we're not kids anymore.
tannertan36
Love Begins
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Xuebing Du
祝日 / Permanent Vacation
#extradirty
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
★
ellievsbear
$LAYYYTER
Discoholic 🪩
taylor price
Today's Document
shark vs the universe
Origami Around
almost home
Kaledo Art
Claire Keane
2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
seen from New Zealand
seen from United States
seen from Bosnia & Herzegovina
seen from Türkiye
seen from Germany
seen from United States
seen from Argentina
seen from United States
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Japan
seen from Türkiye
seen from Germany
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Canada
seen from Germany
@readingwritingcrying
Hey. Stop for a second. Take this moment to appreciate that you don't have to write a paper right now. No one is asking you to write a paper. You don't have to think about the paper or plan your time around the paper. You have the freedom to think about whatever you want. Everything is going to be okay. At least you don't have to write a paper right now
writing goals for 2026 ✨
to write
Whumpee who is way too nonchalant about their injuries and regularly almost gives Caretaker heart attacks.
"Sorry if I get blood on your floor. Don't worry, I'll clean it up later." "Wait, you're bleeding?!!"
"Why are you limping?" "Oh, yeah, I'm pretty sure I sprained my ankle during that chase earlier." "That was three hours ago!"
"You got any bandages?" "Sure, why?" "Got cut and I need something to wrap it up with." "Wait, let me see—Whumpee! Okay, don't move, I am getting the suture kit right now."
"Why are you holding your hand like that?" "Because it's broken."
"Where is all this blood coming from?" "Oh, that's me. I got stabbed."
*over the phone* "Hey, Caretaker, can you come pick me up?" *ten minutes later* "You didn't think to mention that you were shot?!!!"
"Mind if I pass out here? Thanks."
Might add more later; feel free to add on as well! Right now I have a New Year's Eve party to get to, so here's my last post for 2025! Happy New Year, everyone!
*struggles while writing* i suck and writing is hard
*remembers some ppl use ai* i am a creative force. i am uncorrupted by theft and indolence. i am on a journey to excellence. it is my duty to keep taking joy in creating.
If you just saw me reblog and then delete like 20 posts shhh no you didn’t.
Approach with caution
It can be a story... There can be a fic... if somebody writes it.... No pressure
Your art is so beautiful, OP! I hope you like what it inspired me to write. Story is under the cut and on AO3.
I'll Be the Guard Dog
Spock remembers the sensor’s shrill alert. A flash of metal where there should have been open space. The shuttle jerking, evading, shaking with impact, then shuddering out of control. Adrenaline lingers on his tongue, and he remembers it rising like bile before all of his memories became consumed by a burst of pain.
He probes, delicately, at his skull without opening his eyes. Warm, tacky liquid greets his fingertips, along with a lancing pain. A head wound would account for his loss of consciousness. It would also explain why his thoughts remain sluggish. He knows he is forgetting something. Something important.
Adrenaline floods his throat once more. It is coppery, warm but not acidic, and it is only now that he realizes liquid is trickling onto the skin under his nose and dripping backward into his nasopharynx.
He blinks. It is darker than he anticipated, and he is thankful. There is a sterile, faltering glow to his left. Based on the color, he assumes it is from computer screens. A soft, gasping sound escapes him as he turns toward the light. He observes the scraps of metal paneling and equipment strewn about the wrecked shuttle. Somehow, its walls remain structurally intact. There are, however, live wires spilling from them.
If they are in a shuttle, that indicates they could not use the transporter. Closing his eyes, he attempts to reach through the sluggish fog of what must be a concussion. An ion storm he himself detected had been the determining factor. They had…
Spock’s throat constricts. They. He had not been alone.
A deluge breaks within his mind, and all at once his memories reassert themselves. He’s rolling onto his side, pushing himself up, and searching the wreckage, headless of the throbbing pressure inside his skull. There are three swatches of color amongst the greyscale of dark and steel, two red and growing darker, and one of command gold.
A long, bent rod has pierced through Ensign Walters’s abdomen, pinning her to the floor. Yeoman Tracy lies near her--his mind will not cannot calculate the approximate distance in his current state. Yeoman Tracy does not appear to have been impaled, but he has sustained a profusely bleeding headwound and his neck is not lying at an angle associated with living humans.
Spock knows the likelihood that they are alive is slim. There is too much red blood pooled beneath them to pretend otherwise. He will remind himself of this later, when they are safely aboard the Enterprise and he must meditate away his guilt.
He crawls to Jim. There is a large slab of metal covering his side. Spock shoves the pain in his head beneath his shields as he heaves it off of him. Blood trickles down Jim’s bare arm and stains his uniform, but the source appears to be three minor lacerations. Spock is more concerned about the blood at his temple, copious enough to mat his hair, and over the lower half of his face. His chest rises and falls, its rhythm fast but steady.
Spock allows himself a gasping breath. Jim is not dead, and he will not allow him to die.
Only now does he drag himself over to Ensign Walters and Yeoman Tracy to confirm that they perished in the crash. Any emotions elicited by this are repressed as ruthlessly as his pain. On hands and knees, he casts about for the standard medical kit aboard all shuttles. The disarray of the cabin makes it difficult, but the concussion more so. That his shields are intact enough to master his emotions despite it is what Jim would call lucky.
Reflected light catches his eye. By Ensign Walters’s foot lays the cracked remains of a hypospray. Near that is a soiled roll of gauze. Whatever supplies within the medical kit survived are likely to be in a similarly unusable state. He is debating whether searching for them regardless is advisable, when he hears something. Something other than Jim’s shallow breathing or the tinnitus that has plagued him since waking.
The patterned thud of approach grows louder. He has no way of discerning if it heralds help or that whoever attacked them has come to ensure their deaths. The fractured remains of his communicator manage to crackle and spark before dying. His phaser is in worse shape. Though, he is certain it could be wired to explode, if necessary.
Yeoman Tracy’s devices remain on his person, easily retrievable, neither one operable. Ensign Walters’s, unfortunately, do not appear to be on the cabin floor. He grasps the pole protruding from her corpse and pulls. Despite his strength, his head throbs with the action. Black dots cloud his vision, but he ignores them just as he ignores the wet squelch of the pole leaving her body. He allows himself a moment to collect himself before maneuvering her, accordingly.
Neither her communicator nor her phaser are in working condition.
“Ah…”
He does not remember crawling back to Jim’s side. The lapse should be concerning, but it does not matter. He wipes blood from his hands, both red and green, onto his regulation pants and grips Jim’s covered arm, solid but cognizant that his intact sleeve may be hiding further injuries. “Captain, do not move and if you must speak, restrict your volume.”
Jim’s eyes are unfocused and exhibiting a strange sheen. “Status…” He hisses through his teeth, breath fractured into three, shallow inhales. “Status report, Mr. Spock,” he manages.
“We were attacked by an unknown vessel,” he answers, ears straining all the while to listen to the ever-approaching footsteps. “I believe we crash landed on V-23.” It was the only planet in their immediate vicinity, and their intended destination prior to taking on phaser fire. The tone of his voice drops, matching his volume in its softness, as he says “I also hear something approaching, Jim.”
Jim winces and plants his hands on the ground beneath him. The muscles beneath Spock’s hand tense as he pushes. Resigned, Spock’s free hand braces his upper back. He is aware to attempt to convince him to lie still, even for just long enough to ensure moving will not cause further injury, is an exercise in futility.
With Spock’s help, Jim manages to sit up. He’s biting his lip hard enough to draw yet more blood. Spock’s movements this time, inserting himself against the intact sensor panel behind Jim and settling him against his chest, are not borne of thought nor muscle memory. He wonders if his shields are not as whole as he’d previously assumed.
Jim breathes against his neck. Both it and his forehead are uncomfortably warm, his thoughts and emotions slowly precipitating out of hazy consciousness. It is so different from the typical dance of his mind.
“Walters and Tracy?”
Spock's hands curl into golden fabric. “Deceased.”
Grief and guilt crystalize. Jim shudders. “Phasers?”
“Inoperable, as are the communicators.”
Jim shifts in his arms. He can feel his throat working, likely biting back the pain that is only growing along with his lucidity. A shaky hand presents both the remains of his phaser and a surprisingly intact communicator.
Spock does not bother with the obviously inoperable phaser. The communicator crackles. His attempt to contact the Enterprise, however, is only met with further static.
“The ion storm,” Jim whispers by way of explanation. The footsteps are now close enough to be detectable by human ears.
Readings indicated this planet is uninhabited by humanoids. However, there were numerous animal species that were picked up by the sensors. Spock thinks the pattern he hears is consistent with quadrupeds, but he cannot be certain. He also knows that this does not negate the possibility that the footsteps belong to their attackers.
He maneuvers Jim to lean against cold metal. Jim is staring at him, brow furrowed and fists clenched in his lap. Carefully, Spock stands. Darkness once again attempts to overtake his vision, but he forces his body to comply.
“Spock.”
He does not move.
“Spock!” Jim whispers. He can hear him fidgeting, no doubt attempting to stand, himself.
Still, he keeps his position between Jim and the shuttle door. There is little he can accomplish in a fight if their enemy has phasers. There is little he will accomplish even if they do not, in his condition. This posturing is therefore illogical.
He does not care.
Something slams against the side of the shuttle. Spock’s heart pounds against his ribs and pants behind him. He hears a growl and a huff, followed by another crash that rocks them, this time. That he manages to stay on his feet is again what Jim would call lucky.
He does not know how long this goes on. There are several more collisions, and eventually Spock steps back and lays a steadying hand against the edge of the battered sensor array. Whatever animals found them eventually lose interest. He listens as the footsteps retreat and his thundering heart edges closer to baseline.
He is kneeling, one hand bracing himself on the floor and the other on his thigh. The buzzing in his ears and pounding of his head obscure all other sound. There is nothing he can do but rest, eyes trained on the blood trickling from a cut on his hand. He wonders at the lack of clotting. Lack of pressure on the wound and movement of the area have likely undermined his body’s efforts. Blood drips onto his hand from above. He brings his uninjured one to his nose and eyes his green fingertips.
When he can move, he returns to Jim's side. Jim is angry with him. He feels it through his skin and hears it in the edge of his whispered words. He also feels his relief, his affection, and the way he slumps in Spock’s arms.
Captain Kirk does not have the luxury of vulnerability, yet he lays curled against him. He does not have the luxury of vulnerability, yet he tucks his head against his neck once more, bends his knees and throws his legs over one of Spock’s own, drifts toward sleep in his first officer’s arms.
Spock grazes his lips over Jim’s feverish forehead.
Captain Kirk does not have the luxury of vulnerability, and yet he has never turned him away when he’s taken a step toward more.
He does not remember falling asleep, but is awakened by footsteps. Voices accompany them. His condition has worsened, he thinks blearily, and though he is still cradling Jim, he does not know if he will again have the strength to stand.
He would prefer neither of them die at this moment, though he knows death is inevitable. If he and Jim where different people, perhaps he could be content to die with him in his arms, selfishly glad for the comfort and the opportunity to provide the same. But they are not different people. He knows he will fight to the last of his strength, as Jim would had he strength to give.
He keeps his eyes closed, conserving his energy until the last possible moment. He memorizes the feeling of Jim’s staccato breath against his neck, his hair against his cheek, the rhythm of his human heart. He tastes his pain-addled mind and thinks that he has been lucky.
The swish of the shuttle door prompts him to open one eye. His hands curl protectively around Jim, human emotionality and Vulcan perseverance conspiring into an expression he cannot begin to fathom. Sudden light blinds him. He does not back down. He will not.
There are vaguely humanoid blurs standing in the entrance, speaking. His head lances with pain when he tries to understand them. One of the shapes grows closer.
A low, warning growl vibrates his chest and throat. He keeps one hand around Jim’s back and wraps the other underneath his thighs in a more secure hold. It’s as his lips are curling to bear his incisors that the shape comes into view.
“Commander Scott,” he manages, before relief sweeps away any vestiges of adrenaline and he descends into unconsciousness.
The next time he wakes, he is in sickbay. There is the typical assurance from Dr. McCoy that Jim is safe, followed by their equally typical argument. He asks if McCoy will ever concede and allow him to heal on his own in the privacy of his quarters.
“You fractured your fucking skull, you moron!” is the only answer McCoy will give to his typical request.
Given the complexity of Vulcan head injuries, Jim is released before him, after only three days. His broken ribs have been healed by McCoy’s skilled hands, his lacerations similarly dealt with. Outwardly, it is as if he was never injured at all. His own concussion, however, has ensured he will be on medical leave for at least the remainder of the week. He knows it is difficult for Jim not to be on the bridge, but he hopes he can at least take comfort in the fact that the Romulan ship that attacked them made the mistake of then firing on the Enterprise. It was defeated long before Commander Scott found them, and they are now simply cruising above V-23 while the landing party explores.
Alone with not even a computer screen for company, Spock thinks about affection and luck and reaching out. He wonders what Jim remembers, if anything at all, of their time on V-23. More than that, he wonders what he thinks about it.
He hears Jim’s footsteps long before he sees him.
“I thought you might be bored,” Jim says by way of greeting.
The lights in his private room are low, and his vision is still blurred, but he knows Jim is smiling. He can hear it in his hushed voice.
“You are correct.”
He sits in the plastic chair at his bedside and holds his empty hands palm up. “Bones vetoed chess.”
“The doctor will not allow me to engage in anything that he deems too stimulating. Apparently, he believes chess falls into this category.”
Jim laughs, and though it is loud enough to cause pain, Spock does not mind. “Is that your way of telling me our games aren’t stimulating enough?”
He smiles. It’s small by human standards, but more than the typical uptick of the corners of his mouth. Another side-effect of his concussion.
“I see how it is, Mister. I’ll just have to show you how stimulating I can be.”
Heat floods his face. The memory, distorted by adrenaline and his injured brain, of his lips on feverish skin asserts itself in his mind.
Jim wets his own lips, before rubbing his index finger along the bottom one and looking away. “Spock…”
When he does not continue, Spock slowly, carefully, with his heart once again hammering in his side, presents his hand, palm upturned. “Captain.” When Jim only stares at it, brows furrowed, he continues, softer, “Jim.”
Like every other time, Jim does not push him away. He meets him, cradling his hand between both of his own. Through his touch, Spock senses relief and frustration and so much affection that he could become lost in it if he is not careful. The experience is tantamount to a kiss in Vulcan culture.
He meets Jim’s eyes, which are wide above his crooked grin, and watches as he presses a kiss to his knuckles.
“I’m glad you’re safe," Jim whispers into his skin.
Spock squeezes his hand. He is not certain if his resulting smile can be blamed on a concussion. He finds he does not care.
Vampiric vascular access PSA from your friendly neighbourhood fanfic writing medic: Where To Bite
For those of you who, like me, love to write/read this sad vampire (or indeed anyone who likes to write any vampire), there were just a couple of sexy little anatomy things that I wanted to highlight (purely for fun).
First: arteries vs veins - Arteries take blood at pressure generated by the left ventricle of the heart, hence the pulse, to tissues and organs. Veins are a low pressure system that take blood back to the heart (via all sorts of mechanisms like valves, suction pressure from inspiration, pressure gradients, etc). - The inherent not-quite-sexy risk to puncturing/bleeding from an artery (especially a big one) is the risk of clot formation and with that the risk that those clots travel (embolize) further down the artery. This can result in things like strokes or ischaemic limbs. - Major arteries have associated major veins running nearby them. - Because of pressure differences, arterial punctures can spurt blood out, whereas veins ooze. To drink from a vein you'd have to apply a little more suction, whereas drinking from an artery might be a bit more messy/squirty. - Sure, veins don't pulse in the way arteries do BUT the way that we find these big veins (without ultrasound) is via use of anatomical landmarks. Your fave vampire will likely know those landmarks. Durge will likely also know these landmarks...for other reasons.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary
He hated the feeling - it was too much like The Urge for him to feel safe.
Astarion seemed to pick up on it too, his idle movements stilling to watch him. “Not going to go all murder-y on us, are you?” He asked, tone light and eyes serious.
Was it really that bad? Or was Astarion just that perceptive?
Vivex shook his head. “No, only the usual amount.” His joke fell flat—which, fair—but it seems to be enough to calm Astarion down anyways. His muscles carefully untensed.
“Good, because we need to talk.” Astarion gestured for him to sit. Vivex did, feeling more than a little awkward
…
Vivex has a rather strong reaction in the shadow-cursed lands to hearing Madeline’s story. The Urge approves, but his companions do not.
Astarion sees through him, like usual.
i made a whump wheel
want to beat up a character but don't know how you wanna do it? same here, friend. behold, the whump wheel! it currently has 60 different prompts/tropes on it and is ready for use! 🎉 i...love this thing. it is wonderful for writing exercises. (if you wanna know what's on it before using it, take a peak at the screenshot below)
ur gay <3 /pos
True and real
Not sure if you write for females but can I get an lumine with like hurt/comfort where she spends too much time with her brother and eventually forgets about you and realizes when her friends tell her? Thank you if you do this! ❤️🥰
Hi!! It’s been forever but since its summer and I’m on a train I figured I’d go through my ask box on this blog. I hope this still finds you!!!
And yes I do write female characters, I’m just usually fixated on men for both the gender and the attraction lol. Usually I don’t do inserts so it’s a bit short but anything for you anon!
It’s not that you didn’t understand why Lumine was so busy. After all, even before she had been reunited with Aether she’d been busy. You had learned to expect long stretches where all you had were letters describing her latest quest, freeing a nation, saving hundreds of lives, or discovering some long lost secret.
Many times, several of those at once.
You had your own life as well, and with your own responsibilities along with a respect for her life it had never really bothered you too much before. It was just how Lumine was.
It’s just now she was staying here right by your home with her brother and you were supposed to have more time together.
You missed the early mornings checking ar the Adventures Guild together and helping her with whatever errand or quest assigned. You missed the long afternoons spent eating lazy lunches in the shade and quiet hours fishing together.
An ugly resentment had grown inside you instead, since she’d been far too busy doing all of that with Aether instead. You knew it wasn’t entirely fair. Aether had been perfectly nice the few times you’d spoken to him. But you just wished Lumine could visit for a bit or at least invite you along with them sometime. You felt left behind. Forgotten about.
You missed her, and it was terribly lonely. Your eyes were watering and you let them. You were at a lunch spot under a tree the two of you often stopped at but it wasn’t the same alone. Your own efforts to cheer yourself up backfired and you felt even worse. You just wanted your friend back.
Suddenly you heard the fair sound of two familiar voices laughing in the distance. You wiped your face quickly, horrified.
What timing.
It was Lumine and Aether, of course. As they rounded the corner towards your spot in the shade, you got to see Lumines carefree expression morph into surprise.
“Oh! I didn’t think I’d run into you here today,” Lumine said breaking into a bright smile. It faltered slightly when she focused on your face, easily reading your expression and red and puffy eyes.
She turned to Aether. “Give me a minute with them,” she said quietly to him, and he nodded, staying a respectful distance behind as she approached you.
“Hey, are you okay?” Lumine kneeled beside you, with a comforting hand resting on your shoulder.
“I’m okay,” you try and reassure her, but she could always read you too well.
“Come on, don’t give me that. What’s wrong?” Her tone was stern, but not unkind.
Your throat felt dangerously tight. You swallowed and let out a shaky breath. “It’s stupid-”
“It’s not,” she interrupted with an air of finality.
“I just miss you,” you admitted.
She tilted her head, studying you. “I’m right here, she points out.
You shrugged. “Yeah it’s just… we’ve hardly seen each other since you’ve been back you know. With Aether.” And once you’ve started it felt impossible to stop. “You said you’d cook those recipes for us when you got back but you’ve been busy…” you wipe the tears spilling over your cheeks, sniffling. “It’s like you’ve forgotten about me,” you finished, voice small.”
Lumine immediately pulled you into a hug, holding you for several long moments. She only lets go once you’ve stopped crying. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I guess I’ve gotten pretty distracted with my brother back- it’s no excuse though.”
“It’s fine,” you murmured.
“Honestly,” she sighs, “Not really.” She sits down beside you, leaning against the rough bark of the tree. She takes her time, collecting her thoughts. “I supposed I just… before, you know, the two of us, my brother and I, we were inseparable. I didn’t need anyone except him. After all that’s happened… part of me just wants to pretend we can just go back to being like that.”
You leaned against her at the admission, trying to provide your own comfort now. “Lumine-”
She shook her head. “No, like I said, it’s no excuse. It isn’t like that anymore. I know that. Besides, I’ve missed you too.” She smiled softly at you and you return the gesture.
“How about this,” she said, “do you want to join me and Aether picking mint? Then afterwards we can have dinner. Just the two of us.”
Your smile brightened at that. “Only if you’re cooking,” you agreed, and Lumine laughed loudly.
“Anything for you.” She got up, and offered you a hand.
You took it.
Howdy everyone! I would love to write some today, so please send in some prompts!
Currently I’d be interested in genshin impact prompts (or maybe Hades game?)
I’ll tag my favorite characters to write for but feel free to send in any you have!
This isn’t what I normally post here but I have written a fic so I thought I’d share it!
Warnings: idk what we can use on tumblr anymore so uh lemon? Citrus scale throwback time ig? Full list on ao3!
Snippet:
You felt your heart rate pick up in your chest. At your long pause, Zhongli’s eyes darken. “I… Didn’t get them. I might’ve, uh, gotten a bit off track?”
He stares at you, face stony and still, but it only makes him look more intimidating. That face, that look… it should not make your mind go to the places it does. You feel the warmth in your cheeks grow.
“I’m sorry,” you continue, “I really didn’t mean to! It was the end of my trip and it was storming so-“ you stumble over your words as you try to explain and justify yourself. At first, it seems like you have no effect breaking his cool exterior, but then Zhongli takes a step closer to you.
“Wha-“ your voice cuts off in a squeak as his hands reach behind your head, fingers entwining to grasp a fistful of hair. “Wait, what are you-“
You’re cut off by a glare. His face is-it’s intense. He pulls you by the hair and into the alleyway behind the shop. It’s dark here, without the lanterns that line the main streets. Though the weather has improved from yesterday, it’s cloudy – even the light of the moon is blocked out.
He pushes you against the stone wall, and it makes you shiver. The stone is cold even through the layers of your clothes.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Top 10 Tips for Actually Writing
for the writer who can’t seem to write.
Buy a pencil and paper. Get a writing program and a keyboard.
Spill all your ideas into a notebook that will never see the light of day. Write down literally every idea you have that even sort of relates to the scene/chapter/book that you want to write until your thoughts converge on a pointed attack.
Quality vs. Quantity? No competition. Quantity all the way. The more you write, the better you will know your story. Worry about Quality LATER.
Think about where the idea came from. Go there. Set up a cardboard box and live there. This is your home now.
What is the coolest, most self-indulgent thing you can think of? That’s what you want to write at this point, until you get some steam.
Short-term goals, my friends. And by short-term, I mean a minute from now, ten seconds from now. What are you going to do to write RIGHT NOW? Stop thinking about an hour from now, stop thinking about a day from now.
This is not a book. This is not a book. You are not writing a book. You are writing a story. A story is much easier to take bites out of than a book. A book is a big, scary, colossal thing. Stories are fun and carefree.
Get yourself a writing friend. A cactus, an old bottle of nail polish, a fish in an appropriately sized tank, etc. Make them hold you accountable.
Set crazy low goals. Promise yourself you will write ten words today. Ten words and you will be the Best Writer in the Entire World to Ever Exist. Accomplishing things is a morale booster and will urge you to write more.
Just keep writing. I believe in you.
I was shocked when I realized this 😳
Gotta learn to love (or at least enjoy) every aspect of a craft before you can grow and improve!!
hey guys! I’m writing regularly again, working on some longer for the untamed right now but I’m not gone! I hope I can post some new stuff for y’all soon 💖
