#what's this???

[elennemigo]

Benedict saw the performance of Don Quixote by the Hungarian National Ballet on Sunday. And then he personally congratulated the company on backstage. (Full pics under the cut.)

[luminlunii]

This isn't a request, I know you said we can't make any art requests based on our Ocs, but can we talk about them to you?

ALAAAAAAAAAAAAAAFDKJAS;LKJ;LFGJ;L

I'm normal.

Yes. You definitely can, so feel free to ask questions and stuff! :D

[weolucbasu]

Chapters: 2/? Fandom: Joker Out (Band) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Nace Jordan/Jan Peteh Characters: Jan Peteh, Nace Jordan, Bojan Cvjetićanin, Kris Guštin, Jure Maček, Martin Jurkovič (Joker Out) Additional Tags: alternative universe, Joker Out don't exist in this universe, Inspired by a few interviews, and our lord and saviour - Igor the cat, Math Student Jan, Veterinarian Nace, Flirting, Awkward Flirting, Crushes, Awkward Crush, Tags May Change, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, First Dates, First Kiss, Kissing, Public Display of Affection, Mentions of Ex-Partners Series: Part 5 of 💜 jan/nace fics 💜 Summary:

He hadn’t had to take Igor to the ER in years, the last time his mom probably had to drive him, as he was too young, but he distinctly remembered an old woman treating Igor then. That was not the case now at all. This time the vet was a young (and very good-looking) man, probably no older than his late 20s, possibly freshly graduated. He was wearing that white coat doctors usually wear, but his sleeves were slightly rolled up and Jan could see some tattoos, but those weren’t even the best part about him. He was wearing glasses and was probably the hottest glasses-wearing man Jan had seen in recent history. His hair was short at the sides and longer on top, almost covering his eyes a bit, and so fluffy and brown and-

[herald-divine-hell]

A Simple Request

Summary: Anger burns through Leliana with her grief, the only two companions she dare considered true now. But grief is a tricky lass, and anger so swiftly turns tail, does it not?

It is hard to be angry, when uncertainty is so sweet to draw from certainty.

Leliana holds resentment toward Amayian for his failure to save her dead love. But it is very hard to deny a simple request beneath eyes of sweet wintry moonlight.

Don't worry, Leliana. Amayian completely agrees with you.

-

A shadow laid upon her like the cold mountain winds scurrying across the thick canvas of her tent, sharp and chilly fangs thirsty for her warm blood. Yet, unlike the winds that swept in and through her with their dragging frozen talons, the shadow remained, heavy and dark. The glimmer of light and its warmth dwindled to a murmur, slipping out of Leliana’s grasp so easily, like so many other things. Striving not to take the resting shadow into her mind, to allow her thoughts to comb through it and become snagged in its grasping frost, Leliana drew her hands closer to her lips, blew a breath she swore in her mind was a prayer. Even through her thick leather gloves, the cold slithered through her fingers with the pinch of needles. No doubt, soon enough, she would have to slip into the warm-bellied Chantry, and into the ceaseless concerns of Josie. Maybe I can last a little longer.

But the shadow remained, despite it all.

Sighing, Leliana rose, pointedly refusing to turn to face the shadow—that shadow she long had grown accustomed to not think about. Once, before, the grief would draw it back, all deep onyx and full of confusion, beside the pale smooth slender features and the dead, and dark golden-brown hair of lips that should have still laughed. The shadow would linger there, watching her grief, but never step forward, not into the life for it knew it would vanish. Your shadow fades so swiftly when you need it the most, once you have your back to it. The thought was more bitter than she would have thought, would have ever allowed to worm through the iron gates of her mind. 

The shadow did not say anything, and temptation was too sweet of a wine. 

Frustratingly, the shadow had grown taller than she would have liked, and Leliana had to bend her neck backward to find the pale eyes set in a deeply tanned face. He is as tall as Sten, maybe even taller. 

Amayian stood there, as frozen and lifeless as a statue; and had she not seen behind him the movement and chatter of living men and women, Leliana would have thought herself lost in another one of her old dreams. But, no, he lived. That young boy who fled at the first glint of hope’s dawn, the boy who could have saved Sinavin, if he so wished. No longer did those almond-shaped eyes with their fringe of long lashes expand as big as an owl’s. No emotion seemed to touch them at all, or at least awareness of it, anyway. 

He certainly had gotten taller, at least. Where once before Leliana stood taller than him by an inch or two, now the young man who preferred the whispers of the rivers to the talk of others stretched to nearly the top of the pinnacle of the tent’s open flap. Leliana only reached the very bottom of his chest. She did not like it, not one bit. The youth seemed to have been taken by him, from the slow passing of the years. His shoulders have broadened, and he may have been taller, but thinness clung to him like a frail coat. Sunken cheeks and deep hollows for eyes marked him as much as the numerous slices of pale scars crossing his features. Weathered lines accompanied them, like the old traces of a forgotten friend. 

For a brief moment, the anger had swelled down, and something old and warm crawled out through the narrowest gap in her steel gate. Concern. That was the only name she could dare to give it. Old concern, from a woman she buried a decade ago, with Sina. He has not eaten, and sleep seems to be a long lost lover. With concern came curiosity; and she wondered what he had been doing for the past decade? The scars decorating his face was a new thing, to be sure; and his hair, thick and full with wavy curls, fell well down to the small of his back. Silver touched it like threads of moonlight through a night sky. Snow and frost wove glimmering gems through it.

But then her eyes met his, and the anger rushed forward and threw back the concern like a wolf flinging the catch between its iron-locked jaws, scattering it into the darkness. Blue-silver eyes shone like twin frozen stars, cold and hard and clear as crystal-ice. Mist did not touch them, nor the cloud of uncertainty hid its pale moonlight behind its wreathing cloak. Why, why could you not have such clear eyes that day? And another thought, a thought too cruel for her: Why are you always there when I must lose someone? Sinavin, and now Justinina. The anger and the grief turned her stomach into a storm of fire. The needles slicing at her fingers melted away. Old concern burnt away to gray ash. 

And to add to the grief, her fingers itched to grasp her bow and arrow, and let one flow between his eyes. 

Instead, she said, “What is it?”

No other words touched the air after Leliana spoke. Amayian stood there, as if all the life had been drained out of him, and she was left with the still corpse. But she knew he drew breath, from the subtle lift of his broad shoulders. The only response she was given first was the small lifting of his shoulders as he straightened further. 

“I need help combing my hair. Josephine informs me that the knots are too unbearable if I leave it be.” He glanced down as his hand slipped into a pocket in his long leather coat, drawing out the shattered remains of ivory and wooden brushes. “And well…” His eyebrows furrowed, and the expression-smoothed face for a moment held uncertainty and doubt. “I keep breaking them, and I do not wish to go to Josephine for another one. She has already given me five.”

Her eyes blinked before she could stop it, and the warm brush of the gray ash-pile glimmered a heat in her chest. Damn you, damn you. Thoughts poured through the sliver opening within that locked gate, perhaps rusted from years of uncaring. But out they came, flooding within her and dragging the certainty of rage into its white-froth current. The days by the fire where she probed and poked until Leliana found the right pushes to get the quiet shadow to talk, as little as they may be. Often about music, more often than not. And the nights would go by, with Leliana’s voice carrying them in song, and Amayian’s fingers strumming the lyre with all the sureness he cared during battle, light and nimble and flowing with notes. And she recalled, though it came hazed and blurry, like peering at a reflection through the shuddering surface of a rain-beated river, a murmur of a smile, barely lifting at the corner of his lips; and when the song was over she would brush her fingers through his thick curls, and take in the sight of the light of the fire kissing the redness to his cheeks, and the teasing words would flow past her lips, before she could stop herself. Alistair and Sina would tell her to leave him be, and Raila would join with little pinches to the boy’s cheeks. But he would not get angry or flustered, but confused. Always confused, as if such things were as foreign as the stars in midday. 

And later she would tell her that those memories, as sharp and cutting as pelted stones during rockfall, were the reasons why she agreed. The words would have come sharp, simple, pure acknowledgement and nothing more. The anger would be there, certainly. It certainly had to be, even if it was a quiet ember in her stomach as she sat behind the giant of the boy who once played and whose smiles were rare as flowers in winter. The anger and grief were still there, certainly—as she unraveled the thick knots within his curls. The anger would tell her to grasp a fistful, to yank and perhaps grasp the knife resting at the table and hold it up to his neck, to acquire one more time for what sick joke he had returned. 

The anger would tell her that, but the knife would remain untouched on the counter, and her fingers would slide, not yank, through those dark locks, soft and smooth and pleasant to the touch. 

And perhaps in her sorrow, when she glanced at the statue of that boy in the reflection of the mirror, she swore she saw those twin rubies dusting dark olive cheeks, scarred with silent grief. Silent and lost, just like hers.  

[koobiie]

shoutout to everyone who wants to infodump but cant string together coherent thoughts to form sentences and instead just look at you like this

[miametropolis]

and what if I told you nine was less afraid of love than ten. what then.

[princehendir]

I also think that all the "um okay knives out & glass onion were good. Wrap it up now" posts are so funny. You're tripping if you think there's not going to be at least five Benoit Blanc films lol

[fangs-4-fags]

remembering the time i drunkenly told a stranger i was a trans man and he started going off about alpha sigma and beta males and how each one was equally important no matter what anyone says and that i shouldn't feel pressured to be a strong alpha male because emotionally intelligent beta males were just as important

[so-many-ocs]

[on the verge of having a complete breakdown] i need to make some kind of list or perhaps sort things into categories

[emj4yart]

Google is cooked

[alocalfrog]

Can you imagine suing Boeing and coming home to find Boeing's faulty plane parts washed up in your backyard?

[riacte]

not romantic not platonic but a secret third thing [what would happen between earth and the moon if the earth stopped spinning as illustrated by xkcd randall munroe]

[pirateprincessjess]

When I was a kid my family pretended to get raptured so I would think I was left behind on earth while they all went to heaven.

I was like 8 years old and my sister and mom had gotten really into the Left Behind novels (bible fan fic about the rapture). In the books when the rapture happened the clothes that people were wearing when they got raptured were left behind in neatly folded piles.

One day when I was getting home from school my family decided that they would leave piles of neatly folded clothes around the house, and then hide in the basement.

The intended effect was that I would get home and see the clothes then, think that my family had been raptured and that I wasn’t good enough to get into heaven… or something?

The problem was that I had never read these books, and didn’t really think about the rapture very often. There was no reason that I would see some laundry on the floor and think “The rapture happened and I’ve been abandoned by God! I’ll never see my family again!! Oh nooo!!!!”

I just sat down and watched cartoons and eventually my family got bored and revealed that they were all hiding in the basement.

It’s a good thing I didn’t understand the joke, otherwise that shit would have been traumatic.

[dio7r]

[ramshacklefey]

Kind of hilarious to me how poorly the title "Mob Psycho 100" localized to English-speaking areas. To someone whose first language is English, it scans as:

Mob (Yakuza, Mafia)

Psycho (violent person with "crazy" behaviors)

Thus: a particularly violent member of organized crime.

But in Japanese it scans as:

Mob (background characters in crowd scenes in manga or anime)

Psycho (short for psychic)

Thus: a psychic who looks/acts like someone you'd never pick out of a crowd scene in a comic.