#i know it sucks right now unfortunately

[boxkitkat]

Hya Crumpets! (⌒ω⌒)ﾉ I would like to share and introduce with you, my listener for Isaac! Meet the lovely Elena Aguilar!

ヽ(・∀・)ﾉ

I don’t have a lot of information on her besides the basic stuff! But Elena is 25 years old! Her ethnicity is Mexican and Dominican Republican! ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝

Elena was born in America, San Francisco. She was a bright and firm young girl who was raised as a foster child. She graduated from UCLA (May or may not change that! (o^ ^o) with outstanding grades but despite her impressive academic background and credentials, she was still denied many job opportunities and she suffered with homelessness. This backed her into a corner of a life of poverty and desperation, until she met a tall, dark, and handsome man, Isaac Rhoades, who took her in as a house keeper.

She enjoys solving problems logically, she doodles a bit here and there, she loves trying new cooking/baking recipes, she’s quite athletic, and she enjoys learning the history behind things, she likes trashy movies and comedy movies! (⁀ᗢ⁀)

That’s about all I have for her, I intend to add and change some stuff to her personality and background maybe, but please tell me what you guys think of her! (´｡• ω •｡`) ♡

[mediumgayitalian]

The crooked, creaky door of the cluttered infirmary storage room pushes open and slams shut in the span of a second, just barely allowing someone to dart through. Nico jumps, banging his head on the shelf he’s hiding under, chomping full force on his lip to bite back a shout. The shadows, on lucky reflex, bend around him and shroud his face. The rest of him he tucks further into the forgotten corner between two filing cabinets, holding his breath.

Under the unflattering light of the single swinging lightbulb, Will looks dull.

A thin headband attempts to hold back his frizzy hair, although it does very little. Curls stick out oddly and many shorter hairs are plastered to his temples and the back of his neck. His skin is unusually lacklustre, even pale, except for the high flush around his cheekbones. The bruising under his eyes rivals Nico’s. He has been wearing the same scrubs for the last two days.

With one last look at the closed door, nothing but garbled voices filtering through the heavy wood, he slumps. He drops his face into his chapped and bleeding hands, heels pressed into his eyes, and holds them there for ten seconds, twenty. Slowly, with trembles so minute they are at first glance unnoticeable, his shoulders begin to shake. The long fingers flexed and tensed around his forehead curl tightly, and he twitches, whole body trembling, teeth sunk hard into his bottom lip to stop his chin from quivering.

It does not work.

The first sob is quiet. He catches it quickly, forcing it back down, breathing heavily through his nose and out his mouth to beat it back. The second follows quickly, though, and it’s harder to choke down. When his face crumples, his resolve goes with it, and his knees hit the floor, sharp crack swallowed by the stillness of the room. He curls forward until his nose nearly hits his knees, hands sliding through his hair and over his ears and settling finally clutching together in the dip of his chest, bouncing with every heave of his chest. It’s quiet, his crying, enough that every dropped tear can be heard as it hits the dusty floor. The only time his sobs are ever audible is when he opens his mouth, trying desperately to soak up enough air to catch himself, to carry himself through.

Mute horror holds Nico’s tongue hostage.

He’d escaped in here the second Will had been called away this morning, dragged for the umpteenth time to handle a crashing patient or a complicated hymn or to soothe someone’s nerves. For the past two days he’s been doing his best to monitor Nico and a handful of other front liners who’d exhausted themselves in battle, but his focus has been split and the infirmary has been crowded. Whenever he runs off to put out whatever fire had cropped up — sometimes literally — the whispers start, the glances, the skin crawling up Nico’s back. Nico can hardly tell anymore what’s the shadows and what’s the people around him, watching him out of the corners of their eyes like they’re waiting for him to bust out a scythe and a black hooded cloak and start reaping.

The storage room is supposed to be an escape. Out of the way and forgotten as it is, it is supposed to be the place he can hide for an hour, escape the heavy gaze of the rest of the camp, collect himself before braving it all again.

Clearly, though, he’s not the only one who thinks so.

There’s something disorienting about seeing Will Solace cry. In the few times Nico has spoken with him during his visits to camp, he’s been a barely-contained explosion of energy, whether talking Nico’s ear off with updates about people he barely knows and references he hardly understands or cussing him out for overextending himself. He’s used — as much as he can be to someone he’s only beginning to really get to know — to his wildly flailing hands and widely playful grin, his loud drawling voice, his painful, constant brightness.

His hands, now, clench until they’re bloodless, trembling. There is no hint of his wide smile or twinkling eyes, because his face is hidden by all the hair that his given up on the pretence of the hairband, and the only sound from him are his gasping breaths and swallowed-back sobs. Nico watches him because he cannot look away. He flinches because every cry, every rough, scraping inhale, sounds like shattering rock, like an iceberg breaking off a glacier.

A quiet beeping startles them both.

For a stretch of time Will is motionless. The beeping continues, steady and soft, bouncing off the cluttered shelves and fading before they echo. After the third round — and Nico counts, if anything for something to do besides watch the chafed skin on Will’s hands crack and bleed with every flex — he drags himself upright, nails drawing lines in the thick dust of the floorboards, and rests back on his heels. He breathes for a moment, shuddering, hands pressed flat to his face; in, beep, beep, beep; out, beep, beep, beep. None of his breaths are ever steady, but he wastes no more time, swiping under his eyes and pinching his cheeks to restore his face to some of its usual colour. He grips onto each board of the shelf to his right as he yanks himself upwards, hand over hand, until he’s stretched, finally, to stand, although there remains a slouch to his broad shoulders.

The beeping continues, emanating from the watch on his left hand, growing softer or louder as he trails his fingers over the shelves from one end to the other, from the first, the second, the third. He pauses finally on a collection of bottles, turning them carefully to read the labels, then tucks them each gently into his already bulging pockets until he is left with what he must carry between his fingers.

The shadows bend to cover Nico again as Will turns, unknowingly facing him, and pulls himself suddenly straight-backed, chin set high, shoulders squared. He smiles, wide, fractured, squinting his eyes deliberately. The beeping stops. He breathes, in, smile, out, nod, and turns, striding, back to the door, opening it with flourish and swiping the dust off his clothes.

“Found them! Sorry it took so long, I really had to look —”

The door swings shut behind him, cutting off the rest of his sentence.

Nico stares at it with bile churning in his too-empty stomach.

———

art by the incredible @clingonlikeclingwrap

[gothteddiesdotcom]

can we start considering online job application systems as class warfare or

[recurring-polynya]

She's not even wearing a hat, Leila.

[forcebookish]

i need a new strategy for like, cleaning my room and doing yoga and reading and leaving the house. the adhd has reached mythic levels of bad. i have the thought, "i should do X," and then i won't move. i make a to-do list and i won't do anything on it. i queue up a yoga practice and i won't do it. i stare at my room and get stressed out about how cluttered it is. i write 3000 words of notes for a fic i don't even know if i'm going to write. i think and i think and i think about my OCs and they won't let me write them. i spend hours looking at stuff i can't buy. i take like an hour to write this.

[hoshizoralone]

How did you first get into Nier? And who is your favorite character(s) in each game?

was over at a friend’s house early summer in 2016 and they asked “do you want to play a game about a hot single dad” and that’s how it all started.

my favs are dad nier, yonah, weiss, a2, and 6o :) here is a bad picture of my dad nier shrine on my bookshelf

[harmonizewithechoes]

.

[blye-flower]

✨Rant in the tags✨

[kn11ves]

>find poc creator talking about issues regarding their comminity

>not part of it but find it interesting topic so watch lots of their videos about it and trends

>find her personality to be good and her stances fair and respectful

>put channel to oldest content to put interesting videos in a watch later

"THE TRANSES ARE INDOCTRINATING YOUR CHILDREN" "TIRED OF RESPECTING PRONOUNS" "TRIGGERED FEMINISTS" "PARENTS OF TRANS KIDS HAVE NO BACKBONES" "WOMEN WANT TO BE TRADWIFES"

>

[thedevotionaltour]

bro idk how i started my junior year feeling so okay and even hopeful for myself and then it all fell apart second semester like damn semester so bad you think you should quit forever for the rest of time and you are nothing but a fraud and a hack and an absolute miserable failure like dude what happened. it's true but what happened

[n0heart]

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[bluravenite]

slight rant/vent

Though I'm also posting on twt at @bluravenite in case you want to interact with me outside of hate anons

Yk there's probably hate anons going around all the time but it's been really apparent this past week that some people genuinely don't know to shut the fuck up... I have stopped posting with the same frequency as i was bc i am working on commissions and drawing takes time but i might just keep a more sort of closed parasocial relationship/ treat Tumblr more as a portfolio than as social media if that keeps happening... Sorry that i rant in here a lot but it's genuinely exhausting sometimes when most of your mutuals on this app are getting rude anons...

[kohakhearts]

well folks its been a good two months of denial but i am finally ready to admit that the reason everything sucks is because of major depression relapse. if i werent so depressed id make this everyone elses problem by projecting it on to blorbo but alas

[surreal-duck]

messing around a bit

[tj-crochets]

Hey y’all! Do you have any recommendations for walkers or rollators that are foldable and can be converted to wheelchairs?  This question brought to you by today’s POTS flareup that has my heartrate jumping to the high 130s every time I stand up but I need to go grocery shopping. I sometimes need to sit down to let my heartrate come back down, but A. it tends to alarm people in the grocery store when I sit on the floor to catch my breath, B. it’s hard to get off the floor on bad blood pressure days, and C. if it converts to a wheelchair, when I hit the “okay no more walking” stage my family can wheel me along with them without having to have the “our faces are uncomfortably close to each other while you push me backwards through a store” experience of a rollator  Heck, maybe one of those like shopping bags on wheels with a fold down seat? Being pulled behind my brother like luggage would be weird but would be a safer way to get me back out to the car than trying to get me both into and out of a shopping cart without falling

[ourceliumnetwork]

I get it. I get why my aunt wanted to push back against the negative view I have of my parents and the family most closely associated with them. I understand why she wanted me to consider their side of things - she's a parent too, after all. And it's hard, it really is, to see a child disown their parents instead of the other way around. It's hard to see it the other way around too, don't get me wrong, but like. Kids aren't "supposed" to disown their parents.

I don't doubt that my parents believe with their whole chests that they love me and have done their very best with me - in fact i agree that they did their very best with me that they possibly could have.

Their best was just bad. Because I was self-sufficient it makes sense that they assumed i didn't need their help - wrong though that assumption may be. They were young, they were figuring out what to do next now that they both had a kid and a spouse they weren't super sure they were ready for. I get it.

Also that's her older brother i'm shit talking, and I do acknowledge the things they have done for me that were good. Because even a stopped clock is right twice a day.

But they ignored me, intentionally or not. They dismissed my interests or made fun of them so hard that I not only stopped bringing them up on my own, but I have a hard time engaging with some of them to this day because i was shamed out of enjoying it. They do not ask about what else I do because they do not care to learn if they have anything in common with me anymore.

Dad was passive aggressive as fuck about me setting a reasonable boundary. My aunt was immediately just "Sounds good, I can do that, I wanna hear about your personal life more anyway."

And you know what? I've literally never had any single person in my family do that for me and actually pay attention as I talked and asked me questions about things. And that's what she can't see, when I say that my parents see me only as a status symbol. That's why she pushes back and says that of course it's different - they wouldn't say horrible negative things about me being a leftist/"liberal", queer, Weirdo because I'm their kid.

Except i heard what they said about *her* and she's closer to center than I am. I heard what they said about anyone who was left of where they were. It...was not kind.

at best, they called people stupid for thinking the way they did. Brainwashed. I won't repeat at worst, for my own sake.

Anyone who falls away from their path is unintelligent or gullible or easily swayed and manipulated. Anyone who does not think the way they do after being presented with their facts is an idiot. I am likely labeled both, whether they say the words or not. I have received the patronizing smiles and the polite capitulations that say very clearly that i just don't know what i'm talking about, even if—especially if—i know more on the subject than they do.

I don't blame her, though. And it...didn't hurt as much to have her push back on it. I get it. I didn't want to know these things about my parents either. I didn't want to see it happen at me. I didn't want to realize how things were going.

My parents are not good people. At best they are polite. I will not say what they are at worst. Not tonight.

But tonight I will say that I had one of the most fulfilling conversations with a family member I've ever had. I will say that I felt loved and respected the whole meal. I am looking forward to getting to know her—and everyone else my parents spoke poorly of behind their backs—and have a relationship with her. I'm finally looking forward to the future and it...it looks safe. And filled with family—found and otherwise—who love me.

Tonight I had a good time.

Plus also we looked hella good for being out in a proper sitdown restaurant for the first time since moving up here lol.