#anyways i NEED them hugging each other

[kaiserouo]

um

he's literally the only thing i draw today

[mayhemspreadingguy]

Lost boys

[untitledgoosegay]

re last reblog I do see fanfic culture pushing/replicating a certain model of "what trauma looks like," "how trauma works"

this is a problem across all areas of society obviously, but transformative works are, well, transformative. they're about crafting and modifying narratives where the fan-creator sees a flaw or a lack -- often for the better! don't get me wrong, I've done my fair share of "I take a hammer and I fix the canon," it's the main thing that gets my creative gears spinning -- but what happens when that "flaw" is simply a narrative not conforming to popular expectations?

some people just don't get PTSD from events that sound obviously traumatic. they're not masking, and they're not coping; they just straight-up didn't get the permanently-locked stress-response that defines PTSD. they walk away from a horrible experience going "well, that sucked, but it's over now." some people do get PTSD from events most people wouldn't find traumatic. we don't really know why some people get PTSD and others don't. but fandom has an idea of events that must be traumatizing, of a "correct" way to portray trauma. you see the problems with this lack of understanding in e.g. fans pressuring the devs of Baldur's Gate 3 to add dialogue where the player character badgers Halsin about his own feelings on his abuse -- because he must be traumatized, and his trauma must fit a certain mold and presentation of sexual trauma, under the mistaken impression that anything outside that narrow window is somehow "wrong" and disrespectful or even harmful to survivors.

take, for another example, the very common trope of a traumatized character who hates touch or sex "learning" to like touch or sex as a part of their healing process. certainly that can be healing for some people; other people will never like, or want, touch or sex, because of trauma or because they just don't. the assumption that someone who doesn't want sex or doesn't like to be touched must be traumatized, must be suffering from this perceived lack, is seriously harmful -- to asexual people, to people with sensory issues around touch, and to people for whom healing from trauma means freedom to refuse sex or touch.

and there's a secondary trope, one that's slightly more thoughtful but ultimately repeats the problem -- that once someone has learned that their boundaries will be respected, they'll feel it's safe to soften those boundaries. once they feel safe refusing touch or sex, they'll feel comfortable allowing it on their own terms. but many people don't, and many people won't! many people will simply never want to be touched, and never want sex, and they are not suffering or broken or lacking because of it. the idea that proving you'll respect someone's boundaries entitles you to test those boundaries -- the paradox is obvious, and yet this is something i've seen hurt (re-traumatize) people i care for.

people are imperfect victims. people don't heal in the ways you expect. many people have positive memories of their abuse, of their abusers. many people hurt others in the course of their trauma, in ways that can't easily be unpacked in a 5k oneshot. very few narratives of trauma and recovery actually fit the ones put forward by popular children's media and romance novels -- which are the ones I most see replicated in fandom spaces, because they provide the clearest narrative and easiest catharsis, and so they're easy and soothing to reach for.

that's not necessarily a bad thing! i am not immune to goopy romance tropes. i am not immune to teary catharsis. not every fic has to grapple with ugly realities. but there's a problem when these narratives become predominant, when people think they're accurate and realistic depictions of trauma, when the truth of trauma is unpleasant and uncomfortable, and doesn't fit any single narrative, let alone one of comforting catharsis

[heyyallitssatan]

So I’m watching supernatural and I’ve had the whole thing spoiled for me already so I’m watching a destiel moments compilation and holy shit these idiots are gay

I honestly thought that their romance was going to be written in subtle glances and subtext and probably a little bit of delusion

But nope, they’re out here treating this thriller drama like their best romcom life and eye fucking each other every time they’re in the same scene

Those motherfuckers are just so gay, I mean the gayest gay I’ve ever seen, and I do musical theatre for a living

[bennetsbonnet]

I love so many things about Jane Austen's novels... but perhaps one of the most enjoyable aspects is the fact you can read them over and over and still find something new in them that you've previously overlooked each time you return to them.

I just finished re-reading Emma and all of the little hints about Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax... plus Mr Knightley's correct opinions, wisdom and consistent, yet subtle, care for Emma are delightfully satisfying moments when you know the ending!

Above all, noticing all the ways he looks out for Emma throughout the novel makes Mr Knightley's declaration of love for her all the more satisfying and swoon-worthy. Masterpiece.

[corpusdiem-seizethedead]

Husk: *flirting* On a scale of one to ten, you're a nine, because I'm the one you need.

Angel: …I'm a ten

Husk: It's a pickup line-

Angel: *clapping between syllables* I.👏 Am.👏 A.👏 Ten.👏

[1-800-i-ship-it]

- VICTOR ASKS YURI IF HE WANTS HIM TO BE A BOYFRIEND TO HIM??? THIS IS CANON?????

- VICTOR GIVES YURI A BOYFRIEND HUG BEFORE HE PERFORMS???? THE PRESS EATS IT UP???

- YURI GETS MOTIVATJON DURING HIS PERFORMANCE FROM TRYNA SEDUCE VICTOR???

- VICTOR APPLIES CHAPSTICK DIRECTLY TO YURI’S LIPS WITH HIS FINGER???? VICTOR THINKS TO HIMSELF THAT YURI IS BEAUTIFUL????

- YURI BASICALLY CONFESSES THAT VICTOR IS THE MAIN INSPIRATION FOR HIS THEME OF LOVE???

is this reality holy shit…im literally not even halfway through the show

[flowercrowngods]

i’ve decided to send an ask for each story you posted in the wip game kdnehdhs who did this to you? lives rent free in my brain 💛💛 (@a-little-unsteddie)

thank you so much 🥰🤍 still slowly working my way through the asks, so have a few more words to make up for the wait 🫶

who did this to you (pt.4) // tales of blue part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | read on ao3 🌷 preceding snippet no 1. | no. 2

Finally, finally, the familiar sound of Wayne‘s old truck rounding the corner into the trailer park interrupts the tense silence that seems to have fallen over all of Forest Hills tonight, and Eddie has half a mind to run out there, run toward them and get the whole story. Just to be sure that everything is fine. Just to be sure that Steve’s still… That he’s still there.

He stays right where he is, though, staring at Buckley‘s wild hair, feeling her shadow walk over him as Wayne pulls up to their driveway and stops. She is right in the centre of the headlights, but still she doesn’t move. Eddie wants to scream at her. Wants to nudge her and shove her out of the way — imagines it, imagines all the alternate universes in which he finds her wide eyes scared and unseeing as Wayne‘s voice sounds behind them, telling them that Steve didn’t make it.

Except in this one, Wayne said they’re coming home. In this one, shit like that doesn’t happen to eighteen year-old boys and their friends.

Aside from that girl. Barbara Holland.

Eddie swallows, his eyes flitting between bright lights to the silhouette of Buckley right in their centre. Like a doe, he thinks. Terrified of what she’ll find.

Don’t you wanna know? Eddie wants to ask her. Don’t you wanna see? What are you afraid of? What did you see? Who is he, Robin, and who are you? Why the fuck won’t you move?

In the end, it is the sound of a car door slamming shut that snaps Buckley out of her stupor, and she all but flies off the steps towards the truck. Towards where Eddie can vaguely make out the shape of a badly bruised face, the play of light and darkness not enough to conceal the deep purple splotches or the sluggishness of his movements as he raises his head. Turning toward Buckley like a flower to the sun.

She presses her hand to the window for a second, just looking at him — and Eddie is glad he can’t see either of their faces. He has a feeling that what he’d see there would haunt him forever.

[cheaze-the-third]

dreamnap should randomly post a pic of them kissing just to fuck around and watch everyone lose their minds. would prob be fun idk

[spacedlexi]

the way the ericson group were at the outbreak just a bunch of troubled kids who made various mistakes or committed crimes and were judged by a system that punished and abandoned them instead of giving them the support and love they needed, are then nearly a decade later put into a situation where now they must judge a troubled child for the mistakes and crimes hes committed against them. and 5 to 3 vote them out 😭

[littencloud9]

i love u nekoma & karasuno i love you SO MUCH

[artpro86]

Here’s another JinksDaddy pic I made. ❤️🥰🧡

One of my headcanons for them is that they love hugging each other as much as Doggie Daddy and Augie do, lol

[apricote]

🤍

[passerinesoncaffeine]

I'm actually going to gnaw my own hand off.

[coldshrugs]

see you in the morning

pairing: io laithe / estinien varlineau word count: 2k note: endwalker spoilers. io is not handling things well :') you'll never guess who goes to comfort her :o)

Old Sharlayan holds its breath.

Most nights, the chilly island city continues its quiet bustling straight through to morning. Scholars drift from early-evening lectures to late-night research clubs or public laboratories, babbling excitedly about the latest research, innovation, or gossip. Those with less rigid schedules wander to the nearest patch of grass or unused table at the Last Stand with a pile of books in tow. Structured or lax, their perpetual search for knowledge is the very heartbeat of the city. But tonight, the pulse has all but stopped.

The lack of bubbling chatter and foot traffic casts an eerie pall over the city. It reaches all the way down to Scholars’ Harbour, where Io sits alone, on one of the long stone piers reaching out into the sea.

Thousands of people huddle in their homes with friends and loved ones as they wait for daylight, and for the Ragnarok’s first–and only–flight.

The weight of their expectation is suffocating.

Waves murmur against the stone below, the only sound save the few foreign sailors on the next pier over, bound to their work regardless of the state of the world. Neither is loud enough to distract her racing mind.

Io pulls her knees to her chest, cursing the inability to become as small as she feels. Every soul on this star, whether they know it or not, is now her responsibility, an obligation that echoes back to a time beyond time. And she chose it. Before she even knew it was her burden to carry, she chose it. She chooses it, because who else would? Who else could bear it? Is it not enough that her loved ones must sacrifice so much due to proximity and circumstance? It has to be her, for she would not wish this on anyone else.

If only she could curl into herself completely. Tightly enough to blink out of existence, like a dark singularity.

She’d take everything else with her.

There’s no resolution in that line of thinking.

Somewhere out there, in the expanse, is the replication of a little girl with a very human soul–perhaps not fractured, as the souls of those on the Source and its shards, but something that was never allowed to be whole. They aren't so different, not really. Only part of a part of something remembered or imagined, allowed to live but not entitled to life. Not by those who came before them. For this, Io understands Meteion: why wouldn’t annihilation be the answer to dead world after dead world? It must seem like kindness to a being who has never experienced adversity.

Tears, injury, death, things Meteion experienced secondhand: Io has suffered through–and dealt–her fair share of them all. What pain has Meteion seen that Io has not lived?

Her hands ball into fists, nails digging into her palms. She feels manic, unable to rein in the oscillation between anger, guilt, and fear. There is the urge to scream, or cry, or drop into the frigid water below and swim and swim and swim.

But a figure moves at the edge of her vision, walking briskly in her direction.

Now another feeling begs to be acknowledged. Relief? Endearment? A mixture of both at being found, and by him, perhaps.

Still, against her threadbare senses, this feels like an ambush.

Estinien says nothing as he approaches. His steps slow as if trying not to scare a wounded animal. He offers an awkward smile. Io tries to mirror it, hoping he sees a shred of warmth in the tight purse of her lips.

He is handsome in this light, in his half-laced boots and untucked shirt billowing in the chilly coastal wind. The world is ending, and she can’t help noticing his beauty. It’s ludicrous.

“Who sent you?”

His short huff resembles a laugh. “I need a motive to check on you?” When she doesn’t answer, he sighs. “Y’shtola saw you down here from the Annex. She and Thancred thought to come, but I asked them to stay. Everyone’s turning in for the night. I thought you might appreciate the less intrusive option.”

“By all means, intrude. Once the solitude is broken, it hardly matters by whom.”

His brow knits as he studies the carved stones that make up the pier. He turns, shifting his weight. She can feel him wondering if this was unwise.

“I’m sorry, that was unkind. I’m just… overwhelmed–” Io takes a deep breath, embarrassed by the confession before she makes it– “and afraid. Please don’t go.”

Estinien sways in her periphery, stepping closer before squatting beside her. He looks out into the quiet marina, carefully avoiding her half-slumped form. False privacy, but she’ll take the small mercy.

“You needed to get away. I can understand that.”

“I couldn’t breathe in there. Everyone is watching me. They look at me like I’m dying, or like I’m killing them myself.”

“For every person placing blame at your feet, ten others believe in this asinine plan. As I do.”

“You think we can do it? Truly?” she asks, looking up into the great expanse. The stars blink against the endless blue, and for once, the sight makes her feel cold instead of curious. “What if I–”

“You have to, Io.” His tone invites no debate, but there is a melancholy that matches her own. “You will figure it out no matter the cost, because you must.”

Io nods. Her eyes sting. She closes them to keep the tears at bay as long as possible. He is right, of course. Somewhere deep in her soul, the flame of her faith–in herself, in her friends, and in those who paved this way for her–burns as brightly as ever. She has to save them.

“But you will not be alone. We are with you, of course. We’ll give our all to see it through, if that’s what it takes.”

“Gambling your lives for a promise I made, for my mistakes… I can’t bear to think about losing them.” She risks a glance in Estinien’s direction, but his eyes never leave the gently rolling sea. “Or losing you.”

The barest of smiles, one of the little ones he tries to hide with a bowed head. He rubs the back of his neck, sending a cascade of loose hair over his shoulder.

Her chest clenches.

The well of affection she holds for him is muddy these days; for years, they’ve operated with platonic, amiable ease, flitting in and out of each other’s lives but always reuniting as the closest of friends. But since her time in the First, they have been nearly inseparable.

Estinien is her family, but unlike what she feels for Thancred, Urianger, or G’raha, he is not her brother. He evokes a distinct tenderness, gives life to a long-dormant, selfish hope within her heart, and he does it without trying.

“If we don’t try, all is lost.” He falls against the stone with a quiet groan and nudges her with an elbow. “This pessimism doesn’t become you. I have seen you stand against tremendous odds time and time again. I’ve heard tales of more things than I’ve seen. You may not always get it right, I may not always agree, but you do the impossible. What makes this any different?”

Io reflects on the past year (gods, has it been that long?). The burning skies, the horrible transformations, and the aether-depleted souls who will never see another lifetime on this beautiful star, all because she fell for a madman’s power play. She condemned them to this fate. 

She reaches further into her memory, to the unsure adventurer stepping foot into the Waking Sands, and her induction into the inner circle of these secretive upstarts she’s grown to call family. She’s been nothing more than a curse upon them. Thancred’s aether, Y’shtola’s sight, Urianger’s conscience, Minfilia’s life. What might they have avoided without her?

Haurchefant would be alive if she had stayed out of his life.

Since the day she left Dalmasca, death and destruction have been her shadow. As ruinous and loyal as Dalamud, a black dog she pretends she can abandon if only it would forget her scent.

She watches Estinien again, silver in the moonlight. His hands are clasped, hanging between long legs that dangle close to the water below. Like the water, he looks relaxed on the surface. Like the water, there is an undercurrent only the experienced can see.

His thumb worries a circle into the palm of his other hand. His shoulders are tense, hidden by his slightly curved posture. If anyone could understand why this is different, it’s him. For all his courage, he has seen the black dog too.

“It’s different,” Io swallows, “because it’s everything.”

Estinien looks back. His stare is hard. “And so are you.”

Once more, he leaves no room for debate. He speaks as if stating the obvious, citing a fact she should already know.

Io blinks, so awestruck by his candor, she has to look away. Her tumultuous thoughts now spin in his direction, unable to focus on more than this sudden vulnerability. What does it mean that sharing these doubts with him is the most comfortable she’s felt in days? What does it mean that she aches to reach for his hand?

His eyes dart over her face, never lingering on one feature too long. There is something overly controlled about it. Lately, she has employed the same tactic when trying not to stare at his lips…

If she leaned over and kissed him, would he push her away? Could they still be friends?

A selfish hope indeed. But a small thing in her mind whispers, “maybe after…”

If there is an “after” to be had.

She releases her bundled limbs and stands, stretching to relieve the long-ignored ache in her back.

“Come on,” she beckons. “We should at least try to rest before we travel to the edge of space and time.”

Io’s tension deflates as they walk to the annex, pressed under the weight of her exhaustion. They go in comfortable silence, half an arm’s length apart. There is something between them she longs to touch, but doesn’t dare. She has the moonlight in his hair, his half-smile, and his steadfast faith in her. That is enough.

That is more than enough.

The Baldesion Annex is dark, like the rest of the city. The lobby is empty. Not an Annex attendant, not a Scion. Estinien does not share her surprise. How persuasive must he have been to ensure no one disturbed her return? Io watches him move across the room with deliberate steps. He holds open the door that leads to the nap rooms and gestures with his head for her to go ahead of him. The little smile is back.

She returns it, and this time it’s genuine.

They pass Estinien’s door. Io’s room is around the corner and down the next corridor, and he makes the full journey.

They pause at her door.

“Thank you for keeping my head on straight.”

“Someone must. You would not hesitate to do the same for me.” He shrugs. And then his hand is on her upper arm, giving a reassuring squeeze. He pulls her into his space.

Her arms thread under his, hands pressing into his back. She rests her cheek on his shoulder, breathes him in. The sharp edge of her anxiety sloughs away, lost in the steady pressure of his arms around her.

They have never hugged like this. They have never been this close.

Io closes her eyes, squeezes him more tightly, and smiles when she can feel his erratic heartbeat through the firm press of their chests. In this moment, with his hands resting at her neck and waist, with his chin against her neck, skin to skin, she cannot imagine his denial. Perhaps it isn't a stretch to assume he feels this too.

The corridor lights grow dim around them. Io pays them no mind, content to stand in the dark until morning, held by the man she yearns for, the man she never thought she would.

But she yawns, and he steps away, hands on her shoulders. Another squeeze. Another scan of her face before his grey eyes focus on hers, like he's making a final decision.

“Tomorrow,” Estinien says. The single word is a promise. Whatever happens, whatever they find, he will make sure Io gets it done.

“Tomorrow.” She nods, slipping into the room as the memory of his touch crystallizes in her mind. Her limbs are heavy as she climbs into the too-small bed, but the weight has lifted.

She can breathe.

[taegularities]

...