#idk avoidance ig??

[plotwholls]

“I hope you… I hope you never learn my real name,” Phantom spits, but it doesn’t sound angry, it sounds pained, as it clutches where its ribs should be. Valerie just snarls at him. “‘Real name’?!”

Phantom gave her a look. “Do you seriously think my name is Phantom? I was alive, Red.”

Valerie felt… confused. She didn’t lower her aim though. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Phantom looked… tired. Pained. Bitter. Valerie didn’t like it. It made her feel Bad. “It means I hope you never find out my real name.”

Something in the pit of her stomach rolls, and Valerie hoists her weapons higher. Her face twisted, as if she wasn’t feeling conflicted. “Well, I ho—”

“I’m so tired,” His voice was so soft, she nearly didn’t hear it. “I just want to rest.”

She’s pretty sure her jaw dropped. “Then rest in your grave!”

She had never seen Phantom snap into something so feral. For the first time, she felt afraid of Phantom. Then, barely a moment later, the terrifying, unexplainable vision folded and forced its way back into little Phantom. His face had dropped even more, and something in Valerie’s throat dropped with it. Then he spoke and ripped the floor out from under her (metaphorically), “…I don’t have a grave. No one even knows I’m dead.”

The next day, Valerie still couldn’t get it out of her head. No grave? Not even anyone to mourn him?

It had to be some kind of trick— it had to be. …Right?

Valerie shook the thoughts from her mind. She had better things to do than think about ghosts.

Three hours later, Valerie concluded that, no, no she did not have better things to do, even as she stared down at her English test.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not even a grave.

“I want to lay your body to rest,” She declares the next time she catches up to him. “Or at least make you a grave marker for you to put over your body.”

His jaw dropped, just a tad more than should be possible, like it was half unhinged. He shook his head, and his jaw snapped back into place. “Wh-what? You would do that?!”

Something twisted in her gut, and she glared. “Manipulation or not, everyone deserves proper rites! Tell me yours, I’ll do them!”

He looked at her with big, glassy eyes, then gasped, “Yeah, sure, just— I— there’s no body.”

She frowned. That complicated things, but changed nothing at all. “And? Tell me how to lay you to rest!”

Ectoplasm started to leak from his eyes like tears, and Valerie felt panic rise up, remembering the littler Phantom, but he spoke quickly. “Just a grave marker. I don’t care what it looks like or is made of. Construction paper and crayons, for all I care. I— thank you—”

“You don’t— don’t thank me,” Valerie tells him, something hard working up the back of her throat. “You don’t need to thank me.”

He grins, and it’s stained by ectoplasm, but Valerie faintly realizes this is the happiest she’s ever seen him. “What do you want me to write on it?”

Valerie didn’t go out as Red Huntress again until she had the marker in-hand, which took three months— two to work up the pay for it, one to order and get it delivered.

She presented it to Phantom as casually as she dared (which, given how reverent he was being of a FedEx-plastic-wrapped package, was not casual at all).

“Can I see it?” He gasped out, and suddenly Valerie remembered that the Drs. Fenton were pretty sure a ghost touching their own grave could permanently disappear them. Slowly, gently, Valerie kneels down, and rests the package on her knees. Carefully, she cuts it open, and peels back the plastic, revealing her carefully-chosen, white stone plaque, with stark black lettering:

DANNY

friend, brother, & sometimes a son

‘90-‘04

Valerie stared at the writing again, and looked back up at Danny Phantom, who was once again crying, probably at the fact she’d paid extra to have a moon and the Cassiopeia constellation engraved above all of it.

She wondered if her Danny felt like that— only sometimes a son.

[miningroseakira]

before i get distracted by watching new wild life episodes again, here's some of my doodles from PerryRata's life series prediction whiteboard from before episode 1 of WL

! the boatboys one had an underlying sketch that someone put on the board as free to use - it's the thin yellow lines underneath the drawing. they didn't leave an @ anywhere but i did my best not to cover their signature, it's next to joel's head.

[Reblogs are great and help the artist, don't steal or trace, etc etc]

[hoofpeet]

Cleanup <3

[mulderscully]

it's the 14th anniversary of my mom's death today. it's crazy to think that in two years she will be gone as long as i knew her. it would be a lie to say her death hurts as much as it used to, but that's because it's part of who i am now. i'm a person with a dead mother and idk how to be anything else. i carry it into every room i walk into. i see people with their mothers who are twice my age and get angry, and i know that isn't fair. i mourn the person my mother was and i mourn the version of myself that died with her that day. i'll never know how my life would have been if she had lived. i wish i remembered things better, i wish i had asked her more questions, i wish i had spent more time with her. i still can't believe she's dead. i rewlly can't believe it all this time later: she really died.

[sparky-is-spiders]

Jonelias Week Day 1 (Which is definitely today I swear), for the prompt "No Powers AU"

This one... maybe got away from me. This is actually only the first half of what I've written so far, and probably the first third overall! I do plan to post this to Ao3 at some point (although I suspect I'll need to do a lengthy round of editing first lmao). It's some very self-indulgent nonsense, which is a lot of what I write, but now it's getting put in the main tags of a ship during said ship's event week. So. It may also be a little bit "aromantic dude tries to figure out what having a crush is supposed to be like." Also a lot of "dude who took Principals of Accounting once pretending it knows what office work is like." Anyway, quick warning before we begin, and the rest will be under the read-more:

Stalking (played for laughs) for most of the fic.

Just. A weird amount of obsession.

Ok that should be it I think. Fic under the cut.

Jon's new boss was, quite possibly, the most boring man in the world. He wore the same outfit every day (pale dress shirt with dark unpatterned tie and gray slacks and matching suit jacket). The only personal effect in his entire office was a potted plant on the windowsill (some sort of succulent, and definitely fake). He always arrived to work exactly half an hour early and left exactly half an hour late. The only hobby he appeared to show any interest in was scheduling, which he seemed to find both deeply engaging and remarkably irritating. In fact, he was apparently so opposed to the idea of mixing his work with his personal life that he might as well not have existed beyond the walls of their office. Jon had never been more fascinated by anyone else in his entire life.

It stared with the transfer to the accounting department. Elias had met with him personally to get him acclimated to his new role. He had been blandly polite, and blandly handsome, and Jon had stopped listening to him about five minutes into their conversation. It was probably bad form, really. The software Elias was droning on and on about sounded like it was about to become a central feature of his days. He really should've been paying attention to it. Instead, he pretended to make eye contact while zeroing in on the top of Bouchard's forehead (a very useful trick, really) and became inordinately focused on the small lock of hair that had fallen across it. It was terribly distracting, and Jon had wondered how he hadn't noticed it. And then he wondered how it had come to be there. And then he had built up an entire story involving a murder, an illicit affair with the assistant director of marketing, and the potted succulent. And then he had noticed Bouchard eying him with what could've been suspicion or amusement or irritation or nothing whatsoever, and had been forced to rapidly pretend to care about their company's bad debt expense policy. Bouchard had indulged him, and had spoken with the calm authority of someone who knew what they were talking about, and had even managed to avoid being overtly condescending (a feat forever out of Jon's reach). At the end he had shaken Jon's hand (with a nice, firm grip), and had told him "I'm looking forward to working with you, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful member of our team." Jon had left that meeting with a mind shrouded in a fog of boredom and a faint sensation of warmth which he decided was best attributed to curiosity and left otherwise unexamined. Over the next few weeks, Jon had tried to subtly inquire into Bouchard's life. At the time, he had been naively under the impression that surely he must have let slip something about his life; some odd quirk or funny story or harmless bit of information which could justify Jon's blooming curiosity. Unfortunately; "He lives in Chelsea, I'm pretty sure?" (Sasha) "He's currently in a meeting. Honestly Jon, you'll be better off just sending an email. Now can I please get back to work?" (Rosie, probably lying about the meeting) "He actually lives here in the office. Set up a cozy little home away from home in one of the storage closets and sneaks out at night to raid the canteen. And he's having an affair with the assistant director of marketing." (Tim, definitely lying (but maybe a mind reader? Also, full of brilliant ideas for places Jon could maybe set up a cot whenever he needs to stay overnight)) Clearly, Jon would have to take matters into his own hands if he wanted answers. That was fine. It could be his own private little research project.

Jon liked to think that the entire thing had actually been quite reasonable, and that he had acted within the bounds of their pre-established relationship as employee and supervisor. Surely any rational person had to realize that nobody could possibly be that uninteresting. Anyone would be curious as to what dark secrets Bouchard his behind his well-tailored suits and polite, professional demeanor. … perhaps most rational persons would not meticulously record the movements, behavior, and daily appearance of their colleague in a discreet notebook (with annotations, color-coding, and graphs where appropriate), but Jon had always prided himself on his dedication to research and understanding. So far Jon had collected frustratingly little data. If Bouchard was hiding anything, it wasn't apparent from his schedule (see pages 8-13, figure 2.b), his eating habits (see page 22), or his lone plant (see page five, figure 1.c). His breaks did seem specially timed to avoid other people (and he appeared not to engage in many social behaviors generally), but he never acted irritated or otherwise unhappy to encounter one of his subordinates, so Jon wasn't entirely sure if it was deliberate avoidance or simple coincidence. Really, the only truly odd thing about him was his inexplicable interest in Jon. That very morning, for example, Bouchard had stopped by his cubicle for a fifteen minute discussion on the upcoming Annual Team Luncheon, an event Jon had never attended before (due to an annual migraine which coincidentally always happened to occur on the exact date of the luncheon), which Jon did not plan to attend, and which honestly sounded like some sort of violation of the Geneva Convention. The topic itself was not especially odd (small talk was an archaic tradition which had stubbornly clung on in every workplace Jon had ever set foot in), but Bouchard's low propensity for inter-office socialization combined with the fact that he had both chosen Jon specifically as his conversational partner was… highly suspicious. Most people who encountered Jon inevitably concluded that he was more effort than he was worth (an attitude Jon mostly appreciated).

And of course, there had also been their interaction two days ago, when Elias had paused briefly to inquire as to whether Jon would be staying late, and what he was working on, and if he might perhaps consider heading home soon because there was only so much overtime they could pay him. Or on Friday, when he had managed to hold two separate conversations with Jon where very little was said. Honestly, Jon somewhat suspected that Elias had spoken to him more in the past few weeks than he had spoken to any of their colleagues for the entire time Jon had been there to observe him. Most of Jon's notes were now dedicated to their interactions. From his cot in the unused storage room (which was indeed a good place to stay overnight, thank you Tim), he could jot down everything he recalled about their interaction; it had begun at 8:32 and had concluded at 8:47; the weather was warm and slightly humid, although the office interior remained at a comfortable 21 °C. Bouchard's shirt had been a nice, cool gray, which complemented the silver of his eyes. Jon (who had been busy digging for his favorite pen (the ink was a lovely deep green color, and it was usually kept on the left side of the top desk drawer, and Jon had no idea where else it could have possibly gone)) had settled on "irritation" as his tone, which Bouchard either had not noticed or had not cared enough to acknowledge. He had easily dominated the conversation, and Jon could admit in the sanctity of his research journal that his voice had been soothing enough to cool away some of Jon's annoyance. He wrote his conclusion: Subject behaved near-identically in tone, posture, body language, and apparent mood as he has in all previous communications. Subject displayed no strong thoughts or opinions on subject of discussion nor conversational partner. Interaction was pleasant but slightly dull, no new information discovered. It was almost exactly the same as every previous conclusion. Jon had to admit, so many months with so little progress was… discouraging. He shifted on the narrow mattress and winced when his movements aggravated his backache (which was surely unrelated to his frequent occupancy of the cot). It was becoming more and more apparent that the only possible solution was to do some actual, direct investigation. His first idea (break into Bouchard's office) seemed a tad far (also, he didn't know how to pick locks). His second idea (follow him home) seemed a stretch further than the previous one, and was perhaps best saved as a last resort. His third idea (something something computers? (perhaps "idea" was a bit generous)) would almost certainly require Sasha, who would have questions Jon couldn't answer. He flipped idly through his notes, half-skimming, half-thinking. It was only when his gaze landed on figure 2.b, Weekly Schedule of E. Bouchard, that he actually came up with something reasonable. Something actionable.

[silverware-is-interesting]

now, i KNOW barely any of the people who follow me care about pastra or doai (which, admittedly, i'm not the most 'in the know' of-) BUT, funny thing is, I DON'T CARE! i draw what i want!

just some other doodles 'cause it's fun to draw them (the veldiguns other than clyde seem fun to draw, but i wanna go back and try to remember everything I knew 'bout them first)

[tangyyrine]

The hunt

[solivagantingrebel]

Thinks about Soap who felt so out of place with his family that he ran to enlist the moment he could to avoid dealing with the complications of his future with them in it.

Thinks about Soap who felt so out of place with his family that he ran to enlist the moment he could to avoid dealing with the complications of his future with them in it.

Thinks—

[composeregg]

Honestly as someone who is partially adopted,

The fact that the doctor didn't go to the biological mother, let her walk away, didn't need to find that information, is so...

My mom was a single mother for a few years, because my bio father didn't stick around. My dad is the one she married, the one who raised me, the one who celebrates adoption day with me.

Ruby has her family. I get wanting to know, wanting to understand, and it's clear she does want that, but she doesn't need that. Her mom makes the point of being glad she didn't find anyone because she's ruby's mom

And there's not enough stories out there where that's just accepted. My biological father tried to get in touch with me when I turned 19 and I told him to fuck off (well, i didn't respond so my mom did with my permission), because he's not my dad. I don't have an interest in seeing him, in getting to know him.

"Aren't you curious?" No, not really!

I get the idea of wanting Ruby to secretly be alien-ish since we dont know her genetics but... there's something special to me, for her to be an ordinary girl. A foundling, adopted. Her biological relations not mattering because her family is the one she HAS

That means a lot to me

[dazai-on-my-mind]

"Fyodor's alive."

"Guys there's no way Fyodor's dead calm down."

"It's so obvious that Fyodor's still alive."

I DON'T CARE IF THAT RAT BASTARD'S ALIVE.

My boy is in shambles and you think I'm worried about that Jesus wannabe?

[liquidstar]

april fools is over so now im going to be slash srs instead of slash j. im going to post a little excerpt from one of the oc writing practices ive been doing :) again im not super experienced for a variety of reasons but im doing my best here.

but im going to try and put my self conciousness to the side (thats probably an important part of the practice too, right?) since this isnt final version either way, i can just say im sharing a WIP! so for now it will go the way of most of my other oc stuff..... under the cut

the only context you need is that this would be the opening scene for the story. if i post others i'll have to give more context bc most of them are taken from the middle of something. anyway here goes:

-----

“I love you

I've loved you since the beginning

From when you were only stardust

To when you will rejoin the stars

When everyone will be together again

Understand, you don’t simply live in the universe

You are part of it, taking on a form uniquely alive

You are the universe giving love back to itself

I love you so much”

“Wait!!!”

A lone girl jolts awake, crying a plea into the empty air. Tears stream down her cheeks, as she calls for someone she doesn't know. Her heart aches with a nameless yearning that fades with the memory of her dream. Still, against her will, the emotions linger. A profound sense of love consumes her, an agonizing, grieving love, meant for her. She sighs and wipes away her tears. It was an absurd dream, a ridiculous notion.

As her conscious mind clears, she takes in her surroundings; a forest drowned in the pale blue light of dawn. Her sleeping bag, now encased in dew, was laid on the cold grass. She sits for a while, gazing at the faint sliver of the rising sun’s glow with an indistinct expression, and eventually stands up.

The lone girl begins her daily routine by braiding her hair. With a wave of her hand, she freezes dew on a rock, creating herself a mirror. Her fingers carefully weave her brown locks into a braid, now adorned with a snowflake clip and a scarlet ribbon. She throws on a long blue half-skirt over her shorts, matching her shirt. She forces on a pair of black boots and cuffs on her arm. Lastly, she grabs a moon-themed spear, and she's ready for the day.

Before setting off, she made sure to pack all her belongings, including her numerous hand-drawn maps and a compass. However, she also stops to look into the bag deeper, foolishly expecting to find something new. Instead, she only sighs, "Still no food."

She puts on the backpack and trudges forward anyway, ignoring the hunger pains as best she can. She hums to keep herself distracted.

As she walks, the trees tower above her, shrouding the horizon and taunting her. Birds occasionally fly into view, but seem to disappear in an instant. She wonders if her eyes are playing tricks on her.

The lone girl scribbles on her maps, trying to record a labyrinth of identical tree trunks and twisted paths. This proves useless, as this elliptical forest has her going in circles. Exasperated, she fidgets with her compass, only to see the needle is frantically twitching around. She presses it gently to her forehead and quietly complains, “Don't tell me you're broken…”

Her train of thought was cut short by the sudden sound of running water, so loud she can’t fathom how she’s only now begun to hear it. She decided to put off one problem for another. Following the sound through some shrubs, she quickly finds the source.

Her spear at the ready, she approaches the stream. Scanning its depths for signs of fish, she walks cautiously. Her posture was awkward, her expression was uncertain, betraying her lack of experience. She held her spear to her chest with both arms as she encroached the water’s edge.

She inhales in preparation, removes her skirt and boots, and enters the water with slow, careful steps. The very surface of the stream begins to freeze as it makes contact with her skin. Tiny, thin crystals of ice form as she steps further in. Breathing deeper, as she tries to control the frost, she makes her way to the center of the stream. She stands waiting for fish.

Rather than throwing her spear to hunt, like the intended purpose, she stabs at the water. She’s not good at this, however, and only ends up scaring other potential prey away. She makes several attempts at this but is unsuccessful each time. Refusing to quit, her repeated strikes become more desperate and uncoordinated with each failure. Her growing frustration only makes the water freeze deeper, eventually solidifying around her legs. She yelps, now in a panic, and begins to frantically stab at the ice to free herself.

A mess.

Escaping this ordeal, the lone girl abandons any further attempt at fishing. It probably isn't her calling anyway. She trudges on, lost, wet, cold, and hungry.

She looks at her compass again, her face reflecting in its glass. “You're broken,” she tiredly states, as she feels her eyes begin to well with tears.

“No! No no no! Don't cry! Don't cry Polaris,” The lone girl, Polaris, reassures herself, “Last time you cried you froze your eyelids shut, and that really hurt,” She whines aloud.

Polaris takes a deep breath, slaps her cheeks, and swallows her tears. She elects to follow the river, her only hope of escape, pursuing the promise of a village just beyond this enigmatic forest. She daydreams of a warm meal in a cozy restaurant, and maybe a cold desert too. A glimmer of determination returns to her stride, as she continues her hum from before.

[not-5-rats]

did somebody order some shitty angst doodles? No??? well have em anyways!

(cw; headless body, bodiless head, blood(?), shitty perspective-)

'Chester refuses to belive in ghosts, cause if ghosts exist...then Milo sees all the shitty stuff he's done...and he couldn't stand that'

☆---------------☆

'The day Chester found his brothers head he could barely believe his eyes, he stood and held it so tightly he almost broke Milo's skull'

[tidal-chaos]

animal jam is great as long as you dont find out about the racism

[amaranthdahlia]

i wonder what wouldve happened to kazumas wellbeing if ryuunosuke was the one to die in the ship instead of him ?? like its very much obvious ryuunosuke means ALOT to kazuma, to the point he told him things even susato was surprised of not knowing, did things for him that wouldve costed him his life mission, trusted him more than anyone else

would his world just turn upside down again but this time possibly permanent? would his mental state just plummet? be a hollow of himself ? hed still be driven by his mission, just moreso with the lack of care of his own life ? would living just. not matter to him anymore ?

[the--highlanders]

actually I am going to talk about jamie not being able to shoot the zombie in the age of ambition like. he's holding a gun. he's faced with something which is human-shaped but no longer a human, which is actively posing a threat to him and his friends. and he just freezes. he can't do anything.

and we never see jamie shying away from combat with non-human/non-humanoid enemies. he's happy enough to destroy the quarks, for instance. and he'll get into fights with humans/humanoid beings if it's non-lethal. but he actively turns down weapons when he gets into a fight with one of the gonds. the most we ever see him do is swordfight with trask at the end of the highlanders. and even there, he doesn't actively /kill/ - he pushes trask overboard. clearly that's not a death sentence, seeing as ben had already survived the same swim back to shore. and if trask does end up dying? jamie won't necessarily know about it. he's not directly responsible.

so I just think. jamie, who never killed anyone in the war. jamie, who's a piper, who's a musician rather than a soldier. he's not unable to fight, because he duels trask, and he's not afraid to threaten people, because he holds two and ben and polly at knifepoint. he's not naive, because he stands at the window and watches alexander die. but he's never killed anyone himself. jamie, who's consumed with survivor's guilt, always wondering if he should have done more, if his cowardice ever condemned someone else to death - but also always knowing that he could never have done it, being sickened by the part of him that feels guilty for having no blood on his hands.

jamie, who looks into the eyes of something that's not even human anymore, and can't look away, and can't pull the trigger.

and what does that do to him, then? months, maybe a year after he's left his war behind? he stands there with a weapon in his hands and he can't bring himself to defend two of the people he loves most in the world. victoria has to grab the gun out of his hands and do it for him. this young girl who he's fiercely protective of has to shoot someone, all because he can't. there's blood on her hands, now, and none on his. he wishes he could have been the one to take that shot, to carry that burden for her, and even then he can't help but hate himself for wishing. he's trapped there forever. the feeling goes round and round in circles and it never ever goes away.

[halfdeadwallfly]

i left a bowl of soup on my desk two weeks ago and forgot about it for one day. and it has been growing slowly moldy. it is terrifying. i am so scared of it. i am so scared and i need to get rid of it because it is getting so bad and there's like at least four different types of mold on it and at least one i don't even recognize but i'm just so fucking terrified to touch it or even get close to it guys i need help what do i do i am honestly so terrified and i am starting to get scared to be in my room and i feel like i kind of can't breathe in here which is not really good and also i am such a shitty roommate but i am just so scared i cannot emphasize how fucking terrified i am