#lmao interpret that however you will

[wynnyfryd]

your prompt: I saw Cady Heron Steve Harrington wearing army pants and flip flops, so I bought army pants and flip flops.

saw @wynnyfryd do this and thought "yeah i need some cheering to get me writing again" so hey!

send me some prompts and I'll write you a one-shot!

people who'd give me good stuff (no-pressure tags as always!) @steddieas-shegoes @inklessletter @mysticcrownshipper and of course wyn if she wants to

[squinkoblinko]

the mii obsession grows you have no idea

[fallowtail]

controversial take here but i really hope hetty is on her absolute worst nastygirl/comedic clown behavior in s4 to push back against the poor little meow meow woobification curse shes been experiencing since holes because i am tired

[velvet-games]

alastor with lesbian nails is such a funny concept to me

[roxiusagi]

Sangcheng week Day 1 - Occasions

🪷 While a cultivation conference was being held in Yunmeng Jiang, the Jiang-zongzhu and Nie-zongzhu rested together. In the morning, Jiang-zhonghzu would cut off the sleeve of his robes, so as not to rouse his resting lover, not knowing that said man would flaunt the piece later for all to see. 🪷

lol this was supposed to a proper two-parter to tie in the point together more clearly and all but...... i just didn't feel like finishing this part ngl so all you get is a sketch hjdsh

also dont think too hard about why would JC go to the conference in the ruined robes or why didn't he take them off in the first place when going to sleep or how did NHS manage to get it together so quickly just. don't worry about that ok. plot convenience jfhkd

close-ups of the girlies. yes lines only cuz im lines lover and colours hater (more like failure lol dfhkjh)

OH YEA BTW for those who dont know ye this is obvs a reference to the emperor Ai of Han and the whole cutsleeve thing lol

[tls123]

people’s favorite the untamed scenes  —  for @v-arbellanaris

who cheated by asking for my favorite zhancheng moment

[hawkeinthecitadel]

Am i the only one who doesn’t like it when people try to enforce their Stardew Valley sexuality headcanons onto other players?

“Alex is gay, you shouldn’t romance him if you play a female farmer” where is this mentioned in game?

“Hayley is for the sapphics and the sapphics only” she’s literally not though…

[absenthearted]

LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD || HACKEARNEY + ALTERNATE UNIVERSES [1/?]

A girl walks into the woods, and a wolf walks out.

The village has a tradition: a girl is chosen as a sacrifice to the Wolf. The Huntsman leads the Chosen into the woods and keeps vigil at the entrance. 

The girl does not come back. The Wolf stays away.

This is how it has always been—until now.

[lokiusly]

I want Mobius to grab Loki’s horns

[cyellolemon]

The most normal gay people ever, trust me

[cheese-water]

Leo and Sunny together gives me tons of feelings because at surface level, it’s just two very similar girls fighting over very childish things like who copied who and who likes Pepito more. But looking deeper made me realize just how similar they are.

It’s a funny coincidence that both Sunny and Leo have pivotal character moments when they interact. One right before and one right after.

Sunny’s is the mermaid family meeting with Tubbo before she was told about Leo’s prank, and it’s hard to watch. This little girl so desperately wants to be loved by others. She so desperately wants her other parents to meet her and take care of her that she’ll take any semblance of them and love it to moon and back. It’s too bad the remaining shards she has are horror stories and a body by the dock.

Leo’s happens right after saying “hola” and a few other words to Sunny and running away up the hill. When Foolish catches up to her, she’s already sitting in a chair and partway through watching a video. The video was an ai Foolish cover of Gary come home in spanish but replaced Gary with Vegetta (Vegetta vuelve a mí). Leo continues watching and it becomes apparent just how much she is affected by her other father’s disappearance. The depressing scene only darken when discovering that the ai cover was made a month before she disappeared. Two and a half months is a dangerously long time to hold out hope. Especially when it can all come crashing down on you in an instant.

Leo and Sunny are deeply lonely and crave the love and attention from their other parents that their single dads just can’t provide. They’re just a couple of girls god damnit let them live :(

[kingofthecapybaras]

brief lil fic i wrote bc i was having too many thoughts about landduo hurt/comfort

obvious warnings for mentions of missing eggs and general angst

---

foolish walks out of his tower, having just finished organizing his loot from the dungeons he did today, and pointedly not dwelling for too long on anything other than the chests in that room. he still has a bit of time left today, and he's certainly not looking forward to trying to go to sleep and being left alone with his thoughts, so maybe he can finally squeeze some work in on the titan, or he'll go to spawn and run into someone else to goof around with and distract himself.

foolish gets halfway across the path to his warpstone when he finally notices bad on the shore. he's sitting on the ground outside his and dapper's first house, with his arms wrapped around his legs, knees tucked up to his chin, staring off blankly into the water as it waves and ripples against the land.

foolish pauses for a brief moment, and then turns to walk along the shore over to him.

"hey," foolish greets softly. bad turns his head to look up at foolish, but doesn't say a word. foolish notices the bags under his eyes. bad turns back to staring out at the water.

it's not an outright 'go away,' so foolish takes that as invitation enough to sit down next to him on the ground, curled up similarly to bad with his hands resting on his knees. for what feels like the first time all day, foolish lets out a deep breath, the full weight of his thoughts washing over him like the sound of the waves.

he thinks of leo. he thinks about how in the days leading up to the eggs' disappearance he didn't even get to see her, missing her by mere minutes. he thinks of the note she left in the chest in her room, he thinks about the totems left there and how wherever she is now, she doesn't have them. he thinks of vegetta, how he's probably going to come back and find out their daughter is missing. he thinks of all the other eggs. surely they'll all come back, right? the last time they went missing they came back. they have to come back, it's not fair for them to just be taken without any warning, without any explanation, without any closure.

foolish feels tears start to prick at the corners of his eyes, and tries to push the feeling away. bad is still sitting next to him, after all, and foolish can only think however he's feeling, bad must be feeling it worse, he practically took care of all the eggs. he doesn't need to add foolish having a breakdown in front of him on top of all of that.

foolish takes another few deep breaths, listening to the sound of the waves, letting his thoughts wash away with them, and he thinks he might be somewhere close to feeling normal again. and then he feels bad lean his head against his shoulder.

he looks down to find bad already looking up at him, and they share a brief glance before foolish wraps an arm around bad's back, pulling him in closer, and bad moves to fully wrap his arms around foolish's chest, and then foolish moves his other arm and they're hugging each other so tight foolish worries he might crush him.

and then foolish notices bad is crying- shaking, silent sobs with cold tears landing where bad has tucked his head near foolish's shoulder- and then foolish's carefully put up wall cracks, every last thought and emotion foolish had been bottling in rushing out in the form of tears that trail down his cheeks and fall against bad's back.

they stay hugging even after they've both stopped crying, until finally foolish feels bad push back against his hold and he releases him. bad pulls away, wiping at his face with one hand, still saying nothing. foolish has the impulse to poke fun at him just to regain a sense of normalcy, but quickly pushes it down. he has the feeling bad needed that just as much as he did.

they sit in silence again for a little while longer, staring out at the water and the now mostly set sun just barely dipping below the horizon, before bad stands up.

"uh, i should go… i have stuff i need to work on."

foolish stands up with him, feeling that whatever moment they were having before has now passed.

"yeah, yeah. me too," foolish says. bad turns to leave, and foolish puts out a hand to stop him. "uh. thanks, though."

it's doesn't feel exactly like what foolish really means, but it's close enough.

"oh. thank you too," bad says.

they go their separate ways, and they don't mention it again, aside from the knowing glance they share when they see each other the next morning.

[quuma]

“SILENCE SPEAKS THE LOUDEST”

[not proof read - just forewarning you LOL goodluck,, there's likely many mispellings and inconsistencies in structure and past/present tense]

“silence speaks the loudest.”

a phrase that the boy had never fully understood. how could the lack of noise ever make comment? ever express itself? [he was never one to enjoy symbolism – preferring the objectiveness of facts. unfortunately, symbolism was something he needed to know for his final assessments. when one does not understand, they can do nothing but learn. alas, he had to try.]

sitting together in the common room one late night, air weighed down by the pressure of the upcoming O.W.L.s - silent, still; thinking. him, gaze fixed straight ahead, enraptured by the glowing fire in front of him, parchment and quill long abandoned and spilling in waves onto the cold floor below. [his hand aches, as does his head. unintelligible words bounce around, vaguely connecting to others before disappearing. he can’t remember anything he’s read in the past 2 hours.] you, tucked away in a corner, scribbled work illuminated only by a curtain of reflected moonlight creeping through the alcove windows and the lone candle melting above. drip, drip. the flame almost tickles the end of the wick – forewarning of the late hour. but neither of you make any sudden movement that suggests the intention of leaving anytime soon.

the room had once been full, bustling with frazzled teenagers and their shared confusion. shouts of questions juxtaposing aggressive hushes for silence. his friends had once been there too, now long retired to the comforting confines of their bedsheets. he cannot help but be jealous. [but a small part of him is guiltily glad to be away from them. don’t get him wrong, he loves his friends and fellow housemates, but sometimes he just needs space.]

seconds pass. minutes pass. wax drips to the floor one final time, announcing light’s departure. his eyelids struggle to remain open - fighting a losing battle - but his hands are still. his gaze is finally torn from the hypnotic fire, lethargically flicking around in a half-hearted attempt at waking himself of the enticing trance that orange light brings. they eventually reach you. you, now staring back at him.

the two of you had never been particularly close. it was no personal slight against one another, of course. you were friends of friends - skirting the edges of one another’s social groups, but never each other. there was simply no need to. no magical spark, no unexplainable invisible might bringing you together, no forced proximity in classes – he didn’t think he’d ever even accidently locked eyes with you before this.

silence. a heavy sigh escaped a pair of lips [he couldn’t tell if it had been yours or his, mind too fuzzy from hours of memorising equations, wand movements, and literary techniques.]

no words passed through that night air, but the message was still clear.

you looked away. so did he. movement ensued once more; quills flicking lethargically, eyes hesitantly blinking, the crackle of the fire filling the air.

silence, silence.

time had continued to run its course.

the night (or morning, as the faint light of dawn had replaced the moonlight) had ended with you suddenly rising from your chair, startling the boy from the half-asleep daze he hadn’t even realised he had slipped in to. upon realising that you were leaving, he too clumsily collected his things and stood. by the time he was done (which, admittedly, took an embarrassingly long amount of time. but who could blame him? he was attempting to function off less than an hour’s worth of half-conscious sleep) you were long gone. the sound of the common room door thumping gently behind you, paired with your fading tip-toed footsteps were all that reached him.

in the hours, days, months after that moment of eye contact, that moment of mutual understanding, nothing eventful followed. there were no sudden deep discussions, there were no shared inside jokes – but there was that passing moment. there was that presence. there was that tranquillity. there was that shared struggle of staying awake. there was the recognition of unspoken words; “i’m glad was not alone. i’m glad it was you. no expectations, no forced discussion, no preconceived notions. just two people, sitting, experiencing; living. normal, together. thank you.”

no words ever of acknowledgment of that moment ever cross either of your lips – no one admits the comfort of that silent scene. [but there are now locked gazes. there are now small smiles shared. there is now proximity. the social circles you two skirted are now closer, closing in on one another.]

but you both know. you know, he knows.

he thinks he understands now.

[lord-squiggletits]

Man, it doesn't matter what the medium or fandom is, truly the debate that ruins fandom discussions the fastest is when people try to decide which characters "deserve" what. Especially when it comes to them deciding which characters are evil, how evil they are, and how severe their punishment should be for their evil deeds.

It's really annoying/harmful on multiple levels. For one, morally speaking, the line between "evil, but can repent/compensate for their deeds" and "evil, cannot be redeemed, suffer and die forever" is harder to define than you think, and who has the authority to define it anyways?

But also, fictional stories (especially the better, more nuanced, more mature ones) are rarely ever about "deserving" and don't divide their characters neatly between the "good" and the "evil." Every time I see fans debate about "how evil" a Problematic Fave is, or if Fave 1 is better/worse than Fave 2, all I see is people ruining their own fun and stirring up bad blood between other fans. Why would you add this dichotomy of "deserving" to a FICTIONAL story and start real life beef with people over it? At that point you're getting more invested in your discourse over imagined good/evil binaries than you are invested in watching/reading/consuming the actual story itself.

[hirazuki]

for that ship&kiss thing. celebrimbor/maeglin with number 8?? thank you!

…in secrecy | Celebrimbor & Maeglin

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

Aman, a cottage near the border with Avathar. Fourth Age.

"You shouldn't be here," comes the response from behind the wooden door -- finely made, though he does not recognize the craftsmanship -- that has cracked open to reveal pale skin, dark hair, and enough traces of his father's favorite cousin to waken a dull ache in his chest.

Celebrimbor cocks his head to one side, in a way that always prompts others to tell him how much he resembles his grandfather; a source of pride, and irritation. "Is your return among the living meant to be a secret? Did the terms of your release from the Halls not permit for visitors? Or, is this a conclusion you have come to for yourself?"

Silence is his reply, and in it Celebrimbor can hear the snapping of fallen twigs -- the sound of wild things in retreat, scrambling deeper into the forest.

Too much, then. He takes a breath, dampens the inadvertent intensity his spirit has ever burned with, and tries again, softer. "You are not the only one who laid low a city."

"It is not the same."

Distance and disdain, coated in a kind of poisonous pride that seeks to deflect, to set apart and deny others approach lest they notice the stain of shame clinging to reborn flesh and detect the softness lying exposed at hough and wrist and throat.

Oh, this, Celebrimbor knows well; intimately, in fact. This, he can work, with all the ease of coaxing naked gold under heat.

"It seems as though someone has yet to hear the full story," he remarks with a mirthless chuckle, allowing his voice to color with the bitterness and self-derision he is always careful to keep hidden in these unblemished lands; well, almost always. "Truthfully, today marks the beginning of a week-long feast in Tirion and I find I am still ill-suited for crowds. Half of those I could think to impose upon are attending; everyone else has a forge."

Dark eyes blow wide at that last statement, akin to the inquisitive perking of coarse-haired ears or the cautious steps skulking out of the underbrush towards a proffered morsel in his uncle's hand or the curious flicking of a tongue in the presence of an unexpected thought, late at night in the smithy; an indication of interest flaring, however reluctantly -- as Celebrimbor expected. He has had long practice, after all, with courting the attention of the supposedly disinterested, and compared to his successes, the Elf before him hardly places for difficulty.

He makes to speak, and pauses. "Which name do you prefer?" he asks, instead.

"I don't," Maeglin says and turns to go inside, the hair he keeps short brushing the top of his shoulders.

The words are cutting, and the door is left open.

Celebrimbor has never met him before, this cousin of his who is half-Sindar, reared in twilight and young in death, born of the union of blinding light and deeply private darkness, but he knows his story -- no; rather, he knows what they say of the traitor of Gondolin.

He knows what they say of himself, as well.

And he may know nothing of Nan Elmoth, save its hazy reputation, nor what signs might mark Maeglin as his father's son, but, after trading a handful of words, he knows this: Maeglin -- Lómion -- is doubtlessly of the house of Finwë.

Sharp; unyielding; obsidian polished to unbearable reflection that yet remembers the fires in the earth --

Celebrimbor likes him. His manner is familiar in a way that is comforting and painful all at once, and he pointedly decides to blame it on the family resemblance; there is only so much room for specters in his heart, and he is not inclined to give ground to shadows, no matter how they may try to claw at his mind.

Fëanor's only grandson smiles, genuinely -- although there are none there to appreciate the rarity of such a moment -- and follows him indoors.

The place is quiet, dim, and sparse; entirely bare, except for the meagerest of essentials: a lamp, a table, a single chair. There are no tools of any trade or decorative items or personal effects, and the degree of dispossession is such that it can hardly be attributed to a preference of aesthetics.

The rest of the house, presumably, is the same.

It says much and, paired with Maeglin's fingers that have been ceaselessly fidgeting ever since he answered the door -- anxious creatures, ever seeking for something to distract, something to soothe -- it amounts to nothing less than an endless, silent scream.

In a display that is incredibly Fëanorian in its brashness and its intimacy, and, plainly, horrifyingly foreign to his host, Celebrimbor reaches out and takes one of Maeglin's hands in his own, turning it so as to place it against his cheek, and presses his lips into its palm.

Maeglin freezes, going still like the hares in the early morning mists of Eregion -- standing upright amidst the holly trees and rays of first light, statues poised to flee.

"If your hands long to make, cousin," Celebrimbor says, exquisitely aware of his own hypocrisy, "you should let them."