dude like hella

To my next girlfriend...

If it’s long distance, I won’t stress you out with you thinking I’m going to cheat or let anyone get in the way of us. You’re going to be my only. I don’t let people get in between and I’ll only love you. I’ll reassure you that you’re beautiful because you are and I want you to know that. Chances are that I will wonder what you’re doing and want to talk to you all the time. I’m clingy and I will be until I die probably, but just know that it means that I care so, so, so much about you. I can promise a lot of things, but what matters most is that I’ll love you with all of my heart. I either love with everything I have or don’t love at all.


I had a dream where Snape teleported me into the midst of an oceanic feud between mermaids, kelpies and frogs, all coz i was being a greedy lil shit

okay so me and @thelast-dodo are crying over musically inclined + adhd Lance McClain, and just voltron characters + music in general so I just…

•  Lance is great with string instruments, especially the ukulele and the guitar
•  He’s had an undying love for the ukulele since he was like 9 because he managed to strum a chord and half his family cheered and his dad stuck a sticker on his cheek
•  Both his guitar and uku are a mess of bumps and dings, and they’re both plastered with stickers all over
•  He plays when he’s stressed
•  He plays when everybody else is stressed, too
•  He’s constantly strumming similar patterns when morale’s low and urging the others to input their own lyrics, anything at all
•  “C’mon, Keith, you usually never shut up!” “Aw, please, Allura, I never hear you sing!” “Shiro you know you wanna”
•  Hunk’s the first to try it out, and pretty much after that they’re doing their best to sing something even slightly coherent
•  It’s never coherent, ever, but that makes it extra fun
•  Lance has so many lyrics stuck in his head at all times
•  Lyrics he doesn’t understand ‘You’re a constellation and stars mean everything to me, you’re the sun and being warm is everything to me-’ and lyrics he does understand ‘Playin’ word catch with you is like a dream, I’ll tell you-’ and lyrics that chime and ding and lyrics that feel like sparklers and feel like Summer or scarves or cat purrs
•  He makes up songs all the time and he knows he has a good voice so goddamnit, he’s gonna sing all the time if he wants to!
•  Keith is the first to learn one of his songs off by heart and gosh, can those two boys harmonise
•  It nearly brings Lance to tears when Keith’s able to join in with one of his songs all the way through, he hadn’t been expecting it
•  There are notes everywhere with stray lyrics on them
•  Hunk starts collecting them first, and putting them in Lance’s room for safe keeping
•  Soon enough everybody’s doing that too
•  Sometimes Keith and Lance are handing out in Lance’s room, Lance strumming away absently and Keith just letting the sound wash over him
•  Lance’s words might get stuck and Keith just pulls a suitable lyric from his notes and sings it, and the song carries on
•  Lance’s music is sporadic and unpredictable in every way, and moves and changes unexpectedly
•  His train of thought changes a lot while he’s thinking about the music and the words together
•  Allura once asked if that was how Earth music worked normally. Shiro just grinned at her. “No, that’s just how Lance music works.”
•  The boy cant read sheet music for the life of him, he just kinda knows where chords fit together and the boy just gets it without really getting it
•  Pidge once called him the “Mozart of the ukulele” but Keith rejected that real quick, because Mozart relied on sheet music, and anyway, Lance is the Lance of the ukulele because nobody else can play like Lance can
•  Lance blushes at that. A lot.

asdfghjkl; I love my music family, guys


‘You didn’t say goodbye. I should have known then that you would come back.’

So like, on the one hand, OH MY GOD.

On the other hand, I totally called the Soma thing happening and I’m so happy that they’re going to make the most of this. 

But let’s also go back to the first hand again and OH MY GOD. 


story time

Jealousy was something to be expected when you were competing against others, especially those who trained under the same teacher. When it all came down to it, in the end, it was talent that truly outweighed how well you were able to follow a lesson. The victor, in this case, had been far too naive in thinking that his fellow cast members at the Opera Populaire wouldn’t be the least bit perturbed. Jean de Chagny viewed the world through rose-colored lenses, often seeing the best in people – even when it wasn’t there. The moment the musical director and conductor filed out of the theater and into the lobby, everything crumbled around the boy. Sure, his hard work and dedication had finally landed him the lead role but he didn’t feel like a winner. Before he could even properly defend himself, the down was shoved onto the stage. He put his hands out in an attempt break his fall against the hardwood flooring, but that didn’t matter in the end. Shoes began to collide with his body: stomach, sides, back, anywhere was game. Curses and spit alike rained down the boy, each word hitting each of his insecurities. When the beating was over, Jean just laid there for a moment before forcing himself up from the ground with wobbly legs. “Not only God has abandoned me, but so has the angel of music.” His words were just bitterness escaping him, spoken to no one but still hoping to be heard. He managed to limp back to his room before shutting the door behind him. Feeling his energy completely depleted he collapsed by his bedside and folded his hands upon the bed, “Why me? Why can’t I have one good thing happen to me?” Tears welled in the boy’s eyes as he shook his head.

Welp, I’m done.  Finished episode 2 and Tyrell said, “I want you to be where you belong: here with me,” which is legitimately a thing that happened, when the sentence ending in ‘at this company’ would’ve made 1000% more sense, and then looked like THE SADDEST, KICKED-EST PUPPY EVER when Elliot turned him down.  There was somber orchestral accompaniment to the moment, okay.  I am exaggerating, by the way, NONE of that.  So this had to happen, obvs:

AU, where Elliot accepts the position and Ty doesn’t have to make his horrible sad puppy face.

“You did good today, Elliot.”

No.  I’m not Superman; I did well.  Actually, I did what a moderate-level hacker on an off-day with a temperature of a hundred and three could do.  “Okay.”

“While looking sharp.”  He smirk-smiles down at my wrinkled shirt.

He won’t let me wear my hoodie either; I’ll be damned if he forces me into an ironing board though.  He’s still displaying that unsettling expression like it’s his entry in the talent portion of today’s event.  I couldn’t come up with anything for mine.  Unless I count, ‘hardly abusing morphine.’  I should.

I can’t tell if the baby-faced good looks are hiding malice or narcissism.  I’m not sure which would be worse, truth be told.  At least I know it’s not insipidness, like I’d first suspected upon meeting him.  That one would’ve been unforgivable.  “Okay.”

“You don’t say much, do you?  But I’m betting you always get your point across, don’t you.”

That one isn’t a question.  I don’t have to answer it.

“What did you think of the company?”

His accent’s more pronounced now, sharper, stranger as he puts extra emphasis on compound syllables.  He’s watching me, waiting for an answer, and his eyes are that dark side of invested in it.

I think it epitomizes the moral decay of our fucked up society, I think it’s goliath, greedy, the root of all–“Yeah.  Fine.”

“I was surprised you accepted, because I am sure now.  You don’t care about the money.”

I don’t think he does, either.  Not in the same sense as his underlings, peers and superiors anyway.  Money is only important insofar as its correlation to power.  That’s what he wants and I’m not sure there’s any more thought process behind it than that he wants it.  “It’s the, uh, security.”

Or more it’s that Mr. Robot thought I could be more useful inside the belly of the beast rather than being part of the parasite living off it.

“I see.  It’s a fear of change that made you undergo it.”  He sounds amused; I don’t know what to make of that.  I realize now he’s been leading me from my office to his own; has he made me as a spy that quickly?

He closes the door behind us, uncuffs one of his sleeves.  “It looks good for me, that you came here.”

I assume that’s a lot to do with why he looked so elated about it when I said yes.

He stands in front of his wall of windows; the view is probably something to be proud of in his mind.  In mine, it just reminds me of exactly how far this disease of wealth and commerce has spread.  I stand next to him, because he seems to want me to share in this moment - whatever it is - with him.  Which, if I had to guess, is the equivalent of trying to literally dick-slap the entire city to remind it who’s on top.

I’m surreptitiously glancing at the pages on the top of his desk when he grabs my wrist and hauls me around, thumb slipping up my vein under my sleeve.  “Your buttons are off,” he murmurs.

I don’t realize his hand is up behind my head until our lips have already met.  When the dome of my skull should have been hitting glass, as he pushes me back into the windows, I feel only his palm there to catch it.

He’s kissing me.  He’s kissing me and I’m not stopping him from kissing me and I don’t know why.  His mouth is persistent.  His hand leaves my wrist, finds the curve of my torso, just above my waist and circles his thumb over the fabric of my already wrinkled shirt.

His tongue is in my mouth.  I still haven’t stopped him.  His leg is between mine, pressing up, but I’m not hard.  This much morphine, the regular haze of my entire life, it will take more.  He doesn’t seem to mind.  Still kisses me with conviction and the adjective should seem ridiculous on him.  It doesn’t.  The hand that’s cradling my head is sliding over my hair, leading the tilt of our chins, the dips of our mouths while we get the slot of them just right.  Slick, obscene sounds are slipping out between the press of them, my hands are fisted equally in his jacket and the shirt underneath, his chest warm and solid beneath it.

I have no idea what I’m doing aside from not stopping him.

HIs fingers on my side are inching up my shirt, reaching underneath, and his wedding ring makes my skin jump when the cold metal meets bare skin.

We’re still kissing, he’s moaning, low and guttural but there, when there’s a knock on the closed door.  He doesn’t spring away from me.  Instead he leisurely pulls back, dark eyes boring into mine and he kisses me once.  Twice.  I cat into both like I’ve been trained to do it.

He says against my mouth, “I was hoping you would say yes,” before he straightens himself out and walks away.

I’m beginning to think that ‘yes’ will prove to be the most self-destructive decision I’ve ever made.