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young roman & kendall + life is strange

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Combeferre saw Marius crash out, destroyed him with two words, walked out with everyone following him and dropped some sick tunes on the way. Absolute icon.

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why i am in so many fandoms lately where i simply cannot give less of a fuck about the main ship, like i don't see it at allllll and it is right there next to this super intense and interesting pairing that would make you cross yourself etc etc but at least it is not fucking boring/giving noooo credit at all to the complex characters.

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i feel like an often overlooked downside to 10-episode seasons and the death of the "monster of the week" format is that we get way less whump variety nowadays. used to be that there'd be dozens of opportunities for your fave to get punched or kidnapped or hypnotized or what have you. these days if it doesn't fit into the main plot, it just doesn't happen. this is a tragedy. we should be protesting.

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I'm just a girl… I'm alone, on my own. No one wanted to play with me as a little kid, nobody ever lets me in. Something different bloomed writing in my room. I see the great escape, I play my songs in the parking lot just to learn that my dreams aren't rare. Maybe I'm just a girl on a mission but I'm ready to fly in the angel's city, chasing fortune and fame. No one in my small town thought I'd meet these suits in L.A. and the camera flashes make it look like a dream. The kind of radiance you only have at 17, making my own name, chasing that fame. The crown is stained, but you're the real queen selling dreams, selling make up and magazines and your secrets end up splashed on the news front page. No cameras catch my pageant smile and my cheeks are growing tired from turning red and faking smiles. They said, "Babe, you gotta fake it till you make it" and I did. Cause ladies always rise above, so I became the butt of the joke. Talk your talk and go viral 'cause, baby, I could build a castle out of all the bricks they threw at me. Crowd goes wild at her fingertips but there's robbers to the east, clowns to the west. I tried to pick my battles 'til the battle picked me. I was in the alley surrounded on all sides. Brought a knife to a gunfight. I looked around in a blood-soaked gown and tried to tell the town. You said the gun was mine, so they filled my cell with snakes. They say I did something bad then tell me I'm despicable. People look at me like I'm a monster. Now they're screaming that they hate me. I can feel the flames on my skin, and you find something to wrap your noose around. They're burning all the witches even if you aren’t one. So light me, and if I'm on fire, you'll be made of ashes too. So I leap from the gallows, and I levitate down your street. I didn't want to have to haunt you but I've got a list of names and yours is in red, underlined. They say, "move on", but all I think about is karma. I've come too far to watch some namedropping sleaze tell me what are my words worth. My pennies made your crown. You had to kill me, but it killed you just the same. The knife cuts both ways, look at how my tears ricochet. Them's the breaks, they don't come gently. It still hurts underneath my scars from when they pulled me apart, and I can go anywhere I want just not home. He's got my past frozen behind glass but I've got me. I’m still on that trapeze. I'm still trying everything to keep you looking at me. Lights, camera, bitch smile. I can still make the whole place shimmer. I pushed each boulder up the hill, climbed right back up the cliff 'cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned. Ask me why so many fade, but I'm still here. Always risin' from the ashes 'cause I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit. I gave my blood, sweat, and tears for this. And at last she knew what the agony had been for. I built a legacy that you can't undo. Long story short, I survived. You're on your own, kid. You always have been.

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- v. hugo

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"normal people" don't exist, btw. every person is unique. every person you talk to has at least one "weird" thing about them. people you haven't met yet aren't all clones of one another. "weird people" don't exist, either. every "weird person" you meet has plenty of "normal" things about them, too. people are just people. the faster you stop lumping people into "desirable" and "undesirable" groups, the faster you find peace with yourself and others. it's not helping you to look down on other people, whether it's for them being "normal" or "weird".

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i don’t know how to explain to you people that no matter what a country’s government is like i do not and will not support the US indiscriminately bombing that country’s civilians and i don’t know why that’s a controversial take tbh

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a funny thing about having a Problematic Blorbo is that you'll periodically come across a post along the lines of "um let's not forget that [Blorbo] is a bad person..." listing their various crimes, and if you have a modicum of intellectual honesty you find yourself nodding along and saying yeah it's true... but it's the greyness of their character that makes them so compelling... At the same time though you have a little Saul Goodman in your ear going "your honor in their defense: who cares like omfgggg who caresssssss like come onnnnnn"

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everyone's doomed by the narrative bitch let's get you some fruit

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it's simple really: october is for horror movies with highly stylized villains and iconic monsters because they make for good costumes. early november is for gothic horror because of the fog and decay etc. late november is for zombies (commentary on consumerist culture). december is for psychological horror and stuff where they're trapped in a room because that's when you have to go to holiday parties with your family.

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Feuilly art for @aromantic-enjolras

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some hyper famous artists like Van Gogh transcend overratedness and become underrated because they're so normalized. Like I'll look at a van Gogh and I'm like wait this really is amazing you guys don't get it

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prompt fill! i got two requests for clint barton and the prompt "i did good, right?" but one of them asked for clint and frank, so here's a short fic about frank castle and clint barton meeting in a war zone.

warnings for some references to torture, but nothing too graphic.

---

Frank doesn’t work with SHIELD often, but their paths cross occasionally. Often enough, anyway, that Frank learns SHIELD controls access to the best sniper alive.

Sometimes, when they’re lucky, Cerberus gets to secure that sniper’s nests. They don’t get as many chances as Frank would like, but his team knows their hunting grounds better than anyone else, so they get exactly four opportunities to watch the sniper work.

Frank’s on three missions with the guy before he ever sees his face, and it’s a shock, finally, when he matches those beautiful shots to the friendly blonde mess of him, all those lanky limbs and scattershot freckles and lingering Midwestern vowels.

“Your fucking aim,” Frank tells him, because Russo’s been charming him for fifteen minutes, but all Frank can think about are the angles, and the drop, and the unholy gift of this guy’s brain, the precise calculations he runs, his unbelievable capacity for multitracking variables. 

“You should see me with a bow,” the guy says, cheerful and goofy-grinning, and Frank thinks, sure, he’d like to.

But the next time Frank sees him, he’s a body dropping onto the metal floor of a quinjet. A bloody sack of bruised meat half out of uniform, white t-shirt soaked in blood and dragged through dirt, skin ripped beneath it. One eye swollen shut, throat ringed in lapping lines of red and purple.

It’s a waste. Best mind of a generation, best aim of the century.

Frank’s processing the loss of it, grieving all those pristine killshots, and then the sniper breathes in hard and chokes on it, and Frank realizes Jesus, that body’s still alive.

“Rumlow,” the suit says, rolling his eyes, “for fuck’s sake.”

“You fucking carry him,” Rumlow snaps back, wiping his stained hands on his shirt. “He’s been an asshole the whole way.”

The suit crouches down and checks vitals. Pulse and pupils, airway. “Barton,” he says, thumbing open the sniper’s good eye. “Barton,” he says, louder, “you with us? Hey. Barton!”

“Fucking,” Barton says, and then, “Sitwell. Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, “you here?”

Barton licks his busted lips. His eye is open but unfocused, rolling. “Yeah,” he says. “Here.”

“He’s high as shit,” Rumlow reports. “I didn’t see anything broken. Got some bruises.”

“They had him for seventeen hours,” Sitwell says. “Of course there are bruises. What else? We need to document anything Coulson’s going to be sensitive about.”

“He’s fine,” Rumlow says. Sounds petulant. “Didn’t lose any fingers. He’s still got his eyes.”

Beside him, Billy’s completely still. If he thinks they shouldn’t interrupt, he’s probably right. But Frank’s struggling with the fact that the asset reclamation mission he was briefed on was actually a rescue.

“Can we go?” Rumlow asks. “We lost a whole day to this shit.”

Sitwell rises to his feet. He’s in charge here, apparently. Frank’s not impressed with his leadership. “If you’d kept a better eye on him---”

Rumlow throws his hands up. “Not my fucking job. I did my job. He got grabbed. That’s his shit.”

“I’m sure Coulson will be very reassured to hear that,” Sitwell says. “And very willing, naturally, to lend his agent out in the future.”

“So get us our own sniper, and we won’t have to deal with this shit again.”

This shit is still semi-conscious on the floor. He flinches when Sitwell steps past him, whacks his head against a metal post.

“Jesus,” Rumlow says, “this guy.”

He reaches down, fists his hand in what’s left of the sniper’s shirt, and drags him to the center aisle. Frank studies the smear of blood on metal, thinks, if this were his team, he’d throw Rumlow to the ground instead. Or maybe out of the back of the plane.

“He should be secured,” Frank says.

“Yeah, that was kinda the whole fucking problem,” Rumlow replies. “He never fucking stays where you put him.”

There were never any issues on the missions Frank ran. But there usually aren’t.

“For takeoff,” Frank clarifies. “So you don’t concuss the guy we just raided a compound for.”

Rumlow shrugs. “He’s already concussed.”

Billy breathes in. He shifts, just a little, leans his shoulder into Frank. It’s a warning, probably, but Frank doesn’t listen.

“You know anything about second impact syndrome?” he asks.

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Christ.”

“You want a demonstration?” Frank says.

“Who the fuck are you?” Rumlow asks. “Some loaner boots we picked up? Look, asshole---”

“Secure your fucking sniper,” Frank says.

“Or fucking what?”

“Gentlemen,” Sitwell says, leaning back from the cockpit to glare at them.

“Who is this fucking guy?” Rumlow asks, gesturing toward Frank in a way that makes Frank want to break every single one of his fingers. And then possibly his neck.

Sitwell looks at Frank, looks at Billy, and then looks back to Rumlow. “Looks like the guy who’s about to give you two weeks of medical leave, Rumlow. I don’t know who they are. Coulson requisitioned them personally, though, so you can put those puzzle pieces together yourself.”

Frank doesn’t know who Coulson is, but he’s the only name that seems to give Rumlow any kind of pause. When he looks back toward Frank, that name weighs on him enough that he opts not to engage further.

“This shithead missed evac,” Rumlow says, “and ruined my whole Goddamn weekend. So if you wanna fuss over him, feel free. But I’m done babysitting.”

He turns his back, and Frank thinks about punching in him the head. But Rumlow has more men on this plane than he does, and Frank’s not here to fix SHIELD’s fuckups for them.

“C’mon,” he says, instead, as he crouches down next to the sniper, “let’s get you up.”

Seventeen hours, Frank thinks, and this guy’s wearing every single one of those hours on his skin. Someone beat the absolute shit out of him.

“Oh, hey,” the sniper says, squinting up at him and Billy with his good eye. “The hot Marines are here. Nice.”

Frank glances up at Billy, who just shrugs, like, Fuck off, Frank, you know who we are.

“Yeah,” Frank says, because he might as well. “Let’s get you ready for takeoff, huh?”

The sniper hums. “Hell yeah, this place sucks.”

It takes some careful maneuvering, and some help from Billy, but they get him upright and slumped between them, buckled enough to hold.

He wheezes when he breathes. He shakes a little, sometimes, from the cold or the comedown or both. He gets less and less vertical until his head is fully on Frank’s shoulder, both eyes closed, swaying.

Twenty minutes into the flight, his fingers twitch and then tighten against Frank’s hip, and he says, quiet enough that probably nobody but Billy hears, “That fucking sucked.”

“Yeah,” Frank says, and then, “sure.”

Because yeah, sure. Looks like it really, really did.

“I did okay though, right?” he asks, murmuring it into Frank’s neck, frayed out and bloodied and still dazed by whatever they gave him. “I did good?”

“Sure,” Frank says, and he thinks maybe he’s going to fight Rumlow after all. Maybe, after they land, after they get this sniper to someone who knows enough to care about him, Frank’s gonna drag Rumlow from one side of the runway to the other until his arms get tired. “You did, yeah.”

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KARI????? [Karis @ is rockyderkondor]

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yeah hyperfixation can be inconvenient sometimes but when i’m between hyperfixations life is like meaningless so