tirednamelessguy

[tirednamelessguy]

TMA fan statement i did. im proud of this one. originally was an ask to a blog but i wanna save this one

The following is an audio transcript of a video found on a Nikon-D90 digital camera. The lens seems to be covered with something for the majority of the video. STATEMENT OF [UNINTELLIGIBLE] IT HURTS. WELL, WHAT AM I SAYING- IT'S ALWAYS HURT. I'LL BE BLUNT. I'M NOT AN AVERAGE PERSON WHEN IT COMES TO ALMOST ANYTHING. I'VE GOTTEN USED TO IGNORING MY TEST AND IQ SCORES. PEOPLE DON'T LIKE YOU IF YOU DON'T, Y'KNOW? IT'S LIKE THE INFORMATION AND THE PATTERNS JUST FLOW THROUGH ME. WHEN I FOCUS ON AN OBJECT, IT'S LIKE AN EXPLOSION. LIKE EVERYTHING I'VE EVER HEARD ABOUT IT IS RUSHING INTO MY HEAD AT ONCE. IT'S NOT LIKE I MEMORIZE DATES OR NUMBERS OR ANYTHING. THOSE ALWAYS TEND TO FALL OUT. IT'S CONCEPTS. IDEAS. I JUST... UNDERSTAND THINGS. LIKE EVERYONE IS STARING AT A SINGLE STRAND OF SPIDER SILK BUT I CAN... I CAN SEE THE WHOLE WEB. I THINK THIS IS WHAT YOU WANT, RIGHT? YOU WANT ME TO TALK? I'LL TALK. I'VE NEVER HAD TROUBLE TALKING. I'VE ALWAYS BEEN WHAT I LIKE TO CALL A PEOPLE WATCHER. I'M NOT A STALKER, OF COURSE, I NEVER LEARN THINGS PEOPLE DON'T ALREADY PUT OUT THERE. I JUST LIKE THE THRILL. IT'S LIKE A LITTLE GAME, YOU HIDE THE CLUES AND I FOLLOW THEM. THOUGH YOU KNOW ALL ABOUT THAT. THE WATCHER BECOMES THE WATCHED IN THE END. I WAS SITTING ON A PARK BENCH WHEN IT HAPPENED. I HAD MY SKETCHBOOK WITH ME AND I WAS, DESCREETLY, DRAWING THE PEOPLE I FOUND INTERESTING. SOME PEOPLE'S FACES HAVE MORE OF A... DYNAMIC FORM THAN OTHERS. MY GAZE LANDED ON A MAN- BLONDE, I THINK, WHO SEEMED TO BE WATCHING PEOPLE AS WELL. HE HAD THIS SHINE IN HIS EYES, LIKE A CAT WHO'S INTEREST WAS JUST CAUGHT BY AN ANT. NOT A MOUSE, THOUGH- HE WASN'T APREHENSIVE ENOUGH FOR THAT ANALOGY. WAS THAT WHAT I LOOKED LIKE? DID MY EYES HAVE THAT... BITE?

AND HIS EYES MOVED TO ME. I DON'T SAY GLANCED, OR FLICKED- BECAUSE HE KNEW EXACTLY WHERE HE WAS LOOKING. WE MADE EYE CONTACT, AND HE SMILED. HE SMILED AT ME. AN ODDLY FRIENDLY SMILE, AS IF WE SHARED SOME SORT OF SECRET. I LEFT AS SOON AS I COULD.

I STARTED SEEING HIM. EVERYWHERE. NOT HIM, EXACTLY, JUST A FIGURE IN THE DISTANCE OR IN THE SHADOWS BUT I KNEW IT WAS HIM. AND HE KNEW THAT I DID. I WAS DESPERATE TO REGAIN SOME SEMBLANCE OF CONTROL, WHICH, I SUPPOSE WAS ALWAYS WHAT IT WAS ABOUT, AND MY PEOPLE WATCHING HABITS ESCALATED FROM A QUIRK TO MORE OF AN OBSESSION. A HUNGER, EVEN. I REMEMBER THERE WAS ONE GIRL WHO I LET KNOW I WAS WATCHING HER. LIKE JUST THE KNOWLEDGE WASN'T ENOUGH ANYMORE. LIKE I NEEDED THEM TO KNOW THEY WERE BEING WATCHED. I WAS DRAWING FAR MORE EYES THAN I NORMALLY DID. SOMETIMES I'D WAKE UP AND THE WALL IN FRONT OF ME WOULD BE COVERED IN THEM, PAINT STILL WET. I STOPPED LEAVING MY HOUSE, AND I'D SPEND HOURS JUST STARING OUT MY WINDOW. I DON'T KNOW IF I BLINKED. I KNOW I DIDN'T EAT.

[KNOCK] [KNOCK]

AND THEN THAT STARTED. SOMEONE- WHO AM I JOKING, THAT MAN, HAS BEEN KNOCKING ON MY DOOR AT 3PM EVERY DAY. THAT EXACT SAME PATTERN. THE EXACT SAME TIME. AND I AM SO, SO HUNGRY.

[RUSLING NOISE]

[A DOOR OPENS]

[THE OBJECT COVERING THE CAMERA IS REMOVED, AND THE CAMERA IS THROWN OUT THE DOOR INTO WHAT SEEMS TO BE A HALLWAY. IT'S LENS IS POINTED AT THE FEET OF SOMEONE WHO IS WEARING DRESS SHOES AND DARK GREEN TROUSERS. THE AUDIO AND VIDEO BOTH CUT TO STATIC.]

[tirednamelessguy]

Visitor

The first time was a surprise—

when I was in my garden

cherishing reds and pinks and yellows and violets,

a shadow danced around the edge,

translucent in the sunlight golden.

a rustle of newborn green,

The next was a welcome—

a flutter of eyelashes, a chuckle worth adoring,

and my heart did all but surrender,

catching dreams of eternal spring.

Like passing seasons, everyday you flee—

a perpetual dance of one step forward and two back.

Like the question of life, you allude me.

And in my solitary musings I picture

running down a rabbit-hole at your heel—

lost in wonderland, a grand adventure.

I wish you would cease this teasing,

leave your lair and stop hiding.

I wish you would read my eyes

and see the longing.

If words were to serve me I'd say–

as sure is the expanse above,

carrying pure tufts of vapour in its blue embrace,

as sure is the warmth of fire in a stove,

You are my love.

————————————————————————

Another poem, yayyyy!

Written for the theme "Love", credits to @ezradoeswriting

[tirednamelessguy]

THAT IS SO COOL

I finished making a shimeji desktop pet of Kon Kusuriuri from Mononoke :D Heres a 1 minute video displaying it

Link for it: https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1zdvOgfh76uGQSReiLjau4Ru-M6i5A9Rl

(Note: I only tested it on windows so im not sure if it works on mac/linux.)

[tirednamelessguy]

The cool server full of cool people

I know i don't usually post stuff from this acc (bc i had exams and have been busy), but i thought id share the discord writing server i made.

[tirednamelessguy]

There is no such thing as coincidence.

Elias design by @oribellame !

[tirednamelessguy]

I love silly okubade hsbxjs 🫡💕💕💕

[tirednamelessguy]

Do you check for trackers and remove them before sharing links?

[tirednamelessguy]

Unhealed Wounds Your Character Pretends Are Just “Personality Traits”

These are the things your character claims are just “how they are” but really, they’re bleeding all over everyone and calling it a vibe.

╰ They say they're "independent." Translation: They don’t trust anyone to stay. They learned early that needing people = disappointment. So now they call it “being self-sufficient” like it’s some shiny badge of honor. (Mostly to cover up how lonely they are.)

╰ They say they're "laid-back." Translation: They stopped believing their wants mattered. They'll eat anywhere. Do anything. Agree with everyone. Not because they're chill, but because the fight got beaten out of them a long time ago.

╰ They say they're "a perfectionist." Translation: They believe mistakes make them unlovable. Every typo. Every bad hair day. Every misstep feels like proof that they’re worthless. So they polish and polish and polish... until there’s nothing real left.

╰ They say they're "private." Translation: They’re terrified of being judged—or worse, pitied. Walls on walls on walls. They joke about being “mysterious” while desperately hoping no one gets close enough to see the mess behind the curtain.

╰ They say they're "ambitious." Translation: They think achieving enough will finally make the emptiness go away. If they can just get the promotion, the award, the validation—then maybe they’ll finally outrun the feeling that they’re fundamentally broken. (It never works.)

╰ They say they're "good at moving on." Translation: They’re world-class at repression. They’ll cut people out. Bury heartbreak. Pretend it never happened. And then wonder why they wake up at 3 a.m. feeling like they're suffocating.

╰ They say they're "logical." Translation: They’re terrified of their own feelings. Emotions? Messy. Dangerous. Uncontrollable. So they intellectualize everything to avoid feeling anything real. They call it rationality. (It's fear.)

╰ They say they're "loyal to a fault." Translation: They mistake abandonment for loyalty. They stay too long. Forgive too much. Invest in people who treat them like an afterthought, because they think walking away makes them "just as bad."

╰ They say they're "resilient." Translation: They don't know how to ask for help without feeling like a burden. They wear every bruise like a trophy. They survive things they should never have had to survive. And they call it strength. (But really? It's exhaustion wearing a cape.)

[tirednamelessguy]

Elias Bouchard when his employees are fighting for their life at the institute:

[tirednamelessguy]

Arthur Lester more like Arthur molesting my ears with his incessant whimpering

[tirednamelessguy]

THIS IS SO CUTE WTHHHH

Jontim

[tirednamelessguy]

Officially committing to my crackpot theory that Arthur is Nyarlathotep and Lilith is Faroe. See y’all June 1st!

[tirednamelessguy]

I did something bad.

Really, really, really bad.

Once upon a time, I didn't listen to my mother. I liked someone. I liked them a lot. But they weren't good for me, in fact, they were terrible for me.

''He's okay, but don't ever be with them'' ''He's a good friend, but don't think of them as your lover, ever''

Boy, i wish i listened. I wish I goddamn listened.

But how could I have listened when their touch felt so right?

When their kisses ignited something beautiful in me?

When the way they held me made me feel so secure?

I loved them so much it made me feel degusting, it made me hate what we used to have, it made me want to burn myself alive just so I can stop feeling everything towards them.

But that's not how this works, I would learn that a lot later.

Either way, I convinced my heart to hate them, I convinced my brain and body to stop craving their touch.

But my soul can't be tricked, my soul that understood. My soul that was, and still is, connected to theirs.

I turned a beautiful human being into a monster for the second time in my life. All because I was too afraid to make a choice, all because my mother's words became my voice

And after we hurt each other and traumatized one another to the point we'll be scarred for life, we sorta parted ways as much as possible, but attending the same facility made it rather difficult.

I convinced every cell in my body that all I feel is hate. And mind you, I am a being incapable of hate (perhaps I'm incapable of actually love as well, i am at a confusing age). The point is, we ended things, for good.

No more conversations;

No more lingering looks and touches;

No more longing in our hearts and gazes.

Until today.

We sat together alone because we had to (no, we didn't, we could've gone home and ended our days). And so we sat, and naturally, we started a simple conversation. No yelling, no crying, no hatred. Just a human conversation. Or better said, a conversation of two empty shells. We destroyed each other. I could see it in their eyes. It's impossible to put into words. You either understand what I'm talking about, or you'll at least get an idea of what I'm talking about. Doesn't matter.

So, the bad thing I did...We sat close when we talked, we were sitting on stairs, keeping a reasonable distance because we're uncomfortable and disgusted with one another (that's what we tell ourselves, I'm sure).

But before we knew it, our knees were touching.

And then our shoulders.

Before I knew it, my head was rested on their shoulder, and their head was on top of mine. Their hand went up and down my back, sending shivers down my spine.

I closed my eyes, not allowing my tears to fall. I couldn't, it wouldn't be fair.

They kissed the top of my head without a word.

I pressed a small kiss to their cheek.

And that's all. We talked, scrolled on their phone, and sat in the purest form of intimacy there is.

I felt peace. I felt safety. I didn't fear them like I did most of the time. And when I tell you, they visited my nightmares occasionally.

No, this time, their touch felt welcoming, loving, if I may say. My head fit perfectly in the crook of their neck and their arms enveloped my body just right. It felt good, so good I wanted to cry. But I didn't. Again, it would be unfair.

We didn't talk about the past, we couldn't, we didn't want to. We can never be together after what we did to each other, but there are two things that deep down, we're both sure of;

We will forever love each other,

We're doomed for life.

[tirednamelessguy]

I love this so much T_T

I've been thinking a lot about faroe recently

[tirednamelessguy]

SO like, I've been thinking about Malevolent again bc I listened to da capo this morning. And I have some very shitty predictions for what might happen in season 6!

Originally, when The Manager said:

i thought it would mean that we would see some of the former characters, like The Butcher, Kellin, sir Vale (just to name a few off the top of my head). Because they have all ended up in the dark world. It could be meeting the dead characters again, but I have another theory. The dark world is where everything that dies goes, right? No matter what dimension they were in. So like we could see different Arthur's and John's, because we know that most of them didn't survive or shit went really really bad for them.

And all of this got me thinking that maybe we could find out more about these alternative John and Arthur's and how they came to be yk. And maybe they'll like, reveal information that they know about Kayne which will help Arthur and John stop him. Idk tho, but i do hope that we can meet this alternative version of Jarthur. TLDR: Season 6 with either have the return of dead characters, or we will get to meet different versions of Jarthur in the dark world.

[tirednamelessguy]

Graveyard Orbit (spike spiegel)

HI HIII impulsively just wanted a place to put all my thoughts down. I'm gong to turn to this in a few months/years and realize I hate this blog, but no better place than tumblr amiright.

I have a lot on spikey piled up, I will get around to trigun junk later on when I am not boggled down by this man here..

spike spiegel x reader / cowboy bebop

mentions of blood and injury, discussion of death

------------------------------︶ིྀᩧ

You’re leaning against the counter in the tiny excuse for a kitchen on the Bebop, nursing a mug of something instant and way too hot. Your torso is still wrapped from the mission you got back from hours ago — stitched clean but aching. You hadn’t meant to be awake this late, but the quiet was easier than sleep, and the way your body refused to settle had made the choice for you.

The ship creaks faintly with movement. Pipes groan like they’re exhaling. Somewhere, Ed’s laugh echoes faintly through a wall, like a ghost of noise that doesn’t really belong.

And then you hear him.

Not loud — never loud — but Spike moves like smoke, and you’ve gotten good at catching the scent of him before he enters a room.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

You don’t turn. Just lift the mug to your lips. “Could ask you the same.”

He walks past you, barefoot, his shirt half-buttoned and loose. He smells like tobacco and metal and whatever vague thing you’ve started associating with safety.

You don’t like that. But it’s true.

Spike opens a cabinet and stares inside like it might surprise him. “We have exactly three things in here. Powdered soup, noodles, and… something I’m not willing to classify.”

“Jet’s mystery meat can’t be trusted.”

“No shit.”

He ends up making soup, if it can be called that. It smells vaguely edible. You keep leaning against the counter while he works, eyes on the scuffed floor. The silence between you isn’t awkward — it never is. Just full. Weighted.

“Let me see it,” he says suddenly, nodding toward your bandages.

You hesitate, then roll up your shirt.

He steps closer. His hands hover, then land — featherlight — as he unwraps the gauze with slow precision. You watch his face while he works. Focused. Brow slightly furrowed like he gives a damn but doesn’t know how to say it without ruining it.

“You stitched it yourself?” he asks, voice quieter now.

“Didn’t have time to wait.”

He snorts, almost fond. “Of course you didn’t.”

You let him clean the edges of the wound, re-wrap it cleaner than you had. His fingers brush your skin every so often, and it sends lightning down your spine in ways that make you angry with yourself. You’ve taken bullets to the chest and stayed colder than this.

He finishes the wrap and steps back, but not far. His eyes flick up to meet yours.

“You should’ve called for backup,” he says. It’s not angry. It’s not even judgmental. It’s just quiet. Like the thought of losing you slipped past his lips before he could stop it.

You set the mug down. The ceramic clinks against the metal counter.

“You would’ve gotten yourself killed trying to play hero.”

“I’m already dying, remember?” he says, lips twitching into that near-smile. The one that means don’t look too close. The one that hides way more than it reveals.

You don’t laugh. Just look at him. Really look at him. “You’re not as dead as you pretend to be.”

He exhales. Looks down. Then meets your gaze again, something stripped bare in the look. And he says, voice low and razor-sharp with meaning: “Neither are you.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to choke on. But neither of you moves. The soup on the stove starts to boil. You both ignore it. Spike shifts slightly, gaze dropping to your lips for a half-second before flicking away — and it’s not subtle, not even close. You let the air hang between you like a question neither of you’s brave enough to ask.

Then you move first — not much. Just a step closer. Just enough for him to feel the shift. He looks at you like you’re a fire he’s willing to burn in.

And you — God help you — let him press his lips on yours, gentle and soft with a hint of desperation. He's worried about you.

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours. Barely there. Barely touching. Like the idea of closeness is more dangerous than any bullet either of you has ever taken.

“Don’t make a habit of not coming back,” he murmurs, breath warming your skin.

You close your eyes.

“Don’t make a habit of caring.”

He laughs. Quiet. Sad.

“Too late.”

You stay like that for a moment that feels like a lifetime.

Then the soup boils over and reality slams back in. He pulls away. You go back to your mug. The silence returns, but it’s different now. Looser around the edges. Like something cracked open — just a little.

He frantically settles the soup into bowls, wiping down the hot bubbles off the counter and wordlessly hands you utensils to go with it. Back on the couch, it's quiet, but a nice kind of quiet as you lean into his touch.

[tirednamelessguy]

Love this

My Kusuriuri Oc, K'an

Finally got around to finishing an art piece.

-R.e.i.13