#so i put a little more emphasis on that

[erigold13261]

what would the inmate's minds look like some time after p1

Don't know why I don't like the word inmates in this context, even though the patients technically were inmates, it seems more dehumanizing, so I'm going to call them patients and not inmates. (Though I guess that's the American in me talking since a lot of media tends to dehumanize inmates, so the term inmate doesn't sit right with me, especially with mentally ill individuals).

But uh, I have no real idea. I don't think we ever go into a mind that was bad and then got help (other than revisiting minds but they don't change much), so it would be hard to say what someone's mind would look like after it was helped.

It would probably be safe to assume that the patients still need some help, because you can't just cure mental illness, even in the Psychonauts world, especially after just one psycho-session in someone's brain. There would probably need to be a few sessions that are done to help someone become more stable, kinda like more intense and interactive therapy. But like Hollis said, Psychonauts are there to help people, not fix them.

So, while I do think their minds would be different, I don't think it would be something completely separate from what we see. Take Fred for example, his mind is very much based on the game Waterloo-O because of the trauma of being humiliated by losing so much to Crispin (along with possibly being altered by the Psitanium deposit of the place). After we help Fred out, he is now WANTING to play Waterloo-O instead of being FORCED to play by his psyche's version of Napoleon. So I believe his mind would have remnants of the game still integrated into his mind.

The mind is an ever changing thing, so one week going into someone's mind compared to another could lead to a vastly different experience. Someone with Autism who lost a special interest and is feeling depressed could have a mind that looks extremely different from their mind in a day when they find a new special interest. It all depends on the moment I believe.

Now actually thinking of it, the minds of the patients might not actually be as changing as a "sane" person's mind. If we take the quote by Albert Einstein: "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result", then it could be possibly that an "insane" person's mind is more stagnant, which is why they need more help than someone who is "sane".

So potentially, the patients minds haven't changed too much. Such as Boyd still feeling like he's being watched at times, or having anxiety, but his mind isn't as broken and separated as it used to be. Gloria's mind could still very much be set in a theatre themed place, but she would no longer be reliving one part of her life (or the bad parts of her life) over and over again.

This is just becoming more of a rambly mess now. The patients minds probably still have the same or similar themes that we see in their minds in PN1 but have a bit more variety to them. These people aren't "cured", they can be doing better, but you can't cure mental illness. We see what happens to some people who forcibly try to cure mental illness (in this case being Psychic) with Loboto. Being lobotomized did so much damage to Loboto and his mind. It's better that people (trained Psychonauts) try their best to help these patients along with anyone else who needs mental help.

The minds of the patients will probably be similar to what we see in PN1, just with some differences such as being a bit more stable or having a different main theme to them.

[carrotkicks]

Fugitives arc - Abridged vrs.

(part of the sends them to school au)

hehe so guess what! I took my insanity to new heights and I actually tried to write (horrifying) do tell me how it goes for you

It took exactly 9 seconds to find the extra bandages. Dr. Mori was always reliable about keeping medical supplies ready on hand but Dazai counted anyway. It’s a habit she’s grown over the years. Her eyepatch had gotten rather grimy after a long day on the run, and the bacteria that may have collected could give her another infection, so she might as well change it, right? 

Right! That’s a good start. Redoing her bandages is an excellent next step in her plan to somehow get herself and Chuuya out of this debacle. 

Speaking of, Chuuya was currently in the bedroom, trying to find something to wear that was left lying around in this safe house. Dazai had helped her take a bath earlier, and it took a lot of effort on her part to not freak out. Not that Chuuya noticed, of course. Chuuya might have a second special ability to be completely oblivious to some things. Like when someone’s putting the moves on her, or when she’s in pain. It’s as though she entirely lacks self-preservation. Does she have a death wish or something? Oh wait –

Dazai freezes that horribly ironic train of thought to remind herself she’s in a bathroom surrounded by puddles of Chuuya’s blood and tattered clothes. After the bandages, I’ll clean this mess. That’s a good next, next step.

Chuuya had gotten injured, somehow. A deep gash on the back of her neck, like a creature sunk its claws in her and pulled something out. Dazai frowned at the thought as she pulled her patch off. Chuuya hasn’t said a word about why they were hiding but after the events of the past few days, Dazai’s overactive mind was starting to paint a bleak picture. 

Chuuya wasn’t at school for the past few days. On the third day of her absence, her literature teacher pulled her aside with a packet of coursework in hand. 

“I know you’re close to Nakahara-chan. Perhaps you can deliver her the materials she’s missed this past week so she doesn’t fall too far behind. And check in on her too, okay?” 

Of course, Dazai readily agreed. Their Sensei has always shown exasperation towards Chuuya’s poor attendance habits, but today there was a strange tightness in her smile that made Dazai’s stomach settle uncomfortably. 

Kunikida decided to join her to deliver the notes – “Not that I don’t think you’re capable of it on your own. I’m putting up with you because it’s a dangerous location, and I would like to see how Nakahara-san is doing” he declared. Naturally, Dazai had cheerfully wrapped an arm around his waist and accepted his chivalrous offer. Kunikida may give the pretenses of aloofness but he worries too much for the act to hold any weight. That’s how Dazai managed to figure out what happened after that disastrous mistake on her part last Friday. 

Kunikida and Yosano both agreed to this story: Chuuya looked very pale when they entered the club room. She claimed she was ill and decided to leave after minutes in. That’s where it ended, frustratingly enough. At yesterday’s Detectives Club meeting, Ranpo mentioned to her briefly “I don’t think things look very good at home for Chuuya-kun.” Dazai nodded. 

I figured as much too.

That’s why when she and Kunikida stepped up to a ratty-looking apartment unit in a ratty-looking apartment complex in the Suribachi neighborhood on the outskirts of Yokohama, she had Hirotsu in a van full of Mafia guards parked two blocks away. Her security detail was also following close by but she’s not supposed to know about them, so if anyone asks, what security detail? 

“This is the right place?” Kunikida asked, looking back at the surroundings. The area didn’t seem safe, at least for a couple of kids wearing uniforms for one of the most prestigious private academies in Yokohama. Even if those kids were ability users. 

“It’s the address Sensei gave me,” Dazai responded in a relaxed fashion. She gazed back to where Kunikida was looking. An armored truck hidden under the shade of a tree. 

“Supposedly there’s a military base nearby,” she rationalized. Kunikida only nodded uneasily. 

Dazai grinned and began ruffling through her bag for the handouts. “Hey, if Chuuya answers the door, she won’t be in her school uniform.” 

“Hm.” Kunikida stepped forward and knocked. Three times. 

“I bet she has an awful fashion sense. She seems like the type, right?”

“Anything Nakahara-san chooses for her style will be an improvement to your bandages, Dazai-chan.” 

“Tch. Rude.” 

The door opened. The timer starts.

Standing there was a tall man wearing a lab coat and a gentle smile. “Hello. Can I help you?” He has glasses and graying hair. He’s keeping his hands in his pockets, one of which seems to be holding something. 6 seconds. 

Kunikida must have picked up that Dazai wasn’t willing to talk, and took over. “Hello sir, is this the residence of Nakahara Chuuya-san?” 

“Yes, I’m her father. She’s not well right now, so I’m afraid you can’t see her.” 18 seconds. From what Dazai could see there wasn’t any furniture other than a sofa, coffee table, and coat rack. Chuuya’s signature boots weren’t by the entrance. 

“That’s… alright. We just came to deliver some of the notes and homework she’s missed. We’re classmates.” The blinds in the apartment were drawn, and there was something in the shadow that Dazai couldn’t make out clearly. 23 seconds. 

Chuuya’s “father” accepted the offered papers swiftly without a second glance. “I’ll see that she gets these. Anything else?” 31 seconds. A glint of metal, that looked the shape of – 

“Nope, that’s it! We’ll take our leave then. Please tell Chuuya we hope she feels better for us, sir” Dazai cut in. She nudged Kunikida’s foot  Come on, time to go.

Kunikida gave a courteous bow. “Thank you for your time, Nakahara-san.” 

At that, a strange smirk crossed over the man’s face, as if he heard the world’s most ironic joke. “Of course.” He made eye contact with Dazai for a moment and she really hoped she was giving him a polite smile because her eyes felt far too wide to be anything other than manic. Then the door slammed shut. 

The entire encounter lasted 42 seconds, and Dazai already figured out more than she wanted to. “Chuuya wasn’t there. That man wasn’t her father” She tells Kunikida when they’re far enough away from the building. Her friend gave her a sharp look, but it wasn’t an "I don’t believe you". It helped the tightness in her throat clear a little. 

“How do you figure?” 

Dazai furrowed her brow, “That apartment isn’t lived in at all. None of Chuuya’s possessions were to be found. And…” She halted. Kunikida stopped beside her. “Inside I saw a glimpse of a rifle, a military-grade one. There was definitely an armed soldier hiding in the back, and likely the rest of their squad too.” Soldiers, a military base, a man in a lab coat, and a missing ability user. A terrible combination.

Kunikida muttered what was absolutely not a curse. “We need to find Nakahara quickly.” He says, not wasting a moment to pull out his phone to dial who she thinks is Ranpo. 

Dazai nods, already feeling more confident. But Yokohama’s a big city, how are they supposed to find one tiny person like – 

*** 

“Dazai. Dazaiiiiiiii! Are you- oh!” Chuuya rushed out about as quickly as she entered. Dazai had scrambled to throw her hands up to hide her uncovered eye. She exhaled heavily as she tried to suppress the irritation that flared up in her chest. That was terrible timing on her part, and she should have accounted for Chuuya being her spontaneous self. 

“Seriously, Chibi? Didn’t anyone teach you to knock first?” 

“Sorry. I didn’t expect you to be indecent.” Dazai isn’t naked, just bandage-less right now. Oh, Chuuya’s trying to be funny.

“Humor isn’t your thing Slug-chan. Hhh, tell me. Did you see it?” Dazai doesn’t know why she’s feeling so self-conscious. Her eye healed a long time ago, even if seeing out of it is still quite blurry, it looks perfectly fine. But in the year since the … injury … Dazai has only been able to bear looking at her own unobstructed reflection for only a few minutes at a time. The only other person who could be comparable was the Good Doctor himself. 

There’s a silence behind the door. Then, Chuuya says, “I saw you, Dazai.”

Dazai doesn’t know how to respond to that, and it seems like Chuuya may have realized because there’s a hesitant turn of the door handle. Dazai puts her hand over the right side of her face for good measure. 

The door creaks open and the redhead shuffles in. Literally shuffles, Dazai realized, those clothes were huge on her, practically swallowing her frame. The sleeves of the collared shirt she found were rolled up to her elbows and the black slacks she was wearing must have been cuffed 3(?) times. They must be Dr. Mori’s, a little voice in Dazai’s head supplied. She looks cute in them, an unhelpful one adds. She looked cuter covered in blood, to be honest, another, more unhelpful, eviler voice continued. Hold on, has Dazai ever seen Chuuya wear long pants before?

Whatever. It didn’t matter because obviously, Dazai laughed out loud at the sight. Maybe overcompensated even, she really needed this chance to tease Chuuya. Any chance she’ll get. For her part, Chuuya must have anticipated this reaction because she just huffs out in annoyance and drags herself closer. When her giggles died down, she realized that Chuuya had grabbed her hand and was looking directly into her eyes, and a self-satisfied grin settled on her face.

Ah, Dazai’s mouth felt dry again, so she lowers her head. Chuuya took that as a cue to start talking. “It’s only fair, Dazai. You got to see all of me, so I deserve some leverage on you too.” 

Leverage? Oh… Dazai thinks she gets it. Chuuya’s at Dazai’s mercy right now. Dazai’s father owns this safe house, Dazai’s people are guarding the perimeter, and Dazai’s the one who can treat her injuries. Chuuya’s asking for some control over the situation. She’s asking for trust in return. Dazai can handle that. 

She looks up, but Chuuya’s already turned her head away, cheeks a faint red. She detaches her hand but Dazai grabs it before it can retreat further. 

“Hey.” Dazai brings Chuuya’s hand close to her face. Chuuya meets here eyes. She seems confused. “A while ago I got into an accident.”

“An accident?” If Chuuya doubts her, she wouldn’t show it. 

“Yeah. It really messed up the right side of my face. It used to look really bad so I always bandaged it. It became a habit.” 

Dazai hesitated on the next part. “And when I see myself without the patches, I get reminded how human I look.” 

Chuuya’s gaze was unreadable now. 

Shit. Don’t say more. Dazai found herself stuck explaining, “And it makes me a fraud because I’m not a human. Not inside. Not where it matters” Stop oversharing! She can feel her heartbeat going faster “Ahh ~ that part’s not really a big deal, though. How’s my face, Chuuya-kun? Is it cute?” 

“What the hell are you saying, Dazai?” When she’s upset Chuuya’s voice goes down an octave from her usual high throaty pitch. It seems that’s the case here. Dazai stayed transfixed to the anger brewing in her eyes, and didn’t noticed that Chuuya’s hands landed themselves on either side of her face, cupping it gentler than her expression would have let on. 

“Don’t you ever say that to my face again! You're not human? That’s complete bullshit.” Who taught Chuuya how to curse, anyway?

“Chuuya I-”

“Shut up. Don’t you understand, Dazai?” She really doesn’t understand. Chuuya’s expression melts into something Dazai can’t recognize. Her thumb strokes her right cheek and then Dazai is being pulled closer to the Earth. At some point her eyes close. Some muddled thought about trust floats around her head. 

“You’re the most human person I’ll ever meet.”

Something soft and warm. Right under her eye. Dazai snaps back into awareness as Chuuya pulls away, red-faced, like a shrimp. A shrimpy color on a shrimpy person. Or the color of crab. Dazai loves crab. Dazai loves- Chuuya squirmed under her gaze. Oh, right. How much time did she just lose?

“You took me by surprise last Friday,” Chuuya confesses, looking away in embarrassment. “And then I got scared, because I felt so good in that one moment with you, and then I had to go back… Home.” She shuddered. “And I’ve been trying change, you know? Because I didn’t feel alive until I met you, and then suddenly I wanted to feel alive for you.” 

Dazai didn’t know how to respond, so she wrapped her hand around the back of Chuuya’s neck, carefully over thick patch of gauze that protected her injury. Chuuya looked breathless. “And then last week, I realized that my freedom had run out, so I took a chance and escaped. And now we’re here. And it’s all your fault Dazai. I did it because of you.”

There’s something dark and stormy in Chuuya’s eyes. 

“And that stupid goddamned kiss. It was fucking incredible .” 

Dazai closed the distance between them again. And again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again andagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagainandagain –

*** 

So their night went peacefully after that. Dazai never ended up rewrapping her eye, just for the sake of savoring that adorable flustered look on Chuuya’s face. Cleaning the bathroom was a more irritating chore. Dazai had nudged the pile that was Chuuya’s blood-soaked uniform and a random set of green and yellow gardening gloves she somehow acquired. (“Hey you sure you didn’t go and murder anyone, Slug?” she had taunted. Chuuya ominously didn’t answer.) Dr Mori had kept a huge stock of spicy instant noodles in the pantry and the two of them held a contest to see who could handle the spice better. It ended in a tie because Dazai refused to admit she had a runny nose and tears in her eyes. 

And now they were in bed, in each other's arms. Dazai hugged her… girlfriend? partner? … closer. Chuuya was so warm. Like a human furnace. Dazai could happily die right now. Until Chuuya spoke up. 

“Dazai, why did you tell me I would look cute in a cage right before you kissed me. ” Death needs to arrive a little faster. Dazai is a little spent from the embarrassing and soulbearing conversations earlier. 

“It. It was a dog joke Chuuya. Because you’re my doggy.”

“Likely story. You just want me to have no freedom under you instead.” Dazai pointedly didn’t wrap herself around Chuuya more, to prove her self restraint and respect for Chuuya’s autonomy.

“Please drop it. You don’t understand my prodigal mind.”

“Hmm. How about never?” 

A comfortable silence settled over them again. Chuuya pushed herself deeper into Dazai’s hold. She was wearing a pair of oven mits that she found in the kitchen, and Dazai didn’t bother to ask why. What did matter was that this moment never ended.

“Dazai.” Chuuya started. “I’m…”

“Hm?” Dazai shifted her position so she could see Chuuya’s expression. It was horribly vulnerable. 

“I… don’t think I’ll be sleeping tonight.” 

The unspoken words rang clearly in Dazai’s mind. She smiled and ran her hand through the short red hair. There was a light shining in Chuuya’s eyes. If they were going to pull an all-nighter, then Dazai better start counting.

“Yeah. Me too, Chuuya” 

***

Dazai woke up to the barrel of an assault rifle pressed to her temple and a tall man in a white lab coat holding Chuuya in his arms.

[aberooski]

Alexis Rhodes, Fairy of Frost.

[starry-bi-sky]

honestly your dpxdc clone au gives me life, its adorable as all hell and im a sucker for found family but with that being said, its so freaking hysterical to me that Danny is going full feral liminal menace at Wes any time hes near and Wes himself is still 100% into it the freak (affectionate) and thats not even pointing out the paralles it could possible create since danny and dames gives massive parallels to dick and damian and dick does have a thing for redheads.

yeesSSSSS! I was planning on hoarding this to myself but i can't not reply. and i'll be able to find this again with the clone^2 tag so win WIN. i'm so glad you are as delighted by this as me. It's so hilarious to me that Danny just becomes a complete freak whenever he spots Wes, and I'm the one who wrote it into existence. Like- like i don't know how to explain my vision in words but like, its like Danny sees Wes and immediately goes 'what can I do to make his day worse'. And then he goes and does it.

(honorary read more because i talk a lot)

He's relatively normal around his friends too, which makes him going full-fledged unhinged around Wes even funnier to me. Like, Danny will spout weird shit sometimes to Sam and Tucker, but usually its prefaced with him talking about patrol or there would be context before he said anything. With Wes? Though?? he will just. say anything, completely unprompted. Slings an arm around his shoulder like they've been buddies since primary school and then spits out a weird new fun fact he learned about the bodily anatomy while researching his latest cold case. All vaguely-threatening but utterly insane things to say as way to start a conversation.

And sometimes its not even that, he'll walk up to Wes and ask him if he saw the latest daytime fight between Phantom and Skulker. And then he'll say "yeah i missed it myself but I saw clips of it being posted online" and then watch Wes mentally explode him with his mind. or he'll disparage Phantom for having such a young partner with him, "Can you believe he'd let a kid fight ghosts with him? I'd never let my brother ghosthunt with me if I was Phantom."

All of this with such a deceptive look on his face but the most delighted, shit-eating gleam in his eyes. Wes is chewing glass and he wants to yell that he does let his brother fight ghosts with him. Also you told him yourself that nothing would've stopped your demonic (Wes' words) little brother from joining you.

Damian gets in on the fuckery occasionally, but since he's not around often with Wes about, it doesn't happen nearly as often as it does between Wes and Danny. Sam and Tucker know he's screwing with him too, and both of them are a little wary about him being careless with his secret id. But he's been doing this since he was 14-ish and it hasn't backfired yet. So. They're not actively stopping him.

Danny walks back to his lunch table after terrorizing Wes and Tucker just asks him what he said, because Wes was about as red as a tomato when he walked away. Danny offhandedly sighs and innocently says he tried to have a conversation about Phantom with him. Wes didn't seem to like it all that much. Weird.

And yes, yes. Wes is totally into it and is slightly enraged about this fact, because not even he knows why he's into it. The freak (affectionate). Danny gives him this troublemaker smirk, and i did say smirk, and Wes doesn't know whether or not if he wants to smack him or kiss him. Or both. Like, yeah, pine, white boy, pine.

(And this is a dramatized image but I'm also highly entertained by the idea that Wes keeps getting routine dirty looks from various peers because they, too, have a crush on Fenton. Except Fenton doesn't talk to anyone else unless its his friends and sometimes Valerie, and Weston, the guy who keeps accusing him of being the local vigilante, is somehow routinely having conversations with him?? And BLOWING IT?? Like everyone else thinks he's fumbling so bad, and yet fenton keeps tALKING to him.)

And yes!! i'm always so pleased whenever someone brings up the parallels D+D have to Dick and Damian, because that was lowkey my intention when I was making the solo clone damian au. Although it was supposed to be more implied since I don't really know much about Damian and Dick other than they're very close and Dick was Damian's Batman for a year. And then of course the very smaller parallel (??) 'what if' between Bruce and Damian and D+D in clone^2 considering who they are both clones of.

And man this just makes me want to talk about when batfam meet D+D because I just want them to see D+D be so brotherly towards each other. Like I want them to see Bby Dames wearing his goofy fun fact shirts and stealing Danny's hoodies/flannels/etc and blatantly lying about it when Danny asks. Only for Danny to then throw him over his shoulder like Tadashi from BH3 and jump around.

And also. I do not know what Damian Wayne's (DW as I'll call him) stance on being called "Dami" is - the general consensus I've seen is that its usually used as a playful nickname in order to get a rise out of him, and he doesn't really like it.

But baby Dames being called that freely, and often, and its sometimes used to get a rise out of him but thats typically what nicknames do. Its used as easily as his full name is with the same amount of affection. And its like his main go-to nickname. "Dami" and "Dames" with the occasional "Bud/Buddy", "Squirt", "Little man", etc. Not once is he ever called 'demon-spawn'

(which i know is a fanon nickname but its a relatively popular nickname)

but yeah, uhhh. i think thats all of my thoughts on the matter. for now lmAO

[justgleekout]

Guess I remembered I know how to draw realism ✨💕

Reference pic 

[allylikethecat]

i hate inflicting more pain onto him but you do "insecure matty comforted by g" so well, could we get a little snippet on him reacting to all the "twink death" posts on twitter 🥹

HELLO KIND ANON!

Thank you so much for going rogue and just like... sending me a prompt that wasn't on any kind of list. If anyone else wants to just... send me a prompt situation from the depths of their mind I am HERE and READY for it!

This little snippet ended up being 2k words and I'm not totally sure how that happened and I was going to try and cut it down some but then decided that this was my blog so I can do what I want and we are full send posting the entire thing. I'm not sure if this is what you are looking for, but here we are! Also I mean no offense to anyone with this one (Fictional!Matty per the prompt is upset about the Twink Death posts and it sends him spiraling about his relationship with fans and also fictional!George) and I hope you enjoy it! Also I 100% made up the twitter handle and I mean no offense if there is anyone out there with that handle.

Thank you so much and let me know what you think!

❤️Ally

Matty knew he wasn’t supposed to be on Twitter anymore. His therapist had told him so, George had told him so. Social media was a cesspool, it wasn’t real life, and it only ever served to bring him down. Matty knew he had an addictive personality, and a short attention span, so sometimes it felt like social media had been made just for him, projecting colorful, easily digestable, bite size bits of information right to his brain. (Rationally he knew that was the entire point of an algorithm but that didn’t mean it made him feel any less special.)

Scrolling through Twitter was like pressing on a bruise, he couldn’t help but love the sting even though it only hurt him. Whenever he went on Twitter he ended up doom scrolling until he sent himself into a depressive spiral, focusing on all the people who hated him and wanted him to overdose and die, which he then coped with by getting drunk and posting the wrong thing. 

Matty knew he wasn’t supposed to be on Twitter anymore, but George was distracted and Matty was too tired to even sleep and apparently a masochist as he settled onto the hotel bed and re-downloaded the app, a white X on a black background instead of the blue bird he had grown to love to hate. He logged in quickly with one of his many burner accounts, a ‘75 fan account that no one had even joking speculated was actually him. A tingling thrill of anticipation moved up his spine, not unlike the buzz he used to feel when he went out to score, as his feed loaded. He quickly glanced over at George guilty, who was still staring intently at his laptop, sitting at the hotel desk, headphones on, working on something. He felt like a little kid with his hand in the cookie jar, just asking to be caught and disciplined.

Confident that George wouldn’t be paying him any mind, at least for a little while, Matty began scrolling. There were fans proclaiming their love for him, and that they wanted to have his babies, invasive fan theories about him and Ross of all people that couldn’t be further from the truth, pictures of Taylor in Brazil, then more pictures of her pretending she gave a rat's arse about football. Sandwiched between a gif of a cat falling off of the counter and a tweet proclaiming Jack Antanoff a chaos gremlin Matty saw it.

He nearly scrolled past the two pictures posted side by side. If he was going to be naughty and looking through twitter, he was going to at least try and avoid too much of his own press, but he couldn’t help but stop. It was a picture of him from 2014, he was on stage, clutching a microphone and a cigarette in the same hand, his pale blue button down half unbuttoned and nearly slipping off his shoulder, his collar bone jutting out razor sharp. His curls were overgrown and unbrushed, falling around his face, a dark curtain he used to desperately hide behind. He had a vague memory of that day, at least he thought it might have been that day. He had been wearing that shirt the first time George kissed him for real. It had been the last time he had worn the shirt as well, the buttons hadn’t survived George’s eager hands. 

The other picture was from a few nights ago, a tight gray tee shirt clinging to his chest and biceps, the mustache he had grown back at George’s sheepish request twitched in amusement. He looked so much healthier in the second photo, and he was surprised to see it, surprised to see how stark the contrast was. He was pleased that the fans were seeing it too, that they were seeing how much work he had been putting into himself. He wasn’t hiding behind his hair anymore, hence the shorter curls. He was eating better, he was working out. He was trying not to drink as much, he was trying not to smoke as much. He was, after years of therapy, and a few hospital stays that he was happy never actually made it into the press, and more patience and support from George than Matty was sure he deserved, he was actually doing well. The new combination of medication was helping, even if he didn’t want to admit it. 

Then he saw the caption. Twink Death. He blinked. What did they mean, twink death. He was actively taking steps to better himself and healyslut69 was clearly being ridiculous, acting like a piece of him had died. He was the same person, he just wasn’t twenty five and addicted to smack anymore. Not that he had ever been a twink in the first place. He was a manly man, thank you very much. He clicked on the tweet, eager to scroll through the thread and see the replies calling out healyslut69 for being absolutely ridiculous. Twink Death, he scoffed, absolutely ridiculous. That was until he saw that all of the replies were in agreement with healyslut69. They were all mourning his alleged twink death.

He let out a little whine of frustration, then quickly glanced up from his phone to make sure George hadn’t heard him. Thankfully, George was still engrossed in whatever track he was working on, headphones on, clicking away. This is absolutely ridiculous, Matty thought, thumbing away from the thread to go back to his feed. This group of fans didn’t know what they were on about. He frowned as he saw another post relating to the topic, then another, and then another. He swallowed hard. Maybe healyslut69 wasn’t the one that was wrong. Maybe he was. 

He scrolled up, finding the original tweet once again. He looked at the two photos, bringing his phone up closer to his face to examine them as if he wasn’t looking at the face he saw in the mirror every morning. Maybe he didn’t look like the same person anymore. Maybe it was more than just getting clean, cutting his hair and gaining at least a stone. Maybe a piece of him really had died. He swallowed hard, his thick smoker’s saliva catching in his throat causing him to cough wetly. At that George did turn his head, lifting one of the headphones away from his ear. 

“You ‘right?” George asked, frowning, as he took in the look on Matty’s face. 

Matty quickly waved him off. “Yeah, just swallowed wrong,” he said, flashing George a thumbs up.

George frowned but turned back to his laptop anyway and Matty went back to his phone, clicking on the original tweet must have triggered something in his algorithm because he was suddenly bombarded with posts about how much he had changed, how much the fans wanted the “old Matty back” how they wanted to “Make Matty Gay again” as if he wasn’t in a fucking relationship with a man and had been for the past nine years. 

The more he read the more the self doubt started creeping in. It was slow at first, and he almost didn’t notice it. It was like frostbite, creeping through his body, overwhelming his senses without him even realizing until it was too late. He pressed the side button to lock his phone and tossed it onto the bed, where it proceeded to slide off the sheets and land on the floor with a clatter. He let out a groan of frustration and self pity, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes. He just couldn’t fucking win. 

“Okay,” said George, taking his headphones completely off and spinning around in the swivel chair to look at Matt, quickly glancing at his phone on the floor, then back to Matty. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” said Matty stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling ridiculous for even being upset that some faceless fan account was mourning his supposed “twink death,” even as his lower lip began to tremble. Fuck Matty though, unable to meet George’s gaze and the loving concern he knew he was going to see painted across his face. He was going to start crying. He froze, feeling like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head. What if George didn’t find him as attractive anymore, what if George missed how he used to look, all skinny and delicate, with long messy hair, sucking on a cigarette instead of eating breakfast, lunch or dinner. 

What if that was why their sex life had gotten less active as they got older. They still had plenty of sex, and Matty had always been satisfied, but what if that was the reason the shirt destroying urgency was gone, what if that was why George wasn’t tossing him onto the nearest surface at every opportunity anymore. Matty had thought they were just getting older, maturing, leveling out, but what if George just wasn’t as attracted to him anymore?! What if that was why George had wanted him to grow the mustache, what if he was trying to find some new way to make sleeping with him less of a chore. 

Matty couldn’t help it, he looked up, at kind, sweet, understanding and supportive George, who forced himself to fuck him even though he wasn’t attracted to him anymore, and instantly burst into the tears he had been fighting. 

George blinked in surprise, clearly he hadn’t been expecting that. He stood up, closing the distance between them as he sat down next to Matty on the bed, carefully pulling him into his arms even as Matty kept his hands pressed to his face. 

“What’s wrong, love,” said George softly, rubbing a large hand in careful circles against Matty’s back. “Did something happen? Is your family okay?” 

Guilt burned in Matty’s stomach, as he pressed his hand to his mouth as if he could push all the upset back inside of his chest, as if he could swallow it back down to his belly where it belonged. 

“They’re fine,” Matty said with a hiccup, “I’m fine, sorry, fuck, I’m fine,” he rubbed at his eyes, even as his breath hitched, “you can get back to work, I’m fine.” 

“Matthew,” said George softly, pulling Matty’s hands away from his face. “Something is clearly wrong, what can I do to help?” 

George’s kindness just made Matty cry harder, burying his face in George’s shoulder. He knew he was being extremely dramatic and over the top right now, crying because some fans on the internet were mourning his alleged “twink death” was ridiculous even for him. But it wasn’t just about the fans on the internet, it was hundreds of little things he had pushed down until he just couldn’t take it anymore and it all boiled over. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be famous anymore, he wasn’t sure he ever had. 

It was the fans that seemed to hate him always criticizing his outfit choices, the ones complaining about the set lists he painstakingly put together, the ones who complained that he didn’t talk enough during gigs, and the ones who complained when he did. It was the fans, and not fans, that took every word he had ever spoken ever, and twisted it round in circles until it didn’t even make sense anymore. It was the ones accusing him of being the worst person alive. It was the ones wishing death upon him and his loved ones. It was the way that no matter what he did, no matter how much of himself he gave to the masses, it was never enough and never what they wanted. He was just so fucking tired, and seeing that tweet broke something inside of him in a way that he hadn’t been expecting. It filled him with even more self loathing and doubt, why had he even bothered to get clean, why had he even bothered to try and get healthy, everyone liked him better strung out anyway it seemed. 

“Just some dumb fans on the internet,” said Matty quietly, trying to get his breathing under control, George was still rubbing his back soothingly.

“Matty,” said George sadly, his heart breaking. He wasn’t going to address the fact that they both already knew Matty wasn’t supposed to be looking at Twitter. 

“Do you,” said Matty, pulling away slightly, needing to hear the words straight from George’s mouth, needing to rip the bandaid off. If George didn’t like him like this he would figure it out. He’d lose the weight again, he’d grow out his hair. “Do you,” he swallowed hard, “do you still like me?” 

“What kind of absolute bullshit question is that?” George asked, “of course I like you Matty, I fucking love you.” 

Matty swallowed again, weighing his words. “Are you, are you still attracted to me?” 

“Jesus Christ Matty,” said George, “what is this about? Yes I’m very much still attracted to you, always have been and always will be.” 

“Even though I’m not as,” Matty could bring himself to say the word, “delicate anymore?” he asked instead. 

“What do you mean?” George asked not following along. Matty sighed and pulled away from George’s arms, leaning over the side of the bed to retrieve his phone. He unlocked it, keeping his eyes down cast as he handed it to George.

George frowned, looking over the tweet, a crinkle forming between his eyebrows. He relocked Matty’s phone without saying a word and reached over to set it on the nightstand. 

“I,” said George leaning in and pushing Matty onto his back so he could hover over him. “Love you.” He kissed Matty’s deeply, licking into his mouth, before nipping lightly on his lower lip. “And I will always love you and think you’re the sexiest man alive.” 

“Even though I’m not a twink anymore?” Matty couldn’t help but ask even as he felt George’s erection digging into his thigh. 

George snorted. “If anything, it’s even hotter that I don’t have to worry about hurting you.” 

Matty couldn’t help the grin that broke out across his face, and George couldn’t help but kiss it away. 

[jasontoddenthusiastt]

I’ve been watching Titans. What have they done to my boy.

[arctic-hands]

I learned what a bullet journal was by watching a few YouTube artists set theirs up and my algorithm spiraled out of control from there so I guess I have all the bujo influencers to thank for getting into it because it has been a godsend so far on my third attempt, but damn if the over emphasis on aesthetic over the actual practical organizational aspect of it doesn't rankle me a bit

[thirty rambling tags later] huh. I didn't know there was a thirty tag limit in all the years I've been on tumblr. Whatevs I can't copy paste the tags onto the main body because I'm on mobile and I don't want to write it out again so I'll just summarize the last bit here:

If you are browsing the bujo tag because you feel bullet journaling will help you but you feel intimated because you don't think you can make it look pretty, or that the bullet journal method could never help you because it looks exhausting or the inspo you see doesn't cover what you need, I am pleading with you to ignore all the pretty inspiration, take the most common and even original Ryder Carroll formats and spreads with a grain of salt and eliminate or change them as needed, and talk to people who have similar needs than you even if they don't bujo and suss out what's important to keep track of. My bujo is eighty percent important medical bullshit, because that's what I need more than a book tracker. You prolly have your own unique needs. And hell, if you want a book tracker then add a booktracker. It's your bujo to format and plan out.

So like if you want to start bullet journaling, go to Michaels and get a seven dollar Artist's Loft dot grid journal. Or a binder you have left over from school years past and print out your own dot grid paper if you have enough ink and paper and printer that can do double sided (Kevin McLeod's site I forget the name of has free adjustable dot and other grids I've used), or buy a pack of 8.5x11 dot grid paper, and grab a crappy hole punch that just barely does the job. Get yourself a nice pen you think looks and feels nice in your hand and on the paper–or if that doesn't matter to you go get pack of Bics or even pencil if that's what you prefer (I use a pencil for things I can't have be permanent, like temporary meds or the dates of yearly vaccines). If you're twitchy about messing up then get the cheapest wite out they have (but don't worry about messing up especially if you're not even showing it off to anybody). A cheap yellow highlighter if you think it'll help. And a ruler if straight lines are important to you. I lost mine so I just wobble my lines now I don't care (and it's marginally easier to get a line adjacent to straight with a dot grid)

Anyway. If you want to bullet journal but don't know where to start or how to make it pretty or how to make it work for your needs, just try it in the cheapest way possible and rearrange the guts of the bujo as you see fit. And don't worry about the optics as long as you can make sense of your methods and writing.

(and for the love of God if you're bipolar don't make an hourly mood tracker yes our moods can and will fluctuate throughout the day but goddamn was that a bitch to log and abandoned a few weeks after inking it out)

[daydreamerdrew]

Tales of Suspense (1959) #92

[sonknuxadow]

sorry but i do find it a bit strange that people are acting like shadows characterization is completely fixed and hes super well written in sonic prime. and im not even criticizing the way hes written there because. theyre not much to criticize. the first batch of episodes had very little shadow in it and half the shadow scenes were just him randomly appearing to jumpscare sonic and then disappear again how do you know hes back to the way he used to be. i just think people are celebrating too soon idk

[somedaytakethetime]

I've had all these snippets of images in my head and I don't know what to do with them.. so I figured I could turn it into some type of writing. There's no discerning details that give any certain person away, so if you read it, in can be about just about anyone you fancy and feel would fit this. Of course, you know who I am picturing but.. that's details 😶 Warning: NO KIDS! DON'T MAKE ME PUT YOU BABIES ON THE NAUGHTY STEP! This isn't even like.. proper dirty or anything, but there's heavy implications and small touches of intimacy and elicit activities, some words that may be heavier than others if you know what I mean.., and I don't want the children to think dirty thoughts 😤 Word count: 5 283 words to be exact, I ramble..

Your hand rises and falls slowly with the pattern of his breathing. It lays on his naked chest, you lay on his naked body, his arms wrapped around you and rubbing your back softly. You watch the shadows on the rug, the same one you're both laying on, cast by the sun as it slowly sets in the window behind your heads. As you try to catch your breath and feel him do the same, you're still wondering how you ended up here.

His eyes are beautiful. That's the first thing you notice as he smiles politely at you and cordially shakes your hand when you're introduced. He repeats the name your superior just said to you, his voices is lower and more sensual than you expected and a small shiver runs through you, you pray you won't stutter and repeat your name back at him. He pulls back and you feel his hand still grasping yours, even as you're introduced to the rest of the bunch. Even as you try to stand as straight as possible beside your new employer, you still feel his hand in yours, his eyes on you, as they'd been just a few minutes ago. You never expected to be here, hired to work at this club, you didn't expect you'd be so close to them either, you thought you would have some small position and do meaningless little tasks. You're nervous, your heart skips beats at times, you're afraid to mess this up, to end up looking foolish in front of so many people, and... you're afraid of the way you can still feel his hand on yours.. his eyes burning into you from across the way.

You should probably get up and leave. Or at least get up and lay on the couch, the rug is soft and warm but it's still a little.. awkward to be laying naked, pressed to him, on his rug like this. His eyes are closed and you wonder if he fell asleep, you try to move away and you find out that he hasn't. His arms tighten around you immediately and he opens his eyes slowly, his voice sounds.. god, his voice, the things he says.. he's so attractive but the way he sounds and speaks, you feel shivers thinking about the things he's said to you before.. even tonight.. you refocus on his voice as he says, soft and low, in that effortless sensual tone that's natural to him, "Where do you think you're going?", a smirk lifts the corners of his lips softly and you hide your face against his chest, suddenly warm all over again and needing.. so much all at once.. you muffle into his skin "I thought I'd get on the couch.." and he nods "Not comfortable here? I should have probably taken you to bed.. I do have one, and it's incredibly comfortable.." he lowers his voice and a shiver runs down your spine again, he's trying to get a rise out of you and he doesn't need to. Everything about him turns you on, you've never been so attracted to anyone before. You part your lips to speak but he doesn't give you the chance. He lifts himself up, takes you with him, somehow through some testosterone-induced display of strength he gets you both up from the floor, carrying you in his arms, without even wobbling once. He looks down at you and his smirk looks devious now, "Shall I show you my bed then?"

Working here isn't as difficult as you'd expected it would be. But it's also not as easy as you'd expected either. You have good days, and bad days. The problem is that the bad days are more frequent. Through no fault of your own, that's just the way things are here. Too many egos, too much testosterone, too many strong personalities. It all leads to arguments, to misunderstandings, to being yelled at and lashed out towards. You're often apologised to, after they've calmed down, asked for forgiveness and told that you've done nothing wrong, they're just all under a lot of pressure and stress. And.. you'd let that slip.. if it wasn't happening constantly, that is. Because none of them know how to control their shitty attitudes and it grates on your nerves. You keep your head down, stay silent, this is a well paying job and you don't want to lose it. Especially not over these assholes and their arrogance. Your superior is nice, that's all that matters because he's the one that you need to spend the most time with, the rest of them can go to hell. The rest of them… except… him. He's kind to you. Incredibly kind even. Has gotten into arguments with others over you. Over the way he watched them talk to you, over the things they've said to you. He doesn't have to get into trouble because of you, you've told him every time, and he just smirks, defiant, like he was made to fight and contradict, "And what? Pass up the opportunity to remind them of their place?" and you start to realise that this man has far more layers than you know of. He's.. hard to figure out. He's quiet, rarely ever speaks unless spoken to, he's also clearly a loner. He'll interact with his teammates when needed, praise them and laugh with them when he's in the thick of training, but outside of that he retreats back into himself. Stands off to the side. Observing everyone. Silently judging them. Silently judging you too..

His bed is indeed comfortable, just as he said it was. The sheets are soft, the pillows smell like him. You love the way he smells, it's so.. rough? woodsy?.. it's manly. You're don't care for logistics that small, but the only way to describe his scent, and even the underlying feeling he gives off, is that. Manly. He has tenderness too, that he's displaying right now as he softly traces your naked body like you're porcelain, placing gentle kisses everywhere, treating you like something fragile and beautiful to be treasured, driving you to the brink of madness with his slow motions. But there's a biting edge to him. You always know that this man, who appears so calm and controlled, will lose his mind in roughly .5 seconds and fight someone if his anger gets the best of him. And you'd be lying if you said that you don't find it attractive. How controlled he is. A stronger personality simmering under the surface of all that control and calmness. Which is too calm at times.. like right now. He's kissed a path up and down your thighs five times and you're about to pull all that glorious hair out of his head if he doesn't do something more than tease you.. "Will you be there all night? Didn't you promise to show me something? Something along the lines of what talents that tongue has that go beyond defying people?". his hands look massive as they snake around your thighs, he pulls you down closer to him suddenly and a squeak flies out of you, the devious smirk, ever so present on those perfect lips whenever he's around you, is back "I like it when you're sassy, baby.. it makes it even better when you start moaning incoherently for me."

A sob slips out of your lips and you try harder to keep it quiet. This is the final drop. You're tired of being yelled at by assholes, sure, but this is worse. You weren't hired to be harassed, if these bastards don't know how to behave that's their problem. You feel anger, a strong and heavy feeling in your chest pooling like black liquid, and you ball up your firsts. You slam them against the wall behind you and you want to scream. You want to go back and slap him, but you're not allowed, even if he was disgusting. The images keep replaying in your head, you're trying to do your job and gather their information to update their data, keeping quiet, head down as usual, asking personal questions in the most formal and detached manner that you can and that oaf.. the big one. You never liked that one from the time you were introduced. He smiled at you like such a sleaze.. you've been revolted by his presence ever since and you avoid him like the plague that he is. But.. you had to do your job. You had to ask questions because of these stupid sheets. Personal, medical, technical, all for the database of their information to be updated.. and he had to try and be funny… he had to try and flirt again, no matter how hard you ignore him he does it again. Asking you personal questions that you ignored, commented on your body and how it looked in the loose, long dress you're wearing.. and… he had to start commenting on his body. On his size to be exact. And his capacities as a man. When he cornered you against the table, put that sleazy, disgusting paw on your waist and said so casually "I could show you.. I bet you'd sound really hot screaming my name while I fuck you.." you just lost your composure. You pushed him roughly, you called him disgusting, you told him firmly "I would rather die without sex again than to have sex with you. You're revolting." and you walked out, found the first bathroom you could, and here you are. On the floor. Trying not to disturb anyone as you sob against the corner. You're not sad, you're angry. Angry that you can't retaliate more. Angry that if you were to tell anyone they would just tell you that the guys here are "being playful, you're a pretty girl, pay them no mind. They'll tire of it, I promise." as they've told you before. You're boiling with anger. You're tired of being disrespected. You make a snarled sound as you get up and walk to the sinks. Wash your tears and try to gather your composure. You look like you've been crying, there's nothing to be done about it. You take a deep breath and turn around. He's standing there. Leaning against the wall, right by the door. You didn't hear him come in. He has his arms crossed over his chest, and he looks pissed. "I heard some things that I didn't want to believe.." he's speaking through gritted teeth, you look at him as he pushes away from the wall, walks towards you, looms, "Did he tell you all that shit?" you wonder if you could lie, say that you were just being sensitive and he didn't mean any of that crap, you know what will happen if you confess what just happened to you. You know he will fight the oaf. You can see the fire in his eyes, those beautiful eyes, daring you to lie to him and pretend he can't see the truth. You just exhale and nod slowly, can't look him in the eyes as his anger bubbles over and the loud smack of his fist slams against the countertop. "That motherfucker! Did he hurt you?? He said you were like marshmallow in his hands, did.he.hurt.you?" and your voice sounds angry "No, he didn't! But he had no right to touch me! I don't want random men caging me against desks and groping my waist like I'm just a piece of meat! Tell that bastard that I wasn't anything other than disgusted by him!" and… he was made to fight and defy people. There's the confirmation. The smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. The fire raging in his eyes. The way he says, so casually, "Oh, sweetheart, I'm going to do more than tell him, don't worry." as he turns his back on you and walks out..

He is unfairly good at that. Unfairly good at everything he does really. He can control his body with just as clinical precision as he can control his temper, and it's unfair. You can feel his smirk against the most sensitive part of you, can feel the delight he takes in how easily and quickly you fall apart for him. Because of him. He's relentless, renders you speechless, a mess of whines and moans and pleas, a mess of neediness and aching and pent up frustration needing to be released. He does it on purpose. Slows down and teases you every time you feel your spine start to tingle and sparks appear in your closed eyes. You curse out his name, "Please! What do I need to do for you to stop that and just let me come, god, will you please do something more!?" say frustrated and he has the audacity to laugh. Right against you. Shivers run down your spine and you moan, it rings inside you and it makes you feverish and needy all over again. Your voice gets softer, you're suddenly pliant in his hands again, mewling and begging. He takes pity on you, holds you tighter, presses you down into the mattress and stops teasing you. Watches you the whole time, eyes fixated on your body and how you arch up for him. Because of him. He loves watching you fall apart like this. He's addicted to how you react to him. He's addicted to you. It's been a long time coming, he's still unsure how he managed to get you here tonight, but he's never been more thankful to whatever Gods are out there, watching over him, and helping him along this path. He doesn't falter until you're pushing at his head, lifts up and smirks at you as you open your eyes slowly, still barely able to focus on him, and he places a kiss right where he just made a mess of and laughs at your curses and shivers. He gets up from his place, crawls over your body, cages you against his bed, "So… how was that?". He feels giddy right now, feels like a teenager again, there's something about making a beautiful girl giving into him like that.. but beyond that.. there's something about having you here right now. In his house. On his bed. Under him. Pliant and willing, eager even, to be with him. He's wanted it for a long time, even if you likely have no idea of it, but that's beside the point now. There's other matters to attend to while you're so willing under him. He nuzzles your neck, kisses you slowly, then whispers in your ear "How do you feel about testing out the quality of my mattress?", and he knows it's incredibly cheesy but he's feeling light hearted and happy tonight, and you react by whining and melting further so.. he figures you don't mind it either.

He would say you've been building a budding friendship. Even if he's pretty sure you have no idea of it. Because he's a little.. guarded, if you will. He doesn't trust easily, he doesn't befriend people easily either. He likes his space, his peace, his own ways. He prefers to stand back, watch others, judge and gauge what they're all about. Studies people and tries to gather information before he can make a decision on them, he tries to be impartial, tries to give everyone a fair chance but.. he's also himself. Reserved and slightly stubborn in his ways. He knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, he's never had trouble with his confidence or his own self assuredness. He doesn't feel the need to justify himself to anyone or be a person pleaser. He also doesn't feel the need to make friends at work, not in a deep sense. He's polite to everyone, he'll be playful when there's room for that, and he'll go along with some things from time to time. But he's not here to be best friends with anyone, he's here to work. And he does his job well. So well apparently, that it's created some friction with some others around. So, try as he might to be professional, he doesn't like some of these guys because they don't like him and don't bother hiding it either. But, that said, he does like you. You're quiet too, just as guarded as he is, and you always keep your head down too. He could see from the very beginning that you're here to do your job and get on with it, and he respects that. He doesn't like stereotypes but he's aware that some girls try to get jobs at places like this for reasons that have nothing to do with the job. He doesn't judge that, everyone is after whatever life they want in the end, but he doesn't particularly care for those girls either. Being loved for the potential of what he could give to others in terms of lifestyle isn't something he wants, he just wants to be loved for himself. It's hard to get people to see him, who he is, without all the glitter and the flashes of the lifestyle. Without the fame aspect and the money. He's tried many times before, had loose strings here and there, and they all fell flat. He didn't feel a connection like he needed to, they weren't bad girls, they were funny and kind, but they had expectations from him. They created an image of him in their heads and that's what they were in love with. Not him. Not the simple man that has simple hobbies. The man that would rather cook dinner himself, instead of go out to some fancy restaurant that he'd have to put a suit on for. He's never been able to share himself, his true self, with anyone before without them thinking he was joking. Girls don't often believe how much of a nerd he is, how boring he can actually be, how unexciting he wants his life to be. Because he looks a certain way. And he has a certain reputation too. All of them do, so he understands it's hard to accept that, in the end, he's just a regular man. But he is. And you believe him. He's unsure how and why he felt such a pull to you when he first shook your hand. There was something. Probably in the softness of your eyes, the clear nervousness that clouded your whole being, the way you tried to stand and look so tall and professional but he could see your hands shaking the whole time, could see your cheeks flush pink with shyness whenever someone talked to you. He grew attached to you the more you spend time together. He sought you out, struck up conversations, tried to get to know you. To get you to be comfortable with him. And little by little you were. You built a friendship, that he thinks you're unaware of, and he cherished that. Cherishes the fact that you only laugh with him, only tease him, only feel comfortable around him. He knows that last bit isn't very healthy but.. he feels vindicated, he's selfish and he doesn't care. He likes you, really likes you, and he likes that you like him back. He also.. feels possessive of you.. which is why… he always gets into so much trouble for you..

He's relentless. And you're going to faint. It's just too much. Your whole body is on fire, your senses are all overloaded, you can't even see straight and your breathing is barely enough to fill your lungs with oxygen. But he's relentless, and you are too because even as your head feels fainter and fainter, you want more and more. You need more and more. You need it all. You need him. He feels amazing, he's sturdy and warm over you, he knows just what to do to make you fall apart at the seams, knows exactly how to move to make your whole body curl around him, knows just what to say to have you biting at his shoulder and clawing your nails down his back. He's amazing, he's both gentle and rough, pushes you back and reels you in, keeps you on edge for what feels like hours and drives you insane. When he allows you to fall, it feels so strong, it's so potent, that you all but faint. Barely hanging on to your senses, clinging to him, possibly crying from how good it all feels, you aren't really sure. Your body is a mess of emotions and he kisses you so slowly and tenderly as he falls with you too. Presses his forehead to yours as you both pull back with a need to breathe, keeps you so close and tight to him, melts against you too and wants to never let you go. You're shaking as you come down, you wouldn't be able to move right now from how limp he's rendered you, but also from how constantly you shake. Luckily you don't have to. He pulls away from you slightly, carefully rolls you both sideways and holds you tightly in his arms. One hand cradling your head and petting your hair, the other rubbing soothing circles on your back. He presses tender kisses to your forehead, whispers to you tender words of reassurance that you're okay and he's right there, holding you and keeping you grounded to this earth so you won't float away. You start to calm down, realise that you did cry because you have tears drying on your cheeks and you're almost scared of the power this man has over you. He makes you feel in a way you've never felt before. He pulls at your heart in such a strong way.. you're scared of that feeling. Because you don't know how he feels about you. He's so hard to read, even as he gently tells you that he's not going to leave and that he's right there for you, that he'll take care of you. It's hard to know if he means now, or… you melt against his chest, sigh heavily, remember what happened earlier today. He's suspended for a few days now. After that show, of course he would be, but you didn't mean for it to happen. You've apologised, chastised him, but it didn't make a difference because all he did was laugh.

You're back with your papers at the medical office right where you left them. They let you use this place today for all the crap that you needed to deal with, but someone clearly filled in for you while you were gone. The papers now have a handwriting that you can barely read. 'Does no one teach these men to write properly!?', you think exasperated. It's not the first time that one of your coworkers hands you notes that are barely legible. You exhale angrily, trying to push aside all that's happened today and just focus on getting to the end of your workday. You're trying to decipher what a certain hieroglyph says when you hear a commotion outside. There's a giant windowed door beside you, that leads to the training grounds, and you approach it. A mass of bodies piled in a circle is on the field, there's shouting. Something is happening. You don't think twice, you open the door and rush out. As you get closer you realise what's happening. He's hitting the oaf. They're tangled on the ground, he's overpowered that oaf, and he's punching him. Everyone else all around them is trying to get them to stop, a few have entangled themselves too and you're not sure why. Maybe men just love any excuse to fight each other and they'll break into silly antics as soon as someone else does. One of the older coaches shouts, the head coach is running towards all of you, some of the older players are trying to keep everyone in check and trying to dodge punches too. 'This is a mess..' you think to yourself. You regret telling him, you should have lied. But, god, you can't pretend that you're not pleased seeing him punch that disgusting oaf.. seeing him insult him and argue with him.. trying to defend you and make him pay for how he acted towards you earlier.. you feel so.. vindicated. Violence isn't the answer, you know it, but sometimes? It's pleasing to see someone do what you would like to do. You would be fired if you retaliated his actions from earlier, but they won't be fired. They're the team.. the club needs the team. They're men, they're always excused for their actions with no more than a slap on the wrist. And a slap on the wrist they get. When the head coach has them all under control he loses his temper and yells at everyone. Scolds them like little boys and a few of them have the decency to look ashamed. When it's all said and done, your saviour and the oaf are suspended for a few days, one for fighting and the other for his lack of professional conduct towards female staff. Rich that it took a fight to break out with the team for them to take the disrespect seriously but.. you'll take it. Some of the others are suspended for a day and the rest are severely scolded just because they were in the vicinity. The head coach turns to you suddenly, "As for you. I would like to apologise for the treatment you've been receiving. I'll speak to the management and we'll see what should be done. But next time? Tell me what happened, not one of my players." and the tone of his voice makes you whisper 'asshole' as he walks away after dismissing everyone. He approaches you, his knuckles scrapped and bloody, his lip is bloody too and he seems to have a bruise blooming under his right eye. You want to kiss him suddenly. He smirks at you, like the devil himself, and says "You're lucky you're this cute, otherwise he would have suspended you too." and winks as he walks past you. You scoff at the suggestion and stomp after him. Until you realise what he said. He thinks you're cute. He's teasing you. Again. You instead walk back to your borrowed office and gather your things, you were dismissed too, and it is the end of the week anyway so.. you cross paths with him as you're both walking out. You're looking at your watch to check the time, maybe there's a bus you can catch now. Or you could walk back, it's not so far off and you did it this morning. But as a hand lands on the small of your back, and a low voice says behind you, "Do you need a ride home?" suddenly.. your plans for the night have already changed..

He's looking at you seriously when your eyes focus on him again. "Is everything okay?" and you nod confused, "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?". He caresses your cheek softly and looks puzzle "I feel like I lost you for a moment there, your gaze was far away.." you settle against him, trace the bruises and cuts on his knuckles, "I was just thinking about what you did today. You got into trouble because of me, and you didn't have to." he pulls you tighter, "Someone had to. Besides.." he lifts your chin up and kisses you again, a deep kiss that takes your breath away and makes your heart pound against your ribs, "I don't like the way he talks to you. Or looks at you. Actually I don't like him in general, but I especially don't like him around you.". He looks like a contrived little boy and you have the urge to laugh and kiss him, you tease him softly, "Jealous? Don't tell me you feel a little territorial already.." and.. he feels his heart do something. Is it skipping beats? Is it sinking? Whatever it's doing, he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the casual feeling he's getting. He's not making himself clear. Of course he isn't. He brought you to his house instead of yours, allowed you to care for his wounds which led to him finally losing his control and kissing you. That kiss led to you losing your clothes and ending up on his rug panting for air. So far, he has done nothing that says 'I want you'. All he's done is say 'I'm horny'. And he doesn't like it. He doesn't like that you might just want casual sex from him, he'd give it to you, oh, he so would. He's a fool for you, he'll do anything you ask, but.. he wants you. All of you. He wants more than just occasional sex. There's a need to make you his in his chest, something he's been trying to control, but he can't hold it back anymore.. he says, serious, "As a matter of fact, yes. Yes, I am. I'm territorial over you. Because I don't like to share. Never did. I was an incredibly selfish boy and I'm not ashamed to say I'm an incredibly selfish man too. I see things I want and they're mine on sight, so I don't take kindly to others forcefully trying to share them." and… your breath gets caught in your throat. Feminism has exited the chat, all of your foremothers are watching over your shoulder with curious eyes right now. You've always been self assured, strong in your convictions, you've never allowed a man to think he owns you or even had the chance to think such thoughts. But.. you're a fool for this man. You would bark if he asked you to, you don't care. He brings something out in you that turns feral. You want him so badly that you'd crawl if he asked. You whisper his name, unsure of what to say, you don't know if he means.. "I like you. In fact, I more than like you. I want you in my life. I've wanted it for a while now and it drove me crazy to think of that fucker touching you. I've been trying to find a way, to get an excuse, to bring you to me. I don't know how to do this the right way, there is no right way, I'm confused because.. I have never felt like this. You throw me off balance, I don't know how to act around you. I've been flirting with you for months now and you're oblivious to me. So, at first I assumed that you didn't want me, and I respected that. Kept my actions the same because I didn't want you to see that I was hurt but.. after what just happened today.. I think you want me. Or maybe you just think I'm really good in bed, I guess that's an option too and I'll respect if you don't want me. But I want you. A lot. What I'm trying to say here is: I think I'm falling for you and I would like you to give us the chance to see where this goes. And we can do this really simply: will you stay the night?" you look into his eyes, his eyes are beautiful, more so after he's just confessed his feelings. You feel the same and you suddenly see flashes of where your lives could go if you accept his offer. You see them reflected in his beautiful eyes. A soft smile appears on your lips as you say "Of course I will."

[theheadlessgroom]

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/722788600770658304/theheadlessgroom-beatingheart-bride

@beatingheart-bride

Dorian’s eyes seemed to sparkle at the prospect of seeing his best friend again: Oh, how he’d missed him in the years since his mother’s departure from the Gracey family employ! He tried to keep in touch with him, of course, he had his address, even when he went away to boarding school, but he never got any response back...

Still, it overjoyed him to hear his friend was still in town, and worked at the local haberdashery too (he remembered how good Mrs. Pace was with a needle and thread, a skill she passed on to Randall, so it touched him to know he’d managed to parlay that talent into a business)! The prospect of seeing him again lifted Dorian’s heart like seldom had as of late, and he couldn’t help but grin at Emily, now suddenly very, very eager for nightfall.

“I-I can’t wait to see him too, I-I’ll be thrilled to see him!” he managed to stutter out, still grinning from ear to ear as he said this, for it was true, he’d be over the moon to see his childhood friend and catch up with him! Oh, he wanted to know everything, he wanted to know about his work, what his plans were with Emily once they escaped, how his mother was...she must be tickled pink to know her only son was getting married!

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

"faith hope love but the greatest of these is love"

kinda hit me today. hmmm. something is off-balance. because at the moment both hope and faith mean a great deal more to me than love - especially faith. I suppose that hope is rather more abstract in a way. I can't quite articulate this.

love I do not care nearly as much about. but faith? without faith I'd be dead. without hope I'd be despairing. without love? - well, I don't know.

anyway, just something I was thinking about, and not that I have any particularly clear thoughts at present. even the tagline on my website: 'faith and hope in God keep me writing'. I didn't think through any implications, but it just hit me today and hmmmm, that's interesting.

if anyone wishes to chime in feel free :)

[kelprot-old]

in regards to ur post bout music taste n such, do ya got any recommendations for someone who wants to branch out but doesnt rlly know where to start?

AWESOME ASK!!! and yea i got some stuff ^_^ it'll differ depending on the person but I'll do my best 2 give some general (albeit messy) advice.

i sorta just seek out anything i spot that looks interesting to me; on youtube I'll click any albums that pop up in my recommended, and on spotify I regularly look at my discover weekly playlist + I'll just check out what tracks spotify wants to feed me when I'm trying to make a playlist. its all about just listening to stuff that u don't recognise, even if you're not sure you'll like it. (songs tend to hit harder on the second listen, if that helps.)

ALSO!!! i'll throw gnoosic out there. its a site made to help you find new music; you give it 3 artists you like, and it'll respond in kind with a multiple that you can say if u liked or not, and so on and so forth. as long as you're not feeding it Super Popular Artists No 1, 2 and 3, you might find some pretty obscure (but good) stuff.

honestly, it all really just comes down to what you're trying to Get out of music as a whole. if you're only listening for lyrics or poetry-like stuff, you're gonna have a completely different experience to someone who listens moreso for the music theory side of things. it's taken me a few years to get...into music (?) as much as I have, so it takes time and a good bit of examination about what you're looking for when it comes to music. or maybe I'm being pretentious but who cares. music's fun. do what u want i guess when it comes to specific genre recommendations....it really does depend on the person, so I'll just throw out some stuff I like that tend to lead you down rabbit holes of more obscure tracks. ^_^

big bold text that says that the music recs are below if u want to skip the above stuff POSTROCK. postrock is one of my favourite genres, it's slow and thematic and focuses on tone rather than any kind of memorability or pattern-recognition stuff. it tends to consist of long drawn-out instrumentals with occasional spoken-word parts; rarely do you find postrock tracks with a heavy emphasis on lead vocals. i'd recommend starting with Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and checking out Dead Flag Blues. i also have an old playlist with a few other postrock artists here, if you want to find other stuff.

another favourite genre of mine is just any kind of bossa nova/folk (?) stuff. while I cant give any artist recommendations since I tend to just listen to anything, I can link an old megaplaylist of songs in that kind of genre that I like, as well as this specific track that I really enjoy. chiptune!!!! chiptune rocks. it's basically just removing all the instruments and creating music from super flat computer-generated noise. if you look in the right places, you'll find some artists with a LOAD of skill that manage to get past that barrier of the instrumentation and make some genuinely incredible shit. there's a playlist here if you wanna hit shuffle, and I'll throw Final Blast and also just. most of Anamanaguchi and Fearofdark's discography up as well.

[thisgodwontforgiveyou]

i think the gameplay systems are cool and there hasnt been an individual room so far that wasnt theoretically fun taken on its own merits but after you leave the village it disintegrates into this slop of challenge room after challenge room it starts to feel like doom 2 after a while

[actualtoad]

fun fact about me i have a billie joe poster on my wall and literally nothing else. like i have that and i have a calendar that i don’t use. because my dad got this poster for me for my birthday i think or maybe christmas since im a green day fan. but to be honest i’d definitely prefer like. the american idiot album art of something? i feel very silly having a picture of some guy on my wall even when that some guy is billiards joeseph armstrong it’s still a silly situation. anyway here’s the poster it needs some friends