#how I'd write

[unicornpopcorn14]

So we all know by now that Dazai is comfortable enough around Chuuya to show nervousness/worry.

Enough times for Chuuya to pick up on that pattern. The pattern, may I remind you, that doesn't have evident correlation to either nervousness or worry to most people. One that can even be interpreted as misplaced given the situation.

Which means that Dazai has done this in front of Chuuya so often, that Chuuya at first was hella confused, before he finally made a connection between when and why it happens. And still remembered that connection after four years of separation. Which gets us to my point:

What if this isn't the only emotion Dazai displays weirdly?

What if he has multiple unconventional patterns he displays for sadness, frustration, content, or disgust? The times he really feels them, and they become too strong for him to just deal with normally? What if these are the only times he's actually being genuine with his emotions?

And Chuuya is the only one who is familiar with them all?

Dazai would be jumping rope and Chuuya would be like, "quit sulking, let's get icecream"

Dazai hanging upside down on the couch and Chuuya going, "It's okay, mackerel. You can cry."

Dazai actually crying, full on heart-wrenching sobs, and Chuuya unironically going, "What, good news?"

It's just... comforting, for one person in Dazai's life to read him like a book. Everyone else would look at him like he's crazy, displaying wrong emotions/behaviors at the wrong time, but Chuuya knows that it's just how he processes feeling properly, and thus he's the only one Dazai can count on to put things into context and understand, which makes him display them even more openly.

Because Chuuya never shamed him for his quirks, as much as Dazai never did his.

[cyber-skeletons]

The differences between TFP and Earthspark Optimuses are sooooooo fucking funny. TFP OP is burdened with "I've never seen Prime laugh, cry, or lose his cool," he responds to "Hey Optimus you wanna see something funny?!" with the numbest dead-eyed Eeyore "No," he's just generally Haunted and Stoic every waking moment

Then we have Chuckles McGee with his looney toons ass face winking and making finger guns and giggling nervously and spamming the group chat with emojis and cracking jokes and making "graphic design is my passion" self-help pamphlets

[moonriase]

Losing a kid is hard on everybody.

[elv-arts]

I put him in hl2 hope that's alright lol. Hl1 is his brother's territory I decided. Mostly I wanted him to beat the shit out of a metrocop :)

He'll probably be fine. He's survived his life so far including one end of the world and his nerd brother's mad science antics. What's a little more of the same old bullshit?

I was just gonna do one or two doodles cuz I couldn't think of much. But then i was having fun :)

@bbg100

[thepoisonroom]

every time a customer tries to get me to take off my mask because they're allegedly hard of hearing and need to lip read i do dream of saying "is that true???" to them because that is MY disability that they're pretending to have to be a shithead and yet i don't want to say that because if i earnestly asked for accommodation and someone asked if i was lying i would want to sink into the floor!!! but if they are lying to me i think they should feel total devastating shame and go to hell probably.

[goodluckclove]

Hey I'm feeling bold and just had a pretty good slice of cake so I'm gonna go ahead and make a grand declarative statement.

If you are a beginning writer, any advice or expectation that evokes a sense of shame is incorrect and should be ignored. You might work more and grow more and realize the core of what that book or comment or online post said is true, but for now it's wrong. If the advice is phrased in a way that does not inspire you, if it feels like an obligation that makes the act of writing sound tiring, it does not apply to you and your work at this time.

That's all I love you maybe write a little bit today or take a nap.

[biblically-accurate-dca]

painting test with a limited color palette

here's the moon equivalent!

[zillychu]

Consider for a moment: A slow-burn identity reveal “no one knows” AU with an emphasis on ghosts being taken seriously as an actual, world-changing threat.

Ghosts are treated as an exceedingly dangerous, but unavoidable force of nature. They can come and go without warning, through naturally occurring spontaneous portals. They're territorial, driven only by obsession and hunger for the living. Particularly powerful ghosts are on par with natural disasters.

Life goes on because there's simply no other option. All major buildings have varying levels of ghost shields, some stronger than others. Just about everyone has some form of personal shield, weapon, or general deterrent. For the most part, humanity takes this apocalypse in stride, barely keeping it all together because there's just enough safety to keep them all sane.

Which is why the rumors of Phantom being able to fully mimic a human body incites panic in Amity.

Phantom was already a nightmare as it was–one of the most powerful and intelligent ghosts on record. His territorial fights with other ghosts for haunting (hunting) grounds in Amity have made global news several times already. Powerful ghosts could appear more human–but to think he was transforming down to a cellular level? Hiding among them? Bypassing ghost shields and alarms? Picking them off one by one?

The focus is mostly with Lancer's class, and how the school deals with this new threat on top of everything else. Everyone is a suspect, no one is safe, and Danny Fenton in particular gets slowly more and more exhausted, apathetic, and… unnerving.

The stress, the lack of sleep, the fighting, no one to turn to, not even his best friends or family–it takes a toll on him. Starving himself doesn't help, but he refuses to do more than take small bites from the ambient life energy and emotion of the living around him. Nothing that won't actually do lasting harm. He begins to slip up more and more, which Sam and Tucker begin to notice but haven't quite connected the dots yet.

But, well. What else can Danny do when Pariah Dark comes knocking on Amity’s doorstep, and his whole class is in the line of fire?

[inkskinned]

crows use tools and like to slide down snowy hills. today we saw a goose with a hurt foot who was kept safe by his flock - before taking off, they waited for him to catch up. there are colors only butterflies see. reindeer are matriarchical. cows have best friends and 4 stomachs and like jazz music. i watched a video recently of an octopus making himself a door out of a coconut shell.

i am a little soft, okay. but sometimes i can't talk either. the world is like fractal light to me, and passes through my skin in tendrils. i feel certain small things like a catapult; i skirt around the big things and somehow arrive in crisis without ever realizing i'm in pain.

in 5th grade we read The Curious Incident of the Dog In The Night-time, which is about a young autistic boy. it is how they introduced us to empathy about neurotypes, which was well-timed: around 10 years old was when i started having my life fully ruined by symptoms. people started noticing.

i wonder if birds can tell if another bird is odd. like the phrase odd duck. i have to believe that all odd ducks are still very much loved by the other normal ducks. i have to believe that, or i will cry.

i remember my 5th grade teacher holding the curious incident up, dazzled by the language written by someone who is neurotypical. my teacher said: "sometimes i want to cut open their mind to know exactly how autistics are thinking. it's just so different! they must see the world so strangely!" later, at 22, in my education classes, we were taught to say a person with autism or a person on the spectrum or neurodivergent. i actually personally kind of like person-first language - it implies the other person is trying to protect me from myself. i know they had to teach themselves that pattern of speech, is all, and it shows they're at least trying. and i was a person first, even if i wasn't good at it.

plants learn information. they must encode data somehow, but where would they store it? when you cut open a sapling, you cannot find the how they think - if they "think" at all. they learn, but do not think. i want to paint that process - i think it would be mostly purple and blue.

the book was not about me, it was about a young boy. his life was patterned into a different set of categories. he did not cry about the tag on his shirt. i remember reading it and saying to myself: i am wrong, and broken, but it isn't in this way. something else is wrong with me instead. later, in that same person-first education class, my teacher would bring up the curious incident and mention that it is now widely panned as being inaccurate and stereotypical. she frowned and said we might not know how a person with autism thinks, but it is unlikely to be expressed in that way. this book was written with the best intentions by a special-ed teacher, but there's some debate as to if somebody who was on the spectrum would be even able to write something like this.

we might not understand it, but crows and ravens have developed their own language. this is also true of whales, dolphins, and many other species. i do not know how a crow thinks, but we do know they can problem solve. (is "thinking" equal to "problem solving"? or is "thinking" data processing? data management?) i do not know how my dog thinks, either, but we "talk" all the same - i know what he is asking for, even if he only asks once.

i am not a dolphin or reindeer or a dog in the nighttime, but i am an odd duck. in the ugly duckling, she grows up and comes home and is beautiful and finds her soulmate. all that ugliness she experienced lives in downy feathers inside of her, staining everything a muted grey. she is beautiful eventually, though, so she is loved. they do not want to cut her open to see how she thinks.

a while ago i got into an argument with a classmate about that weird sia music video about autism. my classmate said she thought it was good to raise awareness. i told her they should have just hired someone else to do it. she said it's not fair to an autistic person to expect them to be able to handle that kind of a thing.

today i saw a goose, and he was limping. i want to be loved like a flock loves a wounded creature: the phrase taken under a wing. which is to say i have always known i am not normal. desperate, mewling - i want to be loved beyond words.

loved beyond thinking.

[gothamite-rambler]

Jason answered his phone in the middle of the job, the target seizing up at the sound of the ringing. Jason held up his finger, asking the man to wait.

Jason: Hello?

Alfred: Jason, I have a gun that Mas— I'm not too pleased to be dealing with him, so I'll just say Bruce found it in the laundry room and was talking my ear off about why I would need a gun in the laundry room.

Jason: For protection. We live in Gotham.

Alfred: That’s what I tried to tell him. He wouldn't listen and demanded I get rid of it. I’m not disposing of my gun to a random person or leaving it on the street.

Jason: Obviously, weapons are something I like to regift rather than sell. Unless it's a faulty gun I buy from some pathetic loser of a drug dealer— and if you crawl away again, I’m shooting you in the other leg!

Alfred: Are you working? I didn't mean to interrupt.

Jason: Technically. This person, who for the sake of this call I won't disclose as gender, is a teacher who slept with students. Plural. And I’m being generous using the word 'sleeping' but you gotta say that cause 'legal'.

Mr. Coddwell: Love is love—

Jason shot the man in the other leg, eliciting a scream. Jason snort laughed at the man's deserved pain.

Jason: One of the parents of his victims lives near me. We meet at the ShopRite a lot, her daughter... not doing great. So I'm dealing with the vermin who again, gender has not been specified. This could be a woman with a deep voice, right?

Alfred: You don't have to ask me; I'm giving you a gun even though Bruce specified to not give it to you. We never had this conversation, but I am proud you're dealing with trash like that. Let them live and suffer, prisoners despise pedophiles. Back to you, would you like the gun? You're the only one I know who uses weapons responsibly, and I've always respected that.

Jason: Aww, thanks. For those kind words, I will gladly take the gift. Can I pick it up tomorrow?

He tucked his gun into his pocket, then calmly walked over to grab a small step ladder.

Alfred: Of course. Hope you have a good day at the "park".

Jason: Oh… I’m about to.

Jason ended the call, carrying the closed steel step ladder towards the teacher as he hummed a tune from Heathers.

Jason: I wonder how many hits this will last before it breaks? Let’s find out.

Mr. Coddwell (terrified, holding up his hands): No, no, no!

Jason smirked, smacking the man hard with the ladder while shouting insults.

Jason: Bet your victims begged you to stop! How does it feel to be helpless?! Ooo, you just made me work in a song for this!

Mr. Coddwell (crying like the baby he is): NO! YOU'RE A THEATRE KID TOO!

[silvertherogue715]

Made a spoilers warning JUST in case someone scrolls without meaning to ( I felt bad for not including one last time :( )

Anyway more art/doodles of the O' Medusa fic by @naffeclipse

These are not in order at all but if you know then you know lmao

love shitposting edit: Previous art 1 - Previous art 2

[theroundbartable]

Arthur: I'm tired

Merlin, who hasn't slept in 72 hours and has his fifteenth coffee intus: maybe you should go to bed

[fazedlight]

Drunk

“I know you believe that everything is good, and kind,” Lena said, looking up with soft eyes, “And that is one of the things I love about you…”

Lena…

“But that's not the real world.”

Kara frowned as she watched her best friend, despondent and drunk, take another sip of cabernet. I’m not giving up on you, Kara thought protectively, as Lena mumbled on about her DNA, as Lena asked Kara to stop trying to help her. “I am not worth it,” Lena muttered.

They sat in silence as Lena drained the glass and put her head in her hand. Kara’s heart twinged at the whimper that escaped Lena’s lips. “Come on,” Kara said quietly, putting an arm around Lena’s waist, “Let’s get you to the couch. You could use some sleep.”

Lena sighed, but she didn’t object, standing on wobbling legs as Kara helped her steady. Lena haphazardly threw an arm over Kara’s shoulder, stumbling the few feet over to Sam’s couch, before Kara gently lowered her on it.

Half-kneeling, Kara pushed a pillow that Sam had left into the corner of the couch, before turning to grab at a throw blanket. I wish she could come to my place, Kara thought, frowning, it’d be easier to keep an eye on her-

Soft fingers met Kara’s cheek.

Kara turned her head upwards, watching as a quiet Lena gazed into her, grief and resignation and uncertainty seeming to flit behind green eyes. After taking a moment, Lena seemed to get an answer to her own unspoken question - and leaned forward to press her lips against Kara’s.

Kara tensed, feeling her own heart drum hard in her chest as soft lips met her own. Her mouth burned where it brushed against Lena’s, and a rushed feeling filled Kara’s head. 

It was dizzying, the array of thoughts that followed - I want this and what does this mean? clashing against but I’m still mourning and she’s too drunk.

She had never considered- had never allowed herself to consider- and this wasn’t the time-

Each thought raced by too fast for her to grab, as her mind clung to the intention that she needed to protect Lena, and nothing else mattered. With reluctant finality, Kara pulled back and broke their kiss, feeling Lena’s small gasp tickle against her face.

Lena’s somber eyes fluttered open, voice tight with exhaustion and want. “Go home, Kara,” Lena murmured, “They’ll never stop. You don’t have to stay.”

Kara’s eyes darted between Lena’s. She could feel the redness lingering on her own cheeks, but it mattered little compared to the despair in Lena’s eyes. “Sleep,” Kara said quietly, brushing lightly at Lena’s shoulder to encourage her to lie on the couch, “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Lena sighed again, leaning to her side, curling up and sinking into the cushions. Kara bit nervously at her lip as Lena closed her eyes, but felt a glimmer of relief as Lena seemed to doze off, too tired and drunk to force herself to stay conscious much longer.

Kara swallowed hard, rising from her spot on the floor, quietly floating back to the computer on the kitchen counter to do more research until Sam got back.

She needed to find an answer. She needed to protect Lena. There had to be a way to restore Lena’s reputation, something that they missed.

Kara wouldn’t let herself think of anything else.

[royalarchivist]

Technoblade: Before I get any comments from people saying, "Uh Technoblade– ☝️🤓 Actually I live in the San Francisco Bay area, and the weather here isn't as perfect as you say! I think you might be blinded by nostalgia–"

Technoblade: I'd just like to say that I am a perfectly objective source of information, how DARE you question me, get banned.

[ Full Transcript ↓ ]

—

Technoblade: You know, when I first got to college, I had a conversation with a local student where I mentioned I was from California, and they heard that and said, "Oh, you're from California? Have you ever been here during the winter?" and I said "Oh, no no, I haven't" and they just kinda like, stared at me in silence for a few seconds, and then just said: "Good luck!" And then moved on with the conversation like that wasn't the most ominous thing I'd ever heard in my life. What? What do you mean "good luck"?!

Technoblade: One time I went to Texas, sometimes I visited North Carolina during the summer, and I was like, "Why is it so hot here?" but I just figured, "You know what, it can't be this hot everywhere during summer, that'd be ridiculous! Why would anyone subject themselves to these conditions?"

Technoblade: I didn't realize that California was unusual. So you know, I'd listen to like– Sir Alliser Thorne in Game of Thrones rant about, "Oh, you don't know cold!" tellin' us about how, he had like, been in some blizzard– blizzard, and during like, sub-zero temperatures, and I'm sitting here like, "No, no, I- I'm pretty sure I understand what cold is, one time it dropped to 60 degrees Fahrenheit and I had to turn on my car's seat warmers. I'm pretty sure I understand man's epic struggle against nature."

Technoblade: Before I get any comments from people saying, "Uh Technoblade– actually I live in the San Francisco Bay area, and the weather here isn't as perfect as you say! I think you might be blinded by nostalgia–" I'd just like to say that I am a perfectly objective source of information, how DARE you question me, get banned.

[ Video: why is the midwest so cold help ]

[solarmorrigan]

oooh. fic requests! how about 6 - fight or 19 - allergies for steddie?

Hello! I'm sorry it took so long to get to this one, but I hope it's alright! I went with:

6. Fight - Steddie

cw: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced domestic violence, unhealthy relationship dynamics (not between Eddie and Steve)

-

The most frustrating thing about fighting with Steve is that he doesn’t fight. Not really.

Sure, he’ll poke and he’ll prod and he’ll snip and he’ll snap; he’ll dole out bitchy, passive aggressive comments and roll his eyes and sigh pointedly, but the moment things get heated, the moment an argument gets real, it’s just–

“Fine. Fine,” Steve snaps, tossing his hands up with an exasperated huff. “You’re right, okay? I’m– I’m sorry.”

And at first, Eddie had always felt so vindicated, so flush with the triumph of winning an argument, that it had taken him a while to realize that it felt– wrong. That Steve—so confident, so sure in his opinions, so willing to stand up to people when he has something to defend—would just give in without a fight– it feels wrong.

So Eddie had tried to pay attention – really pay attention. They don’t fight often, but when an argument inevitably does crop up, Eddie always wins. Rather, Steve always lets him. He never raises his voice, never gets in Eddie’s face, never really even makes counterarguments. He cedes to Eddie’s points and then subsides and it’s– it’s infuriating, because Eddie doesn’t understand.

“Don’t do that,” Eddie growls, tugging a frustrated hand through his hair.

“Don’t– what? Don’t apologize?” Steve asks incredulously.

“No!” Eddie bursts out. “Not if you don’t mean it!”

“Excuse me?” Steve draws back, offended. “What the hell do you want me to do to prove I’m sincere? Get on my knees and fucking grovel?”

“That’s not–” Eddie leaves off with a frustrated noise, trying hard to keep his tone level. “I don’t want to win an argument just because you let me. I don’t want you to apologize just because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“I’m not letting you win,” Steve says quickly, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You are, though. You do. Every time. You won’t actually engage, you just say I’m right and then clam up and that’s it,” Eddie says.

Steve levels him with a look of disbelief. “So– what, you want me to yell at you? You want me to tell you that you’re wrong?”

“I want–” Eddie pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a second to gather his thoughts. “I want you to feel like you’re allowed to argue with me. I don’t want you to just give in and then resent me or something.”

“I don’t resent you, Eddie,” Steve says with a roll of his eyes.

“No?” Eddie pushes. “How many times have we gone to bed after an argument with me perfectly satisfied, thinking I’ve won, while you’re actually still mad at me?”

“That’s– I don’t…” Steve shifts uncomfortably. “If I’m still mad, that’s my problem. I can just get over it.”

“But that’s exactly what I mean!” Eddie insists. “That shit builds up! And besides, what if you’re the one who’s really right? I might actually be wrong, and you should tell me. Or maybe there’s some kind of, like, compromise we can reach, I don’t know! I don’t want you to be afraid to push back – I don’t want you to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Steve says, jaw jutting out stubbornly when Eddie fixes him with a considering look. “I’m not. I’m just– how long before yelling turns into a screaming match? How long before it turns into throwing shit around, or– or shoving each other, or worse?”

“Steve…” Eddie murmurs, the last of his heated frustration draining away, leaving a clammy kind of dismay in its place. “Steve, I would never do any of those things to you.”

“I know,” Steve says, and it sounds like he means it. “I know that. But what if I–”

“No,” Eddie says firmly, because he thinks he understands now – Steve isn’t afraid of him, he’s afraid of himself. Afraid of turning into everything he’d been raised around: the blowout arguments between his parents, his mom’s petty destruction of his dad’s things, his dad’s frustration turned back on Steve, a cycle of violent familial bullshit that Steve is determined to break free from, even if it means saying that he’s wrong every time. Eddie comes forward, grabbing Steve’s hands; he can’t even remember what they’d been arguing about moments before, but he knows he doesn’t care anymore. “You would never do that. I know you, Steve, you are nothing like that.”

Steve looks down at their joined hands, blinking rapidly. “This– you… You’re more important than winning. Than any stupid argument,” he says.

“That’s exactly why we should have stupid arguments,” Eddie says, grinning a little when that gets a choked laugh out of Steve. “I’m serious. Let’s have stupid, petty arguments so they don’t turn into big ones. I swear I’m not going to stay mad if you get on my ass about not doing the dishes.”

Slowly, Steve nods. He doesn’t entirely look like he believes Eddie, but that’s fine. It’s always been like this – Steve unwilling (or unable) to believe that someone will love him if he doesn’t make it easy for them. Eddie’s been breaking that down, bit by bit, and this is no different. This is no chore.

“I’ll still love you even when I’m angry. Even when you’re angry,” Eddie promises. “I just love you, full stop.”

Steve nods again, more certain this time as he looks up to meet Eddie’s eyes. “I love you, too,” he says, because he always, always says it back, which suits Eddie just fine.

He figures if they can agree on that much, every other disagreement will be a breeze.

[deandoesthingstome]

You've seen the look before.

That deep, soulful yearning. That ease of ache that told him he was home. Safe. Protected.

You've seen his brown eyes gloss with adoration, soften in the knowledge he has everything he ever wanted. The way he gazes at the nape of the neck of the man nose and tongue deep in your pussy.

Longing. Love.

Johnny is it for Simon. You've always known that. Johnny was it for you too, from day one.

But Simon. Sullen. Sulky. Angry. Mean. Absolutely uninterested in sharing the toys in his sandbox. Johnny had a way of smoothing it over when he first brought you home to meet his lover. It was only supposed to be a onetime thing. A way of proving to Simon he could have his cake and eat it too.

Johnny had been wrong at first and Simon only watched from afar. Noticed the ways Johnny made you squirm and the ways you made Johnny proud. When Simon finally joined for the first time, he didn't touch you once.

Moving in was tense. They set you and your belongings in the spare room for "a bit o' privacy, ya ken?" and though dinner was together and you christened the bed in your new room in style, Simon wouldn't sleep with you and Johnny that night, choosing instead to return to their room alone. Johnny balked when you suggested he didn't need to cradle you all night to spare your feelings.

Days, weeks, months of meals, errands, nights at the pub, homecoming celebrations, lazy Sundays. Something began to shift. You couldn't put a finger on it but his demeanor toward you was changing. He was thawing.

You felt it in his fingertips, glancing across your skin more tender than you'd ever expected. His lips, taking over for Johnny. Yes, these touches had started out rough, rushed, almost mechanical. But eventually Johnny no longer needed to urge him to partake of your pleasure.

Simon started accompanying you on shopping trips alone, when Johnny was off on solo missions. Started meeting you at the pub while Johnny stayed behind on base to run through an explosives test with the captain, keeping you company until Johnny could show.

They both knew you hated when they tried to "rescue" you from any ill-advised advance from some bloke or other at the bar. But Simon's heart broke open a little when he heard you refer to them as your boyfriends, for the first time, "so kindly fuck off, yeah?"

And that's the night you see it. The way that gaze shifts to you, watching you fall apart as you grind your center up into Johnny's face while he presses his hips back into Simon's deep thrust.

See the way his eyes draw you in and hold you close, even staring from what seems like miles away. The orgasm that rips through you when he says the words right as Johnny's tongue makes it's way finally, thankfully, reverently, insisently to the spot that never fails to break you loose is more powerful than any you'd ever had before.

Tangled in limbs and sheets, sweat and spend drying in spots you know will be hard to reach, you nuzzle into Johnny's chest and keen when he asks quietly "that true, lt? You really love her too?"

need more?