#idk she looks so nice here

[little-pondhead]

DP x DC Prompt

…

There are no more heroes.

Well, okay. Rewind a bit.

Danny has been doing the hero thing for a while now. He’s had a big reveal; everyone has accepted him (including his parents), the GIW disbanded, the Anti-Ecto acts repealed, and generally, everything is going great. Some of the A-Listers are even training as junior ghost hunters to help give him a break from his rogues! (Being Ghost King makes things hectic sometimes, and he just needs the extra help. Sue him!)

The point is, literally nothing is wrong with Danny Phantom’s afterlife.

And then Valerie Gray, the Red Huntress, disappears in front of his eyes.

Danny is baffled! She’s just…gone! Valerie just popped out of existence, like she was never there. But no matter how hard he searches in the Ghost Zone, he can’t find her soul anywhere. His core isn't broken in grief. So she’s not dead. Which is good. So then, where is she?

Some of the others come forward with ideas on how to find her. A few ghosts volunteer to go out into the mortal realm, an area Danny had declared off-limits, to see if she was out there. Danny approves it. He rounds up some of the friendlier (i.e., discreet) ghosts and Amity Parkers and demolishes the outside travel ban.

So everyone spreads out, looking for their dear frenemy and teammate. But it becomes apparent very quickly that something is wrong with the rest of the world.

There are no more heroes.

Every single living superhero on the face of the Earth has just…vanished. Villains are running amok; the countries are in chaos! Some aliens are invading Earth, mythical deities are trying to take over, and society is crumbling to the ground. Everything is on the brink of collapse.

Well, Danny was still there. And so were his people. They were pretty spread out, so could they just…take up the mantles? He also knew where to find the souls of dead heroes in the Zone; surely they wouldn't mind coming out of retirement for a little bit, especially if they couldn't die again. Oh! And that skeleton army leftover from Pariah Dark's reign might be useful in repelling those invading forces.

Honestly, there were more than enough hands to go around! And with the heroes gone, Danny didn't mind letting everyone out for a little break, as long as they followed his rules. They wouldn't stop the search for the other heroes, but hopefully, when they found them, the heroes wouldn't mind Danny's intervention too much. :)

In other words:

Someone fucks up, and all of Earth's living heroes are either wished out of existence or are whisked away to some far-off realm where Danny hasn't checked yet. In the attempt to figure out what's going on, Danny lets the dead run amok over the Earth as they search for clues. The skeleton army repels the invading armies, the souls of dead heroes deal with the world leaders, and his rogues and other Amity Parkers set up shop in place of famous heroes, trying to get the cities under control again.

Basically, they just do their best to keep everything from imploding until the Justice League and others are back.

(And why is it that Danny hasn't disappeared? Well, whatever caused everyone to go poof! only affected living heroes. Anyone heroes that were dead in the first place, or even just half-dead, stayed behind.)

[konohamaru-sensei]

ah. it hurts

[titfairy]

[torgwn]

i think kanaya would like making fun of dirk

this is what the refrance (and my partial redraw of the bg's down there too)

[hella1975]

COFFEE SHOP SAVE ME

[enhanced-operatives-division]

i don't think you've made a solaris design yet.... but am i allowed to request solaris anyways. or will i get beaten with two billion hammers until i die. for this.

No hammers for you, these asks hold me accountable to actually design the characters...

Filled a double page spread with just her...thus the 'Oops! All Solaris'

On THAT note, +2 sketchbook pages filled, 6/30 completed. I have 2 weeks until my hand in so I gotta pick up the pace. Blimey.

[bittermuire]

Be the first who ever did - 2

more unhappily married nessian for the people!!!!!!

read the first part here :)

-

The only word to describe how she feels now is naked.

Cassian holds her hand as they walk through the onslaught of cameras. He doesn’t speak and she doesn’t speak but she feels his mind roiling, a perverse, innate movement inside her chest. He wants to talk to her, she knows that much—he wants to talk it out, let’s talk it out, Nesta, but after last night and I just wish that you could really love me, she’s said enough. He won’t be getting a word out of her.

The second they get into the restaurant she pulls away, makes for Elain’s figure in the corner. Cassian lets go of her. Cresseida snatches her attention halfway there with a fierce hug. “Hi,” Nesta says, voice still a bit hoarse, genuinely glad to see her. Thin, elegant pins sparkle in her snow-white hair. “Congratulations. You look gorgeous. Where’s Alastair?”

Cresseida grins and squeezes her hand. “I lost him fifteen minutes ago, I think Tarquin grabbed him. Oh well. I’ll have him all to myself for two weeks.”

“Ahh, the honeymoon I’ve been hearing so much about.”

“The honeymoon you’ve been hearing so much about!” she laughs, and takes a deep breath. “Truth be told, I’m so ready for this whole thing to be over. The wedding, the parties…” she shakes her head, eyes still elegant and present with appropriate mirth. “Velaris is exhausting sometimes.”

“Believe me, I know.”

Elain joins them, pressing a kiss to Nesta’s cheek and then to the bride-to-be’s. “Hi beautiful, how are you?”

Cresseida smiles. “Ready to be tipsy.”

“Allow me,” she says, and with a wink dives into the crowd, cutting a line straight through to the bar. She emerges in record time with three flutes of champagne.

Nesta gives a startled laugh and takes one. “You’re magic.”

“Cauldron-blessed.”

“I’m being summoned,” Cresseida says wryly, and gestures to her tall, handsome brother, standing on the other side of the room. Alastair and a short, dark-haired woman are with him.

Then, Mother help them, Feyre materializes out of nowhere in a silver sparkly dress that leaves scandalously little to the imagination and looks, admittedly, stunning on her. “Oh my god, I have to tell you guys something. Fucking Azriel, of all people, has a girlfriend—” She stops and frowns, staring at Tarquin, a bit flushed. “Who’s that girl? With Tarquin.”

“Oh, that’s Nuan,” Cresseida tells her. “She works in Thesan’s court.”

“They’re dating?”

Cresseida nods and takes another sip of champagne. “For the last couple months, yeah. I really like her. I think he does too.”

There was a period of time before Rhysand, after Tamlin, when Feyre’s attention was caught utterly and incandescently on Tarquin. He was younger, much more her speed. He seemed to intrigue her and kept her guessing. With an energetic mind as quick and eager as a butterfly, Feyre inexhaustibly grew bored and he was good for her. Nesta doesn’t know the extent of that relationship. She only ever met him briefly.

Then this, too, was severed almost violently by the bond with Rhysand clicking into place. Tamlin had been nobody; Tarquin become nobody too. Rhysand was everything the moment they met. Rhysand is her entire world, the love of her life, her beloved mate.

And yet, Feyre watches the girl—Nuan—with cold, exacting eyes. That ferocity she bundled deep inside herself, that intensity she conquered within herself to belong—Nesta watches it emerge, watches her little sister, ruddy and tough, almost, nearly—

“I’ll see you guys later,” says Cressieda, waving at the brink of the crowd. “Get drunk without me!”

Nesta smiles and turns away as well, entirely without the patience necessary to entertain Feyre’s company tonight. Elain follows her and links their arms together. She doesn’t feel like speaking. This is something her sister seems to understand as they go to a smaller table in the corner of the vast, loud restaurant. They position their chairs close together to face the rest of the room; to guard their backs, to observe the crowd, both, neither; Nesta’s head is pounding with a worry that isn’t her own, a sick cold spreading through her veins. Her eyes fall inevitably on Cassian. He’s standing with his beloved brothers, hands in his pockets, laughing. He’s so beautiful it pains her. He smiles like it isn’t painful.

He looks at her, then. Sees her already looking. Across the room his smile drops, his eyes soften, his brows pull together. He makes as if to come to her.

She looks down, looks away.

.

By midnight the guests have dwindled to a generous twenty. Nesta twirls her wine glass. On the abandoned dance floor, Alastair holds Cresseida with blinding love as they sway. Elain is talking animatedly with the bartender. Feyre is nowhere to be found—come to think of it, neither is Rhys. She can see half of Azriel through the back door propped open, talking on the phone, crouching on the concrete with a cigarette. It glows red.

And Cassian, silent, a palpable presence in her body, stands as he has been on the other side of the restaurant, talking with Tarquin and the girl, Nuan. He leans against the wood of the bar and gesticulates gracefully as he speaks. His mouth moves in that beautiful way; she can almost hear his voice, low, even, steady.

Maybe she’s tired. Maybe the dam broke last night and now the world is ending. But her heart burns and her eyes burn, too, tears threatening to well up and fall. She drops her head, panicked and sad, tired of being sad. She went three years without shedding so much as a tear—she can last this night.

Her chest twinges; she looks up to see Cassian walking towards her. Alarm jolts within her, joins arms with squeezing pain, derelict, real.

She went to the doctor, once, when the bond had only recently snapped. She was experiencing chest pains, heart palpitations, headaches. Her blood was hot. Her body was cold. There was something inside of her that she had to get out, somehow. She’d sit on the bathroom floor, hunched over the toilet, fingers down her throat, trying to eject the pain.

He holds his hand out to her. “Will you dance with me?”

Wordless, she goes with him.

He holds her in the classic style. This is what she learned in her mother’s sitting room. Now, gratefully, that most of the party has gone, the music can be heard. It lingers softly in the air—cello, violin, solemn like a dream already being forgotten. She’s tall, but he’s taller. With a sigh she rests her head on his shoulder. He tenses.

He softens, and pulls her closer.

“Nesta,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch on the small of her back. “Can we talk about last night?”

She huffs a laugh. “No.”

“We’ve got to talk at some point.”

“Talk with yourself. I’m done.”

His hand moves hesitantly to her upper back, where her skin is bare, fingers skimming soft and cautious. “There are things I need to tell you.”

“You’ve had three years, Cassian,” she says lowly. Like always, he startles at the sound of his name. “It’s too late for either of us to make an effort.”

His chest swells and she knows he’s about to make some clipping remark, a towel over her mouth. She braces herself for it. It doesn’t come. His hand slides down again to the small of her back, although the heat of his skin still manages to seep through the fabric.

“Tell me what you want,” is all he says.

What does she want?

Does she want anything?

She used to want love, more than love she wanted happiness, more than happiness she wanted stability. She’s been given a husband, a house, a city in which she can live at the sparkling epicenter; she’s been given money, status, sway; she’s been told, we’ve found a man to love you, we’ve filled your bank account, we’ve picked out clothes for your closet, she’s been told, in words and glances and silences and taut, fierce, ordering voices, there’s no reason for you to be sad now. Is there anything worse than what she is? The oldest sister, unfailingly terrible? A disappointment, too stubborn to give in. She used to wonder—perhaps she’d be happier if she let Feyre reign. Soften to be made again. So, out of tiredness, she took Cassian, accepted him into her body.

So she sheltered his heart. Her lungs stretched to fit his breath as well as her own. Souls, entwined, struggling for room. So he sheltered her.

Hand-in-hand they go together, to parties, to galas, to luncheons, to surprise interventions followed swiftly by tea and pastries. They have sex on regular intervals and it’s fine. He isn’t gentle but he isn’t hard. She can extricate, easily, pleasure from him. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever like it, if pleasure is something her body knows. All she feels is the heat of him on her skin and beneath it as well, his languorous passion, bitter and gratifying, in her mind, in her hands, in her soul, if such a thing exists.

And so he holds her in a dim restaurant and says, Tell me what you want. Says it as though she could be expected to answer.

She lifts her head and looks at him. His eyes flit vigilantly over her face.

“I want,” she says, “a bottle of the wine served tonight.”

To his credit he doesn’t look angry or surprised. He nods stiffly. “I’ll arrange it,” he says.

She pulls against his grasp and he lets her go.

.

Late that night they’re lying in bed. She can tell he’s awake. She’s lying on her side, facing away from him.

“Cassian,” she whispers. Her voice sounds soft even to her in the darkness.

A small pause.

“Yeah?”

“You have to understand, it’s…”

Another pause, heavy with expectation.

“You can tell me.”

She blinks. There’s nothing for it. All that anger, it’s as though it’s now been replaced by a screaming urge to be understood. She pulls the sheets closer around her.

“I used to like you. I had a crush. You were a storybook character to me, a prince from a fairytale.” She takes in a shuddering breath. “And you were—gentle, with me. You were kind and I hated everyone and I wanted you to like me back. I knew you wanted to sleep with me, but I ignored that, I think.”

“Nesta, I—”

“Then the bond happened,” she tells him. “It’s different for men. You have… urges. You walk around getting horny and overprotective. For me I thought I was dying. The only guy I ever really liked was now practically inside me. And you went on living your life.” She shakes her head, swallows. “I lost you. You might have liked me. I knew you’d never love me. I thought, I’ll grin and bear it. At least I’ll live comfortably. I won’t have to work. Well, anyway.” She closes her eyes. Her voice pitches up, the tell that she's about to cry. “There’s nothing I want anymore. I don’t know what I want.”

The sheets rustle, the mattress dips. She feels him closer to her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“You were in my head,” she hisses, feeling stupid.

“You kept me out,” he says lowly. “And besides. No matter what Rhys tells you, minds are indecipherable. I could submerge myself in your head and not understand a thing. I’ve only ever felt shadows of impressions of feelings from you.”

She frowns and takes a breath. “You’re telling the truth?”

“Yes.”

“Then why does Feyre go through my head?”

There’s a brief, menacing silence.

“What did you say?”

“Periodically, Feyre goes through my head. To check if I’m hurting myself or plotting treason, is what I’ve always guessed.”

“And you agreed to this?”

She laughs dryly. “I haven’t agreed to a lot of things.”

“Do you let her in? How does she do it?”

“She’s my little sister. She’s clumsy at loving people. A family trait. I crack open a door in the corner and she very stealthily sneaks through.” Nesta smiles, despising herself. “Like a gyn appointment but worse. At least you make an appointment for those.”

Then, blessed Mother, she starts crying again, as predictable and irrepressible as an infant screaming for food, for love, for warmth. It’s quiet this time. No shaking, horrible sobs, only salt and water leaking from her eyes, making the darkness blurry.

“Nesta,” he says softly, which, of course, only makes it worse.

She rolls onto her back, pressing her palms into her eyes. “Oh, god,” she laughs. “Oh, god help me. I’m so tired. Maybe I’m still sick.”

“Then let’s sleep,” he says, hesitantly. “I’m sorry, this is a conversation for tomorrow. Want me to go to the guest room?”

She can’t find the words and covers her face with her arms. When she was little her mother didn’t like her to get her hair cut short. Shining hair swirling thick and smooth down her child’s body. She used to grab it in her hands and cover her face with it, like within her flower-smelling hair she could disappear; she would slip between the hanging laundry sheets of the world and no one would find her, not a soul.

With placid fingers he eases her arms away. She opens her eyes to see him above her, blurry and reliably beautiful. She wants to lose her memory. To start over in this bed.

Brow furrowed, he brushes her hair back from her face, painstaking and gentle. She looks at him all the while, examines his face. Such calmness. Dark eyes, darker lashes. His mouth is turned down. How many times has she kissed that mouth, felt its heat?

He bends and presses a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, breath fanning warm over her skin.

She takes a shaky breath. “I have a cellphone,” she whispers. “I have a college degree in literature.”

“I know.”

“A mate bond is a myth, Cassian.”

His mouth tenses. “I know.”

“I’ll always hate you.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I love you. I mean it.”

She swallows. “Sleep here tonight.”

“Alright.”

She rolls back onto her side. She wonders drowsily where she went, where her anger and horror and bitterness went. Sometimes she thinks she feels it in her throat or her stomach; the reaction is split and swift; kill it, kill it, kill it; clutch it tight, Nesta, never let it go.

Sleep gathers her like a child gathers a stray bird’s feather into her basket.

-

they're so bad at communicating it makes me laugh and also cry

[moonchild-in-blue]

Oh.

[kuromi-hoemie]

feeling v proud of myself for eyeing something and thinking “that seems like it's 70 inches” then it was 😌

[liquidstar]

wanted to post the royals and co. as a set for reference, though the only new things here are the king+queen and koe's updated design :p also most of them didn't get little infoboxes so those will be a first under the cut here ^_^

Name: Andromeda (Andy)

Name origin: The Andromeda Galaxy, named for the mythical princess

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 20

Title: Heir apparent

Weapon: Flamberge (Same as her mom's)

Ethos (Power): None

Flaw power is based on: N/A

Notes: She wants to go on adventures someday, and make a lot of friends, and be normal. So please drop the "Your highness" and call her Andy!

Name: Cepheus

Name origin: The constellation Cepheus, the king

Pronouns: He/him

Age: 54

Title: King

Weapon: Scepter

Ethos (Power): Authority (The ability to control people’s actions through his words, but not their minds)

Flaw power is based on: His controlling and paranoid nature

Notes: He prefers not to use his ability unless it seems necessary, but ends will justify the means.

Name: Cassiopeia

Name origin: The constellation Cassiopeia, the queen

Pronouns: She/her

Age: -

Title: Queen

Weapon: Flamberge

Ethos (Power): Alis (The ability to generate wings)

Flaw power is based on: Her overconfidence in her own abilities, ironically like a completely different winged mythological figure...

Notes: Before being the Queen, she was the Hero.

Name: Koeia/Koe

Name origin: The star Koeia, whose name literally means "Star"

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 20

Title: Maid/Andromeda's lady in waiting

Weapon: Twin Sickles

Ethos (Power): Blessing (She can make others more powerful through cheering them on)

Flaw power is based on: Her Obsequiousness

Notes: She assures you her devotion to the princess is strictly for non-homosexual reasons

Name: Perseus/Percy

Name origin: The constellation Perseus, the hero

Pronouns: He/him

Age: 21

Title: 1st Knight/Andromeda's personal guard

Weapon: Harpē sword

Ethos (Power): Divine swordstrike (An all-powerful swing of the sword with no limit)

Flaw power is based on: His incredible arrogance and show-offishness

Notes: He assures you that his showy devotion to the princess is as heterosexual as it seems. Also he's the cousin Io from Nova Stella

Name: Ursa

Name origin: Ursa major, the big dipper.

Pronouns: She/her

Age: 38

Title: Major

Weapon: None

Ethos (Power): Bear-handed (Her claws are unbreakable and can slice through any material)

Flaw power is based on: Her hyper-diligence. Her ruthless devotion and adherence. Literally nothing could ever stand in her way.

Notes: She’s the mama bear of Kochab (Ursa minor) from the timber scouts

[kang-yina]

This is from months ago i just forgot to post btw

Tried to draw the werepack (romulus isnt here bc i dont like him)

[scionshtola]

from the touch prompts: 12. on a scar; or 18. because you are dying :>

ty azia!! this one really sent me on a spiral this week adkfd

the pain of perception

pairing: Corisande Ymir/Y'shtola Rhul word count: 1292 | read on ao3 notes: i went with 18. because you are dying. 5.0 spoilers!

Y’shtola has always found Corisande difficult to look away from, some inexorable pull between them perpetually drawing her gaze. She turned toward them as a blossom sought the sun, unfurling in their light and basking in the warmth of it. Even when Y’shtola lost her sight and the world lost its color, Corisande’s familiar aether was more than enough to draw her in, their countenance so dear to her that it hardly took any effort at all to pick out their features.

In the grand entrance hall of Emet-Selch’s recreated Capitol building, the light Corisande emanates is not the kind Y’shtola wants to bask in. They are a beacon of aether, so bright they blur the forms of the other Scions gathered around them. So bright the light lingers even when she closes her eyes, a ghostly blur haunting the back of her eyelids.

She watches them as they take their leave of the others and turn toward her, seeking her out as surely as she sought them. They cross the hall, the soft click of their boots growing louder as they approach. 

“The others are nearly ready. Ryne only wants to charge a few more cartridges for Thancred before we start on our way,” Corisande says, gesturing at the others over her shoulder, gathered by the door that leads deeper into the building. She lifts her hand, starting to reach for Y’shtola, but stops herself halfway, arm falling stiffly to her side. ‘Tis difficult to make out, but Y’shtola thinks she might be clenching her fist. “I came to see how you fared.” 

Y’shtola holds back a sigh, her jaw clenched against the sharp pain in her chest at the aborted gesture. In the three years she’d spent without them on the First, she had so missed the easy physical affection between them. A reassuring squeeze of her wrist, a gentle hand on the small of her back, a soft brush of their thumb across her cheek. Touches she had at times wished Corisande would not make, if only to spare Y’shtola the misery of her endlessly growing feelings. 

But she’d been wrong to think it would spare her any pain. Since their reunion—that near disastrous moment when Y’shtola had mistaken them for a sin eater—Corisande has, for the most part, kept a careful physical distance between them. Every deliberate step back, every halted reach for her hand, left her far more hurt and confused than any touch that had ever led her to hope for more. 

That they keep their distance even now, when losing themself to the light is becoming less a potential threat and more a rapidly approaching reality with every passing moment, is more than she can bear. She reaches for their hand in their stead, pressing their cool palm to hers. “l have no preparations to make. I will be ready when you are.”

Corisande tips their chin, head tilting down in the direction of their joined hands. Y’shtola holds fast, hope swooping through her stomach, her breath caught in her chest as she waits. But rather than pull away, they squeeze her hand, and the ache in Y’shtola’s chest is eased as she finally exhales. 

Corisande lifts her head in Y’shtola’s direction, her familiar features—the heart shape of her lips, the curve of her nose, her downturned eyes—just as obfuscated by the light as the rest of her body. There was a time that Y’shtola could have known what Corisande was thinking just by a simple shared glance. Now, though she could make her best guess, she could never be sure what was written in their expression. What Y’shtola might give to see the curve of Corisande’s gentle smile once more, before they venture toward a battle that could change her forever. 

Y’shtola glances down at their hands, still pressed palm to palm between them. Corisande had not shied from one touch—perhaps she would not shy from another. 

Do as your heart decrees, Y’shtola had told them, only moments ago. Without hesitation or regret. 

Y’shtola raises her free hand to Corisande’s cheek, heartbeat a loud, steady rhythm as she moves. They lean down ever so slightly to meet her, their hair falling over her arm, the ends of it brushing lightly against her sleeve. She stills when their fingers wrap gently around her wrist, thinking they mean to tug her hand away, but they simply hold on.

“Is it difficult? To look at me? To—” Corisande’s grip on her wrist tightens. Their voice is soft, almost fragile to Y’shtola’s ears. “I know the toll a surfeit of aether takes on you. It must be exhausting just to have me near.”

“‘Tis not easy,” Y’shtola admits, though it pains her to say it. Corisande knows the truth already—the abundance of their aether is difficult for Y’shtola to process with her aether-fueled sight—and Y’shtola would not lie to her besides. 

Worse than the harsh glare of their aether, though, is the damage the light has wrought on their soul, battered and bruised as it struggles to contain the light. For all the distance that Corisande has kept between them these past few weeks, they could not hide the depth of the wound from Y’shtola. While she knew Corisande would prefer it, Y’shtola saw no kindness in pretending otherwise—she would not turn from them when they were in pain, no matter how much it hurt to see. 

Y’shtola sweeps her thumb across the swell of Corisande’s cheek, and hopes she’s looking her in the eye when she speaks again. “But I would no sooner look away than I would leave you to face what lies ahead alone.”

Corisande’s smile blooms under Y’shtola’s palm—cheek curving upward, the quirk in the corner of their lips where they’ve turned into her touch, the crinkle of skin around their eyes—and she answers with a warm smile of her own. Corisande sweeps a finger across the inside of her wrist, and after weeks—years—of so little contact between them, the deliberate touch feels monumental, as much a relief to the longing inside her as it is a catalyst for a desperate desire for more. 

“Shtola,” they say, the newly restored warmth in their voice reigniting that flame of hope in her. The one that made her long for Corisande’s soft touches, that made her think Corisande has always felt about her the way she feels about them, the one that never quite went out. “I—”

They cut off with a soft whimper of pain, lurching forward with a grimace. Their grip clamps down sharply where they hold Y’shtola, fingers digging into her wrist and the back of her hand, and she feels the hold as if it were a vice around her heart, pressed under the weight of their pain. The light inside them surges, brightening and straining against their soul as Corisande struggles to stay on their feet, and then it fades.

“Are you all right?” Y’shtola asks, keeping her tone neutral though she feels anything but, unable to even blink away the image of the surging light. Corisande straightens, her expression smoothing beneath Y’shtola’s hand. 

“Well enough,” she answers between breaths, her voice thin. She squeezes Y’shtola’s wrist, then gently tugs her hand away from her face, though she does not completely release her. “Perhaps we had better be on our way.”

“Of course.” Y’shtola expects Corisande to drop her hands, but they hold on to one as they pivot, placing themself at her side. 

The door that will lead them to Emet-Selch looms before them, the others still gathered in front of it. Whatever they face beyond it, whatever Corisande’s heart decrees, Y’shtola would not turn her gaze. They would face it together—perhaps not hand in hand, but side by side.

[starrysharks]

zeno's ultimate pokemiku tierlist ⁉️(it's all his opinion and he loves them all regardless⁉️)

[vielle-art]

tutelage.

[screechingfromthevoid]

So I was thinking about that modern AU, trying to figure out how to incorporate FCG because robot (literally he's just a pastors son. Duh)

but for some reason my brain said "Ashton's service dog" first. Then I thought about Ashton needing a service dog because of brain stuff. THEN I thought about Ashton needing a service animal AND a mobility aid.

So I'm just living for Ashton in a wheelchair rolling through school. They've got the key to the elevator. They've obviously got a whole dog at school that people try desperately not to pet.

When someone decides to bully FCG (Francis Charles Grady) or Laudna, they get out of their chair to their full height. People freak because they didn't know he could walk or stand. Ashton just shrugs because "you know what they say about assuming"

And when Dorian shows up and asks about it not as tactfully as he probably meant to Ashton pops a wheely and is just like "what's sadder than an orphan with a wheelchair and a service dog? Unfortunately it didn't get me adopted. People just don't want their inspiration porn in house anymore I guess."

And they try to be chill. They try to avoid those harsh topics with their friends because they don't wanna be a bummer. It'd bring down the mood to say "sure I can walk but sometimes my spine is on fire and my calves are full of knives so I don't." It'd suck to say "I can walk fine until I can't." It's not relatable to say "my whole body hurts all the time and if I want to be able to do other things like think, I should probably be sitting."

Slowly their friends get them to understand that they don't have to put on a brave face for them. They don't have to pretend like it doesn't hurt. They don't have to pretend like it doesn't bother them. Their friends care about them. Hell they're even down to help if they can. Anything to make Ashton feel like they are wanted, that they're not a burden.

[hollis-art]

I want to here data Spider-Man backstory soooooooooo bad please

coming right up!!!!!!! it's in the form of a story because that's how my brain works and i love explaining things when it comes to spiderman or data. its lots of words and i spent like 2 hours writing it and reworking it to make sense

The crew of the Enterprise has taken notice of a nearby planet whose population is soon to be doomed by a phenomenon that they seem to be unaware of. While this planet has made contact with alien life, they are not open to doing it again. It would very much be a violation of the Prime Directive to intervene, but the Enterprise does their usual method of completely disregarding the law and helping the alien species anyways. They'll get yelled at for it later, but their current focus is the wellbeing of this planet and their people.

As they always do (I think they do, at least. If not, then they really should), the crew gets their hands on any and all information they can find on this species and their culture before they do anything. After some digging, they find that this world is the home to many super-powered individuals. While the population is more saturated with those without special abilities, those with powers are often the ones with the most say in what happens. And because the crew needs people to hear their warnings, they needed someone whose abilities could be interpreted as superpowers. Troi's empathy and Worf's strength was something of great wonder to humans, but it wouldn't be nearly as interesting to the species who already had great quantities of both of those traits.

So, as they typically do, they turn to Data for help.

His strength is greater than Worf's, his intellect is forever growing, and the most important part for this plan: Data had the ability to copy things by simply watching or by downloading it into his database. He was the perfect person for the job.

After what seemed like hours of discussion over what abilities or powers Data should obtain, it was Geordi who brought up the idea of Spider-Man.

Data, who had never taken it upon himself to learn about any Earth Superheroes, found the concept quite captivating.

Rather than getting bitten by a radioactive spider, Data's bite was in the form of a program that Geordi made to mimic the powers that a lot of the Spider-People tended to present. The program also included many arial aerobic and gymnastic lessons compressed down into only a few seconds. While the two worked together on installing some web-like spinnerets in his arm compartments, the other crew members focused on the equally important task of creating the costume that Spider-Data (as they have been calling him) would wear.

The role of a superhero was seen as the highest honor you could have on this world, and the ones with recognizable and unique costumes had an easier time spreading their message. The crew had this in mind, but the main purpose of the spider-suit would be to hide the fact that Data doesn't look the way this species does. There is a great variety in how they all present, but Data appears much more Human than they do.

Once everything has been planned and thought out, the identity of Interweb has been formed.

(The name was also Geordi's idea. Data had followed Geordi into his quarters while trying to come up with a name for people to know him as, since 'Data' was not the sort of name anyone on this world would know. Data was pacing around the room, listing off a long, long, long list of concepts and ideas, when he found that he had been pacing from the floor, to the wall, to the ceiling, wall and floor again. Geordi, who was just trying to get ready for bed, looked up at him from where he stood on the ceiling, and gave him his opinion in attempt to get Data to get the memo and leave. Data nodded in appreciation, returned to standing on the rightful surface, and left for the night. The only indication that he had been there was the shoe scuffs that he had accidently left on the ceiling)

It only took one actual training session to see that Data was already ready for this very important job. There was no improvement needed to be seen in his form or methods, and he had planned for everything. Well... Almost everything. Once he had been brought down to the surface, he had quickly realized that his sidekick had snuck into his bag when he wasn't looking.

And within a week, the alien planet was saved by Interweb and his "cat" Spot :) (No one on this planet knows what a cat or a spider is, but they weren't gonna say a thing about it because they had just been saved by the two of them and they're very thankful about it)