#they’re nice people but what is this?

[victoriademedici]

Was there a point where Catherine was ill? William’s numbers aren’t much better, am I missing something? What all are they asking the Waleses to do? They’re so young and the next Monarch and Consort so I don’t understand why it’s so low.

They’re not even doing a ton of engagements by video link and telephone which would sound like the simplest if they just don’t want to get out of the house much. You know what? at least receptions, lunches, dinners, and banquets don’t make up majority of their engagements. But I still don’t get why this was Catherine’s most expensive year—especially now that they’re doing earthshot.

[ultravioletness]

gay knights and dames collages part two

[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.

[knox-knocks]

I love making andrew and neil dangerous and violent in fics cause no matter what they would literally rather break their own hands than hurt each other

[stealingyourbones]

Short DPXDC Prompts #592

Harvey is mid bank heist when he hears “Harv? Is that you? It’s been so long!” From one of his hostages. Oh that voice was so incredibly familiar there’s no way-

Well he’ll be damned. Jack and Maddie Fenton, the couple he had a momentary fling with in college were pushing through the crowds and fully ignoring his goons pointing half a dozen guns at them as they made their way towards him.

———

Harvey couldn’t believe it. Jack and Maddie were still deeply in love and as crazy as ever, but they kept reaching out to him. They didn’t seem to mind him as the broken man that he is unlike another college friend. They treated him like a person. They didn’t expect his therapy and treatment to magically change him back to how he was, they just were happy that he was happy.

They mentioned once before that they messed up with how they treated their son but they realized their mistake and did their absolute damndest to make it up to their kids. They weren’t going to villainize their college ex. They were going to support him and be for him every step of the way.

[emry-stars-art]

Whumptober day 27: forgotten/locked away/immortal (full under the cut)

Find the royal au masterpost here

These poor puppies have no idea why someone’s huddled in their house; Abram might not find it so bad if he wasn’t too hungry and tired to keep them from playing too rough with him.

[worstloki]

People make truth potions soooo serious. Personally if a friend said ‘I like you’ or ‘I love you’ it would be considered something sweet since they cannot lie and didn’t say ‘I hate you’. Not a confession of romantic love that the world must now be staked on as it is acted out

[wakeupthemembersofbylernation]

Based on the way the story has been written, especially following season 4, I do believe mike is likely gay atp. But “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls” still makes sense as projection if Mike is bi because lots of closeted bi teens are confused about their feelings, especially in the 80s where terms like “bisexual” wouldn’t have been as readily accessible to kids from Hawkins, Indiana.

Simply the fact that Mike likes boys/Will could make him worried that he’s gay and cause him to hyperfixate on the concept of not liking girls more often, especially if his feelings for El were waning, or if his feelings for Will were overwhelming, even if he did in fact have a crush on El at the start of the show. Nothing says being a closeted bi teen like bouncing back and forth between “I can’t be gay, I like girls” and “Oh no, I like boys, am I gay?”

I think there’s a common misconception that the bi Mike view necessitates oversimplifying the story as “Mike used to be into El, and now he’s into Will.” That isn’t necessarily the case. A bi Mike reading can still involve internalized homophobia, projection, the heteronormative pressure to conform and date girls, repression, and most of the things we talk about here.

(I didn’t really wanna get involved in this, but I feel like this is important to add).

[mxtxfanatic]

People who unironically try to excuse Jiang Cheng’s behaviors as “just how youngest siblings are” don’t seem to realize that that’s exactly why most people don’t like youngest siblings, especially their own 🤣

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

really wish my one friend would quit flirting with me. and trying to goad me into hanging out more. and assigning us fictional characters that are oh-so-coincidently either couples or with romantic tension. and then interrupting our gameplay to ask me repeatedly if I think they’re “like us” (which they rarely are…). and matching my icon on discord without asking (again, usually by insinuating a couple connection). and giving me random things I do not want and did not ask to receive (and then forcing me to take them???).

[lowcallyfruity]

SEBEK AND EPEL SIT TOGETHER AT LUNCHHHHH

GREEN APPLE SEBEPEL WINNNNN WINNNNN

Yes Jack is there too but this isn’t about him

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

ive seen some people say the shameless fandom is friendly and a nice community but i feel like that only applies to like half of gallavich stans because the amount of death threats i have received over literally just saying that i like debbie gallagher/am not a huge fan of fiona gallagher…😭😭😭😭

[ladywaterfall]

I wish all the tiktok and Instagram «tutorials» that wildly cut on the beat and show what they do so fast you can’t follow because then you have to repeat watch multiple times which games the algorithm a very merry stop

[strawberrieswithmilkandsugar]

obsessed with thinking abt young leif and bertbert and the song problems by mother mother.

straight off the intro it’s “you and me we’re not the same/I am a sinner you are a saint” <- mostly from the perspective of leif, it just encapsulates the entire series imo. he meets bertbert. they’re the same. they’re not the same. he’s a sinner. he saved his planet (in the back of his mind he betrayed it - committing the ultimate sin in the eyes of humanity/himself; it doesn’t matter. he defines himself by it constantly.) she’s a saint. she comes from a planet that is literally a utopia. she’s trying to find purpose in the world and align the world to her good moral values and meets someone who’s as smart as her and understands her on a level she can’t find anywhere else (her primary friend for years; she’d never admit it). she hates him and loves him and they both know they have a part of themselves in each other.

“I’ve found love in the strangest place…I say I’m gonna stage a great escape” <- finds bertbert and verge; leif always escapes/leaves/says he’s going to leave but does he really(?)

“let loose a love all pent up and painfully out of place” <- leif esp in ep 8 with his father. always painfully out of place and nowhere to put his love for the world or his family that shunned who he was.

“doo doo doo, I’m a loser, a disgrace/You’re a beauty, a luminary, in my face” <- playful aspect of the song. I think leif plays that part of their dynamic off as a joke but knows it’s painfully true with bert bert. he is who he is but he might still internalize it. or at least from an audience perspective, there’s an idolization of what berts does and how much he admires her and her work esp from how she’s described as a character. she’s constantly working towards a beacon of truth and justice. she’s a beauty. she’s a luminary. she’s literally always in his face. he’s a loser, a disgrace.

“I’ve got a lot, not a lot, I gotta lot less than a lot/I’ve got problems” they both have problems. they both try to play off that they don’t. they both have a lot of problems.

ending it w the first verse but also saying the whole vibe of the song is very Them. chaotic alt rock and fun melodies harmonizing. also features loud yelling with sweet almost nostalgic melodies.

[asytherii]

“stars as you know them” — ghostsoap

731 words

WARNING: non-descriptive mentions of blood, and a bullet wound! dying??

“I’m Your Man” - Mitski

“Soap, do you copy?”

The sky is beautiful tonight. Can’t remember the last time he’d bothered to just look up, just to admire. Just to enjoy.

He didn’t know much about the stars, but he could find the dipper if he stared long enough. Easy enough to find the one that actually looks like a spoon.

He tries.

It’s getting harder to focus.

“Johnny, report!”

The voice in his ear is loud, and somewhere in the back of his head Soap knows he should respond. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to— but his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth, clumsy. The words just don’t want to form, mouth opening and closing around sounds and syllables that don’t actually make it past his lips. He feels like a fish on land.

Maybe it’s getting harder to breathe.

Tastes like copper, for sure.

He can feel his heartbeat like a drum.

Thump, Thump, Thump. Against his chest, again and again.

If someone were to find him, would they be able to hear it just as loud?

The world is strangely quiet now, and he thinks; finally, a break. His eyelids threaten to close, and he so badly wants to sleep. He deserves to sleep, after all this time. It isn’t so selfish, is it?

“Johnny— Johnny, you have— … talk to me … — are you?”

I want to. He says, but doesn’t really say at all. I want to, can’t you see I’m trying my best?

He can’t lift his hand to check, but he feels the warm sticky texture of blood between his fingertips. Coating his palm where it weakly holds against the wound in his stomach.

He can’t remember how it happened, now. Like it was so long ago, just a distant irrelevant memory to hold onto. Too much work now for his brain, for his body.

His fingers feel numb.

He gurgles out a strange, sort of laugh, at the thought. They don’t quite feel like anything, then, do they?

“Sorry.” Is all he manages to get out, tongue stumbling over the singular word. He isn’t quite sure if it came out at all. “M’sorr—“ the clumsy word is cut short by a sharp gasp, and a shaky exhale. “Sorry.”

He’s met with silence, which only further convinces him that the words he’s hearing coming out of his mouth aren’t really at all.

“Don’t apologize, don’t— don’t do that, Johnny.” Comes the harsh response.

Soap feels his lips form some sort of smile.

“You’re gonna be …” Soap doesn’t hear the next part, thinks maybe he’s missed it. Ghost starts again, “Fine. You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna find you, we are. We’re gonna find you, and get you help, and you’re gonna be fine.”

Sounds an awful lot like Ghost is trying to convince himself, rather than Soap.

He thinks he hears other voices, a back and forth conversation, it’s muted. Somewhere in the background. It takes him a moment to realize that they’re coming from Ghost’s end of the comm, not him. Not him. No one else is here but him.

He had never thought dying would feel so lonely. Always thought it would come to him fast, that he would be one of the lucky ones that didn’t see it coming before it struck.

Never thought it would be so slow.

“We have you now. We have you, Johnny. Now you’re gonna wait— you’re gonna keep your eyes open.”

Quietly, Soap thinks this might be the kindest voice Ghost has ever directed at him. Soothing. Thinks that maybe he can keep his eyes open after all, if that’s what’s wanted of him.

There are so many things he’s wanted to say.

Always thought he might have had a little more time to say them all, or maybe just some. Never thought he wouldn’t get the chance. What a silly thought to have, in their line of work. Soap should have known better than that.

“Gh—“ his voice cracks on a gasp once again.

“We’re so close, Johnny.”

I love you.

I love you, I love you.

You have to know that.

He should respond, he should. Sleep is creeping up on him, now. Too fast. The sky seems so full of stars now, there hadn’t been that many before.

He can’t find the dipper anymore.

Can’t remember if it was ever there at all.

“Johnny?”

He thinks it’s a nice way to go, hearing the sound of his name of Ghost’s tongue one last time.

The world finally falls quiet.