#he finds a lot of that boring

[pastelghostbro]

Tbh this is prob just cause my own unsureness rn

[measuringbliss]

People are acting so weird and possessive of Markiplier for the whole OnlyFans situation. He's an adult. He's an adult who's been a celebrity for years. He knows people thirst on him. That's why he had this idea in the first place. He's not some naive kid you must protect. He's not some innocent soul that the evil sluts of Tumblr and Twitter will corrupt. He knows the Internet, he knows his fans and he knows his job.

He's an adult and he can make his own choices.

[crimescrimson]

Albert Wesker in Resident Evil Remastered (2002)

[skunkes]

[ashipiko]

<3 post sleepover mornings

[i3utterflyeffect]

anyway. purple being the first to find out about these things definitely means they're subject to being baffled by some of the things that happened to Alan honestly. including discovering that SC is not manmade, not naturally made, but apparently, a secret third thing. neither of them know what this third thing is.

bonus:

[moeblob]

Look, I just think it's VERY funny and on brand that I thought of an entire premise of colorful characters for half the cast and immediately drew the only one void of color.

[jessicas-pi]

Sabezra in a fantasy au for the ask game?

I have no idea if this was what you were looking for but it's what my brain invented, so ta-da!

--

Mother had forbidden---Forbidden, actually with a capital F---Sabine from leaving the Seelie realm to look for trouble.

So the next time she got restless, she made sure she'd already found trouble before she left.

Today, trouble looked like a grungy teenage boy, in ratty jeans and a faded orange sweatshirt, stomping through the woods. He seemed like the type she could mess with. Bored with life, discontent, easily fooled. Maybe she could even trick him into following her home for a while and see how he fared there.

(She'd ask him for his name, first, of course. She always did. It was an old trick, and rather overdone, but that was why she did it. If a human was stupid enough to ignore all the old stories and warnings and just tell her that right off the bat, she didn't feel bad about causing them further trouble. They earned it.)

She waited, unseen, until he had passed her by. Then, with a last glance over her shoulder to make sure no one of her mother's Court had noticed her, Sabine slipped through the dark mists that parted one world from the other.

"Hey, there!" Sabine called out at his back. He stopped in his tracks and turned around, looking at her in curiosity, but with far too little suspicion.

Sabine smiled.

This boy may not know what she was---not yet---but if Sabine had her way, he would find out.

Oh, he would find out.

[silusvesuius]

n*loth not being able to bag anyone over the (human term) age of 25-30 at most is the only logical and real conclusion to me because it can be just explained away as him wanting to prove and control everything and anyone (Cus he's a man!) but being stuck in that demographic because his unbearable and vile personality is a force that nobody can look past once they've outgrown the possible fear and idolization period of anyone but also n*loth in particular.

[beeduoo]

originnssssss who remembers origins i Loved origins

[1-8oo-wtfbro]

you mean to tell me this isn’t exactly what happened when Tim’s parents died?

[cakebatteronabrickwall]

I will say this, I do actually think that "playboy" is very much the image Roman has crafted for himself when we first meet him in the pilot. Like, it's not necessarily something Logan would outright respect, but it is one of those traditionally masculine archetypes, so it's safe and it plays well in a certain way. It's also the easiest to lie about, tbh. But the important part is that the entire four seasons of Succession showcase the breakdown of that facade (the breakdown of all the children's performances, really). I'm even tempted to say that Roman's story is the most solid one from start to finish for this reason. Catharsis if you will. There is an actual ending to it since all motivators for the performance break away, so how would he be able to go back? More importantly, why would he want to go back?

[beansterpie]

rewatching LoK, i'm being reminded how much I dislike the.... the brothers, mako and bolin, yanno? they're such underwhelming characters on basically every level. it'd almost be impressive if they weren't in every episode and didn't annoy me so much ugh

[danzainosolitude]

Once again I read fanfiction that seems to have been precisely written to deal psychic damage to me.

[moeblob]

Ladd: but why would you kill me when I'm willing to kill for you?? Lass: omg you can't just say you'd kill someone, Ladd. that's murder and it's frowned upon.

(and then Ladd does kill for her but it's fine and part of the job)

[bookshelf-in-progress]

Daughter of the House of Dreams: A Fragment

Author's Note: This is the opening to a long-abandoned "Sleeping Beauty" retelling that I no longer plan to write, but I still like it as a piece of prose, and it sparked my enduring interest in second-person narration, so it feels relevant, and why should long-dead authors be the only ones who get to have their unfinished fragments published?

If you ever travel to Monetta City, be sure to visit Faraway Lane. Walk past the glittering new shops, and the shoppers in their bright silk dresses and top hats, and you'll find a cozy stone shop at the end of the street. This shop isn't grand and mighty like the other shops. It won't sniff and turn you away if your clothes aren't the latest fashion. It's a grandmotherly old shop that shakes its head at the prancing and preening of the younger shops, and invites you in instead. It holds no wares in its windows; it hardly has windows at all. But it has a warm and wide wooden door, with a shingle hanging above—Alessia Day, maker of dreams.

Don't ponder the sign's message too long—it means exactly what it says. Just slip inside, shut the door behind you, and look. Don't breathe too deeply, unless you want a week of crazy dreams, but allow yourself one gasp of astonishment. You won't be able to stop yourself. No living person has failed to feel awe toward the rows and rows of shelves, longer than streets and taller than palaces, filled to bursting with glass bottles in such bright colors that the dresses in the other shops' windows would weep in envy. Some bottles are the size of thumbnails. Most fit comfortably in the palm. Some are as large as breadboxes or steamer trunks or carriage horses, but the shelves manage to fit them all. And each bottle is filled to the brim with dreams.

If you don't understand, ask Alessia Day. You'll find her at a counter half a mile from the door, polishing bottles and humming a song you've heard but can't remember. She's an old woman now, and proud of it, but squint your eyes and start to daydream, and you'll see her as I remember her—a willow-wand girl with shining brown hair and eyes that sparkle with half-formed jokes.

Tell this girl how pretty she is (she'll laugh and call you crazy) and ask about her dreams. She'll tell you of her stock and sell you any dream you ask for—daydreams and pipe dreams, dreams of love, dreams of adventure, dreams of loved ones lost and loved ones found and people you've never met but wish you had. She'll show you dreams of lush and perfect islands, dreams where fishes fly through the air, and dreams where people swim the seas with fishes' tails. She'll pull down dreams that last a second but linger a lifetime, dreams that fill a month of stormy nights, dreams that fade on waking and dreams that drown out memories. If you let her, she'll talk of dreams until you drift off, and she'll bottle up your dream while you doze.

But if you're smart (I know you are) you'll step to the counter with a clear glass bottle, empty of everything but air, and ask for her story instead. She'd distill it in a dream for you, and be glad to do it—I once saw her whip it up in half a minute, and I'll bet she's even faster now. Buy the dream, but don't drink it right away. You won't be ready for it. Linger in the shop a while. Hear the story first from Alessia Day's lips, in that voice of hers that's sweeter than singing.

You won't believe half of it, but when you stagger from the shop and wander the empty, starlit streets, you'll ponder over passages until you stumble into bed at sunrise. And when you wake, the world will be different—you'll see tiny footprints on the windowsills, know things about the shadows on the walls, tip your hat to creatures in the corner of your eye, and realize there is another color no one else can see. You'll laugh and call it your imagination, but every second Tuesday, you'll start to wonder if the old woman was right, if the things she told you were true.

If you drink the dream she made, you'll know. I'll understand if you don't—some things are easier not to know. But if you do, and dream through her story, come to my house and ring the bell. My man will let you in—he'll know you by the wonder on your face. He'll bring you to my study, set you in my oldest, softest chair, and get us both settled with a steaming pot of tea. Then, once you've finished babbling, I'll close my eyes and tell you my part in the tale.