Since Episode 8 Didn’t Deliver:

Exactly

My blog is technically supposed to be multi fandom

But I hyperfixate way to easily. And when I do, it’s the only thing I focus on

So instead of posting several things about each fandom a day

It’s more of a guessing game of

Which fandom is it going to be this month? Stay tuned to find out

Peter, returned from the MCU: that sucked. I need a drink.

Peter: *downs four shots of dark coffee*

Erik: Peter, nO

—— ten minutes later——

Charles: who gave Peter coffee?! Whoever it was gets to fill in those trenches!

EEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!! I’m that pianist in the corner there!!!!!

Here’s the official trailer for @himbos-are-my-lifeblood and I’s wedding!

(If you still would like to sign up for a role to play, feel free to comment down below!)

Spot Conlon, District Master Work-boy of the Brooklyn Union, at the age of fourteen. Geez! We gotta aim higher guys!

yOU GUYS THERE IS ALMOST NO ATTENTION BEING BROUGHT TO THIS.

HISTORICAL SPOT CONLON. WORE PINK. FUCKING. SUSPENDERS.

NOW THATS WHAT I CALL A KING

MHM YESSIR

Loki will be pleased to know my little sister, when listing the Avengers off to me, called Thor “Loki’s brother, what’s his name.“

So I have this story I’m writing where Spot is the son of Peter Pan so I thought I would share some of the art.

I was listening to Bang! by AJR and it just seemed to fit.

Spot Conlon-Theif au

“Hey kid, how old are you?”

“Why should I tell ya?”

“Smart kid. Can you run?”

“Yeah. Why?”

——•——

Name: Patrick “Spot” Conlon.

Age: Unknown, young.

Appearance: Dark blonde hair, pale blue eyes, many freckles.

Known for: Faded red suspenders.

Weapon: Slingshot.

Calling Card: Burn mark on door.

He glanced around the empty house, eyes immediately finding anything of value in the room.

Silver candlesticks in the mantle, porcelain vase on a pedestal, gold-tipped walking stick. Nothing escaped his ice-blue gaze.

There was a bag slung over his shoulder, much like the one the newsies carried their papers in.

In went the candlestick, in went the vase, in went the beautiful portrait over the mantle.

The gold-tipped cane slipped through his suspenders like a sheathed sword.

Now the bedrooms and kitchen.

Silver spoons, delicate china, gold earrings, diamond rings, pearl necklaces.

The black stovepipe hat on the hat rack looked lovely.

Pleased with what he found, the small open window waited.

But first, the door.

His pockets held an abundance of matches. Striking one against the wall, he held it to the back of the front door, making a black spot the size of a silver dollar.

A spot.

Spot Conlon smirked, reveling in the smell of wood burning.

The spot would be immediately noticeable when the owner of the house came home, but Spot never took anything that could be noticed right away, driving the robbed insane with worry.

The match died, the door was marked, and he made a hasty exit.

——•——

Name: Patrick “Spot” Conlon. Age: Unknown, young. Appearance: Dark blonde hair, pale blue eyes, many freckles. Known for: Faded red suspenders, black stovepipe hat. Weapon: Slingshot, gold-tipped cane. Calling Card: Burn mark on door.

Ok, but the X-Men in a Greatest Showman au

Something is wrong. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t get sad when people die. When I was nine, my neighbor, who I had known practically my whole life at that point and was like a second grandpa, died and I forced myself to cry because that’s what I thought people did when someone dies. Two years ago my cousin, who was more like an uncle to me, died and I didn’t cry because I physically can’t force myself cry anymore. Believe me, I’ve tried. Last year, my rabbit died and my mom cried, but I didn’t. That’s just a few. I don’t feel sad when people or pets die. I don’t feel...anything really. Why?