#wey hey

[domestic-harry]

When you finish writing about your gay dads so you celebrate with an orange crush :')

[larryarsethetics]

Dear Lou,

Today I'm writing you this letter and I'm sorry if it took so long. I just didn't have the time to write, with you not being here to read it and with me distracting myself to avoid wallowing in self-pity. I miss you Lou, you're rarely here anymore. I'm sorry I'm being a whiny arse but I just hate not being with you. I don't know what to do and I hate myself for even writing about this to you because you're living your dream. The people love you and your song. I also know that this is your own kind of distraction from you know, Jay's passing. I still cry about that every night you know? I miss her. So damn much. And you too. I miss making breakfast for you every morning and preparing your tea. I miss cuddling with you on the couch, not giving a rat's ass about the paps outside or the whole world judging us behind our backs. I miss waking up every morning to your sleeping figure next to me. I miss your dainty wrists and your precious ankles. I miss your eyes and how they crinkle whenever you smile. I miss your loudness and your bubbly personality. I miss your voice. I miss.. you. I'm sorry for the tear stains. It's just- my heart hurts Louis. Until when? Until when do I have to wait just so I could go to all your shows and support you wholeheartedly? Until when do I have to wait for you every time you leave? Until when do I have to wait and sit in silence as they slander your name in the front page of every newspaper for something you didn't do? Until when do I have to comfort you and calm you down every time you cry because they made you do something shitty again? Until when are you willing to hurt yourself for other people Louis? You deserve happiness, and you'll get it once you stop thinking about them and start putting yourself first. I love you, Louis Tomlinson. Love yourself, too. Come home soon. All the love. H

[lavenderhaven]

today’s been a weird day. it’s the day before my 18th birthday, i haven’t spoken to my gf for 24 hours (it’s not her fault but we usually talk every single day without fail), and my brother has been out all day?? i didn’t know what to do w myself lol and now i’m using my remaining hours of being 17 to wax my upper lip lmao

[gelenka-daria]

for the three paragraph meme thing, oh god just anything as long as its melkor/manwe

i hope you’re still here three months later anon omg. idk about this one but i hope u like it!

Pale fingers slide over the edges of rough stone, across dried blood and viscera.

“Poor thing,” he coos over the mutilation laid out on the slab, cerulean eyes catching its numb gaze as he lays a hand on its still damp, crimson chest, sensing feeble heartbeats against his palm from under torn and abused flesh. “The results of your experiments are ever so grim, dearest brother.” He says, hand straying ever so slightly upwards, pulling out whatever breath remains within the damaged being. With one last pitiful sound, blistered eyelids fluttering, the quivering beneath his touch comes to a definite halt.

“Such a waste,” Manwë hums in mock dejection, tracing the swollen curve of a jaw. “I recall this one being rather sightly.”

The earth under his feet shudders as his remark earns him a low rumble, demanding his utter and utmost attention as two stained fingers apply enough pressure to the side of his face, turning his stare from the creature toward the Vala beside him, striping his left cheek in two lines of red spanning from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Eyes glinting ominously, Melkor’s touch trails down Manwë’s neck, over the collar of his black robes, eager fingers seeking to unravel the garment, the ever burning flame within flaring.

Manwë gifts him with a look that’s just as louring, raising a hand to his brother’s face and cradling a bloodied cheek, his thumb slowly smoothing over Melkor’s lower lip. The action wrings out another growl from his brother, something brewing in those eyes of molten gold, reflecting light like a feral animal.

“Give in,” Melkor tells him, voice guttural as it betrays his need. Void, it’s been so long, tormenting him is something Manwë seems to take great pleasure in. 

As if in confirmation, amusement flashes across Manwë’s face, hand moving down Melkor’s chest. “Beg me to.”

Melkor’s mood nearly boils over at that, temper blazing as he takes him by the neck, pulling him closer, fingers coiling around seemingly tender flesh in an unyielding grip as his eyes bore into Manwë’s own. Unfazed, his younger half merely graces him a with a small, expectant smile and a tilt of head. Melkor’s eyes narrow, teeth grinding and jaw twitching. “Manwë.”

Manwë leans in, never breaking their eyelock, their lips barely a hair’s breadth apart. “Yes, Melkor?”

Melkor says nothing, but there, in his eyes, a flicker of desperation, and within it a plea that his older brother would never admit to. But it would suffice, Manwë’s held off long enough, and he needs his brother no less than Melkor does him. It always comes to this, as it did in the void where Manwë had followed him, in the Timeless Halls after, when they ascended into Arda, breaking apart just to make their way back to one another again, circling each other like wolves gone hungry, as he drifted apart from the other Valar, to their great dismay.

The memory of their despaired faces does what it always did to him, nothing. The only thing that can have any abundant effect on him is the Vala standing in front of him, his ire rolling off him in scarlet, seismic waves, catching on Manwë’s skin, almost making it burn.

Manwë withdraws, deceptively delicate hands shoving the unfortunate lump of what used to be an elf lord off the slab, its body hitting the floor with a wet thud. He pulls himself unto the maroon stone in one fluid motion, robe half undone and sliding over to expose milky legs and shoulders, parting enticingly in slow persuasion as Manwë crawls backwards, coaxing Melkor along. The tension and irritation leak out of Melkor like blood, his fána loosening as he advances like a beast of prey, making a home out of the space between Manwë’s legs when they spread out before him like a most fine meal, his bare, white flesh stained red, red, red. Melkor almost sinks to his knees in unbidden worship. Debauchery at its most beautiful.

His lips ghost over Manwë’s face, tongue running across the dark markings coiling about his eyes, skilled fingers unbinding the rest of Manwë’s attire before shedding his own. They’re hardly alone, their subordinates just outside a still ajar door, waiting, but nothing would stop them form having this.

His other hand squeezes Manwë’s hip, claws digging in and piercing skin before his head snaps to the side when he’s rewarded with a sharp slap from his brother. Melkor snarls down at him, their surroundings rattling, and Manwë makes a show of baring his neck in submission, biting off a grin as he curves a hand at the nape of Melkor’s neck, the other running down a smooth, toned arm.

Sated, Melkor bends and lavishes attention to the skin offered him, his teeth leaving a red trail that always heals too quickly for his liking, hands drifting down Manwë’s thighs as he ventures lower, and Manwë permits a moan to flit past his lips and clenched teeth when wet heat encases him, his grasp on Melkor’s hair and shoulder tightening as a storm begins to form above the fortress, thunder cracking the darkening sky, only intensifying the deeper Melkor took his hardening length into his mouth, fingers moistened with red dipping into his entrance. There’s nothing gentle about it, and that’s how they want it. 

Tipping his head back, his long hair falling and pooling on the stained floor, Manwë grips his brother harder as Melkor finally fills him, heaving heated breaths across Manwë’s neck as he arches over him, commencing a brutal rhythm and yes, Melkor almost roars, sinking his teeth into his brother’s shoulder and drawing an exquisite cry out of him. Nothing feels as good as this does. Nothing ever will.

[p1lgrim]

It’s International Poetry Day Wey hey Wey hey hey hey hey hey That’s all I gotta say

[an-absolute-fandom-whore]

Lanky noodle went to court riding on his pony

Stuck his finger in his butt and called it a cannoli

[cockholmsyndrome]

i was legit bored so i took a speed typing test and i got a 95% lols

[bvlmains]

    - ̗̀ ❛ the party-goers were beginning to spill out onto the dancefloor. everyone had greeted each other, exchanged gifts and eaten cake, and it was now the unofficial time to get drunk. the four hung around the upstairs bar, piled high with fine liquor, suitable for a royal private birthday. the club was closed off for the event, only nobles and patricians were wandering about in their finery with their glasses of cristal. eleanor wanted to head over and mingle with one of her best friends, who was actually the birthday girl, but felt somehow obligated to watch over her twin brother who was already indulgently displaying his lack of restraint when it came to alcohol. the tall blond took his third shot of vodka and snaked his arm around the shoulders of the monégasque princess beside him. “ would you three care to join in? i tried mingling with a couple of other european royals around here but, they’re just so dreadfully boring. ” charles screws up his nose, giving a distinctly displeased glance over at a german prince. the german returns the expression— charles had a reputation amongst the young royalty for being quite the snob; more often that not, drunk, plus impertinent and haughty. 

    he hailed the barman to pour another two shots, and offered one to grace. stanisław made a scoffing sound. “ cool— thanks for offering, charles. eleanor and i will just go do some rails in the bathroom and leave you both to it, ” he motioned to pull eleanor along by her arm, who shifted hesitantly, before he replaced his hand lightly on the small of her back. he could play charles’ game as well, leaning over the prince’s sister with his other hand on her shoulder. stan and eleanor's relationship was a constant source of concern for charles; he couldn’t understand her unwavering submission to him, the bizarre force he held over her. stan fully intended to put it on show if charles was going to feel bold enough to make obvious advancements on grace; or he’d try something else. the night was still young.