plantones

Blinded AU

quick sketch based off of dragonfangz AU where Dipper gets his memories erased and is taken in with the Society of the Blind Eye. However, a certain triangle keeps tabs on him.

I imagine that Dipper would be quite lonely, with Ivan referring to him as “Boy” and the other members feeling guilty about what happened to him to even interact with him. Perhaps Bill would then use this to his advantage, earning Dipper’s trust by ‘befriending’ him and even giving him a name (which Dipper feels is like a gift). This could eventually lead to using Dipper for his 'big plans’.

Or something like that. This AU is a wonderful idea and thank you for letting me draw fanart for it :)

ok but i need a plot where there’s these two idiots who are roommates, and they bicker and act like a married couple constantly, and can hang out like bros but they’re completely platonic, no we’re not in love that’s preposterous!! and it’s so evident that they’re into each other like whenever one goes out on a date, the other is all bitter like ‘no i’m definitely not jealous’. and they like leave bars together at some stupidly early hour and their friends tease them and they just go home and get drunk together instead. and like domestic washing the dishes and fighting over who does what and flinging soap at each other. and then one day it kind of just clicks, you know, like wow you’re my best friend but i think i might love you as more this is so difficult and just, give this to me now.

💫 Hubble Galaxy Classifications As Sigils 💫

A method of celestial witchcraft that calls upon the various shapes of galaxies, using their shapes as sigils, and my personal correspondences of those shapes. 

💫 Ellipticals: have smooth, featureless light distributions and appear as ellipses in photographic images. 

💫 Associations: wisdom, legal matters, confidence, logic, rhetoric, studying, technology, success, motivation, glamours

💫 Spirals: consists of a flattened disk, with stars forming a (usually two-armed) spiral structure, and a central concentration of stars known as the bulge. 

💫 Associations: self love, romantic love, plantonic love, communication, truth, self control

💫 Lenticulars: consist of a bright central bulge, similar in appearance to an elliptical galaxy, surrounded by an extended, disk-like structure. Unlike spiral galaxies, the disks of lenticular galaxies have no visible spiral structure and are not actively forming stars in any significant quantity.

💫 Associations: travel, freedom, power, creativity, intuition,  psychic abilities, spirit work, astral work

💫 Irregulars: galaxies that do not fit into the Hubble sequence, because they have no regular structure (either disk-like or ellipsoidal).

💫 Associations: strength, domesticity, protection, resilience, change, time, freedom, rebirth

I never quite understood the power of positivity. I always underestimated the power of friendships and assumed that anything that made me feel something was destined to be more than ‘just friends’. I completely ruled out the idea of platonic relationships and i forgot how it felt to feel comfortable around someone or to trust so easily. It wasnt until we drove around that night, and I laughed when you got angry at that man in the carpark or you told me you cared about me, that i realised I am worthy of so much more than failed relationships. I am worthy of friendships like you and I, and me and Her, and Him and me. I am allowed to feel things and dwell on those feelings without it developing. It’s nice to feel loved and know that won’t be ruined because of some argument over some girl at 3am. Instead its a “are you busy? I’ve had a bad day” at 2pm, and a long drive that will fill ill all the empty caverns in my chest. Thats what its about. Anybody who tells you otherwise, probably shouldnt be around you.
—  This is going to be my year

anonymous asked:

I WOULD LOVE WONDERBAT TO BE CANON but only if they do it right like these two strong intelligent characters loving and respecting each other and not all like 'this pretty face needs a strong manly man to rescue her all the time' like i need this to be a real Diana and Bruce relationship not damsel-in-distress and superhero relationship

wonderbat (Bruce x diana) is my all time favourite ship. since early on in Bruce Timm’s Justice league animated series. the way it was handled is really great for me for multiple reasons

  • Bruce and Diana care about each other from before anything non platonic shows up
  • Bruce doesn’t act all macho for no reason. he is actually really emotional and gets worried if there friendship/ teammate status would be at stake and asks Jon for advise and it is the cutest thing ever.
  • When Diana starts liking Bruce she is upfront about it and extremely confident and straight forward about what she wants.
  • Bruce literally adores the ground Diana walks on and even though she can withstand enormous amounts of pain and not feel a thing he would freak out and search the entire fight field if he has to to find her
  • Gender roles are more often than not reversed when it comes to a damsel in distress given that the writers of the show constantly reminded us that bruce is out of his league when it comes to meta human powers
  • all in all the all time OTP ever fight me.

Gifs by neopuff

Failure- A Martha-Centric One Shot

The lovely Martha is hurting after her failure to become a goddess today, and that makes me sad. I’m going to make myself more sad by writing about. Okay, here’s a thing. There’s a lot of platonic Marthlington, because I love that more than anything if I’m honest. It got fluffy very fast. Enjoy!

~-~

Martha hadn’t been this scared in her life. Not ever.

There had been the time when she was hunted for her disbelief in her uncle Mianite. She’d nearly died many times, but that was better than this. She could beat any soldier.

She had been scared to propose to Steve, but that, after long last, had turned out for the best. It was Steve- he wasn’t anyone to fear.

This was different. This meant overcoming herself, and she wasn’t sure that she could do that. Despite this, she stood tall in the rune circle.

James, the lovely wizard, gave her a supportive thumbs up. She smiled graciously at him.

“We all believe in you,” Jordan reminded her, standing with the other heroes. “You can do this.”

The mystic took a deep breath. “Alright, here goes nothing.”

She activated the spell. The runes glowed, coming to life on the earth around her. She felt her entire being shaking, as if trembling against some great force. Martha wanted to scream out, but whether in pain or ecstasy she didn’t know.

The feeling consumed her entire being. She felt like a lightning bolt, full of electricity, power, and overwhelming potential.

And then, everything was burning.

Martha crashed down to earth, every cell in her being trembling and calling out in pain, seeming to be chastising her all at once for what she had attempted. The hot ground below her stung her knees, but she barely noticed. She was extremely tired.

“This….” She whispered, voice hoarse, looking around. Every where around her was the color of blood. She was already sweating from the heat. “Where am I?”

She heard a cry behind her. It was Jordan, falling out of a portal created out of the not-so-considerate wizard Waglington’s magic. “Wag!” He cried.

“Where…?” She tried again, feeling ready to collapse.

Jordan met eyes with Martha, dawning a confused expression. “Martha? Well, this is the Nether. Wag, did you send Martha here?”

By magic, James’ voice echoed through the hellish landscape. “I certainty did not! Martha, are you alright?”

“I believe this was my fault,” Dianite’s spirit spoke in their minds. With no body’s vocal chords to use, he could only be heard in the consciousness of others. “When I tried to stabilize you, I must have pulled you into my domain. I’m sorry, Martha, but without Mianite to counteract my pull, I’m afraid this cannot be done.”

Martha’s heart sunk. She had failed. As her spirit gave out, so did her physical form. Luckily, just as she collapsed, James pulled her back into the overworld with his magic. Instead of burning her entire front half on the nether rack, she collapsed into the soft grass outside her home. James, only a few feet away, quickly moved to her aid.

“Martha!” He cried, moving her onto her back and cradling her head in his arms. “Are you okay?”

Martha wanted to cry, but she was too tired. Instead, as she laid in James’ lap, she murmured, “I’m sorry, James. I failed you. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, no, Martha,” James began, running his fingers through her hair. “You didn’t fail anyone. This wasn’t your fault- you were amazing. You survived just fine, and we can try again another time.”

Martha shook her head. “No, we need Mianite. He will never help me. I had to be strong enough to overcome myself, and I wasn’t. It’s impossible. I’m too weak.”

James was incredulous. “You, weak?” He gasped. “Martha, you’re anything but weak. You can see into the future, for the gods’ sakes! You can perform any spell imaginable! You fought your way through guard after guard in the Inertia to save Steve and Andor. Seriously, that was all you. We heroes spent that whole mission dicking around with puzzles. You just survived the most dangerous spell ever conceived, dammit! Martha, it is literally impossible for anyone to enact that spell and survive, especially if something goes wrong! You’re impossibly strong. You are incredible.”

Martha looked up into the eyes of the wizard. “You’re too nice to me,” She groaned, but she was smiling.

“I’m your Champion, I have to be,” He played off, but he was blushing.

“I love you, you idiot,” She laughed, feeling infinitely better.

Waglington feigned shock. “Martha, you’re cheating on Steve with me, again?!”

Martha tried to shove him, but her arms did not cooperate, instead she groaned. “You know what I mean. In the friends-yet-champion-and-almost-goddess-way.”

James rolled his eyes. “As long as Steve doesn’t have to rebuild my tower again, that’s fine by me.”

“It better be,” Martha laughed. She felt exhaustion tug at her entire being. “I don’t think I can move right now.”

“Want me to carry you to your bed?” James offered.

“Yes, please.”

FICHA#1: El Guitarrista

El último muchacho que logró movilizar dos o tres hormonas de la Antinovia era, obviamente, un guitarrista. (Sépase que, por determinación genética –mi madre conoció a mi padre cuando lo vio tocando la guitarra en un concierto-, para obtener un acceso directo a las hormonas de Antinovia es casi un requisito ejercer alguna actividad artística, entendiéndose como arte también tirar caravanas de macramé en un paño).  

Cuando lo conocí a través de un amigo, percibí -proyecté, imaginé- una “mutua” buena onda de inmediato. “Linda sonrisa”, pensé, y me extrañé de mis propios piropos mentales porque no era ni rasta, ni moreno, ni tenía el pelo largo, ni estaba vestido todo de negro, ni ostentaba piercings. Un pibe prolijo, casi como del montón, pero con una forma de sonreír increíble y una voz increíble y –principalmente- una guitarra entre sus brazos que hacía sonar con un swing increíble.

(Antinovia después de dos microsegundos de contacto visual con El Guitarrista)

Increíble también mi incredulidad extrema –valgan todas las redundancias- al dejar pasar a mi consciente el pensamiento: “con este muchacho saldría sin dudarlo”. Una de las leyes básicas de la Antinovia es que apenas la idea de “salir con alguien” aflora en la corteza cerebral, automáticamente quedan excluidas TODAS las posibilidades de a) tener una salida y b) construir algo más o menos parecido a una relación más o menos estable (es decir: dormir con el pibe por lo menos tres veces seguidas e ir a la feria con mate después de una de esas veces). Por supuesto, el guitarrista no iba a ser la excepción confirmando la regla: fue un caso más del paradigma antinovístico de la no correspondencia, que a esta altura tiene más pruebas empíricas que la Ley de Gravedad.

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(Antinovia creyendo haber encontrado a su guitarrista acompañante para salir a recorrer el mundo).

Así fue que destiné un total aproximado de 15 horas netas de chat con El Guitarrista, en las que prácticamente ya habíamos acordado ir juntos a tocar a Brasil, ya me había tirado varias líneas brillantes con las que di origen a este blog (“dos años de rock en un apartamento de solteras” es una frase de su autoría), y yo ya me había hecho la idea de que gustaba –al fin- de alguien y de que en este otoño la cama no iba a estar tan fría. Y, en efecto, no lo estuvo la noche en que nos volvimos juntos de una fiesta totalmente ebrios a revolcarnos cual rockstars en una orgía después de Woodstock. La misma madrugada en que se escandalizó con el huracán desordenador que parecía haber pasado por mi cuarto: a las 10:05 el hombre ya estaba huyendo bajo alguna coartada increíble (esta vez, en el sentido literal), tan despavorido que comenzó corriendo hacia el lado contrario al de la parada de ómnibus. Por suerte alcancé a pegarle el grito antes de terminara corriendo mar adentro y se encontrara con el Polo Sur.

(El Chafi en cuestión huyendo cuando se dio cuenta que entraba un rayo de sol por la ventana y que todavía estaba interactuando conmigo)

Pero como las reglas de Chica Cosmo no rigen ni regirán mi vida, no me importó que El Guitarrista no hubiese querido compartir ni medio segundo de sobriedad en mi casa, y seguí entusiasmándome con limosnas de charlas digitales, promesas diluidas de futuras canciones a dúo y fantasías producidas por mi mente estúpida cuando ha decretado que alguien le gusta, incluso cuando no recuerda bien nada de lo que ocurrió la única noche que pasaron juntos. Hasta que en la hora 15:01 de chat ininterrumpido me di cuenta que las conversaciones las empezaba todas yo, y que ya me estaba pareciendo a los aspirantes a chafi que no dejan que Antinovia aparezca conectada ni una vez sin decirle alguna estupidez para iniciar una charla que termine invitándola a tomar una cerveza, solo para ser rechazados con un rotundo “odio las citas”.

(Antinovia dándose cuenta de que sus alocuciones representaban el 82% del diálogo con El Guitarrista).

La realidad es que solo odio las citas con pibes que no me atraen. Con El Guitarrista habría amado tener una cita, ochenta citas, al punto de que yo misma lo invité a varias y fui pospuesta en sucesivas oportunidades, algunas de ellas a causa de los ensayos, otras a causa de toques, otras porque "ya había arreglado” verse con amigos (como si una no reacomodara su agenda con amigas cuando un pibe le gusta mucho)… Juntarse con El Guitarrista era más difícil que coordinar una entrevista con Kennedy el día después de su asesinato.

Y la vez que al fin logro combinar un encuentro (AKA “tocar unos temas brasileros en mi casa”), y abandono a las corridas un after office con cerveza GRATIS para volver a tiempo a casa y limpiar mi cuarto huracanado y bañarme y abrirle la puerta con mi mejor sonrisa, me deja plantada aludiendo a las SEIS CUADRAS que tenía que caminar, bajo lluvia, hasta la parada. LAS MISMAS CUADRAS  QUE YO CORRÍ, BAJO LLUVIA, PARA LLEGAR A TIEMPO Y ESPERARLO EN CASA. 

Antinovia en su triatlón bajo lluvia para llegar a tiempo a esperar al Chafi:

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Antinovia desinfectando su cuarto en 12,6 minutos para que El Chafi no se espantara como la última vez:

Expectativa de Antinovia después de asearse en los 7 minutos que le quedaban antes de la hora acordada:

Realidad (Antinovia invocando al Chafi en la tormenta):

Existe un nuevo invento, un gran avance de la ciencia, se llama paraguas, quizás te podría servir. Hace diez años que debés ensayar con bandas distribuidas en varios puntos geográficos de la ciudad, ¿todos los ensayos los suspendiste por lluvia? (Y, en todo caso, si el problema era que no se mojara la guitarra,  la podías dejar tranquilo en tu casa; ya me habías conquistado, no era necesaria)”. He aquí lo que tendría que haberle contestado al teléfono cuando me estaba poniendo a la lluvia como excusa. Pero no, con mi voz de estúpida no tuve una mejor respuesta que “bueno, ya tenés mi número, arreglamos para otra”.

Si continuara Hola Metrópolis llamaría para dedicarle al Guitarrista esta hermosa canción de los Jackson 5, versionada por un inspiradísimo e infravalorado Luis Miguel: “No culpes a la noche, no culpes a la lluvia, será que no me amas”.

Epílogo

Obviamente, nunca existió la “otra” cita. Esa charla fue la última vez que escuché su voz. “Arreglamos, hacemos algo”, me dijo, cual promesa electoral de un presidente que pretende renunciar antes de los comicios. Una noche llegué muy ebria y catalogué como brillante la siguiente idea de  conversación digital con él:

-        Felicitaciones.

-        Ja, hola, ¿por?

-        Porque te ganaste la chance de tomar hoy esa cerveza que nos debíamos.

La charla habría sido mucho más efectiva si no hubieran pasado como tres horas entre mi congratulación y su pregunta, y 48 minutos más entre su pregunta y mi respuesta. Luego de la cual se erigió un gran “Visto” que podía traducirse al sistema  LBM (Lenguaje Básico Masculino) como un gran APS (Adiós para Siempre), de esos que yo he concedido a especímenes que escriben aberrancias como “ola que beya eres” o, la más reciente pero ya convertida en clásico, “¿yo soy un chafi?

(Antinovia creyendo que había encontrado la fórmula mágica para que El Guitarrista saliera con ella. Y volviendo a fracasar.)

Si el Guitarrista me hubiese preguntado sobre su condición chafística, podría haberle contestado tranquilamente: sí, sos un chafi. No de esos genéricos que una sabe padecen chafismo crónico, sos un chafi de esos que no se ven en ningún lugar de la noche porque viven escondidos en las salas de ensayo, y que seguramente en dos o tres meses veamos con alguna tonta teñida con menos onda que su pelo planchado. Un chafi  que no se animó a tener una cita conmigo porque le asustaba que alguien con más rock que él pudiera enamorarlo.