i never get those things

(long post, sorry)

In spite of everything I love Harley Quinn but, damn, writers treat her so badly. I swear, the temptation to make her actually stupid must be terrible because it’s so often implied, or explicitly stated, that she slept her way through school. First of all, it does not work like that.  Second, she’s not a therapist or a psychologist, she’s a psychiatrist, she’s a fricking MD and a damn young one too. Managing pre-med and collegiate gymnastics that she relied on to keep her scholarship? Harley is fucked up, but she’s not the dumb blonde she plays. (also stop making her stacked, she’s a gymnast. she is 4’11” of pure muscle and is not top heavy)

If you want a good Harley backstory it’s simple. She’s ADHD but medicated and slightly robotic because of it. I want to take special care not to demonize meds but, rather, people’s disapproval of neurodivergence and a lack of focus on what is best for a patient rather than what is most convenient for others. So, maybe, around ten years old Harley is a hyperactive space cadet who’s brilliant at tests but sloppy at coursework, who would be a gymnastics prodigy if she could actually focus on technique and put in practice time instead of fooling around. Then the meds come and it’s actually really cool because she can do the things she needs to do instead of just wanting to do them, doing something else entirely, and getting in trouble. People are proud of her, she’s proud of herself. But now there are expectations. Family and teachers and coaches overschedule her, find worth only in her success and don’t care about her mental health at all as long as she’s performing and castigate her when she does fail. Fuck if you don’t internalize that. But she doesn’t look unhealthy and she’s doing amazing. She actually has to choose between the Olympic trials and continuing her grad studies. She probably has some issues with self-harm but it either doesn’t look like self-harm or is well covered up. 

When Arkham accepts her, fresh from her residency, it’s not a mistake. The woman is amazing. All they can see is a mountain of achievements rather than the seething ball of nerves, self-loathing, and imposter syndrome boiling just under the surface. That’s when Joker comes in. He’s got the Hannibal Lecter shtick down. Where everyone else sees an intelligent driven young woman he sees a frightened overwhelmed girl who is working her hardest to convince the world she’s anyone other than herself. Sending her into a nervous breakdown would be too easy so he doesn’t even bother. Instead he’s open with her, almost friendly. The other doctors are amazed, Harley is amazed, she’s not done anything particularly revolutionary but, for the first time in forever, it looks like the clown prince of crime is showing progress. He unravels her and it’s a challenge, she flinches back and gets very serious when he comes too close to the real Harley under the professional. Still, soon she’s questioning everything. She doesn’t even really like her co-workers. She hasn’t had a real friend in years. She’s forgotten how to have fun. Did she ever want this to be her life or did she just do it for other people? It starts so slowly that it looks, at first, like she’s getting better at self-care. Maybe something totally silly one weekend, a trampoline park where she can enjoy the way her toned body moves without stressing out over landings, a face painting booth at a street fair, some garishly colored downright tacky decoration that clashes with her sensible apartment. Suddenly she realizes how much she hates knowing the difference between cream and ecru. The beigeness of her life is repulsive. She hates the person she’s pretending to be even more that she hates herself which is really saying something.

After her weekend of freedom she would have called in sick if it wasn’t so suddenly important to see him. The relief she feels at talking to one of Gotham’s most infamous supercriminals is disturbing but it is relief and she’s been swallowing a slow-motion panic attack for hours. She admits, though she shouldn’t, that she took his advice about doing something fun and he teases her, what would straight-laced Doctor Quinzel do for fun? Did she realphabetize her sock drawer or buy a new clipboard? It’s not important to impress him, it’s really not. He’s dangerous, cruel, and he looks so proud when she admits that she bought a lamp shaped like a lawn flamingo. The only mistake, he says, is that she should have stolen it. She hopes the wicked thrill it gives her doesn’t show on her face. It does. She almost even laughs. He likes it when he can make her laugh and she likes it when he likes things.

It’s wrong and unprofessional, the relationship she develops, and she knows it but her whole life she’s been so high strung. Nothing she’s done has been for her, she’s not sure she knows how to really do selfish things anymore, but he knows the selfish things she needs to do. It feels good when she follows his advice even when it’s small things like the rainbow striped socks she wears concealed under her very bland slacks and sensible shoes. She’s so happy, almost giddy, and he loves her happiness, he loves her, he loves the real her that she’s had to beat down and hide for so long, the her that even she isn’t able to love. She is able to love him, though, and since he loves her she’s able to love herself for him, to protect and nurture something so important to him.

When the choice comes between her old self, the tedious endless labor of making the world proud, and Him, the spectacular man that brought color into her life, it’s not even a question. She kills Doctor Harleen Quinzel, she throws away the version of her that let herself burn just for medals and hollow accolades. She embraces Harley Quinn and it’s so much a part of her nature she can’t even see that she’s still living her life for someone else’s approval, except this time that person is a murderous clown. She hasn’t let her hair down, she’s just put it in pigtails instead of a bun.

4

“I smiled once, in October 1976, but I never tried it again. I don’t miss it.”

2

Present and surprise are separate things on Kenma’s birthday when it comes to Kuroo

Most People: [get a relatively normal amount of sleep] Hi!

Me: [drinks ten of those five-hour-energy bottles to get fifty consecutive hours of energy] gOOD, HOW ARE YOU?

anonymous asked:

Why do you think Paul keeps saying "No John wasn't gay.", even though Yoko says that he might have been bi. Could Paul be hiding something, what do you think?

well that definitely sounds suspicious. i have a lot of meta in my head about this subject but i don’t know how to write it down (my problem usually with things; i don’t know how to write)

i am sure that paul is hiding at least something. of course, if we’re speaking on the level of “john and paul had a relationship and paul just won’t talk about it”, then he’s definitely hiding something. i kind of find it odd (and suspicious) that paul so adamantly keeps saying that john wasn’t gay, even when yoko has actually said that john thought himself as bi. either paul lives in deep denial, or he has something to hide and he thinks denying the rumours will keep those things hidden.

so to answer your question, yes, i definitely think paul is hiding something, but just what kind of a bomb it is, we don’t know.

probably just that he’s hella gay for john

I honestly don’t know why the frick people repost other’s art in the first place. It’s already posted on the Internet somewhere like,,, ?? What’s gonna change if you post it somewhere else??? You can legit just find the original or look for what you’d like or smth,, I even have a damn instagram- I don’t even really like being on there but I post my art there as much as I can so I don’t see a reason for it to be on the same site twice?? I just scrolled through some hamilton tags on there and I found some of my art that was reposted but it’s ALREADY POSTED ON INSTA BY ME. I don’t fricken understand,,-

6

speaking of Jedi cuddling y’all

I’ve been thinking a lot about the au where Knight!Luke ends up in charge of three teenaged Padawans, and given that both Obi-Wan and Ahsoka were creche-raised and im just saying

padawan cuddle pile. Ahsoka tends to want to be where Anakin is because even though he’s not that much older than her now, he’s still her master. HOWEVER. Obi-Wan is the one with the similar cultural background and Anakin is all ‘Don’t touch me’

(I’m thinking Anakin probably spent his entire post-slavery life exerting control like - everything is his. His own room, his own stuff, if it’s not yours its his, if it’s Obi-Wan’s it’s also his. Don’t touch him. He has the right to control who touches him now. He accidentally touch-starves himself. It makes him cranky and weird about being touched. He touch-starves himself even more. He comes to depend on Padme for touch, but barely ever sees her. Extremely touch starved is what Im saying.)

So it ends up that Ahsoka turns to Obi-Wan for more Temple-like interactions, including the padawan sleep piles. Normally that stuff stops after they become padawans, during which their masters probably slowly wean them of it when they’re away from the Temple. They both grew up communally, so Obi-Wan and Ahsoka effortlessly borrow back and forth and basically have no boundaries. Given a post-Temple world, they’re taking a lot of comfort from one another is what I’m saying. Ahsoka is totally being the little sister that Obi-Wan never had.

Anakin is exceptionally weirded out by all of this behavior. He also frowns a lot because yes, this is a much younger version of his Obi-Wan, but he’s never seen Obi-Wan let anyone close to him like this. Yes, alright, he might be really incredibly jealous. This isn’t his obi-wan, but Obi-Wan is still his, and this Togruta says that in the future she was his padawan so she’s also his, and he’s really not sure about this communal living thing (it reminds him of being a slave and not having anything of his own) but -

Anyway, the point is that when Anakin gets over himself, Ahsoka and Obi-Wan stick him in the middle of the padawan sleep pile and they all get a lot of excellent sleep in.

Meanwhile, Jedi Knight Luke Skywalker thinks this is all very weird but the past was a different place back then, and they all seem happy about it, so it’s probably fine, right?

(it’s not like he’s sad to think about the fact that Vader hadn’t been able to touch another person for more than two decades, or Old Ben living out there alone in the desert by himself.)

Double Date

Requested by @feyreaelinmaas 15: “Quit whining” and 44: “Make me”

Feysand and Nessian


In their five hundred years, Cassian and Rhys have never been able to double date. It was never high on their priority list, and, to be honest, they both had had never had girlfriends that lasted long enough for them be dating at the same time. Now, when they both have mates and the war is over, they decide to give it a try.

Nesta and Feyre, however, are not too keen on the idea, knowing how the night will probably end, and do everything in their power to avoid such a double date.

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@nostalgic-uncertaintyA fluffy Hannibal :3 as fluffy as he can be without it being weird that is XD maybe one in which reader is going out with Hannibal and it’s great until she walks in on him killing someone in his murder suit, she flips out, he drugs her and then what happens is up to you XD

Ugh, I love Hannibal waaaaaay more than I should considering, y’know, he’s a cannibalistic serial killer… I’m always nervous writing about Hannibal because I’m scared of characterising him incorrectly; feels like an insult to do that. But after months of procrastination, I just have to sit and write the thing that scares me. Hannibal wouldn’t mind, I hope. But anyways, uhm, @thranduilsperkybutt helped me out so much with this. If you don’t follow them, you really should. Everything they write is flawless and almost taken from canon. Thank you, lovely! ❤

Originally posted by sirenja-and-the-stag

Your shift was almost over, thankfully. You just had to print out some files and leave them in your outbox for Monday. 

As you were walking down the corridor to the printing room, you heard shuffling and a series of grunts coming from the Director’s office. Thinking it may have just been the Director working out in his office, as he kept a punching bag in the corner, you thought nothing of it, walking past without glancing inside and continuing on your errand.

As you reached the printer, scanning your aged ID card and carrying out your errand, you were initially unaware of the sudden lack of background noise. Indeed, as you began to notice the quiet ringing in your ears, the silence became deafening.

Something was wrong. There was ice in your gut and though you couldn’t say why, you felt compelled in equal measures to investigate and run away. There was no telling which of the two compulsions was stronger.

Slipping your heels off because really, they were death traps, you padded quietly down the corridor, back the way you came. You reached the office and there was very little sound, just quiet squelches and the odd squeak, as though two things very much attached to one another were now being ripped apart forcibly.

Curiosity getting the better of you, you curled your hand around the door frame and peered around, looking into the expanse of the office. All you saw at first glance was the sight of a familiar broad back, clad in a plastic suit, leaning over the desk chair, occasionally grunting with the physical exertion. 

There was a metallic tang in the air, and you gagged. You knew what was before you, what your five senses were registering, but you didn’t want to believe it. How could you believe it?

The imposing figure turned then, and your heart dropped into your stomach, bile rising up into your throat as you recognised the perpetrator. 

“H-Hannibal?”

His eyes… Never before had you seen your partner look at you, look at anyone, like that. He was, for lack of a better word, unfeeling. There was no emotion in his eyes. Hannibal Lecter had the eyes of a shark, now. He was facing you directly, his predatory eyes meeting yours unflinchingly. 

You didn’t recognise the man stood in front of you.

And the man behind him, he - your eyes widened, your breath caught in your throat and all sense of logic left you immediately. The room was spinning and you couldn’t think or see straight. You felt the need to run, to run, far away and never once look back. 

His throat had been cut deeply, exposing white bone, which had an ugly contrast with the sheer amount of blood and the ravaged flesh around it. You knew what those grotesque noises had been - Hannibal, cutting and tearing into tissue, his hands grabbing and pulling apart sinew and bone, the crunches and pops, like a chicken leg when you twist the cartilage and break it apart. It had been raw, animalistic, and yet perfectly carried out… What Hannibal had done, he had done well, and you knew all at once that Hannibal had killed before.

When you’d walked in, interrupting him, Hannibal had been settling the head against the plush backrest of the desk chair, adding the finishing touches to his murder.

Your eyes didn’t want to leave the sight of the remains of the Director and yet you couldn’t look away fast enough. You struggled to breathe, to think straight, to realise that you should call for help, for back-up, to take Hannibal down.

As your eyes settled back on the man you no longer knew, your chest heaving, your starved lungs craving oxygen, a part of you instantly knew where you had seen that look before, in the eyes of those featured in your criminology textbooks. Hannibal’s eyes were cold, calculating, and you realised somewhere in your mind that you were the next puzzle that had to be solved. You hoped that your romantic ties to the man, the beast, before you, would be your grounds for mercy, but if he could do this to the Director, then there was no telling what he’d do to you.

He took a step towards you, his face unreadable, his eyes cold and foreboding, and then other step, careful and measured. Whereas before you had wanted nothing more than to run, now you found yourself quite rooted to the spot. Something flashed across his face so quickly that you couldn’t identify it. He sped up, never faltering, never falling, just quick and steady, and he reached you so quickly that you didn’t even have the time to scream.

There was a very sudden movement, something in his hand, and then a sharp sting in your neck, and you succumbed to the darkness which now clouded your vision.


 You came back into yourself slowly, your head fogged by whatever Hannibal had drugged you with, your movements slow. You didn’t know how you’d gotten here or even why you were here. 

You looked around the room, taking in your surroundings. Recognition pulsed through you - you’d spent several nights here before in the past, when Hannibal had been too much of a gentleman to let you drive home in the middle of the night. You relaxed then, only to jolt up as you realised belatedly that the door was effectively blocked by Hannibal leaning up against it, not a hair out of place.

He was watching you closely, the way that a lion watches a gazelle that is perilously close to the pride. You knew then that, one wrong move, and he’d likely kill you or sedate you again.  You were also at a crossroads - you could either… accept this side of Hannibal and stay alive, or you could make a run for it. You knew that the former option would likely result in your death, because Hannibal would just drag you right back to this place, and then you may never make it out alive.

During this, Hannibal had been watching you, closely. He could almost see the cogs turning in your mind as to which option you were likely to take, and he knew you well enough to know that a part of you had already chosen. The rest of you just had to come to terms with and accept it.

“Well, what are you going to do?” The way he said it made it seem like you had a choice here, but you’d had enough training to know that you really didn’t. 

You had no choice.

It was stay and live, or leave and die. Simple as that, with no possibility of compromise.

“Why did you drug me?” Your voice was quiet, scratchy, and Hannibal looked towards your bedside cabinet, which had a glass of water sat atop it. You took it and drank gratefully, swallowing as you waited for his answer. You hoped that he’d tell you the truth now that you had discovered his biggest and deadliest secret.

“You were being irrational. Now look at how calm you are.” 

You nodded carefully, your mind working overtime to try to rationalise and justify all of this. 

Hannibal lingered in the doorway for another moment or two before he made his way towards you, his body language open and relaxing, now. The man before you was your Hannibal, not the man in the Director’s office. You couldn’t help the fond smile that found its way onto your face as those familiar dark brown eyes met yours, filled with something you wanted to be warm affection. 

He smoothed your hair down with a single hand, which moved down to cup your chin. You leaned into his touch like a cat, and he smiled, leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. Then, Hannibal turned and left the room, shutting the door with a firm snap behind him.

This ended abruptly because I’ve spent two hours on this and I’ve had enough of it, plus I don’t think you’d really address the issue, it’d be one of those things that just never gets acknowledged. I could be wrong, though. Anyways, I had my mum read through this because I’m nervous about posting it. Hope you like it.

Part 2

yo. i just wonder what its like to be one of those people who grows up always hearing that theyre pretty

northern downpour // panic! at the disco

Why do people who write perfectly nice fics have summaries and author’s notes that read like the most obnoxious Tumblr posts?

9

Vans Girls Music Crushes: Brianna Collins

Meet the soulful singer and keyboardist of the alternative/punk/indie band Tigers Jaw, Brianna Collins. The second we heard her sultry voice and beautiful piano melodies, we were instantly hooked and had to know more about her. We met up with the Pennsylvania native and roamed the streets of Long Beach, CA in our Old Skools, scoping out vintage thrift finds and rare records while chatting about tour, writing, and her band’s new record.

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