#i love the meme you sent thank you

[dapper-lil-arts]

i for one fucking adore the pony posting. keep doing your thing 👍

i got you. enjoy the finest cuisine ~

[stealingyourbones]

[fumifooms]

I think you made me start shipping Marchil

Your posts got me thinking about their dynamic then I wrote a fic that was supposed to be platonic but midway through I realized it could actually be interpreted as romantic too and now I'm just sad about how little time they'll have together

First of all, you have a lovely icon, second, I’m so honored… I finally read Not a bad way to go and it was soo so good like. My god!!! Pre-canon is underused and you did so many interesting things with it.

It sounded like a cruel joke, that the one who needed her concern the most was also the one least interested in it.

^^^ go read it go read it

Chilchuck was drunk enough that he needed to hold onto the walls not to fall, but apparently still sober enough to remember emotional vulnerability was his worst enemy, as he made sure to avert her eyes and said: “Namari made me come talk to you ” to make it clear he wasn't being nice voluntarily.

Yeah.

“Of course I'm scared of dying.” He scoffed. Did she really think so little of him? “But if I could choose, I would want to die doing something I love, like drinking. Or maybe fucking,”

Maybe you wish you didn’t know but my new favorite HC because of this is that Chil dies yes prematurely not of liver failure though but during coitus. Especially if marchil, the thought of him busting a nut and his heart giving out makes me laugh so hard. My god. Lmao. Oh god. Lmfao. Worst day of her life

Marcille knew Chilchuck wasn't a kid, but she often struggled to take him seriously as an adult because he was just so adorable and small. In this moment, however, she saw them exactly for what they were, even if it was just a glimpse. A sheltered, naive little girl trying to tell a tired, much more experienced man how to live the rest of his life.

Standing ovation

She tried to find an explanation to give him, but she couldn't even find one for herself. Why would she miss him? He was just Chilchuck, her coworker, Chilchuck who was cold, aloof, sometimes crass, evasive, and even outright mean. He who was level headed, reliable, trustworthy, perceptive and clever. He who had the least time left, even in a best case scenario. “I guess that despite your best efforts, there's still a lot to like about you.”

This fic goes so hard, standing ovation pt 2

“I just think it's better if we don't get too close. Don't you agree?” “I… maybe” she said, uncertain as he didn't know how to feel about that. Caring about people would only hurt her in the wrong run, she knew that, but unfortunately she couldn't help it.

I looove how they can be read to be similar on this aspect. My hand clenching around my phone as I rear up to rant about Marcille and the way she does keep people at an arm’s length subconsciously again my god my goood. Obsessed with this obsessed with this, underused for marchil. Terrified of loss through death vs rejection duo I love youuu

Brilliant ending I’m in shambles. I’m not gonna spoil it

You get marchil so much you truly do. The way they mesh, the way their views on mortality clash and both soothe & bruise… He doesn’t have much time left even in best case scenario (which Mr I won’t eat well I’ll drink and smoke a lot I’ll stress all day every day is determined to not make happen) which makes it all the more meaningful for Marcille’s arc when she learns from him to finally enjoy the present moments… It’ll only be a fraction of her life, but to him he’s giving her the rest of his life. What are some decades of love worth? Worth it, surely, if nothing else

[llumimoon]

No one asked for these I just wanted to draw them LMAO anyways have a cute lil Normal and Link hanging out <3

[masquenoire]

>> Pokemon Personality Quiz

Well, this was off to a good start. Roman looked at his result proudly, finding it very accurate for a man like himself. Nothing suited him better than a Dragon, being a natural leader with strong ambitions to take over Gotham and claim the city as his own. Damn right he had high standards and he wasn't afraid to show it!

"Agreeableness is very low? Fuck you, I'm perfectly agreeable when it suits me!" The rudeness of this quiz.

It was only getting after his result that the grumbling stopped, Roman completely in shock at what he'd gotten. He'd expected dragons; fierce, proud, powerful beasts that matched the vigor and menace he exuded and what he'd gotten was far from what he'd expected.

"And just what the fuck is that? A Goodra? Are you fucking kidding me!?!? That ain't no fucking dragon, that's something out of My Little P.ony or some kid's shit! Don't get mad if it slimes up my good suit? You better believe I'm gonna get PISSED at this gooey-eyed piece of shit touching me! Sure, don't give me the badass with blades in his face or the giant Blue Crocosaurus. Even the frozen turkey would be better than fucking Goodra." Roman seethed. This shit was exactly the reason why he didn't like Pokeymans or whatever the hell the stupid series was called.

Tagged ByStolen from: @peranarkia (♡) Tagging: Whoever would like to do it?

[can-of-slorgs]

Big congrats on finishing your stamp pages! Also split grundos are one of my fave pets of all time so plz tell Volks that I love him. :')

He's thankful to say the list.

[steavia]

❝ are you okay? you’re not hurt? nothing? ❞

"i... i'm sure i'll be all right, in due time. i'm not... physically hurt, at the very least." anxious hands tremble and rub her arm, a self-soothing motion. lydia isn't accustomed to being threatened by co-workers; life with gus as a boss and madrigal under her thumb had been cushy in comparison to working with walter and his men, few as they were. jesse, however, stands out to her as the most kind of them all; few others would look out to her in this situation. ( this doesn't go unnoticed. )

"it's... pinkman, right? or do you just prefer jesse?" she makes a vague gesture towards the younger man, brows furrowed. "i appreciate what you did, looking out for me like that. not many people would. thank you, truly."

a pause. "if i'm being totally honest, you seem too ... DECENT for a job like this."

[coollyinterferes]

"Back by unpopular demand:"

"Us!"

[emeraldxsplash]

it only took a glance, her eyes catching the green amidst the crumbled wreck, and the red. so much of it that after the water tower had finally drained it's clear substance thens thick and crimson. the words to ask about KAKYOIN died in her throat as the look on JOSEPH'S face was enough to make the connection-- her throat felt dry, her chest pained and throbbed, bubbling as though magma brewed where her heart was. she had vomited, not just the sight but the similarities of his slumped form was much like... her father's. once she has finished being sick her hand comes to her mouth, lips and chin slimey and gummy-like from her nausea but the tears that leaked from her eyes began to slowly clean it away although poorly-- she deeps breathy through her nose. not now. she harshly reminds herself and wipes her chin, the distant chaos didn't, rather couldn't let her grieve for their mission was not over. CHARLIE adjusts her stance, desperate for steady ground. MR. JOESTAR, JOTARO, POLNAREFF... everyone else was still fighting, she had to keep going.

"-- I'll come back for you. " she says in a hushed tone, as if not to wake him but she spoke to no one. the very fact that this kid, NORIAKI KAKYOIN had ceased to exist, one moment he was alive and the next he wasn't, it felt harsh and cruel, she had only three years more on this earth than him, and he had so much more to do, accomplish.

and now he was no more, and the world kept it's reputation for cruelty.

My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it.

[pauls1967moustache]

Perspective flip for Slip Of the Tongue pls! (Any part)

I had to blow the dust off this one tbh, but this fic is actually so interesting to me now, because I was still new-ish to the fandom when I wrote it. It’s such an apt introduction. It’s only my first kink meme fill (!!), but all the mo-esque elements are in there. I showed up to the kink meme like, “this is what I’m about”, and then wrote like 20 more angsty fights lol.

"Fuck, Stu," John moans, and Paul feels everything inside himself go dead.

John stops moving, instantly. It’s so fucking conspicuous that Paul feels it like a pinch, building pressure behind his eyes. John said it. Paul knows John said it because Paul heard him say it, but John’s stopped moving too, so he knows he said it. He said it, and now he’s not saying anything else. He’s left it hanging over Paul like a noose.

“Get off,” Paul says. It’s a plea, really, though he hopes it doesn’t sound like a plea.

John’s still wrapped all around him. Paul can feel his nose poking into his neck. He can feel his own pulse bouncing off John’s skin, and it sounds like his own voice. It sounds like stupid, stupid, stupid, and Paul really can’t be here anymore. He can feel the panic building in his veins. He feels some sort of animal instinct take over; caught in a trap—nervy, and scared—and liable to bite at any approach. If he has to spend another second with John touching him he thinks he might bite John’s skin off.

He yanks John’s body away from him, rough and desperate, and flees to the bathroom, gathering his clothes as he goes.

He can’t stop moving—pacing in front of the bathtub, forwards and back, as he stumbles into his underwear, and tries to shoves his arms through his half inside-out sleeves, still feeling too fucking naked, like an idiot. Letting John see him naked. Letting John just touch him like that, moaning for him, moaning out his name.

His name.

And he still hasn’t gotten his arm through his bloody sleeve, fuck.

Paul punches his hand through the knot of fabric. His fury only makes him feel like a useless child, so he curls himself down on the floor to sit still, sinking his face in his hands as he huffs out his frustrations. Except—being still gives him a moment to think about it.

Discomfort rises up his spine, sparking all the latent humiliation of being 19 and dismissed. It’s all so fucking embarrassing. He’s toured further than he’d ever imagined going, and he’s written multiple number one songs, and Stuart’s dead.

They don’t even really talk about him, anymore. He doesn’t even think about him, anymore. Sometimes, when he does, he feels guilty for not thinking about him. For treating him so unforgiving, when hindsight proved him to have been a bit of an insecure cunt about the whole thing.

Except, he’s not, is he? Not if John’s been thinking about Stuart while Paul had a hand wrapped around his cock.

An honest mistake, Paul thinks bitterly. One bassist hand for another. And fury washes over him again, at that, because it’s not like Stuart even put in enough of an effort to have bassist hands, so Paul’s a poor fucking substitute, in that regard.

If that’s what he is.

Paul feels it, again—that pressure behind his eyes.

Is that what he is?

“Paul?” he hears John call softly, from the other side of the door.

The panic from earlier comes with him, coiling tight in Paul’s shoulders. John doesn’t say anything else, and Paul can’t guess at what he might do. He has an image in his head of John opening the door, smirking down at him, cruel and sharp. Laughing at Paul for believing in him for so long.

There’s a rational part of himself that knows John wouldn’t do that. But he used to think he was the only person John’d ever shown this part of himself to—and, evidently, he isn’t—so what the fuck does he know?

Unease bubbles up his throat, forcing him to swallow the thick lump of it down.

“Paul?” John says again, and this time it’s followed by the sound of the door swinging open.

Paul looks up. John stands there, looking skinny and flushed with nothing but his flagging hard-on, and his underwear. For a moment, Paul forgets. John’s thighs are beautiful, and his rumpled bedhead is charming, and Paul still likes seeing him like this as much as he did when he was 20, and stupid, and the only boy in the world John had ever dared to touch. The only boy that mattered that much to him.

Paul feels a seething contempt for himself—bitter in the back of his throat.

“What?” he snaps.

John blinks, as if he didn’t come in with a plan, which only makes Paul hate him more, because John wouldn’t need a plan if it was as simple as I didn’t mean it, but John hasn’t fucking said that yet.

“It wasn’t—” John starts. “I was only thinking about—”

Paul’s anger cools into something else—distant and savage.

“Oh, were you?”

John squirms, clearly annoyed with Paul’s reaction. Not obtuse or demure enough for whatever sorry excuse he had. Paul wonders if John always thought Paul was that easy, or if it’s just that Paul never thought to question John’s motives before. Well, that would make him that easy, wouldn’t it? An easy little fool, he was.

“I was thinking of Hamburg. It wasn’t like that,” John tries—patronising. Like he talks to Cyn, sometimes. It tastes acidic on Paul’s tongue.

“That boring, was I?” Paul says.

“Obviously not,” John protests, weakly, waving a hand to his prick, as if that’s supposed to be a compliment. As if Paul hasn’t seen him get off with girls he barely even liked, a hundred times before.

It’s so bloody tactless, it has Paul blurting out: “Would Stuart have taken care of that for you?”

John blinks at him, surprised. “What?”

Whatever defense mechanism was keeping Paul feeling dead inside falters, his anger starting to simmer up again.

“Did you do this with him?” Paul asks.

John just keeps fucking blinking at him, like he can’t comprehend anything Paul’s said. Caught red-handed in whatever lark he and Stuart set up for Paul.

Paul can see them in his head—in that dingy, little flat on Gambier Terrace, on that shared fucking mattress. The way they’d laugh together, sometimes, when they talked about art, and left Paul out of it, as if Paul couldn’t understand just because he wasn’t in art school, and he was only a kid.

If John tries to lie to him Paul thinks he might actually punch him.

John only shrugs.

“Was it better?” Paul goads him, something nasty forcing him to spit it out. Forcing him to make John admit it. Just fucking tell him it was all a joke.

John frowns. “What?”

“With him, John.”

John looks away. Retreating. “Christ, the lad's already dead. Isn’t the jealousy getting a bit old?”

Jealousy. Like that’s all it was—petty, teenage jealousy. Like John didn’t spend years making Paul think it was real. “Are you serious?”

“Are you?” John snaps back.

“Must’ve been good, no? If you're still thinking about it,” Paul shoots at him.

“I was thinking of you,” John all but shouts. And that’s really beyond the threshold of what Paul can take.

“Oh, fuck off!”

He storms out, feeling wired and claustrophobic, trapped in the oppressive little bathroom with John insulting him to his face, like Paul’s too thick to know better.

He’s aware as he stands there, fuming, that he’s still barely dressed, and tries to button himself up—tries to insert some goddamn dignity into the situation—but he can feel John getting all fired up next to him, and he doesn’t want to bloody do it anymore. There’s no point. The ruse is up. Paul gets it now.

“He said you didn’t, you know.”

Whatever words were hanging on the tip of John’s tongue, die there. His mouth snaps shut, and he stares at Paul, looking confused and startled. Like he wasn’t expecting it. It only fuels Paul’s contempt.

It was one of those days: John and Stuart in Gambier Terrace, excluding him.

Paul had been trying to coax John into playing a bit, and John was sick of Paul pestering him about it so he’d hissed something cruel and stormed off, leaving Paul alone with Stuart, stewing in his own humiliation. Made all the worse by the look Stuart had thrown him, after John left—like he felt sorry for him.

Stuart said: “Just give him some breathing room, yeah? You know what he’s like.”

It irritated Paul so much, he’d spat out, “What do you care? You get to wank each other off about art more, now. Isn’t that what you want?”

And Stuart turned even more fucking sympathetic, like he could see the thing Paul really wanted—that embarrassing, forbidden thing Paul barely even let himself look at—and he said, “You don’t have to worry about that, you know.”

“I’m not worried,” Paul protested, feeling seen and ashamed for it. “I’m not a bloody poof. You can blow him all you like. I just— I only want the group to—”

But he could feel his voice shaking, and his cheeks burning, fire-hot, and Stuart kept looking at him like he wanted to give Paul a pat on the head or something, and all Paul could think about was how badly he wanted to shove him into the wall and smash the look off his smug fucking face.

“It’s really not like that,” Stuart said, kindly.

“I don’t fucking care, mate,” Paul snapped, caring a lot and hating himself for it.

“I swear. We never, mate,” Stuart promised, annoyed with Paul, but clearly not letting it put him off this mortifying conversation.

And just as Paul was about to tell him again how much he didn’t fucking care what Stuard and John did together, Stuart said, “It’s not like with you two. We never needed each other like that.”

It had cut through the anger. Reached deep into something vulnerable and terrified inside Paul and soothed it, despite how much Paul didn’t want it to. Paul wanted to dismiss it—pretend like it didn’t matter as much as it did—but he couldn’t get the words out. And in the end, all he’d ended up saying was, “Yeah?”

Like a fucking imbecile.

“Looked me in the eye and said: ‘Never, mate. Didn't need each other like that,’” Paul continues, trying to figure out what the problem is with his fucking shirt, and realising he’s missed a button, because of course he did. Because this is how inadequate he is, clearly.

Paul blows out an angry sigh through his nose.

“Fucking Stuart.”

“It stopped before you, if you want to be so fucking precious about it,” John says—all attempts at placation gone, apparently.

“Right around when he found Astrid, was it?” Paul shoots back.

As if that’s supposed to make him feel better—being the second choice, after Stuart fell in love. A convenient little consolation prize. Paul wonders, acidly, if John would’ve ever cared for him at all had Stuart not gone and bloody died on him.

“What do you care? You had every bird in Hamburg, in the meantime,” John says.

“That’s different!”

“How?” John snaps, stepping closer towards Paul. “What—you can have me, but he can’t? I’m not a fucking monk outside of you.”

Paul can feels his eyes—sharp and intent—and he can’t do it. He can’t stand here and explain to John that while John saw him as the second-best available mouth to suck his cock, Paul had spent the entire time feeling. That Paul gave something up to John that he’d thought John had given back.

Paul swallows. “Fuck off, John. Honestly,” he spits, and shoves past him, back to the safety of the John-less bathroom.

[gu6chan]

99% just my autism speaking here but something ive been noticing lately that im sorta kinda 😶 about is when ppl are like "I think you'll like this" but not bc they ACTUALLY think you'll like it, rather they just got into it and want you to also get into it so "I think you'll like this" is a nice personal hook. i love chill stuff as much as any other person ofc but given i don't divulge that EVER, what makes you think my berserk reading, made in abyss watching, drakengard playing ass would like YURU CAMP????

[franeridan]

GOT MY IP3 TEAM GOD SAID I GET TO WIN FOR ONCE

[decimatlas]

bar exam in 8 days. i am so scared lmfao

[r0bee]

happy birthday!!!!! u are a very cool mutual to have I hope ur birthday is the coolest ever I made this 4 u bc it is the only skill I have atm 🫶🫶🫶

THANK YOU SO MUCH THIS IS SO SWEET I'M GONNA CRY

You're also a very cool mutual 😭

[strawbebyjam]

thought spotify's 'daylist' thing was gonna be wholesome and optimistic but instead it gave me a 50 song playlist called lyrics breakup tuesday night so that's pleasant

[orchidice]

SO TRUE BESTIES -