Harley Quinn: a better version of Edgy™
Poison Ivy: lesbian gardener
Catwoman: better than you
The Riddler: gay question mark
Mad Hatter: if emo was a person
Two-Face: it’s not a phase!!!
Scarecrow: spooky scary skeletons
Killer Croc: nice lizard man
Bane: do you even lift, bro
Penguin: i said a bird bird bird is the word
Deadshot: bang bang bitch
Mr. Freeze: deserved better
Clayface: dramatic pile of mush
Hush: white privilege
The Daedric Prince of Destruction, Change, Revolution, Energy, and Ambition. He is associated with natural dangers like fire, earthquakes, and floods. Dagon’s plane of Oblivion is known as “The Deadlands”. Of all the Daedric Princes, Mehrunes Dagon seems to have the most animosity towards Nirn’s species. Given his nature (Prince of Destruction), along with the fact that Daedra truly cannot be destroyed, the only entities he can practice destruction on are mortals.
Summary: Akaashi pulls a muscle and Bokuto offers to help him with yoga. Akaashi knows a bad idea when he sees it, and he really only agrees because he’s suddenly acquired a deeply rooted desire to see Bokuto do yoga.For multiple reasons.
Summary: Realizing he’s got it bad for his setter is the easy part. Getting his feelings across might be the hardest thing Bokuto’s ever done, not counting his literature final or putting out the flames on that birthday cake he tried to bake for Akaashi last year, or—or a lot of things, actually.But the point still stands. Reaching out to Akaashi is a leap in the dark, and he wants it more than he’s ever wanted anything (especially the smoking remains of a cake he baked before he really understood his feelings, but knew that it’s what you attempt with your own two hands that matters).
There’s a lot of things Bokuto isn’t sure about now that he’s in university. His program, his new team, his future. There’s only one thing he’s absolutely sure of. He is not dating Akaashi Keiji. Not even a little bit.
Bellamy doesn’t believe in any higher power, not really. He also doesn’t believe in fate, or coincidence, or any of those other things that people like to blame random happenings on.
But he will admit that if he did actually believe in any of those things, he would be fully convinced that they were laughing at his misfortune at this very minute which. Honestly, he would be too if not for the stab wound in his side. Stab wounds apparently make the whole laughing thing kind of difficult. Who’d’ve known.
“Would you just hold still?” Clarke huffs as she tries to clean the wound.
“And your bedside manner sucks, princess.”
She pinches the soft skin on the inside of his bicep and he yelps, glaring at her balefully.
It’s not like he wants to be here, sitting on the uncomfortable examination table in the ER, shirt off, and paper crinkling noisily beneath him each time he so much as breathes. No one ever wants to be in the ER, leaking blood all over the place because they were fucking stabbed in a mugging gone wrong, not even if the opportunity lends itself to a bout of truly morbid humour.
Just this morning he was telling his sophomores about the Ides of March and now here he is, living his own version of it. Again, he would be laughing except- stab wound.
Clarke is bent over his side, wisps of blonde hair escaping her braid and looking platinum in the harsh fluorescent hospital lighting. Her eyebrows are furrowed as she goes over the cut with antiseptic, and he hisses once more.
“That hurts,” he grunts, and then flinches again when she goes back in with another piece of gauze. Most of the bleeding has stopped, but there’s still a lazy trickle that she has to keep wiping up intermittently.
Everybody keeps talking about WTTM’s lift, and this is all my brain hears.
“Bro,” says Christophe Giacometti. It’s arms day, they’ve got protein shakes waiting for them, and to answer his best friend Viktor has to set the bar back onto its frame. “Bro, do you think he even lifts? Maybe he’ll let me spot him.” Viktor sits up on the bench, brushes sweaty hair from his face. Follows Christophe’s eyes. “He’s cute.”
Looking over, Viktor has to agree. Despite the overly large, sweaty shirt and obvious pudge the Japanese man sports on his arms and torso, he is hot. With a shy duck of his head, he passes them and starts adjusting the weight on a nearby bar. Higher. And higher. And HIGHER.
“Bro,” Viktor whispers. The man’s phone beeps, and he reads with obvious distress. Experimentally, he lifts the bar easily with both hands, and–“BRO,” Viktor whimpers.
Like a curse, or maybe a gift, he looks right to Viktor with soft brown eyes, comes over.
“Uhm,” he says, “this is awkward, but… would you spot me?”
“Only if you lift me,” is Viktor’s suave and completely unintended reply. “Promise? Someday.”
Cute weightlifter’s jaw drops, faster than a barbell, face going red.
“Dude,” Christophe sighs, “why couldn’t you just ask him out for smoothies later?”