he is empty

dan and phil's passport story

•legit phil’s dream about dan losing his passport if you didn’t already believe phil lester is a psychic
•"that’s probs just a sfw version of whatever was actually going on inside your head" yes dan because obviously any dream of phil with you in it would be 11/10 nsfw
•"dan went pale. like the palest you’ve ever seen him. like his whole internet history had been leaked…“ #beemovieyaoi
•them literally screaming at each other like the married couple they are i can’t
•dan fucking left his passport in a pair of jeans @me
•"he was emptying his suitcase all over the street” take a moment to visualize this. okay we’re back!
•how many times have these two literally ran through airports can we count please
•they got on this fucking super late plane and slept none just to go to vidcon literally #commitment this is why i stan
•"i feel like it was all your fault" literally fuckin savage phil
•these two blaming each other for everything “yOu FoRgOt YoUr PaSsPoRt” “yOu GoT tHe CaR oFf By An HoUr” literally only married couples bicker like this fuck you @phantis
•dan knew it phil knew it we all knew it if you’re gonna let your fans decide anything phil’s going to win
•but every story has a moral. this story’s moral:


It was a memorizing site. The way he put so much care into each brush stroke, his impeccable eye for detail and how happy he seemed to be in his own little world.

“Teach me?”. Klaus head shifted to his left, you were watching from afar, in his bed to be more precise.

Dipping the paint brush in the black paint, he filled in the empty space on the canvas, before wiping his hands on the cloth. “And what would you like me to teach you, love. How to ride a horse?. Perhaps you’d like to learn a new language?. I’m quite handy with my tongue, 1,000 years experience and all that”. He reached the foot of the bed and swiftly caught the pillow, thanks to his vampire reflexes, that flew in his direction.

“I meant teach me to paint. You 1,000 year old hybrid smart ass”.

“Well come on then, love. We don’t have time to waste”. Excitingly pulling back the covers, Klaus set up a new blank canvas and mixed different paints together. He stood behind you, “Remember, you’re the one who’s in control. Let it come naturally, let the paint brush guide you”.

Choosing the colour red, you painted a straight line in the middle of the canvas. As you were mentally picturing the image you wanted to bring to life, Klaus phone rang. Stepping away it only took moments for him to return with a somber expression. “Figure me, love. That was Elijah and he wants me to come help him deal with a feisty vampire”. Kissing the top of your head, “I’ll be back”.

Half an hour later Klaus returned, but not to how he left everything. By the time he was gone, your painting didn’t turn out the way you had hoped. Canvas after canvas you tried different methods, but none were successful. Half of Klaus room was like a car had rammed into it and you sat cross-legged in the middle.

“And here I thought painting was suppose to be calming?”. Looking at him, you smiled. Dry paint on your face and hands, holding a paint brush with 2 canvas laying in front.

“Yes, to people who know how to paint. I however, suck at it”.

Klaus chuckled, the sound which had the ability to either annoy the living daylights out of you or provide a sense of calmness. Kneeling down, he admired the not so artwork and sat down beside you. “If it was anyone else I would have their heads for ruining my room and painting supplies. But since it’s you, I’ll let things slide”.

“I’m sorry Klaus. I just wanted to surprise you with a painting, like you’ve done for me so many times before”. Throwing the brush aside, although it didn’t land far. “And I’m also really sorry about your room”. Observing the mess that surrounded you and Klaus.

He picked up the painting on his left, the one that was mostly complete. Stood up and maneuvered to an open space on the brick wall. “I must say it looks quite spectacular over here, hanging just below this light”.

“How can you even think about hanging it up, the painting is horrible”.

Klaus leaned the painting against the wall. “Nothing my girl makes is horrible. Y/N this is your art, the one that came to life when you held the paint brush. Yes, it may not be on the same level as mine. Actually no, in fact, it’s way better than mine”. He smirked.

Walking towards him, “Come here”. Cupping his cheeks and standing on your toes to give him a kiss. “We both know the painting sucks, but thank you for suggesting otherwise”. Sliding his arms around you, his foot stepped back and went right through the canvas which caused you to loudly laugh out loud, “I guess I deserve that for literally thrashing your room”. 

“I could care less about the room, love. Right now I have more important things to focus on”. He admitted, vamping over to the wall closer to the bed. “Klaus Mikaelson not caring about his painting supplies, I’m shocked”. Replying rather sarcastically.

“Enough chit-chat. I much rather work on your canvas, much more entertaining”.

Tilting your head to the side. “Did you just referring to my body as a canvas?”.

“I did indeed, love. I was hoping to sound romantic”. Klaus yanked your shirt buttons apart, letting the loose material fall around your feet.

Taking a seat on the edge of the bed. “Well what are you waiting for? Paint away, this canvas is ready”.

And in no time the other half of Klaus room became an exact replica of the mess you created earlier, just minus the paint.


Once upon a time in a land far away
There lived a little boy and he drank all day […]
Emptied all the bottles ‘til the pain went away […]

Once upon a time in a land far away
There lived a little boy and he cried all day […]
He downed another bottle ‘til the pain went away […]

Whiskey was his friend, he didn’t have another

—  missio - everybody gets high

The only thing louder than his footsteps was the sound of the heavy wooden doors being thrown open so hard that they hit the walls beside them, small splinters falling to the floor.
There was barely an ounce of regal nature in the way Ghetsis stormed throughout the hallways, just primal rage and the stiff silence of a man scorned and in violent thought. His habit of clenching and releasing his fist had worsened, nails digging so hard into his palms that there were faint traces of blood.

For someone about to boil over with ferocity, his expression was rather stoic, similar to the tranquility as one enters into the eye of a brewing hurricane and looks over at the godforsaken yellow horizon and believes for a second that they have made it.
His cloak was shed, falling into a heap on the ground and he stepped out of it. Again and again his hand went to where his belt had been. Each time he came up empty his eyes darkened more and more until any onlooker would say he was the devil.

Ghetsis caught sight of his vague reflection in passing and snarled, approaching the obscured mirror with stomping steps. This was no king who commanded an arsenal of gods, this was a man rejected by the divine and fooled by a simple ploy. And in that moment, he hated the man staring back at him.
He had rarely ever been apologetic in his striking, but the moment glass shattered and rained down upon the floor with occasional shines of reflective moonlight, he coiled back. His gloves did nothing to shield the fist that had broken the glass, and it ran red with all the tiny cuts that littered his pale skin. 

He took the stinging sensation in stride, turning away from the destruction of his fury and walking towards the fireplace. A grunt ran in to investigate the noise, but was chased away when Ghetsis turned and shouted at them, threatening to mount their body on a pike and present it to their loved ones just as it began to decompose. 

His bleeding hand was brought up to his neck, and he laid bloodied fingers across his throat, pressing a red stamped handprint light against the skin. The expression on his face was distant and the motion of pressing into his neck seemed to be the only thing keeping him rooted to reality. 
Eventually, he dropped his arms, watching blankly as enough blood gathered on his pointer finger to form one pristine droplet of crimson and fall upon the floor, caught between the harsh light of the reaching flames and the softness of the moon. 

What a goddamn shame. 

anonymous asked:

What if Finn had an accident at school (due to his IBD) and he was too upset and embarrassed to call his mum so Jude does it for him? x

Aww. :’(( Sweet boys. This makes me so sad to think about. Especially if they were a bit older, like maybe 16. Even though, as he gets older and more used to his condition the older he gets, I think it gets more embarrassing for him the older he gets at the same time, when he has accidents, especially ones where he needs someone’s help. But even so, he’s always glad Jude’s there. 

I’m just imagining poor Finn, just not quite making it in time. And he’d been feeling a bit sick all day but trying to ignore it and it just happens and he’s huddled in an empty bathroom, just feeling to mortified and upset, and he’s started crying because he doesn’t know what to do. He’s too embarrassed to leave the bathroom but he knows he can’t stay in there forever. So he texts Jude and he brings him his emergency kit with things to clean up with and fresh clothes and helps him get fixed up and comforts him. “Don’t worry, Finny. S’alright. M’here. We can sort this out. S’okay.” 

And Finn is someone who will fight through when he’s feeling badly and do everything he can to finish the the school day. But this time, Jude can see how poorly and weak he feels when he cries that he just “Wanna go home. But I can’t call mom.” Because let’s be honest, IBD or not, it has to feel a little mortifying to have to call your mom when you’re sixteen and just crapped your pants at school. Even though he needs her and wants her comfort, and knows he shouldn’t be embarrassed, he still is. 

And without missing a beat, Jude’s all: “I’ll call her. I can tell her. It’ll be okay.” 

The moral of the story is that Jude is always there to take care of Finn when he needs it. And it melts my heart. xx.


Magnus being very much not okay after what happened to him.


I never liked the idea of Will’s dad being a jerk, (like he is in ALL fics) I always thought he was just a guy that didn’t know how to express his love for his son in more open ways, after all Will never talked in a bad way about him, and even some of the things he loves are things his dad taught him.

I ended up joking over twitter that his dad was Ron bc they share many hobbies and the way they live, and well a joke led up to this…(Hannigram are still on the run tho  but Ron doesn’t watch tv and lives in the middle of nowhere so he doesn’t know/care his son-in-law is a serial killer) 

Hannibal will never let Will live down that his dad accepted him officially, Will regrets it so much

Bonus (how do you know what human meat tastes like wtf?!?!)


you think people can’t tell

more watery aesthetics I guess

its tea

second ones transparent


so uh, about aizawa,


Ven… He was here…

I was so fortunate to meet Miyazaki at the 2002 Toronto film festival. I told him I love the “gratuitous motion” in his films; instead of every movement being dictated by the story, sometimes people will just sit for a moment, or sigh, or gaze at a running stream, or do something extra, not to advance the story but only to give the sense of time and place and who they are. “We have a word for that in Japanese,” he said. “It’s called ‘ma.’ Emptiness. It’s there intentionally.” He clapped his hands three or four times. “The time in between my clapping is 'ma.’ If you just have non-stop action with no breathing space at all, it’s just busyness.

Miyazaki, to Roger Ebert in 2002.

(via reddit)


The AU where Mordremoth didn’t have a back up plan and Trahearne lived, changed and beaten and battered but still alive and kicking.