#but i did it without spiralling!

[narutosfrogwallet]

nothing makes me feel like more of a badass than being able to recognize when my body is starting to have physical anxiety symptoms and instead of letting my brain spiral and go into a panic attack, i can just sit with that anxiety and let it be there instead of trying to make it go away (which always makes it worse)

[percexe]

ok this is old (by like a month or two) so excuse the slightly outdated stylings. but i forgot to post this here so ENJOY!

it’s a shame a design element as fun as the grey streaks are just put in the same spot all the time. so have my placements and the reasoning behind them (because it wouldn’t be a percexe design without cramming character significance into every little detial)

[trans-cuchulainn]

had a really interesting convo yesterday about ethics and whether intent or results matters (eg if you tried to make an ethical purchasing choice but the business was actually exploitative as hell, does that "count") and very much came to the conclusion that sure, if you're concerned with your personal immortal soul, as a christian might be, then intention counts. but if what you're focused on is your impact on the world, then intention means nothing if the actions have negative results, right? (that doesn't mean you're to blame for them! you didn't know! but you also don't get "ethics points" for trying, you know?)

and this also got me thinking about the whole christian idea that sinful thoughts are as bad as sinful actions because. they're just not imo. maybe for the sake of your Immortal Soul they are points against you, if that's your jam. but in terms of putting good into the world, in terms of your impact on other people, the ONLY thing that matters is what you choose to do with those thoughts. there is no way that "was kind to someone who was pissing me off, for the sake of community harmony" or "helped an acquaintance with a task even though I felt resentful about the time spent doing that" is a Bad Thing for the world

and it made me wonder how much purity culture and thought policing is rooted in (mostly evangelical) cultural christianity and this idea that ethical choices are an individual thing because what matters is the impact of them on YOUR soul and not, you know, things we do because of what we owe the world around us / because of love for others / because a world where people are trying to put good into it is a hell of a lot nicer to live in than one where people are only worried about themselves

i grew up evangelical but like. fairly mild evangelical and even though there wasn't a big focus on hell and stuff, i definitely fixated on imperfect thoughts and behaviours that were putting absolutely no harm into the world, rather than focusing on what i could do to put good into it, and that individualistic vs outward-focused approach to morality has been something i've grappled with a lot as an adult. but i never really thought about it as simply as this and really that's what it boils down to. are you making the ethical choice because you're trying to put good in the world, or because it would make you a "good person" to do so? because the answer to that 100% defines whether it's the thought or the result that counts

[welcometogrouchland]

if you're asking for drawing requests, maybe Willow in her timeskip look or Luz with the Collector??

[ID: a digital illustration of Luz (in her titan form from watching and dreaming) and The Collector. Luz stands on a small hill of red grass, waving at The Collector, who's off-screen but depicted to the audience as a closeup inside a star shaped panel. Luz is waving at the off-screen Collector with a smile, while The Collector smiles tearfully at her. Small uncoloured doodles of Eda and King are depicted waving at the collector in the background. End ID]

This was meant to be a doodle anon but unfortunately I went off the shits. Anyway, collector sees Luz post-resurrection and cries big gross happy tears bc he's so happy she's alive

[alluralater]

hey everyone, i won’t be as active for a while. got home last night super late after being on the road for 20 some odd hours. dealing with some family things and as an older sister, my priority of taking care of my siblings comes first before anything else. being on here is amazing for me but i don’t think i’ll have much time for it. reminder to please treat those in your life who are battling addiction with patience and care. i lost my older brother (sweetest person i’ve ever known and he remained that way up until his last night) to suicide and alcoholism, trauma and ptsd, depression and his feelings of hopelessness. talk with the people you care about. another of my siblings is dealing with the same and i refuse to let it escalate to such a terrifying end twice in less than a fucking year. remind the people you care about that there are beautiful things to live for. show them kindness and love. there is all kinds of misinformation out there but know this, you can make a difference for someone. don’t let them suffer in silence.

[dominote]

i think light yagami is "socially adept" in terms of being able to reason out relatively well what to say and do to come off as a harmless and good and polite young man who is likeable to be around. however i do not think "socially adept" (or "neurotypical") typically comes with having to preface every other normal-passing action and statement with a minor crisis of "ah shit. quick, what would i say/do in response to this if i was light yagami, a normal and nice and respectable young man?"

everyone likes to talk about him talking about kira in third person but can we acknowledge that he also talks about LIGHT in third person. i'm not adding manga panels at 3:57am but y'all know exactly which ones i mean

[cream-and-tea]

Lay Me Down by @/cream-and-tea/ “Isobel” by Flower Face/ — to defeat monsters: become the greater monster | m.a.w (via heavensmark)

hello to everyone this fine evening. hands u my self indulgent pallas webweave.

[nerves-nebula]

gender adventures leo feat my most unexpected PTSD symptom

[byanyan]

just a head's up: while I hesitate to call hiatus of any kind bc I want to give myself the freedom to write when I have the energy/focus/etc., I will just note that I'm gonna be even slower than usual around here for... idk, probably for a bit. I'm in the worst state mentally that I think I've ever actually been in and it's uhhhh. it's not great lmao. writing is my main escape & distraction so I don't want to step away from it but doing anything is hard as fuck rn so I'm really not interested in pressuring myself to get shit done when it comes to the hobby I'm supposed to be having fun with. I'll be slow, I'll be selective, and it's possible I'll be dropping a lot of drafts?? maybe?? OR at least like. temporarily removing a bunch from my drafts (to be added back later) just so the number is less big & overwhelming lmao.

thank u guys for ur patience w me & for writing w my glittery lil creature, I appreciate u all sm 💜

[destructive-delight]

of all the things youtube has picked up on its way down the cliff into the advertiser friendly algorithm hellscape that it is now, giving creators the option to heart comments is probably the only feature i truly consider an unambiguous improvement that i appreciate from both a commenter and creator perspective. wish more sites would offer that.

[daigina-3]

Eddie always wanted out of Hawkins.

Chicago is cold in the winter. It has the unpredictability of Indiana but the severity of the tundra. The Windy City winds whip his hair and cut his cheeks- just walking down the street to the coffee shop he frequents makes his nose go numb, no matter how far he pulls his scarf up or how tight he has his leather jacket zipped up with two flannels buttoned up under it for insulation.

(He didn’t have the money for a winter coat before moving and he sure as hell doesn’t have the money *now*)

The coffee shop is warm, a quiet hum of people who braved the December winds for a good cup of Joe and a comfy worn out leather chair to sink into. He stands in line and thinks that Gareth would like it here- he loves quiet places. That Robin would love the music they play and the quirky mismatched mugs they serve coffee in. That Steve would hate their coffee because he hates coffee but would love their hot cocoa.

They’re all about 200 miles away- some even more than that, now. He looks at the group of girls studying and giggling, the couple by the window, the other couple at the center tables.

He’s only ever been here alone.

Eddie sinks into his own chair in the back, letting his hot coffee cup bring the feeling back into his fingers- only then does he unwind his scarf and unzip his jacket.

He spends the day like he does every Saturday- scribbling in his little notebook of lyrics- trying to come up with words but mostly just doodling little dragons that look more like geckos. For the first half hour or so he can feel the little glow of mild accomplishment in his chest- he did *something.* Got out of bed, got dressed, went down the street. Now he’s really working on what he loves- his music.

He gives it two hours of nothing, nothing, nothing- not even stupid little gecko-dragons, each doodle ending up a scribble- before he throws it in and heads back down the street to his shoe box apartment, scarf and jacket back on.

He doesn’t leave the apartment the rest of the day. He makes cheap ham and cheese sandwiches and thinks about how Saturday used to be band practice day- how he’d drive to Jeff’s parents’ house and they’d play in the garage until the neighbors complained. Then they’d go to the Quarry and drink, playing rock, paper, scissors to see who’d be the designated driver. Gareth lost more often than not- dumbass had a penchant for choosing scissors and didn’t realize it.

He washes the sandwiches down with one- or two- too many beers.

Sunday is laying around, the TV on but nothing to watch. He could be going out and exploring the city, frequenting all the bars in all the scenes that didn’t exist in Hawkins.

He never changes out of his flannel PJs.

He stares at the junky rotary phone he got from a thrift shop- sitting on the floor of his living room because he didn’t have money for a side table. Couch, bed, little kitchen table and chair. That was about it.

He stares at that little phone from the couch, his face squished against the cushions as he lies stomach-down.

He bought it two months ago, with the rest of his furniture. He hasn’t used it once.

He keeps telling himself- when he’s settled. When he’s done something worth talking about. When, when, when. Thats’s when he’ll use it.

Or maybe never. He struggles to find a point. It’s been long enough to realize no one really needs him. He thinks about every face pulled his way, every awkward silence, every time he was too much and pretended nothing could touch him.

He buries his face back in the cushion. He can feel every single moment wash over him like a blanket- none totally clear but every one adding to the heavy fog weighing him down.

Sighs. Goes back to sleep at 3 PM.

He wakes up heavier, grimier, mouth tasting like dirt.

The clock on the floor next to his unused rotary phone reads 8:53PM in big angry red numbers.

He has work in eleven hours. Has to be awake in ten. Maybe nine if he wants to eat something before leaving.

He forces himself to go back to sleep because, really, he can’t think of anything else worth doing.

The clock reads 11:22 PM when he opens his eyes again.

He only tells himself the truth late at night.

That he made a mistake. That he’s been in his apartment for just over two months, in Chicago for three and he thought leaving Hawkins was the answer to everything but really Eddie still has almost all of his old problems- only this time he has them alone.

He called a few times from pay phones, in his early weeks. When he was sleeping in his van and just barely landed a job busting tables and had dug up enough spare quarters.

Gareth didn’t pick up. Eddie tried his house twice and slammed the phone down when he got nothing the second time.

Wayne was glad to hear from him, make sure he was alive. And Eddie missed him but Wayne wasn’t one for conversation. He was more of a daily comfort- it was hard to feel him from so far away, when Eddie couldn’t sit with him in silence watching Jeopardy or eating mac n cheese. They talked for about three minutes before Wayne went silent, nothing much to say.

Robin’s mom answered and said she finally left for study abroad- Eddie cursed because he totally forgot, had no number to leave her mom to pass on.

Jeff answered and Gareth was at his house with him- which was a weird pit-in-the stomach feeling for Eddie, but he wouldn’t admit it. They started their mom-and-dad style bickering, laughing about something he wasn’t in the room for when the pit got a little too heavy and Eddie made an excuse to hang up early.

Dustin picked up and then immediately had to hang up on him because Susie was calling.

He pocketed the rest of his quarters and didn’t try again.

He reads from 12AM to 1AM but he doesn’t really read- he skims and skips and goes back because he doesn’t understand what just happened about ten times before he admits that he isn’t paying attention.

The phone is bright red, which seemed better than the faded mint green or bright orange in the shop at the time but Eddie hates how he feels like he can always see that stupid bright red old-ass rotary phone on the floor. It’s always in the corner of his eye, in his peripheral vision, like a god damn ghost.

He doesn’t go back to sleep before he goes in to work.

The next weekend he goes out. He takes the van down to a bar that plays his kind of music and has his kind of people- he doesn’t wear the handkerchief he was so bold to wear in Hawkins, not where people could actually expect things from him. He only ever wore it in Hawkins because it was like playing chicken with the bigots, not because he really knew the ins and outs of its meaning. How close could he come before they clocked him? Would it be the handkerchief that got him done in or did he have to fully sequin his fucking battle vest?

He leaves it in the van and nurses a rum and coke while guys in leather and cropped Judas Priest shirts press up against each other.

At the Hideout he was loud- laughed big, noogied Jeff and played his guitar without any concern for the ear drums of the four drunk guys in the corner who only put up with their dumb band because the Hideout had the cheapest whiskey in town. Eddie then had dreamed of places like this.

Eddie now just has a headache.

(And a heart ache.)

No one approaches Eddie and when someone finally does- a young guy with a goatee and hair longer than his- Eddie smiles nervously and says “sorry, I’m on my way out.” The guy just nods as he goes.

In the van he slumps against the wheel. Thinks about how he could have a warm body pressed against his right now- about how that guy wasn’t what he wanted but maybe he’d do for now and then feels desperate and pathetic and kind of like a prick for thinking it.

He thinks about a battle vest stained with blood on someone who had never worn one before.

He thinks about the girl that someone wanted.

He drives home.

The stupid god damn fucking red phone is there, loud as ever from its silent place on the floor.

Eddie always wanted to leave Hawkins. He always, only ever wanted to leave Hawkins and now Hawkins was following him everywhere, taunting him with the fact that there wouldn’t be anyone on the other end of the phone to pick the fuck up.

Who would want to?

That’s not true, the littlest bit of his brain argues. Wayne is probably worried sick.

Yeah, some fucking nephew (son) he is. Disappearing and calling, like, once. Wayne probably thought he was dead. Wayne probably was worried sick. Wayne probably was the last person to care and every day he didn’t call made it more difficult to try because what a fucking failure. Maybe it would have been better if he’d died in that hospital, or in the upside down, or in his trailer with his eyes being crushed and his limbs snapped instead of Chrissy fucking Cunningham who deserved to be the one alive.

The phone rings.

It rings and Eddie jumps out of his skin because how the fuck is that possible?

He stares it down, watching the plastic vibrate with the force of it.

Ring, riiiing.

He’s never heard the ring before. It’s loud, harsh.

Ring, riiiing. Ring, riiiiing.

It goes on forever, and then stops.

Probably a crank call-

Ring, riiiiing.

Fuck. Eddie sniffles once, ignoring that he was on the verge of more than sniffling, more than red eyes.

(He hates crying. Does it too much.)

Ring , riiiiiiiing.

“Alright, aright, Jesus H. Christ,” he mumbles and for the first time Eddie picks up the phone.

“…hello?”

“Eddie? Eddie is that you?”

Eddie’s chest collapses. His heart gives out. Or maybe his lungs stop. All of it at once.

“S-“ he chokes on air. “Steve?”

“I- yeah. Oh my god I can’t believe this worked! I was visiting Wayne and asked about you and he mentioned that restaurant you’re working at so I called them and they gave me your number! Well, I had to call a couple times cause it’s not technically legal to give out employee info- but that one manager really doesn’t seem to care, so.”

Eddie doesn’t say anything for a long time. And when Steve calls his name again, wonders aloud if the connection is okay, he croaks out, “I’m. I’m here.”

“Oh good-“ Steve laughs, a little nervously. It’s short, clipped, but good natured. He talks- asks Eddie about his job and his apartment and when Eddie is too tired to pretend he’s anything other than exhausted, at his ropes’ end, not there enough to be *Eddie*- Steve doesn’t question it. He gives an easy “hey, thats’s cool man” and fills the silence.

He tells Eddie all about Robin- practically forces him to take down her new number. Updates him on an new mug Wayne bought, he saw him opening it when he got the info on Eddie last. How Dustin’s building some thing for a teen genius competition and Will’s running a game for Hellfire that Steve has caught the end of a few times when he goes to pick the kids up (he mixes up technical phrases and Eddie laughs when he calls Dungeon Masters “Story Telling Guys”).

“I was thinking,” Steve says. “And I mean you can say no-“ as if Eddie would ever say no to him. “I was wondering if it’s okay to visit? I’m going to be up your way next month for a thing, so.. I could stop by. See the new pad.”

The new *pad.* Dork.

“You know, I’m really glad I called. We’ve all been going crazy without you here to drive us crazy,” Steve laughs at his own non-joke. Eddie knows Steve can’t see him repressing a goofy smile but he does it all the same. Stupid joke. Not funny.

(But he gives up and smiles anyway.)

“I’m glad, too,” Eddie says.

It’s just past eleven when Eddie picks up the phone and just past three when he puts it back on the receiver.

With a plan for Steve to come visit for New Years- with some of the kids if the parents give their nod and Steve doesn’t kill then on the ride up- and a promise to call the very next day.

Eddie pulls the phone away from the wall and as close to the couch as the chord will stretch. He thinks about tomorrow and the call and New Years. He falls asleep and dreams of kind boys in battle vests and Hawkins coming right back to him.

[averlym]

,,, little lemmings in line...

[rowenabean]

Most of you can feel free to ignore this but for the two of you who care, I worked out both throwing from the hump and spiral wedging today! Haven't been to the studio in ages, was really surprised that it went this well!

[arisenreborn]

I had a couple of people ask me about these questions from the Pawn Lovers Guild so I wanted to share them here. Note they aren't all mine, credit to all the besties in the server!

These are all normal questions, you can trust me:

What would be your Pawns voiceline/reaction to their Arisen dying?

How do your Arisen & Pawn handle alcohol?

What kind of things does your Pawn say about their Arisen in other worlds?

What do your Arisen & Pawn carry in their packs?

What were your Arisen & Pawns first impressions of one another?

What does your Pawn do while wandering around in other worlds?

How does your Pawn refer to the Arisen? (Master, by name, etc.?)

Who are your Arisen's dream lover(s) or best friend(s)? Who do they have a hopeless crush on, or want to make friendship bracelets with?

What would a boss fight against your Arisen and Pawn look like? What kind of music would play? What kind of loot would they drop?

If they were to get sick, how do each of them act in the roles being a caregiver and being sick?

Comfort Questions:

What is your Arisen and Pawns favorite color?

What kind of video games would your Arisen & Pawn play?

What are their favorite treat and how do they take their coffee/tea/other preferred drink?

How would you describe/moodboard your Arisen and/or Pawn using only emojis?

[lovesickeros]

☆ lost in orbit

{☆} characters tsaritsa {☆} notes cult au, drabble, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings violence [ implied ], unhealthy relationship {☆} word count 0.6k

She had resigned herself to apathy – to burying her love beneath the cold, hard soil and letting it rot amongst the graves of a long dead civilization, burned to ash in only a day. Yet how quickly it all fell apart in her hands, slipping through her fingers like sand, no matter how desperately she tried to cling to it.

Was she not diligent enough? Was she so weak that she faltered at the first person who showed her genuine trust and affection? Had all her work been for naught?

A part of her revolts – the same woman who watched the sky burn and the ground beneath her feet crumble into ash. It would be so easy to wrap her hands around your delicate throat, to squeeze until you finally saw her as the monster she knew she has always been.

Yet she doesn't think she could. The look of betrayal, of fear..oh, it would ruin her, she knows.

Perhaps that makes her weak. Perhaps you have made her weak.

Perhaps she does not mind as much as she should.

You trust her, after all – enough to sleep in her bed like she couldn't just kill you before you ever knew what was happening to you. Your body was so..fragile, in this mortal shell you descended in. How easy it would be to snuff out your life, here and now.

Yet she doesn't.

Instead, she looks at you like an old lover – with all the love of a woman who had died in the ashes of a dying civilization, of a woman who thought she could love no longer. Emotions she fought so hard to suppress well up in her chest and fill the empty space where she knows her heart should beat. Try as she might – and oh, how she tries – she can never quite stem the affection that consumes her every waking moment when she sees you.

It is like an addiction that she cannot rid herself of, no matter how she tries. She always finds herself back at square one – back to you.

Her hand lingers against your cheek, undue affection filling the empty spaces in her chest until she feels like cannot breathe. She traces her hand along your jaw, her vision narrowed on the softness of your lips.

Yet that same thought rises unbidden to the forefront of her thoughts. Love was a dangerous thing – you both knew that. To let it fester and rot her from within..she would be throwing her plans out the window, and for what?

Because she was too weak? Because the affection and trust in your eyes whenever your looked at her made her feel whole, like she was more then just an Archon playing God with the fate of the world?

You do not even stir as her thoughts toil like a brewing storm. She swallows the lump in her throat, removing her hand like she'd just touched a piece of hot metal. A part of her still screams that it's for the best, that you've corrupted her enough, torn apart her plans in the span of a week, a mere blink in time..

But it goes silent as she leans in, pressing her lips to your cheek. She will not let the thought fester, tonight – she will let herself be weak, if only for another day. If only to covet the affection that she finds herself drowning in for just another day.

And when you stir, she pretends that she had never thought of it at all, that she has only ever known love with you. Even if her heart that does not beat leaves a stabbing pain in her chest in the agony of knowing that even this is futile..

She lets you wake, let's the recognition and the affection fill your vision until she is all you see – two stars locked in orbit, unable to break away.

And when the day comes that you collide, she will be holding the blade that drives into your chest, and she will know nothing but love when she does.

[shouldntbee]

Happy birthday to me

Still here. Still alive.