#something more//musings

[r3m3mb3r-m3-n0t]

Name: Elias Hart

Age: 25

Species: Aware

Circle: Mortalis

Known Relationships: Connor Talbot II (Boss), Matthew Coleman-Reyes (Roomate), Esmeray Talbot (Friend?), Sebastian Harker (Boyfriend???) Thaddeus James (Indebted to), Cameron Kiskadden, Kel Trebond, Chloe Li (A-Team)

— What's your name?

He eyed Kel with a grin, deciding not to comment on how embarrassing it must have been to ask such a silly question to the people they knew, “Elias Bartholomew Hart,” a pause “I’m kidding. Elias Sullivan Hart.” He fiddled around in the kitchen, darting this way and that before plating a piece of freshly set pie and placing it in front of the other, “Coconut cream. Tell me how it tastes. Tweaked the recipe and I’m wondering if it’s too much coconut and not enough cream. Eat it before it melts.” He pulled out the chair across from Kel and plopped down into it as if it was the first time he stopped moving that day, as he breathed out it seemed the apartment sighed with him; both settled comfortably into their bones. He made no move to hide how he stared pointedly at the recorder placed perfectly in between the middle of them, “Is that necessary? Will this be played for the court?”

— How do you know Tabitha Spencer?

He shook his head, a long and drawn out movement for an emphasis that others wouldn’t get to see, “I don’t. Didn’t talk to her during the party. Watched her. Listened. The only reason I know of her is because I’m friends with Bash. Though. From what I’ve gathered. She doesn’t seem like...” his gaze fell to the recorder and he snapped his mouth shut, teeth making an audible click “Doesn’t matter. Just useless conjecture.”

— How do you know Jose Alves Cruz?

He sucked air between his teeth and raised his shoulders to his ears, nose scrunched up and eyebrows furrowed, “He’s the mayor?” He looked towards Kel, silently asking if that was correct, “I don’t follow politics, so I don’t know much- Oh! He’s Jo’s dad. Dodgy dude. It seemed like-” gaze once again fell onto the recorder, “It seemed like this was the type of event he was used to. Bodyguards and all.”

— How do you know Hollis Fiala?

The gleam in his eyes dulled as he set his jaw, every muscle in his body tensed as if he was about to pounce with claws out to tear through even the tiniest sound, “They’re a circle leader.” And that was all he had to say.

— Did you see the shot happen/what happened that night from your perspective?

“I did not. But I heard it.” This particular question had caught his full attention, words waiting on his tongue for the chance to spill out when no one could catch them “There were two shots, but only one bullet. Not because it was lost or lodged into something. It was. Not. There. There was no second bullet. A perfect distraction if you ask me, cause the crowd to rile…u..p” His gaze snapped up to meet Kel’s, eyes wide with realization before it was quickly distinguished by an awkward laugh, “Uhm. Everything was Chaos. It was good that Hollis’ healing went well. They’re lucky it was just the shoulder, honestly one of the best places to get shot.”

— When did you get the invitation for the party/know you were going to work it?

He hummed, “In the mail. I can’t recall when. Probably around the same time everyone else did, that’s how the postal service works. Mine was different though.” Elias reached into a wooden stand hung up on the wall and plucked out the invitation, giving it to the other, “Mr. Thaddeus was rather adamant on me coming. Why, you may ask? I don’t know. The group didn’t even need me, you had two other capable healers. Suppose I went to watch someone get shot again.” And leave with nothing, is what he wanted to say but decided against it.

— Did you go with someone?

“Kind of.” He fiddled with the edge of the fraying tablecloth that hung precariously off the table, put there minutes before Kel walked through the door in a poor attempt to spruce it up, “You were there. Don’t you know?-“ He cut himself off, remembering a bit too late that this was all a formality, “You, Chloe, Matthew, Lilith, Bash, and Cam. I didn’t go with someone specifically though. Which was for the best, it was a terrible night. Everything was off, we did everything right. From the looks of it, it seems like…” he sighed, “It was weird.”

— Do you own a gun/have you ever owned a gun?

He made a choked sound that was immediately covered by a forced laugh, “Uh. No. Never. They’re dangerous.” He pushed away from the table, picking up the dirty plate as he walked towards the kitchen sink, “Though. I suppose they’d be needed now more than ever.” The dish clattered amongst leftover silverware, “I’ve shot one before. Weird bonding exercise with my college hockey team.” Facing away from Kel he shut his eyes tight and white knuckled the edge of the counter, maybe he said too much?

@midnightunderground-npcs

[tinystepsforward]

idk how many of you remember this but a few years ago tumblr ran a universally panned ad campaign for (us american) pride month that went "the gayest place on the internet".

well someone planning that campaign dropped in to ask the queer automatticians for advice on that and universally me and the other trans people involved were like "don't do it. i am so serious. don't do it. people on tumblr won't understand that it wasn't automattic who instituted the porn ban, or they will, but they'll recognize that automattic hasn't done anything, hands tied or not, to reverse it. nobody will like this. it will be a disaster." and they thanked us for our thoughts and went ahead with it anyway and then had to do retrospectives about how badly it went and were like "we just didn't know" and [gestures] yeah [edit: i think the person who rbed saying it was queerest place on the internet was right, my brain is fried, sorry! and that's... even worse lmao]

[locallibrarylover]

*by live theatre i mean plays, musicals, operas, ballets, concert versions of musicals, staged readings, & things of that nature. EDIT: YES this includes amateur, local, kids, high school, & community theatre. almost every show i've seen has been local

if you want, list the names of the shows you've seen in the tags!

[madamemiz]

sad: falling out of a hyperfixation

tragic: watching your beloved friends and mutuals fall out of the hyperfixation while you're still in it

[timethehobo]

I can’t do those nice painted styles so I can only offer something more stylised. 🤲 An attempt on colours.

[nothatsmi]

Good morning. Can I serve you anything? Coffee, tea, whiskey?

I'm posting that after Kevin's morning routine post cause it makes sense.

The sad thing is that I would have made Muse animatics on them if I didn't have that much work. I swear some of their song fit so well (especially Undisclosed Desires and Newborn, for those who know), I'm probably gonna have to something about it eventually.

I have to notice the domesticity they're soaked in once they move in together, it's just so easy to picture...

[helixcraft]

the fish that keeps appearing all over my recommended only that he's out of jail and happy

[skrrtscree]

the ghost of you 🤍🪻

[walkingstackofbooks]

A 9-year-old Julian Bashir who has had nightmares about evil doctors in an alien hospital for as long as he can remember. He doesn't tell his parents though because "he's a big boy now" and nightmares are for little kids, so he knows he should deal with them alone. And even if he'd like a hug sometimes, his mum only gives him hugs for doing well, not for doing badly, so he figures there's no point bothering her

A 15-year-old Julian Bashir who realises that the nightmares he used to have were based on the apparently very real alien hospital his parents had taken him to as a kid, and spends hours trying to figure out what were real memories and what his mind had made up over the years as he slept. The nightmares come back with an intensity, but they're nothing compared with how he's feeling when he's awake, and pretty soon they become a normal background noise of his life.

A 19-year-old Julian Bashir who's finally been moved into a solitary room after his third roommate in as many weeks complained about the almost-nightly screams. His advisor asks if he wants to speak to anyone: he claims they're just night terrors and he doesn't actually remember them. Besides, even if he could talk about what was in them, he probably wouldn't, because he's fine - he's used to them by now.

A 24-year-old Julian Bashir who gets woken from his nightmares by warm hands and gentle kisses, and learns what is like to be soothed back to sleep by the soft voice of Palis Delon

A 32-year-old Julian Bashir who has a different nightmare every night. The last year's been difficult. But then, it's been difficult for everyone, and he knows he's far from the only one to be suffering from nightmares at the moment.

A 34-year-old Julian Bashir who can't stop dreaming about the torture he went through four weeks ago, who's missing Ezri and who Miles is increasingly concerned about. When the O'Briens offer him their spare room for a while, he warns them multiple times about his nightmares, and is pathetically grateful when that doesn't change their minds. "We have nightmares too, Julian," says Keiko. "We can cope with yours."

A 34-year-old Julian Bashir who is confused when, three days later, Miles remarks, "You are having a bad run of those nightmares, aren't you?"

"They've been better than usual, actually," he replies awkwardly. "It's been really nice being able to go back to sleep afterwards, for once -- you and Keiko have been so generous in coming and checking on me."

"Course we're gonna come and check on you," says Miles gruffly. "You woke up terrified. We're not letting you do that alone."

"I'd be fine, Miles," Julian reassures. "I'm hardly going to expect one of you to come in every night."

Miles pauses. "...How long are you expecting to have them 'every night' for?" he asks, with some concern. "I mean, after a thing like this, how long does it usually take them to settle down?"

Julian stares at Miles. "I... have nightmares, Miles," he replies, frowning. "Just like you. Nightmares happen every night."

"No, they don't," says Miles, equally confused. "Don't get me wrong, they can do: after something big then sure, they're like that for a few weeks - a couple of months, even. But eventually they fall down to once, twice a week..."

Julian is looking at Miles incredulously. "That might be how it works for you," he says. "I guess my brain's different to yours. Mine don't stop, they just... mix. Change. Get confused with one another, eventually. I've had more dreams about being genetically modified by Sloan in the Dominion camp than I care to remember, you know?"

Miles' concern has turned into abject dismay. "You're saying you've had nightmares every single night since the Dominion took you?" he exclaims.

"Well, maybe not every single night!" retorts Julian, a little unsure what Miles is getting so het up about. "I do have some days when I don't... But yeah, pretty much. I've had nightmares most nights since I was fifteen, it's just how my brain processes stuff."

"Fifteen?"

...

A 34-year-old Julian who finds out that having nightmares every night for two decades is, apparently, "not normal" and something he should be seeking help for.

If Ezri comes back alive, he supposes he might take it up with her.

[deus-and-the-machina]

hythlodaeus be like "teehee I hope I can be of some use" *clean headshot* 😊

bitch they wanted you for the aether-centric governmental position I know you think your curmudgeony cunt husband is amazing but stop selling yourself short its a slippery slope to sacrificing yourself to make god smh

[r3m3mb3r-m3-n0t]

What was the saying, a little boy dressed in his father’s suit? A lost child in a world that would never be his own? Out of place, undesirable, unwanted, unwelcome, not good enough, not good enough, NOT GOOD ENOUGH! Whatever it was, whatever he was meant to feel when his head was filled with the snide remarks of the crowd surrounding him, he didn’t. He felt nothing. Fingers wrapped around a glass of champagne that span with the slightest movement, the ichor threatening to spill across the floor staining the perfectly white tiles with a dull sort of gold. He brought the flute to his lips but didn’t dare to open them, terrified by the memory of a wicked smile reminding him that he would never belong. If he spoke, if he dared to breathe, they would all notice the imposter that tainted their underground. Sets upon sets of eyes tearing him limb from limb until all he could possibly be was small and alone. So terribly alone.

He no longer felt like an outsider, he was one, standing by himself in a place that was far too fancy for someone like him. His downturned gaze lingering on the couples who laughed brightly, something heavy sat on his chest and bubbled up his throat daring to spread out into a nasty scowl. That ugly, unsightly jealousy he so desperately tried to hide behind an unending torrent of empathy. If he bombarded them with support, he thought, he could conceal that flaw that made him so painfully human. But there, completely alone, what threat of shame was there to loom over him, casting that imperfection in the veil of darkness? So he let it consume him, if only briefly, infecting his thoughts until it seeped into his being and made him rigid.

How was it fair, how was any of this fair? How could they look at him- look past the curiosity that shattered into fear and demand him to change? He was trying, he was learning, and perhaps they needed him to learn faster but he was stubborn and confused. Why couldn’t he go and party, did he not deserve to spend time with the people he called friends? While they celebrated a new year- a new beginning together, where was he? The Aware that cared so deeply for them. And when he needed someone, where were they?

The guilt was quick to chase after the envy, squashing it beneath its heavy feet. It left only the sickly chill of regret behind, and he had felt more empty than before. Did anyone see, he worried, the monster that dwelled precariously close to the surface? But a familiar fizzle and pop snapped his eyes wide as people cheered, a happy melody where he was the dissonance. Carefully he approached a window, wondering with every step if his legs would give out. He watched the sky light up with a rainbow of fireworks, a beautiful sight spoiled by a moment of woe. In the reflection he spotted himself, colored with the dark blue of a dying rocket- pitiful. The next to burst was a crimson red that shined only in his eyes, an irrational anger burning behind his gaze. Upset at only himself, upset that he would let something-someone make him feel so weak.

“Okay ugly duckling. You’ve got yourself and only yourself. And you will be strong- brave for you.” Voice masked by the sound, “Freeze your heart. Freeze it all.”

[solacium]

presence // aventurine

he'll never outrightly ask you what it is, not at the outset.

he might find you curled on the couch, quiet, trying to breathe out the something in your chest that writhes and constricts, or in tears, but he won't ask, only sit quietly with you, lean against you, the weight of him enough to reassure you of his presence. maybe you reach for him, curl into the hollow of his body, and he'll let you, hold you until the tears stop, or you can feel your hands again, or you fall asleep, to the steady rhythm of his heart.

you'll wake, or look at him, and he'll speak, then, maybe look back at you with those iridescent eyes that you love, as he asks, softly, if you're feeling better, if you want to talk about it.

he'll keep you company, either way, listening. there is a steadiness in the weight of his arms around you, in the even beat of his heart against your back. you'll have to move, eventually, one of your legs falling asleep under you, and you'll both laugh, and shift. he gently disentangles himself from you, to get you something to drink. you settle back down, curled around each other, talk quietly until the sunlight changes.

[note-boom]

See here. BSD is a story about how all of our characters were once children. How the scars and wounds and secrets of their past will always haunt them to the present. We see it with Chuuya, Yosano, Ranpo, even Odasaku briefly, Atsushi, Tachihara, Akutagawa, Kyouka and Kenji right now, even Kouyou just a little bit. They've all overcome it or they've allowed it to consume them. And yet that brief glimpse into a past where they were young and scarred shows us once again just how human they are...every criminal, ever person, was once a child wounded by or protected from the world and doesn't that count for something even if it doesn't excuse the atrocities they commit today?

[dailycupofcreativitea]

Drawing is genuinely the only thing in my life that can push past the giant cloud of "blah" that constitutes my feelings, the only time I can actually get in touch with feelings I normally can't put a finger on, the only thing that makes me feel alive

Genuinely believe I was put on this earth to make art

[blood-starved-beast]

Not dissing on anyone in particular but it's interesting to see people trying to retroactively justify or otherwise "call out" on the fact that Melinoe has no connection to her birth family. It's the Point I'd say. And thematically, she's likely never coming "home" for real. Cause it was never home. Can no longer be home and all.

[majablanque]

JIMIN: poetry in motion