#WHY ARE THERE SO MANY IF YOU IM NERVOUS

[artvid707]

To the new mutuals- HELLO!! I hope you are all having a good day/night!! 💚

[introspectivememories]

too many of you guys think nico is the loser and not lewis for letting the divorce go on for so long. like they're both losers about each other. emotionally constipated idiots who can't talk about their toxic homoerotic friendship that imploded on itself like 8 years ago and are now making it everyone else's problem. yeah nico's on television or in beer gardens talking about lewis all the time but like every other month some reporter is like "lewis, what's your favorite moment in your career?" and lewis no hesitation is like "oh man, karting, y'know? everything was simpler then" and then spends another six months skirting around nico's name. like this whole thing they're doing in the media isn't some kinda extended foreplay for them. they're both still pressing on the bruise to make sure it's still there!!! every few months, they're literally just asking on public television, does it still hurt for you like it does for me? and like clockwork, someone will release new information about them or one of them will say something about each other (in my heart, he's still my best friend/yes... and teammate) and the answer will remain the same, yes, of course, always.

[becauseplot]

Anyway for entirely justifiable reasons (<-is a glutton for angst) I need Chayanne and Tallulah to be present when the hummingbirds come around or a note about the 'wise old crow' appears in their house, causing qPhil to have one of his derealization/reality-questioning episodes. I need it. I need it to happen SO bad. Because they’ve seen Phil get roughed up in a fight, they’ve seen him angry, they’ve seen him wary and even nervous, but they have NEVER seen him doubt like that.

People have already made posts talking about how the cage-for-a-cage/child-of-the-sky stuff has been particularly rough on qPhil, who relies heavily on his constant vigilance, keen senses, and hyper-awareness of his surroundings for reassurance. He's the kind of guy who walks into a room and has already charted at minimum two escape routes by the time he takes a seat, you know? He sees and processes and stores information on everything, at all times, and he uses this to act in the best interest of his and his loved ones' collective survival.

His kids see this side of him too, most significantly in the ways that he looks after them: always keeping an eye on the back of the group, never far from Tallulah, and constantly analyzing Chayanne's fighting style to give helpful critique to optimize his attacks. Chayanne and Tallulah know that everything he's ever done was to protect them. Also, he's always there to offer them advice when they're feeling lost, and even if he doesn't have all the answers they need, he gives enough reassurances and promises to put their minds at ease. Phil is confident in what he knows. In their eyes, he is strong. He is a fortress, safe and impenetrable.

You could say that about a lot of children's perceptions of their parents/guardians/mentors. The older, guiding forces in our lives always seemed strong and infallible to us as kids. That's why it was always unnerving to see them get sick, or get stressed, or cry. Observing weakness in those people felt so, so wrong because we never considered the fact that they were capable of it; it was just impossible.

So, the situation: Phil is suffering in a way that makes him question the very same reality that he was a master of not too long ago. Whenever it happens, he goes quiet, looks around, mutters to himself, breathes shakily, fidgets. He is visibly unnerved and uncertain.

If Chayanne and Tallulah are there, they're gonna notice---they're perceptive, just like him. I'd imagine they'd try to ask him if he's okay, and he'd reassure them that he's fine, and maybe that's enough the first time. But, as more incidents arise, and as time goes on, they start to see more of this out-of-nowhere uneasiness, fear, from him, which is worrying, especially because he won't tell them why.

NOW. Phil has been upfront about a lot of things with Chayanne and Tallulah in the past. For example, during the height of the code attacks, Phil told them everything he ever learned about the codes, every single new development, to ensure that his kids were well informed and prepared. He was frank about the threat on their lives because to sugar-coat anything would be doing them a disservice. It was important they knew all of the cold, hard facts, even if it took away even more of their precious childhood innocence. He values their happiness, but safety comes first. It has always come first.

But this is different. It's not cold hard facts. Phil doesn't know what to believe anymore. When the hummingbirds come around and his reality comes into question, he doesn't know what is real, what he can trust, what is fact. His senses have been compromised. Hell, he's still trying to convince himself that he's not going crazy when all evidence seems to suggest that he's losing his goddamn mind. He doesn't know what to tell his kids, so he tells them nothing.

So now here stands Chayanne and Tallulah. There is something that is scaring their dad, and he won't tell them what is, so on top of the knowledge that their unwavering father is, in fact, capable of true, genuine fear, he's suddenly keeping things from them. Their dad is keeping things from them because he is scared. And I can't imagine a realization more terrifying than that.

[koivoid]

okayyy. I’m done with my ch2 murder theory post but I’m kinda nervous to post it…..

[zombie-bait]

back on broadway yet again

Experienced a very visceral reaction upon watching the new combat sneak-peek vid for DA4 and being greeted with what is basically the AC Valhalla menu. I'm well aware this is a very popular format in recent games and honestly I'm cool with it but it did feel a little personally haunting lmao

(Here's the link for anyone who hasn't seen it yet, they give a pretty good/detailed look at how combat works, especially for a potential warrior Rook build. I'm really hoping they do a vid at some point to show off the character creation cuz besides the companions, story and environments that's what I'm most curious about)

[buckysbarnes]

( inspo )

[chocosvt]

oh

[dandyshucks]

blinks tiredly. i decide "hm maybe i should try to expand my circle and step outside of it a little, lets go look at the main community tags" and im just greeted with a bunch of edgelords who think saying "fiction doesn't affect reality, don't like don't read" is peak activism and "fighting censorship". head in my hands. this is partially why i do not ever go into the community tags, my nervous system cannot handle blocking fifty weirdos every single day just so i can have a normal experience in the community tags hfdsjkl

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

.

[newdejavuu]

im going to be emotional and vulnerable in the tags

[thedevotionaltour]

if you wonder are you really thinking about dd as much irl as you post about it or do you just post about it way more now because a niche set of followers you have the answer is unfortunately i got this small set of followers because i don't know how to not think about dd almost every hour of my life whenever my interest in it arises i hope this helps.

[tboy-summer-fun]

˓ timekeeper gay ↺ ➢

for gay individuals who resonate with timekeeper cookie ⚣

⪻ inclus ˏ endo systems ˏ etc DNI

[stormyoceans]

a distant sun

last twilight || morkday || ~1.4k

a little note: im not too sure how much day can see or how the one palm distance actually works ;;;;; i tried to be as respectful as possible when writing about a character with disability, but please do let me know if i said something wrong. a big thank you also goes to @vera9 and @clandestinegardenias for the support, the patience, and the editing. love you both so much.

The world looks different under the covers.

A light breeze comes through the open window, and Day's ankles are warmed by the sun. It's summer, and it's hot, but not enough to feel uncomfortable with the thin bed sheet pulled over his head. Through it, the world is the color of sweet pale honey, every trembling edge blurred and melting. Despite the dark rain clouds dancing at the corners of his vision, for a moment Day almost feels like he's back outside, lying under the canopy of the pink trumpet tree in their garden.

It used to be his favorite place to read.

Downstairs a chair gets scraped over the floor, a door clicks open. Day hears the sound of soft footsteps coming up the stairs and already knows who they belong to.

That’s not something he would have been able to tell, before, but now he can easily recognize the inhabitants of the house by the way they move. His mother is feather-light and hesitant, her feet dragging a little behind her, while his brother's heels come down in a quick marching tempo, hurried and brisk.

For the longest time, it had only been the three of them, but these days there's a new set of footsteps in the symphony of the house, a steady beat that reminds Day of his own heart.

Day closes his eyes, and his lashes graze the sheet.

The footsteps reach his room, carrying the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. They linger in the doorway only for a second before walking inside and coming to a stop next to the bed.

"Day," Mork says.

Day swallows the urge to tell him to leave him alone. It usually has the opposite effect anyway, so he remains silent, hoping to convince Mork that he's asleep.

"Day," Mork calls again. Then, as if he can read Day's mind, he adds: "I know you're not sleeping. Do you plan to come out of there at all today?"

Day keeps saying nothing, just to be contrary.

The cover being lifted from his face doesn't take him by surprise. In the few weeks since Mork had taken over as his caretaker, Day thinks he has come to know what to expect. What he doesn't expect, however, is the mattress dipping next to his hand and the sudden warm length of a body settling down against his side.

Day startles, eyes flying open and moving around uselessly. All they give him back is a greyish nothingness.

"What are you doing?” he asks, still stunned.

“If you’re not coming out, then I don’t have any choice but to get in," Mork answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. His arm presses firmly against Day's own, skin to skin. "Move over a little, would you?”

In any other circumstances, Day would answer him by kicking him off the bed. He's not prepared for the shiver that runs down his back, for the way every nerve in his body seems set alight by the closeness, the hair on his arms and legs standing up in response. He scoots toward the center of the bed without a word.

Mork twists and wiggles until he seems to find a position he's comfortable in, then the sheet is placed back over Day's head and its yellow color turns the world bright and dream-like again.

"It's nice under here," Mork remarks, his voice sounding way too cheerful.

The smell of cigarettes is overwhelming now, but under that Day catches the hints of fabric softener, tangy and fresh. It makes Day feel lightheaded and wrong-footed in a way that reminds him of those first few days after the loss of his sight, when taking a step around his room seemed like a jump into the void, his feet stumbling on themselves and making him knock against furniture anywhere he turned.

"Are you really going to stay here all day?" Day asks, trying to recover some kind of balance.

"Well, are you?" Mork shoots back immediately.

Day grits his teeth. He can hear the gentle reprimand behind those words, the attempt at coaxing him into getting out and doing something, into living. They've been here before. Day has grown accustomed to the bickering and the kind of push and pull that's become typical of their relationship, but he's not in the mood to fight today. He just wants some peace and quiet.

“Then why not?" Mork continues after a while, taking Day's prolonged silence as a sign that he's indeed not going anywhere. "It’s easier to take care of you like this. Maybe I’ll even be able to catch up on some sleep.”

To prove his point he stretches out, heel digging into the mattress and back arching off the bed. One of his arms brushes against Day's side as he brings both of them up over his head to extend them to their full length. The sheet above them ripples and waves with each movement, letting in small gusts of fresh air. When Mork pulls his arms back down, his hand falls on top of Day's own and stays there.

Day's fingers twitch. He wants to yank his hand away, but that would feel too much like defeat.

"Suit yourself," he scoffs, and resolves to ignore Mork for as long as he can.

It proves harder than he imagined. Day is hyper-aware of every rise and fall of his chest, every small twitch of his body. The fact that Mork isn't really doing anything, for once, except breathing and lying there next to him, somehow makes it all the worse. The sun has moved up in the sky and is now warming Day's thighs. The clock in the hallway ticks time away. Mork's socked foot bumps against Day's naked one, and all Day wants to do is run.

He desperately needs a distraction, and maybe that's why he starts talking.

"As a kid," he says, "I used to get sick all the time."

Mork shifts, and Day can feel his curious gaze warming the side of his face. That's not really what he wanted, so he hurries to add: "It's one of the reasons I picked up sports. To become stronger, have better resistance." He slides his hand away from where it's still trapped under Mork's and presses it against the sheet right above his eyes. This close, he can recognize the blurred edges of his fingers. "I still got sick from time to time, of course. Whenever that happened, I’d hide under the covers like this, waiting. Eventually, my mom would slip in and stay with me until I got better." Day spreads out his fingertips and moves his hand further away from his face, until it gets swallowed by the darkness. "There's no getting better this time, though," he concludes, dropping his hand on his stomach and letting the sheet fall back onto his face. "I guess that's why she doesn't come to my room anymore."

He's not sure why he told Mork this. He hates being pitied and that's the reason he picked Mork as his caretaker in the first place, because he is the only person who doesn't treat him like he's made of glass. Things would be so much easier if he acted like everybody else, and maybe that's what Day is aiming for: making him slip, so he'd have an excuse to send him away.

Mork shuffles close to him and suddenly there's a hand splayed over Day's chest, grounding him. "It's okay," Mork says. His voice is sweet and soft, his breath warm against Day's cheek. If Day turned his head, he thinks they'd be close enough for Day to see the hazy outlines of Mork's face. He makes sure to remain stock still, his treacherous heart beating so loud that when Mork speaks again Day almost doesn't hear him.

"I'll stay here until you feel like coming out," Mork says, "then I'll take you to her."

Day wants to scream. He wants to scream and lash out and curse at the world. He wants to break something, wants to kick Mork out of the bed and yell at him to leave and never come back, but there's a lump in his throat and a wetness forming at the corners of his eyes. He shuts them as tight as he can to prevent the tears from falling. His hand finds Mork's on his chest, and Day holds on.

[grimmjowjaegerjaquez]

Remembering the brief period in my life when i was obsessed with ashido, the only filler character with rights bc kubo originally planned to include him in the manga but had to cut him for time

[theclosetedskeleton]

UHHH why the fuck is my head starting to twitch anyways i should probably work on that science assignment due soon like in an hour

[aurora-watching]

.