#i’m so sorry :’((((;

[jayishere3269]

mijtvectazy

Oh-

type prevs url with your eyes closed in the tags

[mictheweis]

Post Veilguard Solavellan shitpost:

Lavellan: “So, Vhenan, do you actually know when people interact with your shrines?”

Solas: “No. I never cared for the idea of being worshipped as a god.

Lavellan: “Oh… good..”

Solas: “May I ask why you wished to know?”

Lavellan: “…. When you left me after the exalted council.. I did some things to your shrines that I’m not.. entirely proud of.”

Solas: “As was your right. Surely it could not have been as bad as what I put you through.”

Lavellan: “….. every shrine I came across.. I left a cup of tea on it.”

Solas: …

Lavellan: …

Solas: …

Lavellan: …

Solas: “Forget what I said. You are the purest form of evil.”

[4me2knowandyou2wonder]

Nsfw headcanon

Mel and Viktor would outlast Jayce by ten fold and he just has to live with the fact that no matter how much he participates the cucking is inevitable cause he just gets so outdone.

[imaloregremlin]

some notable quotes from when my friend played smash or pass with TMA characters

“I’d totally go up Michael’s…”staircase” too, if you know what I mean…”

“He kinda cute too tho…they’re both cute…can we have a threesome?” (This one is about Jon and Martin 😭)

“Why is Jane Prentiss kinda like…is it just me? Or is she kinda hot?…wouldn’t mind getting her worms”

(followed up by, “it’s okay we can just use moisturizer” after I explained how canonically, the worms Itch, and also like, it probably hurts too)

And, lastly, “Nikola can steal some of my body parts…”

[anythingtosay]

THIS IS SO GOOOOOOOD

New one shot fic cooking. Baker x Wedding planner AU

“When Gale arrived at the venue clad in black chefs coat with matching gloves, hefting box after box of cake components on the the appointed set up table, Astarion couldn't help but stare. It had been several years since they were in the same room and seeing him again in person made something long dormant squirm in his chest.

The familiar intensity on his ex-husbands face, the careful way he pulled his hair back in an artful half twisted topknot. It took his breath away for a few tense moments.

He was more muscular than Astarion remembered, thick biceps and chest pulling the heavy duck of the coat taught with every reach and stretch as he assembled the cake with practiced precision. He was now greying around his temples with errant patches of white on his left eyebrow and chin.

He had let his hair grow considerably longer in their time apart and now sported a meticulously trimmed beard. A change that suited his round face far better than the short cropped cut and bare face, he wore when they were married.

He was still on the heavier side but he had always carried it handsomely. He was densely muscled with a layer of plush fat rounding out his shoulders, hips, and stomach. Not to mention the supple swell of his ass in his perfectly fitted jeans.

Astarion stared for a moment, his memory clearly didn’t do the man justice.”

“Simple plans and half-baked apologies”

[ellieslaces]

𝐜𝐚𝐧’𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐦𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐰. 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: umbrella’s hunger games

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: leon kennedy x fem!reader

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: the morning of the annual Hunger Games has arrived. the start of possible weeks of horrors curated by the Umbrella Corporation. the mutts, the twenty three other children you must fight and kill to survive. only, there’s a bump in the road — your newfound obsession with District Twelve’s male Tribute

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: harsh language; heavy violence; gore; infanticide; class discrimination; usual hunger games/resident evil themes; heavy themes of gore; heavy themes of murder and infanticide

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: sauuuuur I got motivation. this is taking a year and I love it. please enjoy. it’s about to get so sad

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5.62k

𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 : bury a friend ; billie eilish

previous chapter ; next chapter

Sunlight was a loss in the Capitol. Many rooms were windowless in favor of large, paper thin, wall mounted screens. Showing scapes of forests, beaches, mountains, bustling towns. All hiding the natural beauty and warmth of the sun. Something the body craved, something the body needed to live. And it was yet another thing they took for granted.

The sole thing being life. The people of the Capitol did not understand what it meant to live. What it meant to be alive. To barely survive in harsh conditions. They didn’t not appreciate the fragility and the beauty of breathing. Of how quickly that breath could be snatched from your lungs at any given moment. That life was not measured in the fashion or style of clothing, the taste and smell of food, the color and texture of home furnishings. Life was measured by action. By purpose. By the ability to understand the meaning of it all. This was devastatingly lost upon them in the sea of glamor.

But it was not lost on you. Not as you laid in the plush bed the Capitol had for you in the apartment you stayed in for the duration of your stay. Eyes trained on the ceiling for most of the night and well into the morning. In a matter of hours you would be placed in a deadly arena with twenty three bloodthirsty children. Of course the idea scared you.

But what filled your mind was not predictions of what the arena would look like. What the mutts Umbrella cooked up in their labs would be. What horrors you’d see. How many people you’d have to kill. All you could think of was the Goddamned interviews.

Another step taken in the early days of the Games to make them more entertaining. Each Tribute was dressed up in the finest clothing made by their stylist. They were each given a five minute allotment of time to talk with the Capitol's most beloved media personality — Karl Heisenberg — and win as many people over as possible with smiles, flirtatious remarks, and witty comebacks.

It was the part you maybe most dreaded. Maybe more so than the actual Games. Fight, you could do that. You could fight people, you could maybe kill, you could definitely survive in the wilderness. But be charming and make people like you? That’s a tough one. Social cues were not your strong point. It was hard to be yourself when a large part of your authentic personality hated the Capitol and the Games.

You couldn’t exactly get on the stage and talk about how unjust the whole concept of the Hunger Games were. How inhumane it was to send twenty four children into an arena full of horrors to fight to the death. It wasn’t right. But that’s not what they wanted to hear. They wanted to hear about your favorite color, what your favorite part of your visit to the Capitol had been so far, your love life, how you planned to win. All things you didn’t feel like discussing with these people.

But, it seemed Heisenberg wasn’t as superficial as you suspected. Being from District One — and the female Tribute — meant you were first on the stage. He greeted you with an eccentric smile, shaking your hand gruffly and presenting you with flare. Yeah, yeah, the dress was stunning. Whatever.

He sat you down, asked about your home life, asked about how the Redfield siblings found you — oh, you were the favorite of the year for that story alone — and what you expected of the Games. It was only when he asked how you were feeling, truly feeling about tomorrow that your facade faltered.

He seemed so genuine. Like he really wanted to know what you’d say. How you felt. If you were as scared as he thought. And you were.

“Well, I, I supposed I’m worried.” You’d said, hands folded in your lap as your voice took a softer tone.

“How so, dear? Scared to lose? Scared to die? Scared… to win?” Heisenberg asked, leaning forward, pointing the mic softly toward your mouth. He gave you a moment, allowing you to process.

“Scared of the crown going to the wrong person.” You settled on, your words intentional, finally meeting his gaze as you spoke.

“And, and who would be the wrong person, if I may ask?” He asked, his eyes locked on you. It seemed he’d forgotten all about the crowd in front of you. The flare and grandure of the interview process.

“Me, maybe. Or, someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“And you don’t believe you deserve it?” Heisenberg asked, his voice almost incredulous. Everyone knew you were a fighter. A skilled one. Raised by Chris and Claire to be deadly.

“I don’t know.” You decided on, nodding slightly. You really didn’t know. Because why would you deserve it? What had you done to deserve riches and a Victor’s Crown? Nothing, that’s what.

Oh how that had been the wrong answer. Not in terms of the crowd’s response — they loved that, actually. Thought you to be some humble, honest, pure fighter. Who was deep inside ready to do what it took to win the Games when push came to shove. No, no. It had been the wrong answer for Claire.

All you wanted to do was linger backstage and watch the remaining Tributes’ interviews. Get a good grasp on who each one was. You had a vague idea, of course, after spending three days observing them all in training. But this, it was more of a direct look as to what they wanted. But of course, Claire couldn’t let you be.

She’d berated you, told you — with a certain amount of kindness of course — that your answer hadn’t been right. You made yourself appear weak. You made yourself look as if you wouldn’t try in that arena. But, that had been the opposite of your plan.

Of course you had a fucking plan. And the fact that Claire couldn’t see that, well it was a little hurtful. Chris and Claire were supposed to be the two people who knew you best. And Claire couldn’t see that every move, every word, and every answer in that interview had been intentional. Honest, yes, but also intentional.

That night held no sleep for you — or any of the other Tributes, really. For a few hours you tossed and turned violently, attempting to lull yourself to sleep by humming a song from your District. Then you took to an old method the matron at the orphanage you used to live at taught you. Going through every letter of the alphabet and coming up with two names for each. When that didn’t work, and it usually did because it was so fucking boring, you realized sleep was not your friend that night.

Instead, you laid in bed, eyes trained on the ceiling, running through each Tribute’s answers for their interviews. Gauging what you could expect of each one in the arena.

Of course, Piers was someone you hoped you could trust. You were from the same District and very rarely did two Tributes from the same District turn on one another. So, you didn’t exactly expect betrayal from him. But, that did not make him any less dangerous. And to think he would not be would be a stupid mistake.

As the sun rose and shone golden rays through the cracks of the sunshades, you finally decided just to be awake. This would most likely be the final time you see this room. The fuzzy rug beneath the bed, the slick polished wood of the floor, the smooth eggshell of the walls, the large windows which overlooked the central of the Capitol, the lush bathroom with its many scents and warm water, the plush bed in which you slept in for the past few days. Oh well, goodbye. You wouldn’t miss it all that much.

Feet hitting the floor, you decided to distract yourself by getting dressed and making your way to the dining room. Eat, you needed to settle the roaring nausea in your stomach that had persisted ever since you walked off the stage last night. You assumed you’d be the only one, the only soul in the apartments. But no, you were greeted by Piers. It seemed your fellow tribute had the same idea. And the same problem.

He offered a weary smile as you sat down across from him. The avox came along and set a plate of food in front of you — bran toast, yogurt dusted with granola and berries, and a rare cup of coffee. You ate in silence across from Piers, not particularly in the mood for idle chit chat. It was the day of the Games. It wasn’t a time to laugh and joke and have small talk with someone you’d be expected to compete against — and maybe kill — in a matter of hours. And really, the silence was nice. Until he opened his big mouth.

“I didn’t mean to get you into trouble the other day.” Piers said, his voice as strong and confident as always.

Your eyes raised slowly to look at him as he sat across from you — dull brown hair cropped short along the sides of his head, strong jaw that made him look fiercer than he actually was, and grey eyes. Your eyes met, his intentional as they stared into yours. He was being honest, you knew that. He hadn’t meant to get you into trouble. Because what good would that do him? You weren’t in the arena. Yet.

“I know.” You mumbled, spoon scooping up another serving of yogurt just for it to plop back down defeatedly.

Piers sighed, clearly not wanting that answer. But it was a good one. You acknowledged he hadn’t meant to do you harm, but you also hadn’t necessarily forgiven him either. Not that there really was anything to forgive in your book. He frowned.

“Chris just always talks about how good you are. In training, I mean. He always says you’re… kind too.” He pushed further, not without a gentle tone. “I guess I just thought he’d wanna know. That you did that for the guy from Twelve.”

“Leon,” you said before you could stop yourself. It wasn’t Piers’ fault. But, he should know these peoples’ names. The people he would kill. “His name is Leon. And the girl’s name is Helena.”

“Right, Leon. I thought Chris would be proud of you for helping Leon.” He nodded and shrugged weakly.

He wasn’t necessarily wrong. Chris had a penchant for being proud of nearly everything you did. He was soft on you, he was always perceived as the stronger and tougher of the Redfield siblings. But, he had a soft heart. And it was especially soft for you. So, of course he’d be proud of you wanting to help someone have a better chance. Even if it lessened yours.

But, again, it wasn’t Piers’ fault. It wasn’t his fault that you cared so much about someone you hardly knew that you found yourself in constant trouble with your mentors. You tried to be a good person — it was hard though. Especially in a situation such as your own. In a place where you would have to fight and kill for your life. It wasn’t fair. It should be easier to be good.

“I know,” you nodded, voice soft and slightly bored. It wasn’t that Piers was boring you, really you were just exhausted.

A stretch of silence passed between you two, the only sound was the soft scrape of silverware and the sound of the flatscreen in the common area playing ambient sounds. It was nice, actually. A good moment to gather your thoughts, to just be. To be human a little longer, before you had to become inhuman. It wasn’t long before Piers stood, likely going to prepare for when your stylists would come to escort you. He paused by where you were at the table, his face contemplative.

“I hope we can trust each other in there. I, I wouldn’t mind having you by my side.” Piers said almost softly, his eyes cutting to meet yours.

You looked up at him from where you sat, brows pulled together in slight awe and confusion. He expected to trust you. He wanted to trust you. “Me too, Piers.”

With your nod and agreement, he smiled a ghost of a smile before he walked off, leaving you alone in the silence of the dining room.

The halls were frigid — or maybe it was just cold sweat from your fried nerves. There was a sterile atmosphere to the halls you walked through, trailing a few steps behind Hunnigan as she guided you toward the room she was to prepare you in. The air was tinged with an intense weight that made you shiver. It was like you were walking down the hall to your death. Which really, you could be.

Hunnigan paused in front of a white door, pressing her thumb to a reader and the door sliding open. The room was just as bright and uneasy as the hallway. The door silently slid shut behind you as you stepped in, the emptiness of the space sudden and strange. The cool and silent air raised the hair on your arms as Hunnigan guided you to sit on a bench in the corner of the room, walking to an all white armoire. She slid the doors open, pulling out an outfit you assumed was to be your attire for the area. It hung on a hanger in dull colors.

It did look comfortable, however. Grey and black and dark blues, sleek fabric of a top and pants. She motioned for you to come forward, and you reached out, feeling the material between your fingers. It was thick but breathable, zippers adorning different parts of the fabric. Around the biceps, below the knees. At the back of the neck rested a hood, a zipper along the back of it to make it removable. A cloak that draped over the shoulders and chest was resting on the hanger as well, seeming to also be removable. It was obvious the gamemakers had designed the attire for maximum body coverage. Which made you wonder — what awaited you in that arena?

Hunnigan gently urged you to undress and then assisted you in pulling on the clothes. The pants were thick yet breathable, the fabric somewhat ruched at the ankles just above where the cuffs were tucked into your boots. The top was as you expected — clinging to your skin and durable. Warm but not suffocating. She pulled a pair of gloves that went up to just under your elbows, the material thick and tactical like. She fastened a sort of fanny pack to your chest, the two straps crossing your body — one over your shoulder and the other around your chest.

“I would expect humidity,” Hunnigan began as she continued to prepare your attire, then your hair. “This fabric is good for repelling moisture and keeping you warm but not overheated. The cloak comes off and fits in the pack. There are a few minor supplies in there, one small knife and a water canteen. That’s all they gave you this year.”

The fact that they’d seemed to want to prepare you for brutality with a weapon made your chest tight. So they expected a bloodbath. And of course you did too. These tributes were brutal.

You turned to her, brows creased as she finished securing your hair. You inhaled deeply, swallowing as you met her gaze. “Thank you, Ingrid, for being so kind to me. You, you understand I didn’t choose this.”

Hunnigan nodded, a sort of solemn smile on her lips as she turned around and picked something up off the table in the middle of the room. “You didn’t choose this and I know you don’t want it. But, if I could bet, it’d be on you.”

Her words were kind, and you knew she wouldn’t bet on you because she wanted the riches if you won. No, you knew she’d bet because she would want to assist you in that arena as much as she could. You smiled gratefully as she turned back around, a necklace dangling in her fingers.

“From Claire. She wanted this to be your token.” She held up the necklace you always saw Claire wearing — silver with a large feather that held a turquoise stone at the top, a twin but smaller feather right beside it. There was a slight difference though. A small circle rested on the other side of the feather, a charm that Chris usually wore as well. You had both of them now. Your chest tightened as Hunnigan clasped it on your neck, tucking it under your shirt.

Wetness pricked at your waterline, throat going tight. Claire loved you, and any beration you’d received the past week had been only for your benefit. You were her family. And she didn’t want to lose you. You knew Chris loved you, he never faltered to tell you. To bestow his pride on you. They were family. And you may never see them again. You swallowed as you looked up at Hunnigan, her hand coming up to rub up and down your arm.

A chime sounded, an automatic voice announcing sixty seconds to launch. Bile rose in your throat. This was it. The tracker had been injected on the jet an hour before. Your arm still sore from the sudden and large injection. Sixty more seconds before you were to face the twenty three remaining tributes and unknown horrors of the arena.

“You can do this, okay? Just run. As soon as that cannon goes off, run.” Hunnigan encouraged, very similarly to how Chris and Claire had instructed you to.

Run. They had told you to ignore the cornucopia and run. Make a break while you could. There would likely be packs of supplies on the outer lying ring far from the center. Grab one and bolt. That was your plan. Don’t take part in the bloodbath. Don’t make hasty allies, don’t go toward weapons, don’t be stupid. Run and make a plan.

Thirty seconds, the voice announced. A cold sweat broke across your brow, an unsettled chill running up your spine. You inhaled, stepping forward and embracing your stylist. She wasn’t family, hardly a friend. You’d met days ago but she’d been there for you. Came to understand you. You were grateful to her.

“Thank you,” you whispered one final time, face buried in her neck. She wrapped her arms around you as well, holding you close. It seemed she knew you needed one last action of comfort. One last reassurance that you were human before you were sent into the arena.

“Good luck,” she whispered back, only letting go when you pulled back. Despite yourself, your eyes were teary as you stared at the woman. You sniffled, steeling yourself as your arms dropped. You walked toward the tube, face to face with it as the voice again announced ten more seconds.

With a deep breath, you entered, the glass sliding up and sealing you in. You turned, making eye contact with Hunnigan as the ticking of the clock went town from ten. At one, the platform began to raise, your stomach roiling, your heart racing. This was it.

The sky was gray, the air humid with sprinkles of rain. A cold chill ran through your bones as the platform jolted to a stop inside the arena. Your eyes squinted, adjusting to the light sheet of rain clouding your vision. Where were you? A city, likely. In front of you rested the cornucopia — spilling with a bounty of supplies and food and weapons. Swords, knives, javelins, spears, bows, arrows, hammers, and really any weapon you could imagine save for firearms. Those were forbidden.

A flat voice rang through the air, announcing sixty seconds. You had a full minute to take in your surroundings, find the closest pack of supplies, and decide which direction you’d go before you could step off the pedestal. Even the wrong shift of weight before the time was up could lead to an explosion. It was supposed to be fair, no head starts.

Your eyes glanced along the surrounding area, attempting to see which tributes were in your line of sight. Your brows furrowed when you spotted Piers, his eyes dead set on the cornucopia. A shiver ran through you at the look in his eyes. Pure dedication and determination. He wasn’t going to lose this. Your head snapped forward, aching to look away from him. A clock tower loomed behind the cornucopia, tall and proud. Many would likely try to take residence there. Make a stand to own the cornucopia and its contents.

Thirty seconds. Your eyes searched around you, looking over your shoulder. A road arched off to the side, a broken street sign reading Raccoon Street. And pointing to the north, an arrow on a sign pointed to Victoria Street. Likely the best option. Most would stay for the bloodbath. Try to get supplies and weapons. Try to make a stand. Not you. You needed to be smarter. You hoped Leon was smart.

Leon. Your eyes snapped forward again, searching for the District Twelve tribute. The lack of success made you chest tight. He was probably positioned behind the cornucopia. God, you hoped he wouldn’t die in the bloodbath. Wouldn’t try to get to the cornucopia first.

Ten seconds. A deep breath, a rolling out of your shoulders. You needed to be ready. The monotone voice counted down from ten, a boom sounding at the one. Your feet lurched off the pedestal, racing toward one of the outer rings of the ensemble of supplies. A pack on the outer rings wouldn’t hold as much as one from the inside. But what it held would be enough. Just for a few days to make a plan then come back.

Your eyes were set on a pack, your hand reaching out to grasp the handle. You hoisted it up, slinging it over your shoulder as you quickly pivoted on the slick pavement. Both straps secured on your shoulders, you began to run away from the clock tower. You didn’t dare look behind you because you could hear it — the bloodbath. The sounds of yelling, screaming, fighting. The slick squelch of blood, the sound of bodies hitting the pavement. It made your stomach twist.

You were nearly out of the circle of pedestals when you slipped, your feet sliding out from underneath you. A gasp ripped from your throat when you realized you hadn’t slipped but been yanked back. Your back hit the pavement, the air expelling from your chest as a body loomed over you. Your eyes peeled open, going wide as you saw Richard — the boy from Eight — coming down to hold you to the ground. You thrashed, kicking your legs as his knees rested on your shoulders. His eyes narrowed down at you.

“Entitled bitch,” he spat, quickly raising the small knife that was identical to yours — the one that came in your packs. You moved your head to the side, his slash that was aimed for your throat cutting across your cheek instead. The cut stung as his opposite hand came to grip your face. “Showin’ off in the training like that. Just couldn’t help actin’ like you’re better than us, huh? Imma wipe that fuckin’ look off your face.”

Your eyes widened further as his hand gripped your neck, effectively cutting off your breathing and tilting your head back. His knife angled at the side of your mouth. Oh God, you were going to die here. Like this. At the hands of a misogynistic asshole. You kicked and trashed under him, but he was kneeling fully on your shoulders so you couldn’t move your arms. Dread filled your chest as he lowered the blade, eyes squeezing shut.

But the pain never came. Only a quick thump and a splatter of hot wet on your face. Your eyes flew open only to see Richard coughing up blood and falling to the side off your body. A knife — a throwing knife was lodged in his chest. Impeccable aim. You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking behind you, eyes searching only to land on Piers.

He nodded at you, motioning and mouthing for you to go. You nodded, not second guessing as you ripped the knife from Richard’s chest — also swiping up his knife from his pack — and running. You weren’t taking any chances. Your breathing was ragged from the adrenaline and how Richard had been nearly choking you. Your feet skidded on the pavement as you rounded the corner of Raccoon Street onto Victoria Street. Almost away, you were almost away.

Until you weren’t. A surprised yell fell from your lips as you skidded to a stop on the slick pavement, eyes wide with shock and confusion. What the fuck where those? A small number of people stumbled around the street, their movements slow and uncoordinated. You stood there, watching. Then one turned toward you. That wasn’t a person. The skin along its face was worn and greyed, one eye missing while the other was a cloudy white. Different wounds that looked nearly decayed littered its body. It wasn’t alive, but it was certainly undead.

These were the mutts this year it seemed. Your breath quickened as it paced toward you, letting out a shriek. You stumbled backward, looking around for a different direction. To the right was a dead end. To the left pointed toward Woodbine Drive. Woodbine Drive it was then. You took off toward the left, footsteps quick and heavy as you ran. As few other of the mutts littered the street, but none moved fast enough to catch you. You veered right quickly onto Woodbine Drive, relief flooding your chest as you spotted a building. A hospital. Perfect, a good place to rest and catch your breath.

Rain pattered on your head, your hands shakily coming up to pull the hood over your head. Water coursed down your face and beaded along and off the fabric of your clothes. Almost there. The doors to the entrance of the hospital were close, and you skidded to a stop as you neared them. You swung one open, inhaling deeply as you rushed inside, the door slamming shut behind you.

Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest as you stood there, back to the door as you slunk down to the floor. It was going to be a long games.

Extra! Leon’s POV of the bloodbath!

The air was thick and heavy, rain pattering down in sheets that obscured his vision. Leon blinked a few times, his eyes adjusting to the change of light, blinking away the raindrops that settled on his lashes. So this was it, the arena for this year’s Games. He frowned, looking around as he soaked in his surroundings. The cornucopia stood proud in the center of the circle of tributes. A collection of supplies, food, packs, and weapons spilled from its mouth in a hypnotizing fashion. It made him crave what was there.

Except he knew it’d be stupid to take its bait. Only morons went straight for the cornucopia. Or careers. Careers. Where were you? He’d long since spotted Helena to his right, her eyes set and determined on trying to get as close to the cornucopia as possible. He didn’t see you though. You must be behind the cornucopia.

Only forty more seconds. He needed a plan. Well, he had a plan. Run, that was his plan. He didn’t feel like dying in the bloodbath. That’d be stupid. Besides, he wanted to stay alive long enough to get you as an ally. Though as much as he’d thought about it, he still couldn’t understand why he wanted you at his side during the games. You were good at combat, he’d witnessed that. But maybe it was on a more personal level. Either way, he needed to stay alive.

Thirty more seconds. His eyes landed on Richard from District Eight a few pedestals to his left, his eyes searching the area. A deep unsettled feeling seeped into Leon’s chest. He’d remembered he’d overheard Richard talking about you a few days ago. Just after your demonstration at the knife stand. How he’d thought you were spoiled and entitled. How you must think yourself better than the rest of the tributes to show off like that. How you were the first he would go after in the arena.

Shit. Leon hadn’t warned you. He’d never gotten the chance. You switched to private lessons before he got the chance. He knew good and well you could take care of yourself. But Richard was particularly nasty, didn’t seem to play fair. And you had no idea he was coming for you. Maybe, if he was lucky, Leon could find you before Richard and protect you. Or at least warn you. But who was he kidding? He couldn’t protect you. He couldn’t even hold a knife right until you showed him how.

Twenty seconds. The rain made things more complicated. It didn’t help with seeing far and the slick of the pavement would make running worse. He’d have to be smart with his movements. With his chase to find you. Ten seconds. The voice rang through the air, counting down from ten. Each number was a knife to his throat, aching and stinging until the cannon sounded and he could jump off his pedestal.

Leon ran toward the cornucopia, swiping up a pack along the way, sliding it over his shoulders. As he ran, he unzipped the pack at his chest and pulled out the knife. He needed to find you. Helena was okay, she could take care of herself. She’d already grabbed a pack and began to run toward the clock tower. Leon rounded the cornucopia, pausing for a split second to survey the area for you. Any sign of you. Your hair, your voice. Anything.

He heard a yell from behind him, a flash of blonde coming from his side. He dodged just in time, a blade ringing by his ear. Eyes wide, Leon turned, spotting Rachel from District Two. Her eyes were harshly narrowed as she swung at him with a sword again and again. He stumbled back, beginning to run again. She let out a growl, stopping as she spotted a weaker tribute. She disregarded him as he ran, obviously not caring too much about killing him specifically when she could have an easier catch. He didn’t stick around too long to hear the squelch of blood and the thump of Cindy’s body.

His only focus was finding you before Richard did. Leon paused, a breath leaving his lips as he saw you running from the cornucopia, a pack on your back as you ran. You seemed set on getting away. He was almost relieved until he saw a figure yank you back by your hood.

“No!” He shouted as you fell back, your head hitting the pavement in a sudden jerk that made his stomach churn. Fuck, Richard got to you first. He watched as the tribute from Eight terrorized you, cutting your cheek and then gripping your throat tightly.

Leon broke into a run then, but he was still too far to get to you in time. But he could damn well try. He froze when a shimmer of steel whipped through the air toward Richard. It plunged deep into his chest, the boy freezing before he coughed up thick bubbles of blood, the wetness splattering and dribbling onto your face. He fell onto the pavement by your body. You sat up in record time, head swiveling as you looked around. Leon’s gaze landed on your savior at the moment yours did. Piers.

He had never been so grateful for someone as he was Piers in that moment. Piers had saved your life when Leon couldn’t. He watched as your friend — he assumed — urged you to run. Leon’s gaze snapped back to you, watching as you stood, scrambling to run down Raccoon Street and skidding to the left toward Victoria Street.

He lurched forward, intending to follow you. But someone cut him off, skidding to a stop in front of him with a spear pointed at him. He cursed under his breath. He’d have to find you. He backed up, turning swiftly on his heel and running away from the bloodbath, in the opposite direction of where you went. Maybe he could circle around. But for now, he needed to get away from the cornucopia.

Leon ran down Raccoon Street, running straight until he reaching the intersection of Raccoon and Warren Street. He paused, assessing where he should go next. Straight would be best, he’d be less likely to get lost that way. He continued forward, stopping at the first building he saw. R.C. Radio Station, the sign above it read. He decided it was his best option. Best to get away from the tributes and whatever mutts there could be.

He ran toward the lot where the building was, coming to a stop in shock. Mutts. He frowned, they didn’t look like mutts from a distance. They looked like people. Until one that was to his right inched toward him with a screech. It was undead. Skin rotted and peeling and mouth half torn open. It’s throat was missing. So this was what Umbrella had cooked up this year. Fucking perfect.

Leon didn’t hesitate to make his way to the radio station, throwing the door open and shutting it, searching for something to block the door with. He used a chair, lodging it under the door handles. He was safe, secure. He could think of a plan now. A way to get to you.

daily click! 🇵🇸

2023 ellieslaces please do not repost, rewrite, translate, or submit my work to AI or any other platform. please support your creators by reblogging, liking, and following!

taglist: @zamorazz ; @irenic-0kk ; @kitsunetori (ask to join!)

[haveihitanerve]

How Bruce gets his kids ready to fight-

Bruce: alright everyone circle up

JL: ????

Batman: nightwing… do you want to do the honor

Nightwing: *tears up* yes.

Nightwing: *deep breath* you gotta, gotta, get your head in the game

Batkids: you gotta getcha getcha getcha getcha head in the game

Nightwing: you gotta, gotta, get your head in the game

Batkids: you gotta getcha getcha getcha getcha head in the game

Nightwing: YOU GOTTA, GOTTA GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME

Batkids: YOU GOTTA GETCHA GETCHA GETCHA GETCHA HEAD IN THE GAME

JL: *concerned*

~

Batman: alright hands in, save the world on three. One two three,

Batkids: SAVE THE WORLD

JL: what the fu-

~

Batman: never back down never what?

Batkids: never give up!

Batman: NEVER BACK DOWN NEVER WHAT

Batkids: NEVER GIVE UP

JL: okay they’re seriously scaring us now-

[brainrotworks]

“Well, I can always count on you for a warm welcome…”

is this too much?

[addsalwayssick]

Remus opened his letter, surprised when it appeared to be a howler. The last time he’d heard one was the day before Sirius got disowned back in 5th year.

He was in the dining hall for breakfast, sitting at the staff table. He watched as Harry and Hermione plotted, looking anxious. He blew it off, as it seemed Harry was always weary.

“A howler,” Snape sneered from beside him.

“Astute observation, Severus.” Remus told him, nodding at him.

Remus disregarded Snape, and focused on the howler. There was no name on it, so it was possible it was from a student playing a prank. In good nature, for the prankingnostalgia, Remus opened it.

There was silence for a moment before a loud, booming voice started to yell. “DARLINGGGGG, GUESS WHOS BACK FROM JAIL” And it was his Sirius Black. And he knew they would find each other again.

[runraerun]

Steddie Amnesia Fic: 1/3

-> Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

cw: lots of head trauma/brain injury/recovery stuff.

Steve wakes up in the hospital with someone snoring loudly on his leg, mouth open, drool getting soaked up into the scratchy hospital blanket over him.

Steve just stares.

It’s… Freddie? No, that’s not right... Eddie! Eddie ‘the freak’ Munson, known delinquent and drug dealer… resting his head on Steve’s lap.

What the hell…?

Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.

It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.

“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.

“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.

But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.

“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”

Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.

“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.

One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”

Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?

“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”

Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”

Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.

“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.

Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.

And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“

“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”

“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.

“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.

Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.

“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.

That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.

Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.

The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.

Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.

In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.

A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.

Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.

He’s a head trauma patient, now.

It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.

Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.

And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.

He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.

Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.

The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.

It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?

It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.

What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.

It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.

Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.

No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.

And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.

Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.

Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.

The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.

He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.

“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.

Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”

“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.

Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”

Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.

It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.

Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.

“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”

“Steve, I don’t think—

“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“

“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.

Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.

“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”

Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”

Eddie raises a brow.

Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”

Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”

He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.

“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”

Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”

Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”

Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.

He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.

He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.

“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!

“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”

Steve flees the van on unsteady feet, not daring to look back.

[zishu-arts]

i had the worst idea

[bluebeesknees]

04:59

[khrysaetos-art]

based on this post

[miinxxo]

Trollhunters never cry

[emtousiart]

This mental image has been haunting me all day

[rite-the-wrongs]

*chugs a full half and half Monster Rehab*

So, you know how Darkseid is looking for the Anti-Life Equation? Well, Danny and the other Halfas are kinda Anti-Alive. Idk, my mind is going to how Thanos is trying to impress Lady Death in the weirdest ways possible (like killing half the universe or making her side piece immortal), and changing the names to Darkseid and Danny.

Darkseid attacking the earth was far from a rare occurrence. Usually his attacks were centered on the Justice League, but around every 1 out of 5 times he would just show up on a regular Tuesday with his army pouring through various Boom Tubes in every major city.

This wasn’t even the first time Darkseid had attacked like this since Danny had joined the League. The only difference was that instead of flying to Fawcett City to help Captain Marvel fight the invaders there, Danny had been in Gotham helping Bats and Diana with an artifact smuggling ring. The two of them immediately got in the Bat-Plane and headed towards Metropolis as fast as they could and Danny had been dragged along.

Darkseid was already holding Superman by the neck when they flew overhead. Diana jumped out to help Supergirl fight some messed up guy in a pink robe while the two Superboys were beating up an old lady. Batman gained Darkseid’s attention by firing missiles at the space tyrant which froze him to the ground and knocked the struggling Superman from his grip.

Darkseid’s glare followed the plane as it flew overhead. Then it started actually following as his Omega Beams burst forward.

“Hang on!” Phantom yelled, grabbing ahold of Batman and turning them both intangible just as the beams destroyed the plane around them.

He gently flew Bats on the ground. Bats did his customary grunt of approval he gave out if you saved him from certain death and ran to help the two heroines take out cloak man as Danny flew over to help take down the grandma. A few other heroes were focusing on keeping the Parademons flooding through the portal contained. Danny recognized a few, mainly Steel, Booster Gold, and Black Lightning, but there were even more that he didn’t.

He turned back to his own fight just in time to avoid getting hit by the old lady’s baton.

“Sorry, Grandma!” Phantom smirked, phasing through the attack. “Any chance I can let you pinch my cheeks and we call it a day?”

“Temping, porkchop, but an old lady needs her hobbies. And conquering planets is one of Granny’s favorites,” the old lady laughed swinging at him a few more times, only for each blow to pass through him like the last.

“Well, next time we’ll just invite you to bingo night,” Danny remarked, grabbing her wrist on the last blow and twisting it behind her back. The older Superboy tackled her through the Halfa as the younger one flew up high and plummeted feet first into her head, knocking Granny out.

The fighting seemed to be winding down. Diana had the guy in the pink robe tied up in her lasso while Batman ran over to help the Atom close the Boom Tube and Supergirl flew over to help her cousin fight Darkseid.

The only fight that was still going strong was Superman and Darkseid. Neither Titan was willing to bow to the other. Supergirl flew in between them, snapping Darkseid’s head to the side with a well placed kick. The space tyrant staggered for a moment before grabbing her leg and throwing her at Superman. The two Kryptonians fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs as Darkseid charged up his Omega Beams.

Danny didn’t even think. One second he was floating next to Jon and the next he had teleported in between the ruler of Apokolips and the two Kryptonians. He barely managed to throw up a shield in time. The Omega Beams shook the shield and kicked up dust around it, but Phantom gritted his teeth and managed to keep it steady. He only let the shield finally fall once the dust had settled.

“Impressive, child. Not even a Lantern Ring can shield from my Omega Beams. What are you?”

“You know, just a dead guy who doesn’t really know how to stay dead,” Danny chatted, keeping Darkseid’s attention on him. The portal was directly behind the tyrant. Wonder Woman and the Superboys threw their respective bad guys back through the portal.

“How can you be both dead and alive?” Darkseid asked. If he was confused, he didn’t let it show. Batman gestured at the two Supers behind Danny. They gave him a small nod and looked at the tyrant. Danny raised a hand to stop them.

“Back everyone up and cover your ears,” Danny whispered under his breath at a level only the four supers could hear. The Superboys quickly got everyone away from the portal while Superman and Supergirl gave him looks of confusion, but eventually relented. The entire time Darkseid’s attention was on Danny and Danny alone.

“Guess I’m just that stubborn,” Danny chuckled at the dictator. “I died, it didn’t fully stick, now here I am as a ghost.”

“Breathtaking.”

“You know what else is breathtaking?” Danny sucked in as much air as he could, not that he really needed it, and released a wail.

At once, all windows on the street shattered. Everyone covered their ears and the heart breaking cry sweep through the area. The Supers all collapsed to their knees, the sound even worse for those with super hearing. Tears threatened to spill from everyone’s eyes. Everyone but Darkseid.

The Dictator of Apokolips seemed almost stunned. Blood streamed from his nose and probably his ears, though those were hidden in his helmet. The sound waves slammed into him and he did nothing to fight back as the waves set him careening head over heels back towards the portal.

Darkseid barely managed to grab the edge of the portal and the wail stopped and Danny fell to his knees. White rings flickered around him and started to change him back into Fenton, but he managed to stop them before anyone could who wasn’t already looking could see. And the only one looking was Darkseid.

“Someone close the portal!” Batman yelled. All of the heroes staggered to their feet and tried to run to the Mother Box as Darkseid just stares at Phantom.

“Such beautiful cries of pain,” Darkseid muttered. His gaze never left the exhausted Phantom. He realized almost too late that the heroes were going for the Mother Box. He charged up his Omega Beams and shot them at the closest hero, Wonder Woman. She managed to ricochet them off her bracelets, but the beams kept coming back for her. The other heroes had to back up in fear of getting hit or getting in the Amazonian’s way.

Suddenly, a yellow blur swept through the area, knocking Diana out of the way are replacing her with an unconscious Parademon. A figure, this one white and red, landed on the Mother Box, destroying the device. Finally, a red blur ran in and punched Darkseid in the face, sending the tyrant careening through the closing portal.

“Sorry we’re late.” Flash chuckled, as a frustrated Kid Flash and Impulse stopped behind him. “What’d we miss?”

A series of groans ripped through the heroes as they just sat down and waited for the Javelin to get there for med evac.

—————————————————————————

You’d think Danny’s first time fighting Darkseid would be a bigger deal, but it was honestly not as big of a deal as everyone made it out to be. Danny had been fighting genocidal inter-dimensional tyrants since he was 14. What was one genocidal space tyrant making the list?

Batman apparently didn’t think it no big deal, though, if the worried version of the patented Bat-glare and Bat-grunt were anything to go off of. It had been a few days since the fight and the Bat had finally managed to wrangle everyone who had been involved in the Metropolis fight to the Watchtower for a debrief.

The meeting was supposed to start five minutes ago, but only the Flash was still missing. Danny, Conner, and Kara had been making jokes about it to a groaning Kid Flash and a pouting Impulse when the Boom Tube opened.

Everyone jumped to the ready. Batman pulled out a Batarang. Wonder Woman readied her lasso. Superman, Super girl, and the younger Superboy all started floating while their eyes glowed red. The older Superboy got into a fighting stance that Booster Gold quickly copied. The Atom shrank. Black Lightning’s hands sparked with electricity while Danny’s hands glowed with ectoplasm. The two speedsters vibrated in place.

They were ready for anything to come through. Except for a box of chocolates, a bouquet of roses, and a severed head of a yellow, bald alien. As quickly as it opened, the portal closed again. Kid Flashes summed it up best.

“What the fuck?” The yellow speedster yelled.

“Is that-“ Diana piped up, only for Superman to interrupt.

“It’s Mongul,” the Man of Steel growled.

“Who would send a severed warlord’s head with a bunch of romantic gifts?” The Atom piped up from where he stood on Booster’s shoulder.

“Well if it’s not poisoned, dibs on the chocolate,” Impulse gave a nervous laugh.

Batman and Black Lightning approached the table. Batman took a device of his belt and scanned the head then chocolate, each one coming back clean. Lightning picked up the bouquet and found a note.

“To Phantom,” he read out loud. “Your screams of agony resonated through my very being. You are the answer to my billion year search for the Anti-Life Equation. Join me and together we can enslave the universe to our will. Darkseid.”

The room fell into silence. Everyone had various looks of disgust on their face. The silence was eventually broken by Danny groaning and rubbing his eyes with his palms.

“Why do I only attract fruitloops?” He yelled up to the ceiling.

“GUYS!” A red blur yelled as he burst into the room. Flash had finally arrived. “I saw Desaad buying flowers in central city! And then Granny Goodness showed up with a box of chocolates and they Boom Tubed away! Hey, they actually looked a bit like these. Holy shit! Is that Mongul?”

Black Lightning just handed the Scarlet Speedster the note. Flash summed it up the best.

“What the fuck?”

Idk, let me know if I got to continue.