#who knows we’ll see

[connorsnothereeither]

Guys.

Guys guess what.

Guys I wrote a brink chapter again finally :D

It’s depressing as fuck :D /hj /silly

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46076902/chapters/149498752?view_adult=true#main

[birdo-is-here]

holy SHIT anxiety going wild tonight

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

Wait nooo😭 Raven from Teen Titans is such a look. And you are so gorgeous. The combo would heal the world

I might still do so, but if I do it’ll just be in my apartment 😂😂

[lunarfly-studios]

so i lost access to all my artwork because of a hardware issue with my USB, we'd have to send it in to get it fixed and recover the data, which we ferociously don't have the money for

so once i had my own little cry to mourn my work, i immediately went around to doing a messy sketch to distract myself, and I'm just gonna start normalizing posting messy unfinished sketches every so often

OC's very recent, I don't have a concrete name for her yet but we're going with the beta name Lucida until something else clicks with her

She's Sans and Pap's ten-year-old sister in the AU fic I'm developing rn. She doesn't have the same context surrounding Flowey that Sans does, but she finds him very obnoxious with his overly cutesy best fwend shtick.

That never worked on her even when he initially tried to manipulate her the same way he did with Papyrus and several others. Not because she's somehow more mature or less gullible than Pap, she's still plenty naive and easy to fool, and people do it to her quite regularly.

She just finds this damn weed massively annoying. His voice is grating to her, whether he's trying to be nice, witty, or cruel. It's like looking at an annoying chihuahua with that shrill yapping bark.

Eventually once Flowey loses control over the resets, their dynamic kinda just resorts to the two of them trading drive-by insults at each other.

(Why does she have normal human proportions and not boney/skeletal proportions? cause idk how to draw anatomically correct bone anatomy and i refuse to learn.)

[meinhof]

i cant shake this feeling that this entire time i’ve been dating men out of this terminal insecurity and need for pointless validation

i’ve been feeling more and more at home with myself and capable and i haven’t been attracted to a man in a while i view them more with pity

[comfycozycrossfox]

i love Doing Bad and looking at my various unhealthy coping mechanisms like a fucking buffet

[dykegrell]

Sebaciel MADK au <3

[acoraxia]

“How’s the patreon going Gela?” i made a new au and all i got was this

[notherpuppet]

How dare you leave us on a cliff hanger

[koroart]

Two bros being disappointed at the college frat party and ditch it —

[piromina]

SHADOW MILK LAST TO CORRUPT THEORY YOU WILL ALWAYS LIVE IN MY HEAD

uhh also what if this is why he’s putting up the biggest fight here. what if the witches were the ones to drive him insane. what if shadow milk is the most distorted beast of them all because he was late to corruption so the witches forced it upon him, breaking his older self in the process.

[silverfoxstole]

There’s video, folks…

[starmagnets]

playing around with watercolour markers again

[transgendercastiel]

idk if anyones ever spoken about this before, but when I watch community I’m kind of under the assumption that Abed, while much more in touch with the narrative than the average character, isn’t actually capable of seeing the show as it happens or truly breaking the 4th wall. While that’s super interesting as a perspective to use while watching, I do think that he is doing the on screen equivalent of someone irl “looking into the camera”. As in, he loves television and uses it as his major method of interacting with the world, and acting like he’s in a tv show is something he does because it helps him, not because he knows he’s in a tv show. In fact, when we see Abed’s version of “community” it’s a multi camera sitcom with a laugh track, not an accurate representation of the real thing. In contemporary American poultry, Abed asks Jeff not to do a “special episode” about him, apparently not aware that he’s already the focus of the episode. It always felt to me that Abed acts like he’s in a television show because he wants to and it just happens to line up with the show sometimes (eg when he “lays low for an episode”). Obviously there’s nuance here, and he obviously has as much if not more influence over the show’s actual presentation as Jeff, but I think it might be diminishing to say that he’s truly aware of the narrative he’s in.

[mediumgayitalian]

The crooked, creaky door of the cluttered infirmary storage room pushes open and slams shut in the span of a second, just barely allowing someone to dart through. Nico jumps, banging his head on the shelf he’s hiding under, chomping full force on his lip to bite back a shout. The shadows, on lucky reflex, bend around him and shroud his face. The rest of him he tucks further into the forgotten corner between two filing cabinets, holding his breath.

Under the unflattering light of the single swinging lightbulb, Will looks dull.

A thin headband attempts to hold back his frizzy hair, although it does very little. Curls stick out oddly and many shorter hairs are plastered to his temples and the back of his neck. His skin is unusually lacklustre, even pale, except for the high flush around his cheekbones. The bruising under his eyes rivals Nico’s. He has been wearing the same scrubs for the last two days.

With one last look at the closed door, nothing but garbled voices filtering through the heavy wood, he slumps. He drops his face into his chapped and bleeding hands, heels pressed into his eyes, and holds them there for ten seconds, twenty. Slowly, with trembles so minute they are at first glance unnoticeable, his shoulders begin to shake. The long fingers flexed and tensed around his forehead curl tightly, and he twitches, whole body trembling, teeth sunk hard into his bottom lip to stop his chin from quivering.

It does not work.

The first sob is quiet. He catches it quickly, forcing it back down, breathing heavily through his nose and out his mouth to beat it back. The second follows quickly, though, and it’s harder to choke down. When his face crumples, his resolve goes with it, and his knees hit the floor, sharp crack swallowed by the stillness of the room. He curls forward until his nose nearly hits his knees, hands sliding through his hair and over his ears and settling finally clutching together in the dip of his chest, bouncing with every heave of his chest. It’s quiet, his crying, enough that every dropped tear can be heard as it hits the dusty floor. The only time his sobs are ever audible is when he opens his mouth, trying desperately to soak up enough air to catch himself, to carry himself through.

Mute horror holds Nico’s tongue hostage.

He’d escaped in here the second Will had been called away this morning, dragged for the umpteenth time to handle a crashing patient or a complicated hymn or to soothe someone’s nerves. For the past two days he’s been doing his best to monitor Nico and a handful of other front liners who’d exhausted themselves in battle, but his focus has been split and the infirmary has been crowded. Whenever he runs off to put out whatever fire had cropped up — sometimes literally — the whispers start, the glances, the skin crawling up Nico’s back. Nico can hardly tell anymore what’s the shadows and what’s the people around him, watching him out of the corners of their eyes like they’re waiting for him to bust out a scythe and a black hooded cloak and start reaping.

The storage room is supposed to be an escape. Out of the way and forgotten as it is, it is supposed to be the place he can hide for an hour, escape the heavy gaze of the rest of the camp, collect himself before braving it all again.

Clearly, though, he’s not the only one who thinks so.

There’s something disorienting about seeing Will Solace cry. In the few times Nico has spoken with him during his visits to camp, he’s been a barely-contained explosion of energy, whether talking Nico’s ear off with updates about people he barely knows and references he hardly understands or cussing him out for overextending himself. He’s used — as much as he can be to someone he’s only beginning to really get to know — to his wildly flailing hands and widely playful grin, his loud drawling voice, his painful, constant brightness.

His hands, now, clench until they’re bloodless, trembling. There is no hint of his wide smile or twinkling eyes, because his face is hidden by all the hair that his given up on the pretence of the hairband, and the only sound from him are his gasping breaths and swallowed-back sobs. Nico watches him because he cannot look away. He flinches because every cry, every rough, scraping inhale, sounds like shattering rock, like an iceberg breaking off a glacier.

A quiet beeping startles them both.

For a stretch of time Will is motionless. The beeping continues, steady and soft, bouncing off the cluttered shelves and fading before they echo. After the third round — and Nico counts, if anything for something to do besides watch the chafed skin on Will’s hands crack and bleed with every flex — he drags himself upright, nails drawing lines in the thick dust of the floorboards, and rests back on his heels. He breathes for a moment, shuddering, hands pressed flat to his face; in, beep, beep, beep; out, beep, beep, beep. None of his breaths are ever steady, but he wastes no more time, swiping under his eyes and pinching his cheeks to restore his face to some of its usual colour. He grips onto each board of the shelf to his right as he yanks himself upwards, hand over hand, until he’s stretched, finally, to stand, although there remains a slouch to his broad shoulders.

The beeping continues, emanating from the watch on his left hand, growing softer or louder as he trails his fingers over the shelves from one end to the other, from the first, the second, the third. He pauses finally on a collection of bottles, turning them carefully to read the labels, then tucks them each gently into his already bulging pockets until he is left with what he must carry between his fingers.

The shadows bend to cover Nico again as Will turns, unknowingly facing him, and pulls himself suddenly straight-backed, chin set high, shoulders squared. He smiles, wide, fractured, squinting his eyes deliberately. The beeping stops. He breathes, in, smile, out, nod, and turns, striding, back to the door, opening it with flourish and swiping the dust off his clothes.

“Found them! Sorry it took so long, I really had to look —”

The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

Nico stares at it with bile churning in his too-empty stomach.

———

art by the incredible @clingonlikeclingwrap

[toomanylesbiancouples]

So Kathryn Hahn said

"I want to wish you a happy SEASON finale night"

"don't miss the epic conclusion to THIS SEASON"

On tonight’s teaser for tomorrows’ episodes.

And now we wonder who is she gaslighting: us or Disney 🤔