#and speaks the truth. you know how it is

[faksyan]

I CAN PACHISLOT HAS PRETTIER SPRITES

i cant tell pachislot and delta zero apart,,

[rubydubydoo122]

Why is it that Batman’s ok with Antiheroes if it’s Catwoman or Talia Al Ghul, but when it’s the Red Hood, suddenly he’s beating the shit out of him

~Jason Peter Todd at some point

[sallymew4]

EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOURE DOING RIGHT FUCKING NOW

EVERYBODY SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[mamawasatesttube]

kon sweetie im so fucking sorry that someone would even say something stupid like that oh my god.

[animezinglife]

Not to sound weak and basic, but I could never have been "friends" with Lucien.

I could not have been or be *just* friends with Lucien.

Feyre's built differently.

[stealingyourbones]

Gotta love when folks write Superman incredibly anti-clone even though he had good reason in the beginning to Not Like Superboy (HES A WINDOW INTO WHAT CLARK WOULD HAVE BEEN WITHOUT THE KENTS) and decide that forever on he’ll be spiteful towards clones even though he literally Does Not Care if you’re a clone unless you’re Superboy.

[rudnitskaia]

White Chrysanths for the Swallow

Rocky was waiting for her at the table at the Little Daisy, but this time he was especially eager. Even Ivy had stopped teasing him about the way he lighted up and hummed to himself as he waited for Mau to show up at the door of the café, and just smiled, refilling his coffee whenever it ran out. He almost daydreamed of handing Maura two tickets to tomorrow's musical: of her eyes sparkling, of her taking his hand and telling him he was the best in the world.

But time passed, and Mau wasn't coming.

In those few hours, Rocky had replayed the fantasy in his head hundreds of times, changing the lines and the scenery. At first, imaginary Maura was beaming with happiness, calling him affectionate names, melting in his arms like all those heroines on the stage of a musical theater in the arms of their beloved ones, but every time the fantasy became darker and darker. More disturbing. Mau no longer rejoiced, no longer smiled. Her bright lively figure was becoming more and more dim, and she more often sighed, frowned, did not accept the gift. She asked him to return the tickets, scolded him for wasting his money carelessly, told him some news, one worse than the other, and finally said she didn’t want to see him again. Never again.

It was getting unbearable to sit still, and Rocky abruptly moved away from the table, threw on his coat, and headed for the exit. Maybe a walk would clear his head a little…

“Miss Pepper, I have a very urgent task to attend to. If she shows up on the doorstep, don't let her out of here on any pretext. Lock the doors, board up the windows, show her every fashion magazine you can find, but don't let her leave here until I get back. I'm counting on your wit and exceptional charm.”

The way he looked intently into Ivy's eyes before he left looked almost threatening. He wasn't even aware of the desperation hiding behind that look. But Ivy saw it.

“Don't worry, I'm an expert at this,” she winked at him encouragingly.

The cold air blew across Rocky's face, and he shivered, pulling his scarf over his nose, the same funny skewed scarf Mau had knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes, like now, Rocky thought he could still smell on it the very same scent of coffee and pastries that wafted from the Venza family's eatery. It didn't help distract him, though. Quite the opposite. After walking a few blocks in an attempt to escape his doubts, he spotted a small flower shop — Rocky's imagination immediately conjured up a lovely picture of Maura cradling a fresh spring bouquet on this cold, cloudy evening and he didn't notice himself stepping over the store’s doorstep. The frail old woman behind the counter put aside the newspaper and immediately chirped, offering him different flowers, and finally convinced him to take a few white chrysanthemums. She tied the flowers with a delicate pink ribbon and also wrapped them tightly in the newspaper she had read before.

“They mustn't be overfrozen. Or they won't last long,” she explained sternly.

Rocky walked back much more briskly. He was warmed by the thought that now he would be able to give Mau not one surprise, but two. Hiding the bouquet from a gust of cold wind, Rocky lowered his gaze to it and pressed the flowers closer to himself… when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the headline of one of the newspaper articles.

“Shootout at the small Italian eatery Casa di Rondine shocked the residents… a bloody showdown in the neighborhood… occurred on the night… police identified the bodies of two…”

Rocky couldn't remember how he reached the familiar alleyway. How he threw the bouquet to the ground, swung over the barrier tape, and rushed to the entrance — a gaping hole instead of a small blue door. Shards of glass littered the floor, the formerly cozy, cramped hall was a real mess, the furniture was riddled with gunshots. Even the old tabletop radio was now on the floor, shattered to pieces.

“Stop right there!” a panting policeman grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “What the hell are you doing breaking into a crime scene?”

“I… uh…” in his panic Rocky couldn't think straight, but nonetheless he blurted out: “I'm from a newspaper. Wanted to visit the crime scene myself.”

“A lousy reporter you are, then. Your buddies sniffed everything around here a long time ago.”

“I was just hired today and immediately assigned to this very intriguing case. So…”

“There's nothing intriguing about it. This Bianchi guy…”

“Who?”

“The renter, Augusto Bianchi, if that's his real name at all, apparently had a huge debt to pay someone. And for that, he got pinned down. There was a scuffle in the night, at least four assailants. The two guys we found here have a couple priors, but they're not in a condition to tell us who hired them. The amount of such cold cases we have…” the man hummed and passed his hand above his head. “We've already explained it all to your fellow scribblers this morning. And I highly doubt the landlord would want to tell the same story tenth times over to another newspaper weasel. The only thing he's interested in right now is getting money from the insurance company.”

“And the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The waitress. Who worked here. What about her?”

“Considering how much blood there is, they're probably both either in a ditch, scattered in pieces, or feeding fishes somewhere at the bottom of the Mississippi… both father and daughter, if you meant her,” boredly remarked the other officer, who had quietly approached them, lighting a cigarette. “There's nothing for you to do here, boy. Henry's right — there's absolutely nothing of interest in this case. People might have chattered about it in the morning, but the very next day they'll forget all about it. Go home, don't add to our workload. And quit the paper that sent you here. If your editor doesn't realize that news like this must be broken in the heat of the moment, believe me, their business will burn out faster than a short match.”

Rocky tried to get anything else out of them, at least a little bit, to look in the kitchen of the eatery, to slip upstairs to Mau’s and Augusto's apartment, but the policemen were adamant. On unsteady legs he made it to the nearest bench and collapsed on it, staring blankly into the dark November sky. He could have screamed, could have destroyed everything around him on a single painful impulse, but the emptiness that engulfed him was far more frightening.

His silence was more frightening.

Years would pass. Would flow, as before, from night to night. The world won’t notice his loss. The world won't notice any loss at all. In the place of his beloved swallow house, other birds will build a nest. Freckle and Ivy will eventually stop opening that wound with their questions. And one day, perhaps, he will stop gazing into the crowd, hoping to find among the unfamiliar faces the features dear to his heart, and stop flinching when he hears someone say amore mio. He knows how it happens — it was not the first time. All he has to do is smile and everything will work out. It'll wear off, getting back to the way it was. One day.

But the bouquet of chrysanths will still remain rotting on the cold ground.

[evermoredeluxe]

.

[worstloki]

Fortesa Latifi, We Were Young

[the-woman-upstairs]

It’s just…so painful to watch Armand readily submit in order to obtain the love he so desperately craves. And while it’s most assuredly a manipulative tactic, it’s still one borne out of fear and desperation. He cannot lose this person he’s come to love and so will become whatever they want, do whatever they want just so they’ll stay with him. But it won’t be enough. No matter how much he acquiesces or seeks to control (himself, others, the environment), he won’t be able to make Louis stay with him in the perfect life, perfect self he built in the hopes of finally being loved. It will all crumble with Armand left alone in the rubble of what he created, the author of his own abandonment.

[shannonsketches]

you know what I take back my vegeta schitts creek headcanon, I think he's david around goku and alexis around everyone else

in my most comedic soul though he is just masc gina linetti

[wifiwuxians]

GOOD NEWS FOR SONG LAN GIRLIES (ME): Spanish novel TL did not mess up his final line! It reads more briefly and a bit more clinically than "tell him- I'm sorry, it was not your fault" (it is more like "I will apologize and tell him it was not his fault") but it has the exact same meaning and most importantly the apology is in there

IMPORTANT EDIT because I had just skimmed the line in my eagerness to know if they'd gotten it right, the perceived "clinical" brevity of "me disculparé" was in fact made up for by the beautiful "le haré saber que no fue culpa suya" which, more than "telling him it was not his fault" is "i will make him know it was not his fault". though it is just another manner of saying the same thing (not 'make' but commonly used like 'let'), to me it carries more weight than simply telling him. ahhh god

[thedrotter]

the latest teaser alongside the new version of undercover have really made the concept of haruka dying hit home... devastating 😭 how am I meant to keep going with my day if i cant listen to this boy sing about his mommy issues in that anguished voice of his. its so over💔💔💔

[nerdyspies]

current vibes im trying to give

[redux-iterum]

I had a thought, has Fireheart even talked to Brindleface about letting Cloudkit know about his kittypet origins? Fireheart just kind of promised his sister without laying out any groundwork. He never said "I'll talk to Brindeface about it" he literally just "I promise he'll know you". Does Cloudkit even want to know his bio mom? Does Brindleface want him to know? Especially given in her mind Cloudkit *is* her kit.

It's sort of an unspoken thing. Brindleface is aware that trying to hide Cloudkit's origins is going to be an impossibility - his appearance alone would make that difficult, let alone having a kittypet relative in the Clan who's notorious for not hiding difficult truths. She loves Cloudkit very fiercely and considers him her son in all but blood, but she does intend on letting Fireheart reveal that secret to him when it's appropriate. They haven't talked about it much, but since Fireheart's going to be his mentor (as was agreed upon when Cloudkit was brought in), she's willing to let him handle sharing that particular information.

[invinciblerodent]

it's like a half hour till the new episode of Vows & Vengeance releases, and I honestly feel kinda ridiculous waiting for it

i'm sitting here, idling away the time like i'm some fuckin medfant maiden who has only ever seen the portrait of her betrothed, and is now anxiously awaiting his arrival so that she may hear his voice for the first time

is he a good man? is he going to make a fine husband? i'm sure, but how can i truly be sure????