super cute things people do in the rpc:
— pick characters with barely any screentime or presence in their piece of media and expand them into the most detailed, beautiful, nuanced characters you've ever seen
— send posts/gifsets/quotes to blogs that reminded them of their character. "i saw this and it reminded me of your muse!" this is one of the highest compliments you can pay someone tbh
— send messages of support or check in when someone is having a bad day or going through bad irl situations. i love seeing a whole bunch of people in the comments like "message me if you need anything!" "i'm thinking about you!" "hope things get better!" it's just so sweet
— ramble about how much they love their character/s in long metas or headcanons... the passion you show for your muses is so cute and inspiring
— write as a hobby. like how cute is it that we're all just telling stories with each other over and over??????
— develop the most outlandishly fun ship pairings with crossover universes and a multitude of aus. two characters from totally different fandoms falling in love?? i can't get enough of it
— follow forevers / bias lists when you make a little commemorative post and tag all of the people that brighten your day!
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You’re not immune from being ripped apart.
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she was an outcast among outcasts.. but the forest loved her, among all those who were cast away too..
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okay so we know that, to some extent, Joel, at least a little bit, is a note writer. We see in game on the fridge that he wrote a note to Sarah. I’m going to be home late tonight. Go ahead and order food. See you in the morning. Dad
Joel has definitely left notes for Ellie around the house to some degree
Now MAYBE this is super cringey, but I was just envisioning a moment of him writing a note for her, for whatever reason, and the J in his name is kind of wonky looking because, out of habit, he started to write Dad and wrote the vertical line and started on the downward curve of the D before realizing and freezing briefly as he stared at half of the letter. He corrected, elongating the vertical line into the curve of the J and and topping the letter off with the horizontal line across the top
It’s messy and looks rushed and reminds Joel of all the times before when he didn’t have to think about what to write at the bottom of those notes. Dad. It’s always just been Dad.
But now its not. Not anymore. He’s every description of the word. Protector, leader, comforter. He’s honest, dependable, loving
The desire to be called Dad again makes his heart burn, but a part of him believes he failed at deserving that role over twenty years ago.
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intrigue.
credit to @adifferenttime giving me brainworms since forever with their Andrew Ryan vs Robert House analysis post. flat version of red and transparent worm version of coloured under the cut.
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Steve’s wearing a yellow sweater the first time Billy wants to fuck him.
And it’s a specific, primal feeling that Billy can point to with ringing clarity, sifting through all the other shit Steve makes him experience. On the court, in class, around town. Bird-boned, perfect fingers leaving bruises all along the walls of Billy’s heart, and.
What he feels for Harrington in that moment--Steve, with his soft rolled hair and his thick, sinful pecks hidden under a pillowy layer of yellow confectioners fabric, it’s so sweet--it zips though him like a bolt of lightening, and Billy wants to fuck Steve.
It’s simple. Easy.
Not sleep with, not make love, but fuck.
Wants deep in the rolling, rifting pit of himself to corner Steve in the parking lot after practice, when the gridlock is empty and the sky is gray and heavy with spring rain.
Billy doesn’t want to have to explain himself. Wants Harrington to just get it. Wants him to know and yearn and crave, the way Billy does, throat clicking around the plea to get his narrow ass pinned to the side of the beamer.
Dick rubbing hot on the maroon-brown paint through his dorky little slacks. Wet spot blooming. That voice begging, whining high in his throat, for Billy to take it off.
To ruck that ugly fucking sweater up under Steve’s armpits. Get his pants and tighty-whities ripped just low enough in one harsh, aggressive pull that Billy can tease at his hole with a finger or two.
Tits on display, nipples shiny and puffy and swollen with the attention Billy gives, until Steve’s breath hitches, drunk on the pressure of his dick hitting the passenger door when Billy spins him round.
Gets his knees knocked apart, gets Harrington’s ass cupped gently in each palm.
And that’s where it falls apart, a little bit.
Primal mixing with the parts of Billy that claw for the warmth of Steve. Of every part of him.
Billy wants to fuck him dry. Wants to make him pay for the fields love that spring like weeds in Billy’s throat. Knows it’ll hurt, that he wouldn’t have the guts to try or to entertain the thought beyond the half-baked image it gives him.
Tears on Steve’s cheeks when Billy slides home. Cock naked save for the layer of Harrington fluttering around him. Adjusting. Steve licking filth into his daddy’s car because he can’t keep it in, cant’ stamp it down.
You’re so big. I can’t take it, you’re gonna rip me open, baby, fuck me open--
Billy will ask if he wants it to stop. Will press his hips to Steve’s ass, pull his hair, say, tell me to stop.
Will roll his hips.
Tell me, princess, c’mon--
“What the fuck is your damage, Hargrove?”
Billy jerks, breaking the surface of his daydream to the sound of a locker slamming open. Closed.
Steve’s watching him from three feet down. Pissed and flushed and embarrassed, like he heard the whole thing. Like maybe he wants it, too.
Billy doesn’t say anything. Blinks. Hopes he’s not pitching a tent--
“You’ve been staring at me all day,” Steve says, letting the sweater fall back into place. “Guy like you’s dangerous when he’s quiet like that.”
“Like that sweater,” Billy shrugs, shooting for nonchalance.
Steve blinks at him, cheeks burning red. “You--”
“Look good. Soft, kinda. Cute.”
The hem of that ugly yellow sweater is bunched to show off the low slung of Steve’s hips.
Harrington’s mouth opens and closes a few times but then he turns away. Ignores Billy’s admission, face and neck so hot an egg could fry an egg on his forehead. Steve pulls the sweater off and strips down to his tighty whities, perfect ass trumped only by the bulge of that cock.
Billy knows he’s packing.
God, Billy wants to lick that strip of skin. Rub his dick all over it, cover Steve’s moles and freckles and tighty-whities in come--
Steve sticks his shit into the locker, and Billy has to turn away. Has to at least pretend that he’s not jonesing for whatever glimpse he can get, so.
Harrington’s locker slams shut and he turns, padding toward the showers.
When he’s gone, Billy feels like he can breathe again.
Until he notices the sweater’s left, dejected, folded on the lip of Billy’s backpack.
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I think I'm going to go swim at the temple for a good few hours. float a little
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you could be a beast
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A serpent tempted Eve to eat the apple and go against God. Eve asked Adam to eat the apple. The serpent said hello to an angel.
The Metatron tempted Aziraphale to drink the coffee and join God. Aziraphale asked Crowley to join him. The serpent said goodbye to an angel.
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“What are these?” Armin pulls out thick frayed paper from between the pages of the worn notebook.
You spot them and chuckle to yourself as he turns the paper to reveal a pencil drawing of a group of people in various poses and places. The hatching on it is clearly visible, done with a quick and light hand. Their faces are content, sometimes sitting in a circle over what looks like quiet conversation, other times laughing raucously, so hard that their eyes have narrowed to slits. Armin has never met these people before, but the drawings give him the impression that he somehow loves them the way the artist did.
“Oh those?” You smile, walking up to him and taking the papers in your hands. You briefly smile down at them like they’re something precious. “Old drawings of mine.”
“I didn’t know you draw,” Armin comments, his eyes widening at the new information.
“Yeah,” you chuckle and hand him back the drawings. “I used to want to be an artist. You know, the kind who makes something meaningful that everyone knows the name of. I’m all washed up now though.”
“Why’d you stop?”
“Well, Dad died and I didn’t have the energy to practice,” you smile even though the memory you’re recounting is painful. “I sort of lost the passion to do anything. Work was few and far between and living in the city didn’t help with expenses. Mom needed help, I needed money, my siblings were in school. I had to come home. Work for artists is few and far between even in the biggest of cities, in this town there’s nothing. And after a few years of being back here, I decided that I was fine with a modest life. No fame or meaningful artwork necessary.”
Armin looks at the drawings, his blonde hair shifting slightly on his forehead. When he meets your eyes again, they’re big and rounded with emotion. “That’s a bit sad though, isn’t it?”
“Nah,” you shake your head. “That’s just life.”
You move to sit down on the bed and tangle your fingers together between your legs. Then, you stretch them out and make an exasperated and high pitched sound. Armin moves to sit beside you, not quite close enough to touch.
“But man I would have really loved to draw for a living,” you give him a sideways glance and a smile. “Ya know, my friends used to ask me to draw pictures and sign them for them. They thought that I was gonna be some big shot artist. It was nice to have people have that kind of confidence in me. I did it for ‘em every time. I wonder if they still have them,” you wink, “just in case.”
“Are the people in the drawings those friends?”
“Mhm,” you nod. “I met ‘em all in college. Got lucky getting to know people like that.”
Armin looks at the pencil drawings again. They look like they were done so quickly, but he can make out each person’s features individually across them. He gets the impression that you looked at them a lot, that drawing them was less of an exercise than it was an action of habit. There’s a lot of love in them, in these little moments you’d captured in your sketchbook.
“Are you still in touch?”
“With them? Not anymore,” you shrug. “We lost touch about six years ago. All of us went our separate ways and it got hard to see each other. Plus, I sort of became a recluse after Dad died.”
“That’s a shame,” he says, somber and looking at his shoes.
“Nah, it’s not,” you laugh a little. “They’re still some of the most important people in my life. I hope they’re happy and that they still have the drawings, even if they’re crumpled somewhere in a drawer or crammed into a notebook. If they think about us and the time we spent together even a little bit, that’s enough.”
“Don’t you miss them?”
“Oh god, so much,” you laugh. “I think about how badly I want to be with them every day. But they’re living their lives and I’m living mine and that’s alright. We can’t really go back, but even though we’ve lost touch, I’m sure that if I ever ran into any of them again, it would be like that time never passed. We’d be the same, just like we always were.”
“That’s a nice thought.”
“It’s the truth.”
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For some reason I had the absolute weird ass idea of some old woman coming back from church with her grandkids when they see an angel. Or at least it has to be an angel. It isn't a cute shinning guy with wings, but the bunch of eyes all of dffferent shapes and collors and not all human circling around a bright green center going "sorry for the vision, please be not afraid" in a static voice has to be an angel, right?
So they are shocked and staring. The grandma drops on her knees praying and than this completly ordinary guy drops out of nowhere and goes talk to the angel and one of the kids go "wow you can talk to angles" and the guy looks very confused for half a second before saying "oh oh no, that's not an angel... that's my boyfriend Jon... He just sometimes forgets he still has to eat" and drops a bunch of papper plus a cassete tape - inside of a lunch papper sack with a smille face drawned on it- into the angel. So the angel tells a bizarre horror story and suddently he is just the weird guy full of scars that lives across the street. He goes "thanks Martin" and the likely Martin guy goes "so bad news is that the TV broke again from the whole tecnology versus supernatural stick but the good news it's that Bake Off is still playing." and the not an angel anymore guy goes "Normal Bake Off or Eldrish Bake Off?" and "Normal Bake Off" and the most relieved"Good" ever and they hold hands and go away. The trio is still staring at them until one of the kids makes an "you're not you when you're hungry" joke. The grandma is still convinced the weird guy across the street is secretly an angel and starts creating a whole ass dramatic story about it. Life goes on.
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Like a fever dream.
I... don't know where this came from. But here you go.
Colin had always been a dreamer.
Far away faces, a moonlit beach, the decadence of a french pastry, the soft laughter of family, the warmth of a woman.
But he’d never dreamt in color before. Until now. Until her.
Until Penelope.
Vivid, vibrant and blinding red. A color so alarming in nature, and yet all it did was soothe him. Remind him of home, of a feeling of contentment. These days, instead, it gripped him like a fever dream, sending desire - hot and heedy running through his veins.
She was like a fever dream.
He woke most days with a gasp, sweat slicked and panting. He woke most days with a whisper of her name on his lips. He woke most days aching for more, for her. He woke most days with his hand curling around his cock, already painfully hard and wishing to sink into her depths.
He woke most days wishing to go back to sleep, so he could dream in red again.
Read the rest on AO3.
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