#no trust left in this relationship

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

No-one is more pumped for this Frankenstein movie than I am (read as: I am terrified I do not trust Netflix even one bit with my precious)

[what-am-i-doing-in-this-fandom]

Fic Idea where Fiddleford helps Stan rebuild the portal, but Stan finds out that Fiddleford has a wife and he's like

"You have a WIFE?? That DIDN'T marry you to steal your car and money???? What are you DOING here???"

"Yeah, well.... She's better off thinking I'm dead somewhere....."

"A WIFE. That LOVES you. Get outta here and go explain yourself, Idiot!!"

"She and our son shouldn't have to deal with--"

"YOUR SON???!!?!!??"

Anyways, so Stan helps Fiddleford reach out and explain himself to his wife, but expresses that he wants to keep being in Gravity Falls, so his wife and kid go to live with them in The Shack instead.

Blah blah blah, bonding happens, Stan bags Fiddleford AND his wife and becomes a step dad, God bless 🙏

[ask-the-colony-tree-siblings]

Do you remember when someone said you U S E D T O be an uncle, hunter?

Hunter: Yeah… I guess that means Arti had kids at one point? But she doesn’t anymore? She must have given them away to be adopted or something, she’s pretty young to be a mom. It’s probably for the best anyways, I would have made a terrible uncle.

Hunter: AAH!

Survivor: Hunter!

Hunter: I-I’m… f…ine, Viv.

(That script is probably rlly confusing sorry)

Anyways shits going down in the colony lmao.

[o-winterqueen-o]

fengming is such a fun ship because you have these two guys who are deeply and irrevocably traumatized by their closest relationships and how those relationships intersected with their own sense of duty, loyalty, and honor. and they both have such opposite responses to that trauma.

pei ming finds new friendships with ling wen and shi wudu but does his utmost to remain carefree and tries to leave the past in the past. to not think of everything he's lost everyone he loved who he cut down with his own hands tries to not let himself to get too attached to anyone else (he fails) and just live in the moment. even though his past still clearly haunts him,,, he can't commit himself to a weapon, he can't speak to yushi huang, he can't bring himself to have more than a fling with anyone.

meanwhile feng xin digs in with all his might and grasps at every straw he can to not let his connections fade even though they've twisted and gone sour because he refuses to move on and refuses to make new meaningful connections. he'll pick fights with mu qing and chase after xie lian and jian lan because even after all they've done to hurt him, he loves them and doesn't know how to stop,,,

but in the end they're both a couple of guys who never meant to ascend, who never sought to be more than what they were. pei ming was happy as a general. feng xin was happy as a bodyguard. and they've lost so much in a way that few people can understand but at least they can understand each other.

[samanthamulder]

THE X-FILES (1993-2018)

SEASON EIGHT — I will go on record to say this: that I have seen things that I cannot explain. I have observed phenomena that I cannot deny. And that as a scientist and a serious person it is a badge of honor not to dismiss these things because someone thinks they're BS.

[sunnykeysmash]

Man of words

[youssefguedira]

I wish you would write a fic about irreconcilable artistic differences on a movie set between Joe and Nicky.

not really irreconciliable as in not solvable at all but you know i had fun with this

Joe squeezes his eyes shut, covering his face with both hands, and leans forward. His shoulders tremble uncontrollably. He takes a short, sharp breath, and another, and another, but he can’t quite seem to get enough into his lungs. There’s a lump in his throat and a weight in his stomach. He leans forward with a low, wounded sound and–

“Cut,” Nicky says softly. Then, because it takes Joe a second to hear him: “Joe, stop.”

Slowly, Joe raises his head. Wipes at his eyes and takes a few deep breaths to steady himself. Nicky’s already up, frowning ever so slightly as he looks at the camera. 

“What is it this time?” Joe manages. His voice is hoarse; he has to clear his throat once or twice. Nicky doesn’t look up. The clock on the nightstand reads 01.34, but Nicky’s changed it a few times over the course of the shoot. He has no clue what time it really is, only that it’s dark outside.

It’s just the two of them in the room. Nicky had wanted to keep this one small, just him and Joe and the camera. The apartment they’re in is nice, if a little empty, though Joe supposes that’s the point. They’re in the bedroom, Joe sitting cross-legged on the bed, shirtless, sheets bunched up over his lap, a phone lying on the nightstand behind him. One entire wall of the room is taken up by a floor-to-ceiling window which lets the moonlight in, though there’s a few low lights set up behind Nicky to send bars of silver light across the bed, because the natural light hadn’t quite been strong enough for the effect Nicky wanted. It’s otherworldly; it’s beautiful. 

Nicky still isn’t looking at him, so Joe says again, ���What?” It comes out a little harsher than he means it to, but it gets Nicky’s attention.

Nicky runs one hand through his hair. Joe can’t see him well, not with the light behind him and the shadows in the room. “I don’t know,” Nicky says. “It’s missing something.”

Joe has worked with Nicky enough times before. It’s not that he doesn’t like working with him - they’re friends - but he can’t fucking read him, and so after the sixth take of the same scene he can’t help but take it a little personally. 

Joe reaches for the bottle of water hidden just under the bed and takes a long drink, mostly to keep himself from snapping. What time is it? “I can try again, but I can’t do this indefinitely, Nicky.”

“I know, I know,” Nicky says, fidgeting again with the camera, “it’s not you, it’s just–” 

“What else could it be?” Joe interrupts. He’s not stupid. This scene doesn’t work if he can’t get it right, which means the entire film doesn’t work if he can’t get it right. More than anything else, this one depends on him. No music, no camera movement, no dialogue, nothing but him and the camera. And he wants to do it right, he loves this project almost as much as Nicky does, but there’s a hollow feeling in his chest and he’s spent the last however-many-hours having a near-complete breakdown over and over again and it’s still not right. And Joe doesn’t know what it is he’s doing wrong.

“I don’t know,” Nicky says quietly. Now he is looking at Joe, and Joe can’t tell if he’s disappointed, or angry, or – or what. He’s perfectly expressionless, as always. 

Joe loves this job. And he wants to get this right. But it doesn’t mean it’s not one of the hardest things he’s ever had to do, and he’s tired.

“I don’t have much more left in me, Nicky,” he says, and this time he does snap. He wipes at his eyes again, can’t look at Nicky. He’s supposed to be making himself vulnerable, above all in this scene, but suddenly he can’t stand the way Nicky’s looking at him. “Pass me my hoodie.”

“Joe–”

“I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.” He kicks the sheets off and gets tangled trying to do it, grabs his hoodie when Nicky offers it, pulls it over his head in one fluid motion and gets out of there as soon as he can. Thankfully, there’s only Andy and Nile in the other room, Andy lying back on the couch with her feet up and Nile perched on the arm of it. They both look up at Joe as he enters, both look like they’re about to ask, and Joe can’t stand it, can’t be in here a second longer, can’t–

“We are done for the day, I think,” Nicky says behind him, startling Joe. He hadn’t realised Nicky was there.

Andy raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t argue. It’s already the second day of trying to shoot this scene: they’re running the risk of falling behind schedule. 

“We’ll find something else to do tomorrow,” Nicky says. “I’ll look over everything tonight. We will try this again on Monday.”

Andy and Nile look at each other. Nile shrugs. 

“Get some rest, Joe,” Nicky says. 

Joe shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn’t say a word.

–--------------------------------

He doesn’t get called in the next day at all, and he doesn’t interrogate it too closely. Takes the day off, pretty much, because they’ve only really got one scene left to film, and there’s not much more he can do for that. Nicky had wanted to leave it to the last, and Joe had agreed, at the time.

At about nine pm, someone knocks on his hotel room door, which is unusual on a day where they don’t have a night shoot to do. When he opens it, Nicky is on the other side. Joe lets him in without a word. 

“I wanted to apologise,” Nicky says, standing in the middle of the room and looking as uncomfortable as Joe’s ever seen him. “For last night. I was pushing you too hard, and I should not have done.”

Joe closes the door behind him. Nicky fidgets with the sleeve of his hoodie. 

“Sit down,” Joe says. 

Nicky does, settling himself on the edge of Joe’s bed, not quite looking him in the eye. Joe joins him, after a moment. 

“At the risk of sounding cliche,” Nicky says, “it’s not you, it’s me.”

Joe laughs, mostly because the phrase sounds so strange coming from Nicky and also because out of everything he’d thought Nicky might say, he hadn’t expected that. 

Nicky smiles slightly, too. Then he gets up and heads for the minibar. “Mind if I have a drink?”

Joe shakes his head. Nicky gets out a little bottle of wine, glances at the label, and takes a swig straight from the bottle without bothering to get a glass. 

“I can’t seem to get it right,” Nicky says. “You know I wrote almost fifteen different versions of that scene?”

The scene in the script itself is barely a page long. “No,” Joe says. 

Nicky nods. Rubs a hand over his face. “I wanted it to feel real. I thought if I could get it right, it would… help, somehow. I don’t know.”

It’s the exact same reason Joe said yes before he even read the script, when the whole thing was just an idea in Nicky’s head, when they were talking about it over drinks at Andy’s and Joe was in love with the idea almost immediately. He knew exactly why Nicky was writing it; he knows, now, exactly why it needs to be right. But at the same time – “I don’t know if that’s possible, Nicky.”

Nicky sighs. “I know.” He crosses back over to sit beside Joe again, takes another drink from the bottle. “But there is something missing, and I cannot seem to find it. And so it does not feel real. And I know this is not easy for you.”

“It’s not,” Joe says plainly. 

“But you know,” Nicky continues, “I could not have trusted anyone with this but you. If you had not said yes, I would not have done this.”

That, Joe didn’t know: he knows he’d been Nicky’s first choice, but he’d assumed that’s because they know each other well enough already. But it makes sense: the reason Nicky wrote the script is the same thing they’d bonded over. 

Even still, it’s a lot. “I don’t know if I can do it the way you want,” Joe says. 

Nicky looks up at him from where he’s been running his fingers over the label on the bottle absentmindedly. “If you want to stop, I can–”

“No,” Joe says quickly. “But I don’t think it’s ever going to be exactly the way you felt.”

Nicky looks away. “It is a lot to ask,” he says. “I know this.”

Joe doesn’t think; just reaches over and takes Nicky’s hand. “I know,” he says. “Trust me.”

Nicky takes a deep breath. Then he nods. "Okay."

[lemongogo]

is this the part where i say i like jaymel . bc i do

[mosscaps]

let's all think about roman literally on his knees at gerri’s feet, begging to be saved. but you can’t be saved from Logan, that’s the whole point, he is a planet of a person he’s a black hole he is every decision already made. gerri tries to get him to see this — there’s no way out, no move they could possibly make against him, because Logan. always. wins. maybe if roman could give her one reason to fight for him, but there aren’t any. it’s pointless. it has nothing to do with roman, really, and everything to do with the harsh reality that Logan is the center of their universe. but all that nuance is completely lost on roman, because in that room he is seven years old again and always. and when she asks how it serves her interests, what she is saying is show me a way out, but what he hears is that she doesn't care about him. and maybe she never did.

[lovesickeros]

☆ i dream of embers

{☆} characters arlecchino {☆} notes no au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.1k

The House of the Hearth is quiet — or, if you really wanted to be precise, the rats scuttling through the walls are working around the bubble you exist in. The children dare not tempt fates hand unless you asked for them by name, a contradiction. An order to the rules — they mustn't approach you with trivialities, but they must listen if you speak. Your words carry more weight than gold in this house, whether you know it or not.

A tenuous position.

You haven't done anything to earn their reverence, their almost acrid fear — but Arlecchino has. She wields her silver tongue with as much ease as her polearm, ensuring your care in her absence. Her devotion, her service, is felt in the warmth of her chambers, the silks she adorns you with, the bed so soft you feel as though you melt into it. A gift, a promise — a gilded cage need not be something undesirable.

You've grown used to the encumbrance of her presence, these days. The deep timbre of her voice, honeyed yet melting into something rougher, quieting into haunting silence as if she seeks not to disturb you. Dim candlelight is all that illuminates her broad frame as she slowly presses the door open and closed behind her, pallid skin streaked with darkening red, her bottom lip smeared with it like lipstick. There is a tension to her shoulders even when she sets aside her polearm, out of sight and out of mind, harsh lines on her face visible in the deep furrow of her thin brows.

Here, she let's the weariness settle deep into her bones — it's just the two of you, even if she hasn't acknowledged you at all. Still, it's a vulnerability she shows no other, even if that vulnerability is hidden behind layers of barbed wire and teeth.

You watch rather idly from the bed as she wets a cloth in a basin of water, the bed creaking beneath you as your feet sink into the plush rug beneath. You know from experience that trying to help her is like trying to soothe a wild dog, but your knuckles brush over the sharp line of her cheek anyway, free hand stealing the soaking cloth from her hands when her jaw flexes and tenses beneath the pads of your fingers.

It is only then that she looks down at you, eyes as sharp as blades yet so indescribably warm — like a flame licking at your skin, burning so deep you feel it linger for weeks after. Arlecchino is not soft, far from it — but she blunts her jagged edges for you anyway, brushes her lips against your knuckles and allows you a moment of adoration. Carves her worship bone deep in the ghost of her touch against your lower back as she leans down, let's you wash away the blood certainly not her own, never blinking as if you'd simply up and leave if she stopped looking at you for even the smallest moment.

You are well aware she is caging you in. You let her.

Though she is still stiff as a board up to the moment you set the washcloth over the side of the basin, her jaw flexing again, a moment of consideration given. She is not used to soft and brittle things, though — not used to touch that does not lead to steel at her throat, in her gut, carving out softness like a butcher carves up meat, section by section.

But this affliction of affection is stronger than the discomfort, at times.

You almost half consider letting her take the room and have a night of proper rest, but she is faster than you — a calloused hand tilts your head back, half lidded eyes glinting beneath the weight of exhaustion, her thumb firm against your bottom lip. She could kill you without even blinking, you are aware, but she is nothing but careful with her touch — not soft, not Arlecchino, but there is adoration in her touch. Like thumbing a locket portrait, trying to imprint their features into memory by touch alone.

Her touch is fleeting, but the warmth lingers long after — you don't need to be touching to feel the weight of her attention. She stokes the flames of the dying fire, has one of the children bring a fresh pot of tea, lingers even when she doesn't have to. You're sure her desk in her office is far more comfortable to work at, but she'd crammed a small desk into the room anyway, stayed even long after you fell asleep most nights. You never did get to stay up long enough to notice her slip in beside you, nor wake up early enough to find her there with you, but the heat lingers — she leaves breakfast at your bedside table, a small note of affection if she's feeling particularly sappy. Even when you don't see her, she makes sure you feel her presence however she can.

Neither of you need to speak to express it. The silence is..oddly comfortable, filled by the shift of paper or scratch of a pen, the clink of a cup or crackle of fire. It's a little too easy to get lost in watching her work, masking a smile whenever she glanced back at you with a question on the tip of her tongue that goes unsaid.

It's better that way, you both think. The silence was best left undisturbed — as if trying to break it would be like breaking the mirror to each others lives. You don't busy yourself in the affairs of the House of the Hearth, and she doesn't make you. It's better that way, too. Maybe that makes you naive, blind even, to the bodies at her feet piled so high she could drown, but you don't want to give up this fragile tranquility.

So you let the dull scratch of a pen lull you to sleep, try not to smile too much when a hand reaches out in uncertainty to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your cheek with so much affection it makes it hard to breathe.

It's a tenuous balance, but come the next night you will wipe the blood from her cheek again and she will care for you the only way she knows how — distant service.

And when you wake up to an empty bed, warm despite the fires long burned out, you'll still feel her presence in the allure of a warm drink and pastries at your bedside, a note tucked beneath the plate.

Just like the day before, and just as you expect tomorrow to be. But one day you'll gently pull apart the barbed wire and be let in — not today, no, but someday. It's a slow process, but you're patient enough to wait — and when she let's you in, you'll tend to the scars that it left like you've always done.

One step at a time, one day.

[hussyknee]

Ever since I realized anyone who's made art I loved could turn out to be a monster I've tried to preemptively interrogate how many preconceptions and biases I've formed towards creators just because I've bonded with their work, and think about what I'd do if that axe fell on my own most beloved books and music and shows (I mean it already has on many of them. Millennials can't have shit). I've squared it with most of them but ngl, in the full knowledge that I didn't actually know the man from my left elbow, if Terry Pratchett turns out to be a shitwipe I'll probably just lay down and die. I'm the first to encourage engaging much more critically with his work than his insufferable fandom will ever do, but I cannot contemplate someone whose blistering rage against social injustice I can feel so keenly in my own blood could be a racist or a piece of shit like Gaiman. Maybe he'd have disappointed the fuck out of me by believing Gaiman until he became indefensible, because whiteness and man-ness and ego sometimes calcifies in people's twilight years and undermine all they were in their youth. But actually being party to, or knowing about and accepting of that kind of abuse, especially at the time of writing Good Omens, when the characters of Vimes and Granny Weatherwax were beginning to unfold in his imagination? I don't want to live in a world where that's possible. I can't.

I mean, if allegations like that did come to light I would believe the victims and shut the fuck up about my own turmoil until the dust settled. But I'd also just fucking give up on the world man.

[batboopp]

i like batman and harleys dynamic not in the “hahah older brother and younger sister” way or in the “would probably be besties in another life” way but in the “they both relate to each other deeply without even realizing it in the way they run back to people who manipulate and hurt them. they click together like magnets simply because they see the best in all people, even in monsters like the joker, and can live in the relief that they won’t be automatically victim blamed and shamed even when no one was there for them at their worst or took the proper time to understand them” way

[chayannesegg]

listen, i absolutely get ramon not wanting to talk to sunny & feeling hurt/betrayed by her helping tubbo

like, i'd hazard he might even feel more betrayed by them than tubbo himself—bc sunny & ramon probably talked about what family meant to him (during their sleepovers or something) and ramon has no insight into why they'd do that whereas tubbo, for all his actions have hurt ramon, very clearly has the emotional capacity of a wet paper plate and issues running deeper than marianas trench

but that makes it all the more heart wrenching that he won't hear her out (and you can see in the backgrounds of vods her multiple attempts over several days to get his attention just to be rebuffed) bc i bet if she could explain herself even a little things could be so different

it reminds of the situation from the other week where sunny wasn't talking with em and tubbo tried to explain that, even if you're mad at them, suddenly stopping talking to someone you love could make them feel awful and worse than you intended

and that is what's happening to sunny. it's miserable to see bc she was already so isolated and ramon, as her big brother, is someone she put a lot of trust in to be there for her and listen to her and it must feel to her like that was an empty promise to have him not even hearing her out.

and it's particularly tragic bc sunny didn't even want to mess with fit and pac. yes, she was "tempted" to aid tubbo in his quest, but I really don't think it was bc she was actually worried about being left behind when she agreed. i think she could tell tubbo was scared and hurting and not ready to accept the change and didn't want him to be alone. she didn't really have another option and every adult can see that but ramon is young and blinded by his hurt

and now sunny is left feeling abandoned and forgotten and replaced and it's exactly what their pa said would happen; self fulfilling prophecy :(

[daily-hanamura]

[hi-i-just]

Zack is so fun as a character bc when it comes to his relationships, whether the nature is romantic or platonic it still works. The chemistry is so fire, the feelings of love and care are sincere. Zack loves the people in his life, the people loves him back. Whether they're similar to him in personality or complete opposites — it still hits off. Zack and Aerith? The OG, first love forreal. Zack and Cloud? The loyalty, the dedication. Zack and Cissnei? Genuine appreciation and trust. Zack and Sephiroth? Treated each other like actual people. Zack and Tseng? The extra mile, the exception. You genuinely can't lose when it comes to shipping with this guy

[bumblingbabooshka]

My baby's just fine. She knows all of her rhymes. [Patreon]