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We looked inside some of the posts by sehnsuchts-trunken and here's what we found interesting.
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Number of Posts By Type
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on watching a parent age
i saw somebody say “what if you’re gone and i haven’t become anything yet” and basically that broke me on a random thursday evening
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I will not apologize for the person I'll become when Date Everything comes out
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I may be aroace but that doesn't mean I'm not hyped for a game where you can date your fucking laundry basket
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me blindly running after volt be like
I just have a feeling this is gonna torment me
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I'm finding myself becoming slowly fascinated by the upcoming dating simulator Date Everything.
Like, it's a dating sim where your character is given a pair of glass that lets you date personifications of the objects in your home.
Except not really? Each chair isn't their own character, they're all Chairemi, who represents all the different chairs in the house. Or Dorian represents all the different doors, Sinclair is both the bathroom and kitchen sinks...
It's less like they're the actual object, and more the concept of that object, you get me? Like a Greek God. Poseidon is the God of The Sea, understood to have physical form, but also is The Sea.
Like Fantina the fan hands you a pen, an action an oscillating fan cannot do but her human form can; and then asks you to sign one of her blades. Jean Loo Pissoir is mentioned as "replacing" the toilet when he is spoken to.
And they all have lives outside of being the objects, beyond what the player sees. The coathangers are engaged in extreme sports, have a sponsor, and have apparently suffered injuries in the past. The office desk has a crush on the coffee table. The ceiling is referred to as the Mayor, presumably of The House. So clearly they can move around without physically moving their object.
But at the same time, a few of the trailers show the physical objects moving under their own power.
I am way to interested in the metaphysics of the game about the "furniture fuck glasses", as one character puts it.
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i literally dgaf (tears in my eyes, gripping the counter so hard it cracks, checking the steam page every five minutes)
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i cannot WAIT for this game!!!!!
I hope Skylar becomes the player’s wingman throughout the game.
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i love how you can’t find a lucius malfoy x reader fic without it being the filthiest smut you’ve ever read and honestly mans doesn’t deserve any less
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It doesn’t get much better than a rewatch of The Gentlemen.
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I mf ADORE The Gentlemen (2019) it just covers all the bases for me
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raymond smith from the gentlemen (2019)
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okay GIRL. LADY. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD. I say this with all the love I hold.
HOW DARE YOU. HOW DAAAAARE YOU GET ME IN MY FEELS LIKE THIS!
I cant even. your writing is just gorgeous. perfect. chefs kiss. I am on my knees worshipping no joke
Send Minho
Summary: The Glade boys keep getting rejected by you—leader of the ultra-organized girls’ camp—until they send Minho, who surprisingly wins you over, leaving everyone stunned and teasing him relentlessly as he becomes their unofficial envoy.
Minho x leader!reader
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There were rules in the Glade—unwritten ones, sure, but no less important than not going into the Maze after dark or respecting the Keepers. And one of the most ironclad rules, known to every boy after only a week of being here, was this:
Don’t mess with the girls’ camp.
They were organized, terrifyingly competent, and built like a well-oiled machine. Their gardens bloomed. Their cookfires never smoked. They kept order like some kind of military unit—and leading them was her.
You.
You weren’t cruel, but you weren’t friendly either. You had rules. You enforced them. You did not deal with whining, excuses, or disorganized shuckfaces who thought charm could get them out of a favor.
Which is why, when the boys ran low on clean bandages, Alby gathered a small delegation and declared, “We’re going to ask the girls.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Newt groaned, rubbing his temple. “Bloody hell, not this again.”
“They’re the only ones who sew,” Alby insisted. “And we need bandages.”
“They’re not gonna give you anything,” Gally muttered from his perch on a crate. “Last time you went, she told you to eat grass.”
Alby scowled. “That was a joke.”
“She didn’t smile when she said it, man.”
“I say we send Winston,” Zart chimed in.
“Why me?” Winston blinked. “I still got a black eye from the last time.”
Newt, always the peacekeeper, raised his hands. “Look, let’s not be dramatic. Just go, ask nicely. No dumb jokes. No flirting. Just respect.”
They all looked at Alby.
He stood taller. “I’ll try again. Properly.”
Attempt #1: Alby.
Rejected in 34 seconds.
He came back with his pride in pieces.
“What happened?” Frypan asked, eyes wide.
“She looked me dead in the eyes,” Alby muttered, “and said: ‘Being in charge doesn’t mean you get what you want. It means you do what’s right. Learn that.’ Then she handed me a stick and told me to whittle my own damn bandages.”
Gally burst out laughing. “She gave you homework.”
Alby scowled. “She’s scary.”
Attempt #2: Gally.
Rejected in 18 seconds.
He returned in a rage.
“Didn’t even let me speak!” he shouted. “I walked up, and she turned around, crossed her arms, and said, ‘No.’ No. Just that. Didn’t ask what I wanted. Didn’t care.”
“She read your soul,” Newt muttered.
“She judged my aura!”
Attempt #3: Newt.
Rejected politely, but firmly, in 53 seconds.
“She smiled at me,” he admitted, sitting down beside Alby. “But not like… friendly. More like I was a kid holding a toy sword.”
Frypan leaned in. “So she called you cute and weak?”
“She asked if I was lost.”
Alby snorted. “We’re gonna die without bandages.”
Minho, quiet until now, finally looked up from where he was sharpening a knife. “You guys are hopeless.”
They all turned to him.
“No way,” Winston said. “You wouldn’t.”
Minho smirked. “You’ve all gone in like beggars. You need tact.”
Newt leaned forward. “You think she’ll listen to you?”
“I think,” Minho said, standing, “you’ve been sending the wrong people.”
Attempt #4: Minho.
From a safe distance, the boys watched as he crossed the Glade. You were kneeling in the garden, sleeves rolled up, tending to something in the soil.
Minho crouched beside you, said something they couldn’t hear.
You looked up. Expression unreadable. The boys held their breath.
And then—
You nodded.
Minho smiled.
You stood, dusted off your hands, and walked into the supply tent. A minute later, you came back and handed him a neat stack of rolled white fabric—bandages. Real ones. Clean ones. Better than anything they had.
Minho waved once, cool and easy, and walked back like he hadn’t just done the impossible.
The boys lost it.
“No way!”
“She said yes?!”
“Did she touch your hand?”
“What did you say to her?!”
Minho grinned as he dropped the bandages onto the crate. “I asked nicely.”
Alby stared at him like he’d grown wings. “No. You did something. Witchcraft.”
Minho shrugged, casually stretching. “Maybe she likes me.”
They all froze.
Newt blinked. “Wait. What?”
Gally leaned in. “Hold up. You think she likes you?”
Minho’s smug smile didn’t falter. “Did she give you bandages?”
And just like that, a new Glade protocol was born.
From that day forward, there was one rule for requesting help from the girls:
Send Minho.
Burned rations? Minho asked for vegetables.
Broken tools? Minho fetched replacements.
They even made him a clipboard once as a joke. He used it seriously for two days. You didn't laugh—you helped him inventory.
The boys watched in stunned amazement every time.
“She gave him salt,” Frypan whispered once, horrified. “I’ve been cooking without flavor for months.”
“I think she gave him sugar last week,” Winston murmured. “She’s never even said my name.”
They held secret meetings about it, like confused scientists studying a phenomenon.
“She acts totally different when he’s around,” Newt said one night by the fire. “Like, not mean. Still scary, yeah, but like… warm scary.”
“She smirks at him,” Gally added.
“She laughs at his jokes,” Alby muttered. “She told me I was wasting oxygen.”
Minho just sipped water from a clean canteen—you’d probably given him that too—and said, “What can I say? I’m charming.”
The final confirmation came two weeks later.
The boys needed fabric again—this time for blankets. But Minho was injured, twisted ankle from a Maze run. He was benched.
“We have to ask without him,” Winston said grimly.
They drew straws.
Newt lost.
He walked over slowly, holding the request list like a bomb. You were seated at the table in your camp, writing in a notebook. Elara — your second in command — sat beside you, watching with an amused smirk.
You didn’t even look up when Newt approached.
“Minho’s hurt,” he began. “So I came to—”
“No.”
He blinked. “I haven’t even asked—”
“No.”
“…Right.”
He walked back like a defeated soldier.
The boys stared.
“I told you,” Gally said, pointing. “She doesn’t even listen to us.”
“She’s got a forcefield,” Alby muttered. “Only Minho gets through.”
They all turned to him.
Minho, icing his ankle, just raised his brows. “So what I’m hearing is… you need me again.”
It became routine.
You never smiled at Gally. Never gave Alby more than two-word replies. Newt earned a nod now and then. But with Minho?
You’d roll your eyes at his jokes, sure—but you didn’t walk away.
You didn’t reject him.
Sometimes, the boys caught you lingering after he left. Watching him walk back. Once, Newt swore he saw you tuck your hair behind your ear after he winked.
It became a joke. A running gag.
“Send Minho.”
“Minho’s our ambassador now.”
“Our princess only bends the knee for him.”
Minho took it all with a smirk. But sometimes—just sometimes—he looked toward your camp with something quieter in his eyes. Something none of the boys dared tease.
Because beneath the smug grins and teasing bets… there was a feeling. One they couldn’t name, but all of them recognized:
You liked him.
And maybe—just maybe—he liked you too.
One night, around the fire, they couldn’t hold it in anymore.
“So,” Frypan said, grinning, “when’s the wedding?”
Minho didn’t even flinch. “She hasn’t proposed yet.”
Alby snorted. “If she did, you’d say yes in two seconds.”
“Two? Please. Half a second.”
“You know she never even talks to the rest of us, right?” Winston asked.
“She once told me my voice gave her a headache,” Gally grumbled.
Minho leaned back on his hands, eyes drifting toward your camp, where you were organizing storage with Elara under a torchlight.
“She’s not cold,” he said. “She’s focused. That’s not a crime.”
Newt hummed. “Focused, yeah. But you bring out something else in her.”
“Softness,” Frypan added.
“Warmth,” Winston agreed.
“Ladle-related mercy,” Gally muttered.
They all looked at Minho.
He shrugged. “Guess I’m special.”
Newt nudged him. “Or maybe you just make her feel safe.”
That quieted them. A little too real.
Minho didn’t respond right away. He just kept looking at you.
“She makes me feel safe too,” he said finally, voice soft.
And for once, none of them teased him.
Because they all understood.
She made the Glade make sense.
And somehow—only for Minho—she bent the rules.
Thank you for reading!
Taglist: @ipushhimback, @ladyoflynx, @lewishamiltonismybf, @cmleitora, @same1995, @amatswimming, @llando4norris, @dr3wstarkey, @hurtblossom, @ernegren, @esposamultifandom, @darleneslane
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european tumblr girlies unite again for the annual shitposting about eurovision
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“EBU wants Eurovision to be more family friendly and has asked the artists to tone down the nudity and inappropriate references this year. That went to hell immediately”
- Edward af Sillén, Swedish commentator, about Australia
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