#yeah idk im just vibing

[pistachiotalenti]

Contrary to popular belief, it's warm in Antarctica. At least that's what Dream would posit.

Of course, any sane person might call him out on his bluff and attribute the warmth to this more-than-decent shelter Jimmy's got them holed up in.

Or perhaps the hot cocoa he had after dinner has worked wonders to keep him toasty.

Or maybe whatever illness he's plagued with this time has him running hot.

Or it's–

"Uuuurrnnnghhh. Dreeeeaaam."

Dream looks away from his phone to glance at the person laying beside him in bed, or rather, this rickety cot that isn't nearly big enough for him and his long limbs, let alone two people. Not that he's complaining. "Georgieeee," he calls back to the figure beside him. "You bored?"

"No." George keeps his eyes trained on the tinny ceiling above their heads, thinking for a second, before pushing his bottom lip into a pout. "Kind of." Then he rolls on his side and sighs dramatically. "You're being really inconsiderate right now, Dream."

"Wait, why?" Dream laughs a bit, and it's only because he finds George's theatrics endearing (and admittedly, cute). He still genuinely cares about George's feelings, however, so his voice naturally softens when he asks, "What'd I do?"

George throws him a hard look, one that reads a lot meaner than the transgression he's about to point out: "I'm literally laying beside you in bed, and you're not even kissing me."

Heat blooms across Dream's entire face. "I– whuh– y-you're–" At his flustered stuttering, George's forced grimace easily slips into a satisfied grin. The fog of Dream's mind eventually clears and he spits, "I'm sick, George."

"So?"

"So what? You want me to kiss you and get you sick?"

"Maybe." Despite the casual response, Dream can tell how strongly George feels based on the speed of his reply. It makes Dream want to immediately give in, to fulfill whatever dumb desires George might have, though he pauses to give the idea more thought.

"Well, I'm not doing that," he finally concludes.

"Why not?" George bites back.

"Because I don't want to get you sick!"

George's eyes twinkle, clearly affected by the way Dream cares for him, the way Dream's voice softens again in genuine concern. But George masks it with another flourished sigh. "You're just full of excuses, aren’t you?"

Dream scoffs and rolls his eyes, though underneath his hard demeanor is a bundle of excitable energy, still shaken by how forward George is being. "This is an impossible situation. I would kiss you now, but then you'd get mad at me later for getting you sick."

It's the closest Dream has gotten to admitting that he actually wants to kiss George—really, truly does—and it makes George melt a bit, makes him shrink into the nook of his own arm when he looks up into Dream's eyes. "No," he denies, softly now.

The cogs in Dream's brain spin a tad slower at the sudden change in George's behavior. Dream looks over George's figure for a beat longer before he lowers his phone and throws his arm under his head, angling himself so that he can keep George in his vision. "I don't even think we should be laying this close right now," he says, defenses weakening.

"Right, but we have been, so there's no use in you not kissing me if I'm probably already sick," George murmurs.

Dream snickers. "Your logic is soundproof." His face scrunches up. "Er... I mean, foolproof."

George laughs, loud in the current quiet of the room. "Soundproof," he mocks, voice as small and warm as he is physically.

Dream chuckles with him before carefully resting a warm hand above George's hip. Crazy, he thinks, that I can just do that now. His fingers play with the hem of George's hoodie, the oversized Dream merch that Dream is as addicted to seeing George wear nearly as much as George is addicted to wearing it. "You wish this place was soundproof," Dream jokes after the long stretch of silence.

George looks so content in this moment that he nearly forgets to respond. "...What's that supposed to be mean?"

"Oh, suddenly you have no idea?"

"No...?" George says, playing dumb. It might seem legitimate enough if his mouth weren't drawn in a cheeky grin.

They lay there for a while, comfortably still and staring at each other, until George's arm snakes forward and over Dream's side. Dream thinks it's a nice start to a night-long cuddling session, but then he's jolted by George's hand smacking and grasping his asscheek.

Blushing wildly, Dream elbows his arm away. "What are you–! Come here." As quickly as he can recover, Dream pounces on George, rolling the man onto his back and holding him close. They both dissolve into hiccupy laughter as Dream attacks his neck with loud, sloppy smooches.

"Eugh, stop!" George giggles. He barely tries to bat Dream away, face twisted in his widest smile all day. Dream is relentless in burrowing his face in the narrowing space of George's neck. "Stop, you're tickling me!" George happily shrieks. His shoulders are by his ears by the time he can spit out, "You're gonna get me sick!"

Laughing, Dream pulls away. "You're such an idiot," he says, before George reaches up to hold his face between his hands, kiss the tip of his nose, then pull him in for a direct kiss on the mouth.

They both have stars in their eyes when they break away. "I don't care," George says, breathless.

And they kiss again, and again, and again, in all the quiet spaces of this corner of the world and throughout the long travels home, up until George inevitably finds himself feeling a bit under the weather—and Dream still kisses him then, too, because he doesn't care either, and also because he cares so, so much.

He kisses George as much as he can, wherever and whenever. Each time, Dream feels incredibly warm, swimming in that same special energy he felt in the heart of Antarctica.

All thanks to George, the man who always and forever kisses him back.

[fox-guardian]

starting to feel like part of the reason that Sam and Celia's romance thing feels a little off rn is cuz like. what do you mean they're actually dating. he asked her on a date and she said yes. and it's working out so far. it's chill and fine. what do you mean they're not pining for 4 seasons, not communicating, and then getting together only after one of them walked through hell to drag the other out and make sure they know they're loved and wanted. they haven't even patched each other's wounds yet hello. aren't y'all moving a little fast.

[seases]

this post is dedicated to trying to make peace with ded's canon outfit

[liauditore]

i forgot what his ingame name was and had to scrub thru a bunch of videos looking for him like a cryptid and i think that's incredibly joe hills of him

[puppyeared]

mascot

[purpurussy]

i’m really glad to see everyone saying that overall the show was amazing. i think because they made the bold choice to really go for it. like the boxing thing or the theories iceberg or the doll humping (can’t believe that’s a real thing i just said oh god) could’ve gone cringe if they hadn’t just fully committed to it. i knew i’d love it regardless but it’s sooooooo great to hear that it really was just a great fucking (heh) time. i’m that much more excited for my show now

Real it was SO GOOD!!! I have to be honest I was mentally preparing for it to be a bit cringe dsdfhkl but it really wasn't at all. My friend described it as having the exact right level of self-awareness, which I think was really accurate. They fully committed to everything, it felt like they were having a great time being on stage too! There were so many moments that made me genuinely laugh out loud, it was an incredible show and I really wanna see it again

[moeblob]

Would you believe me if I said I rewatched s1 of a silly isekai anime but refuse to watch s2? (it's true btw, you should believe it, I watched s1 three times now)

[ctommy-antigone]

it's meant to be the happy time of year - c!tommy + if we make it through december (phoebe bridgers cover)

Image credits:

https://pin.it/3dbmb0LFP

https://x.com/tommyinnit/status/1338596444681490433

https://youtu.be/UEj1xRvpSbk?feature=shared

https://youtu.be/DRXKriskZdQ?feature=shared

https://youtu.be/ZhNXz2yRPVs?feature=shared

https://youtu.be/_okO4CssoqI?feature=shared

https://lmanberg322634374.wordpress.com/2021/04/29/the-1st-lmanberg-war/

https://youtu.be/_okO4CssoqI?feature=shared

[what-is-it-to-be-pk-esque]

Ok I know I'm heavily biased here but like I kinda love that Astarion's romance is one of the few in this type of video game where you basically end up canonically unmarried and childfree in his "good" ending? Just travelling the world??

Like it's honestly the millennial dream lmfaoo cannot believe i chose what would undoubtedly be my favorite option, first try

[g1ngerbeer]

what kind of sauce are they putting in the link click audio drama. HELLO? THE LITERAL LAST SCENE OF THE LAST EPISODE?

程小时: 说起来，我们第一次见面，也是在篮球场吧。 陆光: 是啊。 程小时: 你我本无缘，全靠一颗球。 陆光: 我就不该答应你比那场。

cheng xiaoshi: speaking of which, the first time we met was also on a basketball court, wasn't it? lu guang: it was. cheng xiaoshi: (half-jokingly) you and i weren't meant to be [lit. "originally have no fate"?]. this is all because of one basketball. lu guang: i really shouldn't have agreed to play that match.

(the important bits are from google translate because i am bad at mandarin. also i did transcribe this off just the audio + i don't have access to captions or know where to find official transcripts. so i hope i got this right 🙏)

[forgottenarthur]

In Ruins | Arthur, Roderick, Eilia, Aria, etc...

Another step. Another. Up and up and up they rose before him, unending as the Kolchean ouroboros. And not a soul was speaking. For all the attendants traipsing and tripping after their god-given Emperor, a strange breathy silence pervaded, headed by the sullen-faced ó Réaltaí sisters (as the Staffords were now, evidently, to be called) and maintained by Roderick's many retainers, half-gasping with the interminable climb. The silence was a veil and Arthur felt twitchy, his fingers beating a tattoo against his thigh as he walked and walked.

"You Astairans certainly were not in jest when you claimed to live amongst the stars, I see."

Silence. Arthur detested silence. He'd always dested it, and he detested it now most of all. It was tense; it was subdued. And he didn't know what Aria was thinking...

Or anyone else. His father, for instance, or even...He glanced around to catch another face, half-desperate to prove there were other feelings which concerned him. Eilionora. No. But he wasn't supposed to care what she thought: she was the enemy. Still. He cared even less for what Sir Gregory thought.

Huffing, he shrugged. "I think I shall be eighty years old by the time we reach the top!"

"And here I imagined," began Eilionora, tone condescending. "A knight might be glad of such exercise."

"I--" Arthur frowned, rankling against the comment and struggling to invent a sufficient retort, when at last daylight (dying, by now, he saw) broke upon them. "At last!"

By the time Arthur gained the room, a world of ancient plaster featuring a tiny stone window in its concave surface. His father was already there, attendants arrayed about him like the streaming light of the sun, itself painting all in Arthur's own red. Eilionora stood opposite him, her expression fierce and determined, with her sister at her side and, fobidding as Aria looked, Arthur found himself drifting towards her.

Looking up, then, Arthur saw the look on his father's face. "Shit."

This was an expression well known to Arthur: triumphant and gleaming. The emperor was about to make the weight of whatever victory he'd won felt. "You thought to keep it from us," began Roderick, eyes glowing. "You strove and you strove, but every trace of your heathen gods will now be expunged."

Arthur felt Aria's eyes on him, but he could not pull his gaze from his father. Turning, Roderick grinned knowingly and suddenly thrust his arm directly through a wall.

"Father!" Arthur cried, starting forward. He stopped short. The emperor was unhurt and, in fact, a hole now stood in the wall where his hand once had been.

"A crafty illusion, to be sure," gloated Roderick. "Who'd think to vellum up a wall? Painted so precisely as to look to be pure plaster. But your woman's trick has come to naught."

Snapping, Roderick gestured and, at once, his attendants got to the business of tearing down the wall.

"God," breathed Arthur.

Roderick's gaze flicked towards him. "Why do you stand by them, Arthur?"

Arthur glanced hastily at the ladies. Swallowed. "To ensure they do not attempt to flee."

Roderick frowned.

"Your inevitable victory is something they really ought to see, Your Imperial Majesty."

Satisfied, Roderick smiled triumphantly at Eilionora, and nodded to Arthur. Aria glared at him. The emperor turned as a broad, wooden door was revealed and, with some difficulty, prized open by the attendants.

Now, it was to file into the room. Two servants went first -- to ensure the safe passage of the glorious presence behind them against any booby traps -- then the emperor went through followed by his attendants and lastly the ladies, with Arthur bringing up the train.

The door was low and ancient he saw, its planks turned half to stone by unimaginable age and, curious, Arthur swept his fingers along it as he passed through. The soul, he was told, was recurring. Had some version of him ever touched this wood before, perhaps its gentle-growing branches before it had been cut. Stooping to pass under the lintel, Arthur was temporarily blinded by a blanket of dark, limpid eyes narrowing as he stumbled a step or two inside.

He emerged into a vault of starlight as the last vestiges of day gave way to velvet-soft night, the firmament dotted with twinkling starlight, caught in a veil of midnight. It seemed a thousand, thousand stars glittered in the liquid night and that, if Arthur only stretched out his hand, he might just touch them with the edges of his fingertips.

"God be good," whispered Arthur. "I've never seen so many stars."

Glancing about him, he took in the ruins all about him -- a shattered dome, floor-to-ceiling arches that may once have contained windows now gaping over a yawning chasm.

"Do you know what this room is, Arthur?"

"No," he said, curiously glancing around him. "What is this place?"

It seemed to him that each lain stone was blue as lapis lazuli -- perhaps was lapis lazuli! -- and inset with ivory or some such so that stars were inset even into the very stones that strained to shelter them against the heedless sky above. Stretching out a hand, he laid it flat against one wall, cautiously approaching the casements to peer over the side of the mountain. Nothing but open sky greeted his gaze.

"How far up are we?"

"This is the crest of the mountain, Arthur."

He straightened, turned back towards his father. "What?!" he demanded. " Then--then this is--"

"Yes, the so-called Vault of the Heavens, the Cathedral of Stars, and other such: the very spot where their heathen goddess is said to have once set foot, according to some legends; where the shards of starlight were found from which their familial swords were forged. This," Roderick pointed down, grinning now in the pale starlight. "This is the most sacred place in all of Stafford."

Arthur glanced down at his feet, some sensation half like guilt springing vine-like across him, before his gaze shot suddenly to Aria, her own gaze now trained, relentless, upon Roderick.

"Now," continued Roderick, even his tone a gloat. "Where are those craters where the stars touched the earth? They're in this very room..."

Arthur's gaze did not leave Aria's face and, though it was hard to tell in the streaming starlight, he thought perhaps he saw tears sparkling at the edges of her eyes. His throat tightened. Arthur's hands closed to fists.

"Fill them in, shall we?" continued Roderick. "And bring what's left of this place to the ground. No trace of this heresy shall remain once I've done."

It was misery on her face, bleak and utter. She seemed to look at the walls, to the sky, as if they spike to her, friends soon to be shattered. A loss as deep as her name. Gritting his teeth, Arthur turned abruptly to his father, but Eilionora beat him to it. She was...laughing. Arthur watched fury dawn upon Roderick's face, unfurling like a plume of liquid flame over obsidian-dark granite. Sneer for sneer and glare for glare, emperor and former queen stared one another down.

She came forward. "No original ideas, have you? Do you know some of my own ancestors had a similar notion. Their great hall might prove more useful, they believed, otherwise. They tried everything they could -- every earthly tool there is: stone to cover up and concrete to pour. They even attempted, when that did not work, to flatten the rest of the earth. In every case, their tools came away bent and broken. The goddess shelters this place still. You can no more raze this site than they!"

Roderick's face was granite, craggy rocks -- brow and nose and lips -- etched with statuesque ire. As Roderick moved to close the gap between himself and his would-be bride, Arthur stepped forward.

Arthur had seen his mother do this a thousand times. Surely...surely he could do it, too. Oh, he could not employ precisely the same tactics she did: what Roderick might find favorable in a woman would prove repulsive to him in a man, but the principles still stood. He could move the Emperor, if he chose. Surely he could. He simply never had. But surely, surely he could. And he would. Just this once. Just this once, he would...

Slowly he began to clap, letting boastful swagger into his step as he strode forward, placing himself between the emperor and the ladies, and turning a look of perfect arrogance upon the one-time queen. He'd perfected this look long ago. One in eternal competition had to.

"It was a fine attempt, my lady," he laughed. "But did you imagine the God's Chosen would fall for so obvious a ploy?"

"Ploy? It is no--"

Laughing, again, Arthur held up a hand to silence her and turned towards his father, clapping him on the shoulder. "The hubris of women excels everything."

He felt Roderick's gaze heavy upon him. Here it was. The moment. Everything hinged on what he said next. It wasn't a betrayal of Roderick, he told himself. What he said could be true! And there was Aria, lovely and lonely as the stars above, tears radiant with the same silver light. He couldn't stand by and watch. How could anyone bear the misery on Aria's face? No. He had to act. He had to.

"Imagine, trying to goad an emperor into cheating himself of his greatest prize!"

Arthur was careful not to look at Aria. He felt the weight of her look, but he did not turn. He hoped she saw what he was doing -- but he doubted it as well. She'd just see the hateful swaggering prince too easily bent by his father's will: the one she'd always detested leaping out again: throwing her beliefs in her sister's face; laughing at them both. Still, it was better, Arthur told himself, better than the alternative. It was the best he could do.

"When this is the seat of power she's been guarding, the secret she's been holding onto!"

Roderick's eyes were fastened on Arthur, and the prince knew his father would not ask for clarification: he would not wish to admit to anyone that he did not see what Arthur was getting at. But Arthur would have to be careful in that, too. He couldn't let his father realize that Arthur knew he wasn't following.

"It's like a woman, isn't it? To try to manipulate you into destroying the very thing that gives her power over the Astairan people." He turned his gaze on the queen, then, found her expression contoured with rage...and confusion. "This is it, after all, isn't it? This is the reason they follow you? This place? That lost blasted sword! You blind them with symbols of power till they believe in you and nothing else! You must hate your people in truth: to wish further unrest on them, rather than cede to peace under someone else! You'd rather this place reduced to rubble, wouldn't you, than see its power put into the hands of your conqueror?"

Roderick's hand was heavy on Arthur's shoulder. He was behind him, and Arthur couldn't see his face. Was it ire? His clever father had seen the betrayal in him, and now his cruel wrath would fall upon Arthur's mother and brother and sister as well as himself! The hand was heavy enough. But it lingered, too. Was it encouragement, then, a kind of thanks for showing him...what was, in fact, a lie? A rotten son, indeed, and to both parents, it seemed. Arthur swallowed hard.

"Easy, Arthur," his father said. "We cannot fault her for trying. It can be no easy thing to see one's seat of power fall into another's hands for a second time, I am sure."

Arthur heaved a deep breath, pressing his eyes closed. It had worked. And then he heard Eilionora laughing again.

Roderick gestured and the ladies were led away. Arthur did not dare look at Aria. He had saved her sacred site for her, yes, but could she forgive him for the means? And did she know it had been his intention? And, god, he had betrayed his own honored father in so doing! Perhaps he deserved punishment, after all. And, he thought, he'd suffer it all gladly. God, what was becoming of him?

It was Arthur's turn to laugh. And putting his hands to his face, he did.

[chevs-and-spiders]

no siren like the sea

[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.”

[sadie-wolfdawn]

wait ssoblr what are ur most listened to spotify artists for the month. as a personality test. (mine are the white stripes, emma ruth rundle, poppy, and hozier)

[skiespaintedblue]

If ur romantic f/o has any siblings, they're ur in law(s) now!!! How do you feel about them? How do they feel about you? What does your f/o think about you guys? Do you hate eachother, or are you friends?

[moeblob]

So I personally don't play DBD (though I think it might be fun to try but I'd be bad at it so) but a streamer I watch plays it a lot and her survival rate against Wesker players is astounding. And funny to watch. So I draw lil doodles for her Wesker interactions to put off doing other art.