#im starting a tag hehe

[whatthebodygraspsnot]

old habits ian in his emt uniform AAAARRRGGHHHHH

[ old habits ]

mickey's halfway to the mailbox when he stops dead in his tracks, his eyes immediately zeroing in on ian chatting with lucy one driveway over. he doesn't give a fuck about lucy on a normal day - but today it's like she's not even there, because ian's clearly just come home from work and holy fuck...

mickey's caught glimpses of his emt uniform, but never out in broad daylight like this - every inch of the well-fitting blue button-down - the shine of his silver badge - the clean cut and crisp lines all tucked perfectly into place and jesus christ, mickey practically drools, his hand reaching blindly into the mailbox almost as an afterthought. no man should look this hot in a uniform.

lucy can't resist the call either. clearly. but lucy isn't getting turned out in ian's comfy bed every other night like mickey is, now is she? no, she isn't! and it isn't lucy who ian's noticing and sending a little wave over to, is it? no! it's mickey! and it's also mickey who saunters his way over to interrupt, happily, with a composed, "ay doc, you got a thermometer in that fanny pack-a yours?"

it gets them both tucked away inside ian's house with a laughably low amount of effort. and now that he's here, mickey can put his plan to action, watching his personal emt emerge from the bathroom with one of those concerned brow furrows. "you got a fever...?"

ian's got the thermometer, but it's the back of his hand that he uses instead, pressing it to mickey's cheek to check his temperature. then softly over his forehead. mickey mumbles something noncommittal. whatever will keep ian's attention on him like this.

"hm..." after his forehead, ian's hand drops to the back of mickey's neck - more comforting than anything - and god damn, does is light him up from the inside out. "you're definitely runnin' hot..."

an understatement of the century.

but mickey is the perfect patient. opens his mouth real good and everything when ian tells him to, keeping that eye contact as he feels the thermometer slip under his tongue. "stay here for me, alright kid?"

uh huh. yup. whatever the fuck he wants.

mickey watches ian move around the kitchen. takes in a greedy helping of how nicely those slacks hug his ass. how fucking snatched his waist is with that thick belt. how his back broadens into strong shoulders under the pressed blue fabric of his shirt. jesus fucking christ, this man. no way motherfuckers ain't passing out on the spot when he arrives on the scene. damn, mickey would do some highly questionable shit just to get him-

beep beep! beep beep! beep beep!

"lemme see."

mickey opens up exactly as asked, the thermometer slipped out from under his tongue.

in front of him, ian reads the numbers, mickey's scheme about to be put to rest once he realizes there never was a- "hm..."

mickey frowns. flicks his eyes to the thermometer and then back up. "what?" he asks. "the fuck you mean 'hm'?"

"you weren't kiddin' - you really got a fever going."

and-... wait a minute. "really?"

"mhm. looks like you're gonna need some follow-up care."

mickey's brain plugs along slowly, trying to wrap around what's happening. "...what-"

but the rest of his confusion is snuffed out as ian moves forward, scooping him up in his arms and getting that bespoke heart attack to set in - gloriously. because he's carrying mickey toward the stairs, "gonna have to be on bed rest for quite a while, i'm thinkin'..." the thermometer with mickey's temp left on the kitchen counter.

99.1

[choccy-milky]

seb and clora working on baby #1 👶 🔞🔞!! NSFW !!🔞🔞

[poipiku]

[twitter]

[rueclfer]

evergreen

𖤓 ii. meet the campers | series m.list | prev | part iii.

cabin one

cabin two

cabin three

cabin four

notes:

𖤓 okay i AM plotting for some side ships but idk how in depth im gonna get with them

𖤓 no one wants to room with bkdk. bakugou -> wants to be in bed and asleep by 9pm. izuku -> talks so fuckin much. (+ im fixing that fuckass epilogue IDC)

𖤓 something about including toga in with the kids is healing something in me i think heh

𖤓 toga and shigs are siblings in this au <3

[bandtrees]

they would get divorced in one universe just to find eachother in another one

alternatively titled: sometimes you're the level-headed token flesh-head impulse-control-and-polycule-member of a stubborn, eccentric, and hearty telephone-headed drug addict, and there's cruelty in the world you deem fit to suicidally fight, and that either goes about as well as you'd expect it to, or you learn about love and the value of your life and junk along the way

[nevvn]

one year ago, i told myself, "what if solomon was a barista?"

[sideblogdotjpeg]

post battle, one last short rest

[lesliemeyers]

the noble warrior leading his king to safety

+ some closeups under the cut ↴

[gomzdrawfr]

You know that one post of the grannies adopting Simon…it’s been in my mind…

[vinestaff]

young me should have indulged in persona more i missed out on so much,

[bl0tches]

*whips out the rarest of rarepairs* and i call this one heatwave

[vampistol]

I just got an ad that shows a fully rendered version of the drawing im working on... anyone else w medibang experience that?

Lolol jk anyways here the full piece :P

Heres a version where hes only half dipped in spaghettio sauce

[faksyan]

In which I attempt to go back to traditional drawing and draw some mgs guys.

[saym0-0]

hi. im an ambulatory wheelchair user fwhip truther. if you even care.

this drawing was originally for a teen/human au, hence the lack of a beard hes like 15, but tbh it could also be regular fwhip so read it as you like

[those-rainbow-ninjas]

erm.. some mop sicko doodles….. i frickin love this show man…

[chronicblackdespondency]

why do all my dads play guitar

[rosenbergamot]

Something about a bottle of vodka that (almost) jogs your memory

“Scar…” Grian’s exasperated voice rings through monopoly mountain. He quickly peeks down into the first level. His friend is holding the bottle of vodka he had managed to find ages ago. “Where on earth did you find this. How on earth did you find this. What even are you doing with this.” 

None of his ‘questions’ are actually questions; his inflection does not go up, as Grian is not actually curious as to where he got the alcohol, rather he is tired of his shenanigans and trying desperately not to lose his mind. Scar kicks his feet and giggles, his hair leaking over and dangling in the air. 

“Why, I got it from the village, of course! Before I burnt down that house— you remember the one, don’t you, Grian? It seems those pesky villagers knew how to distill alcohol. Have you ever seen that before, Grian? Distilling alcohol? In a village? It’s madness!” 

Grian’s beady little eyes glare up at him from the ground floor. “Scar, I don’t think either of us have seen villagers before we got here. There’s not much we’ve seen.” 

Of course they have. They’ve had to. It was only natural— he knows it in his heart. But they can’t remember this fact. When Scar tries to hold onto the memory, it floats away from him. Things he should know dissolve between his fingers. Things he shouldn’t know linger on the back of his neck. 

He picks up his cane and walks downstairs. The slats of the window are tiny but if one squints and tilts their head in the right direction, then they can see the entire desert and forest sprawled out in front of them. The sands sometimes hold their footprints until the wind blows them away, covers the paths they’ve taken. They’re still working on building up a cactus wall as defense. 

The sandstone awards them a bit of coolness in the day. At night it becomes unbearable, as they both flock upstairs to try and conserve as much heat as possible. There’s always a careful distance they keep from each other in the day, but during the night it becomes impossible to do so. When Grian grumbles and pushes his nest towards Scar’s sleeping bag, curls up right next to him and nudges at his arms until they open and he can be enveloped by him, that’s when Scar truly feels like he’s back to being a person again. 

If they could mend the self inflicted rift that exists in the daytime… well, maybe Scar wouldn’t feel so prone to drinking. As it stands, though, Grian’s found his bottle of alcohol and he is not looking impressed.

“Say, have you ever had a drink before?” He asks as he peels the bottle out of Grian’s hand. He smells like the sun. He’s been out all day. 

Grian scoffs, his pretty features twisting a bit as he obviously thinks about it. “Of course I have! I-- well, I haven’t had one here, but I can only imagine I have before. In another life.”

In another life. If only they got to have that. Another life seems like an intangible dream. 

He hums thoughtfully. He’s only had a few drinks from this bottle. Just enough to stave off the gnawing anxiety and bloodlust that grows underneath his skin everyday. 

He starts to toss the bottle from hand to hand, watching the way the liquid inside jostles. “The taste was at least a little bit familiar to me when I tried some. I’ve definitely had it before! No clue when. I wonder what I liked to drink before I got here? That guy… the other me. I wonder what he was like.” 

He laughs but it doesn’t have much humour. 

And Grian’s eyes look softer when he finally peels his stare away from the droplets racing down the bottle. “Yeah, it would seem that bits of our past bled through into this life. Like, I can’t resist pressing a button or flicking a lever no matter how dangerous it may be. Other me must’ve been a right moron, don’t know how I lived to be… here.” A hum. “And redstone makes me… sad. As if I’ve lost something close to me. Something really important." His face falls. “I don’t get it.” 

Normally Grian only gets like this when the sun falls. Normally he’s guarded, witty, sharp; and Scar is much the same, each of them trying so desperately to preserve what little bits of dignity they have left here. Prideful people. Pride is such a sin, he can see it now. 

He sits down, stares at the swirling shapes of the sandstone on the wall. “Sometimes I can feel my brain try to remember my memories. Things important to me. People important to me. But it’s like there’s a… a block.” 

A strange warble comes from Grian. He makes those sounds sometimes-- bird sounds, that is, which makes a lot of sense given that he is a hybrid, but they only happen in specific circumstances. They’re different each time, from chirps to melodies to whistles to clicks. It happens when he’s bored, when he snuggles up next to Scar at night, when he accidentally hurts himself, when Pizza is being extra cute.

This sound is sad. It rings in his chest. 

“I’ve tried to ignore it.” Is what he admits after a few minutes. “I, um… grabbing this gave me one of those feelings like you described. It was as if I’d done this before. Not just with anyone. With you...” His voice gets real quiet at the end. 

Scar fights to keep his voice even as he responds. “Do… do you think we knew each other before?” Before we got thrown into hell. 

For Scar, the answer to that question is obvious: yes. He felt it as soon as he saw all of them. He felt something deep in his chest when he saw Grian, flashes of memories trying to bubble up to the surface but unable to. When Bdubs first spoke to him, he felt an immediate instinct to comment on his height-- which would have been very rude of him! They’d just met, after all!

Except they hadn’t. They’d known each other before. An election. A moon. A home. What even is he trying to remember? 

“I…” Another sound worms its way out of Grian. It’s more desperate, uncomfortable. He laughs it off awkwardly. “Can I try a sip of that alcohol? I think I suddenly need it.”

For the first time since they began talking, Scar really looks at Grian. His face is tight with stress, eyes shiny, nose flaring. His feathers are all fanned out, his ears twitching. In another life, Scar thinks maybe he also had wings. He can feel an absence on his back, like something has been missing all along, a vital piece of him.

Grian’s wings don’t work. None of the avians have actual working wings that can sustain them for a long period above the ground; they can all flutter, sure, but it’s as if their bodies aren’t made for it anymore despite them having these traits. 

He tries to make his smile as gentle as possible as he passes him the bottle. “Of course, of course! Would be downright cruel of me to make you handle this while sober!” He aims for a humorous tone, but the situation is so fucked up and strange that it falls flat. His smile is pulling painfully at the edges. 

Grian unscrews the bottle, smells it. He makes a face. He looks at him.

“I recommend not smelling it.” 

He rolls his eyes, then takes a swig of it. The face immediately turns to disgust. He swallows it, gagging, coughing, pounding his fist onto the table. It looks just like he did when he tried for the first time. It makes him start to laugh. 

“Scar!” He wails. “It tastes horrible!” 

“It does.” He swipes it from Grian, steeling himself before taking a sip. He only flinches a little bit this time. He looks to see if it impressed Grian, but the avian is flapping his hands, eyes screwed shut. Dangit. “It’s not supposed to taste nice, Grian! Because then you would drink all of it and it would be horrible. It’s the alcohol’s defense mechanism, y’see? It makes itself so bitter when you first take a sip that you run away immediately! That way you don’t drink it all right up and end up gettin’ yourself killed! But it doesn’t work on me.” 

For better or for worse.

Peeling his face off the table, Grian turns to glare at him. “Well, it could stand to taste a little less like… that. Maybe then it would hurt less people.” 

“I guess.” He studies the way the bottle glints in the diminishing daylight. “So… are you gonna have anymore?”

“Are you kidding me?” He scoffs. “Of course I am. Pass it here.”