#sorry to get all emotional in the tags but yeah

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Eighteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader - AO3 - 3.1K words Tags: 18+ mdni. nurse!reader. Sexual content. Pregnancy and things that come with it. Brief mention of options in relation to termination of pregnancy. PTSD. Heavy emotions. Graphic descriptions of domestic violence and miscarriage, suicidal ideation. This is mostly inner monologue. Feelings of anxiety, despair, fear. This part is a little shorter due to its emotional nature.

There’s no oxygen.

No room for your lungs to expand, nothing for you to suck into your chest and relieve the ache blooming in your bones.

You drift, unmoored, a sailboat with no rudder, no engine to save you in an ocean without a breeze. All you can do is follow the current, the one leading you back to the dozen HCG strips buried in the bottom of a trash can, faint pink lines buried in the membranes and the matter of your brain.

The midwife that squeezed you in confirmed it all with a blood draw.

“You have options.”

“I know.”

There are resources, and education for you…  though I know you’re probably aware.”

“Yup.”

“Depending on your decisions, we’d like to see you in about two weeks for an eight-week ultrasound.” You gulp. The air is tragically thin in this room, and the paper crinkles under your uneasy weight.  

“Okay.”

When Simon appears in the main lobby for the usual trek home, you barely hold back the urge to vomit all over his shoes. Your legs are weak, trembling with each step forward, and you hold his hand so tight, your bones ache.

Sensitive as always, he lingers alongside you in the quiet, biding his time before slicing through your silence. “What is it sweetheart?”

“Huh?” You’re already on the front doorstep, memory of the entire trip evaporated.

“Do you still not feel well?”

“Oh, yeah.” The lie is toxic, sludge stuck in your bloodstream, clogging your capillaries until they burst like fireworks. “It’s my stomach.”

“Pen’s still under the weather too.”

“Poor thing.” The words are numb. Your mind is numb. Your body is a livewire and exhausted, all at once, the push and pull almost knocking you onto the floor. In the kitchen, Johnny wraps an arm around your waist, leaning in for a kiss, but nothing registers.

“Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Yeah.” Autopilot. That’s the gear you’re in. Going through the motions, trying to hold yourself together, keep your head above water.

Is this real?

Is this happening?

What will they say?

What will they think?

“Bunny?” Johnny’s thumb is on your carotid, where your pulse beats. Where your heart pushes blood through your circulatory system, flowing to a presence now fluttering inside you.

One plus one equals two.

“Sorry, yeah. Think I’m gonna go up, take a nap.”

“Yell if ye need anything, aye?” All you can do is nod.

You gravitate towards the guest room before you can stop yourself. It’s as you left it, bed made, sheets crisp, remnants of your things separated into easily sorted piles. In the nest of blankets, it’s easy to pretend. Easy to imagine the bed as a cloud of cotton candy, so high in the sky, above the earth, above this… this thing that is happening.

An embryo. Something two millimeters long, siphoning its existence from yours.

That tiny sliver of hope is nowhere to be found, replaced now with logical, realistic questions.

Can you sustain a pregnancy, after the damage inflicted during the last one?

Can you carry one to viability?

Can you mentally, emotionally, physically handle a pregnancy?

An infant?

And what about them?

What about you?

You think about the times you wanted to die. The moments you sat in the shower, streams of red running to the drain, a clump of cells you never knew draining from your body with each second.

A loss you never knew you’d mourn. Something stolen. Something slipping through your fingers, handfuls of sand blown away by a sea breeze.

The overwhelming feeling of drowning every time you laid on the floor in a broken heap, synapses misfiring, making wrong connections, desperately trying to latch onto anything normal, anything sane. Staring at the ceiling, slow flow of blood dripping down your throat, left wondering if this will be it, this will be the moment it goes too far. Your spine will snap. You’ll take a blow to the head strong enough to render you unconscious, permanently. Your windpipe will be crushed, closing in on itself, starving your brain of oxygen. In those moments, you could only hope.

You’re grateful, at least, that you don’t feel like that now.

In a cocoon on a cusp of hazy sleep, you’re cradled to a chest, jostled lightly until blankets are tucked back up around your shoulders and snuggled between two warm bodies, a gentle hand cupping your cheek.

“Our sweet girl,” Simon murmurs in the dark, “we’re here. Whatever it is, we have you.”

A dream.

You sleepwalk through life. One week turns to two, and then three. Three weeks turn to four, and more, before you know it, you’re twelve weeks pregnant, still going through the motions, robotically making your way through each day. You’re shoving the waterfall of feelings and emotions so deep, so far away, they’re likely to never see the sun again.

You lock them in a box.

You bury it in a grave, six feet under.

At work, you’re grateful you know your job inside and out, because you’re mostly just going through the motions. The only time you show any sign of life is when your boss tries to float you to the NICU. When you dig in your heels, repeatedly denying the request, she finally gives up and moves onto a new unsuspecting victim.

Better them than you.

At home, its worse. You don’t know if you’re imagining the tension or if its truly there, eggshells crumbling beneath your feet, words turned to ash. You’re a marionette, fate pulling the strings, tearing the joints of your limbs in a million directions.

They can tell. They read you too well, but you’re not so easily swayed. Simon tries to coax it gently; Johnny tries to bluntly force it out. Both tactics fail, but they themselves stay steady, and true, holding you in the night, soothing you with touch and whispers, loving you through it all.

During the day, they coddle you. Johnny massages your shoulder, tips your chin back until your skull rests on collarbone, dots kisses all over your skin. He tugs you onto the patio, curls up on the outdoor loveseat with you under a big blanket, your head in his lap, telling you stories about his childhood, his parents. He makes you giggle by reminiscing of all the times he chased Simon around at work, how Kyle fell out of a helicopter, how they had to wear suits for an undercover op one time and Simon's ripped right down the ass.

Simon cooks, all your favorites, things you forgot he pays attention to, and spoons you on the couch, big arm like a safety net stretched across your chest to keep you close. He brings tea to bed, reading until your eyes close, calming your mind enough to lull you to sleep.

Even at night, they treasure you like glass. Johnny lays on his stomach, thumbs rubbing circles into your thighs, parting them, backs of his knuckles tracing over the seam of your pussy, coaxing your arousal, taking his time. He licks your clit so slowly its torture, all the while Simon tugs your knee as wide as he can, hand fisted in the mohawk, kissing you from shoulder to neck, over and over.

You beg them to fuck you hard, harder than you’ve ever asked for it before. Johnny jumps at the idea, but Simon kills it immediately.

“No,” he traces a line over the curve of your ass to the creases of your thighs, “that’s not going to happen, sweetheart. Not until you tell us what’s going on.” You opt to bury your face in his chest instead and ride Johnny’s hand as Simon coaches, telling you how good you are, how lucky they are, how much you mean to them.

If only they knew. Would they still feel the same?

It’s more than you deserve, you think. More than you know how to handle. The guilt piles onto your shoulders. You’re carrying a life, a life you created with them, a life they should know about.

The decisions waiting in the wings haunt you at every turn.

What should you do? What will you do?

You should tell them. They should know.

Why are you keeping this a secret?

The time is passing too fast, and with it, your panic increases, forcing your back to bow, hands clutching at your legs, head hanging heavy to the floor. At work in the closet, at home the moments you’re alone, the agony steals your breath, heart shredding to pieces. It overcomes you, floods your nervous system until the world spins.

In the shower, you fall apart, truly, knees slamming into tile, your shoulders slumped against the wall.

It’s hard to tell you’re crying with water streaming over your face.

You lose your shit the day Penny crawls across the couch to cuddle you.

She pulls herself up onto your belly, her head resting on your chest, chubby hands fisted in your shirt.

“Bunny wead?” She wants a story, a routine the two of you enjoy together, turning the pages of a children’s book and acting out all the voices. She’ll squeal with glee, her laughter full of excitement, and you’ll tickle her sides while pretending to eat her foot.

It makes you both happy, but today, it splits your soul in two.

You burst into tears. She jolts back, looking up into your face, little brow furrowed in confusion, mouth shocked into a circle.

“Bunny.” She pats your cheek, alarmed, and you skim your nose across the top of her head, breathing her deep, anchoring your arm around her back. She’s starting to get upset, too perceptive, too empathetic, already expressing the traits of both her parents. You try to soothe her distress.

“It’s alright.” Your voice cracks on the promise, her nose pressed to your throat. “It’s alright, Penny. I’m sorry. Everything’s okay.” Johnny’s unmistakable gait sounds on the stairs, still slightly off balance, and you hastily wipe your face, forcing your eyes to his as he approaches the couch.

“What’s wrong?” He sees it immediately, and you shake him off with another lie, so many little white ones rotting into blinding despair.

“I had a bad day at work yesterday, that’s all. Just still trying to process it.” His head cocks.

“Ye sure?”

“Yeah, promise. I’ll be fine.”

The tide changes at work.

A man lies in a medically induced coma, barbiturates keeping him in the dark, a suspended state of uncertainty. His wife waits, and waits, fixes her too keen eyes on you every time she sees you, waiting for an update, good news, anything. Anything that could bring her peace.

On the second day of your work week, your steps stutter at the sight of her sitting bedside, a baby in her arms, gentle words floating between them.

“We’ve moved onto ba now, for a bottle, which is just crazy,” she murmurs, a hand under her cheek, wiping away tracks of tears, “and I think he’s too big for me to carry around at this point.” There’s a wet chuckle, and the baby tips forward, smacking his hand on his dad’s. “Is that daddy?” She bounces him, quiet as he babbles and gurgles, his eyes wide at the sights and sounds in a hospital room.

You clear your throat. She startles.

“Oh god, sorry… I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay,” Intruding on private moments is not uncommon, though here it feels different. “I just need to check on some things and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She nods, and outside of the baby’s noises, the room is silent until she breaks it with a whisper.

“I know there’s probably no chance he can hear me,” her fingers stroke through his hair, a pained look on her face, “but I like to believe he can.”

“There’s no definitive research that he can’t,” you tell her softly, carefully going about your work to avoid disturbing them.

“I hope he can hear the baby. He’s… he’s missed so much already, you know?” She sniffles, tears freely falling, and your heart clenches. “We’re broken without him; I’m broken without him. He’s my family, my everything. I can’t… we’re not supposed to be apart. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You have thick skin. You’ve seen countless people die. Consoled hundreds of family members. Held hands with patients taking their last breath.

This shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t affect you in any way, but when you look at your patient, and his partner, and his child-

All you can see is your boys and their unconditional love. Simon sitting vigilant at Johnny’s bedside. Johnny’s tears when he finally woke up. The fear in Simon’s eyes when Johnny seized, the trust he placed in your promise to take care of him. Penny in his arms as soon as he was strong enough to hold her. Their resolve to hold their family together, their dedication to you through it all. The three of them, a family, now yours, spun together with string stronger than steel, connecting the four of you for the rest of your life.

You’ll make it through. You’ll all make it through. You have their love shining down on your face. The love strong enough to hold you tight, rock you through your nightmares, encourage you to grow, to be yourself, to let it all go.

And they have you. Your love. Something you never thought would exist again, fostered and enticed forward, magnified for them. For the first time, you’re able to give to someone, to comfort them, care for them the way they have for you, hold them tight through their pain, their fears. It’s never felt so…

right.

It’s not one plus one. It’s five. Five hearts, making a family.

You know, without a doubt, they’ll love this baby. They won’t leave your side. They’ll take care of you, they’ll nurture you both, they’ll be solid, and supportive, and patient through it all.

You don’t need them to say it, and you don’t need to be scared.

Their light soothing your despair, healing the deep embedded scars, their warmth of the sun-

The little sunbeam growing inside you.

“You’re a few weeks late.” The midwife shakes her head as you settle on the exam table. You showed up in a whirlwind again, convincing her to fit you in between appointments.

“I know, I… I was struggling with it, but I feel better now. I’m… ready.” Your lips quirk at the corners, and she smiles in return.

“Should we take a look then?” You nod with a deep breath.

The jelly is cold, and she purposefully keeps the screen turned away from you, clicking, measuring, assessing in silence. It's standard policy for any employee or medical professional. Though you're not an ultrasound tech, it's not outside the realm of possibility that you could read the image on the screen before she can tell you gently that something is wrong.

Your past haunts you, taunts you, convinces you this has all been for nothing. You’re too damaged for this. Your body is broken. He took too much.

Still, you hope. You cling to a future, a vision, Penny holding the baby with Johnny’s arms supporting her, Simon half asleep with a burp cloth on his shoulder, little one asleep on his chest.

“Alright,” she turns it back for you to see, her expression colored with kindness. “Everything looks great, honey.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Placenta is in optimal position, and baby is right on track developmentally for twelve weeks.” She twists a knob, the volume, filling the room with sound of galloping hoofbeats.

The heartbeat.

“Oh my god.” Your hand clasps over your mouth and you desperately try to bring air in through your nose, filling your diaphragm, staving off a river of tears unsuccessfully. She hands you a tissue.

“I’ll get you some printouts, okay?” You can’t do anything but choke on a thank you.

You slip away after your appointment, crossing through the halls leading to the out-patient wing where you’ll find Johnny in physical therapy, Simon in a chair scrolling through his phone just outside. The smile stretches across your face naturally, joy bursting at the seams.  

It's a new day, a new moment to turn away from the darkness and step into the sun.

You’re nearly skipping, heart so full, overflowing with hope, with happiness, your hands trembling, pictures of the scan clutched in your fingers. You hold them so tight, close to your chest, afraid they may disappear, be lost.

In hindsight, the crippling agony and fear you’ve been holding in seems so foolish now. It’s easy to curse yourself for the doubt, for the despair, but the path you took to get here, to be present in this moment, moving forward, was worth it.

They love you, and they’ll love little sunbeam. Penny will be the best big sister. You’ll make new memories, together, build the beginning of this life into a forever. Everything will work out; you can feel it now. You’ve shed the dented armor, the walls, the fence topped with barbed wire. The girl in the mirror, gone. It’s all crumbled down. With Johnny. With Simon. Your family.

A family of five.

You round the corner with your hands knitted together, a flimsy effort to still them, elated and barely able to hold your secret in. You won’t be able to do a cute announcement, won’t be patient enough to do something special like get Penny a shirt that says, “best big sister” even though you’d like to.

You’ve kept it from them for long enough. You need them to know.

You look for Simon first, expecting him to be waiting outside the door, but when he's not there, you glance around, and then peek into the observation window to find the physical therapy room empty.

Where are they? Where-

They’re at the end of the hall, talking to someone out of sight. Simon has his arms crossed, his body angled partially in front of Johnny, who shifts his weight onto his good leg. They’re both wearing serious expressions, Simon’s the most severe, and then Johnny’s lips twist into a grim sort of smile.

Whoever they’re talking to steps forward, and your heart burns into ash, falling through the floor to bottomless depths of darkness.

Phillip.

[killerpancakeburger]

Well-placed Trust

As soldiers unpromptedly walk in on a maskless Ghost and you, your solution to protect his face is to shove it in your chest.

Tags: f!reader (boobs involved), civilian!reader, protective!reader, fluff + smut, 1k words.

Gaining Simon Riley's trust was not something you ever planned to achieve. However, now that you've had it, you were fiercely protective of it.

This would explain why, when you heard the door to Ghost's room randomly opening, and your eyes flew to the skull mask laying on his desk— barely a meter away but it might as well have been on the other side of the ocean—, your first instinct was to launch yourself at him. Bluntly shoving his face into your chest without warning, in hopes to conceal it from the newly arrived trespassers, and wrapping your arms around his head in a desperate attempt to hide his hair as well.

Nevermind that he's trapped right between your breasts.

You throw a mildly accusatory stare at the entrance, and coarse laughs ring out, followed by a barely believable apology.

“Oops, sorry. Wrong door. Didn’t mean to interrupt!”

You let out a relieved sigh as the door closes. However said relief is quick to vanish as you realize Simon hasn’t reacted at all this whole time. Not a word, not even a grunt; not a move, not even to repel you. 

You let go of him like you've been burnt, even raising your hands in surrender.

“Sorry! Are you mad? I panicked, I was just trying to—”

Your waterfall of apologies brutally ceases when, after attempting to back away, you're stopped short by his embrace. You don’t know when he wrapped his arms around your waist. His expression still out of sight, anxiety nags at you, despite the logical part of your mind emphasizing that if he was actually angry, there's no way he'd demonstrate it by hugging you. 

So you insists.

“Ghost?”

“Mmh.”

The sound is raspy, unbothered. He idly rubs his face against your torso, and the motion is enough to make your crotch throbs with arousal. Inhaling sharply at the unexpected sensation, you clench your thighs together.

“Simon,” you call again, trying to sound severe this time.

You have absolutely zero reservation in granting all the hugs he might crave, but surely they could be performed in a less… compromising position. Lest you end this cuddle session squirming with want. And a burning face. And the imperative need to never cross the lieutenant ever again, for fear that you'd spontaneously combust with mortification otherwise.

“‘M not mad.“

The gruff, familiar voice appeases your tension a little— the emotional one, that is. Not the physical one.

“You're not? You have a right to b—”

“I trust you.”

Your heart skips a beat at the confession. You suspected it, hoped for it— but hearing it out loud is another matter entirely. Simon Riley is a man of few words, but the ones he does pronounce are always sincere, to the point of bluntness. For him to feel the need to spell it out loud, it has to be important.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You've put my comfort over yours, no questions asked. Couldn’t be more pleased, love.”

The gravel in his voice does funny things to your stomach— why, why, why? It never had that effect before.

You try to ignore the signals sent by your body, instead passing a hand behind your neck in self-consciousness. 

“Oh… well. It was nothing. I'd do it again in a heartbeat—”

“You've been so good to me, sweetheart. Don't ya think you deserve a reward?”

Your brain short-circuits. Your skin gets even warmer. Surely you misheard him.

He finally unsticks his face from your chest, resting his chin above your sternum, only to stare with the start of some impatience drowned out in warmth and fondness.

He's a vision, one that takes your breath away and causes heat to pool in your stomach.

Heavy-lidded eyes, disheveled hair, ardent stare, he's a languid, lascivious mess.

“I need an answer. Preferably in one word. Yes, no, fuck off…”

In other, normal circumstances, you would have stayed mute from the shock, or helplessly stuttered, but the imperative desire to not disappoint him, to preserve the contentment he displays, takes over.

“Fuck. Yes.”

The low chuckle that escapes him in reaction to the eagerness of your reply makes you bite back a moan. Your hands close into fists on the back of his shirt.

He lifts your shirt— "hold this for me, love"— and effortlessly frees your chest from your bra. The second your skin is bare, he presses his face back into it, nuzzling against it with a blissful sigh.

With one hand busy grasping your top, and the other clinging onto his shoulder for balance, there's nothing you can do but submit yourself to his ministrations.

It's your turn to sigh in pleasure as he proceeds to kiss an invisible line between the bottom and the top of your breast, fingers stroking the curve between your ribs and your nipple.

“Never dreamed you'd let me get my face on those, love.”

Groggy, it takes a conscious effort on your part to register what he's saying.

“Such a generous thing. It's only right you get payback.”

“You're very… talkative all of a sudden.”

“S'that a problem? Think I'm not putting my tongue to use enough?”

Right after that, said tongue swirl around your nipple and you can feel yourself clench around nothing.

“Or maybe that's just not your thing,” he adds, casually, as if he hadn’t been shamelessly gropping, kissing, licking and sucking your chest.

“I never said that.”

Your reply had been straight off, out of fear that he'd take offense and puts a stop to all this.

“You know what to do to shut me up, anyway.”

You don’t react to his provocative tone, but you’re tempted by the invitation nonetheless— to muffle that smart mouth with your bust…

Just as his focus on your breasts threatens to not suffice you anymore, his thumb insistantly rubbs the apex of your thighs, and you push back against it openly.

“Easy there, sweetheart,” he soothes you, but you can see how pleased he is by your eagerness. “M just gettin’ started.”

Soon enough he disposed of your pants, and he's parting your knees to nuzzle against your inner thigh the way he was against your chest mere moments ago. You can’t help but close them partially, and instantly he's staring you down, eyes brimming with taunt.

“Gonna smother me with your thighs, sweetheart? Like you did with your tits, mh? Better be prepared in case we get ‘interrupted’ again.”

“Fucking hell, Ghost,” you groan, half exasperated, half even more aroused, as he finally steers his head towards your crotch.

[hadesknockedupintheunderworld]

I think the theme of "home", while not always in the forefront, is something that interests me about the Sonic Movie Universe (in a similar way it interested me during Prime)

For Movie!Sonic, home is where you make it first and where your family is second. After his guardian died, he presumably jumped from place to place, and it was a while before he had a stable home. He made himself a home on earth and fell in love with the land and the culture. But you get the sense that as long as he's in hiding and ostracized all the time, it never fully feels like home. So it's important that he got to really experience earth and living in Movie 1 with Tom. It's important that he made earth his home, and then made the Wachowski household his base. No matter where he goes on earth and beyond, he has a family he chose and who chose him he can come back to and be himself around. "Home" for Movie!Sonic began with necessity, progressed due to his growing attachment to earth and what it offers, and fully settled in with him having a more permanent place in this world and support.

For Movie Tails, I surmise that "home" to him is where Sonic is. He was ostracized (possibly even bullied/picked on) back home for his two tails. After listening to some of his lines in movie 2, Tails read to me like a character who'd been treated as weird or an outcast and ended up isolating himself as a result. I got the impression that when he wasn't indulging in his love of technology/mechanics (or perhaps even at the same time) he was holed up in his base, watching a live stream of Sonic and his adventures, even after the conclusion of the first movie's events. He knows everything about Sonic, down to knowing that he doesn’t take showers, before even meeting him properly. Tails is not at home on earth nor particularly entranced by earth itself (in opposition to Sonic, who became entranced with it). He only even goes there to warn Sonic and to help him out. But Sonic's place—Sonic's home—is on Earth, in Green Hills, with Tom and Maddie, and Tails has formed an actual bond of friendship with the hedgehog he formed a possibly parasocial relationship with used to watch on a screen. Before, I think Tails was just content with watching or being helpful. But now? Now that he's spent time with Sonic, Sonic makes him feel normal. Sonic makes him feel like even "weirdos" can do great things. Sonic makes him feel valued. He's no longer content just watching because Sonic is more his home than the place he grew up in ever was. Home to him is with the people you choose, the people who make you feel at home, the people you want to be around. The Wachowski household is Sonic's home because he loves earth, green hills, and because he has mutually taken Tom and Maddie as his parents. Earth and the Wachowski household are only Tails' home as long as Sonic is there.

And for Knuckles... He has the set up to fall in love with earth in a similar way Sonic did. He grew up/was born in a similar place to him. And yet, all of the beautiful nature on earth doesn't matter to him. Knuckles, as of the beginning of the Knuckles series, had adopted a different approach to Sonic. Sonic tried to make home for himself wherever he could, no matter how many worlds he'd jumped to. In contrast, Knuckles never bothered to do this. He only pursued the mission, never bothering to make a home when he'd be off to the next world soon enough (especially if it seemed trivial in the face of his life's mission). And it's pointed that although he's able to participate in what earth offers the same way Sonic is in movie 1 (Knuckles learning how to bowl or Sonic going to a bar), he is not at home because of those things. He's able to slow down and appreciate what earth offers, the same things he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge before, and yet he's not at home on earth because it's beautiful or because it has food he likes or whatever. He very pointedly makes a connection with Wade and his family. The Whipple family is home. Not the earth, not even the house itself. He feels comfortable when with them, he enjoys the time on earth he spends with them, and he is able to appreciate Earth better when he experiences it with them (in contrast to Tails, who never had any sort of arc of appreciating what one can experience on earth to me). Home to Knuckles isn't easily quantifiable (more of a feeling really), but it’s about the people who make you feel at home. It's about the people who helped him relax and feel more comfortable not always putting his focus into the mission.

Sonic, who can make home anywhere, who always appreciated what was great about living on earth, and whose "home" was finally made permanent when he spent time with Tom and Maddie.

Tails, who never truly felt home until he spent time with Sonic, who doesn't particularly care for what earth has to offer, whose home is wherever Sonic is.

Knuckles, who never allowed himself to feel at home or tried to make a home until he began to travel with Wade and open up to new experiences, who began to enjoy earth and yet considers his home with the Whipple family specifically.

Sonic would protect the earth he lives on even if everyone he cared about was gone. Tails would protect the earth he lives on so long as it's Sonic's home. Knuckles would protect the world he lives on not just to keep the master emerald secured, but so long as this place is home to the Whipple family, with whom he enjoys experiencing Earth with.

Do you... Do you get me?

[torchstelechos]

AU where I make Loop Siffrin's emotional support possum that they carry around

[moeblob]

Deacon loves two things: Ymber and digging himself a grave.

Fulj hates one thing: Deacon.

[thunderboltfire]

Added a short warning on the pinned post of my blog - I've realised that while in general I don't post anything particularly explicit, I rutinely discuss media that have well-earned 18+ restrictions, and my reblogs may sometimes include some adult humor? So, just to be safe and for everyone to be on the same page, I've noted it in my pinned post. Also, quite a lot of my art has characters covered in blood, so you know. I wouldn't exactly call myself a paragon of family-friendly media.

[infinitystation]

the facebook ai slop is about to go crazy

[turtlecleric]

.

[xproskeith]

"When you hear about a virus spreading overseas, somewhere really far away, it feels foreign. There's this really weird feeling that it some won't affect you - that it won't get you."

- Josh Dun

Man he nailed it. That's how me and so many friends and especially fellow coworkers felt and joked about it. We had no idea the fresh hell that awaited us.

[ginnyrules27]

You know how people say 'write what you know'? Yeah, sometimes writing what you know might seem completely insane and completely implausible.

Take for instance using things that happened in my family. If I were to have a scene where characters got into a feud over one character using another character's enema bag, people might think that would be too out of character for anyone to be that stupid. Such a thing has happened in my family's history. It devastated my late-Great Aunts because you can't get rubber-tipped enema bags anymore, only plastic.

Or if I were to have a character sneak out in the dead of night to save a china cabinet from other characters who wanted it for themselves even though said cabinet was several miles away, it might seem insane. My father drove from Fairfax VA to Buffalo, New York to claim my great-grandmother's china cabinet that my grandmother wanted my mom to have but my great-aunts also wanted it and my grandmother sobbed on the phone to my mother about it.

Or if I were to have a character shout 'dad, dad, mom's gonna show her feet' when her mother is about to show her gnarled, bunion and hammer-toed ridden feet to her daughter's boyfriend who was there for the second time...yeah I don't know how people would react because it seems like something no one would do, doesn't it? Replace 'character' with 'my mother' and you have the story of the second time my dad met my mom's parents.

I have more stories about how out there my extended family is but this post is getting long enough. So if there's a moment in my fics where a scenario seems unlikely to happen to someone in real life...I give you my real life lol :D

[pepperpixel]

Hello! I watched your speedpaints on repeat when I was in middle school (like 6 years ago) and sometimes still go back and watch them for the sake of nostalgia and good music. I just wanted to let you know you’ve touched my life and left a print, thank you 🤍

Thank you. So so much. For sending me this??? The me who made all those youtube videos. Doesn’t exist anymore. Life got harder. In so many new and horrible ways. And that like. Spark to create kinda died. And also I had more important shit to worry about all of a sudden. But. Knowing that it left on impact on someone enough to send me a message. Years after I’ve stopped making them tho. Idk.. that means something.. I appreciate you didn’t forget about me! (/my videos lol. I kno u don’t kno me. My vids and art feel a bit like. An extension of me tho? In a way. But I kno that it’s not a 1:1 thing. My art an videos express thoughts ideas and feelings of mine. But they are not. Me. Just lil slivers of me.. Tiny lil portions from specific moments in time.)

Sometimes it feels like those videos were just a flash in the pan. A brief moment of attention and fame I didn’t grab onto hard enough… and now the moments long gone. but. I didn’t rlly want to grab onto it, I just wanted to make fun videos. And show off my music taste lol. And express. The music videos my brain would create in my head into the real world. And then I got too busy w real life kicking my ass. (Ps. life has now stopped kicking my ass!! It’s gotten better. Just. Not the same as it was before) Maybe I’ll get back into it one day. If I have any new ideas. Once I get stable and know what I’m doing. And get like an iPad or something so I don’t have to wrangle w my laptop lol. But yeah!!! Srry.. I’m rambling a lot.. this message just made me emotional ok! I’m being openly vulnerable in turn hopefully that’s not too weird lol. I’m happy my videos had an impact on your life!! That means. A fucking ton. Like. Words cannot properly express the weird happy feeling that gives me in my heart. Thank you so much!! For real!!! Srry for getting all in depth about my life again this message just!!! Struck an introspective chord w me!!!

[taikk0]

JUST SAYING ONCE I LEARN TO PRONOUNCE MY T'S PROPERLY ITS OVER FOR YOU BUTTNUGGETS

[polyphonial-old]

@maileesque iblings......

[image id: two sketches of my ocs. the one on the left is cass, a girl with straight long hair and bangs. she has big round eyes and a button nose. she smiles at the viewer, her hair and cape flowing behind her. she holds a smiling mask halfway covering her face with one hand and waves with the other.

the one on the right is a bust drawing of ed, a guy. he has a nose with a bump, thin lips, a hooded eye with an eyebag under it, and a spiky eyebrow. his straight, slightly spiky hair goes down to the base of his neck and half of it is pulled back, indicated by a little doodle of his side profile. he also has a splash shaped scar covering the left side of his face and stretching down to the side of his neck and shoulder. his left eye is not open fully due to his scar. end id.]

[aslisjournal]

I’m so grateful for you guys on this website

[rainecloud020604]

The fact my friends have to buy me food is ridiculous because my mom just takes advantage of when my dad isn't home so she can just tell me I'm awful for being unable to eat what she made and the fact we have nothing because she hasn't been shopping yet and she's needed to for TWO WEEKS.

[bobzora]

replaying 5 is like *oh yeah kmshda palace is so strong...ann...* *omg yeah mdrme palace is crazy i love ysuke* *cricket noises* *futba palace soooo true...god* *cricket noises* *hehe hes wearing the silly outfit- oh wait theyre really dragging this explanation out arent they* *cricket noises* *cricket noises* *omg thirdsem......god yeah this is peak....* and then you do it all over again