#damn that sounds wrong

[demaparbat-hp]

Oh, Aang, you're really in it now...

This is Zu—I mean, Jian Li and Katara's second meeting in the Kyoshi Warriors AU. The first proper one, anyway.

Once they get through a minor difference of opinion or two (“I can carry my own basket!” “Never said you—” “I'm not weak!” “I didn't—” “Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean—” “Would you listen for once, woman?!” ) they'll become nearly inseparable.

For now Jian Li will carry Katara's basket all the way to the Kyoshi Warriors' dojo and, once there, they'll mercilessly tease Sokka when they see him in uniform.

[3l91]

while they’re apart iwaizumi is definitely the type who tries to date other people to get over his life ruining long term crush on his childhood friend but ends up aggravating his dates by mentioning oikawa every five seconds without thinking

“oh yeah my friend likes to order that.”

“me and that idiot oikawa used to ride bikes every now and then.”

“oikawa actually recommended us this spot-“

etc etc etc even when he’s trying not to think about him

and when a date does go well afterwards he can’t help but think about how much fun it would’ve been to do whatever it was with oikawa

all of his dates clock his crush on his childhood friend and politely turn him down on a second date offer and he’s never beaten up over it and tries to ignore the reason why he isn’t upset in the slightest

and then he texts oikawa while lying on his stomach and kicking his feet .. and because oikawa isn’t in the room with him he’s able to crack a smile when he’s teased about fumbling another date

and both of them know that they’re quietly relieved the other hasn’t run into the love of their lives yet because they want to remain the closest person to one another for just a bit longer

[lunar-years]

While I do think it's kind of a weird marketing choice for the Sour and Guts albums to seemingly have near-identical aesthetics, I also think swifties have a weird tendency to impose "eras" on every single artist. like sometimes pop artists just want to keep making pop albums that fit the personal aesthetic of who they truly are not everyone wants to completely reinvent themselves and their sound and their vibe every two years xx

[moeblob]

You know, when I kept getting asked "so you didn't ever have severe pains before now?" in the hospital and I kept replying "I have a high pain tolerance" I meant it. However, there is only so much pain my tiny 4'9" body can hold... (aka I am sweating and in agony bc I'm getting told to use LESS severe pain meds so I don't rely on them too much and it is AWFUL)

[milkbreadtoast]

puts my arts of caramel arrow so far all together bc why not😮‍💨 loml... 🛐🖤

[samuelroukin]

checking for the millionth time if i got it right and this cracked (get it) me up lmao

[grimme-and-specs]

John has just ordered a knuckle sandwich with a side of blade

Based off of this ridiculous screenshot I thought was funny:

I rewrote it for obvious reasons

[emichevy]

Me when Someone posts anything Spider-Man Noir angst related (I’m a hypocrite)

IM LOOKING. VERY HARD. AT A SPECIFIC PERSON.

(I mean this lovingly)

[thedrotter]

look i know this month has been crazy already in what has been going on for me BUT IT GETS CRAZIER... I got to finally have my constant pain I've had for two years diagnosed... I have fibromyalgia lol i have a chronic illness??😭😭

tbf it doesn't change anything i was already coping with these pains because I've been sitting with em for 2 years i just have anti depressants now but you know what has changed... my character lore GOT SICK AS FUCK!!!!!!!🦅🦅🦅🦅 (lighthearted)

[why-the-heck-not]

oh jesus christ it’s wednesday/thursday and this is the second allnighter of the week

[my-pjo-stuff]

"Hey Kamiko why do you hate the PJO gods so much?"

Because they'd be the litteral scum of the earth if you'd make them mortal.

Litteraly.

Just take away the "godly" and you are left with what is basically a single aristocratic family rulling as a monarchy with Zeus as the matron of the family and king.

Said monarchy has made and upheld a system in which they exploit a lower class for their own gain. There is basically no social mobility, rendering the lower clasess basically condemed to serve the rich upper crust ignoring them if they do not activley want something from them.

As if that wasn't enough they have also been shown to be completly aware of and okay with the fact that the practice mentioned above leads to the lower class generally not living beyond the age of twenty.

There is no concept of democracy or free-speech. The lower class has basically no human rights as the monarchy is allowed to pretty much just do whatever they want with them with no fear of punishment- that also included killing them or inflicting them with fates worse than death.

Ontop of all that the monarchy has also proven itself untrustworthy on multible occasions, as they have broken promises on multible occasion and show no reason to be trusted whatsoever.

The most famous of a similar irl situation ended with the french monarchy's heads in baskets.

[foulbearobservation]

It takes a minute for the burn to set in but once it does, oh god it burns, it burns with holy fire and Ava convulses and screams but Reya doesn’t let her go.

“We all have a choice, little hero, you’ll always have a choice. But this… this is my choice. My Will made flesh.”

Ava tries to scratch, tries to do something to ease the pain, but Reya’s hold on her is ironclad to stop her from hurting herself. “Oh no, you don’t get out of this that easily.” Reya says sweetly, or as close to sweet as Reya ever gets.

It was a mistake Ava made early on, assuming that Reya had anything approximating human feelings.

Gods don’t feel the same as humans do, they’re above all that. Allegedly. Ava thinks that’s bullshit, has seen something approximating pride in Reya’s eyes a few too many times for her to believe that.

“That’s it,” Reya smooths Ava’s hair down as her head lulls, too tired to keep herself up. “There’s my brave little hero. Rest now, your true voyage begins soon.” She presses her thumb into the place on Ava’s forehead that she kissed and Ava convulses once more before falling still.

And she leaves Ava broken, laying there unmoving, staring up into the darkness of her room. Saint Michael's Orphanage, eat your damn heart out.

[hamletshoeratio]

Part of acknowledging and celebrating good representation is appreciating those who paved the way for it. The actors and the writers behind it, but also the ones who came before it, and the ones who fought so hard but it just wasn't enough. The characters and the writers that walked so that Tim and Oliver and Buck could run. Those who came before had an impact, they mattered and they are a huge part of the reason we've gotten to where we are now.

Countless queer characters have been censored, sidelined and erased. I can think of countless examples. We're only now turning the tide and taking those stories back, taking ownership of what could've and what should've been.

There was a time before November 5th 2020 and there was a time after it, just like there was a time before April 4th 2024 and a time after it. They did what would've been unthinkable before, and the world will be a better place for it. It's not all about Destiel, because many shows and characters paved the way for them too, but let's acknowledge the impact of November 5th. We may meme that day to hell but God you just had to be there. Broke tumblr multiple times, trended over the US election, brought everyone and their mother out of the Woodwork. It's something I've only seen replicated now with Buck. This is a celebration, but it's also about solidarity and about feeling seen, that's the importance and the strength of representation. The quest for better representation is ongoing, the baton is passed and I can't wait to see how far it goes. The goal of good representation is to leave the world a better place than how one found it.

[moinsbienquekaworu]

Fanfic writers love making characters growl, which is perfectly fine even though To Me™ it isn't verisimilitudinous, since I basically never think of people as growling and tend to find the description goofy. Eliot Spencer, however...

[quirkle2]

more zombie au :] (1.2k words)

The odor of rot has joined the damp growth of life from pots. Even if some things die off without human aid, there are always stronger elements that thrive in their absence.

The aisles are overgrown. Ritsu brushes past the vines as gently as he can, wooden floor groaning under his worn soles. There’s a gap of empty space in the middle of each aisle that he slots through, eyes roaming the shelves of largely useless things. Stronger stems snag onto his backpack and he tugs distractedly while perusing the labeled pots along the tables.

The barn is quaint, and Ritsu thinks he would love to stay. Moss eats at the boards under his feet and bugs swarm around him in the hot air incessantly, but it’s peaceful and there’s a constant sprinkle of sound to his ears that have grown so used to silence. Whoever owned this place beforehand put up a few wind chimes indoors—they must’ve always had the front entrance open for customers.

It’s a quiet little homemade garden center, or something similar, on the side of the highway. It’s an overgrown property with something dead in the backyard that Ritsu refuses to acknowledge or let Shigeo near. The shingles and boards in the roof have been replaced with polyethylene sheets—a barn-turned-greenhouse, uprooted from the hay and cattle it likely used to house and settled back into the Earth to be a paradise for plants.

There’s a large branch hanging through a hole poked into the plastic overhead. It sways with the wind and the chimes that follow, and Ritsu whistles with the leadless melody and gives it a direction while he studies old seed packets.

They didn’t stop here for any particular reason—a garden center doesn’t have much for apocalypse survivors, but Shigeo has always liked overgrown things. He’d always enjoyed taking care of their mother’s plants back home, and then Reigen’s at the office. His brother likes the humidity of greenhouses and the smell of soil and dirt and must.

He sees the top of Shigeo’s head over the aisles, across the barn. He walks past a shovel hanging on the wall and yelps out a grunt when it clangs to the floor behind him. Ritsu shakes his head and smiles, running his fingers along faded price tags.

The feeling of greenhouses has always had this… wet fullness, to Ritsu.

When he breathes in it’s like he can taste the life that breathes out and it feels like a conversation, a question and an answer, both of which he’s not sure how to articulate. The leaves wave to him and he waves back, the once-active sprinklers pepper his skin with dots, with compliments, with proclamations they are eager to share. The vines weave between fencing just to reach him, just to talk.

He understands why Shigeo likes it, and why he’d always asked to accompany their mother on trips to get new seeds. Ritsu hadn’t really understood, then, how pretty it could be, how full it could feel.

Shigeo had always been right about loving the little things. Ritsu wishes he’d seen that sooner.

His brother ambles down the aisle ahead of him and he listens to the quiet patter of his sloppy footwork, moving around a table of seed trays. His whistles carry across the barn, sort of aimless in their own right instead of leading the wind and the chimes somewhere worthwhile, but the sounds soak into the overhead plastic nicely, so he keeps going.

He pulls back a layering of vines and leaves to scan the contents of another shelf, and then he notices Shigeo stop in his peripherals. His dirty shoes stay planted in the corner of his vision, leaves burying the toes, and Ritsu looks away from the products.

He means to say something, to ask him what’s up even if saying things to Shigeo very rarely results in productivity, but he stops when he realizes his brother’s head is… tilted.

He’s looking at him with as much inquisitiveness as his dulled down awareness can muster, pale eyes flickering across Ritsu’s face like he’s working out some puzzle. He instinctively stops whistling, brain lagging behind on this new info of this new behavior, and the sound fizzles out into a little huff of air that leaves the greenhouse feeling oddly empty.

Shigeo studies him for a moment longer, blinking slowly, and then he straightens his head out as Ritsu stares back. His brother’s gaze lingers there on his mouth, like he’s still confused, like he still expects something to happen.

Ritsu blinks once, twice. The wind chimes call as wind pokes at his greasy spikes, as it prods at the ends of his jacket and fills the silence with a different flavor of itself. The interest in the zombie’s eyes fades a little, gaze straying to the vines around them.

Very tentatively, Ritsu wets his lips and blows. The whistle grabs his brother’s attention immediately, and he’s suddenly tilting his head like a curious dog.

He can’t help the laugh that spills out and makes the whistle a mess of exhales. His shoulders shake a little and he hurries to keep the tune steady and consistent; a few seconds pass and Shigeo tilts his head the other way, exhausted eyes big and more alert than they’ve been in days.

Ritsu experiments, and ventures around with the sound—goes lower and higher and watches his brother twist his head back and forth like he’s trying to understand calculus. There’s something very innocent about it, about the look in his eyes that reminds him of when they were kids and their father would show them magic tricks.

It’s muted by the ever-present fog there in his pupils, but Ritsu thinks he sees a spark of that life in them, of that curiosity born from a mind that knows little. He gives him a simple sensation, a simple experience, and his brother is eating it all up like he’s four again, like he’s new and everything is colorful and unknown and big.

Ritsu watches Shigeo tilt his head back and forth, watches the rusty gears behind his window panes move. He changes tactics, because some sad part of him tells him to, and whistles Shigeo’s favorite song instead.

He remembers the name, but he doesn’t need the name because when he thinks of the tune he thinks of his brother, and that’s all that matters. It’s happy, because Shigeo likes happy music. It’s chipper and yet it meanders, like it’s willingly getting lost, like it’s wandering where it wants to and it’ll eventually find its roots again. It’s happy the whole time. The whole adventure.

Shigeo stops tilting his head, and the gears behind his eyes churn a little bit faster. His gaze clings to Ritsu’s and his brother makes actual eye contact, sinks his own being into Ritsu’s head when he’s least prepared for it. The recognition in his gaze has his soul souring.

He keeps whistling. He doesn’t want to stop, because Shigeo feels like Shigeo right now, and he doesn’t want that to stop.

His brother stares. Ritsu’s grief tints the music.

[ashmp3]

i just started watching sex & the city and at the risk of sounding very prudent i didn’t think they would be talking about men and sex every single minute of it. i enjoy the fashion and the set design of course