#felt good.

[agnesandhilda]

just cooked my first meal from scratch using a recipe in my first apartment and it's the best food I've ever made

[venstm]

Elation passes over his lips in bursts of stilted laughter as blood dribbles down his chin. The charred husk of a home they had once lived in lay before him, only that which he'd left encased in ice preserved from the flames. Touya's shrine where he'd knelt many nights apologising that he hadn't listened, the training room where he'd never set foot but had always heard the screaming and crying coming from as his youngest brother was forced to endure. The rest is gone, the bedroom he'd lingered in bitterly, the playroom where he'd felt caged by his father, the stupid gardens and homely settings where they'd play at happy families to show the world how supportive they are. No more lies left.

He's not silly enough to believe any of the family were caught in the flames, long since moved to any safehouses, but this is enough to see, to know there will be no more walls to contain their misery, to haunt his nights. He tips his head back towards Dabi, hand shifting against his chin to smear the crimson into an unseemly smudge and Natsuo smiles.

"Well how'd it feel to burn it all down? To cremate the remains of this house?" It had never been a home, not for Natsuo, certainly not after Touya was gone and he'd ricocheted between anger and despair every waking moment until he could retreat to the dorms. "Want to do his agency building next?" He can hold out for one more before he'll need to take a med break and rest, and the flames dancing do look ever so pretty against the evening sky.

It  is  now  a  mausoleum  of  nebulous  memories,  amorphous  apparitions  that  haunt  the  blackening  wood  as  it  laments,  strident  in  its  grief.  Dabi’s  satisfaction  is  as  monstrous as  his  resentment,  an  expression  whispering  of  a  paroxysm  of  screaming,  a  child  who,  beneath  the  censorious  gaze  of  his  father,  would  never  amount  to  anything.  His  fire  was  too  fierce,  his  body  too  fragile,  a  union  that  brewed  only  senseless  suffering  as  an  outcome.  How  he  hated  their  father,  his  life  dismissed  beneath  some  indeterminate  concept  of  a  failed  successor.  He  exploits  it  in  Natsuo  without  a  modicum  of  remorse  because,  when  it  came  to  the  ugliness  that  the  torodorki  family  shared,  only  some  had  the  decency  to  acknowledge  it.  To  harness  it  as  something  more  potent  than  misery,  ire  that  glowed  with  the  sweltering  heat  of  their  father’s  revered  flame.  The  building  burns,  collapses  in  on  itself  with  a  shuddering  breath,  serpentine  blue  tongues  curling up  into  sinuous,  billowing  smoke.  The  laughter  that  bleeds  from  his  brother’s  wounds  is  mellifluous,  like  a  lullaby  sung  to  an  unsettled  child,  he  lets  the  hissing  coalesce  into  a  wondrous  cacophony. 

“  I’m  impressed. ”  his  voice  rose  above  the  sputtering  embers,  a  callous,  detached  note  but  the  fire  immersed  him,  compelling  him  to  be  present  even  as  the  gratification  waned  into  writhing  static.  It  wasn’t  enough.  He  is  granted  a  transient  reprieve  from  the  sempiternal  fire  within  him  but  it  won’t  quell  it  for  long.  A  dark,  scuffed  combat  boot  kicks  at  the  dirt,  unearthing  long,  etiolated  roots,  he  appeared  more  likely  to  care  about  those  than  the  debris  their  once-home  would  burn  to.  “  didn’t  think  y’had  it  in  you. ”  his  praise  often  felt  venomous,  never  kind  nor  wholly  encouraging,  this  reflected  such  sentiments.  A  hand  comes  down  between  his  shoulders  far  more  convincing  than  his  previous  statement,  acknowledging  that,  when  it  came  down  to  it,  they  were  made  from  the  same  cardinal  thing;  hatred.  “  I  doubt  he’ll  be  showin’  his  face  round  here  for  a  while  and  dear  ol’  sis  has  no  doubt  gone  into  hiding,  so.”  his   wicked  laughter  punctuates  the  dolorous  wail  of  a  support  beam  as  it  collapses,  a  plume  of  smoke  erupting  alongside  hundreds  of  flitting  sparks.  “  why  the  hell  not.  if  we’re  gonna  make  ourselves  known  might  as  well  be  loud  about  it. ”   Natsuo  wasn’t  unlike  him,  his  body  petitioning  for  some  respite  from  the  overexertion  of  his  quirk  but  the  concoction  spurring  him  on  was  far  more  formidable.  This  night  was  still  in  its  infancy,  the  bracing  winds  that  augmented  those  flames  to  narrow,  impossibly  tall  pillars,  was  invigorating  as  it  tousled  his  hair.  “  C’mon,  there’s  still  stuff  for  us  to  destroy  before  the  boss  notices  we’re  missin’. ”  and,  as  if  in  a  moment  of  comradery,  Dabi  slid  an  arm  around  his  shoulders,  urging  him  forward  with  enough  force  that  he  could  have  lost  his  footing,  his  laughter  still  ringing  baleful  against  the  dissonant  weeping  of  their  home  as  it  was  lost  to  the  flames. 

[lilacponds]

i was tired and was gonna go to bed, like, 3 hours ago, but i was in a vc with friends and then one of them asked if i wanted to play something together so i was like sure !

we just stopped playing totally reliable delivery service, me and them and two other friends

and, man.

i missed just playing silly videogames and having fun with my friends.

[formulanni]

Roan of Arc

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls

[milkvsvoid]

Cried for once

[puppyboypatrick]

online friends are like. i would trust you with my life. i have never seen your knees

[chloesimaginationthings]

Man this scene in FNAF 2 movie is gonna be wild-

[sopuu]

pesky…snail?

[mad-serotonin]

Take It Easy☀️

[lotus-pear]

he's so crazy we can't take him anywhere 😭🤣

[love4hobi]

welcome back, my love ♡

[inkskinned]

you're in the habit of denying yourself things.

if someone asked you directly, you would say that you love a little treat. you like iced coffee and getting the cookie. you drink juice out of a fancy cup sometimes, and often do use your candles until they gutter out helplessly.

but you hesitate about buying the 20 dollar hand mixer because, like. you could just use your arms. you weren't raised rich. you don't get to just spend the 20 dollars (remember when that could cover lunch?), at least - you don't spend that without agonizing over it first, trying to figure out the cost-benefits like you are defending yourself in front of a jury. yes, this rice cooker could seriously help you. but you do know how to make stovetop rice and it really isn't that hard. how many pies or brownies would you actually make, in order to make that hand mixer worthwhile?

what's wild is that if the money was for a friend, it would already be spent. you'd fork over 40 without blinking an eye, just to make them happy. the difference is that it's for you, so you need to justify it.

and it sneaks in. you ration yourself without meaning to - you don't finish the pint of ice cream, even though you want to. the next time you go to the store, you say ah, i really shouldn't, and then you walk away. you save little bits of your precious things - just in case. sometimes you even go so far as putting that one thing in your shopping cart. and then just leaving it there, because maybe-one-day, but not right now, there's other stuff going on.

you do self-care, of course. but you don't do it more than like, 3 days in a row. after that it just feels a little bit over-the-edge. like. you can't live in decadence, the economy is so bad right now, kid.

so you don't buy the rice cooker. you can-and-will spend the time over the stove. you can withstand the little sorrows. denial and discipline are practically synonyms. and you're not spoiled.

it's just - it's not always a rice cooker. sometimes it is a person or a job or a hug. sometimes it is asking for help. sometimes it is the summer and your college degree. sometimes it is looking down at scabbed knees and feeling a strange kind of falling, like you can't even recognize the girl you used to be. sometimes it is your handprint looking unsteady.

sometimes it is tuesday, and you didn't get fired, and you want to celebrate. but what is it you like, even? you search around your little heart and come up empty. you're so used to denying that all your desires draw a blank.

oh fuck. see, this is the perfect opportunity. if you had a mixer, you'd make a cake.

[artist-rat]

my sister finished her first bg3 run, here's evil gang reunion photo <333 (withers invented polaroid for the occasion idc)

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[bethfuller]

waiting for you in the house the trees ate

[metamatar]

Zionists love to ask me, "How would you fare in Gaza?" to which I love to respond, "How would I get to Gaza?" This first question, like many transphobic heckles that I have received from Zionists, is an Althusserian hail. According to Althusser (1971), the hail serves to interpolate the individual into the subject, to bring the individual into ideology. The noble identification of "gay friendly" Tel Aviv's gift to all queers is a hail—an interpolation of the transgender body into an always already indebted subject position, one enmeshed in a "cycle of debt." Under the Zionist economy of gratitude, the transgender subject is perpetually indebted to capitalism and the West for allowing her to exist. The properly delimited space for the transgender subject within this ideology is essentially one confined to an apoliticized space of pride parades and gay bars, but never the front lines of an anti-imperial or anticolonial project. It is a queer/transphobic assault against those visibly queer bodies who refuse to be properly disciplined neoliberal queer consumers—and transgender bodies are often the most visibly queer bodies and hence the ones singled out for attack. As one cannot return the gift to the one who gave it (in this case because the Zionist disidentified from his own queerphobia), the transgender subject is forced to pass it along—to Palestinians. Hence, the queerphobic Zionist can pass the gift of his racist colonial phobia as well as his queerphobia on to the transgender subject. The projection allows the Zionist to disidentify from the transphobia inherent in his hail. This is particularly important, since it is precisely the violent transphobia—"what are you?"—that is an incitement to vulnerability. I am supposed to feel vulnerable, afraid, attacked by this hail, in order that I may pass on that gift of death to the supposedly transphobic Palestinian.

Papantonopoulou, Saffo. “‘Even a Freak Like You Would Be Safe in Tel Aviv’: Transgender Subjects, Wounded Attachments, and the Zionist Economy of Gratitude.” Women’s Studies Quarterly 42, no. 1/2 (2014): 278–93. http://www.jstor.org/stable/24364930.