hualian are so camp if you think about it. you have one utterly ripped cis man who nevertheless is so pretty he repeatedly passes as a women even without makeup. and who walks around the house roleplaying a sitcom 1950s housewife burning down the kitchen and making inedible food. and his wife, a 7 foot tall assless trans dude who is actually a demon/ghoul/ghost king with the vibe of a 17 year old highschool mean girl. “eyeliner so sharp you could kill a man” and all that. they were both virgins for 800 years. they were each others gay awakening, centuries apart. they moved in together the same day they met. elderly gay men who are lesbians, actually
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My (divorced) parents planning a party for the 30th anniversary of their wedding NOT being married just the wedding, inviting the same people, going to the same church having the same officiate….all for the bit 💀
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Dick Grayson chilling at Titans Tower: Fucking hell if I know, go check the table there might be some shit over there if some dumbass hasn’t eaten it all. Fucking dipshits
Dick Grayson being tortured for information by goons: Why don’t you mind your own beeswax, jello brain
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Lucasfilm: Literally every single romance or almost-romance we’ve ever written in the Star Wars universe has ended in tragedy.
Lucasfilm: Han/Leia? Split up after their son went off the deep end. They eventually died broken and alone.
Lucasfilm: Anidala? No match for Palpatine’s plotting, Anakin’s attachment issues, and Padmé’s Sadness.
Lucasfilm: Obitine? Jyn/Cassian? Reylo? Tragedy! Tragedy! Tragedy!
Lucasfilm: At least we gave you Kanera. Aren’t they just so sweet and devoted and —— oh, whoops! More tragedy!
Ezra: I’ve got a bad feeling about this.
Sabine, drawing her blasters: They can pry you from my cold, dead hands.
Ezra: Please don’t tempt them.
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More Sherliam thoughts/headcanons:
I present to you;
Sherlock Holmes who is averse to physical displays of affection/ fondness, who has spent his life avoiding the typical family hugs, elbow and back touches, shoulder bumps, even the playful shoving and back and forth of teenage boys. It gets on his nerves.
Then along comes Liam, and Sherlock is suddenly gripped with this need to touch, in any way shape or form — the urge to tease and shove and poke and throw an arm around shoulders or guide by the elbow or steady at the small of the back or shoulder barge playfully or grab a hand or or or —
And it’s so new and terrifying and exhilarating all at once and he cannot control the way it all spills over when they’re together in New York and he fucking knows Billy is watching him and smirking but bugger it.
Is this what normal people do? Is this the result of pointless but typical human urges?
Liam doesn’t seem to mind. Does he? Or does he? He’d push back if he did, wouldn’t he?
How the hell is Sherlock meant to know how all this works when he’s never given a rat’s ass about any of it before??
UGH.
And then, Liam:
The boy who was the rock from such a young age, who never received gestures of physical affection, only gave them when needed to his baby brother, but never asked or expected anything for himself, even at the nice orphanages, even from the kindest sisters.
Who avoided typical rough-housing child’s play because he had bigger things to worry about and plans to see through their end and adults to impress with his mind so that he could provide for Louis.
The touch starved man who now, suddenly, finds himself on the receiving end of frequent, fleeting body contact from his newfound friend and intellectual soul mate; who is absolutely acutely aware of each and every brush of an arm or tug on a sleeve or elbow to the ribs or arm around a back or forehead against a shoulder or toe to a shin beneath the kitchen table or or or —
And it’s so new and terrifying and exhilarating all at once and he cannot control the way he aches for every touch to come more frequently; for the contact to last longer; for the gesture to become more.
But he’s taught himself not to want and not to ask and not to be any trouble to anyone, because that’s how you get by in life and make acquaintances who feel like they need you, so he doesn’t voice any of this aloud. He just grins softly and accepts the gestures gracefully and contains the spontaneous combustion he feels inwardly, in case it might burn Sherlock or put him off continuing to be so physically present with him.
Billy, however, is neither touch-repellent nor touch-starved and can see through the both of them and if they don’t snap the goddamn tension soon he’s gonna snap it for them.
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