#but at the end of the day i love this au

[the-dangerous-mute-lunatic]

A little Chell and Gladys from my fic Years of Science, since it's been a bit since I worked on the fic

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[peanuttoffee]

The Bad Batch finale missing scene

Yeah I needed that…

May the 4th be with you!🙌

[crabsnpersimmons]

eats your clip

oh boy, looks like Clip is on the menu

again

plus a bonus with Bloodmoon!

[howlonomy]

Monster Clover, like this is so awesomecool.

They're such a little beast and it is amazing and please i need more, like written text even i just need the juicy lore and emotional moments that are circling in ur brain.

HAT: RETRIEVED!!

[sunnymainecoonx]

And errr whatever this guy is

[ruporas]

honeymoon phase! (ID in alt)

[lovesickeros]

☆ de fontaine

{☆} characters furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings angst, suicidal thoughts, hurt / no comfort {☆} word count 1.4k

This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair!

She thought, for one moment, she could put the mask down and breathe – for one moment of daydreaming, she thought she could just be Furina. She thought she would finally get to live the live she should've had in the first place, the life she threw away to play God to an audience who saw her as nothing but a circus animal, dancing to their whims. Furina just wanted to be selfish for one brief and fleeting moment..and it was gone before she could even grasp it in her hand. A comet soaring past far out of her reach.

She can barely keep her hands from violently shaking as she looks down at them – broken and bloody and more a corpse then a person – and she feels so numb she can't even feel the rain pelting against her back. None of this is fair, she wants to scream, why is it always me? But her voice is silent beneath the torrent of rain. She wonders if the ocean would take her if she sank into it's depths – just for a moment, she wonders how it would feel to finally be able to sleep at ease.

Furina is tired.

But Furina is nothing if not useful, isn't she?

So she forces her feet to move, dragging against the stone beneath her heels, and drags their bloodied body into the nearest empty building, letting the rain do the work of washing away the smeared blood following her path. The smell makes her feel sick, the feeling of it sticking to her hands and gloves makes her lightheaded, but she persists. Because Furina is useful, because Furina won't let them die out in the rain, because Furina won't stand by and just let them rot on the streets like some..pest.

Furina wants to go home. She wants to sleep and she isn't she if she wants to wake up, this time. But she keeps going anyway.

Because it's all she's ever done, and the habit sticks.

An Archon she may not be, not anymore, but the expectations of five hundred years still linger like eyes on the inside of her skull. They watch her, pry and prod at her thoughts, mocking laughter and judging eyes following her as she forces herself to dance to the song they weave with glee. Furina never stepped off that stage – she's still there, she thinks, watching the crowd stare at her in disdain as the curtain call looms above her like a guillotine. She still hears Neuvillette deliver her damnation and salvation with a trembling voice, still feels her hair stand on end when electro crackled like the crack of the whip, Clorinde's blade aimed at her like a loaded gun.

She's trapped on that stage and she never left, not really.

She hates it. She thinks she hates them, but it's not their fault. They didn't ask for this, didn't ask for everyone to turn against them, didn't ask for her to save them. Neither did she..yet here they are, she thinks.

She tries to tell herself she's in control this time, though. She can stop performing her part in this horrible, bloody play any time she wants. It makes her feel better, just for a little while, if she convinces herself she's still Furina, painfully human.

And Furina has always been good at lying.

It's the believing that's the hard part.

There isn't time for her to wallow in her own self pity, though. They're still bleeding out onto the dusty, creaky floorboards of some random, broken down house and she's just standing there as the blood stains the wood. She can fix it – she's good at fixing things. She's done nothing but fix things – try to, anyway – for five hundred years. She can fix a little wound, how hard could it be? Her hands are clenched so tight they ache as she kneels down, wincing at the creak of the floorboards beneath her heels– she hesitates just long enough to wonder if she's making a mistake before she peels away just enough of the outer layer of their clothes to see the deep, bloody gash across their chest. She tries not to think about it – it's deep, too deep, and she feels dizzy just looking at it, but she's handled worse, right?

Furina can fix it. That's what she's good at.

She doesn't feel so confident when she tries to wrack her brain for..something. Five hundred years, and a little wound stumps her? No, she had to have learned something, right? She's decidedly not trying to buy time because she's panicking, parsing through hundreds of years of memories like flipping through a book. Furina isn't made for this, not really – she's running on nothing but adrenaline and she's really not sure what she's doing, but she's trying. And just like before, it won't be enough, will it?

She'll fall short again – she'll be too late to fix it before she's alone again.

Furina was an Archon..used to be. What use would she have for that sort of knowledge? Which makes her predicament all the more harrowing and bleak. What was she supposed to do?

Furina had heard it first hand, that vitriol in Neuvillette's voice. She isn't sure she's ever heard him that..angry before. She's not sure he would listen to her if she tried, either. And that scares her more then anything. All of Fontaine was up in arms about this..imposter, yet here she was, staring down at them bleeding out in front of her, and she was trying to save them.

Why? Why is she throwing away her only chance at normalcy for a fraud? Why didn't she just turn them in?

They were dying – that should've been a good thing, shouldn't it? So why didn't it feel like it?

"Why you?" Her voice breaks as she speaks in harsh tones, grabbing the front of their shirt in trembling, bloodied hands. "Why now?" She wants to scream, to demand answers they can't give, to claw back the reprieve she was promised after five hundred years of agony..and all she can do is sob into their chest, pleading for an answer that will not come. "Why me?"

Silence is their answer, and it hangs heavy on her trembling shoulders as she cries.

Of course they don't, she thinks bitterly, no one has ever answered her pleas spoken in hushed sobs. Not her other self and certainly not them.

Furina has always been alone. Furina will always be alone.

Because Furina never left that stage, never left that moment when she looked at herself in the mirror and took up a mantle too heavy for her to bear. She always finds her way back eventually. There's no one on the other side anymore – she stands alone on a stage, waiting for an inevitable end she isn't sure will come.

"Please," She pleads through tears and choked sobs, clinging to them like they are all that keeps her from sinking. "Please don't leave me, too." The words burn on her tongue – how pathetic is she that she craves companionship from the bloodied body of the imposter? Perhaps she's truly lost her mind after all these years..perhaps she's finally gone mad. She must have.

But their presence is like the first feeling of gentle warmth upon her skin as the sun crests the horizon, like the gentle lap of tides along her heels, the sway of branches and leaves as the wind blows through them like an instrument all it's own. They are the soothing sound of rain against the window as she watches the dreary skies in fond longing, the first bloom of spring as color blooms upon the landscape like paint had been spilled across the hills and valleys.

They are like the faint spark she carefully nurtures and stokes, so fragile even the smallest wind could blow it out like a candle. She cradles it within her palms, pleads with whoever will listen – prays that someone finally listens, because if not for her, then for them.

She's failed to protect too much already, let too many people with so much trust in her fall between the cracks of her fingers like grains of sand. She won't let them go – she can't.

If nothing else, if she couldn't be saved when she begged for salvation from that five hundred year long agony, even if she never got that chance..

Furina will make sure they do.

[starry-bi-sky]

Do you think anyone ever tells fem!Danny that she looks like Talia?

Yes! Anyone who knew Talia would probably point out that she resembles her mother. Danny's got her old man's blue eyes and black hair and eyebrows, but predominantly her mother's features. Danny's a momma's girl even with the difficulties of leaving the League, so she would take that with pride honestly. Her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world in her eyes.

I'm thinking about when Damian and Danyal reunite and they're trying to reconcile/reconnect, I'm imagining that Damian just staring at his sister one day. When Danny calls him out on it, he eventually admits that she looks like mother. Danyal stops what she's doing for a moment, and then quietly preens because it's what thing to hear it from other people, its another to hear it from her brother.

[gentil-minou]

Wei Wuxian licks his lips and leans forward slightly, walking his fingers across the countertop aimlessly toward Lan Zhan. “You know, Lan Zhan,” he drawls, “A-Yuan says we’re both in the book.”

“Mn,” Lan Zhan responds, tracking the path of his fingers intently, “I am apparently Hanguang-jun, the moral upstanding hero.”

“And I’m the devious Yiling Loazu, who led you astray,” he smirks, peering at Lan Zhan through his lashes.

Lan Zhan meets his stare, head-on, lit from within like molten sunshine. “No,” he corrects, “not astray, Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian tilts his head, waiting for him to continue. His fingers stop their dancing, resting just inches away from Lan Zhan.

Lan Zhan shifts his own hand, bringing them even closer, their fingertips almost brushing.  

“The Yiling Loazu did not lead Hanguang-jun astray,” he says, eyes piercing as they flicker between Wei Wuxian’s. “They were partners, and…”

“Ah,” Wei Wuxian breathes, “the decent romance?”

Lan Zhan doesn’t answer, watching him closely. The pupils of his eyes have grown so large there’s only the tiniest ring of gold around the edge. He can see himself reflected in the black. He thinks he likes the version of himself that lives in Lan Zhan’s eyes.

They’re standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for the other to take a step forward, bracing for a fall.

It should be terrifying, this sudden drop into something completely new, something entirely unknown yet so familiar. But Wei Wuxian is filled with conviction that no matter what, Lan Zhan will catch him.

It's as electrifying as it is calming, this certainty that here, with Lan Zhan, he is safe.

Wei Wuxian tilts his head to the side in a way he knows sets the unmarked skin of his neck on display. “I’m sure it was more than just decent, with a handsome hero like Hanguang-jun.”

Lan Zhan quirks an eyebrow, his gaze resting on the curve of Wei Wuxian’s neck, just as he’d hoped. "Handsome?"

“Well,” Wei Wuxian responds, tapping his index finger so it brushes against Lan Zhan’s fingertips. His skin is soft and perfect, just like the rest of him. “He isn’t wrong. You’re very handsome, Lan Zhan.”

“Really, Wei Ying?” Lan Zhan says, voice quiet and deep.

“Yep, definitely worthy of being compared to the beautiful Second Jade of Lan.”

“Is that so?” Lan Zhan shifts closer, the smell of him filling up Wei Wuxian. He smells so familiar, like something he knows intimately. Sandalwood, Wei Wuxian realizes, with sudden clarity.

Lan Zhan continues, “I would love to hear more about your opinion on my beauty and prestige, Wei Ying.”

“You don’t know anything about me, Lan Zhan. Why would you care what I think?”

Lan Zhan tilts his head, only just. “Do I need to? To want to know how your brain works?”

I commissioned this lovely artwork by the wonderful @lotuslate of a scene from my fic, once upon a time, 很久很久以前 where the entire cultivation world is cursed to live in the modern world without their memories and abilities, but of course wangxian find a way to fall in love all over again.

[zu-is-here]

<– • –>

[obsessive-jan]

The spanish zoo tour guide having to deal with the obnoxiously loud and easily excitable british tourist:

[zzoupz]

oh how the turns have tabled

[tennessoui]

Ooh for the micro story- accost!

Master Windu on the whole looks incredibly unimpressed with Obi-Wan's testimony. "You don't have post traumatic stress disorder, Master Kenobi."

"I could," Obi-Wan says placidly, lacing his fingers together behind his back. "Honestly, after three years fighting on the frontlines of a galactic war, I think it's time we look at the mental health of those who surv--"

Master Windu raises a hand to quiet him. It works, if begrudgingly so. "The Jedi Council fully understands and supports those Jedi who are grappling with the aftermath of the war, Master Kenobi. That does not make you one of them."

"I could be," Obi-Wan lies, as he isn't. And he's certain that the entirety of the Jedi Temple knows that. The end of the war has, after all, been an incredible blessing to him in every which way.

"I overheard you telling Master Vos that you've slept like a babe for the past several months," Master Fisto points out.

Yes, Obi-Wan has been sleeping rather well. After all, his padawan has made sure of it. They sleep curled together in bed in varying states of undress most every night. Anakin has singlehandedly ensured that Obi-Wan feels too exhausted for any sort of post-war trauma lately, and he's sure the Council knows that. The council practically endorsed it, after all.

So it's really no one's fault but theirs that they've found themselves in this situation.

"I think we're getting off topic," Obi-Wan says. "A holo reporter accosted my padawan on the streets of Coruscant. Of course I retaliated in the name of protecting him."

Master Windu rubs at his temples. "A holo reporter touched your padawan's elbow--your padawan, who, let us remember is a fully-fledged Jedi Master capable of looking after himself and no longer your padawan at all--and you cut off the reporter's arm."

Obi-Wan blinks back at him. "I don't know what came over me," he says blandly. "It must have been the stress of it all. The war and such. You know."

"Get out," Windu says, looking torn between exhaustion, disgust, and aggravation. "And you'll be sitting down with The Coruscanti Sun's Editorial Team in two day's time as punishment. They want to do a spread."

Obi-Wan goes. The threat would carry more weight if he didn't know that the Council knows that there's no way in all of the galaxy that Anakin Skywalker would allow Obi-Wan to spread for the holo cameras. If Obi-Wan is willing to maim a man for asking after the specs of Anakin's mech arm--ensuring that, well, if he liked it so much then he can wear one of his own now--then there's no telling what Anakin would do to keep his master safe from the eyes of an entire editorial board.

[send me a word from this list for a micro-fic!]

[valoale]

Hard launching my current obsession that just started as an innocent discussion with @sarxzu (dangerous)

So now we have a figure skater Regulus and the stupid twink keeps twirling in my brain and won’t leave me alone (not complaining)

[lexumpysfunland]

What is Wally's opinion on yellow? Considering he's a very vibrant red as oppose to most Narrator's who are yellow?