no incaps

Frisk: “Well, I still have legs… and I have to run to save them.”
Flowey: “Not a step closer, bag of bones!”

omfg, I thought I won’t be able to finish it today! >w<
So here we go with flowerfell Frisk.
Yes, Flowey is in a bag ‘cause Frisk is incapable to carry a pot. Frisk drops their bag when they can’t run from a fight, so Flowey stays safe(no one really care to attack a flower when they see a human)
Frisk is armless. Literally.

Flowerfell au by Siviosanei
You can support me with a nice cream, I do reward after first 15 nice cream(this will be undertale) or for too kind souls(and here the soul decide).

anonymous asked:

#18 with Jason and Bruce?

thanks anon! also this takes place in a ~nebulous time period~ where bruce and jason are okay? in a sense? of the term? maybe? i’ve established i know shit about fuck, so

18. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Jason had never been particularly stealthy. He’d always been loud, full of life, like a roaring fire - incapable of quiet. It’d always mystified Bruce. Jason had grown up in an environment that would’ve taught him to make himself small, to appear weak, to appear like less of a target, yet Jason walked like he was ten feet tall at twelve. Nobody hit the Batman with a tire iron unless they had a spine of steel.

Even years of training hadn’t taught Jason the fine nuance of stealth. “What do you want.”

Jason melted out of the shadows of the study, pulling off his helmet. He hung it on the bust of Thomas Wayne. “I was there for an hour. What finally tipped you off?”

“I thought you might be getting cramped,” Bruce said, setting his pen next to his empty rocks glass.

Jason’s brows furrowed. “You couldn’t have known I was there.”

“Next time, mask your scent. You smell like gunpowder.”

Jason tapped the gun holstered to his thigh with a wry grin. He turned the chair - the one that sat directly across from the bust of Thomas Wayne - around, and flopped in it, resting his head on his curled fist. Ankles crossed. One arm over his stomach. He was trying too hard to appear casual.

Bruce placidly steepled his fingers. “Jason. What can I help you with?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“What have I not told you.”

Jason twisted his mouth - a sharp, cruel gesture. “You tried to kill the Joker.”

Bruce felt fire lick at his belly. He’d tried to kill the Joker - but which time? Had it been in the alleyway, holding the Joker by his lapel, the rain and blood mixing and slipping down into the storm drain, the smell of cigarettes and Jim Gordon’s hand on his shoulder? Had it been just days after Jason had died, the roar of the helicopter engines, the smoking of the wreckage, Clark’s immovable presence behind him? 

Jason leaned forward in his seat. “I’m dying to know. What stopped you? Why didn’t you just fucking do it? Why are you such a gigantic damn hypocrite?”

The fire was more of a raging storm, now - he grit his teeth against the tide.

“You going to answer some questions, or are we going to do this the hard way? Please say the hard way. I’m just dying to kick you in the teeth.” 

Curious, how he wasn’t bleeding now, how his guts weren’t sliding out into his lap, how blood wasn’t dripping to the floor. Jason’s hate of him always felt like a keen, cold knife to the stomach, splitting him end-to-end. 

Jason stood, and leaned over the desk, eye-to-eye with Bruce. “What fucking stopped you, huh? Was I not enough a reason to kill the Joker? Was I not good enough?”

“Jason,” Bruce breathed. “Jason, stop.”

“I live my whole life,” Jason said, voice shaking, “I live my whole life watching you ignore your limits for the sake of this city. Even when I didn’t know you, I knew Batman was out on the streets. My whole fucking life. And when it comes to me, you say sorry, Batman doesn’t kill. Sorry, Batman’s got a new Robin. Sorry, Jason, you didn’t fucking matter at all, you were just a stand-in Dick Grayson. Sorry, Jason, you’re a violent, murderous fuck-up, who stands against everything I believe in. And then you - you pull the same shit. You pull the same - fucking - shit! You’re just like me, aren’t you, old man? That why you hate me so much?”

“I never hated you,” Bruce snarled, standing. His chair fell behind him with a clatter. “I never will. If you think any of that is true, you’re delusional.”

Jason’s mouth twisted, and he leaned back in the chair. “Even the part where Batman doesn’t kill?”

Bruce worked his jaw. “I shouldn’t kill. That doesn’t mean I can’t. That doesn’t mean I can’t fail.”

Jason laughed - low and bitter. “Failure. That’s what I am, to you. A glass case, a warning. Don’t disobey me, kids, or you’ll become murderers. You’ll fail.”

“Losing you was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me,” Bruce said, plainly. “That case is down there for nobody other than me. If I fail, I lose my world.”

Jason was quiet. Bruce took his opportunity. “If I made you feel like I didn’t care for you, that’s my fault. I’m… not good.”

There was a long, aching pause. Bruce stared at his hands, wondering at his own incredible ability to fail beyond all measure.

“The problem is that you are,” Jason said, finally. “You know the worst thing about you? You actually believe in the shit you say. You think redemption’s possible for everyone, you think that if you fight hard enough, you’re going to punch evil in the dick and it’ll go crawling back to the hell it came from. People think you’re so dark, but you’re not. People wonder why Superman and Wonder Woman can stand you. It’s because you’re all naive.”

“You think I’m lying about caring about you.”

Jason shook his head. “No, I’m thinking - fuck, I don’t know what I’m thinking.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I came here looking for a fight, why are you so - not angry.”

“I woke up an hour ago. I was asleep for sixteen hours.”

Jason scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I think you’ve got an antiquated set of morals. I think I’m pissed you didn’t kill the Joker when you had, apparently, already tried. I think I’m pissed that people have died because you weren’t enough of a realist to know what’s necessary. I’m thinking that I’ve never actually seen you drink outside of a rich bitch soiree before.”

Bruce looked down at the glass beside his pen, almost startled to remember it was still there. “I didn’t, when you were a kid. No reason to. But it bothers you.”

Jason ducked his head. “Yeah. Maybe. L’il bit.”

“Stay here for the night,” Bruce said, gesturing to the door. “Alfred would be delighted.”

Jason nodded, and ducked out of the room - he was quick to leave. Possibly, he found emotional conversations as draining and tiresome as Bruce did. He left his helmet sitting on the bust of Thomas Wayne, and Bruce standing there, staring at it, with an uncanny sense of deja vu. 


FUN FACT Matthew Daddario is incapable of sitting still at panels or he just fucking stares into the abyss and gets lost thinking about cows but as soon as a question comes he will answer with something sassy or sexy and I didn’t think I was capable of loving him anymore but he always has to be doing something with his hands wether it’s touching the table or playing with his fingers and it’s just wonderful to watch as is the friendship between all of them when they whisper in each others ears and giggle during the panel or Matt chimes in how terrible Clary is and how he’s the best character also he is even more beautiful in person his hair is fucking amazing as is his beard, also parabatri sat together :’)


Gif is mine

Imagine spending a lazy day with Pride. 

Requested by Anon~

You were still in your pajamas, watching Dwayne walk around his kitchen, cleaning things up from the breakfast he insisted on making you. Sitting at the island, with your chin on your hand, you watched the agent move this way and that. “You know, I think you might be incapable of doing nothing.”

Dwayne shot you a look, smirking at your words. “Is that so?” He asked.

“Yes. I try to stay in bed, and you get up to make breakfast. When breakfast is over, I want to go lie back down, and you’re cleaning every inch of the kitchen.” You explained, lowering your hand to playfully glare at Pride. “Next thing I know, you’re gonna be wanting to go on your morning run.”

He blinked a few times, glancing away guiltily. And Dwayne smiled slightly when you gasped. “You were going to go!”

“No, I wasn’t.” Dwayne lied. It was always so easy to tell when he lies. He dropped the washcloth into the sink, coming around the island with a hand held out. “I’ll prove it right now; let’s go back to bed.”

I think the scene when Harry sees Molly incapable of fighting the Boggart is so telling. She is just so terrified of what’s to come in this war against Voldemort; she’s been thinking how “half the order is made up of my family”, and how “it would be a miracle if we all made it through”… how Ron is so loyal and so close to Harry and so young and so involved already… that when the Boggart shows her Ron’s dead body (the fear that was closest to the surface, perhaps?), she simply loses her ability to fight it. It’s just too much.

I have such compassion for Molly in this scene


I should accept the fact that I’ll never amount to much as a photographer :

I’m floating in between states, in between points of view. Neither documentary, nor travel photographer. Not really fine art nor a portraitist but somewhere in between all of these, with a lot of uncertainty.

Uncertainty is good, in theory. It keeps you on the move, it keeps you going forward but this also means never settling on anything, never making the important choices.

Decision-making is a source of frustration but the absence of decision is equally terrifying. Not only have I been incapable of electing a clear path, I also have managed to remain incredibly alone, almost despising making connections may they have been online or irl.

Because I value(d) introspection over interaction, I have isolated myself not only from others, but also from job opportunities. Inherently, I’m a bad business man. I neglect(ed) the networking aspect, which is the biggest part of the job.

Then there is the issue of not being all that interesting / original / whatever. The number of times I’ve heard that “you’re work isn’t anything really original” would have discouraged many a person.

The only original quality and sort of consistency that I might display appeared over time, through documenting my life ; its moments of wholeness, half-emptiness and void…

…and that is something that I will never stop doing.

shat•ter (ˈSHadər) [verb]: to use excessive force in order to break a Gem into several shards, thus dissipating the Gem’s physical form and dispersing their consciousness between each shard (the thoughts of which are only capable of basic thought, like wanting to form or create a bubble).

Shattering is irreversible.

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Hey kids, it’s time for another fun-filled episode of Trans Man Psychology Hell!!!

Today’s topic: am I emotionally stunted and incapable of interacting with my own feelings because I’m traumatized, or because I was raised in a culture that encourages men to be unemotional and I managed to absorb that messaging despite my parents best efforts to raise a girl?

Nurseydex Week - Day 5 - Hurt/Comfort

Call It What You Want

A nurseydex fic in 7 small parts, told over the 7 days of nurseydex week. Each part relates to the theme of the day, but probably not in ways you might expect. I guess today’s part is more frog bonding than nurseydex, but I hope you enjoy anyway!

| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

Part 5 - Feeling Fine

It’s oddly silent in the Haus, for once. Bitty’s gone up to visit Jack for the weekend, and Ollie and Wicks are out at some party. The washing machine’s finally finished its cycle, the pipes are no longer creaking. It’s just… silent, save for the sound of Nursey’s breathing as he lies in his bunk, scrolling through his phone, and the faint whispering of the wind outside.

Chowder’s the one who seems incapable of not making noise when he’s in the Haus. He’s either got Farmer over, or he’s watching some NHL replays on his laptop without headphones, or he’s doing stretches in his room against his squeaky floorboards. And over time, Dex had gotten used to that noise. It’s almost comforting, in a way, to know that Chowder’s always just a door away when he needs him. So it’s the distinct lack of noise emanating from Chowder’s room which brings Dex to knock on his door.

He gets a dejected hum in response. Worried, Dex pushes into Chowder’s room and finds him sitting cross-legged on his bed, head downcast, his fingers picking absently at his blanket.

“C? You alright?” Dex asks, stopping by the doorframe.

Chowder gives him a brief nod. “I’m fine. I’m alright. I’m just a little…” He trails off.

From behind him, Dex hears a thump as Nursey jumps off his bed and pads out of the room and to Dex’s side. He takes one look at Chowder and his expression sinks. “You don’t look alright,” Nursey says, making his way to the bed. Dex trails after him, unsurely, and soon they’re both sat on the bed next to Chowder.

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Things I learnt today: During WW1, MI5 used Girl Guides to send secret messages. They used Girl Guides because they quickly found that Boy Scouts couldn’t be trusted and were’t efficient enough.