#but that’s such a can of worms in its self

[bixels]

As cameras becomes more normalized (Sarah Bernhardt encouraging it, grifters on the rise, young artists using it), I wanna express how I will never turn to it because it fundamentally bores me to my core. There is no reason for me to want to use cameras because I will never want to give up my autonomy in creating art. I never want to become reliant on an inhuman object for expression, least of all if that object is created and controlled by manufacturing companies. I paint not because I want a painting but because I love the process of painting. So even in a future where everyone’s accepted it, I’m never gonna sway on this.

if i have to explain to you that using a camera to take a picture is not the same as using generative ai to generate an image then you are a fucking moron.

[scaredyspooks]

Training.

Chapter 8 of Neighbours. (Stalker!König x reader)

AO3 (Chapter also below cut-off ♡)

CW: voyeurism, masturbation.

Tags: @backseatsoldier @lostintransist

The dishes from breakfast are still sitting, half empty, on the coffee table. The ring from his mug is bound to be permanently stained into the wood grain by now. A mostly full bag of rubbish waits by the door, meant to have been taken down hours ago. And the giant is nowhere to be seen. The worm of a man is tucked away, small, condensed, folded down and down to fit under the floor, like he’s practicing for when he crawls inside your ribs to become a part of you. To make you a part of him. He’s been watching for nine hours. Nine hours of frustration, of lust, of adoration, of need, of hatred. You did nothing today. You sat, and you scrolled, and you typed away on your phone. You wasted the day, and in doing so you made him waste his as well. He should punish you for that alone. You haven’t earned his forgiveness yet.

The sun has gone down, he can tell from the darkness invading your sanctuary, as if his own gaze is slowly permeating the pores of your cheap, plasterboard walls. You get up, you walk to your bedroom, his favorite show has ended for the day. Reluctantly, and with an aching creak of his joints, König pulls himself out of his floor, having to lay out flat on top of it in an effort to realign his sore back. He stretches his arms high above his head, eyes open and staring at the ceiling. Perhaps if you’d just look up, you’d see him. See the glint of his eye as it watches you. If you saw him, would you be afraid? Would you even guess it was him? The thought makes him shiver. He can’t tell if it’s nerves, or anticipation. The thrill of getting caught. An undercover mission failed as he finally gets to shed the façade and bare his teeth.

After each vertebrae in his spine cracks back into its proper place, he heaves himself up from the floor, joining you in your routine as he stumbles to his own bedroom, rubbing at his hip as it protests his activities of the day.

As he enters his room, the sweetest melody of all reaches his ears. Low, breathy, constant, accompanied by an electronic hum. His ungrateful Feldmaus is… Indulging. Well, that must mean he can indulge as well, after all you’re nothing now. Not until you prove him wrong. A challenge you don’t even know he’s set you.

He’s listening, and gods above it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. His cock is jumping at every needy little sound you breathe out of those gorgeous lips, he can’t help imagining what you must be doing. How you must be punishing yourself. Maybe there’s another hole in here. Maybe he can make one. Maybe it’s worth the risk of being caught, just to see what you’re doing, what’s making you spill such sweet noises for him.

Perhaps he can be greedy. Perhaps he will be lucky. Thick fingers dip and dig, hooking under the edge of the carpet and slowly ripping, the staples connecting the rough fabric to the wooden boards creaking their way out, teasing him with how their little burrows grip them, threatening to announce his presence. Ah, you wouldn’t hear it. You’re being far too loud down there.

Gradually, he pulls it up, finding yet more shoddily covered insulation space. Thank the gods for the landlord special. He squeezes down, quieter than he’s ever managed to before, and he could cry with joy as he finds a hole around one of your light fixtures, giving him a perfect view of-

Oh Gott…

His heart is racing, thumping and beating at the inside of his rib cage, trying to force its way out so it can throw itself down into your arms, where it truly belongs.

He has to bite back a strangled groan when he sees the state of you in the throes of self-administered pleasure. Your perfect, angelic form, kneeling in prayer atop your mattress, and in this position he is your god. Your head is thrown back, lips parted, eyebrows arched as if begging for his glorious mercy, your eyes thankfully closed. One hand palming at the soft mound over your heart, the other holding the tool of your worship, whirring and purring against the apex of your thighs.

But no, there’s another tool, he can barely make it out where you have it trapped between your thighs and the ever-growing damp patch on your bedding, but whatever it is it’s thick. Hellishly thick. And then he notices the curves. The circular embellishments. Suckers. Dear god, his perfect little field mouse is fucking herself with an over-sized tentacle dildo. He can’t take his eyes off you, can’t stop his gaze from darting and sweeping over the different details of everything you’re doing. It’s almost overstimulating. No, it is overstimulating. Your moans, your whimpers, the steadily changing pitch of the wand as you press it harder and harder against your aching clit, the sound of that knotted toy popping in and out of your sopping, stretched hole, the sight of the sweet tears streaming from the corners of your eyes; diamonds sparkling in the light, the trail of drool running down your chin, dripping down the valley of your breasts, god your breasts; the way they’re bouncing, taunting him. His own mouth is watering. The flutter of your eyelashes, the crescent moons printed into your soft flesh from where you just can’t stop squeezing and pulling at yourself. Are you imagining his hands? You could have his hands. He would touch you, he would give them to you, he would leave them with you if you only asked. If you only showed that you wanted them, wanted him. You would use them for far more important tasks.

What does he need them for? Cooking, cleaning, bathing, building? He can learn to do those things without them, he would be honored to, if it meant watching you use them for this delicious purpose. He knows he’s being fucking insane. While one side of his mind fantasizes about you somehow using his severed hands to grope yours, the other side is spiraling, screaming, asking how Kilgore König became reduced to this. This disgusting, perverse, degenerate, self-destructive little earwig.

The pervert wins the battle.

In a second, his fist is buried in the tight fabric of his pants, his pre-cum slicked cock slipping through the too-tight hole he gives it, trying to emulate what he’s sure you must feel like. Why else would you be stretching yourself for him? What other reason could you possibly have for spearing yourself on something so large, so grotesque, unless you’re trying to train yourself to take him. Oh, that adds a dangerous inflation to his ego, even if deep down he knows he’s being delusional. He could make you feel even better than that thing, though. He knows it. You know it too.

His other hand is up at his jaw, his knuckles trapped between his teeth, as he tries desperately muffle his grunts, eyes wide and staring, scared to even blink in case he misses a single second of… you. Gods, you. You, you, you. He could cry, he thinks he might be, he can’t tell anymore. What’s sweat, what’s tears, when it’s all just salt in the wound of his overwhelming need for you?

You’re getting faster, no longer easing up and down with a pained, silent whine, but bouncing, mouth hanging open, the hand not holding your wand now braced in front of you on the mattress, like a bitch in heat sitting pretty for him. Moving so fast, god that means you’re taking it… You can take him… Fuck, the thought has his drool dampening the rafters of your ceiling. You, putting yourself through the hot ache of stretching yourself, opening the gates of your sweet, needy heaven for him, just for him. Just for him. Nur für ihn. Du gehörst ihm. Du gehörst ihm.

If this is your plan, if this is your gift, to rectify your cruel rejection of him, perhaps… Perhaps he can find it within his generous heart to forgive you. To give you another chance. Perhaps he can tolerate you being a whore, if you’re his whore.

Seine Hure.

As if on cue, your body slumps forward, shoulders crashing into the sheets, cheek pressed into the plush down of your pillows, giving him the perfect view of your ass bouncing desperately over your toy. He just knows your pillow’s already damp with the drool pouring from your lips, dry from the heavy breaths that have been rolling past them for the last hour. The way the plump rounds of your rear lead down into the tantalizing curve of your spine, it’s like a heart beating below him in rhythm with your thrusts, a locust beating its wings. Thinking of you as his end, it shockingly speeds him towards a different end, and he has more questions to puzzle over whenever his mind isn’t a fuzz of lust and need.

The crescendo of your symphony answers his earlier question. He feels it running down his cheek, tickling its way down into his beard. He’s crying. But who could blame him? Perfection embodied below him, sobbed moans, beautiful whines and whimpers filling his ears.

You collapse against the bed, body trembling, chest heaving, as you roll onto your back. He can’t bring himself to worry that you’ll see him, he doesn’t care anymore, he’s so fucking close, it almost hurts. He’s surprised he doesn’t taste copper from how hard he’s biting his knuckles.

The sight that breaks him is the bulge of your toy slowly disappearing as you pull it free from your tight heat with a flood of arousal and a soft, wet pop. It’s so lewd, so graphic, so juxtaposed to how he thought he saw you until now and the quietest whimper he can allow himself to make escapes him, his balls tightening as his cock finally pulses in his tight fist, red, angry, and bruised as he paints the inside of his boxers, panting and shaking, his eyes wide in horror at the realization that he’s never felt it like that before.

[hobnob-moth]

Extremely high effort Lilin revamp in the style of a scientific illustration. It doesn't show, but there's only three layers for the colors outside of black. One blue, one yellow, and one red like an actual lithographic print. On a scale from 1-10 I’d say that this is about a 2 for the likelihood that I’ll ever color like this again outside of maybe commission work. It was hardddddd. (see video below)

Although she's heavily inspired by sea slugs and copopods (among other aquatic, "squish" invertabrates as I call them), she's not supposed to be one specifically. Just a fictional brain parasite. I toned down her brain color from what real sea slugs apparently have. A cheeto-dust orange.

Lines done in toonboom with colors done in sai cause I have a weird process

She severs the corpus callosum (either as the species grows into maturity or by manually doing so with their soon to be prior host), takes residency in the lateral ventricle to feed upon fresh cerebrospinal fluid, and acts like an enhanced corpus callosum replacement while also being an overriding, primary brain to the host’s body. As much as she wants to be herself, she’ll always have a ghost in the machine with her. Her current host’s old experiences, knowledge, ticks, habbits, self, etc influencing her current personality. She’s just a small, core brain in comparison and relies on the host’s brain constantly.

There's a lot more that I can say about what's changed since her original design biology wise. How she now filter feeds with with something between what sea cucumbers have for filter feeding and the proboscus shape of "Gorgonorhynchus repens" ribbon worms. Her modified cnidosacs taking the place of her prior "transmitters" in purpose. Oh yeah, instead of coming through an eye she goes through the top of the skull. Its a change I made a while ago (See whenever her head started having flesh sloughed off to make her mask though that is a purely cosmetic decision on her part. She choses that)

[trashcreatyre]

Y’all ever get so emotional about a headcanon that you forget its not actually canon and its something you literally made up

[prettyflyshyguy]

Rejoice! Los Illuminados is bestowing upon you its most sacred body.

@cannibal-wings has been providing me excerpts and info about his RE4 remake AU.

It's good.

[arcane-shadow]

She protecc

[arundolyn]

its really interesting to me how the resident vampires in general of gg and bb have such completely different ideologies. mostly in reference to slayer and rachel but i think this somewhat extends to clavis also bc iirc he wasnt an observer but still kinda played by the same rules. theres at least a plot reason for rachel not to stick her nose into anything plotwise but she still kinda does anyway and i think even if she didnt have the bystander restrictions she wouldnt deign to interact with anyone all that often. i like the dichotomy of the alucards' general attitudes towards humans being at least moderately scornful and superior to some extent even if not actively despite still ultimately wanting to help out (mostly rachel tbh but theres still elements of the typical fiction vampire superiority complex type shit just in general vibes wise for all three of them, esp in relation to like. fuzzy) and slayer's attitude that humanity is a beautiful thing and wanting to help the people he comes across despite having no particular incentive to do so aside from personal fascination and goodwill. rachel already built in having some level of scorn for humans as lesser and also having ample incentive to never interfere with the main storyline as it carries out but doing it anyway because despite these things she still cares despite the active threat to her Literal Existence vs slayer having no skin in the game either way if he does or doesnt help anyone out but still deciding to try to help others find their way regardless just because if nothing else its the most interesting thing to do from his perspective. he has no external motivation TO or NOT TO interfere with anything, its just essentially long term people watching and hed rather do good than do nothing

[s0lemnhypn0s]

not to be a gatekeeper unironically but i genuinely feel a very, very small percentage of people actually understand crocodile. and if you think you're in that small percentage you're probably the exact kind of person I am talking about. Not to be mean but to be mean.

this is mainly directed at genderbenders and dofuwani shippers. neither of y'all understand crocodile and do not deserve access to him

[daydreamycrustacean]

The Origin and 0079 show slightly different versions of this but it always makes me a bit crazy how it´s kept vague whether it's true the Zabis caused the death of Zeon Deikun or not. We never actually see them admit to or talk about this and honestly? I was never under the impression that Dewin Zabi actually did it, he took the chance to become the ruler of Side 3 sure, but well its never made clear if he actually poisoned Zeon Deikun to take his throne like this is a Shakespeare play or something.

So thinking about the fact that maybe Zeon died of natural causes and not poisoned (or maybe just not by the Zabis) in relation to Char is crazy because...this is everything right?

It doesn't exactly make his "revenge" empty and useless bc yeah the Zabis were still a fascist monarchy that was twisting his father´s ideals and they had to be taken down but...Getting revenge on his father´s supposed death at their hands was not only his entire motivation, it's the reason he killed the only person that ever considered him his friend. The reason he separated himself from his sister, the last member of his family, and became something she could no longer recognize. The reason he stopped being Casval and became Char in the first place, an identity that even though he tried to kill in order to become a better person he could never truly escape.

This is getting embarrassingly long and emotional for a "isn't it fucked up that char may have done all of this based on nothing" post but!! I haven't even gotten into what growing up seeing himself as this conduit for revenge, having this One Purpose to accomplish because it was His Duty as his father´s son has done to him because it's everything!! It´s why he is this way!! Why he does what he does in cca after apparently getting better in zeta!! just...*gesture vaguely at all of his issues*

And yeah maybe it doesn't matter whether the Zabis killed his father or not bc what matters is that this is what Char believes, this is what Casval was told as a child. but. I don't know. fucked up if true. Maybe none of this had to happen.

[canarydarity]

Hard to tell how indicative the bones on the floor are of anything about the catacombs themselves being how, every few minutes, Pix kills another skeleton adding to the collection. He swipes his sword through the one before him, and it collapses so readily into a pile of bone—like it was made to, like it was just waiting on his sword—that he has to wonder, not for the first time, what was holding it together to begin with. The bones rattle and clatter against those already littered around, and Pix sighs at the further disturbance to the scene as it was when he had entered; accounting for the damage likely done by mobs was going to make this hell to study. 

He grabs another torch and sets it inside one of the empty sconces that still adorn the walls, readjusts his grip on his sword—he can hear more lingering around the next corner; the low hiss that means a spider is near, the groan or two of a zombie. 

Pix picks up a chunk of cobble from the ground and tosses it down the hall, waits. Sure enough, out scuttles a spider. He disposes of it quickly enough, but it seems he’ll have to venture down the dark hall to goad the zombies. He glances at the clock he placed in his hotbar before embarking on this mission (it’s hard to tell how much time passes underground—something he learned quickly in his line of work). There’s still a good amount of daylight left, and he wants the catacombs cleared; he has other projects he has to move on to, things he needs to finish; he’ll just get through a few more halls—it won’t be an issue, surely. 

But the new corner he rounds remains dark even as he places a torch behind him to mark the way back. The groans can still be heard, but a zombie is yet to lumber his way, and so he has to wonder what's beyond his admittedly limited sight. Pix shuffles another foot or so forward, a torch in his non-dominant hand now as well, hoping for light, for vision. The research part of him—the logical academic—knows that it shouldn't still be this dark with the torches placed behind him nor the one in his hand, and that part is so much louder and more important than the one that knows this means something is wrong, the part that says turn around. 

The torch is lit, he can feel the heat of the flame as he observes it flicker in and out but cast no shadow on the wall behind—a wall Pix can’t even see but knows is there all the same. The circle of light provided extends no further than an inch or two out from the flame itself—comparable more to that of a birthday candle than a lit hand torch. If he hadn’t been staring directly at it, he would’ve assumed the fire snuffed out. 

He feels his eye twitch and his brows furrow. Academia liked concrete answers, things that could be explained and reasoned away—unequivocal proof. But Pix had always had a soft spot for the inexplicable, the ineffable. It was nice when he studied something and found an answer, it was riveting when he didn’t. How much more exciting to study it again and again, a riddle that begged not to be solved. (How much sweeter the prize if he were the one to figure it out in the end). 

His interest was piqued. He could feel it, the way his attention focused and his surroundings blurred and left him; his body on standby, his sword hand lowered almost subconsciously.  

In other words, it was entirely his own fault when the zombie grabbed him. Panic is never a good thing to welcome into a fight, but it likes to show up uninvited anyway. Pix's entire career revolves around studying human behavior, about how human nature cannot be fought against though it oft leads us to our own downfall and ruin. He finds it uncanny when he's reminded that this is a phenomenon from which he is not exempt. 

In haste, he elbows the zombie behind him and turns, back now to the darkness—the one not even his torch could dent. It’s an ugly bugger, eyes soft and misshapen from decay and skin so leathery it’s as if it's been treated and is ready for use as a saddle or armor. Logic replaced by horror, before he can run it through it advances, arms out, and Pix drops his sword to reach back, holding it at arm's length itself; their arms interlocked, pose not unlike meeting an old friend again for the first time in a while. His hands grip the woven fabric of what's left of its shirt, too old and worn to be from any time close to recent, and, despite the very real danger, his mind takes the time to process the period-accurate fabric, the hand-stitched design. He blanches again as he looks into its horrible milky eyes—this zombie was from the capital. 

Not sentient enough to know why it’s not actually getting any closer to Pixlriffs, the zombie makes a noise that sounds frighteningly human in its frustration and steps forward, and in his distraction, Pix lets it. The push seems to make his brain function yet again, and he shoves the zombie backward a good few paces away, but the momentum sends him stepping back himself, and his foot finds not purchase but, instead, the disturbing lack of solid ground, and with nothing left to do, he falls. 

He hits the ground with a thump and a crack and a lot of other sounds he would rather not describe as he feels they were likely very undignified. Winded but, it appears, still in one piece, he grabs another torch and strikes it against the wall, holding it up above him when it lights and shines this time as torches normally do. He buries the part of himself that is disappointed at this—the part that wants to panic and complain finally louder, now, than the part that says hmm. 

He didn’t fall too far, it seems. Now that the torch is lit he can see the gap he’d fallen through, just under a dozen feet or so above where he lays. It's obvious even looking from below how the stone floor had crumbled away, taking maybe one or two hits too many over time from overcrowded mobs or shifts in terrain or pressure aboveground. He tilts his head back but sees only another dead end behind him, and ahead looks like a further, deeper hall of the tomb he hadn’t uncovered yet, though the path is obstructed by debris from above; a net of spiderweb blankets the pile of stone and dirt, but no spider seems to be left guarding the web. 

His friend above seems to have lost interest now that he’s fallen out of sight, and its moans and groans get further away by the second. 

No immediate threat, Pix lets his head fall back onto the ground and takes a breath. He knew the crypt would be full of mobs, he knew it’d be hard, but still…

No, it’s worth it. It will be worth it. He has a job to do.

At least he isn’t defenseless—it’s more than he can say for the dungeons. Not a weapon to his name, fists wrapped in tape so red you’d never believe it’d been white to begin with; knuckles so raw and scraped and beaten by the time he’d made it out that they’d scarred that way—permanent marks of the fighter he was, of the fighter he’d proved to be. 

There was a fear there, too, at that very real and physical understanding of permanence. His studies proved expert in providing examples of what was permanent and what wasn’t, and where people weren’t, things were. He’d spent enough time studying what could be learned about a person by the things they left behind to begin to wonder if anyone at all would’ve remembered him if he’d died in those dungeons—not a singular weapon or item for him to leave behind and tell his story.

Pix stops wallowing. He sits up and reaches over his shoulder for his pick; he isn’t shocked to find that the shaft had snapped in two from the fall, it having been strapped to his back. He sighs, tossing it aside as useless. He’ll make another. 

He takes the time to remind himself again that he knew it was going to be difficult, and that difficulty was no reason to not continue. But it didn’t just feel difficult it felt…inhibiting. Dissuading, deterring, impeding. It felt deliberate. It felt like, stay out; like, we don’t want you here; like, leave us to our rest. 

(it wasn’t, it was something far more sinister. An idea he’d never thought to consider; like a torch was giving off too-little light in the hallway of a dark, long-forgotten crypt, he couldn’t see any farther than what was right in front of his own face. How cliche it’d be, in the end, when it came to pass—the academic too invested in their own research, too dismissive of the present danger posed until it consumed them. He’d have a moment to laugh about it later, when the dread had settled in and all options—or lack thereof—exhausted. While on the topic of permanence…

It was not go away that the tomb was saying, not a driving force out that was being enacted upon the archeologist, but a more frightening call of stay. A threatening but desperate find…become…join…

No, if it were trying to keep him out, why would it keep pushing him deeper? Add this to the list of things he’d realize too late.)

He stands and dusts himself off. The wall is thick and overgrown with glow lichen, and he grabs the nearest vines and tugs one, twice, three times before deciding it won't give and hoisting up. It takes a few minutes and a fair amount of huffing and puffing to get himself to the top and over the edge but he does it, collapsing on higher ground once again and taking a minute to slow his pulse. When he left the dungeons, he dove back into the studies he’d been missing and decided he’d had enough fighting to last a lifetime—this was not without consequence, he’s not nearly as in shape as he used to be. 

His sword is still on the ground where he’d dropped it, so he reequips and readies himself to push his way back out; he’d have to make time to come back and clear the rest another day. He would be back, and he hoped he would be welcomed. 

“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he says into the quiet blackness of the catacombs. He doesn't dare speak above a whisper, for there were still mobs around and his voice carried enough as it was, bouncing along the empty stone and quiet graves. “I'd like to tell your story.” 

There's nothing to hear but for the scuttling of various creatures far off in the dark, the shrill whistle of stray wind through small openings and holes. He raises his voice only slightly, a bit bolder. “Don’t you want me to do that? Will—would you allow me to do that?” 

Silence, and then—the rattle and clatter of a skeleton. It sounds like only one; he lit everything up pretty well on his way in, getting out should be easier. Striking another torch against the wall, Pix prepares to go. For a second, the light is brighter than it should be, its circle of light illuminating the hall completely, the hole he’d fallen into, the distance to the other side. He leans back to avoid the heat of the flame, and he sees it. 

The other side of the cave-in leads not to another tunnel but to an alcove, and empty it is not. His torch, though many feet away, sheds light on the scene; the heavily wax-encrusted stone above a pile of used candles and burnt wicks, the coin and other offerings of gold overflowing from bowls and chalices and any other orifice they could be piled upon, and her. 

He recognizes her immediately. The tapestry covers the majority of the wall, and though it's faded for certain, the lack of direct sunlight has done wonders at preserving what it could. The colors are familiar to his research, the subtle and light greens under warm oranges and yellows. He’s too far, he cannot see any detail; the background, what she's holding, her face—but he knows her. She’s their patron. 

The skeleton wanders closer, its bones clicking and clacking down the hall. Pix swallows. 

“I’ll return for you, I will.” It’s a promise. She’s holding a secret, he knows she is—he’s going to figure out what. Pix turns just in time to face the skeleton as it rounds the corner, and soon its bones join those on the floor, new and old alike. 

His words still echo off the caverns and crevices of the catacombs after he's left and gone, and though not possible to have been heard by human ears, the crypt whispers back good. 

~-~-~-~

Far below even the hole the archeologist had fallen in, leagues underneath the surface of the earth, buried perhaps the furthest underground of anything left behind from the ancient capital—so deeply you’d have to wonder if maybe it was done on purpose—the crown sits in a chest, waiting patiently to be discovered. It’s not a matter of if, but a nice decisive and quiet when. Eventually, the echo of the archeologists' words falls upon it where it sits, and slowly it begins to emit a soft glow. It says stay, it says find, it says become, it says join.

It says soon.

[bcnes-archived]

one thing about writing bones is im always gonna overthink the way he'd refer to himself. just in his internal monologue or whatever. like everybody calls him mccoy but i doubt he's thinking of himself via his surname for a multitude of reasons, and there's bones but it's such a jim-exclusive thing, and leonard feels the most correct but it's a little weird at the same time because nobody ever calls him that in tos and even in aos it's just spock, like, twice. and then he might have gone by other nicknames in the past but he's not thinking of them in relation to himself anymore. who is this guy

[chai-dye]

So so normal about what a character's music tastes says about them

[bitter-sweet-coffee]

ok side rant before i go back to sillyposting

i hate how someone will post something that’s about a certain disorder and all the reblogs are “omg i do this therefore i must have this disorder” because it’s like. GOD. YES YOU CAN FEEL GUILTY OR ANXIOUS BECAUSE A TUMBLR POST MADE YOU FEEL BAD. DOES IT INFECT YOUR ENTIRE BEING AND SEEP INTO EVERYTHING YOU DO AND RUIN YOUR LIFE TO THE POINT YOU CANNOT FUNCTION? NO? ok then maybe stop saying you have 500 billion disorders after reading one (1) tumblr post online

i’m all for self diagnosing if it’s RESEARCHED not just “oh shit i do that” because newsflash! behavioural patterns in disorders can also be shared with neurotypical people! its not black and white! the difference is how badly this shit fucks you up

god. okay i’ll stop now i’m just irritated

[dirtytransmasc]

ok ok ok, I was doing random world building for a brain au (as in this is all you will ever hear of it, I'm keeping this one for myself, sorry) cause I'm maladaptive and bored. anyway, I had to work out who was with who and succession and everything, cause I was committed to the bit, and a crack ship has arisen:

Daeron and Rhaena... thoughts, feelings, opinions?

I think they'd be a cute betrothal, while purely political at first, I think they could actually get along quite well. they're closer in age (2 years apart in the books, though that might change in the show, who knows who cares, this is not going all that deep), Daeron's an energetic sweetheart, Rhaena's quiet but none the less feisty like her mother, both of them can be both sweet and sour, even spicy at times (especially Daeron *cough cough* war flashbacks *cough cough*). I feel like they would have 'friends before lovers' vibes, but they would love each other dearly in time.

I just think they could be cute, if fate willed a situation where they would be betrothed, cause otherwise there would be little to no chance. especially cause in my head (and storyline) they would be the ones taking Driftmark on Rhaena's claim, making Daeron her adoring lord consort (cause they deserved to have their true claims honored)

Edit: I looked into this and found crumbs of content, I am beyond pleased.

[maretriarch]

i have like completely turned around on the way I view psychotherapy in the past few months btw like for example don't call myself autistic anymore even tho ive been "diagnosed" since 14 like I think im just fucking stunted bcs like most people these days, Ive spent my whole life wasting away in front of the the computer, never going outside and socializing with people, I had no friends growing up, none as a kid and none as teen that weren't online as well as having a very heightened anxiety response these days i have very little desire to pathologize human instincts in myself in the ways of therapy anymore. i don't think the one size fits all labels are actually helpful for my or many others #mentalhealthjourney. a lot of people use it as justification for their issues instead of working to improve them. and I think the idea of a community and labels is comfort to many people, to have an Explanation a Reason a Higher Power to the point where they will make themselves fit into those predetermined boxes. therapy is not like the medical field where you can run tests and see like the physical damage is being done to the body. you can See the issue you can look at the data and tell what's making you sick. but when it comes to the brain it's soooo extremely based on the cultural expectations of what a "Normal" "Functioning" person is supposed to look like. and in america especially it's based on like the souless hyperproductive 9-5 worker as the ideal blank human model and I think that's also why ADHD self diagnoses have also risen. in a world that demands increased production as well as being more isolated than ever before of course when you fail to meet those standards you're gonna be like oh somethings wrong with Me when it's really not and I think if we lived in a world not so poorly over structured the natural human variances in temperament would be just that natural and human. syndrome voice and when everyones autistic no one will be.

[gailynovelry]

You know you're in too deep with the worldbuilding when you realize that your setting actually has four or five recognized gender categories, and that one of those gender categories is basically "what if 'furry' was a gender."