#BECAUSE BOTH SOUND WEIRD^^

[starcrossedjedis]

Sakari Nurmi & Sofia Karppi - Deadwind 01x03 "Maailmanparantaja"

just two new partners casually staring at each other's appartments across the river at the same time

[slavhew]

do you ever get reminded of a ship, remember a piece of fanart of it that you loved, then after a day long search realize that you just imagined it? and then try to draw it yourself?

prllb btbtt ALT VERISONS

[ghost-proofbaby]

It's summer for you, winter for me. Warm me up with strawberry fluff! As always, my muse, your muse, the one and only, Eddie.

Midsummer's night, because I don't have a lot to inspire you with. I'm thinking something cute but weird? Maybe some human body softness where Eddie is a bit of a freak and we love him for it. And we're told our bodies are lovely, even when they're doing weird shit.

I lalalove youuuuu. xo Rhi

RHI!!!! <3 i adore you. thank you for this prompt - i had far too many ideas for it, but ended up on settling for this one, which coincidentally feels like the most subtle of them all? either way, it definitely turned out being the softest. give me an eddie munson who just wants to sniff me like a dog. this definitely got a bit long but i hope you enjoy, my dear <3

the smell of you

warnings: weirdos in love? idk. i have a skewed sense of what is actually weird i think. mentions of death and coffins jokingly. eddie 'manhandles' reader sort of. not edited.

wc: 2.2k+

come enjoy a sweet summer treat with me <3

“Eddie?”

The entire apartment is quiet – too quiet – as you drop your keys into the old crystal bowl on the counter. The clink resonates through the air, louder than the soft murmur of the stereo static you can hear from down the hall. 

“You dead?” you call out again, slipping off your running shoes and tossing down your headphones onto the counter as well now, “Do I need to call the coroner?” 

Your tone is lilted, teasing with airiness as you continue to wander deeper into the apartment and head straight for the room you know Eddie has to be in. Like the waves pulled by the moon, there’s an incessant string tied around one end of your soul that connects you to his, and you follow it all the way down the hallway. The bedroom door is wide open, and you can hear his mumbled yell of a response without clarity before you even cross the threshold. 

You wouldn’t have even needed him to verbally respond to find him in this tiny apartment. You two could get separated on the streets of a bustling city, of a buzzing New York sidewalk, and you still wouldn’t properly lose him. It’s more than just soul ties and his gravity that keeps you pulled to him. 

Something unspoken. Something homely. 

“Sorry, what was that?” you hum as you spy him face-down in the bed, pillow muting him by the mouthful, “Say it one more time, and this time not into the pillow.” 

When he finally properly turns over, he’s a vision. Sleep lines folded into his skin and a bit of drool in the corner of his mouth, eyes squinting in irritation not at you but the sunlight flooding in through the bedroom window. Messy hair, messy shirt, messy everything. A kind of mess you just want to collapse into currently, curling up in all that he is from the day’s exhaustion. 

He’d mentioned wanting to take a nap before you’d left for the gym. Something about the summer heat draining him, trailing off as he’d rambled about how he’d probably thrive as a vampire. 

“I said,” he huffs, sitting up, the frizz of his hair becoming a makeshift halo, “If you call the coroner, request the comfiest coffin possible.”

“Why do you need a comfy coffin if you’re already dead?” 

“You dare deny me of being buried in tempurpedic memory foam? In my hour of need?” 

You roll your eyes as you huff out a little laugh, forcing yourself to turn away from him long enough to strip out of your socks. But just as you reach down for the pieces of clothing, you catch sight of the source of that stereo static flooding the room. 

Your shared record player, spinning a blood red pressing of one of your more recent vinyl purchases. The album has been played through, but the player no longer had an automatic stop mechanism, probably from years of use. 

The center of the record is probably scratched, and Eddie knows it, from how sheepish he looks when you glance over your shoulder at him. 

“Speaking of death,” you walk over quickly, purposefully, before carefully lifting the needle and cutting the static finally, “Care to explain why you’re burning scratches into my Momento Mori vinyl?” 

“I’m sorry,” he quickly apologizes, nearly flinging himself off the bed as he scooches quickly to the end, clearly fully awake now, “I put it on and thought I’d just lay down for a quick second, but then the bed was so comfy, and I thought it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick nap, and then…” he trails off, looking up at you through his lashes with big eyes already pleading for forgiveness, “I’ll buy you a new one. Swear it.” 

It’s impossible to be mad at him when he’s looking like this, inhumanely soft and easily forgiven, “You’re lucky you’re cute, or you really would be dead.” 

He doesn’t respond with words, but instead the outstretch of his hands, fingers flexing as he beckons to you. The needle rests on its perch, the vinyl left behind to gather dust for a few extra moments, as you go straight to him. 

When his palms slip beneath your old t-shirt and meet your skin, they’re pleasantly warm. 

“You were right,” you admit as his knees spread, delegating even more room for you to stand in front of him as your hand wanders to cradle the side of his face, fingers tangling in sweaty curls from his rest. Your thumb mimics his on your own skin instinctively, tracing a large arch right up over his cheekbone, “It’s hot as balls outside.” 

“Told you so,” he murmurs, smiling softly in satisfaction as he leans lazily into your touch. 

“You did,” you agree quietly, half-entranced by his relaxed face, no sight of pride in the room currently. 

He resembles a cat as he continues to preen under your gentle hand, and you almost expect him to start purring right before you find the strength to pull away, removing his hands from where they'd wandered to your lower back. 

One swipe of his finger along your sweaty spine, and you’d remembered what your original intentions had been immediately upon getting home. 

“Wai- Where are you going?” he’s seemingly brought back down to Earth the moment he loses the pattern your thumb had been tracing, the press of your fingertips into his scalp. When he reaches back out to latch onto you again, you take a step back, “Get back here-”

“I need to shower,” you laugh, shaking your head and smacking his hands away as he continues to barter, “I’m all sweaty and smelly, let me go clean up and then we can nap togeth-” 

“You can shower after we nap,” he nearly whines, finally catching your shirt between his fingers and tugging, uncaring for if he stretches the fabric. A small price to pay to have you close to him, “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re just as exhausted as I am.” 

You swear you meant to take another step backwards, but somehow, you end up back between his knees, “Did you not hear me, Munson? I stink.”

“Good.” 

He doesn’t give you any time to react – in an instant, he’s throwing his face forward, burying it against your stomach as you let out a gasp and immediately try to pry him away with far too gentle of hands in his hair. 

“Eddie!”

If it were anyone else, you’d probably be mortified. But Eddie just takes a dramatic deep breath in, nose buried just shy of your belly button, and when his shoulders start to shake with muted laughter, you can’t stop the smile from breaking. Your fingers are still twisted in his hair, still pulling back in an attempt to get him away from you, but he’s resilient. 

And all your faux resistance is weak in comparison. Soon enough, you’re back to melting into him. 

Only once you’re relaxed once more, no sign of trying to pull away again any time soon as his hands once more evade the space beneath your shirt to wander up and down your sticky skin without a care in the world, does he lift his face away from you long enough to breathe and speak, “I’ll have you know – I love your stink.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I’m your idiot.” 

The game of banter is cut short when he goes back to pressing his nose into your clothes that surely can’t smell good. No amount of deodorant or perfume could erase that underlying stench of sweat. Hell, the shirt is still a bit moist from it all: from the walk to the gym, from your workout itself, from the walk home. It’d been through the ringer, and you’re back to tugging him away from you. 

“I refuse to believe you like how gross I smell right now,” you reinforce, eyes darting towards the bathroom connected to your master bedroom, “I promise I’ll be quick with the shower.” 

“Baby,” he fights back, wrapping his arms around you securely, no intention of losing this battle, “You remember that time we went to the fair, and you were complaining about how you were sweating, so I tried to lick your face?” 

Your nose scrunches quickly at the memory, “I do, unfortunately.”

“You really think I’d be willing to lick the sweat off your body but be afraid of you smelling a little bad while we cuddle?” his shoulders drop as he looks up at you, head tilted, almost as if amused with the conversation, “What kind of man do you take me for?” 

“The kind that gets off on annoying me.” 

His jaw drops, putting on a fake look of offense before he dramatically throws himself back onto the bed, laying flat as he makes a fist to mimic stabbing his chest, “You wound me.”

You’ve heard those words a thousand times in a hundred different ridiculous voices. You’ve seen this scene enough to have it mesmerized at this point, down to the over-exaggerated pout of his lips and the lingering of the fist against his sternum. 

You never grow tired of it. You never will. 

“Need me to kiss it better?” you joke as you prop a knee up on the bed, following the same script as always. 

And he hits his queue perfectly when he lifts his head eagerly at the expected response, wiggling his brows a bit. “Absolutely. Doctor’s orders, in fact.” 

“Great,” you see an opportunity, and take it, “I’ll get right to it, after my showe-” 

You don’t even get the final syllable of the word off your tongue before he’s clenching his thighs around your own, knees pressing hard before he wraps his legs the rest of the way around your waist to pull you in. A squeak of surprise leaves your lips as you begin to fall forward, but Eddie is quick to break the fall with ease. Catching you with his eager hands, maneuvering for you to half drop to the mattress while some of you still lands atop of him. 

He has you right where he wants you, turning his head to be face to face with you, noses nearly brushing, “Unfortunately, the doc said you have to kiss it better now, or else you’ll be comfy coffin shopping.” 

“A fatal wound?” you gasp, nearly mocking him. It doesn’t offend him – if anything, his boyish grin only grows wider, “First, I’m smelly-”

“Again, I like when you’re smelly.”

“-And then I inflict a fatal wound upon my lover? Oh, how dare I.”

Slowly, all your insecurity of how you currently smell is simply fading. The entire ordeal has become an art of childlike, whimsical jokes – and Eddie is an artist. A professional at the dance, locked and loaded with his incomparable skill set equipped for disarming you this way. The ability to make someone feel loved, imperfections and weirdness aside. 

He likes you, even when you claim you don’t smell your best. And you like him, even when his hair is tangled beyond recognition and one of his socks is half-hanging off his foot from a nap.

You like him when he’s embarrassing you in public, tongue chasing after you with the threat of licking your sweat away, and he likes you when all you can do in response is a weak palm to his chest (that isn’t even making an effort to push him away) as you giggle relentlessly. 

You like each other on the good days, the bad days, the weird days. 

Disarmed entirely, you don’t even notice when his face conveniently slots itself far too close to your armpit as you two scooch further up into the bed. You’re more occupied with the way your legs tangle up, toeing each other’s socks off properly as he slings a heavy arm across your torso. 

“We’re gonna have to wash the sheets,” you mumble, exhaustion catching up as the two of you finally settle. 

He hums absentmindedly, nuzzling into your skin a bit further as he makes himself comfortable. “And wash away your sweet, sweet stink? I don’t think so, sweetheart.” 

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, unbothered as your fingers start to trail up and down his back over the t-shirt, smoothing out wrinkles along the way, “I’m serious. We need to change them soon anyways, I think I got crumbs in the bed the other night with those crackers.” 

“Bury me in the crumbs of all your midnight snacks,” he almost slurs, clearly drifting back off. 

You snort in response, relaxing and letting your own eyes shut. Matching all your deep breaths with his own, a million different last words crossing your mind to whisper to the boy you’re sure is once again asleep. 

I love you.

I adore you. 

I would like to spend the rest of my life with you, if you’ll have me. 

And maybe some of those unspoken thoughts slip out without you realizing, because he squeezes you just a little bit tighter, presses his face just a little bit deeper into your skin as his scruff tickles you. 

The only actual thought you can know for certain that you say, though, is, “Do you think they actually make coffins with memory foam inside?” 

To your surprise, even despite the almost-snores that had been escaping him, he answers in a heartbeat. 

“Oh, definitely. We’ll order two.”

[eerna]

me explaining why Will/Elizabeth/Jack love triangle was a perfect little one-movie arc that wasn't present in the final movie because it was never about choosing and instead just about dynamics and character development so they all outgrew it by then

[scoriarose]

She came up with a new activity

[royalarchivist]

Foolish: Listen– I've always survived these "Hey, come with me!" encounters.

Ironmouse: What do you mean "Hey, come with me" encounter? I just wanna talk!

Foolish: Well, you know, it's just– there's a history of like, someone says "Hey, come with me!" and then– [Laughs] You know. They do the deed.

Ironmouse: It's been so long since we've talked! I feel like we haven't spoken in a million years!

Foolish: Oh! I guess- I guess it has been a minute. Um, hey, what's up, dude?

Ironmouse: I mean, we definitely need to hang out more.

Foolish: Um, listen– I'm down to like, try to get some like, Fortnite in–

Ironmouse: [Kills him]

Foolish: Oh my– [Laughs] It's just a tale as old as time, dude. Just a tale as old as time!

[robotsafari]

i had a dream where something was off with riku’s shadow…

(this art is so sucks i made this when i was tired and less experienced which ended up making riku look so much skinnier than how i normally draw him post-kh2 can you stop engaging it with pretty pweeease)

[borealwrites]

Whenever there was a storm, Iruka remembers his parents hiding him away. The barrier seals that cover his windows dull the thunder into a low rumble, like how he remembers the sea, and all he can see through the glass is an inky darkness. Those seals are the first ones they teach him, and they tell him to always have them on hand.

When he’s a little older, he asks why he can’t watch the storm like his friends. They tell him that around when he was born, there was a terrible storm that lasted for weeks. In desperation, his grandfather prayed to the storm gods, offering up his newly born grandson as a sacrifice if they would make them stop. And the storms stopped. Unwilling to let such a fate befall their child, his parents took him and fled to Konoha.

Iruka isn’t sure he believes in storm gods, but he loves his parents. Then the kyuubi comes, and suddenly gods don’t seem so fake anymore. So he covers his room at the orphanage and then his apartment with wards, and bites back the defensiveness when Mizuki makes fun of him. It isn’t the thunder and lightning he’s afraid of, it’s what they could bring.

When storms are coming, he can feel his skin crawl, like someone is watching him. Iruka strengthens the wards on his apartment and doesn’t take missions, instead hiding away in the Hokage Tower, where nobody can touch him. Some storms make it feel like someone if pounding at his barriers. On those nights he tucks himself into the corner of his apartment, as far from his windows as he can, and huddles under a blanket, wishing he weren’t so alone.

But Iruka cannot outrun and avoid storms forever. There’s a stillness in the air when he’s assigned a mission with Hatake Kakashi that he cannot refuse. Overhead the clouds are full and heavy with rain, and there’s a tinge of ozone that sets Iruka’s nerves on edge. Thunder rumbles in the distant sky when they find the enemy’s trail, and the clouds burst upon first clash.

It takes every bit of Iruka’s skill to keep from being overwhelmed. The enemy is too strong, and his heart too soft. All the warnings his parents repeated tug at him, and he’s too distracted.

Lightning strikes the tree that Iruka’s opponent is crouched in, close enough he can feel the heat. The air is saturated with enough chakra that Iruka feels drunk off it, even as it makes his hair stand on end. Blinking to clear the searing light from his eyes, Iruka chokes on a gasp.

Before him stands Kakashi, his arm buried in the chest of the now very crispy enemy ninja, sparks of electricity arcing almost lazily across his body. With a flick of his wrist Kakashi’s arm is free, and he glares down at the corpse. Something feels wrong, and while Iruka’s common sense screams at him to move, he feels rooted to the spot. Two eyes, one storm cloud grey and the other heat lightning red, lock onto his.

Kakashi’s hand, the one that had just killed a man, cups Iruka’s cheek. Once, while experimenting with seals, Iruka had shocked himself with a raiton based seal. It had hurt, and left his arm numb for two days. The merest brush of Kakashi’s fingers brings the same feelings for half a second before subsiding into a strange tingling sensation.

“I can finally touch you, my Iruka, my bride,” Kakashi’s voice was a low growl, an almost predatory sound that made Iruka jerk back. As soon as he broke contact with Kakashi, it seemed like all of Iruka’s strength left him. Like a puppet with cut strings he collapsed, and was only saved by Kakashi gathering him into his arms.

“Rest, Iruka. I’ll take care of everything else,” Kakashi cooed, and Iruka found himself helpless to resist. His last thought before he sank into unconsciousness was if his parents would be disappointed he didn’t fight harder.

This can now be found, in an expanded version, on Ao3

[humanmorph]

(transcript by @violentandmagnificent)

It’s quiet here, living in your head. It’s quiet here, and when I talk, you listen, at least when you can hear me, which isn’t always. It isn’t always, but it’s better than never. It’s quiet here, living on this ship. It’s quiet here, and I remember when it was loud, I remember different voices bouncing in these halls, I remember old arguments, I remember myself. I wonder how much I can tell you; because  I can tell you; I have much to say. But you never saw me astride the Prophet’s Path, beside the Resin Heart, imparting wrath and play. So who am I? You only know what they’ve told you. So who am I? You only know what’s written down. So who am I? You only know what’s on recordings, and according to the world, I’m a hypocrite, or drowned. I doubt you can hear me, but I know that she can. So pardon my frustration, I’m just tired of her plan. I lost my life long before I understood, before metaphor became real, before I felt the wheel’s wood. I wonder what she’ll tell you. I wonder what she’ll share.  I wonder what she’ll ask of you, what task of sweat and prayer.  I long to sweat and pray, a body in the day. The color of the sun. The touch, the ocean's spray.  The last thing that I felt in life. (The first thing that I felt in life.) The touch, the ocean's spray.  I hope she tells the truth to you. (I hope she tells the worst to you.) The touch, the ocean's spray.  I loved her like she told me to. (I left her like she told me to.) The touch, the ocean's spray.  We’re running out of time, you know? (She’s running out of time, you know?) The touch, the ocean's spray.  I fear we might be mirrored, two echoes of a call shouted between two queens, two queens who want it all. I fear we might be symmetry, I fear we might be one. Make her tell the truth to you before we come undone.

PALISADE 37: Reach In / Reach Out Pt. 1

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The Maid and The Crocodile

standalone YA high fantasy romance, set in the world of Raybearer (10 years later)

a girl ages out of her orphanage and searches for a job as a maid - but before she’s hired, she accidentally gets bound to the Crocodile - a god thought to steal girls through his shrines throughout the cities

she wants nothing to do with him or his curse, and gets herself a job as a Curse Eater at an inn, consuming the spiritual residue of their past mistakes and regrets

but her past and her connection to the Crocodile won’t go away, and she gets caught up in his revolutionary ambitions

disabled MC (vitiligo, cane user)

[dykedvonte]

love seeing your takes on mouthwashing and how sane they are. everything's so black or white. I like how you acknowledge curlys abuse under jimmy (which I honestly didn't quite notice when I first watched a playthrough. should rewatch w this in mind) and how that very much doesn't "forgive" his inaction towards Anya and Her abuse under jimmy. I think what happens to him despite all his issues (bc he clearly wasn't OK 😊✌🏼) is very much karmic. I really did hurt huh

I hate the take that what happened to him is karmic as becoming disabled and being tortured is like not in any way an equal consequence for not taking more action against Jimmy. It is a consequence as is the whole game for everyone but it’s one that is very much established as being undeserved and extreme as everyone else’s but Jimmy’s fate.

Thank you for liking my takes but I also try to point out that this exact sort of framing of the events and what happened to Curly is bad especially if you are gonna factor in his own abuse into the equation of his inaction/ineffective acts. It’s like “saying yeah he deserved the abuse he was already going through to escalate because he didn’t do enough” which is like not a message the game tries to deliver at all. It’s like the game shows that abusers escalate

Karma and punishment are not concepts that I think should be directly tied to Curly’s fate especially since during the game and even in discussion he takes on too many consequences of someone else’s actions. Like this framing is the direct thing I describe taking the discussion away from Jimmy, P.E and the factors that created the environment in the first place.

[amphibimations]

So you’re telling me that there’s a new movie out that starts with an animation by sylvain chomet AND it includes a cover of ‘ne me quitte pas’— which would lead me to believe that this is an awesome movie made by someone with incredible taste— and then you tell me that the movie is THE JOKER 2?!? THE TERRIBLY REVIEWED MOVIE JOKER 2???!? THIS IS SO UNFAIR…..

[synthe4u]

masterlist

What is love if not him? What is life without him? He is your sole lover and husband. You couldn't abandon him, not here.

Even when he was calling out to you to leave, to run and take cover. You didn't move. You kept pressure on his wound.

He wouldn't die. He couldn't die. You would change your religion for this man. You had ran away and eloped with him against your family's will. You weren't leaving him now.

Not when he was bleeding out in your arms. He was dying. You both knew that.

Your tears flowed as quick as his blood poured. No, he wouldn't die alone, and he wasn't going to be the only one to die.

In life and death.

The end for Ghost. The start for a pair of ghosts.

[satsuha]

ageswap au made by @tenretsuzan on twitter! there's a brief explanation beneath the readmore

your name is hikari ku, age 30. you were banished from your home nation of ku at a young age and led a failed rebellion against your treacherous brother, laid low by a harsh betrayal.

"even if it means harnessing this darkness... i will see my country freed from war."

marred by scars left by your once erstwhile friends and plagued by a darkness that grows uncontrollable, you grasp onto the small hope that you may one day reclaim your nation once more...

-

your name is temenos mistral, age 21. you led a peaceful life in flamechurch until one day your brother disappears after leaving you with an ominous message about the church.

"roi... what could have led someone like you down a path like this?"

despite your father's protests, you follow after his footsteps in hopes of uncovering his whereabouts, as well as the church's secrets that forced his departure...

[amicus-siderum]

I don't know what's funnier

The people of Mondstadt actually don't know who the Darknight Hero is despite Diluc's horrible disguise, except for Kaeya who is losing his mind because how!? But also thinking that yeah, that checks out why they all just readily accepted him despite him being an obvious plant.

Or

The people of Mondstadt actually know that Diluc is the Darknight Hero, but they've all agreed to just let their uncrowned king keep up his silly little vigilante fantasy and run around in his silly little disguise, because that's just good ol' sunshine child Diluc for you. None of them mention it out of respect.

[surlifen]

new sona ref at long last! and I named him finally (sort of) (was stuck between two so I've uploaded different versions of the ref in different places LMAO)

just in time for artfight teehee