#I switched majors

[angebluee]

I have an exam but instead of studying I got possessed

[xaospoiesis]

mama in fact did raise a quitter, if i don't like it somewhere imma leave

[lotus-pear]

free will is drawing ur two favorite characters together and making them gay

[otaku553]

Fire (part 3)

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(Spade Pirate Sabo AU Masterpost)

[existentialterror]

Fellas, if your story has...

Way too many narrators

Self-aware weird formatting

A metanarrative

Courier font

Meaningful colored text

The story existing as a piece of media within the story itself

A fucked up house

An unreliable narrator

Just way too much about the romantic lives of people who suck

That's not your story, that's

[blindmagdalena]

All of a Sudden, There You Are

3k. homelander x gn!reader. pining. pure fluff! an older fic that desperately needed cleaning up. rewritten for a consistent perspective and added 600-some words. gif credit. AO3 link.

As Homelander's stylist, it's your job to ensure he looks his best, whether he's saving the world or saving face in front of the cameras. After nearly a year servicing him, things between you change abruptly.

Familiarity and consistency feed a base need in all of us. So much of what is best in us is bound up in the permanence of those around us that it becomes the measure of our stability. For Homelander, there are precious few things in his life that offer him any such quality of solidarity. People come and go. It's the nature of the business that has always been his life.

He's stopped paying attention to the PA's, interns and other worker ants that rotate in and out. Their faces blend together in a bland sea of normality and mediocrity. They're little more than cogs in the machine of his contrastingly extraordinary life.

Funny, then, that you should catch his attention amidst the insectoid buzz of it all.

It happens quite abruptly. He's just sat down before a brightly lit vanity where it's your job to style his hair and makeup, as it has been for the last several months. You greet him good morning, as you do every time, but for whatever reason... He notices you today.

"Remind me, what's your name again?" Homelander asks, watching you draw a comb from your kit.

That visibly catches you off guard. You offer only a dumbfounded stare for a moment before snapping to attention, smiling sheepishly as you introduce yourself. The name doesn't sound familiar to him. Had he never actually asked? Probably not. There’s rarely a point in bothering.

He hums contemplatively. "You've been styling me for a while.”

"Yes, sir. About eight months now," you say, using the comb to begin working product through his hair. He’s fairly certain this is the most he's ever spoken to you in all that time.

That sounds like both a long while and yet no time at all. It's nothing in the grand scheme of his life, but in terms of the people he sees consistently, that puts you in a shockingly small pool of individuals. Inevitably they move on, whether by choice or because they’ve found a way to irritate him enough that he has them dismissed.

He can recall his last stylist not by their name or face, but by the way they’d always manage to spray product in his eyes. They hadn’t lasted two days. The one before that he can’t bring to mind a single detail of.

Typically humans only become exceptional to him for how they grate on his patience. You’ve somehow managed to avoid making yourself noteworthy in that regard. Before today you had served as little more than a properly functioning gear in the well-oiled machine of his life.

Now it's as though you suddenly exist to him. Blood, flesh, laughter and all.

"Gooood morning," he greets you the next day, once again triggering another flare of surprise in you. He’s aware of the strangeness of his initiation, but behaves as though he isn’t. He flashes you one of his trademark Hollywood grins.

"Good morning to you, sir," you say with an answering smile that catches his eye. You sound pleased, which tickles something pleasant in the back of his own mind. He likes how well you’re mirroring his shift in mannerism.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Please, Homelander is fine. You keep it awfully formal."

You're actually quite pretty, he notices. Not exceptionally so, not like the celebrities and figures of social influence that someone like him brushes shoulders with on a daily basis, but... pretty nonetheless. He doesn't remember you being this pretty before, and speculates while you work whether you've changed something about yourself. He cannot put his finger on what exactly that may be, though.

He’s perceptive when it comes to the things that matter. Until yesterday, you hadn’t.

You laugh sweetly, pushing your fingers through his hair. His eyes flutter shut as you do. You’re good with your hands, much better than the last stylist. He’s sure he made note of that at some point, but in the same way someone notices when a door stops squeaking. You take it for granted after the first time.

"I'm a creature of habit. Might take me a couple tries to adjust," you warn, covering his forehead with your palm as you spritz product into his hair. You never let any of that sticky crap get on his face, much less in his eyes. You take measures to ensure his comfort, even though he’s never scolded you. You seem to do it entirely out of reflex simply because you care enough to.

"Well, you've made it this far. You've got time to adjust," he says. Now that he's seen you, he finds that he doesn't care for the thought of you being gone. More than that, he starts actively looking forward to the time he spends in the chair with you. What used to be a monotonous aspect of the celebrity side of his life becomes a comforting ritual. 

The two of you chat with surprising ease, like old friends made new. He tells you about himself, vents to you about work and personal business alike. In turn he learns about you and the life you live beyond the time you share with him. It’s nothing extraordinary–not like his–but it's yours, and for some reason, that’s enough to make it interesting.

The more he grasps that you are an entire person outside of the service you provide him, the more he wants to know. He doesn’t give a fuck about your elderly cat, but he does like the way your voice changes when you talk about it. His mind drifts when you tell him these little anecdotes, and he wonders what you tell the people in your life about him. He wonders if your tone similarly changes when you do. Do you speak fondly of him? Days turn to weeks. Little by little, Homelander discerns small changes in himself. There’s a slight pep in his step these days. The sun feels a little warmer, the thrum of crowded events less irritating. His attitude towards interviews flips; even the ones he used to dread he begins to anticipate. He knows you’ll have him looking and feeling his finest. He knows that regardless of what awaits him, you’ll have something to say about it that will make it easier to smile for the cameras.

Thinking of you is sometimes all it takes.

When he has nothing on his schedule to be styled for, he sulks. On those days, he misses your laugh the most. 

He makes sure the products he keeps at home are the same as the ones you use. The smell of them reminds him of the smell of you, of your knock-off Dior perfume that fades too quickly after you apply it, which makes it just perfect for his keen sense of smell. The humble subtlety of you, your sincerity and gentleness, have become a boon against the unfeeling corporate reality of his life. On the days he does see you, he begins to miss you before he’s even left you. Now, as he walks to his next scheduled appointment with you, he’s painfully aware of the beat of his own heart. His stomach is twisting in on itself, though he isn’t hungry. If anything, he feels a little nauseous. The closer he gets to the door, the louder the cacophony inside of him becomes. Is he sick? That shouldn’t be possible, but he can’t understand what’s happening to him. Pausing just outside the door, he takes in a steadying breath.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Taking a moment to collect himself, he gives his face two quick pats on either side, shaking his head. Get it together, he tells himself, stepping into the dressing room. 

“Gooood morn–” Homelander cuts himself short, looking around the empty room. His brows pinch. He isn’t early. Pursing his lips, he takes a brief stroll about the room, clutching his hands behind his back. He peers down the hallway, cutting through the layers of wall with his vision. No sign of you on the grounds yet. He clicks his tongue. 

You’ve never been late. Unable to settle, he paces for a while. He has the thought to call you, but he realizes he doesn’t have your number. Why doesn’t he have your number? It seems such an obvious thing to have despite the fact he’s never needed it.

He’s just pulled out his cellphone to track it down from Ashley when the door suddenly opens and his head snaps up. The initial relief he feels is cut short, turning cold in his chest when the person who steps through the door is most definitely not you. “Good morning!” the woman greets him, her voice chirpy and grating in his ears. She’s not really happy to see him. She doesn’t know the first fucking thing about him. At most, she’s another sycophantic drone who’s only pleased to breathe his air. In his upset, she looks freakishly distorted, her smile overly wide and fake. His leather gloves creak as he curls his hands into fists. “Who the fuck are you?” he asks, voice as measured as he can manage it. His anger hits in an unreasonable surge, hot like lava from a volcano. This woman’s only crime is the fact she’s not you, and yet it’s enough to make him want to rip her head off her shoulders, spine and all. The woman hesitates in the doorway, her chipper demeanor flipping to a fearful one. “Uhm, my name is Lisa, I’m supposed to style you to–” “Where is my stylist?” he interrupts her, prowling towards her like a hungry predator. He says again, louder this time, voice full of anger and anxiety in equal measure, “Where the fuck is my stylist?!” “I– I don’t know!” Lisa yelps, stepping backwards from him. “I was called in as a last minute replacement! They said– they said there was an accident, or–” Homelander pushes her roughly out of the doorway, blowing past her with a frustrated growl. She hits the wall hard before crumpling to the floor like a lifeless sack of potatoes, but he doesn’t even register it. He calls Ashley, stalking down the hallway, his footfalls loud with fury. Why the fuck didn’t anyone think to tell him? “Ashley!” He snarls into his phone the second she answers. “Tell me where the fuck my goddamn stylist is.”

Homelander is at the hospital within minutes. The staff puts up a meager effort to enforce protocols, but he’s The Homelander, and after a lie or two, they eventually let him through. He hates the smell of hospitals. The sickly mix of bleach and illness, the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. They never should have brought you here. You should be in Vought’s med ward.

You should be with him. When he finds you, you’re sitting with the hospital bed halfway reclined, wearing nothing but a hospital gown. The vibrant reds and blues of his suit paint a sharp contrast to the stark white walls of the hospital room when he steps inside. You have a pudding cup in your hand, though you nearly drop it when you see him in the doorway. His hair is woefully unstyled, splayed loose in every direction from his flight. “H-Homelander,” you sputter, choking on your bite of pudding. You swallow, clearing your throat. He’s walking towards you. The closer he gets, the faster your heart beats in his ears. “What are you doing here?” “Are you okay?” He asks, blowing off your question entirely. He blinks and his vision flickers through your clothes and skin alike. He scans your body for internal damage, for broken or fractured bones. You’re not wearing a cast or anything, but he needs to be sure. You nod, clutching at the blanket, wearing your confusion plainly on your face. “Yeah, I’m okay, it’s probably just mild whiplash, but I’m getting an x-ray to be–” “You’re fine,” he breathes more to himself than to you, his relief palpable. He can hear the flustered patter of your heart clearly. With the adrenaline wearing off, he’s beginning to feel that sickly familiar feeling that he had experienced in the hallway; butterflies rampant in his stomach, battering their wings frantically inside him. His jaw feels tight, his tongue too big for his mouth. Staring at you now, frail and precious as you are in this ugly hospital bed, he realizes what’s the matter–what has always been the matter–he is deeply and incurably in love with you. “Are you okay?” You ask, taking in his tortured expression, his wildly wind-swept hair. The obvious concern in your voice and in your eyes churns his already twisting gut. “No,” he says, the response knee-jerk. Even though the room is still, he feels as though the world is spinning around him. “No, I think I’m in love with you,” he says, expression twisted up, like he’s figuring out each word as he says them. Your heart skips a beat, your breath catches in your lungs. It’s as if the words have paralyzed you. Homelander laughs. It sounds a little hysterical. 

“I’m telling you all of a sudden, but it isn’t new with me,” he says, reaching out to cup either side of your face in his gloved hands. “I love you,” he says, voice firmer now, the realization setting in fully. He looks slightly delirious with it. He’s discovered a secret that he should have known all along, that seems so obvious in hindsight. Of course he loves you, because you love him. The gentleness in your hands as you touched his face, the care in your fingers stroking through his hair far longer than both of you knew you needed to. You dedicated yourself like no other to showing him reverence in service of him, and is that not love in its purest form? And yet, you don’t look to share his elation. You look like you’ve been struck by lightning, expression wide and bewildered. You still haven’t taken a breath. Homelander’s smile falters. “What’s the matter?” He asks, tone dropping a touch. “This is good news! Great, even.” For every second that you do not speak, the beat of his heart feels heavier in his chest. Why don’t you look happy? Finally, you suck in a shaky breath. He watches you with all the intensity of a viper poised to strike.

“I…” You hesitate. You lift your hands and grip his wrists, squeezing them through the thick fabric of his gloves as if to convince yourself that he’s really there. Maybe the accident was worse than he thought. Did you hit your head? 

Panic swells in his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him you might not reciprocate. The thought makes him ill.

“I never…” your eyes turn glassy, welling with tears. “Say it!” he wants to shout, his own heart hammering loudly enough to nearly drown out your words.  “I never would have thought–or even dreamed–in a million years that you might love me back.”

love me back.

Like a dying ember roaring back to life, Homelander’s demeanor reignites, his faded smile broadening once more. 

“I realized it when I was worried fucking sick because you didn't show up,” he says, leaning closer to you. He’s brought the scent of ozone from the sky he tore through on his way to you, but all he cares about is the faint smell of pudding lingering on your lips.

He huffs a laugh. “They sent in some idiot to fill in for you. Like they could replace you. I almost tore her head off,” he says, giddy with euphoria. Your expression shifts, brows furrowing. “Wait, what? You almost-” “I’m gonna kiss you now,” he interrupts, his voice a low rumble. He can already taste you in the breaths you’re close enough to share with him, and he’s never been hungrier for anything–or anyone–in his life. You fall silent with a shiver, nodding minutely, eyes falling shut. “Please do.” His lips meet yours in a gentle press. He deserves a medal for not crushing you with the sheer magnitude of his desire. You all but melt against him, settling into his grip as smoothly as you settled into his life, his mind, his heart. When the two of you break apart, you make a breathless noise that shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He feels hyper aware of your every sound and move.

God, how he wants to feel every part of you. 

You move your hands to touch his face and he leans into the softness of your caress. You’ve been close enough to kiss more times than he can count. The fact it’s only now occurred to him to do so seems like lunacy. Your eyes dip to his lips, your thumb brushes the bottom one. He catches it with a quick kiss and you laugh your sweet bell-chime laughter.

Pushing your hand into his hair, the wondrous joy in your expression becomes tinged with amusement. “And people wonder why I use so much gel,” you murmur, smooth the wild splay of his hair down with both hands, cupping the back of his head. Homelander smiles wide and boyishly, which prompts you to kiss him again.

“I’m not having some kind of brain bleed hallucination right now, right?” You ask quietly, the tip of your nose lightly pressed to his. He brushes his lips against yours between words. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he purrs, stroking your cheek with his thumb. Despite the ugly fluorescent lights and the dreadful hospital stench all around, you look resplendent in your joy.

He had been right. It was love that you touched him with. It had been subtle, imbued in your every movement, and for months he had soaked it up until, unbeknownst to him, he fell into it as well.

“Trust me when I say you’ll be seeing a lot more of me from now on,” he says, brushing your nose with his.

Maybe instead of tearing them limb from limb, he’ll send flowers to whoever the sorry son of a bitch that rear-ended you this morning was. Who knows how much more time he would have wasted before he realized he was utterly smitten with you.

[girlatrocity]

they're so silly

[gameringgungke]

edit 2: leak is FAKE everyone, go home

so of course i'm keeping up with the pokemon leaks and

I KNEW IT

I FUCKING KNEW IT

I SAID THE KANTO FAVORITISM STARTED BECAUSE OF BW'S BACKLASH AND WAS GOING TO MAJORLY STAGNANTETHE SERIES FOR YEARS AND NOBODY BELIEVED ME

update 113 notes later: might be fake, idk

[angelyuji]

bumpin' that!

hey guys still writing for kinktober and this fic isn't a part of it but episode 4 inspired me. fuck you carmine falcone im glad riddler killed your bitch ass FUCK ANYONE THAT FUCKS WITH SOFIA IM SO SERIOUS. anyway cristin milioti if ur reading this pls marry me.

sofia falcone x f!reader (spoilers ahead for episode 4)

her hands were in your hair and her lips were soft against yours. sitting on her bed, her hands pulling you close. "sofia..." her name falls from your lips in a whisper, she bites your lip with a small smile.

"shhh, don't let anyone hear you, baby." she moves down to your neck, leaving small kisses down to your collarbone. you can hear yourself breathelessly whimper at her touch. a knock at the door forces you both apart.

alberto laughs at the two of you, "you two bumpin’ purses?”

you roll your eyes and sofia launches a pillow at his head that he unfortunately dodges, “what’d you want, al?”

“pop’s looking for you, something about the foundation.” he waves a hand, clearly not having listened to carmine. sofia frowns.

you look at her, noticing the change in her mood, “what’s wrong?” you hold her hand, worried. she smiles and brings your hand to her lips, pressing a small kiss.

“everything’s fine. don’t worry.” she waves her brother over, “alberto, can you ask oz to take (y/n) home?” he rolls his eyes, but nods. she stands and brushes her dress down. she helps you up and presses a kiss to your lips. “i love you.” she whispers and rests her forehead against yours.

you look into her beautiful eyes with a small smile, “i love you more.” the two of you part and alberto walks you out.

“hey penguin, can you take (y/n) home?” he calls out to oswald, who was standing outside smoking a cigarette. he grits his teeth at the nickname, you smack alberto’s arm and glare, he mockingly winces before giving you a hug and a kiss on the head. “get home safe, sofia’ll lose her shit if you get hurt.” you smile and nod before getting in the car.

as oswald drives you back, you look back to the mansion, “something feels off, oz…” you turn and place a hand on his shoulder, “look after sofia for me, please?”

oswald chuckles and nods, “sure, doll. i’ll look after her.”

sofia takes a sip from her glass, her eyes falling to you as she speaks to carla. you see her looking and start to walk over. "sofia." oswald's voice turns her around.

"oz! what are you doing inside?" she looks at him confused before reaching out to brush his coat, "is that a new jacket?" oswald's face twists before smoothing into a smile.

"your father's asking for you and (y/n)." sofia feels your warm arm wrap around her waist, but she feels her blood run cold. she feels herself nodding and you pulling her to his office.

"sofia. (y/n)." oswald closes the door behind the two of you and she sees her father gesture to you to move aside. she tries to reach out to you, but you were too far away. "a reporter, sofia?" she can feel herself trying hard to defend herself, but he just shakes his head. "do you believe them? do you believe that-"

"no! no, dad, i-i know that t-the scratches on your hand, it couldn't be from..." sofia freezes as her father's knuckle brushes her face.

"my sweet sofia..." he looks heartbroken as he stares at her. he looks away and walks to the door. he opens it slightly to talk to oswald, waiting outside, "oswald, take sofia home. she's not feeling like herself." sofia looks over to you, who was frozen in place. she reaches out her hand for yours, but her father stops you from taking it. "i need to talk to (y/n). i'll make sure she gets home safe." he walks over and places a hand on your shoulder, she watches you tense. "go home, sofia. now." you smile and reassure her with a nod. sofia clenches her fists before relaxing.

"i'll call you when i get home." she smiles softly, "i love you..."

you blow her a kiss, "i love you more." her face was twisted with worry, but she leaves for the car.

"i truly did like you, (y/n)." you couldn't tell what emotions were going through his face as he stood in front of you, "you were good for my daughter, good to alberto, a good look for the family." carmine sighs. "it's truly unfortunate that sofia must be punished." you take a step back.

"wha-" carmine's hands wrap around your thoat and the panic kicks in. "s-sof-" you try to scream, but the words get trapped in your throat as his hands tighten. "pl-plea-carm-" you choke out as much as you can as the air left in you starts to leave. your vision starts to blur as black spots dance across your vision, tears stream down your face. all you could think of was her, your beautiful sofia. your sofia...

"sofia falcone, you're under arrest for the murder of eight women." kenzie slams her against the roof of the car. she could hear oswald yelling.

"what the hell? let me go! i didn't-" she struggles as they place the handcuffs on her.

"for the murder of summer gleeson, (y/n) (l/n), yolanda jones-" kenzie continues as he pushes her into the car.

"what? (y/n)? no! NO! SHE'S ALIVE. NO NO NO NO PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME." sofia screams as reality sets in. she slams her hands against the glass, sobbing, her father truly is punishing her.

[buzzfeedunsolvable]

No hate to Steven or anything and a lot of the flack he's gotten in the yt comments is unwarranted, but one thing I think is interesting is how on Watcher he was painted as a business-guru type and yet he was like... a chemical engineering major. Like so was I for most of college and you know what we never learned? How to run a business

[smashwolfen]

It finally happened, after my goal of finding each one authentic and triple checking over and over and over again, I can finally say

I have them all....

The Generation 1-3 games need proper battery replacements, but that's already in the works. Many of them I had already owned before beginning this collection in Ernest, it was within the past 2 years or so after discovering my copy of Platinum was a reproduction that I had actively been looking for the counterparts I had been missing, trading and selling uneeded things that went towards their purchases, and all had been local!

I had gotten VERY fortunate luck with a lot of my titles! The hardest ones for me being Black 2 and White 2 with their insane pricing these days, Black 2 I had gotten from a friend for a fantastic price CIB, and White 2 CIB I paid for for a decent amout but was well worth it when I had also picked up UltraMoon and Sun CIB for essentially free along with it.

The wildest one would have to go to GBA Sapphire, I had gotten it from my PhysioTherapist of all people, he had it since he was a boy and his stories wild! His mom had found it YEARS ago in the hospital parking lot in a PUDDLE and after all these years it had still played for this whole time, with playtime going into 600+ hours and a shiny Electrike to go with it (I renamed him after physio man to never forget him). And bud just GAVE it to me, FOR FREE. He said that I was looking for it, he didnt need it, and he got it for free so knowing I was a huge nerd on a quest he was just willing to help towards my collection, and he is the most amazing guy ever. To think I never would have met him had I not gotten into a car crash back in January, the world works in mysterious ways.

All in all, I have caught up with the english releases of all the pokemon generations, may add a copy of Green to it later down the line, but for now, I am a happy Smish with an amazing collection djrhfjnskwbrjfhdnske

[kirby-the-gorb]

[cirrus-grey]

Georgie sounds like she may be without a Melanie and I am devastated.

[yunogf]

NCT 127's Sticker (2021) as Michael Crichton's science fiction western Westworld (1973)

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Not to be uhhhh annoying, but Karkat's theme and Eridan's theme from Alterniabound at the very least have to do with each other.

Both of them start off with a melody, but switch it up at around 0:06 seconds. Then once again another switch at 0:52 (almost perfectly in sync).

At around 1:06, Eridan's theme goes slow and sad, and on the other end? Sounds of tediousness(TM). Barking, Super Mario ghost oooohing that sounds like rolling your eyes, and vaguely digital soundbites.

And THEN, at around 1:23, Karkat's waltz resumes, and Eridan's theme also becomes a waltz (more or less at 1.25x Karkat's speed).

Karkat's music ends at 1:57, WOULDN'T YOU KNOW IT Eridan's theme kicks up. And then a "Hey!" is heard at 2:03/2:04, a couple of seconds after Karkat's theme actually ends. Quite literally: "Karkat pay attention to me. Hey. Karkat. Karkat. Karkat." lmao.

And guess which theme also loosely follows this pattern? Terezi's. A canonical crush of Karkat's (A lot more out of sync, though). Kanaya's theme doesn't, however. Much less Vriska's, or any other theme in Alterniabound's album.

Of course all of these songs follow a pattern, and they're made for the same [S] Pages. Karkat and Eridan's, though? Almost completely in sync.

I dunno, maybe I'm trying to fit triangles into square holes, but it seemed worth mentioning. I genuinely tried listening to both at the same time in two different tabs but I couldn't get much out of it.

(This is nosyDetective btw, I just can't send asks from this blog bc it's not my main 😔)

Unfortunately, the similarities seem pretty superficial - eridan's theme is mostly in 4/4 (2/2 technically because its a march) and karkat's is in 3/4 the whole time - but still, here's the two 3/4 parts mashed together for your listening pleasure, hahah.

[abirddogmoment]

a little midday rollerblade canicross to get the beans out