#pursuing interests

[thegoodmorningman]

Good Morning!!! You better hope your manager doesn't see you right now.

[ahjiing]

Gale is surrounded by weirdos and the only sane creature in camp is Tara

[wodimewoahtime]

hey till...... don't you have just a little too much tsundere "i'm not gay" yaoi protag power???? why are you attracting these guys like a hamster to the shredder

[embraceyourdestiny]

Ayda dispelled adaines orb, rushed up, grabbed adaines hands and said “I heard you were kidnapped so I came to help!” I love their friendship so much FEMALE FRIENDSHIP HELL YEAH!!

[revvethasmythh]

On the topic of FCG potentially being reincarnated--it makes sense as an option the party might organically consider attempting, but, as we saw with Laudna's death (and even Percy's way back when), input from the player is a really operative aspect of whether a character will be resurrected. Marisha clearly did not want to let Laudna go, so they pursued a long road to bring her back. Alternatively, Taliesin was totally willing to let Percy go if he thought the ritual offerings wouldn't be enough (shoutout to Vex's nat 20 persuasion check for this one).

And Sam? Well, Sam, as a player, loves to fail. Because failing is interesting, usually far more interesting than succeeding. We're talking about a guy who openly derides luck points and fervently refused to use the halfling luck feature except in the ONE instance where succeeding the roll would have had a worse outcome than failing. Regardless of how I or anyone else feels about losing FCG and/or wanting them back, Sam does not strike me as the kind of player who would want to bring FCG back after going out like this, available reincarnation or not. I would both suspect and anticipate that this will be FCG's final showing, just based on what I know of Sam as a player

[babykittenteach]

🌔

[thyrell]

you know honestly i would respect taylor swift a lot more if she wrote about being a child star forced into a celebrity career instead of like, still making songs about high school breakups as a 30 year old woman

[tswwwit]

Unironically enjoying something cringe is great because it humbles you. Once you accept that you are enthusiastically ridiculous, you view ridiculous content with clearer eyes. Only those without sin should cast the first stone, and brother you are a sinner. By god, look at that person go. Good for them.

[gingermintpepper]

“Your hair’s gotten longer.” 

It’s conscious effort that keeps him from tucking the strands behind his ear, from taking the knife at his hip and shearing it all off. He keeps his stance focused, attentive, there’s little else he can do when he’s taken so completely after his mother when it comes to his hair. His father scratches his chin, the clouds of his beard snaking about his finger like mist parting for mountain-peaks. Ares’ chin is still child-smooth. He can feel the tickle of his over-long fringe against his soft jaw. There’s no heart in his chest, but still he feels as though a pulse is lodged in his throat. 

Father sighs, put-upon, disappointed, and Ares feels a slight tremor start in his calves from holding himself so tense. “Well done, Ares. Go clean yourself up and get some rest. Phoebus will want to look you over later.” 

He should be ecstatic to be praised by his father. Over-the-moon with joy. There should be pride emanating from every pore of his body, the blood on his skin should be sweeter than ambrosia. 

Instead, he bows, manages a soft ‘thank you, Father’ around the lump in his throat and immediately flees the room. A mild ‘make sure to trim your hair’ hits the back of his head like a spear through the skull. He almost wishes the great door had slammed on his foot so he would have reason to feel this horrid in his retreat.  

Phoebus Apollo is waiting for him in his infirmary. 

He’s gilded as ever, gold from crown to heel. Perfect like the statues they carve of him in his temples. He has a smile for Ares when he sees him, a crinkle at the edges of his pretty eyes from the weight of his joy. Ares is waiting to see the crack in the marble, to see if that’s the chip that’ll reveal his fangs.

“Brother,” he greets, and his voice is warm - like the arms that embrace him, his voice is so warm, “Welcome back. I’ve heard you’ve done well.”  

There’s a tremble in Ares’ fingers he hadn��t noticed before. Strain from carrying his sword for so many days, a throb from wounds he hadn’t noticed he’d accrued. “Heard? There’s already gossip?” 

Phoebus blinks, disarming, demure, coquettish, “But of course,” and Phoebus’ voice is honey to Ares’ gravel, the juxtaposition is grating on his skin, “It’s Olympus. The gossip began long before you set your course.” Those warm hands lead him further into the room, bodily sits him on the chaise, pulls his helmet from his head. It’s all one, unbroken motion, “It’s summer alas, so I could not watch your war myself, but I hear it was quite the decisive victory.” 

A thousand thoughts run on horseback through his mind then. 

Did Father overhear some terrible slander that pre-emptively disappointed him? Was Ares’ victory merely a rumour, a bet his father hadn’t bothered to take? Was the gossip more enticing than the stark truth? That Ares wasn’t some child toddling about in the shadow of his sister, that his sword and spear weren’t merely for show - he’d think such a thing would warrant celebration. Not -

“Oh my,” Phoebus is in front of him, pleasant warmth more sticky heat with how close he’s pressed himself into Ares’ space. From this angle, Ares can see the multi-coloured flecks of his eyes, like shards of golden glass suspended in ichor. From this angle, with his hand so gently holding his hair, were Ares to blink too hard, he’d swear Phoebus looked just like his mother. “Your hair’s grown long again.” 

He pushes Phoebus off with such force that he bangs into the wall. It’s Phoebus, it won’t make even the impression of a scratch on him, but Ares wishes it would. Wishes he’d hit his shoulder or crack his neck or hit his head just hard enough for all that perfect, gilded gold to bleed. 

“I’m only here for you to heal me,” the tremble in his hand extends to his shoulder now. He flexes and unflexes his palm. Gods what he would give to just have a sword - “Don’t waste time with the pleasant-work.” 

Phoebus huffs, adjusts the fit of his himation, “...Only because we’re meant to be celebrating your victory.” He crosses the room in two great strides, his hair a swirling tempest behind him as he gathers his poultices and wraps. “The only reason I’ll not throw you from the window is because we are meant to be celebrating your victory.”  

There’s not enough acid in his tone for this to truly be a fight. Ares’ jaw clenches, he bites out a terse, “How benevolent.” 

“Aren’t I?” He’s got nectar and his sutures in hand, that focused look falling upon his face when he switches from overbearing busybody to Paeon of the Gods. “Now strip unfaltering Ares, let us see the measure of damage done to your indomitable flesh.” 

(Somewhere between the fifth set of stitches and the gentle frown that crosses Phoebus’ face when he notices the persistent tremble in his fingers, Ares pins his eyes to the far wall and asks, “What does it mean when Father says ‘well done’?” 

Any other sibling would mock before they gave a true response. Any other sibling would laugh and dismiss it, would say that praise is praise and any lingering ill feeling is just the worst of the war still fogging his mind. Phoebus does not answer immediately. He doesn’t make a single sound. The question settles like fetid water between them, unignorable, the scent right there on the tip of the tongue yet firmly unacknowledged. Ares closes his eyes and tries again to settle his squirming so he does not interfere with Phoebus’ work.  The metallic snip of scissors cutting thread breaks the silence. Phoebus bids him to sit up and slides his warm palms up his back until his fingers tangle gently in the ends of his hair. He twists the dark red strands until he’s gathered it all into a neat handful, holding it loosely as he switches his scissors for his shearing blade. “You should know it was not praise,” Phoebus says softly. The first of Ares cut hairs fall like viscera from his head. Phoebus treats each cutting with the sacredness of a blood-sacrifice. If he focused on the moment of tension right before the blade cuts though, Ares thinks he can imagine the agony of his sister’s sacred birth. “It is acknowledgement. Father thinks you’ve done well so he says ‘well done’.”

Gently, Phoebus releases him. Ruffles his head so all the extra hairs fall like red rain to the floor. Ares runs his fingers through the ends now curling against his ear. “Has he ever told you ‘well done’?” 

A laugh, warm and gilded, “No, and it would not make you feel better if he had.” 

Ares swallows down a thousand different questions. Phoebus wouldn’t answer them, he’s infuriating like that. Instead, he clenches his teeth, the phantom of Father’s dizzying tangle of grey cloud-hairs persistent in the corner of his eyes. “Cut it shorter.”

Phoebus doesn’t protest. He never seems to say a word when it really matters.)

[forgettable-au]

Would you say Sans and Papyrus are closer than Sans and Wingdings?

Ehhh I wouldn't know what to say honestly

The dynamics are different

I guess Sans and Wingdings were closer, but Papyrus and Sans have a better sibling relationship (Though they keep a lot of things secret from each other and that's not great...but they might work that out eventually, they're just trying to protect the other)

Hmm I'm more of a show don't tell person so you're all gonna have to wait and see

Just know that both dynamics have good and bad parts!

[jackfuckingtwist]

— Looks like Merilwen's not the only one preening on deck. bonus:

[an-ruraiocht]

it's annoying when people say "english-speakers" when they actually just mean "USamericans". did you know not every english speaker experienced an education system resembling the us school system(s)? did you know not every english speaker's exposure to literature (modern and ancient) was shaped by the titles that happen to be common on US school syllabi? hell given that the US education system isn't, like, nationally standardised, i'm fairly sure this is the case even within the US, but it's certainly true outside it. "we all read X in high school" "English speakers are exposed to Y and not Z" your experiences are not universal

[slutforpringles]

Daniel Ricciardo recalls the story of meeting Sir Jack Brabham with his dad when he was four and shares a photograph of it, while speaking (via video message) at his memorial in 2014 | via

[loudlittleecho]

Danny Phantom Prompt: Too Late to Save Them

Ok! There are similar concepts floating either around here or AO3 (or both), but I haven’t been able to find this particular angst path. (Though I’m sure it’s around)

So!

Canon Divergence After TUE (The Ultimate Enemy)

Danny fought his evil self, but was too late to save his family. Clockwork didn’t reverse time to save them— they were always meant to die. It was their “time.”

-------------

“NO!” 

Danny was flown backward from the explosion, his body hurtling along with the rubble. 

The rubble. 

When the dust settled he heard sirens in the distance. Saw. . . a torn red beret beside his foot.

Tucker. 

Sam. 

His. . . 

Family. 

Distraught, confused, exhausted, Danny notices a woman crouched down beside him. She’s speaking to him, but he can’t hear her; there’s a dull buzz all around him, and the world seems more. . . narrow. It’s hard for him to focus on what he’s seeing. 

And then she. . . freezes. 

The world freezes in time. 

The ghost, Clockwork, is floating behind her. He has his hand out, waiting for something. His expression unreadable, but Danny understands. 

His fingers lightly grasp the thermos holding his future self. As though in a trance, he lifts it up to Clockwork. Gives him the thermos. 

Clockwork accepts it, continues looking at him impassively. 

Resumes time. 

. . . 

The days go by. He is released from the hospital in the care of a caseworker. She is talking to him gently, but he doesn’t hear what she’s saying. 

He's had many people talk to him, so many people gazing at him with pity. He can't be bothered to care.

He is led to a car, someone buckles him in. The car begins driving, and soon is parked in front of Fenton Works.

His home. 

The caseworker is saying something. . . Something about his aunt Alicia. He ignores her, walking into the house. 

Into the lab. 

He hears her scurrying after him.

Ignoring her cries of alarm, he goes into the portal. 

… 

He floats in the ghost zone. A few ghosts attempt to banter with him, push him around; but noticing his non reaction, leave him be. 

He can’t go home. Can’t go to Vlad. He has to keep his humanity to prevent becoming a monster. 

But how can he keep what he can’t feel?

He’s lost them all.

But he can keep his promise. 

“Don't worry. I won't turn into that. Ever. I promise.”

He floats further and further into the ghost zone. 

[blatantprinterpropaganda]

so far in the world of thamepo we've seen over and over that silently sacrificing your own happiness for the good of someone you love is ultimately never the way to go (thame tried it for the sake of the other mars members, jun for thame, and inevitably all the sacrifices po made for his ex who then promptly dumped him also feature in there), so my god, i hope that this well-intentioned lie of gam's comes to light at some point asap and she and pepper still get their happy end

[pricetrait]

┃introverted overthinker combo is enough to kill a man!!