i went to a tiny counterserve diner once and accidentally poured sugar instead of salt all over my hashbrowns and was eating them sadly anyways. the waitress took them away and started making me another one and I tried to protest, but she just snorted and said "we're not catholic here". now every time i'm doing something painful out of obligation i think about how that is not repenting, this body is not a catholic establishment, there is no nobility in suffering.
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sukuna ryomen is somewhat of an infamous bachelor.
it’s not surprising to see him with a new beau every few months, if not weeks — almost trope-like in their frequency, his image bouncing between playboy and manwhore. he doesn’t take it personally, and he makes sure to let people know: he’s young and sexy and he has two oscars, for fuck’s sake, so he thinks the world can cut him some slack when he wants to mess around. and mess around he does.
between obvious paparazzi shots of panties tucked badly into his back pocket, and instagram posts with fellow actors and models pressed tightly against his chest, most are divided between thinking it’s either damn good pr, or a simple man living a life most would wish for. regardless, nobody is surprised when sukuna arrives alone at the mugler show for paris fashion week, and leaves with someone on his arm.
the only thing that came as a bolt from the blue was that it was you hanging from him.
the photos are undeniable, a story in parts; sukuna finding his seat in the front row, you on one side and kendall jenner on his other. his eyes drifting from the models to your face, as if taking a clandestine peek. you, meeting his underhanded gaze with a smile as sweet as spun sugar — and, gasp, sukuna returning it. the display is so out of character for him it feels almost voyeuristic to see it plastered all over twitter.
you, with your vintage, girl-next-door-esque image, big hair and big eyes and demure, calf-length hems, a voice that evokes the memory of helen forrest or ella fitzgerald. him, with his smudged eyeliner and tattoos and all-black attire, persistently typecasted as the panty-dropping bad-boy or devil-smiled brute. it shouldn’t work. for all intents and purposes, he should be spotted with a new supermodel the next week, leaving you in the dust of his philandering. most expect it, wait for the other boot to drop — expect an album of heartbreak from you, but—
a month passes. and another, and another. and suddenly sukuna ryomen, notorious rake, is photographed backstage at your shows. suddenly there’s an anklet hanging from your ankle, his initials in garnet. it’s early morning paparazzi pictures of you both in sweatpants and hoodies — yours, suspiciously oversized — one of his hands engulfing yours, the other holding a bag of takeout from a local breakfast spot, a lit cigarette in his mouth. hickies on your neck and a shit-eating grin on sukuna’s face. candid snaps taken at intimately sized parties, with his chin hooked over your shoulder and his large hands cupping your stomach. tiktoks of you both on the red carpet in the background of somebody else’s interview, sukuna leaning in close to brush an eyelash from your cheek.
neither of you confirm anything, but then — you don’t need to, do you?
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Everlasting Trio DPxDC Nobody Knows Au
I love nobody knows aus.
I love aus where danny flees to Gotham after a Bad Time with his parents.
So what if:
Sam moves to Gotham for college after graduation. Tucker has flown down from MIT over the semester break to spend the month with her. They've stayed very close knit.
They're having brunch at a small cafe maybe a week in, and suddenly Sam's hand darts across the table and grips his forearm so tight it hurts.
He startles and asks her what's wrong, but she doesn't answer. She's too busy staring across the room with a haunted look on her face. Tucker follows her gaze and goes cold and still with shock and disbelief.
They're both frozen because that? That looks like Danny.
Danny, their childhood best friend. Danny who came to their freshman year of high school a little different. Withdrawn.
Danny who kept pulling away and making excuses no matter how hard they tried to engage him, who looked more tired and ragged with every passing week.
Danny who disappeared without a trace shortly after he turned sixteen and who, though it largely went unspoken, they believed dead and gone forever.
"It's not," Tucker whispers weakly. "It can't be, right?"
The guy across the cafe is older than the kid they remember, of course. Around twenty, exactly how old they are. How old Danny should be. He's tall, tall like they and Jazz always assured Danny he would be once he hit a growth spurt and into his dad's genes.
His nails are painted and his ears are pierced and his hair is a little longer, but he sits in front of his papers and computer with eerily familiar bad posture and a pen tapping at his bottom lip like their Danny always did when he tried to focus.
He looks leagues healthier than their Danny did before he went missing.
He huffs a breath out of his nose and pokes his bottom lip out as he scowls at something on his screen, and before Tucker can even process the gut punch of such a familiar mannerism Sam is out of her chair and halfway across the cafe.
Tucker scrambles after her with half coherent protests.
He reaches the table as Sam slams herself down into the chair across from the doppelganger, the guy jerking in surprise and blinking up at his two unexpected guests with confusion and alarm.
Then, slowly, Tucker watches his face go pale and the confusion be replaced with dawning shock, recognition and something unreadable.
"Oh," Danny breathes.
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Eddie: *overhears some girls gossiping about how Steve and Nancy got in a fight in an alley and the police got involved*
Eddie: *hears someone else say that Nancy Wheeler was taken to the police station*
Eddie: *sees Steve jumpy as hell with bruises on his face*
Eddie: *notices that Steve doesn’t talk to his friends anymore. notices that Steve and Nancy always seem miserable together. notices that only one of them is trying to please the other*
Eddie: *witnesses the halloween bathroom fight*
Eddie: *sees Steve confused, beat up, bruised to hell, and single the literal next time he sees him*
Eddie: *puts the pieces together and draws a conclusion*
Conclusion: *is wrong*
Eddie, accosting Steve at lunch: Hey, did you know that if a guy is getting hit by somebody that it’s abuse? Even if it’s a girl doing it.
Steve, confused: Oh-kay?
Steve, deciding that Eddie is reaching out to him for a reason and draws the same wrong conclusion about Eddie: I mean, yeah. That’s - yeah? That’s true. And messed up. You should tell someone if that’s, uh…going on.
Eddie: Yes, exactly. You should.
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the thing about saying “violence against [fascists/pedophiles/etc] is always justified” is that people immediately begin to expand their definition of who counts as a [fascist/pedophile/etc] to include people they personally don’t like, in order to justify violence against them, whether or not they are actually a [fascist/pedophile/etc] or whether they are actually doing harm (or are very likely to do harm) to others. the solution to dealing with the fact that [fascists/pedophiles/etc] exist in society should never be to go looking for a reason to do violence, or to train yourself to treat violence as a reflexive action.
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