#makes no sense? it's SUCH a banger!

[thelockedtombstuff]

screaming crying throwing up

bothered. dry. sad. out of my lane. unfocused. declining

Spotify, why the fuck did you remove this gay ass song!!!!!!!!!! immediately lost 5 years of life expectancy because of this

[teddievan]

you're gonna have to pry the headcanon that these two logans are actually the very same logan out of my cold dead hands

[womenaremypriority]

Our culture posits brute strength as synonymous with strength altogether. This is why feminists are accused of thinking women are inferior when we mention women have significantly less raw strength than men. Think about how Darwin’s “survival of the fittest” is considered about how well an animal can win in a fight, instead of multiple aspects of strength both physical and mental. Brute strength has been considered the only part of physical strength that matters because it is the most immediate and obvious, and because it’s the area men succeed.

[onaperduamedee]

Shooting star, as it turned out, never to return once you left our sky.

[daneol]

Gyahahhaa Tales from Borderlands content cause I'm playing it for the first time and slowly falling in love with these two dumbasses!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[drenched-in-sunlight]

people bending over backwards to scream Marika never loved Messmer when he alone has more blessings personally bestowed by her than any other demigods combined are so funny to me. also the fact that it's implied he used to live in Leyndell too 😂😂

also she killed an entire god herself and made sure said God is called all manner of names and depict as ugly forever. for him 😂😂

[silverskye13]

The Best Seat in the House

Summoning Helsknight is easy. Their souls are so inextricably tangled, they are nearly the same person. It's terrifying. It's exhilarating. Its

Welsknight is flying through the end. He has the coordinates to his destination memorized, like a lodestone in his heart. There is something about a person's blood sweeping so deep into the ground that makes the connection almost physical, like a thread pulling. He thinks this must be what sends doves and pigeons home. Why salmon swim upstream. There's something about blood

It's mutual, this dance. Hatred and disgust and thrill. It's beyond words, somewhere deeper, in the roots of teeth and the marrow of bones. Inextricably tied, souls and blood.

Helsknight is the perfect knight.

Tenets. Poise. Form. Kit.

Bloodlust.

Helsknight is the perfect knight.

They don't talk anymore. They don't need to. Words fail. Words circle and circle and circle and go nowhere.

It reads our thoughts.

Helsknight isn't waiting for him when he lands, but Welsknight can feel him on the other side of everything, like an itch beneath his skin. Like if he just found the right place, the source, where the itch is the most intense and bothersome, he could set a blade to his skin and dig Helsknight out.

In a way, that's what he's doing.

And yet they play the game.

By the time Welsknight has folded his elytra and put on his breastplate, Helsknight is there. The itch in his skin is crawling across the surface, spider legs and teeth; a brand, a flaying. He turns to face his other half.

Helsknight is a perfect knight. He's a fortress, a wall, and he's right there with a sword in his hand. Welsknight's strongest images of him are of blazing eyes in the depths of a blackened helm, all netherite and embers. Maybe it's hels that scours him black, the baking heat and unending fire. Maybe it's just that he's standing by Wels, and Wels is light and life and brilliance and

Welsknight is not a perfect knight. If he were, Helsknight wouldn't exist.

And the universe said the darkness you face is within you

There is something brutally honest about a battle like this, here, bared for the void, and the universe. A person can lie with words, but swords, like angels, can only speak the truth. In the face of death, they can only be who they are.

Helsknight is death and terror. He must be, because that is what Welsknight feels every time they meet.

One step, two, a mirrored circle across the end stone. There is no dust here to kick up, no gravel to throw. This island in particular is stark and flat. No upper hand, no useful terrain. Three steps, four, swords in hands. No shields, only armor, and the places it fails. Welsknight's breaths are long and loud and reverberate in his helm, wash back across his face with heat and condensation.

Helsknight is sparks and smoke and perfect form. The red plume in his helm sometimes sparks with the glimmer of his eyes. There is no moon in the End, and Helsknight's fire is an island of firelight in starry black.

Silence draws out between them like a blade.

Five steps

Six

And the universe said

Helsknight springs first, because he always does. Welsknight can feel his impatience like goosebumps, a phantom thrill of expectation. Welsknight meets him, because to be too far to one side is to be too close to the End. The ringing clash and slithering screech of metal on metal is like lightning and thunder in the perfect silence. They test each other, feints and parries.

Helsknight is impatient, and Welsknight shudders with it. He is always impatient. It's a thirst for blood, and a thirst for efficiency, and pride in the decisiveness of his hand. Helsknight would kill him gladly in one stroke if he could. His is not the joy of suffering, but the joy of superiority.

And yet they play the game

They break apart. Welsknight needs time to recover and reassess. Neither of them is wounded, but Helsknight is powerful and sure, and Welsknight's wrist stings, and his elbow twinges. Too many solid strikes caught instead of deflected. Too many tests done wrong. Mistakes. Too many mistakes.

Helsknight is humoring him. There is derision in the air like the scorn of distant thunder. It makes Welsknight mean, feeling it passing over. If Helsknight wanted, he could press his advantage until Welsknight was off the edge of the world. Welsknight can feel his other half's sense of superiority. It stokes the embers of Welsknight's own pride. He wants to rip the smugness out of Helsknight with his bare hands, bloodied to the elbow.

The red in Helsknight's eyes glimmer, a dare, an invitation. Come and try, he says, come and try. He says it with every line in his body, with the way he holds the point of his sword just a little too far out, a Fool's Guard. An invitation to where the plates of his armor gap at his armpit, reticulate near his waist. An invitation in the tilt of his head, slightly upwards, to look down. Slightly upwards, where the gorget and the helmet separate to show a hint of vulnerability.

Helsknight is a fortress.

And yet they play

One step, two, circling. Swords pointing and guarding. Three steps, four, Welsknight only knows he's caught his breath, because the heat of it is rolling across his face again. His hair is sticky with sweat, and threatens to thread into his eyes. Five steps. Helsknight blinks slowly, boredly. The bloody red light of his eyes winks out and returns. Six steps.

Welsknight attacks first this time. It's a lunge he knows will miss, but he sweeps the blade up anyway and feels the clamor of disrupted momentum as he's deflected away. Helsknight bursts forward a fist and punches Welsknight hard in the center of his breastplate. It kicks away some of his air, surprises him, surprises him again when that same hand snaps up to grab his gorget and pull, threatening to drag Welsknight off his feet. Helsknight's knee comes up and Welsknight catches it, throwing his shoulder into Helsknight's stomach.

They fall hard on the stone.

And yet they

It's tangling limbs, and wrestling, and that little bit of air Welsknight lost is felt, because he can't catch his breath. They're both on top of and below each other. The horizon is yellow and black and stars and stone, twisting. Swords are useless this close, but they grip them desperately anyway, because to lose a weapon is to lose the fight.

Helsknight is the first one who manages to get to his feet. He is a dark tower rising, the kind of thing that eclipses and imprisons. Welsknight can taste blood in his mouth from Helsknight's elbow ringing hard against his helm. His vision is a spattering of stars and colors that aren't supposed to exist.

Helsknight waits, impatient and seething, for Welsknight to get back to his feet. Sometimes, Welsknight wishes the flower of chivalry wasn't so good at reducing him to a pile of steel and guts. He might bring himself to respect it, if it didn't.

Welsknight is tired. He can't catch his breath. His vision still tilts slightly.

Helsknight is a dark tower risen.

Take a breath now.

Helsknight springs. When his sword lands on Welsknight's, it sends lightning through every nerve. Welsknight retreats a step.

Take another.

Another. Another. Metal on metal. Welsknight's only thought as he parries and steps backwards, is that he continue to circle.

I will tell the player a story.

Helsknight's satisfaction is cloying. It fills Welsknight's mouth with a taste like vinegar and rot. Welsknight's guard breaks. He can see his mistake and do nothing about it. Helsknight's sword shivers and rings as it rebounds off his chest plate and plants its tip in Welsknight's armpit, where the plates in his armor gap. The wound isn't deep. It dips in and out of his skin so quick and seamless, Welsknight feels the trickle of blood long before he feels pain.

It contains the truth safely, in a cage of words.

Helsknight's two-handed stroke steals Welsknight's sword from his hands. Welsknight leaps the next sword strike, rolls, and gets a cut on his ankle for his trouble. Standing is a labor.

He still can't catch his breath.

Helsknight's blade has so little blood on it, only the handspan at its tip glitters darkly. Why, then, does Welsknight feel so shaky. Dread of the inevitable prickles his spine, and chasing it like a hound is Helsknight's vindication. I knew I was better, I am always better.

Why do we even play these games?

Sometimes the player dreamed it was lost in a story

Helsknight waits for Welsknight to pick up his sword. He is a shark circling, mad for a few drops of blood. Welsknight stands in the center of the island and waits, turning, for Helsknight to spiral towards him. They are a disaster, a collision course, gravity pulling. They are the inevitable, and their blood pulls them to each other just as much as thought and wit and loathing.

A lodestone in their souls.

Helsknight springs.

And yet they play the game

Welsknight gets a single lucky strike. His sword tears between two of Helsknight's plates, and he feels the soft resistance of flesh against his blade. It's low on Helsknight's hip, painful, but far from deadly. Helsknight proves it by slamming the pommel of his sword into Welsknight's faceplate. If it weren't for the nose guard, his nose would be broken. His eyes still phosphor from the hit, a world of infinite, blinding stars. His feet are kicked out from underneath him.

And the player started to breathe faster and deeper, and it realized it was alive

Welsknight reaches for his dropped sword again. Helsknight doesn't back away from him this time. Welsknight deflects the stab that would have killed him, swings the pommel of his sword against Helsknight's knee.

You. You.

Helsknight drops, a hand on his battered joint. Then he lunges, and they are wrestling again. Blood from Helsknight's wound spatters Welsknight, makes one of his hands slick. He holds his sword in both hands and uses it as a staff, trying to ward away Helsknight's blade locked against it. With the force of his shoving, and the weight of him bearing down, Welsknight's arms are giving.

You. You.

His arms are giving. The crossed blades are too close to his neck. He kicks. He grunts.

Helsknight is a dark tower, the kind that eclipses vision. His eyes are red stars in the dark, distant and bloody.

You are alive.

One of Welsknight's arms collapse. His brief hope this might pitch Helsknight off-balance flickers out before it can really settle.

Helsknight is a perfect knight. Tenets. Poise. Form. Kit. Bloodlust. Bloodlust. Bloodlust. Welsknight can feel it like a wound on his skin. Like blood in his eyes. Like iron on his tongue. Like a netherite blade so close to his neck he can't catch his breath.

I want to help them speak the word they fear.

Helsknight kept his blades sharp. It probably had something to do with perfection. In the moment before blade touches skin, Welsknight searches his other half. He finds what he expects to see.

Disgust at what is happening, and blood and pain and struggle. Resentment at being brought here only for this one thing, for this spiral to an end. Vindication of his skills, pride in his efficiency, disdain for Welsknight's clumsiness.

Welsknight does not find what he expects, as well.

He does not find remorse.

He does not find guilt.

He finds only a subtle annoyance where those things should be, disdain that Welsknight bothers to search at all.

Welsknight smirks. He doesn't need the reminder that his other half is evil, but it is nice to know, even if he's lost, he's still right.

The days were short; there was much to do; and death was a temporary inconvenience.

Helsknight is alone on an island in the end. He is surrounded by the remains of Welsknight's gear, and the spattering of his own blood against the end stone. Whenever Welsknight dies, when they fight here at the end of the world, with nothing to distract each other from each other, it feels like Helsknight has woken up for the first time in a long time. The smothering thoughts, emotions, intensities of his Hermit lift and dissipate, and it feels like he has finally caught his breath for the first time in years.

Helsknight sits on his knees on the stone until his joints ache, and his hip burns, and his leggings are a mess of blood, and he breathes. Long, deep, like cold water in a desert.

Finally, he stands. It takes effort. He has to use his sword as a crutch. But he stands. He looks out at the nothingness, at the end, at the jaws of the universe in every direction.

And the game was over and the player woke up from the dream.

Helsknight snorts derisively.

"I would rather sleep," he says.

He vanishes back to hels.

[bandsandwristbands]

AU where everything is exactly the same but the sand sibs have a punk band together. Now accepting band name suggestions. My partner said Tanuki! (TNK!)

[always-a-joyful-note]

More music-based media and music in general needs to take a page out of Revue Starlight and make their songs at minimum 6 minutes long. Intersperse it with dialogue or intrumental breaks if you want, but I expect it to drag at least 8 minutes in length

[abugidaithink]

worried you might misspell something call that a typothetical situation

[sidsinning]

Might be the only male-targeted harem anime I like

[schrodingerskota]

there is a weird sort of comfort i find in any/all/most of jon and martins more lighthearted or loving conversations never being caught on tape... like imo the eye is totally uncaring of any of jons feelings that it cant use to help itself, it doesnt deem it as important and therefore whnever they say i love you to each other its never in front of a tape recorder which is. GOOD yeah but it adds a layer of sort of privacy and protection to it ??? because like there is no way during the whole of s5/the safehouse period neither did anything romantic for each other, no matter how small. but like im almost happier we dont get to see it because i feel like it makes it a lot more intimate??? like . its a THEM thing. were not meant to see it. the affection they hold for each other isnt meant for the benefit nor the viewing of others. it definitely separates thwm from everything/everyone else a little since they are the only two able to see each other at their most vunerable but idk i think its kinda nice. like they reserve all of this only for one another idk i think its sweet (adds a bit of normality into their lives too yk like they can kiss and whatnot without needing to be reminded of doom looming over them) and i mean id say both of them are generally pretty closed off?? like we know jon is HORRIBLE with expressing his feelings and while martin is more encouraging of jon doing so hes still not an open book (or at least i think so idk) . so i think its nice that when in love theres still this like. air of mystery around it. ESPECIALLY since they both already are shown to find comfort in solitude in like kind of a ritualistic way imo??? like jon always records his statements alone and ik part of it is martin not wanting to hear them but like in the safehouse he doesnt really seem scared and his main reason genuinely seems to be that jon wants to read them alone. martin also records his poetry alone! he has one of his biggest reflective sessions alone! twice! ik this is a little different to what i was talking about at the beginning of the post cause its caught on tape but still i hope it kinda makes sense and still connects??? idk i just think its really sweet how aware they are of the space they both need while also having such strong feelings for each other . privacy is such a big thing for them!! i never wanna see them on tape again!!

[r26yz]

now I've spent myself in lines and lost. where is that boy of yesteryear?

let him die young and leave a pretty corpse: die with his legs in the air

[roykiller07]

when i was little i had above average reading and writing comprehension + i was creative so all the adults around me constantly expressed how much they believed i would become an amazing prestigious author as an adult. little do they know im now an unemployed highschool dropout writing doomed gayass transformers fanfiction on my notes app in a decrepit hole in the ground and i really AM the most ultimate writer on the planet

[sirasketch]

*just gonna commit to posting when i feel like it lmfao

*anywho, my take on a dream redesign !! love the concept of the guy but the execution isn’t the best imo. I’m no character design expert, but this is what i like to think he should look like

[anitalianfrie]

cele/bezz + things you said when you were drunk

-daisy (@lastlatebraker)

things you said when you where drunk (bezzetti)

“Stronzo! Eat your own things, not mine!” shouts Pecco, shoving Mig aside. Mig collapses on the chair, laughing, a big laugh that comes from the stomach, and Luca falls down on the sticky surface of the table, headfirst, shoulders shaking. 

Cele looks at them from the other side of the table, eyes blinking, trying to clear his head. He drank just enough to feel completely stupid, but now he wishes the feeling could be washed away in a second, with a snap of his fingers. It’s five am, and they are sitting inside of a kebab shop, after getting out of the club all wobbly and laughters, leaning onto each other to not fall down. 

Nelli, the only one sober enough to still walk straight, plops down in the chair next to his, the tray in his hands hitting heavily the table, a couple of chips falling out of it and on the wood, thanks to the impact. Somebody’s hand immediately reaches out to get them. 

Cele kind of feels in his own world. Words don’t stick, flying around in his head, and he can’t grab them, make them stay still enough for him to give them any meaning or sense. 

He keeps blinking, hard, in the hope of something sticking. Nothing does. 

Something hits him in the shoulder, hard. He almost jumps from the surprise, but then he turns his head, and it’s only Marco. Marco who drank too much, so much that when they got into the kebab shop he simply collapsed onto a table and didn’t say a word, didn’t even ask for food. 

He always gets like this, when he drinks too much. Confused and loose limbed. Affectionate, almost sticky in his need. Cele doesn’t mind it, when Marco comes from behind him on the dance floor and hugs him tight, screaming in his ear, or when he wraps one of his arms around his waist while they wait for their drinks at the bar. He likes it, actually.  

Maybe more than he should. 

Cele gets one of his arms around Marco’s shoulders and squeezes, bringing him a bit closer. Marco smiles, his eyes closed.  

The others are still talking, laughing, and Luca is moving his hands around wildly, pieces of lettuce flying out of his sandwich. Cele stops trying to understand what they are saying. 

Marco starts nuzzling against Cele’s neck, and the brush of his untamed hair against his skin makes him ticklish. It’s... nice. A smile spreads on his lips. He can feel Marco’s mouth stretching against his neck, in a curve that’s twin to his own. 

Cele mindlessly puts one of his hands in Marco’s curls, playing with them, and Marco melts against him.  

It’s only the two of them in the whole world. 

After some time, Marco, uncoordinated and messy, puts one hand on Cele’s thigh and climbs up with his mouth, reaching Cele’s ear. 

“You know.” he says, whispers, and Cele can feel his lips against his skin. The sting of his scruff.  

“You know,” he continues, “I think. If you were a girl. I would fuck you.” and then he giggles, one of his soft laughs, burying his head deep down into the crook of his neck, pushing his nose against the muscles. 

Cele can feel his blood pumping, in his hands, in his veins, in his carotid against which Marco is hiding his face. He doesn’t-  

He tries to make sense of the word he just heard. Maybe the alcohol just scrambled them too. But Cele can see them, written in front of his eyes, and they are not moving. He can feel their sour taste against his tongue with extreme clarity. 

If you were a girl. 

Cele wishes the alcohol could make him feel stupid again, sheepish and without a care in the world. But it’s too late. It’s gone now. 

If you were a girl. 

Mig shoves a chip in his face. 

“Do you want it? I put some lemon on it, it's a banger!” 

Cele takes the chip. 

It tastes like tears. 

Marco keeps nuzzling against his neck. 

send me a pairing and one of these and i’ll write a mini fic