#they are all enjoying themselves

[manyrepulsivethoughts]

that one post comparing ruin's and LN2 endings altered my brain chemistry so now have this

[yudol-skorbi]

i was listening to Metal Guru by T Rex and its kinda happened

[diver5ion]

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 239

Y'know what I think would be hilarious for a DP and PJO crossover? Percy & co finally getting to Kronos, straight up ready for anything after they pass through magic and portal of green and-

There's the smell of cookies. Freshly baked cookies, a warm oven, something about it reminding them of home in this strange place of floating gears and ticking clocks.

And there's a long, serpentine tail twisting through the gears, twisting up and down and across in a size that could hides yet reveals just how large this entity is. There's power soaking into every inch of this place, every centimeter nearly sending lightning up their legs with each step.

The ticking is getting stronger, a distant gonging of the hour echoing through a place that should feel cold and empty like the ringing of bells in the end of times.

And suddenly there's a kid- a teen like them, human yet not- with a cookie half in their mouth and hair flickering like the cosmos as they peer down from above them with a frown, eyes brighter than the sun yet darker than the moon.

"Oh great, what did my half-siblings do this Time?"

[missingexaltation]

A few years after Vecna, Steve gets invited back to the high school to play in a charity basketball match with (and against) other Hawkins basketball alumni. It's for charity, and he misses the rush of playing (and he kinda wants to see if he's still any good), so he agrees.

He asks Eddie if he'll be there, but although Eddie's somewhat enthusiastic to Steve's face, he whines about it for days to Wayne. He fucking hates sports, why did he have to fall for a fucking jock, of all things. UUUGH! Wayne puts up with it for a while before realising that Eddie's not going to talk himself around, and gives him a blunt, verbal kick in the ass.

"You think your boy enjoys watching your dungeon and dragons shtick, son?" He asks, sipping at his beer.

Eddie's offended, immediately.

"He's never missed a session, course he loves it." he says. "And i know he pays attention because we talk about it afterwards and he's always..."

"And how's that make you feel?" Wayne interrupts.

"Fucking amazing." Eddie grumbles, knowing what's coming, and hating it.

"...and how do you talk about his hobbies?"

Eddie sighs and covers his face. Wayne carries on, knowing he's made his point but hammering it home nonetheless.

"Your boy loves his sports, he's always here just in time to watch the games with me nowadays. And don't think I haven't noticed how bored you are when it's on. I reckon he's noticed too."

Eddie's silent, starting at the ceiling with a dramatic, melancholy pout.

"Ah shit." He sighs. "I'm a bad boyfriend, aren't I?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But learn from it if you want to be better." Wayne shrugs. "He makes you happy by indulging in your hobbies, maybe you should think about doing the same. Guarantee it'll put a smile on your boy's face, if nothing else."

So next time Steve brings it up, (tentatively, like he knows Eddie will complain) Eddie is much more genuinely enthusiastic. Steve's surprised for a split second (and doesn't that hurt), before he's beaming and looking absolutely delighted. And shit, yeah ok. It does make Eddie feel good to see Steve happy. Course it does.

The game rolls around, and hell yeah, it's boring to watch. Eddie's been reading up on the rules, so he's not entirely confused, but it just seems so pointless. Steve's good though. From what he's seen (and he's totally not biased, thanks) Steve's running rings around the other team, and Eddie's so fucking proud! It helps that Steve's in those shorts, showing off damn near the full length of his legs.

More importantly, he looks so fucking happy while he's playing. He keeps shooting Eddie these big, beaming smiles when they've scored a hoop, or point, or whatever they're called, and Eddie finds himself melting where he sits, face aching from smiling so much in return.

By the end of the game Eddie's fully invested. Sure, he barely understands what's going on, but even he knows enough that getting the ball in the hoop is a good thing, and Steve does it loads. Their team wins, and there's a huge group hug, pats on the back and other sporty, manly things before they all part ways and start making their way out to the parking lot.

Eddie stays put. He knows Steve will come right to him, and he does. They walk back to Steve's car together, and Steve's on some sort of winner's high; all smiles and cocky strutting. It's kinda hot. Screw that, it's totally hot, and suddenly Eddie's glad that Wayne's working tonight and they've got the place to themselves.

"Surprised you lasted the whole game, Eds." Steve says, teasingly, before he just downs a water bottle. "Thought you'd have died of boredom halfway though."

"Pssh." Eddie waves him off, trying not to feel embarrassed. "You know, Stevie, you're pretty amazing at that." He waves his hand vaguely back towards the court. "That shot you made from almost the centre? Chills, baby, full on chills."

Steve doesn't even bother checking to see if anyone's watching. He slams Eddie against the side of his car and kisses him, cradling Eddie's face with his hands, as though he'd die if he didn't have full body contact.

And Eddie knows the feeling. Like when Steve had recounted a particularly awesome moment from his campaign, and all Eddie had wanted to do was drag him right to the bedroom.

Steve pulls away.

"Get in." He said, opening the car door for Eddie like the gentleman he is.

And fuck, if this is the reaction he gets for paying attention, then he's definitely doing it more. If he's honest with himself, he should have been doing it from day one, but yeah sometimes he's a bit dense and needs a push in the right direction.

So basketball's boring as shit usually, but when Steve's playing? Hell yeah. He'll even put up with listening about it (and even football), if it puts that smile on Stevie's face. That's the price for dating a jock, he guesses, but it's miniscule, and it's fucking worth it.

[snurtle]

I've been thinking about the templars lately. they were promised honor, virtue, told that they would be charged with protection of the innocent... And then those same people are systemically exploited and abused, abuse others because they're taught to regard everyone else as either sheep who need to be lead or potential threats. Never equals, except in their brothers/sisters-in-arms. They act as the guard-dogs and military arm of an entirely different organization that they're only a functionary member of but have no governing say in. Even the chantry aren't their equals- they function as the templar order's supervisors! And all this isolation and closing of ranks ends in disability, addiction, death, and abandonment by the system they spent their bodies in service of.

To top that off, retaliations against them just confirm the paranoia they were taught to embrace. It's probably a long hard road to get out of that hole.

Like, listen. the dichotomy of mage vs templars is a satisfying and easy one, but the system is tearing them apart too. have you ever heard of a retired templar?

at the end of it, mages and templars need to unite against the real threat. the chantry.

[amethysttribble]

Father had personally asked Feanor to stand for this portrait, so he was. Father had quietly suggested that perhaps this could be a painless exercise, which did not actually mean ‘painless’ but rather ‘silent’ for Feanor, but he agreed. Father told him this painting did not symbolize anything but his own desire to have a record of all his available loved ones around him, and Feanor was trying to see it that way- for the sake of his own sanity.

Because his stomach was roiling, and there was a heaviness in his chest, a great emptiness which his heart was pounding against, echoing, echoing, echoing.

Father had one hand on Feanor’s shoulder and the other was upon Indis’s. She was sat in front of them, smiling beautifully, little golden-haired Arafinwe in her lap. Around them, her three dark-haired children were gathered. Findis on Father’s other side, Nolofinwe with her, and Lalwen in front of Feanor.

To the unaware eye, Feanor knew, they must all look like they matched. Like they went together correctly. Like a family.

When the portrait was complete and those dark haired children were gathered around the mother and father, who would guess that one child was out of place? Who might glance at all that paint representing their faces and think anything but-

You could almost be her son, Feanor thought, and then his mind replied, But you’re not.

He was so still and he dared not move, because if he did, he’d never get back in place. If Feanor flinched once, the sharp, jagged pieces of him that never fit right in this puzzle would scratch one of them. They’d be annoyed and that would be it: he’d combust in anger, he’d shatter across the floor, snapping and snarling at everyone unnecessarily until he ruined their perfect little scene. Father said this might be a painless exercise. No, no; this was to be a silent, still exercise.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

How good a painter was this person Father hired? How varied his faces? Would he capture that Feanor’s nose resembled that of none of the people here? Could he represent that his frame was already different from his father and little half-brother’s?

Would he lie and throw a pleased smile on Feanor’s face? Not even Father had asked him to smile.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s presence made them fit together so symmetrically, maybe that was pleasing enough to hide the wrongness of this scene. Maybe that’s why Father made him come here today, the pretty scene. Why he asked him to suffer, even as the longer he stood here, the more and more Feanor felt like he was about to be sick all over the floor.

A ghost, a ghost, there was a ghost looming over their shoulders ruining this perfectly symmetrical scene. Couldn’t they feel her breathing down their necks, icy chill against sweat? Didn’t their perfectly posed heads feel her long, clever fingers wrapped lovingly around their necks?

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

Feanor’s gaze slipped down to the back of Indis’s head. Her beautiful golden hair. She didn’t wear a crown, this was a family portrait, and that felt worse. So much worse.

If he let his eyes unfocus and his mind wander, he could try to lie to himself that her hair was much lighter and the faces of the children around them more closely resembled his own. The woman in front of him loved him, and she fussed over his hair before they sat for this portrait, and he’d let her do it.

The worst part was Feanor did know that Indis would help him with the ties of his robes, if only he let her.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

She’s not, she’s not, she’s not. It was a simple statement of fact. It was scandal enough that the father replaced the wife, when one at least chose a wife, but what freak replaced his own mother?

What would the people who saw this portrait think? Would they see Finwe’s happy family or would they see Feanor’s blaring, uncomfortable intrusion upon what gods and men declared to be a better order of things? Father wanted him to belong here, but he didn’t.

He just didn’t.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

A painless exercise. Painless, painless, painless, for them. Silent, still Feanor, a happy accessory to the triumphant union of Finwe and Indis, a grateful stray dog permitted to drink from the bowls provided by Indis’s family.

This exercise was just meant to capture the image of all Finwe loved, nothing more. Don’t think too hard about it, Feanor. You might make the children unhappy.

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

You should pretend you are, though. That’ll make them like you.

Because they did so disdain him, most of the time. They disliked how he glared at their mother and started fights at family dinners and ignored them in the hallways. Why shouldn’t they? Feanor would hate a person who did those things to his family, too.

He just couldn’t stop, though. He wanted to, sometimes, when the exhaustion and loneliness caught up, and then he remembered that he wasn’t Indis’s son and never would be, and remembering that made him angry. Wouldn’t it just be so damn convenient for them all if he was almost her son?

But he wasn’t.

He was Miriel’s son. That was her name. He had no portrait with her. He loved her.

He loved Miriel, but it was Indis he posed with and-

When the session was done, Feanor jerked away from his father and shoved his way past Lalwen. As he went, Indis looked up at him, caught his eye, and he couldn’t help the sneer that crossed his face.

He hoped that was painless enough for her.

When he returned to his chamber, he went to the wash room and heaved in the pot there. The gagging and retching made wetness prick his eyes, and the sudden tightness of throat made him choke all the harder. The sickness and heaving stayed long past when there was anything in his stomach to lose.

No one came. Feanor hoped maybe Father would, but really, why would he? Feanor had been mostly good, just a little rudeness wasn’t worth either reprimand or comfort.

No, they were together. Maybe admiring their portrait, happy and pleased, or complaining about his behavior again. Really, why couldnt that Curufinwe just accept nice things?

I need to get out of here, Feanor thought, face and body wet with both sweat and tears. I need to leave this place.

He was a good son, and he could do anything else his father wanted but betray his mother any more.

Feanor couldn’t pose as Indis’s son even a second longer. He would destroy himself, if he had to think one more time-

You could almost be her son. But you’re not.

[rottengurlz]

"In the crooks of your body, I find my religion."

[balleater]

preemptively saying that i think before any take ever gets made about thinking that dramatic moments in game reflect the cast's real relationships with each other, there needs to be a mandatory viewing of the Hell that was the last few episodes that orion was on.

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

What can I say? They're my favorite.

[spicyet]

What are you looking for here? Scroll back up.

Just kidding, here’s a treat:

[crimson-nail]

i have been cooking an over-complicated roleswap au for. a VERY long time

[mendingbone]

River & Loey & Adam— ʟᴜᴄʏ ᴅᴀᴄᴜs,ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ sᴛᴀᴛᴇ...//sᴜsᴀɴ ʜᴏᴡᴇ, sɪɴɢᴜʟᴀʀɪᴛɪᴇs//ғʀᴀɴᴢ ᴋᴀғᴋᴀ, ʟᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪʟᴇɴᴀ//ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʀɪᴀssɪᴄ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇ//ᴇᴛʜᴇʟ ᴄᴀɪɴ, ᴛᴡᴏ ᴄʜɪʟᴅʀᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴛᴇʟ ʙᴇᴅ//ɪsᴀᴀᴄ ᴍᴀʀɪᴏɴ, ᴡᴀʀᴍ ʙᴏᴅɪᴇs//ᴍᴀʙᴇʟ, ᴇᴘɪsᴏᴅᴇ 𝟸𝟾: ᴍᴀᴛʀʏᴏsʜᴋᴀ//ᴇʀɪɴ sʟᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴛʜɪs sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ʏᴏᴜ ʀᴇᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ.

[gideonisms]

I become 300% more of both a lover and a hater when I'm on my period. just a time of the month when I have strong opinions I would say

[mavrixen]

i feel like twitter has given artists this strange complex where they don't feel they're allowed to enjoy what they do, regardless of anything

so here's your reminder you're allowed to enjoy art. you're allowed to enjoy your art even if it's shitty as fuck, even if it's a brush test, even if it's something you've never done before

you're allowed to enjoy your art even if it "flops" because who the fuck cares, you shared it with at least one person. it is tangible. you made something that didn't exist before. now it does because of you

you're allowed to be happy with your art. you're allowed to enjoy it. that's the point

[wibblyowzah]

i’m reading the legends of river song book and this is just official fanfiction i’m living