#but language is also funny like this

[thoughtfullyrainynightmare]

Wdym you're screwing someone? You insert dick and then you spin like a helicopter?

[sualne]

something i wish i'd see more in trigun fanarts is people having vash speak their native/non-english languages completely unprompted, ive seen folks have him speak french, which he canonically knows, but i really do believe he's a polyglot. mostly because of that one time in the desert when he saw the samurai and wanted to greet him in japanese but struggled to remember how to even say hello.

my headcanon is that rem had them learn as many languages as possible but with the big fall and so many people dying, which i think is what led english to became No man's land main (or even only?) language, means that vash (and knives!) both got horribly out of practice and are various sort of rusty in every others languages.

what im saying if there's any pun or joke you've been dying to write but just doesn't work in english vash (and knives!!) are right there!

[gin-juice-tonic]

i dont know how many people who follow me played shovel knight but i still think the body swap feature they added was very neat... basically it started as a standard gender-swap where all the male knights were just going to have female versions

But then they decided to let you pick and choose who you wanted swapped. And they added in the choice for whichever pronouns you wanted the knight to have, which were not bound to whichever sprite you were having them use. (ie. you could use the "female" version of the sprite but give the character "male" pronouns.) They added gender neutral pronouns eventually too.

It was a nice way to modernize the gender-bend type concept I think.

[adanseydivorce]

unstoppable force (Adam’s canonical teacher kink) meets immovable object (Gansey being a professor’s soul in a teenagers body).

[jennilah]

i could overanalyze this interaction until people beg and cry for me to shut the fuck up

Hoffman you annoying and off-putting individual i am enamored with you

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Los Chicos Peleandoooooo

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[watusingpaputok]

GABV1EL NATON LISTEN

i was on tiktok when i found these flowers and oh my god they are very them!! (apologies for my incoherence i am insane for these two)

orange lily: aka the enemies to ??? (lovers? idk) flower. self explanatory but hey gabe's fixated as hell on the 'insignificant fuck' turned duel partner or whatever secret third fucked up thing they have /lh

white poppy: representing v1 with how their victory over gabriel became both his bane with how he got his light stripped off him therefore bringing him harm as well as the entire duel thing. the antidote parts comes from gabriel being freed from heaven's control as if like a poison that clouded his mind with their views and v1 clearing them away in the messiest way possible.

asphodel: representing gabriel with how he's dying and may have many regrets in his mind like killing minos, being wrathful towards the sinners etc. you get it

rosemary: for how gabriel gets invigorated to the point of ecstasy in 6-2. v1 brought catharsis to an angel that never knew therapy and it shows /lh. also represents v1 since yk theyre a vampiric robot and gabriel is very flesh and blood. quite literally giving v1 a second chance on things and carnage

phlox: this one can be a reach but (HEAR ME OUT OKAY) for how they (gabv1el) keep bumping on each other twice (maybe even thrice in 9-2) after all ultrakill *is* gabe's story and v1 is a machine who happens to be another POV of that story

thats about it i think unless there is more to add. thank you for listening to my insane talk

[rollercoasterwords]

obsessed w the confidence of the people who comment fully in portuguese on my fics. never once have i said that i speak portuguese nor indicated that i can understand it yet there r multiple people out there leaving multi-sentence comments & sometimes even paragraphs in a language i do not speak. just fully confident that no language barrier will stop the message from getting across…i love u

[youssefguedira]

i dont know when ill get around to writing the larger fic this is part of but you know brain worms have this

Nicky offers to pick him up at the airport like it’s nothing, like it hasn’t been almost ten years since they saw each other, because he knows Joe hates planes and won’t want to try and navigate the two trains and two buses it’ll take to actually reach their hometown after the flight. And Joe doesn’t even try to protest, just texts him Thank you before he gets on the plane and then tries not to think about it for the entire flight. He fails.

When he arrives he’s exhausted, because it never really gets easier no matter how many times he does it. Moves through the airport like a zombie, operating mostly on muscle memory. He hasn’t been here in a long time. Still knows it well enough to navigate without really thinking about it. 

His suitcase is one of the last to come through on the carousel, but it does come through, and then he’s walking to arrivals with his heart in his throat. 

Nicky’s hanging back from the crowd, hands in his pockets. His hair is a little longer now, and at some point in the last decade he’s gotten his ears pierced, which Joe didn’t know. He’s wearing a dark green sweater and blue jeans. When he catches sight of Joe he smiles, small and restrained, straightens slightly.

“Hey,” he says as Joe gets closer, voice soft.

Joe has to swallow. “Hey,” he says hoarsely.

And he doesn’t even need to say anything else, because Nicky pulls him into a hug before Joe even has to ask, and Joe buries his face in Nicky’s neck and tries to breathe around the sob catching in his throat. One of Nicky’s hands comes up to cup the back of Joe’s neck, his thumb moving back and forth gently, and Joe is fragile enough that that gesture alone almost undoes him. 

Nicky pulls back first. Smiles at Joe. “You look good,” he says.

Joe has to swallow before he trusts himself to speak. “You too.” 

They linger just a moment longer, Nicky’s hand still on the back of Joe’s neck. Ten years ago, Joe would’ve kissed him; now there’s a gap neither of them quite know how to fill.

Finally, Nicky steps back fully, and Joe feels the loss of contact sharply. “We should go,” Nicky says. Joe nods, and follows him out of the terminal.

The car Nicky heads for is the same battered old thing he’s been driving since he got his licence. Joe wonders to himself how the car is even still going, and the look Nicky gives him tells him he knows exactly what Joe’s thinking.

It does something funny to Joe’s heart. He looks away, and gets in the car. 

“I brought you something to eat,” Nicky says before he starts the car, reaching for the bag by Joe’s feet. 

“You didn’t have to–” Joe begins, but Nicky cuts him off with a knowing almost-smile. 

“You hate plane food,” Nicky says, “and it’s almost two, and the other option would be whatever we can find on the way. I thought you might prefer this to service station food.”

It makes Joe want to cry a little. “Nicky,” he says, and can’t manage anything else. 

Nicky seems to understand. He pulls out what he had been looking for - a silver thermos, and a fork - and hands it to Joe. The contents are still warm when Joe opens it: pasta, warm and comforting. 

“Good?” Nicky asks, watching him.

Joe nods. “Good.”

“Okay.” Nicky looks at him for a beat longer, then turns away and starts the car. 

There’s a moment of delay before the CD player starts up, but when it does, Joe knows it from the opening note: he bought Nicky this CD from a thrift store the summer before he left for university, when they’d taken off for two weeks, just them and the car and the road. And there’s no chance that Nicky’s kept it in his car for ten years, but as they leave the airport and turn onto the motorway it makes it feel like they’ve done this a thousand times before, even though Nicky never picked him up from the airport when he came home, only met him at the station once or twice.

Joe finishes the pasta and tucks the thermos back in the bag. “Thank you,” he says, and it comes out a lot quieter than he means it to. 

Nicky glances at him. “We’re still a few hours away, if you want to try and sleep. I will wake you when we’re almost there.”

Joe might protest under other circumstances, but the flight was long, and he doesn’t sleep well on planes anyway. So he takes off his scarf and folds it into a makeshift pillow before leaning back and closing his eyes. Nicky drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat, hums along with the tune, and Joe lets the sound of his voice and the tapping of the rain on the window wrap around him like a blanket, carrying him off to sleep.

----------

Joe wakes to Nicky shaking his shoulder gently. “We’ll be there soon,” he’s saying. The rain has stopped; the radio is on, now, chattering in the way in the background. They’ve left the motorway behind for a much narrower road. Joe has to blink a few times before he catches sight of a sign and realises what Nicky means. 

He sits up. The position he’d been sleeping in hadn’t been great for his back or his neck, and he’ll probably regret it soon, but he’d slept a lot better than he might’ve expected. 

Being back always makes the rest of his life feel like a dream, like he’d never left at all. When the sign for their town passes Joe sits up, panic coiling in his stomach. He’s had days to prepare himself and still isn’t ready.

“Wait,” he says when they turn a corner two streets away from Joe’s parents’ house, “Nicky. Wait.”

“What?” Nicky asks. He doesn’t stop, but he does slow down.

“I can’t– I can’t do this.”

Now Nicky does stop, pulling into a lay-by. “What is it?”

“I don’t know, I just. Not yet. I need time.”

Nicky looks at him for a long moment. “When are they expecting you?”

“I didn’t give an exact time. Just sometime this afternoon.” He’d told his sister Nicky was coming to get him over the phone; she hadn’t said anything, but the silence had been enough. 

Nicky doesn’t say anything, but he’s got the look on his face that means he’s thinking.

“I’ll be okay by myself,” Joe says then. “If you need to work.”

Nicky shakes his head. “I have today off.” And then, before Joe can really think about that, he turns the car around and heads back the way they came. This time, he recognises the path Nicky’s taking almost immediately, turning away from the area Joe’s parents live in and towards the outskirts of town, where it starts to become mostly farmland.

“I can park the car by my uncle’s house,” Nicky says, glancing at Joe. “Then we can go from there.”

Joe doesn’t need to ask where; they’ve walked the same route so many times he could probably do it in his sleep. 

The sheep are out in the fields by Nicky’s uncle’s house, but he doesn’t see any of the lambs yet, though they must be coming soon. Nicky’s uncle let Joe try and help with lambing once, up until the point where Joe saw what exactly that entailed, and immediately lost his nerve. But he’d still let him help Nicky feed them every year.

There’s a little paved yard outside the farmhouse, where Nicky parks the car before grabbing the bag that had been by Joe’s feet. “I’m going to drop these off,” Nicky says. “You can come in, if you want?”

Nicky’s aunt and uncle have always been kind to Joe, but they will inevitably ask about his father, and Joe cannot quite bring himself to talk about that, not yet. 

“I’ll wait,” Joe says. 

It’s a few minutes before Nicky reappears, this time without the bag, but carrying a different thermos. He smiles apologetically as he jogs over. “I didn’t mean to make you wait long,” Nicky says. “But you know how they are.”

All Joe can do is nod. Nicky sets off down the path towards the woods that border the farm and Joe falls into step beside him. They don’t talk much on the way there, but they don’t need to: the silence is comfortable enough.

It’ll be spring soon. It’s cold but not cold enough to be uncomfortable, and the snowdrops are in full bloom, bright shards of white in the grass. The rain has stopped, but the smell of it still hangs in the air. They must’ve spent hours walking this path, enough that Joe doesn’t really need to look to know exactly where Nicky’s going.

This part of the river is just secluded enough that he can’t hear cars passing by anymore. The bench by the path is still there, though at some point they’ve built a shelter over it, which probably leaks but has kept it dry even after the rain. Nicky makes for it immediately. 

If he looked at the back of the third slat from the left he’d find their names carved into the wood, side by side. Joe very deliberately doesn’t look. 

Nicky sits down. Nods to the space beside him. When Joe joins him, he holds out the thermos.

“Tea,” Nicky says. “If you want.”

How many times have they done exactly this, over the years? In summer, they’d wade into the river; in winter, Joe always wanted to try skating on it, but the ice was never quite thick enough. Every time Nicky got into a fight with his father, every time Joe couldn’t bear to be in the house one second longer, they’d come here. 

Joe gives into memory and rests his head on Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky brings one arm up to hold him close, hand on Joe’s upper arm.

Joe closes his eyes, listens to the birds, listens to Nicky’s breathing. 

Nicky says, “When is the funeral?”

“Thursday,” Joe says. He doesn’t want to think about this, doesn’t want to think about the last conversation he had with his father, doesn’t want to imagine walking into his parents’ house and finding him gone. Of all people, Nicky will understand. It’s what brought them together when they were younger: being the only two students in their class who spoke English as a second language, and difficult fathers.

Silence falls between them, and Nicky doesn’t let him go, and Joe’s missed him, more than he really knew. He’d tried to stay in touch, and they had, for the most part, but it’s not the same as having Nicky beside him again.

Joe doesn’t think there’s anyone in this world who knows him the way Nicky does.

He doesn’t know why he says it, but they haven’t talked about it, and it feels like something they should, if only so Joe can lay this all to rest. 

Joe opens his eyes. “You, uh. You seeing anyone?”

Nicky doesn’t pull away, but Joe feels the way he goes still, tense. Slowly, softly, he says, “I don’t think this is the right time, Joe.”

“Is there ever a right time?” Joe asks, half-joking. 

Nicky doesn’t laugh. 

Joe clears his throat. “I’m not. So.”

Nicky exhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself. His thumb moves back and forth, back and forth where it’s resting on Joe’s arm, catching on the fabric of his coat. “Me neither.”

Joe’s not sure if that’s better or worse than if Nicky had said he’d found someone. If he had, perhaps Joe could put to rest the little part of him that will always be in love with Nicky. Not get rid of it entirely, but fold it away in a little corner of his heart and leave it there. This, though – this is possibility he doesn’t know what to do with.

“How long are you here?” Nicky asks quietly, moving his hand up to run his fingers through Joe’s hair, like he used to whenever Joe needed something to keep him grounded.

“I got two weeks off work,” Joe says. “After that I don’t know.”

Two weeks feels monumentally long and yet vanishingly short at the same time. And after?

They don’t talk about much after that. Small talk, more than anything else: Nicky’s still living in the same apartment, still working the same job, but Joe knows he loves it from the tone of his voice when he talks about the shelves he built for his most recent client, how he’s starting to make more of his own stuff, how his boss has been talking about retiring and leaving the whole business to Nicky. Joe could listen to him talk about it for hours. Maybe he does. 

It settles the frantic thing that had woken in his chest when they crossed the town line, and eventually, Joe says, “I think I’m ready.”

Nicky turns his head inwards and kisses the top of Joe’s head. Lingers there for a moment. It isn’t anything; it doesn’t have to be anything. 

“Okay,” Nicky says. “Okay.”

The walk back to the farm is largely silent, just as the walk there had been, passing the thermos of tea back and forth between them. They get back in the car, and Nicky drives them back to Joe’s parents’ house. 

Nicky pulls up on the curb outside the house. “Call me, if you need anything. Or just– call me.”

“I will,” Joe promises. He has two weeks; he’s not going to waste them. They haven’t been in the same timezone in a long, long time.

Nicky smiles, small and hopeful, and there’s nothing really to say, after that. 

Joe gets out of the car, and prepares to face his family.

[moeblob]

Matheo giving up knowing that the chemist will just follow him wherever for whatever reason.

(I watched a gif for "no" in ASL and I apologize if I drew it wrong I don't know how I would draw a gesture in still art so uh.... please be lenient ?? I tried)

[askblueandviolet]

Macaque, you are a freeloader...

At least give The Mayor a kiss. 😗

MASTER POST

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[jfpstarchaser]

James' in a hurry, running the corridors of the castle without much attention. He's terribly late to his class with McGonagall. His breathing is already a bit labored, he's been running quite a bit, the place he was and his class are on completely opposite sides of the castle.

And James forgot all about when he went there, but fuck if he's not remembering next time.

He bursts through the classroom's door, his wand thrown hastily somewhere in his backpack, alongside his books. His glasses are a little bit crooked from all the running, he sets them right and looks up to Minnie's stern gaze. He throws at her a little, sheepish grin. And her gaze softens just a little.

"I'm really sorry, Professor!" He says, and remembers the rest of his clothes, they're messy just like his hair. He tries to fix his tie, while putting his things on his seat next to Sirius. Sirius, who's looking at him like he's grown a second head, but amused all the same. It makes James frown a little, confused. Then, he hears Minnie's voice again, in the dead silent classroom:

"Mr. Potter, I was not aware of your resort into another House." She says, and looks pointedly to his tie, and James looks down with her. And— oh. It's a green tie. Slytherin tie. He can feel his face heating up the more she looks. He bites his lips and hears his classmates laugh a little, sees Sirius at his side laughing too, and he already knows he will never live it down.

"I—" James starts, but never finishes. There's another commotion on the classroom door he just came through, he looks up and it's him.

Regulus. He and his friends are standing at the door, James' red, Gryffindor's tie clutched tight in his hands. His face is also red, just like James' and his tie, and his beautiful curly hair is a mess. James can also see Barty, Evan, Pandora and Dorcas behind him. They're laughing just like everyone, and Evan gives Regulus a little push that makes him completely enter the room. He gets even more red.

"Excuse me, Professor. I came to get my— my tie." He stutters a little, and says it in a small voice. He's looking everywhere but James and Minnie. Regulus' blushing is already spreading down his pale neck, and James can't take his eyes off him. He's so bloody pretty, James thinks. There's a love bite escaping the collar of his uniform shirt, his top buttons still undone from where James' hands and mouth passed through earlier.

"May as well, Mr. Black. And make sure this will not happen again." Minnie says, waving her wand hand in James' direction. James, who hasn't moved since he saw Regulus again. He bites his bottom lip again, waiting as if rooted in his place for Regulus to come to him. And he does.

He brings his hands to James' tie— no, his tie—, and slides it off James' neck, and looks at him in the eyes, then. And he fixes James' shirt, smooths it down, buttons it up, and wraps James' tie on him correctly, instead of just throwing the red tie back to James, like he could've done. But no. He did it with the same care he does everything when it comes to James, like he needs to be careful or he'll ruin them. He already has, James thinks. Regulus does it naturally, quickly, presses his lips into a flat line and then he looks away. Oh. He seems to have done it unconsciously, James realizes.

James' blushes harder, if that's possible.

Then, Regulus takes a step back. Clears his throat, and looks at the Minnie, red like a strawberry, he bows politely.

"I apologize for interrupting your lesson, Professor. And yes, I shall make sure it won't happen again." He says in his posh, polite way. Even if he's embarrassed, he's still the most polite and composed boy he always is. And, Merlin, James loves him so much. Regulus wets his lips, looks up, clears his throat again and looks at James, eyes full of mischief. "We shall make sure it won't happen again, shall we not, James?"

Damn him. Only calling James his first name in public in a situation like this. It steals James' breath away. No, Regulus does. He wants everything from James, and James hands it over willingly.

"I— Yeah. Yeah, love. Whatever you say." James says back, still feeling inebriated by this boy. James' absolutely weak for the way his name rolls out of Regulus' bitten red lips. It's absolutely happening again. All of it. He just knows. And Regulus does, too. He smirks at James, even if his blush, that was going away, comes back brighter, acts like it's nothing, and looks away from James again.

James sighs. He wants him so much. All of him.

"Then, please excuse us, Professor. I'll be on the way to my own class. Apologies again." Regulus says, all polite again to Minnie, who nods at him, and then he's going for the door. He doesn't say anything else, even if he swats his hands at his laughing friends, who were waiting for him outside the classroom. He glances back to James once, and closes the door. James sighs again, quietly.

He's still looking at the door when he's startled by a voice that he knows all too well, coming from beside him.

"This is the most put-together your uniform has been all year, Prongs. Enjoying my little brother doing your tie now, are we?" Sirius drawls, very much like his brother likes to do and glares at James.

Fuck. Fuck.

[francesderwent]

something that I think the “have fun and be yourself” discourse tends to miss is that it’s all very well saying do whatever you want and don’t worry about what people think because the people who judge you aren’t worth your time, but sometimes you choose to act normal because you have a task to do or you’re in a conversation that you care about, and having to stop in the middle for your interlocutor to say bewilderedly “but why did you do that in such a quirky way” would be wasting time and getting off topic. choosing to act normal to avoid that is not being inauthentic out of unhealthy fear of censure. it’s just prudence.

[lilyminer]

Daan gives me this specific vibe I see so much in series where deities like, indisputable exist in that world. Where like, he wishes he could be an atheist. I feel like if so many gods didn’t all collectively decide to fuck up this one guys life in every way possible he’d love to completely ignore their existence.

[lunareiitic]

CANTO 4 SPOILERS BE WARNED

I think it's really interesting (and clever) that we're a third of the way through Limbus' plot (theoretically. 12/4 = 3 after all) and we've split the focus characters in half based on who is actually growing because of their Canto and who isn't, while also showing multiple narrative ways to show that progression (or lack thereof).

Gregor and Rodya have already done their growing. Gregor's a war veteran whose traumatic past should be long behind him, and his character didn't shift after his Canto. His refusal with regards to the whole Yuri thing wasn't a shocking twist, it was the culmination of years of rejecting the life that his mother made for him.

Rodya rejects the idea that she has to develop as a character entirely. Canto 2 is mostly a celebration of Rodya- she makes her own luck and doesn't require these things like "character growth" and "dynamics". She was a one woman wrecking crew then and she's one now, plans and friends be damned. It's why she's able to reject Sonya's olive branch: he's predicating his entire plan on the idea that Rodya would have learned from the Tax Collector Incident. But she didn't, and she knows that.

Sinclair's Canto 3 marks the first Canto where we're actually examining the failings of a member of the team. Sinclair's immaturity, fawn response and unwillingness to take responsibility did directly lead to all of the bad shit that happened to him. Even if Kromer would have done it anyways, Canto 3 takes Sinclair to task for what he did, but in the end, he can't follow through. It's beautiful and tragic that he needs Demian to bail him out of what should have been his cathartic moment of triumph. Sinclair's growing is actively still happening. Canto 3 is only the beginning.

Which brings us to the most recent Canto and Yi Sang. Yi Sang in hindsight is the perfect character to follow up Canto 3 with because Yi Sang is essentially Sinclair if Demian wasn't around. Yi Sang's narrative is about apathy and passive suicidality- he doesn't care what happens to him because life has lost all meaning to him. Sinclair still has some fight in him, all Yi Sang has is ashes. Or so he thinks. Dongrang and Dongbaek are characters who will never move on from their past, despite what both of them think. Yi Sang, through mirroring them, ends up with the most radical character development we've seen so far: true catharsis. Unlike our three previous characters, Yi Sang's Canto manages to get down to the core of his issues and he's able to understand what he must do to get better and does. He conquers Dongbaek (embodiment of rage) and Dongrang (embodiment of despair) and ascends to a place of healing away from them. This is a very conventional, classic character arc structure seen in fiction since the dawn of time, it's classic because it works. But it feels so refreshing and new here in Limbus Company because we waded through three quagmires of difficult regrets, abuses, and traumas that refuse to be handled so easily. Given that our remaining characters are based on murderers (Hell Screen, The Stranger), self-saboteurs (The Odyssey, Moby Dick, Don Quixote, Faust), and the legacy of racism (Wuthering Heights), I'm betting that Hong Lu's might be our brightest spot moving forward. (But who knows. They could give us another goofy Canto out of nowhere like they did in Canto 2. Limbus Company contains multitudes.)

[viriborne]

I’m so sad that so much of Mammon’s dumbassery is lost in translation like the pronoun uses for himself, “ore,” is often used by men who think highly of themselves and think they’re very cool and macho to the point it’s often seen as rude to use.