#MATT IS THE JESUS OF CHARACTER WRITING... TO ME!!

[feymarche]

gotta get all my LINCOLN thoughts DOWN while im relistening to this godforsaken podcast. here's just some stupid observations that i wrote a whole thesis about for no reason

here's two things we know:

- lincoln was raised to always be honest about his feelings

-- despite this, we consistently see lincoln distracting himself whenever big, hard feelings come up

after the grant sauce scene outside the classroom in episode 7, lincoln doesn't take the time to process anything that his father has said to him. he asks normal if HES doing okay after the conversation with Sparrow, and then immediately changes the subject and tells everyone that they should ditch school and go to Sonics so that he wouldn't have to think about it.

and hey, that's all fair; that was some heavy shit to lay on a teenager, and he'd need a lot of time to process it, but we see Linc consistently choosing not to process it.

later, during the grant arc on earth, linc chooses to drive specifically because it's easier not to think when he's driving. when he leaves a voicemail to Marco telling him that he might never talk to him again, a really hard conversation for linc to have, linc ends the phonecall saying, 'no, this was a bad idea, everything's fine-- prank!'

(and it's not fair to say that linc telling scary that they should look for her stepdad first is also evidence that linc does this when part of it was a structural thing to mimic season 1's anchor order, but it IS consistent with linc avoiding hard emotions)

and all of this isn't even inconsistent with him being raised to always be honest! linc never had to deal with big, hard emotions like this, he's only ever been super sheltered and homeschooled and safe. if linc ever felt lonely or bad, his dads would find a way to accommodate him through some form of enrichment, and if the enrichment didn't help, matts made it clear that lincoln's favorite time of the day is when he can just be alone in his room in the space under his bed where it's calm and peaceful and he doesn't have to think about anything. linc is honest about his feelings up until they become so complicated or painful that he doesn't know how to be honest about them. linc is extremely blunt up until he doesn't know how to think about his feelings without getting hurt

grant talks about how he worries linc's relationship with soccer is an emotional distraction. he worries that linc is using soccer the way grant used violence to shut down his thoughts. and sure, linc genuinely loves soccer, it's a harmless interest to have (especially when you don't have the opportunity to have many other hobbies), but Grant recognizes that linc is using it as an emotional crutch-- or at the very least worries that that's what he's doing.

and thats the one thing that grant cant really explain to linc as a parent! if grant stops him from playing soccer JUST because he's worried, he'd have to explain WHY he's worried, and grant cant really do that. he can't talk about how much he likes killing people around his son if he isnt sauced.

and with the main big, scary emotion that lincoln faced in his backstory being mr. kicks, i'd bet lincoln dealt with that feeling by doing a lot of the same. distracting himself with soccer or zoning out entirely. i'd bet grant watched linc avoid any and all discussion about mr. kicks and instead focus on getting better at soccer. there's no way to prove that, but it's consistent with matt's character choices.

so here linc is, going through puberty, spiraling into apathy and avoidance and being like WHATEVER and WHO CARES to everything. this most recent episode was the biggest change in his character yet; he gave up soccer, said it was a waste of time, and broke that goddamn pick.

he doesn't really NEED soccer anymore now that he's learned that he doesn't need an excuse to be dismissive or avoidant anymore; he can just do it. he can just say whatever now. he can just brush people off. he can be abrasive and distant, just like scary.

and it's sad because man, he did really love soccer, even when he was using it for the wrong reasons. he really did love his family and friends. he had the strongest values and the strongest moral compass and he really, really believed in being a good person. but now he's having to deal with big, scary emotions for the first time, and he has no way to know how to deal with them, even with all the therapy his dads gave him. agughghhghghg lincoln li wilson

[thedevotionaltour]

even for period typical ableism it still drives me nuts for karen to go oh poor matt how can he deal and get around as if he hasn't been blind most of his life at this point and living on his own by himself as an adult for his entire adult life after college and has also lived in the city his whole life like girl use your damn brain he can get around by himself just fine. good god. like take five seconds to use your brain. literally adult man who lives by himself if nothing else that should tell you he is fine and when he needs assistance has the knowledge and ability to go get it you act as if he can't even walk on the sidewalk by himself. he literally shows up to work by himself. it drives me up the wall sometimes how she sees proof of him functioning fine independently literally witnesses it on the daily and still thinks these things. like again foggy isn't great either bc again the period typical ableism (and just general ableism in the world outside of this period as this is a common attitude of viewing disabled people as helpless and unable to function even if they are people who do live independently (and im not touching on people who do need extra support and caretaking in this context. as this post is about these characters in the context of a story. so im talking about what we see there instead of any truly meaningful nuanced way) but the writing here is like. Particularly this way due to the time) he has a modicum more of understanding that matt is literally a capable grown adult man. literally told karen matt is a big boy who can handle himself and then karen went b-b-but you forget he's blind as if foggy hasn't known him for years of his life and is his best friend like PLEASE SEE HIM AS AN ADULT. I AM GOING TO GO INSANE. PLEASE RESPECT HIM IF YOU LOVE HIM SO DEARLY. AND EVEN IF YOU DIDN'T. JUST RESPECT HIM AS A PERSON!!!!!!

[totallyboatless]

There’s a thing i’ve noticed that i’m not the right person to analyze, but i want to put the observation here in case any Black fans would like to contribute thoughts. This is an observation about Black romanceable NPCs in Dream Daddy, BG3, and DA Veilguard (for this purpose, Black men).

It’s not a revelation that fandom already widely under appreciates Black characters, and this absolutely comes into play with what I’m noticing in fandom reaction (or lack there of) to these romance storylines.

On top of the underlying racism that causes this, the main take I’ve seen about why people don’t want to romance Matt, Wyll, and Davrin is that they’re the “boring, safe” storyline

I’ve become a slut for someone who treats me well now that I’m in my 30s, so I gravitated to all three of these men on my first playthrough of each game. It didn’t hit me until reading about fandom takes on Davrin that this is a little bit of a pattern (as in with how video games with romance elements write Black men, not my thirsting after dudes who are relatively well adjusted lol)

Anyway I don’t have a takeaway beyond noticing it, and I’m curious for thoughts from Black fans of these games on if you also see this pattern and your reaction to it

Please don’t be the white person to reblog this and add “i’m not Black, but—“ unless it’s also to add an observation on another game that has done this

(Also my fucking kingdom for more Davrin fic. No shade to Lucanis but jesus christ the ratio of Davrin fic to Lucanis fic is maddening lol)

[farfromstrange]

Do No Harm

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Bolter

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Pairing: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Summary: Matt goes to confession to put some things into perspective (at least one that makes sense to him), and you battle demons of your own, though it is only one of you who has their heart broken in the end.

Warnings for this chapter: ANGST, self-hatred/doubt, religious imagery & symbolism, graphic mentions of past domestic abuse, PTSD, heavy allusions to past sexual assault, Matt is a dick (sorry)

Word Count: 3.6k

A/n: Long time no see. This is kind of a double POV situation because I'm writing from both perspectives, so I didn't want to put in too many details because the next few chapters are going to be full of angst and character development. I hope you still like it.

Read Chapter 13: The Bolter here on AO3!

The grounds of Clinton Church vibrate at the ringing of the bell. It travels through the stained glass window, through Mary and Joseph, and Jesus nailed to the cross above the altar. 

Matt sits with his head bent in the third row. He’s not praying. He wouldn’t even know where to begin. No prayer in the world could erase the guilt he harbors inside. No prayer in the world could cleanse the thoughts he is plagued with. And no prayer in the world could exorcize you from his mind. 

To him, hurting you is vile, but the vile thing seems to be the only plausible choice in this scenario. 

Claire was right. Her voice keeps going in circles around his head, eating into his brain like a parasite. He should have never pursued anything other than distance with you. 

He was selfish to think the two of you ever had a fighting chance. As long as Matt pretends to be only one thing when he is also another, you only have a chance of getting hurt. No matter what he chooses to do, you will end up in the crosshairs of whatever mess he has gotten himself into now, or you will end up hating him for lying to you about his true identity, or both. You will be heartbroken either way. That’s his purgatory. 

It’s pure torture to know he was of sound mind when he made those decisions. You shared secrets of your past with him that must have been so hard for you to utter aloud to a man you’d only just met. And what did he do? He betrayed your trust in him, and he was aware of how wrong it was from the start. Foggy told him he deserved to be happy, but how could he search for happiness at the cost of someone else’s? Matt has dug his own grave. 

No matter what he does, you will be disappointed and hurt, and he will curse himself until the day he dies for making the same mistake time and time again without learning a single fucking thing. 

“Matthew?” Father Lantom asks from behind. 

He lifts his head, the light of the prayer candles reflecting off his glasses. “Father,” he says. “You have a moment?” 

“For confession?”

“No.”

Matt can sense the heaviness of Father Lantom’s breath. “Alright,” he murmurs, seating himself on the bench behind him. “What’s on your mind?”

Matt chuckles. The sound is bitter enough to poison the air he breathes. “I’ve been wondering, you know, about what I do and… and how I do it. The choices I made. The people I’ve dragged into my mess. My faith,” he says, fidgety fingers playing with the fabric of his trousers. “And I realized that… that no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try to do the right thing, the… the people around me will always end up getting hurt. ‘Cause of me.”

The silence that follows his admission echoes in the space around them and screams in his ear. He tilts his head; the priest’s heartbeat doesn’t waver, only a slight hitch in his breath as he moves suggests that he is contemplating his next words wisely.

Finally, Father Lantom clears his throat. “Well, that’s certainly a sinister take on things, don’t you think?” he says. 

Matt scoffs. “Sinister?”

“Yeah. I mean, I… I’ve known you for long enough to know you’re not malicious. Where is this coming from, Matthew? ‘Cause I’m not sure I believe you came to that conclusion all by yourself.”

“Does it matter?”

Another moment of silence follows. Matt still isn’t sure what he is hoping to get out of this. He’s stuck running in a hedge maze of his own making, and there is no way out. 

Father Lantom picks up the lost words, dusts them off, and says, “It obviously matters to you or you wouldn’t be here.”

Matt tightens his grip on his cane. “Chaos is seeping into every aspect of my life, and I can’t stop it. I can’t…” he trails off, exhaling a puff of air through his nose. “I’ve already dragged one innocent person into this, Father,” he says, barely above a whisper. “But if I break her heart, then…”

“Her?” the priest asks. 

“She doesn’t know what I do, but if I keep lying to her…” He shakes his head and lowers it back toward the floor. “She isn’t safe. Either way, she’s gonna get hurt, and it’s gonna be my fault. How can I… how can I do that to her?” 

Father Lantom pinches the bridge of his nose. “There’s clearly a lot to unpack here, but it’s not something that can be fixed by confession or a few Hail Marys.”

“I know.”

“It’s a deeply personal matter, Matthew. I don’t know...” He takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “I don’t know how to help you. If you want me to tell you to sabotage your life, I’m sorry but I can’t do that.”

Matt exhales a heavy sigh. He knows it’s not something he should ask of his priest. It’s an immoral plea. 

“Have you considered–”

“I’m not gonna stop,” he cuts him off. 

Father Lantom sighs. “Alright, well, does she make you happy?” he asks.

“Doesn’t matter,” says Matt. “The more she knows, the more she will be in danger.”

“Yeah, but you also said she’d be in danger regardless, so… does she make you happy?”

The words refuse to go over his lips. All he manages is a small nod, almost defeated, almost embarrassed that yes, he did feel happier the few times he was with you.

“Could you make her happy?” he asks.

Matt is faster with his response this time. “No,” he says. “Not the way she deserves.”

He doesn’t have to read you like an open book to know the kind of person you are because you wear your heart on your sleeves, and your soul neatly locked away in a maximum security prison. The very thing that makes you who you are could cut him open like a sharp knife if he ever dared to touch it. 

You deserve someone who can pry those bars open, someone who makes you happier than you grew up thinking you deserve. You deserve someone who stays, and someone who doesn’t lie to you. And you deserve someone who can make sure you stay unharmed, always, not add to the risk by putting you in danger. 

Matt can’t deny that he is going to miss you terribly. You’re not the kind of drug he can wash out of his system in a few days. You have left your mark on him, and that torture will be his personal hell for a while; but God would curse him either way. 

Father Lantom opens his mouth to speak, but Matt pushes himself off the bench with the help of his cane. The dull ache in his lips is a cruel reminder of last night’s activities and all that came before to land him here. The dumpster, Claire, and the kidnapped little boy he only barely managed to bring to safety. The memories flash through his mind like the sound of a million blaring alarms. 

“I have to be in court soon,” he says. “Have to convince a jury that a murderer is innocent.”

While Foggy expects him to be on time, it is a pathetic excuse to run from the situation he put himself in. 

Father Lantom gets up, but other than a slight tinge of disappointment he doesn’t seem that surprised. “You know, you can’t run from your problems forever,” he remarks.

“I’m not.” Matt buttons his suit jacket back up. “I know what I have to do.”

As he walks up the aisle toward the bustling of the city, Father Lantom’s voice sounds from behind, “I hope you don’t regret it.”

“Thank you, Father,” he says. Matt doesn’t turn around, his cane steadily tapping against the stone floor until the sun kisses his cheeks, and the wooden doors fall shut behind him.

The sun has long set over the city of New York when you trade the scrubs and the white coat for a faux silk dress. As you look in the mirror though, you know very well that it is not the dress making you uncomfortable; if it were, the feeling would have passed with the countless times you tried to change into something else, even a pair of sweatpants, but nothing seemed good or adequate. 

You spent hours pacing the floor of your apartment, wondering, questioning what you’ve done. You keep thinking to yourself, ‘I can’t do this,’ as if you had the guts to change anything about it. 

At the first taste of the truth, you run like it’s a race. History will always repeat itself just because the one time that you should have bolted, you stayed. 

You convinced yourself that it was okay. Moments of abuse looked like accidents to you even as they were happening. You kept telling yourself that it wasn’t all bad and if you just obeyed, he would love you. You bowed to him, at first, because you thought you loved him and he loved you back, and you found a pathetic excuse for everything he did, but eventually you only bowed to him to protect yourself. 

You couldn’t run. You would have if you had known from the very first time you laid eyes on him, but he had an aura that drew you in—an aura that almost killed you in the end.

With hollow eyes glued to the mirror, you slide a finger over the silk on your body. He used to buy you dresses. For the longest time, you thought it was a token of love. He always did it in a way that made you feel special. 

“A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman,” he used to say. You remember all too well how your heart would skip a beat, and you would smile while covering the ghastly black bruise around your eye with as much makeup as you could. 

He wanted to control you. You were a dog on a leash; all that was missing was a collar around your neck, and even that you would have accepted. Because you were in love. Because you were terrified of disappointing him. Because you were terrified of punishment. 

And when he wanted you spread out and complicit in bed, you complied, too, for even a sliver of affection hidden underneath the sting of his palm against your cheek was enough for you to feel a twisted sense of love. 

Now you know that you were stuck in codependency, associating love with abuse. But the pieces he took, a lot of them, at least, you will never get back. 

A beautiful dress for a beautiful woman. You bury your face in your hands. “Shut up!” you snap at your reflection. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” Your head pounds with every directed slap against your temples. 

He split your memories in two and twisted them. If you smashed your head into the mirror, would the same happen? If you abused yourself like he did—even more than you are doing with the constant self-sabotage—would you be able to forget? 

No. You picked this dress yourself. You bought it with your own money, and you decided to put it on. You chose to ask Matt out. You wanted to. No one else had their hand in that. 

Bolting from him now may forever drive him away. Perhaps running would be for the better though. Showing up tonight would mean breaking into a million pieces. Showing up would mean that you could imagine there to be more, and you’re only excellent fun until one gets to know you. You would much rather hibernate in a cocoon of loneliness until the day your ashes get flushed down the drain because no one will be there to pick them up.

Whether it was your choice or someone else had a play in you developing a crush on a stranger you met in the halls of Metro General doesn’t matter because no matter how you twist and turn it, doing the right thing for yourself feels wrong.

You grab your phone from the dresser with shaky fingers. The screen is void of any messages, not even a phone call to be found. After two years, were you wrong about Claire? She pushed you out of your comfort zone just to abandon you. That isn’t like her, but neither is lying to you, moving into your co-worker’s apartment with a cat she is highly allergic to, and telling you some half-assed story about a guy named Mike. 

She was there for you when you needed her, always. She kept you alive these past two years. If it hadn’t been her in the emergency room that night you first met her, you wouldn’t even have a job now. It’s killing you that in your moment of need, she is nowhere to be found. 

You dial her number again, but you’re met with the familiar robot in charge of her mailbox. You decide to leave one last message after the beep.

“If I wasn’t so worried about you, I’d be fucking furious,” you ramble on as you pace the floor. “No, you know what? I am fucking furious! You told me to go out with this guy, and then you’re suddenly too good to answer the phone when I need you. I’m terrified, Claire, and I just need my best friend to hold my hand.” A sob breaks loose from your throat. “You know, I’m so mad that you feel like you can’t talk to me after everything we’ve been through. And I’m disappointed because whatever it is, we would have found a way,” you say. “But… what you’re doing isn’t fair. It’s not. And I’m not gonna ask you to call me back this time because if you can’t find it in yourself to at least answer my texts, I don’t know if I want to hear from you. I—”

The automatic voice on the other end cuts you off. “Sorry, the maximum recording time has been reached,” it says. “Please try and keep your message short, and call back.”

You scream into the silence of your apartment, tossing the device across the room. You don’t care if it breaks. All of this effort and for what? You’re on your own, you always have been. But that means you can’t define yourself by what someone else has done to you. You can’t give into the fear, hoping Claire will magically come and save you from the debilitating voice in your head. Her bandaids won’t fix you—you have to do that yourself.

You pour yourself a shot glass of Whisky in the kitchen, staring at your reflection again. The looming shadow behind you fades to gray. 

“Fuck you,” you mutter. All those who disappointed you can go fuck themselves.

You’re going to meet Matt at the restaurant. You’re going to have a good time, and you’re going to pretend, just for tonight, that things might actually turn out okay.

A few brushstrokes under your eyes get rid of the tears, and you bring some color to your cheeks by pinching them a dozen times. You brush your teeth three times, hoping to bleach the alcohol from your lips with an overdose of mouthwash. All you can rely on is scent.

He picked a fancy place for you to eat. You’re surprised when the cab drops you off on a corner street, yet enchanted by the fairy lights that frame the entrance. Your heart is beating so far up your throat you can taste it—or maybe it’s the iron of your blood from where you bit your lip. 

You like to think that the thought of spiting Claire gave you the courage to show up, but the anger in your veins is quickly placed with an irrational fear of the unknown. Your knees buckle when you set foot into the venue, memories of the last time in a fancy restaurant flashing through your mind. So romantic, such a dream, only for it to turn into a nightmare. What is the probability of that happening again? 

Instead of panicking, you picture Matt’s face in the soft glow of candlelight. It would accentuate his dimples, you’re sure. And when he talks in that mellow voice of his, it’s as though he is wrapping his arms around you. 

You make it inside and to your table without taking off in the opposite direction. It’s a Friday night, and the place is barely busy. 

A few minutes after six, you think, he will be showing soon. No need to order a drink without him. He was punctual the last time, so he must already be on his way—right?

‘Already inside, waiting for you,’ you text him. ‘I’ll see you when you get there.’

You’re not in a rush. 

Fifteen minutes after six. Chances are his cab or Uber got into traffic. ‘You okay?’ you decide to ask anyway. You can never be too careful. 

Couples are seated around various tables, laughing and talking the night away. Good wine is flowing in every corner. The waiters bring our food that, on any other day, would make your mouth water. You’re so nervous, hunger is the last thing on your mind. Nervous, excited, it is all the same to you. 

Another five minutes pass. You’re not proud of checking your phone every five minutes. Everyone around you is so carefree, so why can’t you be? You’re an adult on a date, and that’s a wonderful thing to celebrate. Being late happens to the best of people—right?

You convinced yourself you could do this, and now you’re falling into old patterns: excusing the most suspicious behavior in favor of the other person. At six-thirty though, a sense of doom begins to settle over you like a dark cloud.

‘Hello?’ you text him again. ‘Are you on your way yet? I’m getting worried.’

Realization is slithering up your esophagus like a snake. You don’t want to admit it. 

The waiter comes over again and asks, “Are you sure I can’t get you anything, Miss?” 

You look up at him. “Um, maybe a glass of red wine?” 

“Of course.”

He smiles at you and leaves. You watch him disappear into the kitchen, then direct your gaze back to the entrance. Matt is nowhere to be seen.

The snake crushes your esophagus and breaks through the barrier of your rose-colored glasses. 

It’s six-forty-five now. One glass of wine after another lands on your tab. The snake smothers you with every drink you take. Question marks and desperate ‘Call me!’ texts dominate your chat with him. Claire did the same to you. 

You can’t breathe. The tears burn like hell behind your eyes, but can’t cry in front of strangers. They would know that you waited to get disappointed. 

He’s not coming, you realize. Matt stood you up.

You were wrong about him. So fucking wrong. All this thinking he was a good guy to make yourself feel better for being desperate. He got your hopes up, then left you at the restaurant, drowning your senses in liquor so you wouldn’t have to feel the marble of your heart getting crushed by a wrecking ball. 

That is what you get for having faith in a man who made you feel things you thought had died. It’s the very thing that gets you. You opened yourself up; you felt happy for the first time in years, and he decided to tear it from you with his bare hands. He didn’t even have to be there to set your world on fire. 

Why is everyone suddenly out to disappear on you? 

“Because you’re an infection,” the voice pipes up in the back of your mind. “You were born to kill everyone around you.”

Glasses clink, people chatter; the noise grows louder and louder until it shatters. 

“Unlovable.”

The world might just be better off without you, after all.

In the distance, on a rooftop across the enchanting fairy light front, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen listens to your heart breaking. No, it’s Matt. His mask is resting only against his forehead as he listens to the familiar rhythm start to race. 

The way you’re breathing causes the sobs to echo in your lungs, and he hears every single one of them. You’re ashamed to be the fool he made of you. You’re entire body is vibrating with hurt and hunger to the point you might explode, and Matt knows he royally fucked up. He fucked up, and he did it on purpose, which is the worst part of it all. 

There is not enough penance he can do to make up for what he just did. He couldn’t even salvage it if he tried. Staying away from you is one thing, but deliberately breaking your heart while he is listening like a sadist in the making truly does show to him that he only has the devil in him. 

“Could I get the bill, please?” he hears you ask the waiter, your voice thick with unshed tears. 

You pay for what you had to drink, even leave a generous tip he would have paid if he had shown up, and then you step back out into the cool night air. Matt tilts his head. You smell of alcohol and despair. How many glasses of wine did you have?

A car honks. You’re inebriated. For a moment there, his heart stops. You manage to step out of the way before the passing car can hit you, but the driver curses you nonetheless. 

“Sorry,” you mutter before finally getting into the nearest cab. 

While he’s putting on his mask, you’re crying in the backseat on your way home, and it kills him most to know that he did this to you.

Tag List: @shiorimakibawrites @allllium @siampie @auroraslibrary @roseallisonparker @abucketofweird @thatonegamefish @capylore @kniselle @sumo-b98 @peachstarliight @danzer8705 @kakamixo @littlehappyperson @atemydadforbreakfast @stevenknightmarc @zheezs14 @shouldbestudying41 @kiwwia-wiwwia @writtenbyred @echo-ethe @kezibear @peterbarnes @littleagxs

[untildawnss]

until dawn characters as vines pt. 2

i'm too tired to write seriously, so i'm shitposting.

ashley

blades are for skating

the jonas brothers can't break up

beth

sabra gives you all your daily nutrients

hey, i'm lesbian

chris

brandon, ask me what kind of tree i have

hi, welcome to chili's

emily

shakira goes to wash her hands

i spilled lipstick in your valentino bag

hannah

i am confusion

we don't wanna panic at the disco

jess

oh damn

johnny has 19 bottles of dish soap

josh

toss me my keys

SAIL

matt

my buddy brandon

do you know that jesus loves you?

mike

i could've dropped my croissant

banana peel

sam

fuck this shit i'm out

what are those?

[skreebs]

Thinking about the ableism toward Jouno in the BSD fandom and it genuinely pisses me off so badly I want to hit people. I’ll be perusing the tag and looking at stuff and then I’ll see some random pop ups for AO3 and get shit like this

Now I don’t 100% know the context of this screenshot, for all I know this fic could be about him before he lost his sight, but either way it got me thinking and thinking got me angry and being angry means i need to complain. Jouno is already pretty shit blind rep, I’ll be honest. He’s the basic stereotype of “blind character has super senses because they’re blind” but can we give blind people literally ANYTHING else??? jesus christ. I’m pissed how BSD writes his blindness so as per usual I had to attempt to fix all of that myself, but attempting to fix it and removing it entirely are NOT the same and one is VERY MUCH SO WORSE. Again, not talking about this fic specifically but other ones I’ve seen that do this, or those “Jouno if he could see” edits. Spoiler alert, blind people can open their eyes.

I dont know why BSD and every other piece of media is so adamant on not giving visually impaired and blind characters white canes and just giving them "super senses" to get around it. It’s incredibly stupid and abelist to portray stuff like this. Disabilities are not super powers and thank GOD they didnt make that his ability but they still gave him that aspect and I guess it can be excused with SOME lore stuff like maybe he got really good senses from his surgeries but it just sucks that it happened that way at all? And then they don't even touch on how horrible having incredibly hightened senses to the point you can HEAR blood would be?? can you imagine hearing everyone internal organs around you 24/7 EVERYDAY? No one talks about that at all. That would be so fucking overwhelming its genuinely insane. Jouno is such a dear character to me, but genuinely when I remember him in canon without any of my headcanon explinations it’s just really sad that all I can say about him as representation is "well.. it could be worse".

I know there’s going to be at least one person saying “theres good blind rep in other shows though!!” Yes! I know! I’m super glad about that! But ignoring the bad ones doesn’t help much. You need to point out the issues to get good results. Recently, and by recently I mean about 17 hours ago, I watched/listened to the first episode of Daredevil, once with audio descriptions, and then after I watched without AD and had captions. I’m super glad that things are more commonly getting AD—it’d be a bit pathetic if the show with a blind main character was not accessible to blind people—but even with Daredevil, Matt still falls a bit into this stereotype.

Don’t get me wrong, seeing a character with a white cane has me absolutely elated, but from the single episode I’ve seen and what I’ve heard, he apparently also has some sort of super senses, and I know in the first episode he can hear heartbeats. I think super senses as a power is fine, but it’s just the fact they always give it to the blind characters. I, myself, am not blind, nor am I really visually impaired, I just wear glasses. However, as someone with a special interest in disabilities and also as someone that is disabled in other ways, seeing disabled rep fall into stereotypes over and over just really bums me out sometimes.

I think Daredevil is great so far from this one episode, I’ll probably be looking at more of it, but that is definitely just one gripe I have with it. I think Charlie Cox putting a bunch of effort into the role with the method acting and talking to people in the blind community and just all of that is amazing, I love to see that in anything, it’s just urrghh that it’s so hard to find a blind character that doesn’t have some kind of insane superpower senses with things. It reminds me of when characters with autism are so frequently portrayed as geniuses or their autism is only acceptable if it helps the neurotypical cast with “gadgets” or something. I dunno. Hard to explain, it’s 11 at night and I’m tired. Just don’t be ableist in any fandom or in real life. I shouldn’t have to even point out why this shit is disgraceful.

[honeyedboneset]

one x one rp search

hello! i'm boneset (or bone). thanks for stopping by my super-specific search thread! if interested, please leave a reply or dm me! 

a bit about myself: 

she/her. 

Late twenties

EST.

Currently: full time employee & grad student

i have a dog and a cat named after science fiction horror icons. 

I’ve been writing/roleplaying in some shape or form for 12+ years. 

A bit about how i write: 

The shorter the post, the faster i can write (esp with my schedule). Usually 500-1k now a days, give or take a little. 

I prioritize gelling with my partner than any kind of like…idk, anything about the writing itself. 

I’m super flexible with post rate but i will yap at you. 

This is a hobby. This is meant to be fun. I would like to have fun. 

I am terminally unserious (by choice). Canon plotlines and timelines are suggestions. Idc. the world is our playground. 

I only ever double. So i play a cc and oc and you play a cc and oc. Or two ocs. Whatever it works out to be, you know? 

Love ooc chatting, sharing memes, head canons, all that stupid stuff. I love making friends. My two best friends i made through roleplaying and now they’ve been stuck with me for around a decade each. 

m/f is preferred for my pairing. I’ve been around long enough a lot of m// and f// dynamics gives me hives. I’m flexible though. 

hard limits: be 18+ (21+ preferred) | will not write with people who identify as male (he/him) | incest | fetish stuff | abo | pwp | pedophilia | furries/beastiality | explicitly written sexual assault | abusive relationship dynamics between main characters | heavy substance abuse | main settings being medical | most highschool settings/underage characters | genuine love triangles or infidelity between main characters 

Fandoms (canon x oc): 

Marvel cinematic universe: 

Looking for: matt murdock, sam wilson

Can play: nearly anyone? Most experience with peter (parker), tony, bucky, loki, namor.

My hero academia: 

Looking for: takami keigo

Can play: anyone. Most experience with: katsuki, hitoshi, denki

Jujutsu kaisen: 

Looking for: nanami kento

Can play: anyone (are you picking up a trend). Most experience with megumi, satoru, toji

The last of us: 

Looking for: Tommy, m!oc

Can play: joel, ellie, ocs, anything else just ask? 

some vibes: FIX IT JESUS, protecting family, human enemies, natural threats, antagonistic towns, lost in the wild, weird periods of domestic easiness followed by hurt/comfort hell​

The walking dead: 

Looking for: glenn rhee, daryl dixon.

Can play: daryl, rick, shane, negan, beta, and many more??

​some vibes: people who knew each other prior to the zombies meeting each other again after, dead rising vibes, traveling through the wilderness, overgrown and rundown towns and cities, towns that have gone mad, human enemies, natural threats, fluff, megamalls, amusement parks, adventure, horror, fluff, uneasiness in the calm, found family, hesitant allies

Red Dead Redemption: 

Looking for: charles

Can play: john, arthur

​some vibes: railroad turmoil, dutch has lots of plans (very little outcomes), high society meets the old west, running from the law, causing problems, adventures in the big city, trying to leave old lives behind, forbidden love, enemies to lovers

Fandoms (and fandom inspired): 

Cowboys:

Inspired by: red dead redemption, yellowstone (i guess? I’ve only seen tiktok thirst reels), man from snowy river, outerrange. 

Thoughts: i love cowboys in whatever era honestly. I think the dying days of the old west is super cool and i think the whole setting is fun even if it’s more contemporary. I would love to mix some cowboys with some southwest gothic vibes, even. I also loved that outerrange was cowboys + space. Idk, i think there’s a lot to be done there. I have a few ocs for this world depending on time range. 

Zombies: 

Inspired by: the last of us, deadrising, twd, resident evil, days gone, etc

Thoughts: i just like the end of the world. Don’t know what that says about me, but i do. I’ve got a couple ocs here also that are pretty flexible plot wise. I really liked the ridiculousness of dead rising, the scale of things like tlou, and how green and wild stuff is. 

[narcolini]

open wounds

frank castle x gn!reader, ex dating, hurt/comfort, 2404 words

for day 6 of whumpril : salve | painkillers | bad coping mechanisms

warnings for burns, implied suicidal intentions, terrible first aid probably

a/n: yknow when you love a character so much that you dont even know where to start with writing about them?? no?? just me?? im shaking in my boots... also huge shout out to @ashlingiswriting for helping with this!!

tagging: @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa @cositapreciosa​ (five times as requested)

He’s dripping wet. Frank, back at your door, for the first time in half a year, and dripping wet from head to toe. His jeans, his hoody, his boots—which must weigh a tonne, if they’re as full of water as the rest of him. He’s scrubbed his face dry, clearly, because the front of his hair is sticking upright, brushed up by the rough of his fingertips, and his cheeks are cleaner than the rest of him. Bare of the grime he’s covered in. If it wasn’t so obviously a bad thing—him being here, him being anything other than his usual self—you might’ve laughed. Might’ve joked about him choosing the worst church for an over-due baptism.

‘What the fuck happened?’ you scoff, bypassing all other greetings. You don’t even spare the thought to be annoyed at him, to tell him to go away, get out of here, before someone sees you. You just balk, and frown, and hang off the door as you look him over. ‘You look like you went free-diving in the river, Frank.’

He doesn’t respond, just sighs and tilts his head as if to say—

‘Oh my God.’ He did. He jumped into the fucking river. ‘That explains the stink, then.’

‘Yup.’

It’s pouring off him. Stale water, oil spill.

‘Look, I gotta ask you a favour,’ he says, awkward about it, though you’d thought as much already. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be.’

And you wouldn’t let him in, either, if you didn’t have to.

‘Come in.’ The less time he spends in the corridor, the better. ‘Do I even want to know what you…’ The words fizzle out once you’re behind him, door closed and facing his back.

The material of his hoody has been singed away, not entirely, but across his shoulders and in patches down his spine, the t-shirt beneath in a similar state. He’d been set alight, somehow, long enough for it to burn all the way through. Two layers of cloth and then skin. Red, raw, skin.

‘Jesus, Frank.’

‘Had to put it out somehow,’ he shrugs, ‘seemed like the quickest option.’

‘Do you even realise how much shit is in that river?’

But he must do, of course, because he’s here. He’s not at home, self-medicating, slapping soap and water on it and hoping for the best. He’s here because he’s smart enough to realise bacteria will kill him easier and faster than any bullet would. Which isn’t usual, for most, but he has a knack for surviving no matter how many holes they put in him.

‘Bathroom, please,’ you tell him. You remember where it is.

You watch him nod in front of you, hands tucked in the sodden pockets of his hoody. He’s holding himself rigid—tense arms, straight shoulders—to hide the shakes, you realise. The wet has gotten into the bones, chilled him deep enough to send shivers through the muscles. Why he’s bothering to try and cover it, you don’t know. You’ve seen him in worse shapes.

When he reaches the bathroom, you in tow, he turns and waits. In front of you, on the curling blue bath matt beneath. It’s been a long time since you’d done him a favour. A long time, since you’d been alone with him, for reasons other than why this doesn’t work, why the two of you won’t work.

You sigh, close your eyes. He knows as well as you do what’s coming.

‘Am I in danger,’ you ask, feeling the sick twist of regime in your stomach, the edge of familiarity in the question, ‘by you being here? Is it putting me in danger?’

‘No, no, I promise.’ His head shakes. ‘No-one knows I’m here.’

‘You’re sure?’

He pauses, swallows. Nods. ‘It’s just me.’

‘And is it only the burns? Nothing else?’

‘I’d do it myself, but I,’ his teeth chatter, ‘I can’t reach.’

‘Okay.’ No surprise gunshot wounds, no broken bones. You can handle it, as long as you know what to expect. ‘I’ll do my best,’ you tell him, now you know it isn’t at your detriment, and turn to look through the cabinet above the sink.

‘Thank-you,’ he begins, which you try to wave off. ‘No, I mean it, I—I know you must hate…’ The words get away from him. A drop of water shakes from the peak of his hair onto his cheek. ‘Yeah, just, thank-you.’

You know what he’s implying. He’s as wrong about it now as he was then.

‘I don’t hate you, Frank.’

‘Well, you don’t like me much,’ he grumbles. ‘Not that I blame you.’

You don’t like his choices. You don’t like his instincts. You don’t like his susceptibility to getting himself in trouble, once a fucking week. ‘Take this off,’ you tell him, tugging at the sopping wet of his sleeve. ‘You’re shivering.’

He complies, jaw-setting as he pulls both the hoody and t-shirt over his head, no doubt having to rip the burnt-fibres from the edges of his wounds. He does well to hide it—if that’s the case—removes them without a hiss of pain, or any hesitation. The wet lump of them lands on the tiles with a slap, water splattering over your socks.

You fill the sink, making sure it’s lukewarm, cool. It’d be better to douse him with hot water, really, to stop the shivers and get rid of the smell, but the burns are more pressing. The very last thing they need is more heat.

‘Jeans and socks too. Then sit on the bath,’ you instruct before leaving the room. It isn’t for privacy’s sake, but to get your blanket from the couch and a clean towel from the closet. Get him warm, get the site disinfected, then cover it in Saran wrap and hope for the best. It isn’t as good as real, authoritative, medical treatment, but it’s better than he could manage by himself.

When you’re back, he’s done as you said again, and is sitting on the edge of the bath in just his boxers. A sorry sight, long past the invitation that it used to be. You’re sure there’s scars there that you aren’t familiar with, across his chest, below his naval, but there isn’t time to inspect them. He’s shaking still, and looking up at you like he’s sorry to occupy the space at all.

‘You ever treated burns?’ he asks, as you hand him the blanket.

‘Nothing like that,’ you admit. ‘Spin.’

He does. You put the towel on the floor beneath his back, where the drips will be, as he drapes the blanket over his lap. He isn’t shy about it now, how cold he is. He pulls the edge of the throw up to his chin, tucking his arms inside it, and gives a bigger, exaggerated shiver afterwards. Like he’s purging it, and inviting warmth to take it’s place now that it’s out.

Without the clothes, the burns look dangerous. Red and angry, almost the print of a cross over his back, with the worst of them sitting in a thick strip along his shoulder blades.

‘What even…?’ You brush a thumb by the edge of it, bending down to get a closer look; it’s not just a burn, but a scrape too, a layer of skin torn off like he’s been dragged over tarmac. ‘What happened, beyond the fire?’

You don’t mean the order of events that led to it, or the reasoning behind him shouldering fire in the first place—you’re long past caring or asking about his endeavours. Anything that ends in a list of dead bodies, people he’s killed, is none of your business. That stopped being your problem, the same time he did. But the longer you look, the less it seems like a simple, standard burn. The less you know about how to treat it.

Frank grunts, head dipped. ‘Over-estimated a jump. Slipped off a, a wall, going into the river.’

You wince. ‘Yeah, looks like you left a bit of your back attached to it.’

He puffs out through his nose. ‘That bad?’

Not by his standards, you’re sure. ‘Well. I think it’s saved you from the worst of the blistering, at least.’ The smaller scalds will, no doubt, tonight or tomorrow, but the wide abrasion across the top might have saved him from something more severe. ‘I don’t think you’re supposed to put cream on them,’ you say, ‘but I’ve got an antiseptic spray that I think will be worth the risk.’ And the pain. ‘Okay?’

‘Yeah,’ he agrees, without hesitation, ‘do what you gotta do.’

When you start at it with the water, poured slow from a mug and onto his back, he hisses. Sucks breaths in and out between the clench of his teeth, regulates the pain for your sake alone, you’re sure, and you can bare that. You can work while he does that, quiet and dedicated.

But when you move onto the spray, he swears, low and rasping, like he hates you for a moment. Like he’s angry at you, the antiseptic, the base of the bath that he thumps with his heel.

‘I’m sorry,’ you put quickly, unable to ignore it. ‘This is the worst part.’

Maybe bad enough, really, that you shouldn’t be doing it at all. In the grand scheme of things, agitated burns are better than infection, right? Better than leaving whatever germs live in the Hudson, to fester in the scrapes of his skin.

‘Keep going,’ he insists, through the clench of his jaw—so you do, grimacing each time he swears and flinches under you.

By the time it’s done, dried and wrapped, you’re both exhausted. Him more than you, that you can admit. He sits quietly on the bath now, waiting for the painkillers you’d promised. It’s the first time he hasn’t tried to convince you that he doesn’t need them.

‘Here.’ You hand him the pills, the glass of water. Watch him swallow them both, before sitting beside him, facing the opposite way. Shoulder to shoulder. ‘I think that’s about all I can do for you,’ you say, glancing at his waiting gaze.

He’s got his head turned towards you, dark eyes only inches away. You can’t match them for long. You’re looking back at the pile of wet clothes on the floor before you speak again.

‘If it shows any sign of infection, Frank.’

He puts the glass down, head shaking in the edge of your vision. ‘I’m not going to a hospital. I can’t.’ He’s dead already, he means, and waltzing into the ER would ruin the only leg-up he has.

‘Then someone who knows more than me, at least,’ you insist. ‘You can’t do any of your righteous, vigilante bullshit with sepsis, you know.’

‘I know,’ he says, and he means it. Sounds sore about it too, regretful, even. Not because of his health, but because of what it would take from him.

You let him sit with that for a moment, watching him drop the blanket from his shoulders and put his hands over the top of it instead, pooling in his lap. The shaking’s stopped now; without the wet clothes, and in the warmth of your home, it didn’t take long to scare them away. After the ordeal you put him through, he’s sweating instead. Damp across his brow.

‘Why d’you do it?’ you ask, though you’d told yourself long ago that you would stop asking him that. Stop wasting your breath on something that would never change.

‘Do what?’ He looks like he might laugh, glancing sideways at you, like he’s itching to say, you think I toasted myself on purpose? But it’s over-compensation, really. He knows what you mean.

‘Put yourself in these fucking situations, every time…’ You sigh. ‘You had a chance to get out, Frank. To start fresh.’

But why bother saying it to him? You know the answer as soon as it comes from your lips. You know what makes him do it. You know he can’t function otherwise. If bad coping mechanisms had a poster boy, he would be it. If self-hatred and self-pity was a competition, he’d win. He would lap everyone before they’d even got off the mark.

‘You’ve got to retire at some point,’ you tell him, which sounds like a plea you hadn’t aimed to give.

He scoffs, shaking his head. His thumbs toy with the edge of the blanket. ‘You know it doesn’t work like that.’

Not for him, that’s the truth, and it snowballs in your head until you say, ‘You’re gonna keep going until something kills you, aren’t you?’

He doesn’t answer, because he can’t do that either. Admitting it aloud, to himself or to you, would make it real. Undeniable.

‘Well,’ you start, bending the conversation into something liveable again, ‘you’re lucky your ex is so good at first aid.’ You shoulder him, lightly, smiling until he smiles back. Just enough.

‘Yeah,’ he breathes, ‘yeah, I am.’ He considers you for a moment, before tucking his chin and looking to his hands. ‘I didn’t think you’d be so,’ he hesitates, searching for the word.

‘Willing?’

He nods. ‘Thought I’d have to talk you into it.’

You snort, a real smile creeping onto your lips. ‘Would you have begged if I asked you to?’

‘I don’t know.’ His brows pinch together, thick and sorry-looking. ‘Would you have turned me away if I didn’t?’

‘No,’ you realise, because you had patched him up too often to let him suffer now. The blood on your hands has to have been worth something. ‘But I’d have taken an extra pass with that spray.’

He laughs weakly. ‘Yeah, that, I’d probably deserve.’

Because that’s his answer to everything, isn’t it? Every ounce of pain he endures, is nothing but a coin in the never ending debt that he owes himself. The only person that would ever expect it of him. The only one that thinks he deserves this, burns and wounds that he can’t fix for himself.

‘I think you should go,’ you say quietly, as your heart tugs in the opposite direction. ‘It’s late.’

Late, and approaching the longest time you’ve spent with him since the two of you broke up. Any longer and you might forget why.

[whiskey-tango-matcha]

Heart. Sick. (m, cold)

clearly the clicky clacky keyboard helped my writers block because here I am, back to churning out a 5k fic in one day lmao. this is a Greyson-centric one, and tbh it's a lot of exposition, and a lot of character development. but don't worry - Greyson is plenty miserable throughout 😅 I hope you guys like these ones that are a little more plot-driven! I honestly set out to write fluff but it wanted to be a drama fest. classic. enjoy!

Cw: male, cold, some mess, coughing, sick character galavanting about instead of just going to bed, implied contagion

“What is your problem today?”

Greyson’s head snapped up at the sound of his boss’s voice. He raised an eyebrow and put down his knife; this seemed like the kind of conversation that required his full attention. “What?” he asked, brilliantly.

Elijah crossed his arms. He had been leaning against the prep table, but straightened up to his full height when the chef regarded him. “You’ve been here for an hour and you haven’t even stopped in the office to say hi,” he said. Did he hear how lame and codependent he sounded? Yes. But that was their friendship – lame, codependent, and most of all consistent. Greyson always made the office his first stop when he got in; they checked in with one another, mapped out the day, traded stories from the night before if one of them had been off. Not having his morning gossip session with Greyson made Elijah feel like he was living in a weird, wrong, nega-dimension, and he didn’t want that to become a thing.

The chef huffed out a laugh. “Seriously?” he asked, picking his knife back up. “I have a lot of shit to do today, Lij,” he said. “Matt called out.”

“Oh,” Elijah said, immediately feeling stupid. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I am telling you,” Greyson said, looking pointedly up at his boss. “Right now.”

Elijah bit his tongue; this was exactly what he meant. Greyson wasn’t himself today. Matt calling out was obviously stressful, but the chef never let things like that make him angry, or short, or snippy. Something was definitely off – he didn’t know what, but it was definitely something.

“Did he say why?” Elijah asked as Greyson continued to chop. Greyson stopped short again and looked back up.

“Why what?”

“Why he called out.”

“Who?”

“Jesus Christ, Greyson,” Elijah threw his hands in the air. “Did you smoke a bowl the second before you walked in today? Matt. Did Matt say why he was calling out?”

“Oh,” Greyson said, turning once again to his prep work. “Yeah, some sort of flu thing. I said if he has a fever he can’t come in.”

Ah. There it was.

Greyson and Matt were what everyone in the restaurant affectionately called the plague rats – that is to say, they were the ones who brought any illness that was roaming around New York City into the restaurant, ad infinitum. They were the partiers, the club kids (though Greyson, at thirty-one should have reached the end of his club kid stage years ago), the chronic sleepers-around, and the past few months, it had gone from going out a couple times a week, to going out every single night. Hardly a month went by that the two of them weren’t complaining of a sore throat, a cold sore, a stomach bug that they’d been gifted by one of their many nights out.

And, of course, they never went out partying without one another.

“Did he seem okay last night when you guys went out?” Elijah asked, the question so pointed it may as well have been an accusation. Greyson shrugged, covered up the last of the prepped vegetables with plastic wrap, and slid them into the reach-in cooler below the prep station.

“Maybe a little off,” Greyson said. “He didn’t mention anything.”

“What time did you guys leave?” Elijah asked. Greyson gave his boss an incredulous look.

“What are you, a cop? I don’t know, mom, one or two? What difference does it make?”

Elijah recoiled a bit at the chef’s snappiness. “Christ, sorry, just trying to suss out whether he’s actually sick or just hungover.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Greyson asked, pushing his hair back into a small ponytail and tying it with a rubber band Elijah knew came from a package of asparagus. “He’s not coming in, that’s all we really need to know, right? Are we gonna track him down and fire him if he’s hungover?”

“You are on one today,” Elijah said. “No, we’re not going to fucking track him down, Jesus Christ.” This time, Elijah went for an honesty-is-the-best-policy approach. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re in a mood because you have extra work to do, or because you feel like shit.”

Greyson rolled his eyes and breezed past Elijah. He yanked open the walk-in and stepped inside, his boss hot on his trail. The chef grabbed two heads of cauliflower and a few bunches of radishes and nearly jumped out of his skin when he turned to see Elijah practically on top of him. “Stop following me,” he growled, pushing past Elijah again.

“Greyson,” Elijah said to the rapidly-closing walk-in door. He pressed the red button to let himself out, and once again tailed the chef to the prep table. “Greyson, I just want to know if you’re alright,” Elijah said, keeping a healthy distance. Greyson took a deep breath and put down his knife.

“I am fine. Matt will be back tomorrow. Please, let me do my work. Ple – hh...hhNGSTHH-uhh!” Greyson crushed the sudden sneeze into his shoulder, picked up his knife, and continued his work, not acknowledging it at all. Elijah bit his cheek.

“Bless you,” the older man said, accusatory.

“Elijah,” Greyson said, not looking up, “leave me alone.”

Elijah nodded, not that Greyson could see it while he chopped. The GM turned, walked back to the office, and pulled out his phone to text Matt.

Hey, he typed into their chat. Heard you’re sick, hope you’re getting some rest.

Thx boss, Matt typed back almost-instantly. Should be good by tomorrow.

Elijah paused before sending his next text, but then did it before he could question himself too much. Just wanted to ask...was grey acting weird with you last night? He’s totally on one today.

It took a minute or two for Matt to text back – the three bubbles popped up and went away at least three times, as though Matt was trying to figure out what to say but kept second-guessing. Finally, the text came through.

Wait, is chef there today? He told me he was going to call shelly in.

Elijah cocked his head at the phone screen; Shelly, the sous chef Greyson had brought on a month ago, was scheduled off today. Why would he call her in?

No, it’s just greyson today. Why would he call shelly in?

This time, it took Matt no time to respond.

That asshole, he said he was going to take the day off.

I’m lost, Matt. Why would he take the day off…?

Another minute of bubbles popping up and going away ensued. When the text did come through, Elijah felt his face flame. That motherfucker, he thought, slamming his phone down, screen-up on the desk and stalking back to the prep kitchen.

On his open phone, the text from Matt: he gave me this shit. We literally went and had one drink, then he said he had to go bc he felt like trash. Fuckin greyson.

Fuckin’ Greyson. That was for damn sure.

***

He knew he was coming down with something on Monday, but it was one of those excruciatingly slow-to-come-on illnesses that made you wonder if you were actually just crazy, and this whole thing was in your head. A sneeze here, a rogue cough, the sore throat that came and went with several long drinks of water – for three days, Greyson gaslit himself, told himself he was imagining it, took Emergen-C and chalked it up to allergies.

“Morning, boss,” Matt had greeted him.

By the time Thursday – yesterday – had come around, it finally hit him properly. Greyson woke up with a heavy feeling in his chest, his head throbbing, and a lump in his throat to match the one in his stomach. He sighed as he got ready, loaded up on dayquil, and headed into work.

Greyson had returned the greeting with a rough, “HNGSTHH-ue!” and a sharp sniffle. Matt winced as his boss unpacked his knife bag.

“Yikes,” he said, “I guess that girl from the bar last night wasn’t just doing a lot of coke, then?”

“More like the guy I stayed the night with on Saturday didn’t just have a naturally deep and husky voice,” Greyson said, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. “It’s the world’s slowest-to-come-on cold, I swear. I’ve been almost sick since Monday.” He coughed into his sleeve for what felt like a long moment, came up to see a water bottle placed in front of him. “Thanks.”

“No worries,” Matt said. “That makes sense, though,” he continued, “because I can definitely feel it coming on. Thought maybe it was allergies.”

“Sorry, kid,” Greyson said. “We’ll get you outta here early.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “If you’re here, I’m here, boss,” he said. The two of them had prepped in near-silence for awhile, before Greyson seemed to realize something was off.

“Has Elijah come back here yet this morning?” he asked, and Matt shook his head.

“Isn’t he off today? I think Mark said he had some sort of appointment.”

Greyson flashed Matt a little look and the sous chef blushed – Matt and Mark were very recently a thing, a fact that was clear to everyone in the restaurant and that the two of them were attempting to hide, as if any fling that took place within the confines of these walls was anything other than obvious. Greyson figured now wasn’t the time to bully his muse.

“Thank god he’s not here,” he said instead. “Elijah, I mean. I’m so sick of him giving me shit every time I have a stuffy no – NGTSHH-uh! Hh...HTSHH-ue! Fuck.” Greyson slunk away from his prep area to blow his nose, cough again, and wash his hands.

“Bless,” Matt said when Greyson made his way back to his station. “To be fair to Elijah -”

“No,” Greyson stopped Matt by holding up a hand. “We’re not talking about this.”

“I was just going to say, I mean, you have been out a lot since the whole… breakup situation.” The way Matt trailed off made it obvious that he immediately regretted bringing this up. Greyson sniffled, stayed silent for a few moments, and then sighed.

“You're one to talk. And besides, I don’t know how it’s my fault that every club in a five-mile-radius is a cesspool,” Greyson muttered, a lame attempt at a joke. Matt took the bait and huffed out a laugh.

“I don’t think Elijah blames you for the general grossness that is the midtown club scene,” he said. “I think he’s just worried about you.”

Greyson wasn’t so sure. Maybe it had started as worry; worrying was one of Elijah’s greatest passions, after all. But it had been six months since Greyson and Collin had broken up, and in that time worry had turned to annoyance, which had led to what felt like resentment. A month before, Greyson had been laid up with strep throat, thanks to a girl who he swore was trying to steal his tonsils with how deep she shoved her tongue into his mouth, and Elijah didn’t even try to hide his distaste.

“Seriously, Grey?” he had asked when the chef stumbled into the restaurant sweating, shivering, and unable to speak. “Who over the age of twelve gets strep throat? What’s next, mono? Chicken pox? Run the gambit of diseases kids get from putting their hands in too many people’s mouths?”

Greyson knew it was stupid to go out drinking and partying every night; he knew he was too old, knew it was irresponsible, he knew he should be processing the breakup instead of drowning every feeling he had about it in booze and sex. He knew. But he just couldn’t do it. Collin was the first person he’d ever really loved; getting over the coldness with which his first love threw in the towel that was their relationship was easier said than done.

He certainly wasn’t going to tell Elijah of all people that. He loved the man; Elijah was his best friend, his business partner, the guy he called first when something amazing or devastating happened, but this was not his strong suit. Elijah was basically a nun when it came to all things partying; he prided himself on never having more than two drinks when they went out, never sleeping around, and being married to the restaurant. Greyson loved Elijah, but he knew that the GM just wouldn’t get it.

So, the reprieve from being harassed about his near-constant menagerie of illnesses was a welcome one. He and Matt had prepped, passing a box of tissues between them the entire time, they’d gotten through a relatively slow service and, like every night the past few months, they’d ended the evening at a bar a few blocks from Elliot’s.

Greyson wanted to want to be there, truly he did, but he didn’t have it in him. Maybe it was the thought of being the only chef in the next day – Matt was well and truly coming down with the cold Greyson had come in with – or maybe it was just that the constant barrage of illnesses was starting to wear on his body, but the thought of staying awake for another minute, let alone another few hours, made Greyson’s head pound.

“I’m gonna call it,” Greyson said, shooting back his whiskey and placing a twenty on the bar top. “Take the day tomorrow, alright?”

Matt raised an eyebrow. “What about you?” he asked, coughing into the back of his hand. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Greyson said, elbowing Matt playfully. “I’ll call Shelly in, okay? I’ll take the day, too.” It was a lie; Shelly wasn’t ready for the responsibility of running a Friday night, not even a slow one, but if it made Matt take a day off, it was worth it to lie.

“Alright,” Matt said, wary. “Well, have a good night, Chef. Feel better.”

“Same to you,” Greyson said. “Tell Mark I said night-night. Give him a little kiss for me, too.”

Matt’s face turned bright red. By the time he’d collected himself enough to respond, his boss was gone.

***

“Greyson!”

Elijah stomped his way through the kitchen, on the hunt. He reached the back kitchen before Greyson could hear him, and the chef was blowing his nose into a rough paper towel looking caught, like a deer in the headlights.

“You fuckin’ asshole,” Elijah said, “why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“I’m not sick,” Greyson said, sniffling and tossing the paper towel. His eyes, Elijah noticed now, were rimmed red, and his voice was low and gravelly. “It’s allergies.”

“Right,” Elijah rolled his eyes. “Contagious allergies? Allergies you passed along to Matt? For Christ’s sake, Greyson, I don’t know what the fuck is going on with you lately, but you need to get it together. If Matt’s sick, that means Mark is going to get sick, then my entire front of house team gets it. What do you think you are, twenty-three years old? You can’t go out every single night and sleep around with anything that has a hole and also have an eighty-hour-a-week job. You’re not a kid, Greyson. This behavior? It’s childish. And I’m fuckin’ sick of it.”

Greyson stood there and took it, his mouth in a hard line. “Okay,” he said after a beat.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated. “You’re right. I’ll – hh! HhhIGSTZH-ue! Huh! HuhhESTCHZUE!” The chef sneezed painfully into his elbow, cleared his throat, and righted himself. “I’ll stop. It’s childish. Okay?” his voice was nasal, hoarse, and tight, as though he was on the verge of tears. All the fight Elijah had brought to the back kitchen was rung out of him like a washcloth at the end of a long bath.

“Um,” he said, “okay. Good. Now, go home. I’ll call in Shelly, I’m closing the books, it’ll be an easy night. Go rest so you can be good for the weekend.”

The chef just nodded, not making eye contact. “Heard,” he said, packing up his things. He didn’t beg to stay, didn’t insist that he was fine. He just picked up his bag, nodded at Elijah, and said, “See you tomorrow.”

Elijah was so in shock, he didn’t even respond until Greyson was out the door. “Yeah,” he mumbled, blinking. “See you tomorrow.”

***

The pulse of the music thumped in time with Greyson’s headache; it was oddly soothing, if a little disconcerting how in tune the two were.

“I’ll take andother,” he called to the bartender as loudly as he could muster. The bartender nodded, brought the bottle over, and topped him off, smiling seductively all the while.

“This one’s on the house, love,” he said in a faint British accent that Greyson couldn’t decide was real or fake. “What’s your name?”

“You’re very cute,” Greyson slurred, all levity out the window three drinks ago. “But I’mb sick as a dog, and I’mb ndot trying to pass it around any mbore than I already have.”

The bartender laughed. “This job is worse than a daycare when it comes to germs,” he said over the thrum of the crowd and the bass of the music. “Pretty sure I’m immune to just about everything at this point.”

Greyson let a sloppy smile paint his face. “Mbust be ndice,” he said, taking a swallow of his drink, then turning to his elbow to cough. “I work in a kitchend, it’s just about as bad but I haven’t seemed to gain any immu – immu...huh...hhINGTZHH-ue! HTSHH-ue! HRSHH-ue!” Greyson pulled his white tshirt over his nose and mouth and ducked almost completely under the bar to sneeze. He swore under his breath, sucked in through his nose, and sat himself upright once again. The bartender tutted in sympathy.

“Poor thing,” he said, smiling slyly. “You should be in bed.”

He wasn’t wrong; after Elijah’s blowup, Greyson had certainly thought about doing the right thing, going home, crawling into bed and actually attempting to get better. It had only been noon when he left the restaurant, and if he didn’t have to be in til noon the next day, that was almost a full twenty-four hours that he could spend doing nothing except relaxing, resting… being alone with his thoughts…

Yeah, that wasn’t about to happen.

Instead, Greyson had walked forty blocks to Greenwich and had lunch at one of his favorite spots. He’d moved on to a coffee shop from there, writing in his little black notebook recipes that he wanted to try out at Elliot’s. After that, he’d stopped into a CVS and bought them out of dayquil; three or four swigs later, and he was on his phone rapidly texting anyone he’d slept with in the past two months to see if they wanted to hang out. They did not.

The failed attempts at a hookup sent him into a darker place than he’d like to admit, so Greyson decided four pm was late enough to start drinking, and he took a cab back to midtown to begin his nightly spiral. The bar with the cute bartender was stop number four of the evening; at stop two, the dayquil had worn off. By stop three, he was coughing every time he took too deep of a breath. This was the stop where he’d given up the facade of health and just allowed himself to be the grossest person at the bar – much to everyone but this bartender’s chagrin.

“Yeah,” he said to the bartender, “you’re probably right.”

The bartender winked and turned back to the other bar patrons, leaving Greyson to sit foggy-headed and cold, alone with his whiskey. He looked at the clock on his phone – 11:45PM. The restaurant was probably empty by now. He wondered if Elijah was still there, finishing up paperwork; he thought about texting him, then remembered the blowup again. Greyson put his phone away, pulled a fifty out of his wallet, and ducked out of the bar.

It was cold outside; it was barely September, but Greyson could definitely feel that fall was in the air. He didn’t realize until now that he’d forgotten his jacket at work. Fuck.

Greyson shoved his hands into his pockets, shivering – there was no way he was going to make it back to his apartment without a jacket. The chef looked up at the street signs and realized he was only a block or two from the restaurant. Fuck it, he thought, sneezing into his exposed elbow. I’m getting that jacket.

***

It had been a long shift.

Shelly was great, really – she was just young, and a little bit scared of the enormity of running a restaurant. Elijah had figured that out at about seven pm, when she was nearly in tears with just six tickets on the board. But they had gotten through it, with Elijah taking over expo and Shelly running inside middle. It was fine. Long? Yes. But fine.

At eleven, the restaurant had emptied and with it went the servers, cooks, and junior managers. Elijah finished up his paperwork, locked the front door, set the alarm, and sat down at the empty bar with a glass of whiskey – just him, the thrum of the heater, and the restaurant.

When he was feeling really low, Elijah would spend hours like this; just sitting at his bar, looking out into the dining room, reeling in what he had created. This space was his, a place that he had spent his entire life clawing upwards for, despite the drone of older restaurateurs telling him he was too young, or too poor, or too talentless to own his own place. Elijah hadn’t grown up with money, or support, or any kind of nepotism that would have propelled him into this field, but he’d grown up with something most people hadn’t – drive. Passion. An absolute need to succeed, despite it all. Sometimes he needed to remind himself of that.

He knew that no one could really understand his reasons for being as anal as he was about everything in the restaurant – not even Greyson, though his counterpart came close. Often, Elijah felt like he spent his life explaining himself; explaining why he wasn’t married or even dating at thirty-nine, explaining why things had to be done a certain way so that appliances and tables and chairs and glassware and plates would last as long as humanly possible; explaining why people should care about his restaurant, his vision. Sometimes, Elijah wished he didn’t have this fire inside him. This passion for his work. He knew damn well his life would be easier if he didn’t.

Elijah looked at his phone as midnight approached, thinking about the day, thinking about Greyson. He wished things had gone down differently this morning, but he know Greyson could be like a kid when it came to arguments – quick to forgive, quick to forget. Sometimes that made Elijah feel even worse; he wished the other man would scream back at him, give in to his baser desires like Elijah was so wont to do when it came to arguing. Greyson saved those more carnal instincts for after work, Elijah supposed.

It would be worked out by tomorrow, whether Elijah wanted it to or not. He sighed, drained his glass, and went to turn off the lights behind the bar – when the alarm began blaring.

Elijah froze in his tracks. Who the fuck was breaking into the restaurant?

The GM burst through the doors to the kitchen and ran towards the back, absolutely nothing to defend him in his hands. If he was defending his restaurant, he was doing so with his bare hands; he’d figuratively clawed his way up to this position, he would certainly literally claw someone’s eyes out if they attempted to take it from him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Elijah heard someone at the back door before he saw them. He slowed his pace when he heard the voice. Greyson.

“Grey?” Elijah called, turning the corner and seeing the chef clumsily attempting to turn the alarm off. Greyson was wearing just a tshirt and jeans despite it being near-freezing outside, and the way he was fumbling with the alarm system meant he was almost certainly wasted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Greyson turned to his boss and smiled, lopsided. He looked like shit; he was as pale as his shirt, his nose was bright red and running so much that he had taken to swiping a hand under it every few seconds, and Elijah could hear the wheeze in every breath he took. “Oh, thangk God,” he said, moving out of the way so Elijah could turn the alarm system off. “I thought if that back was opend, I could just sneak in. To grab mby jacket.” Greyson coughed away from Elijah, an angry, productive sound that made the GM flinch. “Sorry,” Greyson said. “It’s cold outside.”

“I’m well aware,” Elijah said, turning away from the now-silent alarm. “What are you doing out? You’re supposed to be at home. Getting better. Remember, I sent you home twelve hours ago? What have you been doing, out partying? You’re sick, Greyson.”

“I kndow, I kndow,” Greyson said, yanking the rubber band out of his hair and letting it fall wildly around his shoulders. “I just… I… hh… huh! HuhhhIGTSZHH-ue! HTSH! HRSHH-uh! Fuck – HNGSTHHZUE!” The sneezes wrenched themselves from him, rough and painful-sounding. Greyson stood, post-fit, and pushed his hair back with a hand. “Sorry,” he said, his voice wavering.

Elijah sighed; it was too late to fight. “C’mon,” he said, “let’s go sit for a bit. I can’t send you home like this.”

He led them both back to the bar and, despite his better judgment, poured them each a whiskey. Greyson coughed and took a swig of his before Elijah even sat down. “Thangks,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.” Elijah drank his whiskey slowly, trying to decide what to say to the chef. After a moment of silence so tense it could be sliced through with a butcher knife, both Elijah and Greyson attempted to start a conversation at the same time.

“Grey, I -”

“Lij, it’s-”

They both stopped, smiled at the absurdity, and Elijah motioned to the chef as if to say the floor is yours.

“Ndo, you go ahead,” Greyson said, sipping his drink. “Besides, I cand barely talk.”

Elijah couldn’t disagree with him there, so he let out one forced little laugh and then sighed. “Grey, I’m sorry. Really. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”

“Grey,” Elijah said finally, turning towards his friend, “what’s been going on, really? You’re… something is wrong. You’re not… you.”

Greyson shrugged. “I shouldn’t be bringing every disease kndown to mban into the restaurant, but here we are,” he said, coughing into his fist. Elijah laughed in earnest this time, and the two of them lapsed into silence once again.

Greyson pursed his lips, downed the rest of his drink, and cleared his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. I’mb ndot.” The chef sighed and turned his barstool towards Elijah. “It’s… it’s the whole Collin thing. It’s beend… a lot harder than I thought it would be. Getting over himb.” Greyson sniffled; Elijah was unsure if it was illness-related, or if the other man was crying. He was quickly given an answer when Greyson wrenched to the side – “HGTSHH-ue! Hh! HhhNGTSHZ-ue!” The chef wiped his nose on the back of his hand and cringed. “Sorry,” he said.

Elijah shook his head. “Dude,” he said, “you could’ve just told me you were taking it harder than you expected. You know I’m always here if you need to talk. I thought we were friends.”

“Lij, we are friends, but like… I don’t kndow. It’s weird talking to you about this shit because you don’t… I don’t kndow, fuck up. You take everything in stride, like it all rolls off your back. I’mb ndot like that. Plus, you literally ndever date - I’ve ndever kndown you to have a single girlfriend, let alonde break up with someone, and we’ve kndown each other for years.” Greyson pressed his hand into one of his eyes and groaned. “Fuck, I thingk I’mb getting andother fuckigg sindus infection,” he muttered. Elijah gave his friend a pointed look.

“The fact that you know off the top of you head exactly what that feels like definitely says something about these past few months,” he said, prompting a sharp laugh and the middle finger from Greyson. Elijah smiled. “You’re right,” he said, after a beat. “I don’t date. There was a girl, a long time ago – before I bought this place. I thought we were going to get married one day.”

Greyson’s eyebrows shot up, headache clearly forgotten. “Ndo way,” he said. “You’re shitting mbe. You? What was her name? Do I know her?”

Elijah laughed. “You don’t know her,” he said. “She was actually a chef, too, at this vegan brunch place in the Financial District. But she wanted kids, she wanted me to have a job where I could be home in the evenings…” Elijah shrugged, a fingernail digging into a groove in the bar top. “It just wasn’t meant to be.”

“Dude,” Greyson said, placing a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, man.”

Elijah shrugged again, and looked back up at Greyson. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “But I mean – I do get it. Heartbreak, that is. You can talk to me about anything, Greyson. And I’m not some let-it-roll-off-your-back, take-it-in-stride monolith, either.” He smiled, attempting to break the tension. “Obviously I get pissed all the time so just… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help.”

The two of them sat in silence once again, neither really knowing the right thing to say next. Finally, Greyson’s body broke the tension: “HNGTSHH-ue! God, fuck,” the chef reached across the bar and attempted to blow his nose in a cocktail napkin – to no avail.

“Bless you,” Elijah said, and Greyson nodded.

“Thangks,” he said, slowly lowering his head to the bar top. “Fuck, I feel like such hot garbage. The going out every ndight thigg is definitely ndot for anyone over thirty.”

Elijah couldn’t help but cackle. “And you wonder why I have a two-drink-maximum hard line? I’d be dead on the floor if I drank like you and Matt. Welcome to old age, bud.”

“Yeah, you mbight be on to something there,” Greyson said, closing his eyes. “Definitely ndot gonna be hooking up with anyone under twenty-five anymbore, either. They’re all cesspools. HGTSHH-ue!”

“Bless,” Elijah said again. “Want me to drive you home?”

Greyson opened one red, watering eye. “In a mbinute,” he said. “I just ndeed to...rest mby eyes.”

Elijah pursed his lips to keep from laughing at the spectacle that was Greyson; mouth-breathing, whiskey-smelling, chest-crackling Greyson. Heartbreak didn’t look good on anyone, but on him it was especially rough. Within moments, the chef was snoring.

Elijah shook his head, stripped a table of its clean white cloth, and placed it over Greyson’s shoulders. Rest was rest, he figured. Elijah poured himself a rare third drink and sat next to his ailing friend.

“Sleep well, Chef,” he said, and took a long pull.

[cannibalisticcorpse]

writing patterns tag game

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

(i wasn't tagged, i just wanna play)

1. playing the part (isn't so miserable with you): frank/matt, au - multiverse, undercover as married

“God fuckin’ damn it, Red!” Frank grunts, jutting his gun to swing the hilt against Daredevil’s chin.

2. i dont know who i used to be: scott/waren, scott/logan, au - 1800s, falling in love, mail order bride

Scott’s shoes had holes in them that made his bloody socks visible. Despite that he kept on walking. No amount of pain was enough to make him turn back to where he came from.

3. im pretty sure im the only guy he's hooked up with tonight: scott/logan, camping, aphrodisiac, drug use

"What's that?" Scott asks, and his question is probably fucking stupid.

4. i wish it was summer: scott/warren, college au, hanahaki au

“It’s bullshit,” Warren says to Jean as she helps him carry his bags to the dorm room. “I had my own apartment for so long and now I’m just another co-ed.”

5. one of us is always leaving: scott/logan, break up

“And you think this’ll stop me from going?”

6. cocaine jesus: tim/bart/kon/bernard, substance abuse, au - no capes, tim drake has a plan

Tim Drake taps the sole of his loose sneaker against the concrete ground. His friends had been talking about their Super Sweet Welcome Home Party the entire time that Tim had been gone. He smiles to himself, letting the way the breeze blows through his hair take him. He’s so gone he feels like he’s still on the plane. Actually flying must feel like pure joy- happiness to feel so utterly free and floating. He thinks he’d be great at flying.

7. he's kinda hot though: jason/roy/clark, 5+1, getting together

“Y’know,” Roy slurs, 5 shots and three beers deep, “I hear Superman is really quick to anger.”

8. i'll remember you in the '88 ford: scott/logan, hanukkah

Logan wakes up to an empty bed, and at first that doesn’t even register as odd to him. He hates to admit it, but he never expects any warmth next to him.

9. gnaw your way through: tim/jason, tight spaces, mission gone wrong, panic attacks

“Quick, in here!” Tim whispers, grabbing Jason’s arm and pushing him into a metal locker.

10. im paranoid of things i cant avoid: scott/logan, autumn festival, lost in a corn maze

Scott was frustrated. He’d mapped the entire corn maze before they entered, and he knew the exact route to exit.

conclusions:

- i start with dialogue mostly, though it's always something character driven (_ does this/_ says this)

tagging:

@voiid-vagabond @maple-syrup-drinker and anybody who sees this! no pressure to play but tag me if u do so i see it!!

[sunlight-allergy]

death note tomodachi collection escapades

hi tumbly dot com so i started playing a (100% ""legal"" i promise) english romhack of tomodachi collection recently using death note characters as my islanders because im hyperfixating like crazy. here r some of the silly moments ive encountered so far (screenshots below the cut)

awww the skrunkly!!!! i made light & L first of course . here they are hanging out being silly

they got into a fight fucking IMMEDIATELY lmfaoooo (canon)

its ok they made up and i forced them to go on a silly little vacation together to celebrate !!!! (they hate it here)

of course he'd say that. what is wrong with you (affectionate)

literally a day later and HELLO???? ALREADY???? COMPLETE 180 FROM YESTERDAY WHAT A PLOT TWIST (pretends to be shocked) (we all knew this was going to happen)

i made him confess in the most egotistical-god-complex-light-yagami-ass way possible. AND IT. WORKED ????

HE HIT HIM WITH THE "k" LMFAOOOO

anyways love is real after all theyre dating now. lawlight so canon this is proof

horrible awful fucked up and evil couple i love them so much. i am holding them like dolls and making them smooch. this is the lowest compatibility percentage out of literally anyone else on the island so far btw and i find that fact egregiously funny

in character as fuck also thats adorable. ANYWAYS lawlight shenanigans aside

i added beyond birthday and Immediately gave him the jail cell apartment interior. this decreased his happiness meter significantly and i laughed maniacally like an utter fiend

i unlocked the job diagnosis minigame and it swapped kiyomis and misas professions lmaoooo. i mean close enough right

also they got a 100% on the compatibility tester which is. really fucking funny to me considering

tested mello and near too and yeah thats canon as fuck. the low-poly mii heads transposed over even lower-poly business casual pngs also makes me cackle every time i see it

matt is here too! i gave him a nintendo ds and he wont stop playing it. seriously every fucking time i check in his apartment he's gaming it's honestly really funny. him and his singular hobby <3

of course he does (eyeroll) not mello viewing making friends as a COMPETITION jesus christ (he still has 0 friends as of me writing this. he is the only islander to have absolutely no relationships whatsoever and i find this fact incredibly amusing)

naomi and beyond are friends now !!!! i am going to make them besties if it is the last thing i do i swear to god it is Happening.

LOOK AT HIS ""BIG SMILE"" GUYS ISNT HE ADORABLE :33333 (he has CHRONIC DEBILITATING resting bitch face it is a PROBLEM)

light...... mikami and matsuda are Right There........ just watched two peoples hearts get utterly fucking shattered in real time

anyways these are all the screenshots i have accumulated thus far. i will keep you deathnoters updated please enjoy

[cdyssey]

The Big Bang Rewatch Thoughts:

The way Moffat plays with time travel in this episode is SO much fun to me. Watching the Doctor zip back-and-forth in time to set the pieces for the future, and then getting to see the moments where he realize that he has to do that in the first place, is so clever. It makes time feel fluid and complicated—possible to be rewritten.

I get weepy at so many moments in "the Big Bang," but especially at the Lone Centurion keeps Amy safe for two thousand fucking years segment of the episode. goddamn, seeing that kind of devotion changes a brain chemistry.

And really, how the entire episode is about all the unassailable love between this core cast of characters. Rory and Amy. Amy and Eleven. Eleven and River. Hell, even River and the TARDIS—I've always been made tender by the notion that the TARDIS puts River in a time loop to save her. That's her daughter right there!!!!

ANOTHER MOMENT THAT CHANGES THE BRAIN CHEMISTRY. A devastated and ruthless River making a Dalek beg for mercy!!!!! ahhheojsdoijfoisjfoiejiojoisoi!!!!!!! she's so!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and I am!!!!!!!!

God, Eleven and River's dynamic in "The Pandorica Opens" / "the Big Bang" is a delight all around. The Doctor is finally starting to relax around her and openly flirt—pet names, nose boops, trusting that she'll arrive at his line of thinking when it comes to saving the day. They're having their first dates at the end of the entire universe.

And so that makes it all the more harrowing when River understands that these tentative moments are still early ones, and that the Doctor doesn't know her well enough at what they both think is his end. GOD.

I always lose it a little when Future!Eleven returns to "Flesh and Stone" to talk to Amy. the way that this sequence was so meticulously planned out is really a marvel to behold from a directorial and writing level.

jesus christ, Matt Smith is magnificent. Him tenderly putting Amelia to bed and gently talking to her as their history turns into a mere fairytale right before his eyes is nothing short of stunning. As young as he is, he absolutely sells the fact that he's a 900+ year old alien who has seen so much and traveled for so long. And in his devastated face, you absolutely know that every heartbreak he's ever had—including the one unfurling in front of him—is as fresh as the first.

I gasp every time river walks past her parents' wedding reception even though I know it's coming. oh, she's serving!!!!!

Amy's realization that there's someone missing is so beautifully done all around. One of my favorite moments is her seeing a random bowtie and suspenders in the crowd, and it helping to jolt her memory.

"Raggedy Man, I remember you, and you're late for my wedding!" WEEPS, SOBS, ETC.!!

JSIOJDOSOI, yeah, he's Rory Pond.

"Did you dance? Well, you always dance at weddings, don't you?" oh, god, I'm so unwell about river song sioaoioijsiojios.

The euphoria that the episode ends on is spectacular—the Doctor, Amy, and Rory flying away in their blue box of a home together to solve another mystery. What a trio. What a family.

I enjoyed this rewatch so much. S5 is stellar in a thousand different ways, and this finale took it home with... well... an absolute bang. ;w;

[porcelainvino]

Jeremiah/Matt lore???

OKAY i should get into their backstory first so around nov 2022 i had this obsession with jeremiah (the backstory for my obsession would take even longer to explain so i’m not going to) and i was desperate for content and i found this klaine fanfiction where it was klaine from different characters perspectives?? idk it’s been a while, i’m sure it’s a good fanfiction but i couldn’t tell you because i just skipped to the jeremiah chapter.. the chapter was like blaine and jeremiah getting coffee and blaine kept talking about kurt or some other gay shit. after reading, i got curious, so i went to the next chapter where it was MATT’s perspective and matt saw kurt and blaine at/outside a gap store. i didn’t read past that but in my head i was like “what if jeremiah and matt crossed paths……..” then i forgot about it for like 5 months UNTIL i suddenly had an obsession with matt (who KNOWS why?? i cant even explain this one) so i remembered my little idea of them crossing paths so now they’re dating 🫶🫶

OKAY MY LORE FOR THEM (my headcanon is matt was a senior in s1 and graduated) matt and jeremiah and coworkers at the gap. jeremiah has dreams of becoming a fashion designer but is stuck at his minimum wage job and feels that he’s obligated to work there for money/stability. matt is studying to become an opera singer (my other matt headcanon is he has an operatic voice which isn’t true at all for the actor but let me cook) and is working at the gap to make some money. matt has HUGE crush on jeremiah, but jeremiah is oblivious (and demiromantic wow the headcanons just keep coming). matt finally gets the motivation on VALENTINE’S DAY to confess his love to jeremiah. he gets to his shift with a bouquet of flowers except JEREMIAH ISN’T THERE!! OMG!!!! matt asks his boss “uh is jeremiah sick or something?? he always comes to work” and his boss is like “i just fired him he just left a few minutes ago” and then matt’s like “I QUIT THEN!!!” cuz he was only motivated to stay at that job to see jeremiah. he cHASES after jeremiah but before matt can say anything, jeremiah is like “jESUS CHRIST YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE WHAT JUST HAPPENED SOME KID SERENADED ME AND GOT ME FIRED-“ and he rants about his job, how he just wants to get out of ohio, how he doesn’t know what to do and rants and rants and rants until he finally calms down and then he’s like “aren’t you supposed to be at work? who are the flowers from??” and matt’s like “i quit….. and these are for you….” and then matt dramatically confesses his love to jeremiah except i’m too stupid to write a confession so you’re just gonna have to make that up in your head and then matt’s like “i understand if you don’t want to date me after all the stuff that happened today-“ AND THEN HE’S CUT OFF BY JEREMIAH KISSING HIM AND ITS BEAUTIFUL AND THERES FIREWORKS AND MATT PULLS BACK AND ASSURES HIM “we’ll get out of ohio. i’ll help you start you’re own clothing line. i’ll help you follow your dream you’ve been pushing aside. we’ll get through this. together.”

and then like however many years later, jeremiah becomes the ceo of gap the end

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

3000 Follower Celebration!!! *Closed*

Same rules as last time! Please stick to the character list I’ve provided, I randomly generated them as a challenge to myself so go wild! No defined tropes or au’s this time so give me your best ideas!

Character

Anakin Skywalker

Aragorn

Arthur Curry

Billy Hargrove

Bruce Banner

Charles Xavier

Chris Redfield

Clark Kent

Deadpool

Dean Winchester

Derek Morgan

Din Dijarin

Eddie Munson

Eggsy

Emily Prentiss

Ethan Winters

Glenn Rhee

Hannibal Lecter

John Winchester

Johnny Storm

Logan Howlett

Matt Murdock

Peter Parker

Pietro Maximoff

Rick Grimes

Sam Wilson

Steven Grant/Marc Spector/Jake Lockley

Thor

Thranduil

Will Graham

Prompt

“No no, don’t close your eyes, keep them open for me.”

“Can you put on some clothes? I can’t concentrate.”

“I never thought I would see you again.”

“Please-please, I need it so fucking bad.”

“Come on, just one more. One more and then we’re done.”

“I could do this all day.”

“Did you just say the world was ending?”

“Look at him while I fuck you.”

“Jesus, loosen up, you’re squeezing me so tight.”

A kiss in the pouring rain

Falling asleep tangled together

“Come home.”

Adopting a pet together

“Do you really want to leave or are you just doing it because someone else told you it was the right thing to do?”

She fell first, he fell harder

“I can practically hear your thought from here.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, I have to go to work.”

“You are my home, you always have been.”

“I want a family with you.”

“Will you just shut up and let me go down on you?”

Trapped in seperate rooms, able to hear the other but unable to see them or touch them

“You’re so dumb. I love you.”

“I miss you even if you’re only in the next room.”

“That’s it, keep going. Such a good girl.”

Save a horse, ride a cowboy

@lokiandbuckysdoll @writing-for-marvel @imyourbratzdoll @onlystarshere @livingdeadblondequeen @minervadashwood @darkhairedmenrule @nana1000night @evansrogerskitten @holylulusworld

[phoebe-the-autism-fairy]

Why Matt Walsh is a terrible "children's author"

So I study children's literature at university, and about a year ago I watched a video posted by Sam Collins, who is a wonderful trans YouTuber, and he was reacting to a children's book written by an infamous transphobe and self-proclaimed fascist, Matt Walsh. This book was called "Johnny the Walrus", and allegedly it's about identity. About a kid who pretended to be a walrus and the so-called "internet people" took it literally and forced him to actually be a walrus. He did this as an analogy to mock trans people and trans children.

Not only is the book inappropriate, hateful and horrendously transphobic, but it's just a bad piece of literature in general. And I get that opinions are subjective, but this is from what I've observed from the book and what I've learned at university.

Starting off, there is a concept in analysing literature known as "death of the author and birth of the reader", in which the reader is able to have their own interpretation of a piece of literature regardless of what the author intended for the story. However, children as young as what this book is aimed at most likely don't have this concept, and therefore won't understand the analogy that Matt is trying to make. Because gender and animals are two very different topics, the most the book will do is convince children that playing pretend games is bad and that it will get them into trouble. As a kid I pretended to be various characters from TV shows I liked such as Nuzzle from this show called Nuzzle and Scratch but nobody ever forced me to become a fucking alpaca did they?

It's so odd to me that someone actually let him into a classroom full of children in order to spread his propaganda when more likely than not, these kids are not gonna know what the fuck he's on about. And when he's reading his wasted tree to children, he is not truly engaging with the children, and in turn, the children look bored and uncomfortable with his presence. He just has no interest in the children, or in actual children's fiction, he's clearly just there to spread hateful ideologies. And plus he kinda looks like a nonce but I digress-

And plus, when you're writing children's literature, it obviously needs to be written with sincerity, and to actually entertain children. For example, if you look at children's authors such as Michael Rosen, when he performs his stories such as 'No Breathing in Class' or 'Chocolate Cake', he interacts with the children very well, the children who are listening to his stories are entertained and engaged in the story, because Rosen not only tells the story, he also SHOWS the story, making faces and using body language to further express his stories. He's funny and relatable, he makes jokes and the themes of his stories and poems are light-hearted and suitable for all ages. That's what makes a good children's writer.

On the other hand, in Matt Walsh's story, there's nothing remotely fun or exciting or creative about the story at all, it's just bland and there is no substance. And it's only purpose is to serve conservative ideologies. Not to mention the illustrations are abysmal. Just because the narration is rhyming and it has illustrations, doesn't make it good, or remotely appropriate to read to children.

Also for the love of jesus, if you are writing a book for kids, don't include things like "bigot" or "internet people", or anything along the lines of a "woke mob", because kids won't understand that, and also it's cringe. Things like that do not need to be in a children's book thank you.

And plus, even if this story was literal, it would be inaccurate anyway. Because actual parents of transchildren are not forcing their kid to surgically transition because that would just be irresponsible parenting. Yeah, the kid may socially transition, such as cutting their hair, wearing different clothes, etc, but it doesn't go any further than that.

Face it my guy, you can't write for children so maybe just stick to ya shitty podcast.

[re-readingcomics]

12/07/2023-02/03/2024

Over this period of time I read the books I had that are continuations of things I had been reading. I am not sure how much I have to say about any of them, hence the delay between finishing them and posting this.

I started with volume 3 of BRZRKR written by Keanu Reeves and Matt Kindt, art by Ron Garney, and colors by Bill Crabtree. I read the first two volumes recently and wanted to see how it wrapped up. I was worried about forgetting things in the mean time. I did, but while I read the final volume, what I forgot didn’t seem much worth remembering. The story was all in broad strokes. It wrapped up a plot about one employers of Unute and Diana, while leaving them to start a miraculous family with two quickly gestating and growing fraternal twins. It ends in space in a way sets up a new beginning. I don’t think I care enough to continue. I still like the art, but by now I feel cynical about this opening to a franchise. 

My normal way for choosing what to read is to prioritize wha I started the longest ago first. If I kept with this, I would have read Blood Stain 4 writing and art by Linda Sejic before BRZRKR 3. There has been six years between volumes, and I still haven’t gotten my to read piles down enough to re-read the first three. This is the only series that I haven’t written about here, as I wasn’t trying to do these kinds of updates when he las one arrived. It is also the one I enjoyed reading the most. I definitely forgot a lot of the plot, but there hadn’t been much of it. A throw away bit of dialogue in this volume worked as a reminder that the previous volumes only took place over a few days. The lead character, Elliot Torres only is confirmed to get the job as Vlad Stein’s assistant in this volume. On a related note, the previous volumes all had comedic material the back involving the characters in non-plot related situations, that show a level of familiarity that they hadn’t reached in the plot. This one didn’t. If anything, it did a lot to make up for time lost as far plot points go. We learn about about Torres’s adjustment to her new work/life balance, and more about the working Stein’s actual life here than I think we did ever before. Stein becomes a lot more human, despite all the other worldly or vampiric signatories around him, including how his text bubbles are black with white text, like the Sandman himself. I liked it the most of these reads. It’s pleasant and friendly and seems to exist just for itself. I also like the art, which combines reality and fantasy very well in a way that feels like they inform each other. It’s lovely.

Finally, I read Second Coming Trinity, the aptly named third volume of Second Coming. It is written by Mark Russell, art by Leonard Kirk and colors by Richard Pace. I read the firs two volumes way back in  2021 and I remember mostly liking them and being okay with the way the Jesus and Superman become roommates situation. But I forgot most of the plot including everything about the Lex Luther/Brainiac villain Cranius. This one is about the affect that Sunstar’s son, brining up examples of how both Sunstar and Jesus were dangerous super powered kids in their youth. Also there is an issue where it turns out God is disappointed in the human art market. Me too, but this just irked. The volume ended with a cliff hanger. Everything in the volume led to it. And yet I still feel like the creators bit off more than they can chew. It’s Sunstar flashbacks have a combination of “Super dickery” and “Man of Steel, Woman of Kleenex” that feels too related to the writing about Superman over the decades to be a stand alone story. Jesus starts his own church to have a more direct control over his message, but that has worldly complications. We get to meet more of this world’s versions of Justice League characters, which mostly left me wondering why?

I have started y next comic book pile since finishing this. I am in a slow to read historic comics. I will update when I am ready.