#THROW UP THROW UP BARF BARF BARF

[theprophecys]

guys...i got s igned maisie peters vinyllll for secret santa what is my life

[mispelled]

Guys I think maybe she did have a stomachache after all

[blushingblurbs]

Ooooh there is a special place in hell for those who ask and presume that someone “just” has a tummy ache…

Like, no, I’ve got the belly bug. It’s not just a cute little tummy ache, I’m full of sick and need the bathroom…

These aren’t cute little burps, I’m terrified my entire dinner is going to rush up behind the next one.

I didn’t ask to use the restroom for fun, my lower tummy has turned to liquid that’s churning something awful in my bowels…

It’s more than just a tummy ache.

[eyedelweiss]

Inspired by allothi’s lovely work on ao3 you can find here!

Shirin sends them a plush of Elizabeth that Christmas for reasons unknown.

Also, she’s a gentoo penguin. The cuties.

[taamlok]

my favourite thing about taash's romance is that there's no drama. i know a lot of people like angsty romances but i do not lmao i want that to be my little safe space away from the narrative

[sentientsky]

a tiny little ficlet based on this lovely comment from @queer4cryptids on this post! (i accidentally made it angsty, i’m so sorry!! but there’s comfort and gay yearning in there, i swear!) when the night falls low and settles against the side of the Earth; when the the dark begins to carry a certain weight, he shifts his stance. he lets himself breathe air he doesn't really need into lungs that exist simply by virtue of his inclination to breath. it's the same pattern Crowley's watched unfold a hundred million times times over—the stretching of a thread until it frays, three women, a set of blades; a wicked inevitability carried in the lines of time-weathered hands.

and still it never changes, never lessens the welling of grief that builds and breaks in his chest, that stagnates and stratifies like layers of sand upon gravel upon so many eons since he first fell from the sky and lost the right to mourn a woman hungry only for bread and a little kindness.

he leans back against a headstone, swallowing down a familiar hollowness. the sparrows have all taken root in the knots of tree trunks. the moon blinks back at him, clouds swaying like an eyelid closing to sleep.

he turns his face away from the light, sucks in breath for which he still has no need. the rough-hewn granite is going to scuff his coat; he knows this with the certainty of having lived in a world full of serrated edges for so many years. and yet he doesn't care. Crowley can't find it in him to give a damn because finally, finally he's there. he's there and he's real and tangible and it's been eleven months, two weeks, and four days since he's last felt the warmth of angelic skin so close to his own. not that he's been keeping count, of course. and Aziraphale's got that faraway look again. the one pressed into the lines of his face in the aftermath of a flood that tilted against the sky; the same one Crowley saw in the stark daylight of a death warrant unfurled and stamped with the name of the holy Mother herself. it's the same, hollow, teeth-gritted look Crowley himself wore as he stood on a hillside reeking of freshly-cut wood, bearing witness to yet another child of the Almighty thrown to the wolves. Aziraphale turns, then, and blue eyes meet black lenses meet amber-gold. "Crowley—" Aziraphale manages, choking it out in a half-whisper, like it hurts—like it scrapes his throat with bits of barbed wire. and, just like that, something in him is breaking and the oak trees are all whispering dangerous things and still, still he can't find a version of this story in which he doesn't lean closer, doesn't press himself forward into air that smells of earl grey tea and old books and something celestial and hallowed and holy underneath it all. and as though he's drowning—as though the moon doesn't watch them with a flickering gaze and the trees can't hear the brush of skin meeting skin—Aziraphale presses his fingertips to the side of Crowley's wrist. he moves no further. the air holds still, time seeming to freeze around them. it's intentional, he realizes; it's fire and it's heat and it's utterly fucking terrifying. even now, so far above ground, Crowley can nearly feel the weight of hellish eyes on his back. a shudder runs the length of his body. and yet. in the atomic space of that hungry, desperate, throat-baring yet, he turns his hand, trembling, to the side. he finds the angel's touch like a bird bearing North—like a compass forever calibrated to a single, fixed point.

"I know—" he rasps. “Angel, I know.” he twines his fingers with Aziraphale's, and it's positively electric. every cell in his tragically, wonderfully human body has turned pure gold, conducted and galvanized and sparking. a sharp, stilted inhale; a quiet anticipation carved out in the space between their pressed hands (and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss...). the graveyard is still. the grief is there, still. the grief might always be there. but the sharp edges dull, the welling in his chest grows steady and slow and gentle. and the world becomes a little less difficult to bear with the two of them holding it up.

[junebugtwin]

inspired by @lakesbian's posts about alec&aisha goofing around at a mall, did some really quick doodles that made me laugh with the concept.  

[peterparkersnose]

dead on the mf floor HI EWAN

[sparkytheandroid]

[elegyofthemoon]

someone remind me i need to post an oc on here.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

sometimes recall that Scenario of like "oh a stranger draws another stranger sharing a space with them & without their knowing & Drawn Stranger is like how flattering that you did that & i love your Beautiful Artistic Interpretation of me" which i hate so i was like what's the opposite of that. & i'm pretty sure i'm averse to like every aspect of it & the opposite is about strangers sharing space with consideration for that & like oh no its sickos using headphones, on they phones, reading. if direct verbal interactions happen (or eye contact, or nonverbal cues) it doesn't have to Transcend shit or be an inherent improvement over not interacting. but also the best opposite is like oh sorry i looked over your shoulder kind of or just indeed spontaneously glimpsed what you were drawing but i like your jellicle cats haunted house episode fanart. or i have a question about some technique or materials i see you using b/c i'd be interested in having that knowledge for myself & if this is a meetanything that's fine i guess but can be a limited as what it is strangers interaction for a minute which is no worse

[randomositycat]

knh s2 pls do my pfp justice when we reach The Hunt episodes pleas please please please please

[skateskunk]

Going to make some OCs tomight!!! Prepared to vomit everywhere

[bigfrogsblog]

starting to wake up an hour early and taking my meds then going back to sleep so they're kicked in by the time I'm awake and I'm gonna be honest i dont feel any anixety nausea this morning which is kind of insane bc ive been dealing w this for about 2-3 months straight now

[incorrigiblemind]

I'm terrified that experiencing love is always going to leave me feeling sick. I'm terrified I'll never be able to love without sacrificing all that I have; I'm more terrified that one day I'll choose myself and I'll regret it more than anything.

[angellurgy2]

barf