#the rot consumed me

[solivagantingrebel]

I keep giving in (<— fanfic writer who started another wip).

[rubywingsracing]

Partners in Crime

LandOscar Spy/Assassin AU!

[beepboopappreciation]

I saw this screenshot and had an idea

[immult]

a person is a home/a little cottage/an abandoned house.

[afeatherypileofjunk]

New rot in my head. Welcome to the Let-Vand zone.

[polartaint]

Strawhat crew but they’re Fraggles from Fraggle Rock :0)

[ozzo-the-wozzo]

the fandom is in absolute agreement to the point where its essentially canon on adhd marinette and nothing makes me happier but also everyone sleeps on autistic adrien in this essay I will

[pixiest1cks]

i'd like to think no matter where he's at in his life, dottore likes to ramble as he works.

no matter if he's prime, or the more ill-tempered scholar from the akademiya or even omega build, dottore quietly mumbles as a habit when he's working.

some things he says aloud are just to commit certain details to memory. in the grander scheme of his plans, the details seem small-- but they hold a crucial grip on the entire project. because of this, dottore reasons that the habit holds its merits.

sometimes, he makes sarcastic remarks when something doesn't go well. short, choppy words that mostly go unheard even by those in his general vicinity. when you first worked under him, he had mumbled to himself like usual (it was second nature at that point). what he hadn't expected though, were your responses.

"stupid thing tightly screwed--"

"do you need a wrench, sir?"

before he could respond, you had one held and ready to hand to him. from then on, you would help him out here and there in his more foul moods and dottore would be lying if he said the additional assistance wasn't helpful.

the mad scientist had found an adequate assistant.

work went by smoother, toning down a good portion of his irritation. it's almost as if having someone to support you (even if it was strictly for work purposes) provided more benefits than he had originally thought. of course, he would never admit that. the most he would do is thank you here and there when you proved to be extra useful.

work continues the same for a while. the interactions grow more frequent and so his musings change from your responses. instead of talking to himself, he talks to you. he asks you for your input, for you to pass him whatever he can't reach from his other desk, he asks for you.

that is, until you're gone one day.

dottore doesn't think anything of it. he's worked alone for his whole life, what's a few days without you? but his segments have been more irritable as of late, resulting in lackluster performance as a whole not only from his segments, but his troops. the fatui are fearful of the doctor, but even more so of an irritated one. you'll turn up eventually and everything will be back to normal, he reasons.

but as the days go on, you are still nowhere to be found in the cold, desolate laboratory. he finally pauses in his work to think about where you could be.

something must've happened. something outside of his jurisdiction. it's not like it's his problem. you might've proved a useful assistant to him, but his work holds utmost priority.

yes, work. back to work.

and dottore mumbles as usual, but it's not the same.

by habit, he calls out for you to hand him something--

but you're not there.

dottore is a scholar first and foremost. all it takes to find you is a little bit of research, so he does exactly that. he finds out you've been working somewhere else, somewhere closer to home to better support your family.

well, that's no problem. he'll have his assistant back as soon as possible, no matter the cost. all he needed to know was your whereabouts.

[toosweetf0rme]

I find it interesting how both Ellwood and Gaunt's injuries reflect what's most important to them. Ellwood's face wound and loss of an eye costs him his beauty and good looks, while Gaunt's chest wound loses him his strength and physical fitness.

but also that these traits are not important to the other person. Gaunt's love for Ellwood doesn't come from his handsome face - he loves his poetry, his passionate spirit.

likewise the moments Ellwood feels closest to Gaunt are those of emotional intimacy, where Gaunt shares his feelings in a way he wouldn't with anyone else - not his feats of strength or impenetrable toughness. he loves his vulnerability.

I like to think that the other's wholehearted acceptance is what helps piece themselves back together after the war

[togepies]

As someone in the cyberpunk fandom with a bunch of Regular Guy™️ OCs, I am so incredibly grateful for modders who make basic clothing mods. Who give love to vanilla items. Who focus on masc v. Especially those who create nomad mods you are truly doing the lord’s work

[deadcrowcalling]

i love how the newsies side of tumblr has just collectively decided to obsess over some tap dancing, singing, poor newspaper boys from 1899. because, yes, that is totally a normal thing you hear about every day

[stefisdoingthings]

what if your lover is a biblically accurate angel and you’re deadly afraid of him but also stare at him with the same awe you would stare at a god with??? what then???

[buddie-buddie]

it could be love (we could be the way forward)

Buck was in the shower when they got the call. 

He’s always been a little afraid of showering on shift– afraid of hearing the klaxons ring while there’s still conditioner in his hair, afraid of having to towel off and dress at the speed of light, and all the awfulness that comes with wrestling clothes over still-damp skin. He’s afraid of the extra minute it takes him to get himself dressed and on the engine being the difference between someone else’s life and death. 

He avoids it at all costs, only does it when they first get back from a call and Bobby puts them out of service for a half hour to give everyone time to clean up and grab a bite. 

They’d just come back from a three-alarm fire at an office building downtown, a beast of a thing that took three stations four hours to put down. As they pulled back into the station, Buck’s bones ached and his stomach growled and there was soot covering every inch of him. He could feel it in his sweat-damp hair, could smell it every time he breathed. He figured it was clinging to the tiny hairs in his nose, was pretty certain if he blew his nose the tissue would come back tinged in gray. 

He was on autopilot as he clambered out of the back of the engine, tucking his gear away and stumbling for the showers on tired legs. His bad leg was killing him. He’d woken up with a dull ache in his knee, and figured it was due to the dark, heavy clouds in the sky and the fact that the temperature had plummeted about fifteen degrees in as many hours. 

He’d done his stretches and taken some ibuprofen in hopes of getting ahead of the worst of it, but it was no match for a tough shift with an unrelenting fire. The ache was bone-deep now, radiating up and down his leg with a fierceness that had Buck gritting his teeth and biting back a wince as he stepped into the shower. 

He needed the fancy massage gun Maddie had gotten him for Christmas. And maybe some deep heat. The one that Eddie’s Abuela gave him, made from capsaicin from chili peppers grown in her hometown in Mexico. And maybe a nap, too. 

But all of that would have to wait another three hours until shift change. For now, a shower was the best he could do. 

The only thing better than peeling off his sweaty, sooty clothes was the feel of the warm spray on his back, the heat of it soothing the ache beneath his skin. He tipped his head back and let the water wash away the last few hours, all of the soot and the ash and the sweat and the grime of a job well done and a fire knocked down. It took him three rounds of shampoo until the water ran clear.

He was rinsing out the last of it when the alarm rang and he remembered. 

Remembered that Bobby wasn’t here, that gone were the days of a thoughtful captain. Gone were the days of a leader who looked out for his own, a leader who cared enough about the people under his command to afford them a basic respite after all they’d just seen and done. 

Gerrard was no Bobby. 

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since they arrived back, and yet the alarm was already ringing out with another call. Buck hurried out of the shower, toweling off and pulling a clean shirt over his still-wet head as he listened for the details. 

STATION 118. HELICOPTER CRASH. 101 SOUTHBOUND. LAFD AIR SUPPORT PILOT DOWN.

His stomach dropped, his heart tripping over itself in his chest. 

No. No. Please no. 

He shoved down the panic rising in his throat and finished dressing, running towards the bay. 

Eddie ran up alongside him. “Is Tommy–” 

“–Out on air support."

continue on ao3

[apollothe-wizard]

I’m NOT letting these guys on my island bruh 🙏😭

[undergroundrot]

the rot is spreading

[hdra77]

Have a bunch of doodles from the voided AU (mostly pebbles i am totally normal about five pebbles)

very messy rough drafts of their designs

ragequit jumpscare

+ his post rot design that i never posted along with the designs for some reason

ccoughs,,,coughs,,,,cOUGHs,,, uh he's finnneeeee