#sorry for my absolute ass handwriting

[craanber]

I’ve been struggling to do any illustrations lately so I’ve been working on a design for a little plush I want to make for my best friend

[lizardtheartist]

My Sam and Max hcs!!! (Max’s sheet is a mess I know, it was too late to fix)

Geek’s sheet + extras below

Extra HC notes:

Max is half predator, half prey, due to a long lost relative that his family is unaware of anymore. He’s half predator because his eyes face forward (kinda), he has large spiked teeth, and he has paw beans on his feet.

Sometimes I see Sam as transgender, but most of the time I just see him as a cis doggy, it depends most of the time.

In my fankids AU, Geek often babysits the kiddos, if Geek is unavailable, Superball babysits instead :)

Sam, Max, and Geek have movie nights together in the apartment. Geek has their own comfy chair they sit in while their dads cuddle or something on the couch. They also all play party games together when they’re bored or don’t have work to do.

Max does those rabbit zoomies when he’s really really excited or has a lot of pent up energy. Sam WOULD have zoomies too but his dog years are catchin’ up to him, he got old bones.

Geek plays Portal/Portal 2 no one can tell me otherwise, I just really like those games.

[triglycercule]

ok ok you dont need to threaten me here's some art ☹️☹️☹️

appreciate now while you have it because doodles are rare coming from me (only tri-yearly. i cannot doodle for the life of me its hard 🙁)

[sugarnspice630]

Secret Santa - Mingi

“Looks like you’re on the naughty list anyway Y/N. Time for your punishment.”

•pairing: nonidol!Mingi x gn!reader

•word count: 1.7k

•tags: nonidol, stalker Mingi, Mingi's dressed as Santa for a few moments, Mingi is shy when meeting reader in real life for the first time, Mingi breaks into reader's house, unaddressed Christmas cards, fear play, ...did I miss anything?

Summary: Receiving Christmas cards from an unaddressed secret admirer for 11 days straight, then on the 12th day, they somehow end up in your house

A/N: Happy Holidays everyone! Somehow I managed to squeeze this story out of my ass but I think it actually turned out pretty good! Please be sure to drop a like, reblog if you enjoyed it, and comment your favorite part! Happy reading and hope everyone has an absolutely amazing holiday.

Christmas was your favorite time of year. The lights, the atmosphere, and the colder weather which results in bundling up at home and staying nice and cozy; it was so magical. All of this magic was ruined slightly when you checked your apartment mailbox and found a letter from an unaddressed person. Hesitant to open it, but curiosity was getting to you since you thought ‘Maybe they just forgot to put a sticker on it?’ so you opened the letter to find an ordinary Christmas card. However,  when you opened it, your legs got weak. It was a polaroid picture of you shopping for Christmas presents. Taken completely without you knowing. You felt sick to your stomach. How could someone do this? Who would do this? You moved the picture to see the card signed sloppily with red ink. Your heart beating incredibly fast, you rip the card and the picture and throw them in the trash. Taking a breath to try to relax, you go back to your normal daily routine and try to ignore the creepy letter.

The very next day, you checked your mailbox again, and there was another letter. Your hands trembled as you opened it, having a strong feeling it was from the same person as yesterday. The front of the card was different than the one before, but the inside of it still freaked you out just as much as the first time. The same red ink smeared inside, but the picture this time was a picture of you from your apartment bedroom window. Not doing anything explicit, just like you were walking in there to grab something. Again, you ripped the card and the picture up and threw them away. However, the thought of having this secret admirer this close to Christmas did excite you a little.

The cards continued to come for the next 9 days. Each day, the writing inside the card got even more illegible than the first time, and the pictures became more and more…alarming. A picture of your apartment door, a picture of you showering; thankfully your figure was blocked by the steam, a picture of your panties laying on your bed, which you definitely did not place there. You thought about going to the police, but what were they going to do about it? They had no way of tracking the person down because the handwriting was such a mess, no return address on the letters, and you certainly had no description of the person sending them. You were fucked. You just had to pray that this secret person would eventually stop or move on to someone else and leave you alone.

-

The time was now Christmas day and you were on your way to visit your parents. Frantically making your way to the bus, trying not to be late, you accidentally bumped into someone’s arm and it knocked your presents onto the ground.

“Oh shit, I am so sorry!” You quickly apologized to the stranger and bent down to start picking up your gifts.

“Ah, no need to apologize! H-here let me help. You seem to be in a hurry.” The stranger responded with a chuckle. He also bent down and started to help you pick up your presents.

“Thank you, I appreciate it.” You glanced up and noticed the person you accidentally ran into was ironically dressed in a Santa costume. “Dressed for the holidays, huh?” You said as you picked up the last gift and carefully stood up.

“Oh! Y-yeah, I uh..dress up as Santa every year and go to the local hospital and surprise the kids’ in there with gifts.” He nervously scratches the back of his head and looks down at the ground. You thought to yourself that he must be a shy or reserved individual and you felt guilty for running into him. However, his statement filled your heart with joy.

“That’s actually really sweet. I’m sure the kids appreciate it a lot.”

“It’s so nice seeing their faces light up.” He smiles softly, still not making direct eye contact with you. You smiled back at him and paused for a moment, admiring his facial features and the way his eyes sparkled in the daylight. He truly was an attractive individual. Realizing quickly that there was no time to stand around and drool over a stranger, you pulled out your phone and checked the time.

“Shit! Uh, I-I’m sorry I have to go! Thank you for helping me again; hopefully me running into Mr. Claus doesn’t put me on the naughty list.” You chuckle at the stupid joke. The stranger chuckles back at your joke, and you wave at him, thanking him once again as you start making your way back to the bus station.

“I’ll see you later~!” You heard the stranger call from behind you, but his tone of voice was different than when you were talking to him in front of you. Also, what does he mean by ‘see you later’? You don’t even know the man or where he was from. You shook it off as just another awkward thing that humans say accidentally to others. Like when the waiter brings you your food and says ‘enjoy’ and you respond with ‘thanks, you too’. Happens to everyone.

–

The Christmas party with your parents was great. Seeing family you haven’t seen in a long time and getting to catch up was something you needed to forget all about the crazy events you had the days prior. On your way home, you found yourself thinking about the Santa guy from earlier. You never exchanged names, but then again, it was probably for the better since he said, ‘See you later’. Perhaps he was the creep that had been sending you letters those 11 days? Chills went down your spine and you snapped yourself out of thinking. Looking out the window, you realize you’re almost back in town for your apartment. The bus finally stops at the station you got on at, and you carefully grab your bag of presents from the night and head out the door, thanking the driver as well and telling them to have a good night.

Walking to your apartment, you can’t help but have an uneasy feeling. All of the strange events that have been happening recently just put a huge damper on the holidays. You feel like you can’t fully enjoy them. Finally making your way back to your complex, you let out a sigh of relief as there was no letter in your mailbox. Finally, whoever that was decided to move on. You make your way up the stairs to your floor, starting to feel slightly tired from the day you have had. As you’re walking down the hallway for your floor, you see one, lonely, brown, package sitting in front of a door. Surely that can’t be at your door. You already got all your gifts tonight. Making your way closer to your apartment door, you can confirm the package is sitting in front of your door. That unsettling feeling comes back to you as you reach the door and see that there is no label whatsoever on the package. Someone just set this box here. You used your key and unlocked your door. You thought about leaving the package there and not bothering with it. Wondering if there was some kind of curse following you because you kept interacting with the strange mail pieces, but there was still that little light in you that was curious about what was in that package. You picked up the package and carried it inside, shutting the door with your butt and carrying the package to the kitchen counter to open it. You carefully grabbed a pair of scissors and cut the box open. To your surprise, there was nothing inside other than an envelope. Just like the ones you had been receiving in the mail. You opened it up and were greeted with another normal Christmas card; however, when you opened the card, your knees got weak.

See you later

Feeling the same feeling you got when you opened the first anonymous card. Your head was reeling. Who the fuck was doing this to you? What was the purpose of their actions, and why are they being so cryptic about it? ‘See you later.’ You repeated that to yourself again and again. You had heard this before. Those words came from the stranger earlier. They left the same sour taste in your mouth. Disgusted and utterly mortified, you hardly noticed the jingle bell sound coming from inside your apartment. Quickly directing your attention to your main door, you noticed it was slightly ajar.

You forgot to lock it.

Panic sets in and you run over to the door, slam it shut, and lock it. Your hands shaking as you do. Perhaps it pushed itself open? The seal around the door wasn’t the greatest, and maybe the pressure you applied from pushing it with your butt wasn’t enough to latch it shut completely. You press your head against the door and close your eyes, taking a deep breath to try and calm yourself. The jingle bell sound rings through your ears again. You turn around at an alarming rate, but there is nothing out of place. You carefully walk around your apartment to discover what the strange noise was. Rounding each corner slowly and trying to catch the intruder when they’d least expect it. You hear the jingle bells one more time, but it’s coming from behind you, and it’s extremely close. The ring sounds more like taunting someone rather than the joyous sounds of Christmas time. You turn around slowly and are met with an extremely tall individual. Your head looking up and your eyes taking in every feature of the intruder, just in case you make it out of this situation alive. You feel yourself trembling with fear as your eyes get closer to seeing the man’s face. A few seconds later, you are met with another pair of eyes. The exact same eyes as the stranger from earlier. He has the most menacing smirk on his face. You gasp dramatically and take a tiny step back so you’re not as close to him.

“Looks like you’re on the naughty list anyway Y/N. Time for your punishment.”

[lalalian]

things you have to script if you're shifting to my aethergarde academy dr

date: september 14, 2024

aethergarde academy = my dragon rider academy dr

i may update this, if I do I'll let you know in this little boxed off section!

things you should script

"I do not ever get motion sick, especially when I ride dragons."

I scripted this even though I can ride rollercoasters just fine, but yk dragons don't fly around like a plane, do they? I imagine that many dragons would absolutely mess you up when you fly with them for the first time just to fuck with you out of excitement.

"I never fall into the ocean. Nothing can drag me into the ocean, especially on dragonback."

definitely not for plot reasons................... just know you're supposed to travel around in secret. I hate the ocean honestly (let's ignore that I'm making a mermaid kingdom dr), but don't think that the only things that live in the ocean in this DR are little baby axolotls and rainbow fish.

"my bangs don't mess up my vision or bother me while fighting."

actually I did have a rule in aethergarde's handbook (not finished with it yet, sorry yall) that specifically says that you cannot have a haircut that messes with your fighting ability, but like... bangs are so cute...

"the appearance of monsters do not scare me."

uh so idk if you're a pussy, but I do know I am, so

"proper plumbing exists, drinking water is clean and sanitary; there are significant studies in childbirth, because of this, mothers typically do not die from childbirth and childbirth isn’t painful due to proper birthing practices and tonics that alleviate pain."

I watched house of dragons. No mom should ever be cut open without some sort of anesthesia to give birth to a baby.

"dragon riders get discounts, the higher the ranking, the better the discount."

bc yes.

“I can read cursive handwriting.”

You will have to constantly write in cursive too btw. Maybe I should do a handwriting claim post…

“my keystone never malfunctions."

Keystones are basically your school ID; you use it to get in and out of Aethergarde, get discounts outside of Aethergarde, check in and out of your dorm, check out books from Aethergarde's personal library, and honestly it's a status symbol. You absolutely do not want your keystone to malfunction!

“I never get sunburnt."

You can either script this or always carry a sun protectant charm! Poor Miaene, flying really does a number on your skin so do make sure (or just script it) your skin stays healthy.

"If I can't get into my leathers, I can fight well no matter what clothes I'm wearing."

Leathers = clothes you wear in any class that requires you to fight. I'll cover this topic in my post about protective wear!

"I never smell like horse shit or dragon shit."

Just in case, yk.

"my dragon practices proper bathroom practices, this includes shitting/pissing in the proper places and not on me or my stuff; my dragon never smells like shit; my dragon's asshole is never caked in shit."

speaking of which... how would a dragon clean their ass... I'm just going to assume they always shit cleanly like dogs. EW IMAGINE HOW BIG THEIR SHITS WOULD BE. Actually don't do that. I had to include 'my dragon doesn't poop/pee on my stuff or me' bc my dog... likes to do that. okay well he doesn't necessarily pee on my stuff, but he used to have this thing where he'd pee on things he was frustrated with, which ALWAYS entailed a gate. Since he's a big boy now, he doesn't do that anymore, but yall don't fucking coddle puppies 24/7 like I did... I literally had to wake up every morning or get up in the middle of the night to mop/clean up dog piss.

"I will pass my glyph classes."

I'm already melting at the thought of glyph class.

"my dragon or other dragons don't try to destroy the school."

Just in case yall. Just in case.

"I never get shat on."

Dragons aren't supposed to shit mid air unless they're over an ocean, but yk just in case. Yes there are strict laws against this practice, and if your dragon is found doing this, you will have to pay a hefty fine + your flying license will be restricted for a certain period of time.

"dragons generally don't smell like shit like horses do."

Sorry, there's a lot of stuff about poop. Poop is gross okay..

wanna know more about my aethergarde academy dr? here's a masterlist with everything I've posted about it!

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

[noctilionoidea]

made some Greek myth shitposts on sticky notes

This is just like… for fun. This is not how I usually try to approach stories or deities I just wanna make bad jokes and shit. Also I’m so sorry my handwriting is horrible

He’s her babayyyy Athena is the mom of all time

I’m sorry that one statue always makes me burst out laughing

Nysa is my all time fav nymph and dionysos foster mom. There’s barely anything about her 🙃

I think dionysos’ discovery of alcohol was probably like how it was prehistorically discovered, ie monkey around and eat rotting fruit, get pissfaced. I don’t think Nysa would appreciate that in the moment

I’m gonna be so real the war in India is basically a joke to me. His ass would not defeat some of the oldest peoples, cultures and pantheons known to man easily. There are versions where mount Nysa is in India (it’s actually probably Afghanistan in modern geography) he would’ve fucking known, right? He absolutely did not Hellenize the entire Indian subcontinent. Also there’s one story where some of his troops attack a bunch of holy men and get struck down by lightning and it’s so fucking funny to me. Lucian’s version makes the most sense to me because he’s portrayed as a huge underdog. The maenads are absolutely his tanks

the first one is so fucking bad wth

This has the worst composition but i will defend Perseus with my life.

[zablife]

May I humbly request a Hangman x insecure!reader, where they meet at the base library where she works (but she's a civilian) and he asks her out. She reluctantly agrees because why would someone like Jake, a literal hero who is in the company of other heroes on the daily, want to be with a "nobody" like her?

I also just want to say that I absolutely LOVE your work!

Women's Studies

Jake stalked into the campus library, already in a bad mood that he would actually have to read the books on the syllabus. He hadn't planned on doing much work in women's studies. He thought the course would entail staring at beautiful women while he pulled theories out of his ass to impress them. That is not how his first class had ended, however. He was informed that if he didn't catch up to his well-versed peers and take his assignments seriously, he would surely fail.

That's why he was belatedly seeking out the titles that he had neglected until today. He stood by the entrance, looking down at the list in front of him scratching his head in confusion. As he tried to think of where to start, he glanced toward the reference desk, noticing you approaching carefully with an armful of books.

The tower teetered precariously as you approached and you tried to place your chin at the top of the stack to steady it. Your look of concentration made Jake smile. You scrunched your nose and furrowed your brow adorably as you adjusted and the messy bun atop your head wobbled, loosening a few strands that fell softly framing your face. He didn't realize he was staring until an older woman cleared her throat and asked harshly, "Can I help you?"

Jake startled and raised his list, "Um, yeah, I was looking for these," he said absently. He thought for a moment before saying, "You know what, I think I can find 'em. Thanks anyway." The woman rolled her eyes and walked away with a toss of her head.

Shoving the paper in his back pocket, Jake walked up to you and asked, "Can I give you a hand, sweetheart?"

Lowering the books onto the rickety cart in front of you as best you could, you stared up into his bright green eyes, unable to speak for a moment as you wondered if he was addressing you. No one ever took notice of you so you were used to going about your work in relative peace and quiet. "Me?" you said, pointing to your chest and looking behind you for someone else.

Afraid he had offended you, Jake stuttered out, "Yeah, sorry...I didn't know your name. I know I probably shouldn't have called you sweetheart. I learned that in class last week." He rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment, remembering a classmate who had put him in his place recently for a similar remark.

"My name is y/n," you offered quietly. "I was just surprised you were talking to me," you explained, gazing at him from behind a loose strand of hair. As soon as you said it you wanted to hide. He would surely see you for the shy, insecure girl you were and walk away.

However, he surprised you, leaning in to give you a warm smile and said, "I'm glad I didn't offend you. Could I get your help with this?" he asked, pulling the book list from his pocket.

You leaned over slowly to take a look, biting your lip and attempting to read his handwriting. However, it was difficult to concentrate as you brushed against his toned forearm. You let out a little giggle and he laughed. "What are we laughing about?" he asked you suddenly.

You pulled away as you replied, "Well, I just realized why you look so worried. I see from this list, you have Dr. Callahan. She's tough, huh?" you asked sympathetically.

"Yeah, you know her?" Jake asked.

"I took her class last semester," you nodded, gesturing for him to follow you.

"Well, maybe you could give me some tips. I need all the help I can get," Jake admitted with a chuckle, following you through the stacks of books.

As you loaded his arms, he chatted with you about his plans to become a pilot which you found unbelievably sexy. You began to worry he was out of your league though. He seemed like the popular, athletic type and you were a geek who hung out in the library all day. You were on the verge of making an excuse to run away when Jake began asking about your studies. His southern charm coaxed you out of your shell and you began feeling less awkward with every minute that passed. In fact, you'd never met someone who was so easy to talk to.

Jake found you attractive and smart, unlike the vapid girls who usually approached him. You were quiet, but self-assured in the topics you discussed. He also enjoyed watching your adorable mannerisms and found it impossible to keep his eyes from you, noting how you twisted the sleeves of your sweater in your hands as you talked and ran a manicured finger down the spines of the books as though each were very precious to you.

As you walked him back to the front of the building he glanced at the older librarian glaring at the two of you and said, "I know I'm probably not supposed to ask you out while you're working, but what would you say if I did?" His cheeky grin and the sparkle in his eye told you there was no way you could pass this up, even if you were about to be reprimanded so you quickly picked up a piece of paper and a pencil and jotted down your number for him.

"There you go," you said, blushing as you placed it between the pages of a book he was carrying.

"Thank you, darlin'," he said with a wink. Then he winced slightly. "Sorry, old habits die hard, you know."

You giggled. "It's ok, Jake. I think it's time for you to go study now though?" He nodded at you before exiting and you watched him leave, anticipating a night away from the library with the hot pilot.

[punsmaster69]

13/NOV/20XX

am i this stubborn when sick too? jeez.

sorry to anyone who's had to deal with that.

paps being sick got me sick as well.

already got over my fever though.

and yeah, it sucked, but luckily it was just that: the fever symptoms.

coulda been worse.

as for paps....

he's not someone who gets sick often, so when he actually 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 catch somethin'?

totally wipes him out.

absolutely destroys his schedule.

he hates it.

he hates it so much that he keeps trying to escape the house.

to do chores.

i don't think i'll ever truly understand the mind of the great papyrus.

the great papyrus...

who's on the couch at the moment.

and was definitely sitting on the left of it before, but is now suddenly on the right, the side closest to the front door.

"....."

"...WHAT?"

"I HAVEN'T DONE ANYTHING."

"........."

"......"

"FINE."

"BETTER?"

"aaaall the way."

with an exasperated sigh, he's moved back over.

i'm gonna have to child-proof everything in the house again at this rate.

yes, 'again'.

it's been a long day.

——

got off the phone with undyne, she's coming over soon. it'll be nice to have the extra pair of hands (and eyes) helping keep an eye on my bro, since

[The sentence suddenly cuts off. Appearing to have been written hastily, two words are scrawled slightly sideways on the line.]

he's gone

——

[This handwriting is sharp, and slightly messy. It's not Sans'.]

Hey.

It's Undyne.

He kinda just handed this to me and speed-walked

(because that skeleton is apparently incapable of running)

off all of a sudden.

What am I supposed to write?!

And WHAT makes him think I'm just gonna sit here and write instead of figuring out what he's doing?!?!

——

Papyrus escaped while I was getting over here, but I tackled him!

It was SUPER COOL

AWESOME!!

...But, uh. I'm still writing in place of Sans.

He completely conked out after chasing Paps.

I was originally gonna wake him up and tell his lazy ass to come do this himself..

Except, Papyrus messaged everyone these guideline things that Sans is supposed to follow, and I'm pretty sure I'd be making Sans break one by forcing him to write this on his own.

...He looks like he needs the rest, anyway.

.......

But I'M sure as hell not doing this!!

[kay---arts]

previous (first) | scene 2, pg. 1 | next (?)

Hello! Sorry I only got to one page school has been absolutely kicking my ass with preparation for finals lol. I know it’s not much but I still hope you all like it!

p.s. also sorry for my shitty handwriting lmao

p.p.s. lance is 100% a smygfit and I will never be convinced otherwise

[d1s1ntegrated]

commission for @ghostcore3 <3 IM SO SORRY ITS SO LATE IM TRYING TO CATCH UP ON MY ASKS AAAAAAAA

tomura x mizuki (raven) hcs! 🖤🥀

she's the same height as him, but with her heels she's much taller, and he looks up at her in complete awe whenever she's in her costume.

but he also hates it cause he can't intimidate her at ALL

they argue a lot but it's never that serious. it's mostly just playful banter that went a bit too far

when she's in recovery, he patiently waits by her side (usually playing a game quietly next to her as she rests)

he does his absolute best to write poetry for her when she's feeling depressed, but his handwriting is illegible most of the time and he sucks at being romantic

"alone time" is a requirement and he knows it.

she brings him "crow gifts" like buttons, shiny caps, and dried flower petals she finds. he keeps them all in a small box by his desk

he gets pissed when she's sarcastic with him

quality time >>>

tomura admires her so ferociously, but he'll never say it to her.

they have a form of silent communication that only they understand

they like to just coexist in the same space. he'll play games, she'll read. and they can be content like that for hours

she listens to a lot of classical music, which he'll bitch about, but he actually likes it when he's gaming cause he concentrates better

she gives advice that he doesn't take

but she's always right

they have a lot of low energy days together, with dim lighting and quiet.

because of this, he bought black out curtains for her

skyrim girl x fallout boy

she bites

he likes it

she paints his nails when he asks

whenever he gets too "whiny" aka he's mad something didn't work out as he planned it, she avoids him lie the plague for a few hours so he can calm down otherwise he drives her batty

he would bark like a dog for her. like, unironically. he is wrapped around her fucking finger dude

she plays a wicked hand in any card game and he always rage quits (how tf do you manage to rage quit a card game come on man!)

she's strategic as fuck and is analytical to the point where he sees her as his second-hand (insert hand joke here)

she teases him to the point of no return and he eats it uppppp

he goes out and steals a bunch of pretty clothes for her (and asks toga for help). he once got her a really pretty velvet choker with a small raven charm hanging off of it because it reminded him of her so much (she needed it duh)

the league loves her and also loves seeing her put him in his place (he'll always deny it)

bird/crow jokes cause he's an ass like that

beast boy and raven mentioned frequently cause COME ON ITS SO FITTING?!

i'm putting some nsfw here too!! <3

really freaky fucking mind boggling hate-fucking that isn't really hate fucking it's just angry and intense

like i said, she bites and he likes it

she tops for sure

not all the time though. sometimes she pisses him off to the point where he needs to remind her "who the real leader is"

he calls her names like "my lady", always refers to her as above him (no one else knows)

really sweet, comforting slow sex when they're both feeling shitty and depressed

she lights candles to set the mood, he pours the wax on her (she doesn't hate it)

pulls her by the same choker he got her

she yanks his hair and controls the fuck out of him

writes very angsty erotic poems about him when it's been a min

blood play????????

very vampire-esque sex if you didn't think that already

loves to lay on her chest/play with them (she's the big titty goth gf duh!)

i hope this was good!!!!! i tried my best to look into her in depth, and not make it too OOC. <3 lmk how i did ;-; i love her i hope i did her justice

[vendetta-if]

𝓱𝓲 💖 (sorry for this asdkjfhjijhj)

im back and i have returned (to everyone's dismay) and i come bearing gifts - i have found the pages where i had my vendetta sequel mc drawn in!! 😈

here's my first doodle of rei when i was designing him - i didnt have the proper markers to colour him in but i used what markers i could get my hands on at the time lol but i did fuck up his face :( (closeup)

now i have lots of doodles i drew alongside this fullbody design of his and without further ado >:)

here are some facts i wrote about him 😊 as well as rei decorating his helmet :D though i'll write it down here if you can't read my messy ass handwriting (sorry about that hsjdhsd) »»————- ★ ————-«« FACTS ABOUT REI 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO: ➭ loves all things cutesy and colourful ➭ acts and whines like an actual toddler (because it forces his family to give him attention whenever he's being an actual pain in the ass 💞) ➭ reckless af and hates when people fret over him or protect him (that's his job. 👺) ➭ unironically thinks that blood splatters on his clothes look good on him (rei doesn't care if he's seen covered in blood in public, he can make millions of excuses why it isn't blood >:D) " NO this isn't blood this is paint 😇" " tf did you think this was?? i spilled my kool aid all over my clothes 😪" just to name a few, lol ➭ would honestly sell his soul for a lifetime supply of strawberry milkshakes (this is totally not me projecting myself onto rei when it comes to taro milk tea 💀) »»————- ★ ————-««

now here's another doodle of rei using his blood manipulation powers 😋 also ignore the pencil text below LMAO

so i did mention in my first ask about rei that he loves to explode things- yeah um idk if luka and jackal would give their menace of a son explosives or a grenade launcher if they knew that this is how he'd act with them LMFAOO

i also mentioned that rei makes the best belgian waffles! (send help hes holding me at gunpoint and forcing me to say this) here's rei offering a divine dish of waffles to my vendetta mc, remedy / remi 💕💕 and look at his face! his mouth is practically watering in anticipation to gobble up the waffles! 💗💝💘💓

okay on a side note- i made some small drawings of rei in a different outfit and was actually gonna include this in the ref but i didnt like it because it looked ugly 😭 so i made a poor life decision to cut these two abominations out and now they're on my phone 💟 (closeups)

anyways now here have a drawing of rei as demoman from the hit game tf2!!11!1!11!! 😲😳

(he really looks like a dollarstore demoman lol)

(reference used):

now if you have been on the internet during its baby phase im sure you may understand the reference i used for this doodle 🤭

yknow looking back at this downgraded rip off drawing of the original this is actually a shit drawing LMAO (how tf do you draw flames and smoke pls help 💔) now one thing i like to headcanon about rei is that whenever he starts to get frustrated or is having a hard time with carrying out an assassination he decides to do fuck all and blow everything up with literally anything flammable he could find because no target survives being blown to oblivion! (which happens more often than you think...) i like to think while this is an easy way out for rei, it is an absolute nightmare and a headache for the rest of his family 😌 (they probably would have to deal with unwanted attention because rei doesn't give a shit about keeping a low profile and people may tie him to the Morozovs 🤗 they also may struggle to come up with cover stories as these arson incidents become more frequent - because rei is the type of person who values quantity over quality, where he challenges himself to complete multiple assassinations so he can receive praise from his family 😂🤪 and it also doesn't help that he would rather cut corners and take the easy way out when it comes to his work) luka and jackal: " these fires are getting out of hand, we can't keep doing this... " fucking rei: " DAD 1 AND DAD 2!! LOOK!! THATS ME!! THAT BURNING BUILDING, I DID THAT!! :DDDDDDDDDDDDDDD " (reference used):

now moving on to a somewhat ironic drawing, here's a doodle of rei in a raincoat vibing in the rain ✨(aside from overalls, rei loves to wear raincoats - and would rather wear them instead of wintercoats when it's cold LOL) rei is the type of person to prioritize fashion than comfort :(

now here's a crappy drawing of cousin bonding time (rei and remedy) tbh i dont really like this scribble lol - this is just filler because i hated empty patches in my paper 🤡

now, a word from our sponsor; rei himself!! he is presenting his aforementioned homemade waffles in greater detail :) and now, cue the advertisement that totally is not completely false and not just rei's delusional and stubborn ramblings on that he creates the best waffles and that waffle makers are inferior to him ☺️

(っ◔◡◔)っ ♥ Rei's amazing homemade Belgian waffles! ♥ (𝑀𝒶𝒹𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒶 𝓌𝒶𝒻𝒻𝓁𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓇!) ♥ 𝗙𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗱𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗿𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗴𝗮𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗲! (𝙎𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙢𝙤𝙪𝙩𝙝) ♥ ♥ 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲, 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗹𝗲𝘀 (𝙏𝙤𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙘, 𝙣𝙤 𝙬𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙡𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙙 >:( ) ♥ ♥ 𝗖𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗵𝘆 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝗮𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘆𝗿𝘂𝗽 >:) (𝙉𝙤𝙩 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡!) ♥ ♥ 𝟷𝟶/𝟷𝟶 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚞𝚛! (𝙍𝙚𝙞'𝙨 𝙗𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙙𝙖𝙙𝙨 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙤𝙩𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜! :) ) ♥

i feel like im trying too hard to be funny here, lmao 🤡💀 anyways, here are the full pages of all of the drawings :D

alright so thats finally all i have - if i somehow get my motivation to draw or do literally anything productive ill start working on my vendetta mc's (remedy) ref sheet 👹 (im sorry for this cesspool of cringe again btw LMAO)

Rei sounds so chaotic and kinda sweet at the same time 😆

Also, I love the lil headcanon about the waffle. You can bet that big bro will boast about how his lil brother can make really good waffles to his friends whenever he hang out or has breakfast with them 🥺

Thank you for sharing all these lovely drawings and headcanons about your upcoming sequel MC 🥰

[alltoowelltom]

miss americana & the heartbreak prince [part two]

tom holland x actress!reader

series summary: when you're called in to fake date tom holland for two months to fix his public image, you never expect anything to blossom between the two of you...

+ series masterlist

☆°・ chapter two ・°☆

“Hey”, Tom greets you as soon as you open the door.

“Hi.” you say. 

Tom pauses for a second before gesturing inside. 

“So can I come in, or…?”

“Oh!” you laugh. “Yeah of course I’m so sorry, come on in.” you move to the side to let Tom in and breathe in his subtle cologne as he brushes past you into the hall.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” you ask, leading him into the kitchen. 

“No thanks, I ate before I came.” says Tom. He spins around in the middle of your open-plan living and dining area, letting out a low whistle in appreciation. “Nice place you got here.”

“Thank you,” you say politely as you sip at a glass of water. “I don’t get to spend as much time here as I’d really like to,” you admit. 

“I know the feeling,” Tom says wistfully. You feel bad as soon as he does. You can’t imagine how he’s feeling right now, his drama with the director being blown out of proportion more and more each day and his family so far away in London. 

“I definitely miss my family when I’m here, and don’t spend as much time in London as I’d really like.” he says while staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the bustling city. The sun is setting, fiery rays poking through the clouds as miniature cars speed through the streets, New Yorkers leaving their offices and rushing to meet dinner plans. 

It’s like he can read your mind. 

“Do they come and visit a lot? Your brothers, maybe?” you ask. 

“Oh, you’ve been doing your research I see.” Tom teases and you flush painfully. He was right, you’d spent the better part of last night Googling Tom and his achievements. You’d told yourself it was all to make the fake relationship process smoother. It was, right?

“My brother Harry spends a lot of time with me, but he went back to the UK after I left the cast of Origin,” he continues and you nod. 

“Do you get lonely here?” you ask. “With all your family being so far away?”

Tom looks a little sad before seeming to shake it off. 

“Nah, I’m not lonely.” he says. 

You nod, assuming he probably doesn’t want to talk about it with a near stranger. 

“I’m not!” he insists, stepping ever so closer. “I have you, haven’t I?”

You blush at his flirty tone and swat at his chest. 

“Right, we’ve got to get started on that.” you say firmly. 

You pick up a notepad off the counter and take a seat at the large empty dining table. Tom slips into the seat across from you, moaning theatrically as he settles in. “Oh God, this is the stuff!” he groans. “The comfort! Not like those ass-breaker chairs at the Summit office, no-”

You snort at his dramatics, flicking a pen across the table at him. 

“Stop having a love affair with my chairs and get helping me on this list!” you giggle. 

Tom sits up more seriously. 

“Right then, let’s get cracking.” he says, rolling his eyes when you dissolve into a fit of giggles. 

“What now?” he whines. 

“You- oh my God- you sound just like Gemma Collins,” you laugh. You clear your throat and do your best attempt at a very Northern British accent. “You’re just like- d’ya know what fuck this, no more bein’ down let's get this show on the road! Right let's crank the tunes up-” you dissolve into another fit of laughter as Tom pouts at you. 

“I do not!” he tries to defend his own accent, unable to hide his laughter when he realises you’re actually not too far off. 

When you’ve calmed yourself down, Tom nods at you from across the table. 

“I’m actually impressed by that accent, love. Had me believing you were a true Brit for a minute there.”

You shrug. 

“I have culture.”

You pick up your own pen. 

“Do you want to write, or should I?” you ask. 

Tom shakes his head. 

“You, absolutely you. I have the world’s worst handwriting.” 

You roll your eyes as you write down your first rule. Sliding the notebook around, you show it to Tom expecting his approval. You’re confused when he gasps. 

“What?” he shrieks. “No, kissing?!”. 

You shrug again. 

“I don’t want you to kiss me.” you state. 

Tom pouts. 

“Ouch, love. I’m not that bad a kisser. I have references if you want them to give you a call-”

You pick up the notebook and lightly smack him with it to shut him up. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, Tom.” you explain. “I just don’t want you to kiss me, if that makes sense? Like, if someone’s gonna kiss me I want it to be because they want to. Not because some guy named Clay in an office wants them to kiss me.”

Tom sighs but nods in understanding. 

“Okay, I respect that. It’ll hurt my soul, but I respect it.” 

You smile to thank him for respecting your boundaries, and slide the notebook into his hand. 

“Go on then, your turn to come up with a rule.”

“I could wear your scrunchie.” he says finally, gesturing to the midnight blue scrunchie on your wrist. “Isn’t that what people do for their girlfriends?” 

You nod, reluctantly slipping the scrunchie off and handing it to him. 

“You’d better take care of her though. That’s my best scrunchie.”

Tom snaps it onto his wrist, wincing slightly at the snap of the elastic. 

“I’ll guard it with my life.”

Two hours, countless jokes and most of a bottle of wine later you and Tom are left staring at a fresh sheet of notepad on the coffee table. You can’t quite remember when you’d both moved to the couch but it was certainly more comfortable to sit curled up next to each other, sinking into the plush cushions and feeling your hearts pound each time your knee or shoulder brushes against the other person’s. 

“Do you think it’s done?” Tom asks. 

You read over it one more time, smoothing your finger over your signature. 

“I think so.”

“So…what do we do next?”

You shrug, trying to be casual but it’s so hard when you feel like you’re developing a teeny huge crush on the man sitting next to you. 

“I guess we tell everyone…I think Lucy suggested we post something so we don’t get swarmed when we go out in public together.” you say uncertainly. 

Tom nods, running a hand through his chocolate curls. 

“Yeah, that’s probably the next step. Though I have to admit, it’s been kinda nice keeping this secret the past few days,” he admits. “Is it weird to say that I’ve kind of had fun, just you and me?”

You hitch in a breath at his confession. Picking up your phone, you brush it off. 

“It’s probably just a nervous thing. God knows you’re dealing with a lot right now.”

Tom swallows his disappointment. 

“Yeah. That’s probably it.”

liked by bellahadid, florencepugh, harrystyles and others

tagged: tomholland2013.

y/ninstagram☑️: 💗

babydolly/n: UMMMMM WHAT

zendaya☑️: y/n call me !!

enewsweekly: slay

hollandtommy: Y/N AND TOM Y/N AND TOM

hazosterfield☑️: bro answer my texts

tomholland2013☑️: ❤

‧͙⁺˚･༓☾　　☽༓･˚⁺‧͙

tysm for reading! please consider reblogging, it really helps a writer out <3

series taglist: @scenesofobx @lnmp89 @mayal0pez @alisslahey @nahhcuhh @youcantseem3 @theekyliepage @racavalier @wh0reforbucknasty @moniffazictress11

[giggly-squiggily]

Blue Lock Dancing Headcanons

Hi hello I drank coffee and got into a dance off with my dog (I lost) so here are some Dancy pants headcanons for our boys! (Unfortunately I didn't include Yudai in this one- I don't know him very well, sorry!)

Isagi: Mr. Clappy hands! Isagi has zero sense of rhythm and is fully aware of it, but he's having the best time so it all kinda works out. Tries to sing along but doesn't know any of the words so he just kinda mumbles along until he gets to a part he knows.

Bachira: A literal snake, his moves are so fluid it's like he's made of water. The one to run up to random people- familiar or not- and dance with them. Claims the monster is the one who taught him how to move like that.

Kunigami: Somebody come get your grandpa. Has the potential to dance fairly well but underestimates himself severely. Lots of shimmies and feet shuffles, nodding along with the music and does the occasional fist bump. Will loosen up some the longer he's out dancing.

Chigiri: Simple but pretty with it! He's shy- it takes him a moment to warm up to dancing, but when he does he has a great time. Kinda scared to re-injure his knee so he never goes all out, but he has the ability to dance fairly well. Kinda vibes with it.

More under the cut~

Gurimu- The stomper to Isagi's clapping. An absolute mess on the dance floor, he and Isagi make quite the sight. Like his friend, Gurimu's having the time of his life, even if he looks like a drunk tap dancer. Unlike Isagi, he knows all the words to the songs playing- he just can't sing.

Gagamaru- Too much ass. He's not even trying to be sexy, he's just doing whatever everyone else around him is doing. He looks like a dog trying to rub it's butt against something to scratch an itch. Put on Southern All Stars however and he's in his feelings, singing along and rocking to the music while leaning onto whomever's closest.

Kuon- Not enough ass. Frankly, not enough anything. He's so stiff it's like Iida from MHA only even more so. Kinda looks like someone wiggling a cardboard cutout. Warms up in time so he does loosen up some. Would be great at concerts though- the kind where everyone just kinda jumps around is more his vibe.

Raichi- A catastrophe; he looks like Rocky shadowboxing combined with a two year old having a tantrum. Thinks he's absolutely killing it but is way, way too aggressive. Has gotten kicked out at dance parties because people thought he was trying to fight them.

Naruhaya- The most fun dancer! Dance parties were his way to distract his siblings when the times got tough, so he's got quite a few moves under his belt. Ranges from Fortnite dancing to swinging his dance partners arms around with him. Never fails to make the people around him laugh.

Lemon- Surprisingly a phenomenal dancer! He's like Bachira- smooth like butter in his moves. Believes like his handwriting, his dancing reflects his soul, so he worked on it for years. Kinda embarrassed by it so he's not the first one to dance, but enjoys himself for the most part!

Barou- Stiff- he doesn't know how to cut loose and relax. Has a set number of moves he follows when dancing- if even one gets thrown off he'll quit. If he can loosen up even a little bit, he'd be a rather decent dancer.

Nagi: Would be a good dancer if he put more effort into it. He's always playing on his phone on the dance floor- just kinda bops to the beat halfheartedly. If he does commit, he's a bit awkward at first but warms up eventually. Knows a surprisingly large amount of dances- including Irish step.

Reo: Will only dance if Nagi's dancing with him. He spends most of the time trying to get the other moving with him. If Nagi's dancing with someone else he'll either pout the whole time or dance extra hard to make Nagi jealous. Also knows a wide variety of dance moves.

Aryu- Makes every move a glamorous one. Think Metatton from Undertale- every move is absolutely extra, hair tosses and poses are very common. He's living his inner diva and makes it everyone's business.

Tokimitsu- Constantly cycles between having fun and panicking for having too much fun and going back to having fun. Tries to take up as little space as possible when dancing, worrying he'd accidentally bump into everyone around him.

Rin- Excellent dancer but hates dancing. It takes a lot of convincing to actually get him on the floor, and even more to make him stay. Kinda stays by himself for the most part, nodding along with whatever's playing. Might dance with Isagi if asked- even if he's trying not to laugh the entire time at the smaller boy's dance moves.

Thanks for reading!

[artistic-intrxvert]

I drew my character (cough cough myself cough cough) for @bamsara's fic Solar Lunacy! (GO CHECK IT OUT ITS SO GOOD-)

Whenever i am reading, i like to laugh to myself because I wear a mask practically everywhere I go because ✨facial dysmorphia✨ and i often talk quiet so i feel like I'd have to repeat myself multiple times if i were to talk to anybody ;v; so like if i was arguing (definitely absolutely not end of act 1 cough), I'd probably have to either talk really loud or yell. Sometimes I just take my mask off tho if I'm around ppl i trust so maybe I'd take it off during an argument??? Idk man it's just something I think about and laugh sometimes even if the characters are arguing (cough cough definitely not hinting at something cough cough)

FR THO GO CHECK OUT BAM'S FIC ITS SO GOOD I PROMISE YOU'LL LIKE IT :D

(sorry if my handwriting is absolute ass ;v;)

Pls don't repost my art anywhere, or i will find you :D (not blaming anyone and this has not happened, but just to be sure)

[ballmasonofficial]

Hey yall!

Finals are really kicking my ass right now so I wanted to do a little review of prose I found scribbled on pieces of paper in my bag.

*ahem*

head mounted to a wall

roadkill on a street never driven

I bled onto my carpet and nobody came

I cried for the dead cat on the curb and he came back to life

he told me that his head will bring the masses to change

I gave him a crown of thorns soaked in sweat and he pushed it away

No, nothing matters

I am only above or below the present and future.

nothing you can do will bring me to your level

sharp dreams

dreams that don't quite feel like they are

ever so slightly getting worse

registering only as feelings to events

not simply a bad dream

but a dream where death only wakes you up

And so I tried

I tried to make something beautiful and true

I opened my eyes to paint what I saw

Lead can't be that volatile. It's not like I'll die standing next to it. I'm sure lead can't seep into my skin. I'll die as one of Medusas victims. Cold and unfeeling. I already hold her hand as I walk down the hallways. Nobody stares at us anymore. We aren't in love but we want so desperately what love gives. Swift air, fluid and cool, rustling grass that I can't see. I used to be able to see it. I could even feel the dirt beneath the grass as I dug deeper. Now I just stand above the hole. It's not so deep. I'm so young. But it will go unnoticed when it's filled. Bury me with a lead tongue.

as my lines slope down,

my letters become unintelligible,

my thoughts stop and start,

I wonder.

Should I be trying harder?

Should I spend every hour sharpening

what was dulled out by years of misuse

I used to try

to be on top

I only could look down

all I did was look down.

It's a long fall

I didn't want to ruin anyones day

so I did it over water.

I walked here

in the middle of the night

I left my phone in my bed, unplugged

It will die in a few hours

in a few minutes

in a few seconds

Nobody saw me

that made it okay

I'm sure if they did

they'd keep driving

or walking

or singing

or eating, dancing, laughing, writing, painting

I'll be fine

It'll be fine without me

Does the way I think scare you?

The way I slur my words.

I can't think

a rusted wire

that I tried to cut loose.

My handwriting is getting worse

I haven't thought about it in a while

I tasted the rust afterwards

only I have to taste it

Damaged wires make the prettiest sparks

Sorry, I'm used to wiping my blood on a canvas

I really don't see why

I cry over a tapestry

I give thought and care

when it unravels with a tug

I've tried to burn what's left

and I want somebody to love the ashes

She wanted only to become a ghost

to haunt as the one's of her past did

It's one 'o clock and

I've seen humans contorted into the absolute worst of shapes

I've seen things nobody is supposed to

I've seen insides out

the outside go in

Inhuman (Unintelligible)

So real

that I'm no longer scared

nothing really scares me more

than the beads of blood and sweat

Nothing really scares me anymore

Yeah that's really it. I had a rough year. Thanks for reading!!