#i love projecting

[demonwithshades]

People love to headcanon sampo as this flirtatious slut of a man and to a degree I agree, except, hear me out, he is asexual as well

That man is the most asexual you can get. He would absolutely never EVER have sex or even consider it, but what he WILL do is make sure you question it to the point where your head is spinning from all the guessing and he will be chuckling to himself knowing he is FOOLing you (hehe. get it.) by not even trying.

Slutty ace men ftw

[ghostbl00]

that one guy from guilty gear i guess

[defectivegembrain]

Okay I'm claiming him Abed Nadir needs reminders and support to maintain decent hygiene and there's nothing you can do about that!

[snake-snack-stede]

stede: I'm a bit of a clothes horse

ed: heh

[anonymouslymadebydesign]

shout out to @thatfuckinjester for inspiring me to write a little diddy, planting the seed

Thinking about Phantom beating the absolute shit outta someone (don't know who yet) based on my first fight I had when I was in HS

context : when i was a senior a friend of mine died and i heard a girl talking shit about my recently deceased friend so i jumped her in the middle of the library :)

Thinkin about Phantom just snapping on night, he's gone to the Abbeys massive old library, the one place he takes comfort and solace in. The one place Aether and Omega took him to show him of ancient books that spoke about quintessential ghouls, so if Phantom has any questions and they can't answer or aren't there he has resources.

Thinkin about Phantom who's feeling hopeless and overwhelmed, like he can't fill the shoes Aether left behind. So he goes to the library to read up on the books he's familiar with to try and better himself. Maybe it's his magic. Maybe it's not as good as Aether, not as strong. Maybe HES not as a good as Aether or Omega.

Phantom finding someone of the bands pack already in the library and his heart and stomach instantly fill with dread. He's wondering if he can get to his books silently, unnoticed.

Someone noticing him regardless and sighing, clearly irritated that he's even here. Picking up their books from the old tables intending on checking out and leaving.

Instead of getting hurt and sad, which is usually what that reaction makes Phantom feel: he feels anger instead.

Phantom "how dare they have such a visceral reaction to my presence when I haven't done a god damn fucking thing to them"

Phantom marching over to them and asking them what tf their problem is. Phantom all but launching himself at them, fueled by adrenaline, anger, and grief.

[bastardapologist]

hi this is my coming out as a gay transmasc adrian truther

[slytherinlesbians]

Whumptober 2023, Day 14: (alt prompt) Shaking

fandom: criminal minds | characters: spencer reid, aaron hotchner, jennifer jaraeu, emily prentiss | ship: none | trigger warnings: gunshot, autistic meltdown | content: spencer has a meltdown after a case, autistic spencer, team as a family, hotch & spencer friendship, dad!hotch | word count: 642.

When the gunshot sounds, it’s Spencer’s last straw. He practically collapses on the ground, back pressed against the SUV and biting down on his hand, trying not to scream. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries his best to focus on nothing but biting down, biting down, biting down, but the air is hot and sticky and his vest his tight against his chest, the image of the unsub he identified with being shot down is replaying over and over and God, oh God, he feels like he can’t breathe- 

“-pencer. Spence. It’s alright, you’re alright. Can you breathe with me?” JJ’s voice is soft and usually comforting, but Spencer can’t bring himself to open his eyes, to respond. He continues to bite down on his hand, eyes squeezed shut, rocking back and forth. He should respond, right? He should say something, let her know he’s still in here somewhere, despite the fact that he feels so removed from his body. He whimpers. That’s as far as he thinks he can get. 

“What’s wrong with-,” 

“Move-,” 

“Is he-,” 

“You need to give him space, man-,” 

“What’s his deal-,” 

His team’s voices telling the officers on the scene to go away drill into his skull. He’s screwing everything up, he’s sure of it. He whimpers again. After a moment, the voices move away, but they’re still nearby, grating up against his skull, mixing in with the sirens and other noises of the scene. 

“Reid, hey,” Emily’s speaking now, and he nods so that she can see he hears her, and starts to get lost in the motion. It feels good. He nods and he rocks and he listens to Emily as she speaks. 

“How about we go and get into the car? It’ll be a lot quieter there.” 

The car sounds nice. Good, even. 

He lets out a shaky exhale and opens his eyes. It’s so fucking bright. He makes a sound from the back of his throat, something noncommittal, but pushes himself up off of the ground and stands up shakily anyway. Emily opens the door for him, and he slides into the passenger seat, thankful for the tinted windows. She shuts the door quietly and makes her way around the other side. There’s murmuring outside the door, but he doesn’t focus on it. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself tightly, and he just tries to breathe. In, out, in, out, in, out, in-

“Reid?” Hotch opens the door and says his name softly. Spencer grimaces away from the busy sounds outside, and Hotch slides into the driver's seat quickly, shutting the door gently behind him. Spencer continues to rock in his seat, knees drawn up to his chest and hands squeezed tightly into fists to stop from shaking. “What do you need Spencer? How can I help?” 

Spencer shakes his head, looking down. I don’t know. His cheeks are flushed with shame. 

“That’s okay, you don’t need to know,” Hotch says, his voice quiet and gentle in the way it only ever goes in situations like these. “You take as long as you need. Do you want me to stay with you?” 

Spencer hesitates, then after a moment, nods. He flexes his fingers out in front of him and hums quietly. His hands are still shaking. He shakes his head at himself. Pathetic. 

“That’s just the adrenaline,” Hotch reminds him, and Spencer nods again. “You’ll stop soon.”

They’re quiet for a moment, then Hotch says hesitantly, “I know this case hasn’t been easy on you. Don’t beat yourself up over this, okay? Being overwhelmed is a universal feeling. We all just deal with it differently.” 

Spencer looks up at his boss, who’s watching his carefully, eyebrows creased in concern. 

“Thanks,” he whispers after a moment, and Hotch gives him a rare smile. 

“Of course.” 

[fluffydice]

Hng Kuboyasu who has to wear a compression sleeve on his ankle because he has chronic pain after fighting for literal years

[dyingnights]

i want to write so badly how does one motivate oneself to start

[crowzirawho]

something about crowley falling because he asked too many questions resonates with the autistic experience of having your questions be seen as inherently disrespectful and being denied answers/punished for it. questioning anything/asking for clarifications made you the bad guy.

this is one of the many reasons why crowley is such a relatable character to me and why I am very protective of my hc of him as autistic (because even though we don't act exactly the same way, I understand exactly how he feels)

[mothvalleys]

and if i said chip was welsh what would you do then

[coquettejohnny]

johnny cade is desi argue with the wall idc that it takes place in the 60s

[uh-ohspaghettio]

I know there’s no solid evidence to say that Dean Winchester has dyslexia except the fact I said so and I want him to pleeaasssee

[moominpopzz]

SO GLAD TO BE ROPING OTHER PEOPLE INTO THE SOUTHERN WIWI WISP BELEIF

[orionis13]

Prettiest chip ive ever drawn im finally figuring out his face

[aeroblossom]

a curse-bearer - furina

(please note: [self] objectification, implied stalking, depiction of cognitive distortion)

Everything in moderation.

The spoon gouges out the strawberry adorning the slice of cake. Tense fingers grasp the silverware, the anxiety made apparent by the clumsy and erratic clashes of the spoon against the ceramic of the plate in an attempt to split the cake in half.

A deep breath. Followed by another. And another.

Everything in moderation.

That's what Neuvillette said. He knew best, especially when not even she could differentiate from good and bad. Not good and bad for a wrongdoer, but good and bad for herself.

Her hands give out. The plate falls and shatters on the carpeted floor. The spoon drops soon after, hitting the tiled floor on the edge of the carpet with a clang. She slumps back in her chair after taking another deep breath and letting loose her shoulders, which until now seemed to hold all the stress in the world.

How incredibly unbecoming of Lady Furina the incredibly just, incredibly elegant, incredibly beautiful.

Unbecoming, unbecoming, unbecoming.

This kind of thing cuts so deep that even Focalors deep within her feels it, too. It's the polar opposite of sweets. It's the other extreme end of the spectrum. It's the complete antithesis of her happiness. Gloved hands cover the girl's face, she curls up on the sofa.

A large part of being well versed in law is being well versed in interpretation. She's trying to interpret the word 'moderation'.

Midpoint, medium, middle, et cetera. Not polar extremes. Absolutely not them. Somewhere in between, a grey area.

Grey? She's never known grey.

Kill or be killed. Do or die. Save or be saved. Owe or be owed. That's one kind.

The inside of her mouth feels sickeningly sweet, like she'd just swallowed a bunch of sugar. Saturated. Overflowing. Blinding, no other end in sight.

Hope or despair. You or me. You or them. You or us.

The door to her suite is always locked. She's careful never to let anyone in by accident. Careful not to be photographed within the confines of her own room again. Careful not to be followed to the Palais Mermonia. Careful not to have another person try to break and enter. Careful not to be treated like some sort of animal in an enclosure. Object of adoration. Objection of observation. Object of obsession. Object. Soulless hunk of material to be beaten into submission, embarrassed and humiliated.

Irrational love or irrational hate.

She hugs her knees, falling limp. Her flowing, long nightclothing hides marks of shame around her thighs. Long sleeves hide suspiciously calculated injuries on both her arms. This mortal vessel is so annoyingly slow to heal.

The letter of the proposition sits on her table. Normally she wouldn't mind such an offer. She's gotten rather accustomed to having cameras on her, all eyes on her, all attention on her. And she's convinced herself she likes it.

She's convinced herself it's perfectly normal for her own subject, a human, one of those she fought with her life to defend and protect, to ask her to pose without a single article of her clothing in front of a camera. That it's entirely normal to be debased like this.

What would any other god have done? What would Barbatos do? What would Buer do? Morax? Baal? Egeria?

(Actually, she's pretty sure Baal would execute them with her own hands, on the spot.)

Focalors usually shuts down such a thing. Things she thinks damages her reputation. But where does this fall? Damaging? Improving? Wouldn't they love her more if she did as they asked?

That's what she's always wanted, right? To be loved. To be adored. To be needed. To be doted on. To be relied on. For the beloved sinners, cursed from their birth, to be guided via her divine strength – just like herself.

A gloved finger traces the light scars on her arm. Slowly sliding from one side to the other. It stops on one end.

Irrational love?

She's convinced herself this is love. She's sure the tears that roll down her face are nothing at all. She's had worse, hasn't she? She's had someone jump down the Palais and injure themselves to enter her room. She's had reporters and journalists stalking her to every nook and cranny of the city to speak to her.

Neuvillette often put a stop to things when he saw they were harming her, because she couldn't. She couldn't say no to them. She couldn't say no to the chance to hear more adoring words and praise.

It's fine if sometimes it makes her unable to sleep at night, thinking someone must be under her bed, looking at her. Trying to see inside of her. Inside the bubble, the shattered mess within. The thought of it makes her skin crawl.

For anyone to know what she is deep within.

And yet she craves it.

A few minutes of silence pass by before she lifts up her head again. Very well, then.

If the destruction of her self is what's needed for her to earn love – she'll gladly do it. That's what her being revolves around. Love, love love.

Once again, she's failed to live up to 'everything in moderation'.