even if half a lifetime of fanfiction hadn’t conditioned me to detect the queer subtext in the tiniest human interactions, i STILL would’ve thought Papillon was a gay romantic drama. and this isn’t a case of “in an alternate universe, these two could bone” -- it was “holy SHIT they’re about to crash together they’re gonna kiss!!!” there were seriously so many moments where i was CERTAIN they were about to touch tongues. and the whole movie was playing along! the music kept swelling at tender moments while they locked eyes and gazed into each other’s souls! they laid against each other as they slept! the SACRIFICES they made for each other and the REUNION SCENES. i’m sorry but there’s no way these two spent years in prison together and didn’t repeatedly exchange 1) heartfelt declarations of love and 2) buckets of jizz.
Anonymous said: Can you please please please make a post in tribute to Hoechi’s butt? Like gifs, pics, anything ? I just miss that ass so much. I need a Hoechi’s ass compilation
i’m in botswana in a cafe with the world’s clunkiest wifi connection and am not ashamed to say i waited somewhere between four minutes and an ETERNITY for this gifset to load and ((fans self)) it was WORTH IT
The impact from the Firebolt, arrowing downward at peak speed, shatters the boy’s scapula. Harry doesn’t learn this until later, but he knows at once that he’s done something dreadful. The other seeker -- a third year whose name Harry doesn’t even know -- is sprawled facedown on the ground, sobbing into the grass, right arm unmoving, left hand clawing at the dirt. The boy’s cries of pain are the loudest sounds in the Quidditch pitch. The stands are silent.
For long moments Harry stands a few feet away, feeling as if he’s been hit with a body-binding curse. Then the Slytherin team is there, shoving him out of the way, crowding around their fallen teammate; and then the Gryffindors are there too, dragging Harry off the pitch.
“He’ll be fine,” Ron is muttering urgently into his ear. On Harry’s other side, Ginny has wrestled the Firebolt out of his grip and replaced it with her own hand, which he holds tightly.
He’s just entering the changing rooms when a strange voice hisses directly into ear, “You won’t quit until all the Slytherins are lying broken on the ground -- will you?”
Harry halts. He wrenches himself free of Ginny and Ron and rounds on his team, who stare back at him with wide eyes. “Who said that?”
“Who said what?” says Ron.
“That thing about -- not quitting. Until all the Slytherins are --” he can’t finish.
His teammates trade sidelong glances. “No one said anything like that,” Ginny says quietly.
“I heard you!” Harry knows his voice is too loud and high, too wild. “Who said that!”
“Harry…”
His team looks frightened. Frightened of him. With a colossal effort, Harry calms himself, shutting his eyes and reopening them half a minute later in an expression of wry embarrassment. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean any of that. I was just -- I didn’t mean to hurt that kid.”
He sits on a bench while they shower and change. Long minutes pass before he realizes that he’s still holding the snitch. When he opens his hand it doesn’t even try to escape. He’s broken it completely: it will never fly again. One gossamer wing is crushed and crumpled against the golden body; the other is bent in three places but still bravely, weakly fluttering.
Harry begins to cry. He knows he’s being stupid, but he believes the snitch to be in terrible pain, and he cries for the suffering he has caused it. He thinks of all the other things he’s broken -- beloved Hedwig, the bloodied space where George’s ear was sliced from his head, his orphaned godchild squirming in his crib, the Slytherin seeker sprawled on the ground, too many dead and injured to remember all at once -- and curls forward and sobs without making a sound.
“Potter,” whispers a cold voice somewhere to his left.
Harry jerks upright and looks around wildly. There’s no one in the room with him; the others are still in the showers. He swipes at his wet eyes and draws his wand.
“Who is that?” Harry says. “Who are you?”
Silence. “Finite incantatem,” Harry says. Nothing. “Accio invisibility cloak.”
Still nothing. Then -- quiet laughter, directly in front of him. Harry surges to his feet, slashing his wand like a knife, once, twice, again and again. He strikes nothing but air. Can he still hear the laughter? He can, very faintly but very close, as if a radio is playing within arm’s reach but at low volume.
For a moment he stands very still, panting and tense, wand at the ready. Then he walks quickly out of the changing room. He can’t let the others see him like this. They have enough to deal with without the Boy Who Lived crying in a corner and lunging at invisible phantoms.
brb off to read some twinfics feat. Stiles and Allison Argent --
“Derek, I --” Stiles swallows, lifts his arms, opens his hands, closes them; takes a step forward, stops. “My family -- my aunt -- Derek -- I’m so sorry, what they did to you, what my family did to you is -- it’s beyond words. But,” and he shuts his eyes against Derek’s quiet broken fury, at the muscle twitching in his jaw and the quivering tension in his folded arms, at the way Derek is looking at him, as if he’s only just now seeing Stiles for what he really is.
“But what,” says Derek flatly.
Stiles opens his eyes and says, helplessly, “But I’m not them. I won’t ever be like them. Scott’s my best friend and you --. When I look at you I -- fuck. Derek.”
For a long time Derek just stares at him. Finally: “I want you off my property” -- he turns his back on Stiles -- “and if I ever find you here again, I’ll rip your fucking throat out.”
What did I always tell you, Victoria hissed. How do we make a brown sugar layer cake with almond buttercream in this house, Chris?
“Clinically,” Chris whispered, aligning one layer of the cake precisely over the other. His hands were perfectly steady, but the tears caught in his beard quivered violently. “And unem—unemotionally.“
it’s the chris from teen wolf, he is a hot dad and also takes things way too seriously. he can shoot two guns at once and uses this skill in every episode.
UNREASONABLY DEMANDING AND UNTALENTED PHOTOSHOP PERSON IS BACK and wondering why there isn’t a picture of Chris Argent glaring badassily, holding two pastry bags, doublefisting it as he decorates a cake with basketweave icing and sugar roses.
Stiles is a spiraling teen superstar struggling to rebrand. Derek's a starving artist whose slimy uncle talks him into a paparazzi gig. If Derek doesn't ruin Stiles's life, he might just end up saving it.
Derek gets a call from Peter at 5 p.m., just as he’s finally unwinding enough to think about catching up on his lost night of sleep.
He considers not answering. He doesn’t think he can handle another sprint across LA or sneaking photos of intoxicated teenagers engaging in public sex acts. He can’t stop replaying last night in his head, watching Stilinski stumble into that cab, half-carried by a much older and much more sober man who clearly had no intention of tucking Stilinski into bed beside a trashcan and a water bottle -- Derek shouldn’t have just watched and photographed. He knows this.
But he picks up, because Peter lent him a stunning sum of money and this is his job now.
“Derek speaking.”
“I know, moron,” Peter drawls. “You don’t work at a helpline.”
Derek looks at the ceiling and waits. There was another reason he didn’t want to take the paparazzi gig: Peter is an enormous fuckwad.
“Anyways,” says Peter, “I have a new job for you.”
“Yeah?”
“I think you’ll like it. Still paparazzi photography work, but legitimate. Sort of.”
“What are you talking about?”
“John Stilinski,” says Peter, slowly, relishing the delivery, “wants to hire you as his personal paparazzo.”
Derek squints at his bedroom wall. “Uh. Isn’t that, like, an oxymoron?”
Peter’s sigh whistles through the phone. “Maybe it would be, if Stilinski were a work of literature. Honestly, I’m surrounded by idiots. No, a celebrity hiring a personal paparazzo is neither counterintuitive nor particularly rare.”
Derek doesn’t give a fuck about what is or is not normal in Hollywood, so he just says, “What does he want me to do?”
“Follow him around sometimes. Take photos of him engaging in various tawdry and questionable activities. He’ll approve photos, and I’ll send them out to the usual buyers.”
Derek considers the nervous breakdown he nearly had over Stilinski’s photos. And now Stilinski wants to pay Derek for more of the same. “Are you saying,” he says slowly, “that Stilinski knew I was taking photos of him? He set himself up?”
A woman who tried to fly to Ohio from Orlando with her rodent companion ultimately agreed to exit after the other passengers were required to deplane and police were called.
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