#storms-a-coming

[caemidraws]

La Tempesta

[apollos-boyfriend]

so my younger cousin is flying in to visit from brazil on sunday, and will be staying here for like, the entirety of july. which, don't get me wrong, is super cool! i love the kid! but it felt like a super weird move, considering his parents are the SUPER strict and borderline helicopter parents. even the smallest prank/roughousing with him/his little sister would lead to a strict talking to from his parents, he couldn't ever do anything without their clear permission, that sort of stuff. so letting him fly at alone at 16 to a whole different country and stay there for a whole month seemed WILDLY out of character. additionally, it just felt like a super last-minute trip. it's not like we have any plans to do when he gets here, and the flight itself and stuff only got booked like, midway through june.

and i was talking to my mom about it, kind of trying to nudge some answers out of her, and after a while she went, "yeah, i think they're sending him over here to get away for his boyfriend. see if the distance breaks them off." which, first of all, surprised me because last i checked, they didn't KNOW he had a boyfriend. literally everyone in the family did EXCEPT for them because while that entire side of the family being semi-conservative, his parents (mostly his dad) are EXTREMELY old-fashioned. so clearly something already went wrong. and considering the only reason the rest of the family knew is because one person found out and it spread like wildfire, i have a sneaking suspicion he wasn't the one to tell them, either.

and second of all. they're sending him HERE. to try to make him forget his homosexuality. i couldn't do anything but just wordlessly gesture to the multiple pride flags scattered around my room, then to myself, because really? he has like two other cousins in the us and they're sending him to me? honey i am about to introduce this kid to queer scenes you have never even heard of. he'll be returning home with labels only shrimp can perceive

[squidwithelbows]

Screenshot of the exact moment i knew i was going to be obsessed with jeremy knox

[randomfandomisuppose]

I just had a DPxDC crossover idea that I thought was funny.

What if every time John Constantine sold his soul he was basically agreeing to being “adopted” by the entity he was selling his soul to.

He thinks all of the entities he sold his soul to are leaving him alone because they’re too busy fighting/have a truce to not fight as long as none of them claim his soul, meanwhile he’s got like a dozen or so ghost/demon parents ready to go to court to fight for custody when he finally dies.

Danny, having been taken in as a ward by an older ghost since he technically counts as a baby ghost until he’s 100 or something, meets Constantine for the first time and is like: “Why are you 1/15th my brother?”

Bonus points if Danny is technically the big brother in ghost terms because he’s been a ghost the longest. Sure Constantine may be a little liminal but that doesn’t count he doesn’t even have a death day yet.

Like:

Danny (Certified little shit): “Baby brother why do you never come to dinner? :(”

Constantine, too sober for this: “The fuck did you just call me?”

Constantine vehemently denies any relation but they bicker like siblings.

[buckypascal]

We don't know that guy. Thought we did ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[emo-dogthing]

Who wants to go outside and play wolves together

[pentapoda]

playing with your hair when you have cloud hair

[erandraws]

Bells Hells coming back this Thursday, you know what that means

[fir3flytv]

Jason Todd can kill a man with his bare hands, but with you, they're as delicate as possible, like you're a porcelain doll, able to crack at the slightest touch. His fingers hover over your skin, a light as a feather you would think you were imagining things. He's cautious, carful, thoughtful. Everything else in his life has broke. Even him. But not you, never you. You can't. You're untouched. Perfect, never to do wrong. He worshipped you like a goddess, like you created heaven and earth. And you did.

You created his earth. His world. You were his heaven. When he died, he swore he saw you. You were his everything, his reason, his purpose, his love, his hope. He was so in love it hurt. Every look shared between you, his mind swirled with possibilities. He couldn't live if something happened to you because of him. He couldn't live without his world. It was an odd place to be stuck in. Scared of staying, scared of leaving. He kept his distance. Touches were never long. Lips ghost against yours. It's like he's never fully there. Every night, the cold side that was suppose to be his haunted you. It's hard to love a ghost. It's like being in love with a figment of your imagination. You find yourself questioning if he's even real. Every time he comes home, he proves to you that he is. That brought upon its own set of questions, heart crying out for more of what it was deprived. Were you not enough reason to stay? Were you not enough? Was he yours like you were his?

You felt like the moon, forever revolving around the Earth, compelled to, even. Always at a safe distance, longing for more. That is, until one night. He comes home, smashing his helmet to the wall. The landlord won't like that, but a problem for another day. Without thinking he crashes into your arms, head buried into your chest. The Earth crashed into the moon. Hell will follow, you both knew that. But it didn't matter. You had him. He had you. that was enough.

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What if instead of threatening to take Ford's eyes, Bill just took Fiddleford's?

Tate still remembered the night his father's sight was taken from him.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

He felt the storm coming even before the first lightning struck. From the very moment he opened his eyes that morning until the very moment he lay back down to bed, he could feel a vicious tension brewing in the otherwise serene household.

Storms were very uncommon at Tate's house, and on the rare occasions they did arrive, they never stayed for long.

Yet, after a quiet breakfast full of anxious, unmet glances and clattering cutlery that rang far too loudly in the silence of the table, he knew that this storm was going to be unlike any other storm he'd witnessed before.

A prickling, disquieting static seemed to have made itself at home underneath his skin, that day. It had made every hair on his body stand on end, and an odd stinging sensation to dance across his spine and tongue; an uncomfortable urge to duck and take cover low on the ground nearly overwhelming his every sense. It was like waiting for the shattering thunderclap to sound after the sky turned white with a blinding flash of light. He knew what was coming, and the anticipation was unbearable.

His mother and father had acted as though nothing was wrong; as though they didn't feel the looming presence of the darkening clouds growing like a murky gray forest on the ceiling.

He hadn't been able to fathom at the time how adults could seem so all-knowing, and yet simultaneously be so utterly clueless about the very obvious happenings that surrounded them. Now, though, he just found it strange how adults often tend to assume children don't feel the stifling weight that they hung around themselves; as if children didn't breathe the same bitter choked air as their parents did. It wasn't even as though they did a very good job at pretending; his parents always were terrible liars.

When the lightning finally struck, it set the house ablaze.

He heard the thunder from his room, and felt the crackling heat crawl up the stairs and seep through the gap beneath his door. He'd laid in his bed, hand clasped nervously across his chest and looking up at his room's cloudy, weeping ceiling as a cacophonic explosion of noises came bursting from the living room downstairs. The fight had erupted with such unprecedented force that in Tate's young mind, he'd felt genuine fear of the house collapsing atop them all from the sheer force of the yelling.

The smell of burnt tongues gently wafted through the air, and Tate briefly wondered if it hurt his parents when they scorched their mouths with such scalding words just as much as it hurt for him to hear it.

It was a big fight; a terrible, big fight; so loud, and so very angry, and helpless, and desperate, and betrayed, and sad.

The back and forth screeching seemed endless, and eventually the screaming words began to muddle and merge into one another until they hardly even sounded human anymore. Suddenly there were animals wailing in the living room downstairs, and Tate could do nothing but listen helplessly and grip his interlocked fingers tighter; hoping that if he stayed still enough, then the growling beasts that were shattering plates downstairs wouldn't come upstairs.

But then,

then,

something changed.

The shift was all too sudden; too abrupt; too quick even for the usually sharp witted child to catch on, and before he knew it, the screams of anger suddenly shifted into one of pure, unadulterated horror.

"Fiddleford, your eyes- good lord, your eyes! Let me look at them!" "Don't touch me! I- I must call Stanford, he's done something to me. Him and that demon, they've cursed me." "For Heaven's sake! Please, forget about that damned Stanford of yours for one moment and listen to yourself! My husband's gone mad, mad!"

And suddenly his parents were human again.

Tate was restless in his bed as his heart seemed to beat bruises against his ribs, his sweaty fingers digging crescent shaped grooves into his skin as fear enclosed its frigid claws around his throat in a vice-like grip. He couldn't breathe.

The storm was over, and it should have reassured him, and yet he was anything but.

Curiosity and fear had been what forced him to kick the sheets off himself and creep his way down the rickety wooden steps. He had to know what happened, he had to know what damage the storm had caused, he had to know.

His steps were far from quiet, and the creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet hardly did him any favors, but no one answered the calls of the squeaking wood. No one came peeking out from the living room to stop the obviously sneaking presence that was tip toeing through the halls; No one called out to check on their little child; all was silent, and calm, except for his mother's soft sobbing coming from the kitchen.

When Tate eventually found his father, he saw

devastation.

The storm had been merciless. It had left nothing behind but a shuddering husk of a man. His father was shaking like a leaf, shoulders tense and back hunched over as though bowed by an incredible burden. The telephone receiver was held in his hand like a lifeline; as if it was the only thing in the world that was keeping him tethered to sanity, and somehow, Tate didn't doubt that it was.

Curled up on the floor in the dark, muttering and trembling, he dared say his father looked... small.

It almost felt surreal to see his father in such a state, like witnessing a God collapse, or a star's light dim to nothingness. His father had always been a solid, permanent pillar sho seemed able to hold up the whole world on his shoulders, and still stand tall and proud despite the weight.

And yet, the crumbling remains of a once impermeable monolith now lay scattered across the hallway floor and splattered across the walls.

The sight had scared him.

At the time, Tate hadn't known what had happened. Even to this day, he still wasn't too sure he understood what exactly had taken place in that living room for his father to have so sudddenly gone from seeing to blind in the matter of seconds.

His mother had tried, in vain, to explain it to him later, to try and make him understand when he was eventually old enough to hear the gruesome tale; but still, he struggled to fully wrap his head around it.

"It was as though his eyes just sunk into his skull," his mother had recounted to him with a haunted look in her eyes. "They suddenly just vanished into the empty sockets of his face, like someone pulled them out from inside his head. There was no blood, no resistance, no tearing. It was as if his eyes were simply plucked out of sight by some invisible hand."

There had been blood on the walls when he had found father back then, a long trail of gorey wet red smeared all across the lovely yellow wallpaper. He realized only now, recalling the memory, that the blood back then had not been from his father's eyes, but from the deep gouges he had dug into his face with his nails, his searching fingers desperately looking for eyes that weren't there beneath his empty eyelids.

"What have you done to me, Stanford?"

Tate had never heard his father's voice sound so raw, so afraid. It was so unlike the familiar comforting drawl he'd grown to love and recognize, it almost sounded alien, coming from his father.

"I can't see, Stanford, I can't- my eyes, they're gone. Why are they gone? What have you done?" "Answer me, damnit, what have you done?"

His father never got his answer, because whoever was on the other side of the line soon hung up, and his father was suddenly left blind and alone.

[mischievous-thunder]

The way their brains work is itself a wonder

[taravangians-storming-balls]

5th ideal is when you combine with all of your squires into a giant mech windrunner

[annemarieyeretzian]

KEYFISH MY BELOVED

[mac-monsters]

Thank you so much for the 1,000 followers!!!! Have some fem andreil as requested 🙌🙂‍↕️

Not sure how Neil ever managed to crawl out of that window 😭

[jazzkrebber]

I'm not even gonna lie to you, Kaz Brekker is the one that made me finally understand how the stock market works

[buckypascal]

Now that's a superhero landing.