#ANYWAY I AM /NOT/ GOING TO GO INTO DETAILS ABOUT IT IN TAGS

[always-just-red]

Hi!

Can I request a fic where the reader starts realizing they have feelings for Sylus and gets so nervous around him that they can’t resonate anymore?

And Sylus thinks that the reader is scared/disgusted by him again so the reader is forced to confess their feelings to not create a bigger misunderstanding

Thanks!

- 🌻

The moment I got this request I was like HELLO— sunflower anon, you just get me 😌 Anyway! Am back from my break and I hope everyone’s ready for some Vulnerable Sylus™️, because I have got him hot to go!!!

A Gentle Touch

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You really can’t let Sylus into your head this time— he’s living there rent-free already.

Genre: Angst + Fluff (& some Luke and Kieran shenanigans because they were not feeling the angst)

Warnings/Additional Tags: f!reader, injury detail, mentions of possible trauma, humour, some intimacy at the end 😘, Luke and Kieran are having the time of their lives

| Word count: 3.2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

If you asked, Sylus would tell you.

You catch glimpses: dark, sharp flickers of something monstrous, maybe even infernal. Blood, everywhere— thick in your mouth and your nose. All over your hands. You feel it, too: a yearning, so intense, and you couldn’t say whom it belongs to. Then there’s death. Searing white. Bottomless black. In the middle of all of it— crimson eyes like dying stars.

Every time you resonate, it envelops you, is laid out bare before you: a nightmare you’re caught in the centre of but forced to watch from outside. An other, a spectator. It’s a show, just for you, but it isn’t quite ready yet; someone’s still rehearsing their lines.

If you asked, Sylus would let you see it. It’s a power you have over him, a constant, self-sacrificial: you want it? It’s yours. So you don’t ask. You never ask. Like words mumbled in a haze of wine or sleep, you let him hold onto it. His hands are open, yes, but you don’t have to take.  

Besides, you have your own, world-changing little secret, and he’s going to see it too.

He’s slumped in front of you, blood sheeting down from two bullet wounds just below his shoulder. He catches his breath— one, two— before he peeks over this desk you’ve overturned for cover. You should be peeking over as well: should be counting your enemies, scouting your next move.

Instead, you’re looking at him and holding back. One minute ago you had no idea where he was, how he was, and it’d been eating away at you from the moment you got separated. Now he’s with you— he found you— and the relief is desperate, gushing; it has to escape somehow. It drips: forbidden daydreams, one after the other, like…

How you want to hold his face and urge him to speak so you can just hear his voice.

How you want to press a hand to his heart and feel the beat of it beneath your palm.

How you want to kiss him, want to taste the blood on his split lip, because this is your story, isn’t it? Messy. Violent. Defiant.

He looks at you, that same blood carving a thin line through the pale of his chin. It drops down onto his silk shirt. “What are you thinking about, kitten?” he grins. His best guess: “This is a fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

It’s a fine mess he got you into. “Yeah.” You make yourself look away from him, glancing over the desk to assess how much worse the situation is getting. The answer? Significantly. 

Sylus chuckles, drawing your eyes back as he reloads his gun. “Don’t say I never treat you to anything, sweetie.” He fires a few rounds towards the encroaching danger.

Voices go up across the room. Gunshots ring out, louder. Sylus slinks back down, wincing, holding his shoulder, and his fingers turn red. He deftly undoes the first few buttons on his shirt, peeling it back so he can examine his wounds. His jaw clenches; the punctures aren’t closing over fast enough. It’s too much blood, too quick, and he’ll—

He catches you staring. There’s a sheepish sincerity in the way he smiles, as honest and vulnerable as the holes in his shoulder. He holds out his hand. “Time for an energy storm, don’t you think?”

“No,” you snap. “Save your energy. We might need it later.”

“Oh?” An eyebrow perks up in interest, and it’s just like him to spot a double entendre in the midst of all this chaos.

But you’re staring at his chest through his open shirt and you’re such a hypocrite. “Things might get worse,” you explain.

“Worse?” he repeats as bullets fly over your heads, striking the wall across from you and scattering plaster over the floor. He watches it crumble. “Paint me a picture, kitten— what would worse look like?”

Even Rafayel might struggle with that particular creative prompt.

“Come on,” Sylus insists, using the excuse of your silence to push his hand closer to you. “Now’s not the time to play coy.”

“Sylus, I really don’t—”

He grasps your hand, his fingers locking with yours and squeezing tight. Your heart jumps at the touch. It strangles the protests in your throat and stays there, strung up by anticipation and dread.

You’re feeling so much that it takes you too long to realise nothing is happening.

Sylus’s eyes are fixed on your connected palms. He’s squinting, concentrating, and when that doesn’t work— when your hand is paling in the vice of his— he loosens his grip, his thumb feathering over yours as he mumbles a quick: “forgive me.”

He doesn’t let you go. You can still feel him, all of him, imploring to just let him in.

You don’t, and his eyes meet yours, for a moment— like another bullet has bitten through his flesh. Your mouth drops in fake surprise; you’re always so innocent when you pull a trigger on him.

This time, there’s no wound you can push your hands against in a guilty effort to staunch the bleeding. You have to apologise. Have to stitch it up with every word you’ve been guarding, saving, and it isn’t supposed to be like this. “Sylus, it’s not what you think. I—”

Something metal clatters across the floor behind you, bounces like a failing, stuttering heartbeat, then explodes.

…

“Good news, boss! We figured it out!”

Sylus groans, looking up from a report he’s not really been reading as two figures crash into his room. Not good, he thinks, as Kieran flings himself into the nearest armchair. Whatever this is, it’s not good. Luke settles on its arm.

With a sigh, Sylus removes his reading glasses. They stay, hooked on a finger, as he pushes his hair back like he can feel a headache coming on. His eyes flutter closed, and when they open, the twins are both leaning forward, bristling with excitement.

“Ask us,” Luke whispers in a way that makes Sylus think he might not realise he’s speaking out loud.

Another sigh. “What did you figure out?”

Kieran whips out a tired-looking notepad from behind his back. He clears his throat— “ahem!”— then starts to read: “Reasons why Miss Hunter was not able to resonate with you. Number one...”

“How did you find out about—”

“Sshhhh,” Kieran interrupts, putting a finger to where his lips should be. Sylus’s eyes widen in indignation, and Luke comes to his twin’s rescue, silently indicating Mephisto with a few tips of his head. The crow shrinks down on his perch.

“Number one,” Kieran repeats, matter-of-factly. “Your height.”

“My… height?”

Luke nods solemnly as Kieran continues: “humanityandconquer.com/power-dynamics describes tallness as a ‘natural advantage when trying to dominate a smaller individual.’ You are very tall. Try crouching when you speak to Miss Hunter.” He glances over the top of his notepad. “If you approach her at her level, she’ll know you mean no—”

“Nope. Next,” Sylus dismisses, waving his hand in a fast-forward motion. That headache is coming on.

“Reason two,” Kieran acquiesces, gaze falling, “your eyes.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake—”

“They’re red,” the twin pushes on, “and red means danger. In fiction, red eyes are symony—” he stops, spells it out— “synonymous with the supernatural. Vampires especially. Plus, lots of bad stuff is red.” He’s going off-script. “Blood. Fire. Sunburns.”

“Sunburns are pink,” Luke muses.

“No, like, bad sunburns, y’know?”

“Oh right, yeah.” There’s a shrug of agreement.

Sylus’s will to live is hanging by a thread, and they really don’t have a care in the world, do they? It must be nice. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for your little investigation. If that’s all, I would—”

“Reason three!” Luke chirps, wiggling the same number of fingers, and Sylus’s head lolls back against the sofa.

“Miss Hunter is struggling to separate this version of you from your first impression,” Kieran says.

Sylus looks up. “What?”

Luke is rubbing his hands together eagerly, like they’ve finally gotten to the good stuff. “Well, you remember how you and Miss Hunter met,” his twin explains.

Words won’t do it justice, apparently, because the man begins to act it out. He reaches to grip Luke by the throat and Luke pretends to choke, fingers clawing at the grasp. Then Kieran stands up— throws Luke down into the chair and pins him there with his foot before snatching up his hand.

“See what I mean?” Kieran asks over his shoulder. “I mean, it must have been pretty traumatic. You kinda tore her away from everything she knew. Forced her to use her power, et cetera, et cetera.”

Sylus has gone quiet. He’s vaguely aware that the twins are moving, saying more, but he can’t hear it. He feels sick. Then he feels something different: someone poking at his arm. A hand is waved in front of his face, but he doesn’t react.

“Oh, we so got it,” Luke whispers conspiratorially behind him.

“Hell yeah we did!” Kieran whispers back.

There’s the sound of them high-fiving, and it spurs Sylus into action. He’s up out of his seat, out of their shadows, and then the door as well— long before they can stop him. He needs to breathe. He needs the cold night air and the quiet, and his strides drive him towards it, but not fast enough.

He’s about to use his Evol. To let himself evaporate so he can be whole again somewhere else, somewhere easier, but then he stops. He’s by an open door, glancing in at a decadent living room, where you’re sprawled over a black leather couch. This isn’t easier. This hurts, and it hurts more as he forces himself to close the distance between you.

You’re still asleep. You’ve been unconscious ever since that grenade went off, and it’s for the best, really; getting out of that place was… messy. Sylus’s shoulder still aches, the blood on his shirt now crusty and dark. Some of it’s his. Some of it’s yours.

He’s not sure why he’s still wearing it.

The twins did a pretty good job of patching you up, but— looking over you— he would have done better. It was his role, after all. His duty to you, or maybe just a reason to get close to you. He couldn’t do it today. Couldn’t touch you, no matter how noble the intention. And a little part of him was glad for the excuse; his hands always shake.

A blanket is half on your legs, half on the floor, and Sylus stoops to collect the edge of it. He draws it over your shoulder, adjusting it around your arms— at rest by your face. He’s close, now, and he…

He can’t help himself. When has he ever been able to help himself? He lifts his hand slowly; he wants to kiss you. Even though your blood is still drying on his shirt and it’s all his fault.

…

Someone’s hand is on your face.

The touch draws you back into consciousness, tender, careful, then suddenly sharp. “Ah,” you hiss. “Sylus?” Always first on your mind and your lips.

“Not even close,” quips the shadow above you.

“Kieran?”

“Bingo.”  

You use your hand to block some of the room’s light as you open your eyes— a birdlike silhouette taking shape through the gaps in your fingers. “Where’s Sylus?” you ask, teeth clenching as the twin applies a thin strip of surgical tape to a cut on your cheek. “Is he ok?”

“Sheesh, relax. He’s fine,” Kieran tuts, then seems to reconsider, “well…”

“He’s brooding,” chimes a voice from behind you. “Out on the balcony.” Luke.

You rub at your eyes, still drowsy with sleep. “Why’s he brooding? What did you do?”

“Told him he traumatised you,” they speak in unison.

“What?! Why would you say something like that?”

“Because it’s true,” Kieran shrugs. “That’s why you and boss couldn’t, you know…” He twinkles his fingers.

Resonate? Ugh. You slide your feet onto the floor, sitting up straight for a solid second before you bury your face in your hands, omitting a few, pained whines. This is such a mess, and it only got worse while you were asleep. First that stupid grenade, now the twins.

A hand pats at your back. “There, there,” Luke soothes.

You turn to glare at him. His hand retreats.

Forget it; you have to find Sylus.

…

You step out onto the balcony, head full of apologies you’ve had all of a minute to prepare, and it isn’t enough. It felt fitting, in the middle of a shootout— everything was allowed to be frantic and from the heart. Here it’s calm, and if you ruin something— break anything— it’s going to be obvious. There’s no other violence to blame.

Sylus must hear you join him, but he doesn’t turn. He’s leant forwards against the rail, one arm folded upon it, the other outstretched: sporting a glass of liquor that hangs from the tips of his fingers and that he swirls gently, his gaze far away.

The twins really weren’t kidding.

“Hey,” you greet, and it’s sort of pathetic, but you don’t know what else to say.

“Hey,” Sylus returns, “are you—” he looks back at you over his shoulder— “are you alright?”

“Yeah,” you smile warmly. “I mean, the twins are giving me a headache, but that’s, like, standard.”  

He smiles back: a courtesy. You’ve seen him grin through almost every type of pain imaginable, but this one is new. Think about what Luke and Kieran said. What he must be thinking. “Sylus, I—”

“You don’t have to explain,” he stops you, turning his body towards you. “Honestly, I’d… rather you didn’t.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he chuckles, masking a deeper hurt as he lifts his glass to his lips. “You’re really going to make me say it?”

You are; you hold his gaze as he takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink. He smirks, surrenders at once and admits: “I’m really not that strong, sweetie. That’s why.”

“What if I want to explain?”

The smirk falters, and his eyes make their own, sad, silent confession. If you want to explain? He’ll let you. He’ll stand here, listening patiently while you call him a thing of nightmares. While you break him, bit by tortuous bit, by reminding him just how frightening he is.

He turns back to the view, shrugs, but none of the tension leaves his shoulders. “Go on, then.”

“Sylus?”

“Mmm?”

“You don’t scare me, you know.”

His hand tightens around his glass. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Pity me,” he grimaces. “I don’t need it. I know what I am. I’d just… forgotten what I was to you.”

Your captor. Your monster. Except that was a lifetime ago and he’s been so many more things to you since then. Tell him. “Sylus…”

“I felt it,” he snaps, because your voice is still so reluctant, and he’s going to save you the trouble. “When we tried to resonate, I felt it— your fear— just as deep as it used to be. I heard that same voice in your head, the one saying you wouldn’t let me in, couldn’t let me in, so don’t tell me I don’t scare you, sweetie.” The term of endearment tastes sour, you can tell. “I know how you feel. I know—”

“I like you, Sylus.”

“…What?”

You couldn’t take it anymore. “I like you,” you say again, and your heart is beating too quickly for eloquence, so you just have simplicity. “You don’t scare me at all, Sy. I care about you. A lot.”

Sylus stares at you, his eyes wide. There’s no confidence. No smile or drawn-out breath of relief. He sets his glass aside on the railing, gaze leaving yours for a moment, and you get the feeling he needs that moment as much as he needed the drink itself.

Then he looks at you again. Asks in a way that makes you ache: “do you mean it?”

Look at him. Your throat stings. “Of course I mean it.”

“Say it again.”

“I mean it, Sylus. I care about—”

His lips are on yours and the rest of your words are lost in his mouth. You, you say with the way you kiss him back, soft and slow, like you’re relishing something that might slip away. You, you insist— your hand finding his face, his hair, as he kisses you deeper, and you, you, you, when he doesn’t stop.

“Is this alright?” he murmurs, his fingers around your chin and his thumb tugging at your bottom lip.

“Mmm,” you confirm, equally breathless.

He laughs as he withdraws a little, still caressing your face like you’re something of a dream. “You’re not making this easy, kitten.”

“Worried you might traumatise me again?”    

It's a low blow. He scoffs. “Luke and Kieran said—”

“Luke and Kieran once bought arts-and-crafts feathers for Mephisto because they thought the colours would make him, and I quote: more aerodynamic.” You pinch his ear playfully. “I can’t believe you let them get to you.”

“I know,” he groans, lifting your hand so he can press chaste kisses along the line of your knuckles. “Not my finest moment.” He guides your palm to his cheek— leans into it as he leans into an idea. “They said you hated my eyes,” he pouts.

You can’t help giggling. He frowns. “I mean— aww, no,” you scramble, but you’re still laughing. You can’t stop. “Your eyes are… yeah. So pretty.”

“You had to think about it?”

“There were just too many adjectives, y’know? I was struggling to—”

He kisses you again, saving you: crushing your laughter with his own, lightheaded smile. His hand finds yours as his lips move against you, your fingers interlocking as you resonate— chasing an instinct, a need to be impossibly closer— and you let him see everything. Feel everything.

It’s a mad tangle of opposites. Heaven. Hell. Life. Death. You don’t know what any of it means, but it’s yours and it’s his and it doesn’t scare you half as much as it should. Sylus breaks your kiss. He pushes his forehead against your own with a sigh of contentment, and it doesn’t scare him, either.  

Savour each second. Think of some better adjectives, while you still have the time.

He’s going to earn every single one.

…

✨Epilogue✨

Inside, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows that separate the room from the balcony, Luke and Kieran stand, looking awfully smug.   

“Mission accomplished,” Kieran nods, flipping closed his notepad, aptly titled: 101 Ways To Get Boss Laid! (There are only, currently, fifty-two.)

Luke’s arms are folded. “We’re like, the best wingmen ever.”

Kieran is silent. He repeats carefully: “Wingmen. Wingmen.”

The beaks of the crow masks gradually turn to face one-another. There’s a mutual epiphany, and both twins almost fall over laughing.

[theoldkyokodied]

Uploading all my Tomgreg art at once from the past few week before season 4 hits, who knows in what kind of mental state i'm gonna be once it does :')

[snarkspawn]

happy (belated) valentine's day @pharawee ❤ but also @ these two idiots

[mars-ipan]

so we all saw @dr2-hell's updated bunnymaeda design right. because i sure as hell did

[queenlucythevaliant]

Just to clarify my thoughts (since I've had a number of people ask me about it) re: Job and cursing God. There's a big difference between cursing God as used in Scripture and how we generally would think of cursing at God today.

Cursing someone, in the Bible, has a lot of depth to it. It's not just saying "screw you " in anger, it's got a sense of forsakenness to it. It's the opposite of a blessing, a removal of blessing. If the blessing is presence, your face shining on the person you're blessing, then a curse is absence. In some translations, Job's wife tells him to "renounce God and die," which I honestly think makes a lot more sense to modern ears.

Job says a lot of unpleasant things to and about God in his anger and grief. So do the Psalmists. A number of the Prophets. So can we. God can take it if we come to him with honest expressions of our emotion, including those not-so-nice ones directed at him. I don't think there's anything wrong with getting mad at God and saying, "How dare you, you bastard" when you suffer unjustly. You can say much worse, I think, without sinning, though I don't feel particularly inclined to give examples. But as long as it's an honest expression of your heart, I think you're doing exactly what prayer is for. You're presenting him your heart with an open hand. He can use that. Opposite of love is not hate but indifference, etc.

Job doesn't renounce God. Neither should we. But I think when you're truly suffering, you're gonna have those feelings toward God either way. He'd rather you address them with him directly than try to avoid them. Cursing at God in the modern sense is actually a great way to keep the relationship strong and not end up cursing/renouncing him in the Biblical sense.

[luck-of-the-drawings]

"And soda; runs off into the street..." "...and soda... is totally okay!"

[soft-cryptids]

Simon Ghost Riley.

[howtodisappearcompletelyand]

20/10 stars little guy

[shesmore-shoebill]

im not properly following sword af bc i never finished the first season, but i DID go and listen to the bit where angela (as bug) presumably tries to go for a kiss with amanda (as delores) and. MAN. Amanda's reaction to it....... the "whoa whoa whoa" and amanda's voice getting that kind of breathless quality that it sometimes gets when shes really amused or shes laughing really hard or overwhelmed in videos.......... mannnnn. sets off my rpf brain So Bad. Not implying anything about the actual interaction as much as. Thinking about the delicious potential in the fake rpf universe..... I'm so goddamn weak for the concept of RPF Amanda who flirts incessantly and is so confident in it and loves, loves flirting with Angela specifically- in part because she never expects anything to come of it, (for better or for worse) and Angela's flustered reactions or tendency to not play into the bit make it safe in a backwards way. Amanda flirts, Angela rolls her eyes/commits a bit but always bails out safely, etc. (Amanda keeps flirting, maybe harder, maybe it gets more and more ridiculous and over the top, and maybe she should- stop. But. She can't.)

And then Angela flirts back unexpectedly or spontaneously, and its like. Implosion. Function shutdown. The absolute charismatic force of nature that is Amanda brought to a halt, because hey wait NO, that's not supposed to happen. Its such a delicious concept. rpf brain go brrrrr.

There's the angst side if it, if you want- Amanda silently convinced it wont happen or somewhat in denial about her own feelings, or doing some kind of mental gymnastics where the flirting is as close as she'll get. (Angela convinced it's not real and having mixed feelings about it as a result.)

And then they're doing something and for one reason or another Angela initiates and Amanda's brain goes WHOA WHOA WHOA- and Amanda's charisma and composure go sideways even though for anyone else she could play it off so easily. there's so much comedic potential. delicious potential. etc. 👌

[gemharvest]

Might not be exactly what you asked for but PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE go into more depth about the bf and pico drawing with the kinto pet song lyrics 🙏🙏🙏🙏 it has haunted me in a good way and I will explode without more

UR MORE THAN FINE DWWW it's easier for me to ask for prompts but I LOVE ASKS IN GENERAL I like getting to ramble. Forever and always if you see me post something and you want me to elaborate on it/ have specific questions/ literally whatever PLEASE DON'T BE SCARED TO SEND AN ASK IN !!!

okay needed that out of the way first LOLLLLL

The like. Images I get in my head when I listen to this song drive me insane like this was just me putting it into one image but I could deadass do a full PMV if I had the time.

Obvi I prefer to draw in a more Funkin'-influenced style, but esp. with how Pico is drawn I hope it's clear I was leaning into the Pico's School side of things.

(continuing under a cut because I am about to Ramble)

I don't think I was consciously thinking abt it the other night BUT at least the first verse makes me think. Of the Love Conquers All version of Pico's School. An ideal ending; Cassandra is convinced not to carry out her plan, nobody dies, Pico certainly wouldn't be Going Through It. Maybe in this ideal ending they (Pico & BF) wouldn't have split. "In this world, we're friends forever".

I also imagine it as like.. basically how the art I did ended up being. They're just black lines on a white background. Faces obscured. Maybe with some visual effects that distort things too/ some pixelation whatever. I actually think I was planning to have some parts of that pixelated but forgot by the time I was home and could draw; might have been for the best but here's a version with a biit of what I'm talking abt.

They're in a void. Separate from the real world, but happy. Stuck in a loop of the happiest time of their lives (mostly thinking from Pico's perspective with that lol). Is that not better than having to continue on in a fucked reality?

Of course, that's not real. It's just an imaginary loop of "what if"s in Pico's mind. It's a world he built for Boyf.

In this world, Boyfriend is always following with Pico, always showing him kindness and always smiling. Pico's emotions are less readable; maybe in a proper PMV I'd give him his mouth too so he can show he is at least somewhat happy, but despite being the "leader" of the two, he is much more passive, reserved. They are always holding each other's hands.

Verse 2 would be the inverse (lol), signaled by the stronger beats kicking in. White lines on black background. It's no longer the ideal world, and instead the "real world". Real, but distorted by trauma. "Inside my code, you'll always be". The world Cass built for Pico.

The bit of instrumental between verses 2 & 3 would be the Real real world, going forward to when FNF would take place; Pico and Boyfriend reconnected, through less than ideal means, though reconnected nontheless.

We're back to black lines on white background, but everything's less distorted. There's more details too, the world not just being a hazy backdrop for Pico and Boyfriend to play around in, but real.

He's different from Pico's memories, obviously, drawn now in the FNF style fully. More confident, still stupid. He has Girlfriend now.

The first 2 lines of verse 3, his imagined worlds and the real world melt together. Mixed in ways that highlight a feeling of off-ness. Everything feels strange, distorted, unreal.

The last 2 lines it's just Pico and Boyfriend hanging out alone. "All that's left is me and you/Lots of fun that we can do". Boyfriend cheery as ever, while Pico is visibly nervous-- uncharacteristic for him but we don't see if Boyfriend notices.

The strong beat kicking in again sends us back to the imagined world. The good world. But things are wrong. The real world is slipping in, things are no longer stagnant; no longer perfect. Visual distortions/ glitches worsen.

Pico could delude himself when he hadn't known where Boyfriend was; now that he's back, his world warps. No longer under his control. He is not in the lead.

The first half of the outro Boyfriend is still mostly playing along, though still seems to be growing disinterested. Pico is noticably anxious, clearly seeing how the other is no longer like a puppy at his side. Boyfriend is pulling away. Why is he pulling away, when everything's "perfect"? Why is everything going wrong. "The world I built, designed for you".

The second half of the outro, Boyfriend is now actively pulling away. He no longer looks like the idealized, young Boyfriend. He's older, a stranger, he doesn't care for Pico anymore. Pico is older now too, desperately holding on to Boyfriend. Unwilling to let him go again, first in the real world and now in his mind. Boyfriend refuses to hold his hand but Pico still grips onto his arm. Their eyes finally become visible in the imagined world.

Pico's behavior mirrors Cassandra's involvement in the second verse, though unintentionally violent as opposed to her intentional violence. He's selfish, desperate to hold on to his world; to Boyfriend. He's hurting the imagined Boyfriend in the process, but that is second in his mind to him so desperately trying to avoid a second heartbreak. Anything to keep his world together, his peace. Without it, he just has the dark.

Beyond this screen, you cannot leave Inside my code, you'll always be Endless fun that we can do In a world I built for you

In the final instrumental and as the song fades out, Pico wakes up. He's shaken, disgusted by how he acted in his mind and feeling like he's nothing but an anchor to Boyfriend, holding him back. He can't keep clinging to this false reality, nor can he pretend he's doing any good by being in Boyfriend's life again. His mind is made up.

...

LOL I hope the way I summarized The Thoughts I get paints the picture I get in my mind. I've got terminal artist brain I am imagining AMVs to near everything I listen to I am not joking; had to take a break halfway through typing this to walk around a store and I was looping KATAMARI by femtanyl for like half of it imagining an edit in my head. I can imagine anything jpeg.

I wanna very much stress that all that above would have been filtered through Pico's mind. He's not actively hurting Boyfriend, but he's fucking terrified of doing so and he feels so fucking guilty for continuing to hold on to the past they had. I guess it wouldn't be apparent from what I described but he'd also feel guilty for still having feelings for him when the other has moved on and even has a girlfriend.

His world, once his perfect escape from the anguish of his reality, corrupts as he feels worse and worse over even entertaining the thoughts. Him deciding to forget his world and, in turn, go to cut off Boyfriend for the other's sake is not based on objective reality, but an act of self-sabotage that he convinces himself to be the best outcome for everybody.

^ Literally included him doing this shit in a part of that last fic I did you can tell this is something I find interesting exploring with him.

The tone of the song too just fucking.. it adds to the eeriness I'd want out of a proper PMV of this idea. The way it's clearly an homage to the IBM 7094 singing Daisy Bell; the voice and instrumentals just feel so unnerving. Sweet and innocent on the surface, but clearly holding bad intentions. Maybe not intentionally bad, maybe misguided good even, but they are not good nor sweet nor kind. I am talking about the song on it's own divorced from it being from KinitoPET what I describe here is just the feelings it gives me in regards to my favies.

Anyways uhhhh god I could go on for hours but I've been going off for long enough I'm sorry to anyone reading this who had to sit through my insanity. My head is now lighter with this information shared tho.. I guess in conclusion: I am definitely normal and neurotypical and can be trusted to listen to music and be into my games without creating the most devastating ideas known to man. xoxo

[steakout-05]

new sketchbook who this

what it says in the tin, got a new sketchbook today :) it's thicker and rougher paper than what i usually use which is slightly annoying because it tends to smudge a lot more and has a rougher look, but it's still good paper and i find it nice to draw on!!

every so often i fall back into my DDLC phase and start rewatching a bunch of analysis videos on the characters. they're like my comfort background noise to listen to. Monika's one of my favourite characters and i find her fun to draw!!

(ignore the sudden lighting change idk why that happened)

Splatoon was, like, a childhood hyperfixation of mine, mainly because the character designs and the music go hard. like, they literally please the autism so much, it's like a stim just looking at the characters and listening to the soundtrack!!! the design of the Inkling girl was always my favourite as a kid because look at her! she's so cool looking!! i love all the colours and i love the texture of the characters' hair and their ears literally make me so happy and they are SO fun to draw. i would chew on an octoling's hair like a dog toy if i could it looks so chewable

[justablah56]

Aether I have sexulized that old man as you were requesting <3

Only thing I know about this guy is that he's sexy, he's probably(?) a father, and that he's got punk rock vibes

(This is also entirely based on your art of him btw)

ASRIEL ILY OH MY GOD KISSING YOU ON THE MOUTH RN /PLATONICALLY ANJCKQJXNDJEKDNND !!!!!!

asriel im literally physically stimming and kicking my feet abt this abwkcjdm and no youre so right on all accounts including the probably(?) attatched to father bcs that is in fact a very debatable topic lmao

ok but literally I've just been sitting here freaking out /pos abt this for the last like 10 minutes oh my god !! look at him !!! my wife !!!!! <33333 ty for sexualizing my old man asriel ily asriel

[chibishortdeath]

Yippie! So silly (kinda sad) idea I had I while ago that I need to draw about again aaaa— Anyway, there were a lot details that had me thinking about stuff in certain games. Harmony of Despair has the “Helmont/Shiimon/Simon Wraith” enemies that have this ominous description of “some say this is what happened to Simon Belmont in the end”, and it’s just never mentioned again. Like damn ok that’s uh some interesting information wow uh— Also that coupled with the hanging skeletons being a reference to Simon in CV4 and also being in the hanged man position, the family heirlooms in the ghostly Dracula’s castle in Harmony of Dissonance, and the quest for Anna in Order of Ecclesia about helping her cat protect her from dark spirits that’s ended with a really sudden line about her having nightmares about a man with a whip fighting something scary, my guy is haunting the narrative and doesn’t sound like he’s doing so great 💀.

So the Ghost Simon concept was born and uh here he is I guess lol. Part of it also came from the idea that we’ve already seen a ghost companion in the series in Wind (if you know you know), but what if there was one you had to help that was a little more uh what’s the word… tormented? Vengeful? Upset in general? Yeah. He’s kinda just a mix of a bunch of different ghost lore, not one in particular. Fun fact: Dulahans sometimes use their own spines as a whip :3. And in a lot of folklore Strigoi often prey on their own family members, especially the younger girls in the family. But yeah, he’s just kind of a nuisance, not really like ‘evil’ or anything. Breaks things sometimes, generally pesters people, only occasionally a minor threat. Maybe leaves bloody footprints sometimes, turns paintings crooked, writes omens on walls, ya know, average ghost activities. I like to think that the boss rush with him in HoD is what he’s been doing for a while. Maybe Juste unknowingly takes him home with some of the furniture, probably the grandfather clock lol. Idk it’s just a fun what if idea for fun tho mostly d(^^ ).

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

the sensible part of my brain is like maybe I should fess up to my doctor at the appointment tomorrow and the part of my brain that got me into this mess in the first place is like no absolutely cannot do that until it's got bad enough it should have got stitches again (but unless I hit a vein I am not going to get stitches)

[leadendeath]

hello new people ive attracted. before you is the tag you've been perusing here on my blog, after being drawn here due to that popular post.

you may notice there's not a lot in that tag.

that's because all my Stuff Relevant To Said Tag goes on a different blog.

you see, this, my main blog, was not sufficient to contain the extreme levels of team fortress 2 autism, or team fautism as i often refer to it.

you are looking, which is fine, but looking in the wrong place. allow me to show you to the real one.

[squishdraws]

no i will post this actually