#ill call this poetry sure

[activatebutterflyshield]

I’d sing a song for sixpence

Or a pocket full of rye

Or four and twenty blackbirds baked into a pie

Though I wouldn’t eat those fellow birds

Feathers black as ink

‘Stead I’d sing a song ‘longside them

‘Bout wars and words and things

Through code and rhyme and meter

For friends and people keen

To find some others something like them

And keep those they do find

Just thick as thieves

Strange bedfellows we make, indeed

Though through the night we’ve walked

‘Neath that sunless, moonless, starless sky

Till the farthest west we reach

And feel that fire nip at our backs

With words and smiles sweet

Go on, they say, keep walking long

Till that promised land we reach

So give not up your feathered hope

And raise those banners high

Bare your teeth and show your claws

And make them sharp and keen

For someday we shall break our chains

And maul the hand that feeds

[liuisi]

hm.

[wandaxpietro]

everything goes so slow for pietro i am 100% convinced he's incredibly terminally online to get his dopamine hits. he's so active on twitter people are worried about him. he keeps getting suspended bcuz he keeps sending people death threats and doxxing them and then has to call tony up so he can pay to get his accound back. he shows up in front of houses of people he beefs with. he fights with teenagers online all day. the official avengers twitter account has him blocked.

[cowboy-heart]

'BUTCH MANIFESTO'

inspired by 'FEMME SHARK MANIFESTO' by Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha

(ID under cut)

Ko-Fi (Commissions Open!)

[ID: an original poem titled 'BUTCH MANIFESTO'. the stanzas are all on the left side of the page and lineated, except for the first line, and last stanza. Poem begins:

Listen up! Butches hold it down! We don’t spend hundreds of pounds on designer clothes and black and white tuxes – we shop off the charity shop rack, hand-me-downs from our bois, our men, our women. Butch is not a glamour word - Butch is not for the white collars in their 9-5 and their office parties, Butch is not for the woman in a police uniform with short cropped hair, Butch is not for the masc who looks down on our femmes, Butch is not for the dumbass white people who call themselves stud, like our people haven’t taken enough from black lesbians, Butch is not for the politician or the soldier, it’s for those of us who get shit done and don’t throw anyone under the bus; who stand between our loved ones and the white-knuckled fist; it’s for the people who take a breath of relief when they get home and get to lay their head on the shoulder of their baby and say, it’s hard, and I need you right now; it’s for those of us with hard-soled feet, worn by hours of standing, just so people can buy some useless shit on a Sunday. Butch is for the primary school teachers, the neighbour keeping your package safe, the hairstylist, the barber, the youth worker, the locked up, the sectioned, the evicted, the boy on the dole. Butches hold each other up, Butches stand up for communities, no matter how different we might be.

Butches stand up for Butches, because only we know the shit we face, we don’t argue over what butch looks like for someone - their struggle doesn’t counteract ours. We’re brothers, sisters, siblings, lovers, mentors, we don’t fight over femmes or fight each other. We help up our siblings who can’t hold themselves up and shouldn’t have to.

Butch is recognising our hurt, our pain, and making sure nobody has to go through that, in the very least not alone. Butch is not reproducing that hurt, butch isn’t the transfem exclusion, the toxicity, it’s driving our girls and boys to the abortion clinic, it’s holding your femme’s hair back over the toilet bowl, it’s telling your darlin’ to take a deep breath, before you poke the needle into her thigh, it’s holding back on punching the catcaller because you know it’ll put your lover in more danger, it’s fishing in your closet for an old, dusty dress for your questioning girl, it’s never calling the cops, it’s carrying the Narcan, it’s gathering the funds for bail, it’s tipping the waiter, it’s kissing the bruised chin of a fellow butch who’s built like a brick shithouse.

Butch is not all muscle, able-bodied, white Butch is not all skinny and androgynous Butch is care Butch is NURTURE. Butch is a cane and an unsteady step Butch is putting down the ramp Butch is wheeling up it Butch is addict Butch is straight-edge Butch is diaspora Butch is desi Butch is antiracist Butch is socialist Butch is punk Butch is black Butch is brown Butch is fat Butch is fat-loving Butch is mental illness Butch is antipsych Butch is autism Butch is trans Butch is anger Butch is tears Butch is grief Butch is the old bull Butch is the closeted kid in a dress Butch is the baby dyke wearing a rainbow flag cape Butch is smile lines Butch is crinkled eyes Butch is crying in your friend’s beat-up car Butch is foetal position Butch is pink Butch is motherhood Butch is fatherhood Butch is cat-dad Butch is fucking Butch is getting fucked Butch is stone Butch is bashful Butch is humble Butch is cocky Butch is proud Butch is single Butch is uneducated Butch is poet Butch is poetry Butch is council estate Butch is gentleness Butch is bones and spit and the soft curve of our lower backs the clenched jaw under a double chin the hard-eyes that any femme can see right through the estradiol the testosterone the carabiner clink the thick hands the cellulite the bloody pads the tampon string the mood swings the sagging tits the top surgery scars the swinging cock the hairy pussy the protruding t-dick the leather harness.

Butch is eternity Butch is sewn into the fabric of atoms Butch is love and solidarity Butch is never leaving anyone behind and never selling anyone out.

End poem. In the bottom right corner, the poet is signed as 'Ren H.' End ID].

[zot3-flopped]

Sylvia Plath did not stick her head in an oven for this! When Taylor Swift took the Grammys stage last month to claim her award for Best Pop Vocal Album for Midnights, she saw that spotlight as an opportunity to announce her 11th studio album: The Tortured Poets Department. The follow-up cut to audience members—Swift’s music industry peers, mind you—told us all that we would ever need to know, and the collective disinterest across the crowd echoed through our TVs.

Folks from all walks of life took to social media to express a multitude of reactions. Swifties clamored to their beloved monarch’s forthcoming era, while others lambasted the terminally cringe title and artwork and ridiculed Swift for making a night recognizing musical achievements across an entire industry about herself—knowing perfectly well that it would send her fanbase into a surge that would, no doubt, overpower the excitement around the ceremony itself.

Quite a few people questioned whether or not that moment suggested that a critical—definitely not commercial—tide would turn against the world’s most-famous pop star. And, perhaps it has—but, to most, it will look like nothing more than a single ripple in Swift’s ocean of successes.

Swift remained relatively hush-hush about The Tortured Poets Department up until its release, leaving her fans, admirers and haters alike with nothing but an album title to ponder about. And it’s a bad title.

If you have never been in Swift’s corner, her taking the route of labeling her next “era” as “tortured” was likely catnip for your disinterest. If you are a fan—not necessarily a Swiftie, but even just a casual lover of her best and brightest work—you might be beside yourself about the first Swift album title longer than one word in 14 years.

In terms of popularity—certainly not always in terms of quality—no musician has been bigger this century than Swift, which makes it impossible to really buy into the “torture” of it all.

This is not to say that Swift being the most famous person in the world makes her immune to having multi-dimensional feelings of heartbreak, mental illness or what-have-you.

But, she has made the choice—as a 34-year-old adult—to take those complex, universal familiars and monetize them into a wardrobe she can wear for whatever portion of her Eras Tour setlist she opts to dedicate to the material.

Torture is fashion to Taylor Swift, and she wears her milieu dully. This album will surely get comparisons to Rupi Kaur’s poetry, either for its simplicity, empty language, commodification or all of the above.

And, sure, there are parallels there, especially in how The Tortured Poets Department, too, is going to set the art of poetry back another decade—as Swift’s naive call-to-arms of her own milky-white sorrow rings in like some quintessential “I am going to take pictures of a typewriter on my desk and have a Pinterest mood-board of Courier New font” iPhone fodder. 2013 called and it wants it capricious, suburban girl-who-is-taking-a-gap-year wig back!

Soaking our book reports in coffee or having our moms burn the edges with a kitchen lighter cannot come back into fashion; the cyclical notions of culture cannot make the space for such retreads.

There is nothing poetic about a billionaire—who, mind you, threatens legal action against a Twitter account for tracking her destructive private jet paths—telling stadiums of thousands of people every night that she sees and adores them.

Tavi Gevinson says it well in her Fan Fiction zine: “When 80,000 people are also crying, you become less special, too.” If Swift can return to one of her dozen beach houses across the world, kick up her feet and say “I’m a poet of struggle,” then who is to say that millions—maybe billions—of people with access to a notes app and a social media account won’t dream that dream, too?

Maybe that looks like a net-positive, but it’s inherently damning and destructive to take an art form that has long stood on the shoulders of resistance, of love and of opposition to power, systematic injustice and climate warfare and boil it down to the new defining era of your own 10-digit revenue empire. “My culture is not your costume,” yada, etc.

The Tortured Poets Department does begin with a shred of hope that, just maybe, Swift knows what she’s talking about—as she sneaks in a cheeky “all of this to say,” textbook transitional phrasing for poets, on opening track “Fortnight.”

But “Fortnight” unmasks itself quickly as a heady vat of pop nothingness, though it isn’t all Swift’s fault. “I was a functioning alcoholic, ‘til nobody noticed my new aesthetic,” she muses, attempting to bridge the gap between a behind-the-scenes life and on-stage performance—only for it to occur while propped up against the most dog-water, uninspired synth arrangement you could possibly imagine.

Between producer Jack Antonoff’s atrocious backing instrumental and the Y2K-era, teen dramedy echo chamber of a vocal harmony provided by out-of-place guest performer Post Malone, “Fortnight” chokes on the vomit of its own opaqueness.

“I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary,” Swift muses, and it sounds like satire. This is your songwriter of the century? Open the schools.

The Tortured Poets Department title-track features some of Swift’s worst lyricism to-date, including the irredeemable, relentlessly cringe “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate, we declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist / I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed golden retriever” lines glazed atop some synthesizers and drums that just ring in as hollow, unfascinating costuming.

Aside from the Puth nod, which I can only discern as a joke (given the fact that he is one of the 150-most streamed artists in the world and is one of the blandest pop practitioners alive—I don’t care if he can figure out the pitch of any sound you throw at him), I think Antonoff should stick to guitar-playing. Get that man away from a keyboard, I’m begging you.

Synths can be, if you use them correctly, one of the most emotional and provocative instruments in any musician’s tool-box. There’s a reason why keyboards defined the 1980s; they rebelled against the very oppressive nature existing outside of the cultural company they kept. There’s resistance in electronic music that, while they brandish an aesthetic that, to a layman’s ears, seems like technicolor hues for any infectious pop track, it’s a genre that aches to tell its own story. That is simply not the case here, and that electronica hangs Swift out to dry when she drags us through the lukewarm “I laughed in your face and said, ‘You’re not Dylan Thomas, I’m not Patti Smith’ / This ain’t the Chelsea Hotel, we’re modern idiots” lines, only to hit us with a softly sung F-bomb that sounds like a billionaire’s rendition of that one Miranda Cosgrove podcast clip.

I used to rag pretty heavily on Reputation—mostly because I thought (and still do, mostly) that it sounded like Swift had given up on making interesting, progressive pop music; that, in the wake of her (arguably) best album, 1989, it seemed like she’d lost the plot on where to go next. But as she’s put out Midnights and The Tortured Poets Department back-to-back, I find myself clamoring for the Reputation-era more than ever—at least seven years ago, Swift wrote songs like she had something to prove and even more to lose.

That was the always-obvious charm of Reputation, even despite the downsides—that she took a big swing from the echelons of her own musical immortality, that the comforts of winning every award and selling out the biggest venues in the world were no longer pillowing her aspirations. Even though that swing didn’t land, she still made it in the first place—and Swift is at her best either when she is clawing upwards (Reputation) or faced with nowhere to go but into the studio and noodle with the bare-bones of her own sensibilities (folklore).

You get something like The Tortured Poets Department when the artist making it no longer feels challenged, where she strikes out looking.

The mid-ness of The Tortured Poets Department will not be a net-loss for Swift. She will sell out arenas and get her streams until she elects to quit this business (a phrase decidedly not in her vocabulary, surely).

She will sell more merch bundles than vinyl plants have the capacity to make, and rows of variant LP copies will haunt the record aisles of Target stores just as long as Midnights has—if not longer.

Perhaps, in five or six years’ time, we will speak of this record just as we now do of Reputation. But right now, it is obvious that Swift no longer feels challenged to be good. The Tortured Poets Department is the mark of an artist now interested in seeing how much their empire can atone for the sins of mediocrity.

Can Swift win another Album of the Year Grammy simply because she released a record during the eligibility period? The Tortured Poets Department reeks of “because I can,” not “because I should.”

On “I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can),” Swift tries stepping into the shoes of the country renegades who came before her—the Tammy Wynettes and Loretta Lynns of the world. But her self-aggrandizing inflation of importance, glinting through via a seismically-bland bridge, is backed by a minimal set dressing of guitar, drum machine and keys.

“Good boy, that’s right, come close,” she sings. “I’ll show you Heaven if you’ll be an angel—all mine. Trust me, I can handle me a dangerous man. No, really, I can.” On “Florida!!!,” Swift calls upon Florence + the Machine to help her sing the worst chorus of 2024: “Florida is one hell of a drug / Florida, can I use you up?”

Even Welch, who is a fantastic pop singer-songwriter in her own right, delivers a grossly watery verse: “The hurricane with my name, when it came I got drunk and I dared it to wash me away.”

Not even the typos on the Spotify promotional materials for this album could have foretold such offenses. I won’t even get into the sonics, because Antonoff just rewrites the same soulless patterns every time.

What separates The Tortured Poets Department from something like Reputation is that, on the latter, Swift made it known what was at stake and who she was making that album for—herself, in the aftermath of her greatest long-standing criticisms (“Look What You Made Me Do” triumphs exactly because of this).

On The Tortured Poets Department, there is a striking level of moral nothingness. The stakes are practically non-existent, and the album sounds like it was made by someone who believes that they had no other choice but to finish it, as if Swift fundamentally believes that her creative measures are firmly embedded in the massive monopoly her name and brand currently hold on popular music. That’s how you get meandering pop songs about hookups, wine moms, Stevie Nicks comparisons, Jehovah’s Witness suit mentions, hollowed-out, tone-deaf nods to white-collar crime in lieu of empowerment and, topically, Barbie dolls.

(Don’t even get me started on the Anthology lyrics, which feature these absolute barn-burners: “Touch me while your bros play Grand Theft Auto” and “My friends used to play a game where / We would pick a decade / We wished we could live in instead of this / I’d say the 1830s, but without all the racists / And getting married off for the highest bid.”) This album and its hackneyed grasps at relevance exist as “Did I just hear that?” personified, but in the most derogatory sense of the notion.

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys” features another low-point in Swift’s lyrical oeuvre, as she sings “I felt more when we played pretend than with all the Kens, ‘cause he took me out of my box”—perhaps a measure of her capitalizing on the Barbenheimer mania that none of us could escape, not even the musician who spent most of 2023 flying across the world from one country to another.

But you, us, the listener—we want to believe that Swift makes these records because she has the artistic will, drive and interest to continue giving us parts of her story in such ways that they exist as an archival of her life.

But the problem is that, on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift is packaging her life into a form that is easily consumable for the 17 or 18 years olds who pour over her music. Just because her Eras Tour film is on Disney+ doesn’t mean she has to strip her songwriting (which we know can be, and has been, phenomenal) down for the sake of it being digestible by a wide spectrum of ages.

And, sure, maybe that makes the work accessible. But on The Tortured Poets Department, Swift makes Zoomer jargon her bag—titling a song after one of the most popular video games in the world and conjuring flickers of “down bad” and “I can fix him”—and it feels like she’s cosplaying because the Fountain of Youth was out of order.

Now that Swift is in her 30s, it sounds like she is infantilizing her own audience more than ever before—that singing to them at a level that could force them to reckon with something more akin with adulthood would be some kind of kink in the coil or her consumeristic threshold, that writing lyrics that sound like they were penned by a 30-year-old would, somehow, deter the interests of the billions of people who adore her.

If making one, continuous coming-of-age album is what Swift has been doing for 15 years, folklore and evermore were hiccups in the timeline—existing as the most fully-formed renderings of Swift’s own insecurities and concerns. They mirrored our platitudes towards an uncertain future with sweet, stirring remarks about isolation and heartbreak and the unavoidable, hard-worn truth about getting older. On those records, her larger-than-life living seemed, for once, to truly feel as close to the ground as ours.

Now, though, Taylor Swift is at the top of the mountain. Far better artists have made far worse records than The Tortured Poets Department, but you can’t read between the lines of this project. There is nothing to decipher from a place of quality.

Sure, Swift’s fan base will pour over these lyrics for the rest of their lives—insisting they know, for certain, which song is about who. But you cannot place a bad album on the shoulders of lore and expect it to be rectified.

We are now left at a crossroads. Women can’t critique Swift because they’ll run the risk of being labeled a “gender traitor” for doing so. Men can’t critique her because they’ll be touted as “sexist.”

And, sure, Swift is probably too easy a punching bag in this case—and most of the time, I would argue she is undeserving of being a victim of such barbs. But, you cannot write about someone being a “tattooed golden retriever” and get away with it and still retain your title as the best songwriter of your generation. You just cannot.

Sisyphus should be glad he never got the boulder to the top of the mountain—because Taylor Swift is showing us that such immortality and success ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. And, when you’re standing on the peak alone, who else is there left to hit?

In a recent interview with The Standard, Courtney Love said that Swift is “not interesting as an artist,” and I think The Tortured Poets Department proves as much. She has nothing to fight for, no doubters left to drown.

So where does she turn? Well, to boredoms of celebrity thinly veiled as sorrow everyone and their mother can latch onto—because we’ve all had to “ditch the clowns, get the crown” at some point in our lives, right?

The billionaire is having an identity crisis, but there are no social media apps for her to buy up. So she sings like Lana Del Rey and writes meta-self-referential songs about looking like Stevie Nicks.

What’s hollow about The Tortured Poets Department is that the real torture is just how unlivable these songs really are. No one can resonate with “So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your street, crash the party like a record, scratch as I scream ‘Who’s afraid of little old me?’ You should be.” And normally, that wouldn’t be an end-all-be-all for a pop record—but when your brand is built on copious levels of “I’m just like you!” as the demigod saying it to their fans does so from a multi-million-dollar production set, it’s hard to not feel nauseated by the overlording, overbearing sense of heavy-handed detritus we’re tasked with sifting through on The Tortured Poets Department.

Love’s words to Lana, her advice to “take seven years off,” should be applied to Swift. Now, that doesn’t mean that, to make a good album, you must sit on material for years and labor extensively through the sketching, shaping and recording in order for it to be transcendentally landmark. But it’s obvious now that not even Taylor Swift wants to be the head of an empire—that she, too, can’t outrun the damning fate of being plum out of ideas by hopping in her jet and skirting off to God knows where.

See you at the Grammys.

****

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 28 all chapters

⚠⚠Trigger warning: mention of past terminated pregnancy, NOT Reader. If details of this will bother you skip the section that starts with “One day he lets you sit in as he repairs a tattered copy of The Wind In The Willows.” You can pick up again at “-He gives you run of the house.”  I’ll give you the brief gist of the plot point in the end notes.  Also mention of possible suicide, NOT Reader.

-As he prepares dinner you sit at the island, you are enjoying a glass of wine and watching him cook. His hands are like poetry, no matter the task at hand. He is slicing peppers, and offers you a piece from across the island. After your previous experience, you should be wary accepting any tidbit that color from this man, but in an act of trust you take it, your lips brushing the tips of his fingers.

It is sweet and crisp and juicy between your teeth, and you sigh to yourself.

This is what you could have had, all along.

Watching you with a small smile, he twirls the knife in his hand absently like it is an extension of his body.

You do not take it as a threat. He simply seems…content, and you wonder if you dare trust any of this at face value.

He goes back to cooking, and you watch him with your wine in hand. It is a tasty Cabernet from Chilé, and maybe you shouldn’t drink too much of it, but then again…what do you have to lose at this point?

Your eyes cast around the cavernous room while John bustles at the stove. The scene is so domestic you could cry, because you realize this is what you’d hoped to share with him before it all went to hell.

You cast your eyes down, to find the razor-sharp Japanese paring knife is now sitting in the middle of the island by the cutting board, easily within reach.

It's really the first mistake he's made in the keeping of you, since he let his guard down enough to let you whomp him with War and Peace.

You stare at it, thinking.

Is it an opportunity? What exactly would you do with it, that would achieve any sort of useful end? It hits you like a ton of bricks for some reason, when you realize that despite what he’s done to you, you have zero interest in hurting John.

You hadn’t even liked hitting him with a book.

The thought of stabbing him makes you physically ill.

Frowning at the thought, you cross your arms and sit back on the stool, glaring at the thing as though it had called you a filthy name.

Belatedly, you realize John is watching you from over at the stove.

It wasn’t a mistake.

It was a test.

You transfer your glare to him as he approaches, picking up the tiny but potentially deadly blade.

He says nothing, just washes and dries it before replacing it in the knife block, not the locked drawer.

You guess you passed.

-Later, over dinner, he asks, “Why didn't you pick it up?” 

“Because the thought of hurting you makes me sick.”

He actually smirks at you. “That’s nice to hear.”

You’re not sure if he’s baiting you on purpose, but your temper starts to rise. So much for a quiet evening.

“That’s not how I’m going to get out of here,” you declare, feeling brave.

Or stupid.

Hearing this amuses him heartily.

“Yeah?”

“Someday, you're going to let me go, because you'll realize it's the right thing to do.” 

He leans his elbows on the table, fixing you with that dark stare that pins you in your seat. “I already told you, kitten, I'm never going to let you go.” He says it sweetly this time, but you sense he is still absolutely serious in his conviction.

-The week that follows is a series of halcyon days, filled with the affection and attention from Mr. Wick that you'd craved all along. Something has shifted in him, and you're still not sure exactly what, or how to make it stay.

 You cook meals together in the mornings and evenings. He teaches you things about haute cuisine and international dishes that you'd never had any inkling or access to. The things you make for dinner some nights you've only heard of on tv or in magazines. He's tasted these things in their original countries, and tells you what stories he can, that don't involve disclosing the details of multiple homicides committed for astronomical pay.

You know he must be showing off for you. A man with a waistline like that does not eat like this regularly. A small part of you dares to wonder, is he actually trying to woo you?

You fill your days with time in the studio, and with him.

The brightly colored Dolce and Gabbana sundresses you’d coveted in Italy mysteriously start appearing at the foot of the bed every day. Floral prints in pink and red, and bright majolica-inspired designs with yellow acanthus curls and blue accents, as well as the dreamy azure and white azulejo tile patterns. You marvel at what he spent, to lay these at your feet. You don’t even care that he’s picking out your outfits, dressing you like a feminine doll—because they make you happy. You even go so far as to wear them in your studio, not caring if you get a smudge of paint or pastel on the brightly printed fabric. What does it matter now?

What does anything matter?

-One day he lets you sit in as he repairs a tattered copy of The Wind In The Willows. You discover he likes old children’s books best and he has dozens on his shelves. Something about missing out on a real childhood of his own, you reckon, and undoubtedly the artistry that went into them.

This is the day he tells you that he was almost a father himself once. That when he’d been a foolish young man (his words), he’d fallen in love with one of the ballerinas at the school for assassins where he’d been raised. When the inevitable this led to that with hormone-charged youths with no access to birth control, they planned to run away together.

He’d wanted nothing more at that time, but to just live a simple life with his little family. He just knew in his heart, that the baby would be a girl. He’d already named her, Irina, his little Irinushka. But the night they meant to leave they were intercepted by the other students, and separated by The Director of the school. Tatiana was forced to terminate her pregnancy, because a principal ballerina bearing baby weight was of no use to The Theater at all.

When finally they were allowed to see each other young fire-eyed Jardani wanted to try to leave again. He was willing to kill anyone who got in their way this time, brothers or not. But Tatiana was changed, a shadow of the girl he’d known, and she refused to go with him. She said it had all been a stupid mistake, and he heard the Director’s indoctrination echoing through his lover’s mouth. She began numbing her pain with pills, and wouldn’t stop, despite his pleading. She pushed him away, and a year later she died in a car crash during a mission running drugs across the city. John never knew if it had been an accident, or if she’d given up to the sorrow eating at her heart.

He tells you all this in quiet, almost impersonal tones as he weaves the kettle stitch binding on the book, as though it happened to someone else. The man he had been, you suppose, this Jardani Jovonovich. You imagine what he must have been like as a young man. You suspect he must have been heartbreakingly beautiful, and probably could have had women eating out of his palm and tucking their panties into his pocket at every turn.

Yet, all he’d really wanted was his little ballerina, and his baby Irinushka.

He did leave The Theater soon after, to become the notorious Baba Yaga, the infamous assassin John Wick who could kill three men with naught but a pencil. You listen to all this with horror and tears in your eyes, feeling as though your own heart has been run through a shredder, understanding even further exactly why this steadfast man finally cracked to pieces.

You doubt your own state of mind could have fared so well, for so long.

-He gives you run of the house, reasoning correctly that you won’t be able to get past the locks and bulletproof windows anyway. One day, when you cannot find him, you wander into the garage.  He is tinkering with his motorcycle, in a grease stained white t-shirt and ratty jeans that cross the wires in your brain a little. 

The sight of the machine fills your heart with what is perhaps an irrational amount of hope.

“Can we go for a ride?” you ask, thinking of that perfect day you once spent together. You have not been outside once since returning to Clear Forks, though you can tell from looking out the window that you've had a series of beautiful sunny days. They’re a thing not to be wasted in the mountains; fall will come quickly, and then winter before you can blink.

“Not today, sweetheart,” he sighs, actually sounding apologetic, wiping his hands on a rag.

You pout silently, but do not push the issue. You are learning to pick your battles. If you keep poking here and prodding there, someday, you will find a weakness to exploit. You must be patient.

When he is sweet to you, patience is not so difficult to come by. You know that is dangerous, but not quite what to do about it.   

The garage is a massive space, and you take the opportunity to look around. You should be scoping out possible tools for escape, but mostly...you're just curious. 

Is he succeeding in training you? You ask yourself this with what should be an alarming amount of detachment.

Looking past the Land Rover in the middle bay, you see something underneath a cover. Feeling emboldened by his mild mood that day, you walk over to peek underneath. 

The sight makes a quiet exclamation slip from your lips. 

“Is this the car?”

It is a matte gray Mustang with subtle black racing stripes. You don't know much about classic cars, but it looks fast as hell. 

“The car?”

You turn to find he is directly behind you. You didn't hear or sense him move at all. You wonder belatedly if maybe this is a sore spot you should have left well alone. 

“Um...never mind.”

“It's OK. You like classics?” 

“I...guess? It’s very pretty.”

He pulls off the cover, unveiling the machine in all its glory. “It’s a ’69 Boss 429. 375 horsepower, 450 pound-foot of torque.” 

You smile, having no inkling what that really means, but you can tell it makes him happy. 

“Can we take this for a ride?”

Luckily, he just chuckles at your transparency. 

“Maybe.” It would be harder for you to escape from a car, than from off the back of the bike, after all. He kisses your forehead, not replacing the cover, before going back to the bike. 

Somewhat heartened, you wander back up to your studio.

-On the third day, you start to dream about Helen.

It’s actually nothing new for you, communing with the dead through your dreams. You’ve never really thought it more than your own overactive imagination, visiting with your grandmother or your great uncles, even sometimes an old boyfriend who had since passed away. But this feels like something more, and frankly, it gives you the creeps.

At first, you are simply sitting together, an uncomfortable silence between the two of you. You can hardly blame her—you are fucking her husband, after all, if not entirely of your own choice.

But one night, she comes to you in a field of daisies. Extending one to you, she offers you a tired if not slight smile. There is a pleading in her caramel-colored eyes, and maybe regret too. She only says two words. “I’m sorry.” You wake with the haunted feeling that she knows she made him into this version of himself with the trauma of her loss, but she’s still passing the keeping of him on to you.

What does she want you to do? Save him? You start to cry quietly to yourself, because the dangerous man who was her husband is laying asleep behind you with his arms tight around you like you are his teddy bear, and you don’t know how.

.

.

Author’s note: The general gist of the TW section was that young John/Jardani and one of the ballerinas became pregnant and were going to run away from the Tarkovsky theatre. But they got caught and The Director wouldn’t allow it. She separated them, made Ballerina terminate the pregnancy, and Ballerina died the next year possibly of suicide.  Obviously, this left an impression on John.

[permetutotheworld]

hi my name is Persephone, but you can call me Seph/Sephy/Nyx , I use they/xe pronouns, I’m an asexual lesbian, I’m autistic+adhd,

and I’m a minor (please don’t be creepy I’ve already had two people message me being weird and sexual)

I write a lot of poetry and I’m writing a book at the moment based off of the idea of multiple universes existing at a time, I sing and I love performing, specifically musical theatre

I ALSO TAKE REQUESTS!! I write poetry mostly for them but microfics tooo, for good omens, the marauders, percy jackson, les mis and any TJ Klune books that ive read, just pop a prompt into my inbox and ill do my best to get jt to you as fast as i can <3

my fandoms are : Les Mis, good omens, pjo, marauders, hunger games, aru shah, marvel, doctor who

my favourite music: queen, Maisie peters, the last dinner party, the crane wives, Taylor Swift, Florence and the machine, rene Rapp, Chappell roan, David Bowie, blondie, boygenius, most musicals

favourite books: house in the cerulean sea, under the whispering door, in the lives of puppets (all by TJ Klune)

my tags:

Nyx yaps: my silly little commentary on anything that happens to me

nyx vents: my life low-key sucks quite a lot at time so I vent a bit but I make sure to trigger warning everything triggering

nyx writes: I write silly little poems and stories that I post sometimes

nyx’s moots 🫶🫶: for my lovely moots

Nyx loves their gf: thats right guys i love my gf so mich and i talk about her a lot

perpendicular universe: posts about my fantasy novel im working onnn

Please dni if you’re queerphobic or discriminate against minorities in general, if you support trump or other dickwads like him or if you’re just going to be mean

also I do struggle a lot with mental health so I probably will randomly disappear or vent but I’ll make sure to trigger warning everything

my writing blogg: @persephone-writes-silly-stuff below the cut: my rp blogs, my moots and my fics

My rp blogs:

@nico-sees-dead-people @prongsie-rambles @regulus-the-star @pandora-opens-the-box @sunshine-boy-official

@enjolsaurus-rex @sunshine-prongsie-boy @panda-reads-your-death @lily-petals-falling @stars-andpoems

if you like my blog you should check out my amazing mutuals whom I love and adore:

@xenocollector LES MIS RAAA

@sauntering-vaguelydownward literally so sweet ilysm/platonically

@marylily-my-beloved love you Fatimah omg

@aidens-ocean-galaxy very purple coded person and very cool also so genuinely lovely we live laugh love Juno in this household

@theoristswan5683 literally so nice omg they have the loveliest vibes 😭

@ashstillalive Amazing writer amazing person will happily beta read for you anytime

@mae-occasionally-reads so sweet so lovely so cool so glad we’re mutuals love you so much/platonic vibes only MY BEST FRIEND ILYYYSMMM/pl <3333

@definitionoffuckup AL very cool individual

@rafaelthesilly I KNOW YOU IN REAL LIFE POOKIE YOURE THE BEST LESBIAN BUDDIE MY AMAZING SPOUSE ILYSM (platonically)

@inezrable I have more octopus facts for you!!!!!!!

@garden-of-runar the coolest person alive still can’t believe you followed me back althought yoir spice tolerance js weird as shit/lh and paprika is not spicy

@ravenwordss literally so sweet love you/pl

@pyromaniacbibliophile my spouse bc we are married

@cossie-fauchelevant the one and only cosette to my enjolras <3

@delinda24601 SHES SO COOL MY IRL BUS BESTIE LOVE HER TO BITS I FOUNDED HER FAN CLUB SHES SO SUPER COOL GUYS 🩷🩷🩷🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶🫶

@im-on-crack-send-help RIYANAAA SO SUPER COOL ILYSM

@startswithahell - cant wait for those unhinged asks omgomg

@biggestqiblifan - I LOVE YOU SM/pl

@the-eclipse-is-in-me - one of my favouritest people on this hellsite

@circe-butbetter - JANA!!! So incredibly cool and iconic

[laurancezvahlslefteyebrow]

ITS HIM!! MY BOY

LAURANCE ZVAHL’S REDESIGN IS HERE

i’ve been so excited to post this you have no idea

important notes and headcanons:

first and foremost, when Cadenza went missing so did his style. she would usually help him pick out his outfits and when she wasn’t around to help him, he just grabbed whatever he had lying around regardless of if it matched or not.

when cadenza dyed his hair back to its “natural” color it was a shade or 2 too light so as time goes on you can see it grow out.

he likes having somewhat long hair because he can put it in a pony tail and braid it an stuff.

-this next one is pretty intense so fair warning-

so when he was transformed into a shadow knight, he never technically died. he was grabbed and the shadow lord instructed gene to have him brought to the ritual table and turned. because most shadow knights are transformed before being resurrected, they don’t feel anything. laurance, however, was very aware. he could feel his soul being split in half, his bones breaking and mending themselves, his teeth sharpening, his eyes enhancing. he felt every inch of it and could do nothing to stop it. sasha is still haunted by his screams.

the only thing that got him through his time in the nether and prevented him from being corrupted by gene was that he needed to make sure aphmau was ok and that she made it home safely.

when garroth first saw laurance after he’d been rescued by ungrth, he was sure he was looking at a ghost for a split second.

laurance writes poetry in his free time, sometimes reciting it to cadenza to ask her opinion. it’s usually not great….

when laurance was about 9, both his parents died to to illness. he was forced to the streets and had to resort to stealing. he had been doing this for a couple years when one fateful day he tried stealing some bread from a little girl he’d never seen in town before. she caught him and cheerfully brought him to her fathers asking “can we keep him??” that girl was cadenza.

he hates wearing armor. it’s heavy and clunky and loud. he much prefers to wear normal street clothes much to garroth’s disapproval.

he loves cooking and does all the cooking in the guard station. he’s pretty good at it too.

he has nightmares due to his time in the nether. sometimes he’ll yelp or scream out. whenever this happened while he was living in the guard station, garroth would come into his room to pull him out of it and comfort him after he came to. garroth got hit a lot as a result. gar never minded but laurance still feels guilty.

the darkness on his fingers is due to being only half a shadow knight. the longer a shadow knight lives, the further up the darkness creeps, only stopping once the calling is answered (if you know what i mean) or until it reaches the shoulders/hips.

the tattoo on his palms are the source of all his shadow knight abilities and the scars on his face enhance them.

so… in this universe aaron is not alina’s father… it’s laurance….! he found out about aphmau’s pregnancy the same way he did in canon only this time he didn’t leave out of anger or betrayal. it was because the calling was becoming too much to handle. he loves aphmau so much but as long as the shadow lord lived he would only be able to see her with an ancient hatred in his bones. he feared he’d hurt her or their child so he left for their safety.

aphmau never knew that he knew about their child, but when she went to the nether to find him, he asked her name.

his shadow knight armor isn’t… armor…. it’s more like a shell, designed to look as intimidating as possible and be as sharp as possible. it materializes whenever his shadow knight form pops out or whenever his body thinks he’s in need of protection.

once when aphmau was trying to pull him out of his shadow form she cut her hand on it. she has a scar from it and he can’t look at it without feeling guilty.

every so often his vision goes. usually when he’s extremely angry or stressed his vision will just. go. it normally only lasts a few seconds or minutes but each time it happens he can’t help but think “this is it. this is when my vision is taken from me once and for all.”

alrighty! that’s all i have for now! i’m sorry i know that was a lot but i just love this guy so much you don’t understand 😭 i hope you enjoyed and feel free to add any more larry headcanons you have

next up is very talented seamstress

[washedoutwings]

welcome

// pt: welcome //

time zone: eastern standard time/eastern daylight time

requests/offerings: closed

hyperfixations (in no particular order): cccc

special interests (in no order): etymology, entomology, ornithology, fall out boy (band), history, ceramics, painting, theater, fashion history, sewing, fiber arts, will wood

askbox: open

dms: open

venting dms: open

ask game(s): 1, 2, 3, 4

active poll(s):

hey there!! please call me rook :) i use all pronouns (including neos), especially they/them and it/its. i am the host of our plural collective/system, and am normally at the front.

queer identity:

// pt: queer identity: //

im genderqueer and genderfluid! im also greyromantic, finromantic, asexual, and omniromantic

everyone in our collective is queer!! feel free to ask for specifics if you’d like

mental illnesses/disorders:

// pt: mental illnesses/disorders: //

we have autism, adhd, severe generalized anxiety disorder, moderate to severe depression, mild arfid, moderate chronic pain (unknown origin), insomnia, and some other weird brain stuff.

we are plural!! here are our headmate introductions

current headmate sideblogs:

@flesh-of-the-prophet

we also age regress and pet regress

religion/practice:

// religion/practice: //

i am a pagan witch. i work very closely with Loki. this will infrequently be brought up on this blog

alterhumanity:

// pt: alterhumanity: //

i am a therian, otherkin, and otherhearted. this is the main purpose of this blog, and will be discussed very frequently. check out my theriotypes and kintypes here! i do not currently participate in quads, or use gear. i do plan on making some of my own gear, but this may or may not happen.

we use the alterhuman terms to describe the experience of having animal/creature headmates

hobbies:

// pt: hobbies: //

i write a lot. this includes poetry, creative writing, and some nonfiction. i am an artist, and work in mediums including but not limited to digital art, watercolor, acrylic, ink, and ceramics. i also embroider and crochet. these hobbies will sometimes be discussed on this blog

byi:

// pt: byi: //

please be sure to read the previous mental illnesses/disorders section. be respectful of those :) tone tags are not required, but appreciated. we may have problems conveying tone, but we do not always use tone tags. if you’d like clarification, please let us know. we do not want to be involved in queer, alterhuman, or system/plural discourse. no dni, but we will block liberally and without explanation. we are very forgetful

trigger tagging:

// pt: trigger tagging: //

i have no triggers that i need tagged. this may change.

we will tag most common triggers

mutuals, please let me know if there are any other triggers that you would like tagged

tagging system:

// pt: tagging system: //

i will try to stay as consistent with this tagging system as possible, but there’s no guarantee

#offerings from rook = offerings from my divinekin offering requests

#@— offerings = offerings for a specific user. hyphens are replaced with username

#anon offerings = offerings for anonymous asks

#rook’s ramblings = my general thoughts. me talking

#who got washed out = who i am. my identity. personal development

#rerook = things i’ve reblogged

credits:

// pt: credits: //

dividers: @saradika-graphics, @enchanthings

userboxes: @boxes-for-systems, others are included in the userboxes :) THERES MORE BUT I CANT FIND THEM RN GIMME A MINUTE <33

[flippyspoon]

Note: Here have a little TOS Spirk ficlet!

Morning Routine

Kirk was already heading to the bridge, having skipped the mess to have a quick breakfast in his quarters, when he saw Spock marching toward him and wearing a smile so subtle anyone else would have missed it completely.

“Nope!" Jim raised his hands either in surrender or defense, he wasn’t sure which. “No, no absolutely not, Spock! Not today!”

Spock stopped short and tilted his head, all innocence. “Captain?”

“I know your game, mister.” Kirk wagged a finger at him as Spock approached. He backed up a few steps, relieved at least that the corridors were still empty this early. “I know what you’re about to do! You’re gonna say something that’s gonna have me blushing and riled up all day on the bridge and I won’t have it! Now you’ve done it twice this week already! Enough’s enough!”

“Captain.” Spock narrowed his eyes. “Jim. I do not know to what you refer?”

“I see.” Kirk leaned against the wall and Spock stepped in yet closer. There was still a whole hour to go before the beginning of their shifts and they were both more than happy to spend it like this. “I see how it is, Mr. Spock. One day we’re necking in your quarters and the next thing I know you’re calling me Jim during work hours-”

“Our shifts do not begin for fifty seven minutes-”

“Giving me your little bedroom eyes-”

“Sir, if one of us is guilty of so-called bedroom eyes, it is certainly you-”

“If things go on like this, soon we’ll be scandalizing poor Chekov right there on the bridge.”

“I am told Chekov won the wager regarding our inevitable coupling. I doubt he would have any serious objections.”

Kirk scowled, but his smile contradicted any ill feeling. “And now your jokes are even getting better. It’s alarming, Spock.”

“Captain, I do not want to cause any embarrassment or, as you have termed it, butterflies this morning. I was simply reading a fascinating Vulcan text after my mediation and I thought you might be interested to hear a recitation. It is verse from the poet T’Pola.” He blinked at Kirk, hands clasped behind his back, looking suspiciously agreeable.

Standing this close to Spock, Kirk was already experiencing the aforesaid “butterflies” and he cleared his throat, crossing his arms in front of him as if he might ward off the inconvenient thrill of Spock leaning in, batting his purple shaded eyes in some mysterious way that seemed utterly guileless. 

“Oh. Hmm.” Kirk nodded, his gaze drifting to Spock’s lips. “Vulcan poetry? Um, well.. Can’t be that saucy, I suppose. Sure. Go ahead. I’d like to hear it.”

Spock spoke in low and purring tones, close enough to kiss Jim’s ear: “T'nash-veh ashaya nam-tor wuh yel…au min-tor na' nash-veh.”

He leaned back and watched Kirk, who blushed scarlet, his mouth hanging open, his eyes blinking slowly. “Uh…ah. Hmm. And um…what…how does that…translate then?”

“My love is the sun,” Spock said softly. “He shines for me.”

“Ah…”

“I will see you on the bridge shortly then, Captain?”

“Mm. Mmhmm.”

Kirk watched Spock walk away which was almost as pleasant to him as watching him walk in his direction, just as Bones approached, looking vaguely concerned. “Jim? What’s the matter with you? You got a fever? You look like a summer tomato.”

“He did it again,” Jim sighed, shaking his head. “He goddamn did it again.”

[f1bordeaux]

The String That Binds Us. (Prologue) | ln4, cl16

You fell in love with this sport all because of him. It would be selfish not to thank that boy for his help in getting you here today, even if you both ended on rocky terms. However, after finding yourself in the same paddock as your childhood best friend, your mentor, your first true love, and the boy who left you for the bigger picture, you realize that he wants nothing to do with you. So, as fate has it, perhaps you'll end up in the arms of someone else. Or maybe, just maybe, that string that has been tied to the two of you together since birth will pull you back into eachothers lives. Warnings: none Pairings: Lando Norris x Reader, Charles Leclerc x Reader Word Count: 769 Poetry style | Story style A/n: I have returned with yet another series >:) this has been rolling around in my mind and yes its a super simple, done before, run down prompt but I promise to make it worth wild! I feel as though my writing has improved since my last series(which i'm gonna go rewrite) so please enjoy! Ill update as quickly as possible. This is just the prologue so look out for chapter 1 soon, and let me know if you all would be interested in me posting this on Wattpad for easier reading! Much love! Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

prologue; y/n.

There was simply no way, not in this world with all of its coincidences and twists of fate, that things did not happen for a reason. From the minute you’re born until the day you die, there is a reason for everything. An invisible string runs through each and every one of your actions, no matter how little or grand they may be. You were sure of it. There were so many instances you could think of. When you failed that math test and got put back into a different class-the one where you met your first boyfriend who you no longer speak of. When you visited the beach one Summer all the way across the ocean in the United States, and met a girl from your hometown who ended up becoming your life long friend you attended university with. And perhaps the most vital one, when you grew up next door to a boy, only a year older than you, who possessed a love for cars and all things involving them. He would sculpt your life into one of his own, beginning from only the age of three. The two of you would form a shared love, a shared passion, for one sport. However, you found more interest in the mechanical side of things while he preferred to take the wheel. Still, you often wonder how your life would have played out, what you would have done, where you would have gone, who you would have become without him. What would have happened to you if he didn’t live next door? You could never even picture it. Especially now, fresh from university with a degree in automotive engineering hanging on your wall. But the craziest connection of them all? Getting an offer to work in the same sport as your neighbor-no, your childhood best friend. You just couldn’t believe it.

“Y/n you’re joking.” Sophia said on the afternoon the offer popped up in your inbox. She sat on the beanbag chair you used to have in your dorm. You were laying down in bed, lazily scrolling through Twitter before deciding to check your inbox. Now, you were sitting up straight, hand cupping your mouth as you read the email. “Let me see!”

You spun the laptop around, watching her eyes dart across the screen. “It’s not real, there is no way.”

But it was. The email would turn into a phone call, the phone call would turn into a headquarters visit, the visit would turn into a contract. Soon, only a few months after your January graduation, you would be in the Formula 1 paddock, clad in red, tending to the Ferrari livery.

You called Lando only a few weeks before the season started. The two of you hadn’t spoken in a while.

“Hello?”

“Lando, hey.” You scratched the back of your neck. How would he take it? Would he even care at all? Why were you calling with how things ended between the two of you?

There was a second of silence, although it felt like minutes. “Y/n, it’s been a minute. I heard you graduated. Congrats.”

“Oh? Who told you?”

“Mom. You know she's still best friends with yours.”

“Right,” You sighed. He didn’t like your Instagram post that compiled all your grad-photos. Of course he’d only heard it involuntarily. “How have you been?”

“Good.” He responded. “Just preparing for the season, you know?”

“That's actually what I was calling about,” Your heart was pounding. You were so excited to tell him, to let him know that not only did he make it into his dream field, but so did you. “I got a job.”

“Cool. Where at?”

“Ferrari.”

The silence that hung over the line only a little while ago returned. “Like at a shop somewhere in the UK?”

Not exactly the celebration you were hoping for. “No, uh, in F1. I’ll be in the paddock working on either Leclerc’s or Sainz’s car.”

“Oh.” He sniffled. “How’d you manage a job like that straight out of uni?”

“I applied. Didn’t think I would get it but here we are.”

“Well I guess I’ll see you around then.”

And that was it, your big call, your big announcement, all concluded with a ‘see you around’ like it was a conversation to be had in a school yard. You were hurt, your childhood best friend chalking your achievements up to something not worth being impressed about, but you didn’t have time to think about it. You had a job to do and damnit, you were sure you’d be doing it the best.

[sadie-bug345]

greasers when they’re sick

i myself have been deathly ill for the past week so whilst i am bedridden i’m writing this🤡🙆‍♀️🤩 ANYWAYS LETS GO

ponyboy:

hates missing school solely cause my guy despises talking to teachers abt what he missed

also cause he thinks he gets super behind when guy just skipped one day of school😭

probably holes himself up in his and sodas room and when soda comes in to check on him after work it’s like PITCH black and pony is just sitting in a pile of tissues

”what do YOU want?” says pony with a voice similar to kermit the frog cause bros nose is SO stuffed up

and soda just assumes pony is in one of his moody, poetry reciting moods again and slowly exits the room, leaving only a baloney sandwich in his wake💀🤡😭

johnny:

def the type to not accept help

like he would go to school sick and the second someone brings up how his voice is screwed up he’s like 😐”what’re you sayin bout me?”

if the gang does quarantine him to a room he’d def just be able to entertain himself and prob come up with his own secret language and fictional multiverse or smth

idk he just gives the type to be fully okay with being alone for a bit but the meds he’s on make him all wacky too so it’s an interesting mix for sure

sodapop:

i’m sorry this guy has the most nastiest cough 😭

idc if he doesn’t smoke a lot he just got those mucusy coughs

other than that everyone’s having a good time, making jokes and feeling good and then soda pauses his laughter and unleashes the most rattley cough and then everyone just goes quiet and he just looks like 😃

definitely unfazed by sickness in general

until one day my guy just has the worst time and breaks downnnn🥰

we’ve all been there too esp when you’re sick and shit just goes downhill and everything sucks and you hate everything and everyone

darry:

now johnny doesn’t accept help but that’s NOTHING compared to darry

he has peak older-sibling syndrome and is just used to only helping other people

so when those people that he takes care of flip the script, my guy is just weirded outtt

like he def appreciates two trying to make him soup but he just doesn’t know how to react

goes lowk crazy with not being able to work or straighten up the house just cause he always feels like he’s gotta do SOMETHING productive with his time

dally:

i’m sorry but guy is def the type to go to school FULLY sick and either not say a word about it or complain like a lil bitch the whole time

also he totally smokes while he has a cough like soda which is so unhealthy i can’t even😭

just overall his habits and life doesn’t get upended by “some fuckass cold” (his words, not mine)

like bro please you just gotta rest sometimes😭

the gang is able to get him to stay at the curtis’ couch one day and bro just WIPES OUT

istg he’s out for like 15 hours straight in the full daytime and everyone is scared to walk past in case they wake him up

but dally is a crazy heavy sleeper so he actually gets a lot better after calming down for once🥰

two-bit:

honestly stays home from school like a normal person

except bro gets one cold and then just doesn’t show up to school for like two weeks😭

and it’s not cause he’s a wimp it’s just cause guy finds an excuse to skip out for a so called “vacation” and he rolls with it

and then he’ll just spawn back in on campus like a month later like nothing happened and everyone just expected two to take a dare too far and end up in the hospital🤡

steve:

CANT STOP WONT STOP

bro just pushes thru the pain😭

he probably takes way too much of the recommended dose of general meds (don’t do this please🧍‍♀️)

and then goes all loopy for hours straight

and people are kinda sus about it but honestly it’s steve so who is really all that surprised

LMAO THAT SOUNDS MEAN SORRY STEVE

ANYWAYSSSS i think imma post a romantic kinda sick reader x greaser thing so that’ll hopefully come out soon while im still coughing my lungs out🫶

[kittnbonez]

❄️intro post!❄️

About me

🌊 not gonna say my actual name but you can call me Zi!

🌊im 17, senior!

🌊i made this page because my friends r sick of hearing ab my tc!! thats what ill mainly talk about because i think ab him 24/7, but might post other stuff occasionally

🌊pleasee feel free to message me or send me any asks!!! i would love to ramble ab my tc with you, give you advice, comfort you, or anything else! im very nice i promise!

🌊other interests are music, drawing, poetry, tv and movies, reading, makeup & fashion, etc.

About My TC!

(click keep reading to see ab him!)

wont say his name obvii… but ill call him M!! he is mid 40’s, about 6’0 or 6’1? he has dark brown hair but its graying a bit, and pretty blue eyes :) Hes also a musician! We talk all the time about all sorts of things, i hes absolutely gorgeous and sweet and funny and cute. hes really mean to me but i think hes really just flirting w me (thats how i flirt with him anyways). he and i are suuper similar, we have all the same interests and when i talk to him it feels soo casual. im pretty sure he likes me but im not sure :,) im so absolutely in love w him it drives me crazy!!!! dont have his class this year, but i talk to him every chance i get (he told me he really wanted me to keep talking to him last year before summer!!!) hes mr mixed signals though and it makes me mad. but i still love him!!!

thats all i have to say!!! please feel free to dm me if you wanna be friends! id love to talk anytime :)💙

[wh0re4women]

Anticipatory Grief. (Larissa Weems X Reader) SFW.

Summary: Anticipatory grief refers to a feeling of grief occurring before an impending loss. Typically, the impending loss is the death of someone close due to illness — Wikipedia.

Warnings: So much hurt, loss, grief. No comfort. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. inspired by this beautiful fic by @weemssapphic and a bunch of poetry on grief.

Larissa shuffles out of bed at four in the afternoon. You're chopping vegetables for dinner — the same dinner you've cooked every day this month (the only thing she can stomach these days). She's up later today, just like all week, despite the early night. She steps into the kitchen; winces at the ache in her spine. You turn around, force a smile, try to bite down the thought that she's almost gone. Two hours later will turn into four, then eight and suddenly her hands are cold and—

"How did you sleep, sweetheart?" you nervously ask and the way her breath catches in her throat as she takes a single step forward creates a pit in your stomach.

Larissa looks tired, pale; when you wrap an arm around her waist and guide her gently, slowly towards a leather, cushioned chair — out of place in the kitchen, in replacement of a stool that Larissa could no longer hop onto — she feels frail, light. It's a sick reminder that you've already lost so much of her.

In a way, grief is nice, it proves you've loved. But today, grief is cruel. When Larissa brokenly replies “Well, darling,” the words are swollen with guilt from telling the white lie, but Larissa cant stand seeing the worry knitting your eyebrows together, cant stand the sound of concern in your voice every time you ask a question. She's ridden with guilt; notices that your phone is never on mute anymore — always on alert in case the doctor calls, notices how you used to find joy and comfort in cooking, but now preparing any meal means hours of hand-feeding every bite to her while she cradles a sick-bowl in her arms. Even the simple things — the things no one would analyse — keep Larissa's mind occupied. Like how she hasn't seen you wear a dress in months. Not since Larissa was diagnosed and you had to make sure you always kept emergency medication in your pockets (something that dresses lacked).

You try not to ask too many questions as you feed Larissa dinner, yet one pulls at your tongue the entire time — how am I supposed to live without you? There's desperation in your eyes and Larissa catches a glimpse of it right before you turn away to wash the dishes. She insists she can manage to stay up and watch TV in the living room with you tonight. You insist she goes back to bed. There's tension in the air — the usual now; it dissipates as you compromise with a shared bath.

The porcelain fills with water gradually and you wonder if this is the last time you'll bathe with Larissa — is it the last time you'll ever see her naked frame? In another life, you're fifty-three and Larissa is seventy-two; you eat berries as you watch the sun rise and drink tea as you watch it set. In this life, you're just unlucky.

You slide into the tub behind Larissa and ease her back onto your chest, thankful that the running tap muffles your sniffle, thankful that Larissa's head falls onto your shoulder and her thin, blonde hair unknowingly brushes the tear off your cheek. You've technically already lost her — she barely resembles the Larissa that you fell in love with; you almost wish you could stop loving her just for that, so that the grief would quit cutting at your heart strings, so that you could finally swallow without the lump in your throat being in the way.

You close your eyes and your lungs burn with the breath you're supposed to take and when you do take it, it comes out shaky and fuck, Larissa wasn't supposed to know that you're upset but you feel her tense and no amount of cascading your nails along her arm is enough to melt her back into your skin, but she doesn't ask because she already knows and there's nothing she can do to help but just be there; she isn't even sure if she can do that.

The washcloth is soapy; leaves a trail of suds as it slides along Larissa's skin. She winces, bites her lip in frustration with herself, apologises, asks you to please, just a little lighter, it hurts today and you use your bare hand for the first time ever, knowing it's now routine.

Larissa cringes visibly as she swallows her medication, like usual, and you pray to whoever is listening to let you trade places with her, as always. She falls asleep an hour earlier than normal and you note the change in the back of your mind; scribble it in your notebook before you leave the room.

The wine bottle is emptied within two days and Larissa's washcloth grows cold and mouldy on the edge of the tub by the end of the week; you don't dare throw it out. You wonder if all of the TV shows you started would ever get finished, or if maybe some things are just meant to end unexpectedly and too soon.

"A couple of weeks maybe," the doctor tells you when you stupidly ask again. He looks directly into your eyes with sorrow and you're angry, you're so angry — because it's not just a couple of weeks, it's also a lifetime of grief and heartbreak and longing; it's walking down the cereal aisle and breaking down because Larissa loved that brand of granola. Because the doctor was supposed to save her. Because you were supposed to grow old together and Larissa won't get to do that anymore and you're not sure whether you can do it without her.

When the Pharmacist calls you darling, you dial Larissa's number immediately to make sure it isn’t a sign from a higher power telling you that something is wrong. And when you hear an ambulance on your way home, you don't think twice before sprinting. Every coughing fit, you wonder is this it? And every night you cant seem to sleep, constantly thinking and thinking and thinking of that one poem that goes,

In all of time,

I wonder how

Many lives I

Will have to

Live, until I

find my way

back to you.

- dj.

[ultimateloserboy]

ok you know what im gonna say it with my full chest. literally nobody talks about bendy (the character) like who he actually is and ive been tired of it since the old game ended. i think hes genuinely one of the most incorrectly fanonized characters like ever at this point. and i genuinely believe it changed the actual canon and it bothers me a lot.

as for the physical version of him/ the ink demon— in the original batim game there was literally a whole plot point about bendy being non-human and how he came out of the machine physically and mentally sloppy compared to the other creations. hes not a fully fledged-out person and that’s LITERALLY an entire section of the original game. he has no human soul or mind, hes sentient but about as much as a gorilla. he attacks like a zombie or an animal with instinct and not like an angry human being. he cant speak because his mouth is fake and he cant walk properly because his limbs are liquid sludge— hes literally an abomination— a mockery of actual human life. its crazy to even call him the “villain” of the story because he doesnt have the thinking ability to genuinely be malicious. its like calling zombies the villains of zombie movies, they cant be because they dont have the brain function to be.

a lot of people ignored the obvious fact that he isnt human-like so they could sexualize him, which isnt as bad as sexualizing an actual animal— im not claiming that— but what bothers me is how the creators made him MORE HUMAN to lean towards these people and ill never think otherwise. yall can argue with me or call me chronically online, but bendy WASNT able to speak or was human-like at all until the dark revival, which was so obviously fan service its not even funny.

im not claiming that people who sexualize bendy are zoos or something— thats too far. what im claiming tho is that this genuinely interesting character was given consciousness and the ability to speak after previously not ever having those things JUST so booktok ass teenagers could swoon over him like they do venom, taking away the interest of his original character. he wasnt fully sentient until it made money for the creators and then suddenly hes speaking poetry in a deep sexy man voice with a fucking 8 pack. how does that not bother anyone? im not even trying to say its morally weird— im just saying its bad writing in general!!! like why do yall let these games ruin characters for fan service and not even give a fuck, and then have the balls to ask why newer ones are so poorly written?? no fucking shot EVERY one of yall was ok with them retconning his entire existence like HES THE MAIN CHARACTER???? DO YALL REALLY WANNA SEXUALIZE EVERYTHING //THAT// BAD TO THE POINT ITS OK TO REWRITE THE ENTIRE MAIN CHARACTER AS LONG AS IT MEANS YOU CAN FINALLY SEXUALIZE HIM CANONICALLY??????

and before people say anything— no i dont think its wrong for bendy to develop a voice or to become more human over time— BUT COME ON DUDE ARE YALL DENSE?? IVE SEEN LESS FAN-SERVICE STARING AT MY GOD DAMN AIR CONDITIONER!!!! they didnt “develop” bendy more— they retconned him to please freaks online!!! surely ONE of yall had to have noticed like… when tdr dropped the sexualization was so bad i genuinely didnt have fun with the series anymore. and I CANT because its justified now! the creators retconned him to be more sexyman so now you cant even argue against it!! literally why cant we have ONE thing online without people wanting to pound every single fucking character??

im sorry if this sounds mean but ive been upset about this for YEARS!! bendy was my favorite character as a kid and NOBODY gives him justice NOT EVEN HIS OWN CREATORS. it would be one thing if there was just a small portion that treated him like this but now its literally everyone and the games lean into it and i just want to explode and die at this point fr.

it genuinely makes me a little ill knowing he was once just a confused, soulless being fighting and killing out of the confusion, rage and fear that his cruel existence caused him to feel, but now hes just a deep voiced venom-ripoff villain whose just a big meanie and hunts you for sport or some stupid shit.

[pumpkinsy0]

do you have any headcanons for purly being all romantic and cute n shit but like canon time in an au where homophobia doesnt exist?? i love them and love the canon time period i just dont love certain things about the canon time period yknow

of course!!! ill just place them into a place free of pain but still w the aesthetics of the 60s, everyone is all buddy buddy and love each other🤲🏽

im gonna try and not do too many “obviously 60s” things like diners n stuff to talk about new things

•i dont think curly rlly calls pony petnames BUT he def would call pony doll, THAT ONE, yea i could see most definitely

•i have a inkling that curlys sarcastically called a dreamboat by everyone, but ESPECIALLY by pony

•pony woulda went INSANE over the space race and always go to curly about something new he learned and curlys just like “ur not goin on the moon y do U care sm” but would still let pony talk about it, it does seem kinda cool to him

•pony would drag curly along into a coffee shop bc there was poetry readings going on, curly felt like time goes so SLOW in there he wanted out BAD

•curly would def get into rock music, but one time pony brought up a beatles song and curly rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth SO hard he fucking hates the beatles

•pony got a lava lamp randy gave him for whatever reason and when curly found out he was a lil annoyed bc he fucking hates hippies but the lamp does look sick so thats the ONLY THING curlys ever letting pony take from a hippie (if u aint know, randy canonically is a hippie in twttin)

•pony aint understand curlys hatred for hippies but then he actually was near em and yea he got it immediately

•pony isnt allat comfortable hitchhiking meanwhile curly does it a bit here n there, so when they do hitchhike, curlys a bit more obviously protective, just to keep pony from worrying too much

•after a date, curly would do that bs where he would drive pony to a place thats basically just a “makeout point”, pony would put 2 and 2 together half way there😭

•i mean hey pony aint tellin the guy to turn around or anything

•this is SUCH a specific thing, but yknow those things where people in a certain decade have like this medical myth and say if u do one thing, something else is gonna happen to u, like “if u crack ur fingers ur gonna get arthritis”, i can totally see pony believing someting and when curly does it he warns him, and curlys like “theres no chance that shit happens” and YEARRRSSSS down the line when its finally common knowledge that it (in fact) isnt true, curly would b like “i fucking told u so”

•skateboarding was actually a thing in the 60s just more popular in more east and west states im sure, but i say fuck that, curly stole a skateboard from a soc’s garbage can and took it right to pony cause he thought it looked funny and they were just fucking around w it

•pony would take darrys newspaper after hes done reading it just for the lil comics and curly would tease him for it, but lowkey, hes also reading it over ponys shoulder