#this is who I am now

[ratboylucius]

[felsicveins]

im living for divorced jd

He is also living in spite of the governments ruling on his being alive

[sayurinn]

Got home from a party very drunk last night and somehow drew this 😭😭😭 I guess drunk drawings are sober headcanons so pls accept my Polnareff silly y2k earthtone fits :3 🤎⭐️

Also another version of pol’s shirt and divorce 😔💔 idk why I drew that😭😭😭😭 i think it’s from a Pinterest screenshot…

[dragonsbluee]

I see your gay uncles of the straw hats Jimbrook and raise you old, gay, heartbroken, pirate captians who find a loving, romantic relationship in each other as they watch over a group of chaotic youngsters.

Because Brook and Yorki had a heartbreaking goodbye, and Brook spent 50 years mourning, but now he has a second chance. He wasn't expecting anything, but then, lo and behold! A handsome, kind, capable fish man enters stage right, and Brook is smitten. Here is someone who understands the grief of losing a captian and partner, then having to take their place to hold the crew together, but ultimately watching thier crew fall apart or suffer due to factors outside their control.

For Jimbei the last few years have been a whirlwind of chaos. He was looking forward to a new adventure full of chaos of his own making and choices. Now, enter stage left, this fantastic, enigmatic, adorable skeleton (and he's a musician!), who is a wonderful presence on a ship full of younger pirates. Jimbei never really moved on from the loss of the Sun Pirates, and hasn't had time to mourn all the friends he's lost in the past few years. But now he finds companionship and comfort in Brook. Someone who doesn't expect him to move on, let's him reminisce, but keeps him from getting stuck in his mourning. He's never thought of romance seriously before, but now he finds himself wanting.

The two meet in the middle, center stage on a ship of dreams as they forge a new one together. They still keep and work towards their individual dreams but find pieces of each other in them. Brook looks forward to the day he can introduce Laboon to Jimbei, and Jimbei has promised to translate the whale's words for Brook. Jimbei will see freedom for his people and finds motivation in every new song Brook writes and story he tells. Together, they find peace, calm, and rest. They find excitement, companionship, and a harbour in the other after years of storms.

[storytellervan]

happy monday chapter 2 of my kipperbees fic out now!!

i’d still drink my fill of you if i had the chance

—

Kristen couldn’t hear the party going on outside if she tried. Couldn’t be less sure of anything in her life than the thing she’s thinking about doing.

“I wish I knew you before you were my competition,” Kristen blurts out. And it’s true, really. They could have been… well, maybe not friends, but allies. On the same side.

Kipperlilly shakes her head, and her are cheeks bright red but she doesn’t move, eyes as intense as ever.

“You wouldn’t have liked me then.”

//

It happens.

(sorry, did someone say something about doubt and conviction being married???)

[pippuns]

i feel like burgh is all the weirdest parts of bug enthusiasts and artists concentrated into a fatal mixture shaped like a gym leader

[paperclipninja]

I know the 'come up with something or...or I'll never talk to you again' line is Aziraphale spurring Crowley into action with a seemingly cute-ish threat but, it's also true? It's not just Aziraphale choosing not to speak to him, it's the fact that if Earth was destroyed, Aziraphale and Crowley would end up back in heaven/hell and have nowhere or no reason to meet and be around one another anymore.

[concreteteeth]

got drunk & started looking at Chaotic Nightclub Photos on twitter and here we are

[shadow-usagi]

This cover of a WhereWhen comic is now a thousand times better to me, and it was already an image I really really liked.

[wolfiemcwolferson]

I was doing my morning write and I turned on an old Top Songs playlist on Spotify and the first song was “Kiss You To Death” Alkaline Trio and I went...off script.

Yall enjoy the Piarles brain rot.

.

The distance between the tiny apartment Pierre keeps outside of Cannes and Charles equally tiny apartment that he keeps in Monaco is 57.8 km. OR 1 hour and 13 minutes on his motorbike. Pierre knows it - can drive it in his sleep - but it’s been months. Months since he packed a backpack with whatever he picked up for Charles from whatever part of the world he had been in while he was gone and got to him as fast as he could.

This apartment - the place he and Alex wrote their second album, the one that got them out of playing pubs and open mics and battle of the bands - used to be one of his favorite places and now it feels hollow. 

Which is ridiculous because he and Charles never spent time here. They spent all their time together in Monaco because it’s Monaco and Pierre was afforded more privacy than even here. 

And Pierre secretly loved it. He loved the quiet rhythm of Charles life. His cat that slept curled up on top of the upright piano that Charles had shoved into what was meant to be the dining room. The squabbles they had over who had to take out the trash. The way Charles always reached for Pierre’s body before he even opened his eyes in the morning, smile splitting his face in half because Pierre was in his bed and not in a hotel bed around the world.

Yeah, they spent a magical two years in a bubble of come and go. Of believing that they could have everything without compromise. Of spending late nights on the phone and early mornings with Pierre screaming down the A8 on his motorbike to meet Alex at his place so they could work on the fourth album while the label screamed down their necks about it.

Pierre had thought they had it all and he hadn’t even noticed the first crack. The one that he thinks came after Pierre swore he’d be at a birthday party for one of Charles’ friends and then he had bailed via text. The lyrics were flowing and Alex was excited and it just...

Charles had forgiven him, of course. Had laughed and called him an asshole musician with that smirk on his face that Pierre loved to wipe off with a filthy kiss. 

Pierre had sworn it would never happen again, and it hadn’t. Not in that specific way. But it had happened again. A missed dinner. A phone call he never made because he was a little too tipsy after a night of partying. 

Until Charles told him through watery lashes and hiccuping sobs that Pierre needed to go. That he needed space. 

And then Pierre had spent a month on their LatAm leg in hell. Singing lyrics he wrote about Charles’ eyes and Charles’ lips and the way Charles’ would stay up and wait for him to come home to him and....then he spent four months hiding in Alex’s flat in London, writing and writing and writing until Lando had locked his laptop and his mixing board in a closet. 

He had been forced to think about it after that. He had to think about how Charles had been so crushed and how Alex told him he wanted to renegotiate their next contract. Maybe go independent - not like they needed a label’s backing anymore - and make their own tour schedules. Alex wanted to spend more time in England. (More time with George.) And Lando agreed. He wanted to travel for leisure - take photographs of something other than a tour bus. 

Pierre had said no, immediately. Because he had nothing to go home too. He had said it out loud. He had nothing to go home too.

Lando had rolled his eyes and shoved him - a little too hard and Pierre had tumbled over the back of the couch. “Go the fuck back to him you, asshole.” Lando had spit at him. “Don’t you see we’re doing this for you too.”

Pierre had instead flown back to Cannes and then kicked around the apartment and thought. He thought about Charles and how much he loved him. How six months ago, if Alex had suggested it, Pierre would have agreed without hesitation. Yes, he would have said. Let’s tour less. 

How the single best feeling in the world was Charles smiling over at him from across the bed before he even opened his eyes because Pierre was there with him.

And now he stands, jiggling the keys to his motorbike in his hand, staring at it. One hour and thirteen minutes up the A8. 

If Charles doesn’t let him up...he’ll do something dramatic like sell the Cannes apartment and move to London and he’ll make a solo album or something in between band projects. 

It’s one hour and thirteen minutes and he thinks the whole time about what he’s even going to say to Charles if he does open the door to his apartment and let him in. 

For someone who writes for a living...it’s startlingly awful - as in he has nothing. Nothing but the tiny carved bird that he had picked up from a street vendor while in Brazil. It had blue eyes. Pierre had picked it up, thinking about the thing Charles had said to him once. You always fly home to me.

It had been a punishment, maybe. He had stopped flying home to Charles so it had lived in the bottom of his luggage, sat in the little box the artist had packed it away in. 

It’s in his backpack now.

The drive is a damp. Pierre hadn’t checked the weather before he left and he is careful to watch where he drives, realizing that no one knows where he’s at. Which...isn’t like him. He always tells people when he’s on his bike so they expect to hear from him. 

He misses Charles. That’s all he knows. He misses him. It’s been six months of hell and he only wants Charles. He wants him in his heart and his skull and his blood and his bones and he will make it happen somehow. He will make Charles understand that he’s the one he wants to always be flying home to.

The lights of Monaco can’t distract him from his goal. The way he maneuvers through the streets with ease, pulling up to the garage of Charles’ apartment building. He tries his code with shaking fingers, cold and stiff. Zero-one-zero-three. The party where they met - Charles with a friend of a friend that knew Lando somehow. 

Pierre taking one look at him and resolving to take him home with him that night only to end up taking him to breakfast the next morning.

The gate beeps open and Pierre feels like falling apart, but he keeps it together enough to drive into the garage and park in the parking spot he was still technically paying for - a ridiculous thing he couldn’t stop payment on because if he did, it meant he was really walking away from Charles and he -

Pierre takes his helmet up with him. holding it by the chin strap, bouncing it off his leg as he walks, nervous and afraid. 

Everything looks exactly the same.

The elevator ride was a mistake. Pierre realizes. He should have taken the stairs because it’s hard to breathe in this tiny box when he still doesn’t know what he’s going to say to Charles. 

Take me back.

I missed you.

Please let me in.

No, nothing is good enough. Nothing can really explain to Charles that Pierre made a mistake and that he fucked away the best thing he’s ever had and he doesn’t really care if Charles throws him out in the morning (lie, he absolutely does) he just needs to kiss him, look at him, touch him, affirm that he’s real.

The bird.

Pierre dangles the helmet from his arm know, looping his wrist through the strap and pulling his backpack around his body so he can pull it out. 

The box is smashed in on one edge, but the bird inside is unharmed - Pierre had checked.

There’s something on the side of it - black and crusty. He thinks it might be mascara, but he’s not sure. He tries to pick it off now. 

Suddenly painfully aware that he doesn’t look his best. Hair matted down from his helmet and bags underneath his eyes. Nothing to be done about that. So, he takes the tiny bird from the box, balancing it on his palm at eye level before closing his fist around it so he can put the box back in his bag. 

It’s got to be enough.

The elevator pings open and he steps out into the hall that used to mean home. Charles would already have his door open, leaning against it, waiting on Pierre. Always waiting on Pierre to fly home to him.

Charles is there now and Pierre nearly goes to his knees. The code. Of course, Charles got a ping about the code being used. 

He’s in soft sleep pants, hanging low on his hips and a tank top, but he doesn’t look exhausted. He looks wired.

“Pierre.”

His name forces Pierre to keep walking.

The closer he gets though, the more his heart breaks. Charles is staring at him with careful consideration. 

Pierre walks all the way to the door. He wants to kiss him. He’s so beautiful. He’s so incredibly beautiful and it’s all he wants - to kiss him. 

Leo appears, yowling and winding his way around Charles’ legs, staring up at Pierre and Charles moves him back inside with the side of his foot gently because Leo has a tendency to bolt and Pierre is thinking of the night they spent chasing him down the stairwell. 

But when Charles looks back up, his eyes snag on Pierre’s outstretched hand. Palm flat and open right under his nose.

He has no words, only this bird with stone blue eyes. Flying home to Charles once again.

Charles pulls back a bit to look at it properly and Pierre watches the understanding wash over him. The bird. Pierre standing in his hallway looking like shit. 

“Pierre,” he says again, but this time it’s softer and sweeter and not at all like he had said it when he asked Pierre to go. 

“Pierre.” again, wrapping his hand around Pierre’s wrist before plucking the bird from his hand and then kissing Pierre’s open palm.

“I -” Pierre starts, but then his voice cracks. “I want to come home.”

Charles tugs him inside, shutting the door decisively. “Good.”

Pierre unravels then, letting it all spill out and Charles presses him against the door and kisses the tears from his face.

.

Pierre sells the Cannes apartment, but only because they need to move into a place where they can have a proper music room - no more piano shoved into the dining room. 

A room where Charles can teach lessons and Pierre can write and they can fill up the shelves they have built with all the little treasures that Pierre brings back home - birds of all kinds. Birds of stone and clay and wood and birds with shining blue eyes and birds with beautiful red feathers that Pierre insists are Charles and eventually...birds with tiny baby birds. 

[c-e-d-dreamer]

I was going to drop in an elucien prompt but what is gargoyle cassian?

First of all, lovely Anon, I am so glad that you still sent in the Elucien prompt, so thank you for that 😌

Second of all, listen... Listen! You get paired with @separatist-apologist to be fandom-sanctioned besties, and the next you know you're being encouraged, egged on even, to give into that little voice in the back of your mind saying you should totally give monster-fucking fics a go...

And then it spirals into what if Cassian was a gargoyle and every time Nesta goes up to the roof of her building to vent and get away from it all, he's there watching and listening and one day he comes to life and absolutely rocks her world (pun intended because he's made of stone)

[stupid-2012tmnt-pics]

ITS NOT A PHASE MOM

[tordenvejr]

[widowedvestalis]

Talking with my best friend, I just called myself her "sugar mummy" 'cause mum's british and so is my english and I can't write "mommy", it never occurs to me

But now I'm figuring an actual mummy, giving all of its money to this sugar babe.

[starscreaming666]

My friend today out of completely fucking nowhere hit me with "you dress exactly like young Sheldon" and they will now no longer see the gaits of heaven

[justalurker-blog]

McDonalds has finally come up with a new item! Now introducing

For our wonderful spoopy month, we have turned tumblr’s silly dog entity into a drink! Come get it while supplies last!