Doodles To Cope With The Agony Of Waiting.

Stars

I used to dream with stars until I met one

One last time, Blood for the blood God

What if Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had written about John Watson? Everything is the same, except that we are reading Sherlock Holmes’s observations about his new flatmate Doctor Watson.

Things start out impersonal, intellectual, but fall right off that cold, craggy cliff before the first page is done with. The detective deduces the doctor from top to toes but by the second paragraph he’s forced to admit having a blush surprised out of him by Watson’s unlooked-for wonder and admiration. For accuracy’s sake and perhaps with a pinch of pride, he details everything that Watson had said in his praise, and ends up confessing to the pages how very agreeable it was to be met with applause instead of derision and doubt for once.

Holmes is later pleased to be written about in turn, but disgusted with the overly romantic tone Watson’s tale-telling takes. In a pique, he begins a paper on the man’s latest conquest, intending to show his flatmate how the wrong tone can ruin a story by using a cold, scientific tone to describe a passionate scene. Alas, the great brain meets a puzzle it cannot solve. Try as he will, his prose will not stay unmoved by its subject. Watson’s looks, Watson’s manners, Watson’s honesty and humor and curious mixture of humility and hubris; they poison Sherlock’s pen with admiration, and he throws the papers into the fire in the end, and tells himself it is proximity to the flames that heat his cheeks.

Doctor Watson has regular hours, but illness and injury do not. Holmes watches his flatmate dash away at all hours and in all manner of weather, leather satchel in hand and shoulders set for battle. He amuses himself by deducing the difficulties the doctor has ahead of him and predicting the hour he will return. If he foresees a particularly trying case for his friend, he ensures that Mrs. Hudson will send refreshments up at the proper time, and that he himself will be in the middle of playing one of Watson’s favorite airs to welcome him home. Between cases, Holmes assists by deducing diagnoses from symptoms related to him, and sometimes even accompanies Watson when he admits that an additional set of hands will not be unwelcome.

Their vocations even overlap now and again. Both Watson’s books and Holmes’s notes will at times mention the same names and places, with the doctor stitching up a man’s leg while the detective interrogates the other end of him. Their lives, their work, their stories grow more deeply intertwined as time passes, and what began as a scientific observation ends up as what can only be called a love letter.

god himself cannot save you people from my powers of lyric association. jayvik × Ezra bell edit be upon ye

a lot of people remembered tommy as the hero, the one to kill dream, the one to put him in jail, the one who "did it all" and survived it all. so they built big statues of him after his death, commemorating how great he was. but that wasn't what he was at all. he was a kid. he was a kid that was beaten in a dark, hot cell. the statues seemed to be compensating for the death tommy actually had: a death without dignity or grace, a death painfully unfit for a hero. tommy was a kid, but only one of his graves reflected that. unsurprisingly, it was the grave built by tubbo, the other kid. that was the grave tommy deserved.

Death

When Russia mentions death there is an imperceptible flinch in the room. He does it causally. Why wouldn’t he? He has died so many times.

           America’s hand still flutters up, aimlessly, as though to touch an old scar, but there are too many. He is still young, and he moves unconsciously. His is the age of bullets, explosions, and distant violence. He knows well the pain of a gunshot. That doesn’t mean anything anymore. He knows what it is to become nothing at the touch of a button; the feeling of fire before the force of scientific progress strips flesh from bone. You still come back from nothing, when you’re not human. He always came back.

           England knows these things. He knows fire more intimately. After what feels like an eternity it stops hurting. The powerful belief of his people drove him back. You can come back from ash. He never felt like a phoenix.

           France knows defeat when bringing blade against blade. The piercing is symbolic; his heart beating itself to shreds as though he could really die when he never does. He falls to his knees, not animated by blood or a heartbeat. You recover from mortal wounds. He still fights as though he can die because others can.

           Spain, God knows, has drowned more times than he can remember. It burns when the water fills his lungs. Salt water is worse. You can still get back to shore, even if it takes hours. He doesn’t need to breath.

           Germany, Italy, and Japan died in that grand war. They did not make their pact to lose. They could have died and never come back, the stakes they gambled. The stroke of a pen can cease the driving force that brings you back and back and back… They knew death dearly enough to dare to risk their lives.

           China is older than all of them. He knows death in nearly every form. He almost knows rebirth. He could laugh at most of the stories the others tell; that though does not cross his mind. They may all argue but there is one thing they understand.

           Russia has mentioned death. There was an imperceptible flinch in the room. All of them thought of it, briefly, in flashes and moments without words, but none dwell. Why would they? They have all died so many times.  

GUYS OMGGMGJGM QHAT IF THEY MET 😍😍😍🤩

bleach au where the human teens are millennials

ulquiorra: if this eye cannot see a thing, then it does not exist orihime: my dude just for got about gravity smh

aizen: i am perfectly capable of reaching your heart at any moment ichigo: pics or it didn’t happen

mayuri: killing you now will be as easy as strangling a baby ishida: op strangles babies but go off i guess

ichigo: i will yeet you into the fucking sun hollow ichigo: i’m a bad bitch you can’t kill me! zangetsu, sobbing: what the fuck is going on

yoruichi, urahara, gin, and shinji are the only ones who understand what the fuck any of them are saying

c!Dream is a tragic villain, not in the sense that he was molded into a terrible person by forces outside of his control, but in the way that every single decision he’s ever made has been the worst one possible. Like, he was respected, he had friends, he had so much going for him. But instead of being content, instead of quitting while he was ahead, he chose to be a child abusing mass murderer, and every step of the way you’re just left asking Why? Why would you throw away your life like this? How can you be this stupid? How don’t you hurt? And it’s awesome.

consider: sherlock teasing john for his bad poetry, not realizing the love poems are about him