Ravenclaws are known for their extremely dry humor, and they are almost always the ones that crack the extremely sarcastic jokes and everyone around them stops and stares at them for a moment to try and figure out if they were serious or not.
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
Please write a short fic about tony catching peter drinking i would die omg
He froze, eyes widening as he heard the all-too-familiar sound of expensive leather brogues scuffing along the floor a few meters from him, and he turned quickly, brow furrowed into a deep V as he watched Tony wander up to him, all smiles and casual posture, hands buried in the pockets of his grease-stained jeans. He looked like he’d come straight from the workshop, stopping only to throw on a leather jacket along the way.
Why he was here at all, however, made no sense at all.
“T- Mr Stark,” Peter said, trying to communicate with him through eyebrow movements alone. If it turned out that he had to suit up and help out somewhere, he was pretty fucked, considering the fact he’d had a bit to drink at the party he’d been invited to.
Well. He said ‘a bit’. It was possibly more accurate to say ‘a fucking shit-ton’, but whatever.
Tony looked at him blankly, before shooting another smile toward the circle of people who were stood around Peter and staring quite blatantly at the both of them. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to take Mr Parker away. He’s an intern at Stark Industries, you know how it is. Lots of work, yadda yadda, okay bye,”
And before Peter could even open his mouth, Tony had grabbed him by the arm and snatched the solo cup out of his hand almost angrily, pulling him away from the group of people and through the crowds of rowdy teenagers that littered the huge house.
“Uh, Mr Stark, wha’dd’ya want me for, exactly?” Peter asked, speaking loudly above the blaring music and wincing at how slurred his voice came out.
It had been a weird month, okay. He was just trying it out.
Tony paused, and Peter saw him purse his lips even tighter before beginning to walk again, guiding Peter through the crowds and holding him tight as he stumbled a little.
“Hey, Parker, leaving so soon?” Flash called out from somewhere to his left, and Peter stopped turning to face him as the other boy wandered toward them. “We haven’t even begun yet, Jesus, are you a pussy or what-”
“Kid,” and suddenly Tony had let go, spinning around and walking up to Flash, who seemed to suddenly recognise who exactly Tony was, because his eyes went hilariously wide and he stumbled backward a few steps. Peter snorted involuntarily, and he saw Tony turn briefly, before shaking his head and looking back to Flash, “it seems like you’re having an absolute ball here, but I’m gonna say something and I’m only going to say it once.”
Tony looked down at Flash, eyes harsh as he drew a little closer. “Leave. Peter. Out of it. Do you understand? He is not here for you to manipulate, not here for you to bully into trying out crazy shit for your amusement-”
“Tony, what the fuck,” Peter blurted, frowning and stepping forward, more than a little put out. He’d only just managed to get accepted by Flash and all the other popular kids, and Tony was just going in, ruining it all, “you’re not my dad- don’t tell me or my friends what I can and can’t do.”
Tony turned, eyebrows raised. “Friends?” He snorted, shaking his head and walking over to Peter once more, taking him by the arm. “You haven’t called in with Aunt May for two days now,” he hissed into Peter’s ear, “she’s worried sick. You are coming with me, right now.”
“No ‘m not,” Peter pushed his hand off, looking over at Tony in anger. “You are fucking….embarrassing me…. in fron’ of my friends-”
“They are not your friends!” Tony snarled, pulling his arm again, “your friends are all currently at home, worrying their asses off because this is not like you, Peter, and they didn’t know what to fucking do, so they ended up calling me. Now you will fucking follow me out of this goddamn place right now, or I am hauling you out.”
Blessed are the readers, for theirs is the archive.
Blessed are the betas: for they help us write the stories we see in our hearts. Blessed are they that kudo, for they reassure us that someone likes what we’ve done. Blessed are the rebloggers and reccers, for they help the readers find our work. Blessed are they which leave comments on a WIP that say something other than “write more please”: for they comfort us when we feel taken for granted. Blessed are the commenters; for their words bring us joy. Blessed are the loyal fans, for they keep the fandom alive. Blessed are the fan artists, for they bring our worlds to life before our eyes. Blessed are they which read an entire long fic and comment each chapter, for the string of comment notifications fills the writer’s heart with delight. Blessed are ye, who rec our fics in public and tag us, for seeing that we made somebody squee is the light in our days. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad; for great is your reward in fandom.
Has anybody else noticed this adorable af Link Strike with Prompto, where he and Noct switch weapons and Prom totally smacks the crap out of whatever mob you’re fighting like a total bad-ass before celebrating with a cute little victory jump at the end? I literally can’t get enough of it. <3
(P.S. Sorry if the GIFs are a little wonky, this is the first time I’ve ever made and/or posted GIFs online, so I’m really just trying to figure things out as I go along ^^)
“Looks good, doesn’t it? They’re trapped in here. Terrified. Meat for the beast. And there’s nothin’ they can do but wait. That’s all they’ve been doing for days, waiting to be picked off, having nightmares about monsters that can’t be killed. But I don’t believe in that. I always find a way. I am the thing that monsters have nightmares about. And right now you and me are gonna show ‘em why. It’s time. Welcome to Thunderdome.”
And you knoooooooo he was watching them all get all the weapons and getting all excited himself like “oooh I wonder what my bayard is gonna turn into! the black one must be a very special one! cuz i dun see it here.. Allura is probably saving the best for last!”
and hes standing there like “I’m so ready! give it to me! sooo ready! gimme!”
and Allura’s just
“Shiro, I’m afraid your bayard was lost with its paladin.”
and his face just goes:
and then he like smiles and all “I guess i’ll just have to make do..”
LIKE NOOOOOO GIVE SHIRO A DAMN BAYARD!! YOU KNOOOO HE WANTED HIS OWN BAYARD SO BAD AND YOU JUST WENT AND BROKE HIS HEART LIKE THAT!!! LIKE “YOU GET ONE, AND YOU GET ONE, AND EVERYONE GET ONE, BUT NONE FOR YOU SHIRO, SORRY!” ALLURA COULDNT LIKE TELL HIM BEFORE THAT HIS BAYARD WAS MISSING?? WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE?? MOST HEARTBREAKING MOMENT IN SEASON 1 RIGHT HERE. SHIRO BETTER GET THAT BAYARD IN SEASON 2 I SWEAR. JUST LOOK AT THAT HEARTBROKEN FACE! HE WANTED ONE SO BAD!