#sorry this is kinda heavy

[electrozeistyking]

this has been locked in my brain me since I first made this au, so I finally drew it. how are we feeling tonight chat

[voltaical-art]

more modern bishop + wyll

[jokzs]

I yearn for engiespy cuddling in some corner in the middle of a match like the others aren't being blown up by each other just a few feet away... do you see my vision...

I hope I do see it!

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[siyelius]

jericrew pj party

(totally not just an excuse to draw hc body refs post-revolution and rant in tags)

[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.

[cruel-hiraeth]

WHAT COULD HAVE BEEN ꒰ ajax tartaglia childe x reader ꒱

cw: a little angst, a little romance, a lot of ambiguity. wc: 777. notes: this is based on a prompt—childe x the last time you see each other, but only one of you is aware of the fact—suggested by my loveliest bitti @rabbbitseason and leigh @sugurei.

Snow flurries dot his lashes, kissing the freckles that dust his strawberry cheeks as he knocks on your door—nearly too short of breath for his dimpled smile to be convincing. While he knows the news (held it as a secret from you, one which putrefied and festered until it nearly rotted his organs), nothing could prepare him for this meeting.

The door creaks open. Behind it, your face is wan and drawn up, funerary. Once lively and headstrong, the sunny candlelight of your eyes—a balm that soothed his soul in foreign lands, an omniscient presence in his fondest memories—has been snuffed.

“I take it you’ve heard the news?”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Ajax doesn’t have a biting or witty remark; he simply stares at you for a beat too long, then nods. He wishes you would tease him, now, just like you used to. 

The scoff that leaves your lips is a comforting, familiar sound. Yet it’s ephemeral—over before he can appreciate it. He steps inside your room. 

A private dwelling on the Fatui base is sought-after, and your friend was able to pull some strings as a Harbinger to secure you your own space. Your quarters are exceedingly cramped, and have only the necessities: a standard cot, a wet bath, and a kitchen with a sink, a hot plate, and a narrow counter. There’s a table attached to a wall in the entryway—unusable during the lingering, frigid winters—accompanied by a pair of folding chairs. 

You treat him too formally, he thinks mirthfully, as you busy yourself brewing tea that he gifted you after a trip to Liyue. It’s your pride that keeps an appropriate amount of distance between your bodies, that firmly measures your tone, that keeps your heated glances brief. But it’s also your pride that drew him to you. 

(Ajax was never good at backing down from a challenge.)

Tears silently slip down your cheeks as you work with your back to him, swallowing any noise that threatens to bubble past your lips, though—unbeknownst to you—he understands what the telltale tremble of your shoulders means. With a delicate hand, you pour boiling water over the precious tea leaves and watch as they slowly bleed into liquid amber.

The quiet in your small home stretches uncomfortably thin. Words catch along the curve of your tongue and the tip of his; neither of you can vocalize your emotions. His boot taps against the floor, your fingers against the counter. 

When you serve Ajax his tea, his ultramarine stare pins you in place, unfurling your wings and your worries. He soaks in your watery gaze, and wishes (cruelly, selfishly) that he could revel in the beauty of your sorrow; perhaps he should—before it’s too late. But he can’t bring himself to hurt you further, no matter how desperately he wants to taste you, salt and spit and skin. 

“It’s just for a few years,” you reason aloud, absentmindedly worrying with the side of your porcelain cup—another gift from your companion. Your voice is thick with all that remains unsaid; it quavers.

“The Chasm is a treacherous place,” you say between sips of scalding tea that burns your tongue, “but I have faith in the Tsaritsa’s infinite wisdom. She will see to the safety of our expedition.”

No blade could cut through the tense air between you. Ajax clears his throat and musters a smile that feels like a lie. “It will be over before we know it.”

He reaches for your hand—palm upwards, welcoming—and you take it. The lambskin of his glove is soft, warm from the blood thrumming through his veins. You rest in silken stillness for a few moments, intertwined like that, chests rising and falling in unison. Then, he brings your hand to his lips, and brushes a kiss against your knuckles. It’s as brief and gentle as the flap of a crystalfly’s wings, yet the caress steals your breath—as does the flame-blue burn of his eyes. 

Before you can say anything (and before he does something he shouldn’t), he rises to his feet and grasps the doorknob. A rushed “I’ll miss you” is all he can utter before ripping the door open and slamming it shut.

Tsaritsa forgive me.

He repeats the words over and over like a mantra, tears blurring his vision, though the archon isn’t the one he should be asking for forgiveness; she’s not the one who is about to embark on a mission that’s as good as a death sentence. 

But you? 

Left to your fate, thoughts of what could have been prickle your flesh, steam curling up from the cup of Ajax’s untouched tea.

[brainrotisseriechicken]

..

extra:

(it was a spring morning)

(he was a frail boy with no friends)

(he ran into you from across the wall)

(you said hello to him, and asked him to play along)

(at that very moment, he received his lifelong—)

extra 2: oscar boogaloo

yeahhhh....iykyk

[ratatatastic]

he is quite literally every techie's worst nightmare girl please stop touching the mic STOP TOUCHING IT. YOU DONT NEED TO CONTINUOUSLY BRING IT CLOSER TO YOU AND MOVING IT BACK THATS THE PERSON ON SOUND'S JOB. STOP IT.

post practise interview | 6.23.24 (x)

[veeta-cuculidae]

its interesting to me how everyone’s wishes in persona 5 royal have to do with the catalyst for their rebellion. like ryuji getting to live in a world where kamoshida doesn’t break his leg and force him off the track team, or yusuke where his sensei doesn’t betray him, doesn’t plagiarize. they get to skip those moments that revealed how unfair the world is, that made them want to fight back.

so logically joker’s wish should involve his false conviction. it should involve that event which forced him to transfer schools, to live in a store attic, to be labeled by everyone he met as a delinquent, a criminal. but even in a perfect world, all of that remains unchanged. he accepts that that experience Made him Something, that it was for the better in that it let him be a phantom thief, got him to meet all his friends.

no, to joker, the real thing that betrayed the world’s unfairness was akechi dying. akechi’s circumstances, being used by shido for years and then being discarded the moment shido didn’t have use for him anymore, the fact that akechi not only didn’t get the revenge he committed himself to when he was just a kid but therefore also didn’t get the opportunity to move on from it, is the one thing joker couldn’t stand. and it’s not just that joker wanted akechi to go to jail in his stead, because notably, akechi isn’t actually in jail in the third semester.

really, joker just wanted to see akechi again. he wanted to see him again because he loved him.

[sp3ctrum-int3rn3t]

disventure camp you're not safe

[parola-di-winx]

the relationship i have w these two daughters of mine completely changed in the making of this. i hope they fail school & get expelled. anyway here's their enchantix. i never wanna look at them again

[llitchilitchi]

cw: animal death, blood, scary imagery

[elkieanddoppo]

chuuya moving on from dazai bc he ran away (betrayed) the mafia and didn't even bother telling him beforehand. he thought dazai could trust him now. they were literally in a relationship and had been since they were 16.

it was 2 years later, he was walking to a bar that he has been going to ever since dazai betrayed him. chuuya insisted that he has moved on from him but really, whos gonna believe him when he still drinks and cries because of that bandaged freak.

he enters the bar and walked to his usual seat. he noticed a blonde man sitting beside it. he sat down and ordered his usual.

while waiting, he could not stop looking at the guy beside him. he was so gorgeous. even though he can only see his side profile, chuuya thinks hes the most beautiful person he has ever seen.

the blonde noticed that he was staring and turned his head to him, "whatre you staring at me for? do you want a fight huh? im not in the mood right now." the beautiful dazzling blonde with red glasses said. chuuya noticed that the guy brushed his luscious hair with his hand as he still looked at chuuya

'oh my, his eyes is so. i can get lost while looking at it. also his hair, damn. i wonder what his hair would look like while hes fucking m-- I MEAN WHAT WHO SAID THAT' chuuya coughed and looked away while blushing.. "uh im sorry, it's just that youre so beautiful- I MEAN HUH UH I MEANT THAT IVE NEVER SEEN YOU IN THIS BAR BEFORE haha dont get me wrong.."

the blonde was surprised by the ginger's outburst but he calmed himself down and chuckled.

"calm down. im sorry for kinda assuming that you want to fight,, as i said i had a really bad day today."

chuuya looked at the other.

"don't worry, it's my fault for staring.."

the blonde smiled, "my name is kunikida doppo. it's a pleasure to meet you." he reached out his hand to the ginger.

"oh, im nakahara chuuya. you can just call me chuuya tho." he said as he shaked kunikida's hand.

"wait but we just met. i believe that it is inappropriate to call someone their first name when they--"

chuuya reached to kunikida to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, "please, kunikida-san? i hate when people call me by my last name."

kunikida blushed at his action, "well, if you say so." he said as he drank from his glass again. "then quit calling me kunikida-san too." he murmured. if the man he was talking to was not the nakahara chuuya, then no one would have heard it. however, chuuya heard it loud and clear.

chuuya chuckled and drank from his glass that arrived a while ago when the two of them were talking.

"should i call you kunikida-kun then?"

"i- um." the blonde cleared his throat. "you can...ll...ppo"

"hm? cant hear you, darling. speak up."

"what.. darling?! chuuya, are you already drunk?"

"oh, sorry. did i make you uncomfortable?" chuuya scratched his head.

"oh uh no." he paused for a second.

'it felt right...' he thought. he ignored the thought by shaking his head.

"uh you can call me doppo, i guess" kunikida said as he looked at his glass of sake and gently shook it.

"i can?"

"yeah." kunikida smiled sweetly.

'god hes so beautiful.' chuuya thought as he smiled back

"alright, doppo."

the only people that had called him that were: the armed detective agency president, fukuzawa yukichi, and his parents. kunikida was not used to anyone else calling him that but since he was the one who insisted...

he felt himself smile. he looked at chuuya who was staring at his wine. he looked so empty when he entered the bar but now he was full of life. this look he has now suits him better. he wants to make this man happy.

however, theyve only just met. so he must wait. wait until he has truly get to know him better.

kunikida raised his glass, chuuya noticed it.

"cheers?"

chuuya smiled and raised his glass too.

"cheers."

[hacksawboy]

sorry i was playing tf2 from when i woke up till like 50 minutes ago so i had to like quickly doodle something to post. so bug fortress. take bug fortress. im so exhausted rn help

tf2 is now my most played steam game 200 HOURS BRO women hate me fish do not fear me