#i did this instead of therapy

[bottle-of-harpoons]

I'm sorry I made more.

(Accidentally saved over some of the original memes so they aren't all there)

[drawingsober]

[iyohme]

and i know that you mean so well;

but i am not a vessel for your good intent!

("Tongues and Teeth," - The Crane Wives)

my serotonin got jetpack bursted into the stratosphere with this blurb by OP. Your brain is so juicy and moist and wrinkly OP. Godspeed. I'm not even into DC but the whole "Burnt out and neglected, and now a bunch of people driven by guilt guilt guilt want me back so they can feel less guilty?" just made the racoon in me rub its hands menacingly hoho

Just imagine not even living your best life; just a shadow in the lives of the illustrious Waynes, a ghost in a castle, visible only to the loyal servant and the occasional curious paparazzi who shrugs and looks away--after all, there was no mention of you in any occasion: must be the kid of in-house staff. How nice of Brucie Wayne to allow even the children of in-house staff the opportunity to study at such a high-end college! (The reporters chortle and snicker at your barely-passing marks, sighing at such a wasted opportunity. Oh well. And then they move on to the tabloid topic of the week, after the strutting socialites and the rich and the arrested Rogues.)

You gather things.

You gather pieces of a cracked dream, a single plastic teacup you had brought into the cavernous mansion the day you held Alfred's old, gnarled hand. Ears ringing and slippers still stained with your parent's blood as they were gunned down before your very eyes. You gather your things, what made you before you were "Wayne," so to say. Your mother's old cigarette box, smuggled from the crime scene, your one memento of the woman who you could not forget but never forgive.

A juxtaposition of love and hate, forever crucified. The image of the Virgin Mary inside the tin box seems to be a mockery of faith, across from her image lying cheap cigarettes.

You gather test papers, all barely passing and with more reds than blacks, and grind them up into strips with the shredder you had brought; just one time the black card Wayne had given you, and it left the bitterest, sourest aftertaste in your mouth. They burn so cozily on the school Bunsen burners, especially when sprayed with alcohol, immediately immolating like timelapse sparkler videos. You gather your name before the Incident, you cherish it, and you repeat the syllables in the dead of night, spilling past your mouth. Even if it was the name of a child-abusing monster, it was still yours, and it was still of use.

And use it, you would.

While they go and be a family, you work to begin yours.

You gather funds: it's easy to take on odd jobs when people do not suspect you. You tuck away that black card at the bottom of your study table drawers, forgotten there like scribbled-out pages of an essay, an unfinished drawing, and leftover candy wrappers. It's a bit-by-bit work, but you know the Waynes wouldn't even see it happening. Your brothers and sisters (an absurdly alien concept, as they don't even acknowledge you exist ninety-five percent of the time) are prodigies paraded around at every event. You are the unseen ghost flitting through their shadows.

Graduation comes and goes. It's laughably easy to falsify having lost your social security number and other documents--Gotham is that much of a shithole, you suppose. The man in the cowl notwithstanding. His efforts are admirable, but weak. Recidivism is common in this place, as if there were some sort of pull that incited the people in Gotham to cruelty, to madness.

It's absurdly Lovecraftian, in its own way.

You are not even living your best life, and yet you are free. Alfred knows; he always knows. If you are The Ghost, then the aged butler is a man one step between the doors of death, and he sees you every time you move. Your room is empty, and he raises an eyebrow at your satchel: all your items already stored elsewhere or given away.

("I suppose this was a long time coming, Little Master."

Tap tap tap. Footsteps on marble floors, setting sun.

You shrug. "Eh. The Waynes gave me a roof and education. It's all good."

You grunt. "Well, people change. Like you know, how kids being gifted stop being gifted when they grow older." You say, instead of 'Well, if a child doesn't get any praise or attention if they do good and probably even less if they were bad, why even bother?')

A pause. "Your academics were not so lackluster when you were younger."

You promise to try and stay in touch. (You crossed your fingers behind your back.) You leave, sunset on your face.

The nap you had in a dingy hotel with far too many odd stains and not enough locks you could put on was the soundest you've ever slept in years.

Freedom smells like summer air and the last rays of sun, followed by the cold blue hour.

It takes three months for an out-of-state college to accept you. It's far from Gotham. It has a dormitory. Excellent. While you were indeed a mediocre academic student, you had banked everything on band scholarships.

Who knew more than a hundred clarinet players had unclaimed scholarships yearly? Packing up your small life in bags, you take a train upwards to another state.

(Meanwhile, in Gotham, there is an odd sense of unease as Bruce Wayne stops by an inconspicuous door. It's relatively clean, as expected of his manor, but the worn out brass on the handle suggests that someone had lived there before. He opens the door. Steps in. A bed, a dresser, a study table. Bare bones.

The unease intensifies. But who?)

Someone had lived in here, yes.

[doodlintv]

This is so incredibly messy but I couldn’t stop thinking about that frame from the Cass update so I scribbled this down cause I couldn’t sleep unless I did haha

[notedchampagne]

the werewolf never sees the sun again

[shitouttabuck]

“I’ll be honest—when Bobby first brought you on board, I told him he should just get a Dalmatian instead.”

[phatcatphergus]

I hate that tubbo is my streamer because I can’t ever have a day to catch up on vods because what does he do when he finishes stream?? Go live! And then I can’t even escape him on his own vacation because motherfucker is bringing his PC and would be like “omg flight stream!” Because he’s DONE IT BEFORE

[p4nishers]

"you don't find comfort at the tva" do u get that THIS was mobius' mindset before meeting loki?? that there was no comfort to be had in his life?? that when he wanted to spare an 8 YEAR OLD BOY it wasn't the right thing to do for the system? he carried that burden, the timelines branching and people dying because of it, all the way to that conversation with loki. i would bet anything it was eons ago for him and yet, that one little moment of KINDNESS burdened him. before loki, there was no comfort. then they came along and suddenly, the tva felt like home. it felt new, it felt lively, it felt real, it felt comfortable BECAUSE loki was there. they WERE home to mobius, after all those eons of aching loneliness. i have no doubt he was kind before loki because that's just who he fundamentally is but he LET himself be kind after loki came into his life. because he felt comfortable enough. and then. loki left him. the tva felt empty again. the food and coffee mobius loved so much turned to ash in his mouth. HE felt hollow and empty. home was never a place, it was always loki. the tva suddenly felt suffocating, he HAD to leave, he had to use the opportunity loki gave him, the chance they sacrificed themselves for.

and there – watching what could've been – he felt the sunshine on his face, and something else too. someone else. it filled him with him hope hadn't felt in a very long time.

[ciderjacks]

therapy

[b4kuch1n]

yay! I drew these quite literally three years ago. dragonheart!milo and raihan! a knight on a doomed dragon hunt being lifted out of his station by a small village medicine man. together they become magic lawyers and overthrow the government

the main details in these do survive into the iterations I’ve drawn (instead of these actual designs I spent time to make el oh el): the “leaf” diamond quilt/gambeson and the plaited coattail for milo, the “atypical” weapons, long coat, and large number of scattered fake gold trims and accessories for raihan. I think I lost raihan the hat and added a cape for milo further down the line because like this their general silhouettes are too similar for my liking lol

[brown-little-robin]

it went fine yesterday btw :}

[0809sysblings]

maybe this will get rocks thrown at me but i kinda hate when people call the 18+ prisoners "grown adults" as insults and ways to like... shut down any sympathy with them. how because they are "grown adults", they "should have known better". this has just always bothered me. i see it and i have to sit and stare at the wall for 10 minutes.

like. idk. being an adult does not automatically give you skills like Emotional Regulation, Impulse Control, Ability To Learn From Consequences, Ability To Plan For The Future, Critical Thinking, Interpersonal Skills, etc etc. you have to be Taught these things no matter how old you are. if you are not taught these things, and you are not supported in an environment that helps you further develop these things... you just. Aren't gonna be able to do them well.

adults just, typically, have accumulated enough experiences in life to have been able to learn these things. but not every adult has had that privilege. or some adults have had to just shut off the parts of their brain that would allow them to learn these things to be able to function at a basic level.

[sachermorte]

As promised, here's the fanfiction that the people in my inbox have been demanding to read. It's already done, but I'll be releasing chapters week by week to avoid dropping a giant cinderblock on everyone all at once. So I guess we're all in this together for approximately the next seven months. Holding hands. Singing songs. I haven't engaged with the source material or with the fandom for literally ten years. I don't know why I did this. I blacked out and came to with a 100k+ Google Doc in front of me. I'm blaming literally everyone but myself.

[player1064]

Footy RPF Fictober, day 2 - injury

also available on ao3

MINDLESS NONSENSE!!!! also side-note writing about Gary having tight muscles that need a massage is making me very aware of how tight MY muscles are. massage roller save me....

carraville, set vaguely while they're off on one of their little trips to film the overlap on tour

---

Jamie hauls a limping Gary out of the lift and into his hotel room, lets him put his weight on him as he gingerly lowers himself to sit down on the bed with a wince.

What a drama queen, honestly. They’d been spending their afternoon off of filming on the beach with Roy and Wrighty – a chance to relax, but of course Gary Neville’s not relaxed a day in his life and he’d started getting antsy after a few minutes on a sun lounger.

Jamie’s also not much for sunbathing, so he’d found them a frisbee and they’d been playing around with it when Gary had suddenly done a weird little hop mid run and gone ‘ooh, fuck, I’ve done me ‘amstring’ in that squeaky little voice of his.

So now: Jamie’s left Roy and Ian at the beach (not that they’d notice if he was there or not anyway) to bring Gary back to the hotel, tease him a bit about being an old man with a broken-down body, and then get back to enjoying his day.

But Gary just looks so miserable, like he feels guilty for not being a twenty-something anymore, like he’s just personally ruined their whole trip, and Jamie feels – well, he should try do something, shouldn’t he?

“D’you want me to—” he gestures vaguely at Gary’s leg, not sure if he should say it. If it’s allowed. “I mean, I do an alright massage, if yer –"

“Oh.” Gary blinks. “Oh, I – ha. Thought you were just gonna give me an ibuprofen and leave me to ‘ave a nap or something.”

“Oh,” Jamie echoes. “Yeah, no, that – makes more sense, doesn’t it? I’ll just –” he looks around the room, all of a sudden feeling slightly desperate. Does he even have any ibuprofen on him? Does Gary?

“Massage sounds nice, though.”

Gary isn’t looking at him as he says this, is fidgeting with the starched white sheets on the bed instead. Oh, Jamie thinks again. Oh, he’s not used to asking for help.

A memory hits him, unwelcomed, of a summer’s day a lot like this one. But instead of the warm sands of Italy he’s on the battered grass of Melwood, instead of Gary sitting awkwardly at the end of the bed like a child waiting for a telling-off it’s –

He shakes the thought off.

“Go on then,” he replies, nodding towards the bed. “On your front. And off with those shorts, eh Gaz?”

Jamie’s never felt right using that nickname for Gary, but it’s a necessary evil. ‘Cause otherwise he’d just be a man asking another man to strip for him. So: Gaz it is.

Gary rolls his eyes but he shifts his shorts off – he’s got black boxers on underneath, big fucking surprise. Jamie could’ve told you that without even needing to look; he’s pretty sure it’s the only kind of underwear he owns.

Jamie goes into the bathroom to fetch the hotel-brand body lotion trying to pass itself off as fancy, then he hovers awkwardly at the edge of the bed, kind of half-kneeling half-standing next to Gary as he tries to work out how to do this in the least questionable way possible.

“Where’s it worst?” he asks, cringing at the way his voice cracks, just a tiny bit. Probably not even noticeable.

Gary hums in thought. “Hamstring,” he says simply.

Well, duh.

He eventually realises that Jamie’s not making a move because he needs more information, so he takes another second then says, “uh, think it’s the centre muscle. Maybe six inches up from my knee.”

Jamie spreads his hand over the back of Gary’s thigh, runs a firm line over the muscle with his thumb. “Here?”

“Hmm, bit lower maybe.”

Every muscle in Gary’s thigh is tight, left unattended for god knows how long. But Jamie knows it when he’s got it, feels the hard knot of muscle that makes his whole leg twitch when he presses into it. Slowly, slowly, he starts working at it, tries to stay gentle so he doesn’t put Gary off when he’s just barely started.

“Mmph,” Gary says, his voice muffled by the pillow, “you’re not bad at this, y’know.”

Jamie digs his thumb into the muscle hard, just ‘cause he can. It twitches involuntarily under the pressure, and Gary lets out a displeased, squeaky sort of hum. Then, after a few seconds, he watches smugly as the tension holding Gary’s entire body rigid starts to fade, as he relaxes back into the mattress.

“I’m serious.” Gary tries to twist around and look at Jamie, moving to prop himself up on one elbow. Jamie pushes him in the shoulder so that he lies back down. “D’you take a class or  somethin’? Don’t think I’ve had a half-decent massage since before I retired.”

“Bloody cheapskate,” Jamie mutters. Because of course Gary would never go out and pay for a massage. Though to be fair to him that’s probably less because of the cost and more because it’s never occurred to him that he might need one. “No classes, no. What, you think I can’t just be naturally talented?”

He can practically hear Gary rolling his eyes. “Just tryin’ to make conversation, James. Makes it less like I’m just lying half naked in a hotel room while another man feels me up.”

“Steady on, lad. There’s a long list of people I’d rather be feelin’ up right now than you.”

“Mmm,” Gary says. He sounds softer than Jamie’s used to, less frantic. “You do this for Nicola? She’s into her running, right? Bet she appreciates havin’ a masseuse at her beck and call.”

Jamie freezes, just for a moment. The sun beaming through the windows is warm on his back, and if he closes his eyes he can almost convince himself that he’s some other place, some other time. In his memories it’s always summer, warm and hazy and sweet. God, Carra, no wonder the girls all like you so much.

He shakes himself back to reality, back to Gary and his troublesome hamstring – or rather now his calf, because as Jamie works his way down his leg he’s realising there’s not a single relaxed muscle in his body. Typical Gary, of course.

“Not for Nicola, no,” he says, all light and conversational like. “She’d rather go to a professional. No need to risk my meaty hands making things worse.”

“Oh, right.”

Who, then? Gary kindly doesn’t ask. After all, he’s the expert in half-truths, in talking his way neatly around a subject until you forget the question ever crossed your mind.

Gary’s still built like a defender. Solid, stocky. Thick thighs that were never going to make him a sprinter but could get him in the air, could win him his fair share of tackles. There’s a faded surgery scar on his knee, a few more scattered over his ankle, his foot. Jamie’s not sure he could name a single footballer that doesn’t have scars like that.

Is all this really worth it? he’d asked once, a few lifetimes ago. He’d got a call from Mo, late evening, and he’d gotten straight into his car and driven half an hour to find him home alone, lying on his plush carpet with his face twisted in agony. And the only person he’d tried to call was Jamie. He always used to call Jamie.

Don’t be stupid, Carra, he’d said. He’d been trying to sound confident, cocky, but it had been through gritted teeth as Jamie tried to ease his leg back to a useable state. Of course it’s worth it. He’d let out a cry of pain that shot right through Jamie, that made him want to fold in on himself, then he’d looked him straight in the eyes and said it again. Of course it’s worth it.

“Sometimes,” Gary says now, interrupting the scene in Jamie’s mind, “sometimes, when it’s really cold I still feel an ache in my foot.”

Jamie’s nowhere near his foot, so he’s not sure why he’s bringing it up at all, but then –

“Becks used to get the same. An’ it’s so stupid, isn’t it? The things that make us – but every time I feel it, I wonder if he’s feeling it too. And I wonder if he’s thinkin’ the same about me, d’youknowwhatImean?”

The Foot, the papers used to call it, and The Foot’s Best Friend. Jamie kneads his fingers into Gary’s calf, thinks about all the times he’s gone through the same motions a on slimmer pair of legs, wonders if Michael ever thinks about calling him again when he’s in pain. Feels a twinge of guilt that he doesn’t ever really think about Michael at all.

He clears his throat. “That any better?”

Gary shuffles to sit upright, stretches his leg out like he’s testing it still works after such a grievous injury as the minor hamstring pull he’s suffered. “You know what, I think it actually is. Thanks, Carra. Maybe I should keep you on retainer, eh?”

“Not enough money in the world, Gary, this was a one-time offer.”

[tariah23]

Are ppl still getting thousands of notes on posts talking about “guilt tripping ppl into reblogging donation/ gazan,” posts bro

[mushroominaforest]

I mean yes, definitely, but I also just really like projecting lmfao