#i want to try and write again

[seiwas]

just thought about stepdad bakugo being caught off guard the first time your teenage son calls him “dad” 🥺

it’s after years of being with you. their relationship isn’t bad by any means—it’s okay; it’s good. but your son has called him katsuki for the longest time, and he was happy with that, perfectly content even (at least, he thought he was).

it was enough that your boy dubbed his cooking “the best in the entire universe and beyond”; it was enough that your boy trusted him enough with a few harmless secrets that you may never know. it was enough that you’d both welcomed him into your home, into your lives, in a way that’s made him feel like he belongs.

it was enough (at least, he thought it was), until your kid comes home with a group of friends one day and they ask him, “who’s the guy in your backyard?”

between the scrapes of soil against his gardening shovel and mild hearing problems, katsuki shouldn’t have been able to hear anything—but he hears this loud and clear.

your kid tells his friends, “oh, that’s just my dad,” like it’s the most obvious, natural thing in the world and it hits katsuki square in the chest.

the next thing he knows, he’s smiling, eyes a little wet but not yet crying (—is what he’ll tell you later). it’s a small curve of his lips, but it stays plastered on until the moment you come home.

you wonder, when the three of you are cleaning up after dinner, “what’s got you all smiley today?”

he looks at you, back a little straighter and chest puffed out just a bit more. then, he glances at your son just an earshot away, wiping the table clean; he turns to you, mumbling, “tell ya ‘bout it later.”

(like he’s got all the pride in the world, like he’s got all the love in the world).

[makingshortstorieslong]

A little zine about how I (still) have trouble saying the word aromantic.

I've never made a zine before! I was inspired to try it because @queerliblib mentioned a zine making night in an email. That hasn't happened yet - its on June 26th - but once I had the idea, I couldn't wait, lol. It was nice to put something down on paper and have the finished product to hold onto.

Image descriptions under the cut:

Page 1: Three tiny speech bubbles say: "Do you have a bf? Do you like anyone? What's your type?" A big speech bubble says, "Oh, I don't date." The big speech bubble comes from a heart colored like the aromantic flag. 

Page 2 says: I could say: "Actually, I'm... ...aromantic." ...aro." ...aromantic asexual." ...aroace."

Page 3 says: But there are a few problems:

aromantic: Has been misheard as "A Romantic".

aro: Opaque if you don't already know the term.

aromantic asexual: A mouthful! And sounds...scientific?

aroace: shares The Big Problem: it may require a vocabulary lesson!

Page 4 says: It doesn't actually come up too often! Which is fine. My coworkers, my neighbors, and strangers don't need to know I'm aroace. I just wish I could say it sincerely when I do want someone to know. 

Page 5 says: I always have to smile - laugh - hedge. "Oh, well, actually, I'm kind of like, aromantic? Basically just not interested."

It's been more than 8 years since the first time I said it out loud!  I'm certain of it, but I still can't say it like I mean it!

Page 6 says: The most memorable time I said "I don't date" the guy I was talking to asked "Oh are you asexual?" and I said "Yeah, actually. And aromantic." And we moved on.

That was nice. 

Page 7 says:

The times I've lead with "I'm aromantic" -- well, there's only one I really remember:

"I didn't use to think that was a real thing." 

Other than that time -- even if I use the word, I always explain what it means first! 

Page 8 says: I just hope that one day I'll feel like I can say, simply, confidently: "I'm aromantic" and "I'm aroace."

The words "I'm aromantic" are big and dark green, the color of the top stripe of the aromantic flag. The words "I'm aroace" are big and bright orange, the color of the top stripe of the aroace flag. Three hearts below the words are colored to look like the aromantic, aroace, and asexual flags. 

[choccy-milky]

sometimes you gotta lure your overly-studious ravenclaw gf into spending time with you 🥰 📚 ( from 'Every Teardrop is a Waterfall' by Kat_12739 on ao3, GO READ IT!!! the first story is about seb falling sick and still pushing himself/not admitting he's sick until he ends up in the hospital, the second story is about the birth of seb and clora's daughter and seb's reaction to clora almost dying in childbirth, and the third is about dealing with a fussy newborn lewis😭🥹THEY'RE SO GOOD AND SWEET AND SOMEWHAT SAD (not to mention beautifully written) so go check it out!!💖💖 )

[northstarscowboyhat]

Corn picking day.

[tommygotwrittenoff]

i literally do not care about big emergencies on abc's 911. i want to see my characters talk to each other and have stories that are parallels to small, everyday (everyday for first responders) emergencies

[supercutszns]

a place with you; luke castellan

wc: 2.8k (got a little carried away whoops)

pairing: luke castellan x f! reader

synopsis: luke is used to people coming in and out of hermes’ cabin without a second thought. so when you’re having a hard time adjusting to camp life, he doesn’t expect you to stick by his side, even after you’re claimed.

warnings/notes: shy reader going through a tough time, hurt/comfort, pining, kisses, fluff, potential ooc luke i don’t know what i’m doing, most of this is prob inaccurate lol, i got wayyy too attatched to this i am sorry, title inspired by dragon eyes by adrianne lenker

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s used to delivering, passing things along, letting them enter his life and leave him. Sometimes it makes him angry. At his father, at the world, at himself.

So when you passed through the Hermes cabin for the inevitable few weeks before getting claimed by your Godly parent, the last thing Luke expected was for you to stay.

When you first got to camp you were terrified. Luke remembers that much. He can still picture you in Chiron’s towering shadow as he led you up to Hermes cabin. He gave you the usual spiel about the cabin, the land of the unclaimed, but it clearly hadn’t quelled your nerves. You were wringing your fingers together when Luke first spotted you, your eyes blown wide in what he knew as shock and a sort of . . . grief. For a life you’d left for what Luke knows as a life you’d never really have. He’d seen it in so many campers before you. He’d see it many times after.

“This is Luke, Hermes’ head counsellor and one of Camp Half-Blood’s finest,” Chiron pointed him out to you at the entrance. After Chiron introduced you, Luke held your name in his memory. Not because there was anything particularly intriguing about you at first, to be honest, because he’d seen a lot of people like you that needed help settling in (although maybe not many his age). It was harder for some people to adjust than most. He knew that better than anyone.

“Nice to meet you,” he stuck out his hand for you to shake after Chiron left. “I’m Luke.”

You sniffed, shaking it without looking at him. You were so, so embarrassed. This whole time you’d been too stupidly overwhelmed to process anything. Why was this so hard for you? Was it this hard for everyone? “Hi,” you managed, and that was it.

Now, weeks after your first meeting, you’ve concluded that it was not, in fact, this hard for everyone. The camp is crowded but full of life. You’ve never seen more happy kids in your life. There’s a sense of community on the wind.

So why can’t you feel it? Why is it so hard to connect with people? To participate in the fun? Everywhere you look there’s people but it’s all just so . . . lonely. You don’t fit. You’re lost.

Luke wakes up at night when the cabin door creaks open. He’s already tossing, so it’s no surprise he catches it. Unfortunately, he’s supposed to be a good counsellor—sneaking out at night is against the rules, and you’ve gotta reign the strays back in before they cause a ruckus. Sure, Luke’s not exactly a stickler for the law, but the least he owes is to make sure everyone’s safe.

Groaning, he draws himself out of the comfort of his bunk but doesn’t get far when he spots a familiar silhouette slipping out the door. He knows it’s you. He’s been hearing crying at night, and this is confirming his suspicions. It makes him ache in a million different places. Every time he thought about approaching you he shut himself down almost instantly, because who the hell wants some random guy coming up to them in the middle of the night and drawing attention?

This time, though, he’s a little worried.

It’s chilly tonight but not too bad, especially when you’re huddled up in a ball on a hill in front of the lake, grass tickling your ankles. Your tears keep you warm.

It’s a sorrow that feels bottomless. You don’t know what’s gotten into you. You don’t know why everything’s so hard.

There’s a scuffling of shoes, and your name is carried to you on the heels of a breeze. Oh God. There’s someone else here.

You sniff and smear your tears on the palms of your hands the best you can but a little part of you only wants to cry more now that you’re all anxious, and you only have a few seconds to collect yourself before you turn around and see Luke, your cabin leader, with furrowed brows. “Oh, h-hi, Luke.” It’s hard to ignore the splinter in your voice. You curse yourself a thousand times.

“Hey,” he says hesitantly, eyeing you in a way that makes you feel entirely exposed. “You, uh, you know you’re not technically supposed to be out here, right?”

You start to scramble to your feet with an apology on your tongue but surprisingly he laughs, a gentle sound, and beckons you to sit back down. “No, no, I’m not gonna get you in trouble or anything, just . . . letting you know.”

It’s uncertain if you should keep sitting, but you decide to because well, you’re already down here, and things can’t go lower than this. Luke comes to sit next to you and you stare out into the sea like your life depends on it. “Wanna talk about why you’re out here?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Luke sighs, scooting a little closer to you. “Most people don’t up and leave in the middle of the night because they’re having a great time.”

The answer is too hard to say so you don’t reply.

Again, Luke sighs, and you try not to look at the shadow the moon casts on his admittedly handsome face. “It’s hard settling in, I know. It happens to a lot of people. I’ve . . . I’ve seen a lot of them, and it doesn’t get any easier.”

“Well it sure seems easier,” you snap, and your self-control flies away before you can stop it. “I have no idea why I can’t just suck it up and fit in here. Everyone seems so happy and it’s driving me nuts because I’m just so confused on why I can’t—why I can’t—process any of it.” Tears burn your eyes. “I’m just miserable. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

In the corner of your view, Luke’s face falls. “I’m your guide, you know that, right? I can help you.”

You sniff, embarrassingly pathetic. “I know.”

He comes even closer. “So why didn’t you ask?”

“Because I—I don’t know, you’re busy all the time with all the people in there, so I’m sure your job’s already stressful as is, so—”

“My job is to help you,” he says, a hand on your shoulder. “That’s what I signed up for. If you need something, I’m the one to ask.”

“I’m not sure you signed up for me crying like a baby,” you swallow, the ripples of the lake blurring together. “I mean, I’m like, older than half the kids here, and they’re all so much better than me. I’m not good at a—anything, and I’ve tried it all, and nobody’s claimed me yet, and I feel so weird and old and alone and . . .” It’s too much to think about so you dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, hoping the sting wards off the thoughts. “What if I’m nothing? Why am I here?”

You’re crying again, hiccuping into your hands. Shame sears into you. Luke’s arm curls around your shoulders and you realize how cold you are when he’s warm, so warm, and you want to cry even harder. You don’t even know him, but it’s the most tenderness you’ve received in what feels like years. “Hey, deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing your arm with his other hand. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to heed him. His hand catches your cheek and you can’t bear to pull away. Something strange rustles in your stomach.

Luke’s taught instinct when faced with situations like these is to reassure that the Gods always have a plan. But he doesn’t feel like much of a liar tonight. Both his hands steady your face towards his, your skin damp and cold beneath his thumb. “It's not your fault. It always takes a little bit of time for people to get claimed, it’s never . . . well, you can never tell.”

“What if I don’t get claimed?” You say it so quiet you can pretend it was imaginary.

His eyes crinkle at the sides when he says, “Well, Hermes’ll always have a place for you.”

I’ll, Luke wants to say, I’ll. His father is not responsible for his cabin’s kindness.

“No one really prepares you for how overwhelming this is,” he continues, thumb rubbing the apple of your cheek. Your vision is clearer now, and Gods, he is handsome, isn’t he? Even when his eyes are forlorn. “It’s harder in a way when you’re older. More to leave behind. Less to look forward to. It’s easier when you have a friend. Or a great cabin head.” He tilts his head with a faint smile, “Lucky for you, I’m both.”

It almost makes you laugh, and that’s enough. “It’ll get easier,” he promises softly. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Your cheeks burn. It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you blot at your eyes with your hands as Luke gently slides his off your face. “Thank you. Sorry for, um, all that. And the crying.”

He chuckles, “Don’t even worry about it.” You watch him rise in the throes of starlight. He offers you a hand. “Aren’t you cold?” He asks after pulling you up, and you sheepishly nod your head. He tosses you a sweater he’s been wearing, and it smells like firewood. Nostalgic, in a way. “I’m gonna poke around for some tea. Wait for me back at the cabin.”

Before he leaves, he squeezes your arm and that thing happens again in your stomach. “No need to be embarrassed, by the way. You can come to me anytime. I’m probably less busy than I look.” As he walked away, he added, “And don’t worry about the crying. You’re pretty either way.”

Either way. The tea doesn’t seem important anymore because your face is on fire.

Time reveals that Luke is right. He is a great cabin leader and a friend, and it’s hard to tell which he’s better at. You fall in with him right away. Soon enough, you’re drawn into your new life, so slowly you barely realize it’s happening. The days get shorter and you start wishing they were longer. The nights get easier. And when they’re not, Luke tucks you into his bunk and folds you in his arms until you drift off. You pick up a bow. A sword. Luke tells you to straighten your shoulders with a hand on the small of your back, and you swear it always lingers. You braid garlands of carnations for your cabin mates and they wear them with pride. It’s warm, your cheeks hurt from smiling, and things start to feel like home.

Until you’re claimed.

Now you’re a ghost in Hermes cabin, another empty bunk to be filled, and Luke stares at it until he can remember every last detail of what it looked like when it was yours. A beautiful, gentle daughter of Demeter, no longer in arms’ reach. He should’ve seen it coming.

He sees you with your siblings all the time. You’re so happy and he envies it. You belong there, he knows that, the way your face lights up at the dinner table and how you giggle when your half-sister presents you a flower. But sometimes your eyes wander, and something inside them dulls, until you look at him, too.

Luke’s place at camp is to be nothing but a funnel for lost campers to find their home. He’s a temporary stop in everybody’s journey. He’d made peace with it a long time ago. But here you are, messing it all up, because you still don’t leave him.

You beg him to give you another sword-fighting lesson. You sit next to him at bonfires. You pick him for partner camp activities. It doesn’t matter how many younger boys want to latch onto him for guidance—he sees you heading towards him, and he can’t imagine choosing anyone else.

But you’re always whisked away by your siblings, separated at meals and in sleep and in activities so it’s never, ever enough. Why did he delude himself into thinking you’d stay forever?

After weeks of distance from you, he’s elated when you have even a fraction of a conversation. “Hey, Luke!” You call out to him, and he finds you instantly. You’ve broken away from your siblings to get to him.

“Hey,” he smiles, and hopes he doesn’t look too pleased.

You lean a little towards his ear, and you smell like every wonderful thing in the world. “Can we hang out tonight? On the hill?” You’re a little bashful when you say it and it’s entirely endearing. Even now, you’re still so unsure. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” he says almost instantly, and it makes you look less nervous. “Yes. Absolutely. But don’t get caught breaking curfew now, you hooligan.”

Someone calls your name and you give a curt, playful nod. “Yes sir, camp counsellor sir!” He carries your laugh close to his heart until night falls.

You’re already there when he arrives, a vision in the moonlight before he even sees your face. “Hey, angel.”

When you turn around you look flustered. He won’t pretend like it doesn’t flatter him. “H—hi, uh, hello.”

There’s a moment where the world is still. The two of you, alone, for the first time in ages.

He sits down next to you, and it’s like the first time all over again. You get to talking, about your days, your anecdotes, your cabins. The strangeness of it all. “It’s so weird waking up in the morning and not having you yapping in my ear,” you remark, and he teasingly pushes your shoulder.

“Well, one of us has to be the talker, and it’s clearly not you,” he retorts.

You fiddle with blades of grass between your fingertips, weaving them together. “I’ll have you know I had a cabin-wide conversation about Capture The Flag yesterday, and I contributed greatly.”

“Oh, really?” He grins, knocking your elbow to steal your attention. “Look at you, coming out of your shell. I’m so proud.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze for more than a second. You’re afraid you’ll do something stupid if he keeps looking at you like that, but you almost want to. “Oh, shut up.”

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “No, I’m serious. I’m proud.” His eyes rake over your face. “You’re flourishing. You found your place.”

You can’t stop yourself from saying, “I kind of miss my old one.”

There’s a way he studies your expression that makes you feel utterly helpless. You wish you could dish it back to him, but you know you just look awestruck whenever you stare at him for so long. He’s quieter when he replies, “I miss it, too. A lot. Sometimes, I—” His face scrunches up like he just tasted something sour. “Nevermind.”

Frowning, you prod, “What? What is it?”

He sighs and turns to the horizon. This is the first time you’ve ever seen him struggle. “Sometimes, I wish you hadn’t been claimed. Sorry, that’s . . . that’s awful, I know.”

His surprise is evident when you say, “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t either.”

He turns back to you. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, staring at the beads on his necklace. “You’re the only reason I’ve adjusted here at all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short.”

“It’s true. And I miss you.” A few months ago you would’ve kicked yourself for saying this. But Luke has a way of inspiring confidence in people.

“I miss you, too. So much.” He gently prys the grass you’ve been weaving out of your hands, now a small necklace. “But look at how talented you are. I’ll tell you, I’m lucky you’re still sticking around. For most people, Hermes is touch-and-go.”

Luke leans forward to tie the garland around your neck, and your pulse picks up. “This isn’t about Hermes, Luke,” you try to be firm but it comes out soft. “It’s about you.”

His hands stop fiddling and rest on your neck. When he speaks, you can feel his breath on you. And you have no idea that he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life. “What’s about me?”

It’s not fair, your inability to string sentences together only worsens right when a beautiful boy is this close to you. “Hermes isn’t—it’s not special because of your father, it’s special because of you.”

There is nothing else you can possibly think of saying with the way his fingers trace up your neck and hold your jaw. “Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “The only reason anything in my life is special is because of you.”

You don’t know if it’s a lie or not; you don’t care. His nose nudges yours. There’s a moment where you wonder if this is as close to Elysium you’ll ever get. Then he slips a hand to the back of your neck and pulls you to his mouth.

He kisses you in a near fury, then when he knows you’re not going anywhere, it’s the gentlest thing you know. It’s hard to believe this is even happening. Your hands weave through his curls but he holds you steady, and thank the Gods for that because you’re pretty sure you’re melting. You kiss again, and again, and again, until you genuinely think you’re going to pass out and you have to pull away.

“Aw, look at you,” he murmurs when you can’t meet his eyes, a playful lilt in his voice. “Still so nervous.”

“Would you shut up?” You press your face into the crook of his neck with a huge smile.

He kisses the top of your head. “Love to, angel.”

Luke Castellan is the son of a messenger. He’s supposed to believe he’s bringing the best of humanity to the Gods and glory above.

But screw the Gods. He’s keeping this one for himself.

[starry-bi-sky]

im dedicating this to @detectivedarling. i felt inspired after seeing their little ficlet yesterday sadhjfl 🫶

-

Danny's grip on his cane tightens.

"What—"

His voice cracks. He stops, clears it, then tries again in spite of the nausea twisting in his gut. "What are — you, uh, watching, Bruce?" He sounds horribly far away.

Bruce doesn't look at him, his attention laser-focused on the screen. Which is— fine. It's usually not a problem, Bruce gets like that when he hyper-focuses on a case, and unless it's urgent — or he's been at it for hours — Danny sees no need to pull him away from it. He likes the quiet camaraderie they have, it's companionable and unique to the two of them.

He wishes he was right now though. Looking at him, that is.

That way he wasn't watching what was clearly one of Danny's ghost fights. One of the nastier ones, if the collateral damage and rubble on the street is of any indication.

Danny tries to remember which one that is. He shuffles a little closer to the desk, ignoring the rock in his stomach or the ugly weightlessness in his arms. It's not the blood blossoms, that much he knows. He just recently had an injection so it shouldn't be bothering him this soon—

So it's just nerves. Perfect.

Most footage of his fights are— messy, at best. Unusable at worst. Amity Park was obsessed with appearing 'normal' when they first started happening, and typical news stations censor the worst of the fights anyways for publishing, since they can get pretty gory at times. And ghosts move too fast to be caught on regular standard cameras, not including distance and light and—

That is to say— finding usable ghost fight videos is hard.

Danny wonders how Bruce got his hands on this one, and then stops wondering.

The audio is muted, which is - good. Good, because the fight is ugly and chaotic and clearly this was taken on someone's phone. Fuck, he can't remember if he ever saw that before — clearly not. They're hiding behind an overturned car, and Danny grits his teeth so he doesn't tell that idiot to run.

The camera turns up, and focuses on two figures in the air. It takes a few seconds, but when it does, Danny gets hit with a wave of vertigo. His grip tightens and he leans heavily on his cane, he waits for the black dots to disappear.

He- uh, he remembers this fight now. Uh, sort of.

He remembers being twelve at the time, and he remembers some of the injuries he got out of it. His eyelid spasms abruptly. This ghost wasn't one of his regulars, so he doesn't remember whatever name they had, barely remembered what they looked like up until- uh. Now.

Was he always that small? Well— Phantom's never been particularly big, perks of being a dead kid, but— it's - different. Seeing it from an outsider perspective. Was he that small? Or is it just because he's wearing a jumpsuit clearly too big for him that casts the illusion of being small?

Doesn't really - matter. Now. He can't access his ghost form, and he already knows the answers to his appearance.

Phantom is clearly bleeding, viscous and violently green like the bubbles of a lava lamp, clutching onto a limp shoulder that's missing an arm from the elbow down. Half his face is drenched in similar blood, the eye on the drenched side is closed — not because he can't see through the ectoplasm.

Danny's memories of that fight slowly come in a bit clearer. Right. He took a pole to the eye in that one. That had - hurt. A lot. Getting an eye gouged out usually does. It and the missing arm took hours to grow back.

He rubs his eye with his palm for no other reason than it itches.

The other ghost isn't untouched of any injury either, but he's not in a state of dismemberment like Phantom is.

Danny drops his gaze down at Bruce, whose sitting in his chair with his hands threaded together, looking so tense that Danny half expects to meet solid steel if he were to touch his back. His face is - blank. Terribly blank, with an intensity in his eyes that Danny doesn't see often.

He looks terribly distressed.

He opens his mouth, and finds that nothing comes out. His throat is thick with an ugly, tar-like feeling that makes his eyes sting. Kinda reminds him of when someone wraps their hands around your throat and presses. He closes his mouth, then tries again.

"B—" hhhhhh, "Buzz."

Finally Bruce looks at him, one hand slaps the space button on the keyboard, and the video pauses. His expression doesn't shift, but there's a weight in the lines of his face that reminds Danny of a set of weights sagging.

He looks quite like he's grieving something.

Bruce opens his mouth, his voice comes out terribly soft and heartbroken: "He looks like you."

Which is— a terrifying sentence in and of itself. One that makes Danny's legs shake and ignite his ragged, poison-chewed nerves alight with the need to run. An instinctive urge to deny, deny, deny.

How could he? He could say, that's a ghost, Bruce. I'm not a ghost. He could crack a joke, and ask, 'do I look dead to you?' or say something about how he knows that his parents studied ghosts, but that didn't make him one.

He could say that, and he could say it knowing full well that Bruce would see right through it. He'd probably let Danny too.

Danny closes his eyes. They sting, you see? So does his nose, right in the back like someone popped him in the face. And his throat is thick and gross and like someone stuck a spider, the big fat tarantula kind, right down into his esophagus.

He breathes in — through his mouth, because his nose stings and so it'd be best not to irritate it further with air — and it's terribly shaky and uneven. But it clears a pathway to his lungs big enough for him to say — whisper, really:

"You know, I think you're the first person to notice that."

[sadgayeddie]

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[bluerosefox]

Saying Sorry Will Never Be Enough

Feeling a bit angsty so I had this idea.

Danny is dating one of the Bats/Birds, and everything is going great, amazing even! They know each other secrets (from powers to everything etc), they have a wonderful place to live (even if its in Gotham), Danny is in college on the way to becoming a space engineer (and he does side jobs for unrestful ghosts), he's actually getting sleep again since leaving Amity Park, gets along with their friends and family (those who Danny or his partner still talk to, up to the writer), there is even talk about marriage and perhaps adoption/kids in the future between Danny and the Bat/Bird he's dating!

Everything is setting up for a good life in his future, something Danny didn't think could have after his accident. He was happy finally, and currently packing up his old apartment because he's moving in with his partner in a few days.

So he felt like his core was being pulled out of him when he opens his apartment door one day receiving a knock to find his parents, who had hadn't seen since they kicked him out of the house after coming clean about being Phantom (their words of anger and denial that their son was 'dead' and now a monster, still hurt)

Sure they didn't attack him or proclaim he's dead but still their last words and anger HURT.

Danny didn't give them a chance to open their mouths, both looking nervous and guilty, before he slams the door close and turns invisible, grabs his phone, and fly's out of his apartment to his partner's place in a panic attack.

His partner, isn't happy.

[irisintheafterglow]

he's different, in a good way.

you realize this on the drive back from the museum, the gps navigation on his phone steadily guiding him to the restaurant near your apartment. one hand holds the wheel, and the other rests comfortably in your lap; his fingers are entwined with yours and his thumb brushes mindlessly against your skin. long before you had your epiphany, sakusa noticed how you couldn't seem to stop looking at him and had decided not to comment on it. until--

"omi?" you ask at a volume barely perceptible above the already quiet music on the radio. "can i ask for an odd favor?" his eyebrows pinch, puzzled, but he nods. maybe you wanted to change where to eat, though he wasn't sure why you would phrase it as 'odd.' you'd definitely requested weirder things over the course of the 18 months you'd been together.

"of course." he catches the way your throat bobs as you swallow. were you nervous?

"can you...can you tell me this is real?" his heart feels like it's been stuck like a pin cushion. what had he done to make you doubt him? his mind starts racing and you read the minute changes in his expression instantly. "not that i think you're lying to me or anything," you hurriedly amend and part of him relaxes, the other part completely confused. "i just feel like you're too good to be real."

"your ex didn't set a very high bar, to be fair," he mumbles with only the faintest trace of malice. the corner of your mouth tugs upward.

"it was two months, omi."

"two months too long," he deadpans. "you shouldn't have had to date him at all."

"but if i didn't date him," you point out, "i probably wouldn't have taken such a long break from dating before i found you. who knows how different this would be if i didn't have that stupid summer fling?"

"i would have found you, dating break or not," sakusa concludes and you chuckle, more at ease. the car settles into comfortable silence again while he racks his brain for something to say. "i think i'm gonna kill him if i ever cross paths with him." you click your tongue and bite back your grin, failing to appear indifferent over the prospect of your boyfriend beating the shit out of your ex. "i'm serious."

"'olympic volleyball player jailed for random assault' will probably fuck up future brand sponsorships," you joke and he shrugs nonchalantly.

"just saying. i'd never get in a relationship with you just to tell the press that i have a partner like it was a box on my to-do list," he says, "nor would i only call you when it's convenient for me and then be completely distracted while talking to you."

"i'm starting to regret telling you about how terrible of a boyfriend he was," you admit as he makes the turn into the parking lot of the restaurant. he shuts off the car and releases your hand.

"stay there, please," he commands while he climbs out of the car and goes around to open your door. "did he remember to do the simple stuff like this?"

"on occasion," you answer and he takes your hand in his again as you step out of the car. "but i think it's differences like this that make me wonder if i'm truly in the right reality."

"i'm real," sakusa states with a squeeze of your hand. "you're real. we are real. and i'll be damned if it was any other way."

shoutout mysterious sakusa anon i hope you like this one pookie

[nodosauriday]

good friends

[choccy-milky]

seb and clora working on baby #1 👶 🔞🔞!! NSFW !!🔞🔞

[poipiku]

[twitter]

[merumis]

do you know how many days it's been since kuroo last saw you?

he hasn't been counting—doesn't know it off the top of his head, or even what the exact date was, and today, he's not even sure he could tell you if it's april 7th or 9th—but if he does the math, he can get a ballpark answer.

around four years—365 days multiplied by 4, add in a leap year, you land with one thousand-four hundred-and-sixty-one days. give or take a few, for your situation.

but maybe he should've expected to see you here, all things considered.

(one night, a few weeks before graduation, maybe? you had mentioned you were going to grad school in edinburgh—he leaned down so you could yell it into his ear over the music of the bar. you were tinted a sweet shade of purple in the light—your friends were busy playing an arcade game that kuroo couldn't name anymore.

something died in kuroo's throat that night. he went to tell you congratulations—if a little halfhearted—but never quite made it there. a friend came over to swipe a game token you were holding, and you laughed and shooed him off. kuroo's roommate's hand landed on his shoulder, and then there was a shot in his hand. not much room for deliberation there, he supposes).

somehow, it seems, he'd forgotten those details until now. he'd been ducking from awning to awning to avoid the rain; he'd forgotten to pack a raincoat; he'd been in such a rush—last minute business trips be damned—that he didn't think to check the weather even when he decided to schedule a later return flight. a friday night, a full saturday, a sunday morning all to himself in a city that wasn't his—one that he felt a misplaced affection for despite never visiting prior to wednesday at 3:53pm.

and now, you're standing at the awning just ahead of him—facing out towards the street, watching the rain while you tear at the bready pastry in your hands.

(your hair has grown out from your college-age bob. it sweeps down past your shoulders, though he can't see where it disappears to. you must be twenty-six now. he recalls you complaining about hairstylists who cut your hair too short—about bad haircuts that lasted for months for you and moments for him. he thinks you always knew how to fix things).

he forgets there's a gap between your awning and his, so he doesn't move quite fast enough. his hair is a little more soaked than he would've hoped by the time he gets to you.

you turn your head to look at him before he reaches you—a piece of your pastry hanging by your fingers, waiting to be placed between your teeth. your brows are furrowed, your gaze a little hard, until you reach his face.

"tetsurou," you breathe, and he smiles down at you for a brief moment before you've pulled him down to wrap your arms around his neck. you pull back, placing just the heels of your palms on his cheeks to avoid scraping him with the crust of your pastry. "oh my god- what are you- why are you here?"

"business trip," he replies, "it was last minute. didn't think to reach out."

"god," you say, and pull him in again. "it's been years," you mumble into his shoulder, "you've gotten so old."

there's a moment when he wants to know everything you've done for the past four years—what you celebrated, what you never dared to tell anyone about, the food you've eaten, the drinks you drank until you made yourself sick. have you smoked recently? he wants to ask, if so, please let me breathe it in.

"how are you?" he asks instead.

(he feels twenty-one again. he's on the perimeter of a house party with you. he won't ask you about last week—when he kissed you and you dug your nails into his back. he won't leave your side either, and you keep leaning into him, but you're both making vague observations about the people who pass in front of you. do you ever think about it? he wants to ask. he never does).

"good!" you say, "yeah, no, busy, but- you know. good." you've leaned your shoulder into the brick wall now, and he mirrors you. you've both got your heads leaned in so close, he thinks he can smell the soap off your body.

you've always had a strong nose. maybe you can smell his.

do you ever think about it? did you ever?

"if it weren't such a downpour, i'd invite you to coffee at my place," you say, with a half-smile pulling at your lips. you speak with an exasperated breathiness now, one that he only heard in early winter and spring. he wonders if old habits die hard.

"it's okay," he says, "i like the rain."

you smile now, fully. warm. "i know."

(he's twenty-two. you're a few months from graduation and one of your friends insisted you all buy cheap tickets to some concert. he stepped outside to breathe and watch the rain—you followed. you wore his rain-soaked jacket for the rest of the night, and he thought about the way you pressed your lips into his shoulder in that absent-minded sort-of-way for the rest of the week. you both went on dates with different people the following thursday).

do you remember the poems you used to write? he wants to ask. the ones where i never knew if you talking about me or not. i used to keep myself up over them, would read them once, twice, a third time under the light from a lamp that was bound to go out the next night, but never did. do you remember that stupid dumpster outside my apartment? he wants to say. where it was always too windy to light anything, so we sat outside in the cold and talked for hours, looking over our shoulders whenever we mentioned someone by name.

on the road next to you, a small girl in a big raincoat and galoshes speeds down the road, her father carted behind her by the hand. he desperately tries to slow her down. kuroo looks down at his shoes and kicks a loose rock, then looks up again at you. you lean past him, tossing what's left of your pastry into the trash can next to him.

"i think you would like it here," you say. he smiles.

are you different? he wants to ask. are you the same girl i thought i might've been in love with? do you still hum when you cook? do you still refuse to use a recipe? do you still bite at the edges of your lips until they bleed?

"yeah?" he asks, with a smile that takes up more of his face than he'd like to admit. he leans over you as he rocks against the wall. "what about it?" it sounds less like a question, and more like a challenge—he's not sure how he intended it to be.

"it's slower here," you reply. you reach your hand out towards the road, waving five spread fingers out across a landscape you can see painted across your eyes. "removed, but not boring," you settle on, and smile up at him.

"you think i like slow?" he asks.

"i know you need it," you reply.

back then? no. now?

maybe.

"when i first moved here," you start. he looks over at you, but you're not watching him. you're looking out at the street again, eyes fixed on something that he can't place. "i swear i saw you everywhere. anyone over six feet, anyone running along the coast. sometimes, i'd think i heard your voice and i'd just stop- listen for a second, waiting to hear more of it." you look over at him, "of you," you clarify with a laugh.

"there were these guys in some of my classes, i don't know, they used to use your cologne, or your soap or something it would just-" you laugh again, "it would drive me insane."

(he's twenty-two. you keep a toothbrush at his apartment—just in case. when you're here, he sleeps on the couch).

"you know," you laugh again, and you watch him, carefully. your eyes keep flitting over his face—quickly, from one place to the next, like you're not quite sure where will tell you what you want to know. "i think i was in love with you back then."

(he's twenty. he wants to know you. he thinks about you for an entire day after you whisper an exaggerated thank you to him during class and laugh at his offhanded joke).

"yeah," he replies. "i think i was in love you too, you know."

he smiles down at you, and then he knocks his shoulder into yours. when you laugh, you curl into him, letting his body's warmth radiate into you where your arms touch.

your laugh sounds wet, a little shaky.

if he spoke, he's sure his would too.

"when the rain lightens up," you start, "would you like to come back to mine?"

he clears his throat, a soft, breathy sort of thing escaping him when he speaks.

"yeah. i'd like that," he replies.

[ganondoodle]

( OC, Eadrya, they/them, water demon )

"Oh don't look at me like that, is this the first time you've drawn blood or what? do it again! had a nice sting to it-" (Eadrya to Shargon, likely the first time Shargon's ever dared to fight them instead of fleeing immediately like his life depended on it ... bc it did)

finally gave Eadrya their deserved post character arc design (instead of doing what i should be)

since i know my handwriting isnt always readable, heres a short an overly long explanation of the context (oops)

(recap, the demon world was invaded and is believed to be destroyed, Eadrya lost a fight for the first time in their life to a celestial and survived by sheer luck and kindness of a little fishing village in the human realm, which kind of broke their pride and kickstarted their arc- (here i drew the lady in charge of the village before, though Eadryas design here is also a little out of date again ..)

-skipping alot in between that and the end of their arc bc that would jsut be too long for this post)

Eadrya helped other Lords and Shargon (with Midas and Idri) escape from a trap set by hunters but was captured themself, since it was the first time hunters managed to catch a Lord they 'researched' alot about demons using them .. by torturing them (demons are not considered sentient by people at large)

they managed to escape but were hunted down immediately, even Eadrya with their immense magic overproduction and abillity to recover was too drained (both literally of their strength -since the most effective way to hurt/immobilize a demon is draining them of their magic/blood faster than they can recover it- AND mentally) to easily avoid them and instead turned to killing, making them relapse into their old bloodthirst which lead to them spiraling into thinking that it is all they are ever good for and they will never be able to change-

Thor (with Idri) were on their way to free them after being informed of Eadryas capture ( Thor is Eadryas best and only friend ) but when they arrived it had already escalated so far that they went after killing Thor as well, now firmly believing Thor was never their friend but was simply trying to tame them out of fear of their power (not completely wrong ..). despite Thor with his two hearts being able to give Eadrya a second chance they decide to go for killing him twice, unintentionally missing the second time but doing enough damage for Thor to .. essentially fall into a near death condition; thinking they actually killed him everything starts to fall apart further as they realize over time they have changed after all but it is too late now-

Eadrya then flees into a snowy mountain range far away and lives there in complete isolation for several months (as a sort of .. self punishment and convinced of that being the best choice for everyone, they are a danger, they have no one left anyway etc trying to cope with it all) and thus grows out their fur (yes they always had fur, just short and slick like a seals fur) which they keep even after reuniting with Thor and everyone else later down the line

(the golden rope they wear in the picture was made by Thor during the time he was recovering and searching for them with the solar pirates (long story..), its not a good quality but he tried his best ... the two beads on it symbolize Thors two hearts (thunder and fire, blue and red)- Eadrya treasures it dearly)

so funnily enough, despite looking much wilder now they are actually much better in their self control and general health :P

[spacetimeaccordionfolder]

please please please Dark World Butcher??? Please?? Dennis Collins again please? Snarling wolf like animal who just can't wait to get his teeth wet? But even more so?? Please?????