#not even funny anymore it's just annoying

[taxi-cab-to-slowtown]

@ikibli you’re preaching to the choir here 😂. Though fair warning i wouldn’t call Barry a cop bc 1) he’s not one he’s a CSI and 2) people will get ACAB on your ass in the comments sometimes for liking Barry. It’s so stupid. But that’s not why I wanted to reblog!

I’m reblogging bc I recently went on a semi-rant about fanon Barry in the comments of one of my fics (not against anyone in agreement with someone) and thought I would share it here:

 really hate that characterization of Barry. I think it comes from the fact that a lot of people don't know the comics canon version of Barry and so are working off of things like the Flash (2014) and the JLU verse (which features a Flash that is an amalgamation of Wally and Barry).

I also thing some of it has to do with the way that Barry is driven. Barry thinks with his heart, not in mind. Barry makes decisions based on how he feels. He sacrifices himself time and time again for his family (even when they're assholes to him) and sometimes it doesn't work. I think most people only know Barry from the Flashpoint storyline, where he seems to be "stupid" going back in time, saving Nora, and then not knowing that the timeline will be extremely effected. The truth is saving Nora is an emotional decision, based on the fact that he doesn't have anyone in his family to be his rock anymore, and that's why he does it. The problem is people who make the fanon interpretations don't have the context.

The thing is, Barry is actually canonically smarter than Bruce, and people just forget that??? for some reason? I guess it's because they just don't know. Barry isn't a detective, but he's a CSI, and most of the time, he finds the pieces Bruce is missing in puzzles. They're also canonically close friends, which is funny because fanon always has Bruce as thinking Barry is annoying and not wanting anything to do with him. Also, Eobard says that Barry is "the best chemist who ever lived" and he is from the 25th century. This means that Barry remained the best chemist to ever live despite 400 years of advancements in science and technology, which is a BIG DEAL.

Sorry for the essay 😅. My point is that I hate the "Barry is dumb" fanon, and tried to use the actual canon to influence how he acts in the fic in question.

this was the fic in question:

“when Dick Grayson becomes a detective in Blüdhaven, it takes time to adjust to not being able to break the laws to get evidence or confessions” versus the far superior “when Dick Grayson becomes a detective in Blüdhaven, it takes time to adjust to the fact that all of his coworkers are horribly incompetent when it comes to obtaining and preserving evidence and it turns out all of Bruce’s anal retentiveness about crime scenes, chain of custody for evidence, and contamination was actually for a very good reason and puts Batman 10-20 years ahead of any modern police department”

[ugh-yoongi]

the great british fake-off | xmh

you thought the guy in the hawaiian-print shirt who seems physically incapable of being quiet would be the most annoying person here, so imagine your shock when it's xu minghao, who has seemingly decided you're the enemy and keeps sabotaging you. a baking competition for charity might have others on their best behavior, but what's a little sugar without some spice?

❆ pairing: minghao x reader ❆ genre: great british bake-off, holiday au; crack, fluff ❆ wordcount: 5.5k ❆ rating: e for everyone ❆ warnings: some swearing, minghao is a saboteur, idiots abound. ❆ credits: this netflix psd template for the banner. this recipe for the yule log; this recipe for the gingerbread house; and this recipe for the entremet. divider from here. this post for the divider. this was roughly edited by me, so any and all mistakes are my own. ❆ written for: the winter with you collab hosted by @camandemstudios. thank you for letting me participate! please make sure to check out the rest of the stories as they're posted. ♡ ❆ author's note: i had this rotting away in my wips since literally 2021, so even though it started as a completely different story, i'm so glad it's finally seeing the light of day even if it's not what i originally intended. (also, i know the banner says 12 contestants but the holiday specials only had a couple, okay. i forgot when i made it and i wasn't going back to fix it.)

The obnoxious one is wearing an aloha-print shirt.

He’s also extremely loud, his raucous, fake laughter filling every corner of the large warehouse you’ve been assigned to for filming. Makes a show of batting his eyelashes, throwing his head back every time someone cracks a joke that’s not even funny, comes up with nonsensical nicknames for the entire crew just to suck up to them.

“John Davies? Mind if I call you Joe?”

Joe doesn’t even make sense as a nickname for John, but John fucking loves it, apparently. Looks at the annoying guy like he just watched him string the stars in the sky.

But it’s the shirt—god, the shirt drives you absolutely crazy. He’s about to go on national television, be a household name, and some ill-fitting, charity shop Hawaiian print shirt is what he woke up and chose to wear. What’s his angle here? Appeal to the public with some sob story about only being able to afford second-hand clothes so that’s why he’s competing? Needs the money to care for a sick relative?

(The expensive watch on his wrist and his limited-drop sneakers tell an entirely different story, but you’re keeping that to yourself for now. No reason to play your hand so early.)

As much as you hate the shirt, you have to admit it suits him. The colors are garish and unsightly, just as obnoxious as he is, and you can’t stare at it too long because you start going cross-eyed. Looking at him feels about the same as stuffing your mouth with a bunch of sour candies: you get that same burn in the back of your jaw, same scrunched-up, grossed-out look on your face; have to squeeze your eyes shut to blink back tears.

You don’t even know his name, but you hate him immediately.

Your eyes scan the other contestants. None of them inspire the same level of animosity within you as the annoying one does; all of them nearly unremarkable. A variety of ages, appearances, backgrounds. You hear one say they’re a retired investment banker. There’s an accountant, a teacher, a fucking aerospace engineer.

And then it’s his turn to introduce himself. He clears his throat, speaks with an easy, practiced confidence. Completely void of nerves. Makes eye contact with everyone in your conversation circle. Gesticulates wildly as he speaks, immediately endears everyone to him.

“I’m Tim,” he says, and you nearly recoil at how honeyed his voice is. “But you can call me Tim. I’m thirty-eight, originally from a small town. Work as a…”

You can barely stand to listen to it anymore, each “Nice to meet you, Tim!” like another punch to the gut. How can’t these people see right through him? How are they falling for his bullshit? You should’ve known. Producers always throw in at least one bomb to up the ratings—a secret millionaire, someone rude and confrontational, a flat-earther. Even if you’re competing in a charity baking competition, of all things, it’s still reality television at the end of the day.

Just because the bunch of you are going to spend the next few days creating confections out of sugar, spice, and everything nice, doesn’t mean you have to be part of that ‘everything.’

Tim thinks he’s got this in the bag. Thinks he’s going to show up and win easily, the rest of you be damned, and even if you are typically a very nice person, you’re also highly competitive. There’ll be no rolling over done by you, and if Tim wants to play dirty—

Game on.

As you introduce yourself, you feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of your head. Probably because you don’t bother with the faux-humility the rest of the contestants have. Polite and charming but firm, just the way your mother had taught you. You’re not boisterous, don’t crack silly jokes to play up to the cameras the way Tim loves to do, and you know he’s scrutinizing you the way you’d done to him, trying to figure out your angle.

Well, joke’s on him—you don’t need one.

And you really, really hope it drives him crazy.

Except maybe the joke is on you, too, because you don’t account for Xu Minghao.

In true reality television fashion, the tent is boiling hot.

As if the universe itself had looked down on all of you and decided what you all needed was a heatwave uncharacteristic of this time of year, just to up the ante. Not even ten minutes in the tent and you’re all fanning yourselves and wafting air up your shirts. Which is great, really, because it isn’t like you need to use ovens or stand over hot burners. It’s not like you aren’t going to be soaking through your clothes with anxiety sweats, either! Sweat dripping off your brow into your eyes won’t matter because you don’t need to use them.

Everything’s going to be fine!

But everything is not fine. Not only has the universe gifted you with sweltering heat, it’s given you the work station directly next to Tim’s. You’ll have to feel his annoying, off-putting aura near you for the entire competition. There’s always the possibility of him bungling it and making an early exit, but you know that’s unlikely. Obnoxious he may be, you also know a strong opponent when you see one, and something tells you you’re going to be stuck with him for the long haul.

Think of the cats, you tell yourself. All of this is for the cats.

It’s not like you never would’ve returned here of your own volition. No, your first go-round with feel-good, competition-based reality television had gone fine. You hadn’t won, of course, because you wouldn’t be here again if you had, but you placed respectably in the top three. Became a fan favorite, too, which was arguably more lucrative than winning. People make a living on social media these days.

So, it’s not the competition itself that has you white-knuckled gripping onto the edge of your station. It’s the man at the one beside you, cracking all these stupid jokes about the weather and how it’s a horrible day for tempering chocolate, so he bets that’s going to be the first challenge!

You suck in a deep breath. Try to remember the breathing exercises from that one yoga class your sister had dragged you to. It had been about the same temperature then, too—well duh, it’s hot yoga, your sister had said, which was news to you, because you never would’ve signed up for something called hot yoga willingly. Still, you endured it, just like you’ll endure this, and a little sweat is not going to get in the way of you delivering a check to all those poor, sad cats without families.

“Psst, hey,” you hear from behind you. When you turn, a man is smirking at you as he finishes tying his apron around his waist—has to wrap the strings around twice, you notice, because only someone hand-picked by the gods themselves would have that shoulder-to-waist ratio.

You don’t really recognize him. Can’t recall his name or where he’s from; can’t remember what he mentioned doing for a living. Probably something artsy, if you had to guess—he definitely has the style and demeanor of a creative, with his trendy shag-mullet and the multicolored, glitter-y snowflakes decorating his nails.

You aren’t sure he introduced himself at all, but the confidence with which he holds himself—easy, like it’d take a national emergency to rattle him even a little—implies he doesn’t really have to. Most of the people here already know him, if you had to guess, and he gives the impression that he’s not fussed with impressing any of them.

If only Tim was so inclined.

You clear your throat, vaguely aware you need to respond. “Yeah?”

“Are you nervous?”

“Ah, I don’t think so? We’ve done this before, after all. We should be seasoned veterans by now.”

He smirks. “Should be,” he emphasizes. “Feels different when it’s for charity. Extra serious, you know?”

“Right,” you agree, taking a look around the tent. “Anything for the cats.”

There’s an immediate shift in the atmosphere. What was friendly and carefree is now tense; where a smile and a floral giggle sat on the man’s lips has been replaced with a crooked scowl. And it doesn’t make sense, all you’d done was agree with what he said, but then the producers are yelling something at the front of the tent, cameramen are rushing to their equipment, and a woman appears at your side and starts clipping equipment to your clothes, and there’s no time to question it. On your right, Tim’s laughing and joking around with some crew members like they’re old drinking buddies. It drives you nuts, has annoyance pricking at your skin, flushing your cheeks—

So much so that the woman at your side leans in and asks, “Should I get hair and makeup over here?”

“I—no, it’s fine.”

The unnecessary members of the production team scatter away after a loud countdown. Hair and makeup don’t come to wipe the sweat tracks from your skin. You already know Man Behind You is standing there looking perfect because he’s equally as attractive as he is mysterious. God truly has favorites, and this guy somehow made the top five.

You stare down at the instructions in front of you, confident in your ability to read but not so confident in your ability to make sense of any of it. And it’s your own recipe, which is the worst part. You’d typed this recipe yourself. These are your hand-written notes in the margins. You’ve conceptualized, tweaked, baked, and eaten this recipe more times than you can count, and now all you can do is thousand-yard-stare into the ether.

In the time since you were on the show, you’d somehow forgotten about the chaos. Not unlike that hormone women have that makes them forget about the pain and agony of childbirth, you reckon.

In addition to being one of the most bothersome people in history, Tim apparently doubles as a prophet.

Because it is a terrible day to temper chocolate, and you’ve got a bûche de Noël on the horizon that requires you to do so. You can pivot, maybe make some kind of buttercream, but a basic chocolate buttercream is not going to win you a world-renowned baking competition even if it is Swiss meringue. A child could make that.

You sigh. Push that wave of panic to the back of your mind. In a setting like this, you have approximately ten seconds to come up with a back-up plan and execute it and you wasted your time thinking, so you’re just going to have to temper the stupid chocolate and stick to your original plan. God, you have a headache.

But the show must go on, so you do too.

Step 1: Preheat the oven.

Easy enough. If nothing else, you can preheat an oven.

Step 2: Make the sponge.

Not as easy, but you’ve made so many sponge cakes throughout your life you could probably do it in your sleep. Whisk attachment on the stand mixer. Four eggs. Sugar meticulously weighed and added to the bowl. Sugar and eggs whisked together until the mixture is the color and consistency you’re looking for. Flour, cocoa powder, and salt sifted in. Metal spoon to fold it all together as delicately as possible. You won’t have a sponge cake if you beat all the air out of it, now will you?

“Good enough,” you mutter to yourself, staring down at the bowl.

At least you’d had the foresight to grease and line your baking tray, because the entire entourage arrives at your station just as you’re meant to be pouring the batter into it and sticking it in the oven.

“Ah, we meet again,” the group choruses, genuine smiles peeking through as if you’re old friends separated only by time and distance.

That’s the weird thing about being on television. For as long as you’re able, you exist within a microcosm of daily life. A world exists outside of your bubble, you know, but you don’t see much proof of it. All of your meals are eaten together; all of your conversations are had with one another. You share temporary living quarters and oftentimes too much of yourselves, and you’re thankful the show encourages teamwork and kindness because that’s the kind of thing that can grow sour if you leave it unchecked too long.

And then it just—ends.

Bubble burst, you all go back to your regular lives. You look back on that time fondly, but the friendships are thinned out by time and distance. Eventually it all starts to feel like a dream, except every now and then something breaks through the haze to remind you it actually happened: a stranger recognizing you at the store, a message on social media, the casting team contacting you to ask if you’d be interested in competing in a holiday special for charity.

“We certainly do,” you retort, smile matching everyone else’s.

All things considered, you are happy to be back. Even if the tent is crowded and far too warm, the atmosphere is unmatched, especially when it’s decorated for the holidays.

“What are you working on?”

You explain the general workings of your yule log: chocolate sponge, hazelnut liqueur cream filling, and chocolate icing to top it off. You aren’t sure how you’re going to decorate it yet—you’ll figure it out once you get there, depending on how much time you have—but you guarantee them it’ll look festive and professional.

Satisfied with your plan, they wish you luck and move on to the man behind you. It’s so great to see you again, Minghao, someone says, and you’re grateful they’ve spared you the embarrassment of having to ask for his name. It still doesn’t ring a bell, and you can’t recall what season he’d been on for the life of you, but he speaks with a patience and a gentleness that is so unlike Tim that you nearly drop to the floor in thanks.

But as the commotion of the tent reminds you, you don’t have time to waste thinking about Minghao. You’ve only been given an hour for your signature, and you’re going to need all sixty of those minutes if you have any hopes of presenting a finished product.

It doesn’t register at first.

It doesn’t register at second or third, either.

In fact, you’re sure you’re hallucinating when you open the oven door to pop the sponge inside and you aren’t hit with a blast of hot air. Room temperature. Perhaps a bit on the cooler side, if you’re being honest.

And that can’t be, because you know you preheat your oven. It was the first thing you did, because it’s always the first thing you do. It’s just… automatic, like opening your mouth to eat or washing between your toes in the shower. Instinctual. Not something that needs to even be considered, because it’s always the first thing you do.

No, this cannot be. Forgetting to preheat the oven is a rookie mistake and you’re not a rookie.

…Could it be?

Perhaps you were so caught up in the lights and buzz, the thrill of returning to the tent, that it had slipped your mind? Perhaps you’d pressed the wrong buttons and turned the wrong dials? While it’s not likely you’d somehow bumped into the oven and turned it off, nothing is impossible, so… maybe?

“Shit,” you hiss through your teeth. The producers are not going to be happy about your swearing. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“Everything okay up there?” Minghao asks from behind you. When you turn, he’s got a flour-dusted towel thrown over his shoulder as he nurses a cup of tea, and his composure in the face of your hysteria has your head spinning.

Your mouth opens and closes like a goldfish. Minghao is drinking tea without a care in the world and your oven isn’t even halfway to the temperature you need. “I—yes? No? I don’t know. I could’ve sworn I preheated the oven, but—”

“Don’t panic,” he offers, his top lip catching on the rim of his mug. “You got this. Work on something else while you wait.”

Something else. Right, you can work on something else. Both the filling and the frosting still have to be made, and quick mental math tells you there should just be enough time to get everything done if you’re efficient. Of course, that’s a big if, but that’s why you’d chosen a yule log, after all: sponge cake doesn’t need that long to bake, and anything can happen (and go wrong) in this tent.

So, you get to work on something else. Measure out a sheet of parchment paper, dust it with cocoa powder, and set it to the side. Decide to get to work on the frosting, because if one thing has already gone wrong, you don’t trust the universe to let you temper chocolate correctly.

The chocolate is halfway melted when the oven dings. A small harrumph of victory and you’re finally good to go, setting a timer for twelve minutes. Minghao offers you a discreet thumbs-up, fingers covered in something sticky you assume is marzipan.

Time flies after that. You get both the frosting and your filling made, and it’s only through divine intervention that your sponge cake comes out perfectly and with enough time to score and cool. When you dare a look around the room, everyone seems to be in a similar position as you: frazzled and covered in powdered sugar, making frantic trips to and from the refrigerators, chucking seized-up caramel into the trash and starting over for the third time with a pained expression.

A holiday special—it was supposed to be more laid-back, more for the vibes and festivity than actual competition, but it looks to you like everyone’s taking it just as seriously as your first go-rounds.

“Fifteen minutes!” someone calls, and your competitors fade out of focus. You’ve got a yule log to ice and fondant to roll out.

You make it by the skin of your teeth.

It isn’t perfect, of course, as few things on this show ever are, but it’s more than acceptable. It looks great and tastes even better which is all you can hope for. Much to your dismay, Tim also gets top marks, but it’s Minghao that shocks you all. His stollen wreath earns him a handshake and a lot of clandestine, private glares, but he’d been kind to you earlier, helped untangle that knot of pandemonium, so you return the thumbs-up he’d given you earlier with a smile that feels akin to getting away with murder.

Something is wrong.

On its own, this is not necessarily surprising. Gingerbread, tasked with bearing the weight of an entire house, can be fickle. On any other day you wouldn’t blame it if it wanted to rebel and go sideways, but the thing is—you’ve made gingerbread before. Tons of times. Another thing you could probably make in your sleep if you absolutely had to. So it doesn’t make sense when you look down in your mixing bowl and it just… doesn’t look right.

You tell yourself it’ll get better when you knead it. Maybe the color just looks off because it’s underworked, and a few good punches will set it straight.

But it doesn’t. The dough sits at your station like a sad, formless lump, giving you no indication it intends to become anything at all. Which is, admittedly, a problem. Your technical challenge is to build a gingerbread house—one complete with little windows and golden-toned nightlights, a scalloped roof dusted with powdered sugar to look like fresh snow, a working door!—and you’re far from an engineer, but you don’t think you can have a gingerbread house without gingerbread.

You sneak a peek at Tim’s station, where he’s well into measuring an immaculate-looking dough with a ruler. The contestant in front of you is in a similar place, too, so it’s with an oh fuck I’m doomed sigh that you turn around and hope to find a comrade in Minghao again.

“Hey,” you whisper, trying not to draw attention to yourself. “Does this look right to you?�� You jerk a thumb in the direction of your dough-lump. Minghao, bless him, looks around you and tries his best to hide his grimace.

He does not succeed.

“Um. Well, no.”

You sigh. Place one flour-dusted hand on your waist and pinch the bridge of your nose with the other. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. I’ve made gingerbread a million times.”

“Looks pale,” he offers. Of course, this is the exact moment he dumps his own dough—his beautiful dough, flawless chestnut brown—onto his station to knead it. “Was the sugar right?”

A strangled, disbelieving laugh escapes you. Was the sugar right—of course the sugar was right! Dark muscovado sugar. Everyone knows that's what you use for gingerbread, so of course the sugar was right because no one, both in their right mind and at this stage of competition, would use anything else.

Before you can respond, Minghao’s pointing at your jar of sugar. Your jar of pale, producer-supplied sugar, which even a blind person could tell does not resemble dark muscovado sugar.

A million thoughts race through your head at once, but it boils down to instinct, you think. Your brain had seen flour, butter, and sugar and went into baking mode, not stopping to take in the color of anything. Maybe a smarter, more perceptive person would put two and two together and get sabotage, but you don’t have enough time to play detective.

“Here, here,” Minghao says, hurriedly handing over his (correct) sugar. “It’ll be close, but you should have just enough time to redo the dough.”

You’re going to throw up.

In the end, a chunk of chocolate buttons is missing from the roof and the piping around the edges is far from your neatest work, but it’s passable. You already lamented your loss during the signature bake, because anything less than perfection was not going to win you much of anything, and you’re now 0-for-2 on showstopping, unbelievable, awe-inspiring confections.

Just like the devil, your fall from grace will be studied.

Overthinking isn’t going to get you anywhere, but you can’t help it.

You collapse sideways into a chair, immediately face-planting into the catering table. Everyone else buzzes around you—animated conversations that have your head spinning, words that jumble together and start to sound like nothing at all—but you’re a million miles away. One mistake is out of character for you, but two? It’s unheard of. Something you would’ve said was impossible if it didn’t happen to you just a few hours ago.

This is something you need to file away for later so you can think about it just as you’re about to fall asleep, horror and embarrassment there to keep you company when it keeps you awake until the wee hours of the morning.

A chill runs down your spine.

“Hi. Do you mind?” You startle. Bang your knee on the underside of the table. “Sorry,” Minghao apologizes, but he doesn’t look sorry at all. You shake your head. Gesture to the empty seat across from you as if to say it’s all yours. “I brought you some tea,” he continues, setting it in front of you. “I find it’s easier than coffee when you don’t know how someone takes theirs. Less chance of getting it wrong.”

You smile. Wrap your hands around the Styrofoam cup and delight in the warmth. “Thank you. This was very kind of you.”

“Seemed like you had a rough day.”

Groaning, you try to wave away his words. “Please don’t speak of it.” Minghao jokingly salutes you before miming his lips sealed. “Anyway. Let’s talk about something that is not reality television or baking or a reality baking competition.”

So, you do. Most of the talking comes from you, to be fair, but Minghao is a good listener: nods along, chimes in when appropriate, keeps the spit in his mouth where it belongs. You talk about your hometown and what made you apply for the show the first time. He tells you about growing up in Haicheng and all the things he grew up baking with his mother. You swap stories from your respective seasons; Minghao shares anecdotes with a straight face that have you clutching at your stomach.

Hours pass this way, and you end the night feeling like you’ve made an honest-to-god friend.

Xu Minghao ends the night feeling the guilt weigh him down like an albatross.

In retrospect, it is probably a bad idea to make another sponge, but no one can accuse you of learning from your mistakes.

“It’ll be a patterned joconde sponge with two mousse layers—chocolate and raspberry—and a raspberry jelly. Then I’m going to attempt to top it with chocolate and raspberry decorations.” The judges blink. Are you sure that’s a good idea? you know they want to ask, but this is a holiday competition for charity, so they’re trying not to be pessimists. “Anything is possible through holiday cheer,” you tack on, hoping your smile doesn’t look crazed.

They nod. “Right, right,” they say in unison. “Well, good luck!”

And then they’re off.

Determined to nail this, you triple-check your oven, which is preheating to a crisp 400 degrees; you double-check all your ingredients and confirm they’re correct; when you can spare the time, you watch your refrigerator like a hawk, making sure no one tries to sneak their own work in there and displace yours when you aren’t looking, but everyone’s engrossed in their respective showstoppers.

Tim’s planning a shadow box of sorts, with blown-sugar baubles and isomalt fire. Someone else is stressing over their three-tiered cake, asking the presenter if they think they’ve taken on too much. From what you can piece together, Minghao is making a three-dimensional house, also made from cake that he imported special pistachios for.

“Special pistachios?”

“Mm, from Iran. They have a better color.”

“Iranian pistachios! Can you believe it!”

But you don’t have time to worry about Minghao and his special Iranian pistachios. You have so much to do and not enough time to complete it. Your paste is in the freezer and the sponge is in the oven, but you’ve still got two mousses to make, a jelly to infuse, and little chocolate trees to create—and all of this wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t pointless, but you don’t want to disappoint the cats by half-assing it. They deserve your whole ass, and your whole ass is what they’re going to get.

The result is stunning—not necessarily in stature, but rather craftsmanship and effort. This is what you’re capable of. This is why you came back to the tent. For all your complaining and wanting to put your head through a concrete wall, there’s nothing like seeing the judges ooh and ahh when you present your work to them. There’s nothing like the ego boost of someone taking a bite and watching their eyes light up. There’s nothing like carrying your cake back to your station feeling proud of yourself.

“Great job,” Minghao says, a genuine smile stretched across his face. He also exceeds expectations, of course. Must be those special pistachios, you think, but your congratulations are also sincere.

Production makes a spectacle of judging, much like they always do.

The set is decorated to look like a winter wonderland, even though you’re still in the midst of autumn: a giant Christmas tree in the center decked to the nines with garland and baubles; warm, golden bulbs strung from every awning they could find; all the participants bundled up tight in festive sweaters and scarves all the way to your chins, cheeks and tips of noses dusted with red-pink blush to mimic the cold that’s nowhere to be found. Fake snow falls from the sky, and it doesn’t feel real, but it does feel magical.

One of the hosts catches you by the elbow, asks who you think is going to win. “Oh, I’d have to say Minghao,” you answer, because you’d rather die than give Tim the satisfaction. “His showstopper was incredible, but he was really great the whole competition.”

In the end, however, neither of them wins—it’s Jeon Wonwoo, three-tiered cake guy, who comes out of nowhere to claim first place. He’s bashful as he accepts his prize and says he’s going to donate the prize money to an organization that provides underprivileged kids with video game equipment. No one has a whole lot to say about that.

Once most of the hubbub dies down (and you give Tim a half-assed you did great, so sorry you didn’t win), you find Minghao near the refreshments table. He’s frowning around another mug of tea. “Alright?” you ask, helping yourself to some cider.

“For some reason, I’m no longer feeling very festive,” he replies, which is a very funny thing to say while wearing a hat with a little pom-pom on the top.

You roll your lips to keep from laughing. Sidle in a little closer and knock his shoulder with your own. “Ah, I know how you feel, but you really did do great. You were my pick to win, for what it’s worth.”

“Please don’t tell me that. It only makes me feel worse for losing.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “Would’ve been nice to donate some money to the cats, but shit, if I didn’t know better, I would’ve sworn some dark force was sabotaging me. Like, come on—forgetting to preheat the oven? Using the wrong sugar? Not even a kid would’ve made those mistakes.”

Two things happen in rapid succession: beside you, Minghao goes very, very stiff, and you realize you had been sabotaged. And not by some dark, evil force, either. You were sabotaged by the very man standing beside you—the man you shared thumbs-up with and thought was your friend. The man whose cake you complimented and picked to win. The man who is now standing ramrod straight, as tense as a corpse, and the thought of sabotaging someone in a charity baking competition is so ridiculous and unbelievable that you just—

You just laugh.

At first, it’s a bark of stunned laughter. Then, the more it sinks in how absurd, how nonsensical all of this is, you can’t stop. Tears are rolling down your cheeks. You gasp for breath as your stomach begins to ache. People are staring, including Minghao, who sort of can’t believe what he’s seeing, but none of it does anything to deter you.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze, “I can’t believe it was you—”

Minghao groans. “In my defense, it was for the cats!”

This was not the answer you were expecting. It makes you laugh harder. “What do you mean it was for the cats?”

He swallows. Removes the mitten from one hand to run it through his hair as if that one tic was enough to distract you from everything that’s happened in the last sixty seconds. (It is.) “Listen, you told me you were going to donate the money to a cat charity if you won and I just—so was I, was the thing. I was also going to donate the money to a cat charity if I won—”

“Okay, but which one, though?”

“The Cat’s Paw-jamas.” Much to Minghao’s horror, this sets you off again. “What? What’s so funny?”

“Minghao,” you try to choke out, but you can barely breathe around the cramp in your stomach. “Minghao, that’s the charity I was going to donate to. Oh my god, you sabotaged me and I was going to donate to—to the same fucking place. Jesus Christ, this is some Gift of the Magi shit.”

Your saboteur, who has gone deathly pale, is quiet for a very long time. Every now and then he’ll open his mouth like he’s going to say something before it snaps shut again. When he does manage to speak, what comes out are mangled apologies that sound like gibberish, and you wave all of them away. “It’s water under the bridge.”

“I—I really don’t think it should be?”

“Minghao, it’s fine, trust me, this was just for fun—”

“No, I really insist.”

You sigh, good-natured and exasperated. Something about the fake snow has you feeling romantic and a little bold, so you turn, grab him by the lapels of his coat. “Please tell me if I’m misreading this, but if you insist, maybe you can start by taking me to dinner…?”

This was clearly not what MInghao was expecting you to say. Dazed, he recovers quickly, the corners of his mouth tugging upward in a half-smirk. “Dinner, hm?” You nod. “I think I can manage that.”

You smile. “Great. How do you feel about cat cafes?”

[foxnikki]

𝕳𝖆𝖙𝖗𝖊𝖉

ft. eustass kid x gn!reader !

content: today is your captain's birthday, so why not surprise him with a gift? oh right, you don't get along. genre: fluff, a bit of angst [?] warnings: just Kid being an asshole Kid, cursing, called you brat one time [sorry]; also kisses [!] c/w: 1.95 k a/n: so, happy birthday to my little red head right there again >:D

"And what should it be?"

A mechanical bird was in his hand, or at least, it was supposed to represent that: you had noticed that building a model wasn't as easy as you thought. You sighed "It's a falcon..." you muttered. He was looking at it with curiosity and perhaps even a note of confusion at your statement. "This could be anything but not a falcon."

Ah, it didn't go as well as you hoped, you can see, he doesn't even like it. You sniffled and played with your fingers “Do you… like it?” Kid looked up for a moment before turning it back to the model and turning it over several times "It's odd, that's for sure." He took what must have been his wing and tried to spread it. You saw a small wheel fall off but you kicked it away with your foot before he noticed. "So that's a no."

He put it down on the coffee table and crossed his arms, a little confused. "Now, I never said I hated it."

You pouted at him in response. “But you thought so.” You lowered your gaze so as not to meet his and clenched your fists. You had the feeling that he was getting nervous at your insistence, but you continued "You're only saying that so I don't complain." You could feel a certain tension in the air, but you didn't think much of it, after all it could just be the heat... ok, it wasn't actually hot, hell, it was the middle of winter, but it didn't matter, you wanted to continue. "Nothing ever works for you. I make you a sandwich, and it's too thin for you. You wonder how you are, and you yell at me. I try to do anything, and it's too thin for you. In short, for you it's always my fault! You know, I almost think you're- huh?!" You felt a strong hand grip your jaw that made you look up, showing you an angry expression. Ah, typical of him. You almost like it...

No, bad brain, don't see him like that!

Seriously, you feel nothing for your captain, in fact you kind of hate him, you hate the fact that every time you worry about him he starts yelling at you that you're calling him weak that way, you hate the fact that anything you do is never enough for him, you hate the fact that he rewards others but not you for hard work. As much as you hate the fact that you never get rewarded, you hate the fact that he doesn't even notice you. You're just his subordinate after all, sure, one who cares about his health, but still a subordinate. "So what now? Are you gonna punch me?" You challenged him. You almost didn't care anymore if you were trying to be nice until recently, to hell with him and his damn birthday.

He tilted his head slightly, seeming impressed by this display of courage. It makes him chuckle "Oh, are you challenging me now brat?" He tightens his grip on it, but finally lets go, looking at you amused. "You're kind of funny, you know? Funny, but stupid."

This one hurt pretty bad, so you decided to punch him in the stomach. All you got was a slight gasp from him, and an annoyed grimace. This time he grabbed you by the collar and lifted you up, making you kick in the air "Put me down!" He shook his head as he smirked "No." This was another thing you hated about your captain, his rudeness, his ways of acting and teasing. You hate that he's rude to you, you hate that he always blames you for someone else's mistake. You hate that he made you think you were just dead weight on his ship. His teasing. You hate him. "Please captain..." Words you were ashamed of, words that made you feel weak and small in front of him. As if you were useless in his eyes. He frowned but then immediately started laughing "Please?" He didn't put you down at all, in fact, he simply took a nail and stuck it in the collar of your shirt, piercing it, and then put it on the wall, leaving you suspended there. He chuckled "Now, would you like to telle why are you acting like this today? If you tell me, I may decide to put you down from there." The way he said it, it sounded like he was holding off on throwing you overboard for your earlier insubordination. Strangely, he was keeping calm, and it worried you quite a bit. What did he have in mind?

You huffed. You already told him and he knew it, just why he wanted you to repeat yourself? It was just to tease you a little more. "You're being an asshole everytime I try to talk to you" you muttered "Just why you always act like this with me? It seems like you hate me... I hate you." He probably didn't expect this, you could tell by his surprised expression, and the fact that with his devil fruit he had just knocked the nail out of the wall, making you fall to the ground. "...Ouch." you gasped, trying to get to your feet, but he was much faster, grabbing your arm and yanking you up again. Here we go again, with you lifted up in the air like a rag doll. "The fuck did you just said?!" You stuttered, not knowing what to say. Why was he suddenly yelling at you, again?

"So you hate me?" He asked almost in an accusatory tone, perhaps more annoyed. The situation wasn't exactly the best you could say, and now it really seemed about to throw you into the sea. "You're really testing my patience y'know?" He pulled you closer, too close in your opinion. "What are you doing now..." you mumbled, now you were scared for real. "Listen, I don't know what do you think to do, just- just let this fi-" You hadn't managed to finish your sentence before you felt something warm on your lips. It's him.

...Were these really his lips or was it just your imagination?

You felt stunned by his action, not reacting at all. It was strangely... soft as a kiss, almost like he was trying not to break you. It's strange of him, you imagined him as a rude person in that too, but apparently you were wrong. He pulled away and looked at you with the usual expression of an angry person... a little more softened. "Do you hate me?" He asked. You felt the heat in your body increase a little, like it was for the embarassment you felt at the moment, but anyway you tried to replay "No captain..." You muttered. Damn, you wanted to still say yes but you said you didn't just because of a kiss? He was doing something to you, that was sure. He smirked "Good." He put you on the ground and pushed you slightly towards the door "Now go, before I change my mind and throw you into the sea."

You gasped and got out of there as fast as you could, closing the door behind you. You sighed and clenched your fists.

Damn, you hate him so much.

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

You hear the soft ticking of the watch you bought on the island you guys landed on earlier, accompanying the sound of the waves. The day was now over, the sky was dark and you finally had some time for yourself. Your crewmates were all supposed to be in bed at the time, so you were sure no one would bother you. At least that's what you thought.

Lying on top of the figurehead, you heard footsteps approaching and sighed "Leave me alone Killer..." she muttered without looking at the person who had finally climbed onto the figurehead. The person behind you snorted "I'm not Killer."

You gasped, sit and turned to look at him this time. The captain looked at you with his arms crossed over his chest. God, he the last person you wanted to see at that moment. You huffed yourself and looked away, looking at the sea instead. You didn't want to see him, especially not after what had happened earlier in the day. You heard him come closer and he stood next to you “Hey.” You could feel his gaze on you, he sure wasn't very happy. As usual, after all. "Eyes on me." He growled. This time you looked up directly at him. You wanted to tell him to leave, you wanted to shout at him. you wanted to tell him that you hated him, you hated the way he treated you. But you didn't. "What are you doing here?" You asked, but it wasn't like you were really interested. "Just checking a crewmate, wasn't that obvious?" He replied. Always that damn way of talking, as if he was telling you something that was obvious and that you were too stupid to see. And you knew you weren't, but he made you feel that way. You sighed again. "It's for the thing that happened before?"

He chuckled. What was that funny, you didn't know it. He sat down and also began to look at the sea. "Maybe..." he said indifferently. His gaze fell on your still distracted face, almost as if he were memorizing it. “Did you… like it?” You took a quick look at him before looking away again. All you wanted was to forget what had happened and have some peace, but here he was, making you remember the previous events. You could feel your body heating up, this time you knew full well it wasn't the heat. You coughed "The sea is beautiful, isn't it?"

He tilted his head and growled "Don't try to avoid the question."

You tried to argue, but quickly shut up about it. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea to piss off your captain even more, you thought, you might as well answer him. You sighed “…Maybe.” you said. You noticed a slight smile emerge on his face. You had to admit, he was pretty handsome when he was smiling...

Bad brain, what did I said before?!

You snapped out of your thoughts, trying to distract yourself from the fact that you were seeing him the wrong way, and all because of one kiss. Damn... You heard him laugh at your response, slowly turning into a light chuckle and a sigh "I don't hate you, you know?" he said suddenly, making you jump. Oh, that definitely surprised you. The boy next to you, the one who got angry at everything you did, who threatened and killed people who laughed at him... didn't hate you? That was new. "Off on the wrong foot?" You whispered and he laughed in response - again. "We can say it."

It's like it was suddenly easier to interact with him after that. You felt like you had freed yourself from a burden after a long time that you had difficulty freeing yourself from, you were lighter, finally. It was like spending the night in the figurehead watching the sea and the stars while everyone slept, together and in silence so as not to disturb the silence that surrounded the landscape. Just what you two did, sleeping during that time peacefully, without the anxiety of being thrown into the sea. A pair of arms wrapping around you, one as cold as metal. It's metal, you recognized it, you knew who it belonged to, but you didn't move away.

Maybe and just maybe, you didn't hate him at all.

© ꜰᴏxɴɪᴋᴋɪ on tumblr - do not repost, copy, translate, modify, etc my work on any platform. Comments and reblogs are appreciated.

[damnfandomproblems]

772148308684800001

This actually works.

An anti (I think they were like 15 or something, surprise, surprise) had all their friends gang up on my mutual over their incest ship, and posted nasty things about them, taking screenshots of their writing, and even their vents about how the anti wouldn't leave them alone and kept sending people to their blog to blow up their inbox, even though they'd blocked them. The anti also accused my mutual of being homophobic for, and I can't make this up, not shipping a certain toxic gay ship because that type of toxic dynamic didn't interest them. Yes, an anti, making fun of someone for simply not shipping a toxic ship. I told the anti to stop and be nice. They didn't stop. They said they "were" being nice, and played dumb and acted like my mutual was overreacting. Typical anti shit. My mutual had only posted two calm but annoyed posts about the harassment, too, so... Way to misrepresent yet another aspect of the situation, anti.

After this, I was pissed on my mutual's behalf. I'd dealt with antis myself in the past, not even over "toxic" ships but just a canonical ship the antis didn't like, and I wasn't pulling punches anymore. I started taking Internet Archive captures of the anti's blog for the next couple days, archiving all of their most recent posts. Then I went into their inbox - off anon, using my well-established blog with tons of user engagement so I looked credible and they couldn't laugh me off as a troll - and listed links for all the days I captured, with quotes of the most damning lines. I told them, "Is this what you call nice? You do realize your harassment not only stays with the people you harassed for a long time, but once it's online and posted, it can also stay up there forever?"

And I kid you not, they replied with, "Please take it down. I'm uncomfortable having this stuff up there, I didn't mean it". They did a complete 180 on me; they were uncannily polite and subdued. I simply told them, if it makes them uncomfortable seeing bad stuff about them up there, how do they think someone who is having unsubstantiated bad rumors spread about them would feel? And I told them once it's up, it's up forever. I can't take it down. It's loose. Lastly, I told them that anyone else who saw the bullying probably saved captures or screenshots of their own, too, so even if I could take it down, those other screenshots are likely always going to be there anyways. (I had no confirmation that anyone else took captures, but it was a possibility given how nasty they were being.) Moreover, it wasn't just me; people don't like when people act like they did, even if their online buddies think it's cool and funny, and like me, they save receipts to know who to avoid, even in the future.

The anti proceeded to not only pull down all their posts harassing my mutual, but pleaded with their own mutuals to remove their reblogs of said posts. A lot of them didn't, because they were in full-on rage and bully mode, and it just made the anti even more uncomfortable, knowing they couldn't control what their pals were doing.

This was ages ago, but it was so satisfying. Not only did they stop cold in their tracks when they realized just how all of their bullying shit could remain on the internet permanently, but they never said a peep about my mutual again, or even me. It was an instant KO. I don't do this stuff lightly, but for people this ignorant and stupid, sometimes a healthy dose of reality and a taste of their own medicine is enough to make them realize they fucked around and found out.

Posting as a response to a previous ask.

[nanamincreampie]

Endless Compliments

Gojo Satoru x Black plus size reader

The apartment was unusually quiet for once, the hum of the afternoon settling into a comfortable calm. You sat curled up on the couch, your soft curves sinking into the plush cushions as you flipped through the pages of your favorite book. The sunlight streaming through the windows highlighted the rich undertones of your brown skin, and the cozy sweatshirt you wore only emphasized how at peace you looked.

You heard him before you saw him, the sound of his socks sliding on the hardwood floor, followed by a loud, exaggerated sigh.

“Y/N!” Gojo’s voice rang out, cutting through the calm.

You didn’t bother looking up, your eyes staying fixed on the page. “What do you want, Satoru?”

He plopped down beside you, his lanky frame stretching out so that his legs draped over yours. His usual blindfold was pushed up to reveal his cerulean eyes, and they were sparkling with mischief.

“Nothing much,” he said casually. “Just sitting here, admiring my absolutely stunning, one-of-a-kind girlfriend.”

You hummed, still not looking up.

“I mean, seriously,” he continued, resting his chin on his hand as he gazed at you. “How is it even legal to be this gorgeous? You’re like… Beyoncé mixed with the goddess of everything good in the universe.”

“Satoru,” you warned, trying to fight the twitch of a smile on your lips.

But he was just getting started.

“And your skin,” he said dramatically, holding his hand out as if he were framing a masterpiece. “It’s like rich chocolate kissed by sunlight. Perfect. Flawless. I’m actually blinded by your beauty.”

“Then put your blindfold back on,” you deadpanned, turning a page.

Gojo gasped as if you’d just stabbed him. “You wound me! How could you be so mean to someone who’s just appreciating your greatness?”

When you didn’t respond, he sat up straighter, his voice growing louder. “And don’t even get me started on your body. Have you seen yourself? Absolute perfection. Your thighs? Heaven. Your hips? Otherworldly. And that smile—”

You finally looked up, one brow raised. “Satoru, I’m not smiling.”

“Not yet,” he said with a wink. “But you will be.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because you love me.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to your book.

Gojo, undeterred, decided to crank it up a notch. He stood up, striking a ridiculous pose as he continued his ode to you. “My girlfriend is the most amazing woman on the planet! She’s beautiful, smart, funny, kind, and her hugs cure sadness!”

“Satoru, stop,” you muttered, but the corners of your lips were already betraying you.

“Her laugh is like music, her cooking is better than any five-star restaurant, and she makes even sweatpants look like high fashion!”

“Satoru—”

“And don’t think I didn’t notice how good your butt looks today, babe!” he added, pointing dramatically.

That was it. You couldn’t hold back anymore. A laugh burst out of you, and you slapped his arm. “Satoru, shut up!”

He grinned triumphantly, dropping back onto the couch and wrapping his arms around you. “There it is! My favorite sound in the world.”

“You’re so annoying,” you said, though you were still smiling.

“Annoyingly in love with you,” he quipped, pulling you closer and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You shook your head, but the warmth in your chest was undeniable. No one else could make you feel this special, and you supposed that, for all his loudness and antics, Satoru was exactly what you needed.

[clarkegriffins]

the way a very unserious 6 little nuggets quote has all these anti's in a chokehold is unreal, i used to laugh but now it's getting ridiculous bc no one is having six kids, that was a j o k e, a silly babysitter joke for steve that even the netflix account joked about, no one is having 6 kids not even jopper, so like i have to watch the fandom go crazy over something that it's not even happenning jksgnkjsdngjksdngjk

[fl0-bo]

Guys, please stop making tims character a copy-paste of all his brothers. It's making me very upset. LET EVERYONE HAVE THEIR OWN THINGS, PLEASE. like tim has so much unique lore and qualities, and you're all disregarding it in favour of making him utterly TASTELESS

[stealerofthe2ndbraincell]

I'm happy that more people seem to like Jayce, or are willing to try to get him, post S2.

Cause the S1 Arcane atmosphere was so weird in regards to him in particular, at least.

Not only was he probably one of the most hated characters, he seemed to not even be on the level where people would try to understand why someone liked him at all. Weird.

He definitely wasn't my favourite back in S1, but it felt like he had a nice grounded appeal in comparison to a lot of the cast. He felt like a very realistic product of this wild universe back then. :)

[welcome-to-green-hills]

Is anyone else getting extremely annoyed by all of the fake leaks on Twitter for the third Sonic film? Waiting for the film would have been a lot easier if we didn’t have an ai photo of Sonic and Shadow every day with a user insisting that it was real. I’m at the point where I’m not even excited for the trailer anymore. I just want the trailer so I can stop seeing fake leaks!

Agreed

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Thank you for making that cherik edit of "Marvel's Squirrel Girl: The Unbeatable Radio Show!" especially with the subtitles!!! Made it so much easier for me, who has a really hard time understanding audios without subtitles or transcripts, so thank youuu!!!

Also, Idk if you know that new edit trend of using the song "would you love me" from epic the musical to portray like people falling in love with each other across multiple universes. But anyway, your tags in that post about a podcast not being safe from cherik made me think of that edit trend. I realize that's literally so cherik coded

I went and looked for an example of the trend:

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS6a3MYN4/

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZS6a3QVjN/

YAAAAY i'm so happy you enjoyed !! i wanted to make subtitles with that specific purpose in mind so i'm so glad someone got use out of it (i know i had to repeat some bits a couple of times because /i/ wasnt exactly sure what was said during my first couple listens, so i figured other people might not be able to hear some portions well either) :]]] !!!!

but vjALJAKLJKLJERA that's so funny ........ and true ...... even in a podcast universe they'll find a way to be wedded and divorced and remarried 🥺💀💀 they're inevitable ...

Tiktok 1

Tiktok 2

[zack-is-silly]

I have got to stop being so fucking insane

[francisforever2014]

taylor swift has been so fucking annoying this year that she managed to turn my 14 year old sister who perfectly fits her fan demographic from somebody who wanted to go to the eras tour into a bonafide taylor hater

[kinos-fortress-2]

does this even looks like a tf2 fanart anymore

[voidcat]

Thinking about bassist!narumi…

[especdreamy]

*shakes mcyt fans* not everythign has to be a sibling dynamic for tge love of GOD

[gravedirtandbriarthorns]

Straight men will see you without a hat and be like "Oh, pretty boy did his hair this morning? What's up with that?" as I were able to remember the last time I expended more effort taking care of my hair than like. Rinsing it when I shower, raking my fingers through while it's wet so it doesn't tangle up all crazy, and washing it maybe every 2 weeks.

It brings a real 2000s "Fellas, is it gay to wash your own ass??" energy