#man...I wrote a lot

[adriles]

when we’re done with our overwhelming grief we’ll eat i guess

[modmad]

He's always helping everybody else to find their happily ever after... but who will save prince charming?

(actually my 2nd entry for the fashion zine heee)

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

(ep8 spoilers ahead!)

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a king who honoured Truth.

He was as gentle as a lamb, as pure as driven snow, as warm as sunlight, and his citizens revered him for these qualities. His Truth was his kindness and his hope, and he was said to be able to heal a Cookie of all their woes and pain with a single touch, so blessed by the heavens he was.

Unfortunately, his Truth was no armour, and eventually it became a blade that turned against him. His soft heart failed to protect his kingdom when disaster fell like a fog over it, thick with malice, and those citizens who once revered him came to despise those very same traits they once praised.

The king of Truth, as gentle as a coward, as pure as a martyr, as warm as the remnants of his burning kingdom. The king, dismayed by his Truth failing him, had little idea of what to do as his citizens abandoned him, one by one until only he remained.

One day, a wise scholar happened upon the shell of that kingdom and, curious to know its story, he went to visit the king. The king, still at a loss for what to do and hoping the scholar may impart some of his knowledge, freely shared the tale of the kingdom's downfall with a deep sorrow in his voice.

The wise scholar, taking pity on the king, stepped up to the weary silhouette curled in that old throne and said, "Is it not obvious? You should let go of your Truth."

"My Truth?" The king murmured, disbelieving. "I certainly must have misheard you. I have dedicated my life to Truth. I cannot possibly part with it."

"Whyever not? Look at where Truth has lead your life – to complete ruins, hasn't it?" The wise scholar explained, oh so patiently. "It has paid your dedication back with anguish and despair. Why should you live like that? Deceit would be far more merciful to you, and it would surely soothe your poor heart, if you'd let it."

The wise scholar had offered this morsel of Knowledge out of the goodness of his heart, and for a blissful moment, the king considered it. Sadly, the king could not see it as the act of goodwill that it was, too blinded by his own petty pride, restrained by his years of stubborn devotion to the false idol of 'Truth'.

"No, what you have said is a lie meant to mislead me. I can tell, because Deceit drips from your tongue like poison." The king foolishly declares, his face hardening with misplaced determination. "This must be a test sent to me from the Witches, to test my strength, and I will not fail so easi––"

—No, that's not quite right. Let's try again.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a great hero.

This great hero was benevolent, noble and self-righteous, known as a friend and ally to all, but he harboured a dark secret. His Soul Jam, the source of all of his awe-inspiring power, was not wholly his.

Indeed, it had once belonged to an illustrious sorceror, a manifestation of his very soul. But this sorceror had suffered a great injustice under the hands of the fickleminded Witches, and his Soul Jam had been torn asunder. While he had clung fiercely to one half, the other had slipped out of his grasp and fell into the hands of our great hero, the unwitting thief.

Of course, the sorceror came to confront the hero, to claim back what was rightfully his and reunite with the full extent of his power. But the hero was unwilling to give it up, and after much consideration, the sorceror decided to be gracious. He allowed the hero to keep his half of the Soul Jam, granted that he never stray from the sorceror's side.

For a blissful moment, it seemed like this compromise would work well for the both of them. One day, however, the hero approached the sorceror, fidgeting with his long sleeves.

"My Soul Jam calls for yours," The hero admits, soft and careful, "and so too does my soul. Even though I am by your side, it is not enough."

The sorceror smiled, flashing teeth, pleased by the admittance because it proved his emerging hypothesis correct. That the other half of the Soul Jam could not have landed in anyone else's hands but the hero's, for they were meant for each other.

"Then come closer." The sorceror goads, reaching for the hero. "Unite our two halves and become one with me, as it should be."

The hero does, pressing into the sorceror's arms, pushing the softened middles of their Soul Jams together until they begin to merge, light melting into the dark of the sorceror's tight embrace. Truth into the comfort of Deceit.

For a blissful moment, they are together and whole and one.

Then pain bursts through the sorceror's back and he screeches as the hero pushes and stumbles out of his twitching arms. The sorceror's wide, blurry eyes catch on the icy glint of a dagger in the hero's hand, sticky with jam.

The sorceror heaves as his hand scrambles to his own back, finding an open wound weeping thick jam that seeps through his clothes. He starts to taste it, sour on the back of his tongue. Sure enough, the hero had stabbed him in the back with a blade he had hidden in his long sleeves.

The hero stares down at him passively, unremorseful. The sorceror's back burns with gouging pain, and his chest burns with boiling rage, coming up through his teeth in a mighty growl. Jam leaks through his clenched fingers as he curls into himself, his Soul Jam crying in the hollow of his throat, calling for its traitorous other half, ringing, ringing, ringing, RINGING. "YOU--"

—NO! No, no, no, that's not right either, absolutely not. Let's take it from the top, one more time.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a humble shepard.

The shepard was sweet and languid as honey, content in spending his days tending to his vulnerable flock. He had no interest in the world at large, though he welcomed any travellers that passed through with friendliness, making peace in his little meadow.

One day, another shepard, hooded and pale, arrived at the meadow with a single sheep trailing sadly at his heels. He asked for a place to stay for the night, as he had recently lost the rest of the flock to a wolf and, in his grief, took to wandering the lands as a nomad.

The shepard, sweet as he was, agreed. He led the hooded shepard to his flock, where the hooded shepard settled his sheep in for the night. Then, he led the hooded shepard to his little cottage, where the hooded shepard settled himself in for the night, right beside the shepard in his small wooden bed.

Little did the shepard know, the hooded shepard laying beside him was, in reality, a wolfherd. Little did the shepard know, the sheep he had allowed to rest in the comfort of his poor flock was, in reality, a wolf bundled in sheep's wool, trained to behave mildly in the presence of Cookies.

When morning came, the shepard was horrified to find that his flock, which he had dutifully nutured since young, had been eaten whole. The wolfherd's wolf, smeared in red with its woolen disguise hanging off it in sticky clumps, trotted up to its master lazily as the shepard helplessly fell to his knees.

For a blissful moment, there was just the shepard's sobs as his world crumbled around him, ready to be remade.

Then, the wolfherd came up to the miserable shepard and lunged.

He pinned the teary shepard to the damp grass, bathing him in lamb blood as the wolfherd bared his fangs and dug his claws into dough, shedding a disguise of his own.

A thin throat gave way under the wolfherd's teeth, and he discoverd that the shepard really was as sweet as honey, all the way through, as jam spilled into his mouth. He made cracks as the shepard weakly tried to struggle, tearing into his dough in reprimand, in retribution. The shepard deserved it.

He dug into his chest with his wet teeth, pulling out his jammy heart, his pulsing Soul Jam, his writhing soul. He savoured it as he swallowed it whole, as the shepard went obediently still beneath him, because he deserves it, this is his, he is his, and the shepard deserves it too. He deserves it, he DESERVES it, HE DESERVES IT--

—HE DOES, he does, but not quite like that. No, no, something's still off. Maybe a change of angle is needed. A change of perspective.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a liar.

He was beautiful, magnificent in his dark robes and rough around the edges in a captivating way. He watched the world from the top of a spire, looking down on Cookiekind from above with dozens of golden eyes, turning his back on Truth.

The liar was not alone. At his side, and he at his, was the beast that strung the world in shimmering strings, playing the universe like a grand orchestra to seranade his companion. Their power did not just blend harmoniously; it was a singular one, feeding into an endless cycle between the two of them, driven by the thrum of their Soul Jam.

For a blissful forever, they stood together, casting the veil of Deceit over the world, dampening the blistering light of Truth until it coalesced into the shadow of Deceit, becoming what it always should have been. The two of them were unstoppable, bowing to nothing and nobody, rising above it all. They were unstoppable, they could have been, they would have been unstoppable-- IF--

—IF THOSE GNATS HADN'T– IF HE HADN'T–

(Stupid, traitorous, weak fool!)

—No, no, enough, enough, enough. This still isn't getting anywhere. How about this?

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a saint of Truth.

He was blindingly bright, too bright, and he could drive the shadow monsters away with a single swipe of his staff, so radiant was he. And yet, for all his shining power, he was also a complete idiot, driven by his soft, squishy heart.

For instead he cleaved the monster out of the shadow, held out a hand and said, "Let me be your...friend."

Friend. Friend. How ridiculous! Laughable, really, in its absolute stupidity. The saint's eyes were so soft, gentle in contrast to the harsh edge of the light, gooey like melted chocolate, like the saint was doing the monster a favour even though it was the other way around, it was SUPPOSED to be the OTHER WAY AROUND--

—NOPE, no, that's no good either. Come on, what else, what else, what else– aha!

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an angel.

This angel was once a shepard, once a king, once a hero, once a saint before he ascended to the light of the heavens. He was beautiful and benevolent, warm as sunlight, sweet as honey, blindingly bright and infuriatingly beloved. Until he wasn't.

You see, when the angel had ascended, he had thought that he had risen from the rock bottom of the river. He had foolishly believed that he now knew everything, that he had captured the essence of Knowledge through a brief meeting of two halves of a single Soul Jam.

He hadn't realised that a new rock bottom can always be created – all you need to do is dig.

And so, the demon did, dragging the angel down from the picturesque heavens and back to him, backed by a symphony of screams.

The angel tried to reason with him, with his faulty logic. The angel tried to fight but wouldn't risk crumbling him for good. The angel tried to reach out to him, like he really, truly believed it would work.

In the end, the angel lays crumpled at the demon's feet in a heap, cheeks wet with tears but eyes tired and wild. His painful light dims into something bearable, close to snuffing out entirely, flickering weakly like a candle in the wind.

"You were right." The angel whispers, about his hope, about his kindness, about anything, about everything. "You were right. It was always going to end like this."

And when the angel looks up, it is as if he is giving all of himself to the demon. Properly, this time, no clever tricks even passing his mind. His life and soul forfeit.

There. Perfect.

Shadow Milk sighs, a heavy sound that thickens the air. He is not quite satisfied, because he cannot be, not with his dough crawling with restless viciousness, but he is satisfied enough. With the story, of course. Not with anything else.

Just thinking of that, Shadow Milk scowls, finally looking back down at his hands. He had forgotten about the little plush doll he was holding. It's a cute little replica of Pure Vanilla, small enough to fit neatly into the palms of his hands. He had been fiddling with it for no reason in particular, mostly agitated boredom.

In the midst of his storycrafting, he must have tightened his grip too hard. His claws have ripped its chest in half, stuffing bubbling out of the wound like sea foam.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, claws idly toying with the fluff. Then he narrows his eyes, growls, and twists his claws deeper into the tear.

Lonely, Pure Vanilla had said, with the absolute gall to act like he could read him perfectly. Like he could understand him.

As if! There was no way he understood him, and his new little light show only proved that. Whatever understanding Pure Vanilla thought he had was conjured by his own mind, his poor little heart's attempt to find a peaceful solution. It's like Shadow Milk had told them – in the face of the unknown, Cookies tend to fill in the gaps with whatever fits best with their existing belief system, and what they want to believe is true.

Shadow Milk huffs, finally pulling his claws out of the Pure Vanilla doll. It's a sad looking thing, droopy with the lost stuffing. He considers it for a moment, before gingerly beginning to push the stuffing back in, tuft by tuft.

There is one thing Pure Vanilla got right, though. He really is the only one with the potential to truly understand Shadow Milk. He was close to it, even, tantalisingly close before he pulled himself back out again, but he hadn't gotten there yet.

Shadow Milk knows that he hasn't. Because Shadow Milk knows what it will take to get him there, and it involves tearing him to shreds–

Shadow Milk summons old marionette strings, now mostly unused, and begins to sew up the open chest of the doll with lazy flicks of his finger. Despite the casual movement, the stitches are precise and perfect. Once he's done, the doll looks almost as good as new, but inarguably altered.

—before fixing him back up in Shadow Milk's design.

Only then would Pure Vanilla really be able to understand Shadow Milk. Only then would Shadow Milk believe it.

Shadow Milk rubs his thumb over the doll's cheek, something ugly twisting in his chest. His claws twitch, eager to tear the doll apart again, to have an outlet, but he refrains because he does have self-control and he just fixed it.

Instead, he lifts the doll up and presses a kiss to the little stitched star on its forehead. No, not a kiss. It's more like a curse, a harsh press of lips with the slightest snarl of teeth, with enough pressure to create a dent in its soft head.

Yes, this isn't the end. They have eternity, after all. The wait may be agonising, but eventually, he'll understand him. Shadow Milk will make sure of it.

The something in his chest loosens just slightly, as if relieved.

[is-this-even-relatable]

Misfortune Teller

tldr: An older Danny, apprentice to Clockwork, does a lot of field work across dimensions, resetting the timeline, queuing future events, and who knows what else. Occasionally, he warns people about such upcoming possibilities, to set them on the right path. How, you might ask? Well in this case... as a wandering fortune teller.

Crack-fic (oh god, it's getting long and my logic brain won't let it remain as crack) where Danny becomes Clockwork's apprentice after getting his GED. Living his infinite afterlife to the fullest. Inspired by this tumblr post.

Working for Clockwork had been... interesting so far. At first, Danny got frustrated by how vague and cryptic Clockwork was. He'd just shunt Danny off to some ancient time with a few words, his own time medallion (Danny carried it everywhere with him now), and then pop back into the portal, leaving Danny with only the faintest idea of where to go.

Eventually, after enough time (ha!) spent around Clockwork, Danny figured out that it just basically meant that he had free reign and to do whatever he wanted. Because if he went on the wrong path, (like that one time in Pompeii when he had almost caused the volcano to explode a few years too early), Clockwork would just pop on by, say another few cryptic words, and then it'd all be fine and dandy, or as he liked to say, "All is as it should be... Now stop practicing your wail by an active volcano."

After telling Jazz about that (it was supposed to be funny, not concerning), she just sighed and shook her head, with a forlorn "think before you act, Danny!" but hey, it'd turned out fine so far, so who cares how he does what Clockwork asks him to do, as long as it gets done, right? Even if it's with a liiiiitle more mischief than strictly required.

Besides. Danny was the one who had been doing time shenanigans across millennia, not Jazz. And he thought he'd been getting pretty good at it too! He'd actually started giving himself a different made-up background for each universe he visited. Sam and Tucker were helping him keep up with the identities on a spreadsheet, so if he had to go back to one he'd already visited, he'd remember who he'd said he was supposed to be.

---

He was on a call with them one evening while haunting Jazz's apartment, doing just that, when he felt a familiar tingle in the back of his throat, as well as a heightened awareness of the seconds passing by, that always accompanied his mentor's appearance.

Sam was talking about his past stint posing as a god of death when he cut in. "Hey- sorry to interrupt, Sam- Clocky's here, guys, I gotta dip."

"Aw, come on! We hardly talked any this past week since you passed your certifications, man," Tucker complained.

Danny rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, yeah. Partly on you too though, you've been caught up outside of class, and Sam's schedule is nearly the opposite of yours."

Sam hummed in agreement despiter Tucker's scoff.

Danny missed hanging out with them as much as they had in high school, but hey, life goes on. Or at least, theirs did, to college. After finally flunking out of Casper High, he'd taken some time to get used to his responsibilities in the ghost zone, and when he had, he realized that he didn't really have much enthusiasm or timeleft for his human life.

And he didn't really want to go back home either.

But Jazz had made him tie up any loose ends before he noped-off to god knows where, which frankly, he had to thank her for. Getting his GED took a few years, but it was an accomplishment that could be attributed to Danny Fenton, no ghostliness required. Then he was able to let that tether go free.

Pulled out of his musings by a few more grumbles from Tucker, Danny said his goodbyes, promising to call the next time they were all available.

After hanging up, Danny swiveled around, anticipation already lighting up his eyes an ethereal green.

Clockwork, for his part, had been waiting patiently through Danny's lengthy goodbyes. Although he supposed that it tracked for the watcher of time to be patient. With his job, it'd be a nightmare if he wasn't.

"Phantom," Clockwork spoke, calm as always. "I have some tasks I need you to complete as my apprentice."

And Danny, always ready for adventure, didn't need him to explain any further. "Sure! When do you need me to be?"

Clockwork smiled at that. "I am fortunate you are eager. Follow me."

---

Danny popped into existence in this universe with a burst of cold air and static electricity. He found himself hovering by a clocktower above a sprawling, gothic city. Smog and light pollution obscured the stars above him, to his disappointment. He comforted himself with the fact that he'd probably have all the time he wanted to fly someplace less populated to see them later.

He started off by familiarizing himself with the city. As he flew, he followed the trail of power and met the resident city-spirit, a spooky- but kind underneath- woman draped in black lace, who told him her name was Gotham. He spoke in length with her about this universe, its heroes, and her knights. On that, she was very enthusiastic... or at least Danny thought she was, her projected emotions belaying much more than her gloomy exterior. She told him how her knights had been through a lot and would need some guidance fighting the darkness that pooled in her deepest corners, smiling with too much glee, filling lungs with fear, and terrorizing with cold hard bullets.

Danny could sense that the dangers she spoke of were growing in power, ever slowly. The longer they shadowed people's minds and hearts, an intangible thing grew that lent them more otherworldly pull than their physical forms had right to hold.

That must be what he was sent here for.

But... they were weak, pitifully so for him, infinite king as he was. And besides, he wasn't here in that sense. He was a messenger, a simple apprentice. And he could do this however he wanted.

Cue his talk with Lady Gotham, and subsequent idea to arm her knights. With what? Well, he figured knowledge would be a start. Flying high above the city invisibly, Danny noticed a sea of colors and lights by what appeared to be the city's pier. He flew down, noting that it appeared to be the setup spot for a travelling circus or carnival of some kind.

He considered what to do. One of Lady Gotham's troubles was a madman clown, right? Well maybe he'd be attracted to his ilk here... and with the danger came the knights. Maybe he could catch one of them here?

Danny was floating around at the entrance and beginning to formulate a plan when a flyer caught his eye. Looking for a mystic to read fortunes. URGENT!

Hadn't Clockwork said something about fortunes? And he hadn't made an identity in this universe yet...

A mischievous smile crept across Danny's face, splitting it in two with far too many teeth.

---

Half a city away, a man in all black, perched on the very same clocktower that Phantom had Appeared by, shivered as he felt an ominous premonition about his sanity in the near future...

Said man quickly opened his comms to check in with his many, many kids. Yet even after hearing back from each, he still felt apprehensive.

Somewhere even further, Clockwork laughed.

---

And that's how Danny found himself seated at a fortune teller's booth at a pier in Gotham, two days later, for the Tricksy Traveling Circus's grand opening.

[chihirolovebot]

on a real note that bit near the end of the video was genuinely haunting. hearing somerton talk about how gay writers are erased from history was one thing (with all the irony being that he stepped on the backs of numerous underpaid, underprivileged and uncredited queer writers to build his youtube channel) but when h revealed it wasn't even somerton's quote in the first place? the worst, most crushing sort of irony. how do you lament about the erasure of gay people and gay writers in history... whilst erasing a gay writer and taking his words as your own?

[kooki914]

Decided to experiment a bit with how I draw these two and got these doodles out of exaggerating their proportions and stuff

GOD i missed my men <- never stopped thinking about them not even for a second

[kedreeva]

Hi friends!

I recently saw the cover of this book posted to a group on FB, with a LOT of vitriol aimed at it there. I ambled over to the Amazon page to see it (and have a look through the reviews) and it's LARGELY reviews by bigots (as I suspected it would be). I just spent half an hour going down the list reporting inauthentic and/or hateful and/or off-topic (not about the product) reviews, and ticking the "helpful" box on the 5-star kind reviews (and as a warning, not all the 5 stars ARE kind, I saw at least one that was vitriolic sarcasm).

If you have a few spare minutes and an amazon account, it would be nice, I think, if you could pop over and select "helpful" for the kinder reviews. I don't think reporting the bad ones a second time will be helpful (it may just slog the queue down), but boosting the positive reviews to appear toward the top of the list may be. If you have purchased/read/otherwise own or will own this book now, feel free to leave an authentic review of it. Be kind, do not get yourself in trouble trying to be mean to other reviews. The point is to add some support to the page that will actually stick around.

Here's the link!

[babacontainsmultitudes]

OUGH call me Big Shane Silva the way that episode had me falling over and torn into pieces fuuuuuuuuuck oh the Trudy and Francis heart-to-heart... The group hug... The gunkata... The middle-aged witch yuri... The hole in the stars... MAN.

[ssongsboo]

─────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────

─────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────

❕ : happy bday sion ᰔᩚ

⟢ she keep me going .ᐟ

the lingerie was supposed to be a surprise.

a look-but-don’t-touch-yet moment.

but then he kissed you like he missed you from the other room, like the day wasn’t long enough to be apart. and your knees just sort of… hit the floor on instinct.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, head thrown back as your lips wrap around him. “you’re too good to me.”

your mouth’s full and your hands are busy- one pumping what you can’t fit, the other gripping his thigh to keep yourself grounded. it’s messy already, spit sliding down your chin, lipgloss smudged into a sticky ring at the base of his cock.

you’re trying to impress him. to give him something to remember when he closes his eyes tonight.

and you are.

but sion’s eyes catch something else- something behind you- and his breath stutters.

“fuck-”

you blink up at him, confused, lips still wrapped around his dick. he gently grabs your jaw, pulls you off with a wet pop, and angles your face toward the mirror on the far wall. your brows knit together, cheeks flushed, mouth shiny and open.

“look,” he pants. “look at yourself.”

you turn slightly, confused- until you see it.

your reflection. on your knees, back arched like a goddamn wet dream. and behind you, framed perfectly: the swell of your ass in that see-through lace, the way your thighs twitch every time you moan around him. and worst of all- the way your cunt clenches around nothing, desperate and fluttering like it misses him.

his cock twitches in your grip.

“you’re fucking dripping,” he growls. “sucking me off like a good girl but leaking all over the floor like you need to be split open. you like this?”

you nod, almost dazed. “i love it.”

“yeah? you like being seen?” he fists your hair, dragging your mouth back to his cock. “i’ll keep watching, baby. watch how pretty you look gagging on me.”

so he watches as your throat bulges, as tears glitter in your lashes, as your lips stretch around him. and behind you, the lace sticks tighter to your heat, slick making the fabric glisten. your hips grind subtly, needy, empty.

“fuck,” sion chokes out. “i’m gonna cum just watching you fuck yourself on air.”

you whimper around him, trying to take him deeper, and he loses it- hips jerking forward, hand tight in your hair, voice wrecked and raw as he spills down your throat.

you swallow all of it.

wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. blink up at him through glittering lashes.

he looks down at you like you’re a fucking miracle.

“get on the bed,” he growls. “mirror’s staying right where it is. i want you to see what i do to you. how good you are for me.”

[we-are-inevitable]

am i in the frame from your point of view? // javid

"Katherine Pulitzer."

"David Jacobs," Katherine says, not even looking up from the Essential Journalism textbook she's currently hunched over. She looks like hell, her red curls all over the place, chunky-framed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, and she's wearing an old navy-colored hoodie that reads Trinity School on the front. Dead week has claimed another life, or something. David thinks she could use a break.

Which is why the next words that come out of his mouth, just three seconds after he very abruptly sat in front of her at her table in the library, are: "Remember how I told you I was swearing off men?"

This catches Katherine's attention, clearly, because she looks up at him, her blue ink pen falling limp to the table. "Oh, David, no. Who is it?"

"Look," He starts, defensive. He takes a breath as he pushes his own glasses up, absentmindedly dusting stray cat hair off his own plain black hoodie. "It's not my fault. I say I'm swearing off men, and suddenly my dream guy walks into my life. I'm dying."

"Who is it?" Katherine asks, shifting in her seat; she brings one knee to her chest and tucks the other foot underneath, folding herself like a pretzel in the uncomfortable wooden chairs of the library. "Do I know him? Do you know him? Or is it another barista?"

David rolls his eyes. "He's not a barista, I don't think," He says, then glances away for a fraction of a second; when he looks back, she already has a knowing look on her face. "And yeah. You know him."

Katherine raises a brow expectantly. "Who is it?"

And David regrets starting this conversation now, a little bit, because he doesn't want to admit it. He wanted to string her along a little. Wanted to tease it out, but she's looking at him like she'll strangle him at any moment if he doesn't tell her, and David knows his sister well enough to know that she only dates girls capable of violence. Katherine fits the bill.

Which is why, when he starts speaking again, he braces for impact before she can try anything. "You can't expect me not to fall in love with your hot friends, okay? It wasn't—"

"Oh my God!" She yells, a little too loud for the library's second floor. "You little slut! You like Jack?!"

"It's a pipe dream," He says immediately, throwing his hands out to his sides dramatically. "He's— okay, he's cute, alright? I can't help it!"

Katherine is grinning wildly at him now, textbook forgotten as she raps her hands against the wooden table. "You like Jack! I knew it! I knew you would like Jack!"

"Oh, please, no you did not," David says with a scoff.

"Uh, yes I did," She says, shooting him a look. "He's, like, exactly your type, Dee."

"I don't have a type."

"He's a goofy beefcake with brown eyes and muscles and curls, and he makes you laugh, and he listened to you talk about your mom's dog, and—"

And to her credit, she keeps listing off things, and to David's chagrin, she's not wrong.

When Katherine mentioned a party at her apartment, David was all for it. Despite his typical "I don't like people" front, David did enjoy the company of the six friends he could tolerate- Katherine, Charlie, Racer, Albert, Spot, and Sarah. Well, five friends, technically, since he's known Sarah since she was thirteen minutes old and he was, well, zero minutes old. Still. Six people.

And then Katherine said there would be a seventh.

A guy named Jack.

The lore there, she explained, is that all of them knew each other from community theater back in the day. Jack, Kath, Charlie, Race, Al and Spot- they've always ran in the same circles- outside of school, at least. Apparently, Kath's dad wasn't too happy that he was shelling out thousands of dollars for private school and she decided to make friends elsewhere, but there was really nothing he could do. Sarah was added to the group when she and Kath started dating in freshman year of college, and David was added not too long after that, but until now, Jack has just been... a story. A story about this funny guy with a megawatt smile and a heart of gold, who packed up and went to college in Santa Fe for college. He's been in town a few times since then, apparently, but David had never met the guy until Katherine's birthday party last weekend.

And he can't stop thinking about him.

Literally. David isn't an artist by any means, but thinking about this Jack Kelly guy- this 5'9 guy with with rich brown skin and bright eyes, with the laugh of a lion and a smile that made David want to throw up- has made David want to etch his "I go hiking in the mountains and bathe in the rivers" body in stone and write a symphony just to capture the sound of his voice singing Happy Birthday purposely off-key. It's maddening, and—

"Hellooo? Earth to David?"

David blinks, then groans and takes his glasses off, haphazardly dropping them in a clatter onto the wooden table as he rubs his eyes with the heels of his palm. "I'm fucked, Kath."

She cackles, loudly, like David's misery is the funniest shit she's ever seen. "Oh, you poor thing. Didn't he follow you on Instagram at the party?"

David responds with another guttural groan.

He can practically feels Katherine roll her eyes. "Okay, dumbass. Text him."

"He's your ex," David says, like this is a crucial detail, like she should hate the fact that David is into him on the basis of we used to date and it's fucked up that you're telling me how much you like my ex, like Katherine and Jack weren't lounging on top of each other all weekend, like they don't FaceTime every other day, like they're not as close as can be. "And he's in fucking New Mexico. I'm not getting attached."

"He's coming back next month, y'know," Katherine points out. She picks her pen back up, twirling it between her pointer and middle finger. "He's graduating a semester early. Next weekend, actually, and then he's moving back."

David finally removes his hands from his face. "You're shitting me."

"I'm not! I swear it." Katherine picks up her phone, and David watches as she swipes through her text messages before sliding the phone across the table. "See? He's moving back on the twenty-third. He's surprising Medda for Christmas."

"Oh, fuck," David frowns. "That's cute. He needs to stop being cute."

"He's moving in with Charlie, so, I mean," She shrugs, "you'll be seeing him a lot soon."

"You're making this worse."

"He has a job lined up already. School counselor for one of the middle schools."

"He likes kids?"

"Loves 'em."

"Fuck me," David sighs, rubbing his forehead as he slides the phone back to Katherine. "So, you're saying I have two weeks to get over him?"

"No, David," Katherine says, deadly serious despite the smirk on her face, "I'm saying you have two weeks until your future husband is permanently in your vicinity."

"He doesn't like me like that," David says, crossing his arms. "You're being a bad friend. You're completely feeding my delusions."

Katherine purses her lips and grabs her phone again, silent. David gulps as he leans forward, trying to watch her screen through her glasses; he can tell she's scrolling through her photos, but after a few moments, she stops. When she slides the phone back, David sees an image on the screen.

An image of a video from her birthday. Paused with David and Jack on screen. David's eyes are wide, and his mouth is open and his lips are quirked, and his eyebrows are raised and his hands are splayed in front of him, and he's obviously mid-sentence about something important (or not important; he doesn't remember much after his fourth drink, but remembers talking about Pokémon and Sabrina Carpenter and the fall of the Catholic church, so the possibilities are truly endless).

Despite the animated, ugly, passionate look on David's face, though, what draws his attention is Jack.

Jack, sitting sideways on the couch with his elbow on the back and his cheek resting against his palm. Jack, his other arm draped, barely holding his bottle of beer. Jack, his gaze soft, staring at David like he's completely enraptured in whatever the fuck he's saying.

David takes in a deep breath, slides the phone back to Katherine, and says, "I want him."

She just grins and responds, "You got two weeks, tiger. This is so happening."

[pinacoladamatata]

Our little idol thief!! We didn't get an act 2 camp "ketheric's dead" party where we got to act silly and dance so i'm taking matters into my own hands

[arrietty-rune]

Ppl seems pretty interested for some Shotgun man HCs on my side!! But guess what! I'll also add Captain in it, because hey, why not! I like this guy too >:)

[Please be careful! Mentions of mental disorder and also murder below! Also bad english hehe]

Okay first of all, gender and sexualities, etc. I see Captain being bi (I got influenced by a yumeship I enjoy hahaha!!) But he has very much preferences on guys >:), he also go by he/him pronouns. Shotgun on his side, use he/they pronouns but don't mind any other pronouns, including neo ones, as long it isn't she/they. I HC him being transmasc and pan ! Also AuDHD

Most of time i call them Cappy and Shotty, cute nicknames! But I also gave them actual names, especially for my Sea World AU. Cappy's name is Miles, Shotty's one being Mihka. I wanted to search names that start with the same letter, like John and Jack, and i choose M haha!

Cappy is from Puerto Rico and speak fluently English and Spanish since his childhood. Shotty has origins from Sámi people, he and his family grew up in North Norway and can speak English, Northern Sámi and Norwegian. Sometimes he do mistakes in both three languages (ex => In an English sentence, he can start to speak in Sámi without realizing it and vice versa).

Shotgun has Costume Guy and Lucky as siblings! HC I have from @/spacefatcat , I thing they could have an interesting dynamic!

Shotty likes to eat, uses food as comfort. When he need to work, when he has high energy, low energy, can also depend on emotions! They eat snacks in general, but their faves are cupcakes and donuts

I hc them being in their early 30s, younger that Jack (I kinda see Jack being 34-35 years old, John being 36-37 years old)

Shotgun can have phases of euphoria toward his persception of violence. It happens when they have to confront someone menacing him with a weapon. When these impulses happened, he could lost the persception of reality and having no hesitation to shoot ppl, thinking it was a "funny game".

One day, one of his euphoria phases happened, and despite Captain who tried his best, Shotgun killed a criminal, who injured severely his left eye and his stomash by a knife, then he passed out. While they was in hospital, after an eye surgery, they also started to take medicine to control better his impulses. Since this, none or barely very low euphoria impulses has been shown, as they do their best to hide them as much as he could.

Shotty likes pretending being a pirate cop and intimidating ppl with his gun and his eyepatch (spoiler: he doesn't, ppl see him being just goofy or annoying 💔)

Despite joking with his eyepatch, he never show his damaged eye to ppl. Only his family and Captain has seen him without his eye accessory, and Shotgun themselves hate looking at the mirror without it.

Portrayed as dumb, he is genuinely smart. It shows sometimes by randomly, or also when he fakes his dumb trait and fool people, as to have everything he wants!

He annoy him very much when his name is badly written.

[al-luviec]

notes app kizaki ... i like him

[littlestkoi-n]

the rage I feel when reading Blood of Olympus chapters 45-56 is almost equivalent in magnitude to the absolute joy I experience when reading The Last Olympian chapters 1-23.

remember when percabeth was good? when they meant the world to each other but had other people they cared about (nico, for one. both of them. so much), other worries and other storylines aside from their romantic plot? and when nico's completed arc wasn't repeated for no reason other than to dump more trauma on the youngest character in the series? when background characters were included in the story not for all the unnecessary last minute romantic subplots but because they were fun and fascinating to learn more about? and were actually friends with main characters? remember when grover was percy and annabeth's best friend forever? and antagonists were actually interesting and intimidating and had compelling goals? and the story revolved around friendship and family and loyalty? and death was definite and loss was palpable and battles were thrilling?

yeah. good times.

[aq2003]

really love how throughout a lot of smith and jones martha is really skeptical and apprehensive towards ten (+ one of my favorite exchanges between them - "what, people call you 'the doctor'?" "yeah?" "well, i'm not. far as i'm concerned, you've got to earn that title."), not taking everything he says at face value, even doubting the fact he's an alien until over halfway through the episode.. And like. i really truly think the thing that wins her over isn't him kissing her or any of the other insane mixed messages he manages to send, it's this scene here, where he /earns that title/ in her eyes:

(+ david's bit in the commentary, where he says: "[the doctor] has actually sacrificed himself, and - i would say, that that final act of selflessness is what finally, eventually, welds martha to him. [...] and she now returns it. she returns that act of selflessness.")

this is what their relationship is built on. it isn't about martha being the second-best replacement to rose or a rebound or whatever. bc it isn't really about rose. it's about doctor-in-training martha meeting someone (quite literally, "the doctor") whose ideals she aspires to, and doing her best to be the same person to him as he is to everyone else. it's about ten in return admiring her intelligence and inquisitiveness and how she cares for human life, recovering his compassion, letting himself lean on her for support - and then remembering at the most inopportune moments that he's supposed to not need anyone and be on his own forever. And around in their little nightmare loop they go where they save each other over and over until one of them breaks

i've seen ppl look at martha and go "why she does she admire/why is she so in love with ten if he acts like that to her?" or something along those lines and like. it's not just the fact she's in love with him (in fact i'd argue she actively tries to push it aside post-gridlock). it's the fact that she knows he's the kind of person to put everyone else's lives/well-being over his own. she trusts him to save her when she's in trouble even though it's been like two days at most that they've known one another bc she recognizes that same "deep all-encompassing drive to help others" in him. and she also recognizes, much much earlier than him, that he needs someone to save him, especially when he's unwilling to save himself. and yeah for a bit she thinks he returns her feelings and is just playing hard-to-get, but she realizes pretty early on that this probably isn't the case, and i think that realization fully solidifies here:

(this is when she's listening to ten talk abt gallifrey). And idk it might just be me but i think this expression isn't just her empathizing with his loss. it's also guilt, for wanting something from him that he's clearly unable to give when he's wracked with so much grief. (and you see it in the next episode, where tallulah asks if they're together and martha says for certain that they're not, and that he doesn't know about her feelings for him. she keeps everything to herself bc she now knows that when he shut her flirting down at the end of 3x01 it was the genuine reaction of someone who a) isn't interested and b) is scared of getting close with someone else again)

freema described their dynamic as "she's keener than him" and i think about this all the time. martha doesn't really take what ten throws at her. what she does instead is constantly poke holes in his already-failing front of "i will show someone the wonders of the universe so i can ignore what is wrong with me". what she does is stand up and fight him when he tries to go off on his own. what she does is put aside her well-being in favor of helping someone - just like what she saw him do for the people in the hospital when they first met. tldr, that's the doctor and his doctor and rip martha you would've loved who's gonna save u now by rina sawayama

[bisclavret]

cannot stop thinking about these lines and their respective expressions. merlin "cracking" what matters to gwaine the most and trying to tempt him with it. gwaine looking compelled but wary, almost betrayed? and later that same episode when gwaine retaliates by "cracking" merlin's deal he does so in a way that validates merlin instead of judging him (as this is more about gwaine seeing how much merlin loves arthur than anything else), leaving merlin speechless and cautiously elated. in both their reactions there's the vulnerability of "oh fuck i've been perceived" and being generally caught off-guard, but there's also an undercurrent of "why are you saying this? because you mean it? because you think it's what i want to hear? because you want to show me you've figured me out? all of the above?" a sort of mutual intrigue..... the mortifying ordeal of it all