#I’m sick as I write this

[poly-space-nerds]

ok i love the idea of Dream escaping the fishbowl and having to recover with Hob’s care as much as the next person but i can’t help but feel like the only place he would gather his strength is his own realm

so Dream escapes his prison and goes back to the dreaming and is determined to find his tools but he’s so weak that Lucienne is adamant about him getting rest at the moment. But he’s back in the dreaming, which means that humans can dream again. What’s the first thing Hob dreams about? his Stranger ofc. a missed meeting by over 30 years yes he’s still thinking about his friend.

Now for ppl to dream about Dream, he feels a pull to them. I don’t think people can dream about him in the way that their subconscious makes him do things. Instead it’s like a calling card. So Dream feels the pull of Hob and he can’t not go. He simply won’t miss another meeting.

Dream arrives at Hob’s door and knocks. When Hob opens it, his smile is soft and forgiving. Dream can’t believe it. Even Hob’s subconscious wasn’t angry with him. He sees his smile, so warm and inviting, and just breaks. He doesn’t cry, but he doesn’t hide his emotions and that’s enough for Hob to be immediately worried and hesitates for a second before grabbing Dreams shoulder. Dream leans into the touch, going so far as to rest his head on Hob’s shoulder. The man ushers him inside and they spend the rest of Hob’s sleep slightly cuddled on the couch, Hob holding Dream’s hand while Dream continues to lay on his shoulder, completely silent.

When Hob wakes up he feels weird. Like, he’s never really dreamt that vividly before. And he’s never had a dream where nothing really…happened? and holy shit. He hasn’t dreamed in a hundred years. He can’t really stop thinking about it all day, until he’s off to sleep again. And again, he’s in his house when a knock stirs him from his thoughts. (am i lucid dreaming? what is this?). And it’s his Stranger again. He looks tired. too tired. Hob doesn’t hesitate this time to grab his hand and lead him inside, this time bringing him to the kitchen to make some tea.

This continues to happen. By the second or third time, Hob realizes that that actually is his stranger. He doesn’t really understand it, but there’s really no other explanation. Slowly, Dream starts talking to him. Telling him everything about who he is and where he’s been the past century. He doesn’t visit every night and he doesn’t always want to talk, sometimes he asks for Hob to tell stories. Sometimes to play music to fill the noise. Hob realizes that the mirror that’s usually on his wall disappears in the dream world.

Hob doesn’t mind the silence or telling stories. He’s glad that his stranger, Dream, has a place to feel comfortable.

[happy-hermit]

LAST LIFE SCAR ANGST PART TWO BABY :D

Thank you everyone for your enthusiasm with this fic akdkjdh it really kept me going. ( @stiffyck this is still for you)( @hopepetal here’s the tag u asked for I love your writing by the way I’m so happy you like this fic alskjdjd)

Part One

———

A few days pass where nothing and everything happens in equal measurements. The returned hermits work on settling back into normal — well, relatively normal — life, and they tend to only see each other in passing. They get caught up in old and new projects, filled with an urgency that came from being away for so long.

Scar himself spends most of his time gathering items. It’s mindless, repetitive work. Time consuming. Calming, almost. It’s boring enough that he doesn’t think anyone will bother to bother him. (He ignores the way his chest pangs at the thought. It doesn’t matter. It can’t.)

Jellie follows him around most of the time, even if he can’t always see her. She’s a comforting presence, and he knows that she’s only there because she wants to be. He doesn’t have to write up a contract to convince her to stay. She’s there for him. It’s just… nice, is all. To know that.

Scar wanders around with shulker boxes full of wood and leaves and sand and he pretends that he’s not avoiding everyone. It’s not like he doesn’t see them at all, and in fact he always grins and waves when he happens to run into someone. He just — doesn’t stay long. Doesn’t want to overstay a welcome he isn’t sure he has.

Daytime is easier. He can be busy during the day. He can forget. At night, though, he lays in bed and he hurts. His chest aches, and he’s cold, and he’s alone, always. Jellie is there, sure, and she counts, of course, but—

Well. Jellie can’t hug him. She can’t talk to him. She doesn’t know why he’s sad.

More than once, he finds himself outside of a Boatem member’s base in the dead of night, hand poised to knock and heart tugging him forward. He can’t do it, though. He doesn’t really know why — doesn’t want to think about it for too long. He’s pretty sure his mind would lead him back to an isolated mountain with a single bed set haphazardly in a corner. Thinks he would only be reminded of the way people had only ever visited if they’d wanted something from him.

He never knocks, those nights. He instead demolishes frankly absurd amounts of land for resources he doesn’t yet have plans for. He doesn’t sleep at night. It’s fine.

He manages to believe that for two weeks before it all falls apart.

———

The nights have been getting colder, since they all got back. Maybe it’s the season changing, or maybe it’s whatever has started happening with the moon; either way, Scar is thankful that he’s wearing a jacket. The fact that he’s soaked through to the bone is a little less ideal.

It’s a well known side effect of glow squid hunting, though, so he can’t really blame it on anyone but himself. It certainly ensured that he wouldn’t be falling asleep on his feet anytime soon. Of which there was a very real danger, if the cotton stuffed into his head and the lead weighing down his eyelids is any indication. The glow ink splattered on his hands and sleeves is starting to look a little blurry, and he instead focuses on just making it back to the Swaggon without keeling over.

The universe has it out for him, though, so when the first phantom crashes talons-first into his back, all he can do is fall.

He hits the ground with a strangled yelp, his sack of hard-earned glow squid ink flying out of his hand and splattering across the grass. It’s pretty. And heartbreaking. He supposes he hadn’t really needed it for anything…

The phantoms screech angrily overhead, and his back throbs and he scrambles to roll over onto it anyway, because he can’t stand up just yet and he at least wants to be able to see what’s coming—

He lurches to the right as another phantom dives towards him, and the talons only connect with his upper arm as opposed to his chest. He’ll call that one a win.

“Oh geez— Ow, come on, you can’t kick a man when he’s down!” Scar scrambles backwards across the grass, voice high and eyes wide as he resorts to attempting to reason with things that don’t understand him.

There are three of them circling him, and he scrambles to his feet just in time to catch a set of razor-sharp teeth in his shoulder. He yells and swats at it blindly, somehow managing to hit its eyes and smear glow ink across its wildly flapping wing. The phantom detaches itself from him, and he doesn’t even have time to be relieved before another is diving towards him.

He runs.

His shoulder hurts and his arm hurts and his back hurts and he’s cold and wet and no one has touched him gently in months, and he runs.

He doesn’t mean to go to Grian’s house. He had wanted to go home. (Maybe it’s telling, that he’d ended up here instead.)

A phantom bites at his leg as he reaches the alleyway, fake stars shining above him and horrifying undead creatures punishing him for his insomnia close behind him. Pain ricochets up his calf and down his ankle and he frantically tries to shake it loose, crashing to the ground again and crying out when the impact aggravates his other wounds. He knows without looking that his health is getting low. Dangerously low. And he hates respawning, he doesn’t want to, and maybe it won’t even work, maybe he’s used up his last life and he’s going to die alone just like he lived alone, and all he’ll be is a ghost haunting a world that barely notices his absence.

(That’s maybe too dramatic, but he’s dying and he’s tired and every night he holds his own hand and pretends he’s not alone. He feels entitled to a breakdown.)

He curls up against the ground with his eyes shut tight, resigned to the fact that he’ll have to get up and pick up his scattered items in a few minutes, resigned to the body aches that will follow him around for the next few days, resigned to the jokes that will pop up in chat after his death message goes out.

All he can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears, phantoms screeching and injuries stinging in a way that feels distant. Any second now. Any moment.

A hand lands on his shoulder, distinctly and painfully human, and he gasps, eyes flying open as he scrambles into a sitting position. His leg throbs angrily and his arm sends shocks of pain throughout his entire body and Scar tries his best to stay quiet — no one can know he’s hurt, they’ll kill him, they’ll make him give up a life — but a high-pitched sound of pain escapes his throat anyway. The blurry shape of a person kneeling in front of him freezes.

“—an you hear me? Scar?” The voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater, but it’s familiar. It feels like safe and danger at the same time. It sounds worried. “You’re hurt, please—“

“‘m fine,” Scar manages to get out, strained and quiet and mostly on autopilot.

“Wha— Scar, you are not fine, you absolute…”

The voice trails off into grumbling and Scar blinks slowly, looking down at himself. He’s covered in glow ink and his own blood and torn clothes. The clothes don’t look like the right color. He’s pretty sure they’re supposed to be purple.

“Wrong…” Scar mumbles, poking at his clothes. It seems important.

“Maybe because you’re bleeding all over it, Scar, just—“ The figure huffs, just a blob of red and tan, and something is moving behind him. Scar squints. The person seems angry. His weak heart rate picks up.

“D’ you… want a life?” Scar asks, confused and hurt. He can’t think. “I won’t… not for free. Let’s… A deal?”

The blurry person makes some sort of noise that makes Scar think he said something wrong. It sounds like it was punched out of them. Something’s wrong, he said something wrong. Scar’s eyelids are starting to droop, but he forces them open with a whine. The person lurches forward a bit, like they’re trying to catch him, but he’s not falling. Is he?

“D… Don’t go,” Scar pleads, mind scrambling to put together a sales pitch on why they should stay. “I can… I have— if you…”

His vision goes darker around the edges, as his own voice starts to echo in his head. The figure is saying something again, sounding frantic, scared. He wonders why. He hadn’t meant to be scary. He doesn’t think he’s in a condition to even try to be.

The last thing he sees before the darkness takes hold is a hand reaching out.

———

The first thing he’s aware of, when he wakes up, is not pain. It’s the gentle touch of a hand on his arm, lifting it and wrapping something around it. It still stings, but less so; most likely he’d been given a health potion. He feels warm. Sleepy. He opens his eyes.

The last thing he remembers is phantoms chasing him into Grian’s alley, and then someone finding him. Now with a slightly clearer head, he can only assume it had been Grian himself.

Slowly, he turns his head against the pillow he’s resting on, and he blinks sluggishly at the person currently bandaging his arm. It is Grian, with lines of worry in his face and his wings folded right against his back in that way that meant he was scared. Scar’s brow furrowed.

“…G?” His voice is hoarse, quiet, but Grian’s head still snaps up as if he’d shouted. “What’s wrong?”

Grian’s wings fluff up a little, something like angry disbelief swirling in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Grian repeats, half-hysterical. He drops the roll of bandages onto the bed and gestures wildly at Scar’s body. “You keel over in my alley dying of blood loss and you’re asking me what’s wrong?”

“Well, you do seem to be taking it harder than I am,” Scar jokes half-heartedly, attempting to sit up. Grian immediately pushes him back down, and Scar is too shocked to protest.

“Nope, you don’t get to deflect,” Grian says, and somehow it’s as gentle as it is stern. “I know what phantoms mean, Scar, and — and you didn’t even know who I was when I found you. So— so get talking. I know you know how.”

Nerves flare in his stomach, and he breaks eye contact to stare at the wall, inspecting all the random knick knacks on the shelves. He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to explain what he’s been feeling since the games, especially since everyone else seems to have moved on already. It feels silly, suddenly, for his biggest problem to be that he’s lonely. That he doesn’t think anyone wants him around.

“Scar,” Grian says, and it’s softer now. “I’m not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

There’s a lump in his throat and a burning in his eyes, and for just a moment Scar pretends that his heartbreak is anger. He sits up, ignoring Grian’s protesting, and he points an accusing finger at the avian.

“Now you want to stay?” Scar says, powering through even when his voice cracks. “Because last I checked, all— all you wanted to do was leave.”

“Scar, what—“

“No, you wanted me to talk! I’m talking!” Scar’s chest hurts, and his hands are cold, and something in him has been breaking for a very long time. “You— you couldn’t wait to tell me that any alliance from the last games were over. And then when I— When I thought I had Mumbo you came and took him away, too.” Scar cradles his shaking hands close to his stomach and looks away, anger slowly draining. “And then Joel— and then I had no one. And no one wanted to— I tried, Grian, but no one wanted to—“

He closes his eyes tightly, trying to stop the inevitable. “No one wanted to stay,” he finishes quietly. “I… I don’t know what I did. I don’t know why no one…”

Scar trails off, laughing a little and rubbing at his eyes, trying to stop the tears before they fall on Grian’s blanket. “I’m sorry. I don’t— I’m just tired.”

“Scar,” Grian says softly, and something about his voice is strange. “Please look at me.”

Scar looks. Grian has asked him, and he looks.

Grian is looking back at him — a small, sad smile on his face — and he’s crying. Scar blinks in surprise, staring, and Grian laughs quietly, reaching up to wipe at his eyes. Scar doesn’t know what’s happening anymore.

“Grian?” Scar says uncertainly.

“Scar,” Grian says, and he sounds both intensely fond and profoundly guilty. “There is nothing wrong with you.”

Scar’s heart skips a beat in his chest, and he swallows hard. Grian keeps going.

“And I’m so sorry,” Grian says, voice cracking. He reaches out a hand and grabs Scar’s, squeezing it tightly. Scar’s breath hitches, his fingers twitching. The touch feels foreign. It almost hurts. He never wants to let go. Grian tugs on his hand, gently, and Scar looks back up at him. Grian looks heartbroken, but focused. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone,” he says.

“Then why did you?” Scar blurts, unable to help it. He feels a little bit pathetic. He can’t care anymore. “Why did everyone—“

“I don’t know,” Grian says, sad and frustrated and desperate. “I know why I did, I— We didn’t end well the first time. Scar, I couldn’t— I couldn’t kill you again. I looked at you and all I could see was…”

(Bloody knuckles. Sandy clothes. Only one gets to win.)

“I know,” Scar says, quietly, both an apology and forgiveness. And then, softer, “I was alone.” His shoulders curl forwards a little. “Everyone had someone and I was…”

Grian puts his other hand on Scar’s uninjured shoulder, and Scar meets his gaze. The avian’s eyes are full of fire, intense determination mingling with stubborn care.

“Never again,” Grian says, like he’s stating a fact of the universe. Like he’s challenging some malevolent god. Then he softens. “You’re not alone, Scar. Not anymore. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Scar opens his mouth to say something eloquent and thankful and graceful. Instead, he bursts into tears.

Grian pulls him into a hug by the hand he’s still holding, wings coming up to surround them, and for the first time in a long time Scar feels warm. The ache in his chest is fading. His hands aren’t cold. Grian is breathing shakily next to his ear, and he’s being so very careful as to avoid Scar’s injuries, and he’s hugging him.

Scar tucks his face into Grian’s shoulder and cries.

———

In the morning, Pearl busts down the door with soup and a vendetta against apparently unwelcomed emotions.

(“I heard someone was sad. I’m here to beat it up.” She’s grinning, and Scar can’t help but laugh.)

Impulse arrives a few minutes later and drops Jellie into his lap, smiling softly.

(“I think this one missed you somehow more than we did!” Jellie curls up by his injured leg, and if Scar tears up, no one mentions it.)

Mumbo bursts in last, the salvaged remains of the glow squid ink he’d collected gathered into a little bottle.

(“I tried to get you the fresh stuff, but there wasn’t really a way for them to— to ethically sacrifice themselves. Sorry, mate.” Mumbo is covered in glowing ink, looking genuinely apologetic, and Scar laughs until his ribs hurt.)

And he is not alone.

[sonder-paradise]

𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐎𝐧, 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 — 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭

◊ characters. xiao, zhongli, diluc, albedo, gn!reader

◊ genre. fluff

◊ synopsis. in other words, scenarios in which you hold their waists lol

— 𝐗𝐢𝐚𝐨

the scents of osmanthus syrup and apricot seeds flow throughout the kitchen of wangshu inn. xiao’s assistance in making almond tofu was going seemingly well. he finds himself rather intrigued in making his favorite dish with you. “xiao,” you call, “do you mind grabbing the agar for me.” the yaksha was dutiful about helping you in the kitchen especially after you promised something as grand as almond tofu.

xiao turns to hand you the jar only to stumble into the table. he frowns as a sharp pain erupts from his hip. but it’s quickly covered by the feeling of your arm wrapping around his waist. “are you alright?” you ask with an amused tone. he finds himself turning pink at the intimate touch. “i’m… fine,” he murmurs. he can feel you squeeze his hip slightly before letting him go to return to the dessert. and as you glance back at him, you can see the tips of his ears grow redder as xiao hunches over onto the table to recompose himself.

— 𝐙𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢

“excuse me,” you say, passing through the crowded lanes of liyue. with the upcoming events in town, you and zhongli find yourself getting ripped apart by the torrid crowds of people flooding in. zhongli searches around once more to spot your figure in the crowd. he’s unaware you’ve spotted him at all until he feels the gentle touch of someone’s hand placed on his lower back. it glides to the side to rest on his waist before he notices your presence.

your name is a stutter on his lips for just a moment. “there you are. i thought i lost you,” you sigh, continuing to walk with him. “i suppose it would be difficult to get through these crowds without foregoing this route from now on,” zhongli states, still acutely conscious you have yet to move your hand. “shall we go a different route tomorrow?” he suggests. to which you gladly agree with. although, you doubt the new route would permit you to take note of the flustered gaze in his eyes.

— 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐫

helping out around the tavern was easy work. you got to see diluc in the evenings and he got the extra help. honestly it was a win-win for everyone involved. but with the hubbub of the patrons tonight, the bar was rather busy. you had been assisting a rather drunken bard with his usuals when you realized diluc blocked the pathway to your needed mixer.

in the meantime, the red headed man was busy with his own customers. but your assistance in the tavern was a much needed help. not to mention, he had the viable excuse to spend a little extra time with you. “i suggest the—“ he paused, feeling a familiar hand wrap around his waist and slowly guide him to the left casually. “pardon me.” you looped around him in the meantime, grabbing your mixer and returning back to your station. diluc had to stop and stare for a moment; absolutely flustered over the touch of your fingertips grazing against his waistline.

— 𝐀𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐝𝐨

with the frigid cold in the heart of dragonspine, you were rather fond of the glowing torches that kept your fingers warm and toasty. that was until you had to collect ores for albedo in the freezing cold. you shivered, returning back to the camp to deliver the items albedo had sent you out for. you spotted the alchemist huddled over his crafting bench, most likely experimenting with such things.

in the midst of his thoughts, albedo flinched upon feeling your icy, cold fingertips graze his waist and loop into his coat pockets. your arms wrapped around his skin frame and he glanced back at you with a curious expression. “i take it the journey froze your fingers a little?” he inquires, slipping his own hands into his pockets to hold yours. you whine softly against his back, squeezing his hands gently. “more than froze i think i’ve got frostbite,” you moan frantically. he relishes the feeling of your touch against his back before chuckling softly at your antics. “so i see. shall i warm you up a bit then?”

Taglist: @xo-cuteplosion-xo @ik8 @nonsense-corner @ireallylikehamsters @eccedentesiast-sapphic @rebeccka @the-lost-anime-dad @lettucecabbage-kun

Wanna join my taglist? Comment under this post!!

[corrodedcoughin]

Preschool teacher Steve who comes home and can't switch out of preschool mode straight away so he keeps automatically telling Eddie to use his indoor voice, make sure he uses his walking feet not his running feet, and to apologize to his friend Mr Couch when he bumps into it and swears. Steve always apologizes when he catches himself doing it but Eddie thinks it's so cute how much he cares for those kids that it follows him home

Bonus: Eddie makes a comment about how it's a sign that Steve's going to be a good dad and Steve tries to not tear up. Idk there's just something about the only child with absent/neglectful parents wanting a loving home full of voices and kids that he loves that just fucking gets me, man

I woke up, opened my inbox and immediately had to close my eyes and breathe deep. Oh my god

Eddie clearing up after himself and Steve can’t stop himself before ‘great job Eddie! Do you want a sticker?’ And obviously Eddie says yes with a deadpan face.

The second half of your message just shit through my heart I can’t cope with how well suited Steve would be and how good he would be and proud Eddie would be and I just have no words. Thank you

[carbon--14]

i need a frontiers extra story dlc where shadow is trapped in cyberspace and it just so happens that he’s stuck in ark and ends up completely losing it after a while. stuck there indefinitely with fragmented, painful memories, unsure if anything he’s ever done is right (again), no way out. and then after he breaks free (with the help of sonic, of course) he’s finally able to fully let go, and he and sonic have a heart to heart about everything. he wants to start moving forward rather than looking back, he wants to define himself by his future, not by his past. he wants to live freely in honor of maria. the black arms don’t matter, the amnesia doesn’t matter, the times he’s been tricked by eggman don’t matter. he just wants to be shadow. not a weapon, not a pawn, not the ultimate lifeform. just… shadow. and he hopes sonic can help him learn how to do that.

sega let my boy move on please i’m begging you.

[autisticlancemcclain]

Keith would like to say it was the sound of muffled retching that woke him up. Really, it was Lance accidentally kicking him in the groin in his desperate attempt to escape the tangled mess of sheets before he upchucked.

For the sake of his pride and also because Lance absolutely will laugh at him, Keith will pretend it’s the noise.

“Babe? You good?” he asks, rubbing his eye and leaning on the bathroom door.

“I’m fine,” Lance rasps between gags. “Go back to bed.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.” Keith bends down to press a quick kiss to Lance’s sweaty forehead, and then pads over to the sink to fill a glass of water and dampen a cloth.

“I bet you weren’t thinking of this when you promised in sickness and health, huh.”

Keith settles down on the floor, pressed flush next to Lance. He takes his husbands free hand in his — Lance’s other hand preoccupied with holding his poor, tired head up — and squeezes three times in quick succession.

“No, I was,” Keith promises.

Lance coughs — a horribly deep cough, that sounds like it hurts — and Keith winces. He presses the back of his hand to Lance’s cheeks and then forehead, tutting.

“This one’s gonna be rough, baby.”

Lance sighs. “I know.”

He looks so upset. Keith truly wishes, with everything he has, that he could take some of Lance’s pain for himself. It’s not fair. Not at all. Why should Lance have to suffer so often? What asshole higher power decided hey — see that guy down there? The kind one, the one with a heart of gold? He gets a shitty immune system. Let’s punish him for no reason.

Goddamn bastards.

“Maybe it won’t be that horrible,” Keith tries. He carefully wraps his arm around Lance’s shoulders, pulling up his other hand to press a gentle kiss to the space just above his ring. “I work from home for the rest of the week. I’ll sit with you in bed and we’ll watch Pixar movies that always make me cry and you’ll gracefully pretend you don’t notice, and I’ll get you those blue popsicles you like. That’ll be nice, yeah?”

Lance hums, leaning bonelessly into Keith’s side. “Yeah. We’ll watch Nemo first.”

“Oh, you sadist jackass.”

Lance giggles. “You always cry and the most dumbass of times.”

“I do not! Dory getting excited about the little jellyfish is a perfectly normal time to cry! She’s so lonely!”

Lance laughs harder — hard enough to bring on a sneeze, so hard he loses control and brains himself on the toilet.

Keith chokes.

“Are you — are you okay,” he asks, desperately trying to shove the laughter deep down somewhere in his stomach, but the effort makes his voice shake.

There’s a beat of silence, air so thick with Lance’s barely concealed rage that Keith can barely keep ahold of himself.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Lance shouts, and Keith can’t hold it anymore.

“I — I’m sorry,” he tries between gasps, but Lance glares at him playfully, smacking him with the damp cloth from earlier.

“What kind of horrible husband laughs when I almost die via toilet-bludgeoning?”

Keith makes an effort to quiet down his chuckles, even though he knows Lance is only teasing. “One with a normal sense of humour. Can you imagine the eulogy I’d have to give?”

Lance scoffs. “Imagine giving my eulogy a lot, do you, Kogane? Dreaming of that life insurance payout?”

“Oh, please. You think I’m getting any money from your dusty ass? You’re as broke as I am, Kogane.”

Lance grins, like he always does when Keith calls him that. It was cute five years ago at the altar, and it’s cute now.

Gods above, Keith loves his husband.

“If you really think my ass is that dusty, you’re welcome to make friends with your right hand again.”

Keith presses a messy kiss to Lance’s cheek. “You know I’d never survive without you, baby.”

“Damn right,” Lance huffs.

The sit together for a few moments, long enough that Keith’s ass goes numb from the cold tile floor, comfortable silence broken only by Lance’s frequent coughs or sniffles.

“Think you’re good, now?” Keith asks after a while, when no further vomiting occurs.

Lance hums. “I hope so.”

Keith pats his hip. “Alright then, up you get. It’s freezing in here. Let’s go back to bed.”

They stand up and stretch — Keith making his usual complaints about his back, and Lance teasing him about being an old man as if he’s not only a fuckin’ year younger — and then make their way back to bed. Lance fluffs up the pillows while Keith straightens the blankets, and then they crawl in, Lance making himself comfortable by flopping on top of Keith’s entire person.

Keith doesn’t mind. He likes his dorky little bony weighted blanket.

“Thank you for sitting with me,” Lance whispers, long after Keith’s eyes have begun to close.

“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Keith confesses, and the last thing he feels before he drops off into dreamland is the press of Lance’s smile into his chest.

[hhawks]

cant stand mean dabi. he’s not mean. he’s a fucking puppy. don’t give me shit like how he fucks you to get himself off but doesn’t care about whether you finish because he does. dabi has you cum on his tongue and fingers three times before he even thinks about pulling his cock out. he’d only fuck you in missionary because that way he can look at you, watch your face as he moves inside you, drink up all your whines and gasps. he’s only rough with you when you beg him to, and i mean beg, because this man wouldn’t come close to hurting you unless he was completely sure it was what you wanted. gives you everything you need, treats you drunk with adoration. dabi is not mean. dabi is lovesick.

[plutoids-thoughts]

hello take a wip of de blushy bois 🙈🙈

(also if ykyk *wink wonk* and shhhhhhhhh don’t spoil)

Ok I’m crawling back into my little cave to finish all the assignments I procrastinated on for this meager wip see u on the other side 😔💪🏽💪🏽

[showtoonzfan]

No one:

Helluva boss fans whenever the writing is inconsistent, doesn’t make any sense, lazy, or flat: B-but……but…..BUT IT’S A QUEER SHOW!! 😰

[honeyedlashton]

CARAMEL!!!!!

[things-i-cannot-do-in-amitypark]

Everlasting trio aka one of the very few platonic and/or romantic ships I actually enjoy from DP

Everlasting trio to me is giving Danny what he deserves - love and support from the people who care about him. I’ll post the colored version if I finish it

[that-was-anticlimactic]

how about... and hear me out... we stop reducing cole ninjago’s personality to food?

[unicornofgt]

alright, i have come to the decision i am keeping this blog up as an archive and leaving the gt tumblr community for the foreseeable future.

when i made my post about chamomile-g-tea’s damaging treatment of my story, gtms, my goal was to acknowledge the situation so i could hopefully move forward and restore gtms/my blog as mine again, without her influence. and while i anticipated backlash, some of the responses were just...downright disturbing. lots of comments echoed a victim-blaming sentiment that i am responsible for the emotional and creative damage done to me by another person because ‘why didn’t you just say no or tell her to stop?’ not only does this ignore the several attempts i did make to express discomfort and set boundaries—which were not respected—but even if i didn’t manage to express a ‘no’, that doesn’t make what happened ok; it doesn’t erase the year of crippling pressure and guilt i lived with and still struggle to shake daily. realizing that so many people in this community think otherwise is just...disturbing. it’s disturbing. that’s the only word i can think to use.

the response to all this does not make me feel safe being here—that’s what this situation has unfortunately showed me: that the audience i hoped to allow to view my reclaiming process would also contain the same crowd who make me feel so unsafe—and why the fuck would i let those people see something as personal as that? why would i let them see anything? it’s made me understand i can’t continue to heal myself and my writing if i am posting it for other people, especially harmful people. and even though it turned out this way, i’m glad i gave it a shot; that i made that post as an effort to see if it was even possible or worth it to restore this space—even if the answer was no! absolutely fucking not!—because it saved me from even more time spent sharing my work with people who do not respect me as a person or a creator. i’m glad i tried, however much it sucked, because it allowed me to understand: it is not just one person in this community i feel unsafe with, but a solid percentage of the community at large that i just cannot healthily engage with, and no amount of blocking will fix that.

but of course this is not the only situation that showed me this community’s true colors—the dismissive or outright aggressive response to the calling out of racism in our tropes has also been deeply disturbing. to clarify, there is no problem in identifying with and finding comfort or catharsis in problematic tropes such as the pet trope, but there is a problem with using that comfort to make others feel unsafe and speak over people of color. and the solution to this trope problem is very simple—generally apply critical thinking skills to the media you enjoy, and tag your shit properly (dead dove, particularly when the giant owner/abuser doesn’t face consequences and/or if the abused/abuser fall in ‘love’—dead dove is not actually currently used in this community, that’s the problem). but rather than taking this as an opportunity to listen and improve, it was instead used as a chance to lash out at and make clear that poc are not welcome in this community and come secondary to the feelings of white creators and readers.

over the last few years, this community has fostered and been exposed for bigotry such as terfs, ableists, racists, etc, and especially in the current political era, this is no longer a community i want to share my work with or even just lurk in. and i know on the surface this community seems progressive, but take a better look and you’ll find members of the community doing and saying…questionable things, or keeping quiet and enabling their friends who do and say questionable things because they would rather be passive and polite than be genuinely kind and compassionate through active accountability.

of course this is the risk you take interacting with any person ever—but it’s especially taxing to look around at such a small, close knit community you know is riddled with these problems and wonder if the people making innocent posts are actually harmful; if they prioritize their comfort over the safety of marginalized people, if they even see you as a full person, and for me, personally—if they are willing to overlook consent to blame you for your trauma and defend the person who inflicted it. it’s taxing to explain basic basic concepts to strangers over and over in a place that prides itself on being a safe space, where people just have fun and mentally escape from irl hardships. it’s taxing to ride out shitty, hateful treatment when you are just simply one person (voluntarily providing free services btw) with only so much energy and fucks to give. it is not worth the strain it puts on you as a person, nor is it your responsibility to sit there and accept it, and i am not the only creator in this community who feels this way. we are fucking tired.

quite simply, this is not a community i feel comfortable participating in or sharing anything with. and that’s a shame, because there are wonderful, creative and caring people here who i have enjoyed sharing this space with, and maybe someday i’ll give this community another chance, but currently it’s just not worth the time of day. and i want to make it clear: my leaving is not simply because of just one person or just one situation—that i could handle—it is the community itself that is the root problem; that continues to be harmful, in multiple contexts—that is the reason why i and several other creators are leaving for greener pastures and more enjoyable communities—or just simply for a fucking moment’s worth of peace, because lord knows you won’t find it here.

[becca-e-barnes]

head empty currently thinking abt lee fucking the preachers innocent daughter

l i k e

the surfaces id bend over for that man

- duck anon

Oh oh oh because his corruption kink would be absolutely on fire 🤤

Like him fucking you hard and rough from behind, grunting and moaning as he slaps your ass and grips your body just about anywhere he can get a good hold of

And you’re totally gone for it. You didn’t know pleasure like this was even possible, your whines are somewhere close to screams because you’re not quite sure what your body is getting ready for but it’s going to be something intense, that’s for sure.

“Y’like that? F-fuck yeah you do. Gone all silly ‘n cock drunk on me. A big dick’ll do that to ya, sweetheart.” He growls, making sure every thrust lands just right

He’s determined to be the first person to make you cum. There’s a whole world of pleasure out there that you’ve never explored before and now you’ve given in to temptation, he needs to make sure you can never go back to a life without it.

“O-oh oh my God. Oh my God, oh-“ you gasp, wondering if your body is supposed to feel like this. Is the tightening, clenching feeling normal? Is it going to hurt when the feeling stops? Should this truly feel this good or are you just a little euphoric from giving in to something you’ve convinced yourself you couldn’t have? You’re so overwhelmed by the feeling you don’t even realise the blasphemy tumbling from your lips.

“I’m not God, darlin’. Most people just call me Sheriff.” He grunts and you don’t have to see his face to know he’s smirking when you moan his title instead

[toomanyhyperfixations]

Sometimes I’m fine, but then I’ll remember that Troy never came back to Abed and therefore Abed has been clone Abed since Geothermal Escapism because he never got closure or healing and unless we get an actual movie with a Trobed reunion Abed will always be clone Abed because he’s still trying to cope with losing his best friend and the love of his life and somewhere out there Troy is still clone Troy and they’re missing each other and they never got closure and we never got closure and then I’m not so fine anymore :(

[ichayalovesyou]

EPic Rap Battles of Historeehhh

SURAK

VERSus

KAHLEEEEEEEEESSSS!

BEGIN!