#shrugs....

[ufo-bound]

ex-mutual starting to slowly post less and less mwhehehehehehe

[decapodparty]

stranger things fans are calling it "generational queerbait" but if it was generational you think they would have learned their lesson from the past 30 years of this exact formula playing out

[lunamothghost]

i used to love to render art. what happened to me

[corkscrewrawks]

he def showers wit this kinda fuckin soap i just know it .

[nannerism]

Oh, it has been so so long since I have used Tumblr ...

But I think I should use it! So here is a Low Poly Wally Darling for your travels ...

He spins, too !

[dragqueenpentheus]

i am SIMPLY wondering if s@briel shippers still exist and if there's fic rec

[ladyem-s-grimoire]

Any situation to draw my muses in ? -not a meme to reblog :v-

[thethespacecoyote]

Problem: I have this road trip AU fic that I started ages ago and picked up again recently thanks to @bitterbrokenbones ‘s inspiration but?? its all a bunch of neat sounding sentences that I have to actually figure out how to string together lol 

He feels it in the bright smile Jack gives him when Rhys finds his favorite brand of cigarettes at the rest stop, the kind in the yellow box with the stylized red stallion and the sun. 

He feels it in the way Jack wraps his shirts with gas station air-fresheners when Rhys complains about the smell and there’s not another motel for miles. 

He feels it when Jack fingers a can of peaches swiped through a diner’s backdoor, thick sloppy rings crooked on his fingers as he feeds them to Rhys, before chasing away the sticky sweetness with his lips. 

He feels it in the way the freeway signs glow like ghosts through the spotted haze of the windshield, the way their headlights reflect back on Jack’s face, paling his skin for only a moment before he fades back against the ratty leather of the driver’s seat. 

and

For the first time since they stole away together, the difference in age between them feels solid, palpable to Rhys’ fingers and heavy on his tongue as it hangs in the air between them. Rhys cautiously moves through it like jelly when Jack beckons to him with the hand holding the knife. He sits in the shitty motel chair like a broken throne, backlight in a corona of flickering orange light. Rhys’ heart trembles every time the glow from the window flickers, never knowing which Jack sits before him now--the one he’d ran off with, their fingers laced full of promises, or the one who had days earlier vomited in the hot rain besides their car, the one who had swore violent to the skies and started the engine with the gouge on his face still dripping blood into his collar.