#why are we like this

[angeliclovebird]

i love how most girlbloggers are super into self care yet simultaneously love destroying themselves

[adhdwannabewriter]

Writers when they realize they really have to write

[danis-artss]

Aaand day 6 ! For me at least, it still is may 6th, so at least this'll be on time lmfaoooo

So i gotta post this in the next 10 minutes ahhh

*throws the drawing for "tranformation at u and runs away *

[heartstopperthoughts]

…

…

[the-one-and-only-overlass]

me, talking to my brother about worm: so, there's this character named scapegoat, who can transfer injuries from other people to himself and vice versa-

my brother: could he transfer cancer?

me: sure, i don't see why no-

my brother: what if he took someone's cervical cancer?

me: *stunned*

my brother: wait could he transfer someone's vasectomy to himself? and then to someone else? wait what if he transferred someone's tied fallopian tubes to himself? could he reverse neuter a dog by neutering himself? what if he had his balls cut off and transferred that to someone without balls? negative balls? could he get infinite balls?

me: what the fuck

my brother: no it's a serious question. like what if he lost his hand and transferred that to someone without that hand? would they lose the other hand? would someone's hand dominance matter?

me: ok so my assumption based on how it's described in the story is that the injury would probably just get deleted. gone. no effect.

my brother: wait. what if he transferred someone's hysterectomy to himself?

me: well it would probably just get deleted however there's an incredibly funny possibility that it gets stored in some kind of buffer and he grows a uterus as soon as it's transferred to someone else

my brother: what if he had one ball chopped off and someone else had the same ball chopped off and he transferred that to them?

me: that's just the arm question again

my brother: yeah but it's funnier because it's balls. also there's more of an argument for balls being of equal value to each other because people don't have dominant balls

me: that's assuming the 'injury value' theory holds any weight. and i'm the one who's read worm here, so. no. no it don't.

[bastienb33]

For my mental health and yours! 🏳️‍🌈

[onceuponafile]

Happy “Merlin is trending again on a random Monday” to all those who celebrate. Good job everyone

[kingstarkingslay]

Sirius has a bad day. A really bad day. He waits until Remus is asleep, then slips out into the night. The note left behind says, "I can’t remember how to be a person anymore." Remus doesn’t find him in time.

Years later, Remus still sets two cups of tea out every morning. Old habit. Teddy asks why. Remus just smiles, sad and soft. "Just in case," he says. (The second cup always goes cold.)

[darkphoenix180]

[siriuslyobsessedwithfiction]

The height of romanticizing The Secret History is when Henry tells Richard he knew it was him who made coffee because it was burnt. Henry was stating a fact at best and making a dig at worst but Richard was like "Omg, he remembered uwu 😊🥺💗 ".

[beechaotic]

Imagine humans are the only ones with dark humor.

Like, aliens just DONT joke about that shit. And humans just pull up like,, “I’m bouta hit the south tower mfers!”

And then they make a dark joke about Holocaust, and aliens are just HORRIFIED. Just imagine that. It would be funny.

[hobiesgeorg]

Take Your Time

Hobie Brown x Transmasc!Reader

Word Count: 1.6k

Tags: SMUT, LIKE OPENS WITH SMUT, Occasional use of Y/N, no physical description of Y/N (except vague outfit mention), Y/N implied to be transmasculine, masculine terms for Y/N, established friends with benefits relationship, some pining, mild angst, lowkey edging, slowburn fic, alcohol mention, food mention.

Ch.1 of "Why Are We Like This?" > Ch.2

The surface of the cracked pleather couch flakes off on onto your bare knees. The way the edges poke at you is far from your mind, though. So is the distant thought of the bruises that are definitely forming as Hobie's fingertips press even further into the skin of your waist. His head falls back with a groan as you sink down onto him again.

"Fuck, love, you're doing so good." he rolls his hips up into you and you barely stifle a whimper.

His grip on you is fierce. It leaves you waiting for some kind of permission to continue moving. It's torture when he wants to go slow like this. Always before a show, too. He swears it's necessary. It calms him down, gets him in the right headspace. Easy for him to say when all he has to do is make it onstage and let the adrenaline do the heavy lifting. You have to hold full conversations after this little game of his.

Hobie sucks in a breath and eases you forward. Your legs flex to raise yourself one slow inch at a time. Hobie's eyes are closed, head still resting against the back of the couch. His chest rises and falls with ease. He looks beautiful like this. Completely unbothered, fully confident, fully present. Unfortunately, these are thoughts you can't entertain. This isn't a sordid affair or a case of fated lovers. It's just a frontman and his in-house crafter taking care of each other's needs. A symbiotic relationship between comrades, nothing more.

Just as you're convincing yourself about the transactional nature of this exchange, Hobie pulls you back down onto his length and a moan escapes you. That's why you agree to this, you remember, it's for the breathtaking, dizzying feeling of him stretching you open. The one that coaxes noises you'd rather not make knowing that the rest of the band is one thin wall over.

"Good fuckin' boy," he groans, guiding you to continue the motion, finally allowing you to gain some momentum.

You lean closer to him until your nose is pressed to his pulse and his spiked jacket pokes you through your thin t-shirt. Your senses are quickly filled with the scent of sweat, leather, and shitty liquor, the heat of your bodies combined, and the mindnumbing feeling that comes each time the head of his cock brushes that perfect spot inside you. You hope, or maybe pretend, that your moans and whimpers are adequately muffled by the way your face is tucked close to his body. It's probably silly to keep up the pretense that the rest of the crew is blind to your little pre-show routine. Still, the thought of looking them in the eye knowing that they know your shaky gait isn't from the booze, but because you've spent the last twenty minutes being fucked senseless is intimidating.

Either way, there's nothing you can do to hide it except your best. So you let yourself relax and follow Hobie's cues, revelling in the building heat low in your stomach.

"You doin'--" he's interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Hobie!" a voice, Mattea's you think, calls "we're on in five!"

"Fuck."

Your eyes meet with mutual disappointment. Chests both heaving, bodies both reeling from the interruption.

"On my way!" he hollers before lifting you fully from his lap and plopping you onto the cushion next to him like it's nothing. His strength still puzzles you.

"Seriously?" you ask, breathless.

Hobie's already standing; fastening his belt around the jeans he hadn't bothered to fully take off.

"Show time, lovie, can't be late." He shrugs and smiles at you, "I'll make it up to you later?"

Your eyes are wide, skin on fire, body screaming from the sudden lack of contact. You want your voice to be screaming too. If he doesn't want to be late he should stop taking his damn time. It's not fair to leave you like this. It's inhumane to get you so wound up and then dump you to the side. He needs to get his shit together or leave you the fuck alone. But his eyes are so soft and so focused on you as he slides his rings back on. Is your voice lost because he looks so perfect or because you hope he'll look at you like that forever? G-d, you hope it's the former. You shake your head and reach for the shorts you'd discarded on the floor.

"I'll see ya out there, handsome," he does you the kindness of waiting until you're decent to open the door, "sell enough shit and I'll even buy us dinner."

He turns to grin and wink at you before shutting the door behind him.

~*~

By the time you make it out into the venue the crowd is clamoring for the show to start. You granted yourself a minute to breathe before making your way here. It wasn't much, but enough to make you look presentable. Enough to give you the strength to shove through the overpacked room offering mumbled 'excuse me's on your way.

You glance over at Hobie--who is too busy to look back at you even if he wanted to--and have to once again dampen you irritation about how unfair this situation is for you. It does, however, encourage you to move more quickly to your table in the corner.

"Finally! You're the merch guy, right?" a lanky, golden haired, femme person sporting a shirt that reads 'BILLY'S BURGERS SOUND CREW' is seated in your spot when you arrive. They waste no time in standing up, clearly in a rush to get back to their actual job as opposed to covering for you.

"Yes!" you offer an apologetic smile, "I'm so sorry. Got caught up with some prep-work!"

You fish some beaded bracelets from your pocket and offer them as an excuse. They roll their eyes before stepping fully out from behind the table.

"Whatever. It's your band that's gunna sound like shit if I'm not around to fix it."

They're off before you can offer any more apologies or thanks. You sigh as you make it to your seat, turning your attention to the line of people anxiously waiting.

"Alright folks!" you shout, trying to get your schpiel of information as far down the line as possible, "everything is pay as you can! Suggested donations are on the little sign here! Remember that the band's gotta pay for gas and food on this money!"

As soon as you finish talking, the mic screeches with feedback. You hear Hobie's hiss come through the speakers.

"Sorry, sorry!" he laughs, "Alright, are we ready to get started?"

The crowd, including several people standing mere feet away from you, erupts with screams and cheers. Why don't you ever bring earplugs to these things? A few people in the back of the line decide to cut their losses and come back later, sinking into the sea of people.

The next few hours of your night are monotonous. Smile at people, thank them for stopping by, compliment their outfit, take their money, repeat. Occasionally, when the band would play a fan favorite or the bathroom line would grow exceptionally long, you'd have a chance to stretch your legs or work on painting some patches. Sometimes you missed the days when the Spiderband had hardly any fans and you got to spend all but the last twenty minutes of the show relaxing and working on projects. Not that it wasn't nice to see so many new faces and hand off your work to so many people. You just feel a bit of relief when Hobie's 'goodnight everybody!' signals the last few minutes of insanity before you help to load things back into the van.

As you wish your last shopper goodbye, smiling at their excited tone as they grip their new tshirt and shout after their friends, you're met with Hobie's hand on your shoulder. It lights your nerves back up as if the two of you had never left the greenroom. It takes everything in you not to punch him, kiss him, or fall to your knees and beg him to please fuck you before you explode. Instead, you start packing things up into your bag, not sparing him as much as a glance.

"You owe me dinner." you grumble.

"Woo!" he cheers, "hear that, guys? We get to eat tonight!"

Half-hearted, exhausted cheers come from the rest of the band; who are all busying themselves with packing up while Hobie is here pestering you.

"So, where are we ordering from?" Hobie helps himself to your seat while you continue folding t-shirts.

"Isn't Riri driving? She should pick, right?"

"Aw come on," he grins at you, "you're a growing boy! We've gotta make sure you get something solid in ya."

You shake your head and zip the duffel bag shut, "I need to fold that chair."

"Hey." Hobie's face falters, eyebrows knitting together in concern. His voice lowers both in volume and pitch, "I didn't mean t' leave you hangin' earlier. 'm sorry. I'll make it up to ya, promise."

It's your turn to shrug, now. "I'm gunna drop this in the van. You should probably help out too, right?"

He nods and follows you with as little urgency as ever. You can feel his gaze from behind you. His worry and disappointment is palpable. It's ridiculous. This isn't about feelings. It's not about you being happy with him. He doesn't owe you shit. It's getting harder, though, to know which of you you're reminding of that.

[holyblanchett]

I just logged in.....

[angee1011]

Every week this is the Buddie fandom:

[queenielacy]

*Toni calls us perverts*

Us: “Yes, that’s us! We’re the perverts!”