#midnight swears

[a-plethora-of-midnight-roses]

If I had a nickel for every crit that cost the giratina encounter I’d have TWO NICKELS

WHAT THE FUCK GUYS YOU CANT PULL YOUR PUNCHES THIS ONE TIME???

[blackmagictrait]

the most unrealistic part of izombie - a show where zombies are real and can solve crimes by eating brains - is that the character ravi isn't slamming ass all over the city. like he's supposed to be a medical examiner in seattle which is a $100k+ salary and he's played by rahul kohli and y'all are really trying to convince me this 6'4" doctor isn't knee deep in pussy 24/7?? zombies I can accept but trying to convince me this man with a full head of hair and a british accent has to fight for women's attention absolutely annihilates my suspension of disbelief.

[stardynamite]

Part 3

Idk man, I guess I’m still going with this comic ToT

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[indigonite]

[cappydoodle]

that one poké twitter (pokétter? or would it be smth like chatotter?? idk) post from ch 10 of my fic :3c

unblurred pic below the cut!!

[sibelin]

trentmicrowave.gif

[bluechocowitz]

@hheisa's echo flower sans is v..! v short cool!!

[fruitsofhell]

I used to be one of those guys when I first joined the Kirby fandom, but everytime I hear a discussion of the series writing that starts with "So the Lore is InSaNe-" and not like, "Kirby has a fun writing style that takes advantage of its cute exterior to tell cool stories that reward player's curiosity and leave lots of room for imagination-" I cringe so goddamn hard.

I kinda just hate that people approach things that encourage investment when they don't expect it as inherently absurd. Like it is fun to joke about how absurd Kirby lore can be, but it really often comes with an air of disrespect or exhaustion rather than like, appreciation that these games are made by people who want to tell interesting stories when they could easily make as much money just making polished enough fluffy kiddy platformers. And when it's not met with exhaustion, it's met with - like I said before - that tone that it's stupid for a series like this TO have devs who care about writing stuff for it. Which is a whole other thing about people not respecting things made to appeal to kiddie aesthetic or tone.

Maybe the state of low-stakes YouTube video essays just blows cause people play up ignorance and disbelief for engagement, but like I STG I hear people use this tone for like actual narrative based games sometimes. Some people don't like... appreciate when a game is made by people who care a shitton in ways that aren't direct gameplay feedback. And they especially don't appreciate it when it comes from something with any sense of tonal dissonance intentional or not.

Anyways, I love games made by insane people. I love games made by teams who feel like they wanna make something work or say something so bad. I love that energy, especially when invested into something that could easily rest on its laurels or which obviously won't be taken seriously. I love this in a lot of classic campy 2000s games, I love this in insanely niche yet passionate fanworks, and I love it in the Kirby series and its writing. Can we please stop talking about it like it's an annoyance or complete joke?

[andstuffsketches]

loose johnny cakes.... loose jammy dodgers....

[a-plethora-of-midnight-roses]

I still can’t believe they let tsukasa say fuck twice

[queenie-ofthe-void]

S2.5 AU || ~2k words || rating: teen || cws: mentions of past homophobic slurs, childhood neglect

AU where Max and her Mom move to the trailer park immediately following the events of S2. It's part of a long-term WIP, but this chapter got off course so I'm posting it as a stand-alone for now.

“Fucking, Christ,” Eddie mumbles as he drags himself from his warm bed. It’s almost four in the morning, much too early on a Saturday for someone to be bothering him. Yet the knocking’s persistent, the noise growing louder and impatient as he throws a sweatshirt on. Wayne had warned him it’d be a cold night– because yeah Wayne, it’s December– but not a goddamned ice age. The space heaters are barely cutting it. He can’t imagine anyone being out in this weather unless they didn’t have a choice.

Eddie yanks the door open to find the Mayfield girl, fist hitting him in the stomach mid-knock. It doesn’t hurt but he still makes a show of it. He’s nothing if not a patron saint of the arts. “Oof Little Red, I think you left a bruise,” he grunts as he crumples forward onto the door frame. 

“Right, sure,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes. Now that Eddie’s closer, he can see the pale tint to her skin and the red flush on her nose and cheeks. She’s layered in multiple sweatshirts with a Hawkins Middle knit cap covering her ears, grey Hawkins Tigersharks sweatpants, and a stuffed backpack slung over one shoulder. Red doesn’t really look like the school-spirit kind of kid. But she does look cold.

“Want to come in?” Eddie asks. She’s barreling past him before he can finish, plopping herself down on the living room floor in front of the space heater. He moves to take the chair next to her before reconsidering. Instead, Eddie sits on the floor too, leaning up against the couch opposite her.

“The power’s out– heat too,” Red mumbles. 

“Yeah, windows are pretty shit in the trailers. It’s why we got space heaters this year.”

“Must be nice, being able to afford space heaters,” she says with a smirk, taking her mittens off and rubbing her hands back and forth in front of the heater. Eddie’s more than familiar with the self-deprecating poor jokes, so it’s no sweat off his back. “I’m Max, by the way. Not Little Red.”

“Well when newbies move into the lot across the way and don’t introduce themselves, you’ve left me no choice but to resort to outlandish nicknames.” A ghost of a smile passes her features before it’s lost to a full-body shiver. Eddie realizes that this is their first-ever conversation, despite her living in the Park for almost four weeks now. “Mama Red and Little Red: The unfriendly neighbors across the way,” he finishes the dramatics with a wide smile.

Max scoffs out a laugh “well you haven’t been exactly friendly either.” And well, she’s got him there. He’s not exactly baking cookies as a neighborly welcome.

He decides he likes her. She seems witty, quick to defend herself, and bold enough to call out bullshit. Eddie’s always been a sucker for lost sheep and Little Red is quite literally a shivering child huddled up to his hearth with no parent in sight. Like sees like and he’s almost desperate to help her.

“You know, I know the heaters are shit in the trailers-”

“That’s an understatement,” Max interrupts with another huff.

“– but if you or your mom ever need help with anything, Wayne and I are always happy to come over to check on stuff for you,” he offers. 

He watches the offer die in the air between them. Her face shutters back to the cold neutrality he’s used to seeing her wear and she moves to stand.

“Yeah, of course,” she says. There’s no warmth or meaning behind the words. Just typical middle America niceties. “Speaking of help, can I use your phone?”

Eddie nods, leading her to the kitchen. He can’t help but replay the moment over in his head, regretting that his mistake was so painfully obvious in hindsight. Offering kids like Gareth and Jeff help meant soft smiles and adoration. For a kid like Max– a kid like him– an offer of help only reminds them they’re a burden. Help is just a way of reminding them that they can’t take care of themselves. Help means weak.

How could it have been so long that he’s forgotten? He supposes he has Wayne to thank for that newfound privilege.

“Hey it’s me,” Max says in hushed tones over the receiver. She looks at Eddie and turns her back to him. He meanders over to the other side of the counter, pretending not to listen.

“Can you come pick me up?” she asks. Eddie can’t hear the response on the other end, but Max exasperatedly sighs. 

“Yes I’m fine. No, it’s not Billy, it’s just the heater.” 

She pauses, shoulders hunched, and Eddie wonders who Billy could be. The only Billy he knows is Hargrove, and he’s never seen him around here before. Thank fuck for that.

“No she’s not home. No, jeez will you listen I just need– yeah I’ve got a bag. Ten minutes? Ok yeah I’ll– wait no. I’m not home.”

She turns to glance at Eddie, and he’s too slow to look nonchalant if her scowl means something. 

“I’m at the Munson’s. Yeah– no, it’s just Eddie. Umm,” she hesitates, scanning him up and down before responding, “no he’s good. Yeah I’ll wait here.”

She hangs the phone back on the wall, crossing her arms as she looks anywhere but Eddie’s direction. He knows he fucked up, knows where he went wrong, but doesn’t know how to fix it. He isn’t Wayne. 

“My ride will be here soon,” she says to her shoes.

“Ok yeah, no big deal,” Eddie replies. “We can wait in the living room?”

Little Red shrugs, but heads back to sit in front of the space heater. It’s silent and awkward, neither of them knowing how to move past the tension. Eddie laments himself again at losing a lost sheep. Although if she has a ride, maybe she isn’t as lost as he thought.

Ten minutes feels like an eternity, but eventually headlights flash through the front windows. Max practically tips over from the weight of her backpack with how quickly she’s scrambling toward the door. And yeah, Eddie thinks she must’ve felt the same about the wait.

“Uhh, hey, thanks,” Max says, her hand already on the door handle. “You know, for letting me use the phone.”

He can fix this. He can recover. Eddie doesn’t want to acknowledge why it’s so important that Little Red feels safe here, but he’s desperate for her to know. That he’s ok and he gets it. He gets her and she isn’t alone here, like Eddie was before Wayne. He wants to help. 

What would he have wanted to hear?

“Whelp,” he says loudly, standing up from the floor, “you’re always welcome to come over and entertain me with more scintillating conversations. Perchance, on our next meeting, we could engage in the classic game of Go Fish?” He plasters on a too-wide grin, removing an imaginary top-hat and falls forward into a deep bow. An actual offer of help disguised as his own boredom, wrapped in a thick layer of sarcasm and extravagance. He’s really pulling out all the stops here.

And it works, mostly. Her mouth ticks up at the ends, matching the little spark that’s returned to her eyes. Eddie thinks that maybe for Little Red, a smirk and an eye roll is as good as it gets. He’ll take it as a win.

“Oh my god,” she laments, yet the smirk is still there. “You sound just as dorky as the boys.”

She opens the door and Eddie stands behind her, holding it open as she makes her way out. He’s not sure why he’s surprised– knows he really, really shouldn’t be at this point– to see the maroon beemer parked in front of his trailer. But here he is, standing in front of the King himself, wearing Wayne’s black and tattered Johnny Cash sweatshirt, blue buffalo check wool pajama bottoms, and his red and green Christmas fuzzy socks. He feels too visible, the headlights shining on all of Eddie’s insecurities.

But before his hackles come out, Harrington jumps out of his car and half jogs up to the front step. He takes Max’s backpack and ruffles the pom on her knit hat before she’s bounding to the car, saying something under her breath which sounds a little like “ok mom” if Eddie’s not mistaken.

“Hey Munson,” Harrington says. He’s standing at the bottom of the front porch, looking up at Eddie through the glow of the headlights. And Eddie’s pretty sure the only plebeians who have ever seen the King look this disgruntled are his many midnight conquests. Harrington’s still got a thick, red sleep indent across his left cheek. His normally styled hair is pointing in all directions, standing completely vertical on the same side as the indent. He must’ve left in a hurry too, only clad in grey Hawkins Tigershark sweatpants– same as Red, though his fit him properly– and an oversized green crewneck sweatshirt.

And no, Eddie thinks, maybe even Harrington’s midnight conquests haven’t seen him like this. The King looks less like royalty and more like the normal boy Eddie supposes he really is, underneath the All-American highschool bully varnish he must slather himself in every morning. Or at least did, before Byers and Wheeler and Hargrove got to him. 

He realizes too late that he’s been staring, caught up in the softness of a pretty face. Harrington’s shuffling his feet, blowing on his hands as he rubs them together fiercely. There’s a strong red tinge to his cheeks, almost like a blush. Almost.

“I uhh,” Harrington stutters, looking up at Eddie. “I just wanted to say thank you, for letting her hang here until I could get here.”

“It’s no problem, man,” Eddie says, “don’t worry about it.” Eddie means to sound casual, he does. Because he’s seen Harrington around. Watched him help move boxes into Red’s trailer. Watched him pick her up and drop her off everyday of the week, including most weekends. Hell, sometimes Eddie’s even witnessed an entire gaggle of children spill from the luxury car’s back seats, the lot of them yelling while Harrington tries to herd them around like an exhausted sheep dog. 

But Harrington is still The Hair, The King of Hawkins High, even if it’s not the same as it used to be. So Eddie’s voice sounds more cold and hollow than casual. Harrington might not have ever shoved him into lockers, but he brandished sharp names like weapons against kids like Eddie. He’s a freak. A fag and a queer. A loser.

Harrington cringes, almost like he can hear Eddie’s thoughts. Eddie steps back to close the door, but Harrington calls out.

“If you ever need help with anything,” Harrington calls out, “or if Max is here and needs something, just like, ask me. Call me, you can get my number from Max.” 

Help. 

Eddie bites back his instinctual reaction to tell Harrington to fuck off. Of course some hoity-toity rich prick thinks someone like Eddie needs help. 

Hypocrite he lambashes himself, before taking a slow breath in and out.

He stiffly nods, unable to actually respond without worry of snapping. 

Harrington seems to understand, nodding in return, jogging back to the car and sending a small, awkward wave from behind the steering wheel as he and Red pull out of the drive. 

Eddie crawls back into the warmth of his bed, blankets pulled tight around him. He thinks he recovered with Red rather well, in the end. Like he hasn’t lost her faith completely, which is all he could hope for. And even though he doesn’t like Harrington, he also can’t help but wonder how different his own childhood would’ve been if he’d had someone like Steve, who would’ve picked him up at a moment’s notice at four a.m. on the coldest day of winter. 

He might not have adopted a new sheep into his growing flock, but he can sleep a little better knowing she isn’t alone. Knowing Steve Harrington, of all people, seems more than willing to go out of his way for her. Almost as desperate to help a lost kid as Eddie feels, and isn’t that a thought. The Freak and the King might have something in common after all.  

[juneviews]

+

[collectorcookie]

If Nobody Will Talk About Shiawase No Uta Lyrics, I Will

Here are my fave parts:

1. Makoto and Mao giving it their all to catch up to Subaru and Hokke and to live up to Trickstars Name

2. Subaru and Hokuto being bound by a similar fate and holding onto eachother

3. Subaru suffering through darkness and then finding light within trickstar

[larsnicklas]

QUINN HUGHES ✧ 240107 Obviously, we've played some pretty good hockey up to this point. We've got a group of guys that care about each other and want to play the right way and want to compete for each other, so that's something that we're doing really well.

[heart-of-the-morningstar]

Corruption fic - Last preview

Ok, last preview for this fic! Again, no active warnings here but I promise the finished product will be very fun~ ;)

When you regained consciousness, you felt the familiar pounding in your head after a heavy night of drinking. Begrudgingly you dragged yourself out of you bed and forced your way to your bathroom for a much needed shower. You realized when you glanced towards the mirror that you never changed out of your clothes from yesterday. In fact, you don't even remember how you got back to your room last night, Everything was such a blur, and it hurt to think with the major headache you were experiencing at the moment. The last thing you could recall was falling off the bar stool, the pain you felt in your shoulder was enough of a reminder. Once you stepped in the hot shower, you felt a little better, but only a little bit. You tried to rack your brain for answers, trying to remember exactly what happened after you fell. You ran your fingers through your hair, letting the water soak your aching body. But in doing so, something had clicked. That motion had unlocked a foggy memory. Your hair. Someone had run their hands through your hair last night, but you couldn't for the life of you remember who. It was gentle, soft, tender. But who would do that?

After a few minutes, you stepped out of the shower and threw on one of the sundresses you had hanging in your closet. You really didn't feel like putting a ton of effort into your clothing choices today. Hopefully Charlie would forgive you for skipping out on her planned activity today and let you recover. You realized after that initially thought that you didn't even know what time is was. Chances were you had already missed it. With a groan, you plopped down back onto the mattress, your hair still damp.

"What's the matter with me," you asked yourself. "How do I expect to be redeemed when all I do is sabotage my chances by getting wasted every night?" Your headache persisted as you laid in your bed, you almost wanted to cry from the pain. But then, you heard a soft knocking at your door. Charlie, you thought. More than likely she was checking in on you to make sure you were alright. "I'll be there in a second!" you called out. The volume of your own voice didn't help your hangover in the slightest. You grabbed one of the small pillows off your bed for comfort and trudged your way to your door. "I'm really sorry I slept in Charlie," you spoke as you turned the door handle, "it was a...really rough night for me and I-" you stopped completely once you opened the door fully. Charlie, in fact, was not the one who had knocked.

"Yeah, you really did get put through the ringer last night, didn't you?" Lucifer smiled at you. The pillow you held fell to the floor with a soft thud.

“Oh, I-I’m so sorry, sir!” You stuttered. “I-I thought you were Charlie! Did-Did she send you?”

Lucifer looked at you with a puzzled stare. “Uhh, no, no she didn’t. I told her what happened last night and let her know I’d check in on you like I promised.”

“Promised?” you asked, but Lucifer didn’t seem to hear you.

“And you don’t have to refer to me as “sir,” my dear, “Lucifer” is just fine! I mean, you used my name just fine last night!”

Your heart stopped. “L-Last night? Oh no…what…what happened last night?”

Lucifer gawked at your question. “Wait, do you not remember anything?” You shook your head timidly. “Oh dear…well, nothing bad happened, I promise! What’s the last thing you can remember doing?”

You looked down at the floor sheepishly, embarrassed to admit the real answer. “The last thing I can remember is falling off the bar stool and…landing on my face…”

Lucifer stood there and pondered for a few seconds before speaking again. “Do you mind if I come in?”

“Oh, umm, yeah, y-you can come in,” you agreed. You picked up the pillow you had dropped and opened the door for Lucifer to saunter in. “I’m sorry I look like a mess right now, I-I just got out of the shower and my hair isn’t completely dry yet and-”

“Hey, hey, it’s alright!” Lucifer interrupted. “You don’t need to apologize. You look lovely, in any case.”

You brought the pillow in your hands up to your face in an attempt to hide your blush. “T-Thank you,” your muffled voice came through the pillow. "I-If you want, you can sit down on my b-ahh fuck!" One hand came up to your forehead when you felt your head pounding from the pressure that's been building since you woke up. This was definitely one of your worst hangovers to date.

"Oh! Are you alright?" Lucifer asked, his voice laced with deep concern.

"My head..." you choked out. You made your way over to your bed, crawling up to the top and cradling the pillow in your arms "Hangovers are never really kind to me."

Lucifer frowned, seating himself down on the edge of your mattress next to you. You felt your face flare up again when you looked up at his worried expression. "Can I help you? I can alleviate the pain. You only need ask."

"Y-you can?"

"Sure! Angelic power and all that." His hand hovered just above your forehead. "May I?"

"Yes," you breathed. With that, you felt his soft hand make contact with your aching head. You felt a warm tingling sensation emanating from his touch. It didn't hurt nor was it unpleasant, it was healing. Without thinking, you leaned further into his touch, letting the warmth spread throughout your entire body. Your headache slowly began to fade away along with the fogginess that had been plaguing you since you woke up. As his touch lingered, you realized you were able to think more clearly than before, memories from last night started to become clearer and clearer. You remembered Lucifer had come to your rescue after you'd fallen. You remembered Alastor had shown up to mock you in your drunken stupor, only for Lucifer to step in and defend you. You remember sobbing with Lucifer while he comforted you. Then you remembered...

You shot straight up, your heart racing a million miles a second, with Lucifer throwing his hand back in surprise. "What? What happened? Did I hurt you?" Lucifer asked in a panic.

"I'm..." you began, "I'm starting to remember things from last night." You clutched the pillow tight to your chest, refusing to look in the fallen angel's direction. "Please tell me I didn't actually lay down in your lap..."

"Uhh, well...," You could tell from his response that that's exactly what had happened.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" you apologized. "I shouldn't have done that! I-I know I drank way too much last night, I should have stopped, I didn't realize that-"

Lucifer's hand immediately flew to your shoulder in an attempt to get you to stop you from completely spiraling. "Darling, you don't need to apologize for that! You weren't feeling great so you just, ya know, used me as a pillow. And besides, it's not like I disliked it either."

"W-What?!" you nearly shrieked. Another realization had hit you just then. "You! You were the one that was playing with my hair! That's the only thing I could remember when I woke up!" You buried your face in the pillow once more. "If I said anything embarrassing..."

You heard Lucifer swallow hard. "I guess uhh, it depends on your definition of the word."

"Oh God, please no..." you pleaded. "What did I say?"

Lucifer held up his hand again as an offering, a weary smile on his face. "I can help you to remember, if you wish."

[the-worm-king]

He blushes such a cute shade of blue 💙🩵

I love drawing him so mucchhh

Reblogs appreciated 💜

Close ups under cut, for your viewing pleasure <3