blake kathryn
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
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d e v o n
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art blog(derogatory)
#extradirty
oozey mess
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Today's Document
DEAR READER
Mike Driver
trying on a metaphor
Sweet Seals For You, Always
todays bird
Not today Justin
if i look back, i am lost
tannertan36
$LAYYYTER
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@onyxshortclawegdr
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Basically, Villain F!Izuku (Midoriya Izumi) has a bad time in a dark timeline of the MHA universe, and gets a second chance to change her fate. Dabi/Izumi ongoing and end game relationship.
The League of Villains Plays DnD AU
(Saw a post by @bunny-loverxiv last night that reminded me I’ve had this stupid thing in my drafts unfinished for over a year now. I’m not sure I’ll ever have time to come back and finish it, but in the spirit of what I posted earlier, here it is, in all its unfinished.. glory…)
Since I asked for a League of Villains plays DnD AU and no one delivered, alas, I guess I’ll just do all the work myself!
So, without further ado:
Shigaraki Tomura’s Character Sheet:
Race and Appearance: Fallen Aasimar, with hair pale as the flesh of wraiths and eyes like two burning pools of blood, reflecting out from the infernal pits of the abyss. His rippling muscles under his bone-white skin carry the scars of his uncountable victories, and when his corrupted celestial powers radiate forth, ghostly skeletal wings rise–
( “Do I have to keep reading? This is really long…”
“It’s important!”)
Alias: “Zephiroth”
(”Isn’t that the guy from Final Fantasy?”
“No! That was Sephiroth! My character’s name is totally different!”)
Class: Oath of Conquest Paladin/Hell Knight
Motto: Dim the Ray of Hope
A dread knight whose armor is black with the blood of his enemies; to stand against him on the field of battle is to know true fear, and none have called themselves his equal and lived to tell the tale. His menacing aura is a cloud of evil righteous murder that spreads across the land as he advances, and everywhere he travels is seeped into the deepest of despairs. Civilizations tremble before the darkness of his impossibly dark darkness.
(“Did you run out of adjectives?”
No, I meant exactly what I said.”)
Also, collects the severed hands of his conquests.
(”Tomura-kun, this isn’t a character, this is just you!”
“Collecting body trophies is standard lore for conquest paladin; you’d know if you read Xanathar’s Guide.”)
Alignment: Chaotic Good
(“Shigaraki Tomura, I am not sure this alignment fits with the character you’re describing–”
“I wrote the campaign, so good’s whatever I say it is.”
“Boss, doesn’t playing in your own campaign defeat the purpose? Knowing everything ahead of time’s a great idea!”
“Shut up, I don’t care about spoilers.”)
Backstory: Zephiroth the Bloody swore an oath to complete the conquest of his father, King Jenovo, who fell in battle to his eternal rival and estranged foolish younger brother, Nimbus Might ( “You know, I really think I’ve heard these names before…”). Jenovo’s quest was undoubtedly a noble one: to reunite the brothers’ separated kingdoms under a single legitimate banner–and its single legitimate ruler. The two brothers clashed in a battle of titans that shook the entire world, and though he was in the wrong, Nimbus Might reigned supreme in the end, and took Jenovo’s life and kingdom both. The death of his father crushed the last remnants of joy and love in young Prince Zephiroth’s black heart and now he will stop at nothing to put an end to Nimbus Might’s reign by turning every symbol of his false kingdom to dust.
Notable Stats and Weapon: +5 Intimidation, +5 Persuasion; greatsword and shield wielder.
Tomura is a quintessential min-maxer; he made everyone else take the standard array for stats but… “rolled” for his.
(”This old man’s been reviewing the character sheets, Shigaraki, and couldn’t help but notice some discrepancies in the party’s stats compared to yours–”
“You’re welcome to not play. Ever.”
“Must have been a trick of the light!”)
Carrying: The holy relic “Lavos”
(”Isn’t that just from Chrono Cross?”
“I think you mean, Khrono Kross, Spinny.”)
The relic is a glowing black and red container imbued with a hellish aura, containing magical bullets said to be formed from the blood of the time goddess, allowing Shigaraki to permanently unwind his opponents’ powers. Limited use, 5 times.
Keep reading
Finding out the fae are parasitic fungi, huh.
Wander into a fairy circle, just a circle of mushrooms, come back different from that. Wonder what happened there? Got mushrooms in the brain didn't they?
Wander into the woods, eat strange food drink strange water, see a strange world, keep going back to the woods for more and why has this happened, what enslaved them? Brain fungus isn't it?
They don't live in this world do they, they speak to each other in strange tongues, flit across the world invisibly, appear in many illusionary forms.
We built our world over top of theirs.
hi i just want everyone to know that i will never ever EVER be angry with anyone for not replying to my texts even though you’re visibly online and reblogging/posting. i understand that holding a conversation takes a lot more energy and effort than scrolling and posting and that’s 100% okay. take care of yourself first. the whole idea that you HAVE to reply to someone when you’re online is toxic and makes mentally ill people feel as though they are bad friends just because they can’t always reply within minutes.
I don't know who needs to hear this, but if the phrase "self care" doesn't resonate with you, try calling it "system maintenance" and see if that clicks.
Reblogging to add amazing tags from @meta-theory
#this both makes things more fun and also is a really good analogy#because there are four types of system maintenance and that makes the term much more exact than the nebulous ''self-care''#and therefore much more helpful to those of us who uhhh struggle with nebulosity#for anyone curious the four types are:#1. corrective (to fix current problems)#2. preventative (to avoid future problems)#3. adaptative (to re-adjust to any changes)#4. perfective (to work towards a better system)#I really like this idea I'm gonna make a checklist
Kitten discovering a sunbeam
(via)
[source]
FREE HIM
HE CAME BACK
Everything about this is so fucking funny. The song. The chubby dances. The way he just gets fucking KIDNAPPED. The presentation of the guy in the white shirt in the picture when he returns. This is my favorite post.
Who is your dad, now?
I WILL reblog this video every damn time I see it because this kids is A GENIUS
“Be gay do crime!!” “Eat the rich!!”
And you can’t even boycott the most famous TERF in the UK
most famous TERF in the UK, most famous racist in the UK, most famous antisemite in the UK, most famous anti-indigenous person in the UK, most famous misogynist in the UK
she's a TERF through and through but let's not understate all the other ways she's a horrible person
the hypocrisy, it burns.
good <3
EDIT: hi so editing this post because holy shit. my intent with this was not to say that cyberbullying is okay. from my understanding, 'cyberbullying' in this context means criticizing and holding accountable. this post was intended as "oh you can't handle people literally just saying 'im disappointed' and unsubscribing? cry about it' and not "actual cyberbullying is good and okay". i think the notion that consuming any single piece of media makes someone a bad person is ridiculous. should people be playing this game? absolutely not. it's a bad thing to do. but doing a single bad thing doesn't make you irredeemable or deserving of harassment. I turned off replies and deleted most of them because it was so incredibly toxic. I left a few up that I fully agree with if you're curious.
Source
Let’s go!
you’re still trans if you respond to your birth name
you’re still trans if you sometimes slip up your own pronouns
you’re still trans if you dont correct people who misgender you, because you’re scared or you just can’t be bothered
you’re still trans if you haven’t felt ‘trapped in the wrong body’ since childhood
you’re still trans if you only started questioning after discovering the internet
you’re still trans if you dream of yourself with your birth name
you’re still trans if getting misgendered doesn’t feel like a stab in the gut because it happens so often that you’re used to it
you’re still trans if you’ve changed your name and pronouns 5000 times
you’re still trans if you don’t want to transition and you’re happy the way you are
Spreading bc its hella important
Bisexuality is valid, not a fucking phase
Now, there are still a lot of people don’t understand bisexual, some people mistakenly believe that no bisexual, also some people mistakenly believe that everyone is bisexual, also some people say that bisexuality is just a phase, there are many wrong views like this. To the credit of, bisexuality is valid, not a fucking phase.
Visit bisexual.com, participate in more bisexual topic.
Soooo fucking important
also let's ppl as young as 14 drive the death machines we call cars to and from their job late at night
let me re-emphasize this part:
Oh okay so this country is literally just going to collapse.
Reblogging for visibility because this is atrocious and people need to be talking about this, I can't even
There is a cafe in the forest. Its lights are bright, it should not be there.
Something chimes. You don’t remember opening the door that swings closed behind you. You’re out of breath. Have you been running? Your brow furrows. There is mud on your boots. Clumps of dirt that dry and crack then fall away as you stand there, staring.
“May I have your name?”
You look up. Your neck strains as if it hasn’t moved in days. Blink, flex your hands. Needles race up your arms like stabbing insects. The barista stands before you with limbs that are too long and a smile that reaches their eyes in more ways than one.
“May I have your name?” They say again, like a name is a thing to be taken.
Maybe it is. You are struck with the notion that you do not want them to have yours. With great effort you pause the words forming on your lips. When did you open your mouth? It doesn’t matter. You give them a name.
The barista’s smile widens, if that is possible. Their skin is ashen gray and the apron they wear shifts in a way that blinds you. “That isn’t your name.”
You shake your head. No, it isn’t.
You are seated at a table. (Is wood supposed to bleed?) The menu is soggy in your hands. Syllables jerk twisted and raw from your mouth as you pick an order at random and read. A mockery of language, you don’t recognise your own voice.
The barista nods slowly, “will that be all?”
“Yes,” you find yourself saying. “that will be all.”
They turn away and you are left with yourself. Roll a corner of the menu between your finger and thumb, yellow liquid oozing from its fibers. Your hand is shaking.
Something chimes, slams. A man stands in the doorway- He has mud on his boots, though he doesn't stop to watch it dry. He sees you and you remember then why you went running in the woods at night. Ordinary fear; of abuse and fists and gaslit-rage. You cringe in your seat.
He is an animal made of popping veins and flying spittle. He stalks towards you and then-
“May I have your name?”
Was the barista always there? You don’t remember them arriving, you don’t remember them being there a moment ago. They stand with a smile that is still too wide, hands outstretched in a beckoning motion. The man doesn’t notice, or perhaps he is too caught in his own rage to care. He shoves the barista, but he may as well be shoving at a pillar, or a mountain. They make the beckoning motion again and you’re not sure which of them to warn of danger.
“May I have your name?”
The man scowls, giving it offhandedly as he moves to step past. Then he stops. You stare, transfixed as the colour drains from his face. His legs seem rooted to the floor. You steel yourself to meet his gaze but it's… hollow. The eyes you meet are that of a shell- a vacant, breathing corpse.
You look away and the barista descends upon what remains.
He doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a sound at all. The wet tearing of flesh is enough to keep your eyes on the floor. The tiles are stained a dirty brown. (Smack.) They have chipped in places, little cracks running through and revealing the loose earth beneath. (Thud.) A bug crawls from the dirt. Or at least, you think it’s a bug. (Tear.) A crimson puddle seeps into view; you decide to look elsewhere.
Happy, laughing things stare at you from a poster. The figures on it are almost human, smiling renditions of men and women if they had been sculpted by a child. The only accurate features are the teeth.
The clock on the wall has eleven numbers. The hands rotate at random, spinning and stopping in opposite directions. You watch as it falters and picks up speed, never once coming to a point where it could properly mark the passage of time.
A clink against the table pulls you from your transfixion. There stands the barista, smiling. They're different now- the slant of their chin, the colour of their eyes. Those features are new, stolen from a man who is now something different.
They have placed a cup in front of you; the muddy red liquid swirling inside almost looks like tea. You pick it up (because what else are you supposed to do?) and run a thumb along the handle’s rough surface. It’s white, with a hundred organic ridges. The liquid inside is warm and distinctly metallic. You try not to think about it.
“Would you like a sample?” They slide a tray towards you. You're not sure what the things on it are, but you know that you want them. Desires, goals. When you ask if they are free the barista says nothing. When you ask for the price a curious expression crosses their face before they give it to you.
You decide that no, you wouldn't like a sample today.
The barista steps towards you clumsily, as if putting one foot in front of the other is something they haven’t done before. They take your hand. Their fingers are hard, smooth as ice and just as cold. They run an almost-thumb down your palm, bones growing and shifting, snapping into place as their limbs change to imitate your own. You yank your arm away. The cold of their fingers has forced you to focus, pulled you back to some semblance of reality. You stand, knocking over your chair in the process. It hits the ground with a dull thud and begins to gently sink into the earth.
The barista looks at you with eyes that were his and are now yours too. You hug your chest, bile rising in your throat. You have to get away. They don’t stop you, and perhaps that is the most disturbing thing of all. Calling out a simple “come again!” before you can flee, breathless, into the night.
In the dark and cold you think for a moment that you have stumbled into another hell, so sudden is the change. But no, there are outlines of trees; leaves beneath your shoes. This is the forest once more.
You turn, expecting a building but greeted by darkness. Blink, let your eyes adjust to the night. There is a corpse at your feet. It looks like it's been there a while. Mushrooms grow from its eyes, the slant of its chin. You stumble away.
The rumble of traffic offers a clear direction. Lights flash in the distance and you realise for the first time that your hands are caked in dry crimson. Look away, focus on the treeline and the false safety it promises. The taste of copper sits heavy on your tongue.
‘Come again!’ The call was not a request, but a promise. Not tomorrow, if you’re lucky not for years to come. But you will return one day,
To the midnight cafe.
Learn to articulate how you're feeling without accusing anyone of having bad intentions. You can say "I'm afraid of being alone" without saying "you're just going to leave me like everyone else." You can say "I need some reassurance" without saying "you probably don't love me anymore." You can say "I'm afraid I've hurt your feelings and I'd like to talk it through" without saying "you don't even like me anymore." You can say "I want to spend more time with you" without saying "you've gotten tired of me." You can say "I feel misunderstood" without saying "you always judge me." Try not to let your emotions get the best of you. Have a conversation focused on finding solutions instead of escalating the conflict.
