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At Least - Blog Posts
Tumblers hiding my posts & not showing them in the tags I've posted them with again, so I'm reposting this so see if it'll play nice :/
I’d consider sitting at 5, 8, and 12; they're all pretty chill, and I like pretty much all of them. A much as I love Kokichi, and Byakuya; Fuyuhiko and Kokichi would no DOUBT fight like children and Byakuya would probably just sit there and give them dirty looks.
and 7 would just be a disaster. Nagito’s love/hate for Junko would probably lead to them physically fighting while Miu laughs at them and makes dirty jokes.
I saw this on Reddit for the danganronpa fans
I would probably sit at 2, 5 or 16
Stay away from 7
What do you pick?
What do you think Tumblr is for?
they need to make an app for the mentally ill …
idk why people act like polyam relationships are literally the devil's spawn you are acting like multiple girls kissing and fucking eachother consensually killed your grandma RELAX!
like it's not hard to respect something especially if it ain't your cup of tea( polyam personally is not my thing cuz I hold a lot of trauma towards it, but I don't go out of my way shaming others for it that's just loser shit in my opinion)
I need more of your wips
have some snack-sized 1941 angst, i have way too many of those just. sitting in my wip folders
—
"It's not—listen, I don't—"
"Angel," Crowley interrupts him, far more gently than he thought himself capable of. "I know."
Some of the tension bleeds from Aziraphale's body, and his fingers still, unclenching and leaving behind pale half-moon scars on the outside of his wrist. His cheeks are flushed with a bottle of wine and the taste of it on Crowley's tongue, and when he inhales to calm his own trembling hands, he is hit with a wave of unconcealed desire. For a second, it is impossible to tell where Aziraphale's ends and his begins—not that it matters anymore, not with three feet of space and the weight of God's gaze separating them.
"I know," he repeats, trying to forget the caress of tear-stained lips on his throat, the press of warm hands on his face, his ribs, sliding down and down, and—
He pulls his shades out of wherever he had banished them and slides them back into place, gritting his teeth at the disappointment settling on Aziraphale's face. Dawn is an hour away, and the pleasant chill of angel-blue eyes meeting the hidden gold of his makes him consider staying until the sky turns grey; yearning for another taste of something is so much more dangerous than the temptation of the unknown. Crowley knows that if he does not leave now, he probably never will.
"See you soon?"
Aziraphale smiles, fragile, hopeful, scared. The brittle glass inside his chest holding back centuries of desperate longing is beginning to crack, forming the tiniest fracture, and Crowley allows the next sentence to slip through; just this once, he lets himself be honest.
"Couldn't live without you, angel."
Within one inhale and the next, he is gone, and Aziraphale watches the door unblinking until the sun washes away Crowley's shadow.