#hwd

[mrligerslair]

I think one thing Horzion: Zero Dawn did really well was the idea that technology is itself morally neutral and just a tool that reflects the morals of the people behind it which I (someone who has not experienced every single piece of media to ever exist) don’t see very often

Most narratives tend to just be technology = bad

[howwedogaming]

Who got Ghostface already 👻!? #ghostface #ghostfacefanart #scream #scream5 #warzone #hwd #howwedo #howwedogaming #funny #callofduty https://www.instagram.com/p/CVV3uJxlzlj/?utm_medium=tumblr

[leafsbabe]

how William Nylander is like when drunk

what he drinks:

- obviously he’s gonna drink some beers with the boys if they want to 

- but his heart belongs to fruity drinks

- just give him something containing copious amounts of tequila and a little umbrella and he’s happy

how he acts:

- Willy likes to have a good time

- he’s a chill dude but he likes to party from time to time and he’s definitely going to make the most of it

- he can certainly enjoy himself without drinking 

- but when he does it can get pretty wild

- he’s definitely down to do whatever

- karaoke, dancing, going on a spontaneous adventure

- whatever it is he’s down

- his dancing isn’t the best but he’s fun and gets people to dance with him so it’s fine

- Willy can get really handsy if you let him

- some suggestive dancing, a hand on your ass, maybe some making out in a dark corner

- he can definitely handle a lot before he gets really drunk 

- if you get really lucky he might start stripping

- at the end of the night he’s definitely down for some greasy not team nutritionist approved street food

- might be horny

- actually yeah most likely horny

the morning after:

- you’d think he would have a massive hangover but most of the time he’s fine

- but when he does get a tiny bit whiny

- or just... really whiny

- but he’s actually hurting 

- if it’s really bad he might take a small pain killer but usually he just chuggs some water and sleeps

- loves it when you just cuddle up with him because you’re warm and comfy and maybe run your fingers through his hair which helps with the headache

[worst1mpression]

[spiderfilesarchived]

*taps mic* bitch

[aceisworking]

This Will Be A Platform For Creatives To Showcase Their Greatness.... I Can’t Wait To Show You All What I’ve Been Working On... 🌎 #DedicationTv ➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖ #MUSIC #ART #CULTURE #SPORTS #PERSONALITY #MOGUL #AMBASSADOR #EDUCATION #HEALTH #WEALTH #ARTIST #INDEPENDENTARTIST #CHEF #ENTREPRENEUR #CREATOR #LIFESTYLE #ACEISWORKING #DMV #HWD (at Silver Spring, Maryland)

[gnostic-heretic]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Farewell, my Queen

FANDOM: Hetalia

PAIRING: nyo!France/nyo!Scotland

RATED: Mature 

GENRE: angst, dramatic, historical

WORD COUNT: 1183

Written for day 4 of the @hetaliawritersdiscord event! Today’s prompt was Starcrossed.

France and Scotland vow to be together again, at the time when Mary, Queen of Scots and Queen Dowager of France, left France to come back to her reign.

(it’s my first time writing nyotalia, so feedback on this is encouraged and appreciated! ;v;)

[scandinavienne]

ode to our shattered dreams

post-ww1 spamano, approx. 600 words. genre: introspection, hurt+comfort, slight existentialism and a bit of romance

In the wake of the Great War, living is hard and thinking is painful. But here's our comfort.

also on ao3

None of us had really planned for the future, ironically enough.

We all dreamt of the Future, awaited with bated breath the modernity that would push away the weight of the past, dreamt of power and speed and fighting and winning and victory. Victory for our homeland. Victory for us. But no one gave a thought to what came after the rapid rhythm of youth, what would become of us when we became, inevitably, that which we swore to reject.

There was, after all, only one way to evade old age.

Everyone I knew enlisted. We all wanted glory, we all wanted destruction, and the sweet, metallic taste of war sat well on our naïve tongues. Beauty was chaos, and we were fickle.

Sometime between the shell falling on our breakfast of stale bread and sour milk and the funeral of the boy I’d shared a room with, I realised that we’d never realise the Future. We were living in the future, and the metallic taste wasn’t so sweet anymore.

The shell earned me a bum leg, which earned me a sad place at a dull bar in a bad town. The bartender knew me by name. My brother insisted I live with him, saying I’d just get lonely if I went back home, but since the war ended there was a crater between us. He had been too young to enlist. I would have studied as he did, had I not enlisted.

Feliciano studied architecture. He rambled on about creation, rejuvenation, modernity, and I never had the heart to tell him about our plans for the Future. He was serving God and the country, he said. Building it up, making it stronger — realising dreams, like they did in New York. When we spoke of the Future, I had to remind myself, we were serving ourselves, so it wasn’t the same. Except — after the shell — I wondered if serving God was the same as serving oneself after all.

He was out most days, and I was out most nights — during the day, I wrote, trying to make words flow with a shaky hand. I missed the South, and I thought all the time about returning to Napoli, but my stories weren’t selling and drinks and cigarettes were my comfort. The bartender — as I sat in my sad place in that dull bar — would raise a glass to me, and then I’d be numb enough to get through another night.

None of us planned for this future.

I was a day away from thirty, a day away from the doom my younger self had rejected so violently, when a different kind of bomb dropped. My fourth glass of cognac, perhaps, was the trigger, and before I knew it I was talking to him, my tongue loose and sharp — my entire life was slurred out, bore naked before the stranger who poured my drinks. The Future. The war. The shell, the deaths, the screams, the sleepless nights and endless days—

He stayed silent until I was crying, heaving sobs and knocking my drink over. And then he smiled, sadly, and said: “Léon, you have lived.”

He did not fight in the war, he said. He could not offer me any words of wisdom. But he offered me a shoulder, and with heavy limbs I accepted, and he held me.

I was thirty. I was no longer young. The Future was not, and would never be real. But his arms were real, his comfort was real, and in a haze of hard liquor, his love was real. My brother and his love for the Lord would have wept, but my God was in this man, in this bar, in this moment.

My Future, perhaps, would be named Antonio.