#triad shit

[blush-and-books]

GUYS IM WITH @sunjaesol AT A COFFEE SHOP RIGHT NOW.

[blush-and-books]

Unbelievably, the one-year anniversary of this fics publishing recently passed! Want to remind everyone of it's existence and once again credit the amazing work of @bluefirewrites and @lydias--stiles to make our very own little monster. 💜💜💜

(Fake) Lover of Mine

By @lydias–stiles @blush-and-books and me!

Luke Patterson, frontman of Sunset Curve, and pop singer Julie Molina both have a problem with the press:

She’s trying to get people to stop talking about her celebrity ex-boyfriend.

He’s trying to clean up his reckless playboy image.

When both are snubbed for the Grammy’s, their managers attempt to revive their careers by pulling the ultimate Hollywood stunt: Fake date. For a year.

Completed! Parts 1, 2, 3 Out Now!

Keep reading

[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.)

[avidaraku]

hey its been a while! have skull in this? idk you could make him a triad probably

[butcharyastark]

i cannot explain how simultaneously complexly fascinating and deeply hilarious this fucking intimate coming out scene between flint and silver is in the s3 finale of black sails.

like. imagine you are james flint. you have a horrible secret tragic backstory you won't tell anyone about how you became the fearsome and capable pirate captain you are today. that tragic backstory involves being the bisexual unicorn for a rich couple's poly triad dreams in 1700s england. you confide in someone outside of this dynamic for the first time after everything happened about what happened because they asked to know. you bare your soul uncharacteristically about being bisexual, polyamorous, and griefstricken. nobody else but one person in your life has seen this of you. the person you confide this to is someone that genuinely worried about you killing them in front of your entire crew like, literally 10 days ago, for confessing to betraying you abt smth that took months of efforts and dozens of death to try to achieve. this person, who is the most kindly understanding and softspoken person on your ship of ragtag hardened pirates, looks you in the eyes by the soft lighting of the campfire under cover of nightfall after burying literal and now metaphorical secrets, and says, in order, to your FACE, that 1) firstly he is a hashtag gay ally (in the 1700s) and so sorry for your loss but 2) he's been thinking lately it's kind of weird everybody around flint dies and he doesn't want to be next bc everybody flint trusts is a dead man walking bc 3) hey flint have you ever considered maybe it's your fault this happened and that you are doomed bc of just who you are as a person? and 4) but it's okay actually bc if it came down to it i think i've grown as a person enough that if anyone dies in this partnership it will be you 😤

like. to his face. i repeat, to the face of the most feared pirate this side of the americas, who has considered killing him within the past month or two, who opened up to silver in the most baring way possible for a regular man, much less a man like flint--to his FACE silver said that "maybe the homophobia you experienced that ruined your entire life was actually your fault for existing and everybody you love is doomed to die because being around you is a curse :/" in the most GENTLY understanding tone of voice while staring deeply into his eyes and professing genuine care and friendship and respect for him.

i'd lose my mind. i'd implode. no fucking wonder flint takes a preparatory, longsuffering swig of liquor with the most exasperated expression i've ever seen on a 40+yo man's face the literal second silver's mouth is open for longer than 2 sentences. silver is SO goddamn lucky this man stopped seeing him as an enemy 6 weeks ago and instead switched to begrudgingly ominous mentor and weird older brother.

and they're both still being friendly about it like silver isn't casually portending one of their deaths because of the other because of the inherent darkness of their souls and like flint hasn't killed men on his own crew for saying less than this behind his back. this is fucking insane energy. i want to study them both. i want to microwave them at high heat. i want to put them in a jar and shake it. you two really live like this?

[gloriousmonsters]

'when i say i love the vees i mean i love velvette and vox but hate valentino' how's life coping with the fact ur faves make out passionately with the character you hate. constantly. seems stressful

[okitanoniisan]

it's taken all day but i have given kiryu one (1) scar LMAO

[annachum]

Rest in peace, Aaliyah

Rest in peace Left Eye

Michael Jackson I see ya, just as soon as I die

SHE KNOWS

HE KNOWS

AND I KNOW THEY KNOW

[bythelightswitch]

please please vote honeyphosna they suck so bad at everything. and i love them

(cough) @yogscastshipbracket

[blush-and-books]

happy two year anniversary to fake lover of mine, the little monster created with my girlies @bluefirewrites and @lydias--stiles <333

[perelka-l]

: )

[69liu69]

An interesting little discovery. (Four Triad members arrived in two-seater banshees to help)

[crimeronan]

chewing off my hands about my own OCs tonight. sol wants to be a vengeful shade so bad & ruby is like "you know to haunt people you have to die" and sol is like "i sure do baby let's GO" while devin is like "i'm already dead. who do you want me to kill" and they're all. the most miserable maladaptive motherfuckers in the WORLD,

[gravitywonagain]

Ch. 22 of Words are Gonna Bleed from Me is up!

From his knees, Wei Wuxian looks up into Lan Wangji’s vacant black eyes. The eyes meet his, but nobody is looking back. Black smoke, like river silt, covers the floor around Wei Wuxian. It shivers with his ragged breath. It curls and dances with his tears where they fall. He gathers it into himself, pulls it into his lungs, his nose, his mouth. And when he speaks, the resentment burns even him. “Meng Yao, you bastard! I will destroy you!” ~Or: Wei Wuxian cannot get to Meng Yao without going through Lan Wangji.

[thetimelordbatgirl]

Okay so Carol Ann Ford is pondering an emotional return to Doctor Who, can RTD get on this chance and make it happen with Susan returning??? Carol Ann Ford is in her 80s, she's the last member of the OG DW cast alive nowadays, its now or never really.

[v4nnyzzz]

I JUST WANT YOU TO STOP SAYING ODD SHIT.

Syn scares HABIT just by conducting herself the way she always does and it unnerves HABIT a lot.