#4K and counting

[ghost-bxrd]

“Get out,” Hood rasps, a series of clicks and garbled noise warping whatever he says after into white noise. But when the Talon makes no move to obey, Hood snarls and hurls the next best item at him at a velocity that would knock a regular person off their feet.

But Dick‘s personhood is a thing to be questioned at the best of times, and he doesn’t even flinch when the blade—expensive, foreign, expertly crafted—whizzes past his ear and lodges into the furniture.

“Get out!” Hood bellows, the anger-fury-violence mixing with a sharp note of despair-fear-why-stop that makes Dick’s heart twist ever so slightly in his cold chest. “Get the fuck out! Fucking go die for all I care!”

Dick tilts his head. This is starting to sound… strangely personal.

Perhaps it’s always been personal.

— Following Dead Birds, Owl Song pt. xvii sneak peek

[lay-z]

Y'all ready for the Accidental Pregnancy AU ft. Simon Riley x fem!Sergeant!Reader ? 🩷

[un-pearable]

for anyone who meanders here between now and when it’s done:

yes i am writing a pattern

no i will not burn my little goat 🥺

yes you can burn yours when you make it but only if you make it out of like. cotton or twine or smthn

[finnslay]

things you DO NOT need to be a man

a dick

he/him pronouns

XY chromosomes

things you DO need to be a man

the swiftness of a coursing river

the force of a great typhoon

the strength of a raging fire

the mysteriousness of the dark side of the moon

^this post was brought to you by LGBT^

Let's

Get down to

Business

To defeat the huns

[tiffycat]

Felt like drawing a bunch of Dracula memes just to be silly :p

[ncutii-gatwa]

id like to thank dan and phil for not changing the way they edit videos and using the same sound effects even after so many years

[rochenn]

One and a half hours and 20 unorganized layers later I conclude that Arcane art style is hard. But imagine if TCW looked like this

[starmocha]

Remember when I said the Grassland!Sylus childhood friends/arranged marriage/soulmates AU was at around 4.6k words?

she grew and I still have like three scenes I need to finish writing, but instead of doing that, I kept writing new scenes and...I think I lost control of the story and my life (╥_╥)

So I'm posting another snippet, because...my brain is tired and I really, really, really want to finish this by Sunday because I have another AU wip that I'm also obsessed with I mean I need to finish part 3 of that other Sylus breeding kink fic I promise it's coming

Reminder that this story will include light breeding kink, pregnancy kink, smut, body worship, gratuitous usages of terms of endearment ("my bride" and "my beloved"), Sylus being grossly in love with you, basically lots of fluff. Anyhoo...

The following morning you were lazing in the field as the flock of sheep grazed peacefully all around you. The warm sunlight had you yawning, already feeling yourself being lured by the tempting sun into drifting back to sleep. As the time passed, your eyes felt heavier, and you nodded off a little. Another yawn escaped before you decided a few minutes of rest wouldn’t hurt. Slowly, you closed your eyes, letting them rest for a few minutes. “Is this what you do when I’m not here?” You immediately opened your eyes when you heard Sylus’ approaching voice. You let out a soft surprised squeak when he knelt down next to you, his face looming just mere inches from yours. He was smirking. “Lazing around and sleeping? What if your sheep gets stolen by wild beasts, my beloved?” You glared at him. “I was not sleeping. I…was blinking.” “Your eyes were closed for far longer than a blink should be.” “I had some dust in my eyes.” “I’m quite sure I heard you snoring.” You blushed and shoved his face aside, glowering when he started laughing at you. “Did you come all the way out here just to tease me?” “Mmhmm,” he answered with a pleased nod as he sat back with his legs propped up. His elbow rested on top of his leg while he cradled his chin in his hand. You noticed in his other hand was a wreath crafted from leaves and berries. Your heart quickened and you gasped softly. You looked at him expectantly. It was at that moment that you noticed the dark bags under his eyes. You crawled over to him and he sat back, allowing you to settle in between his long legs. You reached up and touched his face. “Did you not sleep last night?” you asked him worriedly. He simply smiled and shook his head. Without a word, Sylus placed the wreath on top of your head. You reached up and touched it tentatively as you looked at him confused. “I wanted to finish this for you,” he explained, smiling, “Just as I had thought. This suits you.” “R-really?” “Mmhmm,” he hummed again, nodding. He leaned in to steal your lips. “You look beautiful.” “Sylus…” You could feel your cheeks warming up as he spoke. “Now everyone will know you are mine and I am yours.” You felt touched by his gesture. Without thinking, you threw your arms around his neck, surprising him into losing his balance. Sylus laid on the grass with you on top of him. You grinned and kissed him happily. He looked up, gasping softly when he saw the sunlight had formed a radiant halo behind your head. How…ethereal... He smiled, his hand gently grasped your chin, his thumb brushing over your soft, trembling lips. “We are already promised to one another,” he said, “but if I may be presumptuous, I would still like to ask.” You looked down at him confused. “My beloved,” he said, voice soft and sincere, “will you be my bride?” You stroked his cheek, and as you leaned down closer to his face, your wreath tilted on your head. “What do you think?” He smiled. “Your wreath is going to fall off.” “You’ll put it back on for me, right?” He huffed in amusement at your audacious question, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said, reaching up to fix the wreath for you, “I will…my bride.” For that brief moment, you felt like your heart had stopped, and then you smiled again as you leaned in and kissed him, feeling his strong arms wrapped around you and holding you close to his body. “This is my vow to you, my bride” he said, “There is only you in my eyes. In this life and all of the lifetimes afterwards, I will always choose you.” “Same for me,” you answered, gazing back at him fondly. You stroked his cheek, letting yourself drown in those passionate crimson eyes. “I will always find you,” you promised, “In all of our lives together, I will always find you and choose you, my love.” Your ardent words beckoned his lips to yours, and for the rest of the day, you lay together under the warm morning sun on the grassland, lost in your own world of bliss.

[thevoidstaredback]

Tales of Conquest, Warnings of Fools:

Letters Between Brothers

Danny stared at himself in the mirror on the back of his bedroom door, a new addition to his room. Slowly, he pulled at the energy he felt within himself. It gathered behind his sternum, flowing through the lichtenberg scar like blood in veins. He could feel it pooling, ready to burst forth, but he kept a tight lid on it. As he exhaled, he allowed the cold electricity to leave his sternum, moving up and down the outside of his body with a soft crackle of shattering ice.

When he opened his eyes again, he no longer had to breathe. His hair was whiter than the purest snow, his skin so pale that it was tinted blue, his eyes orange and red. His clothes changed into the HAZMAT he’d worn in the portal. While the now ruined suit had been black on white, the one he now saw his reflection wearing was white where it had been black and black where it had been white. His body still had every scar between forms, though the lichtenberg scar glowed the same toxic green as the portal in this form.

The first week after getting this weird transformation, he’d called out sick. Sam, Tucker, and Jazz had all been concerned, but he brushed them off with a promise to explain later. In that week, he spent all hours getting himself under control. It started with the intangibility that had made him drop his pencil and fall through his bed. Then, the invisibility that jumpscared his reflection. Last was the flight he’d discovered by falling down the stairs. They were easy enough to get a hold of.

The next week was when everything started to go wrong. Honestly, he was glad and amazed it hadn’t happened sooner.

Something came through the portal.

She called herself The Lunch Lady. She had green skin, white hair tucked into a pink bandana, a matching pink dress, and a white apron. She first appeared at Casper High, violently objecting to the ‘healthier’ change of menu.

When Danny had heard about the attack, he’d felt the transformation wash over him for the first time. On instinct alone, he’d flown the two blocks between his school and the high school, engaging her in combat when he met her. She was angry, but calmed down after he won. Before he could do anything, she left.

When he got back to his own school, the transformation dropping, his friends were waiting for him. They practically dragged him by the ear until he explained what the hell was going on. When he told them, Sam ripped into him about telling them things so that they can work through it together. Tucker practically fawned over his new powers, asking all sorts of questions.

The very next day, another ghost appeared. He called himself Skulker the Hunter. He was a large ghost, standing nearly twice as large as Danny did. He had gray skin that looked to be made out of metal. His eyes and hair were the same green as the portal, and he wore black pants and a black shirt. His gloves, boots, and shoulder armor were all dark gray. He also had a black choker around his neck with a skull charm on it.

He showed up when Danny was walking around town with Sam and Tucker. The ghost had some way of tracking Danny that put him on edge. How was he being tracked and how did he stop it?

Skulker had taken Tucker’s PDA and had been very nice about not bothering Danny when he was busy, but he’d eventually started a fight. Danny, transformed into his color-inverted form, lured the ghost away to the Amity Park Zoo. He almost lost the fight, accidentally cornering himself, when a purple-back gorilla came to his aid. He had no idea how the gorilla had gotten out of its cage, but Danny wasn’t going to ask questions.

After the fight, Skulker also disappeared. Instead of going after him like he had The Lunch Lady, Danny stayed with the gorilla. It - she he noticed - was trying to communicate with him. So, after turning back into his normal self, he walked her back to where she was being kept. On the way, he started to pick up her language. It was a modified version of American Sign Language, with the added fineness of several gorilla-only words.

The zookeepers had been hysterical when they had found her missing, though they’d been so relieved when he turned the corner with her. They first checked up on the gorilla, leading Danny to discover that she and one other gorilla were the last of the purple-back gorillas.

“Why don’t you put them together, then?” he had asked.

The zookeeper he was talking to gave him a weird look. “It costs a lot to have one of them here. We can’t afford to keep them both, so the other is in a zoo in Metropolis.”

Danny’s eyebrow raised. “First of all, I’m pretty sure that’s a kind of animal cruelty.” At least, his Mother had taught him as such. “Second, the other is male, right?”

“Yeah, they both are.”

“Except they’re not.”

“What?”

“Did you not-?” he turned to the gorilla and signed to her as he spoke aloud. “What’s your name?”

The purple-back gorilla sat down and lifted her arms. She signed D-E-L-I-L-A-H before making the ASL letter P with her right hand, pushing it from her chest like the sign for white. After dropping the sign, she made a P with both hands and hit her chest.

Again, Danny signed at her as he spoke. “You have a sign name? Cool. The second one was your species’ sign, right?” She nodded and he smiled, dropping his hands and turning back to the gobsmacked zookeeper. “I’d like to reintroduce you all to Delilah.” He made her sign name before moving to make the sign she had for her species. “She’s a female purple-back gorilla.”

There was silence for a moment before the present zoo staff erupted into noise. He answered their questions, a bit overwhelmed, but mostly amused that they’d made such a mistake. It was a good day.

It was also the day when he realized that he might want to start cataloging things. So, now he sat at his desk, a day later, staring at the new notebook he’d bought. At first, his plan was to write down every ghost he met and their abilities. He also wanted to write about himself, but he didn’t want to risk his parents getting ahold of the information. Anyone knowing what he knew was a potential disaster that he didn’t want to be responsible for. But, he really needed a way to keep track of everything.

He hit his head with the palm of his hand. “It doesn’t have to be in English, dumbass!”

With new resolve, Danny opened the notebook to the first page and titled it ‘La Dame du Déjeuner’. Under the title, he drew a picture of The Lunch Lady, coloring it in. Next to the picture, he wrote down what he knew about her. On the next page, he did the same thing, titling it ‘Le Chasseur’.

He was going to do a page for himself, but thought better of it. Instead, he found an older notebook, also empty, and titled the second page in ‘Mi-vivant, Mi-mort’. He was sure that’s what he was. Just above that, though, he wrote down ‘Le Fantôme’. Just as he had the others, he drew two pictures of himself, one as Phantom - what he was calling his ‘vigilante’ persona - and one as Danny, coloring and labeling each accordingly. Under the pictures, he wrote down a list of enhancements he’d noticed that transferred between his two forms. On the back of the page, he wrote about The Accident that turned him into what he is. On the page after that, he started a list of his powers, accompanying each power with a quick summary of how it feels when he uses it.

There was a knock on his door and he slammed the notebook closed. “Danny?” It was Jazz.

“Yeah?” He called back, shoving both notebooks in the top drawer to be moved later.

“Can I come in?”

He made sure nothing incriminating was out. “Sure!”

The door opened and Jazz stepped into the room, closing the door behind herself and leaning against the mirror. She looked him up and down, moved her appraising gaze around every inch of his room, and then locked eyes with him. “Y’know, not a lot of things surprise me. The way you’ve been acting lately is one of the things that has managed it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve been acting differently for almost three weeks now. You’re doing a damn good job of acting like nothing is different, but you can’t fool me, little brother. I’ve known you for as long as you’ve been here, I’ve been studying psychology since just before then. What’s going on?”

Danny shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?” She sighed when he didn’t answer after a few minutes. “Look, Danny, I- You used to tell me everything. Why are you holding back now?”

He didn’t look up from the floor. Jazz had every right to know what was going on. Tucker and Sam knew. Hell, he was even going to tell Damian! Why shouldn’t Jazz know? But, the thought of her getting hurt- it was too much for him. He didn’t want her to get hurt because of this.

Jazz sighed again, running a hand over her hair. “You know you can trust me, right?”

“Yes.” he nodded.

“Then tell me. Please.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She groaned in frustration. “Not telling me is going to do more damage than telling me. I can keep your secrets, DD, I always have.”

She was right, of course. For as long as he’d known her, Jazz had kept every piece of information to herself unless he said otherwise. She still didn’t know about what he came from or what he was born to do. She didn’t know what his father and brother and their family did at night. She didn’t even know he’d been in the lab when the portal turned on! Jazz had every right to know what was going on, but he couldn’t find the words. “I’m sorry.”

Jazz pushed off the door, turning away and opening it. “Come and find me when you’re ready to talk.” Then, she walked out and closed the door behind her.

Danny slumped, hitting his forehead on his desk. He could hear Jazz go into her own room shutting the door behind herself before flopping onto her bed. He stopped listening then, manually forcing his now enhanced hearing to focus anywhere else but his sister’s room.

He found himself listening to the faint sounds from the basement lab. Unlike if they had been on the second or main floors, his parent’s voices were like whispers to him through the material of the lab and the house, though he could still make out every word.

“-apart molecule by molecule!” his dad was saying.

“Calm down, honey,” mom stated kindly. He could practically see her putting a hand on Jack’s arm. “We’ll catch the ghost boy eventually.”

Ghost boy..? Were they talking about him?

Jack sighed. “I know, but it’s the only one we’ve seen!” There was a noise of something falling. “Did you get the cameras in place?”

“Yep!” Maddie had a smile in her voice, “We now have round the clock recording on the portal. Now, we’ll know exactly what comes through and when.”

“Perfect!” Dad cheered, “I’ve just finished the Fenton Thermos. As soon as we see any ghosts, we can suck them right up and bring them back to be studied.”

Shit. That wasn’t good. His parents having a way to capture him and other ghosts was not a good thing. Though, if he could get his hands on one of those, it’d be useful for making sure his opponents didn’t get away to start trouble after every fight.

He still didn’t know where La Dame Du Déjeuner or Le Chasseur had gone off to, though he had the feeling they had gone back through the portal. He couldn’t be sure, though.

Danny forced his hearing away from the lab. He really didn’t want to listen to his parents talk about how they were going to ‘study’ ghosts. Especially since a lot of what they were saying was against the Geneva Convention.

Instead, he focused on the picture he had started working on. He’d been trying to get his left hand back to what it was handwriting wise, but it was proving to be a lot more difficult than he originally anticipated. The nerves in his hand and arm were fried, so he had little to no feeling, and what feeling he did have was only in extreme circumstances like extreme hot or cold. Moving them felt like learning how to walk, but somehow worse. His brain was sending signals to the muscles to move, and they did, and he could see them moving, but it did nothing because he couldn’t feel what he was touching.

Enhanced strength was one of the powers that decided to bleed over into his living form. This wasn’t a problem until he had to use his left arm or hand. Because he couldn’t feel anything, he didn’t know how strong he was gripping things until it either shattered/bent in his hand or they slipped through his fingers. It was hard to get control of and people were starting to notice.

Going to physical therapy would be a good thing, but he didn’t have the money for that. He could ask his parents, but he didn’t want them to know anything about this. Asking Mr. Jeremy was out of the question, so was asking Jazz or Mr. and Mrs. Foley. So, he was doing things on his own.

The lack of progress was infuriating, though. He was used to fast results in everything! Even the things that he was bad at, he improved very quickly. Grandfather and Mother had praised him for learning so fast. The rate at which he was going was disappointing to even himself.

He wanted to wield his knives again and work his way back into wielding his katana, but he couldn’t even write his name, let alone safely hold a blade! He mourned at the thought of the possibility of never being able to use his blades because he’d gotten so hurt.

His sight was the second thing he was most frustrated about. He hated not being able to see clearly. Sure, his right eye still held perfect vision, but now he had a huge blindspot - don’t laugh - on his left side that he had to overcompensate for.

His balance was the third thing that was off. It’d been quicker progress to learn to rebalance himself, but he kept stumbling over his own feet. The flight that bleed over from his dead form was his only saving grace. The combat style he’d been taught relied on mobility, balance, speed, and stealth. Right now, he was down on all of those.

The enhancements that bleed between his living and dead forms had been all that was saving him from breaking down completely. The enhanced hearing helped out with his balance, but it was still mostly focused on his right side. Everything through his left ear sounded like it was underwater and twelve layers of wood.

The enhanced sight was met with much the same results, though everything he saw with his left eye was about half less blurry. He was looking into glasses for his living form, but he didn’t yet know how he’d excuse them.

Again, though, the enhanced strength was more of a problem than not.

Danny slammed his head against the table before standing up and leaving his room. He wasn’t going to tell Jazz everything, but he needed help. He was struggling and, admittedly, exactly one more failure from a mental breakdown.

He knocked on her door a bit louder than he meant to and waited for her to allow him in. When she did, he made sure he was extra careful with his new strength as he opened the door and closed it behind himself. There was no sound after the soft click of the door closing.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t want to tell you because you’d get hurt or you would’ve blamed yourself and I really didn’t want-”

“Whoa, slow down, Danny!” she sat up, “Take a deep breath and try again.”

He did as she said, sitting on the floor in front of her. “I was in the lab when the portal turned on.” She didn’t react, so he continued. “Sam and Tucker wanted to see it, and Sam wanted a picture, so, against my better judgment, I took them down to see it. Sam wanted me in the portal for the picture, so I went in, but I tripped and I-I hit the, um, the button on the inside and it turned on.” He fell quiet.

Jazz moved slowly to join him on the floor. She sat next to him and pulled him into a hug. “Oh, Danny, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s, uh, it’s okay. It was my fault anyway. And don’t say it wasn’t! Mr. Jeremy gave me the whole spiel at the hospital and I really don’t wanna hear it again.”

“The hospital?!” she shrieked.

He cringed. “Yeah, um, a lot of electricity decided to use me as a shortcut. It hurt, like, a lot. The doctor said that the hearing and sight loss in my left ear and eye are permanent. She also said that I’d have chronic pain in my left hand and arm for the rest of my life, as well as nerve damage. It’s unlikely I’ll ever regain the feeling.”

Jazz had been quiet through his whole report, dragging it out for a few minutes after as she filed the information away in her head. He could practically hear the cogs turning. She inhaled deeply. “How did you pay for the hospital visit?”

“Mr. Jeremy- Sam’s dad. She told them I was hurt and that I couldn’t pay, so her dad took me to the hospital. He even got me the stuff that the doctor recommended. Minus pain meds, but that’s because he’s not my guardian.”

She nodded. “I’ll have to thank him later. What do you want me to do?”

She was good about that, making sure he wanted her to do something instead of just assuming. It was nice. “I need help with the physio. I can’t feel how much strength I’m using, so I keep breaking or dropping things. Also, my balance is shot, so hearing aids and glasses should be a bit of a priority.”

“Got it,” she said, “I don’t know how much of that I can do right now, but I can promise glasses as a start. Is that okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s good. Thank you.”

“No problem, brat. Though, next time, don’t try to hide something this serious from me, okay? I can and want to help you, but I can only do so much if you don’t tell me. Understand?”

“Understood, General.”

“Shut up, loser.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

*

Three weeks of crazy adventures later found Danny home alone when the doorbell rings. Jazz was at the library and his parents had gone ghost hunting, though there were no ghosts out to hunt. He’d already found all of the ones who’d been wreaking havoc, and the peaceful ones - mostly animals and blobs - all knew to hide from the brightly colored HAZMAT suits.

Danny went to answer the door, the compression sleeve on his left arm and a brand new pair of glasses on his face. When he opened the door, he was greeted by three men in white suits and black sunglasses, a fourth was waiting by the white van that had been parked in the driveway. “Can I help you?” he asked.

“This the Fenton place?” the guy in the front - Agent T4, his nametag read - asked. His voice alone sounded privileged and Danny instantly hated him.

He leaned out of the door a bit, obviously looking up at the massive sign that said FENTONWORKS in big letters. “Yeah,” He put his foot in the way of the door so that it couldn’t open more than he allowed it to.

Agent T4 nodded. “We need to talk to the Doctors. Are they here?”

Danny made a small show of looking at the driveway. They didn’t have a garage, so there was nowhere else for a car to be parked. “No.”

“When will they be back?” The man was obviously getting irritated with him. It was fun. Why did they have such a short tempered guy doing the talking?

“I dunno.” he shrugged. “Sometime before tomorrow, probably.”

“Don’t get smart with me, kid.” the man in white growled.

Danny wasn’t phased. “I don’t know when they’ll be home. Could be a few minutes, could be a few hours. Can I take a message?”

The man snarled. “No, you can not! When will the Doctors be home?”

Now Danny was getting irritated, though he hid it way better than these guys did. “They’re not home.” he over enunciated each word with an exaggerated mouth movement, “Come back later, or leave a message with me.” He crossed his arms. “Can your toddler brain understand that, or do I need to dumb it down for you?”

“Why you-”

Danny leaned back, “Assaulting a minor? I could call the cops on you and have you taken in for aggravated assault.” He reached for the phone in his pocket. “Actually, I might just call them anyway and you all can be arrested for trespassing.”

“Okay, okay,” Agent T2 held up his hands in surrender, T3 grabbing T4 by the back of his shirt. “We get the picture; we’ll leave now.”

Danny raised his eyebrow. Did they? Did they really understand what was happening?

“Sorry to bother you.” T2 pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Danny. “Will you have your parents give us a call when they get home?”

He took the card. “I’ll tell them, but I can’t promise anything.”

“That’s all I ask.”

He didn’t bid the men goodbye before closing the door in their faces. He did, though, watch from the window to make sure they’d leave. When they’d turned the corner, he reopened the door and stepped out. He’d needed to get up and get the mail anyway.

He hadn’t gotten his hopes up, checking for a letter from Damian mostly out of habit, so when the third letter in the pile had his name on it, he allowed himself to grin. Damian had written back!

He wasted no time in dropping the rest of the mail on the kitchen table and rushing to his room. The second he sat in his chair, he ripped the envelope open. The paper inside made him frown and drop the paper. It was the bill for the P.O. box.

With a heavy sigh, he collapsed onto his bed, face first. Damn it.

Translation 1 - French: The Lunch Lady

Translation 2 - French: The Hunter

Translation 3 - French: Half Living, Half Dead … The Phantom

Part 7 Part 9

[try-set-me-on-fire]

you’ve got too much to wear on your sleeve

4136 words // rated g

“Uh, sorry.” He stares down at Eddie’s shoes. “I just think I’m- I’m kind of scared.” He eventually understood, intellectually, why Ali left him. It was a lot. She didn’t really get the scope of what she was signing up for. His leg had turned something fun and casual into something suddenly dead fucking serious. So, yeah, he understood, but he’s not sure until this moment that he really, actually understood. Tommy’s down that hall somewhere, and he got hurt at his job which is dangerous, and Buck is wondering how awful it would be to flee back through all the hallways and out of Pasadena to parts of the city he knows better, and go and find a nice safe girl with a nice safe job so his chest won’t ever feel like this. Or, only feel like this sometimes, with Eddie or Hen and Chimney and Bobby, or Maddie, people who he’s already seen bleed so he knows they can do it.

—

Tommy’s helicopter goes down. Buck fixes the station AC unit.

[folkvangr-art]

Skating Queen and her cringe fail husband

Alfonse designed by @littlemissdash 💙💛

[venelona]

@dazatsuweek 2024 day 7 - Free day

(+ technically post-canon, and you won't believe how far forward it goes)

This was such a crazy week AHHH!! I'm so happy I got to participate, and everyone had such cool entries! Can't wait to catch up on them all 💖💖💖

I made an art for this day too, but it's big big spoilers for the fic, so I'll put it under the cut

yes i made a ship kid. they write him into the Book. don't ask me how fanfic ended up that long i literally wrote it solely for myself to read

[agapintheskin]

HAPPY PHUMPEEM FIRST KISS IN 4K EVERYONE ❤️

[countessrivers]

Yes, I am still thinking about the killing eve au

(and more importantly yes I am writing about the killing eve au)

[thetomorrowshow]

visions, visage, gentile, genteel ch. 2

esh au sequel jsyk

cw: blood and violence

~

Apparently fWhip is taking more of an active villain role lately, because Scott finds himself up against the man after he, for some reason, demolishes half of a restaurant.

"Come on, fWhip, I'd expect this of Solidarity, but not you," Scott teases as he halfheartedly throws a snowball at fWhip.

The snow's melting with a temporary warming of the weather—expected for November—and Scott definitely hasn't been moping because of it. That does mean, though, that his fighting is a little less impressive while he waits for the weather to get cold again—it isn't bad by any means, but his winter fighting style is built on the assumption that there's snow and ice around him, and his summer style kind of needs warmer air or rain, so he has to jury-rig something in-between for days like this.

Which is all to say, if he misses his shots, it isn't his fault.

And he's not really trying to hurt fWhip. He's just putting on a show, right now.

fWhip dodges his snowball easily, chuckling. "We both know Solidarity is dead, don't we?" he ribs back.

Scott does kind of hate that fWhip knows so much about Solidarity's whereabouts, but there's nothing to do about it. The man promised not to reveal anything about Jimmy's identity or current living status, and Jimmy (for some odd reason) seems to like hanging out with him, so Scott can tolerate his presence in his life. fWhip had helped to rescue Jimmy, after all. Scott ought to be grateful.

Gratitude, of course, is a difficult thing to feel when the intended recipient is launching mini missiles at him.

"Do you mind?" Scott grunts, ducking out of the way of another one of them.

"Hey, you're the one who won't leave me alone!"

"You destroyed a restaurant!"

fWhip scoffs. "It was a chain restaurant, you can't tell me you care that much."

"It was a source of work for many people," argues Scott. "And food for others. You can't just destroy private property, fWhip!"

Instead of responding, fWhip launches another missile at him.

And that's when it happens.

There isn't a bang, this time. There's no big noise, no announcement of whatever surge is about to hit.

It's just that suddenly, for the first time since the deli incident three days ago, Scott is everything.

He is the icicles hanging from the wheels of every parked car in the city, the slush on the sidewalks downtown, the great melting piles of dirty snow in parking lots that freeze more firmly and spread as he becomes them. He follows the water pipes under the ground all the way along, freezing over as they go, to a townhouse where a woman with brown hair is snapping on her sunflower-themed superhero mask—

It's just the slightest bit easier to pull himself back into his body this time than it has been in the past. Maybe seeing Pearl had shocked him just enough, or maybe it was some unknown influence, or just chance, but Scott can feel his fingers again and pulls himself out of every piece of ice in the city and returns, head reeling and bile rising in his throat.

When he can get a hold of his bearings, desperately trying not to vomit, it’s not quite the same as it was moments ago.

It's snowing.

It hadn't been snowing, but now it is snowing and Scott can't quite comprehend why.

The forecast had said no chance of snow. Not for a couple more days. Scott remembers that very distinctly because he'd complained to Jimmy about it over breakfast.

There's a dark cloud directly above him in the sky, and snowflakes swirling down around, and Scott feels. . . .

So much. 

So powerful. So unnervingly powerful.

He doesn’t like it at all.

The handful of watching bystanders and the singular reporter/cameraman pair are shivering, pressing closer to each other for warmth, snowflakes settling on their shoulders and hair.

fWhip's the same way, and he glares at Scott, arms wrapped around himself to find warmth where his thin coat can't offer any.

"Dude, what was that for?" fWhip demands. "You're hurting civilians."

Is he hurting people? Scott still isn't really sure what he did, or why it's snowing, or why he feels so dizzy, but he knows that it was his own burst of power that made the air so frigid. Of course it was. How could it have been anyone else?

Scott glances around at them. The reporter gives him a shivering thumbs-up, so Scott turns back to fWhip, ready to call a bit of a break so he can take the time to reverse this.

fWhip, however, is gone.

Scott mutters a curse under his breath. His power’s got to be teleportation, then. Maybe Scott's a little full of himself, but he thinks he would've noticed superspeed. Some little breeze as he ran or something, right?

That isn't really important, though. As much as it stings to let fWhip get away, it's even worse to accidentally hurt innocents. How could he let this happen again? How is it that he can still feel so much beyond his body, his senses present and yet far away?

No time to really contemplate that now. There's people around him, and new fights to find, so Scott returns to the moment at hand to attempt to unfreeze the civilians around him.

And as he travels home that evening, Scott can feel every arm of every snowflake in the city.

-

"We've never seen anything like this from Major. He somehow created a wall of ice that was over thirty feet high, images shown here. Observers said they felt a noticeable drop in temperature and that it even started to snow. One witness said that it got so cold that frost started forming on his shoulders. When—"

Scott shuts off the TV and flops back onto the couch. The gossip magazines had been fine. He's always on the cover of some magazine or another. Everybody knows not to trust those, that they spread rumors and lies.

But the news? Channel 9? Sure, he's been a little bit out of control lately. That doesn't deserve an entire news story. He's fine.

If he closes his eyes, he can feel every bit of ice in the neighborhood.

It's too much. It’s so much that Scott can barely keep from vomiting with how dizzy he is.

Where did this even come from?

At first—was it really only a week or two ago when this started?—, the all-encompassing connection faded after a couple of minutes, leaving a lingering sense of nausea but no other ill effects. Now it lasts for hours at a time, ready to grasp his senses if he relaxes for even a second, a far-too intense amount of power to hold back forever.

This morning, Scott had frozen his tea. His toast had frosted over in his hands. His chair still has icicles hanging from it.

And he hasn't managed to find the courage to tell anyone, either. How is he supposed to be the Primary Protector if he can't even keep a hold of his own powers?

How can he be a good husb—boyfriend if he can't stop freezing things at random?

As summoned by the thought of him, a key turns in the front lock, and four little pairs of cat feets patter to the door. Despite himself, Scott can't help but smile at Elle as she trots past him, abandoning her place on the armchair.

Jimmy enters smiling, nose pink from the cold, and Scott almost completely forgets about his worries as he stares at that smile.

Even back at the beginning, when Jimmy’s eyes had been dead and his face cloudy, he was beautiful. Watching the light and life return to his face had been like watching a butterfly tear free of its chrysalis, transformed and radiant.

Radiant. That’s a good word to describe Jimmy’s smile.

He could stare at that smile every morning for the rest of his life, Scott thinks.

"I'm so gay," he says out loud.

Jimmy snorts, leading the two cats to the kitchen. "Is this news?"

Scott doesn't dignify that with a response. Instead, he pushes himself to his feet, stretches, and follows Jimmy.

"How was your day?" Scott asks, checking the clock. It's getting close to dinnertime, he ought to get started on something. Spaghetti, probably, since he left it so late. Something quick and easy, that even he can't ruin.

"Good! Real cold, you would've loved it."

Maybe. But now Scott can't help but wonder if it was so cold because of him.

Can he actually affect the weather that much? Sure, he'd made it snow that one time, but only directly above where he was.

If he was really affecting the temperature of the city, Scott assures himself, he would've seen something on the weather. As far as the meteorologists have reported, the temperatures are accurate and expected.

"Jerry sent us all home with a couple of cookies, which was nice of him! His wife made them for the office," Jimmy continues. "I asked, and they don’t have almonds, so we can both eat them." He gestures toward a little bag of six or so cookies on the table.

Scott's heart warms a little bit. Jimmy didn’t have to do that. He never has to do anything like that, but he's always been one of the most selfless people Scott knows. It's a small act, checking for one's partner's allergens, but huge in the scheme of the relationship. He can't wait to enjoy the cookies with his boyfriend.

But dinner first.

"I was thinking of making spaghetti tonight," says Scott, once again checking the time. "Unless there's something else you want?"

Jimmy shrugs from where he's bent over, feeding each cat a treat. "Whatever you want sounds good," he says, something sappy in his tone. Then, straightening and turning to Scott with a bit of a frown, he asks, "Unrelated—were you warm, babe?"

Scott blinks. He's not, not really. He happens to have a built-in cooling system and can dust his skin with frost any time he likes. And sometimes he does turn down the house temperature, but usually only in the summer. "Uh, not particularly?"

"Oh," Jimmy laughs a little. "Well, it's kind of cold in here. What's the temperature?"

It doesn't really feel cold, but Scott heads into the hall to check the house temperature at the thermostat set on the wall, if only for Jimmy’s peace of mind.

The number he sees displayed there stops him in his tracks.

42°F.

No way.

If he's—he usually has to consciously exert energy to make an entire house cold, and here he'd done it without even noticing. That's—that just isn't possible. He can tell the differences in temperature, he knows what hot and cold feel like, he knows—

Scott bashes the button a couple of times to turn it up to 70°F, checking over his shoulder to make sure that Jimmy doesn't look at the thermostat. He doesn't want to worry him. He doesn't want Jimmy to think something's wrong, when nothing's wrong, everything's fine and normal.

"You're right, it was pretty chilly," he calls back to the kitchen. "I set it for seventy, so don't worry about it."

Scott's going to worry about it, though.

The entire house. He brought the entire house nearly down to freezing temperatures. No wonder Elle and Norman were cuddling like they rarely do.

Scott doesn't know what's wrong. Of course, nothing's wrong. This is just a slight hiccup. Nothing bad is happening.

And suddenly, it gets very intense very fast.

One moment he's there, staring stubbornly at the thermostat, telling himself that he’s in control and he needs to shape up—and the next he's all the way across the city, creeping up windows and the sides of houses and freezing water in gutters and he feels free, he feels everything, he feels like he's going to vomit—

And then there's a shout, and arms around his incorporeal waist, and it's only Scott's instinct that gives him the ability to toss up ice around himself without even seeing through his own eyes.

He's still so far away, crawling into the coffee of a worker in an office building, blowing through a vent in a high school classroom open for robotics club, curling around the ankles of pedestrians as they trudge through the slush on the sidewalk, all at once and so much more.

It's not like looking through a kaleidoscope, it's like being a kaleidoscope, spinning and fractured and put-together in new ways and new places, and Scott is remade thousands of times before he finally finds a metaphorical rock in this river that has swept him away.

That rock is a tiny bit of frost curling around the fingers of his lover, who holds Scott's unmoving body under a dome of ice.

He needs to get back to Jimmy.

Scott drags his way back to himself, expending almost a physical effort, clawing and scraping through time and space and many swirling seas of ice until he can finally see through his own eyes.

He gasps in a breath and chokes almost immediately, dust filling his lungs. His mouth and throat are dry and chalky, and he can't hold back a coughing fit even as something heavy hits his back several times and helps eject the dust from his throat.

When Scott can breathe again, tears streaming from his eyes, he pulls his aching body (he can feel his body, every part of it, cold and tired and nauseating and his head hurts) to his knees and blinks over at Jimmy.

Jimmy's fearful eyes peer out at him from a face white with dust, more of it powdering his hair and in almost a splash across his chest. He looks shaken, but otherwise unharmed.

"Are you okay?" Jimmy asks desperately, trembling hands finding their way to Scott's face.

Scott swallows dust, then croaks, "Yeah, I think. You?"

Jimmy nods, hands still tenderly cupped around Scott's face. One grimy thumb wipes away a tear. "Yeah. Good thinking with the ice."

Scott glances around, sees the strong little igloo that he's thrown around them.

And he's not entirely sure why.

"What happened?"

"The wall collapsed," Jimmy says shortly, dropping Scott's face to dig into his jeans pocket. "It's not good. This is why I always carry a mask—you never know when it might come in handy—"

A mask?

Scott barely even has time to process what Jimmy's saying before a mask is being snapped over his eyes, the elastic pulling funny around his hair.

Why would he need a mask? If the wall collapsed—

"Was that not . . . you?" he asks, gesturing out. It's something that would have happened years ago, before Jimmy got control of his powers. Maybe something went wrong, maybe Jimmy felt the burst of power that went through Scott (and if he releases his tight focus just the tiniest bit, he'll be swept away again into that river of power) and as a result, his own powers kicked in and the wall fell in.

The wall of their house, their things, Elle—Norman—

"It was something more than me," says Jimmy grimly. "And there's someone else here. Get ready to fight."

Isn't that nice?

So Scott dusts himself off a bit, flexes his toes (no shoes for a battle is just asking for trouble), and lets the ice melt away.

For a wild moment, he thinks that he somehow ended up outside.

Then he realizes that he’s still in the house—the front of the house is just gone.

Hanging out of their gutted house is his and Jimmy's bed, half of their shower, and their entire sofa. Books are spread across the day-old snow from where their shelf had collapsed, and their front door is lying on the doormat, the yard a mess of drywall rubble.

Almost poetically, a snowflake lands on Scott's nose. That hadn't been on the weather radar this morning.

He stands, slowly, head spinning, and takes a step off the splintered wood floor and into the yard, snow soaking his socks. He takes another step, then another, until he can see around the side of the tree in their front yard.

There's no one there. Nothing moves. The only sound is his gasping breaths.

And, like an idiot, he starts to let his guard down. He thinks maybe Jimmy was mistaken, that he had destroyed it by accident and hadn't realized.

So Scott lets his fists lower, lets his eyes turn back to the house, looking for any sign of his cats.

A shadow passes over him, followed by the sound of something rippling through the air, and Scott whirls back around.

He's just in time to see a woman land on the ground behind him.

He isn't in time to block her punch.

Her fist glances off his face—he manages to turn his head just enough that it won't be lights out but his vision does spark as pain explodes across his face—and Scott stumbles back, tripping over his own heels until he hits the ground.

For a moment, he can feel everything—and when he tries to quickly pull away from it, he pulls some of it back with him.

The light flakes of snow that have been floating down increase. The sky above begins to darken. Ice crackles down Scott's arms, coating them in the best protection he can create.

Scott pulls himself to his feet, reeling at the nausea that comes from using even a tiny bit of the power that the city has to offer. He's not sure he can do much more than defend himself right now, so ill-accustomed to trying to harness whatever this is. But he steadies himself and looks up at his attacker, properly taking her in for the first time.

She has goggles like fWhip's instead of a normal mask pulled over her eyes, her thin face framed with long, blond hair. She's tall, as tall as Scott is, and she stands more confidently than most minor villains. Her costume is somewhat uncommon for what Scott usually sees—she's dressed like a cosplayer, old-fashioned puffy shirt and breeches with tall, leather boots. Definitely not suited for the weather, but she doesn't seem to even notice it, her leather-wrapped knuckles not even shaking despite it certainly being below freezing.

Scott's never seen her before in his life.

"Major," she growls, as if he's her worst enemy.

"Who are you?" Scott gasps.

Instead of answering, she takes another swing. This one Scott manages to dodge, leaning back far enough that he barely feels the wind as it passes.

She goes for another hit (which she again misses) before rocking back on her heels and pulling from the holster around her waist that Scott has only just noticed—a gun.

A fascinating gun, one with showy gears and mechanisms that Scott only knows about because a snowflake flutters its way inside the weapon (and he sees and feels and is that snowflake), but a gun nonetheless and Scott is very much not bulletproof.

And he knows, through the little specks of frost growing on the gun, that she pulls the trigger, setting off a series of chain reactions inside the workings.

He reaches for a wall of ice—

There's a scream, to his right—Scott's head whips in that direction—a teenager has stepped out of the house next door, phone pressed to their ear as they watch the battle—

And then something hits Scott hard in the arm and he's knocked back from the force of it, stumbling backward through the snow until his foot slips and he crashes, flat on his back.

There's more screaming, and a very loud noise, and Scott looks around as if in slow motion and gets pulled beyond his body once again.

The man across the street, peering fearfully through his window as frost spreads across the glass. The teenager practically screaming for help on the emergency line as a flurry of snowflakes land in their hair. A family, hiding in their van instead of getting out and into the house, their tires icing over. A young man who had been out for a walk with his dog just staring down the street, where a familiar superhero (though in street clothes) is lying on the ground, the snow around him slowly turning red.

 And then, like whiplash, Scott is forced back into his body.

And it hurts.

"Did I get shot?" he hears himself mumble, and before he even has time to process his own words he looks down at his arm to see an awful lot of blood seeping out of his bicep. That can't be good.

The pain really amps up, then. It’s all Scott can do to not scream as more and more blood stains the snow, bathing his arm in red.

He needs to get up, needs to keep all those watching people safe, but just thinking about moving his arm makes him want to throw up. It hurts, and badly, a burning hole in his upper left arm and every breath is a gasp that tears at his throat and every movement sends pain jangling down his entire body.

The woman is standing above him. Blurrily, Scott sees her gun pointed right at his head.

"What's going on?" she demands, the words coming as if from underwater. "What has happened to us?"

Scott blinks. What's going on? He doesn't know what’s going on. All he knows is that he's feeling kind of dizzy and his arm hurts and everything smells like blood.

He blinks again, and Jimmy's there, appearing upside-down above his head. He looks pretty from this angle.

"I'll kill you," Jimmy probably says. Whatever he says is low and threatening, and defending Scott. That's nice of him.

And he probably does something. All Scott sees is that the sky gets very very dark, and a roaring sound fills his ears, and the snow gets thrown about and the grass gets torn out of the ground with the force of the wind.

And then he blinks, and the storm is dying down, and Jimmy's kneeling beside him—

Scott screams and everything comes into clarity, and a Jimmy made of a sharp edges is twisting a shirt around Scott's arm right where it hurts the worst—his world is on fire and he can't even think, it's so so so bad—

"Breathe, Scott!" Jimmy commands, cutting harshly through the echo in his ears. Scott sucks in a breath without thinking. It's cold and burns his lungs, but it feels good after screaming.

"An ambulance is coming," Jimmy tells him, clearly and carefully. He looks blurry suddenly, going in and out of focus. "I can’t come with you, but you’ll be okay. Keep your mask on, okay?"

Scott stares at him.

"Cool," Jimmy says, patting Scott's hip. "I'm going to call Lizzie to come here and look for Norman and Elle, so don't worry about that. Did you put your wallet on the bedside table?"

He usually puts his wallet there. Scott nods, then gasps when the movement of his neck pulls at his arm in some way that he didn't think was possible. It hurts. Why does it hurt so much? Surely . . . surely he's had worse. Surely a little . . . a little gunshot wound is nothing.

"Right," mutters Jimmy. He looks away, calling out to someone Scott can't see. "Hey, you! Go in the house through there, okay? Look for a thin wallet on the bedside table and bring it here."

Then he turns back to Scott, and for some strange reason, starts rubbing his hand.

The one attached to his arm. His arm that hurts.

Scott grits his teeth and tries not to scream.

He's been shot. He's been shot, and he needs to man up and deal with it. He's been through . . . like, way worse, after all. Not long ago, he broke his arm and got a concussion at the same time. He ought to at least be better put together than he was then.

Scott struggles to sit up, feels his stomach and head turn at the same time. He pushes through it—he has to get up, he has to help Jimmy fight the woman—but a hand firmly pushes him back down.

"Do not sit up," Jimmy instructs. "You're injured. Hear those sirens? They're coming for you, big man."

Now that Scott thinks about it, he can hear sirens. They probably aren't that important, though, so he focuses on Jimmy, Jimmy and his chattering teeth and his red hands and his concerned eyes.

"Are you cold?" he thinks he asks. Maybe he doesn't say anything, though, because Jimmy doesn’t reply, instead turning away.

Then he blinks again, and someone who is not Jimmy leans over him.

"Where's—" not Jimmy, don't say Jimmy, secret identities and all that— "Where's Solidarity?"

The woman frowns. "Major? We're taking you to the hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

"Where's Solidarity?" Scott asks again, as clearly as he can. He just wants his boyfriend here with him, is that too much to ask?

The woman's face grows serious, but she doesn't say anything else to him. She backs up, making room for some other people who lay a stretcher beside him.

And then there's a lot of pain as people move him and settle him and lift him, and Scott is horribly conscious of all of it, from the ground to the ambulance bed, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out.

He wants Jimmy. Why isn’t Jimmy here?

He feels so dizzy, though. So very dizzy, and sick—and someone’s snapping in his face, telling him to keep his eyes open, but his eyes are open, he’s deliberately holding them as wide as he can despite the blackness fuzzing over his vision.

He should be okay to take a little nap, though. That should be fine.

Maybe, when he wakes up, Jimmy will be there.

[cool-now-destroy-it]

Lads, ladies and absolutely everything in between, gather round, gather close!

For I must confess my most grievous apologies to the world. How utterly selfish of me, a mere shadow of existence, to dare to draw breath in a society so deeply, so profoundly inconvenienced by the likes of me. You see, being trans? Why, it’s hardly an ordeal at all!

Of course, it does not weigh on me, not in the slightest. It’s not as if my identity is treated like a stain to be scrubbed out or a weed to be plucked from the pristine garden of humanity.

Oh, no, no, no, far be it from me to suggest such a thing.

How terrifying it must be for you, oh brave protectors of the binary! To see me breathing, walking, persisting. An abomination in your orderly little world of pink and blue. I can only imagine the unbearable agony of your fear. You must lie awake at night, staring at your pristine ceilings, haunted by the specter of my pronouns.

I couldn’t possibly comprehend how terribly frightened you all must be of us. Truly, I am sorry to have unsettled you with my mere existence. What a burden it must be to see us, to hear us, to know we walk among you! The audacity! I shudder to think of the terror you feel when we, oh, I don’t know, ask to be called by our names or request not to be killed. Such radical demands, no wonder you’re all quaking in your boots!

Our pain, our suffering, our daily torment? A mere trifle! It’s not as though I wake every morning to find the weight of my identity pressing against my chest. It's not like its a scream buried so deep in my chest that I can feel it scraping my ribs every time I breathe. It’s not like we carry this anguish around like a warm, familiar blanket, clinging to it, wrapping ourselves in it, because at least it stays with us, at least it doesn’t turn away.

But please, tell me more about your suffering. Tell me how hard it is for you to live in a world where people like me exist. Tell me how we threaten your values, your traditions, your fragile sense of reality. Tell me how inconvenient it is to acknowledge that we are human, that we are here, that we are not going anywhere.

Let me assure you, with all the venom we can muster, we will not stop fighting and we will not stop living, no matter how much it offends you.

Because heres the thing: your fear, your hatred, your desperate, grasping need to erase us? It is nothing. It is hollow. It is the pathetic whimper of a world that knows it is dying.

And I, for one, plan to dance on its grave.