#and she hit him over the head for it

[wreckedandpolemic]

can i be greedy… if so i, m, o, and v for actress!au 😊

i - intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect.)

it’s not always sweet, but it is always loving. even when he’s calling you filthy, degrading names, doing whatever he wants to you while you just take it like a good girl. there’s always adoration in matty’s gaze, murmured reassurances exactly when you need them, his hands soothing even when they’re delivering stinging slaps. and, god, when you do have sweet sex… matty stares into your eyes, sharing slow, passionate kisses that drip with love as he fucks deep into you. god, i love you, he murmurs into your mouth. i love you so fucking much.

m - motivation (what turns them on, gets them going?)

he’s a love boner type of boy!! he’s genuinely gotten hard just from watching you in your element, networking smoothly at a party or gracefully wrangling reporters on the red carpet. he’s never been so glad not to be the centre of attention for once. it’s so hard for him whenever you have an upcoming movie, poor boy, starts getting turned on seeing you in trailers or on billboards because fucking hell, look at my girlfriend. can’t believe she lets me hit.

o - oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

as we all know, matty’s a munch in every universe, makes you cum on his tongue every chance he gets, sometimes at the expense of his own pleasure. but fuck if the sight of your pretty, plump lips wrapped around his cock isn’t the star of his fantasies every night. you love giving him head, making him come undone with your mouth, letting him take only what you want to give. the power is intoxicating, and you always feel like you’re winning, even when you’re the one on your knees.

v - volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc)

of the two of you, matty’s the loud one. he can’t shut the fuck up, moaning and gasping and whining constantly. and he’d probably die if he couldn’t dirty talk you while you’re fucking, moaning such a good little slut and takin’ me so well, darling and this pussy was fuckin’ made for me, right? in your ear with his hand wrapped around your throat.

matty also takes pride in breaking you, getting you to fucking scream for him, even if it takes hours upon hours. he’ll fuck you, finger his cum out of you, lick you clean, press a vibrator against your clit until you’re a twitching, whimpering mess, until you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve cum and gotten so lost in pleasure that you couldn’t even begin to curb the noises you’re making.

[starry-bi-sky]

do yall ever think about bruce/batman!clone danny standing in front of his bathroom mirror after finding out he was a clone and silently tracing his face. The slope of his jaw and point of his chin. The high angle of his cheekbones and the shape of his eyes, the curve of his brow bones and the shape of his nose. The volume of his hair and the way it curls and gets fluffy when it gets too long.

His hair is black the same way a crow's wing is black. His dad's hair is black the same way a black bear's fur is black. His dad's eyes are blue like the ocean is blue. Danny's eyes are blue the same way a glacier is blue.

His dad has a square jaw and straight flat hair, and he tans and gets a face full of freckles when he's out in the sun for too long. Danny burns like a lobster and his face remains untouched. Danny has a sharp jaw and tall cheekbones, and Sam says when he's not smiling there's almost something regal about him. You would never call Jack Fenton "regal" when he's not smiling.

Sam says when he's not smiling he looks scary the same way a stone statue is. Jack Fenton when he's not smiling looks scary the same way that german shepherd staring at you across the street is.

Do you ever think he grew up wondering if he was adopted. Because of course, he has black hair and blue eyes like his dad. But having the same color doesn't make you someone's child.

Or, worse, things he's heard from the other kids and the other parents and even some of his teachers growing up; that he was the product of an affair. And that his dad was just too stupid to notice. And Danny would defend his parents until the day he died, because Jack Fenton wasn't an idiot and Maddie Fenton wasn't a cheater.

But doubt comes in with fickle tongue. his parents swear up and down that he is their child when he asks about either. That Danny just had his grandparents' features, but he was their son and they loved him.

But Danny doesn't look like either of his parents. His mom's eyes are blue like an aquamarine and Jazz's too. And they burn like lobsters in the sun too, but Jazz gets freckles on her face and so does Maddie. And as Danny grows up he doesn't bulk up or get stocky like his dad did, and when he hits puberty he doesn't shoot up like a tree like Jack Fenton did.

He stays small, and they say he's a late bloomer (and he is), or that he just has his mom's height. But he's fast and has good stamina, and some days it feels like he's built entirely different from his family. That the things they went through growing up just didn't apply to him. Jack and Maddie Fenton both had acne and breakouts when they hit puberty, and Jazz inherits it and he's seen the amount of skincare products she keeps on her side of the bathroom.

And then he hits puberty and breaks out maybe once or twice, but his skin stays clear for the most part and the problems and changes his dad went through just don't happen to him.

And the truth is worse than all of the lies.

How horrifying.

[lokh]

also i think if roleswap laios and canon laios met theyd immediately start fighting.

[gingermintpepper]

Obsessed with the way Evadne's relationship with Apollo is described. Obsessed with the way Apollo was especially gentle with her because she was sheltered, hidden away and hadn't had any sort of experience with love prior to Apollo (and due to it being described as her 'first learning Aphrodite's joy' through Apollo', it was probably her first time even being attracted to someone). Obsessed with the way when she runs away, she stops in a violet patch to give birth. Y'know, violets, very famously the flower so strongly associated with Aphrodite that they were used in love potions? Those violets. Obsessed with the way that when Apollo realised his lover was going to have to deliver their child alone, he sent BOTH the goddess of childbirth and ALL THREE OF THE FATES to help and support her. Obsessed with the way that Apollo sends snakes to feed his baby honey straight from their fangs because Evadne abandons their son out of straight primal fear when her stepfather finds her and how the description of that honey is 'sweet venom' [ἰός] of the bees and is DEFINITELY a poetic pair/pun with [ἴον] aka violets and that every single thing about this relationship, conception and birth is a complete and utter fairytale down to Evadne's insanely overprotective stepfather having an immediate change of heart when he learned Evadne's child was an actual, legitimate Son of Apollo and the babe, after being cared for by his dad's honey-fanged snake buddies, was found perfectly healthy five days later swaddled in a blanket of violets (y'know the flowers so strongly associated with Aphrodite that they were used for lo-) and they called him Iamus aka Boy of the Violets which is AAAAAARRRR I AM GNAWING AT MY ENCLOSURE

Iamus was made of love. Everything about him was surrounded by deep and profound love and like, let's not even talk about his whole Thing of when he came of age and was like "I need to find out what my purpose is" and he literally had a Disney Protagonist moment where he ran out into the wilds and was like "Father!! Grandfather!! Tell me what I'm supposed to doooo!!" and then APOLLO FUCKING ANSWERED AND LED HIM TO ONE HIS TEMPLES ENTIRELY BY TALKING WITH IAMUS AND LETTING HIM FOLLOW HIS VOICE FOR THE WHOLE JOURNEY LIKE -

What do y'all know about the kind of SSS tier romantic escapades Apollo had fr?

[ghost-bxrd]

To fuel your JJK and Batfam crossovers, what if Jason became like what Rika is to Yuta to Dick and Bruce. They say Batman got more violent after Robin's death, and while it's true, Jason's the one who is actually almost killing them for trying to hurt Bruce in his eyes. Especially when Bane broke his back, Jason breaks every bone in Bane's body. Blockbuster bombs Dick's apartment, Jason bombs his everything, with a bomb like the one that killed him, and almost rips Catalina to pieces for what she tried to do. When Bruce steps into the JL base after Jason haunts him as a curse, Zatana and Constantine have the same reaction and fear as the second years when they saw Yuta, Raven when she sees Dick with curse!Jason. When Tim and other batfam members join the family, they also get Jason's "curse", with varying reactions. Bruce is horrified that his son would easily kill, but even worse cause it's for him, but can't bring himself to exorcise Jason. Dick as well, buts it's mixed with an awe of how deep Jason loves him. Tim is super happy with having someone who cares about him this much and will stay with him whenever he calls for it, even if the some of the love language is extreme violence towards enemies, and when Jason no diffs the LOA for Damian he feels like a king, gaining the best bodyguard that even Ra's can't harm. Bonus points if Jason appears in his human form to the Batfam unless he's angry, but others can't see him until he attacks so they're near death. And he is monstrousin this form, the same kid who cooks with Alfred in the morning can be a 10 foot tall beast when anyone threatens his family. His curse form looks like how he died, his injuries from the crowbar bleeding on display, but so much bigger with so many eyes and teeth and claws, an explosion happens every time his curse form appears. Anyway curse!Jason AU

I am on my KNEES for this idea holy shit!!!!

Anybody who’s been here long enough for eldritch!Jason and fae!Dick will know how much I love creatures with too many eyes and teeth 👁️

So let’s spin this further!!!! There’s been so many different theories of how Rika came to be and if love could truly be a catalyst for becoming a curse because humanity views love as something sacrosanct.

But the concept of “Love is the most twisted curse of all” is just— so wonderfully applicable for this scenario. Because we’ve got it confirmed time and time again that Jason is the most emotional out of the Bats. And love, in its many forms—a lot of them beautiful—also comes with the duality that can manifest as possessiveness, obsession, jealousy etc. Two sides of the same coin.

Soooooo, fast forward to Jason’s death and transformation into a cursed spirit— let’s have him come to terms with his new existence first. He’ll be scared, full of rage, full of why is this happening to me!?

And maybe for the first few weeks/months he’ll be alone, staying close to his family but trying to get a grip on how and when he appears. Figuring out his existence works, and why explosions seem to suddenly be hard wired into his very being even though, logically, he should be terrified of them.

And!!! The batfam!!!!! Jason’s watching from the sidelines of course, but Bruce operating in Gotham and Dick in Blüdhaven would usually mean that he can’t exist in two places at once. But now that he’s a curse, mere mention of his name is enough to draw Jason’s attention. One second he’ll be watching Bruce bring down a gang in the Bowery, the next he’s blowing Blockbuster and Catalina sky-high. He’s fine tuned into every single bat’s emotional state of being.

And calming him down again??? Hooooo, boy. When curse!Jason falls into a protective frenzy, it has the potential to become bad enough to wipe an entire city off the map, and only the Bats have any hope of calming him down. ((Let’s imagine a ten foot, burned monstrosity being cooed at and skillfully lulled away from the carnage by an exhausted Nightwing asking for cuddles))

(((The Justice League keep urging Bruce to do something about Jason, but all the protectiveness goes both ways: the batfam are NOT losing Jason again.)))

[nadiajustbe]

Random Pendragon family concept idea: since Morgan's magic is really, and by this I mean really unstable, it's was pretty hard time to get him playing with toys. Mostly because every magic-based toy they buy in Ingary ends up being affected by Morgan's even more powerful magic, causing it to break, or multiply or start flying across the room unconditionally (remember the story with toy horses in HoMW? This, but 24/7 and ten times more loud)

The only solution for this problem — gratefully presented byHowl, because who else — was sneaking children's toys from Wales until the time Morgan grows up old enough to control at least the smallest part of his powers. This decision was made because things frow "Howl's world" are generally less affected by magic. (mechanics and magic do not mix much, as to use magic you have to break all the laws of physics mechanics works on, and to do mechanics you have to refuse all the magical manner). Also they're rather easy to navigate and much easier to control.

At least Howell thinks so. Sophie, quite the contrary, keeps bumping on them, pushing buttons accidentally over and over (see, the toys she had didn't have any buttons) and cursing their "strange Welsh power" to the point they start disappearing from the house. Wether Sophie charms them to disappear or simply throws them out the window, no one knows. She doesn't say.

Morgan absolutely loves his toys, though. Although he thinks it was much funnier when they could fly — higher and higher.

[gayvecchio]

Frannie, you are in over your head. Meaning? Meaning, guys like him don't marry girls like you. That's fairy tale. And girls like you get hurt, and guys like him don't even know it, and that's life.

[vacantgodling]

HE WHO SMITES THE SUN : Dori-Tsokhizhemasonen

CHAPTER 1: SANO'NYON KI MANYENYA (The Rain Dance)

The light of the bonfire was so bright, that even standing atop of the outside wall of their ancestral city, far removed from the center of their encampment where it blazed, Tsokhizhe could still see it. The flecks of stray warmth and light traced its paws against his dark skin, still drawing him into its orbit. The flames rose higher than they would ever dare at a normal pyre, but tonight was a special night, and so special exceptions were made. Every clan and tribe south of the Gingi’nga Nanmoso would be celebrating tonight; there would be no need to worry about an attack, safe within their wall with guards like Tsokhizhe to keep it. There was a mysticism in the air tonight—one that made the flame’s reds closer to oranges, and oranges closer to white; and the colors danced, interlocked and interwoven against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. Music and laughter fueled the mirthful, heady flame, up to the very heavens above where the Affinities, named and unnamed, lie; surely enjoying the spectacle. It was a celebration worth the ages, and then some, better yet than any they had before.

Yet, unsurprisingly, Tsokhizhe was purposefully left out of the festivities. While other guards may have traded posts with one another to each take their turn at the pyre, the dances, or the feast; he was not permitted; despite being the Khoda’s own eldest child. However, he was used to this. His mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadeno, approached him with quiet steps at his lone hut—sequestered away from the rest of the clan’s residential huts, or the nobles grand estates; hidden in the overcast of their city’s walls—just before dawn had risen that morning. Her face was hardened, yet there was no other expression he was used to from his mother. When she spoke, her words burned, with quiet disgust barely hidden on her tongue:

“You are to be stationed at the Eastern Gate tonight.”

Tsokhizhe quickly got out of bed, still in his sleep-dress, and knelt at her feet, his head bowed respectfully to the earth. “Yes, Khoda’nga.” He said, devoid of all inflection. It was hard to be hurt by something he already knew was coming. When he was a child and first took watch-duty during this festivity, he hadn’t understood why he was not allowed to join. But now, he knew, even if no one said. He knew it in the way that his parents avoided him, the way other Kori and Dori avoided him, how even those of the diminutive gender would not meet his eye when he walked past. Every meal he took alone, hunted by his own hand. Every mission he braved alone, only speaking to his father for duty and his mother for instruction; never an affectionate word or hand given to him. These sins he bore, and wore, not with pride but obligation. 

“Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen, do not disobey me.” His mother scolded. Even his name: She Who Smites The Sun, spoke of this great transgression of his: his very birth, under the most evil of all nights, and that omen of misfortune would forever follow him, to the rest of his days.

“You are to be alone and you are to stay away from the festivities. Do you understand this?” 

“Yes, Khoda’nga.” If Tsokhizhe could bow his head lower, he would. He could feel his mother’s steely gaze lie upon his back for a moment too long, then she finally turned on her bare heel, whisking herself away towards the main grounds. Still, out of a long borne habit, Tsokhizhe stayed that way, waiting until he no longer heard the pad of her feet against the ground before he allowed himself rise. 

The Eastern Gate was the furthest away from the festivities of the night. It is why, whenever they were short on guards, he was stationed here. Even the guards did not meet his eyes, and instead kept their gazes turned away towards their mounts, or their sword hands that always rested just so on their scabbards when he passed. They were ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice, he knew. But he did not bow his head in defeat, nor shame. He only bowed to his Khoda, and father, Dori-Darada’ngomakhadzonki—Chief, He Who is Master of Mounts; his mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadenomanyozhango—Chieftess, She Who Guards The Store; to his younger sister if their parents bore witness to an interaction; Kori-Chazomakenan’nyopinyi—She Who Breaks the Dying Season’s Song; and most of all to the power of the Affinities named, and unnamed, who lorded above all. He may be cursed, and he was not proud, but Tsokhizhe knew better than to show weakness. If his mother taught him anything, it was to bear your sins for they define you and it is folly to expect another to bear that burden in your stead.

Still, watch duty was Tsokhizhe’s least favorite occupation. He would rather be hunting—out in the far off fields away from the reminders of his misdeed and the ire of his betters. But kenan’nyo had fully set in now—the nights were long, and the frost had begun to pepper the ground with its kisses of chill. The store was full and there was no need to go out—only perhaps, for water runs. But even that had been circumvented by the canal that as of last year had been finally completed. Now, freshwater flowed through their ancestral streets, confining Tsokhizhe more and more to these walls of clay and mortar.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure coming to approach him until a friendly hand tapped his shoulder. Tsokhizhe was long practiced in never startling—and he was thankful he hadn’t—the moment he recognized Yanyado, the shorter man was immediately throwing his arms around Tsokhizhe in a hug, a joyous cry of  “Sonenko!” leaving his lips. The momentary discomfort at the ko at the end of the fond name, did not stop Tsokhizhe from putting his arms around Yanyado in turn.

Yanyado—or, Yanyanagape’nyodo, Moon Crier— was his closest friend—only friend. And despite their friendship spanning for nearly two decades, Tsokhizhe still had never become accustomed to the affection that his friend handed out in doles. Yanyado was the only one who never besmirched him. Why Tsokhizhe never knew. But even if they were from totally different worlds—with Tsokhizhe being a Kori, and Yanyado being of a lower gender, nevermind the omen that hung about Tsokhizhe like a frightful, impenetrable cloak; he never seemed to mind this. Like the sun, Sonen, and the moon, Yanya, the two of them were inseparable and complementary, and despite his mother’s warning from this dawn, Tsokhizhe still found some part of himself happy to see him.

“How did you find me here?” Tsokhizhe asked when they pulled apart. 

“Your mother always stations you here when she does not wish for anyone to find you.” Yanyado’s voice was coy. “She is not as subtle as she thinks.” He said so conspiratorially, as though it were a lighthearted and playful secret between friends but instead a lump of basalt lodged itself in Tsokhizhe’s throat; he nodded along. “I see.” 

“Don’t look so sullen!” Yanyado lightly punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Tsokhizhe nodded, but he could tell that his expression must still be far away since a frown pulled over his friend’s features. “I know what will cheer you.” From the folds of his brightly colored parka, he pulled out a wrapped cloth. “Take it, take it!” He urged, holding it out to him. Eventually, when Yanyado did not pull his hand back, Tsokhizhe took the proffered parcel. It was warm to the touch, and the sweet smell of freshly cut herbs and flowers, rolled in sweet dough hit his nose. He had not eaten anything since sunrise, after his mother visited him and informed him of his disinvite, he charred one of the rabbits he felled the day before, gnawing on its grisel, then armed himself for the day’s activities—namely, to make himself scarce. His stomach growled, but still he could not bring himself to unwrap the parcel.

Yanyado noticed his hesitation. “I will be upset if you do not eat it. After all the work I put in to make it, I would hope you appreciate it, Sonenko.”

Something that could have been a smile tugged onto Tsokhizhe’s face, and he slowly unwrapped the cloth. “You made this?” Yanyado puffed his chest out, beaming. This made the traces of a smile that tried to bloom fully blossom on Tsokhizhe’s face. “My Yanyado does not know how to cook. Are you sure you aren’t a sopiro?”

Sopiros—fables told by parents to scare their children into behaving. People who denounced the order of things, such as the genders assigned to yokhe’nyo and kenan’nyo, who believed themselves mighty enough to hold even a speck of power that the Affinities wielded. Outsiders, hated by everyone, and shunned from all the Southern Tribes; forced to wander the wilderness unto the end of their days. Even if they warred amongst each other for resources, hunting routes, ancestral cities and land—they all agreed that sopiros were not to be trusted. 

Tsokhizhe himself, perhaps in another life, could’ve been a sopiro. He wondered it when he was small; and he heard snatches of stories around the campfire of those treated just as he. But try as he might, no otherworldly confidence came to him. No sparks of affinity flew from his fingertips or burned strong in his chest. And after the first time he was discovered and was beaten for it—he tried no more. It was then that Tsokhizhe learned that sopiros could not be feared; it was those who feared them who posed the real threat.

“Do you really think a sopiro could be so handsome as I?” Yanyado asked indignantly; but the jest was heard in his light tone. “But furthermore, I have the burns on my hands to prove my labor for you.” Yanyado held his hands out in the far off light of the bonfire, and even further light of yanya and the stars that attended it—there, on his forefinger and his thumb, Tsokhizhe saw the telltale angry welts from a few burns from a hot iron pan.

“Yanyado.” He tsked, but it was fond. “You ought to be more careful. For my sake.” He added when he noticed Yanyado’s mouth open to protest. He tucked the parcel of food underneath his arm to take Yanyado’s hand into his own. There wasn’t much he could do to heal the burns, but he did still rub them between his hands, the cooling of his skin hopefully a balm to heal it. Yanyado smiled—he was always smiling around Tsokhizhe. Tsokhizhe still hadn’t learned what fondness to his friend he held, but it did warm something broken in him. 

“For my sake, my burns will be for nothing if you don’t eat.” Yanyado reminded him. Tsokhizhe gently let go of his friend’s wrist, and finally took a bite from the doughy treat. It melted in his mouth and the taste of lemongrass and chamomile danced along his tongue. He hummed appreciatively, but before Yanyado could say more off in the distance, the songs began to grow louder, as though every voice in their clan were joining as one to cry out to the heavens their thunderous, joyous celebration. They both turned their heads. After a moment of listening, Yanyado’s eyes lit up, recognizing the melody.

“They must be doing the Sano’nyon Ki Manyenya.” Yanyado held out his hand invitingly, the beads of the colorful bracelet around his wrist jangling just as joyfully as the sound. Tsokhizhe… hesitated.

“I… do not know the steps.” He slowly admitted. 

“I know you do!” Yanyado replied. He didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed Tsokhizhe’s hand anyway. The wall was too narrow to do the dance properly, and Tsokhizhe really did mean it when he said he didn’t know it—at least, he didn’t know the ko part; the follow. They bounced together awkwardly trying to find the faint rhythm’s steps, and it was everything Tsokhizhe could do to try and keep with his do’s lead. Their hands were tangled awkwardly together; just as their feet marched arrhythmically in place. Tsokhizhe’s scimitar bounced at his hip and the jangle of the ties and beads of its scabbard just added to the confusion. At last Yanyado gave up and released him with a breathless laugh. 

“You have two left feet, Sonenko! I have not danced the steps that badly since my mother showed me how nearly a decade ago!” 

If his dark skin would allow him to blush, perhaps Tsokhizhe would’ve; but not of embarrassment but shame. The only part of the Rain Dance that he knew was the lead—the do. That is what he taught himself, observing from a closer wall station as a child; when he was yet too young to be fully left alone but still wholly excluded from the festival’s activities. He’d returned to his little far off hut at the end of the night and while all the tribe slept, whisper sang the words that had entranced him all evening until his voice went hoarse:

Ki yin nana ma’sen

I do not talk much

Ranmi renin ke petono’ni sikhona’nyo

But the rhythm knows my desires

Manyenya naro ke, ki’ngi da zhazhana

Watch me dance and I will show you

Nimon da soson da ki’ngi chon

If you leave I will follow

Nimon da kasachi pon ke, ki’ngi zhino dechi soson da

If you tell me to stay, I will never leave you alone

Nimon da sano’nyo ki’ngi yangipan

If you are water then I will drink it

Sano’nyon-ki’chi. Ki’ngi yangipan. Ki’ngi yangipan.

It’s raining. I will drink. I will drink.

“I’m sorry.” Tsokhizhe could hardly find it in himself to make his voice louder than a whisper. Even in his mirth, Yanyado was still attendant to his friend; a frown pulled down over his round, heart-shaped face, and he stepped into Tsokhizhe’s space, pushing his friend’s twisting blue locs away from his eyes.

“Old friend, you have nothing to apologize for!”

“You believed in me, and I failed.” It was childish, how much the thought of failing Yanyado hurt to admit—but Tsokhizhe admitted it anyway because he was not proud. He was honest. But Yanyado wouldn’t have it. He quickly reached for Tsokhizhe’s cheeks, squishing them together until Tsokhizhe tore his golden hazel eyes from the space between their shoes. 

“To not know is to partake in the joy of learning.” Yanyado was always wiser than his youthful face would suggest. He squished Tsokhizhe’s cheeks harder. “And anyway. If you wanted to dance the do part, why did you not tell me?” 

Tsokhizhe felt as naked as the day he was born. “Wh… Why would you assume that?”

“You didn’t deny it, no?” Yanyado smiled cheekily. “And anyway, we kept messing up because you stepped the same ways that I was. I hop right, and you hop right with me. You must know enough of the dance to know do hops right, unless you knew not at all, where perhaps you would only stare at me.” 

“I would not stare.” Tsokhizhe sputtered.

“You stare during every other festival that I have seen!” 

“And when have you seen me during other festivals?” Tsokhizhe countered—a fair question. Now it was Yanyado’s turn to look bashful, but it too seemed borne out of shame rather than embarrassment. 

“I have sought you out, on occasion.”

“Perhaps?” Tsokhizhe asked, and Yanyado nodded, confirming it. “Why have you not approached me until now?”

“Our Khoda—”

“I understand.” Tsokhizhe didn’t want to hear anymore. Tomorrow would still come, and he would face it as he had faced any other day.

“Would you like to try leading me?”

“I would not want you to disgrace yourself.” Tsokhizhe grunted. The music from the pyre had finally died down, and with it, the flames, as their stokers departed, perhaps to the awaiting feast. The warm glow that touched and glimmered on every far off rock and blade of grass outside of their ancestral walls, was now bathed in the serene light of yanya. It was too dark for Tsokhizhe to see Yanyado’s expression.

“You are above me, Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen.” Tsokhizhe winced when Yanyado used his full name—even if it were true. “That I should lead you at all is not fair to you. Ki’ngi chon da.” I follow you.

Tsokhizhe pulled away from his friend, turning his back to both him, and their city. He looked out into the night; willed it to swallow him. “The feast has begun, and I would not wish you to miss your meal.” 

“Just one verse.” Yanyado held out his hands again, palms flat and inviting. But Tsokhizhe did not turn back to his friend; he was not weak. He crossed his arms over his chest until Yanyado finally sighed and began his descent down the wall—back to the rest of the clan, where he belonged. Tsokhizhe belonged here. Guarding him. Them. From those like him, who would expect others to bear their burden.

[fairyroses]

requested by @lexkent: the scene in "Shattered" where Lana sees Lex on the ground in the stable sitting curled into himself, and she looks anguished to see him in such a state, and she's so kind and compassionate to him

+ bonus Lana, after literally almost dying:

[fromtheseventhhell]

"You stupid," she told him, "you scared the baby," but Jon and Robb just laughed and laughed, and pretty soon Bran and Arya were laughing too. (Arya IV, AGOT)

--

You be quiet, stupid," the girl said, tossing her own branch aside. "It's just water. Do you want Old Nan to hear and run tell Father?" (Bran III, ADWD)

Arya and Lyanna even having similar speaking mannerisms is so adorable 🥹

[juliets-roller-derby-awesomeness]

For the ao3 ask game :)

🍄 ⇢ share a head canon for one of your favourite ships or pairings

aaaa i have so many! here's one for each of my couples in psych

shawn & juliet:

shawn hides her makeup the day after so she can't hide her hickies.

gus & shawn:

they are both fundamentally opposed to labels. they never even talk about it, just tell people they're best friends and if anyone questions them they say their besties and they are. besties that have kissed and not just on a dare? yes. besties who adopted a dog together? yes. besties who lay all over each other while doing connections (well, gus does connections while shawn points out unhelpful observations in between rounds of maden)? yes. but they're not dating. they've never had """the conversation""" because both of them are just happy like this :)

juliet & carlton

qpr vibes only, but carlton is the little spoon and juliet brings it up in conversation with other people in a code only he knows to tease him ex: "yeah no he always goes in front of me... in crime scenes"

shawn & carlton:

low hanging fruit but they started as fuck buddies and still only say each others' last name in bed

[introspectivememories]

roger who's nickname for buggy was "junebug" cause they found him in june and his hair is the same color.... buggy who hates it at first until he's climbing into his captain's bed at night bc of a nightmare and his captain says ever so softly, "oh junebug, c'mere"..... the nickname getting adopted by everyone on the crew until nobody calls him buggy anymore..... them meeting up with thr whitebeard pirates and getting irrationally jealous when the whitebeards use the nickname bc that's their nickname and who the fuck do these people think they are getting so close to their junebug.... rouge who has never met buggy calling him junebug in her head.... roger whose last words to buggy that fateful day before loguetown was "you shine like the sun, junebug. never stop"..... buggy who waits for years after the execution for a call from one of his former crew members, hoping every time the den-den one day it'll be rayleigh or seagull or gaban or sunbell on the other side with a familiar "hey junebug", except no one ever calls and the years go by and buggy slowly learns to stop waits, and gives on being the roger's junebug and learns how to be buggy the clown, buggy the genius jester, buggy the immortal, everything and anything other than junebug

[possamble]

AHA thank u i was mostly just. frantically pulling the "no hetero" card bc farcille is super super always endgame for me and the "marcille has two hands" thing is absolutely not for me and my personal characterization of marcille

i like. can't find it anymore for some reason but there was a farcille fic set just after the shuro confrontation where laios reaches over to hold marcille's hand and ask her if she likes him or if she's just tolerating him too and it was so. the vulnerability. the puppyness.

that safety and security he must feel in knowing that she wears her heart on her sleeve and he will always know when she's unhappy with him because she will absolutely let it be known. the way that falin's first revival was the turning point for the way he felt about her because, for the first time in his life, protecting falin wasn't something he had to shoulder alone. there was finally someone else who cared about her as much as he did (in his eyes, resenting his parents for failing to protect her) and would stop at nothing to save her. the way it must have been proof for him that, not only was falin not alone anymore, he wasn't alone anymore.

idk why i like rather than dislike the fact that his only framework for parsing how he feels about "the first girl other than his sister that he's ever cared this much about" is a comphet romantic lens. like he would have the autism moment of fully assuming that he's in love with her for a while and just like. not? doing anything about it? because he doesn't feel the urge to, nor is he sad that he knows marcille would mostly likely never "feel the same way" about him?

like. he "figures out" that he's "in love with marcille" with all the passion of printing out a label and sticking it onto a favourite scrapbook for organizational purposes. he's equally happy to be her husband or brother-in-law so long as it means she stays close and is part of his family.

i know logically i should hate it but it's sooo crunchy to me. my comphet besties ever. designated plus one and dance partner to all fancy and formal occasions. having actual real chemistry but the "romantic" part of it is some weird shapeshifter smokescreen. augh

[starryluminary]

Do I have enough concrete evidence to claim Lindsay has prosopagnosia. All I’ve got right now is it’s the only reason that makes sense to me why Lindsay can’t remember Tyler’s Tyler in world tour. What if she literally can’t remember his face

[camellcat]

I can't stop thinking about trans masc spike. I don't know what fucking worms in my brain are causing this but ever since that article I read about genderqueer spike I can't. I can't watch school hard and not think about it. he comes into frame and I can see the article all over again like an afterimage burned onto the screen. ftm spike. drusilla don't gaf she already knew before he did. do you think angelus uses his correct pronouns

[batemanofficial]

my mother is going to be home for a full week instead of the 3 days i was originally told. i will be seeing nosferatu back to back to back from 12/25 on until i am forcibly removed from the premises