#somebody help him

[j0kers-light]

GURL!!!! The hard side eye I gave that man when he shook his hair out. 👀😤

Like? Somebody get this man some head and shoulders! Some fruits and berries! Something. He needs a hair routine!!! Why it look like he used Manic Panic to dye his hair? HELP HIM!

Why is it so greasy? Why is he okay with this? If he had a sister in his life he would be set, this I know. We’d get that hair all the way right tuhday!

I just want to run my hands in joker thin greasy scalp while we lay in bed with him on top of me😩🤣🤣🤣

Facts, anon!! 😭😭

It’s so greasy like babe pleaseeeee pull yourself together. Why are you like this? You can do better than this but in the same breath please lay on me I don’t care.

I’m begging at this point.

I know for a fact that Joker is heavy and no matter how much you wheeze at him to move, he won’t.

J runs like a furnace so you get a free warm blanket for the rest of the night. At first, he was content with rambling about his borrrring day (two bank heists and a high speed chase is far from boring but sure babe..) until you hesitantly rake your nails though his hair mid sentence.

The texture was that of wet seaweed and it made you initially grimace, but after a few passes, you got used to it and let your fingers glide through almost rhythmically

Joker stopped talking and melted to your touch. It’s not every day that he lets someone touch his hair. Not only is it sensitive but no one has ever been close enough in his life to be given the chance. Yet here you are.

You giggle as Joker sighs into your chest.

He can’t form words right now when you’re raking your fingers through his hair and letting him use your body like a pillow. And when your nails scrape against his sensitive scalp? It’s a wrap.

“Did you just..” you know you heard him moan. You KNOW you heard it!

“Shut up n’ do it again.”

[minecraft-sideblog-tm]

Scar updating us on Grian's Fishing Crisis™ is my favorite thing on twitter currently

[groovyskulls]

sun lay down comfortably challenge impossible

[formulaheart]

I know Marius gets a lot of hate for everything he does but he deserves more credit because if i was kicked out of my house by my grandfather (who's an enormous prick) (and the only family i have) and had to live in a crusty sketchy apartment by myself and learn like 5 languages to pay for rent and school and then finally found a group of friends (family) united by a cause that i actually believed in (or at least i believed in them) only for every single one of them to die and for me to survive leaving me by myself with MY GRANDFATHER i wouldn't survive a week even to start.

[theonethatyoudreamon]

poor bloke is dissolving

[regulusbaitola]

hello snape nation

just a simple sketch 🙏🙏🙏🙏

[hot-coco]

His foot got tangled in the Venetian cord

[axxio-sriracha]

*The Marauders sitting at breakfast one morning*

James: *trying to play it cool* Y'know, you'd be amazed what the power of a silencing charm can do.

Wolfstar:

Peter: *literally shaking* WILL YOU GUYS PLEASE START USING THEM

[namelessexistence]

My boy, The Voice of The Broken

[g00seg1raffe]

Y'all the worldbuilding is getting intense rn, I'm having so many thoughts, because Elrond is a mosaic of dozens of different people, so many facets and multitudes, and different people see different things in him. People see his starry grey eyes and dark hair and hear his Voice and think of Lúthien, think of Maglor. They see his braids and attribute it to Turgon’s preference for traditional styles rather than that well-known Fëanorian obsession. His gracious courtly manners are from Melian or Idril, though clearly taught by Maedhros, who learned from Finwë. His skills and wisdom and bearing are clearly passed down from any or all of the 20+ different kings, queens, lords and princesses he is associated with. He dances like Lúthien and Idril. He is as courageous as Fingon and Beren and Eärendil, as fierce in battle as Fingolfin and Maedhros and, Eru forbid, Fëanor. He speaks archaic Quenya, just like the Gondolindrim, if only one ignores the Fëanorian accent. His giggle is Elwing’s, birdlike and odd; his laugh is rich and merry like Finwë’s; that half-despairing chuckle is Beren’s; the endearingly awkward titter is Finarfin’s; the exhilarated whoop is Fingon’s; the manic mid-battle cackle is Fëanor through and through. He fights left-handed like Eärendil and Maedhros, plays the harp right-handed like Fingon and Finrod and Maglor; he can write with either hand, producing a spindly scrawl with his left (so like Maedhros, so like Elwing) and authoritative calligraphy with his right (so like Fëanor, so like Thingol). His eyes are the chasm of the heavens - he gets that from Melian - but did Maeglin not also inherit his piercing gaze from Aredhel? He has his father’s jaw and his mother’s hair, or was it Turgon’’s jaw and Finwë’s hair, or maybe those angular bones came from fair Nimloth and the little flick of a curl at his temple from Beren. In certain lights he’s the spitting image of Thingol - or was it Fingolfin? The tilt of his wrist is as bird-like and fragile as Dior’s, as graceful and deliberate as Idril’s. His cheeks dimple when he smiles, just like Fingon, and his eyes crease when his face softens with fondness, just like Tuor, who looks little like Haleth but in moments like this. When he’s concentrating, the furrow of his brow is Thingol’s and the lip between his teeth is Beren’s, who took after Bëor. That eyebrow raise brings to mind 15 different people, all of them dead. One may look at Elrond and see a lost loved one in his profile, until the light shifts just slightly and he becomes the one who killed them, before he turns his head just so and suddenly looks like a complete stranger. Elrond is a Silmaril of ghosts, each facet a memory, love and terror and awe and joy and grief reflected and refracted upon one another again and again, radiant, hypnotic, infinite.

[schleen-machine]

I caved and made a Courier OC. Utterly devastated. His name is Woodstock, but pretty much everyone calls him Boy Scout. He drinks irradiated pond water

His ass does not look like the in-game courier at all but shh I’m taking creative liberties

[jinx-xxed]

Out in the Cold - Kylo’s Thoughts

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

A/N; A little part 2 because I thought it would be fun to imagine what Kylo could’ve been thinking afterwards :)

Part of Written in the Stars

Part 1

Summary; What was going through the great Kylo Ren’s mind after you brought him back to the Finalizer?

Content; Kylo’s POV, fem reader, sad and lonely Kylo, a little bit of yearning

Wc; 1.1k

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*

There’s the warmth of a hand, shaking him awake; there’s a voice too, one that’s muffled in a way that makes it seem like his head is underwater. Kylo’s vision swims when his eyes open, hazed by a mixture of distant pain and sedatives forced into his systems, and he nearly forgets where he is. Everything is a mess; the Force is like a cacophony of confusing emotions and visions and memories, intent on pulling him down into its depths and not letting him get back up. Anger is at the forefront of it all, anger at his failure and the way he so blatantly miscalculated, ultimately making a fool of himself. Then it’s followed by a sickening guilt, even though he tries and tries to crush it like a weed. He shouldn’t be feeling guilt for what he’s done, he did what he had to, to be who he needs to be. It was just another step in the process, it means nothing.

It means nothing that there’s a twist in his gut that isn’t just from the throbbing of his wounds, that there’s a pull on the edge of his subconscious, whispering to him. It’s stronger now, able to slip between the cracks in his defenses made by his current state like an annoying draft. It flits along the edge of his mind where he’s unable to reach for it and grab it, taunting him.

For a moment he believes he’s back on that bridge, red light glaring in his face, an impossible drop waiting below him. For a moment he believes that hand that’s moved to his cheek is different, larger with more callouses, stroking a thumb across his skin. He can’t control his emotions, the turmoil creating a whirlpool in the center of his being.

It’s strange—this was what he wanted, this was what everything was for. And then it’s gone, some semblance of his wits coming back to him as the white ceiling of the transport comes into his view. The transport he’d been hauled into, where he’d been pulled from the brink of death by someone he least expected. She leans over him now, saying his name, trying to get him to come back. She seems relieved when his eyes search her face, tracing over her features like it’s an anchor that’ll return him to consciousness. The general helps him sit up, her hands so oddly gentle with him it’s almost maddening. Why would she act this way with him? It’s not like he deserves it.

Kylo’s body trembles and sways, the pain that had been eating into him before now more of a dull ache, chased away by whatever she’d done to him. He never accepts pain killers or anything of that sort, seeing them as a hinderance to his training, an insult to his strength, and hating the way they dull his senses and leave him vulnerable. But he had no choice in the matter. He had tried to stop her, to pull her hand away, but he was too weak to do much else, and he was completely at her mercy.

Now it’s made a mess of him, his limbs not feeling like his own, everything seeming so distant, his Force entirely unbalanced. Each movement of the muscles on his face still sends little bolts of lightning through him, down his entire body, lighting up the other injuries he bears. However, it’s not as bad as it could be, he knows that.

He barely registered she was talking— he hates this, he hates feeling so vulnerable and like he’s a feral animal backed into a corner, jumpy and taut. “We’ve made it back to the Finalizer, so I’ll let the medics take over from here. They can take care of you better than I can.” She says.

No.

There’s alarm that shoots through him, born from the idea of being left alone. Alone with his thoughts, with his memories, with the lurking sensation in the corners of his mind. Being left alone with a bunch of medics that he doesn’t want near him, that he doesn’t want poking and prodding at him. She turns to walk away, to go and open the ramp to the shuttle, and his hand reaches out to grip her wrist faster than he realizes. She stops in her tracks, her shock evident by the raise of her brows and the slight part of her lips. Time seems frozen as they stay there, looking at one another, neither saying anything. He can’t bring himself to speak, he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. What would he even say? Would he ask her to stay with him like a pathetic, frightened child?

He wonders briefly how much of him she can feel like this, with his outermost shields down, leaving him exposed. He can’t feel much of her as usual, any emotion she may have stuck just behind a wall that he can’t get over, her thoughts and feelings instead vague things that pass between his fingers like how a cloud might. Kylo’s hand falls, limp at his side and feeling like it’s been burnt. She lingers a moment longer, studying him with a new intensity, then breaking her trance to hit the ramp controls.

Stupid.

The transport’s cargo hold suddenly becomes a lot more crowded, medics filing in and helping him off the blood-stained table and onto a floating stretcher that he doesn’t want to get onto. But he has no energy to fight, and those sedatives are doing a damn good job of keeping him at bay. It clearly surprises the medics tending to him, as they’re more used to being yelled at and told to leave, immediately. And now here he is, basically like a rag doll in their care. The only thing he can do is clench his fists, trying to use that as a desperate way to release his pent up anger. Is he angry at the general for doing what she had to to save his life, even if that meant making him utterly useless in the process? Or is he just angry with everything else? He’s not really sure; it’s probably a good mix of both.

He sees her briefly when he’s being carried off the transport, walking from the hangar at a fast pace with Hux right next to her who’s going on and on about something. She’s arguing with him, one hand hitting her other open palm for emphasis when she speaks. He wishes he wasn’t stuck like he was, he wishes he could hear what the hell they’re talking about; he’s the Commander for fucks’ sake, he needs to be there. But he’s taken in the opposite direction, the wonder of more pain killers and meds he can’t fight against filtering into his system from the medic’s work, effectively knocking him out.

The last thing he feels is that faint longing for her to have stayed with him.

[pixelatedraindrops]

he’s so dizzyboy coded i love him

*thud*!

[officialbruciewayne]

ooc. Bruce talking about his very obvious, and long-term squish on his best friend

I am still deciphering the data and planning on my next logical step.

[puhpandas]

when u think about it oswald is doomed by the narritave because the only happy ending implied as canon is the one where he stays behind in Hurricane and helps jeff make the pizza place a nice place to go aka help the down get revived even tho it's not what's best for him. hes forced in canon to stay behind and revive the town that's home to the tragedy he was chosen to see fucking visions of and therefore keep the home of the freddys franchise alive😭

[electric-drms]

no thoughts head empty