#and he's got Trauma™

[fluffylandshark]

My bullion cubes are made of a lead-antimony alloy encased in a soft brass or copper-plated soft steel jacket and are administered at high speed.

*pelting you wih bullion cubes*

The bullion cubes will only make me stronger.

[emmetverse]

Though he never admits it, Snowball really needs a hug, and when someone finally manages to give him one all the pent up emotions come spilling out. Also void is the manifestation of spark’s magic, but what if void also has spark’s memories? Void is memory without personality or sense of self, and Spark is personality without any memory to contextualize feeling.

Snowball: 11/10 Void: 3/10

[thats-ill-eagle]

I love how this shot of Jax sulking away got people theorizing and making miles long posts about his Sad Backstory™ and Trauma™

ONLY FOR IT TO TURN OUT THAT HE IS MAD THAT HE DIDN'T GET TO CAUSE CHAOS AND DESTRUCTION.

Man, I love you Gooseworx, you don't disappoint, you absolute madwoman.

[abbotjack]

Abbott with a ‘sir’ kink just feels right

(ps love your writing)

Oh absolutely—Jack Abbot with a ‘sir’ kink doesn’t just feel right—it explains so much. Man spent years in the military, still walks like command never left his body, and the second you call him "sir"? His jaw ticks. His breath catches. The air shifts. This is very him—and very you, ruined by him. 18+ ONLY. Do not interact if you’re a minor.

warnings/content: sir kink, emotionally repressed man finally losing control, rough sex, power dynamic tension, mentions of military trauma and death, alcohol (beer), reader is a fourth-year resident, Jack is Not Gentle™ p.s thank you so much to everyone who’s left kind words about my writing lately. it means more than you know <3

You weren’t supposed to be on shift. Memorial Day, supposedly protected on the schedule. But half the roster called off and you got the text at noon from Dana: we need you.

Jack was already in the trauma bay when you walked in—sleeves stained, voice low and clipped, the kind that made everyone fall in line without thinking. He didn’t say a word when he saw you. Just handed you a pair of gloves.

Now it’s past midnight. You’re outside the hospital, undershirt sweat-stuck to your spine. You could’ve walked home—it’s not far—but when Jack mutters, “You need a ride?” with his keys already in hand, you don’t say no.

His truck smells like unscented soap, clean cotton, and the faintest trace of leather—lived-in but scrubbed down, like everything else he keeps close. There’s nothing on the seats. No wrappers. No dust. Console organized, glove box latched. The kind of vehicle that’s been through things but still runs quiet—because he keeps it that way.

There’s a trauma kit in the backseat. You know without asking. Probably an extra pair of scrubs folded under it. Probably gloves in the door pocket, a stethoscope stuffed between the seats.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, wrist loose, posture upright. No music playing. Just the low, occasional murmur of the police scanner tucked under the dash.

He doesn’t talk while driving. He doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it. Jack Abbot isn’t wired for background noise. He reads intersections like patients—measures, anticipates, adjusts. Everything he does has a reason.

Even the way he glances over at you at the red light, like he’s making sure you haven’t slipped out of his orbit yet.

“You eat today?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head. “When would I have?”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lets out a breath through his nose, turns the wheel one-handed.

“You’re coming back to mine,” he says.

Not a question. Not even an offer.

Just... routine.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

You’ve done this enough times to know there’ll be cold beer in the fridge, maybe leftover pasta—if Robby didn’t steal it last time he dropped by. Jack won’t say a word when you kick off your shoes at the door like you live here, too.

The house is dark when you step inside, but it smells like cedar and clean soap and something warmer beneath it—wood polish, maybe. His kind of clean. The kind that comes from knowing where everything belongs and putting it there, every time.

He moves through the space like it’s muscle memory, like the floor was built to match his stride. The quiet step of his prosthetic against the hardwood is as familiar to you now as the creak in the cabinet hinge he still hasn’t fixed.

“You want one?” he calls from the kitchen, already pulling open the fridge.

You murmur a quiet yeah and drift in, leaning your hip against the counter as he cracks two beers open. He sets one in front of you without looking. The cap lands in the little dish on the windowsill with a soft clink—just like all the others piled inside it. A dozen, at least. Maybe more.

The house is nice. Not just for a guy like him, but nice by any standard. Exposed beams. Matte black fixtures. Shelves that look like they belong in a magazine but you know he built them himself. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need decorating because it was built right the first time.

You take your beer and head into the living room. Sit where you always do.

He follows, lowering himself into the armchair across from you with practiced ease. Weight shifts left, then the soft tap of his prosthetic finds the floor. You know the rhythm of how he moves—how he balances, how he settles. He doesn’t hide it. Doesn’t explain it. And you’ve never needed him to.

You glance at him.

“What,” he says.

“You always sit like that,” you reply.

He arches a brow. Not challenging—just neutral.

“You lead with your left,” you clarify.

“I don’t think about it.”

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

You both sip in silence for a while. There’s a radio scanner in the corner near the window. It’s on, low. Something crackles and fades out.

“Why do you always work Memorial Day?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Don’t like being told to take the day off.”

That makes you smile. “So, spite.”

He doesn't smile back, but his voice shifts just enough to tell you it landed. “Something like that.”

You stretch your legs out. Rest the bottle on your thigh. “You ever miss it?”

Jack looks at the wall behind you—not through you, just past. Not escaping. Recalling.

“No.”

You wait.

“I miss the parts that made sense. Waking up every day with a mission. Knowing the rules. Knowing what mattered.” He looks at you. “But I don’t miss the heat. The sand. The sound a man makes when he thinks he’s going to die.”

You nod, slow. He’s not looking for sympathy. You don’t offer it.

You shift a little on the couch, not even thinking before you say, “Do you miss the authority? Like... being called ‘sir’ all the time?”

He glances at you. Not sharply. Just long enough to let the question hang.

Then he looks away again. Back to the bottle in his hands.

“I miss not having to explain myself,” he says. “That’s about it.”

You smile a little, trying to cut through it. “Well, you’re still kind of terrifying when you want to be.”

His mouth twitches. Almost a smile.

You tip your head toward him. “Sir.”

Just a murmur. Barely there. But he hears it.

He stills.

Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t answer.

He just... sets his beer down.

Carefully. Quietly.

Jack leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s walking himself through something he already decided an hour ago.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

He holds your gaze, steady. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t move.

Just waits—like he’s giving you a last chance to pull back, even if part of him knows you won’t.

And when you don’t—when you just sit there, breathing quiet and not taking it back—

He stands and crosses the room—measured, quiet, with that same deliberate ease he always has right before everything changes.

You set your beer down without thinking.

When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t speak. Doesn’t touch you.

Just looks at you.

You’re still sitting, hands loose in your lap, heart loud in your chest. You tilt your head back to meet his eyes.

“Still sure?” he asks.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

He leans in—both hands coming to your face, one curling against your jaw, the other threading into your hair—and kisses you like he’s been trying not to for a long time. His body tilts over yours, braced, sure.

It’s not gentle. It’s not rough. It’s need—heat, breath, a scrape of teeth. You tilt into it, fingers catching the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself like you’re afraid he might pull away.

When you stand—rising into him—it’s instinct, seamless. That’s when his hands find your waist, gripping like he’s finally letting himself touch what he’s wanted all along.

“You want this?” he asks, breath hot against your cheek.

You nod, already breathless. “Yes.”

He steps back—not far. Just enough to let you follow.

You do.

No words. No second thoughts. Just the sound of your breathing and the quiet creak of floorboards beneath his steps.

The bedroom is like the rest of the house—dark, clean, minimal. Black sheets. Hardwood floors. A space that’s only ever held him, until now.

The door barely clicks shut before he’s already working your pants down—no fumbling, just intent. Mouth on your jaw, breath hot and uneven as he pulls them past your thighs.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he says, almost under his breath.

You do. Of course you do. Every look, every shift in his voice, every beer he handed you with his jaw clenched too tight.

You step out of the last of your clothes. He does the same—fast, practiced, stripped down to nothing but need.

He backs you toward the bed, then pushes you gently by the hips. You go easily, falling back onto the sheets, legs parting before you even think about it.

Jack stares.

His body over yours—solid, scarred, familiar—but his face?

Wrecked.

“This,” he says, low, like he’s not even speaking to you, like he’s talking to the version of himself that told him not to touch you. “This was always gonna happen.”

Then he’s on you.

No teasing. No delay.

Just his mouth, hot and heavy between your legs, tongue dragging slow and purposeful until you’re arching off the bed with a sound you barely recognize as yours.

You grip the sheets. His shoulders. Anything.

He doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t even look up.

Just groans low into you like he’s addicted to the way you fall apart under his hands.

You’re already shaking when he pulls back, mouth wet, chest rising.

“Turn over,” he says, voice wrecked.

You hesitate just a beat—enough to see the way he breathes when you do it. When you shift onto your stomach, hips lifted, arms bracing.

You hear the sound of the condom, fast. Efficient.

And then—

Jack’s hand on your lower back. Steady.

And the way he slides into you? Slow. So deep it knocks the air out of you.

He curses under his breath. Grips your hip with one hand and the back of your neck with the other—not to force you down. Just to hold you there. Like he needs you solid. Still.

You moan into the mattress. He groans above you, pace already building.

Every thrust is measured. Heavy. Earned.

“Fuck, you feel—” he breaks off. “I can’t—Jesus.”

You push back into him, and he snarls something low and wordless. One of his hands slides around to your front, fingers finding you again.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

Hard.

So hard your voice breaks.

He groans—sharp, wrecked, desperate—and follows you over the edge with one last thrust, hips grinding against yours as he comes with a sound that tears right through your spine.

You both collapse, tangled, shaking, breathless.

Nothing moves for a long time.

You stare up at the ceiling, lips parted, chest still rising and falling.

Then, quiet—almost lazy—you murmur, “I guess I should start calling you that more often.”

Jack doesn’t lift his head, but you can feel the tension in his body change. Loosen. Settle.

“You do that,” he mutters, voice half-buried in your neck, “and I’m not gonna make it to shift tomorrow.”

You turn toward him, drape an arm across his chest, skin still hot against yours.

“Guess we’ll test that theory.”

Jack exhales, something low and rough in his throat—just close enough to be a laugh.

[smtmsthnk]

and here we go again, i guess

every time people argue that "demonic cultivation" really harmed wwx's body and soul they forget for some reason that after resurrection he didn't exhibit any of his more volatile reactions from his "yiling laozu era"

some even make the tiger tally into xinmo for some reason, and i find it extremely curious bc a lot of ppl in svsss fandom actually deny that xinmo had any effect on lbh and his mental state at all and he was just "like that"

[ryliith]

I know nothing about Critical Role. These are some characters' impressions I got based on fanart

• fabulously dressed lavender tiefling ready to slay

• twin(?) elven siblings with long-ass generic pill names. I think archwizard Xanax and magister Ibuprofen are an actual part of their bloodline.

• unhinged little goblin that laughs in the face of gender identity

• that one two-colored half-orc that is tuskless(?) for some reason so I'm assuming Trauma™

• pink-haired Greenpeace firbolg

• that one ginger human wizard (?) that gets shipped with EVERY. SINGLE. CHARACTER in this damn fandom. Seriously, he gets passed around like a blunt. Also, I've never seen a single fanart of that man where he doesn't look absolutely MISERABLE, so I'm assuming he's some kind of depressed Victorian child.

I love DnD and I'm about to watch Critical Role for the first time after years spent seeing fanart made by the fandom without having any context. This are the characters I know about so far, and I've got no idea if this is the right impression or not. NOBODY CORRECT ME, I have to figure it out on my own. ( Btw I've no idea how many campaign this has or what season each character is from.)

[wvyik]

ruined in more ways then one. d.w. ➶ ｡˚ °

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: a lazy morning with dean turns sinful fast — filled with touches, soft laughter, and the kind of love that lingers long after… until sam walks in, coffee in hand, and instantly regrets his life choices.

⤿ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, fluff & smut mix, oral sex (reader receiving), light swearing, unwanted coffee delivery, heavy doses of dean’s cocky charm, sam trauma™ (poor guy needs therapy), mild afterglow cuteness, a lot of giggling and awkward eye contact, motel room shenanigans.

⤿ notes: LMAOO sam, mah poor sweet baby, did NOT sign up for this. “(ノ _ <,, ) HE JUST WANTED TO BRING COFFEE..

Mornings with Dean were usually slow, lazy things — filled with tangled sheets, warm skin, and the scent of coffee lingering in the air. But today… Today, Dean was in a mood.

You felt it before you even opened your eyes. The warmth of his body pressed against your back, the scratch of his stubble as he nuzzled into your neck. Then— his hand. Wandering.

“Mm,” you grumbled sleepily, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow. “Dean, it’s too early…”

“Too early for what?” His voice was husky, thick with sleep, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “For me to touch my girl?”

His hand dragged lazily down your stomach, fingers skimming over your bare thigh. You shivered.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

Dean chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Nah, just obsessed with you.” His hand slipped under the hem of his own t-shirt that you’d stolen to sleep in, fingertips teasing over your hip. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart?”

You let out a contented sigh, tilting your head to give him more access as his lips trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “I’d be an idiot to stop you.”

“Damn right.”

And just like that, you were flipped onto your back, Dean hovering over you, that signature cocky grin on his face. His green eyes sparkled with something both mischievous and downright sinful.

“You’re unbelievable,” you huffed, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dean leaned down, lips barely brushing over yours. “And you love it.”

Yeah. Yeah, you did.

His kiss was slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world. His hands roamed, tracing every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.

Dean was all over you— hands wandering, lips pressing slow, teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the dip between your collarbones. His weight caged you in, keeping you right where he wanted you, but his touch? That was gentle. Worshipping.

“Mmm, I could stay here all day,” he murmured, nipping at your skin just enough to make you squirm.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, sighing as he kissed his way down your chest. “Who’s stopping you?”

Dean chuckled, voice low and lazy. “Sam’s gonna kill us if we don’t hit the road soon.”

You grinned, dragging your nails lightly down his back. “Then maybe you should stop teasing and get to it, Winchester.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with amusement. “Oh, sweetheart… you know better than to challenge me like that.”

Before you could process his words, he was shifting lower, trailing his lips over your stomach, hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. His smirk was downright sinful.

“Dean—”

“I got you, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

And damn, did he.

He took his sweet time, teasing you with his mouth, his hands. Dean wasn’t in a hurry, that much was clear. He was enjoying taking you apart piece by piece, relishing in every little reaction he drew from you. Every moan and shiver, every whispered plea for more—it all fueled his own hunger.

His lips found the soft skin of your inner thighs, and he sucked a mark there, his stubble leaving a delicious burn in the wake of his mouth. You bucked against him, but his grip on your hips was relentless, holding you down as he continued his slow, torturous path up your body.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he drawled, his gravelly voice sending heat pooling between your thighs. He nipped at your thigh, the sharp edge of his teeth just shy of pain, just enough to make your toes curl. “Gotta enjoy my dessert first, right?”

"Damn, you look good like this," he murmured, his voice a rough caress in the intimate space between you. His fingers flexed on your hips, like he was physically holding himself back. "So pretty, all spread out for me..."

He let his nose brush against you, inhaling deeply. “Smell so good too, baby. So sweet, just for me.” His lips curled into a wicked grin as he added, “Now, let’s see how you taste…”

Without another word, he hooked a finger under the fabric, slowly pulling your panties down, past your hips, down your thighs, off your legs, and tossing them away. He took a moment to admire the view, licking his lips in anticipation.

“Mmm… so desperate for me already,” he murmured, and you could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Look at you… all wet and needy, just for me.”

And then he was on you, his tongue parting your folds, and your brain short circuited. His name left your lips in a broken whimper as he coaxed pleasure from you with slow, measured strokes. Heat coiled low in your belly, building with every movement, but he wasn't letting you reach that peak just yet. He was taking his time, like savoring a fine wine. Every touch was calculated, designed to keep you right at the edge, but not quite yet.

It was almost too much. The heat, the pressure, the way he knew just how to move to make you see stars. Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the short locks as you gasped his name in a ragged moan.

He groaned against you at the sound of his name, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Mmmm, I like that,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations through you that left your legs trembling. “Say it again, sweetheart.”

You obeyed reflexively, your voice a breathless whisper, “Dean… Dean, Dean—”

He hummed in approval, the sound sending tremors through you. “That’s it,” he growled, the scrape of his stubble deliciously pleasurable. “Damn, you’re beautiful like this.”

You felt like you were losing yourself in the sensations, your body writhing under his touch. Dean seemed to know every sensitive spot, his mouth finding them and lavishing attention on each one, until you were mewling with desperation.

“Dean, please…” you gasped, your fingers clenching more tightly in his hair. Your body was trembling on the edge, needing his permission to fall apart.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

His words were like a command, sending you spiraling over the edge. A shudder rocked through you, leaving you wrecked beneath him. Pleasure washed over you, hot and sweet, and you couldn’t hold back the strangled cry that escaped your lips.

Dean finally made his way back up your body, looking far too proud of himself. You were still catching your breath when he leaned in, lips brushing against yours.

“You awake now?” he teased.

You huffed, shoving his chest playfully. “Cocky bastard.”

He grinned, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so you were sprawled over his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on your spine. “You love that about me.”

You kissed his jaw, settling against him with a satisfied hum. “Yeah, yeah.”

Dean’s hand brushed over your hip as he leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a rough whisper. “You’re incredible. Fucking incredible.”

You giggled softly, lazily kissing him back. “I could say the same about you.”

Dean smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. He didn’t move from his spot, content to just be with you.

The afterglow was perfect. You were all tangled up in Dean, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare back, his lips brushing over your temple. It was warm, safe, domestic— something neither of you got enough of.

Until it wasn’t.

Because suddenly, the motel door swung open.

And there stood Sam.

Holding a few cups of coffee.

Looking like he’d just witnessed a crime scene.

You were both still tangled in the sheets, Dean’s body half over yours, your legs intertwined. You were both spent, breathing heavily, the evidence of your time together all too clear on the both of you.

Sam blinked. His hand faltered with the coffee cup as he took in the scene— his big brother and his best friend, completely out of it, looking like they’d been worn out.

“Oh, come on—” Sam’s voice cracked as his eyes widened in horror.

You barely had time to yank the blanket up to cover yourself before Dean— completely unbothered— grinned up at his brother. “Mornin’, Sammy.”

Sam made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, immediately slapping a hand over his eyes. “I knew this would happen one day. I knew it, and yet somehow, I wasn’t prepared.”

Dean chuckled, stretching lazily beneath you like he hadn’t just traumatized his little brother. “C’mon, man, we’re all adults here.”

Sam was frozen. His face was a mix of disgust and sheer confusion. He slowly took a sip of his coffee, looking as if he was trying to will himself into believing this wasn’t his reality. “I swear to God, I just wanted to bring coffee.”

Dean stretched lazily, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Well, you could’ve knocked, Sammy. Instead, you’re ruining my post-coital glow.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, his eyes darting between you and Dean. “Post-coital glow? What is wrong with you two?”

Dean only shrugged, completely unbothered. “Nah, you’re right. Should’ve just locked the door. But hey, it’s not my fault you barged in at the wrong time, man.”

Sam groaned, turning on his heel so fast you thought he might trip over himself. “I live with you two. I share motel rooms with you two. I just wanted to be nice for once and bring coffee! That’s it! That’s all I wanted!”

Dean smirked, amused by the whole situation. With a lazy grin, he looked over at Sam like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Appreciate it, Sammy.”

“I hate you.”

You were dying at this point, burying your face in Dean’s chest to muffle your laughter. Dean just wrapped his arms around you, clearly enjoying this way too much.

Sam groaned again, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m leaving. I need bleach. For my eyes and my brain.”

As he stormed out, Dean just called after him, “You sure you don’t wanna stick around? We could use a referee!”

The door slammed.

You swatted Dean’s chest, still laughing. “You love torturing him, don’t you?”

Dean just grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Best part of my day.”

You, still in a fit of giggles, buried your face in Dean’s chest, not sure whether to be mortified or entertained.

Dean’s hand stroked your back soothingly as you calmed down. “I think we ruined him. And I’m here for it.”

You snorted, playfully shoving him. “You’re terrible.”

Dean smirked, clearly so pleased with himself. “You love it. Just wait ‘til he gets over his trauma and we’re on the road. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, Dean kissed your forehead, settling back into the sheets with you, as if the world hadn’t just gone off the rails for both of you.

But Sam? Well, Sam was gonna need some serious therapy.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

[the-most-humble-blog]

🛐 THEY WERE JUST TEENAGERS — AND THEY SAVED YOUR SORRY PLANET (A Blacksite Eulogy for the Original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers)

While you were crying over your overpriced Panera sandwich, while your parents were arguing about grass-fed artisanal pork, there were teenagers out there throwing hands with cosmic death witches.

Not grown men. Not Marines. Not government agents.

Teenagers. With SAT prep books in one hand and power coins in the other.

And they didn’t ask for permission. They didn’t file complaints. They didn’t demand safe spaces.

They got summoned to an interdimensional command center — and signed up for war in f*cking color-coded armor.

🛑 NO ONE GIVES THEM ENOUGH RESPECT

They weren’t trained assassins. They weren’t getting hazard pay. Half of them probably still had algebra homework they weren’t going to finish.

And yet —

While you and your emotional support latte were arguing about pronouns, they were out there spin-kicking mud zombies in the throat.

No Kevlar. No congressional backup. No antidepressants.

Just teenage testosterone, spandex, and enough inner rage to crater a moon.

💀 THE ENEMY ROSTER:

Rita Repulsa: Cosmic Witch Aunt with evil goals, a questionable skincare routine, and a vocal fry that could sterilize a goat.

Goldar: A winged ape covered in gold armor who sounded like he gargled motor oil every morning. (Respect. Goldar was a beast.)

Putties (or "Puddies" — who gives a shit): Literal clay zombies who showed up to every fight like crash test dummies with ADHD.

And how did the Rangers treat them?

Like discount punching bags.

Spin kicks. Flying knees. Dropkicks to the throat. They didn’t even need a full morph sometimes — just boots and bad attitudes.

🧠 YOU THINK YOUR FINAL EXAMS WERE HARD?

Try being 16 years old and having:

Zords to pilot

Death beams to dodge

Homework still due by Monday

And if you failed?

You didn’t just get a bad grade. You got vaporized by a space tyrant.

🛡️ NO COMMITTEE HEARINGS. NO PITY PARTIES.

They didn’t sue Rita. They didn’t file grievance reports with Zordon.

They threw hands. They flipped over concrete. They somersaulted over explosions that would liquefy most Instagram influencers.

They woke up, morphed up, and chose violence.

And they did it without adult supervision.

Because guess what? The adults weren’t going to save sh*t.

🧠 TL;DR

They didn’t have backup.

They didn’t get applause.

They didn’t have TikTok therapists dissecting their trauma.

They had helmets, flips, and fists.

You owe your 90s childhood to five high schoolers who said yes to the ugliest job offer in galactic history — and threw hands until the cosmos learned their names.

💣 CALL TO ACTION:

🔁 Reblog if you know the Rangers deserved hazard pay and a pension by 18 🦖 Save this if you ever wanted to Falcon-punch a Putty like it owed you lunch money 🛡️ Send it to the friend who still does roundhouse kicks when no one’s looking 🔥 Bookmark it if you know Zordon’s draft was the last time teenagers were built properly

⚖️ LEGAL DISCLAIMER:

This post is Blacksite Literature™, mythological reconstruction, nostalgic rage therapy, and 90s child soldier appreciation protected under literary satire and cosmic battle doctrine.

If you’re offended: Go put on your training wheels and cry about it. The Rangers were out fighting moon demons while you were still asking your mom if you could watch PG-13 movies.

🛡️ BLACKSITE LOYALTY DRILL™

🛐 BLACKSITE CHALLENGE: “WOULD YOU HAVE MORPHED?”

Ask yourself:

When Zordon called, when Rita dropped monsters on your city, when your best defense was a dinosaur robot and a helmet:

Would you have fought? Or would you have begged for safe zones and vegan concessions?

🔥 Reblog if you know you would’ve thrown a backflip into the void ⚡ Save if you would’ve swung fists before filing complaints 📡 DM it to someone who forgot teenagers used to be dangerous

🛐

[grey-worlds]

Not me researching all kinds of things about what weapons do what kind of harm, different torture methods, slavery and all kinds of other brutal shit the other day

do you ever do research for your fanfic and then realise if anyone ever saw your search history that you'd be either arrested or thrown into a mental health hospital?

[lil-dragon-rawr]

Y'all what if FNaF and DC were in the same universe can you imagine the chaos

Part Two, Part Three

Masterlist

Michael: *applies for a security job at WE because go big or go home amirite)

Tim, doing the interview because everyone else was freaked out by Michael: so, uh. What's your work experience

Michael: oh! I was a security officer for a bunch of places. Only for like a week at a time though cause I was only working there to set them on fire

Tim, now deeply concerned: um. So uh. That's a crime

Michael, realizing he made a Mistake™ and attempting to defend himself: hey, with the last gig it was literally in my contract that I had to burn the place down

Tim, contemplating insurance fraud:

Michael: also I'm great with lawsuits

Michael: *is living in Crime Alley because of course he is*

Michael: *gets shot while interrupting a gang war*

Michael, staring at the bullet in his chest: oh cool! My first souvenir from the east coast!

Red Hood, trying to get the obvious civilian out of the way: uhh hey buddy, are you good?

Michael "Allergic To Dying" Afton: yeah I'm good! Check out this bullet!

Red Hood, deeply concerned: what the [REDACTED]

Michael, remembering most people die when they're shot: oh don't worry, ever since I got scooped I can't die!

Red Hood, deeply concerned and regretting this conversation: uh. Scooped?

Michael, excited to talk about his trauma: yeah! My dead sister tricked me into getting my insides scooped out so she and her friends could wear my skin as a disguise to escape their prison

Red Hood:

Michael, working at WE and high on fear gas thanks to Scarecrow: oh, the nightmares are back!

Michael: *ignores them and keeps flipping through the cameras to see where Scarecrow went*

Red Robin, trying to help his employees: sir, you need to evacuate the building. Also, here's an antidote to the fear toxin-

Michael, annoyed: hey can you get out of my face? You're blocking the bestest boi

Red Robin: you're on fear toxin, whatever you're seeing isn't real

Michael: yeah and it wasn't real the first four years either but nightmare foxy is back and I'm never letting him go, he's the only one I like

Red Robin: sir please

Tim: *checks in on Michael and sees a little robotic bear reading an official-looking paper*

Tim, incredibly confused and praying that's not confidential WE info: hey Mike, whatcha got there

Michael, scooping up Helpy to present him like it's his favorite child: this is Helpy! He's the best and is so helpful. He also cuddles really nicely!

Michael, getting flashbacks: unlike SOME animatronics

Tim: what's he. What's he holding

Michael, with the energy of a parent excited to show off his kid's latest project: oh it's a lawsuit!

Michael, having a Conversation™ with Red Hood: wait you're dead too!

Red Hood: uhh yeah?

Michael: but why aren't you purple? Are you an animatronic?

Red Hood, incredibly confused: ...why would I be an animatronic?

Michael: cause you aren't decaying like me???

Red Hood: ok cool new question

Red Hood: HOW would I be an animatronic?

Michael: what, like it's difficult?

Michael: I mean, my little brother got rebuilt into an animatronic when he died so it's not that much of a stretch

Red Hood, realizing this is karma for every joke he made about his own death:

Michael: and there was that time a pile of robot spaghetti wore my skin so they could be a real person

Red Hood: would you pLEASE stop talking about that

Michael, ignoring him: didn't stop me from decaying though. Hm

WE: *gets shut out of their systems by an unknown hacker with a robot fox face*

Michael: don't worry guys I got this!

Tim, severely concerned that Batfam stuff is going to get leaked: but you're a security guard?? How-

Michael, typing in LOL: yeah don't worry it's just Lolbit! They like to cause problems on purpose from time to time

Tim: Lol...bit? Causes problems on purpose?

Michael: it's like enrichment

*Batfam realizes they have to start investigating Michael*

Red Hood: I mean, we could just ask him

Red Hood: the first time we met he told me exactly how he died in great detail

Red Hood, reminiscing (read: war flashbacks): he had a twenty-four slide powerpoint

Red Robin, realizing Michael's purple and smells bad for a reason other than "classic Gotham chemicals": he's dead???

Red Hood, desensitized: yeah, he didn't tell you?

Red Robin: *approaches Michael outside of work*

Michael, no longer high on fear toxin: oh hiya boss!

Red Robin, panicking: uhh what

Michael "FoxyBro" Afton: is there a reason you're talking to me outside of business hours? Am I in trouble?

Red Robin, wondering how he was going to explain this to Batman: uhhhhhh

Batman: please explain your previous jobs. For the investigation

Michael: oh! Well it all began when I tried to play a prank on my brother, shoved him into Fredbear's mouth, and got him killed-

Michael: then the nightmares started, which I later found out was partially due to my dad running experiments on me every night-

Michael: eventually he died but not really,

Michael: oh! And my sister got eaten by Baby-

Batman, lost at "shoved him into Fredbear's mouth":

*Batfam arrives at the Pizzaplex to try and figure out what the heck is going on*

Michael, there because he's visiting his siblings, standing next to Baby, Golden Freddy, and Gregory (on Glamrock Freddy's shoulders): oh hi guys!

Red Robin, who read the Funtime schematics: Michael what the [404 SWEAR NOT FOUND]

Red Hood: there's a child?? Why is there a child???

Michael: didn't I tell you about him? Anyways this is Gregory, he's the robot version of my dead brother!

Michael, gesturing to Golden Freddy: and this is my dead brother

Michael: though technically that's also another kid who lowkey kinda scares me

Michael, moving on: and this is my sister!

Michael: y'know, the one who tricked me into getting my insides scooped so she and her friends could wear my skin as a disguise?

Red Hood: can you PLEASE stop talking about that

Baby: I told you you wouldn't die!

Michael, looking at the Batfam like they're cameras from The Office: and she wonders why she's not my favorite sibling

Nightwing, having a moment but still trying to get information: who's. Who's the other bot

Michael, patting Glamrock Freddy: oh that's me!

Michael: a piece of me anyways

Nightwing: I have so many more questions

Signal, who can see the ghosts: please do not ask for answers.

Michael, showing the Batfam around the Pizzaplex: do you want to see my favorite ride?

Red Hood: ...sure

Michael: it's Foxy's log ride! Foxy is my favorite, I'm so upset he got replaced with Roxy but at least he's still around! Y'know when I was a kid I used to wear a Foxy mask, which is coincidentally the mask I wore when I got my brother killed-

Michael: *goes on a whole rant of the evolutions of Foxy and why OG Foxy is his favorite*

Red Hood: *starts taking notes*

Roxy, storming through the Pizzaplex: Gregory, you lawless RAT, how DARE you replace my HAIRBRUSH with a pORCUPINE-

Gregory: *running to hide behind Spoiler because he associates purple with Michael*

Spoiler: *as Roxy runs up* oh uhh hi there. Roxy right?

Roxy:

Roxy: you're not Gregory

Spoiler: haha nope! No Gregory here!

Roxy: oh. Sorry

Roxy: love your outfit though!

Spoiler: thanks, love your makeup!

Roxy: I know, right? I'm gorgeous!

Spoiler:

Roxy: ...wanna have a girl's night with me and Glamrock Chica where we get dressed up and make Sun swear in binary?

Spoiler: did you even need to ask?

Robin, in a corner vibing with Mangle: *petting Mangle*

Mangle, also vibing: ._.(^w^)

Batman:

Puppet:

Batman:

Puppet:

Red Hood, realizing this is a staring contest: *goes halfway across the Pizzaplex to get popcorn and comes back to them in the exact same positions* ooh. Getting interesting

Nightwing: *argues with Circus Baby about clown etiquette*

Signal, overwhelmed by all the ghosts: man sure wish I had my lofi beats to study and relax to right now

DJ Music Man: *climbs out of the wall*

Signal: *unholy screeching* HOLY M- wait you're chill aren't you

DJ: *starts playing his version of lofi beats to study and relax to*

Signal: ...huh

Black Bat: *disappeared, found Ballora, and is now dancing with her* (^ ^)

Red Robin, recognizing the fox face from the WE hack: yOU

Funtime Foxy: I appreciate the enthusiasm for performing arts, but you must be thinking of my sibling!

Red Robin, who didn't find Lolbit's blueprints: your what

Lolbit, appearing out of nowhere: he means me!

Red Robin, with newly energized fury: YOU!

Lolbit: ...LOL!

[hameesstuff]

“Out of Tune, Into You”

Preview: Jaehyun x Reader slow burn story set in an idol AU with NCT 127 on tour, humor, emotional build-up, fluffy light smut, and Jaehyun slowly, deeply falling in love with his best friend—you.

Jaehyun x Reader | Idol AU | Best Friends to Lovers | Slow Burn | Tour Chaos | Humor + Fluff + Light Smut

___________________________________________

[1. Breakups & Banana Milk]

“Dumped.”

Jaehyun said it so casually you almost choked on your protein shake.

You looked up from your stretching mat. “Sorry—what?”

“Yeah,” he said, chewing a rice cracker with the emotional range of a paper towel. “So that’s over.”

You blinked. “Didn’t she fly to Tokyo just last week to surprise you?”

“Yup. Then she told me I’m emotionally unavailable and that I text like a hostage.”

“That’s… honestly fair.”

He gave you a betrayed look. “Et tu, Y/N?”

You offered him a banana milk. “Here. For your feelings.”

[2. This Is Fine™]

You were used to Jaehyun being a mess. Like when he lost his AirPods for a week and they were in his shoe. Or when he tried to cook for the members and nearly set the dorm on fire. But post-breakup Jaehyun was a new flavor.

He started sleeping on the practice room floor.

“Hyung,” Haechan whispered one night, stepping over him. “Is he dead?”

“No,” you sighed. “Just heartbroken and dramatic.”

Jaehyun groaned. “I can hear you.”

You squatted beside him, nudging his cheek with your finger. “Come on, lover boy. Time to shower before you merge with the wood floor.”

[3. Tour Kicks Off & Emotional Baggage Checks]

NCT 127’s world tour began the following week, and the emotional trauma had to come too—packed carefully beside your costumes and mic packs.

You ended up seated next to Jaehyun on the plane.

He nudged you halfway over the Pacific. “Do you think I’m unlovable?”

You snorted. “You’re a 10 with abandonment issues. Girls eat that up.”

He chuckled, then grew quiet. “But seriously… what if something’s wrong with me?”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “There is something wrong with you. You wear socks to bed. But you’re not unlovable.”

He didn’t reply, but he smiled into your hair.

[4. Hotel Room Roulette]

Jaehyun and you always got stuck rooming together on tour. Blame the managers who thought you were “harmless.”

You’d just finished rehearsal in Bangkok, sweat-drenched and sore, when he faceplanted into the bed beside you.

“I’m dying,” he groaned into the sheets.

You smirked. “Need a massage or a miracle?”

“Massage,” he mumbled. “Or your soul in a bottle. You keep me alive.”

You rolled your eyes but handed him your tiger balm. “Here. Don’t say I never loved you.”

He paused. “Can I?”

You raised a brow. “Can you what?”

His voice dropped. “Say you love me. Even fake. Just once.”

You blinked. The room felt too still.

So you said it—lightly, but maybe a bit too softly.

“I love you, idiot.”

He looked up at you then, something unreadable in his eyes.

You pretended not to see it.

[5. Close Proximity Is a Hell of a Drug]

Somewhere between Seoul and Berlin, things shifted.

Like when he handed you a water bottle and your fingers brushed—and neither of you moved.

Or how his hand lingered on your waist during a choreo run-through just a second too long.

Or that one time you tripped coming off stage and landed square in his arms—and neither of you laughed.

Instead, he just whispered, “I got you,” like it meant something.

You ignored the way your stomach flipped.

He was healing. That’s all.

Right?

[6. Houston Hotel & One Bed Horror]

The room booking error was not your fault.

But it was your reality.

“One bed?” you blinked.

Jaehyun blinked back. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t be stupid. It’s a king. Just stay on your side.”

He did.

Until 3 AM when you both shifted and somehow ended up spooning.

You woke up to his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck.

You carefully slid out of bed and didn’t bring it up.

Neither did he.

But he looked at you for a little too long the next day during soundcheck.

[7. The Teasing Begins]

Haechan, of course, noticed everything.

“You two are getting weird,” he said, pointing between you and Jaehyun mid-backstage ramen.

You coughed. “We’ve always been weird.”

“No,” Doyoung chimed in. “You’re intimate-weird. That post-breakup emotional dependency kind of weird.”

Jaehyun calmly took another bite. “We’ve been best friends for years.”

“Exactly,” Johnny said. “So why do you look like a kicked puppy every time she talks to a backup dancer?”

You and Jaehyun exchanged glances.

Neither of you had an answer.

[8. Confessions in Disguise]

Jaehyun wasn’t always poetic.

But one night, after a sold-out Tokyo Dome performance, he stood beside you on the rooftop of your hotel, city lights gleaming below, and said:

“You make everything feel less heavy.”

You turned to him. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He shrugged. “I’m capable of feelings. Just deeply repressed.”

You smiled. “Well, you’re doing great, champ.”

He chuckled but stayed quiet for a beat.

Then, softer, “I think I’m scared I’ll never feel right with anyone else.”

You stared at him. “Jae…”

He cut in quickly. “You don’t have to say anything. Just… let me stay beside you a little longer.”

You nodded.

And held his hand.

[9. Late Night, Lights Off]

In Chicago, after three hours of rehearsals and one shower, you flopped on your shared bed, exhausted.

Jaehyun lay beside you, scrolling through his phone.

“Remember when we first met?” you asked, voice soft.

“You spilled protein shake on me,” he replied.

“And you called me a menace.”

He grinned. “Still true.”

You smiled into the dark. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His voice came quieter. “I think I’m in love with you.”

You turned.

But he was already asleep.

Or pretending.

[10. Tour’s End & Love’s Beginning]

The final concert city: Seoul.

Home turf. Cameras. Fans. Pressure.

But Jaehyun only had eyes for you.

On stage, when the lights dimmed, he whispered into his mic during the ending ment: “I want to thank someone who kept me grounded when everything else felt like it was slipping.”

He didn’t say your name.

But the way he looked at you?

Everyone knew.

[AFTERPARTY – “Don’t Tell Me What I Feel”]

The hotel suite was loud with music and half-drunk laughter, the afterparty in full swing. NCT 127 had just wrapped their final Tokyo show, and everyone was still riding the high of it. You were curled up on the couch in sweats and a borrowed hoodie—his hoodie—watching Jaemin and Haechan challenge each other to a drinking game in broken Japanese.

Jaehyun, however, had been staring at you for the past ten minutes.

When you caught him, he didn’t look away.

You raised a brow. “What?”

He stood abruptly, offered a hand. “Come with me.”

“Where—?”

“Just come.”

You followed him into the empty hallway, where the bass of the music faded into muffled vibrations behind a heavy door. It was quiet, warm with summer Tokyo air slipping in through a cracked window.

Jaehyun turned to face you, jaw clenched like he was bracing himself.

“I have to tell you something.”

You blinked. “Okay...”

“I like you,” he said, voice low but certain. “I’ve liked you for a while now. Since before the breakup. I was too scared to admit it, but it’s always been you.”

You blinked again—this time slower—heart tripping a little in your chest.

“Jae…”

“I’m not confused,” he added quickly. “I’m not rebounding. I’m in love with you.”

You froze, eyes searching his face for the punchline. But he was dead serious.

And it broke your heart.

“Jaehyun,” you said gently, trying to smile, “you’re not actually in love with me. You just think you are.”

His brows drew in. “What?”

“You’re caught in post-tour emotions and afterglow and everything’s intense right now. You’re reading into it. You just like having me around.”

“You think I don’t know the difference?” His voice was quiet, tight.

“I’m just… me. I’m your best friend. I’m safe.”

He took a slow step closer. “Don’t do that.”

You laughed softly, sadly. “You’re just overwhelmed. Once things calm down, you’ll realize it wasn’t real.”

He stepped right in front of you now.

“Don’t tell me what I feel,” he said, voice like gravel and heat.

“Jae—”

He kissed you.

Not soft. Not tentative. Final.

His hands gripped your waist, mouth slanting over yours with months of quiet ache finally let loose. You gasped into it, hands bracing against his chest, and that was all he needed to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing yours like a promise he was ready to make real.

He pulled back slightly, lips brushing yours, breath hot.

“I know exactly how I feel,” he whispered.

You opened your mouth to argue—and he kissed you again, silencing the last of your doubt with the kind of kiss that made your knees weak and your heart sprint.

Your hands fisted in his hoodie. His name slipped out between breaths. And when he pressed you back against the hallway wall, his body flush with yours, it was like the months of tension finally cracked open and spilled over.

There was nothing rushed—just heat building slow and steady, lips tracing along your jaw, his hands slipping under your shirt like he needed to feel that you were real. Your back arched under his touch, your hips shifting instinctively, grinding softly into his.

His breath hitched. “God, don’t stop doing that.”

“Then kiss me again,” you whispered, needy now.

He did.

And this time, you didn’t pull away.

THE END

Feedback is welcome :)

___________________________________________

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #10

It all started because Clockwork got bored. That was the only reasonable explanation Danny could come up with. One minute he was signing ghost realm tax paperwork—yeah, turns out being Ghost King came with bureaucracy—and the next, Clockwork was swirling his little time-staff like a smug ghostly Gandalf and muttering something about “character growth” and “you’ve gone soft, Daniel.” And then bam, vortex of neon green time-energy, and suddenly Danny Fenton—a.k.a. Danny Phantom, Ghost King, Defender of Amity Park, Sloppy Hot Mess™—woke up in Westchester, New York, in a bed that smelled like lavender detergent and severe academic trauma.

Also, there was a kid across the room with laser eyes. Like, literal laser eyes. Danny dodged the optic blast with a yelp, crashed into a dresser, phased through it out of panic, and immediately got tackled by some blue-furred acrobatic Shakespeare enthusiast named Hank McCoy, who tried to sedate him with a tranquilizer gun the size of a trombone.

The chaos didn’t end there.

After an hour-long misunderstanding involving accidental ghost-punching, a kid phasing through a wall and screaming about “this new spirit trying to possess my Xbox,” and someone named Jean calmly levitating him mid-air like he was a naughty kitten, Danny finally got an audience with Charles Xavier. That guy. The bald one. Professor X. Wheelchair. Mind reader. Wears a turtleneck in July.

And of course, as soon as Danny sat down, Professor X pressed two fingers to his temple and Danny felt his entire mental vault of trauma shatter like a haunted snow globe. “Ah,” the Professor said with the polite cadence of someone realizing they’ve just tuned into a true crime documentary instead of the weather channel. “You have a great deal of… unique experiences.”

Danny laughed. Hysterically. “I died at fourteen and now I run a death monarchy in an alternate dimension. Unique is so last week.”

Turns out Clockwork, that glorified antique grandfather clock with too much free time, had decided that Danny needed to “learn to connect with others his age again” and “gain allies outside the Ghost Zone.” So he dropped Danny off at a mutant boarding school like some sort of half-dead foreign exchange student. And Charles Xavier, either because he’s too nice or secretly thrilled to collect weirdos like Pokémon cards, welcomed him with open arms.

Now, Danny wasn’t a mutant. He made that very clear. He was a half-ghost hybrid from an accident involving his parents’ DIY death portal and a broken sense of safety regulations. But that didn’t stop the other students from assuming he was just a weirdo with very specific powers and a questionable haircut. The moment Rogue tried to absorb him and got an accidental flash of the time Pariah Dark tried to possess his left kidney, she screamed, exploded a tree, and refused to make eye contact with him for a week. Logan thought that was hilarious and called him “Casper with PTSD.” Danny called Logan “Hairy Ferret Man.” A rivalry was born.

Also, it turned out that mutants at Xavier’s School had no chill. None. Zip. Zero. When they found out Danny could go intangible and invisible? Prank war. Full-on, Cold War-style prank war.

Kurt teleported hot sauce into his shoes. Danny replaced Kurt’s shampoo with slime from the Box Ghost. Bobby froze Danny’s underwear drawer. Danny phased into Bobby’s room at 3 a.m. and whispered “I’m always watching” into his ear like a cursed Roomba. Scott tried to discipline them with a “team bonding” exercise. Danny phased his clothes off in front of the entire class during the obstacle course.

He did not know Kitty Pryde could scream that loud. Or punch that hard.

Things escalated.

One day, Jean and Ororo walked into the library to find Danny floating upside down while holding a book with his foot, chewing a pen, and muttering to himself in the Ghost Zone’s dead language. When asked what he was doing, he said he was “reverse engineering a spectral war code to crash the cafeteria’s menu algorithm so they’d bring back pizza bagels.” Jean left the room. Ororo gave him a high five.

That might’ve been the least unhinged thing he did that week.

Because Danny had fans now. The students—bless their hormone-fueled, superpowered hearts—thought he was the coolest thing since Wolverine got into a fistfight with a vending machine. He had followers. A literal cult. Called themselves “The Phantom Phreaks.” They made glow-in-the-dark hoodies with his face on it. One kid tried to dye their hair white using bleach and ghost peppers. It didn’t go well.

It got worse when Peter Parker showed up.

Apparently, he was doing some college-credit tutoring with Xavier’s School because of course the kid with radioactive spider powers and crippling anxiety was the designated Marvel mentor. Peter tried to explain the concept of “laying low” and “not being a public menace” and Danny just blinked, turned intangible, floated through a wall, and popped his head back in to say, “I once bench-pressed a building-sized ghost walrus. I am beyond menace, Peter.”

They became friends instantly.

Peter would swing by to help with science classes and would end up staying for hours, mostly because Danny was a magnet for eldritch ghost disasters. One time, a time-displaced pirate specter named Captain Bloodwhistle tried to possess the student kitchen mixer. Peter got covered in spectral marshmallow fluff. Danny laughed so hard he accidentally ripped a hole into the Astral Plane. Peter got dragged halfway in. Jean had to psychic-yank him back with what she described as “a migraine made of bees.”

Also, Danny started dating one of the Cuckoo sisters.

He wasn’t sure which one. They wouldn’t tell him.

One of them would show up to lunch, sit next to him, hand him a thermos full of ghost chili, kiss his cheek, and then disappear into the crowd. Danny asked once if they were just messing with him. The Cuckoo in question smiled and said, “Maybe. Or maybe we’re all in love with you. Isn’t that romantic?”

He nearly screamed.

That was before the Avengers got involved.

Apparently, Xavier forgot to tell them he’d adopted a literal half-dead godchild of the underworld into his school. So one day Tony Stark landed in the front yard in a red-and-gold panic and tried to “detain the supernatural threat.” Danny responded by phasing into the suit, taking control of it, and flying it into the sky while singing “Let It Go” at full volume. Tony had to eject mid-air. He landed in a bush. Scott filmed it. Jubilee added sparkles in post.

Then Nick Fury showed up and tried to recruit him.

Danny told him he was already King of the Dead and the living were beneath him. Then he tripped on his shoelace and fell into a bush. Same bush Tony had landed in. They bonded. Kind of.

And then Loki showed up, because someone (cough Wanda cough) told him that a teenage ghost king with ancient death powers was living rent-free at Xavier’s. Loki tried to seduce Danny into joining his side. Danny asked if his horns were compensating for something. Loki cursed his shampoo to turn his hair pink. Danny retaliated by summoning an actual ghost bull to chase Loki through the halls while yelling, “Fight me, Party City Maleficent!”

Charles suspended them both for 48 hours.

Danny used the time off to open a haunted lemonade stand in the Danger Room. It made five grand and summoned three minor demons. Hank was not pleased.

And look, Danny was trying. He really was. He went to his classes (when he remembered), tried not to make sarcastic comments during training (he failed), and even got a job at the school paper writing ghost horoscopes. (“Sagittarius: avoid mirrors this week. Capricorn: the undead whisper secrets to you, don’t trust them unless they have snacks.”) But trouble followed him like a clingy poltergeist.

One time a field trip to Central Park ended with a ghost bear rampaging through the zoo. Another time, he got possessed by a Victorian poet ghost and started writing depressing haikus on the bathroom walls. He once accidentally opened a mini-portal in the girl’s dorm by sneezing. No one knew how. Not even Clockwork.

And oh, Clockwork?

He’d drop in occasionally, hovering in midair with that smug look, sipping ghost tea, and muttering things like, “Growth looks good on you,” while Danny was being chased by a ghost goose that had eaten a cursed student ID.

It was chaos.

It was ridiculous.

It was unhinged, feral, terrifying, and oddly heartwarming.

Because for the first time since he’d become half-ghost, since he’d died and come back and been crowned a spectral king with too many responsibilities and not enough hugs, Danny had a home that was weird enough for him. A home full of flying kids, clawed professors, laser eyes, psychic meltdowns, teleporting blue elves, and students who didn’t flinch when he told them his parents once tried to dissect him in a lab accident.

He was just another freak among freaks.

And he kinda loved it.

Even if his bedroom lights occasionally flickered Morse code insults.

Even if Logan kept threatening to shave his head in his sleep.

Even if Peter Parker made a “Ghost King Survival Kit” and stuffed it with snacks, holy water, and emotional support memes.

Even if the Cuckoo sisters left threatening notes in his locker written in glitter glue.

Even if Xavier kept giving him polite but exhausted psychic lectures about “not weaponizing the garden gnomes.”

Even if the Danger Room now had a setting labeled “Phantom Mode” that was literally just a green portal, a pissed-off dragon ghost, and an army of flying textbooks.

Danny Phantom was home.

And Ghost King or not, these mutants had no idea what kind of disaster they’d just adopted.

[rafry]

Euclydia, Cults and Need for Control

Disclaimer: this analysis raises sensitive topics. if you are/were a victim of a cult and the topic triggers you, please refrain from reading further(/seek help). Additionally, I am not a specialist on said topic, nor am I a clinician. But I am a survivor, so part of the narrative may or may not be just me projecting the trauma on a silly yellow triangle. That said, reader discretion is advised! :)

The take: Euclydia is likely to be a cult-like society and the reason Bill, after years of abuse, grows up to be as he is: a power-hungry monster. Let's analyze!

For the starters, The Start. Each state has its own anthem. How lucky that we were kindly provided with the Euclidian hymn (hidden under the code "FORGETTHEPAST")! Lets take a look:

"Two dimensions to and from, You always know which way to go If you're lost, don't be afraid, In Euclydia you've got it made! Run too far too right of frame, You'll appear on left again! Jump too high, don't fry or fret, You'll pop up from the ground, I bet! In this place there is no fear, Roles and rules, always clear, Euclydia, we hold you dear…"

That tells us way more than we could've asked for, really. The most important: Euclydia is a state of Clear Rules™. Everything works perfectly thanks to The Rules and The Roles, and the state is loved by it's citizens. It's might be a caricature 2D utopia, but how it reacts when the rules are questioned?

"Eye doctor of a different kind, who wants to make his patient blind The doctor says: 'three sips a day will make the visions go away' Fussy eater, baby Billy Wouldn't drink unless it's silly..."

If there's anything about cults and the way they make people behave, is that the "wrong" ones in the community are usually ostracized and/or heavily medicated to not cause any troubles. Those people are sometimes called 'heretics', but may as well just be called crazy or insane by their peers. Oh look completely unrelated picture:

"Cipher, Cipher, he's insane Starting fires with his brain"

Honestly, the other time it would be it. Euclydia, if not Is, then sure does Act like a cult in some way. I could've finished here, easily, but there's something missing, isn't?

"The hell do you mean by 'The Need to Control', OP?"

I mean that the BILLVILLE is important.

There's the thing about trauma survivors: some of us, after living a life with no control over ones societal position (ostracization/isolation), body (forcibly medicated) or even mind (feeling of inadequacy), crave for some form of control to be regained.

It can turn toxic very quickly when the only form of control one has ever seen in their life is being The Leader (cult leader/shitty parent/armageddon overlord/you get the idea, it's about becoming an authority figure).

And so, Bill becomes a cult leader! Very possibly covering up the need for control and admiration with what I call "The most inefficient way to build an Interdimentional Portal ever", since, well, he's got to lie to himself every now and then, that's his thing (trauma response).

As for the details:

He uses the dead mans body — the body that wouldn't cause any resistance, thus being perfect for taking under control.

He sees the position of the interviewer as more authoritative than the position of the interviewee — and he swaps the roles. That wasn't enough though, so he demands (politely) to be called "My Lord And Master" for a good measure.

He very possibly recreates some of Euclydia-like order in his own "Town" in terms of expressing individuality. They might've been pretty decent in following scripts, I think.

So, I don't think Euclydia has ever been religious in any way, since that would left some other scars on Bills psyche for sure. But highly authoritative, ignorant, strict in its rules to the point of self-damnation? That checks. That's the place that has formed Bill, after all.

That's the place that he wishes to rebuild.

Maybe not consciously, maybe distorted by his illness and broken memory of a loving-paradise-home that has never actually been that way, but he seeks the comfort of familiarity — most of us do. Familiar stings are better than an uncontrollable too-bright future, isn't?

I hope he does well on therapy.

[littlegreendeathmachine]

I love how all of the playable male protagonists in the Ace Attorney series are written as snarky, sassy little bitches. We get to read their inner thoughts and see their cattiness, their sarcasm, and their raw, unfiltered vinegar. These boys are just plain MEAN sometimes but they often think what we (the player) are thinking…

My favorite thing is when a bit of their pointy inner dialogue accidentally spills out into their spoken conversation and even their teenage weirdgirl assistants are like “DAMN BRO THAT WAS FUCKIN SAVAGE”.

I wish I had better examples but I never take enough screenshots during my playthroughs so I used the bitchiest looking sprites of them I could find.

We’ve got…

Phoenix, who, at least at the beginning of his career, tries his damndest to be kind and unbiased toward everyone he meets, but no matter how hard he fights, he just can’t help letting some of his sarcasm slip out. He’s like a puppy trying to stifle his bark. He definitely doesn’t try as hard later on (or at all while he’s disbarred) but still attempts to maintain a semblance of professionalism (unless Miles is around). The funniest thing about him is that he’s a very good judge of character so his inner monologue seems to be his genuine, true observations of people and not just him being an ass for the sake of being an ass.

Miles, who is already seen by everyone around him as an arrogant cock, has some of the best knee slappers I’ve ever seen in his inner thoughts. His dry, deadpan humor is unparalleled, and I love that he uses the utmost precision when deciding who and who not to filter himself around. He’s always playing chess in his mind, after all. Interestingly, he hides his pleasant thoughts about people as well as his negative ones. Can’t let anybody, even his BEST FRIENDS, see an ounce of weakness — no, that just wouldn’t be the Edgeworth way.

Apollo, who has a tendency to think out loud more often than the others and gains himself quite a reputation for being something of a loose cannon (they don’t call him “horned devil” for nothing). He has no qualms about letting people around him know what he thinks about them, though he definitely shares more than he wants to, because, like word vomit, he just can’t stop it from coming out. We learn later on in the series that this lil’ guy has lots of trauma and inner demons, so part of it may be a coping mechanism; either way, the people who care about him have gotten used to this and understand that he’s just gonna be kind of a fucking brat sometimes.

and Ryunosuke, who starts off seemingly unassuming and quiet, a young man who keeps to himself until we soon come to realize he was the OG Bitch™ and has some of the saltiest quips of the 19th century, especially when Sholmes is nearby. I love the contrast between him and Susato, who tries to approach everything with so much grace, while he’s over here like “People in Britain are quite peculiar….” which in his era roughly translates to “Can you BELIEVE these ignorant ass motherfuckers?” He’s quick to point out other people’s flaws but he also spends a lot of time wrestling with his own feelings of inadequacy, so there’s a lot more to his character than his “just some guy” narrative lets on. We stan bitchy Runo.

I love them all SO much. Babies! Babies for life!

It is my firm belief (opinion) that they were all meant to be gay or bi and neurodivergent (as well as their weirdgirl assistants) but that’s a discussion for another day, and a long one, so write that down. And don’t even get me started on the other prosecuties… Capcom really knows how to make MCs that I want to squeeze in my fist like a chew toy because how are they all so cute and terrible? I need more. Can you tell I’m dying for AA7? *salivates*

Also, I wanna hear your favorite bitchy lines from these fine young men!

[padawan-snack-packer]

[You Give Them a Hug — Clones Edition]

🚨 HUG HEADCANONS DISCLAIMER (aka: why are my feelings doing this??) 🚨

Hey friend!! Just a heads-up before you dive headfirst into the Clone Hugpocalypse:

This is:

✨For fun.✨

✨For feelings.✨

✨For healing my (and maybe your) inner sad clone child.✨

These headcanons are lovingly crafted with:

Unhealthy amounts of affection for emotionally constipated space soldiers,

Absolutely zero canon accuracy unless it serves The Bit™,

The kind of hugs that won’t fix everything, but they’ll try really hard, and

That sweet spot between “haha this is silly” and “WHY AM I SOBBING AT 3AM OVER A MAN NAMED WAXER???”

We’re here to give the boys hugs they deserved but never got, be unreasonably specific about emotional reactions to surprise cuddles, make jokes, get soft, get feral, maybe cry into our caf a little, and fill the galaxy with therapy via physical affection.

So if you’re:

Down for some clone comfort chaos,

Cool with affectionate nonsense,

And not too fussed about blending humor with trauma like a Force-sensitive emotional smoothie…

WELCOME!!! Let’s hug some broken war brothers and watch their brains blue screen in real time!!!!🫂💙

Rex

You approach him after a mission, he's mid-debrief with Commander Cody, all business—and you just wrap your arms around him.

Short-circuits like a protocol droid in a thunderstorm.

“Uh. Uh. Uh. Are you—hugging? Is that allowed? Wait—is this a prank??”

Freezes completely. He has been shot at, crushed under debris, and chased by a Zillow Beast, but THIS? THIS IS NEW.

But once he realizes you’re being sincere?

He hugs you back with this awkward, hesitant little pat on the back.

…Then his whole body melts just a little.

Won’t admit it, but he thinks about that hug for days. Constantly.

The next time you do it, he hugs back properly. Arm around your waist. Soft smile. You can hear the PTSD unclench.

Fives

“OH???”

You hug him and he immediately goes full dramatic soap opera romance novel mode.

“Oh cyare, I never thought I’d feel joy again!” dips you back like you’re on a dance floor in a 1940s holo-drama

Spinning you around is highly likely.

“What was that for?” “Just felt like it.” “Well, prepare to be hugged back so hard you question physics.”

Keeps score. “I hugged you for longer. That’s 10 points to me.”

Will start randomly leaning on you just so you'll initiate hugs. Professional cuddler. Certified clingy. No takebacks.

Echo

Hugging Echo is like trying to hug a very anxious piece of military-grade toast the first time.

He stiffens IMMEDIATELY. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink. Just internal.exe has stopped working.

You pull away and he’s like: “Wait. No. That was… actually kinda nice.”

Next time you hug him, he’s prepared. It’s still a little awkward, but he softens into it and gives you a little squeeze back.

One time he rested his chin on your shoulder and made a soft noise. You almost died from the gentle.

Eventually becomes the kind of guy to hug you in private but also glare at anyone else who dares look at you like "NO TOUCHING. THIS ONE'S MINE."

Jesse

You hug Jesse? Oh you are in for smug bastard energy.

“Ohoho, so someone likes me.”

Immediately picks you up.

Spinning is almost guaranteed.

“I am your favorite clone now. It’s science.”

Will initiate revenge hugs at the most inconvenient times. In the middle of a strategy briefing? “Come here, you adorable tactical disaster.”

Says things like “how dare you be so huggable, this is sabotage.”

Secretly very soft. Like, he’ll rest his forehead against yours before a mission and say “come back to me, alright?”

Kix

You hug him? You just activated his Care Mode™.

He immediately assumes you need comfort and goes into medic boyfriend mode:

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you bleeding internally? Let me check your vitals.”

“Kix, I just wanted to hug you.”

“…OH. Then never mind. But also drink water.”

Once he realizes it’s casual affection, he gets very warm and smiley.

Gives amazing hugs back. Firm, grounding, with the faint smell of bacta and caf.

Will gently guide your head to his chest. You can hear his heartbeat and a very quiet “you mean a lot to me, you know.”

Hardcase

INSTANT EXCITEMENT. “A HUG?? FOR ME???!!”

He picks you up. He spins you. He almost knocks over two troopers and a crate.

“DOES THIS MEAN I GET TO HUG YOU WHENEVER I WANT NOW?!”

He's so tall and enthusiastic it’s like hugging a golden retriever on steroids.

Will randomly run up to you, yell “HUG ATTACK!!” and tackle-hug you like a joyful missile.

Gives the kind of hugs that lift you off the ground, squeeze all your sadness out, and refill you with explosive energy.

“You looked sad, so I brought you a hug and also six different kinds of rations because I wasn’t sure which flavor helps feelings.”

Dogma

You hug Dogma and he freezes like a booted droid.

“W-what…what is this? Is this allowed? Is this a breach of protocol?”

You say “I just wanted to,” and he blushes so hard it looks like he’s overheating.

Tries to salute while you’re hugging him.

Very stiff at first, but once he realizes you’re safe, not joking, and this isn’t a punishment or test—he melts.

His return hug is so careful, like he’s worried he’ll break you.

Won’t initiate a hug himself, but he leans in now. He always leans in.

Cody

You sneak-hug Commander Cody while he’s organizing intel.

“Is this an ambush?” “Yup.” “…Accepted.”

He doesn’t show emotion often, but he likes you. A lot. So he lets his guard down.

Low-key one of the best huggers. Solid, warm, comforting.

The kind of hug that says I will keep you safe until the end of time.

After the first time, he starts greeting you with shoulder squeezes that slowly evolve into full-on hugs.

If anyone walks in: “They tripped. Onto me. It’s fine. Shut up, Waxer.”

Waxer

You hug Waxer and this man straight up breaks like a brittle cookie under a warm cup of caf.

Shocked Pikachu face at first. Like he fully does not know what’s happening.

He blinks. Looks down at your arms. Then at you. Then back at your arms like “Do they know I’m just a clone?”

You don’t let go. You just keep hugging him. And he just… leans in. Slowly. Carefully.

It’s gentle. It’s soft. It’s the first time in weeks he’s remembered he’s a person, not a number.

Murmurs something like: “...Thanks. That’s... rare.”

From that moment on, you are family.

Starts giving you surprise hugs. Especially when you least expect it.

You hand him ammo? Hug.

You fall asleep on the transport? Blanket + hug.

You stub your toe? “This calls for a hug AND a bandage.”

Secretly knits little stuffed Tooka dolls for orphan kids and denies it violently if caught.

If you ever say “you deserve love too,” he cries. Quietly. In the hallway.

Boil

You go to hug Boil and he IMMEDIATELY does the grumpy-cop reaction. “Whoa whoa whoa what are you doing—what is this—are you bleeding?”

Arms locked at his sides like you’re hugging a parking meter.

“Did Waxer put you up to this? This feels like a Waxer thing.”

You say, “No, I just wanted to hug you.”

And he shuts down like a battle droid hit with a logic loop.

“...Oh.”

He slowly, hesitantly raises one hand and pats your back like he’s diffusing a bomb.

One week later: He initiates a hug by awkwardly standing next to you and saying “Hey, if you need to do... that again or whatever, I guess I got a minute.”

Turns into hug tsundere. Grumbles the whole time but pulls you closer anyway.

You overhear him telling someone else: “No, I don’t like hugs. I just let them because they’re small and emotionally fragile.”

Meanwhile, he’s actively spooning you during downtime.

If anyone hurts you, Boil becomes a one-man war crime.

“No one touches my squishy little hug-friend but me. Got it?”

Bonus: The Domino Squad Bros (Before Umbara… RIP)

Hevy: Hugs you like a linebacker. Back pats that rattle your spine. Somehow always smells like gun oil and joy.

Cutup: Tries to tickle you mid-hug. Laughs so hard you both fall over. Says “awww, is someone getting attached?” while being the clingiest man alive.

Droidbait: Turns into a red-faced mess and blurts “I THINK I’M IN LOVE—wait no I mean um cool hug yeah.”

Echo (pre-ARC): Gives the kind of hugs that are more like gentle head rests. Hides his face in your neck and says “thanks. I needed that.” Your heart? Gone.

Bonus: Wolffe Pack Edition

Commander Wolffe

Hugging Wolffe is like hugging a brick wall with abandonment issues.

You approach him after a mission—he’s grumpy, bruised, barking orders—and you just wrap your arms around him.

And he’s like: “...what the hell is happening?”

FREEZES COMPLETELY. Arms stiff at his sides. Helmet still on. All systems shutting down. Internal monologue: “okay. okay. they are touching me. what do I do. do I arrest them. do I hug back. am I allowed to like this. oh no it’s nice. abort mission.”

Eventually—very slowly—his arms come up. He hugs you back like a tired, grouchy lion.

But then? You hear this tiny, low little exhale. Like he’s been holding his breath for 20 years and just remembered how to breathe. That hug heals him on a spiritual level.

Says absolutely nothing about it afterward. But his hand lingers on your back just a second longer than necessary the next time you walk past.

Sinker

“HEYOOOOO IS THAT A HUG I SEE??”

Immediately all in.

You don’t even finish initiating the hug before he scoops you into a bear hug so powerful your bones shift alignment.

Spins you around. Shakes you. Shouts “WE’RE FRIENDS NOW FOREVER YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT??”

Is 5000% a hugger by nature. Just never thought he was allowed to do it in the army.

Now that you’ve started it? You’ve unlocked the floodgates. Expect surprise hugs, one-armed shoulder squeezes, lifting-you-off-your-feet hugs, “hey I missed you for 5 minutes so here’s a hug” hugs—

Dangerously affectionate golden retriever energy.

Will absolutely start a “HUG THE ENTIRE BATTALION” campaign if left unsupervised.

Boost

You go to hug Boost, and his first reaction is: “...Are you sick?”

Then: “Wait. Are you dying?? Is this a goodbye hug?? DO YOU HAVE A FATAL WOUND??”

You reassure him it’s just a hug because you care about him.

He immediately does a 180. “Awwwwwwwwwwww! You care about me??? Of course you do, I’m awesome!! C’mere!!”

Picks you up like a child and swings you side to side while yelling “I’M LOVED! I’M LOVED!!!”

Absolutely insufferable in the most lovable way.

Starts initiating random sneak attack hugs. Behind crates. In line for food. Mid-mission. “Time for your daily emotional support clamp! HUGGED!!”

Tells Wolffe you hugged him and Wolffe just walks away immediately.

Comet

You hug Comet and he goes completely still.

Not in a “what is this” way. More like a “oh… oh no I need this and I didn’t know” way.

Arms go around you slowly, almost reverently. He’s warm and solid and still smells like blaster oil and ration bars.

He says quietly: “...Thanks. Been a rough one.”

Doesn’t let go right away.

He’s the kind of person who holds a hug like he thinks it’ll keep you both grounded. Like if he lets go, the galaxy will fall apart.

After that first one, he’ll give you real, deep hugs when you both need grounding. Doesn’t say much. Just holds on and lets the silence do the work.

Also becomes your Official Debrief Cuddle Buddy. End of long day? “You look like you need five minutes of hug.” And you always, always do.

🐺 BONUS: Wolffe Pack Group Hug Edition

You try to hug them all at once.

This is chaos.

Sinker lifts you and tries to twirl you.

Boost yells “PILE ON!!” and launches himself at the group like a very affectionate missile.

Wolffe is stuck in the middle of a dogpile of affection, looking like he wants to die and also maybe cry.

“Why. Are we. Touching this much.”

Comet somehow ends up holding Boost in a princess carry.

At one point Sinker tries to start a “hug chant.” It does not catch on. (Except with Boost. It echoes for 12 hours.)

Wolffe says nothing for days. Then randomly, at 3am, grumbles: “...That was kinda nice.”

[neverthebabysitter]

Thinking about that prompt i found on TikTok about faking your death and then coming back and knocking on your best friend's door like nothing happened.

That but make Steve fake his own death accidentally, so he is clueless why Robin is freaking out when he goes to visit her.

(with a side of Steve going feral a la Jonh Wick and Die Hard over his car, i'm so normal about this, so normal, it's not like i use this like an oportunity to make a b99 reference, pff, Gertie who??? )

Like, i know nothing about witness protection and how faking your death would work, but, but- let's use our imagination.

Steve's father being a lawyer and messing with someone he shouldn't have. He ends up dead and because of this, the cops think they could go after Steve too.

Which, true, Steve has an accident that destroys his car (RIP BMW, I love you, but this is for plot reasons, you would be missed), so now he has to be under witness protection.

Steve, like the ball of repressed trauma and anger issues that he is, decides that the best thing to do is go after the people who destroyed his car, a la John Wick; because:

Going after them to avenge his father: no, thank you.

Going after them to avenge his car: yes, let me go for my bat.

That without forgetting to leave a cryptic message to Eddie's and Robin's voicemail.

While Steve is having his own action movie with handling the 'mob' and cops that kinda want to help, kinda don't care; the rest of the Party is freaking out because "WHAT DO YOU MEAN NO ONE INVITED HIM TO SPEND CHRISTMAS WITH SOMEONE AND WHAT DO YOU MEAN HIS CAR WAS FOUND IN THE QUARRY???".

Dustin asks Robin if something happened with Steve during christmas, like kissing under the mistletoe or something, only for Robin to say she didn't invite him because Eddie did, but Eddie hears that and goes, "Uh, no? I chicken out; I thought you would invite him after I didn't."

They asking around if someone invited Steve because it's kind of public knowledge that his parents suck, but no one did, and he hasn't come to the Party's Christmas party yet, so he's probably mad at them.

But Eddie and Robin are having a Bad Feeling™ because of the voicemails, and Hopper is being called to identify a car that it was found in the quarry that morning.

And Hopper knows that car, he has seen that car since Steve was a dumb teenager that got his parties busted by the chief. He hasn't seen Steve for a while. He wasn't at the christmas party. Where was he again?

The Party still isn't in the know, but Hopper is already looking for Steve but he can't find him and-

Remember that i told you Steve was in witness protection? Well, i think sometimes they fake their deaths, i'm not sure, but this is the perfect oportunity and cover to pretend that Steve died.

So the government uses it, and The Party doesn't know because different branch of the government and all that.

When Hopper founds out he doesn't know how to tell the other that Steve had an accident and they are still looking for him in the quarry; but they already know, they used Dustin's cerebro to find out what was going on.

Everyone is devastaded, and then, Eddie and Robin hear their voicemail again only to bring out that maybe it wasn't an accident, that maybe Steve did it on porpose.

And grief, pain, mourning, sadness, anger. Just a lot of feelings.

Meanwhile, Steve is kicking ass and using the Bad Guys™ headquarters like his own personal rage room.

Blablabla something something something.

Steve let out his anger, has a few personal realisations, lets himself think about the trauma he's endured all those years and comes back like a new person, ready to confess his feelings for Eddie Munson and let people care about him.

The first thing is go talk with Robin, she's probably worried about him and she probably knows better than him to help him confess to Eddie.

So he goes, only to be utterly confuse by the amount of tears, snot, yells and hugs that Robin welcomes him. It's not like he died.

Then Robin is flabbergasted by his Audacity.

Both of them fall into a bickering that makes Robin cry harder because she thought she wouldn't have this again and Steve starts to cry because Robin is crying and now they're both crying.

Needless to say, they catch up about all the things that happened in both ends.

It's not the end of tears, hugs and yelling, though.

Just give Steve all the confort that he refused to accept because he didn't think he deserved and that people didn't know how to give.

Fluff, Fluffy, Fluff. A bit of Steddie here.

Yeah, that's all.