#it's just genuinely rly rly depressing

[beneathsilverstars]

ack.. if i don't check my work email soon i'm going to miss my chance to sign up for a workshop for the next semester....

[girl-bateman]

Feeling a debilitating sense of dread and despair 🤨 Which probably means nothing😍👍

[quirkle2]

i am literally so hungry and yet i am like paralyzed in my seat. why can't i get up and go get food. why am i just sitting here while my stomach wallows in agony. i feel ill. jay be normal

[ozlices]

btw it is our little's chosen birthday today since it's also emu's bday & not a single person has wished them happy birthday even with them being devastated in our discord status so 🙃it'd mean a lot to them to come back from their sad nap to ppl wishing them happy bday

[v-iv-rusty]

doctors are lying getting a solid 7 to 8 hours of sleep doesn't do shit

[phagodyke]

my flatmate asking me the day before "do u want to hang out w me and [old friend] everyone else cancelled so I can invite u now" is not the heartfelt offer she thinks it is :^/

[nomaishuttle]

its also like . ok sry im going on bc im tired and ive upset myself lol but its like. to have somebody who knows i grew up in poverty call me greedy and selfish bc he pressured me into moving up here when i didnt have the money so i Had to rely on him financially. and then i couldnt pay him back while i was literally unemployed. to have him call me greedy and selfish and entitled and lazy was. insanely upsetting

[wollfling]

I decided to try making tiktoks for my art stuff just to have that extra reach but it feels so awkward filming 😐

[bfwonho]

How are you permenantly disabled by burnout? If you're experiencing symptoms of burnout without the actual burnout, that's probably depression

autistic burnout can make you regress in your ability to function and last years or ive seen some people say it can be forever depending on severity. i doubt it's forever for me but i've definitely regressed and as long as i have to keep up with my responsibilities i'll stay this way or get worse

[archiveofyearning]

.

[torsamors]

life rly is like that one gabrielle calvocoressi

[uznmaki]

i just realized i have literally a week to decide between getting a masters degree and a job and honestly neither sounds a single bit appealing to me

[phagodyke]

still feeling bad.. ik isolating myself in this is worsening things by making me feel lonelier + rely on not so great coping mechanisms but im so socially insecure when im this kind of depressed.. its rly not worth the damage I could cause to other ppl like at least its self contained innit.

[girl-bateman]

I've been having a lot of dreams where im in secure and loving relationships, holding hands with my girl and cuddling and being generally wholesome, and its just......... nice but so weird bc im just waiting for the other shoe to drop and for my dreams to return to their usual gore-torture 😐 like this little lovey dovey fantasy is nice but it kinda feels like a trap ngl

[chisatowo]

Does a little dance. Mafuyu isn't a fundamentally spiteful person. Its taken them being at their absolute rock bottom to actually lash out at ppl and beyond that they never actually show much distain for others they're just blunt. Ppl tend to portray them as way more mean than they actually are, or at least more deliberately so, and it just rly bugs me idk

[recareels]

take it slow just as fast as i can

character: boothill notes: i just rly, genuinely think boothill would be obsessed with feeling every fucking inch of you, that’s all c: | title credit: body like a back road by sam hunt warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, fem reader, thinly veiled body worship, mentions of scars + implied stretch marks and cellulite, marking (biting and bruising), implied multiple orgasms, tiny bit of angst right at the end words: 830

boothill knows your body better than he knows anything else in the cosmos. 

boothill knows your body better than he knows his own—better than he knows his scorched, excavated homeland, better than he knows the smooth metal ripples and ridges, cold curves and contours of his own so called ‘body’, better than he knows his cherished 9mm revolver—the ivory grip, pretty pearlescent nacre shimmering up at him delicately from between the gaps of mechanized fingers, stamped with that gilded eagle sigil; the artfully notched cylinder, embossed with decorative arrows—six, one for each chamber—and the angular hammer, piped with shimmering aureate; the golden barrel, intricate inclinations carved to sharp, exquisite perfection. 

boothill knows every curve, every dip, every edge of your form—all of your lines and dimples and scars, and could map them out with his eyes closed and recite each corresponding story: a single metallic fingertip tracing along the jagged strikes of silver etched into your skin; his hard thumbprint pressing into the dents peppering your thighs, a cool knuckle skimming over that scar on your knee. 

and boothill loves appreciating them, appreciating you, appreciating how it all comes together to create one of the most magnificent masterpieces he’s ever had the pleasure of touching, the privilege of loving. 

it’s become somewhat of a ritual now to take his sweet time admiring your figure before he fucks it, feeling every part of you plush and pliant beneath his grooved palms, revelling in the soft gasps that stutter your chest and dainty shivers that ripple your flesh as he kneads it. 

he fills his touch with it, grabs healthy handfuls and squeezes—so soft, so supple—alternating between harsh groping, iron fingers sinking into your thighs, your hips, your tits, and gentle caressing, bullseye gaze watching with sheer wonderment as his palms glide over your silhouette, slick lips parted and damp with panted breath.

sometimes he’ll just let his hand rest on your ribs, observing the way it rises and falls with each of your quiet breaths, feeling oxygen expand your lungs as it flows in, then feeling your chest depress with every exhale pushed up your throat. 

he loves to experience the thrum of your pulse beneath his fingertips—nothing more than a faint fluttering pressure against his receptors, but present nonetheless—an undeniable confirmation that you are indeed here, alive, his. 

so beautiful, he murmurs from between your thighs, one large hand pressed flush against your heart, his chin resting on your stomach. a work of fudgin’ art, baby, I swear to the stars. 

it all gets him going so goddamn easily, instils a hunger in him so ferocious that it chews on his wires, zipping through the cables in sparks of desire until it devours his brain, gorges every thought and notion until all he can conceive, all he needs, is you. 

he can’t help but lick and kiss and bite and suck, desperate to leave his own impermanent marks on this gorgeous canvas. bruises blossom in the shapes of his fingerprints, sprouted in clusters of five across your form. engravings of razored teeth litter your thighs and hips, his gnawing just a hint shy of too strong, leaving behind wide crescents of thirty-two little crimson pinpricks. petals of thick saliva dry hard and stiff on your stomach and neck and collarbone, planted into your skin by puckered lips and chaste kisses.

it’s customary that he murmur sweet nothings into every claim he creates, knowing that his words will seep into your tissues in the form of gentle vibrations, knowing that they will stay, even after his marks fade.

your body is art, too, you tell him softly, after he’s made you cum several times on his cock, iron shimmering with a thick coat of your arousal, slick he refuses to clean off. a tender finger traces along the tears laden across his torso, rough and saw-toothed—scars he refuses to let heal. 

no, he murmurs, rubbing his mouth into your shoulder as he speaks, eyes closing briefly with a slow, deep inhale. not the way yours is. 

your body is a storybook of your life, inscribed with tales and memories—the way your body developed as you entered womanhood, too quick for your delicate skin to keep up with, procuring shimmering streaks across your breasts and bum; the time you flipped your childhood bicycle, kneecaps scraping concrete, bloody and raw; that dark dash seared along your inner arm, a constant reminder of an earnest mistake, when you accidentally nudged the rim of a pot filled with boiling water. 

his body was carved in a lab, too precise to be real, too perfect to be human, constantly torn apart and put back together; rearranged, scrambled, chock full of modifications he never asked for, never agreed to. a true horror story—a weapon of death and destruction, a film of inevitable demise clinging to the metal.

he fears that’s all it ever will be.