#but it is deeply personal

[seekstrivefind]

i was sent to boarding school at six years old.

i lived in an old victorian manor house on top of a hill in the middle of nowhere. there were teachers and house mistresses, but mostly there were other children. i saw my family very little, and even when i did see them, they were strangers who knew practically nothing about me. they might as well not have existed.

aside from my school lessons, i learned everything from these other, isolated children. what was good and bad, cool and uncool, what was important and what was a supposedly proportional response to any of these ideas being challenged. it was, as you'd expect, a feral little echo chamber.

and amongst it all were the expectations (academic, mostly). we were special, we were better than other children that we nebulously understood went to school elsewhere and lived differently somehow (i didn't meet any non boarding school kids until I was 12 or 13, and then only saw them in the summer).

when expectations are put on you like that, when you're so steeped in then that you know nothing else, you convince yourself that they happen to align with your own desires. they push you, but you push yourself harder. later, as an adult, you'll look back and wonder why you threw yourself so rabidly into something you never really wanted. when you're in it, you can't think of doing anything else, because you learn all your shame there, too.

so there you are, a cohort of young people who fiercely believe that you are independently chasing something that matters more than anything else in the world. and when adults look at you pityingly and dare to suggest you are being fed into a big, pointless machine that will chew you up and spit you out into adulthood with nothing to show for it, you get angry. because they don't understand, they couldn't possibly understand. you throw yourself willingly into the machine. it chews you up like meat (the adults were right all along, of course).

and that's why I'm so emotional about the fourth house, because tamsyn muir fucking nailed boarding school trauma.

[evidently-endless]

i think we should remind musicians they can absolutely make up little stories for their songs btw. it doesn’t have to be about them at all. you can invent a guy and put him in situations to music. time honoured tradition in fact.

[greykolla-art]

💕Can you even CONCEIVE how much I suddenly love them???💕

I think they were strolling around town after having a drink together. And that ends in a little cuddle!😂💕💕💕

Dialogue from The Aristocats, of course.💗💗💗

[chloesimaginationthings]

Hear me out, Michael would think Roxy is SICK AF

[ciil]

what makes us any different?

[fluentisonus]

getting used to & comfortable with your own bare chest as a neutral & not inherently gendered thing over the course of an evening alone and then having to go out in public again the next day & feel weird about it again like prometheus and his liver except every day you're forced to regrow an awareness of society gendering anatomy

[prettyflyshyguy]

Polle Says

"The Captain always goes down with his ship!"

[sunandmoonseisai]

Canon marcille: I want all human races to live at the same rate so that we'll all be on equal footing and noone has to be oppressed because of their race ever again. And so that I may never revive the trauma of losing my loved ones while I'm still at the dawn of my life. Even if it risk dooming the whole earth, my desire to grow old with the people I love in a world that treat them fairly is stronger than reason.

Fanon marcille: fuck everyone I just want my gf back

[noxcheshire]

I am sick, dizzy, and can barely think but you know what would be WILD?

If the DC universe was an echo of Danny’s world. What if the continents of their planet shifted enough where Amity is now in New Jersey and had then become Gotham.

And when Danny died underneath the portal a part of his death fractured and imprinted itself into those various worlds. One of them being Gotham, where Danny’s home ironically used to be where Wayne Manor used to be.

So just imagine it, you’re coming back from patrol, grimy, sweaty, and with questionable intentions by dressing as an overgrown bat when suddenly the lights dim. It dims and brings darkness, only enough light to catch the beady marble eyes of the bats you fear.

And then electricity jumps in the middle of the room, flinging itself around like an agitated snake in wide open circles.

Everyone is backing away, some weary, some cursing, some just half way out of their own suit.

And then a child — barely as old as your youngest now, flickers to life before you, screaming and screaming, wailing in pain as the scent of burning flesh mingles into the air. You can see the boy, black hair and blue eyes that underneath the bright light that burns them is causing black to turn white, and blue to turn green.

The electricity crackles and when the boy is about the drop, limp, certainly lifeless, he vanishes as if nothing had ever been there.

But he comes back, he always comes back, in the moment of calm and in the moment of despair, echoing that painful wailing of death.

It’s so wrong.

It’s very, very wrong.

It didn’t even matter anymore why the boy showed up, only that this moment of pain continues to haunt the cave of heroes.

Continuously haunting, even as some whispered apologizes when the boy appeared. Continuously haunting, even as some provided songs of comfort when the boy appeared. Continuously haunting, even as stories of Gotham are told and promises (though uncertain and flimsy at best) are spoken to the wailing boy who always drops fast and disappears just as quickly.

Always, it was the same.

Until one day it wasn’t.

The electricity crackled like it always did. A spark, and then a calamity of light. And the boy would be there, uncurling himself into a tense position as he would wail.

But not this time.

Instead the boy curled himself in the air, calm as can be, almost as if he were sleeping. Even the electricity that they have learned to dance away from was calm, gentle, like ocean waves.

And when the electricity vanished, the boy did not, instead dropping to the floor where Dick was quick to catch him, grunting in preparation of weight only to show alarm at how thin the boy truly was.

On that face that has haunted them all for months is just a boy, sleeping, and scarred. A boy breathing very slow, slower than what they would like, but here in the physical realm with them.

Dick brushed back bangs of black hair, and slowly, ever so slowly, glazed blue eyes stared back.

[inkskinned]

today i love the red metal crane in her long neck arching her body over the boston skyline, which means i am okay for a moment. when i am unwell, everything is a little ugly. i always tell myself look for the beauty but when it is bad, i will look at birds and sunsets and little ducklings and feel absolutely nothing.

when my brother got his puppy, i was in a deep depression. what kind of monster isn't affected by a puppy. i was gentle and kind to her - i just didn't have an emotional reaction. she's five now and i feel like i spend all of our interactions apologizing to her - i don't know why. i just didn't feel anything. how embarrassing. i feel like if i admit that, i'll seem cruel and jaded. it comes in waves. like, two months ago when i went out into the world - it was like that. life behind a pane of stormglass. a firework could go off over your head - nothing. like dead skin, no reaction. not to ice cream or rainbows or baby chickens. life foggy and uninteresting.

i love goslings again. i love their little webbed feet splayed over grass. i love good food and live music and long walks. i like puppies. i feel like some kind of my soul has been starved - i keep staring at everything with wide eyes, trying to burrow the sensation into my stomach. it's real. beauty is real. when it's bad again, remember this. i stop and smell the flowers, feeling cliche in the moment. i like the white-to-red ombre of my neighbor's roses. i like colorcoding and yoga and cold drinks. i try to pass my hands over every moment, feeling like i'm squeezing joy out of every instant. remember this. for the love of god, it's real - just remember this.

[shouyuus]

─── 飛雄 HE LIKES TO HOLD YOU, sling his arms around your shoulders, press his knee to your knee, crowd into your personal space; he likes to nose into the hollow of your neck, the warm, soft spot behind your ear, even if it makes you squirm away from him, he'd just pull you back and grumble at you to stay still, to stay close.

because he'd always want you close, wouldn't he? always want you within arm's reach, because tobio is nothing if not needy, nothing if not persistent in his petulant want for closeness, for the satisfying friction of skin on skin, for the warm tingle of goosebumps that chase up the length of your arms whenever he presses his lips to your cheek, your neck, the bare skin of your shoulder.

and he'd drink in the way you laugh, the tiny puff of breath before your gasping inhale — his name falling from your lips like a wish or a prayer.

"t-tobio!"

"what?"

he revels in the flush working into your cheeks, his eyes half-lidded in the starveling dark of this izakaya the jva's booked out for the night, the two and a half beers he's had fizzling in his stomach just enough to make his body feel light, to tug at the dwindling edges of his self-restraint till it's fraying. he pulls you into his chest, biting down a smirk at the shiver that shakes down your entire body as you peer up at him with dark, curious eyes.

"people... people will see!"

tobio frowns in earnest then, cocking his head as he weighs the implications. he blinks down at you.

"so?"

but before you can protest again, he bends down to catch your lips in his, humming against your lips, satisfaction unfurling in his chest as he feels you go molten in his arms. he pulls back to trace a thumb along your bottom lip, a dull pounding at the back of his mind, telling him that maybe, just maybe it's time to beg off from this party. he shoves the nagging feeling away for the comfort of pressing his forehead to yours, tracing a finger along the plush of your cheek.

"'s not like people don't know you're mine."

[medixnoche]

hey pal did you just blow in from stupid town

[justabiteofspite]

"Astarion doesn't do big romantic gestures."

My Durge still trying to get graveyard dirt out of her ass crack after being lovingly pounded into it by Astarion who wanted to share with her this deeply joyful and meaningful reclamation of himself after sharing a vulnerable declaration of his love, at this place he hasn't shown anyone else but her: "Then what the actual fuck was that???"

[his-kiss-the-riot-starts]

web weave of processing heartbreak

[crushedsweets]

This is for a very niche group of people

[kevindavidday]

love kevin's 'when you know what someone wants, it's easy to manipulate them.' he's such a fuxking cunt. mansplainer...manipulater... manwhore of the century truly