#from write-it-motherfuckers

[bliss-unmuzzled]

Vader: I thought you'd be taller.

Luke: And I thought you'd be less of an asshole. Looks like we're both full of disappointments.

[rizaposting]

He's never allowed to move again. Trapped forever. Legend has it he's still in bed with his wife and dog to this day.

[soupinaboot]

Do you think Batman ever just casually drops the most insane lore to people at random like it's nothing? Cause I do.

[write-it-motherfuckers]

Person A: “Do you always have to spit out some dumb one liner every time you take down one of the enemies?”

Person B: “It’s part of my charm.”

[nashvillethotchicken]

If I had a nickel for every time a member of young money started wylin out for no goddamn reason this year I'd have 3 nickels, which isn't a lot but goddamn control your people

[somewhere-in-the-rain]

“Violet is a truth-sayer because Xaden can’t lie to her”

Yeah, whatever. Xaden has lied to her. When he told her he had no intention of falling for her over and over again. When he said she was the last person he’d want bonded to him. When he said he was perfectly in control of his emotions around her. Call them exaggerations if you like, but technically they are lies.

“Well the signet hadn’t manifested yet” Ok, well tell me why Xaden saying “I can’t lie to her” in the Fourth Wing bonus chapter is apparently foreshadowing, then? Why can the evidence suit your theory, but not my counterargument?

Don’t even get me started on the constant lying by omission. Not telling her about the venin or his second signet or the deal with her mother. He didn’t lie, but he also did not tell her the truth. The signet is called ‘truth-sayer’, not ‘lie-preventer’.

If you couldn’t tell, I am not a fan of the truth-sayer theory.

[madaqueue]

Another Year Older

pairing: choso kamo x f!reader

themes/content: language, fluff. smoking, kissing, pet names (babe, baby), choso gets a tattoo of your name. 18+, MDNI

word count: 1.3k

a/n: happy birthday to me here’s some fluffy choso content as a treat :)

The soft sounds of birds chirping outside your window registers in your ears as you slowly awake to the feeling of warm arms wrapped around your body. As you reach up to rub sleep out of your eyes, the man beneath you stirs, adjusting his hold to rub your back.

“G’morning babe,” he yawns through a stretch, his morning voice soft and deep. “Happy birthday,” he says, placing a kiss on your forehead.

A smile forms on your lips as you tilt your head up to face him, his eyes low as the morning sun casts a soft glow over his cheeks. “Good morning, Cho,” you murmur, leaning up to press your lips against his. Pulling away, you place gentle kisses along the tattoo that covers the bridge of his nose, making his face scrunch up from your breath tickling his skin.

His arms tighten around you as he pulls your body on top of him, holding you against his chest. “Your presents are out in the living room,” he says softly, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you grin, kissing his temple.

You never much cared for your birthday, the day serving mostly as a reminder that your life was passing you by, another year gone. Even when you were younger you felt this way, surrounded by others at the parties your parents put on for you, the gifts and cake and balloons covering the tables only left you feeling melancholy. It was too complex of an emotion to explain at the time, but as you grew up, you finally named the dread that filled your body each year on this day. That is, until you met Choso.

You met on your eighteenth birthday, one you had tried to opt out of celebrating by telling your family you had plans with friends and friends you had plans with family. Instead, you acknowledged your official entry into adulthood by biking to the gas station near your house and buying a lottery ticket and a pack of cigarettes. With your newfound tokens of maturity in the pockets of your dirt-stained overalls, you walked to the nature reserve behind the gas station. The gravel path was lined with tall, unkempt grasses surrounding the murky ponds, benches spaced intermittently along the trail. When you decided you had sufficiently separated yourself from any other sign of civilization, you pulled the carton of cigs out of your pocket and put one between your lips.

Shit, you think to yourself as you fumble through your pockets. Of course you forgot to buy a lighter. An ironic chuckle is forced from your throat at the realization; leave it to you to manage to fuck up celebrating your own birthday.

Your gaze shifts up from the ground to search for a place to sit down when you’re suddenly met with a man on the bench in front of you. His dark hair was tied up in buns, black fringe barely covering his sunken eyes. A tattoo bridged the top of his nose, his head tilted down and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jean jacket. You freeze in your tracks, the sound of your shoes halting garnering his attention as he looks up at you.

His tired eyes slowly worked their way up your body until they met yours, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Need a light?” he asked, his voice smooth and low.

You nodded, almost forgetting what you came here to do as you carried yourself over to him. Sitting next to him, his smell was intoxicating, a mix of smoke and spice that made you feel warm inside despite the cool spring air. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it, the flame igniting as he brought it to the cigarette still hanging in your mouth.

The end burned bright red as you inhaled, smoke filling your lungs. A cough erupted from your chest at the sensation, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. So much for a good first impression, you thought to yourself as you desperately took in sharp breaths.

The man next to you chuckled, something that would have normally felt so demeaning but from him felt kind. “First time?” he asked, turning his head to face you.

“Mhm,” you choked out, “turned eighteen today, figured why not.”

“Shit,” a lopsided grin forming on his lips, “happy birthday.”

Something about his smile had you blushing, warmth rushing to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you breathed out. Without understanding exactly why, you took the lit cigarette between your fingers and held it out to him, wanting to share this moment with the stranger next to you. He took it and inhaled easily, embers forming along the end as he exhaled a small trail of smoke from his lips.

A breeze suddenly passed through the trees, chilling you to your core as a shiver went up your body. Without a word, the man next to you pulled his hands out of his pockets and wrapped them around yours, sharing his warmth with you. “I’m Choso,” he said, smoke still passing between his lips as his hands held yours.

From that moment, you couldn’t forget about him, and he quickly became a constant in your life. Within months you had practically moved in together, drawn to one another by a silent understanding that even when no one else could accept who you were, the two of you would always be there for one another.

And ever since that day, Choso made a point to celebrate your birthday. Each year he quietly and thoughtfully showed his love for you, making you feel seen and appreciated in a way that only he could.

The gentle feeling of his fingers along your spine brings you back to reality as he kisses the space above your collarbone, breath hot against your skin.

“I know,” he mumbles, “I just love you s’much, I had to get you something.”

“Thank you, Cho,” you murmur, running your hands through his shoulder-length hair.

“I, um…” he trails off, grateful you aren’t able to see his cheeks begin flushing as he buries himself further into your shoulder, “I also got you something else…not in the living room.”

Tilting your head slightly, curiosity piqued, you wait for him to explain further. He pulls his away from your body slightly so you’re face to face as he looks up at you. One of his hands moves from your back to his face where he places his thumb against the middle of his lower lip. Applying a bit of pressure he pulls the plump skin down, revealing dark lettering against the red of his mouth.

As your eyes scan over it, you recognize the shape of the linework. “Choso is that…is that my name?”

Still unable to meet your eyes, he nods. “I just wanted to show you how much I love you, in a way only you will see,” he explains, releasing his hand from his mouth. “I’m yours, I have been from the day we met, and I always will be.”

“Baby,” you sigh, a smile forming on your lips, “I love it. I love you.”

His dedication to you, his love, now physically manifested before you. To him, he is yours in every way, this tattoo serving as proof of how deeply the two of you are intertwined.

You lean forward, lips crashing against his. As he opens his mouth, your tongue moves between his lips, sliding down to feel the slightly raised ink of your name. His hands return to your hips and back, tethering you to each other.

Pulling away for only a moment, he looks up at you with adoration in his eyes.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

[stellisketches]

if any character in Diaries deserved to have a gun it was Hayden motherfucking Zvahl. That man was from medieval-fantasy florida in the middle of the bumfuck swamp with gators and hellrats and a psychotic perpetually-hammered chicken man and had to put up with more bullshit in however-many-months than a majority of the characters did throughout the entire series, including but not limited to his husband getting shot, a punk ass twink trying to take control of the town, his daughter disappearing, Castor in general, his son dying in the nether, his son getting revived in the nether as a fucked-up hell knight, his daughter moving away five minutes after she randomly showed up again, being betrayed by his guard who is also a shadow knight, getting kidnapped and beat within an inch of his life, finding out his daughter had magicks and was attempted-sacrificed to open a nether portal like 200 feet away from his village, having said village later literally razed to the ground, fighting in a war, and having your son disappear off the face of the earth never to be seen again. All I'm saying is that he deserved to have a gun to shoot any and all things that slightly inconvenienced him after chugging whiskey and smoking 5 packs of cigarettes a day to keep himself from finally snapping and stabbing someone to death with a table leg. Plus it just fits his aesthetic.

[svtskneecaps]

lukewarm take of the evening: y'all care too much about being ""outdated"". fellas this smp moves inhumanly fast. it is ok to CHILL holy shit CHILL. y'all are like "(posts BANGER ART) super late guys sorry" friend i am hitting you with a blanket i am snapping you with my metaphorical towel WHAT DO YOU MEAN SORRY. "(posts BANGER FIC) rip this is outdated now" WHO CARES???? I LOVE YOU, OK. ohhhh woe is us as the fandom at large for having MORE HAPPY PILLS ARC CONTENT oh no how outdated!! how could you be writing speculative fiction about how forever felt during happy pills :( slash SARCASM!! WHAT DO YOU MEAN!!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BANGER ARCS, WHAT, YOU THINK WE'RE COMPLAINING????? FOR GETTING MORE OF THE CONTENT WE LOVED????? oh no we're past the period where everyone thought green gay ninjas were like Dead Dead, my work is now outdated and noncanon :( WDYM. GIMME. A BANGER IS A BANGER IDC IF IT TAKES THREE MONTHS. you think rome was built in a day?? fuck you, baltimore, GIMME. my ass has been cooking a goddamn backflipo family fic since july when it was ALREADY outdated do you think i fear god??? "oh no, you're making an edit of slime's (attempted) egg murdering spree?? how could you, that was months ago it's irrelevant" SAID NO ONE EVER.

save your wrists kidlings ok carpal tunnel is no joke. CHILL!!!!! CHILL!!!!!!!! TAKE YOUR TIME SHEEEEEESH OK LOVE YOU <3

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

THE WEBSITE JUST UPDATED.

There's subtle changes, but there are commands scattered all across Welcome Home, including the home page.

ohhhhhhh what the FUCK

[leupagus]

Half of this fic is just me looking for more excuses to put in all the cool women that the show wrote out

Still working on the next chapter for the GOT rewrite from hell, but I had to write a little about how the fuck menstruation works in Westeros (other than "oh you can get married now!" which I refuse to believe is the norm) and also to introduce the Sphinx:

The next morning, Shireen woke up to find blood on her shift and a sharp sort of twist in her stomach, as though she'd swallowed a molten pin. The blood came out easily enough, with frantic scrubbing in the basin, but the pain grew over the course of the morning.

"It's your flowering," said Maester Alleras briskly, when she went to him in a tightly-controlled panic. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen," said Shireen, realizing the date. Her nameday had passed two weeks ago.

"And what do you know of flowering?" he asked, smiling slightly at her blush. "Forgive me, but Northerners have queer ideas of teaching their children about these matters. I do not wish to presume your level of education."

"I know it can last for a week or more," Shireen said, thinking of Mother's cycles, how she would confine herself to her rooms to endure the pain in solitude and prayer. "It's very painful and disgusting, but it allows me to bear my future husband's children and therefore is a gift from the gods."

"Hmm. Well, that is what you were taught, at least," grunted the maester. He got up from his desk, rummaging through the cupboard behind him. He was a tall, skinny young man with the deep brown skin and tightly-coiled hair of a Summer Islander, and shared their fondness for brightly-colored nails: they seemed to dance along the shelves until he plucked out a jar and presented it to her with a flourish. "This will help with the pain, and stop the bleeding after this cycle. People of the North use it a great deal."

"Is it moon tea?" Shireen asked, taking it gingerly and wondering at Maester Alleras's use of the term Northerners, which sounded different from People of the North. Perhaps in the Summer Isles, everyone on Westeros was a Northerner. "Why do they use it so much here?"

"It is," he confirmed, "and as for why..." He shrugged. "I've only just arrived in Winterfell, you understand, and as you may have guessed—" this said with another smile— "I was born elsewhere. But from what I've gathered, they must be careful when they have children. The North can only feed so many."

Shireen thought of Fire & Blood, which Father had read to her as a child. The Winter Wolves had been a company of Northerners, who had answered Lord Cregan's call to fulfill the Pact of Ice and Fire with Rhaenyra Targaryen. They'd been greybeards who had knowingly marched to their deaths, for such was the custom of the North back then: at the start of each winter, the old men of each keep and castle and holdfast would choose amongst themselves who would go out into the snows. Some would return home in the spring, having endured the cold or escaped it to find their fortunes in southron lands; most would not.

"Put a thimbleful of this into whatever tea you like best," Maester Alleras continued, gesturing at the jar, his fingernails catching the light as it streamed into the rookery. "Once a day, and come back when you need more."

"Shouldn't I ask—" Shireen bit her lip.

But the maester caught her meaning; his eyes narrowed. "Shouldn't you ask your parents? Yes, I suppose you should. But they should be here to be asked, and they should have told you the truth."

"What's the truth?" Shireen asked, instead of admitting that Mother and Father had never told her anything about it. She couldn't imagine either of them even mentioning the subject. All her information had come from books, or from Mother's complaints.

"The truth is that if a cycle is painful and lasts for a week or more, that is the sign of an illness, not the will of a god. The truth is that you may well find it disgusting, but it is merely something our bodies do and should never be a source of disgust or shame to you or anyone else." He glared, though it did not seem directed at her. "And as for 'bearing your future husband's children,' the truth is that they are your children, just as much as his — indeed more so, unless he carries them about for the first nine months after their birth. But you will not be a woman grown for at least another two years, and any man who wishes you to bear children until at least that time is unworthy of your hand or your love." He sat back down, his half-dozen maester's links chiming musically. "Now run along, little princess."

Lady Sansa was just outside the door, with her brother beside her. "See, I told you she smelled funny," Rickon said triumphantly.

Shireen scowled at him. "Shut up." It was kind of him, she supposed, to have worked out that something was wrong and to wait for her outside the maester's chambers. But Rickon Stark was the sort of friend who was difficult to be grateful for.

"Yes, please do, Rickon," Lady Sansa said, pressing a businesslike kiss on the crown of Rickon's head before turning him round by the shoulders and pushing him down the corridor. Rickon protested, but went all the same, and Lady Sansa turned back to Shireen. "Moon tea?" she asked, nodding at the jar.

Shireen resisted the impulse to hide it somehow. It is merely something our bodies do and should never be a source of disgust or shame. "Yes, my lady," she said.

"Come along, then," said Lady Sansa. "I have some excellent tea from the Arbor. How does that sound?"

"Could I have a hot water-skin, too?" Shireen asked, as Lady Sansa looped her arm through hers.

"Of course. And the lemon trees in the greenhouse have given up their first fruits — we'll have lemon cakes for lunch instead of venison." She smiled and Shireen thought that even if Sansa Stark never took another husband or had children of her own, she was still all the mother that the North ever would need.

[incorrectpmmmquotes]

Madoka: Is any of this legal? Kyoko: I'm sure it's legal somewhere Madoka: And here? Kyoko: Not even remotely.

[phoenix-and-found-family]

"...Get up."

"I... can't..."

"Do you think that enemies will accept that?!? Do you think they'll let you go because you can't fight any longer?!?!"

"Papa, I..."

"Give me one good reason I should let you take a break right now."

"..."

"...You're pathetic."

"..."

"Five minutes. Then I expect you to be ready to learn again."

"Don't forget what you are."

"..."

"...I'm pathetic."

*years later*

"Phoenix! Are you okay? That was a ridiculous number of people to take on at once!"

"...Did any survive?"

"...Yes... One, I think."

"...Oh."

"You're lucky I managed to get you to a hospital in time. None of us expected you to die, of course, but you could have definitely sustained lasting damage."

"...Why would you do that for me? I didn't deserve it."

"What are you talking about?"

"I didn't deserve it. One of them escaped. I didn't deserve help because I couldn't finish the mission."

"That is very much not true, agent-"

"I know I'm pathetic, Reginald. You can just tell me."

"..."

"Who on earth told you that?"

[write-it-motherfuckers]

Person A: "Are we even allowed to be in here?"

Person B: "I don't know, I stopped caring about their bullshit rules after they repaid my loyalty and devotion by framing me for their own misdeeds."

Person A: "...What if someone recognises you?"

Person B: "Recognise me? Ha! I was nothing but a faceless tool to them, I might as well have been part of the wallpaper! Honestly, I could probably walk right up to them and introduce myself with my former name and those fools still wouldn't realise it was me."

[chamerionwrites]

In full seriousness I think it’s valid to dislike a story for all kinds of reasons, including “it’s just not my jam.” Where I get deeply irritable is when people say “XYZ is a bad story (often with the implied or explicit corollary “and anyone who writes or enjoys such a story is bad”) because it asks me to care about and/or show interest in understanding characters I find annoying/unpleasant/weak/otherwise flawed, and/or generally makes me uncomfortable.”

This is because I unironically believe that pathological unwillingness to sit with discomfort is (1) the death of empathy and curiosity, (2) an extremely powerful tool for oppression, and (3) a serious societal problem especially in societies that benefit from said oppression.

[frogeyedape]

I am so unbelievably pissed off. FUCK HOAs

Oh, my trash/recycling bin can't be visible except on pickup day? Ok whatever fine I hate you but I can deal with this

Weekly inspections?????? FU FU FU FU FU

SECOND NOTICE ALSO WE'RE CHARGING YOU MONEY TO SEND YOU CERTIFIED MAIL OF THIS TOTALLY LEGIT TOTALLY SECOND NOTICE OF WHAT IS ACTUALLY A VIOLATION cue me: checks notes. Hmm. My recycling bin was. on the curb. on recycling pickup day. You know. The day it has to be out. The day it is motherfucking ALLOWED TO BE FUCKING OUT AND VISIBLE.

so. 1) not a violation

I have sent them the trash AND recycling pickup schedules, which are DIFFERENT, btw

I have disputed the fact of the violation

I have disputed the linking of this "violation" to a previous violation MONTHS AGO--their "first notice" in this case was a "Courtesy Notice" LITERALLY 5 MONTHS AGO and they've done so many inspections since then and my bin CLEARLY WASN'T OUT IN THOSE INTERVENING MONTHS so WTMFH

So I am posting like a crazy person here instead of sending the absolutely deranged email I almost sent (I did send a slightly less deranged version with the disputes, and requesting a hearing)

OMG. It has been. Less than one hour since I learned this fun fun news. My bin was out YESTERDAY, y'all. YESTERDAY. I am going to blow a gasket