everything abt this

6

will byers is gay coded → canon evidence

sorry but writers are no longer allowed to use the “jerk with a heart of gold” trope on men. women? fuck yeah i’ll eat that shit up. men who are douches most of the time but soften around like baby animals or whatever are OUT, theyre ILLEGAL. its boring and im tired. give me hard tough ladies who secretly care deeply abt EVERYTHING. gimme my tough lady shedding a single tear then straightening and acting like it didnt happen. gimme all that trope shit but leave the dudebros out of it thank u

miraculous au? young figure skating prodigy viktor nikiforov has always been homeschooled by his coach, until he manages to convince him to let him go to a normal college… and somehow ends up a superhero

Pros of watching an anime after it ends:
-you can binge watch it

Cons of watching an anime after it ends:
-dead fandom
-no weekly excitement for the new episode
-everything blends together and you don’t remember which episode specific things happened in
-no suspense bc you can immediately watch the next episode
-you can’t speculate on other people’s theories bc they’ve already been proven/disproven
-if the fandom is still alive, spoilers fuckin everywhere

lancemcdorable  asked:

C7 with Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe 😎

i knew i loved this man from the moment he stepped out of the cryopod

Virginia Woolf sent Vita Sackville-West a dummy copy of the first edition of To The Lighthouse, on publication day, 5 May 1927. It was inscribed ‘In my opinion the best novel I have ever written.’ All the pages were blank. A few nights later she kept herself awake worrying that Vita might not have seen the joke, and sent an anxious note to ‘Dearest donkey West’: ‘Did you understand that when I wrote it was my best book I merely meant because all the pages were empty?’ Immediately Vita replied: ‘But of course I realised it was a joke; what do you take me for? A real donkey?’ She followed this with an effusive letter of praise for the ‘real’ To The Lighthouse: ‘Darling, it makes me afraid of you. Afraid of your penetration and loveliness and genius.’

- Virginia Woolf by Hermione Lee

Someone: when are you gonna stop drawing gay stuff omg

Me, drawing more gay stuff: wow suddenly I can’t read

James Potter: seventeen, hair got struck by lightning at age four and hasn’t sat down since, knuckles that jut out, holds his wand between his teeth to impress girls- to impress the girl, doesn’t own one pair of matching socks, the kind of attractive that fills the ribs, fills the shoulder blades, fills the heart, Sirius painted his nails once and he kept the polish on all week, sees the girl before registering anyone else in the room, young organs pumping young blood, wired to himself, to his boys, to the girl, can tell what you’re about to say before you say it, he’s just sort of like that, has a habit of leaning arms on peoples shoulders, starts the trust fall before anyone realises they’re  meant to be catching him

Sirius Black: seventeen, eats whipped cream by the fork full, rolls up the sleeves of his robes, begins most conversations with: you absolute fuck, column of his throat running down the neck like water, leaves his text books all over school, made of gut feeling, of instinct, of starting before you know how to finish, a part of him still stuck in that house, with the door slamming, with his mother yelling, with the world ending,  he is the bomb going off in the swimming pool, he has probably made a bomb go off in the swimming pool, smoking just outside the door- look- you can see the smoke, you can see the shaking hands.

Remus Lupin: seventeen,  jumpy, long eyelashes, the sullen quiet of fog in winter, scars up the arms, round the neck, across the chest, eyes that stare as if they are waiting for permission, plays the same records until he’s mouthing the words in his sleep, gives out flowers for gifts, sarcasm that could stop the heart, soft, like the skin above your collar bone, like stained glass windows with light through them, like seeing a star in a textbook, knowing that  something that good is out there even if it is far away, often has wind billowing through his baggy t-shirts, pulls out his bottom lip when thinking, at night wakes up sweating, dreaming of blood in his mouth, the kind you get when you rip an arm off, when you lick the bone clean.

 

Peter Pettigrew: seventeen, socks right to the knee, eating an ice cream, has a sore neck from always looking up, raw fingernails- bitten to the cuticles, full of fear, oozing fear, could fill cathedrals with this fear, burns books for no reason, unmade bed, the flush of a cheek that is bloated, a mound of blood, sits on the floor because there is no room at the table, counts on his fingers, pulled a muscle when walking up the fourth staircase, shuts his eyes, opens them, realises he is still in his own skin, pale, a stick of white, unassuming, like flowers, or the moment the ground gives way, all at once, as if it was going to all along