#i love their fancy life

[hellenhighwater]

Genuinely being a single woman in my thirties, living alone, is such a mixed blessing sometimes. I do love my house and when I'm here I literally never want to leave. But on the other hand, I do get tired of leaving to go hang out with people, even though I love seeing them. Especially because I have such a great group of friends but they live all over the place, geographically, and therefore most of them don't know each other. And I actually really love hosting? But I never have people in my house because logistically it's always more practical for me to go to them than vice versa.

But sometimes I buy new old dishes and wanna just have a little fancy wizard party, but all my guests are far away. Please may I have the teleport spell. Or a high-speed commuter rail system.

[elpislady]

This is so, so, so sweet! That's what I want for them! My favourite couple, they deserve the world. 🥰

I love the way you captured them. Their espressions, their relaxed poses, their lovely silk robes (if I see correctly, Thomas's one has floral pattern and Guy has palm leaves on his). Not to mention, Thomas's parting returned to his correct side! Bonus love points for this from me! 😆

Ive just heard about the news… EXCITE

[fisherrprince]

Instead of writing a fanfic like a normal person this oneshot turned into two separate, contextless things,

[mysandwichranaway]

i had a vision

[jeeaark]

Let the latest patches add whatever new dialogue they write in, but Patch 0 gave me free range to ✨interpret✨ and this will forever be Greygold's canon, HA

For all intents, I did the hell heist as the last-last quest before the finale (So as to be fully prepared and supportive "finishing" babe's personal quest) AND BECAUSE OF THIS, I was tired. Greygold was tired. I was ready to beat the game. I was rushing. STEALING FROM RAPHAEL WAS STRESSING ME OUT. and I dared not go back. So even though Greygold did not want to go through with Haarlep's "game", I couldn't have picked a worse time to forget about their "always another way" philosophy Poor Half-orc was so determined not to fail Lae'zel's personal quest that, for once, ignored companion disapproval. And apparently, with Lae'zel not disapproving nakey Greygy, it looked like Babe was willing to retrieve that hammer no matter the cost either! Until Haarlep said they wanted nakey Greygy to play a "game" with them.

Babe disapproved that time. Babe, who's been cranky all this time, thought not even this way was worth getting the hammer for. Babe still cared about what happened to Greygold.

So by the gods, I happily reloaded and thankfully found a different way, HUAH. Thank you, Babe. Found out later that apparently going the Haarlep way would've suuuuucked. Saved by the babe. Thus I concluded why Babe was so cranky and can't kiss to save her life (I'm looking at you patch 6). And why Greygold's never had another hrm- pleasant conversation with Emps since the last time.

Poor sleep-deprived Lae'zel was bugged as hell killer coconut not because she was mad at Greyg, but because she'd been burning through all of her energy and affection by trying to protect Greygold from any further illithidry influence.

[graciehart]

And I love her so I wouldn't trade her for gold.

for kbet @fourteenthofaugust ♡ happy belated birthday!

[5hrignold]

homestars handwriting 2000 / 2005

[clairedaring]

Ming + being proactive in getting to know Joe and his works

MY STAND-IN (2024) | 1.03

[mrfroag]

*snapcube eggman voice* I miss my guys tails

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Poorly Drawn Cats 2: The Squeakwail

(Part 1)

[varilien]

can you pls draw vash in his really nice cute bra 🥺

teehee yeah i think i can do that :3

(now available at my shop!)

[cupophrogs]

Oliver just

Gently does this to Drew's leg.

“Cherub is a mind boggling balance of incredibly brave, and horrifically stupid. He handles things maturely, especially for one so detached from the suffering of this place, very often to his own detriment. Placing little value on his own state, and thus “risking it for the biscuit” far too much. Still, he is one who loves deeply, fiercely. And to allow such an Angel to damn himself for another, would be a sin most grievous.”

[heartshapedgreen]

really hate how 'avoid therapy speak' writing advice is to write your characters not able to convey their emotions period, instead of y'know... making them convey them less clinically (which is what i think 'therapy speak' is supposed to mean?) and more in line with your character's view of life.

like if your character is someone who is very self-aware, or someone who ruminates a lot (hello ocd), they're gonna have A Lot to say when asked about their feelings. maybe it's unreliable. maybe it's diverting from the real issue. maybe they're lying. even untruthful/'wrong' answers can reveal so much about a cynical mindset or that they hate their self or that they've been gaslit so much their entire conclusion is wrong, and it's a "oh..." moment for everybody.

i even have a character who actually would say 'umm... not good, i guess? i have no idea' to being asked 'so how does this make you feel?' but that's cause. they literally have alexithymia. or, i guess if that could be an appropriate reaction for a character who is overly guarded & has trust issues. i also wonder if displeasure at 'therapy speak' has to do with the fact most of us probably don't have many people who ask us about our feelings, and conversations like these feel sappy and uncomfortable and like fanciful imaginings of unrestrained trust that won't be betrayed, because often IRL trust like this goes betrayed. most 'therapy speak' advice comes across as really jaded, and i'm saying this as someone who has trust issues lol. also, considering that alexithymia is actually very common, i wonder if that plays a role in how weird these conversation seem to readers who have it. (i'm actually curious about this.)

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

community that has only seen themselves represented in a small handful of romance stories that aren’t explicitly about their real-world oppression, watching a new show or movie where they are represented in a romantic story that isn’t explicitly about their real-world oppression: getting a lot of “that other show with a queer romance that isn’t explicitly about real-world homophobia” vibes from this

[alphacrone]

girl he was flirting with you

[normal-person-i-promise]

「いかないで」

arataka reigen/reader angst and fluff

vent

× × ×

You're leaving again.

'It's just a short trip,' you'd assured him. 'I'll be back in a week.' 'I'll be back before you know it.' 'I'll be safe.' 'I won't die.'

He knows you'll be alright. He knows you'll be safe. He knows you'll be back in a week. He knows you won't die, but he can't— he can't get those horrible, horrible thoughts of you dying in unimaginably terrible ways out of his head. He knows you'll be okay, but he can't stop thinking about why, how, you might not be.

The two of you sit on those cold airport chairs, the metal chilling his skin. He holds your hand in a bruising grip, his knuckles white. He breathes hard, struggling to keep himself from crying. He shouldn't cry. He shouldn't cry.

Your suitcase sits in front of you as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, not paying attention to him. It's so cold. The steel of the chair is so cold. The air-conditioning is so cold. Why are you so cold to him right now?

Your hand is warm. Your thumb caressing the back of his hand is nice. You're nice. You're warm. You shouldn't leave. Why do you need to leave? Don't go.

He hears the words of the airport attendant over the speaker, announcing that the last flight of the day was prepared to be boarded. He panics, a tremor coming to his hands, his eyes growing wet and glassy with tears. He blinks them away before you can see.

You switch off your phone. You get up and off the chair, taking your luggage in a hand and beginning to walk off. His hand slips from yours, and he scrambles to follow.

He's too slow. He's too slow to follow you.

He stares at you as you walk. He stares as that god forsaken bag rolls across the smooth marble floors, making a sound so grating and horrid it makes him want to rip his ears from his head.

He shouldn't cry. He wants to stop you. He wants you to stay. He wants to say those words, he really, really wants to say those words.

'Don't go.'

As the doors slide shut, hiding you from view, he can't hold it in anymore.

He falls to his knees, burying his head in his hands. He cries, he sobs, he begs you to stay, knowing that you aren't here anymore, knowing you can't hear him.

He knows you'll be back. He knows you'll be fine. He knows you won't die. He knows you'll be safe. He knows you'll be fine when you come back. He knows when you'll come back.

Do you not like him? Do you hate him? Why do you have to leave?

He knows why. He can't come along. He wishes, he begs to whatever god is merciful, but none of them listen.

You're leaving again.

He knows he shouldn't cry. He really, really shouldn't cry, but he still, so selfishly, wants to say those words to you.

'Don't go.'

It's so cold. Why is it so cold? Why is the airport so empty? Why is it so dark?

Why can't you stay?

He dries his eyes, leaving the airport. The night is cold, silent, as if judging him. He's being so childish, crying and worrying over a week-long separation. He shouldn't cry.

The floor seems to swim and shift underneath his feet, as if trying to knock him to the ground. The night is falling apart. His vision is blurry. His head hurts. His hands shake. His knees tremble.

He boards the bus, sitting down on the cold plastic seats. He shouldn't cry. He shouldn't cry.

He checks his messages excessively, looking at your empty chat for hours, staring at the illuminated words on the bright screen.

'I'll be back soon!'

He imagines watching you lying down in a hospital bed. He imagines watching you pass on. He imagines your funeral. He imagines your gravestone. He imagines feeling the rough stone underneath his fingertips as he caresses it. He imagines bringing flowers to your grave. He imagines bringing your favourite food to your grave. He imagines crying at your grave. He imagines his tears wetting the soil. He imagines how lonely he'll be without you.

That night, he cries himself to sleep.

× × ×

You look so happy in those pictures you send him.

You're smiling. You're laughing. You're grinning.

You're so much more attractive than usual. You're so much more pretty than usual. Your eyes sparkle so much more than usual. Your hair is so much more shiny than usual. Your smile is so much more radiant than usual.

He stares at the pictures for hours.

He dreads the cold nights. He dreads the lonely mornings. He misses you.

He doesn't go to work all week. He stays at home, sitting in his cold, cold room, the blankets and coats and sweaters and scarves doing nothing. He's so cold without you. Why did you have to leave? You're so warm, and he's so cold. Why did you have to leave?

He doesn't eat, he barely sleeps, just staring at those pictures you sent him. Staring at your happy face, staring at your beaming smile. Staring at you.

Why are you so happy without him? Why don't you seem to miss him? What did he do wrong? Do you not love him? Why do you hate him?

He misses you. He loves you so, so much. He wants you to come back.

He counts the minutes. He counts the hours. He counts every minute you don't message him, and he counts every minute that you do. He counts every minute you call him, and he counts every minute you don't.

Seven more days. Six more days.

He misses you.

Five more days. Four more days.

He misses you.

Three more days. Two more days.

He misses you.

One more day.

He misses you.

× × ×

It's the last day. He's ecstatic, a wide, dopey grin plastered on his face as he quickly showers the first time that week and changes into something presentable. It's all for you.

He runs to the bus when you message that you're reaching soon. He sprints, almost falling over, scrambling up the bus's stairs and settling, shaking, into a cold plastic seat. He's still so, so cold without you. You're so warm, and he's going to be able to feel your heat again.

He stumbles out of the bus, almost falling over as he runs as fast as he can into the cold airport, almost slipping on the cold, smooth marble floors. He sits in the cold metal chair, waiting impatiently. He checks his messages obsessively, watching that live location thing you'd sent him. He watches as your little icon glides slowly across the path. It feels like it goes on forever.

You finally arrive.

He scrambles out of his seat, sprinting towards the doors as they slide open and you slip through. He runs into you, wrapping his arms around you and squeezing, squeezing so hard it pushes the air out of your lungs and leaves purple bruises on your skin.

He holds the back of your head in a tight, crushing hand, running his fingers through your hair. He buries his face in your hair, breathing in your shampoo. He's breathing heavily, and his breathing quickens further when you give a tight hug in return, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

He's shaking, you notice. His grip is tight, crushing, bruising, and he doesn't let go for a long, long time.

When he finally does, though, he lets out a long, slow sigh, his grip loosening a little as he puts some distance in between the two of you, just enough for him to look at your face. He cradles your cheek, his expression calm, calmer than you've ever seen it before.

"I missed you," he says simply, brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, pressing his palm to your face as you smile at him. "I missed you too."

Those words make him feel good, make him feel better than he's ever felt. You missed him. You missed him even though you were having so much fun. You still love him.

Your eyes light up.

"I got you a gift," you say excitedly, rummaging through your bag. You pull out a small box, about the size of your palm. He takes it from you almost immediately, ripping the cover off.

It's a bracelet. A small, silver one, elegant chain wrapping around winding branches. Gemstones line the sparkling metal. He struggles to get it on, his fingers shaky and his movements fast, almost frantic.

You laugh in amusement. "You like it?"

He envelops you in a crushing hug again, muttering and mumbling as his grip tightens around you. "I love it," you hear, barely intelligible. "I love you. Oh, I love you..."

He releases you from the suffocating hug, his hands on the small of your back.

"Can we go for ramen now?" He asks, almost begs. He's starving, not having eaten a proper meal for a week. "Please? Anata?"

Your heart flutters at the sound of him using that pet name for you. It's so, so rare to hear him calling you anything other than your name. You don't mind it, of course, but this is a... Pleasant surprise.

You smile. "Of course."

His dopey grin widens as he takes your hand in a bruising grip, leading you out of the airport and to his favourite ramen shop.

He's warm.