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#I don’t have the time to write
mumblesplash · 3 months
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in honor of last season’s poem being called “”end poem”” (all quotes mandatory) this season i made one out of pieces of the actual end poem
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sopuu · 2 years
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WHAT TIMELINE AM I ON
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novelconcepts · 2 years
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The defintion of hell is knowing a show is incredibly well-received in its first season, but if people don’t become machines churning out tweets, content, and rewatching 24/7, there’s no likelihood it’ll get a chance to tell its whole story. This shit is madness. Shows in different genres shouldn’t have to pit-battle for dominance. First seasons are MEANT to be baselines establishing worlds and characters, not complete storylines. The idea that this golden age of television has turned into “get it done in one or get out” is revolting.
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huniebuun · 27 days
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Lucifer: Soooo, what’s Alastor’s type?
Angel: Blond, short, oblivious, likes ducks.
Lucifer: Kinda sounds like me. Too bad we hate each other.
Angel: Did I mention oblivious?
Lucifer: Yeah, why?
Angel: *mentally celebrating the bet he’s going to win* Just making sure.
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trickster-shi · 2 months
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Sterek library au idea 📚
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pearlsinmyhair · 7 months
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⭑ experience
thinking about how hobie is a firm believer of experiencing music.
which is not an unusual or particularly punk concept. he likes concerts because he can feel the base in his chest, on and off the stage. he likes meeting new artists because you start to understand the soul of songs alongside the sounds.
and when you tell him you love a song, he asks if you want to feel it.
and of course you interpret this as getting better speakers, or going to hear it live, or some typical way of feeling music. so when he offers up a night at his place to do so, you don’t expect anything crazy.
but hobie does his research, listening to the song over and over until ever note, every thrum, every vocal rhythm is committed to memory.
why? , you may be asking.
well, it’s much easier to fuck you into the mattress to the tune of it when he can anticipate the exact rhythm his thrusts need to be.
he’ll throw you into missionary, working you up until your dripping and needy. he’ll grab his phone and click a playlist, sliding into you as the first sounds of your song come through his bluetooth speakers.
and he commits. doesn’t matter how much you beg him for a change, he’s sticking to the song until it’s over.
“oh fuck, hobie. please-“ you whine, your hands grasping the pillow behind your head as your hips buck, trying to work him up into moving faster.
“easy there.” he coos, almost mockingly as he places a hand on your lower abdomen to press you firmly down into the bed. “i thought you liked this song.”
the sex is amazing, but it always is with hobie.
the bad part is the aftermath.
because now, when the song plays on the radio or your playlists or anywhere, you get a pavlovian response of heat between your legs and a throb in your core.
and it’s even worse when hobie’s there, because he’ll lean close and whisper
“i still remember the tune if you feel like another round.”
as his hand strokes up your thigh, cupping your crotch in his palm as you keen.
i’m back~ did you miss me?
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whumpacabra · 2 months
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Sometimes you look something up for medical accuracy, understand the topic entirely, and then choose to ignore everything you just learned.
For the ✨drama ✨
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apotheotic-cravings · 2 years
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I just started Harrow the ninth and the shift in tone… was both jarring and kind of hilarious.
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theminecraftbee · 4 months
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task: answer the following question. do you believe in curses? respond as completely with relevant information as possible.
Grian: Well, that's a lie. This isn't a task. I know it's not a task, I set the things up! Not sure why we're getting a question as pointless as this one, but sure, mysterious scroll, I'll answer. There's no such thing as curses, unless you're Timmy, in which case it's funny, yeah? Besides, I didn't actually kill Etho. Even if that did count, self-fulfilling prophecies aren't the same thing as curses, and I know which one I fall under.
Joel: Do I believe in bloody curses what kind of question is that? Do I really get hearts just for answering this? This feels like a prank or something... well, whatever. There are no such thing as curses, except the Boogeyman curse, which I sort of had today, but it wasn't actually the same at all. A lot of the bloodlust, sure, but a lot more... Etho had to be the one to do it, huh? And it's not the same. Not comforting. That's a stupid thing to say actually. Take it out of wherever you're putting this. Cut it out of the recording. Comforting. Please. As if it were ever... Yeah, I'm done actually. Don't have a good answer. Go away.
Scott: What, other than Jimmy? Bless that man, he may not have died first, but he sure tried his best. Sure, I'll believe Jimmy is cursed. I mean, mostly he's just kind of stupid. Lovingly so. I mean, despite him being stupid, I put up with him, right? That seems like a complete answer to this question. Jimmy's an omen but we put up with him anyway. That's all.
Mumbo: NO RESPONSE GIVEN.
Pearl: Oh, I mean, I'm probably cursed. That's what everyone liked to say at one point. I think... I mean, I think this time I have good friends, which is nice. They don't think I'm cursed. And it's not like I--I mean, it's surprisingly fun, acting cursed! And I am just acting. Acting scary, blowing up dance floors, all of that. And I don't really have to this time, so... Maybe I'm not cursed? And since it's acting, it's not real? This is a weird question.
Etho: Oh, man, that's a question. Um, do I have to answer? Because I feel like if I say no, that's really just asking for it, but if I say yes, I have to explain myself. Uh, I think I'm abstaining, unless the zombie thing from earlier counts. That was scary and I hated it. Curses are scary and I hate them in general, but apparently I'm good at them, if you ask everyone else. Um, it's not the only thing I find scary that apparently I'm good at.
Scar: Why, of course I believe in curses! Look at poor, poor... Timbert? Timmy? Jim? Gosh, sorry, I'm very tired right now. That's more proof of curses, by the way! That I'm tired. I've been tired straight since the desert, let me tell you what. And that, my friends, is a curse like no other. What a terrible beast, loneliness is. Wish me luck breaking it, because it's not happening this season!
Cleo: Oh, you mean the thing people like to blame instead of their own actions? Nah. My soulbond was kind of a curse, I guess, but even that's at least half just... bad people. Bad relationships. Good ones, too. We're all just doing what you can, you know? No script, no curses, no characters, just... Oh, I hope everything turns out tomorrow. Sorry, that's unrelated. It's just nicer to hope than to preemptively blame things on curses that don't exist.
Impulse: Well, I mean, I didn't until you just asked me that, but now I feel like I should. Wouldn't that be nice? Being cursed instead of just sort of unlovable? Sorry, no, that's mean to Gem. I shouldn't say that about Gem, she's been good this season. Super, super cursed, mind you, in the like, game mechanic sense? But she's been good, no backstabbing or inability to get love involved. Um, and I guess that's not fair to Bdubs, kind of, except it also totally is and I haven't forgiven him. So I guess if they ask I said I believed in curses, and that's why my life keeps circling clocks? Don't put any of that other stuff down, I'm trying to work on that.
Lizzie: NO RESPONSE GIVEN.
Gem: I was just cursed for a task, but that probably isn't what you're asking about, right? I'm new, so I don't know! A task is a concrete thing to believe in, like bloodshed or victory or fun and games. You don't have to believe in those to know they're real, either! They just are, whether you like it or not. I understand that much!
Tango: Gah, don't talk to me about... Deep breaths. Look, I don't care if it's a curse, or if it's just me being really bad, or what, I'm not going out pointlessly this time. Jimmy managed not to die first, I can manage to not go out to a stray arrow or my own bomb or a misstep this time, right? Is that so much to ask?
Skizz: Huh? Curses? I mean, I don't think so, and to be totally honest I think it's kind of mean the way people sometimes rag on people about them. Everyone's got so many good things about them! Why do people like to focus on the unfortunate luck, huh?
Bdubs: Hah! Curses! Let me tell you about curses. When I see curses, I eat them for breakfast. I don't got curses, I've got better things to do! I've got my buddies with the Mounders, and I've got-well, I'd say keeping Etho safe, but he's being weird at me again this season. Not that it matters. It never matters. Etho and I, we're... The point is, that doesn't matter anyway, because I have the Mounders, and they're the ones who matter here. And because I'm a strong, independent Bdubs, who doesn't need anyone but my bow and my perfect, flawless fighting prowess! Sorry, what was the question? I've been thinking so much lately that it's just sort of made everything else pop out of my head, so it's hard to keep track. I'm sure I answered it flawlessly, though.
Martyn: Of course there are curses. That's half the fun for you lot, isn't it? Putting your little curses on us and watching us rail against them. Bet you think it's real cute to ask us what we think of the things, too. "Oh, what do you think of curses," like we have any control over them. Please. If I had any control over curses, Jimmy--or, well, no, I guess that one was technically broken, wasn't it? Sure doesn't feel like it. Point is, curses are bad, and they're definitely real, and I hate you for them, got it?
BigB: Look, man, if you're trying to get me to write my character out for you, just say so! I won't tell anyone. We can come up with a hole thing about holes and red tasks and the Backrooms together! It'll be fun! After all, you probably don't know what kind of curse to say I have, right? Haha, just kidding. I have no idea what I'm talking about. Luckily, neither does anyone else, so I think that evens out between the lot of us.
Jimmy: NO RESPONSE GIVEN.
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dreamofbecoming · 11 months
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listen i know we all love steve “completely ignorant of queer culture to the point that bisexuality is a surprise” harrington being roasted and educated in turns by robin and eddie, yadda yadda, good stuff. i read “they made a horror version of rocky?” in a fic recently and cackled. also a big fan of “he knew he was bi from the start and just never talked about it” as a trope, love it excellent well done
but what about steve who realizes after starcourt that the most important person in his life now has this thing that’s a major part of her life that he knows nothing about, and what if he fucks it up? what if he says something ignorant or rude by accident, and hurts her? what if he loses her because he didn’t know the right thing to say? what if he can’t keep her safe because he doesn’t know what to look out for? absolutely fucking not, this steve says
and listen she’d never say anything, because she can tell that he can tell how much she likes teasing him and teaching him things, so he plays dumb, and she thinks it’s very sweet. but she notices when the zines she keeps under her bed that she buys at that one secret bookshop in indy when she can sneak away on family trips start going missing, always one at a time, and replaced in a few days with another disappearing. and she finds the new ones he must have gone to buy the weekend she was at her aunt’s house hidden in the back of his closet when she goes to steal one of his sweaters. and she notices when he slips more of her queerer movie recommendations into his personal take home pile rather than the movie night stack when he thinks she’s not looking.
she doesn’t notice when he drives to indianapolis after she tries to explain to him why she can’t just ask out a cute girl, tries to impress on him the fear attached to every moment of attraction that he simply has never had to feel, but later she finds a crumpled receipt from a diner in one of his jacket pockets when she’s looking for his keys, and the address is across the street from the bar the gorgeous woman at the bookstore told her about, the one she memorized the address of but hasn’t worked up the guts to think about visiting, and she knows he must have gone looking for a place like that, must have been trying to understand, must have been scoping it out to make sure it was somewhere she could feel safe, after she told him she never had.
so when eddie nearly pops a blood vessel when they clock each other and she mentions that steve is the only person she’s ever come out to before, her hackles come up. because she gets it, she does, he’s only known king steve until recently, so it makes sense that he would be afraid, be concerned for her safety.
but steve is her person, and no one- no one- has ever made her feel as protected or as cared for as he does. no one has ever tried as hard to understand her, no one has ever put so much work into making her feel safe and seen and loved. and she thinks maybe even if no one else ever does, that’s ok. because she has steve, and more importantly steve has her, and that means no one gets to question his ally credentials in her presence without a dressing down to remember, no matter how well they mean or how recently they helped save the world.
(and maybe she’s not as surprised as she could be when he figures out bisexuality all on his own, because she’s been reading all the same pamphlets he has, after all. and she’s seen the way he looks at eddie, i mean come on. maybe no one else has noticed, but then, nobody knows steve harrington like she does.)
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vanhelsingapologist · 3 months
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Publishing has always been a fucking nightmare, but now it’s a layer of hell. It’s not enough that writers be good at what they do. Writers have to maintain an active social media presence and cultivate a following. Be available.
They have to be conventionally attractive enough to look good enough to see on a screen, aesthetically pleasing, kind, funny, up-to-date on trends, socially aware but not so controversial that they turn off a brand from California from slapping their discount code on a video promoting a book.
They have to do all of this with no media training, with little help from the companies that are supposed to be doing this for them.
Of course, a lot of this isn't possible for say, the 40-something mother of two who teaches English at a school and writes on the side. She’s boxed out of an already complex industry that already has enough walls.
On some level, I think authors have always marketed themselves a little, but we’ve reached such a crazy point where we’re demanding the author become the influencer. Accessibility in publishing has narrowed from an inch to a sliver. And that inch was hard enough to get in as is.
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ohitslen · 9 months
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Intrusive thoughts
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cheesecakethots · 6 months
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Part 2 to this.
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He had never been so caring for another, the guard noted. Lord Scaramouche was not the caring type, after all.
Despite that, the man had watched the lord express actual worry for you, the one huddled away in his tent as he barked orders at soldiers to find medicine, make warm soup, and heat up water. One of them had had his fingers broken for making the food too cold for the harbingers liking.
On the very few occasions the guard was permitted inside the tent, he had caught glimpses of the lord knelt beside your feverish figure in bed, the back of his hand softly resting on your forehead. If they had been any longer in finding you…
The few medics in camp were situated nearby, with any and all injuries not held by you being mostly ignored for the time being. You had barely been conscious for the past few days, slipping in and out, with some mumbled and confusing phrases leaving chapped lips.
The guard is brought out of his memories when Lord Scaramouche passes him, dramatically parting the tent covering and entering with a few quick strides. He immediately makes a beeline for your cold, limp body tucked away in bed.
Scaramouche places a hand to your cheek. His frown deepens, and you groan, glazed over eyes opening only a fraction.
“M…Mother?”
A sigh escapes him. His soulmate really is pitiful… and weak.
“… You’re safe now,” he mutters, surprised for a moment at the tinge of emotion in his own voice.
“Do… I have to help c…cook dinner?”
“No. You’ll never be doing that again.”
“Oh… okay…” A yawn leaves your throat.
“Go to sleep.”
“Can we have… chocolate later? I bought some… to share,” you murmur, trailing off until your breathing becomes light, and your eyes fully close.
The lord sighs. A shiver wracks through your body, despite the multiple animal hides you have on. He’s certain that his men have destroyed the surrounding ecosystem just to keep you warm, but, oh well.
He stands, hesitantly turning away from you. You need more blankets, maybe some more soup, anything to keep the fever from taking you away from-
Oh. His eyes widen, and he glances back to you, and then at the shaking hand pulling on his fingers.
“Don’t… leave me…”
You’re still asleep. It’s not as though you’re conscious and would know if he left, is it? It’s not as though your plea is anything more than some deluded fairytale in your mind, is it?
“I won’t.”
Curses.
Curse him, and curse you for awakening something he didn’t think he had, something in his chest that for centuries he was sure was simply an empty void of nothing.
He wants to scoff and leave you here, to tell you that he has no need for someone as weak as you in his life. He wishes he had left you tied to that tree and just kept moving, that he had never felt the touch of your skin against his own. That he had felt absolutely nothing, that he hadn’t felt a stab of fear for the first time in a long time when carrying your freezing cold body back to camp. It would’ve saved him a lot of trouble.
He doesn’t let go of your hand for a long, long while.
The next morning he leaves you alone for a short time, an hour at most. He regrets it when he comes back to you standing on two wobbly knees, the parts that make him up jolting at the sight.
“What are you doing?!”
You flinch, yelping when you abruptly turn to him and lose your balance. Hands, ones that send a feeling of static and electricity straight to your very core, are soon grasping onto you, holding you up before you can hit the ground.
“Are you daft?” The man spits out, visibly aggravated.
“Wh-What? What?”
“Get back in bed. I won’t ask you again.”
You don’t move, the sensation that comes with his touch only growing the longer the two of you stand.
“You’re… you’re…?” You whisper, eyes widening.
He pauses, the irritation in his expression dropping a little. After a beat, his lips part.
“… Yes.”
“We were in the woods, right? My village, they…”
Any softness on his face is wiped away the moment you mention your old home, and the people that resided in it. No longer waiting, he lightly pushes you back, leading you into the makeshift bed below. A blanket is soon wrapped around your quivering shoulders.
“Eat this,” he orders, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it close to your lips.
Chocolate.
“I’m not-“
“Eat.”
You tentatively take it from him, and the atmosphere grows awkward, at least for you, while he watches you chew on the rest of it.
“Thank you, it was delicious,” you tell him, truthfully. You haven’t had chocolate in a long time, as it was simply too expensive for your family to afford. Your mouth curves downwards into a frown.
“Rest.”
You don’t. You’re not sure if you can.
“My family, they let them take me. They didn’t… they didn’t stop them. They must…” A gasp is torn from you, and you meet his eyes once more. “How long has it been?”
“… Three days.”
You begin rise to your shaky feet, “I-I must go back, they’ll think that I’m-!”
He pushes you back down effortlessly.
“Are you a fucking fool?”
You can’t help but flinch at the absolute venom in his tone, but he isn’t done yet, towering over you.
“What do you think will happen if you go back, hm? That they’ll accept you with open arms, or they’ll send you right back to where I found you? Or, better yet, maybe they’ll set you alight there and then, rather than troubling themselves in having you freeze to death, they’ll instead watch you burn. Would you like to test if your family would spare you from that? Hm?”
You have never felt this small in your entire life.
“I-“
“Enough.” It appears the question was rhetorical, and your mouth closes, quickly feeling very dry.
His chest shudders with each deep breath he draws in, and he closes his eyes shut for a moment, seemingly trying to calm himself.
“Sleep. We have a long journey ahead of us. Don’t ask me anymore stupid questions,” he turns on his heel, most likely deciding that he has something better to do. However, before he fully departs, he pauses at the entrance to the tent, still not looking back at you.
“You deserve better than that village, than that family who threw you out as though you were nothing to them. Know that I do not plan on doing the same, and that you… aren’t nothing to me.”
The intimidation you feel from him dimishes when you catch sight of the pinkish tinge to the tips of his ears. He doesn’t wait for your response, swiftly departing. You miss the few words of parting he gives you, as you tuck yourself into bed.
“Besides, it’s not as though you have anything to go back to, anymore.”
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minty364 · 4 months
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DPXDC Prompt #94
Danny falls through a portal to the DC world from a natural portal that opened up while he was in mid fight with Skulker a fight that began at Vlads where the creep put a collar on Danny that kept him in ghost form, Vlad thought he’d force Danny to reveal his secret to his parents by taking away his human form. Looking around he’s in a dark city with dark smog colored skies. Unfortunately he’s stuck here as the portal closed leaving him trapped. He tried to find help but no one can see him in his ghost form. He starts tailing the vigilantes of this world and eventually follows one onto this space station through this tube (possessing inanimate objects sure comes in handy). He wasn’t expecting for the random British guy in a trench coat to see him.
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starrylevi · 4 months
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Thinking about civilian!reader falling in love with postwar!levi. He would tell you the events that occurred before you met him as you softly brush the scars on his face. If he didn’t have permanent reminders, it would be difficult for you to believe the person he was before and what he’s gone through. The man in front of you now is so soft and so gentle. He was slaying titans before and now you’re wheeling him out onto his porch, sharing a cup of tea with him and admiring the garden you helped him grow. You would accompany him to his weekly trips to his favorite tea shop and he’d educate you on all the blends. Every once in a while he’d pull you onto his lap and give you a soft kiss on your cheek, making you giggle. He’d do little things for you that make you happy. His past would be nothing but a ghost. And every time it would dare come back to haunt him, you would be his light and bring him back to the present with your comforting arms.
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eugeniedanglars · 1 year
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i have deeply tragic news
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