#GOD I NEVER SHUT UP DO I

[emil1863]

HE GOT HIS EPISODE!!!!

[artaintfart]

I am the Angel sent down from above / I am the Cancer swimming deep in your blood

[xxplastic-cubexx]

it doesnt need to be said but its genuinely so funny how at-the-hip charles and erik are in krakoa like they really had the green light- the OBLIGATION- to be as obnoxiously close to each other as possible and abused that right to the fullest extent

[cherie-luvv]

“Newtie my husband 😍” I’m literally outside your door

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[deedala]

Ian x Debbie + just hashtag gay ginger middle children things

[maudiemoods]

Big plans in the works

[triglycercule]

mtt therapy moment except dust keeps taking breaks to talk to phantom papyrus and horror just wants this to hurry up so it can get to his turn because he couldn't give two shits about dust and killer's trauma and killer physically cannot discuss his issues and just starts zoning out while crying for some reason during it

and i'm the therapist listening to all of this writing down notes fervently because ITS CANON MATERIAL CANON I NEED TO GET THE CANON MATERIAL

[ivomartins]

HE!!!!!!!

[autistic-katara]

mutuals and non mutuals pls answer 🙏🙏🙏

[inwiste]

saw a post about hashirama potentially having ocular albinism based on his first appearance having light eyes like tobirama... i got carried away

“You overdid yourself again.” 

He anticipates the touch before it arrives. Tobirama’s fingers are cool where they find his temples, fanning out to rest gently on the crown of his head. His eyes remain shut, body relaxing of its own accord. 

“You need to wear the glasses, anija.” There’s a sharp edge to Tobirama’s tone, clear dichotomy to his brother’s careful maneuvering, to the way Hashirama’s head settles in his lap. To the fingers that come to his head once more, working in small circles. “At least in the compound. The mokuton can compensate for a lot, but it can’t help you read.”

They’ve had this conversation a thousand times. He’ll learn, eventually. He’ll try to, at least.

“You could always read the reports to me,” he murmurs. The throbbing ache rattles his skull. His jaw is still locked up, mouth hardly moving. His tongue sticks in his mouth, dry as it is. He can’t remember where his tea went. He knows there was tea—the taste has withered on his tongue but he can still catch a trace of it when he swallows, pain pulsing in time with the contraction. “You’re concise. Know what’s important and what isn’t.” 

Tobirama’s hands drift downwards, pulling him up a fraction before taking the base of his skull into steady hands, pressing pads of fingers into the nape of his neck. 

“I have my own work to do.” It’s not an outright refusal. “I don’t enjoy wearing them either, but I make the concession regardless to minimize situations like these, anija.”

They don’t go away entirely, though. The brain is too complex, chakra pathways too delicate to risk the potential damage that could arise from trying to alleviate the pain. They must live with the days that must be spent in the dark, where his brother can hardly rise on hands and knees before retching, where food and water are a poison to Hashirama’s stomach. It’s hardly behavior fitting of a clan head and clan heir, but things progressed beneath his father’s leadership. The work still got done. Their people were still kept safe.

Hashirama opens his eyes for a brief moment, wincing at the dull, stabbing pain that infects his eyes and spreads out to the sockets. His brother’s face is blurry even from the short distance spanning between them, tattoos standing sharp against pale skin. Closes them just as quick.

The clench of his jaw lessens a fraction, stiff muscles uncoiling. He sighs heavily when Tobirama’s thumbs push firmly against the base of his skull. His breathing deepens. Time slips past him, mind drifting into a twilight zone. He can feel his brother’s hands still rubbing circles into his head, throbbing roots slowly being pulled from his skull. 

“You didn’t have to do this,” he slurs sleepily, tongue grown heavy in his mouth. He doesn’t move, though. He’s resting fully against Tobirama now, into the embrace that holds his head so slightly aloft. “I would have gone to the healers if it got any worse.” 

His brother huffs, chakra taking on an indignant tone. A smile finds his lips. He’s never been able to lie to his brother. Not successfully, at least. 

“If only such a thing were true,” Tobirama says. “Someone has to make sure you don’t end up bedridden. I should leave you to the mercy of Izumi the next time this happens.” 

He won’t, they both know. Such an admission will never slip past his brother’s tongue. Such truths are laid bare between them regardless. 

Perhaps once he would have felt guilty for demanding so much of his brother’s time. The mokuton is enough on the battlefield. It’s enough for traversing the pathways of the compound, it’s enough for the floor of their home. The earth is forgiving. Papers are not. 

Something still sticks in his throat when Tobirama pulls free entirely, dragging him from his reverie. He listens to Tobirama pull the shutters closed. To the soft footsteps that bring him close once more, fabric rustling as he sinks to his knees.

“You should rest, anija.” Tobirama’s voice is soft. The ache has lessened to a dull throb. Exhaustion clings to him, even though there are several hours still standing between them and sunset. 

Knuckles brush his cheek before he feels Tobirama’s hand settle against his forehead. His hand has chilled further, free hand stroking his cheek as Hashirama sighs. 

He grabs Tobirama’s hand as it parts from his skin, thumb tracing the raised flesh on the knuckle of his index finger. A particularly bad scrape during a spar had split the skin. They were children at the time but the scar has remained strong on his skin. 

“Stay until I fall asleep?” 

There is no childish tilt to his tone but he feels the trepidation regardless. Feels the memories of a ten year old boy sink into his skin. Of smaller hands rubbing relief into his skull, soothing cyclical pain. It had become clockwork at a point, he remembers. Before he had gained better control of the mokuton. Before he was able to lessen the burden on failing eyes. He feels them well up in his throat, already beginning to fester on his tongue as he waits for an answer beyond the stiffening of Tobirama’s body behind his head. 

He smiles at the huff that answers him—a small thing. Little more than the lifting of the corners of his lips.

“Where else would I go?”

[cynicallyneutral]

very invisible but very mean audience

[hellinhawkins]

hey! sometimes it’s not necessary to share your opinion <3

[lampochkaart]

Hey guys *explodes*

[bedforddanes75]

HELLO

[bunnihearted]

ཐི ₍ᐢ. ̞.ᐢ₎ ཋྀ