officially unfollowing w1lbur, as well as l0vej0y on everything. can't believe that, once again, another person i looked up to turned out to be a terrible person. i really hope shubble is alright and will soon have nothing to do with this anymore <3
Quackity and Wilbur stood atop the Las Nevadas Needle. Quackity was gazing at the beautiful night sky above them, but Wilbur’s gaze wandered elsewhere.
He found himself observing the man beside him.
How long had it been since they put aside their petty squabbles and were at peace with one another? And what’s more is that for Wilbur that peace had developed into a sort of fondness, maybe even more than a fondness.
Wilbur’s heart tugged as he stared at the man next to him. His beanie that he never seemed to leave home without was crooked on his head. His long hair was darker than the night sky. His golden wings shone brighter than all the stars in the sky. The more he observed the man before him the more his heart ached. He sucked up his pride and rested his hand upon the shorter man’s hand, an invitation for more.
“Wilbur, have you ever danced with someone?” He asked, still gazing at the sky.
Memories flashed across Wilbur’s vision. He recalled dancing in L’manberg beside the fire with Niki, Tommy, and Fundy while Tubbo and Jack sang a song of freedom. He remembered a spark of joy amidst the sadness in Pogtopia when he and Tommy dragged Techno from his potato farm and danced to their heart's content. He thought in fondness about dancing on the beach in Logsteadshire with Tommy. He realized that dancing had always been a time when he felt alive.
“Wil?”
Wilbur snapped from his pleasant thoughts and looked at Quackity, who was gazing at him expectantly.
“Why? Are you offering me a dance?” He asked with a grin.
“Maybe I am…” He extended a hand out to Wilbur. “Only if you’ll have me.”
Wilbur takes the hand offered to him.
The dance is slow and sweet. Wilbur rests his head on Quackity’s shoulder letting him lead the dance.
SUNI!!!!! can i maybe request byler + giggling while kissing🫢🫢 go crazy with it i know itll make me insanely giddy
liv !! absolutely anything for you !! this got away from me so fast and it's so. it's. well. you'll see. here's kiss prompt #29 - giggling while kissing
“Someone’s in a good mood today,” Will remarks, raising an eyebrow at Mike over the top of his book. “What’s gotten into you?”
Mike just grins, closing the front door behind him. It’s five o'clock on a Thursday, meaning Mike’s had class from ten this morning almost straight through four p.m., with a brief break in between American Lit and his creative writing workshop where he’d run across campus to the good café for a bagel and a coffee. According to all logic and reason, Mike should not be in a good mood. He should, statistically speaking, be in a really shitty mood.
And yet.
“Nothing,” Mike says, dropping his bag to the floor, right there in the entrance to their apartment. “And what the hell? I got home, like, three seconds ago.”
Will keeps the same look fixed on him as Mike kicks his shoes off, sending them tumbling one after the other into the corner of the room. “Call it a certain je ne sais quoi,” Will replies, following Mike with his gaze as he immediately moves to pick up his shoes. “I can tell.”
Mike turns and squints. “You know French?”
“Sure,” Will laughs, then sets his book aside. He stretches, long and lazy along the length of the sofa, socked feet emerging from the ends of the blanket he’s got thrown over him. “Let’s go with that.”
“You don’t know French,” Mike announces. He would know. Will took Spanish with him for all four years of high school – four agonizing years of conjugating the past participle and imperfect subjunctive – and was even brave enough to attempt a brief foray into an introductory college class before finally calling it quits. Personally, Mike thinks it’s impressive Will lasted the semester. Mike had collected his high school credits and never looked back. “I would know.”
“Yeah?” Will leans back on the couch, watches Mike shuffle the rest of their shoes into place on the shoe rack. “Maybe I do.”
He doesn’t. “Prove it,” Mike says, then picks his bag up off the ground and plops it on top of the dining table. “Say something in French right now. Something romantic.”
“Bonjour,” Will says easily. “Mon ami.”
Mike squints even harder this time. “‘My friend’ is not a romantic thing to say, and also, you’re a liar.”
Will frowns. “How do you know French?”
“I don’t,” Mike laughs. “But I read a lot of Agatha Christie.”
Will gives him a weird look, a little incredulous and a little amused, then holds up the book he’d been reading. It’s Mike’s copy of Murder on the Orient Express. “Yeah, I know. You're unbelievable.”
“I’ve been looking for that,” Mike says, even though he absolutely hasn’t. “You thief.”
Will just smiles, beckoning Mike over to the couch with his free hand. “You love me,” he says, which is a lot closer to the mark than Mike would like Will’s rebuttals to his (entirely unserious) jabs to be.
Mike walks over, of course, because Will is right, and Mike loves him, and love makes you do crazy, stupid things – like being happy on a Thursday evening when your head hurts and your body hurts and all you want is to sleep straight through Friday afternoon. Frankly, it’s ridiculous how happy Mike feels. It’s a bit of an embarrassing look for him, actually.
“Hi,” Mike says, entirely unnecessarily, and lets Will pull him down with one hand. He lands sideways, sprawled halfway across Will’s lap, over the top of the absurdly fuzzy blanket they keep at the foot of the sofa.
Will smiles up at him. “Hey,” he replies, easy and warm. It’s also ridiculous, along with everything else, how soothing the single word is as it leaves Will’s mouth, how Mike’s oncoming headache ebbs, ever-so-slightly, at the sound. Will’s still got Mike’s book in one hand, but he folds a page down and sets it on the coffee table, then scoots over to make room, pressing his back up against the sofa cushions. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Mike sighs, tucking his face into Will’s neck and trying his hardest to not fall off the edge of the sofa. He wiggles his feet under the blanket too, tucks them under Will’s calves, the warm fleece of his pajama pants. “A little tired,” he admits, and Will lets out a sympathetic noise above him. “But good.”
“I’m glad,” Will murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the top of Mike’s head. “And I know for a fact you’re in a weirdly good mood because I folded down the page of your book and you didn’t even yell at me.”
It takes a second for the words to land. Then–
“Oh, you asshole,” Mike laughs, immediately twisting around in Will’s arms to look at his poor, innocent book lying on the coffee table’s coaster-dotted surface. “You were testing me?”
“You told me you didn’t care about that anymore,” Will points out, one arm wrapping instinctively around Mike’s waist as he moves. “You said you were working on it.”
“I am working on it!” Mike protests. “It’s a secondhand copy anyway, it was already dog-eared and– it’s not about that! I just think you’re so–”
“Mhm?”
“So ridiculous,” Mike says halfheartedly, as Will drops a light kiss to his nose, then his cheek. “I’m in a normal mood. A normal, fine, ordinary–”
“Sure–”
“–and I’m not any more happy than usual–”
“–uh huh–”
“Will!” Mike laughs, breaking away from Will’s vice grip, pulling back from where Will had been leaning in to press another kiss to his cheek. “Oh my god.”
Will just smiles at him. His hair is a bit messed up from lying on the couch, and Mike can feel himself warming up, slowly, from the late February chill he’d braved to walk from the bus stop back to their apartment. “Sorry,” he says, a bit apologetic, a bit pleased, and entirely genuine. “You’re just so fun.”
“I hate you,” Mike whispers. He’s sure that any hope of the phrase having even the slightest semblance of effect is vanquished immediately by the way he says it – breathless and adoring and totally, completely lovesick. “You’re infuriating.”
“You love me,” Will repeats, looking even more happy with himself than before, like getting Mike riled up and flustered is the highlight of his day. He pushes a strand of hair out of Mike’s eyes and asks, more seriously, “Are you hungry? You want something to eat?”
“Yeah? You’re gonna cook for me?” Mike asks, as if they don’t know a grand total of maybe five recipes between the two of them.
“Sure,” Will says. “Yeah. It’ll be romantic.”
Last Mike checked, they needed to get groceries, and he’s not sure what they even have that could feasibly be put together for a meal, but Will’s weirdly good at that sort of thing – throwing the most random ingredients together until it resembles something vaguely edible. Not gourmet, by any means, and sometimes not even good, but, like – if you need caloric sustenance, he’s your guy.
Mike isn’t sure how he feels about another one of those meals, though. Especially when he considers the stockpile of tuna cans in the pantry that’s been there for about a million years. He gives Will a suspicious look. “Like what?”
“Don’t give me that look,” Will says, then shoves gently at Mike’s side to get him to stand up. He follows, kicking the blanket off into a haphazard pile on the end of the sofa, and trailing Mike into the kitchen. “Mac and cheese. From a box.”
He hops up onto the counter while Will digs around the cupboard for a pot, then goes about filling it with water. The kitchen is silent for a while, save for the low humming of the fridge, the sharp clicking of the stove as it turns on. Mike watches him move, a low flame of affection bursting to life in tandem with the gas-fueled warmth against his skin. It’s probably dangerous to be sitting so close to the stove when it’s on, but whatever. It’s the only strip of counter that has enough space for Mike to climb onto and still be this close to Will.
“What’s up with you?” Will asks, pulling a box of mac and cheese off of the cupboard shelf and peering curiously up at him.
Mike, a little belatedly, realizes he’s smiling. “Nothing,” he says, as Will sets the box down on the counter next to Mike’s thigh. “Why?”
“I don’t believe you,” Will says, then slots himself easily into the space between Mike’s legs, rests two hands on his hips. “You never smile this much on a Thursday.”
“You’re so hung up on it being a Thursday,” Mike hums, as Will presses his fingers into Mike’s skin, pushing up the soft fabric of his sweatshirt just a little. “Why are you– hey, that tickles!”
Will just grins, watching Mike squirm with no small amount of joy on his face. “Watch out for the fire,” he says, calm and collected and cool as a cucumber, like he wasn’t the one that nearly got him burned in the first place.
“Watch out for the– oh, shut up,” Mike says. Will laughs, low and pleased, and leans forward, tilting his face up.
“Come down here,” he says, frowning. “I can’t kiss you when you’re all the way up there.”
“Not my fault I’m taller than you,” Mike mumbles, but slides off the counter anyway. He lands a bit awkwardly, stumbles half a step forward before Will steadies him.
“I’m hung up on it being a Thursday,” Will says, tucking a kiss to the side of Mike’s cheek, right under his ear, “because you’re always miserable on Thursdays.”
“I am not,” Mike laughs, as Will pulls back. “What gave you that idea?”
“You’re up early and you have a million classes and you never get enough time to actually eat during the day and you never let me forget it,” Will says, the answer a little too immediate for Mike’s liking. He steps closer, presses Mike back up against the counter until the cold linoleum tiles are digging into the small of his back. “And you’re a menace when your blood sugar is low. Is that it? Did you eat a real lunch today? Are you currently operating under normal human physiology?”
Mike thinks back to the solitary bagel he’d eaten in approximately seven bites while running between the English building and the Communications building. “Um. Unless you count me getting an everything bagel instead of plain, then no.”
“Then what is it?” Will asks. “I can tell, you’re so– you’re being so–”
Mike gives him a strange look. “I don’t think I’m being anything,” he says. It’s true – he doesn’t feel any different from normal, except maybe a little warmer and a little fuzzier and a little bit more hungry than on his average day. “What’s your deal? What am I being?”
“Smilier,” Will says, tilting his head like he’s looking for a nonexistent giveaway in Mike’s face. His eyes dart over Mike’s features, slowly, drinking them in.
“That’s not a word.”
“If I guess,” Will starts, ignoring him, “will you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to guess– Will!” Mike shrieks softly, as Will peppers a quick succession of kisses across his cheek and down his neck. “Fuck you, that tickles!”
“Good grade on a paper?” Will hums against his throat, which isn’t really doing much to help with the tickling thing. Mike tries to pull away, but Will’s grip is steadfast, unyielding. “Heard back from your advisor?”
“No, and no,” Mike gets out. “Nothing happened!”
“Don’t believe you,” Will murmurs, then kisses Mike over the bridge of his nose. “Class got canceled?”
“Thankfully not,” Mike laughs, “because we were peer reviewing today– Will, oh my god, why are you–”
“Be honest with me,” Will says, squinting slightly, “are you on drugs?”
“How the hell would I be on drugs,” Mike stares, a grin spreading, wide and giddy, across his face. His chest is aching from laughter, cheeks already tired from smiling so hard. It’s ridiculous how often he feels like this around Will. He didn’t know you could feel so exhausted in such a wonderful way, by such a wonderful thing. A welcome ache, soothing and grounding and exhilarating all at once. “I don’t understand you.”
“Then tell me,” Will says quietly, leaning in again. He kisses Mike, soft and intentional, thumbs rubbing circles over his hips where his crewneck had ridden up earlier, long and slow enough that Mike forgets about it, for a second – the teasing and the prodding and the interrogation – and the warm ache of laughter gives way to something smoother, steadier. He wants to sink into the feeling like a warm bath – or maybe a dry macaroni noodle in a pot of boiling water.
“The water,” Mike mumbles, barely decipherable. “It’s boiling.”
“It’s just water,” Will says, “it’ll be fine,” and kisses him again.
That’s a good point. “Okay,” Mike whispers, and lets the feeling overtake him – Will’s hands, steady and warm where they’re pressed against Mike’s skin. Where his hair is still damp from his shower, because Will is ridiculous and lame and has one morning class on Thursdays and gets to lay around at home for the rest of the day.
Will presses another kiss to Mike’s lips, leans in once, twice, and–
Thud.
“Ow,” Mike groans, pulling away just long enough to squeeze his eyes shut and rub at the back of his head, where the cabinet had oh-so-rudely refused to move out of the way for him. “Great.”
“Mike,” Will says in mild disbelief, biting down on his lower lip. His eyes are sparkling, cheeks a little flushed. God, Mike loves him. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he breathes out, smiling. “I’m– yeah, that was so stupid.”
“So stupid,” Will grins. “How did you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Mike groans again, exasperated and drawn-out, and that’s it – Will laughs, bright and happy and eyes going all crinkles at the corners and moves in to kiss him again.
“You’re so ridiculous.”
“Don’t laugh at me,” Mike protests, but he’s laughing too, catching Will’s soft exhales as they leave his chest, leaning forward to press more of his weight into him. Will moves easily, lets Mike grin against his mouth – wide and happy and far too pleased for his own good.
“Okay, don’t tell me,” Will says at last, pressing a final kiss to Mike’s cheek before pulling away. “I’m just happy you’re happy.”
“Will,” Mike starts, then reels him back in with one hand on his wrist. Will looks startled, eyes wide as Mike catches him by the other hand too. “I was– nothing happened, I swear. I was just thinking about you earlier.”
Will blinks. “You were thinking about me?”
“Yeah,” Mike shrugs. Will says this like it’s a rare, wondrous occasion – Mike thinking about him, that is – and not something that usually happens during most of Mike’s waking hours and some of his unconscious ones too. “I was thinking about you. You just– you make me feel better. I didn’t notice anything was different.”
Will just looks at him. “So you’re not on drugs?”
Mike drops his head to Will’s shoulder and sighs, long and bereaved. Will laughs, low and breathy next to his ear, wraps both arms around Mike’s waist, and holds on. “Seriously?”
“I’m kidding,” Will murmurs. “That’s sweet. You– really? What were you thinking about?”
This is embarrassing.
“Just you,” Mike admits, a little muffled into the fabric of Will’s sweater. “Just– coming home to you, after a long day.”
“Sap,” Will says, saccharine and so fond that it seems to be spilling right out of him. Mike can feel it, all the ways Will loves him, like it’s a physical thing that’s taking shape under his hands. They’re what make Mike think about him so often, all the time, in the middle of a painstakingly long lecture or seminar. Turning memories like these over in his mind, the simple comfort in knowing his day is going to get better as soon as Will gets his arms around him.
“Shut up,” Mike says. He turns to kiss along the curve of Will’s cheekbone, right under his eye, where the skin has gone wonderfully pink and creased with laughter, then pulls away. “The water’s been boiling for, like, ten minutes, by the way. Just so you know.”
I’ve seen a lot of posts on my dash tonight about users who are threatening suicide, with other Tumblr members posting in effort to try to get ahold of them. I think you all should see this:
IF THERE IS EVER A TUMBLR USER WHO HAS POSTED A GOOD-BYE MESSAGE, SUICIDE NOTE, VIDEO, OR ANYTHING OF THE SORT, PLEASE FOLLOW THIS POST.
1. Scroll to the top of your dashboard.
2. See the circular question mark icon at the top? It’s the third one over from your home symbol. Click on that, and a screen similar to the one in the picture will come up.
3. Where you can type in questions, the box with the magnifying glass at the top, type in the word “suicide.”
4. Click on the first link that shows up. It should say, “Pass the URL of the blog on to us.”
5. Type in the user’s URL and tell Tumblr admin that the user is contemplating suicide and has posted a message indicating that they are going through with it or will be attempting. Hit send! Tumblr administration will perform a number of actions to contact the user and take the necessary steps to prevent the suicide.
TUMBLR: THIS COULD SAVE A USER’S LIFE. PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE SUICIDE THREATS.
Reblog this to keep other users aware. Suicide isn’t a joke, and neither is someone’s life. If you didn’t know this, someone else may not, either. Pass it on.
biggest evidence for byler being real is the music that was used in the crazy together scene in s2. when that kind of song plays in any movie or show, you know it's kinda building something up that will come true, no matter what it is
I'm glad we can all still celebrate November 16th. Even with all that happened in the last weeks we can still stop for a moment to remember the end of the arc that made the Dream SMP so important to so many people.
We share art, memories, happiness and pain. And while last year my November 16th post was mainly about the story and Wilbur this time it's going to be about the community.
So,
Raise a glass to everyone who cried or felt empty after the Nov. 16 stream,
Raise a glass to all the people that arrived later in the fandom but still felt the shadows of this event,
Raise a glass to all the artists, musicians and writers who made something special for the occasion,
Raise a glass to who still has energy to care,
Raise a glass to godsdamned Hamilton roleplay that was so much more,
Raise a glass to what is probably the end of it,
Raise a glass to all the friends we made through this fandom,
Raise a glass to all people who poured their hearts into making this community such a great one,
And lastly
@sootings thank you. What an amazing story your character had. Even with its flaws I will never forget it.
turnnoffyourmind
dailybridgerton
blakekathryn
dededos
prguitarman
