i hope you all have a great day tomorrow
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i don't know if any of you like ted lasso or discord rp but i have discord rp group for the show - if anyone would like to join lmk and i'll send you an invite!
also if you havent seen the show i REALLY recommend it and at least in the states theres an easy way to get a 3 month trial of apple in order to watch
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i miss my girl carol. do people still write ST stuff?
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what brand of stupid are you? (allison)
blissfully stupid
They say ignorance is bliss and by god you are living your best life. You skip merrily into a bear's cave to pet it as your friends scream at you to run. The world is beautiful and everyone is your best friend, nothing can possibly go wrong! You are incredibly curious and probably believe in magic. This isn't to say you're an innocent little baby, just that you see the world in a more positive light then most. You face danger with a smile, not because you are particularly brave but because you don't know there's danger to begin with.
tagged by: @theseancekid (thank youuuu!)
tagging: you reading this
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gentle reminder to you — yes, you — that your writing is better than you think it is and it’s okay to feel proud of it
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sorry ive been busy making every friend i possibly can watch OBX
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@theseancekid
“I’m not starting anything! Jesus! I have much better things to do than sit around and poke fun at your carbon copy husband.” He all but whines, hands flipped upwards as if to prove his unarmed innocence. It’s not that he’s looking for a fight— Klaus Hargreeves is famously terrible in fights of both the verbal and physical variety, and Allison knows that all too well— but he certainly doesn’t appreciate that his sister immediately takes her husband’s side over her own blood (or, well, adopted blood).
“The economy is shit!” Hands are thrown up in the air, flicking specks of wine from his near-empty glass as he flails. “Do you know how much I shell out to get a single fuckin’ point now?! It’s OUTRAGEOUS!” He knows she doesn’t like him talking about the drugs, but he can’t help himself. There’s no damn use in pretending— he may as well get a joke or two out of it, right?
“Thank HIM for letting me stay— Allison, it’s YOUR house! You’re MY sister! Why the fuck do I have to thank him, he hasn’t done shit!” He protests, sans the wild hand movements, as he pours himself another very full glass. “Listen I know you’re great at acting and everything, but I’ve always been shit at playing the whole ‘sweet grateful charity case’ thing. I’ll tell him I’ll be out of his hair before long, but you’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m gonna THANK him.”
Flopping back in his seat, he cradles his wine beneath his lips, taking dainty sips despite his stewing resentment for his brother-in-law. Brows are raised in a silent HALLELUJAH when Allison tells him that Pat won’t want to talk to him either— likely the only thing they’ll ever agree on.
But then Allison continues on, and she gives him this look, and suddenly there’s a million and one red flag popping up inside his head because he’s seen that look before. He’s seen it across the dinner table, when speaking was outlawed and he and his sister had learned to hold full conversations with simple expressions; he’s seen it out on the battlefield, shot his way in the middle of a mission to tell him to stop dicking around, Klaus! That’s her this is serious face, and suddenly he finds himself leaning forward, brows creased as he speaks a little softer:
“Hey…is everything alright? Are you…is he…are you okay?”
allison cringes... not at the way klaus is casually talking about drugs or even that he uses them but at the specks of wine flying from his glass and landing on the leather chair. on the floor. on his own shirt, though those quickly disappear amongst the other stains. it takes everything in her not to hop up this instant and clean up. the main reason she doesn’t is that it would be never ending. klaus would only splash again and again until he passes out drunk. she can clean all of it up later instead of continuously right now.
when he starts to argue and correctly point out that it’s her house and she’s his sister so what the fuck does any of that have to do with patrick, allison’s dark eyes narrow again. she exhales an irritated breath. “it’s OUR house,” she corrects him, though no, it’s hers. almost all of their fabulous life is paid for by her work. he only works at all because of his own desire to. of course, her income is just another thing they’ve been arguing about. “so if you expect to stay here for more than a night you’d better grow the fuck up and thank him.” she points a perfectly manicured finger at her brother. deep down, allison doesn’t believe he will but she’s flexing her demanding muscles anyway. “you need both of our permissions to stay here.”
fuck klaus for paying attention now. for leaning in and speaking softly and for noticing that something’s wrong. yes, she wanted him to ask and care but at the same time yes, he’s an asshole for doing just that. it’s hard to be in allison’s head. it’s hard to crave attention so badly but simultaneously despise vulnerability. “we’ve just... we’re going through a rough patch, that’s all.” allison explains, her voice light and airy as if this problem will similarly just float away soon. she’s avoiding eye contact. it’s an act. this ‘problem’ is an ever deepening sinkhole right under the perfect life she painstakingly built. “rumor has it ...he’s been talking to his friends about asking for a separation. ” the glare she gives the brick wall behind klaus could start a fire. maybe she’s imagining those friends of patrick’s on fire at this very moment. she takes a few ungraceful gulps of wine. if she’s no longer pretending to have it together in front of her mess of brother then she might as well stop caring about social graces too.
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theseancekid:
The cynical laughter that rips from his throat is filled with a bitterness so unrecognizable from the boy who used to sleep with a stuffed animal army and cry for his mommy in the dead of night. He learned long ago that nothing, not even his mother, could save him from the creeping cold of the abyss. The notion of headphones is LAUGHABLE— as if some blaring electric guitar could deliver him from the anguished screams from beyond the veil!
As if he hasn’t tried it again and again, tucked away in the corner of his bed against a sea of scribbled omens on each wall, desperately clinging to each note, gripping his walkman until his knuckles turned white, until the volume button was busted and turned up so loud he could feel it behind his eyeballs, electric notes buzzing through his veins with each pulse until his nose began to bleed and his ears began to ache.
They still found a way in.
They always do.
Still, she looks at him with something almost like hope in her eyes (do robots FEEL hope?), and suddenly all he wants to do is crawl up into her lap and cry.
But he’s too old for crying now— for Christ’s sake, you’re fucking fourteen years old, stop being such a BABY, Klaus!— and so instead he sets the joint down in the ash tray and fixes his eyes on the dreaded little headphone set. It’s sitting on his desk, which is currently be guarded by the man with the fucked up burnt flesh. Klaus doesn’t dare make eye contact; just swallows the lump in his throat and leans around him to glance at his mother.
“Can you…the uh…” He points to the music player, and he can see the man moving out of the corner of his eyes— he flinches back for a moment, squeezes his eyes shut and squashes that burning instinct to let his gaze follow the movement (don’t look at them, don’t acknowledge them, don’t give them power, Klaus, just FOCUS!)
“Can you get it? Please.”
that cruel bark of a laugh makes klaus seem older, somehow. like he has lived many lives and she is only on her first. naïve is the word. the robot finds herself feeling that way often, with both reginald and the children. a whole database of information and yet there’s still so much she doesn’t know. especially when it comes to human social interaction... but she’s trying. she’s learning. just like she’s trying to help right now with her suggestion that klaus laughs off at first. grace doesn’t react, still waiting for him to accept or refuse the suggestion clearly.
finally he seems to look at the headset, as if considering it. his demeanor has changed a bit. maybe reginald is right, the children seem to want to please her at least some of the time. klaus isn’t being as haughty or stubborn as when she first came in. they all know he wouldn’t be considering the headphones if they were reginald’s suggestion. number four’s tiny hand points to the headphones and she understands right away, not having to wait for his request. grace crosses the room to pick up the music player and headphones then carries them to him. carefully they’re handed to klaus before the robot leans closer. she presses a featherlight kiss to the top of his head just as one hand smoothly picks up the joint from the ash tray... hopefully without klaus noticing.
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im just free balling it and doing some replies without gr*mm*rly sorry
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viktor’s hold on his brother tenses as the thin man thrashes. he might look like a stiff breeze could blow him over but klaus is surprisingly strong. at least when his body is acting out of desperation. survival instincts. vik has seen it first hand over the years. out of self defense during fights or that wild panic fighting back when their father or siblings try to force klaus to do something ‘for his own good.’ it’s not quite that bad right now. whatever the taller man was reacting to seems to have stopped, letting him slump against his brother in tears. viktor’s hold relaxes and he exhales, glad holding on seems to have been the right choice and didn’t make things worse this time.
calloused fingers stroke over klaus’ sweaty curls. “i, um...” vik starts quietly, realizing he’s too quiet and raising his volume a little. “i have a feeling neither of us know the real meaning of that word... ‘ okay.’ ” the shit just never stops coming for the hargreeves. have any of them ever really been okay? by the smallest sibling’s estimates, no. not really. maybe they thought they were, for a moment. for a few days. a week. but almost always they’d come to learn they had some fundamental misunderstanding. something that had been happening all along and making things not actually okay. it’s even worse for klaus. did he ever even get a chance to pretend everything was okay? or has he known better during his every waking hour? no wonder he numbs himself any way he can, or used to.
“what was it this time?” he asks about the ghost, shifting them both a bit as he tries to pick a blanket up off the floor. it’s pulled back over himself and offered to klaus. it’s hard to tell if his brother would want it right now or not. he looks sweaty but viktor can’t tell if it’s in the feverishly-cold way or the genuinely burning up way.
@littleshcp sent: 🫂 for a hug
Klaus has always liked to think of himself as a human Jenga tower. He’s tall and precarious, he’s great at parties, and he is always one bad decision from falling apart. But somehow, Viktor always seems to know when he’s low on bricks, like he can feel the tower begin to sway and knows exactly how to wrap his arms around the leaning tower of Klaus just to stop him from toppling over again.
There’s a tenseness at first; a blind gut reaction before he realizes whose arms are clutching his torso. It’s been a bad day, to put it mildly. To be fair, most days are, like, baseline level bad. The aches and pains of a young mortal coil destroyed by drugs and liquor, plus the super fun existential baggage and psychological torment of playing messenger for wayward souls. Today, it’s a little bit of everything. Physical, mental, spiritual— the whole shebang!
This is the fucking problem with being sober, he’s now remembering. It’s not that the pills kept the ghosts out, so much as it shut Klaus down; made the host uninhabitable. And it’s been hard, getting these new systems back online again, allowing himself to feel things in the absence of that safety blanket of numbness he so loved clinging to. He’s more vulnerable than ever before, and it fucking sucks, that much he knows.
The nightmares didn’t used to be this bad. At least, not that he remembers (he doesn’t remember a whole lot of his childhood, to tell the truth). It was always a few screams, maybe some jilted face in the dark, crying out his name. But now, at the ripe old age of 30, he’s discovered something even worse: he can FEEL them.
And it’s not only at night anymore, either, it’s whenever the dead bastards decide they want to try and take a piece of him. Like when he’s just hanging out in the living room trying to paint his nails, and suddenly there’s a blade in his back and it’s ice fucking cold and he can feel the gnarled tendrils of Death taking root in his chest and he tries to scream but there is blood in his lungs. OKAY! he tries to reach whatever dearly departed dickhead has a grip on him. I GET IT! I UNDERSTAND! I FEEL YOU! LET ME GO! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY—
He jolts against Viktor’s arms, frantic eyes blinking wildly as he lands on his brother’s face. “Fuck.” He breathes, stupefied for a moment. “FUCK.” He doesn’t know what else to do other than crumble against his brother’s slight frame, tear-stained face tucked against the other’s neck. “I’m okay…I’m…I’m okay…”
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i’ve finished watching both Outer Range and Outer Banks... do any of you guys write either of those??
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so to/p g//un (’86 & maverick) are just about the only things i can focus on lately. i don’t have the time to make a blog yet but i am writing a lot on dis/cord and open to canons & ocs. let me know if you want to write anything top gun there and i’ll give you my dis/cord!
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this is not a drill ! i’m doing actual replies over on @feliciah !
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i really miss writing my horrible little allison hargreeves!
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so to/p g//un (’86 & maverick) are just about the only things i can focus on lately. i don’t have the time to make a blog yet but i am writing a lot on dis/cord and open to canons & ocs. let me know if you want to write anything top gun there and i’ll give you my dis/cord!
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wish me luck in making my own hellfire shirts
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Biological father(derogatory)
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