#yup definitely

[bluebeesknees]

❤️‍🩹

[may6th2030]

oh yeah, i will enjoy this season

[bumfuzzled-bee]

Go little guy go

[zhongrin]

i feel like zhongli would be the type to be absolutely and utterly horrified when he knows you've skipped a meal.

he understands that your job make you busy and sometimes it's best to not break your focus from the task you're currently doing. and he understands that most of the time, when you miss your mealtime, there are lots of factors that makes it hard to leave your post just to shove some nutrients into your stomach.

still, he thinks you being in a hungry state for an extended period of time is a crime. it's simply unacceptable.

so he tries hard to always make sure you always have a snack with you. maybe a thermos full of tea to go with it too. and of course he'd also try to get you to eat a whole meal.

if you work from home, be prepared to be hounded by a worried husband who would literally spoon-feed you your lunch while you're working. if you're really not in the situation which would allow you to eat, rest assured that he'll go as far as putting milk into your tea or get a boba delivered right onto your shared abode's doorstep. if push comes to shove, he'd walk in with a tray of food while you're on an internal video call and gently reminds everyone in the room that you're going to eat lunch first and that's final.

if you work from the office, sure, it would be harder for him to dote on you. but he's not above subtly messaging you to indirectly ask/remind you to eat. expect pictures of the lunch he's having along with messages like "i had a nice lunch. what did you have for lunch, my love? may i see it?" and if, god forbid, you continue with the habit of eating lunch late, don't be surprised if he pops into your office and smiles warmly at the receptionist as he declares that he's there to pick you up for lunch.

all in all, 10/10 husband who feeds you as an act of love.

[abzania]

Aziraphale looks at Crowley like he hung the stars.

Because he did.

[royalarchivist]

Tubbo's remixing Skeppy and Puffy's part of Badboyhalo's song, "Muffin" in his current DJ session (with an interesting emphasis on a certain section 🤨)

[itsyouch]

ah yes, I would rather draw agent Maine then Washington

funny story, I didn't add the E in his name so I went back to edit the main drawing. IM NOT GONNA FIX ALL THOSE PICTURES

[atthebell]

*shakes can* long hair cellbit? Long hair cellbit to spare please? Please

order up

[raphael-ancunin]

I heard about the new Raphael face mod for CC so now I can finally do things like this...

[pandoraroid]

espresso is so angel & david coded

[mangoshorthand]

Senseless | Five Hargreeves/ GN Reader 1.3k words, Rated T/M (Steamy but not explicit).

Hello lovelies. Not a request but a little something I whacked out in a couple of hours after listening to a certain song. I will give you a cookie if you can guess which one😉. We have angst and a slightly toxic relationship. I'll warn you know, like the song that inspired it, this fic is kinda campy...

He was an unstoppable force and you an immovable object; it was fire and ice; you were each the red rag and each the bull. Static always crackled between you, even in the quiet times, the lightning ever ready to strike. 

You’d clung together as if drowning, each using the other in an effort to claw their way to the surface, though only succeeding in dragging yourselves down faster. You were drawn together by mutual brokenness and mutual need into this torrid, hurricane of a thing between you. 

You and he were like a room full of noisy machines: Discordant hums and whines creating a horrid, unbearable, nails-on-a-chalkboard din.

There were lies. There were fights and threats and harsh words. A look of rage or hurt filling his face could fill your heart with savage pleasure, and yet whenever you thought you’d given him a fatal wound, he could always turn right around and gouge an even deeper one into you, and then he would be the one enjoying the effects of his cruel tongue. 

He didn’t need to use the door, but the last time he stormed out of your apartment, he slammed it anyway.

So now he was just time you’d wasted long ago. For all you knew, he was dead, and you were proud to say you hadn’t cried a single tear over him. He’d chosen to leave, after all. He’d chosen to throw himself back into the chaos of his old life. He’d chosen that, knowing full well that it was that or you. 

So you burned his love notes, washed his scent out of your bedsheets and purged any hint of him from your life. You’d built yourself back up, somehow. 

Through a dozen changing seasons you’d long ago frozen and sweat him out of your system. He was gone, and gone for good. You didn’t waste your time thinking about him; any memory of him, on the rare occasions they occurred, was quickly pushed away and ignored until you’d all but forgotten him.

Alongside him, you were drowning, and without him you’d reached shore.

***

This should have been a night like any other.

You lay wide awake in bed, listening to the wind buffet and bluster against the window, blowing the rain into the glass with hail-like force.

Sleep evaded you. It had been a whole week of fruitless tossing and turning, in fact. For some reason your mind was on high alert.

A chill went through you despite your blankets. The dark seemed impenetrable tonight. Dense and pregnant, as if unacknowledged knowledge was waiting to overcome you while sleeping, fingers creeping into your brain and secreting unwanted ideas in the deepest recesses.

You shivered and tried to rub some warmth into your icy skin, ignoring the nervous feeling in your stomach and the light film of feverish sweat on your forehead. 

The window creaked under the continued assault from the elements and you turned over with a huff, folding and punching your pillow into a more comfortable position, though without expecting it to have any effect.

Another sound, and this time your body tensed. You sat up in bed, poised to listen. This, you now knew, was why you’d been on a hair trigger all these nights: you’d been waiting.  It was as if the wind, high for these last few days was blowing a scent along with it. Subconsciously, you’d been waiting for this night to come.  

That noise didn’t come from the window. It came from the hallway. 

Your feet were on the floor before you were aware, and you were moving light-footed towards the door, pulling on your robe to cover the goosebumps on your exposed skin.

You didn’t stop to think you might be in danger, moving completely without caution towards the source of the sound. In truth, there was no space in your mind for anything but the hope of a resolution to the flutters of anxiety and anticipation you’d been dealing with. You were drawn like a magnet to that possibility.

And, when you opened the bedroom door, you found it, because standing in the hallway was an explanation for everything. 

It was a ghost you thought was long since laid to rest. 

He stood there, chest heaving against his waistcoat, his dark hair damp from the rain and blown into disarray. 

For a moment, you and he simply stared at one another.

It was him, alright. It was his perfect, angular jaw, his smooth skin and thick brows. And there, behind the dark green eyes, was the old man looking out at you: the weary traveler who rarely allowed himself to rest, who, in his deepest heart, didn’t think he deserved such happiness. 

And, in a rush, it all came back. 

You and he were like a room full of noisy machines, but all their discordant sounds were capable of falling into some inexplicable, otherworldly harmony and, in those glorious moments, everything about you made sense.

You made sense when the fire flickered, throwing dancing light onto his face, on his brow lowered in concentration and his lips moving softly as he read aloud to you. 

You made sense when he stretched out in the sun like a cat, grass stains on the arms of his white shirt, laughing as you goofed around above him. 

You made sense when you held his head pillowed in your lap, you brushing his hair out of his eyes and he looking up at you with his steadfast gaze; looking at you as if you were home.

And you made sense when the bed sheets stuck to the sweat on your entwined legs, when your back arched off the mattress, pulled into a helpless curve by the heat of his kisses to your neck.

God, it made so much sense when you gasped his name like a prayer throughout endless night-time hours. You let him touch you in ways that nobody else ever had, in ways that nobody else ever would. Only with him could it ever seem right: only to his touch could your flesh bloom like a field of summer flowers.

So, as he moved towards you in the hallway, you grabbed him by his waistcoat, pulling him to you and along with you as you backed up towards the bed. 

His touch hit you like a freight train. As soon as his mouth was on yours, as soon as his cold fingers were in your hair, everything fell back into place. His three year absence dissolved and everything besides him fell away. 

Teeth clashed, bodies half fell onto the bed. He had a tight fist curled in your hair, pulling from the roots. You kissed him fiercely, craving him as gasoline to glowing embers on the verge of smoldering.

He tasted the same, he smelled the same. A creature of habit, his shampoo was the same eucalyptus, and it hit you with another body blow. 

His body was a homecoming, and you knew it like muscle memory: he groaned into your mouth as your tongue flicked along his sensitive alveolar ridge, and then he bucked his hips into you as you transferred it to his ear, swiping your tongue down his helix in the way he clearly still loved.

And, judging by the way his hands and mouth made you shiver and squirm against him, and how hot your sex already burned for him, he remembered you as second nature too.

His light stubble scratching pleasantly against your ear, he finally spoke:

“I’ve missed you,” he rasped.

And as he kissed down your neck, pulling your robe aside to more easily get to your chest, you let out a breathless, supplicatory whisper. You said the only thing that made sense.

“Five.”

Tag list: (please comment to be added or removed): @thebearmage, @nevbrooke-555, @fiannee, @abeeabee6969

Oneshot Masterlist >> HERE

NOTE: I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See oneshot masterlist for request status and more.

[catzgam3rz]

Haven't drawn Hermitcraft stuff in a bit... have a Tango or Two why dontcha?

[love-3-crimes]

you thought i was done??? no. .. chi kn

1

2

[flonion]

Kneel before the Ice Princess

[carmine-golde]

I like to imagine that the peculiar world is very progressive when it comes to LGBTQIA+. Trans people especially (in my hc) aren’t seen the same as they are in the real world, but as something completely normal and to be celebrated.

“You feel like you were born in the wrong body? Sounds pretty normal for a peculiar. Anyways—“

To peculiars, they know exactly how it feels to be ostracized for something completely out of their control, and to be told to just “act normal” when they literally *can’t*.

Some will go out of their way to make sure any and all lgbt+ persons don’t feel excluded because damn they didn’t feel good when their parents kicked them out for growing gills so they don’t want poor Sock to feel the same way.

Anyways thanks for coming to my ted talk.