Теперь моя тетрадь по алгебре ещё круче.

Я просто смотрел Симпсонов, увидел галочку и решил найти его для прикола. Я не ожидал что это правда.

#fallout is a comedy (inspired by [x][x])

For the next time like this Zack should bring Cloud to distract Sephiroth and it suddenly turns into double date 😂

Imagine Aerith is finally introducing her boyfriend to Sephiroth who he has supposedly never seen yet (though he unknowingly already has) So when he answers the door, he’s surprised to see Zack standing there, realizes he’s Aerith’s boyfriend and looks just about ready to kill.

Zack *excitedly*: “Sephiroth!!!”

Sephiroth: “Zaaackk!”

Zack: “Sephiroth!!!!”

Sephiroth *slightly angrier voice*: “Zaaaacckk 👹”

Zack: *sweating*: Sephiroth…

Older brother!Sephiroth insists on joining them for the most awkward dinner date in the history of dates.

Aerith, squinting at the menu: They say the ribs here are amazing. I wonder, though, how do you even cut those apart?

*Sephiroth slowly holds up a steak knife, maintaining direct eye contact. Zack starts trembling*

Aerith, still focused on the menu: I guess a steak knife could work. But does it need that much force?

*Sephiroth impales his own menu, Zack shrieks and dives under the table*

A gif version of this post

We need more games with romanceable antagonists

My favourite sort of glass

Inktober Day 18. Waiting

@iffy-kanoknit @melisjevisje

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Mr Pickle doesn’t get very many visitors.

His human wasn’t the sociable type in the slightest, and hence many guests didn’t visit Mr Pickle. Apart from the bald man with glasses occasionally, who would stagger into the bathroom in the wee hours, empty the contents of his stomach into the toilet, and give Mr Pickle a pat up on his shelf. Or the other, more easygoing gentleman, who always sang as he made water, especially when he, the bald man and Mr Pickle’s human were drinking.

The bathroom isn’t thought to be a vantage point of the home. Yet from here, perched on his special shelf, alongside the lines of butterflies, Mr Pickle can see everything he needs to. He can see the shadow looming from the door when it opens at night, the flick of the yellow-tinged hall light. The sound of oxford-clad feet, the rustle of an expensive coat being hung on its hook, and an umbrella swinging into place beside it.

When he had a body, years ago, he would be in the hallway right this second, gambolling around the pinstripe-suited tower legs of his human. And settling on his haunches on the plush carpet for a well-coveted scratch behind the ears.

But his body is a little frozen now, suctioned into place on his shelf, with his special golden plaque. So instead of running to meet his human, Mr Pickle must wait, until his dark-haired, long-legged human comes to greet him, and use the lavatory. He always brings a book with him too- 10,000 Leagues Under the Sea is Mr Pickle’s favourite.

Sometimes, the hallway light won’t flick on until the following morning. Or for several mornings after that. On these occasions, when he was a short furry little body, the bald man would visit, to ration out his bowl of dinner, and sometimes slip him a slice of bacon. But now, he needs no food. So all he can do is wait. A handful of times, weeks pass before Mr Pickle’s human returns, usually red-eyed with fatigue, and bladder bursting. The first thing he does is pay Mr Pickle a visit, which makes him feel very loved and appreciated indeed. But there’s not much talking then, and a flump from upstairs several moments after their reunion will tell Mr Pickle that his human has surrendered to exhausted dreams.

No matter how long he’s gone the human always comes home, eventually. To read the newspapers that slowly pile up against the front door, and tend to the modest garden that blossomed out the back.

Until one day, Mr Pickle’s human doesn’t.

The air in the house feels different, the day after, but he ignores it. His human would come home. He always did. But the funny taste of the air lingers, and the halls remain silent and still, ever since Mr Pickle’s human’s boy ran out in a flood of tears.

But Mr Pickle’s human would come home soon.When he had a body, and he was good, his human would give him treats. He just had to keep waiting patiently, like a good boy. Even as the newspapers that thwack onto the front door pile so high they spill over one day, and the garden grows wild and untamed. Mr Pickle waits, as the loneliness drapes over him like a death shroud, and the endless cycle of sunshine, moonlight beaming through the curtains glazes his eyes over.

Eventually, the hall light flicks back on one night. But it’s not his human that stumbles through the door in a zombie-like stupor, face puffy from crying. It’s his human’s boy, the shorter, suit-wearing man, who throws his coat on the floor, and rockets up stairs to collapse on the bed into a ball of agony and tears.

He doesn’t say hello to Mr Pickle. So Mr Pickle waits, like he always does, a steadfast picture of patience. For his human, his real human, to come home.

The funny texture of the air never leaves. Mr Pickle is almost used to it, now. The new taste of the air, the foreign smells of the blond-haired boy and his equally fair-haired lady, as they live and breathe and exist in this house.

The woman visits him in the bathroom, from time to time. But she never says hello, just breezes in and out as though he isn’t even there.

So Mr Pickle waits. Waits and waits and waits.

Because maybe if he keeps waiting, his human will finally come home, and say hello.

 this post put zuko with kiyoshi makeup in my head and then I needed to draw it……..