#laughable really

[eightsixtiism]

i'm in absolute tears at how russell fans are crying now that verstappen has deployed his army of low-life minions to both george and his supporters. glad they're realising that no one is exempt from their attacks, no matter how much they mutually dislike lando.

[leahthedreamer]

It’s almost time for The Bear season 3 which means muting s*dcarmys the most annoying demographic of people known to man

[ratatatastic]

florida panthers @ seattle kraken | 12.10.24 (x)

[jawsandbones]

Well, I finished it, and it deserves absolutely nothing from me. Certainly not my anger. I have only apathy, equal to the amount of nothing the game is filled with.

[rodeodeparis]

trump winning mostly due to channeling the economic concerns of american voters into a better campaign (and probably also a few bomb threats) being blamed by hardline dems on arab/muslim/jewish voter treachery is pretty medieval europe coded i have to say

[theghooligan]

aemond: my uncle is a challenge i welcome, if he dares face me—

daemon:

[daisiesonafield-blog]

link

[littleaipom]

going thru my childhood art rn and i keep finding more and more PMD(time/darkness) fanart. i don't think i've ever been more not-normal about a piece of media in my life..... just unearthed a "poster" of me, my partner, and the ghost of grovyle staring off into the sunset together and was hit with the memory of how i had that thing hanging over my bed+window for so long. i would stare at it reverently all the time i literally wanted that game to be my reality so bad.

[feuxx]

they're so important to me fr

[epickiya722]

Imagine being an anti in 2024 still going "can we please stop shipping characters that hate each other" and use BAKUDEKU of all ships.

With everything we have seen with those two? Especially, all of what is happening in the current arc?! Yeah, "hate" is not the word. Sorry, but I wouldn't be like that with someone I genuinely hate. If you think that's "hate"... um...

[thenevarranaccord]

I’ve decided to bully people who are still in denial about Dumbledore being gay. It’s the only way.

“There is absolutely no textual evidence that Dumbledore was gay, except for his extremely flamboyant behavior and style of dress, his many feminine hobbies, his complete lack of attraction to women, the love letters he wrote to another man, the sexual tension he had with another man, the scandal about his relationship with another man, the time Harry talks to him about his previous relationship with another man and, of course, the multiple times in the latest movie where he says he was in love with another man.”

I think most of you are just dumb.

[sydneys-adamu]

constantly thinking about carmy’s little smile when he tells sydney she’s officially hired as a sous that he immediately tries to tamp down and how he’s barely able to afford to pay a sous in the first place is still true but he’s so thankful that she took the time to drive richie to the hardware store without argument he does what he needs to keep her around.

at this point the restaurant is barely making any money and having sydney come in for the position was walking on a pretty thin line but he didn’t even expect her to wanna stick around. so the fact that she’s there and so willing to sit in this shit with him *and* painstakingly make up cogs to make it better is basically as if she’s an angel who specifically came to guide his silly ass. posting the job with the beef’s budget was such a ridiculous risk on his part but syd proves that she’s well worth that risk and that’s love!

without sydney there’s no air in that restaurant for carmen to breathe that’s not even a joke

[dorindameddler]

The fact that in veilguard they try to make the crows into some heartwarming criminal found family is truly deranged. What if fagin style exploitation of orphans is good actually

[hsslilly-blog]

rehashing an old post but i think a lot about how in trying to absolve hunt instead of seriously addressing the power imbalance/impropriety of the relationship between him and the mc, pixelberry chose to make it so it’s the mc “pursuing” hunt and being really forceful about it. in this case, it’d be okay because it’s not him being weird and, well, the mc really, really wants this! this was not an well thought out decision because 1. it doesn’t remove the need to address a professor dating his student, and whatever that means for both parts + the story they’re in, and 2. in the process they make mc a person with no respect for boundaries who quite literally stalks this man and assaults him under false pretences. not to mention how the writing in these quests is confusing and contradictory (the mc is written in two different ways at different times, whatever the plot is in need). just… really bad on all fronts

[jesncin]

What’s your impression on the absolute DC line?

I like the general idea of the Absolute DC line and I'm very curious with these new takes on such established characters. Impressions on everything we know rn:

Absolute Bats: I'm enjoying it so far! Its main appeal comes from looking at how all the Batman mythos chess pieces have been re-arranged more so than substantial themes FOR NOW. There's hits, there's misses (that epilogue) but so far the spectacle of the changes are really fun to see. Not the most accessible standalone story cuz it still requires basic Batman knowledge to enjoy the changes, but overall it feels like what Caped Crusader wishes it could be if it was more committed to bigger changes.

Absolute Supes: All I've heard so far from this sounds really boring if I'm honest. I'd have to see what they do before making any judgements but I'm not hooked on anything they're selling me. Sounds like re-mixed Martian Manhunter which is not a good thing.

Absolute Wondie: I'm listening and intrigued. The visuals are really popping on this one. I'm not a WW scholar enough to be able to judge the changes, but I'm interested in this very out-there take.

Absolute GL: Haven't heard enough but I'm intrigued by how the pitch was an immediate green light (pun intended) on the editorial front. I'm not the biggest fan of the artist's comic work but perhaps they've improved by then :p

Absolute Flash: Wally West looks like a butch so that's an uncritical 10/10 for me. Hyped about the artist for this one!! I am again intrigued by the premise.

Absolute Martian Manhunter: Where are you it's been so long since I've seen you. Can we get anything concrete or some art soon (<- I keep saying this, hoping I've baited the universe into proving me wrong and that hasn't happened yet)

Otherwise! I'm seated for what else is announced. This is kind of my first time reading along on an ongoing event and I love the communal reactions from everyone.

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

I usually write Ghost fanfics but my little musical theater enthusiast brain has been buzzing since I saw Les Mis in Paris, so, there you go. Also, feels strange to write about my french little guys from a french book in english, given that I am, yes you guessed it, french, but oh well. I like my writting better in english anyway.

It's the light scraping of his chair that betrays Grantaire. He's been sitting in silence for quite a while now, content to watch Enjolras furiously scribble under the flickering light of dying candles for as long as the blond's engrossed mind will allow him.

The sudden noise puts an end to it, as it makes Enjolras look up, sharp eyes, barely dulled by the shadows underneath them, locking on Grantaire's slouched form. Impossibly bright blue flickers toward the bottle in his hand, pink lips, bitten raw in deep reflexion, pressing into a thin line. Grantaire watches mournfully as Enjolras' brow knits.

"I would have thought you'd be gone by now, Grantaire. Gone or asleep, at least. Has your liquor not knocked you uncouncious yet ?"

There isn't as much bite to the words as Grantaire expected. Enjolras' voice is steady, if not slightly strained with the exhaustion that no doubts weights on him. Stripped, for the moment at least, of his scalding enthusiasm and righteous fury, messy hair golden in what little light it catches, tie sitting as loose and askew as ever, Enjolras seems less marble, more flesh. Grantaire blinks slowly, feeling the effect of his own tiredness, huming lowly.

"It seems that today, my dear mistress absynth has left me before my eyes could close, and in such hurry that she took my legs with her. I will just sit here, if you'll let me."

Enjolras' face scrunches up as he lays his pen next to his work, careful not to smuge the still-drying ink with his sleeve.

"I do not understand how you could call mistress something that hurts you so much, Grantaire."

The disarming earnestness with which the reprimand- because it is still one - falls from Enjolras' mouth is almost enough for Grantaire to forget his wit. Almost. He reclines further in his seat with a half-smile he knows Enjolras abhors, twirling the bottle in his hand.

"You say that as if yours only ever did you good. How many times did Patria dear hurt you, Apollo ?"

The blond's expression sours further, but he doesn't snap. Instead, he gets up, leans over the table to gently pry the bottle from Grantaire's loose grasp. It was mostly empty anyway, and in doing so, Enjolras' undone collar gives Grantaire a great view of his collarbones. They're nice collarbones, and he is not strangely hypnotized by the sight, not at all.

When Enjolras drags a chair closer to Grantaire, plopping there with a deep sigh, it feels like the earth tilted on its axis just a bit. Because Enjolras is sitting right here, ankle propped on his knee while the other brushes Grantaire's, watching him with only a spark of annoyance and much more curiosity. There's a grace to Enjolras that Grantaire's wretched hands never quite managed to capture on paper, something that makes the way he rolls his sleeves just now captivating. The Musain is long closed, the backroom barely lit, shadows waiting in the corners, but Enjolras is still a vision. Grantaire's unworthy eyes are roaming, too much exposed skin, too close ; he is afraid an inch closer and Enjolras' simmering fire will melt him like those poor dying candles fighting to provide light.

"Patria hasn't hurt me."

Grantaire huffs, something both fond and painful swirling in his chest.

"No, my aplogies. You've hurt yourself for her."

Enjolras shakes his head, curls bouncing around the sculpted angles of his face. He has his stubborn face on - his everyday face, really.

"I've hurt myself for my beliefs. For the people. Such an important battle requires sacrifices. What I don't understand is how you can love something that causes you so much aimless pain so fiercly."

Saying so, Enjolras gestures toward the discarted bottle, but Grantaire feels like they're straying from the subject, like maybe Enjolras meant something else. Or maybe alcohol is encouraging his self indulgent thoughts. However Enjolras is still waiting for an answer, leaning just that much further toward Grantaire. It's dangerous, to trust him with that face up close and personal, the arch of those eyebrows, the sparkle of those dream-like eyes, the slight crookedness of that nose, sharp cheekbones and even sharper jaw, oh, and Grantaire can't bare looking at Enjolras' mouth, at the pink of perfect lips.

He would lean back, put some distance between them, but he can go no further, the chair's back digging in his spine. It takes a too-long pause and a clearing of throat before Grantaire can answer.

"I believe it happens more often than you seem to believe. As you know, le coeur a ses raisons. Sometimes, the hurt isn't nearly bad enough to move on from the good. Sometimes, the hurt is so entertwined with the good it becomes one. Sometimes-"

There Grantaire's voice breaks, but he is determined to finish his sentence.

"...sometimes, the hurt is all that is deserved."

Because he's sitting so close, Grantaire can see the way Enjolras' expression crumbles at that, taking pieces of his already mangled heart with it.

"R..."

The nickname, both foreign and familiar, rolls off Enjolras' tongue with a pained accent. It's like for once, he's at a loss for words, rethoric failing him perhaps for the first time in his life. Grantaire would jest about it, if he didn't felt naked under the steel of Enjolras' eyes. Then a hand covers his, and his brain officially stops functioning, nothing but a low hum running through his head, because even when Grantaire is sure he can't anymore, Enjolras surprises him.

The stray spots of ink on Enjolras' fingers smudge on Grantaire's own when the blond tangles them together, thumb running along the veins at the back of his hand. He is warm, something that somehow always startles Grantaire. There, in the backroom of the Café Musain, as the shadows keep gaining ground, threatening to swallow them both, Enjolras and Grantaire hold hands.

"You don't deserve the hurt," Enjolras whispers after a long pause, urgency tainting his words, as if making Grantaire believe that was of the highest importance, "you don't. And if I gave you the impression that you did, then I apologize. I apologize, R."

Nothing could have prepared Grantaire for the way Enjolras then bows his head, pressing his lips to R's scarred knuckles. The touch, light, tender, unexpected, like the suspicious shine in Enjolras' eyes when he straightens, takes Grantaire completely by surprise, leaving him to stare with his jaw on the floor. He doesn't say anything, can't, really, which Enjolras seems to take as a bad omen, for his hold on Grantaire's hand slackens.

R can't let that happen, not when it feels like Enjolras letting go would shatter him, a man turned porcelain doll by the simple squeeze of slender fingers. Grantaire's hand convulsively tightens around Enjolras'. One of the candle dies, the shadows lunge closer, but they're still vaillantly held off by the last two flames burning low. Even now, Grantaire can make out the relief washing over Enjolras' face, and he doesn't need light to feel the blond matching the strenght of his grip.

It should be studied, the way Grantaire's heart manages to miss at least three beats, then jump into a frankly concerning rythm when Enjolras leans closer, free hand delicately cupping R's jaw, like he's something to hold with care, like he's worthy of a touch that's careful, a touch that admires. In his wildest dreams, Grantaire would have never imagined this : Enjolras' head tilted so he can maintain eyecontact through the dark curls tangled on R's forehead, so close they could accidentally headbutt each other at any sudden movement.

The look on Enjolras' face is familiar, something that's usually reserved for when Combeferre's migraine has him excusing himself from a meeting, or when Eponine slinks in the back of the room to pretend she's not looking for Marius with a look of utter exhaustion, when Feuilly collapses on his chair with a sigh heavier than him, when Jehan curls in on themselves instead of chatting with everyone.

Worry, Grantaire's brain supplies.

"Let me take you home," Enjolras hums, absent-mindedly brushing a strand of hair away from Grantaire's face. It takes him an embarrassing amount of time to answer, his smirk somehow less convincing than he would like it to be.

"Why, dear Apollo, that is certainly an offer."

Pink spills on Enjolras' cheeks, a delicious flush Grantaire longs to know the extend of.

"I did not mean...I simply want to make sure you get some sleep."

"I know what you meant, Apollo, I'm only teasing you. I am surprised, though, i'll admit it. Do you even know where I live ?"

Enjolras nods, with the steel-clad certainty of the ones who are rarely wrong. He may even be smiling, if Grantaire's wishful eyes aren't deceiving him.

"I do. You rent a room a few blocks from here ; it is a rather short walk, but one you like to prolong by wandering through streets you needn't take."

It's said so matter-of-factly, like that little bit of Grantaire's routine is a well-known constant somewhere in Enjolras' brain. R doesn't remember ever explicitly mentionning his tendency to roam the streets aimlessly to anyone other than Bossuet and Joly, maybe Bahorel too. Unless, of course, Enjolras was paying more attentions to the conversations unrelated to the cause than Grantaire thought.

"Besides," Enjolras adds as, once more, R let the silence stretch on for too long, "I was talking about mine."

"Your-"

Grantaire might just faint at this point.

"Yes, Grantaire, my room."

This conversation feels like a fever dream. Enjolras of all people, asking Grantaire to follow him to his room, with barely enough space between them for the words to really leave the blond's mouth; it is so deeply incomprehensible Grantaire can do nothing but chuckle, now only drunk on the sheer astonishment he's feeling.

"Now you're just asking me to twist your words," he grins, leaning slightly more into Enjolras' hand, willing his shaken brain to memorize the feeling. The blond scoffs, but despite the deepening blush now spreading on his neck, he smiles, dangerously charming and charmingly dangerous.

"I'm afraid I share a wall with Combeferre, a thin one. Whatever you wanted to imply would never happen here, unless you don't mind the audience."

The laugh that spills from Grantaire's lips is crazed, whole body shaking with it. He feels like he's going insane, because there is no way Enjolras anticipated a crude joke and went along with it. Not only that, but the way he phrased it- it almost sounded like the option was only off the table because of the risk of making Combeferre an unwilling witness. No, Grantaire can't think about this, can't read into it, so he just laughs, face slipping from Enjolras' hand when his head falls back.

"Ah, Enjolras, it looks as if your humor awakens after the witching hour."

Standing up, the blond allowes himself to smile down at Grantaire, holding himself in a looser form than in the light of day.

"I didn't intended it to be half as funny as you seem to find it, Grantaire. So, what do you say ?"

Grantaire stares at the hand Enjolras extended for him, palm up. He shouldn't do this. Tonight is going better than he would have ever expected, but he and Enjolras walk a thin line, all the time. If Grantaire had to describe their relationship, he would call it whiplash-inducing, always pulling them back and forth in opposite directions. And tonight, Enjolras is hauling the both of them further than they ever went, like pulling taunt an elastic ; Grantaire should think of his poor little heart, of how it'll hurt that much more once the elastic snaps, and they're yanked back to the opposite end of their dynamic.

Instead, he takes Enjolras' hand and let him pull him to his feet. For a beat too long, they stay like this, chests almost brushing with each inhale, both aware of the importance of the moment without being able to fully grasp it still.

Then Enjolras clears his throat, taking a few steps back to collect his things. Grantaire busies himself by pushing the chairs back where they belong, keeping an eye on Enjolras as he pats his pockets for the double of the keys Musichetta let him use so he doesn't have to leave when she does.

Wordlessly, Enjolras splays a hand between Grantaire's shoulderblades when he goes to blow the remaining candles out. Suddenly plunged in darkness, they shuffle out, Grantaire following a few feet behind Enjolras. As he crosses the threshold, the blond looks back over his shoulder, eyes locking with Grantaire's.

It's colder outside than R had anticipated, goosebumps raising on his skin. Before he can do anything about it, a warm weight lands on his shoulders, and he finds himself wearing Enjolras' infamous red coat. The man in question watches him with all the intensity Grantaire dreams of, and even chuckles when R exageratedly squares his shoulders, tugging the collar up like Enjolras does when he feels especially dramatic. With a mock reverence that earns him a sigh, Grantaire is the one to offer his hand this time, adding some unnecessary flourish just because he can.

"Shall we ?"

Once again, Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand, and the world is just a tiny bit brighter thanks to that.