#But who knows brains are silly

[bakedspoonie]

narcolepsy is hilarious, I fell asleep but my brain didn’t do it all the way so I kept doing my tasks. Finished several quests in Skyrim, made a cup of tea, and fed my cat (I’m assuming I also gave her her pill but I can’t verify that like the other things). Was awoken by a call from my mum about the puppy she’s driving 7 hours for. I was in the middle of a fight in Skyrim and have no memory of the things I did. felt like I was back in school leaving class with a notebook full of notes and no memory of doing it. One time a teacher stopped me on my way out and thanked me for my insight on something, I still don’t know what I said but it was good I guess. Sleep me is more well spoken than awake me was something I learned.

[cuterrguy]

is this funny i think it’s funny

art/au by @kitsuneisi and @xmaruu11

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Remember: The burning sensation is part of the process.

[acarinarium]

Do you ever just think about sturddlefish? I do

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

one morning you cling to satoru’s back and sleepily plead for him not to leave for work and he feels closer to killing the higher ups than ever before

[itsnotmourn]

OH MY GOD ITS CARMEN AND RICHARD

[electrozeistyking]

so i'm not sure if i'm the only one who noticed effective immediately or not but

[randomuzerthelozer]

I can't be the only one who thoguht of this

Link to og Tad Strange fanart:

[shepscapades]

GLAD EVERYONE ENJOYED THE ANDROID INFO UPDATE ABOUT INTERFACING DFGJNDGKGNMXGHNCBNM

[osteochondraldefect]

Sweet reward for obeying commands

[cb-writes-stuff]

“You can’t enjoy being neurodivergent/disabled/having X disorder if it makes you suffer so much! How dare you be making jokes about it!!!” Well you see, your bad days only suck a little bit so you don’t appreciate the good days very much. My bad days suck so much worse, so I only appreciate the good days that much more to compensate.

[ghostdrinkssoup]

girls don’t want hannibal season 4 girls want a spin-off show that’s basically master chef but hannibal is the only judge and the rest of the cast are contestants except the catch is they don’t know all the ingredients are people-based (except will who’s desperately trying to convince everyone while also having homoerotic tension with hannibal) and it’s filmed like the special features clips on the shrek 2 DVD

[turrondeluxe]

[fiyabwal]

Welcome to tumblr where we spent 6+ years reporting and fighting off pornbots, and now we're at a stage where random users are attacking well known gimmick blogs for NOT promoting scambots.

[mochiwrites]

gentle touch of morning

( a small scarian epic au piece <3 reblogs do more than likes! )

It’s funny. 

Over the twelve long years Scar spent fighting, leading his men into battle, the thought that kept him going was his eventual homecoming. Every waking thought was of his husband and son, and Scar’s reason for living, for breathing, was his family. As he sailed rocky waters, faced monsters and gods alike, lost men after men, Scar wished for nothing more than to be home, to awake with his husband sleeping beside him. 

But as he stands in his home, the one he most intimately knows, Scar feels… wrong. Out of place. He’d woken up early, savoring the sight of Grian’s sleeping face (he could never get tired of it), and felt so restless that staying in bed for any longer seemed impossible. So Scar took to walking around his home. 

He and Grian built this place up, together. The memories are some that Scar looks back on fondly. He could never forget it, no matter how much time he spent away from it. Scar only fears that it has forgotten him. 

Scar takes easy steps, walking and reacquainting himself. He notes the pictures, most of them being of his son. He hardly sees Grian in any of them, perhaps one or two, less than a handful. And the ones that Grian is in, his smile doesn’t light up his face. It makes Scar frown. 

He wanders for a bit, traversing each winding hallway with careful movements. It’s as if he fears the house may collapse at any moment, or some attacker may jump from the shadows, perhaps a god will catch him off guard and finish him off. Not even in his home does he feel the full safety he’s supposed to. These walls feel foreign, unfamiliar. Even if he can picture everything clearly in his mind, knows this place like the back of his hand. Scar still feels like a stranger. 

Eventually, he finds himself in the kitchen. He pauses in the doorway, catching sight of another person. 

His son. 

His little Pitta. 

Well, not as little anymore, as a young boy at fourteen. But to Scar it still feels like he’s just an infant that he could cradle in his arms. Another thing time robbed him of. So many missed moments, opportunities, to watch his son grow. And while Scar knows that there are still many years to come, to see, a piece of him mourns the time he lost.

For a moment, Scar keeps quiet. He watches his son, taking in his dark brown hair and hazel colored eyes. He’s the striking image of both Scar and Grian somehow, even if they aren’t related to him. But Scar loves him all the same; would move mountains to give him whatever he needed. He can’t help but wonder what kind of person his son is, what he likes and dislikes. Does he resent Scar for leaving? Does he consider Scar his father, or a stranger who left a loving husband alone for years on end? He doesn’t want to find out. Not now. 

Scar stands there until he can’t anymore, finding hazel eyes landing on him. He watches the way in which Pitta’s eyes light up, turning all shiny and bright when he notices his father. He turns away from the counter, abandoning the slices of bread he had taken out. He smiles, and gods, does his smile look like Grian’s. “Papa!” Pitta greets, the timbre of his voice cheerful and soft. 

“Hey, Pitta,” Scar returns, heart melting each time he’s reminded that he’s finally returned home. He never thought it would happen, that maybe it’d take him longer, or maybe something would strike him down on the way back. But against all odds, fourteen years, and Scar is home. His son stands in front of him. 

“What’re you doing awake? Is dad up too?” Pitta questions, raising a brow at him. 

“Uh…” Scar blanks, unsure of what to say. It’s not like he’s going to tell the truth, Pitta shouldn’t have to worry about him. Scar has already caused him enough pain, there’s no need to cause more now that he’s actually here. “Gria— your dad’s still asleep,” he stammers. The words feel awkward on his tongue, like they shouldn’t be there. This life of domesticity… he doesn’t know how to go about it. It isn’t just some enemy he can cut down. 

The very thought makes him nauseous. 

“Oh!” Pitta blinks at the response. “Well, that’s… good.” He nods to himself awkwardly, and Scar hides a grimace. 

He… really doesn’t know how to interact with his son. 

There’s this dark curdling of doubt in his mind that begins to creep up, settling over him. He’s afraid. Worried that this is one thing he’ll never overcome. It’s a familiar feeling, an old friend, a once enemy turned begrudging shadow. It’s a feeling he experienced in battle, traversing home, taking his castle back from scoundrels that dare to stain it. But there is a new fear that joins it, overwhelming like a tidal wave. 

Does he even know how to be a father? 

Scar feels his breath sharpen just a tad, skipping a beat and hastening. He can feel hands curling around his throat, beginning to press into his skin. He feels it tightening on him, the grip firm. The pressure starts off as something light, until the fingers of Fear dig deeper with each shakingly quiet breath. It gets stronger and stronger, straining his lungs until he can feel his throat being squeezed, choked. 

“Papa?” Pitta’s voice breaks him from the spiraling thoughts, from the overwhelming fear sneaking in. 

The hands around his neck relax, and the terror recedes, sinking back into the depths of his mind momentarily. He allows himself a moment to breathe, a chance to suck in a soft breath and recenter. His vision clears, and he becomes aware of the way his heartbeat pounds in his ears, loud like a drum. 

He manages a smile, “I’m uh, gonna go check and see if our Sleeping Beauty is awake.” Keeping his eyes trained on his son, Scar tries to maintain his light smile. He takes a few small steps back, slipping into a casual mask. He’s gotten quite good at it over the years of putting on a brave face. “Be right back.”

Pitta watches him, brows creasing in concern as he goes. “Oh… okay,” he answers, sounding resigned as Scar retreats. 

Scar turns around, and brings himself back to the beautiful olive tree where his Grian is fast asleep. The sun shines down on him, cutting through the green leaves. The light spills into their bed, painting a halo in the soft yet sandy blond locks of Grian’s hair. He rests in their bed, eyes shut and face relaxed. His body is curled somewhat, the blanket tucked just over his shoulders. 

Staring at him, taking in the near angelic sight, Scar takes a few breaths to calm himself. He walks over to their bed, sitting down on the edge, right beside Grian. He contents himself with just sitting there, watching the rise and fall of Grian’s chest. It feels a little easier to breathe, with the love of his life right here, peaceful. Scar can almost allow himself to pretend he lives in a world where he never went to war, where he never had to leave his family behind. He can almost allow himself to pretend he was the husband and father he should have been. 

Chest aching and overflowing with doubt and regret, Scar reaches out. Tenderly, Scar brushes some of Grian’s hair away from his face. He ever so softly tangles his fingers in the silky strands as he rhythmically cards through his hair. Scar’s expression softens, chest swelling with love for the man before him. He drags the pads of his fingertips along Grian’s head, feeling the soft locks under his touch. 

He can’t imagine what it was like, doing so much alone for so long. Scar has always believed Grian to be strong, the strongest person he knows. But this? Scar doesn’t think anyone could compare, not even the gods. 

Not in the way it matters, at least. 

His thumb idly strokes Grian’s cheekbone, loving and sweet. “I’d be lost without you, my light,” he murmurs. Because it’s true. Scar would’ve given up a long, long time ago if he didn’t have Grian and Pitta to come home to. Grian is his rock, his eye of the storm, his compass. Scar is caught within Grian’s orbit, forever wrapped up in him. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for this man. Grian kept their home in one piece. He raised their son. He handled whatever it was that Scar couldn’t in his time away. Grian held out hope for fourteen years that Scar would come back to him. 

Scar owes him everything and more. But most importantly, Scar owes him his love. And by the gods will he offer every last ounce of it, every drop. Scar is a man. No general, and certainly no hero. He is just a man who wants to pour his heart and soul out for his spouse. Scar is just a man in love. 

Beneath his touch, Grian’s face twitches, and he begins to stir. “Mmm… Scar?” he mumbles, still groggy and waking up. 

“Good morning, my love.” Scar smiles at him, brushing away a particular curl of hair before stroking his cheek. “Sleep well?”

“‘ink so, yes. It was warm with you,” Grian answers, leaning into the hand on his cheek. “What’re you awake for?” 

Scar pauses, if only briefly. “Uh, well, y’know. Just admiring my pretty husband while I have the chance,” he answers, which isn’t entirely a lie. 

Grian looks at him with clear suspicion, but doesn’t push. Instead, he sighs quietly as pushes himself to sit up. “You can do that when I’m awake too,” he teases, leaning to press their lips together. Scar is more than happy to sink into it, using the hand on Grian’s cheek to angle his head slightly, deepening it. The kiss is sweet, loving. It’s slow and patient, carrying the patience of fourteen years within it.

When they pull away, Scar rests their foreheads together. “I guess I can, yeah,” he agrees softly. “Mind if I take a few more minutes to admire him?” 

Grian smiles, kissing the corner of his mouth in return. “I suppose.”  Scar simply smiles, and gods is he happy to be home. No amount of fear could ever leave him unhappy to be back with the loves of his life. Never. 

[possibilistfanfiction]

caitvi: funeral :)

[i see u all trying to get me to write angst don't think i don't! but this is v little angst & mostly sweet, once again i love sisters. jinx pov, little continuation of this silly au if u are interested.]

//

‘are you attending some funeral i don’t know about, or —‘

vi huffs, straightening her collar in the mirror by the front door. ‘it’s a nice outfit.’

‘sure.’ to be fair, she is in nice black slacks — possibly her only pair of pants other than her firefighter uniform that don’t have a rip somewhere — and chelsea boots without too many scuffs, and those are fine on their own, but paired with a black, long-sleeve button up and a black trench coat — yours, thank you very much — she looks kind of ridiculous. ‘if you’re a caterer. or, you know, a pall bearer.’

she groans, flopping down on your couch in very overdone despair. and people say you’re dramatic. ‘well then you fix it.’

you’d known vi was nervous for days now, which you think is ridiculous. you’ve already climbed twice indoors again with caitlyn and jayce, so it’s not like they haven’t seen each other and subsequently flirted to no end; thankfully ekko had come the second time, so, along with jayce, you outnumbered them at least. vi had sent some monster stuff on lead, a great outcome of her nerves that was honestly sick to watch; she’s also showered every day and cooked you dinner when she’s not on shift, and she even got a real honest-to-god haircut at a real honest-to-god barber instead of your haphazard best with clippers and a pair of dull scissors every few months. she doesn’t look too different, really, a little neater if anything, but she carries herself with a self-consciousness — some mixture of deep care and a little embarrassment, maybe — that would be endearing and amusing if it wasn’t so tragic. seeing vi this stressed over a pretty (which you will admit aloud; you can see caitlyn) and cool (which you will never admit aloud) girl kind of makes your chest ache a little.

‘can do,’ you tell her, taking pity, and salute to off-set her frown. it works, just like it does every time, like it has since you were little, even if you feel kinda upset too. the idea of having to share vi with anyone, even if it’s a good thing and a good person, even if she definitely deserves to give her love — the best love — to someone, has been making you feel off, so you’ve been seeking out all the comfort you can. sometimes everything is too fast and too slow, the voices that have been so quiet these past few years, since vi got out of prison and you moved in with her and started university, knocking on your door, urgent. you’ve talked about it with your therapist and worked on adjusting your meds; you’ve tinkered in your room with the lights off when everything has been too loud; you’d sat in the park with ekko under your favorite tree, your head in his lap. you haven’t told vi explicitly, but she knows what’s going on, and she’s woken up from frequent nightmares before you’d been able to sleep lately, so you’d sat together on the couch, covered in soft blankets, and rewatched your favorite episodes of queer eye in the middle of the night, crying so hard you end up laughing as the sun comes up.

you have your own rooms now, after you upgraded to a bigger, much nicer apartment in a much safer area of town after she’d saved enough money and you’d gotten a work-study to help with the rent; she’d insisted on the smaller bedroom, because a lot of her shifts are overnight, but mostly you think it’s because she loves you and, in a lot of ways, is just trying to make up for lost time. you’d stopped being mad at her for getting arrested a long, long time ago, and, even though the voices are louder right now, they’ll fade, and you hope that knowing someone like caitlyn will help assuage vi of some of the guilt she’s always still carrying around.

you walk into her room first, scrounge around in her closet for the sweater you know she has because you bought it for her last birthday, hopeful for occasions just like this one, and emerge victorious. you put on your best tan france accent and pop a hip. ‘this, tucked into your pants, to match your eyes.’

vi nods seriously, even though she smiles at your impression. ‘good one, jinx.’

‘i know,’ you say. ‘i am the best dressed family member for a reason.’

vi is kind enough to not mention your current outfit of a ratty old fire department hoodie of hers that has long since been retired, sleep shorts with the elastic coming out of the waist, and mismatched socks, one slipping down your foot, but she does raise an eyebrow before shrugging out of the trench coat and unbuttoning her stupid shirt. the sweater you had picked out, and saved for, for months, is tight enough you can see her muscles, but loose enough she doesn’t look like an asshole; it’s a soft cashmere with a cool mock turtleneck you think fits her well. you nod in approval and venture to the coat closet while she tucks it in, and then bring her a leather jacket that had been vander’s once upon a time, you’re pretty sure, so it’s oversized on vi, but, ‘very cool,’ you say.

she looks at herself in the mirror and her shoulders relax; you know you did a good job, so you grin and pat yourself on the back. vi rolls her eyes but she laughs and wraps you up in a hug anyway.

‘are you wearing cologne?’ you mumble into her shoulder.

‘is it too much?’

‘no,’ you assure; it’s musky, with a little bit of smoke: warm. ‘it smells nice, actually. good taste for once.’

you feel her smile on the top of your head, and then she takes a serious breath.

you back up so you can really look at her. ‘caitlyn is, like, fine and all,’ you say, ‘and i will detonate a bomb if you tell anyone i said this, but you’re the coolest person i know.’

her eyes start to get a little watery so you wrinkle your nose and shove her; she barely moves, she’s so strong, but it does get her to sniffle into a smile. ‘you sure you’re okay with this? i know things have been harder for you lately.’

she wouldn’t ask if she didn’t really care, about both you and caitlyn. ‘yeah, sis,’ you say, and you mean it. ‘i’m sure.’

vi’s smile is too bright for you to feel otherwise, honestly. she putters around a little in front of the mirror again, and then you hear the buzzer. you scramble past her so you can answer. ‘come on up,’ you say, before caitlyn can even get a word in, and then buzz her in, grinning at vi when she sighs.

‘did you think she brought you flowers? oh my god, please.’ you twirl around.

‘you have a boyfriend; you and ekko go on dates all the time.’

‘i guess.’ you wrinkle your nose; it’s true, but, ‘definitely not quite like this though. wined and dined and all.’

caitlyn knocks on the door before vi can get another word in, and when you open it, a little too fast so it flings into the shoe rack, which makes vi wince, you’re very, very glad you made vi change, because caitlyn is in an understated, gorgeous navy blue dress and camel peacoat, her heels making her a good few inches taller than vi.

‘hello, jinx,’ she says, and then offers you a bottle of red wine and a carry out bag of — when you sniff it — your favorite chinese food. ‘as penance for stealing your sister tonight.’

you turn to vi. ‘keep her, please.’

both caitlyn and vi laugh while you scurry over to the kitchen island with your bounty, but you watch vi accept caitlyn’s offering of a single pressed flower in a small, simple black frame. ‘violet,’ she says, smiles crookedly, and vi grins, a little in awe, and kisses her cheek.

you’re ready for this, you are, because vi sets it down carefully on the entry table you’d fixed up together, and then smiles over at you, her fingers already tangled with caitlyn’s. ‘be good, jinx.’

you roll your eyes.

‘see you later,’ she says. ‘don’t wait up.’

‘ew.’ you uncork the wine; you’ll have to google the bottle later to see how much caitlyn really is trying to get on your good side. ‘have fun, i guess,’ you say, and they wave as they head out the door.

you do wait up, of course you do, playing video games and texting vander. when vi does get back in, her cheeks are flushed and her lips swollen.

‘went well, then?’

she startles a little, even though the tv is on and you’re clearly on the couch, her back pressed to the door like an actual teenager. ‘she’s … yes, it went well.’

‘make out in her subaru?’

when vi doesn’t say no, you roll your eyes. ‘gross. cliche too. i’m going to bed.’

vi laughs, happy. you’re happy too. ‘’night, jinx.’

‘goodnight, vi.’ the light from the tv is soft and she looks younger than you’re used to, her scars and everything behind them faded in the washed out, gentle light. ‘love you.’

her smile softens, just for you. ‘love you too.’