Just A Day In Shadow Company ;D

When you got plushies on your bed and you’re abt to fuck

Gaz: is turning them around so they don’t see

Soap: is lining them up so they ALL see

Ghost: is shoving one under your hips so he can raise up your ass and fuck it

Price: is putting one in your arms so you can hold it and squeeze it when you’re overstimulated and squirming

Nik: putting it in your arms and involving it in the dirty talk tbh (“Carrotcake and I are so proud of you, milaya— taking papochka’s cock to the base like this. Did you fuck yourself in this bed while thinking of me, makýshka? Did your silly rabbit know what a slut you are for me before I did?”)

Lord of the Rings Legolas reminds me a deer. The more I think I about it the more it’s just consuming my brain.

Bro has soft doe eyes.

Bro’s eyes sparkle.

Bro is soft. Like deer.

Bro is from the woodland. Like deer.

I am obsessing like look at these gifs and tell me they don’t give you soft deer vibes ???

DUDE JUST GIVES SOFT DEER VIBES I DONT KNOW HOW ELSE TO EXPLAIN IT

People are saying Galadriel hanging off the side of her horse wasn't realistic?!?! Do yall not remember the shit Legolas pulled? Horse gymnastics is something real people actually do. I hate yall.

The robins being siblings

_________________________________________

Dick: Don’t stay up all night, Tim. Last time you got this sleep-deprived, you tried to eat your own shirt.

_________________________________________

Tim: Enough! How dare you mock me in such a manner!?

Damian: Well. How would you like me to mock you? I take requests.

_________________________________________

Dick: You know you can die from that, right?

Jason: *smoking a cigarette* That’s the point.

Tim: *drinking alcohol* We’re trying to speed this up.

Damian: *Eating raw cookie dough and nodding*

_________________________________________

Tim: Why is Jason crying on the floor?

Damian: They took one of those 'which super hero are you?' quizzes.

Tim: And?

Damian: He got Nightwing.

_________________________________________

Tim: What do we think of Jason?

*pause*

Damian: He is an adequate opponent.

Dick: I think he's gay.

Ahem ahem ahem. Me to @ghostslollipop

<3

Juuuuuust in case you haven't heard it enough, I myself am very grateful for literally everything you write. I'm very grateful for every author on this app for the work they post—because they truly do this for free and for fun. ty and goodnight 💋

Next installment of Lord of the Rings AU: It's Fine, Everybody's Fine is Aragorn's coronation, at which Boromir W E E P S:

I think in a circumstance where Boromir lives, or even just in interacting with Faramir in canon, Aragorn would be very aware of the optics of striding in out of the wilderness to take a throne that the line of stewards had been fighting and dying for in his absence (Thorongil cosplay aside). Cool thing is, in this AU, seeing the king's throne filled and experiencing Gondor at peace for the first time in living history is more than Boromir EVER hoped for.

The day the White Tree sapling blooms, Aragorn wakes up Faramir and Boromir like a six-year-old on Christmas:

And then there's that FIRST SUNRISE over the Mountains of Shadow, when day breaks over a defeated east that's clean and clear and Boromir WEEPS AGAIN because he NEVER THOUGHT he'd see such a thing and YES this is a THIRST TRAP why do you ASK

Hell yeah I gave him a tattoo, it's the seven stars of Gondor plus a coastal rockrose that grows in sandy soils along the Mediterranean because I figure that's like Dol Amroth in honor of HIS MOM because I LOVE SYMBOLISM

just thinking about bilbo thinking about how in love with thorin he is and how grateful hes alive and of their lives together in the shire and how theyre both just so happy and at peace and O;IRGAO;HIERGO;ALEIGHO;AIERG

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

Bilbo: I love you,

Thorin: Affection? Disgusting.

Thorin: ... Do it again

Thinking about !Butcher Simon Riley with his sweet regular customer..

Simon Riley who doesn’t believe in starting over. Not really. Retired from the military, he’d traded one kind of blood for another. The butcher shop wasn’t much—small place tucked in the corner of Manchester, no fancy signage, no bright lights—but the regulars came. You came. Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays like clockwork.

Simon Riley—your butcher—moves with a kind of brutal grace behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms cut from marble and hard labor. You watch him work the cleaver like it’s an extension of his body. Focused. Calm. Every slice is deliberate, clean, respectful. There’s no waste in his motion, no hesitation in his hands.

You tell yourself it’s just the way he works—but your heart tells you otherwise. It stutters every time he glances up and catches you staring. You always look away too fast.

He’s seen things, you can tell. Something in the set of his shoulders, in the way he carries silence like a second skin. They say he was military once, but no one in the neighborhood asks. They just buy their lamb chops and brisket, nod respectfully, and leave him be.

But not you.

Sometimes you don’t even need anything. You come into his shop just to linger by the display case, pretend to think hard when he asks what you’re in the mood for, and always end up letting him choose. You like the way he speaks when he’s talking about cuts—like meat is an art form and he’s the only one who understands it. Like there’s a language in bone and fat and sinew, and he knows how to read it all.

He knows you’re into him.

You think he doesn’t notice—how your eyes linger on the flex of his forearms, how your breath catches when he tightens his grip on the knife. But he does. He knew from the first time you smiled at him over a pound of sirloin, all nervous and bright-eyed.

And he liked—more than he should’ve—how you smelled faintly of sugar and coffee when you leaned in to hand him cash.

It wasn’t anything serious. Not at first. Just a little dance. A tilt of your head, a brush of your fingers when he passed you the package. He told himself it was nothing.

But he starts saving the best cuts for you. Packs a little extra into your order. Keeps the shop open late on days when you run behind, just in case. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.

The day you tell him about your promotion, you’re practically vibrating. He can see it before you even speak. You ask—halting, hopeful—if he’d like to come over for dinner. Just dinner. Maybe.

He says yes.

Later, in your tiny kitchen, you cook with meat he cut for you himself. he watches you handle the meat. Sees the way your hands move, careful, precise, even if you’re nervous. You ask him how thin the slices should be. You ask him if he likes garlic. Ask if he likes bourbon. Fuck—darlin’, are you trying to get yourself a ring?

He’s still all knives and scars and quiet edges—but with you, he doesn’t have to be just that. So when you ask him if he wants to stay a little longer after dinner. With that soft, bright smile like you’re not afraid of what’s under his skin, something in him loosens. Maybe even heals, just a little. And he finds he doesn’t mind saying yes to that either.

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