#that’s terrifying to me personally

[sparkles-and-trash]

Me when I force myself to read the «famous» ship fics everyone loves so I can keep up with the fandom without understanding why 8/10 of them are famous at all

[lilislegacy]

Percy at ease

Percy calm, but a little on edge

Percy when mildly angry

Friendly reminder that Percy jackson - our beloved silly adorable seaweed brain - is absolutely terrifying. When he’s angry, when he’s scared, when he’s on edge - he’s not warm and fuzzy.

No other character gets that reaction from people. Jason (the sweetie) is perceived as calm and in control, nico (our favorite self-outcasted outcast) is perceived as solemn and creepy, reyna (girlboss queen slay) is perceived as confident and assertive, and annabeth (our girl) is perceived as fierce, clever, and formidable. They are all intimidating to an extent.

But not like Percy. No. Becasue even when he’s at ease, he’s described as wild and disobedient. And when he’s not at ease, even if just little bit, he’s perceived as powerful, dangerous, and scary. Someone who NOBODY wants to mess with. Nobody even questions his power. One look from him has literal gangs running the other way. One look from him has Leo so scared that he’s literally shaking, and feeling the same innate fright and alarm that he does when jason summons an ear-piercing, earth-shaking, deadly bolt of lighting.

like… HELLO??? can we all just sit on that for a moment?? good lord

One angry look from percy has people thinking one thing: Run.

Percy is, canonically, the character that people find the most frightening and intimidating.

And unless he’s in a good mood - which you better hope he is - the reality is that most of us would be completely terrified of him if we met him.

[ceruark]

ensnared. (yandere! prince! sunday x gn! royalty! reader)

synopsis: prince sunday invites you to dance the entwine with him. if you evade capture, he’ll finally leave you alone. but if you get caught, you’re his forever. cw: general yandere themes - obsessive & possessive behavior, implied stalking words: 3,991 disclaimer/inspiration: the dance “The Entwine” is not my idea! it's from the novel Entwined by Heather Dixon, an all-time favorite of mine :)

“The Entwine, also known as the Gentleman’s Catch, is an amusing and challenging redowa suitable for accomplished partners. [...] Similar to a trois-temps waltz, it is danced in open position with a long sash. The lady and gentleman each take ends of the sash, which their hands must not leave. In a series of quick steps (see below) the gentleman either twists the sash around the lady’s wrists, pinning them (also known as the Catch), or the lady eludes capture within three minutes’ time. STEPS. Twist (35), Needle’s Eye (35), Dip and Turn (36), Lady’s Feint (36), Bridge Arc (36), Under-Arm Swoop (37), Thread (37), Beading the Sash (38), the Catch (38).”

Excerpt from Entwined by Heather Dixon

It has been a year since the queen died.

You stand in the grand ballroom of your palace for the first time since your mother's death. It seems dimmer without her, lacking the light her laughter brought to it. Every shift of skirts has you looking for her, only to be disappointed when you catch yourself seeking out a ghost.

She ruled alone for nearly fifteen years. After your father died in battle when you were young, many other kingdoms tried to swoop in after she became widowed. They vied for her hand in marriage so they could expand their territory and get their hands on the lucrative gemstones that are excavated from your land's caverns. But the queen was unshakable, and she refused to remarry, continuing to keep her kingdom safe and opulent all on her own.

And she died last winter, an incurable sickness settling in her lungs seemingly overnight and stealing her final breath within the week.

You hardly had time to mourn her. With no one sitting on the throne, your mother's advisory court scrambled to find you a suitor so that you could marry and be crowned as soon as possible. There hadn't been a rush to find you one, but with the queen's sudden death, they need to get you on the throne before someone else came along to seize it.

Tonight, Welt— formerly your mother's personal advisor— had declared while you prepared for the ball. Tonight, we will find you a suitor. You will be coronated by summer.

You sigh as your gaze sweeps over the ballroom. Truthfully, you have no interest in any of the attendants. Most of them don't have anything noteworthy about their personalities, and those that do are individuals you've mentally decided are best kept at arm's length. You’re certain that more than half your selection pool were invited out of courtesy; none of them possess enough influence or value for your mother's advisory court to approve of a marriage between the two of you.

Except for one.

Penacony's beloved prince has been pursuing you for as long as you could remember. It started off innocent, a mere childhood crush. Long before you were adolescents, he would pluck flowers from the centerpiece vases on ballroom tables and hand them to you, ever the gentleman. You can still remember the sound of whichever court member was assigned to look after you cooing at the sight, endeared as you accepted the flower from his hands and spent the rest of the night at his side, discussing all the important matters that plagued the minds of young royalty.

And then, things changed.

As you two grew older, something about him shifted— you couldn't quite explain it. It made your skin crawl, the way his gaze trailed you throughout the ballroom, the way his fingers lingered just a little too long when he kissed your hand in greeting, the way anyone you shared mutual romantic interest with started avoiding you like the plague the second he heard of your budding relationship. There was something off about him— about his infatuation with you— and you distanced yourself from him as much as possible over the years.

Your mother's advisory court had been furious; they believed your eventual marriage to Sunday was set in stone given how taken you were with each other as children, and they planned for a prosperous future backed by Penacony's enormous and infinite wealth. They took your refusal to interact with him as rebellion and scoffed at your explanations, but luckily, you weren't alone in your suspicions. Your mother and Welt were also unsettled by the way he looked at you at formal gatherings, and your mother swiftly shut down her court's insistences on you trying to make amends with Penacony's prince.

We have no need for marriages of convenience. My child's happiness and safety will be valued above all else, she told them, and it was the end of the discussion.

Welt has upheld her and your wishes following her death, but the rest of the court are more willing to challenge him than they'd been to challenge the queen. Multiple court members have pestered you about marrying Sunday, stating that he would readily agree; you would get on the throne quickly, and the kingdom would prosper with his empire’s assets. Though they drop the topic the second you snap at them, you can tell they're still scheming, pulling at whatever strings they can to bring the prince back into your favor and push you into his arms.

And the undeniable proof of that stands across the room, piercing you with his golden eyes. Of course he's among the guests the court selected for you to choose your partner from. What else could you expect from them?

You sigh and swipe a glass of wine off a nearby table. It's going to be an incredibly long night.

As you sip at the bitter liquid and eye the blonde prince from Belobog, a familiar voice sounds behind you. "Something troubles you, Your Highness."

You turn around, relaxing at the sight of your faithful personal advisor. Veritas gazes down at you, face as neutral as ever.

"Someone," you respond, a frown tugging at your lips. "It appears the court is still refusing to let go of their little delusion."

He glances over your shoulder and hums noncommittally. "It appears so."

You swirl the red wine around in your glass, continuing your sweep of the guests. Certainly, Belobog's prince seemed like your best option right now. Albeit easily flustered, he was sweet and courageous— you would be able to fall for him given the time.

"Gepard Landau?" Veritas asks, his gaze having followed yours to the man standing beside his sister and her wife.

You look up, meeting his doubtful gaze. "Do you see any better options?"

He takes another glance around the room, then grimaces. You bring your hand to your mouth, covering your sudden laugh.

"Though he may be the most respectable of your options, there is not much Belobog can offer you." He tilts his head, still staring out at the crowd. "I suggest you reconsider."

You flash him a tight, sarcastic smile. "If that is the standard you suggest I go by, then my options are narrowed down to Aventurine and Sunday."

You get along fine with the blonde lord hailing from IPC territory, and he possesses charm like no other. He's gotten you more flustered than any other suitor has, but you know it's all fake. Something lurks beneath his picture-perfect exterior, and he keeps his cards too close to his chest for you to guess what his true intentions are. Someone like that can't be good news for you.

Veritas sighs. "I suppose Landau will have to do, then."

A flurry of movement and fabric draws your gaze to the dance floor. You light up as you watch two figures dance in the center of the crowd, one ducking and dodging out of reach while the other tries with fervor to capture them in their arms.

They've finally brought out the silk sashes used to dance the Entwine.

Your Entwine record is exemplary. When dancing as the gentleman, there were only a handful of people you hadn't been able to catch— Aventurine being one of them. Though your record dancing as gentleman is flawed, your skill when dancing as lady is unmatched and known far and wide.

In all your years, you have never been caught during a dance.

"Wonderful," you say, adrenaline rushing through your veins. You could already feel the exhilaration that came with successful capture and evasion. You turn to your advisor, eyes glistening beneath the lights. "Veritas, would you be so kind as to humor me with a dance?"

You think it's the light playing tricks on your eyes when he flushes red. Before he can respond, though, Welt strides up to the two of you and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"Perhaps you could get to know your potential suitors better through the Entwine, no?" The man you've come to think of as a father figure smiles down at you, the corners of his eyes creasing as he does. "You enjoy it so much, hopefully it can be used to bring you closer to someone— both literally and figuratively speaking."

Your smile matches his. "I think that's a great idea."

"Perfect." Welt turns toward the dance floor. "Allow me to announce—"

He stops dead in his tracks, freezing just in time to prevent himself from walking into someone. He backs up, and your blood runs cold at the sight left behind.

Sunday stands before you, pristine as ever, with a silver sash draped over his arm.

Welt finds his voice before you do. "Prince Oak," he greets, dipping his head into a bow. "A pleasure to see you again. We are very grateful for your attendance."

Sunday looks at him. The fond expression he had fixed on you smooths out into his perfect half-smile. He nods at Welt in acknowledgement. "Imperial Advisor Yang." He turns to your left, appearing less enthused to greet Veritas. "Imperial Advisor Ratio."

His eyes land on you again, and a chill runs down your spine. You force a polite smile onto your face, bowing your head slightly. "Prince Oak. An honor to see you again."

He sounds breathless when he responds. "The honor is all mine."

When his gaze starts to grow heavy on your shoulders, Welt clears his throat. He eyes the fabric hanging off of Sunday's arm. "I suppose you are here with... intent, yes?"

"Correct," Sunday says. He glances down at the silk, reaching up to pinch a part of it between his fingers.

He meets your eyes again, his face imperceptible. It's more terrifying than his openly longing and lingering gaze.

"I wish to dance the Entwine with you," he says, voice diplomatic and devoid of emotion. "If you are willing."

You clench your hands behind your back. "Will you be dancing gentleman or lady?"

"Gentleman." He pauses, voice lowering a bit. "I wish to try and catch you."

You smother a scowl before it can crawl its way onto your face. Of course he would want to dance as gentleman. How typical.

But there's something to his demeanor that tells you there's more to it than he's letting on. It's sitting on the tip of his tongue: his real intent behind asking you to dance with him.

"For what reason do you wish to dance with me?" In a quieter, harsher tone, you add, "Be honest with me, or I will refuse outright."

His fingers run over the fabric, smoothing out any wrinkles that snag them. He tilts his head to the side, and the desire that swims in his eyes leaves you shaking.

"If I catch you," he says slowly, "you will give me your hand in marriage."

Bile burns at the back of your throat, your anxiety clawing its way up and trying to escape. It's a bold declaration, especially when directed at someone who has never been caught before. Your faith in your skill is resolute, but the sheer desperation on his face is enough to make you hesitate.

Your voice trembles slightly when you speak. "And if you fail?"

He hums, flicking his gaze off to the side. "If I fail, I will never ask for it again."

You latch onto the statement like a moth to a flame. All you have to do is avoid capture— something you've done time and again— to get him to leave you alone. You've never seen him dance the Entwine, or show any interest in it; undoubtedly, your skill will lead you to successful evasion.

This is your chance to get him off your back, for good.

Before you can respond, a firm hand comes down on your shoulder, pulling you backward.

"Your Highness," Veritas whispers into your ear, barely contained urgency lacing his words. "Please consider this carefully. Is this a risk you are willing to take?"

You look up at him, eyebrows raised. "I have never been caught," you mutter back.

His brows pinch together. "There is a first time for everything, and you cannot afford to let this one be that time."

You clench your jaw and cast Sunday a sidelong glance. He stares back at you, his posture perfect and features serene despite the way his eyes drink you in, ravenous. There is, as always, truth to what Veritas is saying; you've never seen Sunday dance the Entwine, but that doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't know how, or that he isn't good at it. There's still a high chance you'll be able to evade him given your record, but the chance of him being able to successfully pull off the Catch, though small, is still a potential outcome that shouldn’t be overlooked.

After all, he wouldn't be asking you if the possibility was as slim as you believe it to be.

You bite your lip, hesitating. You look to Welt, pleading for direction. He locks eyes with you briefly, looking just as concerned as Veritas, before he steps forward and partially shields you from Sunday's view.

"Perhaps another time," he says, a polite grin finding its way onto his face. "We are just coming out of mourning, and though it is nice to be part of festivities again, perhaps dancing is still a bit too much for Our Highness right now— the late queen was very fond of the Entwine. Please understand."

Sunday's mask wavers, irritation seeping through the cracks at Welt's excuse. His sharp gaze cuts back to you, but you let your eyes drift back to the dance floor, refusing to meet it.

The tension is broken by the sound of clapping. You turn your head, frowning at the sight of a member of the advisory court approaching.

"Oh, how lovely!" She swoons, pressing a hand to her chest. Her face is flushed from the wine and she speaks loudly, drawing the ballroom's attention to the cluster of people around you. "Our Highness is going to dance the Entwine with Prince Oak!"

All eyes are on you. Your guests whisper to each other, their excitement tangible and filling the air with charged energy. A long time coming, they think to themselves, oblivious to the unfortunate predicament you've found yourself in. Sunday's affinity for you isn't a secret, especially not to the royal families who watched you two grow up at each other's side. To them, this dance is simply an age-old rumor finally coming into fruition, the first step toward solidifying your relationship with Sunday. And to the advisors scattered around the ballroom, watching you like hawks, it is their efforts finally paying off— the final nail in your coffin that will secure the future they envision for your kingdom.

Refusing him now, under countless pairs of hopeful eyes, would undoubtedly leave an ugly smear on your reputation and the integrity of your kingdom.

Your tongue sits dry and heavy in your mouth. You almost choke on it when Sunday's hand finds the small of your back, gently guiding you toward the dance floor. He practically preens under the attention and pressure. It makes you sick.

Another hand catches your elbow in a bruising grip, and you jolt back, only barely catching yourself to make it seem as though you tripped. You angle your body in a way that prevents the crowd from seeing Veritas's vice grip on your arm.

"My Highness has not agreed to anything yet," he bites out in a low whisper, venom dripping off his tongue.

Sunday's eyes snap to him. His scathing glare does nothing to deter your advisor, who glares back at him in response.

When he looks back to you, the deceptively serene look has returned. With the arm not holding the sash, he extends a hand out to you, tilting his head to the side in question. The guests closest to you all coo fondly.

There's a hint of a smirk on his face. "May I have this dance?"

You place a hand over Veritas's, gently prying his fingers from your arm. You can't bear to look at him right now. "It will be fine," you murmur. "I promise."

You run your hands along your sleeves, wiping off as much of the sweat as you can. You inhale shakily, trying to keep the ballroom tile beneath your feet from swimming.

You look up, a practiced, graceful smile tilting your lips upward. You delicately place your hand in his, suppressing a shudder when he brings it to his lips and presses it to them. The steadiness and strength in your voice surprises you when you say, "Of course, Prince Oak."

The ballroom erupts into a mixture of chatter and cheers. Court advisors pester the crowd surrounding the dance floor, ushering them back and trying to clear a pathway for the two of you. You swallow thickly as Sunday closes his hand around your trembling one.

You turn to Welt and gesture at his pocket with your free hand. "If you would be so kind, Advisor Welt."

He nods stiffly, reaching into his coat and producing a golden pocket watch. "Of course, Your Highness."

Your heart hammers against your ribcage as Sunday guides you to the dance floor. A numbness settles over you, and you robotically nod and smile at the guests that you pass. Their eyes shine with an adoration that you could never possess for this supposed relationship— for him.

Sunday releases your hand when you two reach the center of the dance floor. His eyes are dark as he holds one end of the sash out to you. You take it into your hands and back away from him, toward the other end of the floor. Sunday does the same, and you both stop when the sash is pulled so taught that it tugs you a few steps forward.

The familiar fabric and set-up do little to comfort you.

The crowd shifts again, and Welt emerges from it, standing front and center before the dance floor. He holds the pocket watch up to his face, and your breath hitches with anticipation.

"Your three minutes begins..." His voice reverberates off the ballroom walls, resounding clearly over the jubilant tune the orchestra plays.

"Now."

Adrenaline shoots through you like lightning, and you fly into motion. Your vision sharpens, focused in on every movement Sunday makes as you analyze the arc of his arms and the force behind his tugs on the sash. With each under-arm swoop, you dip beneath his arms and twirl away from him with ease, the steps of the dance coming to you the way breathing does.

He's an adept dancer, you'll give him that. Perhaps if his partner was anyone else, he would have already caught them already, within the first minute of the dance. But you are untouchable on an average night, and on this one in particular, you push yourself past your limits, propelled forward by a fervor and desperation to evade his every attempt of entangling you in his arms.

Twist. Needle's Eye.

"Two minutes," Welt calls out.

Approaching another under-arm swoop, you glance at Sunday's face just in time to see displeasure flicker across it at Welt's announcement. As you glide away from him once more, unfurling the sash between you two, he gives it a sharp tug, causing you to stumble a bit and lose your footing. Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly recover, forcing your limbs to move faster and smoother and match the rapid tempo he has now set for the dance.

Sweat beads along your upper lip as you duck under Sunday's arms repeatedly. You're managing just fine, but you've never had to push yourself this hard before; keeping a close eye on his movements while making sure the sash doesn't get tangled around your wrists is a delicate balancing act, and you can feel yourself teetering back and forth, dangerously close to falling off.

He's a far more formidable partner than you could have ever imagined.

Dip and Turn. Lady's Feint.

"One minute."

Sunday furiously yanks on the sash mid-twirl, and you stagger forward. The sash wraps around your wrists once, twice— three times before you regain your footing and lean back, narrowly avoiding Sunday's sweeping arm that almost hooks around your own.

A chorus of gasps ripples through the crowd at your near capture. It worsens your fraying nerves.

You exhale with exertion, trembling on unsteady legs as Sunday raises the stakes yet again. The tempo he sets is merciless, and your body is jostled between the last of your will and the harsh tugs from the other end of the sash. You grit your teeth. The silk digs tighter into your flesh and sends pinpricks of pain up your arms with each snap of his wrists.

Bridge Arc. Under-Arm Swoop.

"Thirty seconds."

The speed at which you weave in and out of spins leaves you dizzy, nauseous. The ballroom melts into incomprehensible shapes and colors around you. You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, a pitiful attempt to ground yourself so you won't trip up. 

You do anyway; Sunday's movements are too fluid and swift to keep up with.

The sash binds around your wrists five more times, bringing you even closer to him— too close. You're not sure if it's skill, luck, or sheer force of will that allows you to continue to dodge his attempts at ensnaring you, but you know that you shouldn't be able to do it at this distance.

Frustration peeks through his graceful disposition. His golden eyes trail you, chasing after you as you elude his grasp once more.

Thread. Beading the Sash.

"Fifteen seconds."

You throw yourself into another dip, eyes locked onto the floor just beyond the arm obscuring your line of vision.

If you dodge this one, you'll be free.

Sunday lifts his arms suddenly and pulls, bringing the sash as far back as he can without letting go. Your arms twist in the air behind your back. A strangled gasp leaves you as you lose your footing. In a whirl of fabric, you stagger backward, away from the other side of his outstretched arm.

The Catch.

Your back slams into something solid, and before you can process what has happened, a firm arm snakes itself around your waist, pulling you flush against the body behind you. Your hands, still bound together, dig into your collarbone, suspended at an awkward angle from the sash held above you.

The crowd erupts into noise.

In front of you, a little girl pulls on her mother's sleeve and points in your direction. "Mommy, he caught Our Highness!"

Behind them, Veritas stares at you, petrified and speechless.

Snapping out of your stunned stupor feels like coming up for air after almost drowning. You suck in a shuddering breath and writhe, yanking your arms against the sash and leaning forward, futilely trying to escape. Sunday gathers the last of the fabric in his hands and gives it another sharp tug, keeping you in place against him.

He lowers his head, and his lips brush over your ear as he speaks. "Magnificent," he whispers. His voice rumbles with pleasure, almost to the point of purring. "You are truly a talented dancer."

"Let me go," you rasp out. You're physically exhausted, and your racing, panicked heart prevents you from catching your breath.

Sunday hums again, bringing the hand holding the sash to brush your cheek gently. "Why would I do that?" He chuckles softly, and it's so genuine— not the slightest bit mocking— that it leaves you all the more unsettled. "I caught you."

He brings his arm down, settling it around your waist. His fingers brush over your bound hands, and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek.

"You're finally mine."

[ropes3amthoughts]

I know people are just joking when they say stuff like “Mithrun is an old grandpa he doesn’t know he can’t say those words anymore he doesn’t know they don’t have any book tokens anymore” because of these extras below:

and whatever but like it honestly drives me kind of crazy. Like can we look at this for a second.

He was the lord of the dungeon for five years. Then he was being rehabilitated for TWENTY YEARS. That’s not super long for elves, that’s like four years for us, but that’s still a long time. And then he was the captain for another fourteen years, but he didn’t have any desire other than getting revenge on the demon.

Mithrun hasn’t really been properly socialized for a total of FORTY YEARS, which is like eight years for elves. He was totally shut off from the world, then he was rehabilitated, and then he was with the Canaries on a onetrack mindset to go after the demon. Mithrun was doing bad, he was recovering, and then he was better enough to be the captain of the Canaries again, but he was still not “better.” In all that time, the world didn’t wait for him when he was at his low point. It didn’t wait for him when he was spending all that time recovering. And by the time it’s near the end of the story where these comics take place he’s just been so far detached from the world. Like he’s most likely never tried to go buy a book token after becoming a dungeon lord. He’s most likely never talked to people and learned the new slang of the time, he’s never been caught up which words are good versus outdated. Mithrun is technically better enough to be captain, he’s better enough to have reintegrated into society, but he’s not quite adjusted yet. He’s been out for so many years suffering under the hands of the demon and scraping his way through recovery and trying to work to get to the demon that by the time he’s stopped and done stuff like gift exchanges or whatever many aspects of the world are vastly different from what he remembers. I think that’s a lot like a lot of people in real life too who have similar experiences. People in mental health centers or hospitals who spends even just months recovering can miss out on so much.

Does this make any sense? It’s kind of late so I don’t really know what I’m saying and I’m probably repeating myself but like Mithrun was at a low point and then he was recovering for so long!!!! And then when he’s reintegrated back into the world it’s changed without him!!!! He’s not some racist old man!!! The world just kept on turning when he was struggling and how is he even supposed to deal with that? Like he doesn’t have much desire but everybody is so upset with him for not knowing things like outdated terms or using cash because he didn’t know there were no more book tokens and he just can’t have known that because he literally wasn’t in a state to keep up with all of the stuff like that and now everything is different and maybe he doesn’t care because he has no desire to but like aghhhhhhhhhhhh sob sob sniffle oughhhhh 😭😭😭😭 Mithrun 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 imagine I’m shaking him back and forth that’s how I feel right now oughhhhh

[sophsicle]

OKAY question

i wanna reread choices and edit it but i can never make myself do it cause im like "ugh wow so long i simply cannot"

but also, every time i do reread parts of it i have like *thoughts* like SO many thoughts about it and about what i was thinking at the time and how that has or hasn't changed and what i was trying to do and what i love and what i hate and blah blah blah

SO the question: if i did like a lil read-a-long with soph thing, would anyone be interested? like maybe in the form of small podcast episodes where i discuss the chapters as i edit them and you guys can like tell me the different stuff you want me to talk about etc etc and then i will have the motivation to actually do this and also somewhere to dump all of my *thoughts*

or is that like, a stupid idea that no one asked for? i cannot decide whether this is leaning more on the fun cute side or the annoying keep this to yourself side, Y'KNOW????? so i ask

[unbidden-yidden-deactivated20240]

Hey major shout-out to my fellow trans Jews. This year has been hell and it's hard not to feel like we've been completely abandoned, betrayed, shut out, and made unsafe across the full political spectrum.

I'm so sorry; we deserved better. I hope you're okay and standing strong - we will get through this together 🕎 🏳️‍⚧️ ✡️

[your-royal-momoness]

Aang: is this the part where you tell me that if I hurt her, you’ll kill me?

Hakoda: no. If you hurt Katara, she is perfectly capable of killing you herself.

[tombstoneswerewaiting]

mania 🤝 stardust

+

[chrisrin]

question time because i've been debating with a friend about this and i'm curious:

you are offered *unconditional* immortality. there's no way to opt-out or die if you say yes, you will live for the rest of eternity. (you cannot die of old age, nor any other means. you cannot be killed, you cannot commit suicide, etc. etc.)

[clownsuu]

Small detour of what I usually post, but I absolutely wish (other) clown the best of luck during these confusing and almost hopeless times- nobody knows how to deal with such amount of attention in such short amount of time- a blessing and a curse to behold

[piratefishmama]

Fake it till you make it | Part 12

Check in and going through security were painless, it went by with only minimal sweating from Eddie as his bag went through the scanner, the all clear earning a breath of relief that’d almost raised a few brows. After that Eddie spent the majority of the wait time before boarding practically glued to the windows in the business-class lounge, eyes wide with wonder as he took in all of the planes coming and going from the runway in plain sight before him, Lynda sending Steve pointed little looks every now and then as if to say, “He’s very cute, isn’t he?”

Which Steve had no choice but to agree with, not just for the bit, but also because he was cute. He was very cute, like a kid outside of a candy store trying to inhale candy through the glass windowpanes. He couldn’t believe he’d never noticed just how cute Eddie Munson could be sometimes.

Boarding was trickier. Eddie decided last minute that he was glued to his seat in the lounge. His parents going on ahead to get themselves settled, taking theirs and Steve’s carry on’s with them, Steve stuck behind to coax Eddie into moving. “Eddie you have to get up”

“Ooor I could just stay here, on the ground, where humans belong.” Steve was actually pretty surprised at how strong Eddie’s grip actually was because he couldn’t seem to pry it from the arms of the chair.

“Just think, someday, when you’re a big rockstar, you’ll be travelling in these all the time from place to place!”

“Nuh-uh, we’ll drive there, US only shows, we’ll have coaches.”

“You really wanna spend all that time in a bus with Gareth and Jeff? I mean Frank’s pretty solid but Gareth and Jeff? Pretty sure I remember them both having Cheeto dust on their fingers for a whole week solid one time and don’t even get me started on that time Gareth slurped up mountain dew from the lunch table.”

“That was a dare” Eddie was valiantly choosing not to turn into a puddle of ooey-gooey mess over the fact that Steve knew the names of his bandmates, they’d never believe him, no way did Steve Harrington know who they were. Nuh-uh.

“That was disgusting, is what it was. They don’t even wipe those tables.”

“I know, he got mono.” Sure as hell didn’t get it from makin out with anyone.

“Oh my god. Look, we have to go Eddie.” Hands on hips, typical mom stance.

“…Can you hold my hand like you promised?”

“Yes.” Steve offered his hand, which hesitantly, Eddie took, finally relinquishing his grip on the chair just enough for Steve to yoink him out of it, giving him just enough time to grab his guitar case before he was being pulled down the gangway and onto the plane.

Just like the kisses, all it took was a little coaxing, a gentle nudge to push those fears and anxieties away.

He was practically soup in his reclining window seat business class seat right up until the attendant came by to tell everyone to sit up straight and buckle up for take-off. He didn’t let go of Steve’s hand though. Their seats were next to each other, and that hand was glued to his. “Is it too late for me to run away?” Eddie asked, eyes on the window as the gangway was retracted, ignoring the captain’s announcement over speakers greeting them and thanking them for choosing the airline.

“Little bit, yeah.” Steve gave his hand a gentle squeeze as the plane began its slow crawl to the runway. “I’ve got you though, okay?”

“Okay.” There were no delays, there was no waiting, the plane made its way directly to the runway and rounded the corner to the long strip of tarmac that it’d take off from, engines thrumming, Eddie’s hand gripped his tighter, those big brown eyes wide on that window.

“Eddie”

“What?”

“Look at me.” Eddie, with great hesitance, turned away from the window and looked to Steve. The plane started moving. Steve, with his free hand, reached forward and took Eddie’s jaw, easing him in closer, those doe eyes flicking down as if expecting something more “focus on me, not on the window.”

“But—”

“On me, Bambi, eyes on me.” The plane sped up, faster and faster, machinery whirring, the sound of metal and gears moving filling the plane as the wings adjusted to climb, Eddie wanted to ask, wanted to check, just to make sure that the plane was supposed to be making those sounds, but he could barely breathe under Steve’s gaze, trapped in it, Bambi rattling around in his head because where had that come from? And then they were climbing. “You can look now, baby” he blinked, his head snapped round to the window to see clouds.

“Holy shit we’re—”

“We’re flying” Steve finished, giving his hand another squeeze.

“We’re flying, holy fuck!” There was that smile, toothy, dimpling his cheeks, Eddie’s free hand pressed against the window, face pressed up next to it as he tried to look up until the clouds cleared for him, revealing nothing but blue skies above and the cottony white of the cloud tops beneath.

He didn’t even notice the disgruntled looks or the mutters of stuck up rich people, didn’t notice the negativity he was receiving from the other business class flyers, all of which were promptly subdued by the scathing expressions of all three Harringtons combined. He didn’t even notice that he’d slipped his own hand free just to press that one against the glass too.

Steve caught his mother pressing a hand to her chest over her heart as she watched him, clearly deeply affected by his childlike wonder at something all three of them, likely everyone in that section, took for granted as if it were just driving a car, or riding a bike.

Nine more hours to go.

“Have you ever joined the mile high club?” It was as though Eddie timed the question, waiting until the perfect moment, the first gulp of a complementary glass of champagne that Eddie politely declined for himself as more of a shots shots shots!! Type of guy, it was as though he timed it precisely for the moment that Steve took his first sip.

It went down the wrong hole, Steve winding up choking in his seat on his first glass of champaign while Eddie grinned like a maniac, his legs pulled up criss-cross on the reclined seat while most of the eyes in the section turned to look upon them in judgement.

His parents just shook their heads and continued with their conversations, something about business, Eddie hadn’t been paying too much attention to them both since he’d gotten tired of watching clouds go by. Couldn’t even make shapes out of them that high up, it was just a blanket in most places, all the definition and shape on the underside.

He was waiting for a moment to be childish.

“W-what?” Steve asked through his coughs, Eddie took a little pity on him and gave his back a couple of firm smacks to help clear out the liquid.

He wasn’t done though. “Mile high club, y’know, sex in a plane? Your exploits in the boudoir, Sir Harrington are legendary, I simply must know if you’ve ever gotten down an dirty in one of those tiny bathrooms on these things.” Steve caught the look his mother sent him, the slow turn of her head, the dry raised brow, then his father leaning forward in his chair, his own brow raised in question, his father slightly more entertained than his mother.

“No!” Steve spluttered “No, I haven’t, I wouldn’t I—”

“Liar liar pants on fire, you would, you know you would, how could you lie to me on our first trip as a family, Steven I’m heartbrok—”

“Eddie oh my god, why?” What had he done to deserve this?

“Bored.” Such a simple answer, Steve had hired a demon. It was the only explanation, Eddie was sent to torture him by being mischievous and cute, should have been way more cautious about anything Dustin suggested. “An you totally have, I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, and what makes you so sure?”

“W—”

“Don’t answer that.” Steve very quickly thought against allowing him to answer when his question was followed by thee most devious grin Eddie Munson had ever displayed in public. “Just sleep like most people do on these things.”

“When have I ever been able to be defined by the words ‘like most people,’ Stevie? I laugh in the face of most people, most people tremble in fear at the very mention of my name~ muwahaha” It wasn’t actually fair how easily he could make Steve crack a smile. No matter how annoying he was being, how unusual, no matter whether he was clearly trying to annoy the other passengers now that he’d noticed their looks.

Steve couldn’t fight the traitorous smile that snuck upon his lips and why would he want to when Edde seemed to light up like Christmas when he got that magical smile? When his shenanigans were proven effective at getting Steve to smile like that? “Is that your actual name or your dungeons and dorks name?”

“Mostly the dungeons and dorks name, if I’m honest, I have a reputation, it’s pretty brutal. I killed Gare-bear within ten minutes of a campaign once he sat there fuming for the whole session.” It’d been a complete fluke, a bad run of rolls right out of the gate, everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. So much so that Gareth threw the dice into a bonfire afterwards so they could never do harm again. Hilarious to everyone else though. “Have you though?” Eddie lowered his voice, leaning in just enough to appear quiet in his probing,

“Have I what?” Steve finally felt right enough to take another sip of his drink.

“Y’know…” Eddie pressed his forefinger and thumb together and stuck his other finger into the hole twice then pointed upwards with both hands, wordlessly, as if playing charades. “Wink wink, nudge nudge, airplane bathroom?” Charades ruined somehow still charming.

Steve was in trouble, but future Steve could deal with that trouble. Present day Steve had an adorable metalhead to fuck with.

“Bambi, if you’re looking to lose something today, how about we wait for a bedroom, m’kay? Way more spacious than the bathroom on one of these things, trust me.” Ended with a side-eyed wink and another cheeky sip of his wine while Eddie just sat there wide eyed, cheeks flushing with colour as those words sunk in.

“You HAVE!” Wrong words sunk in, dammit.

Part 14

[patolemus]

Uuuuuh here's my take on a Teen Wolf movie fix-it, because god do we deserve it.

---------------

“Stiles, think of her father! He finally has her back!”

“Think of his son! Scott, he’s a child,” Stiles’ voice breaks as he thinks of Eli, young and alone after losing his only parent. He thinks of himself, and who he might have been had he lost his dad at Eli’s age.

Mostly, he thinks of Derek. Selfless, martyr, stupid Derek who still thought he was disposable after all these years, after raising a son and settling down and getting the quiet life he always wanted. Stiles thinks of Derek, and he feels himself falling apart at the seams because why is it that life still likes to punish kind, battered souls like Derek Hale’s? Why couldn’t it decide that he’d had enough, why did it have to kill him before letting him rest?

Stiles can’t accept it. He won’t accept it. He’s going to bring Derek back from whatever kind of shit afterlife he’s in, and he’s going to force him to live out his quiet life with his son if it’s the last goddamn thing Stiles ever does. That is the only ending he’ll accept for this beautiful, broken man.

Fuck everyone who wants to stop him.

“Stiles, he’s gone. You can’t— he’s gone,” Scott says, voice softening, obviously trying to be placating. Stiles doesn’t care for it.

“You can keep your head in fucking Allison land all you want, Scott. Get your child bride, fuck off back to wherever it is you left Beacon Hills for. But don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do. If you want to keep her, you’ll do it far, far away from here,” and Stiles thinks maybe this is the moment Scott finally gets it. That he is not the same boy who left after high school graduation. Whatever soft spot Stiles had for Scott is gone, went away with time and therapy and the realization that Scott would never care for him the way Stiles did for him, that he was kept close for his usefulness until it ran out and he became disposable.

So yeah, Scott can keep Allison. Stiles will be happy for him, even. But if he dares interfere with his own plans, Stiles will put them both in the ground himself.

It’s not like it’d be the first time he’s done so.

[jasperthejester]

me: finally accepting theres a good chance im autistic and starting to work up the courage to ask my parents to see if i could get a diagnoses but being scared to

my mom: do you ever think you have adhd? if you want to do a screening for add next time your at the doctors you can

me:

[stuckinapril]

By God I am never consuming any celebrity product ever in my life. Never

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

More MDZS and Hollow Knight! The cool bugs I found in my backyard have started to unionize.

Part 1 - Part 3

[exlibrismortis]

okay but it is actually insane that Light was like 'I'll pretend to be L' and then proceeds to imitate him almost exactly. like. he's yotsuba-d he doesn't remember why he's so fixated on the mannerisms and speech of this guy he's chained to but he knows that he can copy him down to the way he forms a sentence, to the faux polite knife in the back threats. no wonder L immediately afterwards is like 'okay, Kira'. they know each other, even when Light has forgotten who he was. on an unrelated note everyone go listen to playing his game.