#thinking about it as I work on this fic

[timeandspacelord]

There's this one comic I think about constantly where the class is reading Romeo and Juliet and Adrien is reading Romeo and Chloé is reading Juliet, but Adrien says, "It is the east and Marinette is the sun" on accident and everyone flips their shit

Would love to find it again some day

[gideonisms]

we don't think enough about the fact that pyrrha dve had to get up every day and go to her construction job. She was mourning the last polycule while starting the next one (btw everyone in both polycules was doomed to die including pyrrha herself) but she literally still had to get up and go to her shifts... she was on that minimum wage grind the whole time... however much credit we give her we don't give her enough

[movedtodykedvonte]

*Spidey and the Sinister Six having their usual fight*

Doc Ock, landing a hit: You’re getting slow Spider-Man! Age finally catching up to you?

Spider-Man: You wish! I haven’t even hit my 30s! From those costumes I can already tell I failed to save you guys from those midlife crises! Sorry by the way.

Vulture: Watch it wallcr- wait… Did you just say your not in your thirties yet?

Spider-Man: Surprised that this spiders so young and spry? Well-

Electro: Dude I’ve been fighting you for at least 5 fucking years! How old even are you?

Shocker, joking cause he’s the only one who picked up no grown adult acts likes Spidey: Don’t swear in-front of the boy you don’t want him to pick it up.

Rhino: Christ! You’re tellin me I almost crushed some 12-year-olds skull all those years ago?

Spider-Man, regretting his quipping: I was not that young! Like just starting freshman year but-

Sandman, horrified as he’s the only one with a kid and dad instincts(as of my iteration): I could’ve killed a kid…

Shocker, genuinely curious: Are you even old enough to drink? Cruel to kill a man who ain’t had his first drink yet.

Electro: Please tell us you’re at least over 25 as of this fight. Hell, I’ll take over 21!

Spider-Man:….

Sandman, realizing just how young he really is: Oh my god.

Spider-Man: My birthday’s coming up soon so I guess it counts?

Doc Ock, exacerbated: It. Does. Not!

Vulture: What would your mother think if she knew her son was out here risking his life telling poorly constructed jokes?

Spider-Man, offended cause it quips slap: 1. My jokes are great 2. She and my dad are dead so-

Sandman, hysterical cause holy shit he almost killed a kid orphan: OH MY GOD!

[vampireposter]

meeting wyll at the grove, as someone who the tieflings trust enough to train their children, says so much about him. it's so sad that he doesn't get explored in acts 2-3 as deeply as the other companions, when his problems are equally intense. the average player probably long rests once before coming across the grove, but even if not, in that time wyll has already proven to the tieflings that they can rely on the Blade of Frontiers.

this is the immediate first thing he chooses to do after being condemned to slow death via ceremorphosis. his priority list in the first conversations with tav is: 1) hunt down a dangerous devil, 2) help zevlor with the goblins, 3) once nothing threatens the tieflings he will gladly search for a tadpole cure. wyll is perpetually his own last priority, and i wonder if it has to do with the lore about souls.

if he believes mind flayers' souls have been destroyed, and fiend warlocks will all have their souls sent to the hells after death, then becoming a mind flayer isn't the worst possible way for him to die. he would never become a mindless monster to save his own soul, but he's not gripped by horror the way that some of the other origin characters are. lae'zel has been made revoltingly impure to her people, astarion is terrified of losing the scrap of bodily autonomy he just regained, gale is guilt-ridden over the orb detonation if he dies, shadowheart has to survive to prove herself to her cult leader, and karlach has also just regained bodily autonomy and is desparate to live.

this is just another quest for the Blade, whose persona guards wyll ravengard against the vice of self-concern when he ought to be concerned for those in need.

[izzystizzys]

As High Marshall Commander, a title foisted on him by the Galaxy’s fakest bitch aka Chancellor Palpatine, Fox theoretically has privileges and authorities like no other clone. In practice, he has a headache and gets ignored more obviously than before.

What he also has is a fancy new function on his personal comm unit modified to broadcast GAR-wide to all commanding officers, up to and including Jedi. It gathers dust next to his own modified button that sees much better use - a private channel to Stone, the only vod that will let Fox bitch at him to his heart’s content without hanging up (Thire) or bitching right back (Thorn).

It’s been a long shift of 72 hours, the maximum Stabby allows him to do without a well-placed hypo to the neck, when Fox finally collapses on his rickety cot in the Command quarters and hits the private comm connection to Stone without looking. He’s already rolling his eyes so hard it tweaks at the migraine that’s been building since hour 18 and heaving a put-upon sigh.

“Everyone is stupid, Stone, and asking to be thrown face-first from the Dome balustrades”, he begins, settling into a low, dead tone of voice to warm to the building monologue. It’s a marathon, not a sprint. “I swear to haran I’m going to wring Amedda’s stringy neck one of these days. I don’t know what magical Force gods his mother pissed off, but they made sure to punish her and the Galaxy at large a hundred times over. He sucks the joy and competence out of every room like a black hole of stupid. I’d call him a has-been, but I trust in the power of nepotism and also just don’t believe he ever was. I swear he’s doing it on purpose and - oh, kriffing Sith-damned hells, you know who’s definitely doing it on purpose?! The kriffing Chancellor, that wrinkly ass-faced ballsack!”

Taking a deep breath, Fox lets that sit in his chest for a moment, indulging in the feeling of bright weightlessness. “I swear he’s trying to keep the war going - no one man can be that incompetent and still draw breath, not even Amedda or Taa. Goddamn Taa - but anyways, kriffing hell, Stone, either the senility isn’t an act or he’s a bad cartoon villain from Dooby Scoo. Yes Sir, sending Senator Amidala to a Seppie-infested planet for negotiations is a great idea after her fourth bomb threat of the week. No Sir, I can’t hear you cackling evilly with Count Dooku under your lame two-credit robe as you’re definitely not colluding with the Republic’s enemies. What, you have a red lightsaber?! Oh, of course I don’t know what that means, I was dropped on the head as a tubie!”

Barely pulling in a harsh breath, Fox continues, palms pressing into his eyeballs hard enough to cause sparks. “And speaking of lightsabers and senile fucks, haran smite my ass off but who the kriff thought it’d be a good idea to give absolute tactical and military authority to the kriffing eldritch space monks! The Force didn’t bless them with the collective good sense it gave to a kriffing rock, and I’m tired of pretending otherwise! Has anyone kriffing read the Theed Convention of Sentient Rights in Wartimes?! NO?!! Well, color me UNSURPRISED, because war crimes ARE NOT! GOOD! BATTLE! TACTICS!!”

“They run around in crop tops, Stone, in crop tops! Oh, the Force provides - WELL I’M GOING TO PROVIDE MY FOOT UP YOUR ASS, AND IT’S GOING TO HURT BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT WEARING KRIFFING ARMOUR!”

“Sure, let’s send the preteens into active warzones under heavy artillery in kriffing party wear! Surely nothing will ever go wrong! And give them commanding positions equivalent to CC-clones, WHO WERE LITERALLY GENETICALLY CREATED FOR IT! WITH A DECADE OF INTENSE TRAINING! LET’S DO THAT, BECAUSE WE’RE ALL KRIFFING STUPID!”

He’s gesturing wildly at the ceiling now, face heating up as his blood boils beneath the surface. “And you know what really gets my lowers in a twist, apart from the preteen commanding officers and blatant kriffing high treason and war profiteering?! Is it the complete lack of recognition? Gratitude? Basic sentient rights?! No, Stone, no, I would take all that in stride if it meant I never had to see Skywalker and Amidala kriffing canoodle right in front of me again, and pretend like it isn’t the galaxy’s worst conflict of interest case in the making!”

“By all levels of Sith-hell, what the kriff is wrong with that woman? You have it all, you could have anyone, and you choose that twatwaffle?! And then they have the gall to lock themselves in a broom closet for twenty minutes straight and have me guard it! ‘Oh yes, Senator, naturally we all go rattling brooms with our good friends! Nothing dodgy happening at all! I definitely believe you were looking for detergent and have used a washing machine before!’ The absolute nerve on those two! And then last week - you’ll never believe this - High General Windu passed by, and I swear he looked like he wanted to throw himself off the roof! I’ve never been less impressed by anyone in my life, and I’m batch-mates with Bly!”

“Speaking of Bly, that little bitchtit - if I have to edit one more, one more kriffing propaganda piece of him staring at General Secura’s bits, I’m going to stab my eye out! And if I have to edit one more of Secura staring at his bits, I’m going to stab the other one out! The only good thing I have to say about them is they’re more subtle than Skywalker and Amidala, which means nothing really. I will never understand that woman - but then she’s worked with Jar Jar Binks for a decade and not had a nervous breakdown, so she either has nerves of steel or is on some good-ass drugs.”

“Girl, your choices. And you know what else is a choice? Kote kriffing roundhouse-kicking heads off droids when he has a perfectly good blaster right there! I don’t know what the Longnecks put in his tube, but I hope to kriff it’s not contagious. I’d say I’m glad he has Kenobi to keep him in check, but that man wouldn’t know common sense if it punched his nose clean off his face. Flirting with General Grievous, ugh. I’d say he can do better, but honestly, they deserve each other.”

“And Wolffe - “, panting, Fox pauses, considering. “Well, Wolffe is an asshole and stupid, and I hate him because he’s stupid and has a stupid face. Also he keeps drunkenly submitting adoption paperwork on General Koon’s behalf - I wish I could say something mean about that, but honestly, his existence is roast enough. Anyways, bitches are trying me today, and by bitches I mean everyone. Commander Fox signing off to go not commit treason, unfortunately.”

Thoroughly powered out, Fox sinks into his hard mattress with a deep sigh. Several seconds of silence reign, and then his comm unit starts blaring in alarm.

Somewhere in the Jedi Temple, Mace Windu is knocked flat on his ass by a gargantuan shatterpoint exploding.

[irisbaggins]

In rewatching the season, I'm noticing how clever Aabria and Brennan were in crafting Tula's story. How well thought out everything was.

Specifically, the bear. It's been mentioned so many times before, but with the context of the completed season, I cannot help but be in awe at the skilful storytelling at display here. The way in which the Blue is described to appear wrong only in reference to Tula and her heart, the way in which Tula talks about curiosity and and having experienced knowing someone who died because of it. Of how Aabria describes to Izzy how Tula looks when she heals the bear, of how Aabria specifically points out that Tula recognises the commonalities between herself and the bear. These breadcrumbs that mean little in the beginning, that tell everything at the end. It's amazing, stunning, masterful storytelling. I am in awe.

[glassedplanets]

i am still soooo charmed by that one set of eyecatchers

[kugisakiss]

as promised, the spy x fam parody AU

I had some fun thinking about this like 2 years ago and only made a couple of sketches at the time.. but then I started cleaning them up last month and before I knew it, it spiraled out of control to become this monstrosity. I can't help it, as you can all tell by now, I love coming up with scenarios to get all my little guys interacting with each other

some details i didn't put in:

the Kudou parents are absent like in the show

whatever is happening on Haibara's end is probably super messed up but I haven't thought of any of the details

Akai gets fancy tech stuff, like the voice changer, from Agasa. Agasa comes to help babysit Conan sometimes and he gives him all his little gadgets. Akai hasn't said anything about it but figures he could use it considering the amount of crime he comes across

the facility shinichi was in is like in the original story, it exists to research esp to create super soldiers which is why he knows everything he knows

Conan regularly eavesdrops on Akai and Rei's top secret phone calls which is how he learns their real names. He can't help it, he has really good hearing

Conan and Subaru have different last names because Conan thinks "Okiya" is lame and wants to keep the one he made up on the spot. Their story is that when Subaru and Conan's mother (Edogawa Fumiyo) married, they both kept their own last names and Conan was given Edogawa when he was born. They've kept it this way to "remember Conan's dead mother"

[batty-pham]

Danny working in retail.

Dead end job.

He always ends up at the nightshift.

Everyone thinks the bags under his eyes are because he can't sleep.

He gets told all the time that he "looks like death" and he always just replies "thanks"

He just sorta stands in the dark corner and customers don't notice him, but they sorta inherently know he's there and avoid him, but he moves and they about shit their pants.

[unicorngunter]

Small sketches for "when you catch the light" fic by @heerotheshiro

[faeriekit]

Feet on the Ground

loose phic phight fill for @oldfashionedbattlehymn

warnings for: murder attempt, discussion of child death

********

Danny wakes up in a garbage bag.

It isn’t as gross as it sounds. Danny’s the only thing in there, and it’s not like the lack of air is going to kill him; he could rip his way out, but honestly, going intangible is just as effective and twice as easy.

And, of course, once he’s phased his way out of the dumpster behind the gas station, Danny is very, very grateful that he didn’t even try. Everything else in there is….eeugh. He shivers.

Well. It’s got to be early morning now—it’s dark. There’s no other cars on the highway. Even the gas station itself is closed, and the stars have already lost their spark.

Time to head home.

*

Danny wakes up behind the gas station. Again.

…Okay?

The first time, Danny had just assumed he’d fallen asleep somewhere weird while flying around the neighborhood, but a second time is a pattern. It’s definitely not his fault this time either, because there’s no way he would have duct taped his arms and legs together or slapped a gag on his mouth.

That’s kind of. Ominous.

Danny frees himself of the garbage bag first— and thank goodness he doesn’t have to breathe— he floats himself out of the bag and the dumpster, which had…thankfully been given a good scrubbing since last time? There’s some other trash, apparently, but nothing sharp enough to cut through his durable, tape-based bonds. It takes some finagling and some eye lasers for Danny to finally get his arms free.

And. Hoo Boy. There’s no more liberating a feeling than peeling tape off your mouth, even if your mouth skin kind of comes off with it and you bleed a little. But it’s fine! It’s green, which means it’ll heal.

Fabulous. Danny zooms off invisibly into the night, more than willing to put the night behind him.

*

…Okay, the third time is what makes it more than a coincidence.

Danny shucks out of the bruise-tight ropes around his wrists, torso, knees, and legs, spits out his gag, and flies home. He finally has to give into the inevitable, and attempts the last resort:

“Jazz?” he whispers, slowly rocking his sister in her bed. Jazz mumbles in her sleep.

“Jaaaaazzy…” Danny tries again, trying not to look either too spooky or too imposing. Jazz’s reflexes are such that—

The laser she keeps under her pillow goes off. Danny loses a few millimeters of hair, which means that her aim is getting better.

 He doesn’t have any trouble seeing in the dark (or, uh, not anymore, anyway), but it’s easy to see Jazz’s sleepy squint as she pulls herself somewhat upright. More like a shrimp with scoliosis, but, well. You know.

“Whuh,” Jazz asks. “...Danny?”

“Hey,” Danny whispers, a ghost at her bedside. Jazz grunts. “Uh. What does it mean when you keep waking up in a trash bag behind the gas station?”

Jazz blinks. Jazz rubs her eyes. Jazz blinks again, looking more sleepy than coherent but at least somewhat aware of her surroundings.

“Garbage bag?” Jazz asks blearily. “You were in a garbage bag?”

“Yeah,” Danny whispers back. “My legs were tied down?”

“...Danny, were you murdered?”

Danny stops.

“Huh?” says Danny.

*

“So, if you look here,” Tucker points out, finger not quite touching the glass of his CRT monitor, “That’s when Danny gets murdered.”

There is a collective eeew from the assembled viewers— Jazz, Sam, and Danny, all crowded in Tucker’s room.

“Yeah, Tucker agrees. The light from the black-and-white footage flashes in the reflection of his glasses. “Here’s where he’s tossed in…there. And this is when they tossed him in the dumpster.”

There’s no sound on the gas station surveillance footage, but Danny imagines that his body clanged on the way in. What the hell. Danny got murdered behind a gas station, and he didn’t even notice?!

They watch the archived footage of a Ford F-150 driving off the property, and then Danny’s dead body being unceremoniously tossed in a dumpster. It’s kind of surreal. No one had noticed. There was no one to report the crime committed.

“I can’t believe that guy just clocked you over the head, like that,” Sam points out. “It’s just a regular car jack. It shouldn’t have gotten you in the first place.”

The observation isn’t appreciated.

“Be nice! My brother was just murdered,” Jazz scolds. Danny doesn’t think she sounds as offended as she should be. “Either way, it’s certainly an attempted murder, if not a successful one. We have to do something.”

“…Can’t we just call the cops?” Tucker asks, turning away from the computer. “I mean. Look. That’s proof. We have proof right here.”

Sure enough, there is footage. Right there. There’s Danny’s murder, in 240p black and white.

“Where’s the body?” Sam asks dryly, and. Uh. That’s a problem they’ll have to solve.

Everyone looks at everyone else. No one has a good solution.

“…Do we have to do this?” Tucker realizes at the same second as the rest of them.

Jazz looks at Danny. Danny looks at Sam. Sam looks at Tucker.

Tucker stares back at them, entirely unenthused with the conclusion they’ve come to.

“…Okay then,” Jazz exhales. “How do you want to do this?”

*

Sam ends up on top of the gas station, a cell phone in her hand.

Tucker, PDA in hand, sits in Jazz’s passenger seat. The camera feed is ongoing and recording for posterity.

Jazz taps her fingers on the wheel of her car. There isn’t anywhere better to hide than down the road and around the corner, so she does, hoping that they’re on the other end of the road from whoever’s killing her brother every night.

Danny is, of course, wandering through the neighborhood.

Losing her baby brother—on purpose—is the worst thing Jazz can imagine. She feels sick. She wants to throw him into the car and speed away, and break every speed limit law in the county on her way out. She wants to pack him in bubble wrap and ship him expedited to France.

But she does leave her brother alone. She lets Tucker look over the footage as Danny roams around town, just as unaware and unsuspecting as his last few outings.

Tucker sees the man first.

He bolts upright, eyes on his PDA. “Jazz.”

Her head whips around. They watch, silently, as someone approaches Danny’s lone figure on the doorstep outside the gas station.

They can’t hear anything. That’s the scariest part.

“Call,” Jazz demands. Tucker does.

Doubtlessly, on the roof of the gas station, Sam is dialing too.

*

So. Danny knows this guy.

And. Uh. It’s kind of embarrassing; he’d asked if Danny was okay walking home alone at night a few hours before his dumpster wake-up call, and Danny had said it was fine.

Apparently, no, it wasn’t fine. That being said, Danny hadn’t been expecting a guy in a button-up and khakis to be the guy murdering him on the down low. He kind of looks like the dude who sells you televisions and burner phones at a Wal-Mart.

The guy comes all the way over to where Danny is sitting on the thin concrete step of the gas station. His breath fogs up from the weather and his eyes rake over Danny, up and down; down and up.

“Hey,” he says, looking all the world like any other concerned citizen. Danny’s heart throbs. “It’s cold outside. You need a ride back to town?”

“…No,” says Danny, who doesn’t.

“Your mom okay with you comin’ home late by yourself?” the man asks nervously, hands going to his hair.

Danny thinks about how many times he’s woken up in the dumpster. He thinks about seeing his own body on the camera tape. Prone. Dead.

“You still keep a car jack in your passenger seat?” Danny asks instead.

The man freezes. An attempted murderer he might be, but he’s not exactly an Oscar-winning actor. “What?”

“The car jack,” Danny repeats. He doesn’t know if he’s mad the man keeps targeting him, or whether he’s grateful Danny’s the only one who’s died so far. “It’s got a lot of sharp corners. They hurt, you know.”

The man…carefully laughs the statement off, but he looks. Nervous.

Danny doesn’t really need to confront him; he only has to stall long enough that Tucker or Sam can call the cops, so that they can see this man’s face and get him on the record. But.

There’s a part of Danny…

The man looks so human. Flush with blood. Solid enough to break. Fragile enough to be made broken.

Danny still resents being made dead. This man didn’t kill Danny—not in any way that mattered, but he’s an easy target.

He doesn’t breathe. The man watches a boy sit in the shadows of a building where he’s been dumping bodies, and Danny can taste his fear.

“It hurt a lot,” Danny says, and he isn’t referring to waking up in the bags every couple of mornings in the last few weeks. “It hurt so much. I was screaming.”

The man is silent.

“Do you like to hear the screaming?” Danny asks, suddenly curious. Did he care, if Danny had screamed, or if he had been too unaware to notice he was dying? Would he have cared, if there were others more breakable than Danny that he had hurt?

He doesn’t answer.

“I don’t like it,” Danny confesses. In a horrible way, it’s easy to tell his would-be murderer about his death—unlike Tucker or Sam, who witnessed it, or Jazz, who loves him, this man can’t be affected by Danny’s take on his own death. In fact, if he is hurt by the thought of Danny’s death…good. It’s better if he is. If there is remorse in him. “I don’t like to hear screaming. I screamed for so long, and so loud. It felt like forever.”

The man’s hands curl. He steps back.

Danny can’t help but to frown. If he leaves, the whole point of calling the cops will be for nothing, and he’ll be warier of coming back to where Danny’s body was dropped. “Where are you going?”

The man takes another step back. Danny rockets upright. He’s on his feet in seconds. “Weren’t you here for me?” Danny asks, genuinely confused, arms outstretched. “We’re here. You dumped me here over and over again.”

“Shut up,” the man snaps, startling the both of them with his volume. “He—you’re not real. You’re… Be quiet. I have real things to get done tonight!”

Danny’s dead heart throbs. Is there another dead kid? Did Danny let another kid get killed in Danny’s place? “Do you?”

The man loses his voice.

“We’re already here,” Danny points out. He steps closer—closer to the truck that drove his dead body around town, further from the dumpster where his body had been dropped. The disposal hadn’t been a funeral, but it’s closer than anything Danny’s ever had. “You’re here. I’m here. Aren’t you here for me?”

A choked breath. Danny gets closer. The ectoplasm in his skin is too warm and too cold—but he has no idea what he looks like from the outside. Is he glowing? Is he see-through? Does he just look like any other dead kid: a little too cold, a little too pale?

They’re eye to increasingly shorter eye. Up close, the man just looks like any other guy. Shaved in the face. Wrinkles around his eyes. A nose. A mouth.

Danny’s not afraid of him. His head tilts. “You’ve already killed me three times. What are you going to do now? I’ll just come back again. I won’t even notice. I died. I know what you look like—I know how to find you. It’ll be easy.”

The man’s pupils dilate—

And then there’re hands on Danny’s neck. And. It’s kind of painful, but Danny doesn’t have to breathe. So. He just kind of…pretends to be hurt?

He’s meant to be stalling for time. The cops are coming. All he needs is time.  

So Danny makes some somewhat dramatic sounds and kicks out with his feet, because a fight lasts longer than a passive victim. He lands a hit to the man’s stomach, and another to his chest—he doesn’t drop Danny the way Danny might have expected, but Danny isn’t going to run out of air, so this can last forever until the man lets go. Or does something.

“Stop— coming— back,” the man snarls, and suddenly sounds nothing like the dudes who man the tech counter at the Walmart. “I got you— you should be gone!” 

Danny is gone. But he’s also here. And he’s also been gone for a very long time, and he’s also getting choked out by a guy in a gas station parking lot. It’s been a rough few hours of waiting for this dude. He might as well make it worth it. 

So maybe his body turns a little translucent. Just a little. Just enough to see the streetlight through his skin, probably, and the hazy road behind them. 

Getting thrown to the concrete hurts, but, you know, not as badly as getting tossed into a wall by Skulker on a rampage. Danny’s barely going to be bruised after this. 

The guy runs to his car, and Danny frowns, scrambling back up, and, wait. Wouldn’t having bruises be better? As evidence? They better not heal too quickly, or else that’ll be it of his physical proof. 

“Where are you going?” Danny asks, more perplexed and angry than anything. Isn’t he supposed to try to kill the witness??

But the guy hauls butt into the cab of his truck— and then the lights go on and the tires start spinning, the engine roaring to life. 

If Danny wasn’t actively on camera at the moment, it would be easy to fly after the car. As it is, he’s pretty fast, but he’s not quite quick enough on his feet to chase after a pickup truck careening down the highway in the dark. 

The man’s gone in a few seconds. Honestly, Danny’s kind of annoyed about the whole thing. It would have been nice for it to work. 

Sam climbs down from the roof of the gas station, phone in her hand. “No, I just— he choked out my friend and drove off! Send someone over here already!! You— do you need the license plate again?!” 

Danny just looks at her. Sam covers her phone’s mic with a hand: “They’re saying five minutes,” she mouths. 

Great. 

Danny hunkers down, throat bruising, and Sam sits down beside him. They wait.  

By the time the cops pull into the gas station, the guy’s more than out of sight. Sam’s the one who takes the lead on dictating their story. Danny sort of doesn’t realize how out of it he is until someone tries to throw a shock blanket on him. He almost hits the guy square in the face— and Sam’s the one who has to catch his arm. 

Uh. Oops. 

Jazz and Tucker roll in, hardly pretending to have not been nearby; Jazz wraps her arms around him, and Danny lets her. 

Sue him. It’s late. He’s tired. 

“...And I can’t believe you weren’t able to get down the road in time to catch a man who choked out my best friend,” Sam snaps, which, aw! Danny’s a best friend. The cop she’s attempting to strip down for parts looks less sympathetic than Danny feels. “You’re barely a ten minute drive up the highway! What were you doing, meandering?” 

“No,” the cop grits out, eying Sam like a bug on his shoe. “We were telling the officer down the road what to look out for.” 

Apparently, jamming the gas down hard enough to bust your speedometer gets you pulled over at the speed check. 

The night is over before Danny knows it. Someone gets him to the station, someone takes photos of his bruises and takes his statement. Someone calls Mom and Dad and then Danny’s in the GAV, half asleep and exhausted beyond belief. 

He falls asleep on the couch, Mom’s fingers in his hair. 

*

It’s not like the Amity Park police tell them anything, but Jazz is the one who finds the report on the news. 

She records it on the TiVo for him. 

“Eustace Miller, from Tennessee,” Sam reads aloud, knee to knee on his couch. Tucker adjusts his glasses. “Looks like he was already on the run.” 

“Or as good as,” Tucker agrees quietly. “Looks like they’re pinning a couple of cold cases to him.” 

They watch; there’s pictures of him from his hometown, and from the towns he would visit on his joyride across the country. There were pictures of his family. There were pictures of kids Danny would never meet: kids who were already dead, and who had been for months. Years, even. 

They’d looked so happy in the photos from when they were alive. 

…Danny could relate. 

Jazz turns the report off that night, thumb on the power button. And that’s all it takes for Danny to stop waking up in a trash bag. 

[geneticdriftwood]

persephone's in hell; a rooftop conversation

for @mysterycitrus

persephone's in hell, @mysterycitrus // white winter hymnal, fleet foxes // assorted dc comics

[afterthelambs]

i adore Maruki as a character because he's simultaneously the most relatable depressing character that will make you cry with empathy, and the goofiest wettest cat loser in the game like what do you mean youre a licensed therapist and your first response to trauma is to brainwash a girl, project ur relationship issues onto a 17 yr old boy, and then rule the world in a golden leotard? bro went from 0 to 100 so fast??? anyway he's like 30% of the reason why p5r works as well as it does

[schminnie]

god help me i am doing something so stupid rn. her name is fancy and she is literally the worst. no they do not get along (yet)

[seiwas]

everytime i think about ex!bakugo, i get so emotional thinking about how he carries on with his day-to-day like the breakup didn’t happen.

he doesn’t even give himself time to mourn the relationship, to process the loss of you. he throws himself into work, practically drowning in it because he can’t bear staying idle.

you’re everywhere, still—

in the picture frames scattered around his home, in the decorative pieces that each hold their own memory. some of the clothes you returned to him smell like you.

when kirishima asks him how he is, he never answers, always redirecting the subject back to work. deku notices longer bouts of silence during joint patrols, and when he pries, bakugo’s only reply is, “s’not a concern.”

it’s unusual, because bakugo is loud and rough, he barks and barks and barks, but with this, he stays quiet.

[shadebloopnik]

Unrequited/One-sided Radioapple but it isn't treated like an angsty end of the world thing.

Imagine they slowly get closer after all the banters, and eventually becoming close friends. Lucifer ends up catching feelings for him, and after a long while, decides to confess and ask Alastor if he felt the same.

Alastor admittedly does not feel the same.

He's getting uncomfortable, struggling to keep his composure because he's DONE this before. He KNOWS how this ends. He remembers Vox and all his insistent declarations of affection and desperate pleas for Alastor to reciprocate; the possessive entitlement. He remembers how all those sickly sweet words morphed into something venomous when he didn't give the lowlife what he wanted. He remembers the anger, the ridiculous notion that it was Alastor's fault why he was so mad, that Alastor led him on and that he obviously deserved something in payment for it all-

So yes, Alastor knows how this ends.

It doesn't mean he isn't disappointed though, because he actually LIKES Lucifer, far more than he ever did Vox. Perhaps not in the way the king might have wanted, but he did. He treasured their little talks, their drinking sessions, their shared love for their instruments, Lucifers singing, their little duets, the banter, the playful jabs, the sparring.

He'd even slowly grown accustomed to the other's touches, not feeling the same surge of disgust and discomfort whenever the shorter man would grab at his arm in excitement, forgetting his usual thoughtfulness of Alastor's touch aversion for the short moment of whatever distracted him. Alastor even enjoyed it at times, relaxing at the feel of soft feathers beneath his claws, or the sensation of gentle scratches against his ears.

Difficult as it was to admit, Alastor had grown to care for the angel, the same way he had for Rosie orv Mimzy.

But no matter how fond Alastor was of Lucifer, it didn't change the fact that he didn't feel the same way romantically, or even sexually. No way in the 7 rings of Hell was he going to lie to Lucifer about either, not going to even entertain the idea of pretending he reciprocated for Lucifer's sake. He respected his friend too much for that.

So a clear, direct rejection it is. It was a shame, but nothing could be done. He said his piece concisely, and waited, shoulders set, back straight, smile and eyes a careful blank canvas as he prepared for the inevitable.

Lucifer nodded, a normal soft smile still in place, "Thank you for your answer, it means a lot."

Which......what? Alastor expected an outburst, or at the very least sharp words.

What he did NOT expect was....acceptance? And not just that but, a happy one? Contentment?????

"You're....alright with that?", he had to ask, he had to. Lucifer was clearly just very good at masking his upset.

But the damn angel just smiled?? And it didn't even look fake, just as bright and soft as his normal smiles, albeit a little confused?? Lucifer smiled at him, his brows furrowing in a bit of confused disbelief, as though Alastor is being the weird one here.

"Uhh, yeah??? Why wouldn't I be??? Yeah I may have some feelings for you but its not like you're obligated to feel the same. Above anything else, we're friends first and foremost and i'm alright with that..."

Then he seemed to have reached his own little conclusion as his words trailed off, because suddenly Lucifer's eyes widened in realization of something, and his words picking up with a sense of panicked urgency.

Alastor would really like to know what Lucifer's supposed realization was about himself because he had absolutely no clue.

"I mean, we ARE still friends right?? I don't- I- I hope this doesn't like- change your opinion of me. You're not- oh gosh I'm not making you uncomfortable am I? I- I won't mention it! You can even forget this whole confession ever happened! We can just go on as before! I don't feel any different or would act any different! Honest! I mean, I don't regret confessing because you deserve to know and I'm not ashamed of my feelings, but I don't want you to be uncomfortable! It doesn't change the way i'll treat you! Or change any aspect of our relationship! I don't even think I like you more as a lover than as a friend! I really, really do love our friendship, it matters more to me than any thoughts of being in a romantic relationship with you! So please just forget it all-"

Alastor let the word vomit wash over him, every word leaving him more confused by the minute.

Because yes, there's the desperation he expected, but...it was more about, convincing Alastor to remain friends?? Reassuring Alastor that nothing has to change?? That their friendship is the most important thing here??

(If anyone asks, no Alastor's heart didn't swell. Only lesser beings would have had the urge to cry, and Alastor is anything but.)

Lucifer is unknowingly reassuring Alastor of every single one of his insecurities about the situation. Because Alastor DID want to remain friends, he cared too much about the man to let it go so easily. It was rare to find people who treasure friendships above romantic relationships.

"I don't tend to forget easily, nor will I forget this one in particular.", he spoke, finally finding his voice. At Lucifer's defeated, pained expression( is their friendship really that important to him?), he continued. "But....yes. I'd like that.. To remain...friends."

He didn't often say the word out loud, being comfortable enough with each other that it need not be reassured with the label. But with Lucifer brightening up like his namesake, relief and happiness palpable, Alastor felt no qualms at declaring their friendship out loud.

So life went on as usual. True to his word, Lucifer remained basically the same. The following weeks were a bit stilted for Alastor, as he put some rather painful distance between him and the angel; limiting their interactions, their usual touches.

Anytime now, Lucifer would break and show his true colors, Alastor would think, waiting for the boot to drop. Lucifer would end up angry, and dissatisfied, and that was that.

But it never happened. Lucifer never expressed discomfort when Alastor avoided him, seeming to be understanding of the others need for space. He was just as affectionate as before, though initially a bit held back, as though gauging Alastor's comfort.

Months would pass, and the king never faltered. Their friendship remained strong, if not growing ever closer than before. Alastor found himself even growing more comfortable with the man. Affectionate touches were becoming common, hugs and head pats and cuddles being a welcome thing, with the reassurance that the shorter king would never disrespect his boundaries.

Lucifer seemed genuinely happy about it, despite being clearly told that none of Alastor's actions hinted at anything romantic. In fact, he seemed ecstatic that Alastor was getting more affectionate towards him as a friend. The embarrassment the radio demon felt at having Lucifer basically tear up (no really, he was crying so hard, full on drama sobbing) with joy in front of him was intertwined with the sheer incredulous fondness he felt for the man at that moment.

They were sitting at a couch one night, more than a year passing since that confession. Lucifer was leaning back, resting against the cushions, while Alastor had his head on the smaller one's shoulder, nuzzling at the crook of his neck, legs tucked close to his body. Both had a book in hand, two nearly empty cups of tea on the table in front of them. Every so often, Lucifer would flex his fingers that rested on Alastor's head, running a digit against the other's ear, often prompting the demon to lean into the touch. White wings enveloped the two, blanketing them against the chill of the night.

As Alastor turned the page of his own book, relaxing into the touch of his dearest friend, he wondered how he ever got so lucky in hell.