but just kind of grunts in response.

"You know...you could always ask him out yourself" Todoroki tells him in the flattest tone possible, and Katsuki sputters and turns beet red

[svtskneecaps]

ok among my favorite parts of qsmp is the fact that charlie slimecicle can only hold the act of being mad at mariana when mariana isn't in the room. like he successfully rp'd being mad at his deadbeat puta esposa for months while mariana wasn't logging on, like he complained about mariana at the wedding, during the election, in subsequent appearances, and then he's messaging mariana in the chat during purgatory and he's still holding it

and then they're both at spawn like as close to face to face as they get. and bro CANNOT hold the act it drops so fast lmfao he was like "yea cellbit i'm gonna kill mariana" and instead they have a genuinely heartfelt conversation and then rp sexo in the fountain

and i know i'm brainrotting purgatory rn but i'm actually thinking about this bc i saw a clip of mariana and slime talking during the awards show and literally. slime's face goes from 😡🤬 MARIANA'S HERE, SAY SOMETHING PUTA ESPOSA to 😄😁 the second mariana shows up on the screen

like he's still pretending to be mad but dude is grinning like absolute crazy and i love that

[a-most-beloved-fool]

For the writing prompts;

19. For luck - Rom and Leeta

"And then," Bashir was saying - though in truth, Rom was paying only half attention, far too busy thinking about Leeta - "she came right up to me, and kissed me on the lips!"

"Oh, she did, did she?" Chief O'Brien said, scoffing good-naturedly.

"It's true!" Bashir insisted, though he didn't look insulted by the Chief's doubt. He was smiling into his glass, seeming quite delighted by the disbelieving frown on O'Brien's face.

Rom didn't quite understand what was supposed to be so 'unbelievable' about the story. In fact - "It seems pretty believable to me," he said. "Doctor Bashir's always kissing beautiful women." (Including, at one point, Leeta - though not anymore, Rom thought with some pleasure.)

"Yes, but this one was out of his league," the Chief said, batting his hand playfully across the table.

Bashir just smiled bashfully, ignoring the swipe. "Ah, well. You're right about that. She wasn't really interested in me after all. Turns out, she'd just misconstrued the human concept of a 'good luck kiss'".

"Ohh! A 'good luck kiss'!" Rom said eagerly. Then, after a pause, "Uh, what's a 'good luck kiss'?"

The Chief sat back, idly crossing his arms. "Well, it's pretty much exactly what it sounds like. It's a kiss that you give someone to wish them luck."

"Oh," Rom said, considering that. Luck was always a good thing to have. Perhaps... "Oh! Leeta!" He stood, sending his chair clattering backwards. "I'll be back!" he shouted, then raced from Quark's bar, ignoring his brother's parting shout out dismay.

He needed to find Leeta.

--

"Leeta! Waaaait!" Rom hollered, shuffling through the crowded promenade as quickly as he could manage, chasing after her familiar voice. "Leeta! I need to give you something!"

This would be easier, he thought, if Bajorans could hear as well as Ferengi could.

But, at last, Leeta stopped, turning to find him. "Rom? Rom, what's the matt-"

The rest of her sentence trailed off into a hum as Rom reached up, pulling her down to plant a kiss square on her lips. One of her hands cupped Rom's cheek, soft. Rom didn't really know how long a 'good luck kiss' was supposed to last for - he really should have gotten more details before running off (for example, does it need tongue? Bashir never specified.) - but he thought that this should satisfy it.

He pulled away, grinning toothily up at his wife. "Hi, Leeta," he said.

She smiled down at him, cheeks flushed and lovely as always. "Hi, Rom. What was that for?" she asked, looking bemused and delighted.

"It's a kiss," Rom said, perhaps unnecessarily. "For luck," he added. "It's a hoo-man tradition!"

"For luck? Rom," she asked, laughing, "what are you wishing me luck for?"

Rom blinked. "Uhhh... For your day?"

Leeta beamed at him, and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Well, I think it worked. I do feel pretty lucky now."

Rom grinned. "Me, too."

--

(also if anyone else wants to make a request, the ask game is here. i can't promise they'll get done as quick or be as long as this one is, though!)

[sysig]

Growing closer than expected (Patreon)

[quirkle2]

[zombie au] yeagh

[plushie-lovey]

FINALLY!! At long last, I've gotten my hands on a Pumpkin Kitty, after a whole year of wanting and waiting.

Her name is Latte! (Short for Miss Pumpkin Spice Latte) You can also call her Miss Spice!

[rosetta-draws]

angelica's three fundamental truths

disclaimer: this is my first hamilton analysis, pls give me grace as i figure out how this works. all of this is my own opinion, so if u disagree or don't understand smth PLS TELL ME!! id love to discuss or debate :∙D

1. "I'm a girl in a world in which my only job is to marry rich. my father has no sons, so I'm the one who has to social climb for one. so I'm the oldest and the wittiest, and the gossip in nyc is insidious. and alexander is penniless... that doesn't mean I want him any less."

angelica always has her weight of her family name hanging over her head (much like burr). it's not as if she can't handle this responsibility; she is a genius and has good control over herself.

alexander, however, almost makes her forget her duties and loosen her manner (I say almost cuz "what the hell is the catch" & "you forget yourself" show that it was still in the back of her mind). this isn't just because shes attracted to him; alexander is also a mirror for her, a what-if. angelica is a genius on par with hamilton, but is restricted by being a woman and by her status as a schuyler. alexander is hindered by neither of these (as much as he'd love to have the latter), so he functions as the idea of freedom for her. later on (in "take a break"), it seems as if she lives vicariously through him, cuz he's got everything she wants; to stay in new york, to stay with her sisters, to write for freedom and build the new country. i imagine that if she wasn't into hamilton, she'd be jealous of him instead.

2. "he's after me cuz I'm a schuyler sister, that elevates his status. I'd have to be naive to set that aside, maybe that is why I introduce him to eliza, now that's his bride. nice going, angelica, he was right: you will never be satisfied."

while being a schuyler opens many opportunities for angelica, it also means she has to be wary of her suitors' ulterior motives. more important in these lines is angelica's indirect description of eliza compared to herself. angelica knows that she herself is smart and quick witted, and that she fits the skills needed to be an heiress. eliza does not. angelica doesn't call her naive as an insult; it doesn't really seem to occur to her that it is an insult at all. she states it as fact that eliza won't care that alexander might be after her just for her wealth (and she is correct).

(also noteworthy is that angelica doesn't stop loving alex despite that possibility either. maybe the draw of meeting her equal is enough?? even tho she suspects him to be a cheater and gold digger??

...I don't know what they both see in him =_=)

3. "I know my sister like I know my own mind. You will never find anyone as trusting or as kind. if I tell her that I love him, she'd be silently resigned. he'd be mine. she would say I'm fine; she'd be lying."

and finally the key difference between angelica and hamilton: family. more specifically, caring for someone else more than for yourself. angelica has her own aspirations and desires but they will always be secondary to her family, both abstractly, as she preserves her family's legacy, and practically, as she chooses eliza's happiness over her own.

hamilton does not have that kind of bond with anyone. for all that he can be caring and protective of his people and his nation, he will always put himself first. it's not surprising, considering how he grew up, but it still ends up being his undoing.

(also of note here is this description of eliza. specifically that she stays "silently resigned" & lies to cover her feelings when she's upset. perhaps this is what eliza usually does for angelica, but for hamilton she makes no secret of her feelings. to be fair, even eliza herself constantly understates her agency and willpower (see: the entirety of "helpless"). however, when eliza knows what she wants she does not hesitate to get it. I have a few more thoughts about her having an easier life because of angelica's sacrifices, as well as angelica misunderstanding her, but that's for a separate post.)

bonus: "but when I fantasize at night it's alexander's eyes, as I romanticise what might have been if I hadn't sized him up so quickly. At least my dear eliza's his wife... at least I keep his eyes in my life."

earlier angelica applauds her intelligence and perceptiveness, but here she curses it. ignorance is bliss, and if she wasn't so attentive to her family's needs, she could follow her own ventures. but!! don't forget that though she doesn't act on her ambitions, they are always there. she doesn't stop dreaming of alexander, or stop missing her sisters and her city.

tldr: angelica is a disciplined, genius woman of high social standing, and is critically aware of this. she constantly has the weight of supporting her family on her mind, and is devoted to them. hamilton represents her more self-centered desires, and though she doesn't pursue him, she never stops wanting him, and likewise she never fully forgets her personal ambitions despite choosing not to achieve them. in part because of the society she lives in, and in part because of eliza's infatuation with hamilton (aka prioritizing her family's happiness over her own), angelica will never get everything she wants. again, she knows this, and resigns herself to never being satisfied.