#god i'm so lonely

[mccartneycomics]

this video has been the bane of my existence for years i wanna kms

[lieut-dundy-le-vesconte]

I do believe my meddling worked. Yet another dundy W. J should make a tallyboard to make me feel better. All those wins on the board.... man I'm good at this ... ANYONE ELSE WANAN COMEFYCK ME TO MAKE THEIR CRUSH JEALOUS AND WIN THEM OVER???????

[as-you-think]

.

[iloafeu]

I need what they have

[mgdlnkrn]

Winter season is useless without love

[eclipseofmothss]

Got so bored today that I learned how to do some basic animations within 5 hours.

[happytripper]

once again wishing i had more friends

[deadestofdoves]

You know your mental health is fucked when the boba shop barista(?) just saying your name and excitedly waving goodbye makes you want to cry tears of joy

[moodyseal]

I was poking fun at how unexpectedly silly the CHB kids looked in armour in the first two episodes of the PJO show (acting like an almighty army and all) and then it hit me. This is exactly how some of them will look like when they will be dying in the final battle. Silly. Tiny. Literal children

[vaguely-concerned]

To the ‘themes I am picking up on in Veilguard’ list, let's go ahead and add what I have a sneaking suspicion will actually turn out to be The theme:

— the world has changed and can never be as it was again.

— I have been changed and can never be who I was again.

— in this simple unavoidable truth there is endless grief and endless hope.

And I… may be getting a bit emotional about it haha. Let me show my work a bit: 

if da:o is a game about people who are already dead or half ghosts in some form (through societal forces, psychologically, functionally, literally, in body, through the joining etc.) coming together anyway to save the world from being swallowed by total nihilism and despair (symbolized by the blight) through the power of love and friendship and also this sword/potential heroic sacrifice that I found, da2 is a game about people who have lost their homes and been set adrift finding and building new homes in each other (while completely failing to save the world. also through the power of love and friendship. as well as years of petty bickering <3 we must imagine kirkwall if not happy then worth having been because the love was there the love was there and that's the only sanctifying force we can ever have in this doomed world and city of ours), and da:i is a game about old stabilizing-but-unjust comfortable lies vs. disruptive but potentially liberating uncomfortable truths, and the power of friendship to help us distinguish the one from the other and navigate through them...

folks… I'm starting to think that veilguard might be a game specifically about moving towards recovery and acceptance after trauma — about how even in this flawed, severed, scarred state, what is here right now is worth loving and worth caring for. even in an imperfect and impermanent world and self, there is worth and joy. and of course the first real tragedy — and threat — of Solas is that he just cannot find it in himself to accept this and move on, to let go of what was, the regret won’t let him go or he won’t let go of it. which means that even though on the surface it’s Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain (and the will to subjugate and violate they represent) who are the main villains, the real antagonistic force in this story beneath that is the Dread Wolf’s despair. A despair Rook must make an answer to by the end of the game, one way or another, compassionately or with righteous fury, triumphant or pyrrhic.

The world will change again and again and so will you — BUT the crucial element is that so will everyone else who exists along with you, you are fundamentally not alone in this existential truth. all we’ll ever have is each other and my god that is plenty, my god that is enough!!! Which is the second thing Solas just can’t accept, he keeps himself separate and completely alone out of an awful mix of fear and pride and feeling himself unworthy of anything else. Rook and the player want to save the world of Thedas because it’s where everyone we love lives, Solas wants to go back to the past because that’s the only neighbourhood where he can still visit those he loved — and the person he himself was, before. A very sympathetic and human instinct/trap to fall into when touched by trauma, I think, if only it wasn’t backed by godlike power, a fundamentally oppositional personality, and a catastrophic lack of therapy to make it literally everyone else’s problem too lol. It’s varric and solas’ banter about the man on the island and where meaning in a life comes from all over again, writ large and with detail work — and the added idea of ‘what if there are also other islands out there, though. With other people on them that you could find if you reach for each other’. Rook with the best of intentions has to make choices to which there are no perfect outcomes and live with what happens — and not cut themselves off from everyone else around them even when there is regret or shame. You get back up every day and you make a life with other people doing the same and you do your best, and that’s the only victory this world will give you. In the end, that is more than enough, that is essential. And I um. I love that. So much. It’s why some of the writing clumsiness on top can’t hurt me because this thematic spine is so solid and so beautiful to me. It’s DA2 all over again that way for me personally — I forgive this story for what it isn’t and couldn’t be, and I love it with my whole stupid open heart for what it actually is. Thank you for coming to my TED-talk and goodbye etc.      

(For my fellow TLT heads out there — you know what this story is reminding me of most of all, actually? It has some big Nona the Ninth vibes down there in the deep. It’s about… the horror and unspeakable beauty that can only be found in liminality, and the role of love in making that basic fact of existence bearable. And also even more unbearable at the same time. I'm so sorry.)

[thekittyokat]

you ever just have a lot, a LOT of feelings all at once about a character and not even remotely enough words or brainpower to FORM the words to describe everything you're feeling. so it feels like you may explode. yeah

[la-muerta]

"What do buckwheat flowers mean in the language of flowers?" "Lovers." // "A gift for our first meeting. Do you like them?" *** "I will come to you as rain... I will beg the gods to allow me that at least." // "I can also turn into rain. In future, when it rains, it means I've come to accompany you."

𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙧𝙚𝙬𝙚𝙡𝙡𝙨 𝘎𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘓𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘎𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘥 (2016) // 𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘍𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘦 (2024)

[naamahdarling]

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[galedekkarios]

random thought but i was thinking of tara's comments about getting gale to eat and take care of himself and . well. i was just kind of warmed by the idea of gale and astarion having a particular... dehydrated and perhaps slightly unwell sickly look to them that is only exacerbated by their arduous journey, but then six months after that nightmare when they return to withers' party as husbands they look so much healthier!! they're softer and stronger and well-fed!! they actually look alive! and happy! because they are! and isn't that so wonderful!!

[catsithkelpie]

I'm realizing I have a type

Sad, pathetic, lonely men who own chickens and have chubby cheeks

If I had a nickel for every time I obsessed over a sad, pathetic, lonely man who owns chickens and has chubby cheeks, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

Extra, for comedic purposes:

65. Screenshots. Of Mycheal from Mushroom Oasis.

I have a problem

[astrobei]

byler + 35 for touch prompt asks: kissing their bruises and scars  (+ some bonus injury tending!)

“I can’t believe you.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

Mike tries for a grin, a last-ditch attempt at lightening the mood, at playing it off cool, at proving that he’s not hurt half as bad as Will’s convinced himself he is. That backfires at once, though, as he winces involuntarily with his next step, and Will’s frown immediately deepens. 

“Mike,” Will chides, wholly unamused. He’s not smiling. Mike wants to tell him to lighten up, that it’s only a scratch, that it’s superficial and Mike’s faced worse after tripping and falling on the Hawkins Elementary playground. He doesn’t think it’ll matter, though, because Will is looking at him with equal parts concern and exasperation and the kind of irritatingly steadfast stubbornness that makes Mike want to grab him by the shoulders and shake. Hard. 

“It’s not that bad,” he repeats anyway, fighting back a second wince with everything he has as they clear the top few steps of the stairs. “Really.”

“Your leg,” Will points out, reaching a hand out as Mike lets out a slow exhale, “is bleeding. A lot.”

Mike takes his hand and lets himself be hauled up over the last stair. He glances down, sees the red seeping slowly through the rough denim of his jeans, cut open from his ankle up his shin and the back of his calf. “It’s not a lot,” he insists, because it’s really not. “It’s just a little scratch.”

Will stares at him, still holding loosely onto his hand. They’re standing in the upstairs hallway, and they’re tracking mud and dirt and, yes, okay, just a little bit of blood all over the carpet but honestly? Mike can’t find it in himself to care. “I can’t believe you,” Will says at last, but he looks like he’s trying his hardest not to smile. His eyes are giving it away, just like always– sparkling, going creased at the corners like they do whenever he thinks Mike is being funny but won’t give him the satisfaction of saying so. “You went and got yourself all cut up–”

“I got scraped by a vine,” Mike grunts, limping gently as Will hauls him into the bathroom. “That’s not cut up.”

“It is in my books,” Will says, and then Mike is lifting himself up into the counter by the sink and Will is digging through the drawers for a clean towel. “Because there’s you, and there’s a cut, and the rest is pretty self-explanatory.”

Mike watches him move, grabbing the soap from under the sink, brows furrowed and jaw set in quiet determination, the same way it is every time he’s upset. “You’re being dramatic,” he says quietly.

Will doesn’t look up. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Mike presses, as Will turns the faucet on. “Will–”

“I’m being perfectly reasonable,” Will says coolly, then sticks the towel underneath. “Go get yourself all cut up then. See if I care.”

He does care. The front isn’t even an attempt at authenticity, and Mike reaches out to still Will’s wrist as he turns off the water. “Will. Hey. Just– can you look at me?”

Will looks up. His eyes are a bit watery, and he blinks once, twice, glancing between Mike’s own eyes before looking away. “What?”

Mike immediately feels the sour rush of guilt wash over him, even in the warm lighting of the bathroom and the heady, steadying safety of Will standing in front of him, bracketed by his legs. “Hey,” he whispers, tugging him closer by the wrist. Will catches himself on the counter with the other hand, towel still clutched tightly, and looks back at him. “Are you okay?”

“Am I–” Will stares at him, blinking again. He shakes his head, laughing a little incredulously. “Yeah, I’m fine, Mike. You’re the one that’s hurt.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you,” Mike says earnestly. “I swear, it came out of nowhere and I just didn’t react fast enough.”

Will’s hand comes to rest gently just above his knee. They’re face to face like this, the low counter making up for the few inches Mike still has on him. Up close, Mike can see the shadows his eyelashes are casting across his cheek, stark in the bright overhead light. He could count them all, if he wanted, and the sparse smattering of freckles across his nose. 

“I know,” Will sighs at last, those dark lashes fluttering closed. “I just–”

“Hey, it’s okay.” Mike reaches out, cups Will’s jaw with one hand. “Just– look at me, okay? I’m fine. It’s just a scratch. And you can patch me up and I’ll be good as new and also I’ll know to jump out of the way when the vines start moving next time.”

Will cracks a smile, and then huffs out a laugh, dropping his head to Mike’s shoulder. “You’re insane,” he says, a little muffled. “You’re the one that’s hurt, you shouldn’t be comforting me.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe a little,” Will admits, pushing himself up and away, pressing a fleeting kiss to Mike’s cheek on his way to. The contact is light, brief, but Mike feels himself grow warm at the gesture anyway.

“And,” he gets out, trying his hardest to make sure his voice does not give out on him in the middle of a sentence. “You can kiss me all better afterwards.”

“I’m starting to think you did this on purpose,” Will murmurs, but he’s grinning now, so he can’t be all that mad. “We’ll see. Stick your leg out.”

Mike does. “Going to patch me up now?”

Will rolls the tattered remnants of denim out of the way. “I’ll try,” he says, studying the wound. “It doesn’t look deep, but– you know, what do I know?”

“Reassuring,” Mike mutters.

“It might scar,” Will warns him. “I feel like this kind of thing always scars. And, uh, this might sting,” he adds, holding up the towel.

“That’s cool. Scars are cool,” Mike says, “and I can deal if it– ow, holy shit!”

—

It does scar, obviously, because at some point along the way, the universe decided that Mike can’t have nice things. It’s cool, though. It’s pretty neat, and Will’s a good doctor, and it was shallow and blessedly not-infected and now he’s got a pretty gnarly pink line of a scar winding its way up the back of his calf. 

“Wow,” Will says simply, when Mike pulls the leg of his pants up to show him. “That’s cool.”

“It’s awesome,” Mike grins, then flops back down onto the bed. Will is still hovering over him, Mike’s leg propped up on his lap, the leg of his sweatpants rolled up to his knee. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s a scar,” Will laughs. “How cool can it be?”

“Very. If anyone asks, I got knifed.”

Will runs one hand down the side of Mike’s calf, palm flat to the skin and his expression contemplative. Soft. “In the leg?”

Mike shrugs. “It could happen!”

“Right,” Will laughs again. “Is that cooler than a supernatural interdimensional vine?”

“Getting knifed is a story I can tell to people who are not from Hawkins, Indiana,” Mike says matter-of-factly. He pushes himself up onto his elbows to see Will better– the sloping width of his shoulders in Mike’s borrowed tee, the way his hair is still a little wet around his neck from the shower. The easy, languid way he’s sitting, curled up on Mike’s bed with one hand splayed across Mike’s ankle. Appreciative. Absentminded, like these are all things he’s doing without really being aware of them.

Will hums softly, then trails a gentle finger up Mike’s ankle, around his shin, up his calf. He stops right below the back of his knee, right where the skin starts to get soft and ticklish. Mike jerks in a full-body twitch. “Will!”

“Sorry,” Will grins, not looking even a little bit sorry. “You’re right. It’s a cool scar.”

“Thank you,” Mike says, then pulls Will down onto him the rest of the way. Will lets out a small, startled little noise before catching himself, one hand on either side of Mike’s head.

“One of these days, you’re going to kill me,” he grumbles, easing himself down onto his side next to Mike, who gravitates towards the alluring warmth of his body like it’s a magnetic thing.

“If I knife you, you can also have a cool scar,” Mike mumbles, tucking his face into the hollow of Will’s throat. “We can match.”

“Are you going to get me in the leg too?”

“Nah,” Mike whispers. “It’s a cool scar, but it’s ugly. I wouldn’t want that on you.”

“It’s not an ugly scar on you,” Will says immediately. The sound reverberates through Mike’s body from where his ear is pressed up against Will’s sternum. “You wear it well.”

“What, like an accessory?” Mike laughs, turning and pressing a light kiss below Will’s Adam’s apple. 

Will hums appreciatively. “Sure,” he laughs. “You could make it work.”

“Not all of them,” Mike says, too distracted by the all-encompassing warmth of Will’s body to really be paying too much attention to what he’s saying.

Will pauses. He cranes his neck so he can see Mike, and says, “What?”

“My scars, I mean,” Mike yawns. It’s not that late– barely eleven– but it’s been a long day. He’s had a warm shower. He’s lying in bed with a very warm, very comfortable, very pretty boy, and things are starting to go a little hazy around the edges. “They’re not all that nice looking.”

Will doesn’t say anything for a moment. Mike listens to the faint, rhythmic sound of his pulse, eyes almost fluttering closed, when–

“Show me,” Will says.

Mike’s eyes fly open again. He frowns. “What?”

Will’s arms tighten around Mike’s shoulders. “You should show me,” he repeats. “If you want. I’d– I want to see.”

Mike is confused, a little. “What?” he says again. “Why?”

Will looks thoroughly baffled by the question. “Because they’re you,” he says, like this is obvious. “I don’t think there’s any part of you that’s not all that nice-looking.”

If Mike were even ten percent more awake, he’d try to protest. As it is, it’s taking most of his brainpower to even understand what Will is saying, but his brain-to-muscle communication must be better than he thought, because he’s tilting his face up before he can even register the action.

“Here,” he says, tapping at his chin with one hand. “Troy pushed me over at school. I hit my chin on a rock.”

The mark is mostly faded now, he knows, but it’s there if you squint, if you lean in and look real close. Will’s eyes dart down, then he hooks a careful finger around Mike’s chin, tilting his face upwards before pressing a kiss there, to the underside of his jaw. It’s light. Gentle. It sends Mike’s heart soaring anyway.

“You’re a sap,” Mike says, trying and failing to hide the violent red that his face is probably turning. “What was that?”

“You asked me to kiss it better,” Will says. “There you go.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “You’re about four years too late, okay?”

Will ignores him. “I like that one,” he smiles. “It’s cute. I can’t imagine your face without it.”

“It’s–! Okay,” Mike splutters, and Will laughs quietly. “Moving on.”

“Next one,” Will coaxes, but Mike shakes his head.

“Your turn.”

“What?”

“I can’t be the only one embarrassed here,” Mike says. He taps a finger against Will’s cheek. “Go on. Tell me your secrets.”

“Mike,” Will tries, but Mike fixes him with his best patented Mike Wheeler Look, and Will gives in. “You’re impossible,” he groans. “Anyone ever told you that?”

“Yeah,” Mike laughs, “you. Now come on! Tell me things about you!”

Will huffs and says, “You know everything about me,” which maybe is a little true, but it doesn’t mean Mike doesn’t like finding out stuff about him anyway. “And, uh, here,” Will is saying, tapping above his left eyebrow. “I ran into the doorway when I was six. My mom lost her shit. It wasn’t a lot of blood but I was a small kid so it looked a lot worse than it was.”

Mike’s first instinct is to laugh, which he does. He’s surprised at how it comes out– sharp, delighted. Happy, because this is one thing he hadn’t known about Will before that he does now. He can see the scar; it’s small and it’s faint, especially now that Will’s lost any vestige of a summer tan he might have had, but it’s there.

“It’s cute!” Mike runs the pad of his thumb along it, palm pressed up against Will’s cheek, then leans in, brushing his lips over the warm skin there before pulling it away. “There you go.”

If nothing else, at least Will is also turning a very entertaining shade of pink. “Who’s the sap now?”

“It was your idea,” Mike shrugs happily. He kisses Will there again, just because he can, more firmly this time. A proper forehead kiss, stroking one thumb gently under Will’s eyes. “Ta-da.”

“Idiot,” Will whispers fondly, but he holds loosely onto Mike’s wrist anyway, his own thumb rubbing loose circles on Mike’s knuckles. “Okay. Now you.”

“This feels like show and tell,” Mike says. “Like when we were in elementary school.”

“Sure,” Will giggles. “Okay. What did you bring to class today?”

Mike grins. “Um. Here.” He rolls up the sleeve of his t-shirt, points to a spot halfway between his shoulder and elbow. “From the mall. There was broken glass everywhere, so I’m honestly surprised this was it.”

Will is silent for a moment. He brings his hand up to Mike’s arm, runs his thumb back and forth over the small white line there. It’s not big, and Mike hadn’t even noticed it until his parents arrived, too hopped up on adrenaline to feel it. His mom had seen the blood and promptly freaked out. Privately, Mike had thought about Billy Hargrove and figured he should count his blessings.

“I wish you hadn’t gotten anything,” Will says. It’s quiet. Sad.

”Just cuts and scrapes,” Mike says, watching Will watch him. They’ve been through some shit. Cute and scrapes are unavoidable.

“It doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Will sniffs, leaning forward to press a kiss there too. His lips are warm against the cool skin of Mike’s arm, and he lingers for a moment, his hair brushing against Mike’s chin. He kisses him again, quick. “There.”

Mike wants to say something– anything– but he can’t be sure that whatever comes out of his mouth right now won’t be the most embarrassing thing he’s ever said out loud. Will has plenty of ammunition on him already, and Mike’s voice cracking in the middle of a sentence after Will kissed him– and not even on the mouth!– does not need to be added to the list. “Hey,” he whispers instead, and Will looks up. “It’s barely a scratch.”

Will rests his forehead against Mike’s. “Shut up,” he says, but there’s no bite to it. “I’ll worry if I want to worry.”

“It was years ago,” Mike protests. “It basically healed by the time we got home.”

“Don’t care.”

Mike sighs. He’s stubborn, but his boyfriend is almost more so, and one thing he knows now that he didn’t before is to cut his losses while he can. “Your turn,” he says instead, dropping a placating kiss on Will’s cheek.

Will makes a small, happy noise. “Um. I don’t know. I have this one here,” he points to the back of his hand, “from when Jonathan and I built Castle Byers. One of the branches was really sharp and– well, you know. It’s not even big. I don’t know why it left a scar.”

The funny thing is that Mike has seen these before, but it’s not really something he notices. Little marks, littered over Will’s body– maybe it’s a testament to how long Mike spends just looking at him, but in his head, these are all just Will. He’s so used to them that it rarely occurs to ask where they’d come from. They’re just Will.

“I think it’s charming,” Mike decides, and Will lets out a small snort of laughter. 

“Charming? Really?”

“Yes,” Mike says, “because then I can do this.” He brings Will’s hand up to his face, brushes his lips across the back of his knuckles, and bites back a laugh at the way Will immediately turns extremely pink.

“You are so, so ridiculous,” Will gets out. “Charming? Seriously?”

“Yes,” Mike says again. “You heard me.”

He’s still holding Will’s hand, and he’s not very inclined to let go, so he slots their fingers together and squeezes, once.

“Ridiculous,” Will repeats, but it’s weaker this time. “Now you.”

“Um,” Mike balks. Any semblance of brainpower he gathered up for their conversation so far is rapidly being washed away, every second he spends with Will pressed up against him like this rendering him even more incoherent. He fights back a yawn, and is mostly successful when he says, “I can’t remember.”

“You can’t– okay,” Will laughs. He kisses Mike on top of his head. “Go to sleep, then.”

Mike shakes his head. “Go again. I want to hear.”

“You just want to kiss me,” Will mutters. “You have an agenda.”

Mike grins shamelessly, despite himself. “Maybe.”

“I don’t know,” Will admits. He runs a hand down Mike’s back and then pulls him in until their bodies are flush. “I don’t know what else there is.”

Mike yawns again. “I do,” he whispers, then taps a cautious hand against Will’s side, right against his ribs. “Here.”

Will stops. Takes in a soft, sharp breath. “Right.”

“Sorry,” Mike backtracks immediately, pulling his hand away. “You don’t have to talk about that one, I was just–”

But Will just shakes his head. “No, it’s okay,” he says, lips moving gently over the top of Mike’s hair as he talks. “I just– you already know about that one. And I thought we were talking about the cute little scars, you know. Like, the silly ones.”

“I’m glad my chin got all banged up just for you to think it’s cute and silly,” Mike huffs. And then, “Seriously. You don’t have to.”

“Well, there’s nothing I can say that you don’t know,” Will says, twitching slightly as Mike’s fingers dip under the hem of his borrowed t-shirt. The scar there isn’t big at all, but Mike can feel where the skin goes smooth under his fingertips. He’s seen it– he wasn’t there when it happened but he knows what it looks like. Will hadn’t said anything until they’d gone swimming at the lake that summer– tugging his shirt off and not giving it a second thought until Mike’s eyes had nearly popped right out of his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, instead of bringing up any of that. “That it happened to you.”

“Don’t be,” Will says immediately. Mike tucks his face further into the curve of Will’s neck. “I’m glad she got it out.”

Mike hums in unsatisfied relent. “Still. I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” Will whispers. “Thank you.”

“I’d kiss it better but that requires a lot of moving,” Mike says, punctuating his point with yet another yawn. Will makes a quiet noise of amusement above him. “But it’s cool. I can be flexible.”

“What are you–” Will starts, before Mike cuts him off, leaning up and off the pillow to catch his lips in a kiss.

“See,” Mike whispers, smiling. “I can make do.”

“With every passing second, I become more convinced that this was a scheme,” Will sighs.

“So no kiss?”

“I didn’t say that,” Will says, then leans back in, tilting Mike’s head back until he’s lying against the pillow again, hand still splayed across his lower back. It’s warm, and it’s soft, and it’s–

“Wow,” Will says. “I’m sorry, Mike, am I boring you?”

“No,” Mike says, around yet another yawn. “I’m not even–”

“You are so even,” Will laughs, then pulls away. “Sleep. I’m not going anywhere.”

“I know,” Mike hums, then kisses Will again. Just for the hell of it. “I know you’re not.”