#is that his poor mental health

[dyinggirldied]

Danny, burnout and exhausted of being the basically only one who can fight ghosts but still gets villainized and hated by the people he saved, decides he's done.

Because he's 14 he runs to another city, one where his parents and GIW cannot willy dilly do whatever they want. Yes, he runs to Gotham. Without telling anyone.

At Gotham, he ultilizes his intelligence in making fake ID and studies at a normal if a bit run down Gotham high school, not the fancy one where Tim or Damian is studying because 1) he's trying to lay low and 2) he hates the rich. He uses an old abadoned fire station as his home.

It's all fine and dandy. He doesn't need to intervene much since there are plenty of vigilantes in this city and he's free to just...focus. On himself, his education.

Meanwhile, Amity Park is literally and metaphorically under fire with his absence.

[wasty28]

Everytime I think about Sir Rex's situation I lose it. Just try putting yourself in his shoes.

You're about to get revenge from the vile monsters responsible for your friend and family suffering. Putting your life on the line, you attempted to murder the Vice Tower master after years of spying and infiltrating the knight order but failed miserably.

As you're caught in a dead end, this stranger who isn't even from your continent, a representative of a foreign allied country who received a medal of honor from the crown prince of your empire -you had one conversation with- recognize you in your cat form-that you kept hidden-, saved and healed you.

He easily guesses your whole plan and acknowledge your franckly terribly sad and traumatizing backstory. He somehow is aware of the alchemy tower wrongdoings and much more and is going to help you. He has spies and allies working for him in the country he supposedly only visited twice.

When you're finally healed he looks you dead in the eye and says you're gonna be emperor... after exposing his plans of overthrowing the power in place, destroying the alchemy tower, making the sun churches saint and saintess-supposed dead by the way-forge a new church. He gives you books on how to be a ruler and manage an empire.

And all you have to do while THINGS are happening is read books in that room and make an appearance at the very end.

Why is he doing all this? He says he want a partnership for his kingdom which will also benefit you in the future.

And while you're still tripping and reviewing your life's purpose you meet his two cats- actually children from the same tribe as you -which you weren't really aware of- who explains to you what being a fog cat is and the litteral basics of living while calling you a fucking weakling and their lil bro/servant.

[nobodysdaydreams]

Is this anything?

[imagine-to-be-a-pike]

Leon knew he had failed. He did not fail as a knight. He failed as a friend. He failed as someone who swore to protect him.

He took a step towards the tent, a mixture of blood and sweat running down his forehead, reminding him of what he had just participated in. What Arthur had just participated in

Arthur. Barely 14 years old. Such an innocent and lovely soul. and now he stood in the middle of the tent and shook. The slightly too big armor (despite trying to adjust it) hung on his barely teenage body. The blood-covered armor. Not just the armor. That bright face, golden hair suddenly faded, flooded with a monstrous red.

He looked at him. He knew that look, he remembered it perfectly. Betrayal. He first saw it in the boy's eyes when his father first ordered the guards to take him to the dungeons. Leon swore then that he would never be the cause of that hurt, betrayed face.

He didn't even dodge the piece of armor thrown at him. If it hurt, he deserved it. How ironic the blond's words from a few hours ago sounded now

,,I can't wait to become a real knight like you"

A real knight should protect people. Not mercilessly murder them. Not what Leon just did. not what Arthur was just forced to see. "What a monster he must think I am now" Leon thought. He had seen Arthur's looks during the execution he was forced to watch and they were nothing compared to the horrified looks of those blue eyes as the horror unfolded around him. He saw the mouth open in a silent scream of terror, maybe both, as he swung his sword at the child.

It's funny how a person you thought was perfect can, in a matter of minutes, turn into the worst monster in your eyes.

He wanted to explain himself, apologize, say anything. He was ready to scream, cry, throw things. But the blond just stood there with shaking hands, rubbing his arms as if he was trying to scratch the blood away along with the skin.

,,why didn't you ever tell me?"

Good question.He knew what happened during raids. It wasn't his first time. But he was afraid. He knew how Arthur idealized him. He knew how much boy needed someone to be a role model, someone to give him some approval. But Leon was also a coward. He didn't want to lose someone he practically saw as a little brother. He didn't want to lose his little sun that shone even after the worst training.

He remembered his panic when Arthur, encouraged, told him he was going on another raid. Panic at the truth. Panic that this sweet soul would face a horror that a child shouldn't be exposed to. His prince was overjoyed but the road to the camp was a slow countdown for Leon.

,,These were innocent people... children... women... and all of you....just"

Arthur's eyes were wet, tears mixing with the dirt on his cheeks.

,, Arthur .."

,,leave me"

There was something new in these blue eyes. Not just hurt and betrayal. Coldness. Coldness that Leon saw in one person. The person Arthur should never be reminded of. And he left. And if only he knew that was the last time he would address his prince by his name.

[petrichorium]

pluvi begging you to expand on gojo not wanting what happened to his mother to happen to you 🙏

warnings: it’s all a dream so nothing is real aside from the flashback stuff but pregnancy as horror, (sewing) needles, implied gore/eye trauma, implied child harm, gojo is messed up yo!!! and its bc of his mama!!!

he dreams about her.

it’s an odd thing, really. gojo isn’t much of a dreamer—not much of a sleeper, all things considered, but it’s difficult not to give in when you drag him to bed and curl up in his arms. the soft rise and fall of your chest, the steady thump of your heart, the sound of your breath; it soothes him into slumber.

and he dreams about her. she was always young. he’s older now than she ever got to be. frail, thin; borderline skeletal, robes hanging from her body like webbing. she sits in a chair facing a window, swathed in moonlight, the silver of her embroidery needle glinting with each stab. her face is veiled. her stomach is swollen with child.

she doesn’t turn to him, but she beckons without noise. his feet take him easily to her, and he kneels at her side as she sets aside the embroidery hoop to let him place his head on her knees.

her hand is cold as it threads through his hair. it’s gentle, at first. then harsher a moment later. she grips firm, tugs him up by those electric white threads, stares down at him through all that elaborate lace.

he imagines she’s weeping beneath it. his mother never wept before him, but she was pretty in the aftermath, eyes puffy and pink and shining. they were a cold kind of loving when they regarded him. she must have been beautiful once, elegant and lithe and willowy, cruel like the heartless sea and sharp like a brilliant diamond, but whatever was there is long gone. he thinks all sons must empty their mothers, bleed them dry from within, because his was always a shell.

she trails her hand down the side of his face, and he turns into the palm and closes his eyes, and she is silent as she sets down her embroidery to lift her veil. she is silent and hollow and eidolic as her fingers brush down his jaw and tilt his head up to look at her.

but it’s your face that he sees when he opens his eyes.

it’s your hand against his cheek, your eyes pink and puffy and pretty, your stomach bulging by his own doing. it’s your fingers that pluck up the needle, still attached to a thread of brilliant cerulean, and raise it to his eye.

his mother never was able to pierce him with that needle. she stopped herself, each and every time, dropping it and tugging him close in shame. she never doted, never was kind, but she never did manage to harm him.

you do. he lets you. it’s only fair. whatever thing is in your stomach can’t be human—whether god or demon what does it matter, at the end of the day—and didn’t he put it in you himself? if his mother never got the satisfaction of spilling his blood, shouldn’t you?

but he wakes just as the tip pierces his iris, and you hold him in your lap, eyes wide with concern and not puffy from weeping, and you hold no child within you. your hands thread through his hair and they’re warm, your lips plush when you bend to press a kiss to his brow.

he turns inward to press his face into your (empty, blissfully vacant) abdomen. the wetness he leaves there, falling from his so very coveted eyes, is colorless.

he thinks it ought to be brilliant crimson.

[tin-can-iron-man]

I'm just gonna say it again real quick:

Yes!! Iron Man is a tragedy! It has and always has been since the very first appearance in 1963 which describes itself, Tony's life, and legacy, as such.

Tony causes most of his issues himself, he is his biggest villain, a majority of his rogues gallery are caricatures of the worst versions of himself brought to life (when they're not just being racist cuz...60s...). The worst thing about being Tony Stark is that he can't stop being Tony Stark (he tried!!) That is the point.

The majority of pain Tony goes through, is pain he inflicts on himself, whether intentionally or inadvertently. That is the point.

He is not A villain (at least. Not usually. There are...some rough moments and arcs that are. Not great. As there is with any character as old as he is). But he is his own main antagonist.

[florissaurus]

Sickness you can't See.

[amazinglyegg]

Preston just randomly muttered "I'm hurt bad" while we were walking around sanctuary together.

Like damn... sorry to hear that bro. You wanna talk about it? I'm here for you.

[dukeofthomas]

Not "Robin Jason was just an angry, violent, aggressive brat", not "Robin Jason was a perfect, innocent, complete sunshine child" but a secret third thing (Robin Jason was a child who'd suffered abuse and trauma his whole life and never got the proper tools to heal from it; he was happy and silly, and he got angry and could be difficult)

[clowningaroundmars]

i still cannot get over The Twins like.

imagine.

you have another version of you out there arguably living a life just as difficult as yours, if not more, that you can talk to at literally Any Time! and they're You so you basically already have half a convo down anytime you decide to pop on over via a portal

1610 and 42 stepping out of their respective portals side-by-side just to stroll out of an alleyway like nothin happened just going:

1610: LOUD SIGH

42: rough day too huh?

1610, brushing debris off of his shoulder: yeeep. another run-in with the rhino. again.

42: you didn't lock his dumb ass up like, last month? how'd he get out?

1610: don't know, don't care. so done with this week, i just wanna... i dunno. hibernate til spring 😮‍💨

42: man, what a mood.

1610: what happened to you? you look like you had a rougher day than me!

42, covered in visible bruises and cuts along with his bandages: mannnn... rougher week more like. well... rougher life. but. anyways.

they both nod at each other in Understanding

[wickmitz]

it is unknown what awakes her initially, besides the fluttering of purple smeared lids and how thick lashes ( ever so clumped and unbecoming, more than a lady would like ) tickle cool cheeks. somehow that dainty brushing rouses her more than roaring engines or footfalls, or how thinning body aches hastily upon consciousness and dream. feels where every sore has wiggled into, between sinew and toes, a throb worked against skin that webs, an array of ghostly scars and ankle-tied anchors. there’s some breed of damnation upon waking up ; intimately aware of where every strand of honey hair tangles, once shimmering texture sanded into brambles, split-ended and prickly.

one could be driven mad, she’s been told, by how long beauty takes to perfect, despite the ease to which it rots away. on mornings, on bad nights, and in death. which isn’t even touching upon the way drowsy eyes hang from lined gallows or the odd ways in which lavish gown has bundled up against her in fraught tossing, the sweat, the building filth -- but still she wakes without complaint and begins the ritual of stretching, mindful of the metal and glass confines she’s been dealt. keeps quiet, shushing even the creak and pop of marrow, all courtesy and grace until she sees it’s an unwelcomed effort.

paused in an arch, she breaks through darkened hours to murmur, “honey, you have to get some shuteye. we talked about this.” finds herself too exhausted and wrongly stretched to purposefully veil the disappointment brewing inside her. hooch soils into coffin varnish and all that when handled poorly, after all. the natural way of things. and, somewhere, that makes sense.

“do you hear that?”

ears flatten slowly, the same way drooping whiskers twitch. “no,” she sighs, eyes closing beneath the pressure built between brows, before gathering what remains of smart society manners and inquiring, “hear what?”

through hazes of dark blue, smattered with leather callouses and shining reflections, green gaze can trail along the shape of rocky behind the wheel. stubbornly blames the wrinkles creasing oddly alongside her eyelids for the red and pink flashes beaming through the tacky brim of hat, as though blood had been rubbed carefully into fuzzy forehead. funny, that. mitzi shuffles her legs around until her back hits her seat, and she does as anyone would do ; head lolling against bare shoulder as she catches moon-eyes in car window, so impossibly wide she thinks about how endless they are, how long and forever rocky is, and presses the rubies of her mouth together.

“the tapping.” he says, mumbles, as if he isn’t moving an inch. and maybe he isn’t, drawn up into his spine, staring outward into their dour, cruel world without blinking, all rising grey fur and ears. have they always looked so … sharp, when they’re turned like that? the boy is all edges and bones, mostly, a clumsy, hapless mess of stabbing elbows and teeth. she supposes she must still be dazed if such thoughts are haunting her now. as if it hardly matters, as if mitzi would wish for something fatter and equally tender. they’re well past the point of that.

one thick, knotted bush of bangs fall over one eye when she leans forward, gently knocking against the back of his seat. “i doubt it’s anyone of importance, sweetie. everyone’s long gone.”

“i always hear it,” rocky confesses, in that meandering way he does, “they’re out there, lurking with their yellow and claws and … and it’s okay, miss m. i’m invincible. i am.”

phantom paws slink past floorboards and through ever present oil to fist spindly fingers into cloth, her made anew pearls, to drag her into the crashing wave of sleep. an uncomfortable itch blooms around the area underneath the jut of collarbone, foaming and hot, a heat that brightens what false blush still resides on her cheeks. there’s a wetness somewhere, can feel the very drip-drop of a leak, but all she can think about ( in a haze ; so thick inside her mind she feels ash stick inside sniffling nostrils, the round shape of pink nose wiggling like a newborn ) is her moonshiner. imagines where harmless fangs scrape against the thin shine of black lip when he speaks, where moonlight bounces off his crumpled, dirty whiskers. can still smell where abandoned, amber bottles have touched him, as he reeks of nothing but giggle water and rust. and, perhaps with utmost priority, she had heard, or think she heard, how the words slurred together in some heady, breathless rush when he spoke. she’d think him canned if she didn’t know him a smidge better, truthfully.

but all in all, her own confession is this : the absence of pronunciation soothes something deeply distraught inside her soul, blows softened and meaning erased, an answer retired into easy sound. the feathery fur of tail slithers before making home draped over her wide lap, rested atop her empty paws, now holding onto nothing except her own knees. there isn’t a sound save for whatever insects crawl around outside, burrowed in marsh and river, buzzing and chriping in the air or bark. no tap. no anything. willingly blind, mitzi could almost fall into girlish naivety and believe there was only barren land lying in wait outside her car. something blank and, by definition, malleable -- useless clay she can shape into … into …

( something useful, desirable, an image which mirrors all her hopes and dreams, a creature who is everything and nothing at once, but will always be what she makes of it )

“i am.” rocky repeats, still whispering about tapping and outfits under his breath, an almost hissing noise. mitzi doesn’t bother wasting her breath further, and falls into slumber just like that ; head bowed and nestled into his back, seperated only by thick barrier.

[thearunadragon]

Eragon mentally the entire series summarized.

[cuubism]

...so I finished the shibari fic

Dream...buddy...

I am so very glad that Hob is making sure that Dream is getting a fair share of hugs.

in retrospect, while i think i went into it aiming for 50% smut 50% moderate angst, we ended up with more like 30% smut 70% complete devastation 😰

this is why in doing the ending i almost talked myself into writing another sequel (threequel?) to resolve all of that 😢 perhaps I will

I just started thinking about Dream's inability to allow himself leisure and pleasure and happiness when his life is so consumed by duty or even to allow himself deep emotions at all when he feels they'll unbalance the collective unconscious, and then I thought about how trapped he feels all the time and then I went off the deep end about it

submission is a vulnerable moment and so I think it's a time when those feelings might come up, and I do think it brings a measure of release, but unfortunately when you break the dam of emotional repression you then have to kind of cope with the mess and figure out what to do about all that you're feeling and dream wasn't quite ready to face that directly

anyway, me writing it:

[incorrect-candela-obscura]

Sean: I don't think the therapist is supposed to say 'wow' that many times during their first session with a client, but here we are.

[dykedvonte]

Preston x Danse is the only companion ship I think would actually work because Preston’s inner turmoil is sort of a loss of faith in himself due to the traumatic experiences he’s faced while Danse is looking for something to have faith in and would find the fact that despite the desire to give up Preston held out so long not just for the honor of the Minutemen but because he had some hope.

It would 100% start off as a lotta unhealthy on Danse’s side as I believe he completely lacks the emotional intelligence (due to a combination of factors) to recognize the he’s feelings as anything but a sort of respect for a superior along with leaning too much into Preston as a substitute for the BoS. Preston may not really have a title but he’s like THE Lieutenant of the Minutemen. Realistically he’s the only companion Danse would probably be comfortable taking instructions from especially for how trusted Preston is by the Sole Survivor and his adherence to military standards despite how unstructured the Minutemen are. It would be him waiting for orders, approval, anything from Preston and he thinks it’s just the desire to have the regiment of the BoS again but he also like when Preston compliments him on being useful or resourceful. He likes the stories of Minuteman glory days and he trades the stories of the BoS that don’t hurt to talk about. He likes the familiarity Preston would provide and he’d be oblivious that it’s not just new found loyalty to the Minutemen.

Yet Preston explains it himself that he’s not a natural leader. He’s not an instructor. He helps manage what the General has put in place and he content on doing that. He relays what needs to be done and does major upkeep but I don’t think he’d know what to do with this guy this literally marches up to him and practically begs for a mission that doesn’t exist. Like the formality and respect is nice but he can tell it’s covering something even if Danse doesn’t.

Danse could go to Sturges for the many repair and upkeep assignments he gives him and has the freedom to go straight to the Castle if he really wants a big mission, but he chooses to come to him everytime. He’s aware enough that Danse only trusts him out of all of the Generals confidantes but it would take a bit for him to understand why. If anything Danse should be strategizing with him as equals seeing as he almost got the Minuteme wiped out and Danse was a Paladin for the Brotherhood with many successes under his belt before Preston even led his first scouting mission. It’s like he sees him as some figure of hope, some one who can come in and add stability. Someone with a fresh outlook who can provide a new perspective for him.

It’s like he sees him like he saw/sees the Sole Survivor but that would be crazy because that would also mean… and then oh, it clicks.

The revelation is both flattering and he doesn’t know what to do with it cause how do you address “I know you respect me but is that the only feeling you have for me?” To the guy who like refuses to rest unless you tell him at ease? He has to reevaluate his whole manner of interaction with Danse cause this is a very slippery slope that he’s sliding down and it’s even more perilous due to Danse’s repressed emotions regarding… everything. There’s an equal chance Danse will try to open up as completely shut down and he’s not just concerned about it cause Sole Survivor cares for him but because he has grown to care for the guy too. It’s not like he doesn’t also enjoy Danse’s company and value as a Minuteman member. He’s not a love at first sight guy but he’s played with the idea, anyone would when you’ve spent nights trading stories, historical facts and beers by the fire in a little home you’ve carved for yourself through literal blood, sweat and tears.

I think it’s one of those cases where it’s agonizingly slow to the actual relationship but neither part are anguished about that. If anything happened to soon Danse would be too dependent and Preston not equipped to handle it. It’s a case where I genuinely think they’d bring out the best in each other cause theyd want to figure out what is best for the other and not just apply what they think is the best. It’s the care that Preston would ask Danse what he wants to do and encourage it and at the same time Danse would be incredulous everytime Preston second guesses himself.

Long story short it’s a good ship to me because it’s just two guys with broken confidences and faith in their roles being each other’s hype man and kissin a little about it.

[ciderjacks]

The JD vs Amber Heard stuff was actually insane. I didn't keep up with it because I disagreed with the sheer principle of publicizing something like *that* but the misogyny was MASK OFF...

NO LIKE FRL IT WAS SO INSANE