#the universe is against me.

[piowasthere]

500 FOLLOWERS WTF-

u guys really chose the worst time to do me like that.

and in appreciation for it all i am going away for another like 2 weeks or so :>

i'll be away, so not so much (if any at all) content thru the next couple of days, apologies-

have a doodle tho, congrats, u got reduced to a y/n.

also fun fact, my tablet broke midway doing this so yah thanks

[eeeender]

Sneaky Lil Prince

[mammalsofaction]

Something incredibly annoying when dealing with non-pnf stans when discussing with PnF is discussion of Candace being accidentally gaslit by her mother. In that they assume everyone is in on the fact to make Candace feel like she's crazy. NOBODY ELSE is doing that. In fact, nobody BUT Candace seems to understand the whole brunt of the situation.

The backyard gang are not "bullying" Candace or keeping her from telling her mom. In fact, they tell Linda about it themselves MULTIPLE TIMES. They talk about it off handedly a bunch of times too. Theyre just also 10, and Linda thinks it's part of the "games". She thinks theyre being imaginative. Theyre NOT. The backyard gang is NOT lying to her, and they are NOT perpetuating the assumption that Candace is crazy. Linda just doesnt believe them. The backyard gang doesn't KNOW this. THEY ALL THINK LINDA KNOWS.

LAWRENCE is not perpetuating the idea that Candace is crazy. He ALSO thinks Linda knows. HE HAS SEEN the backyard projects a bunch of times, and HE TELLS Linda about them TOO. However, and this is important, he only ever sees the cute, relaxed and sweet projects, and never the potentially dangerous or fatal ones, so he thinks Candace is being anxious and overprotective. Which she is, but that's a separate issue. LAWRENCE is not lying. HE thinks Linda knows.

JEREMY has seen the projects and parties. He talks about them at length, and how cool Phineas and Ferb are! He's never lied. He thinks Linda knows.

STACY has seen the projects and parties. She FREQUENTLY vouches for Candace. But shes Candace's best friend, so of course Linda doesnt believe her.

EVERYBODY EITHER THINKS LINDA ALREADY KNOWS, OR HAVE CLOSE ATTACHMENTS TO CANDACE SO LINDA DOESNT BELIEVE THEM ANYWAY.

Linda isnt doing it on purpose. NOBODY is lying.

DO i think Linda should believe her daughter now and then? And should Lawrence stick up for her more? Of course I do. But it's not malicious. Just....a bit neglectful. But Candace's assumption that everyone is against her is largely perpetuated in her own head and anxieties and miseries. She ISN'T alone. People ARE on her side, and she has more allies than she thinks. There are MULTIPLE episodes where Phineas and Ferb try to bust THEMSELVES (AKA attempt to show Linda their project with her own eyes) when she simply asks them to. A lot of people think she's really cool, and caring, and her brothers think shes unironically, absolutely AWESOME. Which has been the point of many episodes, AS WELL AS Candace against the Universe.

[hansama]

FINALLY got around to finishing my drawing for @ut-against-genocide! Requested by Anon! Thank you for your donation ♥

Do your daily click for Palestine!

[lacebird]

CANDACE AGAINST THE UNIVERSE (2020)

[gia-d]

Four has been looking for that headband for HALF AN HOUR--

[tobyisave]

the new crystal temp

[hydrachea]

Do you think god lives in fear of what they've created.

[papaiyatree]

you have so much to do, and i have nothing ahead of me

might be blurry, click on pic for higher quality

edit: my comms are open!!

[helsensm]

farm boys Valentine's Days 💗

+ close up on the last one

[phosphorus-noodles]

Do it for him. (Do it for her.)

---

My new favorite gemcyt headcanon is that Joel offered to teach Jimmy sword fighting because he wanted the practice for when he infiltrated homeworld to see his diamond again it'd be nice if Jimmy could defend Scott in a battle ^^

(based on this post by @playername-player-of-games + au and Jimmy design by @chrisrin + Joel design by @zellie-x)

[satyricplotter]

(suggestive, slightly explicit content at the end)

Even though you’ve been expecting the visit for most of the night, the Red Hood knocking at your balcony door at 1 in the morning still catches you off guard. You scramble off the couch in a sleepy daze, book falling off your lap and cracking open on the floor. For one long second, the only thing you can think of is that whoever your last assignment was has managed to find you, that you’ve finally been too sloppy and left a trail with which to track you.

That’s your first thought. Your second thought is, of course, Barbara. But before you can reach your phone to shoot your boss a SOS, or, at the very least, an alert, a second rasp at the window panes freezes you on the spot.

“Will you open the damn door?” Red Hood’s unmistakably robotic voice grits out. “It’s raining cats and dogs out here.”

You trip in your rush to open the doors, limbs loose and clumsy with relief. Hood shoulders past you with a grunt, fingers prodding at the back of his head to get at the latch of his helmet. He takes it off in a smooth motion, his hot breath forming a white cloud against the cold air of your running AC. You lock the balcony back up after him as he goes around your apartment, setting his helmet on your dinner table and shrugging out of his jacket. He means to stay apparently. You could’ve lent him an umbrella if he wanted to go back out there. Probably would’ve been best.

See, you don’t like the Red Hood much.

He invites himself over to your kitchen, opening cabinets here and there until he chances upon the dinnerware and pulls out a glass. The Gotham public infrastructure is in such state you have never once attempted to drink out of the tap, but you don’t stop him when he does. It is, technically, allowed. And he had the pitcher full of filtered water right under his nose, so. You wait impatiently as he downs two whole glasses of tap water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand (there is a perfectly usable kitchen towel draped over the oven handle).

He glances over, notices you staring. The corner of his lips quirks up. “How obedient,” he mocks. He pats at his sides, pulls a folded envelope from somewhere in his body (the Bats have endless pockets, you’ve come to learn) and tosses it on the table. “There’s your file. You better be fucking thankful. Traipsed through half the city in this shit storm just to get you these.”

“Thank you, Red Hood,” you say politely, picking up the rumpled envelope and eagerly flipping through the files. “Much appreciated.”

Red Hood rolls his eyes at you, eternally put off by your insistence on following the proper channels of conduct. “Whatever. You got anything to eat?”

“Help yourself,” you tell him.

You walk back to the couch with the file in hand and leave him to make himself whatever he will, already too distracted by the information within to care that you’re gonna have to make a second grocery run when he’s done with your fridge. Red Hood rummages through your cabinets, pulling out far more stuff than he should for a midnight snack. At one point, he asks if you’ve had dinner, and you respond him with an absentminded (and truthful) negative. The files he’s brought are the latest Robin’s swiped from the team’s ongoing investigation on a dicey arms exchange deal that may or may not involve three out of four of Gotham’s biggest conglomerates (sans, of course, Wayne Enterprises). It’s your job to process the info—a task too menial and too tedious for Oracle and Red Robin, respectively, to handle. Besides, Tim’s far more useful on the ground.

It must be about twenty minutes of you pouring over the pages scattered over your coffee table when the man speaks up again. “Dinner’s ready,” he says.

You look up to see him setting two plates of steaming stir fry on the table. He’s taken off his gloves, his utility belt, the domino mask and rolled up his sleeves—the whole nine yards. Only missing the apron. The food looks lovely, but of course it does. Cooking is listed as a specialty in Red Hood’s file, right along with marksmanship and hostile takeovers.

Your lips quirk up at the unexpected kindness, but you shake your head. “None for me, thanks.”

“I said,” Red Hood says, placing his gun on the table menacingly. “Dinner’s ready. Come eat.”

Well. So much for kindness. You’re about as dumb as Red Hood’s subtle, which is to say only at your benefit and very much at will, so you only sigh and push the papers aside. He watches you rise and sit, and pick up the fork, before he does the same. You eat in silence.

After a few bites, you stop being disgruntled at his coercion and grateful that he’s got something other than a protein bar in you because you were, in fact, quite hungry. That’s not something you can say—or at least not in any way which he would accept, so you just shut up and eat your meal happily. That seems to be enough for him, as he watches you finish the whole plate with a satisfied expression.

“Good?” He asks.

“Yeah, actually,” you beam.

Even when he stands and brings the dishes over to the sink to wash, you are reluctant to leave your spot at the table. You watch him rinse and sponge the plates and pan, the knife and spoon and cutting board, and your afternoon tea mug. He washes his hands thoroughly and rinses his mouth with the dubious tap water again. A thorough, judicious man. He’s played remarkably nice this evening. You wonder if Oracle’s been pulling his ear to leave you alone.

When he finishes, he walks slowly the remainder of the narrow hallway of your kitchen back to the dinner table and leans against the threshold. The long line of his body catches you off guard, always so unexpectedly graceful despite his musculature, his brutality. You hold his gaze serenely, trying not to cave under his scrutiny.

This is why you don’t like the Red Hood. Every time he looks at you, he sees you wholly. As you are. Not, crucially, as you want. It has been this way since the first time he laid eyes on you—a single glance and he had taken the measure of you. No further explanation, no time to make amends. And what’s worse: he expects you to be honest. He expects you to say what he can read in your face. He doesn’t let it go when you deflect, when you coat your truths in niceties. He wants it raw and open.

You can’t play dumb with Jason Todd.

He breaks the silence first. “Were you expecting Grayson this evening?”

The non-sequitur catches you so off guard you break eye contact accidentally. What’s Nightwing got to do with anything?

“No?” You say, evidently baffled. “Nightwing’s been off-world all week. Why would he be coming around?”

He cocks his head to the side, sucks in the bit of flesh below his lower lip. "So you knew it was me who'd be coming around?"

"Obviously?" What is he going on about? He clearly doesn't believe you, either. It's childish when you stomp your foot and whine, but he always brings out the worst in you. "I'm serious, Hood. I've been waiting for you all evening. Just you."

Jason pushes off the wall and approaches, staring you down with slightly raised eyebrows. “Then, if you knew Dick wasn't coming with, what are you looking so fuckable for?”

Despite how much it bruises your pride, you cannot help but sputter. The staring is one thing, the passing brushes are another—even the stupid pulling at your pigtails like you’re both in kindergarten is… permissible. But this? Coming at you so straightforwardly when all you know how to do is circumvent and hide? Desperately, you respond to the one thing in that sentence you can make sense of: the accusation.

“I don’t like Nightwing,” you whine. Jason fixes you with a look of dry incredulity. You huff. How you despise him. He can’t even let you lie. “And I don’t dress for him either.”

“Hm.” He reaches over to pull at the neckline of your admittedly skimpy top, his knuckle brushing against your chest. “Sure.”

You bat his hand away, and stand up, but that leaves you much closer to him than you expected. Or wanted. “This is not fuckable,” you grit out. “This is… pajamas.”

Jason cranes his neck to take a close look at you, every bit as assessing as the first one had been. One of his large hands comes to play with the hem of your shorts, pushes it up just a smidge, and the pads of his fingers are rough and calloused against your outer thigh. Your eyelids flutter, and he has the nerve to smile.

“That’s a blatant lie, you know,” he says, dipping his head low so the words brush against your lips. “Try a little, huh?”

“This seems like a you problem, my guy,” you snap, so close you might as well be speaking into his mouth. You need to get away. You don’t.

Jason’s smug when you gasp after his hands close around your ass and bring you forward, flush against his body. The hardness in his pants trapped between you, a pressing weight just below where it should be. Should be? What are you—but Jason adjusts before you can scold yourself, lining up your crotch with his and grinding. It feels bigger this way, which is insane because it's already pretty fucking huge, and a hot flash of desire runs through you lightning-quick and just as obliterating. You slump against him, head on his shoulder.

“That’s my problem,” he murmurs against your ear. His thumbs press just under your asscheeks, playful. “You gon’ do anything about it?”

[ominous-horse-noises]

main takeaway from certain fan reactions to the finale is this:

the final scene with ankarna was so meaningful to the bad kids' arcs and how they made peace with being wronged by people they loved, and if all you can focus on is that the rat grinders didn't get much screentime, then you don't love dimension20 and you don't love this world: you want to be playing your own hs themed dnd campaign and you're mad the oc versions of the rat grinders you made up in your head acted ooc. these are not your characters and this is not their story.

[bayleafpaprika]

thinking about how Oda chosing Luffy, a pirate, to be the protagonist of One Piece may be one of the most brilliant story moves by any shonen mangaka ever. by virtue of its main character being an in-world criminal, OP naturally lends itself to becoming a story about the exposure of a society festering with corruption for what it really is, and the dismantling of a dystopia and its propagandist facade. you simply do not get a story like that with a shonen protagonist who conforms to or tolerates the shitty system they're born into

[kikker-oma]

Warning: Blood, Broken Nose

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[pianokantzart]

If we get our Luigi's Mansion movie, I'm very interested in seeing how King Boo's abilities would translate into a film format.

Bowser's abilities are pretty straightforward: strong, sturdy, has claws, breathes fire. Simple stuff. But King Boo? With that gem in his crown, his powers are kind of nebulous if not extremely OP:

Hyperrealistic Illusions

Telekinesis

Magical portrification

Materializing objects

Disappearing existing objects

Altering environmental physics

Self-duplication

Portal magic

Lightning

Altering the morality of surrounding ghosts(?)

I wonder if a movie would lay down some ground rules about the extent of what King Boo can do, or do something else to nerf him in one way or another.