#It's not finished

[plagacorvus-616]

Halovian Boothill

[whereismysockkk]

He.

[spoiledskullz]

Knuckles sketch

Someone called him orange sonic so

[honeymilkbubbletea]

Goddess and man

Bestest of friends

We'll see where it ends~

Epic is altering my brain chemistry...

[bimbvx]

happy release date to my main

[shhh-secret-time]

I saw a beautiful man and started crying?

[voltrohgodwhat]

Context:

[lezarasss]

The house that built I (G). part 1/2

Characters/pairing: Ski Aggu/Joost Klein, Joost Klein, Ski Aggu

Description: During a visit to a friend in Berlin, Joost shared his sketchbook drawings with him. A small drawing of a house catches August's attention. Their conversation develops into a larger discussion and an attempt to escape from reality through fantasy. In a conversation with a friend, he shares his thoughts and experiences. How a simple drawing can have great significance for Klein, how it reflects his inner world and experiences

From an early age, Joost Klein's soul was drawn to creativity and self-expression. Whether it was music, song lyrics, writing books, short stories or making short videos. Joost did it with his soul. He was full of enthusiasm and determination. In moments of inspiration, something ignited in him like a spark. He gave a piece of himself, his emotions and his life to each masterpiece he created.

Joost always approached his work in his own way. Going through a path of trial and error, considering several options, refining, changing radically. So much so that the idea and concept were very different from the original version. Be it text or sound. And sometimes it happened that he had to start from the very beginning. And so always. Again and again. Time after time. Fortunately, he had support in the form of friends and family, who were always there for him at any moment in his life. They are special, just like him. Well, at least Joost thought so.

But Joost also loves to draw. There was not a day when he would retire to his room with his sketchbook or iPad. Closing the door behind him, he would find himself in his own little world, hidden from excessive attention and prying eyes.

Taking a black pen (or the first thing that comes to hand), he makes hasty sketches. Even before he starts drawing, Jost already creates a picture in his head, he knows what he will draw. The plots arose spontaneously and also appeared on paper. Here is one of such sketches: a creature that consists of the body of a panther and an eagle. Sketch of a tattoo that was published in Chrome magazine., that devours a person alive. It looks strange, doesn't it? But at the time, the idea seemed interesting to Klein. Here is the anti-hero of Friesland, who is somewhat reminiscent of Cthulhu or just a monster that tried. Here is another example: the anti-hero of Friesland. His unusual and abstract forms are somewhat reminiscent of Cthulhu from the stories of Howard Lovecraft.

Otherwise, these were small scribbles: various geometric shapes, symbols, letters or little people that could be found on every page of his sketchbook. However, for Joost, this was not just a hobby or a way to express himself. It was a kind of therapy. He could escape from reality, hide from people and his problems. Sometimes it seemed to him that he was creating his own world - a world filled with purity and innocence. Here he could bring to life his dreams and experiences, what he would like to see in reality.

But I think we've gotten a little distracted.

One day, Joost went to visit his German friend, who lives in the heart of Berlin, in the Wilmersdorf district.

Joost sat on the mattress he had spread out in the living room. Of course, it wasn't a bed, and it was somewhat uncomfortable. But it was still better than being alone in a strange country, hanging around God knows where and sleeping in hotel rooms, all alone. Thinking about it made him feel a little sad. Joost found it much more interesting to share space with someone in someone else's apartment. At least he wouldn't get bored that way. It wasn't that the owner objected to it, on the contrary, he was happy to oblige him in such a situation. From the moment he woke up, he was already busy. He was diligently drawing and sketching something, drawing every little detail

- Joost? - a voice came from behind. It was August. He had not slept for a long time and decided to check how the Dutchman was doing. For the first time he sees him in such a state, as if he expected to see him in a completely different position. Joost turns around, looking at Agga from below, examining him from top to bottom.

- Yeah, and good morning you too - Klein looks from the drawing to Agga, then back at the sketch. Silence, which is interrupted by his speech:

- And how long have you been standing here like this?

- I wouldn't say long, but I've been watching what you're doing for a while. Anyway, I was going to drink some water - the voice seemed as indifferent as ever. Part of the image that August Diederich was trying to adhere to. But under the image there was a man with a big soul, the life of the party.

The thought that the guy had been standing there watching him for a while made Joost feel a little embarrassed. But there was nothing wrong with that, right? But then Aggu tried to change the subject and break the awkward silence that had arisen between them:

-Will you have falafel?

-Huh?

-Falafel.

-Yeah, sure - and that was the decision.

You can read the second part here

[chaos-potat]

Caring about your mental health for me is not reading "Like Father Like Son" I started it, I kept crying, I never actually willingly stopped, I just forgot

[savageboar]

moms will literally talk down to you and treat you like a clueless idiot baby instead of trying to actually mentor you and then be surprised when you just give up on everything you don't immediately get right at first because you've been conditioned to see yourself as a living failure.

[tatiletotesamaze]

"You know it's not that bad," she said around another mouthful of chips. "Other people have it way worse."

I nodded. My food was unappetising. Warm and spiced, just the right touch of greasy, it was my favourite pick-me-up. It turned to tasteless mush in my mouth.

Other people have it worse.

That was the day I decided to find these other people. I would get their permission for my feelings or absolve myself.

The first day of my quest, the very next morning after Amanda and I had talked over fried chicken, I went to my neighbour. She had three children and worked two jobs. Her partner also worked two. They hardly saw each other through the nights and the weeks.

"Oh, other people have it worse than us." She said, with a colicy baby on her hip and two kids not wanting to go to school. I helped her get them dressed, took them down to the bus stop while she fussed the baby. She thanked me. I felt nothing and nodded. "Have you seen Mrs So-and-so, one the corner? She's got in worse than me."

Mrs So-and-so, on the corner, had always lived in the building. I like to think that she'd always lived in that little flat on the ground floor and that the building has been put up around her. She had an old toothless dog that wagged its tail at everyone and they both smelled like roses.

Mrs So-and-so, on the corner, invited me in for tea. There was cake as well but its sweetness was too far away for me to taste. I asked Mrs So-and-so, on the corner, how she was.

"Oh I can't complain." She said and smiled. Her hands shook as she lifted her tea cup. The liquid was cool, too cold for me, so she didn't burn herself. "Ever since my Wilbur passed it has been difficult, but oh I can't complain.” She looked at her dog, who gummed at a worn toy rabbit that had turned grey after many years of being pink. I'd never heard of Wilbur before. Mrs So-and-so, on the corner, had been alone when I arrived, except for the dog. I nodded.

I helped with the dishes, took out the bins, took the toothless old dog for a plod around the gardens. His name was Poopsie, which somehow came from Parliament. He had arthritis in his knees, all four of them. He enjoyed the flowers and sunshine even if he couldn't get very far. Poopsie told me, as we sat in the shade of the only tree, that he was happy. That he had it good.

"But you have no teeth, and arthritis in all four of your knees."

"Yes," said Poopsie, and now I could see the proud dog of days gone by and the path of long years he had taken. "I'm not as I once was but you know, there are others worse off than me."

I sighed and nodded. He told me about a racing hound, three towns over, who had lost all her children in a flood. When I arrived the next day she was gone. I found only her owner, Mr. Who-owns-all-those-dogs.

"Hello Mr. Who-owns-all-those-dogs."

And Mr Who-owns-all-those-dogs shook his head. He seemed to me to be very deeply sad.

"She's gone," he shrugged and sighed. "Everything's been ruined by that flood. Look."

Council-house magnolia walls were stained with mud above the windows. A layer of dirt and other unmentionables covered the floor. I thought I saw a couch fallen in on itself, wedged in a doorway.

“It’s just so hard to clean up, you know?” He shrugged and sighed again. I nodded, pretending to know. “Sometimes I think it’s just better to rip it all out and start over.”

“It certainly does look that way.” I said. Mr Who-owns-all-those-dogs agreed with me, but in a resigned, dejected sort of way. I don’t think he knew quite what to do - I knew I didn’t.

“Could you at least help me move that couch?” He asked and pointed to the doorway. I noticed then the door had disappeared. Perhaps it had always been that way. I couldn’t imagine a flood, even one that could cover the ground floor windows, ripping a door off its hinges.

“Of course.” I said, not really understanding what I was getting myself in for. Even with everything that wasn’t happening to me; the bland food, the far away sunlight, the wind and the rain that never seemed to touch me, this was an experience to rouse even my failing emotions. About that sturdy frame, the fabric and the cushions had already started to rot. Rusted staples dug into my palms and my fingers. I think an exotic mould took root in my sinuses.

We pulled. We yanked and we heaved. We wiggled and pushed. He pleaded and swore. I stood and stared. The couch refused to budge.

“I’ll get the saw.” Said Mr Who-owns-all-the-dogs, as he headed off down the dark, damp corridor and into the light. I watched the couch drip, drip, drip on the floor and looked at the mud on my legs. It was cold but I didn’t really care.

After a while Mr Who-owns-all-the-dogs returned. I held onto the end of the couch again, feeling the mud squelch through my fingers. He sawed through the wood at the bottom, making the couch jump and shake in my hands.

“You know,” Mr Who owns all the dogs said as the wood started to splinter and snap. “I got off lucky. There’s a bunch of others down the road, the mud ain’t leaving.” He shook his head and kept on sawing until we had chunks of couch in a pile. Mr Who-owns-all-the-dogs thanked me and we shook hands, not caring about the mud, for we were so very muddy by that point.

The next day I gathered my wits about me and went three towns over, to the bunch of others down the road. When I arrived they were knee high in mud with spades and shovels and ineffectual brooms. I grabbed a spade and started slinging mud. They nodded to me and I nodded to them and by the end of the day, with the sky pink and streaked through with blue, we were still knee high in mud. I went back the next day and the next. Each day we’d sling mud in skips and bins and buckets and each day the river would sling mud right back up at us. Around Thursday someone showed up with a digger. The spades and shovels and brooms couldn’t match up to the digger, so we all sat back and watched it work. By then I was used to being covered in mud. I felt more mud than person.

Someone shoved a drink in my hand and we got to chatting.

“Awful business, this.” Someone said.

“I know. But it’s getting better.” said someone else.

“Good thing that digger showed up.” said a third someone. I sipped my drink and nodded and was generally agreeable. Before the sun had even started to tint the sky orange, the digger was done. The skips and buckets and bins were overflowing but the streets were clear. The mud was coming out of the houses now but that was fine. It would collect overnight and be gone the next day, thanks to the digger.

No one showed that they felt their efforts were wasted because of the digger, and that was good, because then I didn’t have to pretend that I felt the same way. I didn't go back the next day and nor did half the mud covered people. The digger dug and there were other things to do. Instead I went for a walk in the park. It was sunny with a blustering breeze that chased the clouds away. The kind of day that looks beautiful until you step out into it and find the wind rattling in your bones too annoying, so you stay inside.

I watched as the birds were blown about and flowers had their petals ripped off. The wind was very strong but I didn't much mind, or care. I suppose it might have been pleasant in its own way. After a while of being huddled on a bench, trying not to fall off, a bird landed next to me.

"Hello." I said.

The bird looked a little startled, then it hopped over my legs and settled in next to me, out of the wind.

"Thanks." said the bird.

"No problem." I said, as I hadn't really done anything.

"It's awfully hard flying out there." said the bird, trying to make conversation.

"Yeah, I'd imagine so." And I tried very hard to imagine it, but couldn't. Still, I think the bird accepted this.

"I'll stay here until the winds dies down, if you don't mind."

I nodded. We stayed there at least an hour, me being battered by the wind, which I'm sure many people would have described as 'angry', the bird rearranging its ruffled feathers. The wind eventually died down, to be swiftly replaced by rain. I left and the bird found somewhere else to shelter.

I walked Poopsie in the rain. He said the dirt, softened by the rain, was kinder to his knees. I worried that the cold would do him in.

"Maybe you should go on a trip," He suggested at the door.

"Maybe," I said, non-commitally.

"Oh," Mrs So-and-so, on the corner, lent on her door to let Poopsie in and smiled at me. "Are you going on a trip?"

[iiced-ventii]

You guys wanna see my house

[hydrogenperson]

What do you know about true insanity?..

[belokhvostikova]

My upcoming smut fic is currently at 10.8k words, and the actually touchy touchy parts are only a little over 1k of the word count.

You all are going to hate it. *big smiles :)*

My constant struggle when writing PWP

[mudboyman]

Light answers a tough question