#im going to try and write now

[ladyohdeath]

rant incoming under the cut, because i don't have a diary or a therapist and i don't know how to open up to people irl.

i am really struggling with going back to work because it feels, irrationally, like failure.

when i started film school -- over 10 years ago now -- i had so many chances. i had so much work i was ready to do, and i was down in the city, i was ready to move forward. but i was scared. i didn't move out of my mom's house because i let her hold on me get tighter. i let her rely on me. i got a full time job to pay her bills and to try and fund my dreams. i fell into the worst mental and physical health i've ever been in. for the next ten years, i worked every single day, and in 2020 i got diagnosed with pcos and other illnesses that made me so sick.

this year i got really bad. my job got so bad that i almost had a heart attack, i had to be rushed to the hospital. i was fainting almost every day from stress. my mental health was so bad that i would have a meltdown every day. it was so goddamn bad. and throughout all of that, my career was totally gone. i didn't have anymore connections. i stopped going on film sets. i became forgotten

then i got laid off, and i thought to myself, this is my chance. i can write, i can get to work, i can try and get back in. but god i have spent the past 9 months trying to deal with myself again. trying to figure out how to be alive. trying to catch up on a decade of burn out and letting my body recover.

and i've been writing yeah but nothing is fully complete. i haven't had the chance, the skill, nor the money to pursue the mentorships i wanted to pursue. now it's november, my unemployment is about to run out, and i got a job interview at a job that'll pay well, but i feel myself failing

my biggest fear in life is working a 9-5, becoming like my mother, and working for no money, having kids and dying without being happy. i don't have a college degree because i went to film school. i put all my cards into film and then i stopped doing it. every time i take a new 9-5 job i feel myself falling into my biggest fears. i don't want that for my life. but i feel like i'm in a rut and can't get out

all i can do now is continue to write, work for money, and attend as many networking things as i can on the side. maybe, if i'm lucky, 2025 is my year and i will finally get back on set. maybe i can do it. breaking into this industry is not easy, especially not after a ten year break. and i know it'll be ten times harder to do it with a 9-5 job but... i have no choice. i have to pay the bills

idk. i'm just disheartened. and i have so many regrets in life already and i'm not even 30 yet. i wish i could go back in time and tell younger me to take risks, to leave home, to chase my dreams and not fall victim to my mental health. but i never did and now i'm going to have to fucking claw my way back like a feral cat. and i don't know if my claws are sharp enough anymore.

[sunny-knight]

THIS IS HOME

@forgettable-au Fan-Animatic ⭐️

The stars welcome him with open arms…

Work and Progress + Analysis below!

You can find the work in progress things here! because I wanna show the sketch animatic and you can only upload one video…

The entire idea was inspired off of THIS lovely little qna written a bit ago! havnt forgotten about it since! Despite what the AU might have you believe And recently I decided I could just draw out the fun part instead of go through the pain of storyboarding and cleaning up a nearly 4 minute long song 👍👍👍

Thats the idea though, theres no real plot, so no real context I can give other than the things the comic itself already provides. “This Is Home” just works incredibly well for this poor childs trauma, and it was a great opportunity to practice my composition and storytelling!!

Onto the deep analysis of every frame individually!!! (this is normal. this happens every time.)

The idea that Wingdings just eventually- gave up. Trying to connect with anyone. HURTS ME DEEPLY. I’m not sure if thats specifically because he just couldn’t get the font thing down, but I imagine that was a big contributing factor. But thats what specifically stops him here. He eventually slams his keys down on the board and says “IM DONE” and throws himself into a thing he can purely enjoy on his own- science. Even at a young age, I feel he only had 2 lives. One with Sans, and one with science. Then when those worlds combined when he became the royal scientist uhhh- I imagine it got worse.

Speaking of his young age, In these shots he’s also notably a tad older than the later depictions of his younger self with the scarf. Less full of joy and whimsy

“His mind is in a different place” is taken a tad more negatively than in the context of the song I feel, as he’s more or less isolated himself from everyone (but Sans) now in this “giving up” phase of his childhood. I wonder how Sans noticed/took that and if he tried to convince him otherwise, but in this case he just thinks he needs some time to himself.

Also let it be known that the words being crammed in at the “Give him a little bit of space” bit is on PURPOSE and a SILLY LITTLE JOKE/VISUAL GAG GIVEN THE LINE. I AM SO FUNNY.

The colors are also notably dark blues, that get greyer when Wingdings has given up. The light that Sans lets in ((looks into the camera, tearing up)) is still pretty cold despite it being brighter.

The berating is also in uppercase to show most of this is from Wingdings’ pov- I know he speaks in proper casing at this time, but I NEED SOME SORT OF INDICATOR, WORK WITH ME HERE. His main issue was his own self consciousness and desire to communicate properly, since it was said before on the blog that no one really picked on him for his inability to talk to them.

Then we have Papyrus!! The colors are similarly blue, but a lot brighter and a touch purpler and greener. Its from the same world, but not the same person. Also he’s wearing a yellow vest which is the complimentary color to blue ☝️

Papyrus is more heavily associated with warm colors in contrast to Wingdings, but this takes place very early on when he was very confused where his place was (or at least I assume thats what happened). He’s associating with warm colors (yellow) but is somewhat weary about it and still subconsciously clutching onto the comfort in familiarity.

The scene ofc depicts Papyrus being incredibly uncomfortable about any photos of himself as a child. It still definitely…looooks… like him. it just feels really wrong.

Similar thing to last time with the fonts as well, uppercase, Papyrus’ pov, he just wants to know who/WHAT he is.

I enjoy the colors in the photo and how they reallly stand out from the rest of the shot, just another emphasis that the photo feels otherworldly to Papyrus.

This is the part where I start weeping pitifully. The tiny Wingdings to Gaster comparison- it’s just so upsetting, I want to know what this poor child would think if he saw what he ends up as 😭

Wingdings enjoyed dreaming about the real stars he MIGHT get to see one day with Sans. The scene is dark, as it still hasnt happened yet, but still bright and hopeful as he stares up at the light! Its always a possibility. But then we have Gaster, who finally did it. He reached the stars, he gets to look up and say “wow…. I really did it”. Staring up at the void before him. Without Sans…I feel he wouldn’t ponder on it much, and consciously he doesn’t see anything bad about his circumstances, but the crack going down his eye that elludes to a tear says otherwise in the suppressed emotions.

The world Wingdings lived in when he was small, seemed so endless…Despite the underground being small compared to the real world, his imagination was endless. He could dream, he could imagine, and create things, get and give new ideas! But now as an adult that just so happens to be a lovecraftian entity, everything is much more simple and straightforward. At least from his perspective…Gaster may be able to DO way more than he ever could as a small child, but his mind is pretty one track at this point.

I wonder how Gaster feels…Now that they’ve gotten to the surface. without him

Im not sure how Papyrus in the game or even in the comic feels about stars, but Sans for one doesnt have to daydream anymore. They’ve also “done it” just like Gaster, but the hug insinuates less of that and more a “we WON”. They share in this moment together more emotionally than anything.

Again, compared to Gaster and them, they enjoy the moment in their own ways- Gaster just the action of seeing the stars, and Papyrus in what the moment itself means. I feel those are the 2 wants Wingdings had and thats a lot of what Papyrus and Gaster are. 2 halfs of Wingdings’…whole…thing

Also the stars welcoming him with open arms is both in reference to Sans but also Papyrus welcoming/accepting/loving himself…

IN CONCLUSION:

…yknow ive never asked before, but if anyone has any questions or needs clarification im happy to-

[xxplastic-cubexx]

personal happiness or what the fuck ever

bonus:

[emmg]

It is no hardship, Emmrich tells himself, to wear his face. It is his, after all. The one he was born with, the one that grew and shifted under his own patient gaze, seen in puddles, in mirrors, in the glass of a carriage window as he smoothed down his hair with the flat of his palm. A face he had stared at for far too long that first time he shaved, and again a few years later when he invited that very pretty boy out for a promenade and wanted, with all the force of a young man’s vanity, to be just as pretty himself—no hair astray, the kohl at his lower lids an almost imperceptible shadow, the perfume at his neck a whisper of carelessness, though in truth, nothing had ever been more deliberate.

For a decade now, they have called him distinguished. Before that, they called him handsome. He knows his face, likes his face. Its summoning should be no trouble at all; especially now, especially like this, stripped down to something more elemental, all ivory angles and nothing more. But Rook is uneasy. She does not say so—she is all sorry, shit, don’t mind me, fuck, fuck, I’ll get used to it, I’ll get used to it—but she is not made for the sight of bone in the dark when she wakes abruptly. He has had years to come to terms with the unmaking of his flesh. She has not.

So he does not miss his face, not really. But Rook does. And for Rook, he will pretend. 

No, he tells himself again, he does not mind. He does not. 

Lichdom, as he had once explained to her, sanded down most of his senses. Blunted them, rubbed them smooth. But in their place, others have surfaced. Senses without names, without proper edges, ones that slip through language like smoke through a cracked door. He cannot smell the perfume she wears, though he knows it is dreadful, some sticky, saccharine thing she bought in Treviso with Lucanis and spilled all over her shirt. But he can see her pleasure when she presses a little figurine into his palm, triumphant and insistent. This one, she affirms, is so much prettier than the first, and most importantly, not haunted. 

He watches her giddiness churn inside her, thick and writhing. It is purple, inexplicably. It loops and knots, wriggling sideways, swelling through her veins, a restless thing. It coils, slippery, around her heart before pouring from her mouth when she speaks. When she presses her lips to what passes for his cheek, he thinks he can taste it. Or something like tasting. As if she had chewed it to a pulp, crushed it between her molars, worked it down to something fibrous and wet and pressed it into him, like carrion slipped between teeth, offered as a gift. 

He swallows it, slow. 

Perhaps this is what purple has always tasted like. 

There are other things. Other feelings. They arrive misshapen, crawling over the edges of his thoughts, curious, pestering, impossible to ignore. They perplex him. They amuse him. And sometimes—sometimes—he wishes he felt nothing at all.

Like when she cuts herself, and he watches the blood spill, a slow, indifferent line along the curve of her arm. But it is not blood, not in the dull, medical sense. Not something as pedestrian as iron and salt. It is a ribbon, impossibly red, and he can see the rest of it coiled inside her, packed neatly away, waiting to be tugged. How much could he pull free before she wavers, before her lips lose their color, before the bright, stubborn thing inside her gutters out? 

He heals her arm. Does not look at her when he does it. Says nothing of consequence. 

But he wants to take that ribbon and wind it around her wrist, knot it, twist it, pull it so tight that it ceases to be a ribbon at all. Flesh yielding to pressure, pressure forcing permanence. A bracelet of skin. A smooth, bloodless seam. A correction. 

Rook thanks him. A glance, a nod—already half-gone as she turns toward Rivain. There are things to be done there for her, and he cannot stray from the Necropolis for long. What things, exactly, she does not say, but he knows their shape well enough: dragons, impulse, the peculiar magnetism of disaster. She has always been like this, drawn to the spectacularly unwise with the certainty of a moth misjudging distance. 

He can no longer follow. 

She will return. He knows this. And yet, if his hands still possessed the capacity for tremor, he suspects they would betray him now. 

"I love you, I love you, I love you," she sings, a careless, looping refrain, a child’s chant repurposed for a woman who has never quite learned to tread lightly. She chatters as she moves; this and that, something or other, a bad decision or three. She shows him rings, delicate and stolen, lifted from a dragon’s hoard, then tells him of a strange mug found in the same place and promptly lost to someone forgettable in a game of cards. 

"Look, look," she says, because excitement makes her redundant. "I kept these for you." 

The rings slide onto his fingers—bandaged, skeletal, indifferent to the distinction. He flexes them. Smiles, because each one carries an emerald, and green has always pleased him. 

"I was meaning to ask you," Rook says. She is still holding his hand, turning it gently in her own, left, right, right, left, as though testing whether it is truly there. "You are smiling now." 

"I am." 

"Don’t interrupt me." 

"My deepest apologies." 

"It was a joke," she says, but absently, without weight. Then, again, softer: "You are smiling now. But is it real? Or do I see a smile only because I expect to? Because I believe it should be there?" 

"It is quite real," he reassures her, lifting his free hand, brushing two fingers against her cheek. "The glamour does not fabricate emotions. It is a projection, not an invention. A polished pane of glass through which I am seen, rather than a mask obscuring what lies beneath. It filters nothing. It simply allows you to perceive what is still there, as it was." 

She exhales. He watches it unfurl from her mouth, a slip of breath that curls, dissipates, wrapped in green. Relief, perhaps. 

"Good," she murmurs. "That is good." 

There are things he misses more than others. Some he had not expected to mourn, believing that lichdom would cauterize the want before it could take shape. And perhaps it would have, if not for Rook. But she exists, unavoidably, and so the loss takes shape, outlines itself, defines itself against the hollow places she touches. 

The intimacy of the body: its mechanics, its heat, its crude and glorious simplicity. He misses the way skin clings, damp and sticky, the tack of sweat drying between them. The way lips grow chapped from too much kissing, saliva sapped away until the skin cracks, until the next kiss stings. He misses the raw and graceless rhythm of it, the press of her thighs around him, the slow loss of self in the churn of it all. He misses the way he could press his palm to her stomach, still sheathed within her, and feel himself there, caged by her. 

And afterward, in the languid sprawl of spent nerves and loose limbs, the way his mind would wander, taking him by the hand, showing him its little fantasies, its secreted-away indulgences—let us get married, Rook, I will buy you so much gold, let’s get married, yes, and then let’s have a child, but not immediately, not at once, let’s linger here a while, let’s lose ourselves in this, let’s glut ourselves on one another until we are utterly ruined by it, and then, yes, then, we will have that little thing.

Now, he feels her differently. Not through skin but through something more fundamental, a closeness that eclipses anything flesh ever allowed. It is fuller, sharper, deeper than anything he could have imagined. 

But it is not the same. 

And he does not yet know if he prefers it. 

Time, as always, will decide. 

Pleasure has not abandoned him. It has only changed its nature, its source, its means of arrival. Now, it exists solely through her. He sees, now, how men dissolve into drink, into smoke, into whatever tincture delivers them to sensation. The body remembers its peaks; the body conspires to reach them again. 

"Will you come for me, darling girl?" he murmurs against her ear, his fingers curling inside her as they have done so many times before—when his hands were warm, when they ceased to be. 

And she does what she always does: she writhes, she gasps, she laughs, she moves against him with the helpless, thoughtless grace of something yielding to gravity. Her hips chase the friction, her mouth parts, her breath hitches, her lashes lower, heavy with pleasure. And he—he is there inside her, feeling it as she feels it, tasting it in a way that has nothing to do with taste, swallowing it down, letting it course through him. It is vast. It is staggering. Pleasure enough for two, for more than two, enough to fill the space where he no longer exists. 

Afterward, she is breathless, boneless, staring up at the ceiling and laughing that strange, impossible laugh. He no longer tries to make sense of it. Some things cannot be translated. She has a laugh for anger, a laugh for excitement, a laugh for surprise. He thinks he knows this one well enough by now, the one that trickles out of her in the aftermath. 

A trick, an echo, the imitation of a thing once real. He kisses her where he would have kissed her once—her mouth, the sharp ridge of her collarbone, the small curve of her breast, except now there is no heat, no wet drag of a tongue, no parted lips. Only the careful architecture of a spell, a memory sculpted into sensation, something just close enough to pass for real. He trails lower, following the old pathways, the ones his hands remember even if they are no longer the same. 

She sighs. Again. Again. Another time. 

He lingers where she yields the most, where she is all pulse and warmth, where her thighs, slick and trembling, part for him before he even touches her. Where breath quickens and thought slips away. And through it, he drinks. Draws from her as he always does, as he must, in ways he does not fully understand, or perhaps does, but has decided against understanding. He takes until she is weightless, drifting, until her voice emerges in that low, drowsy enough, enough, until she exhales, unconscious of herself, shifting, turning into him, her cheek settling against his shoulder, her body already gone to sleep.

And he wonders—if he did not stop, could he empty her? 

What is it that they share, exactly? What does she give? What does he take? Is it taking at all? Perhaps she is feeding from him just as he feeds from her.

He could ask. He could go looking for the answer. It is what he has done his entire life. 

But he does not. Because the answer, whatever it may be, does not matter. Because, at his core, he knows this much to be true: 

He is an empty thing now. 

And all empty things must be filled. 

It is a dreadful experience, watching her get hurt. Dreadful in its predictability, in the casual inevitability of it. Rook, as he has come to understand, is the sort of person who leaps from a cliff first and wonders, mid-air, whether there was perhaps a gentler way down.  

He saw it in Hossberg—how she, in some fit of blind fury over a slight he can no longer remember, kicked a blight boil with all the grace of a petulant child, only for the thing to rupture, spraying its filth over her boots, her legs, her hands, her face. Later, when he spat out his anger—you could have infected yourself, and then what? Where would the Veilguard be without their leader?—she had, without hesitation, lifted her middle finger and held it aloft, like a banner, like a flag planted firmly into the dirt, a gesture so profoundly Rook that it settled the argument before it could begin.

She returns from Rivain with a sprained wrist and, predictably, does not acknowledge it until he gestures toward it, a quiet inquiry rather than an accusation. 

So he buys her things. Things with weight, with shimmer, with the ability to distract. A bottle of wine she favors, a dress the precise shade of blue that once made her pause in front of a shop window, jewelry that catches light and throws it back in a thousand fractured directions. Loud things, bright things, expensive things. The kind of things a magpie would die over. Because Rook—misnamed, mislabeled—is no rook at all, no solemn, shrewd thing perching in the rafters. She is a magpie, ever in pursuit of the next gleaming fragment, the brightest piece of a broken world. That is why she is away, isn’t it? Always away. Always chasing.

But Nevarra has more gold than the Rivaini coast. 

He wants to say—won’t you stay? Won’t you, at last, stay longer? But there is something perilous in the asking. The wrong phrasing, the wrong weight to his voice, and she will fold up like a map, unreadable, distant, already turning toward the door.

She lifts a necklace, lets it spill through her fingers, a thin chain pooling in her palm. "Ooooh," she hums. "What’s the occasion?" 

"I have missed you terribly," he says. "You were away too long." 

"I missed you too." 

"Then stay. My townhouse is yours, of course. It is in the heart of the city—" 

"But you won’t be there," she interrupts, without sharpness, without accusation. A simple statement of fact. "You’ll be in the Necropolis."

"Then stay with me in the Necropolis," he says, more softly. 

She looks at him. Long enough for him to grow aware of the silence. Long enough for him to think he ought to say something more, to fill the space with some innocuous remark, something to break the weight of it—a comment on the weather, the slow drip of rain against the windowpanes, the scent of damp stone, the candlelight shifting across her cheek, the peeling corner of the wallpaper he has been meaning to mend but never does. 

Then, at last, in a whisper, as if she is considering each word before releasing it: 

"I'm trying." 

A breath. 

"I'm really, really trying. I love you so much. This frightens me, but I love you, and I'll stay longer, I promise, and you needn’t hide your face, no, no, you can stop hiding it now, but it is so terribly cold here, and I can smell the bones, Emmrich, did you know one can smell bones?" 

Senseless, rambling little words, leaving her mouth with no regard for order, no real expectation of being understood. He listens anyway. He nods as if these words, specifically, are the ones he has been waiting to hear. He holds her hands, pressing his fingers lightly over hers, as though reacquainting himself with the shape of them, the bones beneath the skin. And this time—this time—she stays.

He does not move. Does not speak. Instead, he lets the moment settle around him, lets it press in from all sides, cautious and weightless, as if sudden motion might send it scattering. A trick of the mind, surely, nothing more than habit, the vestigial longing of a body that no longer exists. And yet—something, something faint and absurd and wholly impossible—something like warmth uncoils in the vacant spaces of him, and for the first time in too long, he allows himself to believe in the illusion. 

And he is happy, so terribly, foolishly happy, until she steps where a step should have been, onto stone that no longer exists, because the Necropolis, fickle and treacherous as ever, decides to shift beneath her. One moment she is there, cursing the cold, flicking dust from her sleeve, and the next she is gone, swallowed into the dark, falling before he can reach for her. Then—impact, the sound of something snapping, something that should not snap. 

"Oh, for fuck’s sake," she spits, voice sharp with pain, her frustration seething through clenched teeth. "I hate this fucking place. This miserable, shifting, plague-ridden, necrophiliac fucking mausoleum. This—" she swallows, gasps, rage momentarily overtaken by the white-hot shock of agony, then forces the words out, savage and breathless—"this godsdamned, dusty, corpse-stinking labyrinth of a tomb. Fuck this place. Fuck you for living in it. Fuck this floor for moving. Fuck my fucking leg." 

She hisses even as she cries, squeezing her eyes shut as if trying to will the hurt out of her body. He sees, at last, what has happened. A break, and not a clean one: bone slick and white against torn skin, jutting through muscle, her blood already thickening where it pools on the stone. 

And then—something strange. A pull, an unraveling, something unwinding before him, leading away. The ribbon again, unspooling, slipping from her, stretching outward, as though guiding him somewhere he does not wish to go. His vision narrows. He follows it. He follows it because he cannot help but follow it. 

"Emmrich?" Her voice has changed. The heat is gone, as is the anger. She sounds uncertain now. She sounds concerned. "Emmrich, are you—?" 

But he is looking at the ribbon. Watching where it leads. Watching where it ends. 

And he would weep if he could. 

He has spent his life in a state of want, always reaching, always grasping, always aching to be something necessary to someone. And now—now, at last—he has what he has longed for. Rook, quick and wild and untouchable. Rook, who was born lovely and careless and beautiful, who could have wrapped herself around anyone she pleased but chose, instead, him—old and grey, and then, simply, bone. Rook, with her hands always outstretched, her eyes always searching, who once told him, so offhandedly he almost believed she didn’t mean it, that she would have given him a child.

Now—now, she sits before him, cursing under her breath, her leg twisted, her blood sliding across the stone, and he understands, too suddenly, too clearly, that he cannot keep her. 

One day, that ribbon will slip from her entirely. 

And he will be wanting again, except this time, there will be no remedy, no second chance, no indulgence to dull the ache. 

Because she—she—the only thing that has ever fit the hollow inside him, will be gone.

A year. Ten. Twenty. Perhaps less. Perhaps more. 

She will be gone. 

Gone, gone, gone. 

"It will not break again," he tells her.

"Really?" she asks, pale from hurt.

"Truly."

He stands, glances over the chamber, and selects a sconce, its veilfire guttering weakly within its iron frame. He snuffs it out with a flick of his wrist, wrenches the metal free from the wall, and lets it sag into liquid in his palm. The Necropolis will not miss it. It devours offerings every day; what is one more? The molten iron shifts, pulses, rolls like living mercury as he shapes it between his fingers. She watches, suspicious, wary, but when he takes the pain from her, she sighs, slackens, her body a thing that yields, a thing that trusts. 

Bone is simple. A structure, a framework. Break it, mend it, break it again. He has done this before, he will do it again, and the body always obeys in the end. With a slow push, he sets her leg back into place. Crack, crack, crack—shattered edges realign, splinters withdraw, raw ends fuse like wax pressed to wax. He sees the place where the bone has chewed its way free, white and wet against the torn meat of her calf. 

He presses his fingers into the wound, past the sealing skin. The iron above them stirs at his will, stretching like a cat in the air before obeying, flowing down, clinging to the surface of the bone. Not inside it, no. That would be crude, inelegant. Instead, it forms a layer, thin but solid, a second skeleton over the first. It cools as it settles, solidifies, binds itself to her as if it had always belonged there. He guides it lower, shaping it over her tibia, letting it follow the curve of her ankle, turning his wrist slightly to direct it sideways, until the fibula is covered as well, safe beneath its new armor. There.

The final shreds of her wound pull themselves shut, sealing over his work, concealing what has been done. 

She shifts her foot, tilting her head, considering. "Oh," she says. "I suppose I'll be heavier now." 

He kisses her cheek and feels the faint shift of muscle beneath his lips, the small, secret curve of her smile. This time, for once, her happiness has no color. Not gold, not red, not that strange, shimmering violet he sometimes sees curling from her ribs. Just happiness, unembellished, undisturbed. And because she feels it, he believes it, and because he believes it, he takes it for himself, drawing her close.

"I am so, so happy that you are safe," he hears himself say, a confession with no real shape, a drunken speech without the mercy of intoxication. "I worry when you are gone, and I worry when you are here. It seems that no matter what I do, something always finds you first." 

She hums, arms looping around him, her fingers idly mapping the planes of his back, tracing aimless patterns into the fabric of his robes. "I don’t know what to say to that," she admits, her voice softened by exhaustion, by the slow retreat of pain. "But I am so, so happy with you too. And it’s all right, it’s all right. Every time I break, you can repair me." She pauses, then adds, utterly deadpan, "Guess that makes you my skele-tonic."

It is an objectively terrible pun. 

"Until you stop breaking altogether," he murmurs. 

Another hum, vague, thoughtless. 

He draws from her as he always does: pleasure, warmth, something deeper, something without a name, though it must have one, must have been cataloged somewhere, written down by some scholar who spent his life studying things that could not be grasped. He has never fully understood what it is he takes, only that it belongs to her, and that, by some quiet, unspoken permission, it is his as well. He wants to love her forever. But more than that, he wants to ensure that forever remains within reach, that it does not remain, as so many things have, just outside his grasp, dissolving the moment he closes his fist. 

He has spent too long watching what he yearned for unravel before he could fasten it down. This, he will not allow. It will take gold, it will take iron, it will take something far stronger, something absolute. Until she ceases to break. Until breaking is no longer a possibility, a concept, a word that has anything to do with her. 

He does not yet know how. But he has time—too much of it. More than she does. And he has always been a man of precision, of hypothesis and proof, of elegant solutions to insufferable problems. He will find a way. Through metal or magic, through that ribbon of red that keeps slipping from her, unspooling itself in slow increments, always trying to get away. He will take it, force it back into place, stitch it to the marrow, fix it with something incorruptible, something permanent, something that cannot be unwound without unmaking her in the process. 

He presses a kiss to her temple, then to her forehead, and speaks of flowers. The new blooms in the Memorial Gardens. Hideous, by all accounts. She will adore them. She appreciates beauty, certainly, but she loves foolishness even more. He kisses her cheek, the tip of her nose, her small, stubborn chin, and feels it again—that bright, quiet thing. Happiness. 

And, miraculously, when he takes a piece for himself, it does not feel stolen. 

"Enough, enough," she murmurs at last, the same word twice, as she always does when she needs a break from him, when she has given too much, when she feels him pulling, drinking, taking in excess without meaning to. Laughter ghosts beneath the words, thin but present, a reminder that she is still here, still whole. She taps his wrist with two fingers, light, quick, final—a gesture that, for all its carelessness, feels uncannily like closing a book. 

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[ninakoll]

6 page (pg-13?) rinniki comic inspired by that one rly cute hajime story in which hajime is invited to eat pizza with rinne at niki's place. did this sort of as rinne's bday comic since niki got one too! sorry if its a little ooc i needed them in the Situation for this comic to work...

that dangling spit over someones face as punishment thing is 100% an older sibling forbidden move . anyway.. always fun to draw a short comic. see you aruound space cowboys

[mipexch]

comic about v2 and the goal they'll never fully reach alongside a dissatisfying conclusion. intimate rivalry and all (alternative ending comic. V1 dies instead of V2 during 4-4. V2 is narrating. V1 is dead.)

[ef-1]

look at the state of sport journalism dawg, he sucked on a lollypop with steeliness and determination??? oozing mental fortitude??? Autosport it's time to open up the schools

[choccy-milky]

the place me and my roommate were supposed to move into today was so disgusting and uninhabitable we just took our stuff and left and now we're gonna be staying at airbnbs and hotels until further notice/until we can find a new place hopefully quickly...........im in my homeless drifter era y'all!!!😍😍so if im not as active then thats why LMFAO

1 like = 1 prayer

[deimosatellite]

like idk it just seems actually nefarious to take one of the very few widely known instances of queerness in older history being a symbol to show queer people that we've always existed and aren't alone for CENTURIES and taking away the queerness from it. like. i know some people say that ''the queerness isnt important in the book" which i mean in my opinion i could go off for 10k words in an essay as to how basil's love for dorian is integral to the story BUT EVEN APART from that its really just. having a real explicitly queer character in such an old and widely regarded classic novel is HUGE for queer history and this is just. literally like. its 2024. why are you doing queer erasure to DORIAN GRAY

[xxepherr]

hello! i love your hasan fics! there’s not a lot for him so i appreciate your work.

i don’t know if you’re up for any requests, but i think it would be fun if you wrote a little reunion fic with hasan for when he gets home from his japan trip. maybe include something about his ‘beautification’ bc that was really interesting to witness on stream

.ೃ࿐HOMESICK

summary — in which hasan's homesick after spending time away from you in japan, and you're homesick because his house isn't a home without him in it.

pairings — hasan piker x reader (established relationship)

pronouns — none

word count — 1343

note — thank you sm <33 requests are definitely open :) (sorry it took so long, it's not much but i kinda like it? idk hope i didnt disappoint too hard)

YOU NEVER THOUGHT IT was possible to be homesick within the walls of your own home.

it obviously wasn't the first time that hasan had left you behind to go somewhere, but it was the first time he had left the country without you. last year you went with him to japan, but this year's trip was grander than the last, and you stayed behind so that he could go do all the content goals he had planned. ultimately giving up on convincing you ( and subsequently qt ), he let it go and enjoyed the last few days with you before he had to fly out.

you couldn't say the house was quiet while he was away, only for the first two days because it was just you and kaya, with murat stopping by to pick up some things. you had a feeling that was bullshit, and you were right because you coaxed the truth out of him: hasan had asked him to drop by to make sure you and kaya were comfortable. it made your chest feel warm at how much he cared; you couldn't really fault him for thinking about you.

the house got louder when hasan's parents came to visit, another thing you were pretty sure was scheduled so that you wouldn't be on your own the entire time. even though you spent nights watching movies with them and mornings walking kaya and swift with qt, it still felt like a hole was carved into your heart. perhaps a touch on the overdramatic side, but it definitely did not help when you had hasan's stream open, tiredly watching him have a fantastic time while itching to not pick up your phone to text him.

you already felt bad enough when he stepped away from his friends for one minute maximum to send you a goodnight text, it made you feel worse when austin mentioned you on fear& because apparently he had a gripe that hasan spent more time texting you than he did listening to him talk. it was a joke, you recognised that it was just a subtle dig, but you weirdly still felt bad. this was their trip, you didn't mean to get mentioned as much as you did, but in all fairness hasan and you hadn't been apart for this long before. and you were also pretty sure you hadn't gotten this many texts from him ever.

YOU waited impatiently at the airport, and you had been for the past hour and a half. in excitement, you'd left the house way earlier than necessary. you were also pretty sure that came down to your worry that the traffic would be so bad that he'd be waiting around forever if you weren't there on time.

hasan insisted on catching an uber home but that would mean waiting even longer to see him. maybe you were selfish, but you didn't want to have to share his attention among his brother and parents after not seeing him for so long. you loved his family, but you really just wanted to be wrapped up in the warmth of his presence for just a little bit before he was pulled into at least five different conversations as to how the trip was.

you were one of the few waiting by his gate, and probably was just as excited as the little girls waiting impatiently for their father to get off the plane just beside you. their mother was a lovely woman trying to wrangle the twins into behaving in such a busy place, and you'd helped out briefly earlier when they were almost trampled by a man passing by in a hurry with his suitcase.

the plane hasan was on was in view, and various airport staff had been getting everything ready to allow passengers to disembark. you'd been keeping yourself occupied by trying to spot hasan's luggage as a mound of suitcases were being pulled off the plane and put onto a lengthy trailer.

excitement doubling tenfold when the doors were opened and people started filtering through into the space. the twin girls squealed when they saw their dad, rushing over and jumping on him, their mother not too far behind. you shifted slightly, fingers tangling together as you peered around the happy family, trying to spot your boyfriend through the crowd. you knew it wouldn't be hard, he was pretty easy to spot in crowds, but you were getting antsy with how long it was taking.

you pulled out your phone, ready to check if he had texted you at all without you realising when you spotted him. actually, you weren't too sure if that was really him.

a very clean-looking hasan piker was making his way towards you, and you squinted, excitement dwindling ever so slightly as curiosity gnawed at you. "oh my god," you finally laughed, a short series of giggles that were pleasant on his ears the closer he got.

"why're you laughing?" hasan asked, his voice a honeyed sweetness. "not the greeting i was expecting."

"i'm sorry," you couldn't stop staring at his face, barely noticing his hands coming to rest on either sides of your waist. "you look so much more . . . turkish . . .?" it came out more like a question than a statement, but you couldn't help it.

everything about him seemed so sharp. his beard had been done up nicely, neatly trimmed and lined to accentuate his jaw. his hair was shorter, blended down to the buzzed sides, and you knew it would look even better as it blended further when his hair grew out. and his eyebrows, oh my god they were nicer than your own. they were neatly shaped so perfectly that you couldn't spot a single stray hair or anything out of place. he was all angles and lines and god he liked interestingly good. you liked your boyfriend as his rugged self, but you couldn't say you hated what he looked like right now.

"you didn't watch the stream?" he chuckled, leaning down to kiss your forehead. you all but melted. "it took, like, three hours for all of this to be done."

you sighed, trying to calm your chuckles. "i missed you," you said quietly, "and watching your streams made me miss you more, so . . . i stopped. did you have a good time?"

"of course," hasan let go of you, slipping his hand into yours instead so you could make your way over to collect his bags. "but next time you have to come." you made a subtle noise of protest, knowing the whole reason you didn't go in the first place was to avoid distracting him from his friends. "y'know i always have more fun when you're there, c'mon," he shook his head, squeezing your hand.

"austin kept telling you to stop talking to me," you deadpanned. "if anything, i'm ruining content."

"nah," he waved off, running his fingers through his hair, momentarily forgetting that it wasn't as long as it was a few days ago. the simple action from him and you were immediately back to staring up at his face again, still trying to get over how different of a look this was for him. "stop staring." he didn't have to look at you to know.

you laughed again, "i can't help it! you look like one of those greek statues; all angles 'n' shit."

as much as he loved you, he knew he wasn't going to hear the end of it for at least a few weeks until his hair growing was more noticeably changing him back into how he looked before the beautification stream. he was proven right when he went home and his mum reacted in the same way you did, and how you kept running your fingers against his eyebrows when he was laying his head in your lap later that night.

he absolutely was not going to live this one little bit of content down, but he couldn't say he didn't hate it when your attention was constantly on him because of it.

[purpleleavesday]

BY THE WAY this is what gumshoe says if you present him mia's profile in stolen turnabout

IT MADE ME GO SO INSANE. AAAAAAGHHHH I LOVE THIS GAME

[umblrspectrum]

updated some ref sheets and also actually made jcj one

[altschmerzes]

reflecting on seasons 3 and 4 of slow horses and i'd like to take a moment to appreciate how At Her Fucking Limit louisa guy is and for good reason. local woman who is isolated and very much alone and has just risked connecting with another person only to have that person brutally murdered now risks connecting with SECOND person only for that person to turn out to be god's least favourite court jester who keeps trying to also die on her. please give this poor lady two minutes of peace.

[javierduffy]

another drawover because they help my brain not be evil

[ganondoodle]

Hi! I absolutely love your art! I saw a post saying how demons are able to have kids by themselves. How does the whole process & the birthing process work exactly?

hello! thank you so much for this ask!!!

(i made some sketches and wrote down some notes on this but i will explain in more detail below that ... its pretty long again .. sorry qwq)

demons (in my OC story and world) are .. essentially "built" around the idea of what a natural guardian of an ecosystem could look like that is as indestructible as possible while still being very much a living being

their biology is somewhat simplified (if you want to call it that), meaning they dont have nearly as many organs as we have and it works rather 'simplistic' (like they recover their energy passively through the particles of it in the air- which is a reason why they need to breathe (other being to get the blood to the right places) and usually only eat if they had a loss of energy/blood, like a bad injury they needed to heal quickly or spending too much on magic use- and its literally just converted into magic/blood)

(truth be told i havent thought out or designed each and every organ, forgive me :V) but the main things are, four lungs, a demonic heart (the most important thing that keeps everything running), a second red blood heart (like humans have, but very small and a rather useless remnant of their evolution, sorta like the leg bones some whales still have), the reproductive organ (usually somewhat between the lungs, directly below the heart, but it depends on each demon) and a stomach which is also the dead end of their system (they are supposed to be able to digest everything that goes in there, if theres somethign they cant it has to be vomitted)

-having offspring is generally extremely rare, demons dont die of age and are (or are supposed to be) very hard to kill so its purely a deeply personal choice for them to have one- each demon can have them given the organ isnt damaged and they decide to kickstart the process (you cant really force a demon to carry a child)

-their genes work a little differently, a child from one parent isnt really a clone and inbreeding is technically nigh impossible with them in the sense that offspring wouldnt show any negative defects (culturally it would be a death sentence, as a romantic relationship that is, demons being single parents throughout generations isnt considered inbreeding) -if two or more demons are partners and want a child of them both they can exchange genetical information via heartblood (the highly concentrated blood in their hearts, which is the only thing that openly carries genes) deliberately through .. well cutting and transferring blood (alot about demons is really about their blood) which influences how much a child may resemble them for example but also mixes up the gene pool of both the parents as well as the offspring

-(important add on- this sort of blood exchange would need to happen right before kickstarting the process otherwise it would just mix with the general gene pool- a theory to explain, at least in part, why brutal fights are such a common thing in demon culture is to indirectly raise the chances of heartblood mixing in the act of fighting instead, since romantic relationships are so rare among them and most are single parents)

-once the process is started it can only be slowed down but not stopped (unless getting it out prematurely), and at reaching ca. 5% of development a demon is unable to change into humanoid/their smaller form since the fetus cant change form with them, trying it anyway is extremely dangerous

-offspring are considered to be 'full term' when they are born and can produce their own energy/digest food to gain more, though they can be born at about 50% of development without dying, then however need to cling to another demon to feed on their blood in order to reach that dev. stage

-its largely not visible when a demon is carrying a child, though it also depends on the demons 'built' and general condition (for example, Shargon is very slim and has little energy storage, depending on how long he lets it develop it might cause visible changes on top of typical behavioral ones, if Eadrya would do it they could without anything being noticable except the required refusal of changing forms really)

-a demon carrying an offspring will refuse to change form, likely refuses to engage in fights, generally retreat depending on their social status and might show shortness of breath (it puts pressure on the lungs and heart especially in the later stages and with slimmer or smaller demons), rest more and forage for things that are highly convertable to energy/blood if they cannot recover it passively evenly as it is used (a somewhat stable energy/blood/magic -sorry i still dont know what to call it so its not confusing- level is beneficial to the offspring, a lack of it can put both at risk)

-birth is generally initiated by the parent or when it has reached full term, and since its done so via the mouth it has to pass by the lungs and heart, compressing them both immensely for a short time, not being able to breathe and possibly causing the heart to stop temporarily depending on how far along the offspring is/big compared to its parent- Shargon cant carry fully to term since even an appropiately sized one has to pass through his slim body (Jyothi was born at around 90%, Tyura at roughly 56%) and it causes great stress on his system since hes chronically lacking energy in part from being hunted down alot (Tyuras early birth happened bc Shargon was critically injured by Eadrya and hunted by them during the earlier stages as well)

-it IS possible to allow it to grow to full term even when it cant pass by the lungs and heart though it involves bending or breaking bones (if he carried Jyothi the remaining percentage he would have had to do that) or in extreme cases to cut themselves open, given their healing capabilities that might sound not too bad but it is extremely painful, risks dangerous injury to both and permanent damage to the reproductive organ (also their healing is often more of an active thing rather than a passive one, especially with bigger and more dangerous wounds that need quick healing, meaning they have to actively "do" it, which is hard when you are literally dying)

-the offspring is within an translucent egg like bubble (though squishy) of ideally highly charged demonic blood, the outer layer can withstand quite a bit; ones born before reaching full term (in which case it would dissolve right away) either remain within it (if sufficiently charged with energy) or it dissolves/is cut open during or after birth and the child has to cling to another demon to feed on their blood this way

-uniquely, before reaching full term a young demon can convert any elemental type of blood to their own, losing that ability afterwards

-offspring can be of any elemental type from any parent though the likelyhood is slightly higher for ones with the same type, even moreso when it is a single parent (Shargon is thunder, his firstborn is wind, his second also thunder)

I hope this isnt too long and uuh answers that!! <3