#but he doesnt remember that so he's fine

[acathea]

look at him. would you ever say he's evil and rotten? he's just a little baby. he's never done anything wrong in his life

[nibbelraz]

You don't understand how much I actually love you shang siblings au!

And it's funny that all it took for og!sqh to survive is a little sibling. Just, "you wouldn't kill a guy who's also a father, would you my king?"

If someone kidnapped airplane, how would og sqh react?

Ah I'm so glad you do!!! They're so cute like a wide eyed little airplane going around the world spouting the most nonsensical things known to man while also saying some things absolutely NO ONE knows but iy somehow is true??? All while the OG dots on his weird little brother, who he would do anything for, anything.

Of course he'll get you that double chocolate chip ice cream, once he can find it. Also Airplane talking about all the games he used to play so OG the master of lying is just guessing on what they are

"Playing Minecraft" is going outside to dig holes and chop some things

[sluckythewizard]

I LOVE QUEEN SOO MUCH I THINK THEYRE JUST SO SO NEAT AND SILLY... the best thing about a cute character is that u get to draw them all scared and bloody and crying and shaking and upset and you can also put a spider on them

[casualavocados]

Why not consider he might be waiting for you?

Winny Thanawin as Q and Satang Kittiphop as TOEY WE ARE, ep7

[spaceyfeline]

i know i dont post anything to tumblr ever usually but uhhhthe autism has me by the throat? so. noncanon siffrin family!! first image has siffrin having a great ole breakdown after finding a drawing he did of him & his family (when he was like. 7 lol) in a glass bottle, second photo is of their younger sister, phoebe! color (and a shitpost) + more information on the family under the cut

so phoebe. dear darling girl. she's rock-paper type and is super into research and stuff! like a scientist but she can kick your ass. love her a lot. she's about 6 years younger than siffrin is!

also in the drawing that i didn't mention is siffrin and phoebe's parents, mama rhea (she/her, left, missing an eye!) and baba dione (they/them, right) i love these guys so much. yes all of them are named after saturn's moons, thank lati @cryptidlatias for them (siffrin's born name was janus. none of them remember that, though.)

[hollypies]

Redrawing/remaking my HLVRAI flowercrown au!! Benrey and Gordon are up first!! (If anyone's curious you can go looking for my old flowercrown au stuff, just be noted its was made four years ago LOL and all the old info is completely irrelevant) click for better quality, tumblr killed it 💀

Up next, Tommy and Gman Coolatta!

In the old version of the plot for this au, it had a lot to do with it being a game and such. However over the years it's changed! No longer a game, instead the Rescas explosion seemed to have had a .. strange affect on Gordon, due to him being right next to it. At least, that's what they all believe at first.

[pennaraptor]

one year ago today.

[oceanwithouthermoon]

the way some people straight up have no respect for asou's writing is actually kind of insane to me 😭 like youre a fan of HIS manga, but you outwardly express your disregard for the intentions he had when writing....... disregarding canon can be super duper funsies and cool sometimes, but to straight up say "i dont care what he intended and think my headcanons are more canon than what he wrote because i think he wrote it badly/he sucks at writing this dynamic/i dont like the ship (or whatever) he was trying to imply" is literally just insanely disrespectful IN MY OPINION 😖

i think maybe im just annoyed at how badly people misuse the words "canon", "coded", and "implied" (which im also guilty of occasionally- especially when i first came here) cuz like... "i choose not to acknowledge this thing that is canon or technically canon or implied" is fine (usually). "i know what the author intended but i dont like it or care, so im going to call my headcanon/ship canon and anyone who disagrees is disregarding canon and is stupid because i said so" is NOT fine... ☠️☠️☠️

[oozeandgoo-art]

You just know he has a perfect supply of blood-red juicy fruit lying around. For artistic purposes, of course.

alternate version (juice) under the cut!

[mothbeasts]

i miss posting and making and engaging with ieytd content but I will be honest sometimes it feels alienating. as a lesbian.

[rigormortisangel]

remembering how at 14 i molested by this girl i was friends w at a party and months later i told another friend abt it and he said he wished it happened to him kms

[fizzyghosts]

Hywel is inspired by a mix of my issues with stories with nonhuman protagonist/about nonhumans becoming human AND vet posts ive seen warning people about the dangers of anthropomorphisizing animals. Its fine to joke about your pets doing things out of spite or other human emotions, it does put you at risk of not being able to read their body language correctly. Cats dont cry out of sadness, a cat crying, with actual tears streaming down its face, is a sign of a medical issue. A dog smiling isn't doing it bc its happy, it means its nervous. Not being able to spot these is bad, and sometimes even dangerous, for you and the animal.

If you never get past Hywel's human appearance and treat him like one its like getting a reactive dog, doing zero research or training, and then taking it to a dog park. If Hywel mauls someone in town then its on you.

[thisismeracing]

good morning I just woke up from a dream where I met lando norris and for some reason he was flirty, followed me from both a burner account and hi ls real account and kept messaging me (?)

[nejackdaw]

Thinking about Celann and his ever present grief at the life he could have had, he and his wife and (he always hoped) their daughter. A life where he was a father--he'd hardly ever wanted anything more than that. So full of love he was ready to burst and needed somewhere to put it, wanted a life with his favorite girls.

Thinking about how the ever present desire haunts him no matter how deep he buried it. It keeps coming back, relentlessly, this anguish that he threw it all away. He could have had exactly what he wanted and he was stupid enough to abandon it all, and for what? Because he was upset? But then he always remembers how hollow he felt after the incident, like if you rapped him with a knuckle you'd hear he was just a shell. He forgives himself, then, remembers how wrong everything felt, and he thinks about all the time he spent desperately trying to make everything feel right again.

Remembers when he realized he was the problem, what needed to be fixed. Removed.

He abandoned the life he had and every dream he'd ever held close because he wasn't him anymore. Celann would never have killed anyone, would never have done... that. He was some other Celann, different, trying to make himself fit in the life of a man that no longer existed. And so he left.

And he has no right to ache so badly at the thought of what he gave up, no right to ache at the loss of a family (of two families, but he starts thinking that and breaks every time, so he's gotten good at simply skipping over the thought) when he was a killer--an adept one, a practiced one--that could mangle and maul and kill and do it again and again. What right does he have to still want that happy little dream?

But the dream is a ghost and it haunts him, is there every time he's out on a supply run and sees kids playing around the marketplace, sees women cradling infants and fathers carrying sons on their shoulders. (He reminds himself of the blood on his hands, is scared he might stain them with it if he reaches out to touch them.) It's there when he has a bag and his axe hanging from his hips and finds a girl crying for her mother, lost and separated, jostled by the crowd.

It's there as he calms her, kneeling on wet and gritty stone, hovering between her and the flow of the crowd so they give her space. He lifts her and holds her against his side with one arm and something in him weeps, feels something soft in him as her tiny weight settles and she starts chattering at him about the groceries she and her mother came to buy.

They weave their way through the marketplace as they help each other--she tells him where he can find what he needs, and he silently curses the nords and their height as he tries to peer over shoulders to catch a glimpse of the woman she described--and that cold weight that's usually settled in his chest, his grief and remorse, lightens with every step. She's warm through his sweater and splutters indignantly every time the ever changing wind blows her brown hair into her mouth and he laughs, quiet and warm.

They check places she's already been, in case her mother doubled back looking for her, and take detours so Celann can fumble to place newly acquired groceries in the bag beneath her, unwilling to hold her over the side with his axe and equally unwilling to put her down, awkwardly shifting her weight as she laughs at him. He's silly for buying such expensive things, she tells him, and he light heartedly tells her Skyrim is silly for not having the things he used to use in High Rock. The revelation he hasn't always lived in Skyrim excites her to no end, and the rest of the trip is a Q&A of the sort only a small child can provide.

He feels warm inside, in his chest, where usually he feels vaguely cold at best, and for a moment he's reluctant to relinquish her when they finally find her mother, guided by the sounds of panicked calls of her name. There's a fond sadness as he sets her down on the stones again, and the woman looks at him oddly for a moment before the look turns knowing, though he's sure the conclusion she reached is slightly off.

She quietly asks if her daughter reminds him of her. He stands there silently for a moment, looking down at the little girl as she rifles through the things her mother's found.

He tells her yes.

[fiendishartist2]

she's gonna be a lot like me; but i don't wanna be at all like me- petscop

Once again, Paul finds himself in a waiting room. The room is quiet, but filled with the low murmur of anxious ambience; mothers kill time by tapping aimlessly on their phones, patients waiting to be called shuffle and tap their feet impatiently, the man at the front desk clicks the keys on his keyboard, on and off, as he fills out paperwork. In the corner of the room, a clock on the wall ticks.

The longer Paul stared at his shoes– how readily they met the carpet, laying flat against the ground– a horrible twisting in his chest began. His heart started to beat just slightly to the left; lungs trapped underneath it as his breath grew shallow.

Paul felt the anxious energy, eyes glued to the carpet. It is coarse and green with pinpricks of blue sewn in. He scrapes his old sneakers against the carpet, adding to the noise. It’s a soothing action. Spurred on by his own boredom, Paul tapped his feet and the thick clomp it makes is disconcerting, like the sound of running barefoot on grass.

Paul should not be this tall. He should not fill the chair like he does. The quiet ambience should be louder, obtrusive; office workers click away at their keyboards, children chase each other through the halls, squealing all the way. A paper shredder bursts to life across the room, teachers walk through brusquely without a word of acknowledgement, adults chat and laugh above him. He stared at his feet, hands pulled close in his lap, clutching a thin children’s book. Paul’s feet dangle past the lip of a faded red chair, lifeless. The sight of pink sneakers, scuffed and stained green and brown, makes tears spring to his eyes. They’re ruined. She ruined them, made them disgusting and ugly and it’s all her fault.

The door separating the waiting room from the rest of his therapist’s office creaked open. A nicely dressed woman with a wide smile stood in the doorway.

“Paul? Paul Leskowitz?”

“Um- that’s me.” Paul answered. He rose from his chair slowly as the unfamiliar woman beckoned him. Fog swirled in his head and obscured his memory.

She nodded, smiling again, “Come on through then.”

Paul followed her through the hall. It’s somewhat uncomfortable; not quite small enough to squeeze, but claustrophobic all the same. He would hate to pass by another person in there.

They came upon a door, painted a warm yellow. It stood out against the sterile white walls of the rest of the place. Although, he supposed it matched the eclectic blue and green carpet of the waiting room. On the door was a plaque, engraved with the name “Dr. Patricia Miller” and below it, “Psychotherapist”. The name didn't spark any recognition, but her title did. Paul is often taken out of class to see a counsellor, so he must be having another session.

Dr. Miller held open the door for Paul, motioning him to sit. There’s a long, grey couch on one end of the room, facing an armchair. A neatly folded blanket hangs over the back, covering half of the couch. Paul sat on the other end, but worries one of the blanket’s tassels between his fingers. It’s soft and fuzzy; Paul was grateful for something to look at while Dr. Miller got herself sorted.

“So, how are you today–” she checked a paper in her clipboard, “Paul?”

He was struck by the silence in the room and almost felt too awkward to speak.

“Uh-” Paul started, voice reedy with disuse. He cleared his throat before trying again, “Sorry, where am I?”

Embarrassment flooded him when Dr. Miller’s eyebrows rose. Paul knew he should remember the significance of this place, but right now he was drawing a blank. Dr. Miller’s laugh-lined face and curly auburn hair didn’t strike him as significant and neither did the softly lit office he found himself in.

Still, she recovered from her surprise quickly. Her features softened to a look of gentle concern.

“I’m your new therapist. You booked this appointment last Friday, I believe. Here, I can give you…” She drew out the last syllable, rummaging around in the purse sat by her feet. Dr. Miller procured a small card and handed it across the coffee table separating them.

Paul breathed a sigh of relief when he read the information on Dr. Miller’s business card. Recognition sparked at the long address of the “ClearView Wellness Center”; Belle texted him multiple times over the past week with the location, even calling him this morning to make sure he got there without any issue. Ironically, the issues started after he had already arrived.

Dr. Miller uncapped a pen, holding it poised to write on her clipboard, “Don’t worry about this, by the way,” she said, kindly, “I only take notes to better understand you and your situation. Anything you say will not leave this room and I will be the only person reading these.”

He nodded wordlessly.

She started simple, “Do you often forget your surroundings?”

He met her expectant gaze, before shifting back to the blanket. Paul cleared his throat again.

“Um- sometimes, yeah. I guess.” He bit the inside of his cheek, “It uh- it used to happen a lot, I think, but it kinda stopped after I left highschool.”

She nodded, taking a moment to scribble down a few notes. As she wrote, she asked her next question.

“Does it still happen to you or do you believe it’s fully gone away?”

He shifted uncomfortably. The blanket is pilling.

“It- I think it’s back, kinda?”

She looked up at him, “What do you mean by that?”

Paul couldn’t answer. His jaw was locked around the words he couldn’t articulate. Nothing was trapped in his throat, he just– didn’t know what to say to that. Dr. Miller let the question hang between them for a minute before changing her trajectory.

“Is there a reason for this behaviour?” She posed clinically, “Any sort of strenuous situation or pent up stress?”

Anna was waiting for him at her house. He left abruptly last Thursday, after his latest session with the game left him drained and afraid of… whatever unseen threat lurked behind his screen, surely. Paul chastised himself for forgetting what exactly it was, but Belle understood. She hadn’t let him answer Anna’s incessant calls and encouraged him to talk to someone– even a one-off appointment like this– to mitigate his stress. Still, his hands itched for the controller and he’s sure he’ll be back in that horrible house sooner or later. The family knows how to break someone down like that.

“There’s a um…” He said, voice crackling. He knew he couldn't mention the game, but he wanted to talk to her, no matter how discomforting this place is.

“My–” How does he explain to her who Anna is to him? She’s not his mother, not anymore. He decided to start somewhere else, “I cut ties with my blood relatives a long time ago, but I uh- I- I’m talking to them again. Um, I’m actually partially living with my biological mother.”

Before Dr. Miller can cut in, Paul elaborated, “I don’t know if I really want to be there? I don’t– I don’t want to be there.”

“Why is that?”

Paul paused, deliberating. He knows why– the family is awful and he doesn’t like them. But, articulating that is difficult. His head hurts.

“I think um…” He shifted, slouching over to pick at his hands, “I think it’s making me paranoid.”

Scratching pen on paper fills the room. When it stopped, Dr. Miller gave him a reassuring smile.

“It’s easy to feel intimidated when in an unfamiliar situation, especially when your relationship with whoever you’re living with is strained. What do you feel makes you paranoid at your biological mother’s house?”

Paul swallowed thickly.

“I don’t… uh- I don’t really know? I just feel like- like something is waiting for me there.”

“Waiting for you? Is it something physically waiting or a kind of negative interaction?”

“Both? I don’t like talking to Anna, but I’m not um- afraid of her, or anything. Being there just makes me get all… jumpy and- and irritable, I guess. Sometimes…” He trailed off. Part of him didn’t want to put words to this particular fear– it was irrational and fleeting. Saying it out loud gave it merit.

“It’s alright, you can continue.” She encouraged.

Paul drew in a deep breath, “Sometimes I… when I have trouble sleeping, it feels like something bad is going to happen. It’s not as bad in the daytime, but I just- I don’t like sleeping at her house.”

Dr. Miller nodded, “Do you feel like this all the time or only at Anna’s house?”

“Recently, it’s just been at Anna’s. I remember being a really light sleeper as a kid, but uh- that’s really it. I stopped being afraid of the dark a while ago.” Paul tried at a joke, laughing weakly to fill the empty air. Dr. Miller spared him a pity smile.

“Right. You said you don’t like talking to Anna, why is that? Is it related to why you don’t speak with her anymore?”

Cold sweat beaded on Paul’s forehead, in stark contrast to the red-hot spark of anxiety under his skin.

“I- I don’t know.”

“… You don’t know?”

Paul’s hands tightened in his lap.

“I don’t- I mean, she’s overbearing and intrusive and I get- I get kinda um…” He drew his shoulders, “I feel weird when she’s around. She– and the whole family, I guess– they’re uh- they’re dismissive. And she’s really emotional. I feel like I need to make her feel better when I’m there, but I don’t really know her?”

Dr. Miller looked up at him quizzically.

“We left when I was a kid. I don’t really remember why anymore, just that um- my- my mom– sorry, my adoptive mom, Lina– she took me away to live with her and my sister, Belle. There was family drama, or something like that…” He refuses to think about the game and it’s fucked up story– it’s not real, just the backwards revenge plot of a distant relative in his backwards family. It doesn’t mean anything.

“Do you know what that drama was?” She asked simply.

Paul didn’t answer.

“Was there perhaps an incident where your mother felt the need to remove you from Anna’s care? Any sort of mistreatment or neglect that–”

Paul drifted out of the conversation and into another. The consistent rumbling of Lina’s new car on gravel road drowned out the dulcet tones of Dr. Miller. They hit a bump and jumped a few inches above their seats, squealing all the way down. Glitzy pop music streamed through the speakers and Lina turned it up loud enough to hear over Belle’s singing. Paul joined in, quieter than Belle, always quieter– but singing along nonetheless. He dug his fingers into the thin plastic bag in his lap, watching it warp around his tiny fingers. It’s filled to bursting with his belongings, but gives easily. When he pulled away, he noticed the angry red cuts trailing up from her fingertips to the backs of her hands. They hit another bump, and this time she screamed.

“-aul, are you okay? Paul? Can you hear me?”

A woman with aged olive skin and copper hair is leaning towards him across a low table. She must be important, because she is dressed in a crisp blouse and slacks. The woman’s face is contorted into a thin-lipped smile. Paul felt sick.

“I’m sorry- I- I need to make- I need to call someone. Ex-excuse me.”

[ozymoron]

i dont think i actually like shipping for like normal shipping reasons im pretty sure i only like ships cause i like seeing boys kiss and girls kiss especially if what they have going on is fucked up and weird