#it's always gotta be some shit like this

[agentperezbian]

This is a totally cool and not at all lesbophobic thing to say

[red-garden]

PIDW fanartist Shen Yuan seeing a beautiful man at the art supply store who looks just like the protagonist and trying to (not very subtly) take reference pictures. He starts coming to the store more often, memorizing the clerk’s schedule. While hanging around this part of town he accidentally stumbles upon the other locations the beautiful clerk frequents.

Luo Binghe couldn’t be more excited about his beautiful, mysterious stalker, and starts dressing more provocatively, putting himself in more compromising poses, dropping some of his things from the stalker to find. (Insane)

Shen Yuan is becoming very concerned about his favorite model. He’s wearing less clothing than usual, and what he does wear tends to be ripped. Can he not afford new clothes? He more clumsy than before. That could be caused by a brain injury… IS HIS FAVORITE MODEL IN AN ABUSIVE RELATIONSHIP????? Oh god oh no, and he dropped a napkin with his number on it, that must be a cry for help!

Next time they meet, Shen Yuan pulls Binghe behind the store. Oh my, what does he wasn’t this privacy for~~~~

“I know a lot of DV shelters don’t accept men, so if you need somewhere to stay you are welcome to live with me for as long as you need.”

This is the first time they’ve exchanged more than pleasantries.

[loveaetingkids]

(Like or reblog if you wanna use)

[ghostfacerseffect]

Thinking about the twisted version of orpheus-AND-eurydice-ing Helly might have done to herself, by Turning Back to kiss Mark and by Helena seeing that, potentially the catalyst for her to stay down there and never bring Helly back.....essentially killing herself by making that choice...

[rednth]

This is so them...

[jackass-jones]

Akihiko becoming a cop is something that simply doesn’t happen in the coma route cuz Shinji would see that shit and be like Aki what the actual hell is wrong with you

[annqer]

EAT YO DAMN FOOD BITCH!!! FUCK U LOOKIN CRAZY FOR!!!!

[beatcroc]

pest control TWO!!!!! heres the first one

adn heres the obligatory bonus bc i can't help myself :')

[ricksanchezbignaturals]

is everyone on pinterest experiencing the internet for the first time? folks click on the most mild-ass stanchez fanart and react like they stumbled upon gore

[pepperpixel]

Yadda yadda yadda jinx is generally seen as a loose canon, does whatever she wants type of character, totally unpredictable. When in actuality, up until the last few episodes all of her choices and actions r motivated by wanting to please someone else. Hell. Even in the last couple episodes, the very Last thing we see her doing is ENTIRELY MOTIVATED by devotion and love and grief for silco, she’s taking out her frustration at herself and the world, and also honoring his wishes and dreams. By shooting a fucking bomb at piltover, she’s ensuring his life wasn’t in vain, she’s honoring him. In that moment

Her entire, self!!! is centered around love and loyalty. Is centered around other people, She’s motivated by an insatiable urge to prove herself, to be useful to those she loves, to show that she can help them and be there for them and be WORTHY of there love. That they haven’t made a mistake in loving her. To prove that she can be as pivotal to them as they r for her. She goes to the ends of the fucking earth to do this. And it ends. Terribly.

She puts the people she loves on pedestals and supplicates at there feet, she has no motivations most of the show outside of making the people she loves happy… she yearns for connection and love and safety. For a home that will never leave her behind, or crumble under her feet, (an indestructible home, That she can’t destroy just by being her…)

Which is why.. it’s so. Interesting and intriguing. How now, she has no one on that pedestal to worship, no one to drag sacrifices and offerings to the feet of, no one to spiral around and build herself off of. She is a person so *affected* by her relationships w others, but there is no relationship now, no one is stepping up to the plate to love her. She’s too much. For anyone. The one person who seemed to have unlimited patience for her is dead, because of her. and maybe vi could still love her.. but. She’s already soured that relationship. Already broken that one too. Broken all her favorite toys that made her so happy. That were there for her. And scared all the rest away. (There is a limit to what vi can support and forgive to reconnect w her sister. And I believe terrorism is crossing that limit ghgh)

And maybe, jinx is cutting that part of herself out on purpose. To be stronger, she’s realized she just. Isn’t made for love. That she ruins it all in the end. That it just makes everything worse. Messier. More complicated. She’s better off on her own, but for what PURPOSE! Who will she be now! What choices will she make!?! Almost all of her actions in the show were for others, what is driving her now, now that she has this gaping void at the center of her being. Where love used to be… what kind of person will she become, Without a guide to follow… a sun to orbit around. it’s sad honestly ghghg-!!! like yeah it’s not healthy that she is this way but there’s no THERAPY IN ARCANE. THIS IS THE WAY SHE IS! And now. She’s alone… it’s rough. But also intriguing…!! And I honestly have no clue how she’s gonna act in season 2,,, or what sorta shit she’s gonna get up to. but I’m excited.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[chitinleg]

"Mister Bashir, what a pleasure it is to finally meet you."

Julian, why in god's name would you invite him to play the villain?

[grimalkinmessor]

Not to keep harping on it but Death Note has plenty of fridge horror to go along with the unintentional humor and romance.

Like,,,the ENTIRETY of Wammy's House is such a fucked up concept. An orphanage where they crank out genius kids into the world by...what? What are they doing with those kids? What do you mean one of them died in there? Wait—and the second one is a serial killer? And one joined the mafia? What—WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO THOSE KIDS—

Not to mention the intricacies of L and Watari's relationship. He's seen as a butler/father figure until you find out that he's an inventor/war vet who took in an orphan with the express purpose of making him useful. No wonder Wammy's runs the way it does when the og, the man it is named after sees children as tools and means to an end. And, given that L has already made them so much money playing stocks that it doesn't even matter anymore (Mr. Builds A Skyscraper To House Five People), why is Quillish still with him? To keep an eye on him? To make sure L doesn't forget where he came from? Out of some sort of guilt for never teaching him how to take care of himself because those weren't the skills that Quillish thought it important to cultivate? Or maybe even to keep him dependent on Quillish to keep functioning properly.

And then there's the horror of L himself. Not even the implications of him, but the proof of who he is and what he can do. The thought of a man with so much money and power and influence that if he wanted to make you disappear, if he wanted to torture you or hold your loved ones hostage or kill you and everyone that's ever shaken your hand he could and no one would fucking bat an eye—that's fucking terrifying. (Where the fuck is Beyond—) And, not only does he have the power to do all that; no one would question it because he's part of Law™. His every action can be excused as being part of the Greater Good, despite the fact that L himself has admitted that everything he does is for his own benefit and/or entertainment.

Light, of course, is an obvious horror—but one of the most horrific things about him is glossed over. I'm not someone who personally believes in the Death Note's corruptive powers or aura or whatever, but that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the fact that, once you give up the Death Note, your memories of it are erased. All the people you've killed, all the things that you've seen, you've still seen and done all those things, you just don't remember it. There's a hole in your mind, and all that prickly, thorny mess that grew in you when you were a killer is still there, choking you—you just don't know why. Why are you so unfazed by death? Why don't you cry when your mother dies? Why are you so afraid of being something that looks like you? Will you ever be certain of anything again? Will you ever, truly, know yourself when you can't remember all the atrocities you've committed? Can you ever change and grow again if your roots are gone? Or are you stuck in stasis forever now, your mind stalling in one place in order to keep you from remembering the people you've killed?

[isacksteban]

His Shadow — Strollonso (3) (2)

Fernando didn’t say anything after lunch.

He followed Lance through the halls like usual, hands shoved in the pockets of his old varsity jacket, but he was quiet. Not in a way that anyone else would notice — no one else could notice — but Lance felt it.

It made his skin itch.

“Not gonna comment on how my physics teacher looks like he’s three seconds from his heart giving out mid-lecture?” Lance muttered as they walked.

Fernando smirked, but it was barely there. “Nah.”

Lance exhaled sharply. “Okay. What the hell is your problem?”

Fernando gave him a look. “My problem?”

“Yes, your problem,” Lance snapped. “You’ve been weird since lunch.”

Fernando scoffed, looking away. “You’re imagining things, novato.”

But Lance knew him now — knew when he was deflecting, when he was hiding something.

And fuck, did that realization hit him like a brick to the face.

He knew Fernando.

Not just as some ghost, some dead guy from a different time. Not just as someone to argue with, to roll his eyes at.

He knew Fernando as more than that.

Knew when his smirk was fake. Knew when his voice dipped just enough to mean something more. Knew when he was watching Lance with something that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite curiosity — was something else.

And Fernando knew him, too.

Had probably already figured it out before Lance even had the chance to.

Lance clenched his jaw. “If you have something to say, just fucking say it.”

Fernando stopped walking.

So did Lance.

The hallway was mostly empty now, the distant murmur of classrooms muffled by closed doors. It was just them.

Fernando studied him for a long moment, dark eyes unreadable.

Then, finally, he said, “I wasn’t weird. You were.”

Lance’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Fernando tilted his head. “You lied.”

Lance’s throat went dry. Of course.

Fernando took a slow step forward, gaze locked onto his. “I was sitting right there, Lance.” His voice was quiet now, arms roughly motioning to his side. Steady. Dangerous. “And you said girl.”

Lance felt lightheaded. He forced out a shaky laugh, backing up slightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fernando didn’t stop moving. “Don’t you?”

Lance hated the way his breath hitched. Hated the way Fernando looked at him now — like he was figuring it out, putting the pieces together, fitting them into place in a way Lance had spent his whole life avoiding.

Lance swallowed. “I— I was just playing along. Esteban— he—”

Fernando rolled his eyes. “Oh, please.”

Lance could feel his pulse in his throat. “Fernando—”

“Do you think I don’t see you?” Fernando interrupted, voice sharp now. “Do you think I haven’t been seeing you?”

Lance’s heart slammed against his ribs. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Fernando let out a dry, humorless laugh — it almost hurt. “It means,” he said, stepping even closer — too close — “that I’ve been watching you look for me first thing every morning. That I’ve seen the way you react when I touch you. That I fucking felt the way you held onto me in the locker room.”

Lance couldn’t breathe.

Fernando’s voice softened, but it was so much worse.

“I havent felt this way in nearly seventeen years but this isn't a feeling you just forget. I know what it looks like when someone wants something,” he murmured. “And it doesn’t look like nothing.”

Lance felt dizzy.

This was it. The edge of the cliff, the thing he had refused to say, refused to let himself want.

It wasn’t nothing.

And they both knew it.

But Lance — Lance wasn’t ready for this.

So he did what he did best.

He ran.

Pushed past Fernando, stormed down the hallway, ignored the way his vision blurred at the edges.

He couldn’t do this.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

Lance didn’t stop moving.

He stormed down the hall, feet slamming against the tile, ignoring the sting in his eyes, the burn in his throat, the fact that his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

I know what it looks like when someone wants something.

Fernando’s words echoed in his head, looping over and over until he felt like he was going to choke on them.

And it doesn’t look like nothing.

Lance barely made it to the front office before he pulled out his phone and dialed. His fingers felt numb against the screen.

The call rang once. Twice.

Then his father picked up. “Lance?”

Lance swallowed down the lump in his throat, forcing his voice to sound normal. “Hey, um… can you come pick me up?”

A pause. “Why?”

“I—” Lance exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of the counter. “I’m sick.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

Lance could hear the skepticism on the other end of the line. His father didn’t like excuses. He didn’t like anything that sounded weak.

“You were fine this morning,” his father said.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah, well, I’m not now.”

Silence. Then, finally— “I’ll be there in fifteen.” The line went dead.

Lance let out a breath, pressing his forehead against the wall for a second before forcing himself to turn to the secretary. “I just called my dad,” he muttered. “He’s coming.”

She barely looked up from her computer. “Alright, honey. Just sit tight.”

Lance nodded, turning away, but his stomach twisted hard, and suddenly, the office felt too bright, too warm, too much.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck—

He bolted for the bathroom.

The stall door slammed behind him just as he dropped to his knees, heaving into the toilet. His stomach clenched violently, his whole body shaking as bile burned up his throat.

It wouldn’t stop.

Because every time he shut his eyes, all he could see was Fernando.

Standing too close. Looking at him like he knew.

I haven’t felt this way in nearly seventeen years, but this isn’t a feeling you just forget.

Lance gagged, gripping the sides of the toilet, gasping for air between dry heaves. His skin felt clammy, hot and cold all at once.

This wasn’t happening.

This couldn’t be happening.

Because if Fernando was right — if Lance was right — then what the fuck was he supposed to do?

He was in love with a ghost and no matter how much he wanted it — no matter how much Fernando wanted him back — there was no future here. No way forward.

It was impossible.

It was going to kill him.

Lance wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, resting his forehead against his arm, chest rising and falling in uneven gasps.

He needed to go home. He needed to get out of here.

And most of all—

He needed to stop thinking about Fernando Alonso.

Lance didn’t know how long he sat there.

His knees ached against the tile floor, his forehead pressed against his arm, his stomach raw and empty. The worst of it had passed, but his hands still shook. His chest still felt like it was caving in.

The bathroom was silent except for his ragged breathing.

I’m in love with a ghost.

Saying it in his head made it worse.

It made it real.

Because it wasn’t just some stupid crush. It wasn’t just something he could push down, ignore, walk away from.

He wanted Fernando in a way that didn’t make sense. In a way that was going to break him. In a way that was breaking him.

Lance squeezed his eyes shut, swallowing down the bile in his throat.

There was no future here. No way forward.

Fernando was stuck. Trapped in the walls of a school Lance would eventually leave behind.

And Lance— Lance had a whole life ahead of him.

He was supposed to go to college. Supposed to keep playing, keep winning, keep going. He wasn’t supposed to want something that had already been lost.

His phone buzzed weakly in his pocket.

He barely had the strength to pull it out.

Lawrence:

Here.

Lance let out a breath, pushed himself up on shaky legs, and rinsed his mouth out in the sink. He didn’t bother checking his reflection. He knew he looked like shit.

Didn’t matter. He just had to leave.

The office felt too bright when he stepped back into it. The secretary barely glanced up as he mumbled something about his dad being outside.

Then he was pushing through the front doors, the cold air hitting his face like a slap.

His father’s car was parked at the curb, engine running.

Lance barely hesitated before climbing into the passenger seat and slamming the door shut.

His father didn’t say anything right away.

Just looked at him.

Lance kept his gaze fixed out the window, his fingers digging into his hoodie sleeves.

Finally— “You’re actually sick?”

Lance exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

His father hummed. “You don’t have a fever.”

Lance’s stomach churned. “I threw up.”

That got him to stop questioning.

The car pulled away from the curb, the silence stretching thick between them.

Lance barely noticed.

His head was still full of Fernando.

Still stuck in the space between what he wanted and what could never be.

And as much as he wanted to stop thinking about it—

He knew he never would.

Lance didn’t go to school the next day.

Or the day after that.

Or the day after that.

He stayed in his room, lights off, curtains drawn, phone flipped over on his nightstand so he wouldn’t have to look at the notifications piling up. Esteban had texted him twice. His teammates once. His dad had barely said a word, too busy with work to question why Lance had suddenly stopped existing.

Which was fine. It was easier this way.

If he stayed home, if he didn’t go back, then maybe — just maybe — he could figure out how to forget about Fernando Alonso.

Maybe he could convince himself that none of this had happened. That he hadn’t fallen in love with someone who was already dead. That he hadn’t thrown up in a school bathroom because he had finally let himself feel it.

But no matter how long he stared at his ceiling, no matter how many times he told himself to move on, Fernando was still there.

Not physically, obviously.

But everywhere else.

Lance could still hear his voice in the back of his head, teasing, smug, knowing. He could still picture the way Fernando looked at him in the hallway — like he had been waiting for Lance to realize it.

I haven’t felt this way in nearly seventeen years, but this isn’t a feeling you just forget.

Lance rolled onto his side, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. His stomach still felt hollow, but he didn’t know if it was from hunger or something worse.

Because deep down, he knew the truth.

No matter how long he avoided school, no matter how hard he tried to push it down—

He was going to see Fernando again and when he did, he wasn’t sure he could keep lying to himself anymore.

By Monday, Lance knew he couldn’t avoid it anymore.

His dad hadn’t pushed him about missing school—probably assumed it was some kind of stress thing—but Lance could feel the suspicion creeping in. He didn’t have a fever. He wasn’t coughing. There was no excuse left.

And the truth was, Lance was losing his mind sitting at home.

Because no matter how many days passed, nothing changed.

Fernando was still in his head, taking up too much space, haunting him in a way that had nothing to do with being a ghost.

It was pathetic.

So on Monday morning, Lance pulled on his hoodie, grabbed his bag, and left before his dad could start asking questions.

The bus ride to school felt wrong.

Because for the past week, Lance had been walking around in silence. He hadn’t had to brace himself for Fernando’s voice in his ear, hadn’t had to see him leaning against lockers like he owned the place.

But now—now he was going back, and he knew exactly what was waiting for him.

Lance’s stomach twisted as he stepped onto campus.

The second he passed through the front doors, it was like the air changed. The walls felt heavier, the hallways too familiar.

And worse — Lance could feel him.

He didn’t see Fernando right away. But he knew he was there. Watching. Waiting.

Lance swallowed hard, keeping his head down as he moved toward his locker.

Maybe Fernando would give him space. Maybe he wouldn’t push.

…Maybe Lance was an idiot for even thinking that.

Because the second he opened his locker, Fernando was there.

Not standing beside him. Not leaning against the next row of lockers like he normally did.

No, Fernando was right fucking behind him.

Close enough that Lance could feel the air shift, close enough that if Fernando were alive, he would be breathing down his neck.

Lance froze.

For a second, neither of them spoke.

Then, finally, Fernando’s voice came, low and sharp.

“Took you long enough.”

Lance gripped the edges of his locker door, his knuckles going white.

He couldn’t do this. Not now. Not yet.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He slammed his locker shut, turned, and walked away.

But Fernando — of course Fernando — just fell into step beside him.

Lance didn’t look at him.

Fernando didn’t care.

“You’re not gonna run this time?” Fernando mused, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s new.”

Lance clenched his jaw. “Fuck off.”

Fernando laughed. “You disappear for a week without warning, and now you’re mad at me?”

Lance walked faster. “Not talking about this.”

Fernando easily kept pace. “Yeah, you are.”

“I’m not.”

“You will,” Fernando shot back, voice edged with something sharp. “Because you can’t fucking avoid me, novato. You know that.”

Lance’s stomach twisted. He knew Fernando was right. He did.

But that didn’t mean he was ready.

So he kept walking.

And Fernando?

Fernando just smiled like he had already won.

Because he knew — better than anyone — that Lance wasn’t running anymore.

And now?

Now he had nowhere left to go.

Lance could ignore Fernando for exactly two class periods.

That was it.

For the first half of the morning, he pretended everything was fine. He sat through AP Lit, barely hearing a word. He ate half a granola bar during break, ignoring the way Fernando hovered, arms crossed, watching him like he was waiting for something.

Then, halfway through third period, Lance made the mistake of going to his locker alone.

The second the hallway emptied, Fernando moved.

One second, Lance was reaching for his books. The next, his locker slammed shut right in front of him, Fernando’s hand pressed flat against the metal.

Lance jumped back, heart slamming against his ribs. “Jesus—”

Fernando stepped in close, cutting him off. “Enough.”

Lance blinked. “What?”

Fernando’s jaw tightened. “I let you run once,” he said, voice low, steady. “I’m not letting you do it again.”

Lance clenched his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Fernando scoffed. “Bullshit.”

Lance tried to take a step back, but the lockers were behind him, and Fernando was in front of him, and there was nowhere to go.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” Fernando said. “You didn’t even tell Esteban why. And now you’re back, acting like nothing happened?” His voice dropped. “I’m not fucking stupid, Lance.”

Lance swallowed. “I was just sick.”

Fernando raised an eyebrow. “Sick,” he repeated flatly.

Lance exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

“You ran out of here like the building was on fire,” Fernando said. “You looked me in the eye, turned white as a sheet, and ran. And now you’re back, acting like I’m just supposed to pretend it didn’t happen?”

Lance stared at the floor. “Yes.”

Fernando huffed out a humorless laugh. “Well, I’m not.”

Lance’s fists clenched at his sides. “Why do you even care?”

Fernando’s expression flickered. “You know why.”

“No, I don’t,” Lance snapped. “Because you’re the one who started this. You— you looked at me like you knew something, like you had me figured out, and then you said all that—” His breath hitched. “You said all that shit in the hallway like you were trying to prove something.”

Fernando didn’t move.

Lance’s voice dropped, raw and bitter. “So what? What was the point of that?”

Fernando tilted his head. “You tell me.”

Lance laughed, sharp and wrong. “Oh, fuck you.”

Fernando’s eyes darkened. “No, Lance. Fuck you.”

Lance stiffened.

Fernando took another step forward. “You’re the one who can’t look at me for more than five seconds. You’re the one who had a meltdown when I called you out. You’re the one who ran the second you had to face it.”

Lance’s chest tightened. “Face what?”

Fernando exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “You know what.”

Lance shook his head, desperate now. “I don’t—”

Fernando’s voice was quiet. “Say it.”

Lance froze.

Fernando’s gaze locked onto his, unrelenting. “Say it, novato.”

Lance’s throat closed up. His fingers trembled at his sides.

“Say what?” he whispered, hating how weak his voice sounded.

Fernando didn’t look away. “Say that you want me.”

Lance’s whole body went rigid.

The words hit him like a gut punch, knocking the air from his lungs. His head spun, his vision blurred at the edges.

No. No, no, no, no—

“Say it.”

Lance’s breath came fast, uneven. He tried to move, but his back was against the lockers, and Fernando was right there, waiting.

Waiting for him to break.

“I— I don’t—”

Fernando cut him off. “Lance.”

Lance squeezed his eyes shut. Stop. Please, just stop.

Fernando’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Say it, and I’ll leave you alone.”

Lance’s pulse pounded in his ears.

He knew. He knew what Fernando was doing.

If Lance said it — if he admitted it — then it was real.

And if it was real, then there was no taking it back.

He could lie. Could try to lie.

But Fernando wouldn’t believe him.

So instead, with his hands shaking, with his stomach twisting into knots, with every part of him screaming to shut up—

Lance whispered, “I want you.”

The words barely left his mouth before his knees buckled.

He would have slid straight to the floor if Fernando hadn’t moved fast enough to grab him.

But he did.

And for the first time, it wasn’t Lance reaching for him.

It was Fernando catching Lance.

Lance gripped the front of Fernando’s jacket, knuckles white, his whole body trembling. His head fell forward, resting against Fernando’s shoulder as his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.

Fernando didn’t speak.

He just held on.

And Lance let him.

Because it was real now.

And there was no running away.

[adriartts]

why dont you go sit in the river and maybe you'll feel better

[leos-fever-dream]

in all timelines, in all possibilities, only you