#Must be a day that ends in Y

[smores100]

Behind the scenes of Leo Woodall and Nicholas Galitzine's #ActorsOnActors conversation, which launches at 8 a.m. PT tomorrow (via @Variety)

ETA: more pics

[nomsfaultau]

Fault!SBI Love languages

Tommy: Physical contact. Not even a question. He’s just so incredibly touch-starved. Given the smallest excuse, he’ll sling an arm around Phil’s shoulders or lounge in The Blade’s lap. It makes for a bad combination with his anomalous properties, and he has a habit of unconsciously reaching for people and then jerking away. When talking to people he instinctively leans forward, and more often than not he’s accidentally smack dab in someone’s personal bubble. Tubbo (carefully) headbutts him, but any further level of contact and he gets stressed about contamination. He also tends to puff up when given compliments. 

The Blade: Quality Time. In particular, training. The first friends he ever made were through group projects at college w/ Averil, and it carried over to when he demanded Philza become his mentor. When The Blade accidentally acquired a Tommy, the way they became friends was through sparring that was admittedly far gentler than emerald duo matches. Part of him and Tubbo finally bonding is working on projects together, like quilting or making their prosthetics. Not much of a touchy-feely guy, and compliments sometimes make him feel awkward. 

The Blood God: Words of Affirmation baby! He loves the crowd roaring his name! Phil gives him compliments mid-battle and it’s such a rush. Once, he praised Tommy by calling him ‘not entirely useless’

Wilbur: Gifts. He grew up owning basically nothing, fighting for everything he had. The idea of just being given something was earth-shattering for him. But after the Foundation exploited that in a way that stripped him of coping mechanisms and exacerbated his preexisting trust issues, gifts became a trigger for him. While he despises receiving them, that doesn’t stop him from giving. Wilbur is the main resource gatherer of the group both for strategic reasons and because he wants to provide for his family. He’ll give even if it means he goes without, be it a jacket or food or a little toy he thought Tommy would like. Half his love language is also chewing someone out while tending to their needs. 

Philza: Acts of Service. Whether it’s cooking for his Collected or creating a pyre of bodies in their name, Philza is all about the acts of service. His M.O. is basically attaching himself to a neat mortal he finds and doing whatever he can to help them. If one of his Collected wants something done, Philza will move heaven and hell to do it. Also great for life advice, though his frame of reference for what's normal is pretty wack given the immortality. Additionally, he tries to specifically pay attention to his Collected and try out a variety of love languages to see what they like. So, ruffling Tommy’s hair (and fixing it afterward), sparring with The Blade, getting little presents for Wilbur, practicing active listening with Anderson. He’s still trying to figure out Tubbo, which is hard since they hate him. 

Tubbo: ??? Hard to pin down, but I guess Quality Time, as that’s how clingy duo really bonded in Fault. A lot of Tubbos’ displays of affection are paying attention to someone’s needs, such as being there if Tommy has a nightmare or Wilbur isn’t sleeping enough. They tend to recognize pretty quickly if someone is feeling down because of the 24/7 Bug Brother surveillance system buzzing around. Tubbos’ big on just hanging out with people, and even if they aren’t physically present, Tubbo will leave a swarm to be on hand with someone in case they want to talk or need something. Quality Time also feels symmetrical given The Blade is Tubbos’ foil. There's a little bit of Gift sprinkled in, such as Rhodes domesticating baby feral Tubbo via sweets and toys. Also, some Acts of Service, because what makes Tubbo start to trust Philza and The Blade is seeing how hard they worked to take care of everyone.

[stereopticons]

do you ever think about how Patrick went into his Cabaret audition looking to play the role of the Cliff who is so much like just-arrived-in-SC Patrick, who is, depending on your interpretation of the play, gay or bi or least queer on some level but is largely in the closet and still coming to terms with it himself? do you ever think about how instead, he got to play the emcee who is nearly always queer-coded and open about it and dresses in drag and is just so different than season three Patrick? do you ever think about how Moira saw that in him even as he was auditioning for Cliff? He just had such a character growth from “I’ve never done that before...with a guy” to performing in that role and it just makes me so emotional.

[hellkitepriest]

something something prostate reset button. idk ive just woken up

[scarrfaze]

the girls are fighting again

[talesofmetalandmagic]

BadThingsHappenBingo – Episode I

@badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: League of Legends (Shurima)

Characters: Emperor Omah Azir, Xerath (+ extras)

Prompt: forcibly stripped

Synopsis: Azir is kidnapped and taken to the same sandstone cave where Xerath’s father was killed during his servitude. Xerath makes it clear once and for all that Azir isn’t worthy of being called a god by removing the visual symbol of his power: his golden armor. 

Take that helmet of his, thief girl, and run as fast as you can. When I'm done with him… there will be nothing left but that. Azir clings to the last words he's heard as if to a raft. He feels like he's truly submerged in the stormy sea – he can't see anything, with that fucking hood on his head – and at every curve of the dunes he walks on he sinks on a breakwater higher than the others. Up and down, without respite. If Xerath hadn't sealed his beak he would have vomited all over himself three days ago. The changing temperature is the only way to recognize the passage of time. During the day the sun weighs on him like a leaden cloak, and he has so much sweat on his feathers that when he ruffles it off he finds even more sweat on him just from the gesture. At night a chill falls to lose his mind, and Azir is almost grateful to have to walk again, and again, and again: the constant movement helps to keep warm. Perhaps this is the punishment Xerath has in mind. Dragging him in a procession of shame around his native territory, turning his golden armor into a humiliating cilice. No way, though. He is Omah Azir, emperor by right of that same land on which he sheds blood and sweat, and Shurima itself will take her revenge as soon as he's free from that torc. May he torment him, subjugate him, have fun playing tyrant: he shall have the last word, and he'll wear that armor with the pride of his house. The days of sweat pass, and so do the nights of trembling: and finally, while Azir's bleeding paws settle on a stony and dusty ground, two hands tear the hood from his head and a sun knife burns his eyes up to the nape of his neck .

Sivir isn't there, is the first thought that crosses his mind. She must have escaped, yes. Any alternative would hurt too much, and it is not possible that his descendant is naive. May Xerath face him: he's an adversary on his level. The same man holding his hood in his hand, a burly middle-aged fellow with ashen-white eyes, rips the clamps from his beak. Azir stands firm, he will not moan in pain for that worm Xerath. He won't admit that he would give anything for a glass of water, a bite of banana and honey, just to be able to sit down. That beautiful Ascended body is not born for humiliation. And Xerath is there, lifted into the air like a comet, the chains on his formless body quivering like endless lightning. He's so close that if he were untied he could slap him. -How are you feeling, Imperial Majesty?- He seems to taste the contempt dripping from her lipless face. He can't even hate him on the same level, not Xerath: he's made up his mind that he's in charge, that he's in a position of superiority over him. Azir would spit on his face if they were on the same level. "Fine," he replies. -Better than you will be when I reach you.- -Talk, always talk. I'd shut your mouth again if it weren't more right to teach you to shut up.- -You can't silence an emperor.- Xerath throbs, the chains tremble. He can't figure out what he's thinking, without a face to look at. Xerath had beautiful eyes once. They were so black, from pupil to iris, that they seemed to be getting bigger all the time. -I'll think about it when I have an emperor in front of me. Now take off his armor. Show me the feathers.- The hand of the man with the ashen eyes moves towards the buckles of his breastplate. Azir snaps: he reaches him under the chin, with both fists, and the bones of his chin crumble under the skin against his knuckles. The man falls on his back, stiff as a boulder. A pool of blood slides down his chin, and his white eyes remain open, empty, without light. -Don't touch me!- Azir widens his eyes, bares his teeth under his beak. They're all going to end up like that: may they try, may they try to despoil the Emperor of the Sands. -No one dare touch me!- Two other men grab his arms, tug at his cloak and the flaps of feathers at his wrists. Hands go up against his legs, squeeze his thighs until they tear the skin. They don't see me, they don't realize. Azir pecks the neck of the man to his right, but his hands are gripping the fabric. He feels the grip of the cloak loosening, the armor lightning. -LET ME GO!- Two slender hands cling to her wrist, tight like the coils of a snake: then a clink resounds against the sand, and a young woman with short hair kicks her gold cuff, making it disappear in the sand. Azir lunges, claws without seeing them, pecks left and right. -I will have you all crucified, leave me!- -Oh, Azir. You still don't get it.- Xerath towers over him like an obelisk, his eyes of light curling into a smile of pure joy. -You lost.- A moment later lightning strikes: Azir has time to close his eyes before squealing.

When Azir opens his eyes, his mouth full of bile, he is floating somewhere above the men of Xerath, a foot away from the scorching sun. He opens his beak to breathe: pain pops in his ribs, neck, up and down his arms and legs. Let me go: he moves his lips, but his voice does not come out; his throat burns as if he's been screaming for a whole day. He coughs, blinks, turns his head this way and that as if he were hooded again. Ten, twenty, a hundred hands hold him up as if to carry it in triumph. His dewclaws are swollen with flesh, a drop of blood runs down his neck. He cannot see him anymore: but he's watching him, he knows it, he wants it. A gust of wind caresses Azir's face and chest, moving the feathers. The feathers… no, no. The hands that hold him slip away from under his back: Azir tenses in anticipation of the blow. His back scrapes against the sand, his head tilts back. When he touches his forehead she realizes that one wrist is bare and one cuff is undone. -How dare you…- The sand seems to slip away from under him. He gets on all fours, pulls himself to his feet without resting his knees on the ground. When he stands, claws planted so as not to fall again – an emperor on his knees, that would be all that's missing – he sees the men who dared to touch him, a perfect circle on all sides, some bleeding from their bellies, some from their limbs, a woman even from the mouth. Only the first to touch him, the one with the white eyes, lies motionless in the pool of his blood. Azir, as bad as it is, draws relief. I can still fight. Then the two before him move away from each other, and Azir sees behind them the heap of gold beside Xerath, and on its top the spread wings of his breastplate. And under the shin guards and leg loops, two hanging rags that had once been his cloak. To preserve him from nudity remain the purple under-tunic, now smeared with a disgusting paste of sweat and damp sand, and the only cuff. Azir clenches the fist he's attached to. He will fight to the last jewel, and if he loses it will be a hard-earned defeat. If they didn't have that traitor's magic on their side, he would have killed them all already, and without breaking a sweat. -I am Emperor Omah Azir, and I will fight to the last for my dignity.- -You will give that to me instead, Azir. Even that. You no longer deserve any jewels.- The wretches step aside as Xerath passes, as if he were already the emperor. Come come. You will see what awaits you. Xerath is all armor, but there is a core in the middle of the chains. He's not as smart as he thinks if he's got a weak point left. Azir hides the cuff behind his back and raises his bare hand into a dry punch. And something clicks inside Xerath.

The light burns like fire against Azir's face. He sees sky, sand, sky and sand again; and even the sand burns, scrapes against the flesh like the sharpest of knives, while he rolls against the dune and lies back with his face immersed in the dust. Get up. You can fight. Pull yourself up. The sun beats down on the feathers, but Azir feels chilled. Xerath is upon him, his chains creak, the energy where his heart used to be keeps popping in that same way. It can not be. Get up, pusillanimous wretch. Azir raises his feathered head, shakes the dust from his feathers and eyes, rubs his face with his hands – two bare hands, feathers and feathers and nothing else. It's over. The white-eyed men and women arrive shortly after, like a swarm of ants. Two of them take his limp hands like rags and lock them behind his back with heavy iron handcuffs. Others gird his ankles with a chain an arm's length, to the end of which is attached a stone the size of a watermelon. Azir drags himself into a sitting position and yanks, to the last drop. He can only tilt his head and see the tear in the undertunic, from which a few feathers dangle. My armour. He had never looked at his body without it. He looks like a hawk, but he doesn't feel like a bird of prey: he's thin, small, ragged. Wrong. -Xerath, you..- -Shh, shh. Let me look at you… - It almost seems to him that those engraved eyes widen, joyful, scrutinizing his sanded and tattered feathers as if there was nothing more beautiful in the world. -Humiliated, dirty, clad in rags. I could make statue of this, to look at you for eternity.- -That armor belongs to me.- he hates how the sand runs through his feathers, rough as a curry comb. He feels like scratching himself, but he'll hold back. He's not a flea-ridden mutt, he's an emperor. -That body doesn't even belong to you. But we've only just begun, Azir. You will have to suffer much more than a striptease in the sunlight.- Azir drags himself to his feet again. He broke a spur nail, leaning his foot on it hurts, his right arm pulls the cuff against him, and the sprout of a lump is growing at the back of his neck, but he stands upright like a worthy Emperor of Shurima and looks up at that shapeless face with all the hatred of his nakedness. -You will pay for it, Xerath. Look me in the face. I am the glory of Shurima, don't mess with me. You will pay dearly.- -I've been paying all my life, Azir. Now stop.- Xerath glows like a nova, but Azir doesn't look away. This is the last time he humiliates him like this.

[piece-of-mined]

There’s literally zero reason for me to stay alive. I wish I had the courage to kill my self. I hate myself for not even being able to go through with it. I’m a fucking coward. I’m so tired.

[spellczyker]

[platoapproved]

And that's the end of it. There's nothing else.

[sirmedicknight]

Rerise update. Issac is gone and I miss him. He spent his his screen time dissing on kanon last chapter

[alrightbuckaroo]

Happy Wednesday, everyone! Here's something from the newest chapter of something to give each other, which is now up on ao3. I tried to find something somewhat safe for work, but I don't think this was the chapter for it so yeah here's some spice, smut and the like:

Carlos' fingers tighten their grip, feeling the way TK’s body is hot and taut. Flesh stretched over bone, pulled tight and firm with longing; waiting and wanting to be made pliable.

TK releases a sharp gasp that’s born out of a mix of both pain and pleasure. Carlos’ grip weakens just slightly, though barely noticeable. TK looks down and Carlos’ eyebrows are creasing in the middle. Quietly, Carlos asks, “You okay?”

TK brings his movements to a lull, stretched around Carlos but not fully seated. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Though it's an answer, there’s an air of uncertainty laced between the words. Almost as if he’s confused as to why Carlos cares in the first place.

TK can feel Carlos’ concern covering him like a shadow. He places both hands on Carlos’ muscular thighs, digging his fingers into the tanned skin and causing a bolt of painful pleasure to strike through the other man. Carlos’ hips buck and TK welcomes the thrust, contracting his muscles and fusing the heat shared between them.

“Carlos,” TK says his name like it’s a reprimand. Carlos continues to fuck into him as he continues. “We’re fucking, not having dinner, stop worrying about, fuck —” TK’s cut off when Carlos drives into him again, this time angling his hips so he brushes against his prostate. “Pleasantries.”

Carlos goes quiet but his hips keep moving. He’s stopping himself from saying that he wishes they were having dinner. From telling TK that there’s currently a red snapper sitting in the fridge, waiting to be devoured over accidental, awkward dinner conversation.

Thanks for the tags @lemonlyman-dotcom, @paperstorm, @emsprovisions, @strandnreyes, @heartstringsduet

@eclectic-sassycoweyes, and @carlos-in-glasses as always!

No pressure tagging:

@bonheur-cafe, @herefortarlos, @reyesstrand, @lightningboltreader, @orchidscript

@your-catfish-friend, @theghostofashton, @thisbuildinghasfeelings, @whatsintheboxmh, @freneticfloetry

@fifthrideroftheapocalypse, @guardian-angle22, @honeybee-taskforce, @welcometololaland, @rmd-writes

@literateowl, @never-blooms, @basilsunrise, @tellmegoodbye and of course, here's an open tag! <3

[finalgirlsamwinchester]

"...the horror film abounds in images of abjection, foremost of which is the corpse, whole and mutilated, followed by an array of bodily wastes such as blood, vomit, saliva, sweat, tears and putrifying flesh...viewing the horror film signifies a desire not only for perverse pleasure...but also a desire, having taken pleasure in perversity, to throw up, throw out, eject the abject..." Barbara Creed, Horror and the Monstrous-Feminine: An Imaginary Abjection | Carrie (1976) dir. Brian De Palma | SPN 14.04, 'Mint Condition'

[andy-clutterbuck]

9x01 | requested by Anonymous

[aroaceleovaldez]

once again thinking about the worldbuilding in the riordanverse of "names are power" / "belief is power."

The Tri were only able to become immortal through convincing enough people to worship them that it became true. Monsters and immortals only exist through continued belief, and if enough people believe that they're dead or gone then it becomes true, like Pan. Their varied forms exist and manifest as they're believed in and called upon. Names call attention and epithets summon aspects. They're acknowledgement. Belief. Putting a name to a concept creates it as an individual.

And that's so fascinating when you start applying it to demigods. How much of their abilities are based on belief in themselves, in expectations of each other, in their parents' expectations of them? We've seen mortal figures who became immortal in some form or another because they were remembered. Even the lares - ancestral house gods, who persist because they're remembered. They have a legacy.

At what point does a demigod achieve that status? Rumors and whispers about them so persistent that they slowly become true. "I heard that Jason Grace is the son of two gods, does that make him a god?" "I heard Percy Jackson defeated a titan single-handedly. That he can create hurricanes without breaking a sweat. That he can control blood." After awhile, after enough rumors, does it become impossible to tell where they end and the legends begin? Isn't that what being a demigod is; half-legend?

[appropriatelystupid]

[so-very-small]

was going to make a poetic post about older tinies and giants but then i got caught up in thinking about giants with salt and pepper beards and now i can’t think of anything else