#this is so incredibly silly

[brahmsthirdracket]

jack, luke, their long-suffering father and a flying cow 🐮

Jim can only assume that the charter crew must spend the rest of their flight hours couriering coked-up musicians and weird, smelly tech bros around the country because they don’t bat an eyelid at the sight of his disheveled children.

They really do look ridiculous: Jack is sleepy and unshowered, with one arm immobilized in a sling and the other clutching an enormous cuddly brown cow that’s almost as big as he is; and Luke, who’d shown up in Colorado with a body fluid percentage of approximately sixty percent vodka sours, is shuffling along in two different shoes and his mother’s sunglasses.

In fairness to Luke, he’d been sent a ticket for a red-eye to Colorado at 10 p.m. the night before by his father. In fairness to the father in question, Luke’s twenty damn years old.

Luke had frowned when this had been imparted to him in the VIP lounge at Eagle County Regional Airport, the last few stars giving way to weak, early morning sun. Through the glass of the terminal they the dark mass of the mountains lighten into a brown scrub and patches of unmelted snow.

“Like,” he pauses, brow furrowed, and Jim can practically see the cogs turning slowly in his pickled little brain, like some kind of Smirnoff mill. “I’m twenty so I’m young enough to not be underage drinking, or I’m twenty so I’m old enough to be more resp- responsible?”

“Both!” Jim snarls, trying to lean around Jack and his cow, who are each taking up a seat.

The wind sweeps the grasses on the side of the runway in graceful arcs and rattles the chain link fence. Jack, who’s been subsisting almost exclusively on morphine and ice cream for the last few days, sways unsteadily on the first flimsy step.

“Give me the cow, honey,” Jim tells him from behind, already exasperated.

“No,” Jack grunts out, tightening his hold and hobbling up another step. He hasn’t let go since its surprise appearance at the hospital last night, accompanied by a truly obscene amount of Swiss chocolate. Jim perks up at the thought of the nougat, and he patiently shuffles up the steps behind his son, one step at a time and a palm resting securely on his back the whole way.

Just ahead of them, Luke manages to trip on the top step and is saved from concussing himself on the drinks cart by the ample chest of one of the stewardesses.

“I’m an elite athlete,” he tells her solemnly and walks straight into an overhead locker.

Jim breathes in for four, holds for four and out for four, just like he tells his players. Of course it doesn’t really work and he snaps his eyes open just in time to yank Luke by the scruff of his neck in the direction of a seat before anyone has to call a lawyer.

As requested, the cabin crew have reclined two of the leather chairs that face each other and made them up with sheets, pillows and soft, cream-coloured blankets. After a lifetime of cramped sleeper buses and cheap red-eyes, Jim doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to traveling like this.

Jack - who definitely has got used to traveling like this - toes off his sneakers carelessly and collapses down onto the bed, or as much as he can without putting any weight on one side of his body. The ridiculous cow takes up half the seat but at least it supports Jack’s back so they can wrangle him comfortably on his right side.

“Where did the damn thing come from anyway?” Jim asks again, to no-one in particular as the wheels clunk up into the belly of the plane.

Ellen just gives him her patent did-I-really-marry-someone-this-dense look and goes back to typing up a meds schedule for Luke to follow.

“It’s an alpine cow,” Luke says, completely nonsensically, and snickers.

Jim points a finger at him. “You’re lucky the seat belt sign is on buddy.”

He rummages until he finds the chocolate - Jack won’t mind, he can’t have it anyway because of his diet plan - probably. Luke eyes him hopefully from across the aisle but: “He’ll have a double espresso,” Jim tells the hostess.

Jim settles himself into his comfortable leather seat, breaks into a dark milk nougat and calls the only one of his children who could legally operate heavy machinery right now. Quinn’s rumpled and sleepy face appears after a couple of rings and Jim feels immediately calmer.

“Good game, kiddo,” he says, without preamble.

“Yeah, uh thanks,” says Quinn, shuffling around in the frame.

Jim flips the camera - without having to turn the whole phone around, thank you very much - so Quinn gets a view of Jack cuddled up with his ridiculous cow.

Quinn squints into the camera. “Oh, nice. It actually made it in time.”

“So you sent it?”

“What? No, obviously it was-”

But who it was Jim never gets to hear, because Luke starts suddenly making insistent mooing noises across the aisle. Jim covers the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand.

“Hit him for me, honey,” he calls to Ellen, who just gives Luke a gentle cuff around the back of the head without looking up from her iPad, then runs her fingers through his curls.

One of Jack’s feet is sticking out from under the blankets, still in the bright blue hospital-issue socks with the little no-slip stickers. Even fast asleep, and clearly exhausted, he’s clutching the cow. Oh well. At least he and Quinn have a whole damn house now to store all of their weird crap.

“Dad?”

“Sorry, bud - where were we?” Jim curls a hand around Jack’s foot and squeezes gently as he and Quinn get into the nitty-gritty. The crew will have seen worse than a flying cow. Probably.

[stargirl230]

you’re my hero!

bnha doomed yuri was not on my 2024 bingo card

(no reposts; reblogs appreciated)

[atinymexicanbird]

Chapter 37 of Ruination of Lucifer by @syaunei had me hollering with these two.

[Click for better quality]

[xxplastic-cubexx]

something about first impressions idk

bonus:

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

The indescribable tension between an overworked and underpaid smut writer, and his biggest fan hater.

(for @frummpets)

[cicerobussytransplant]

asoiaf fandom still stuck in the discourse tarry pits of talking about dragons as if they are nukes, utterly ignoring the wartimes implications of robb stark using his land assault vehicle, otherwise known as direwolf. and i think that says something about society

[rowrowronnie]

this movie has literally been on my mind 24/7

[teacupsandcyanide]

Something I miss from earlier eras of the creative side of the internet was things just being unabashedly low-budget. Just all unashamedly amateur, unprofessional, ‘I don’t own a good camera but I have a story to tell you’, ‘I can’t afford a good mic but I have a song to sing for you,’ ‘I don’t have any kind of background in editing or lighting and I only just picked up this guitar last Tuesday but here’s an entire musical me and my friends wrote about our favourite book, we filmed it on a potato and put it up on YouTube in ten minute segments because we thought it was pretty funny.’

[hotvintagepoll]

this is a poll for a movie that doesn't exist.

It is vintage times. The powers that be have decided to again remake the classic vampire novella Dracula for the screen. in an amazing show of inter-studio solidarity, Hollywood’s most elite hotties are up for the starring roles. the producers know whoever they cast will greatly impact the genre, quality, and tone of the finished film, so they are turning to their wisest voices for guidance.

you are the new casting director for this star-studded epic. choose your players wisely.

(no contestants slated for Round 6 of the Hot & Vintage Women Tournament have been included to avoid tipping the vote.)

Previously cast:

Jonathan Harker—Jimmy Stewart

The Old Woman—Martita Hunt

Count Dracula—Gloria Holden

[royalarchivist]

Luzu: Yeah, you know, I told people that I would happily make some dictionaries so that you guys have expressions to use, like you can have a book in your inventory that you open to have like basic Spanish stuff, I'm gonna mess his one, like his -

Phil: Oh yes, please.

Luzu: - book up, and I'm gonna make all like, have no meaning.

Phil: Please give him like, a - a silly book, a - give him a silly one.

Luzu: Yeah. How do I pronounce his name, Wilbur, or Wilb? Or Wil?

Phil: You got it right the first time! Yup, it's Wilbur.

Luzu: Oh yeah? Alright.

Phil: Yup yup! Or just Wil. Either - either works.

Luzu: I wanna have to find a way to, yeah, have a cold revenge. Like, he - he may be laughing today, and, "heehee, haha!" we did like this small joke, and in 20 days I'm gonna destroy everything that he loves in this server.

[lil-lemon-snails]

He just thinks you're neat :) ✨

[itsdefinitely]

Hello!

If your still taking requests would you be able to draw the crackship beetseen Tinky x Ted?

(it’s in a silly goofy way I swear)

Anyway yeah. Love your art and have a good day!

(PS: you draw a lot be make sure to look after yourself this-is hypocritical coming from me but it’s whatever’s)

romcom when

[piratespencilart]

The radio shack is my favourite part of the game tbh.

[personthattoleratesme]

just rediscovered this video and was reminded how incredibly flirty and homosexual it is

[i-made-a-bg3-blog]

Look, it’s not like Astarion intended on becoming a Harper, it’s just - well, burglary and pickpocketing are a little more difficult when you can’t enter homes without an invitation or go outside during the day, and he’s grown rather accustomed to a certain elevated lifestyle. There are other places he could turn to for money: the city owes him an estate and a title at the bare minimum. But, there’s something to be said for self-sufficiency, and, though he hates to admit it, he wouldn’t make it through three weeks as a noble without being bored out of his mind.

The Harpers need warm bodies (or cold ones, as it were) to rebuild their ranks after Orin’s doppelgangers, and Jaheira’s a savvy old crone who never learned to take no for an answer. She pinpoints Astarion’s two weak spots: a heavy coinpurse and kidnapped children, street kids, the kind no one would miss.

They’re decidedly amateurish criminals, and it doesn’t take him long to track them down and dispatch them, messily and painfully. Four children sit huddled in a cage, and Astarion knows he must look every bit the monster as he picks the lock with hands covered in gore, but they don’t shy away in fear when he opens the door. One of them slips his chubby little hand into Astarion’s and refuses to let go until they reach the safehouse. It’s…odd.

“Good work, Harper,” Jaheira tells him after, and Astarion makes it explicitly clear that he’s simply an independent contractor, an expensive one. 

Jaheira just smirks like the witch she is.

So he contracts. He infiltrates the Guild (and feels insulted when Nine Fingers doesn’t recognize him; he’d like to think he’s rather unforgettable), foils an assassination plot or three, even teams up with Minsc and a turncoat Thayan to stop a gaggle of Red Wizards from doing…whatever it is they do. It’s a good business, he supposes. A hero’s reputation is a small price to pay for a hero’s coffers.

Jaheira’s wise enough to know when to hang up her blades, and it makes her more of an insufferable busybody than ever, which - somehow - becomes Astarion’s problem. First, it’s his own cell, then suddenly he’s the field contact for four others. He’s dragged to the most dreadfully tedious logistical meetings imaginable. The only reason he agrees to any of it is that Jaheira can turn an offhand comment and a raised eyebrow into the kind of challenge that itches beneath Astarion’s skin. It should be all too familiar and just as unwelcome, that burning need to prove himself, but it’s not. It’s different, perhaps, when he isn’t being set up to fail.

Jaheira passes away peacefully in her sleep at the ripe old age of one hundred and ninety-two, and Astarion’s convinced he can hear her grumbling about that all the way from the Fugue Plane. She would have rather gone out fighting, but, privately, Astarion feels like she deserved something gentler than bleeding out on a battlefield. He never did tell her how much he admired her (though he doubts she would have appreciated such open sentiment: ‘I did not realize I looked so terrible that you’ve already started my eulogy.’), but she must have known. He thinks he’s really going to miss her.

Right up until the moment Rion is handing him a pin and leading him to a library full of dossiers and documents. Then, he’s ready to cross the Astral Sea just so that he can bring her back and kill her again. Independent. Contractor. What part of that did she not understand? 

He goes home and locks the door with the full intention of ignoring every Harper that comes knocking. But Harpers are nosy little shits, and after he nearly disembowels one who surprises him by breaking into his house just to tell him the most idiotic plan to dismantle a smuggling ring he’s ever had the misfortune of hearing, he realizes hiding isn’t going to be an option. Besides, Astarion cannot be privy to such levels of incompetence and sit idly by. 

So he helps. Provisionally. Just long enough to find a decent replacement, and then he can wash his hands of the whole thing.

Unfortunately, it’s not as easy a task as he had hoped. Every potential candidate lacks something: consistency, creativity, confidence, the common sense to understand Astarion’s eminently logical filing system. It takes him three decades to accept that not only is he excellent at the job, but that he enjoys it immensely. 

When they make him take a title, he chooses Spymaster. It suits him - dashing, mysterious, questionably moral, because he’s never been a hero, and it would be foolish to pretend that he is.

They all call him High Harper anyways.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

With the end of season two comes a second redraw!

[Nov 2022] [June 2023] [June 2024]