#it's spooky

[yuukirita]

look... I just miss drawing clothes :/ big pants are cool. though I'm more of a big jacket kind of guy (They have secret pockets, we all love pockets)

I'll expand on these designs- I made them in a rush.

and for those that saw my other human designs wondering what happened to Bee...

He's freaking SKINNY under that termo suit. They're the same- Kind of. I might change both anyway (Cliff does have meat on his bones tought- he's an athlete after all.

[kalied0skull]

HOW ARE PEOPLE JUST SENDING YOU NOTHING... WHAT THE HECK...

i iii dunno manaann. . . i just let em do their thing at this point /silly

[call-me-copycat]

Here I was thinking that since I'm not overly exhausted out of my mind, that I was getting just enough sleep =⁠_⁠= Only for my eyes to do the drooping thing where I literally start to lose the ability to hold my eyelids open (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠)

I understand now, why people say they believe Mic is more sleep deprived of Aizawa. You reach a point where you don't think you're tired at all! When in reality you're actually losing your mind (⁠ ⁠･ั⁠﹏⁠･ั⁠)

[almondcroissantsandink]

currently watching theradbrad play The Quarry and Max is my favorite 

[aux-armes-citoyens]

i have the absolute pleasure and privilege of watching my muse on the tv and you guys have the absolute misery and misfortune of me not shutting the fuck up about it

[literally-ritsu]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Ritsu is on the bottom stair when Takano catches up with him. His hand is hovering over the exit door's knob. His steps never make a sound.

Takano stares at him from the top of the stairs. His chest heaving; face pale and horrified.

Ritsu grins up at him sharply. "What's the matter, Senpai? You look like you've seen a ghost."

He vanishes.

[eonsgoneby]

The Platform

This place was never meant to be empty.

Sure, the ground loathes when you tread upon it, and the escalators’ dutiful chugging is underlaid by strained groans and hateful squeals whenever it’s forced to take your weight. Sure, the grey of the walls saps the light and warmth and sound from the space, leaving any crowd feeling empty and alone. And sure, with each train that comes, the doors seem to linger longer before begrudgingly struggling open to permit you entrance, and maybe, if you’re lucky, passage to somewhere, instead of another nowhere. Every aspect of the space glowers and bids you move along.

But it was never meant to be empty. Your footsteps weren’t meant to be audible over the silence, and your heartbeat ought to be drowned out by the nervous muttering of people going from somewhere to somewhere, not thrumming in the emptiness of the space. And no space this empty has the right to be this warm, the stale air humid with the breath of people who aren’t there.

The Immortal passes through.