#the third is just fucking adorable

[piperslovebot]

jeia + autumn colors

[laddertek]

etho said actually you _don't_ understand the intricacies of how tango is my boyfriend and bdubs is my ex

(and how tango and bdubs kiss too)

Scar: We went on that little adventure, you know! Etho: Yeah, yeah, we had our adventure, that's true, that's true. Scar: You disparaged your teammates. That's it, all right, no more spoilers. Etho: (laughs) Our team has -- our team has some weird dynamics this -- this season. Cleo: (overlapping) Really, Etho? Is there trouble in paradise? (pause) Who's third-wheeling with you, again? I can't remember. Etho: (laughs) Uhh. The -- Cleo: Genuinely can't remember. I know it's you and Bdubs. And...Tango? Tango. Tango. Etho: (loudly) Why -- Why is Tango the third wheel? Why -- why isn't Bdubs the third wheel? Cleo: Because it's you and Bdubs. I'm sorry. I understand how that relationship goes. Etho: (dissatisfied) Hmm.

[minzbins]

JOSHUA GOING SEVENTEEN, EP.47

[bandtrees]

they would get divorced in one universe just to find eachother in another one

alternatively titled: sometimes you're the level-headed token flesh-head impulse-control-and-polycule-member of a stubborn, eccentric, and hearty telephone-headed drug addict, and there's cruelty in the world you deem fit to suicidally fight, and that either goes about as well as you'd expect it to, or you learn about love and the value of your life and junk along the way

[cthulhusstepmom]

Fae!Soap Superstitious Bastard! Ghost: Gifts

(Just a heads up this got way more intense than I meant it to but that’s kind of the Fae for you.)

TW: mentions of torture, human remains

Soap is a collector, though not of any one thing that Ghost can discern. He’s seen the man pick up anything from an abandoned rolex to a nondescript piece of broken glass. It doesn’t seem to be about size, it’s not shape and definitely not value; Ghost had thought he’d pinned it down as things that caught the light a certain way but was swiftly proven wrong when Soap went on a spree of collecting pebbles and sticks. He’d glared sullenly at the first jagged gray rock when Soap had picked it up before swiftly changing the subject when he was noticed. There was no apparent rhyme or reason to any of it… well not quite. There was one singular pattern that stood out in his mind, a single thread that held firm no matter how much he rearranged or plucked at it.

 Anything that Ghost gave him, Johnny kept. 

The first had been a bit of pretty blue ribbon that was a close enough approximation to Soap’s eyes. It’d snagged on a bramble bordering the clearing where Ghost had set up for overwatch. Without even thinking he’d snagged it on his way to RV down the hill, offering it to Johnny in the armored car taking them back to base. Soap hadn’t said a thing. It was then that Ghost realized maybe giving your subordinate a piece of trash you’d found in a bush perhaps wasn’t the most well adjusted way to express affection. He’d been about to play it off with a quip, beginning to retract his fingers ever so slightly, when Johnny snatched it lightning quick from the palm of his hand, holding it close to his chest for a moment before stuffing it into his chest pocket next to his journal. Soap had given him a small strangled “Thank you” as they sat the rest of the ride in an awkward but warm silence. Johnny disappeared almost immediately after they got back to base but Ghost could see light in the space under his door so he wasn’t too worried that he’d done permanent damage to their relationship.

After that his eyes just seemed to catch on things that he assumed Johnny would like. He couldn’t help it. Little glass marbles, a river stone with an interesting marking, a large brown feather; Somehow it all made its way into the hands of his Sergeant. Usually with a gruff “Here”, barely waiting for Johnny to hold out his hands before he dropped his small offering into his gloved palms. Soap has also gotten over whatever his episode of silence had been, responding with a blinding smile and enthusiastic gratitude and a happy quip. (“Thanks Lt!” a piece of antler, Montana “Y’ shouldn’t have!” an old toy car, Finland “Find this on sale?” a scrap of pink fabric, Brazil “Ghost you’re spoiling me.” green river stone, India etc.(no he didn’t catalog all of them that would be creepy. He only wrote down his favorites.))

The next time Ghost thinks he’s permanently damaged their relationship and scared Soap off for good comes after an operation sweeping out an AQ base in Afghanistan. 

It’s stuffy and dark, the blistering heat of the day beginning to fade into the bitter chill of the night. The compound has long since been abandoned by all but the stubbornest of rats, slowly being reclaimed by the wild desert it carved its blackness into. They roll into the courtyard through the open front gate, the outer walls have seen multiple breacher charges and calling them walls at this point is more out of respect than any dedication to accuracy. The whole place has already been swept by drone and Laswell has had satellite eyes on it for months confirming just how fucking dead it is. They’re here for information, the drone identified documents left behind as well as at least two hard drives. 

The 141 has split off, each clearing their own section and radioing in at even intervals, they’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to be safe than sorry. Beyond extra caution, the whole place has an eerie, black aura that drags forth memories of scorpion stings and dull knives biting at his flesh. Assisting in his nightmarish stroll down memory lane, Ghost is assigned the lower levels of the compound. Each room is another scene from a past he tries to forget, filled with rusted over implements of pain and brown stains no one cared to clean. 

Something in the last room makes him pause. 

A small barred window allows light from a waning moon to pool into the room, catching on something on the table. Small, most no bigger than his fingernail, a collection of about five objects sits in a tray on the corner of the table. Brilliant white patches shine in stark opposition to the bed of rust brown they lay on. 

Teeth. Human teeth.

His mind is acting on autopilot when grabs them and stuffs them in a pocket, so similar but so different to his first experience with the ribbon months ago. He finishes his sweep of the room, conveying his findings back on comms (“Seems like we’re late for the party.” “If only you didn’t take so long to get ready.”-Soap “Shut the fuck up the both of you I just saw a rat the size of a terrier.”-Gaz “I’ve got the hard drives if any of you fuckers remember why we’re here.”-Price), and turns back to rendezvous, his mind now firmly on finding his comrades and getting the hell out.

As they start readying themselves to duck into the humvees they arrived in, Ghost’s muscle memory kicks in to complete his self assigned mission objective. He turns to where Soap stands almost expectantly at his side. It’s not every mission that he has something he’s decided is a worthy offering but it has become more often than not. Mind already halfway back to base, a gloved hand chases down each tooth where they’ve burrowed themselves in the pocket of his tac vest, collecting them and dropping them in Soap’s proffered hand with a grunt. His brain turns back on when the bloody bones hit his Sergeant’s glove, panicking because what the fuck did he just do? What kind of fucking sociopath gives his friend(more?) human fucking teeth as a souvenir. Much less human fucking teeth that were pulled forcibly out of some poor bastard’s skull during a bygone torture session. 

His hand is trembling. 

Ghost forces himself to look down and meet Soap’s assuredly outraged and disgusted gaze. 

Only he doesn’t.

Johnny is staring down at the teeth in his palm with a look of fucking reverence. His pupils are dilated beyond just the darkness surrounding them and Ghost’s detail oriented eyes catch the slight flare of his nostrils on every inhale. Soap slowly tilts his head up to meet Ghost’s eyes and a gasp lives and dies in his throat.

“Oh Simon, you treat me so well.” His voice is gravelly and thrumming with an emotion that Ghost doesn’t know the name of. But, god if this is the look he gets after bringing Johnny desiccated human remains?

He’ll rip the teeth out of some unworthy son of a bitch himself.

[n0bluev]

@fushiglow hmm….wonder who i’d draw this for all of a sudden and why… 🤔🤔

[littencloud9]

i love u nekoma & karasuno i love you SO MUCH

[narugen-moved]

keep thinking abt hoshina and mina GOD.. (spoilers for manga and kn8 bside)

given what hoshina said about his previous division treating him like a burden/parasite just because he can’t handle firearms and specializes in his swords… how tiring must it have been to have to work with those people each mission despite having a common goal?

and how tiring must it have been to be constantly told off by his own father for wanting to continue his family’s tradition, or to be told to give up on being part of the jakdf by his own teacher -

before mina, a high ranking commander personally reached out to him, to recruit him into her team?

the fact that she didn’t see him during joint trainings and think: why bother with that? why bother with blades when bigger kaiju will appear? when she personally deals with bigger kaiju herself.

but she instead saw him and thought: he can help me, he can cover my weaknesses (mina not being able to handle a vegetable peeler is hilarious) and he’s someone i can trust

she sees potential in him, she sees how he can excel within her division, she saw hoshina and as captain - has probably heard everyone talk shit about him but she was still certain that he’d be one of her division’s greatest asset

(and even when platoon leader ebina refused to let hoshina help out, mina stood firm on her decision and her claim that hoshina would be useful. when she asked him if he could take down the big kaiju, and he could only promise saving the child within it - she believed him, took his word for it and waited until he carried out his promise.)

and now hoshina is the vice captain, putting faith in a new recruit whom most people wouldn’t have believed in… full fucking cycle..

tldr: it makes me rly fucking emotional to think about how hoshina was given a reason to continue improving with his swords after being told to give up all this time… and how mina had never once thought his abilities were useless 👍

also makes me crazy how protective he is of his position as vice captain, as the person who stands by captain ashiro’s side…

[transmasc-tabris]

.

[quietwingsinthesky]

the thing that does suck about potential supernatural s16 is that their two options are 1) do destiel (which will be bad) or 2) don’t do destiel and get massacred for homophobia crimes.

[chthonicarcher]

Happy New Year! It’s Dove Strider Sunday :D

[holdingcaulfields]

i love noah kahan. so much.

[knighteclipsed]

like shattered glass.

a drabble: immediately following the events of the fall 2023 arena word count: 548 words

// depicts strong negative emotions.

The veil of the illusion falls at last; no oceans, no forests, no deserts. It is between one blink and the next that the monastery resumes your vision, and it is between one breath and the next that you promptly leave the venue.

It’s late out now—normally, you would’ve basked in that, but the darkness feels different right now. Where normally, it would be an open canvas—nothing certain and everything free to be dreamt within—now, it feels oppressive: a smothering isolation akin to the tightness in your chest; the moon crawling upwards nothing more than a mockery of what freedom truly is. Your eyes stay on the ground as you walk to your quarters; maybe people are watching, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You shut the door behind you—maybe too forcefully, but only just. It is only when you crash against the back of it, falling to the floor like shattered glass that finally, you let yourself feel something: and everything comes crashing in. (Notably, that tightness in your chest; the force of your own heartbeat; the loudness of your thoughts.)

It’s almost impressive that you held yourself together for that last match. Haha.

…That wasn’t funny. (Normally, though, it would be.) You can’t muster up any laughter though, most of it just dying in your lungs. Instead, your heart just beats, pounding; it’s almost like your head could explode from the force of all that blood. Your hands find a place atop your head, but no matter how forcefully you hold it together, in truth: you are not holding it together. Your memories still command you—isolation against your own will.

It wouldn’t be so bad if you could call those actions your own—you couldn’t even begin to count all the times you’ve acted or spoken or smiled with nothing more than the intention to offend, belittle: cement your control. You know what to expect from people, and you know what will come of your… habits. But you had not killed them on purpose—you had lifted the axe, and you had aimed to kill, but those actions stopped being yours the moment it hit their body. Their double was the one who should’ve been hit; they themself didn’t deserve to die. (Or perhaps maybe they did, but you could entertain that thought another time.)

Regardless: they cannot hold that against you. It wasn’t fair to what truly happened. (But they did; you feel it miserably.) It clogs up your insides.

An inhale inwards, slow and measured—following: an exhale out. Your heart is still killing you, what with its incessant beating—a motion so violent you could feel it moving against your ribcage; but your breathing evens: that overwhelming feeling of suffocation falls away, like vines retracting from a corpse.

(Like those vines, however, it does not truly go away; it may still very well kill you.) Not that you will let it.

It’s late out now—but then again, you never sleep easily anyway. It would be infinitely easier to just sit here in silence, let the emotions wash away until you become yourself again. Perhaps then you could speak like yourself again too: Yes, I did that. Are you going to start crying over it? (A normal person might’ve considered an apology, but you aren’t weak like them.)

An inhale inwards; an exhale out. The moon continues to rise.

[hirazuki]

For the flower language writing prompts, would you do thyme for Mairon, please?

Thyme | Courage, Strength | What mercy means

•────────────────────⋅☾ ☽⋅────────────────────•

The winds blow cold along the coast, vague whispers of snow from the high mountains running headlong into the salt spray spewed by a sea that is still black, still writhing, as unsettled as his thoughts.

But not cold enough; not high enough.

It is all painfully mild against the memory of lurching cliffs and burning ice -- a landscape that he would carve out a portion of his very soul to be able to complain about, just one more time, that now lies immeasurable fathoms below his feet.

The death throes of Angband had been violent: a beast crippled and cornered and drowned. Mairon had lingered, despite his orders, to try and get as many out as he could, to try and save what little remained of his wolves, to --

All pointless. Once Melkor had been removed, the water had come. The lower levels stood no chance; the upper levels, a mere ghost of one. Stone; metal; flesh -- all gave way under the pressure, and even dragon-fire was doused.

(He thought that he, too, would be drowned, insofar as an Ainu can -- have his body stripped from him, at the very least; he should have drowned. Instead, he awoke to find himself securely tucked away on this strange new coastline, entirely unharmed, strings of seaweed clinging to his body and the scent of storms upon his skin -- residue, that he has been studiously ignoring.)

Mairon can still hear the screams.

He has no care for elves or men or other creatures that the Valar like to fancy themselves as keeping, but he is -- was, he reminds himself, with bitterness and bite -- a leader of armies, and, as such, knows warfare and all its aspects intimately. The sheer number of casualties the other side has suffered -- including what must have been non-combatants, continent-wide -- has to be exponentially larger than his; staggeringly so.

The Valar finally deigned to interfere in the affairs of those beyond their rose-colored isolation, in order to save these people, presumably.

Mairon cannot help but scoff. His lord, in all his pain and anger and malice, was kinder, in the end.

Is this their idea of mercy?

Is this what they consider an acceptable loss?

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ☽༓☾. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The sea swells and roars as flashes of fire cut across the sky, and the island breaks apart with a sound that shackles his mind to a horror he had thought safely left behind in the previous Age.

As the wave rises, a churning shadow looming at almost the entire height of the Meneltarma where he stands, echoing past mercy bestowed so acutely that it seems he could have been walking the halls of Angband only yesterday, something twists and snaps inside him --

And he laughs.

Mairon -- Tar-Mairon, Zigûr -- laughs at the sight of the chasm opening up before Númenor and at the sound of falling hills that reaches his ears from Aman's distant shore and at the smell of lightning burning the sky and the touch of it that scorches his skin when it strikes at his feet, grazing him, and at the taste of despair in the suffocating air all around; laughs and laughs and laughs, until his laughter is indistinguishable from screaming.

A voice -- female, piercing -- somehow manages to capture and hold his attention, from where it darts and flares like wildfires in high summer.

Tar-Míriel, last Queen of Numenor, bereft of rule and -- soon -- of realm, climbs the final stretch of this so-called Holy Mountain, pulling herself up from its steepness and onto the small ledge at its peak.

He had offered her a ring some days ago, and, in her pride, she had rejected it. That pride seems to have buckled, now, under the fear of the yawning tide that promises to devour them all, man and god alike, and she runs to him, hand outstretched, shouting --

The wave crashes down.

Too late, again, he mourns, a last thought as he is plunged into the sea's cold grasp, water rushing into his nose and mouth and eyes, too far gone from both grace and Middle Earth's coasts for anyone to risk their lord's wrath for his sake this time.

Always, always, he is too late, for the things that matter.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ☽༓☾. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Firelight flickers across the walls, casting soft shadows all about the room, the smell of damp earth seeping slowly into his sluggish awareness.

He flickers, too, sliding in and out -- of consciousness, of corporeality -- ever-shifting, struggling to stay.

Pain is at his throat; the blood is flowing, freely, running, never stopping, he needs to --

No.

That is not --

That happened long ago. A different forest. A different wound.

Funny -- how he always seems to find refuge in the woods. He should examine that. Had he more energy, he would examine it.

Cold.

He is so cold. Someone -- Khamûl? -- has draped blankets over him, over what purports to be his form, and despite his own weakness to the element, apparently, has set the hearth alight; but neither does any good. It is the fire within, that sputters; almost more ash than flame; almost out.

Khamûl... yes, that is right. Khamûl is here, running the fortress. Allowing him to rest. Has he thanked him? He should thank him.

Papers lie scattered next to him, reports of the world beyond this hilltop that he barely has enough substance to hold in his grasp. Accounts of the kingdoms of old falling to ruin and elves fading to naught more than mist, decrepitude creeping into all things in the wake of the last Age's ending.

Why do they bother, clinging to rusted dreams and corroded glory? A tighter grip will not stop water trickling from one's grasp.

Sail west or fade. How magnanimous of them. How merciful. How hardly a choice.

He had been given such a choice once, too.

And he had stayed. He had stayed, the only one, along with the elves and the men and the orcs, had stayed to --

Why was he bothering, again?

What was he doing?

... He cannot recall.

Tired.

So very tired.

He curls further into the furs and fabric, futilely seeking warmth, and considers closing his eyes and fading quietly alongside this failed world.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ☽༓☾. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The earth crumbles and collapses, taking orc and beast and tower with it.

As his body falls in one direction, his ëala is wrenched in another, until it rips from form and coherence both: a moment and an eternity of blinding pain, of unmaking, of gold melting and rejoining with fire.

It is gathered up, eventually, from the voiceless agony it has dispersed in, by a pull that it -- he -- has neither the strength nor the means to fight.

Westward, it compels him to fly, like wind unseen, passing over forests and mountains and lakes and the ever-widening stretch of ocean, until he lands -- a displacement of air, a dull shimmer -- before Máhanaxar.

There is nowhere to go but forward.

But, even as he places one foot before the other -- old thoughts newly wrought in washed-out hues -- his mind shutters unequivocally around something he had decided long ago:

If this is what mercy means, he wants none of it.

• ────────────────────────────────────────── •

This was soooo much fun to write! Thank you sending this in!!! I've been in a creative slump lately, and this was exactly what I needed ♡ Hope you enjoyed it! ^^

[hylianane]

If the rumors about a NEW avatar series coming out are true I hope to god its another girl cause I could NOT handle the instant Korra slander that would happen if it was a guy the men would get SO annoying

[softquietsteadylove]

Something spicy is in the air!

I bet Gilgamesh had at least once a very wet dream about him and Thena. And when he wakes up, Thena sleeping next to him, he realizes he has a problem in his pants and wants to get rid of it.

You choose the AU xoxo

Gil groans, moving faintly as he hovers the line between asleep and awake. He feels restless, but he also doesn't want to get up yet. He can smell something sweet, like vanilla. And he's warm, but his front is warmer than his back. It's really warm--it's hot.

Gil's eyes shoot open as he feels that familiar - and in this case, uncomfortable - stickiness. He lets out a different kind of groan. What is he--a fourteen year old having a fucking wet dream?

It gets worse when he realises Thena is still snuggled into his arms, her ass pressed directly against him. That explains the terrible predicament he's in, at least, but it doesn't help him feel better about it.

Gil buries his nose in her amazing hair, although even this feels wrong, now. He's burning bright red, he's sure, but he has more embarrassing things to worry about. He moves his hips back from her, attempting to extricate himself without the potential humiliation.

Thena senses the absence of his warmth and moves towards him again in her sleep. "Gil."

His blush isn't going anywhere. No wonder he got hard--hard to completion, which still horrifies him. He makes an effort to keep Thena as far away from his groin as possible. "Sweetie, I gotta get up."

"No," she whines. Ah yes, his little sleep talker.

"Yes," he chuckles, doing his best to move gently and quietly and also keep his hands hovering around the front of his pants. He winces, feeling even more keenly just how much is there.

"Stay," Thena whispers out, still attempting to cling to him. She even rolls over to grasp at him. "Warm."

Gil averts his eyes from the plush fullness of her breasts, evident even in her scrubs. His ears are burning. "I'm sorry, Sweetheart. Just for a minute, okay? I'll be back."

Thena makes a kind of disgruntled sound of disagreement, but doesn't bring up another argument.

Gil shimmies out of his hoodie and leaves it for her to cuddle. It seems to satiate her need, letting him slip away and off the end of the on-call bed. He smiles as she buries her nose in it; she has no idea how cute she is.

Gil pokes his head out, making sure no one is around. He crosses the hall and walks cautiously, somewhat hunched with his hands clasped in front of him. He manages to make it to the break room. A change of clothes will have to suffice in place of a cold shower, for now.

Pieces of his dream float back to him, although he kind of wishes they wouldn't. It's nothing detailed, mostly hazy images, the sounds of breath in his ear. Pale skin contrasting full, pink lips-

Gil splashes some cold water from the sink onto his face in an attempt to shock himself. He switches out his underwear and his work pants, bundling up the others into a pocket of his bag for laundry at home. He hasn't experienced an incident like this in forever.

Gil--Thena's voice is in his head, although the way she's saying is...very different. He leans against the sink again, hoping to re-center his thoughts a little. Hoping not to think about Thena like that.

Thena pressed up against him. Thena's lips on his neck. Thena in his arm, letting out little sighs that make his whole body tighten. Thena...just Thena.

Gil splashes his face a few more times before daring to head back to the on-call room. He's not going to think about it anymore, he decides. He's just not!

"Thena?" he whispers, testing to see if she's awake. And if she is, then he's ready to say that he just had to go to the bathroom. Which he did--it's not really a lie.

She's still fast asleep, though. It charms him that Thena, usually a light sleeper, can become properly knocked out when they're napping together. He likes to imagine that it's because she feels safe when she's with him, able to turn off the doctor part of her brain that's been trained to be alert at a moment's notice.

Gil sighs as he takes her in, in all her beauty. He brushes some hair back for her.

"Gil?"

"Hey, baby," he whispers, able to settle himself into the bed again without much trouble. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

Thena just buries her face in his chest once it's available to her, shaking it a little to really get in there.

"Good," Gil smiles, kissing her hair as he settles in again. It's not as if they have all the time in the world. He's on a mandatory break between back to back shifts, and she's on call for the next six hours.

This is just a little slice of paradise they've managed to find for themselves.

"Love you," Thena sighs as she grabs a hold of him, refusing to let him leave their little nest again.

Gil chuckles. This woman is going to kill him with how adorable she is. He wraps his arms around her, securing her to him, "I love you too, Honey."

She won't remember any of this later, which is probably a good thing. But he likes to think that she still means it.