#excited for lizzy too

[lazyalani]

Sebby going from grrrr to purrr in s4

[bre4yd]

BAM!

[ceratedfish24]

Let them have their fun. It’s not that deep. The creators are not as concerned with the lore like the fandom is. They see the shit you guys say. I will NEVER forgive you guys for making Scar and Grian feel like they can’t team up. Don’t let it happen to Pearl, Scott, and Cleo. It’s not fun anymore. You’re being a problem.

[k1ttnz]

To be continued...

[plutoonwheels]

back in my art era for my favourite fish woman

Apologies about the quality!

[shoe-def1sh]

AH OMG

I forgot I overheard people the other day taking about Lizzie and Joel. I was literally exploding. But I didn't talk to them cause I'm awkward.

[ellena-asg]

[toribookworm22]

Hallo-Watch Poll 👓👻

To give a few notes of context, I don't really do horror, but it's because of really bad paranoia, especially in rumination and a terrible reaction to jumpscares. (So no Saw but Get Out is fine.)

If you also would like to chime in with how scary you found a few of these options, please feel free.

If nothing else, I'm going with the Muppets.

[fazgoo-connoiseur-1987]

Okay absolutly deranged late night post about the Mech AU I've been thinking about bear with me.

Okay so Bill n Henry develop their own Mechs and work together. They pilot them themselves for like a decade or so but there's an immence physical and emotional strain that leaves both of them too unfit to do that anymore.

The way that they work is you get ingrained INTO the wiring and if your emotional state isn't right or you don't pair with the Mech well you get pulled apart basically- like your veins are the circuitry now (spinglocking parallel). They know this cus some of the guys they got to test them had this happen and it almost happened to Bill that one time too.

Cus of this risk it's imporant to have people who can pair with the Mechs with little resistance. And who is malleable mentally? Children!

So it's less of a literal child murder schenario and more metaphorical. Like it's death because of their loss of childhoods and conversions into war machines.

So obvs Susie, Jeremy, Fritz, Gabriel and Cassidy have to pilot the giant metal robots now. It was probably like a shady volenteer program or something. I like the idea of Charlie being their handler cus of the puppet motif thats cute. Mike works maintenance and he hates it.

Yeh :] Faz Inc brand Mechs :] Child soldiers :]

[toontownportraits]

i don't get a choice in the matter / why would i? it's only the death of me

[veryhopefulromantic]

red, white, blue is in the skies

[placeinthisworld]

Fave of the new Lizzy tracks?

OOh

- i guess

- drunk, running

- broken glass

- you forced me to

- better than this

- the elevator

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 17: you're the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest

"Leave me alone."

2809 Words; Rewired AU

TW for mentions of violence and blood, injury, mentions of death

AO3 ver

Morris leaned back with a wince.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. The ballroom was still half-frozen, melting ice spikes covering more than half the space. Slowly growing puddles were beginning to soak into the carpet. Tables and chairs had been overturned, slashed, and smashed—and then there was the detritus from the plates and silverware and glasses that had been used as makeshift ammunition. Broken glass and chunks of ice glittered across the floor.

At least Morris had been able to find his chair, and not the random chair he’d had to grab in the heat of the moment. It didn’t magically fix everything, but he’d switched it to be self-propelled instead of levball-powered, which helped his headache. Marginally.

The sirens weren’t helping, though. The sound had been cut, at some point, but between the still-functioning lights of the ballroom and the red and blue flashing outside, Morris’ headache was not getting better. Add in the EMTs frantically trying to chip through Lizzie’s ice cocoon, all of the other first responders tending to the partygoers, and every other little bit of movement and noise—

Morris liked noise. He hated silence, hated the way it spread out and suffocated a space. The world was meant to be alive and that meant being loud—

Morris rubbed at his temples. Yeah, sure, this was better than the eerie silence of just before—

Gisu going down in a blur of motion, the automaton reclaiming its face and snapping it back on.

Those glowing red eyes staring Morris down like an omen—

But it was not helping his headache. At all. And his headache was making his stomach twist and the room spin—

What a mess.

And tonight had started out so well, too. Rolling around the ballroom, making connections, the mission going off without a hitch—

The sound of shattering glass, a scream cutting across the ballroom—

Morris grimaced. What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. He just wanted it to be over, already, so he could go home to Licorice Whip and Caramel Popcorn and Lolly Pop. Yeah. He’d go home, feed his ferrets, and maybe sleep off all of this awful bullshit that had decided to come crashing in through the skylight. It’d be so nice—much nicer than all of this.

Amidst the general bustle, an EMT made their way over to him. Morris turned to her, ignoring the way the room was spinning.

“Can you tell me your name?” They asked.

“Morris Martinez.” Easy. Like Morris could ever forget his own name.

“Age?”

“...twenty one.” Okay, that one had been a little harder. But it didn’t take that long for Morris to remember that oh, yeah, he’d stopped being twenty in the spring. Just a few moments.

“Favorite color?” They raised a flashlight to Morris’ eyes. 

“Blue.” It’d been his favorite for years—it was the color of the sky, after all.

(And the color of the Dion’s eyes, but that was less important. And not something Morris wanted to think about right now.

He didn’t want to think about anything besides his ferrets, really.)

“Can you hear any ringing in your ears?”

Morris concentrated. “Yeah.” He admitted. “It’s really faint, though.” But it was still there, and probably had been since he woke up next to a wall of ice—he just hadn’t noticed it in the chaos, the faint ringing fading into background noise for him.

“You’re likely concussed.” The EMT said, lowering her flashlight. “But they’ll have to do an MRI to know for sure—you’re holding together well.”

“I kind of figured.” Morris said. Getting hit in the head with the hilt of a sword would do that. At least Gisu was able to take up keeping in contact with Hollis after the automaton left—Morris’ headache was only getting worse as the night progressed.

“Hollis says she’ll meet us at the hospital.” Gisu’s voice floated over to him, and Morris turned to face her. “The one they’re taking Lizzie to.”

Right. Morris glanced back at the ice cocoon—and there she was, being pulled out and loaded onto a stretcher. “She better not die.” He muttered. She probably wouldn’t—Lizzie was tough like that.

“Yeah.” Gisu said. Morris wondered if she was exhausted as he felt, if that was why she was barely talking. There was certainly something, in her eyes, a sort of deep resignation that Morris had long since grown to recognize. She was tired.

Gisu’s hand slipped into his. Easily, like it was always meant to be there, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any moment. It was a familiar gesture in every way, a gesture born of years of knowing each other.

It was a small comfort. But it was still a comfort.

+=+=+=+=+

The waiting room was quiet.

Oh, sure, other people were present, many of them talking in low murmurs that Morris couldn’t really discern, and there was music playing on some small tinny speaker somewhere— 

But compared to the ballroom? Compared to the sirens?

Morris could actually think.

Well, sort of. He was still concussed—he’d gotten the scan results ten minutes ago. But at least the room wasn’t swimming around him. At least there was no internal bleeding. Just a mild concussion to go with the exhaustion.

Now he was just waiting for news on Lizzie’s condition—whatever it might be. There’d been… a lot of blood.

Morris really hoped that she came out okay. The hours had stretched on, the clock in the waiting room reading 11:38. The party had started at 7:00, and when Morris had first looked at the clock in this room it had read 9:52. Hollis had arrived a little over half an hour ago, though she’d been too preoccupied with coordinating with Truman over what details to give to the press to say hello. The vultures had already been at the gala, so it didn’t take long for even more of them to show up looking for a good story. Between that and his MRI, Morris hadn’t had the chance to talk to her yet.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night. Morris needed to get out of this suit ASAP. He needed to see his ferrets. He needed to lie down in his bed and not wake up for the next seven years.

Morris needed a lot of things, if he was being honest.

Gisu’s footsteps padded across the waiting room carpet—so much like the ballroom carpet—and Morris looked up at her approach.

“I just talked to Hollis about Lizzie.” Gisu informed him. “They’re going to transfer her to Clay Ridge once she’s stabilized.” Her voice softened, her eyes glimmering with relief. “She’s going to live.”

Morris felt some of the tension dissipate from his shoulders. “That’s good.” He murmured. If Lizzie died…

Don’t think about that.

“So where are you and I going?” Morris asked. He really hoped the answer would be home. Home, with Lolly and Licorice and Caramel chasing their favorite toys around the room. Home, with his comfy bed. Home, with his radio and his favorite songs.

“You and Agent Nerumen will be coming back to the Motherlobe,” Hollis began from behind Gisu. Morris tensed at the sudden appearance, then immediately relaxed. “Since neither of you are critically injured, the medical wing there will be adequate.” Hollis’ voice remained even, cool and calm even with the worry lining her face. What Morris wouldn’t give to have that kind of suaveness under pressure.

“I’m guessing you’ll be wanting a full mission report?” Morris asked, even as the idea filled him with dread.

Hollis’ lips quirked. “You’ll get time to rest first, Agent Martinez.” She assured. At once, her demeanor hardened, the steady mentor morphing into the strict Second Head. “Your transport is waiting outside.” She informed them. “Debriefing will happen at 10:00 AM tomorrow.”

Morris nodded, then started to wheel his way towards the door, Gisu walking alongside him. Her mental presence was fuzzy through the haze of the concussion, but it was there, familiar buzzing at the back of Morris’ head. Her hand nudged his arm, and it took Morris a second to realize she was offering it to hold.

Morris took it. Her hand fit in his like it was meant to, yet loosely, like she might pull away at any time. Every scar and callous was familiar, as familiar as the way her pace matched his, as familiar as the ache in Morris’ chest when he thought too hard about why.

It was familiar, and that was a comfort. Morris didn’t need to think any deeper into it.

So he didn’t.

+=+=+=+=+

The ride back was quiet, the only noise the hum of the engine and the tap-tap-tap of Gisu’s finger on the door. Between Morris’ concussion and Gisu’s sprained wrist, Hollis had decided to have another agent handle the drive—Morris wasn’t sure if he didn’t know their name, or if it was just the concussion making them seem unfamiliar. Lizzie had been their ride to the gala, anyway, and she wasn’t in a state to drive at all—though Morris really didn’t want to think about that. He instead took advantage of not being the one driving and sent a text to Clara—how his phone was still intact after everything, he didn’t know, but Morris wasn’t going to question it when he had his ferrets to think about. Clara was his designated ferretsitter, though, so at least they’d be in good hands.

By the time he and Gisu had disembarked and been shuffled over to the Motherlobe’s Medical Wing—by the time they were finally left to their own devices in one of the overnight rooms, Norma bringing over a change of clothes for the both of them before leaving for Clay Ridge—Morris had had enough.

He hated silence. And something about Gisu’s silence just wasn’t sitting right with him.

“Okay, what’s eating you?” Morris broke the silence. “You’ve been acting weird since that thing punched you in the gut.” He knew Gisu, knew her well enough to know that something was up—and not just the awful night. No, this was something else—something almost contemplative, as though Gisu had been handed a new puzzle instead of thrown into an unexpected fight for her life.

Gisu stared at him. “Weird how?” She countered, kicking her legs. There might have been something playful to her remark, some teasing demand for Morris to explain himself just because she wanted him to—but they were both too tired for that. It was just a force of habit, at this point.

“Gisu, we have known each other for too long for me not to notice.” Morris grumbled. “Something’s up, and I can tell because if there wasn’t you wouldn’t have asked Pooter to sneak your board in.” Raz hadn’t gotten here yet, but he was on his way—Morris had watched Gisu make the request as they got out of the car. He had been waiting there with Norma—Adam and Sam were on their own mission—and Gisu hadn’t exactly been subtle.

There was only one reason Gisu would ask for her board when she was going to be in a space too small to skate—she needed to think, which meant that she had come across a puzzle.

“Fine, fine, you got me.” Gisu shrugged. “I just…” She breathed in, “It’s about the automaton. Cyborg. Whatever. When I took his mask off…” Gisu trailed off. Her eyebrows knit together as she contemplated her words.

“Wait, his?” Morris already knew he wouldn’t like where this was going.

“Yeah,” Gisu said, “His. When I took his mask off, I saw his face.” It took a moment, for the meaning of her words to register to Morris. Then—

“Wait, are you saying… it’s not a robot?” But it was at least partially mechanical, if the metal arm and altered voice was anything to go off of. No wonder Gisu was acting weird—this was a big revelation. They knew so little about the anti-psychic weapon, so every little bit counted.

Morris started. “If you saw his face, you could get an ID!” The realization took longer than he’d like to admit—Morris was going to blame the concussion.

“Yeah, that’s exactly the issue.” Gisu said. She squeezed the air in front of her, sparks of electricity crackling along her fingers. Morris waited for her to continue—

“It was Dion under the mask.”

.

.

.

Six words. Six words that hit Morris like an uppercut, the room spinning around him.

His concussion must be worse than he thought. “I’m sorry, I think I misheard you.” He managed, even as all the air in his lungs got caught in his throat.

“You heard me.” Gisu scowled, “It was Dion. I pried that mask off and I saw Dion.” Her next words were choked out, her voice starting to wet, “He’s alive.”

Morris couldn’t breathe. His chest was squeezed too tight, his lungs threatening to pop and his heart caught in a vice. No. No no no. This wasn’t real. He was not sitting here, listening to his on-and-off girlfriend of the past six years tell him all about how the thing that just tried to kill them hours prior was their missing ex-boyfriend.

“That’s an awful joke.” Morris said, once he found his voice again.

“It’s not a joke!” Gisu argued. “Dion’s alive and I saw his face!” Her hair was starting to fizz from the static in the air around her.

“And what makes you so sure?” Morris gripped the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. “How do you know you weren’t, I don’t know, projecting what you wanted to see?”

Gisu bristled. “You think I wanted to see Dion’s face on the thing that was trying to kill us?”

“I think you want Dion to be alive so badly that you’re ignoring the truth.” Morris shot back.

“What truth?!” Gisu leaned forwards, “I know what I saw!” The air around Morris was starting to feel greasy, now, like lightning could go off at any moment.

What a joke. What an awful joke.

This had to be a dream. Clearly, Morris had never woken up after being suckerpunched by the automaton, and everything that he remembered happening was just some alcohol-induced nightmare where the world was falling apart and threatening to crush him all in one. There was no way this was real, not when Morris had given up on ever seeing Dion again years ago—

“I know what I saw.” Gisu repeated. “You being bitter doesn’t change that.”

“Bitter?” Morris all but screeched. He threw his hands in the air, “Bitter? I’m sorry if I can’t hold onto delusion for six years!” His hands fell to his sides and he clenched them into fists. “Sorry that I don’t have the energy to keep chasing ghosts!”

Everything not bolted down slammed against the wall. Morris flinched—so did Gisu.

Morris’ head pounded. His vision swam.

His chest was heaving, his lungs struggling to draw in air like they’d been squeezed too tight. He forced his gaze off of Gisu and onto the plastic plant that had been thrown to the floor, to the shiny green leaves and fake blue petals.

(Blue, like the sky, like the stripes of the Aquatodome, like the color of Dion’s eyes—)

“Look.” Gisu said, “I know it sucks.” She pushed off of the bed and walked over, stepping over the fake plant. “How do you think I feel, seeing his face again?” Her expression softened, even as lighting continued to crackle over her knuckles. “But whatever happened, however Dion ended up like that—”

“Stop it.” Morris demanded, his voice coming out in a whisper. “Stop talking about Dion.” His voice cracked, his throat tightening no matter how much he tried to calm down—

“Morris,” Gisu growled. She reached out. Morris batted her hand away.

“It’s over.” Morris’ voice came out thicker than he wanted it to. “Dion’s dead.” Dion was gone and no amount of missing him would bring him back. Dion was gone, and there was nothing Morris could do to change that. Dion was gone, and everything that he’d represented to Morris was gone with him. Morris couldn’t continue to hold onto him. He just couldn’t.

Morris turned away. He couldn’t look at Gisu, couldn’t look at the mix of hurt and frustration and pity written on her face. He just couldn’t.

“Morris…” Gisu started. The tinge of sympathy in her voice was like acid down Morris’ back. He glared at the wall, and said nothing.

What an awful night. What an awful, horrible, no-good night.

The vent cover clattered to the floor. Morris turned to watch as none other than Pooter fell out, doing a flip in the air and bowing once he landed. “I got your board.” He announced, holding out Gisu’s levboard. He looked at Morris.

“What’s up with him?”

[akai-anna]

the identity porn in DCMK is so absolutely delicious... and the sheer amount of it. gosh. no wonder i like this so much, so delicious.

[lizzieraindrops]

Take this post as silly or serious as you want because it's both, but it was indeed a post about the sidelining of women of color in the narrative per my tags

#we're really quite spoiled for women with amazing voices#you know what we're Not spoiled for?#ikora rey being allowed to be part of the fucking story#look its a fantastic expansion ok.#its just incredibly galling that my least favorite thing is Also happening alongside it.#once again ikora gets shoved out of the limelight in favor of everyone else#gets relegated back to emotional support#is allowed one Tiny outburst of her own hurt feelings only for it to be swept under the rug because there are always Bigger Problems#why didnt we get to hear from ophiuchus?#we got beautiful interactions between every other guardian and their ghost#literally everyone else got a nightmare gauntlet exploring their insecurities and flaws#but no ikora gets to quietly meditate and fail to commune with the traveler#and then cayde gets to contact it instead#all i wanted this expansion was some emotional resolution for ikora#i was so excited after her reunion scene with cayde i was like oh god we're really doing it!#but no. no no.#the sexism of it. the racism of it. the misogynoir#im so tired this has happened in every goddamn fandom ive been in for the past decade#sourghost.jpeg

You know what, I figured out why we're having so many errors in Destiny 2 now. It's because with the addition of Micah-10, we've finally reached a critical mass of women with drop dead gorgeous voices, and the game simply can't handle it anymore. It's like Telesto. Too powerful. If they'd actually put Ikora Rey in a rendered cutscene for more than 5 seconds it would have shut down the servers for good

[llycaons]

[ID: tweet by Rachel Bowdler: I don't know why reviewers criticise romance for being "predictable". romance authors are not trying to shock or surprise you 💀. End ID]

well maybe they should be! if romance writers try to challenge themselves I'd be really excited to see what original or groundbreaking works could result. they won't all be good but at least it'll be an attempt. this approach to an entire genre is just. it feels like accepting low expectations and generic content. I'm not talking about doing things just for shock value I'm talking about telling an engaging story...like it doesn't have to be shocking but some things that you don't expect should happen no? romance doesn't have to be simply a comforting and predictable genre in which you can guess every next move...