#it would solve a lot problems

[cienie-isengardu]

“What have you done to him?”

“Something Master Odan-Urr taught me. A Force-blocking technique to neutralize an enemy without violence...but I never thought it would be so strong... so complete. And I have no idea how to undo what I have done!” [Star Wars Tales of the Jedi: The Sith War #6)

[omaano]

"What a strange pair. A Mandalorian and a Force-sensitive youngling, hmm... Who is in need of a master to guide him and help him to come into his full power, yes?"

Any time Maul comes across a Force-sensitive youngster: "Is anyone going to claim this apprentice as his own or do I have to do everything around here?" and doesn't wait for an answer. (Grogu is safe tucked away in Din's satchel, don't worry)

Din accidentally turns up with Obi-wan's keepsake in his pocket once, and Maul doesn't only fly into an episode of blind rage and super melodramatic monologuing, but he also gives him a boon that is nothing but trouble and chaos of epic proportions.

Bonus background detail/close up, because while I didn't redraw the full thing, I'm quite proud of my modifications:

More of the Star Wars meets Hades AU (I’m trying to give monthly updates on my progress with it)

[kaidatheghostdragon]

"You must be Ra's," Tucker stated, careful to keep on a poker face while he frantically assessed the situation - tied down to a chair, in what was probably the heart of this particular fruitloop's lair.

And there was a frankly disturbing number of similarities to the OG fruitloop: the way he stood, the style of his hair, the perpetual sneer.

The way he sent a shiver down Tucker's spine like Vlad used to be able to way back when he was still intimidating.

"Gotta say," Tucker continued, shoving his emotions down like only a human-born liminal that dealt with empathic rogues on the daily could ever manage, "not that impressed. For starters, your vibes are rancid, dude. Like, what do you do, bathe in corruption all day?"

That earned him a slap on the face, "You will speak when spoken to," Ra's ordered.

Tucker witheld a smirk. This guy seemed like the type to order subordinates around to do absolutely everything. The fact that he personally slapped Tucker with his own hand? It could only mean that Tucker was already under the guy's skin.

"Well, that just means I can keep talking since you just spoke to me," Tucker retorted, unafraid of another slap. Really, compared to the abuse he put himself through helping Danny, and the way his liminality skyrocketed in the last couple of years, it was barely even a love-tap. It didn't even sting.

Ra's raised a brow, giving the distinct impression that he was absolutely livid, though that may have been the liminal empathy cluing Tucker in. He'd never been great at reading emotions until that particular ability developed.

"Who do you work for?" Ra's began the interrogation.

Tucker returned with his best affronted glare, "Frankly, I'm offended that you don't believe I could do all this entirely on my own."

"Kill him," Ra's stated as he turned to leave, sounding so unimpressed that it almost seemed bored.

Out of the shadows, an arrow flew straight at Tucker, who slipped his restraints (thank you liminality for giving him limited ghost powers) and caught the arrow before it pierced his chest, "Yeah, no. Imma veto that."

Ra's turned back around, looking almost impressed.

It made Tucker feel way slimier than Vlad could ever hope to achieve. He repressed a shudder. After all, his job here was to keep Ra's distracted while the others invisibly raided the place, destroyed the pits, and planted explosives.

Tucker, being the technopath, would normally stay behind in the chair, but the League of Assassins was well defended against cyber attacks, forcing them to pivot somewhat in order to successfully infiltrate the place. He ended up creating a digital duplicate of himself (a literal duplicate, like Danny could do, but Tucker's duplicate could only ever exist inside of a computer, by all appearances a true AI) that the others could upload to the servers once they found them.

Beyond that, there wasn't much Tucker could do beyond providing a distraction. Sure, the LoA's technology was absolutely worth drooling over, but they didn't rely on it like most of the modern world did. There was no internet connection, electronic locks, or surveillance for Tucker to hack into and make his own. This place was all stone doors and medieval fortifications.

"Impressive," Ra's complimented after a moment of silent appraisal, "perhaps you are worthy of my attention after all."

Tucker scoffed, getting the clear impression that this guy fully expected the ground he walked on to be worshipped after admitting such small praise, "You're not the first megalomaniac I've had to deal with, and you won't be the last." (Team Phantom had an entire list of fruitloops to work through once their LoA financial backing was removed, after all) "I'll give you props for the sweet ninja cult you got going on, though. Gotta say, that's a first for me."

"Assassins," Ra's corrected.

"Same diff," Tucker retorted with a handwave, knowing full well that a guy like Ra's would be miffed by such a dismissal. He further feigned disinterest by examining the arrow he was still holding. Tucker had taken a few archery lessons when he was younger and picked it back up by training a bit under Princess Dora's royal guard. He was... decent, with a bow. He could reliably hit his target as long as he had a couple of seconds to aim - or used something laced in technology that allowed his technopathy to steady it.

The arrow was expertly crafted and perfectly balanced. His heightened liminal senses smelled a substance on the arrowhead - probably a paralytic, not that it would have kept Tucker down for very long, even if it had breached his heart, which would have been a quick death for any baseline human. He tossed it from hand to hand a few times, feeling the weight, the threw it like a dart into one of the nearest shadows. A soft thud echoed through the room when the arrowhead bonked the chestplate of the assassin standing there, then a clatter when it fell to the ground.

"If I had a bow, he'd be dead," Tucker needlessly commented, thumb pointing to the hidden guard. He was somewhat surprised the dude didn't catch the arrow like Tucker had. But then again, if the shadows were meant to fully conceal him, catching the arrow would have given him away from the arrow not making noise or falling to the ground.

"You knew he was there," Ra's stated more than asked.

"And the eleven others," Tucker easily replied, "A full dozen to guard the King of the Cult. Not that it'll make any difference. I've already won."

Tucker didn't have any misconcieved notion that his liminality would give him an edge over a dozen trained assassins. It doesn't really matter how good your senses are or how fast your reflexes when you have to dodge a dozen attacks simultaneously. But what he could do was turn intangible during those first few seconds of adrenaline-fueled panic, more than long enough for either of the Phantoms, neither of which were currently more than a few hundred yards distant, to reach him and drag him away from immediate danger.

So Tucker latched onto that confidence borne of complete trust in his team, and radiated it as much as he could, daring Ra's to call his bluff with nothing more than a knowing smirk.

[leslieiswriting]

vampires? Pirates? Vampirates!

*Queer* vampirates!!!

Coming to shores near you in a *month* !!!

Add it on Goodreads!

[andy-clutterbuck]

1x04 - What We | The Ones Who Live

[agenttommykinard]

as someone from the Midwest, they did not give Bobby Nash enough Midwesternisms

[tokyo-daaaamn-ji-gang]

Ok but was anyone else watching this bit like

[gooodomens]

I would just like there to be a quiet moment of introspection for Aziraphale where he acknowledges the fact that it must be tiring for Crowley to always be the one making the first move - to keep them safe, to keep them them. And for Crowley, in turn, to think on how his constant running away from problems only to be pulled into the fray again and again might have less to do with his need to save Aziraphale and their relationship, and more about wanting to do the right thing despite claiming to not care.

[highlyincorrect]

I’ve heard a lot of people chatting abt what sort of career Five would have if not what we got in s4 and I wanted to weigh in

Personally, with the way I thought s4 was gonna go, i figured he’d jump back to his assassin routes and maybe become a gun for hire (like he was in the comics). Even if he wanted to be on the straight and narrow path, I still don’t think the CIA would be a good fit for him (bros not a fed, ACAB🗣️)

I had a long lovely discussion with someone from ao3 on this very topic and I think they might have had smth with their response- investigative journalist

That way he can still live a very adventurous life, help people and fuck over corruption and criminals without being a part of the bureaucratic thing he doesn’t like anymore (like in the commission)

Idk tho. What do y’all think

[fangsandfeels]

It just occurred to me...

...that nothing was really stopping Cazador from Ascending aside from his lack of brain cells.

If the chamberlain guy was afraid that he'd become a replacement in the ritual to the point he tried to fake his suicide (and overdid it), it probably was technically possible.

The kidnapped victims weren't connected with their kidnappers through blood - none of the Cazador's spawns bit them. Cazador did. Cazador easily became a replacement for Astarion in the Ascension ritual - which meant there were no specific requirements for the sacrificial lamb aside from the runes on their skin.

So, technically, Cazador didn't need to catch Astarion to continue the ritual. He could have easily Turned any other person into a spawn, carved the runes, and proceeded with his plan. Only one piece of the contract was missing and it was rather easy to replace.

But he just had to be a little bitch about it. He just couldn't let it go even for a moment. He had to show who's The Boss. He had to Make a Point.

He spent tendays, months coping and seething over his bruised ego, refusing to proceed with the Ritual before Astarion came back -- and in his self-obsessed mind Astarion had no choice to come back because the opposite would be an insult to his Vampire Lord status.

The Ascension was literally at his fingertips. He could have Ascended, walked out into the sunlight, and used all that newly gained power to find Astarion himself.

But did he do that? Noo.

He chose to stomp off to his bitching corner and make an Astarion-shaped salt mine in his diary.

[justice-artblog]

Wait shut up, late night thought (For the Saiki×Mob Crossover)

Just the thought that one of his friends makes it into seasoning City for a day or two, either passing through or temporarily visiting family.

And just the thought that Saiki is so devestated by what happened that he literally decides to hide rather than face what happened, rather than face the people he left behind.

And Mob has to awkwardly turn them away like *No, you didnt see any pink haired kids around here named Saiki, no siree!*

And manages to successfully ward off the friend. So he goes to Saiki's hiding place, and for the briefest moment sees the barest hint of devestation on Saiki's face. Morphed in grief before it smooths out.

Saiki wants to go, but Mob convinces him to just sit and wait it out.

And wait they do.

Either that, or.

Or.

They visit at Reigen's workplace. Cause they hear he's the greatest Psychic in the 21st century.

So surely this man can find their best friend, right?

And it's like 4 of them, And Reigen fully expects Saiki to give him sass when the teen makes note of people entering the building.

He does NOT expect Saiki to dive behind his desk and hunker down.

Amd 4 of his friends walk on, sit down, have tea and finally go onto their spiel.

"We know you do exorcisms but-"

"Well, we were wondering if you could locate someone? Cause you're a Psychic and all."

"I'm sorry?" Reigen blinks, plassing down his teacup as the teens shuffle nervously, the purple haired kid with glasses giving him a painfully peircing stare.

"Our friend." The teen explains, and slides across a picture of a very familiar teen. "Kusuo Saiki, he just up and disappeared one day."

Dont tell them Anything, Saiki's voice filters in his head that Reigen forces himself to just bite down the sarcastic comment bubbling up.

If anything, Saiki sounded nervous.

I do not.

"I'm not sure i understand." Reigen opts to say, waving a hand at Shigeo, who seemed just as tense as he felt. "Me and Mob here, arent really search and rescue types. Shouldnt you go to the police for this?"

"We did," The brown haired girl pushed up her own glasses, fingers drumming nervously against his chest. "Look, Psychic's have Telepathy, don't they? And youre the greatest one out there so- so maybe you can reach out to him... For us?"

"Please," The smaller blue haired teen voice quivered, his strangely wrapped forearms clasped together in a begging position. "Even if you tell us he's okay, that's all that matters!"

The conflicting feelings rise in his chest, the urge to tell the kid's everything was strong but-

Please, don't.

"I'm sorry," The smile he gives is a nervous one, lips twitching at the corners of his mouth. "My Telepathy has a range, and even then, if i havent met him personally i wouldnt be able to find him like that."

The way each teen deflated broke something in him, the desperate want to see if their friend is okay was palpable.

"But," He held up the picture of Saiki, the kid was surrounded by other's, 4 of them sitting right in front of him and the rest possibly being his classmates. "I can do this."

His eyes slipped closed, the blinding flourescent light leaving his world a view of dark skin toned reds. He pretended to focus, pretending to pour all his energy into this one photo.

'Do you really not want to say anything?'

No.

'Saiki-'

Drop it, Reigen, just... Just drop it.

'I'm going to tell them you're okay.'

Don't you-

'I won't say where or how, just that you're okay. Okay?'

...

'Saiki?'

Okay.

His eyes slipped open, squinting slightly at the bright lights as the teens starred at him expectantly.

"He's okay." Reigen smiled, and handed back the photo to the first teen.

"How?" The last teen finally spoke, slightly taller than the rest and gray hair almost white with the indoor lights. "How do we know it's not a trick, how do we know you're telling the truth?"

Well-

"I'm using a form of Psychometry." Reigen explained gently, watching the teen's glare harden. "Using a Photo, i can tell the state of being of the occupant within. There's a lot of you in there, granted, but with your description and knowing who I was targeting, it was easy to narrow it down."

He waved a hand down and up, letting their eyes trace his hand movements as the words registered in their brain

You're such a scam.

'Quiet you.'

"I don't know where he is." Reigen grimaced, the lie burning at his tongue. "But i can at least tell you he's okay."

"This is a trick." The taller teen snapped. "This has to be."

"Your friend," Reigen paused, thinking slowly. "He loves sweets, doesn't he?"

As a unit, they froze. The bittersweet smile he shot to them wasn't for show, Reigen felt sick.

"I got that from the photo." He pointed a hand, and then pulled back. "Loves Sweets, seems to be a bit of a homebody, a very quiet demeanour, yes?"

"All that... Just from a photo?" The smaller teen seemed to tear up. "Is there anything else?"

Don't do it, Reigen.

"I think... He misses you as much as you miss him." Reigen smiled. "His feelings are harder to pin down through the photo, and i don't know if im getting that because of the photo or if it's what he's feeling. But I believe, he misses you all too."

The fear faded, leaving nothing behind but relieved looks.

It took a couple minutes to wrangle them outside, denying pay even if the taller teen seemed to be loaded.

When the door clicked shut, he paused. Listening to the sounds of Mob shuffling and the absent noises that Saiki seemed to make.

"Kid's not telling us something." Dimple's appearence wasn't a surprise.

"Shut it Dimple." the words weren't harsh, but pointed, even as the spirit rolled his eyes and moved towards Mob, floating behind the other esper. "They're gone Saiki."

Shigeo shot him a look, his normally blank face twosted into something regarding mild concern.

'I know.' And he could hear Saiki shuffle, as if he were oulling himself into a small ball. 'I know.'

--

Like- do you see my vision????

[theaceace]

Hob is woken, not by the shrill cacophony of his alarm or the sunlight hitting his face where they'd forgotten to pull the curtains last night, or even the warmth of Morpheus' hands and mouth, but by the sudden dip in the mattress as another person flops onto the bed with them.

Several lifetimes' worth of instincts see him jolting awake in an instant, heart racing and sweat already beading on his back and brow. Hob may not be able to die, but he's been ambushed in his sleep more than enough times to be getting on with, ta very much, and he's not keen to do it again. Suddenly he's twenty-five, and exhausted after days of marching on Troyes, feet sore and heart sorer, waiting on a battle that never came. He's twenty-eight, and the knife that flashes in the darkness misses his throat only because Herry has ears like a bat and enough blind-foolish loyalty to leap on their attacker's back. He's seventy-three, and lying barely-conscious among the dead that need burying or burning, and he knows that he needs to rouse himself even with the arrow still in his chest, or he'll be burnt or buried with them. He's two-hundred and sixty-four, and they've come to the home he'd made for his family, to drag him from the bed he had shared with his wife some thirty years before, and haul him away as a witch.

He's gripped now by the same fear, and it has him up and moving, one hand fumbling at the bedside table for anything with enough heft to dent a skull before he realises that none of his attackers have ever smelt like peaches.

Beside him, Morpheus shifts just enough to free his face from the clutches of his pillow.

“That key was given to you for use in emergencies, my sibling,” he says, voice thick with sleep and the cotton pillowcase.

Desire stretches luxuriously between them and smiles, fox-sharp, at Morpheus. They roll their head to look at him – beneath the perfume and sweat and wet pavement smell of them, Hob catches a sour waft of alcohol.

“Oh but my dear brother, this is an emergency,” they say, and – look, Hob has been drunk enough to recognise the exquisitely deliberate care at the edges of their words. He huffs a little, pushes himself up so that he can slap a hand on the bedside lamp and blink furiously against the sudden light. It takes a few seconds for his vision to clear, and he rubs his hands over his face in a vain effort to convince himself that this is some new nightmare that Daniel is testing out, before he gives in to the inevitable and turns to examine their guest.

"And what could possibly be so pressing at –" Morpheus snatches Desire's wrist up to stare blearily at their watch "– two thirty-seven in the morning? That could not be expressed in a phone call or wait until a reasonable hour?"

"Do you know, brother mine, how many partners I found to dance with? Whose desire for me, once so integral as to be a given, I had to simply guess at? To read in the curve of a smile or the enticing lull of a question? I didn't know them, not a one, and can you guess, sweet Dream, how many of them took me to their beds?"

And Hob has heard quite enough of that. He stretches and tosses back the sheets, while Morpheus shoots him a filthy glower that softens immediately into a plea for respite with his sole visible eye. Desire either doesn't notice this silent communication, or doesn't care.

“None!” They crow gleefully, clasping their hands, and Morpheus scowls as he's jostled in place.

It's not that Hob wants to leave him to fend for himself against his sibling, only that he doesn’t fancy being in the firing line when Morpheus inevitably snaps and thumps Desire with a pillow.

Doing an admirable job of ignoring Morpheus' wounded expression, Hob groans and lurches himself in the vague direction of the kitchen. Might as well put the kettle on for this.

"Jasmine or apple tea, love?" He calls. No sense having any caffeine now. If they're lucky, Desire will wear themself out quickly and they'll be able to go back to sleep before the alarm goes off.

"Apple, if you would," Morpheus replies.

"Ooh, I'll have jasmine if you're making."

"Didn't ask you!" Hob shouts back, already adding a spoon of sugar to the third mug he'd fetched down for them. 

“Oh, so forceful! You know, if you ever get tired of my stick-in-the-mud brother here…” Desire trails off meaningfully, and Hob snorts, smiling a little to himself. They know full well it's not going to happen, however much or little they remember about his desires, and even if he were – impossibly – to change his mind about Morpheus, they'd get bored of him soon enough. 

He sets all three mugs on a tray, and grabs a pack of chocolate digestives while he's at it. Morpheus would never admit to being fond of them, but he doesn't need to. Hob's watched him absent-mindedly devour most of a packet while he pecks one-handed at the keyboard. Besides, Desire could probably do with something to line their stomach. 

“Is being human always this delightfully contradictory? So baffling and solid and… damp?” Desire asks, lifting their head just enough to peer at Hob as he re-enters the room. It's a moot question, of course. They've been human long enough now to know that the answer is, largely, yes. 

“Often. But do you know, my sibling, the very best part of being human?” Desire turns lazily to look at Morpheus, smiling wide. Their lipstick today is dark purple, and smudged at the corners of their mouth. 

“Mm, do tell. You know how much I crave your… wisdom,” they say, rolling the words indulgently over their tongue. Hob sighs and nudges Morpheus’ book to one side so he can set the tray down on the nightstand on his side of the bed.

“It is that it is no longer against the Old Laws for me to do this,” Morpheus says, planting one foot against their side and shoving hard enough that they topple off the bed with an outraged squawk and undignified thump. There's a blessed moment of stillness, the same kind of breathless anticipation that Hob remembers from the battlefield, before the charge and the mud and the pain. Then they pop back up over the side of the bed with a cry and launch themself at Morpheus. He'd be more worried if he couldn’t hear the laughter in their voice, nor see how their outstretched hands target Morpheus’ ribs and armpits, rather than his eyes.

Hob's sisters have been dead for centuries now, but he remembers this well enough.  Maybe if the Endless had ever been anything like children, they might have gotten all of the murderous posturing out of the way before they grew up enough for it to be a problem, he muses. Still. Better late than never.

He takes a sip of his own tea and grabs a biscuit. Lord knows he won't get a look in once Morpheus has finished trying to jam his elbow into Desire's stomach and realises they're there.

“It was never against the Old Laws for you to be a bastard, which is lucky because you always were one!” Desire gasps, writhing away from Morpheus’ pointy limbs. Hob's been at the receiving end of those elbows before, and even when Morpheus is being gentle, they're decently sharp. He wonders idly if either of them'll tire of this before their tea goes cold, and decides not to intervene either way. Serve them both right if they have to drink cold tea.

“You tried to kill me!”

“Don't tell me you're still hung up on that?”

“I am, because you tried to kill me!”

“Well it's not like it worked!”

Not really the point, Hob reckons, but then again he's had plenty of mates that have tried to kill him. 

“More by good fortune than good judgment,” Morpheus hisses.

“Oh, so you admit to your poor judgment?”

Hob snorts, and the wounded look Morpheus swings towards him would fell a lesser man. Hob takes another biscuit.

“Ha!” Desire takes advantage of his momentary distraction to lock their arms around his shoulders and blow a loud raspberry against his cheek. Hob doesn’t think he's entirely successful in hiding his smile. Morpheus doesn't even try to hide his look of disgust. 

Well, he had to learn the downsides of being an older brother at some point, Hob supposes. 

Judging that the worst of the scrapping is over, he perches on the edge of the bed and pats Morpheus’ flank idly. Desire, loose-limbed with alcohol and triumph, flops over him to reach for their tea. Morpheus magnanimously doesn't jab his fingers into their exposed side.

“Thank you, Robert darling,” Desire says, eyes half-lidded as they drink. It comes out far less coquettish than Hob imagines they intended; too genuinely content. Morpheus sighs, and frowns, and doesn't quite do a good enough job of hiding his own ease as he sits up and leans against Hob. 

“I suppose you intend to stay the night?” Morpheus asks. There's nothing of the dignified dreamlord about him now, with his hair flattened on one side and just a little lank, and pillow creases on his cheek. He peers at Desire, half of his weight still supported by Hob, who takes another slurp of tea and polishes off the last of his biscuit. It's still unbelievable, sometimes, that he may see his dour and distant old stranger like this. Something tangible, something grounded, something he can hold. Unbelievable, too, after the way they had almost parted, after the way Morpheus had almost –

Well. Doesn't bear thinking about, really.

“Mm, yes, if you'll have me.” Do they have to work to make everything they say sound like a double entendre,  Hob wonders, or does it come naturally? He's not entirely sure they even notice they're doing it. 

“You're always welcome,” Hob says. “Guest room's all made up, and there's a spare toothbrush under the sink you can have.”

“How very kind. Dream, dear, isn't your man kind?”

“Unreasonably so.”

“Ta, love,” Hob says, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. Desire rolls their eyes theatrically, as though that might mask how their expression softens. “Now drink your tea, I'd like to get a few more hours’ sleep before I need to get up.”

Morpheus grumbles but straightens up, plucking his mug from the nightstand and cradling it in one hand while he reaches for a biscuit with the other. 

“Should we expect any of our other siblings to join us tonight?” He asks, managing somehow not to spray crumbs everywhere as he does so, which is a bit unfair. Hob has centuries more experience talking through mouthfuls of crumbly biscuits, and he still can't do as good a job of it. “I take it you did not venture out alone this night.”

“No I didn't, but don't worry,” Desire says, tilting their head back as they drain their mug, a neat ring of purple left behind on the ceramic. “My sweet twin is unlikely to make an appearance. I certainly hope, at least – she went home with that little exorcist friend of yours. If she comes here, then something’s gone dreadfully wrong.”

They grin, cat with the cream pleased at the expression on Morpheus’ face, and flick their hand in something like a wave. “Well, goodnight brother! Robert.”

They flounce away towards the spare room, and Hob presses his smile into the curve of Morpheus’ shoulder.

“I hate them,” Morpheus grumbles. Hob kisses the bony jut of skin where his t-shirt has slipped, once, twice.

“No you don't,” he says. Morpheus sighs, sets his mug down, and returns to hold Hob's face still for a proper kiss. Not that Hob would try to get out of it. 

“No,” he agrees softly, pulling Hob down with him for a cuddle onto pillows that still smell a little of peaches. “No. I do not.”

[the-blue-phantom]

there need to be more games where nancy can just start swinging at people

[lgbtlunaverse]

If yu ziyuan had been a character in a different story set when she was younger I'd be on here making posts about her like "she would NOT fucking have kids" because genuinely the worst thing you could do to that woman was make her a mother. Except in the story she's in she is a mother. And that's what's wrong with her.

[garden-bug]

Is being critical of Sabine’s force sensitivity ‘gatekeeping’ the force or it is about how it undermines the established magic system and was not well written?

I’ll give you a clue it’s the second one.

[d4rk-x-w0lf-17]

finding out that people called nuzi pr0ship is so funny to me cuz like. damn

they really watched ep 4 with their eyes shut and ears covered huh