#but also. perhaps. they did fuck

[lesbiancolumbo]

listen if you think about it for more than five minutes the relationship between oliver putnam and teddy dimas on omitb is like, deeply weird and also very compelling

[mythalism]

girls when they remember that tevinter nights reveals that

1. solas can kill people in their sleep, large groups of people all at once, including dwarves, by giving them dreams so horrifying they bleed out of their ears and die

2. he has a massive network of spies and agents that do his bidding across all of thedas and speak about him with reverence like a true god. one blesses a fellow fallen elf by saying “the dread wolf guide your soul to peace, brother”

3. solas’s dread wolf form looks like a combination of a pride demon, a wolf, and a dragon, “lupine in appearance but the size of a high dragon, with shaggy spiked hide and six burning eyes like a pride demon” and he can fly around the fade on “wings of fire” that disperse into an army of demons/spirits

4. he shows up in this form to terrorize a group of mortalitasi who were binding spirits for a ritual, and says “YOU MEDDLE PAST YOUR UNDERSTANDING, FOOLISH MORTAL MAGES, AND IN DOING SO, YOU THREATEN ALL CREATION. YOU USE MY IDOL CARELESSLY TO VANDALIZE THE SEA OF DREAMS. NOW FEEL THE PAIN OF WHAT YOU HAVE CREATED. FROM THIS MOMENT, SHOULD YOU EVER BIND A SPIRIT, THEN YOUR LIFE IS MINE.”

[lucabyte]

Different standards

[claraoswalds]

It's racist, my dear, to be blunt. People come from outside, they think we're all witches and druids. For God's sake, child, you walked into a piece of string!

[gophergal]

Shout-out to women who don't shave. Y'all have the right idea cause that shit is annoying

[cowardlykrow]

“don’t lose it now, old boy.”

With @ratb4stard3

[kangtaebins]

… hi my loves, it’s been a while <3

[aardvaark]

im so glad that we never get a clear picture of sophie’s background in leverage & i hope we never do. however i also really like making up various, often conflicting backstories for her in my head. perhaps they’re all backstories for an alias of hers, ones she laid to rest back in season two.

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[housecow]

i always wonder what it’ll take for how fat i am to get acknowledged. the only time ive ever had it publicly or privately called out (besides in kink situations) was in 9th grade. i didn’t go to anime club because im not into anime (im still not) even though i told this dude i would be there lol.

he was pissed at me the next day and just mouthed the words “you’re fat” in the hallway like that would mean anything… i’ve never rlly been insulted for my weight or had it poked fun at. is it weird i want to get big enough for that to happen??

[puppetmaster13u]

DP X DC X Subnautica

Where the Justice League (mostly focusing on the Superfam or Batfam or Flashfam) are large leviathan-esque creatures living on Planet 4546B. Maybe they can change forms due to Precursor experimentation, maybe not. Those with young hang out around the shallows more than the others, what with most of them being large super or specialized predators.

Enter Danny Fenton, interning on the Aurora when the ship is shot down by the Quarantine Enforcement Platform. Oh sure he probably would have tried to stop the destruction and help, but his ghost powers are a bit on the fritz and a well-meaning worker pushes him into one of the last life pods seeing as he's a child.

Now the leviathans may not know what a ship is exactly, but they can definitely understand that in most cases things technology = precursors. As far as they understand, a metal deathtrap not unlike the old labs or caches fell alongside several metallic eggs, with the emerging hatchlings misshapen and not living long.

But then there's the egg that landed in the shallows, which at first they thought was empty. But a hatchling- much smaller than the previous ones- emerges, a day later than the rest, but they're alive even if their swimming is all wobbly! It's so tiny, and obviously hatched too early with the strange split tail and how it keeps swimming to the surface for air, and they have to protect it! Now if only the little hatchling would answer their calls and not dart into hiding spots whenever they approach...

Honestly this is up to the writer lol, but I like to think that Danny's ghost form, when he finally manages to achieve it again, goes a little naga-esque. Almost like a sea snake instead of just a whispy ghost tail, which while better for swimming doesn't help his freak out over most ghost powers still not working.

Danny is just trying to survive man, maybe find other survivors, turn off this big alien gun, stop creating frost crystals when he sneezes, the usual. He doesn't need giant humanoid-esque leviathan-sized sea creatures poking around!

[vaguely-concerned]

in his and davrin's banters, lucanis exhibits a certain little shit energy I don't think we see him have with anyone else other than illario and honestly I am living for this

[front-facing-pokemon]

[simptasia]

LOST: Season One

[xxplastic-cubexx]

My 2 favorite moments in First Class are the whole Argentina scene (uwu), and Erik jumping atop Charles and pinning him to the floor/ceiling. Like WHY DID HE DO THAT?? REALLY HIS FIRST INSTINCT TO TOP CHARLES imsorry

LISTEN we appreciate a man who sees an opportunity an takes it

[krikidilly]

In truth hes very proud of Senjuro for always trying so hard.. eventually he'll manage to say it out loud.