#but it’s a split shift so

[goldengirlgalaxy]

(Cracky DP X DC AU I thought of)

Tim made plans with Danny, his loving boyfriend, the night before for the two of them to have another date the following day. However, when he woke up the next morning, checking his phone to make sure he remembered the time and place of the date, he found Danny's number was no longer on it and all of their pictures together were gone too.

Thinking it was one of his siblings playing a prank on him, he went to breakfast mildly annoyed. But annoyance turned to confusion when he noticed that all of his other siblings were in a bad mood. And when he asked Bruce if he had Danny's number, the man questioned who Danny was.

Eventually, the tension between the siblings broke out into a fight. Through the yelling, Tim was eventually able to determine that everyone was upset because they believed someone else had hacked their phones to erase all traces of their boyfriend. Their loving boyfriend, Danny.

It didn't make sense! Between all the Batkids, there was too big an age gap for it to make sense for all of them to believe Danny was dating them. Eventually deciding to look Danny up, Tim was horrified to discover that Danny Fenton was a man older than Bruce!

Something was going on here, and Tim knew it was bigger than just some soap opera drama.

[goldkirk]

also, I UNDERSTAND. I understand how ineffectual and morally and ideologically sold out the democrats are. I don’t want them either.

but I LIVED THROUGH a mayoral election during a race where the vote split. The forces of moral uprightness vs the corrupt selfish evil. Whatever you want to call it. It was like that.

there were three main players:

the industry plant: a long time (32 years) city council member, the endorsed (and spiritual) successor of the man who’d been our mayor for years and years and years—that mayor was very ethically and financially corrupt, and also groomed and molested me between the ages of 4 and 7.

just some guy: a man who was not corrupt like industry plant but wasn’t super anti-corruption and such. more chill go with the flow, somewhat able to be bought, not corrupt like our local government officials currently were though.

a woman with backbone: Track record as a former city council member who actively fought and called out corruption and under the table dealing and refused to be bribed, which obviously won no coworker favors but did endear her to a lot of citizens who found her championing city funding transparency or things like adding sidewalks

The endorsed man had the full weight of the local political machinery behind him. The other two had the majority of the common citizens.

The man didn’t drop out because he believed the woman wasn’t capable of winning and he’d do it best. The woman didn’t drop out because she didn’t believe the man was resistant enough to corruption. (These are heinous oversimplifications. I understand. I’m trying to make a specific point, so allow me this for now.)

On election night, guess what happened?

The man who ran with the machine behind him got the votes he expected. Not quite the majority, but a lot.

The rest of the populace had split.

Some voted for the other guy. Some voted for the woman. (Many, as usual, didn't vote at all, unlike the local corrupt labor union bloc that turns out in force every cycle for their chosen machinery candidate.)

The majority vote did NOT go to a candidate most citizens wanted.

the vote was split almost in thirds. and you know what?

I watched the sliiiiiiightly largest third win, and saw a man celebrate who was chosen for the King of The Whole City position by a man who sexually abused me and used his local-kingly-powers for personal gain and under the table dealings before I was tall enough to go down a water slide.

37% of the vote was enough to elect the nominated successor of my childhood sexual abuser into office without term limits. He then proceeded to reign as mayor for multiple terms, and the city stayed as corrupt as ever instead of having ANY alternate instead.

No, it’s not exactly the same in this election. But it should be enough to make us ask questions, plan, and organize from the ground up without moral infighting when the stakes are so high.

We’re all tired. But not all of us are in the same amounts of danger from different outcomes. It MATTERS.

Who’s the up-next four year old you might be able to save from abuse by voting, you know?

better financial and societal policies come AFTER immediate scene-is-on-fire safety is secured. in the middle of a crisis, and this is by far a crisis, you choose the next thing that keeps you ALIVE and you plan bullet points and strategies for what comes NEXT after you’re not about to die every other block going down the street, metaphorically.

[cashmere-caveman]

since the debate about whether or not silver lied about flint in the finale is making the rounds again i thought abt it again and my conclusion is not necessarily that silver lied and killed him, but that silver lied about Something.

i am not sure about which part, it could be anything from flint being dead to flint being in savannah but thomas being dead to flint getting shipped to london idk idk! somewhere in the story he is telling is a lie and even if it only was that he would wait a day, a month, a year

because i think the thing is that when he sold the war for madi THAT was true. that was his grand gesture of truth. but i dont even think it was about her, i think that choice was about him admitting to himself that if he let this war happen this would turn Too Big, Too Visible and too final for him to weasel out of in case he ever needed to. no more place to run for someone who is a nobody from nowhere u know? he needed to get the fuck OUT of there

and for the record i don't think that made his love for madi any less true i think he really thought he loved her but i think he never understood her the way flint did and this was just the breaking point where he was unable to fill the space flint and madi made for him anymore and snapped back into his old self-preservational habits bc he was under a lot of stress and pressure except This Time, unlike before, his actions affected others as well and he cared about it

and as much as silver is obv the most repressed guy alive i think he is v much self aware, at least insofar as that awareness extends to others' perception of him. so i think he Knew this truth would be unforgivable and i am sure he also knew how madi would react, bc he knows her principles, even if he cannot necessarily rationalize or understand them himself, so he knew he would lose her for this (flint voice you're too smart not to know this) but :) he loves her! and he is loved by her! and from what we know of him this seems to be something incredibly rare and unprecedented for him he is literally starved for care and affection bc he is Mr Detached Solo Nobody Fakename plus lbr he is pathetic ♡ so obviously he would try to hold onto that love despite the betrayal! but how?

and that is where i think the lie comes in: imo he had a lie Somewhere In All Of This to soften the truths impact bc he knew what would happen and even if he saw no other way around it he wished there was another way around it (there was. just not to him not like this) so he lied to make it less terrible bc what can a lying liar who lies do when he knows the truth is the worst thing to say?

[noahtally-famous]

can't believe this hasn't been said before but unhinged!scarlett and unhinged!dave would be an iconic duo. shame pi didn't get a second season bc these two in an alliance would basically succeed in destroying the island, they'd wipe everyone out

the fact that they're both versions of the nerd character so they're already smart in their own ways, the fact that they have absolutely zero fucks to give anymore, their individual darker sides have come out (whether it was hidden consciously (scarlett) or unconsciously (dave)), and they've each attempted to kill/seriously injure one or more contestant(s) (and mess up the island in the process) just to reach their end goal. imagine if these two found a common goal somehow, literally nothing could get in their paths (except possibly each other)

[plush-rabbit]

Phantoms and Memories

Continuation to Spots and Stops

Word Count: 3.4K

A/N: If i let if go any further, it would have been well over 5K so I had to cut up the chapter ( ◕ᴗ◕)っ✂ (its also in his pov this time!! and so will next chapter)

-

As Johnathan runs, he’s thankful that the effects of the Super-Collider had given him longer legs. He doesn’t think he’d be able to run as long if not for the long strides that he takes as police chase after him. This most certainly isn’t fair- he hadn’t even stolen anything! When the cops had stopped and shined their light at him, he panicked and immediately set off. 

The lights of the vehicle flash behind him, red and blue filling the night and people move out their way as a cop shouts at him to stop. One in the cruiser and the other pursuing him on foot. 

Turning a corner, he grabs at a spot near his wrist- the jacket he wears pushed to his elbows- and holds onto it. He doesn’t trust himself to throw it and jump into it- knowing his luck, the hole would be much too small, and he’d just get stuck in it. No. Not again. 

Instead, he jumps up, and the creaky ladder of a fire escape bangs down. Once more, he’s thankful for the long legs that allow him to climb easily and take two stairs at a time compared to the cop who is trailing behind. Reaching the roof of the building, he puts the spot in front of him, and taking in a shuddering breath, he stops. He hasn’t done a long jump with one of his holes before. It’s been something quick and nearby- nothing faraway. But hearing the cop behind him, there isn’t much time to ponder about where he’ll end up, he just hopes that wherever the spot leads him to, is home. 

Like blinking, it’s a moment of darkness, falling into nothingness, until he realizes he is falling. His legs kick out until just a second later, he falls onto a soft surface- bumpy, but soft. He lifts himself up on his forearms, scanning around what appears to be a dark room. Maybe he did manage to control where he went this time.

His hand pulls at whatever it is that squishes under him. In the dark room where the only light comes from a streetlamp behind closed blinds, he sees that it’s a pillow shaped like a flower. The fabric stretches down where his hand has fisted over one of the stuffed petals. He turns, and he freezes. He holds tightly onto the pillow and he can barely make it out, he can barely make you out, but it’s you. Asleep on your bed and asleep in your room.

How you didn’t hear or feel him fall onto your bed is beside the point- even with being a heavy sleeper, that must be a stroke of luck for him. Why are you here? A better and appropriate question is why is he here? He doesn’t want to be here. He can’t be here. Sure, you had invited him to come if he needed something but he doubts that you actually meant it- more as a nicety than anything- and even if you had meant it, he doubts that you meant it like this. 

The flower goes behind him, and he waits- quiet and still, he hopes that you don’t wake up. Please, don’t wake up. To whatever deity that listens to him, he promises that if you don’t wake up, he’ll never see you again. He can’t handle seeing your reaction if he stopped by unannounced. Crawling slowly, he moves to get off of your bed. Even with you being such a heavy sleeper, every time the bed creaks under his weight, he pauses, the bed creaks under his weight and every creak has him go rigid. 

His feet are flat against the floor and he turns, your phone lighting up as a message enters. His curiosity gets the best of him and he takes soft footsteps to peek. It’s from an unsolved number that simply asks if you’re awake. Hurt grips at him in unforgiving claws. 

The time is ten past two. Your phone is fully charged, and he takes another look at you. You still sleep soundly and undisturbed. He unplugs your phone, and lets the cable hang over the drawer knobs. No matter how many times he told you that charging your phone overnight is harmful for the battery, you never seemed to listen. You continued to charge it.

Turning to you, he sees that the blanket is askew, draping over the side of the bed. Adjusting it, so that it now covers your body, he tucks you in, pulling it up to your shoulders. He lifts his hand up and hovers your head, and as his fingertips brush against your skin, he pulls back. The memory of you reacted when he last touched you is fresh in his mind. You recoiled away. He wonders if you washed yourself of his touch right after he was kicked out. Instead, he watches you, asleep and unaware of him. Your phone lights up again, and he frowns. Taking another peek, it’s the same unsaved number. Looking back to you, he fists his hand at his side. He wishes that he could touch you one more time- just a final touch, a final kiss to allow him to let go of you. But he can’t do that- he’d feel awful knowing that he did something to you. You’d probably be disgusted with him if you knew what he was doing. 

He should leave.

You didn’t wake up. He did promise that if you didn’t wake up, he wouldn’t return- he wouldn’t see you again. You’ve moved on, and he should too. 

Still, he can’t pull himself away. He wants to look at you like he would before. He wants you to look at him like you would before. He wants to slip into the bed beside you and pull you to his chest and feel you rest your hand over his stomach. You sleep, and he stares and it’s creepy and gross and an invasion of your privacy, but he can’t help it. He needs to look at you, needs to engrave you into his memory until he can picture you without even trying.

His hand lifts again, shaky and unsure as it reaches over, and just as he’s about to trace over your features, your phone rings. Scurrying, he hides himself behind the bottom edge of your mattress. He pulse himself down, making sure that not an inch of him is seen over where you sit. 

The ringing stops, and he hears your voice.” Hello?” It’s raspy and heavy with sleep. He can’t hear the other side of the conversation no matter how much he tries to strain his hearing. “Yeah, well I was asleep.” You mutter something under your breath too light for him to hear. “I’m listening, I’m listening.” You pause. “Yeah, no I’m not really in the greatest mood considering that I was woken up in the middle of the night.” You never liked being woken up- he’s made that mistake a few times. “Look-” you exhale- “I’m sorry that I led you on-” it doesn’t sound sincere but rather annoyed- “but it’s over, okay? Like for good.” Another pause. “No, no. It’s over. I’m done. Good luck or whatever. Bye.”

Your phone lights up the room in a bright glow and as quick and blinding as it came, it’s snuffed out. He hears you fall back into bed. You groan and the bed shakes as you turn. 

Silence fills the room and Johnathan’s heart beats in fear. He just has to wait a few minutes until you’re back to sleep. It won’t take long. You’ve always been quick to fall back to sleep and after being rudely woken up, you’ll slip off into slumber in no time.

He waits and waits, and after what feels like eternity, he hears soft thumping- you’re kicking into the bed. “Fuck,” you whine. “Fuck.” You toss and turn, and he can hear the assault on the pillow as you try to make yourself comfortable. 

Oh no. You can’t fall back to sleep. 

He should have left when he had the chance. This is his punishment. 

Carefully, he peels off a hole, and places it beside himself, maybe he can slip away like this, he enters his hand into the hole. Keeping his gaze fixed looking above, he pushes his hand into the hole, fingers outstretched, fluttering about looking for a flat surface. He’s elbow deep, the hole on his face contorting into what would be frustration if he still had his face. He can’t find it, and you’ve already begun to kick at the blankets and grumble at yourself. 

You’ve already lost your sleep- taken away by a phone call from someone who you used to date. 

Johnathan tries not to dwell on that. It’s too fresh of a wound. You’re too fresh of a wound. 

As he reaches further down, his body presses against the floor. All he needs is to know that something is on the other side, something that might break his fall or would at least get him out of your room. Too focused on looking up to see if you’d peep your head over, he feels something ghosts over the side of head, fleeting and spindly, and he yelps. 

Oh fuck. He turns, hoping to find a spider, but it’s just his hand, the portal made to just be a few feet away from where he made it

“Hello?” Your voice is alert. Even if he were to be quiet, you’d never buy it.

The light clicks on, and he can hear you rummage through your nightstand. “Hello? No, fuck. I- I have a weapon.” Your voice is shaky. He stays silent, pulling away the spot and making another one that ends up on your wall on the opposite side. “I'll call the police.”

He lowers his head and lifts an arm. “It’s me. It’s just me.” He hopes that he’s the only one with white skin that you know.

“Johnathan?”

His head knocks against the wooden frame of the mattress, and he lowers his hand. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pop in unexpectedly. I just- I got myself into a pickle and I just threw a spot and now I’m here.” He pauses. “I’m sorry.”

He had wanted to go home. Or at least pop in anywhere but here. He can’t believe that his holes would betray him like this.

The bed creaks, and he pulls his arm back from the spot, watching above him, seeing if you’d peek over to see him. You don’t. “A pickle? Are you okay?” He can hear the soft rustle of the blankets. “Are you hurt?”

He shrugs, but you can’t see him. “Oh, um. Yeah, yeah.” His knees feel as if they’re on fire and he’s ready to put this day behind him. “I’m okay.”

You stay silent. 

“I’ll get out of your hair, I just- It’s hard to control my holes and where they take me.” He fumbles with another spot. That one pools on your ceiling. 

“Jonathan?”

He pulls the spot back. “Yeah?”

“You can say no, but um, can I see you?”

The spot of his face stretches, and he feels his body tense. He remembers how you reacted to him the first time. And the second time- granted he did catch you in a vulnerable moment, but it was because of him that you were so- so vulnerable. He should tell you no. He should leave and never look back, and never think of you. But then you call his name, and his resolve crumbles. When the two of you were together and happy, he could never tell you no; he could never deny you anything that you had wanted.

His hands brace themselves against the edge of the bed frame, and he stands, looking down at the ground, unable to see you. Never has he felt so bare and exposed. 

The bed creaks, and he sees a shadow approach and a familiar shirt peeks in the corner of his vision. He can feel your eyes on him, and your hands flex and unflex in want. He should look at you. He should give himself that grace, he should take one look at you while you look at him. When he looks up, he’s tilting his head down, head cocked to the side, as you look at him with doe eyes shining in unshed tears. Your hands fist into his old shirt, and you look at him.

“It’s rude to stare,” he mumbles.

You still continue to stare. You suck in your bottom lip, your teeth teasing at it, and he hates that he can’t kiss you, that he can’t touch you without one of you resulting in tears. You swallow, and part your lips once more. Would you still taste like mint? Or would you taste like sleep? Would you close your eyes and pretend that he was someone else if he leaned towards you? Are you pretending that he’s someone else right now? Are you only able to stomach him and his appearance because you think of someone else?

“Can you eat?” You ask, and it’s almost laughable that all that you could tell him, and it’s that. A simple, curious question. It’s entirely you. 

“Yes,” he answers. What would you say next? Would ask if he could chew? If he still has teeth that would tear apart meat and grain? Would you ask if he still has lips? Would you continue to ask him questions so that he could stay a little while longer in the comfort of your bedroom? “Why do you ask?”

“Are you hungry?”  Your hands fist over the stomach of his old shirt. “We- I can make you something if you’d like.”

He’d eat glass if it meant that he could stare at you some more. “I can eat.” You give him a ghost of a smile, and he takes it eagerly. “What do you have around?” Is he allowed to be greedy? Can he ask and ask until you can no longer give him what he wants?

You climb off the bed, adjusting at the shirt and pulling down the legs of your shorts. He follows you out of your room, and now as a stranger in your home, he feels like a ghost invading your space- walking past memories that he no longer has access to. He walks past the living room, the weight and tension a swirling mess, threatening to pull the both of you in and keep you stuck forever in a loop of grief. He holds his breath until he enters the kitchen. Motioning for him to sit at the table, you open the fridge, a cool blast makes goosebumps prick your skin. 

Turning your head, you look just like how he remembers you. “Are you okay with sandwiches?”

“Do you have chips?” He’ll be greedy and gluttonous- stuffing himself full of food in order to sit with you longer.

Nodding, you begin to pull out the ingredients to make sandwiches and he watches from the chair, stiff and cold, wanting to believe that he won’t be back after tonight. But as you bring out the plates and pull out the drinks- his favorite is still in your fridge even after all this time remains unopened and cold. You place the ingredients in front of him and alongside you, he prepares his sandwich.

You’re done with yours fairly quickly, and you turn on the television, and a late night show fills the room. Fake laughter, and fake applause is all that rings in him, and in his hand is a sandwich made with a gluttonous desire to take all that he can.

When he takes a bite, it’s sour. 

“We probably should have toasted the bread,” you tell him, peeling off the crust. “Untoasted is fine and all it if we were going to make sandwiches-”

“-We should have done it properly,” he finishes. Looking up at you, he can’t finish the sandwich- not when it tastes like it’ll give him heartburn. “Chips?” The drink remains unopened, collecting condensation on the side and dripping onto the placemats on the table. Hissing comes from the soda, and he looks at the opening. 

“In the pantry.” You take a bite of your sandwich and glance at him through the corner of your eyes. “You’re free to check.” You close your eyes, humming at the mouthful of food in your mouth. 

He stands, and searches through the cabinets, a brand new bag of chips sits, and he grabs at it, the colors popping against his skin. Reaching down into a drawer, he pulls out a reusable straw. A metallic one, the silver distorting his image in the reflection. It sits beside yours- iridescent and solid colors. 

The chips sit at the table and the straw- his straw- sits in his drink. He turns his head every time he takes a sip. You don’t look at him. This entire time, you haven’t casted a glance towards him except in the beginning. You make small conversation as you eat your sandwich and place a few chips onto your plate. Your drink is opened, and you never take your eyes off of it. The television still plays. He’s only taken small bites of his own, the taste not returning, and the bitterness staining him.

“Why did you ask me to stay?” His holes are shifting, swirling and constricting as he waits for your answer.

You cast him a glance. Finally, you look at him. “I just-” you let out a long exhale- “You want the truth or a lie?”

“The truth.”

Shrugging, you take another sip and look at him, turning your body in the chair to fully face him. “I-” the words get stuck in your throat and you look away- “I have no right to say it, but I missed you.” He stills. “I know what I did was awful, but-” you hold the can and the aluminum bends under your touch- “you were right. It’s still you.” You look at him again, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look so saturnine. Even your tone is sorrowful and empty, and the words hang in the air, unanswered to.

He stays silent. And you continue, keeping your gaze on him. It must be taking all of your willpower to even do so.

“Do you think you could stay a while?” He’s silent. “You can say no.” You turn away from him, and push yourself away from the table. “I know that I shouldn't be asking you anything of the sort, but I hope you’ll say yes. If not, then you know, just lock up when you leave.”

You have the gall to ask that of him. You open your home to him, and offer him food, and he takes it with acid poisoned in him, with hands stained with muck and gunk, and his pale white skin is stained with holes and spots. And still, as if it were the first night that he spent with you, anxiety chills him to his core and roots him in place. 

He’ll get up and lock the door behind him. Johnathan will rid himself of you, and let all of this be some dream that felt too real. He’ll do it. His chest fills with air, and the chair scrapes against the floor. He’ll leave a mess behind, and when you clean it in the morning with the bird chirping outside and the soft rays of light shining against your table, you’ll miss him. Every step that he takes is heavy, and slow, weights placed on his ankles to pull him back so as to not make a dumb mistake. You can hope that he’ll say yes, and he can hope that when morning comes, you’ll still miss him. And he stands in the living room, back where he stood before you all those nights ago. 

The room looks so different. Emptier.

Every step has him hoping that he’s making the right decision. What more could you ever say to him? What words could ever mend him back together? What tenderness could ever replace the cold and callous nature that you bared at him in his weakest moments? He holds the doorknob in his hands, and he hopes that he’ll never get to find out. He hopes that when he closes the door behind him, he’ll have it all figured out.

[theriverbeyond]

relistening to HtN rn and it really hits me how many moments of fun and hooting/hollaring there were in both GtN and HtN (even desite the latter's overcurrent of grief&disorientation) and how... absent those feelings were (in me as a reader) throughout NtN. like..... comparing the pure rush of Gideon returning in HtN, vs the uncomfortable, uneasy, uncanny valley feeling of first seeing Kiriona in NtN. the elation at realizing the narrator in HtN was Gideon, and the... dread? sadness? grief? of Nona realizing she's Alecto. GtN's "go loud" and its victory versus NtN's "go loud" and its grief (again) and weight.

[m-kyunie]

"God's Clown" episode 70 supremacy

[marylairre]

Harry and Ruth's Tête-à-Tête getting interrupted in series 5 episode 5 is top tier, imo

[tiptapricot]

Thinking ab Liu Kang… thinking about a god who thinks he has lived this new life well, has learned the rises and falls of divine existence and knows what to expect, only to remember he is just a boy given too much power when he reaches a present he cannot control. Faces he used to laugh with, people he has seen grown old, different and changed, but so much the same. Events he thought he had avoided repeating themselves, his timeline slipping from underneath him for the first time possibly in millennia. What is a god meant to do when he cannot escape his own mortality, cannot escape the ghosts yet to come, the blood he must prepare to have spilled at his feet? What is a god meant to do when he cannot fathom his own power? When he is still just a boy so scared to be champion, but must now hold the weight of the universe on his shoulders?

[jaypgartifacts]

a weird guy appear

[permanentreverie]

if nobody’s got me i know a large vanilla latte got me can i get an amen

[tamagotchikgs]

sighing & sighing && sighing

[reticent-fate]

part 11/26ish

anyone remember those scales with the springs in 'em? all i ever see these days are digital scales but those things made the best noises. i think i've seen some kitchen scales that still use spring mechanisms, but it's been a while.

technology is weird.

from the beginning

[sendmyresignation]

something I've been thinking about lately. i do think it's incredibly telling that almost 80 percent of the conversations around 'gatekeeping' and 'posers' and shit end up just becoming vitriolic hatred of 'alt girls' like i hate shit spotify playlists and dollskill fake leather edge and tiktok recommendations as much as the next person but this is a very big attitude coming from a website full of people who spent their formative middle school years shopping at hot topic for multi-colored skinny jeans while listening to like. falling in reverse or 21p unironically (this is a self-own btw). first of all teenagers having shit taste isn't killing punk music. but also why is the object of your hatred always boil down to a woman faking it? as if it isn't the single oldest stereotype in heavy music? like am i insane for thinking this is an issue

[buckevantommy]

another delicious plotpoint about the potential of gerrard becoming interim captain of the 118 (if not in charge at a higher level) is that: hen and chim know what it's like to work with the guy, eddie probably knew guys like him in his army days, tommy (still over at 217?) was under garrard the longest.. but buck? buck has only ever known one captain and he found a father in bobby. i think he would struggle the most with working under someone like gerrard, especially hearing the stories from the others, and now with his newfound bisexuality. ravi would also struggle, but ravi has been a minority his whole life whereas buck is new to being on the minority side of things. i don't want gerrard to stick around but i do see the potential for a 3+ episode drama arc.

[ididntmean2hauntyou]

i redid my hms refs (nothing much changed outer wise but...there is some other changes i hope to illustrate) and then did a little whole one but i didnt want to do a full body lol