#it's not specifically at you it's at everything. also just to be safe:

[shrimpradar]

12 shrimps!

14 prawns!

when people say "crypto and AI" in 99% of cases whatever they're about to say next can be safely ignored the only thing those things have in common is that they had an inane insufferable tech industry hype train and a big online backlash. and anyone talking from within either of those positions is fundamentally not concerned with any of the details or realities of either okay i will carve out an exception: there is a coherent category of "crypto and AI" in which those words do not refer to anything real or any actual technology, but to a vague technology-shaped concept which breathless tech CEOs and journalists tell you is going to be the future of everything and replace the internet and cars and your penis and that you need to invest your company in right now. but the response to those objects is to point out that they don't exist, that they are scams based on vaguely futuristic floating signifiers--not to buy into the idea that they do but respond 'well they're bad though'. enough people have said this on this post that i'm gonna make an addition specifically about this: it's not true. AI's power use is not that significant--something which i talk about in this post and which ars technica did a really good breakdown of. tldr, the big scary electricty numbers attributed to AI are 1. dwarfed by most household appliances, let alone industrial production and 2. really difficult to attribute to AI alone because datacenters are used for all kinds of other things including, like, the internet. there's also a fundamental difference between AI and crypto in this regard: AI developers and companies trying to hawk it are incentivized to make it as energy efficient as possible because they're the ones stuck holding the energy bill and AI is already losing money hand over fist. crypto, on the other hand, needs to continually become more and more expensive in energy costs to enforce the artifical scarcity that makes it a valuable speculation asset. so in effect, mass industry or consumer adoption of AI would incentivize AI companies to make AI use less energy and run for cheaper--while mass adoption of NFTs or any other crypto gimmick would, in fact, require ballooning power use. copying tags from genericaura: #ai is way more like the dot-com bubble than it is crypto #in that it is a legitimate technology with real use cases but its being overvalued #crypto is just like if a ponzi scheme involved starting tire fires whenever they recruited new investors

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when people say "crypto and AI" in 99% of cases whatever they're about to say next can be safely ignored

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 30

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Summary: Bucky finds your letter.

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Canon- typical violence. Blood. Loss. Everything. (I'm so sorry.)

Song Rec: Chasing Cars by Sleeping At Last

Authors Note: A little short, a little specific, but I hope you guys like it. ALSO, if you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

“Thank you Bucky. For everything.”

Bucky nearly collapsed as he reached the alleyway. Sirens wailed in the distance. 

It was empty.

With trembling hands, Bucky followed the trail of blood to the hole in the wall. The loose brick laid on the floor, stained red. He swallowed the bile in his throat as he followed the streaks of crimson.

Where was she?

The old fire escape ahead ached and creaked. Its ladder hung low. 

Bucky stood below, staring at the rusted metal. People from the end of the alley whispered and pointed around the street, sharing the news of what occurred. 

Bucky curled a cold fist around the first hinge. He pulled himself up, his stomach turning as he felt your chilling blood smear into his palms. 

At the top, all he found was the shattered pieces of the radio. His breath hitched in his chest. 

No.

He called out your name, his voice echoing and bouncing off the walls. He dragged his fingers through the wet stain dripping from the brick wall. 

He was too late.

His knees hit the unsteady metal floor. 

A feeling he’d long grown used to welled in his chest, spreading and poisoning his veins. Loss. But this was different. This was fresh. This was new. 

This was you.

This was grief.

The team never came. 

He sat there, on the floor of his once shared home, for hours. He stated at his trembling hands, blinking through a haze. He could still feel the curdled splotches of your blood against his palms. He could still hear your voice.

He waited, almost hoping they’d show up. But they never did. Not the next day, or the day after that. 

He was alone, and safe, and it made him hate himself in an entirely new way. 

He sat beside the bed, staring at the dent in the mattress from your body. You were just another one of his victims. And perhaps, the most innocent of all. 

The most kind woman he’d ever known. The most understanding. The gentlest. The only person he’d felt safe with in decades. 

Gone.

Because of him.

He stared, chewing his lip until it bled, the sound of your voice echoing in his mind. 

But then, he saw it.

Peaking out beneath the mattress, was the soft corner of a page. Its white color stood out against the stained floorboards. He reached, tugging the page out from beneath the bed. It was two pieces of printer paper, its edges frayed. There was a crease across the center, like it was folded and unfolded over and over. 

He turned it over, and saw the wispy handwriting.

Dear Bucky,

Hi. I feel weird writing to you like this, knowing you’re sitting a few feet away from me. But I feel like I have to. I wanted to write this because I honestly have no idea what's going to happen next. I never have any idea what the next minute will hold. I don’t know when it will happen, but I feel this constant, looming anxiety that something awful is going to happen. Someone might pop out of the bathroom one day with a gun. Or someone will be waiting for us in the laundromat and have the place surrounded. I don’t know when, but I know this isn’t forever. So, I wanted to tell you all the things I feel we never say. 

You’re the only person in my life that will know me in my last moments, and I want you to actually know me. I want someone to know me. So here it is. All the things too small to tell you, too insignificant, and maybe even stupid. My name is Y/n L/n. My birthday is XX.XX.XXXX. My favorite color is green.

I have two cats that I’ve had since I was in high school, and they are my everything. When I was a kid I wanted to be a pirate and go on adventures. I guess I can say a bit of that dream came true. I love Italian and Mexican food. I love dancing, but I’ve never done it, not really. There's a lot of things in life I’ve always wanted to do, but been too afraid to go for. I don’t have many friends, I never have. But I’m glad to say that I consider you, James Bucky Barnes, to be my friend. I barely know you, and I doubt I ever will, but I trust you with my life. When I first met you, I was terrified of you and everything around me. But now I know that you would never willingly hurt me, or anyone else. You’re a good man. No matter what you might say. 

I want you to know me, but I also want you to know what I think of you. I’ve spent every day with you, sharing a space, a bathroom, a captivity. I know you, maybe not to the bone, or in the little ways that I might want, but I know you. You’re good. You want to be good. You make my days easier, and I look forward to talking to you every morning. Maybe it’s because without you, I’d go insane. But still. I want to. Bucky, I want to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. Whether it was out of guilt, or because you wanted to, you’ve done so much for me. 

You saved my life. You helped me keep living. You’ve been kind to me, when all I felt was fear. You’re someone I care about very much. 

I hope you know that you’re a good man. I hope you know that everything you touch doesn't break. It's not evil, because you’re not evil. You want to be better, and that alone makes you better. 

Thank you, Bucky, for everything.

Bucky let out a shaky breath into his palm as he reread the last line. You never finished writing it, he concluded, from the large space left on the page and the fact that you hadn’t signed it. You must have been writing it at night, when he was asleep. 

He never noticed. 

But he saw the watermarks. The spots where your tears stained the paper. He saw where your fingers worried the corners of the papers until they frayed. He saw the way your handwriting got messier. The way your hand must have shook.

He dropped the papers onto the bed and buried his face in his hands. 

You were gone.

A/N: Short but ouch. The personal details in the letter, if they don't match with your just pretend they were something else, haha.

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination @unicornqueen05 @cupids-mf-arrow @sharkylalala @littlesuniee @meineguete @hawkinsavclub1983 @theconsultingdoctor10 @dollface-xoxo @bloodmocha @natalia42069 @nicolebarnes @fallen-w1ngs @justachillgirllui @avaout

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

hello mr. sex witch. 100% ok to discard if this is inappropriate or out of your wheelhouse. i love my husband very much and feel very safe with him, but i tend to dissociate pretty bad when trying to have sex. like, full on my soul leaving my body and floating a few steps away from it. it’s really distressing and makes me feel terrible because it makes me want sex less, which makes my husband feel like i must not be attracted to him or love him and i feel like an awful spouse.

i’m in therapy already, but it’s one of the hardest things for me to talk about with another person. it makes me feel dirty and shameful and disgusting every time i try. i love my therapist and have been seeing her for around 4 years now, but i just want to leap out of my skin anytime our sessions go anywhere near my relationship to sex, and i have a hard time even using correct anatomical terms to refer to my body parts when talking to her about it. i usually just slip into vagueries like “down there” or “that part” or “that area.” my mouth and throat dry up otherwise.

not at all asking you to diagnose me with anything, but i was wondering if there happen to be any good self-help resources you know of for moving past this? the things i have found in the past 10-ish years or so often feel sort of like “just look at yourself in the mirror and jerk off more and then one day you’ll magically get over it in one fell swoop,” and that’s never really felt like anything but dismissal to me. (i also acknowledge that i could be misreading the tone of some of these stories and guides because i’m coming at them from a place of pain and fear. may very well not be their fault.)

if you don’t have anything for something like this it’s okay, i don’t want to be annoying or a burden. you just seem really knowledgable and i thought maybe would know of something or other. if not it’s totally fine, i hope you’re having a nice day. thanks for your time reading this.

hi anon,

I want to be very delicate here, because I'm broadly opposed to offering diagnoses here especially when it's in an area that's very outside my realm of knowledge, and I really appreciate that you aren't asking me for a diagnosis.

having said that: virtually everything you're describing here, from the consistent dissociation to the physical distress response you experience when trying to talk about sex, sounds very much like a trauma response. I absolutely agree that most of the resources you've been finding likely aren't suitable to be helpful for you, because they're aimed at people who are feeling a little insecure in their body and not someone who has a deeply rooted distress response.

it sounds like the most well-equipped person to help you tackle this is a trauma-informed therapist. I obviously don't know anything about the therapist you see now, and I'm sure she's been able to help you in other ways, but it seems like you're having a hard time cracking this particular matter with her to make any positive change in the direction you want. if trauma isn't an area where she's able to work with patients, I think it may be very worth your while to consult someone more specialized to help you address this specifically.

I know that all by itself this isn't really an answer, almost certainly not the one you were hoping for, and is only a suggestion of more work and emotional difficulty for you, in addition to the potential costs of finding a second mental healthcare provider. I am sincerely sorry about that. I wish there was an easier solution I could provide, and I wish you the best of luck.

[ablobwhowrites]

yandere TF2 idea again cause I cannot stop the TF2 brainrot

Thinking about a mercenary y/n who has never set foot into a kitchen but one day y/n found a magazine about food and without a recipe has made the same thing as the magazine and taste absolutely amazing but y/n is like "man, I put one to many drops of frosting on it." And their team ask if they could cook again and just give a picture of what they want and y/n just makes it exactly and taste amazing. But sometimes they have to ask Pauling if she could get these specific ingredients for a recipe and she does cause she gets free meals from y/n if she can.

Once engineer asked if y/n could work a grill and engineer brought out his full ass grill cause it was one of those free days on both sides and y/n is like "I got some steaks and hamburger patties in the fridge I can probably cook." With y/n working the grill, the seasoning and everything even got the blue side to join in and now y/n is forced to cook cause scout will eat nothing else if y/n doesn't cook it as well as the other mercenaries but pyro will probably just stare at y/n like those dogs who give you the saddest look for your food.

Y/n also cooks for holidays (their teammates ask if they can and y/n said yeah) and y/n gets the whole kitchen to themselves until they are done. Soldier also does 'check in' (it's a excuse to see y/n and maybe steal a quick bite before pyro chases him out) but when all the food is done, heavy and pyro and sniper help bring out the food cause spy, engineer and medic set up the tables. Scout sets up the dishes and silverware even though spy heavily criticizes how scout puts the plates and silverware. Demo just keeps spy and scout from fightin cause once everyone was about to eat, scout threw a plates and forks at spy but one hit demos eye patch and a butter knife was somehow lodged in engineers hardhat and also cause y/n asked demo if he could keep scout and spy from fighting.

Also y/n will wake up sometimes at the most inconvenient hours and make something to eat and just carry a plate or the whole dish into their room and eat it cause they had a craving (engineer found y/n laying on the bed with a empty dish of lasagna with fork in hand)

Y/n rn

(anyways that it for my yapping session, hope you guys like it but if you want more please don't feel shy and request any ideas for stories or y/n's. But for now please stay safe and drink water!)

[dabflies]

In the back seats. Ideal for bad days.

—pre-outbrake!Tommy Miller x reader.

It was written especially for game!Tommy, but you can still read it imagining the version of show!Tommy without any problem. There are not many specific details.

I really need more content about my man.

content; light angst. fluff. suggestive. gn!reader. age gap (not extreme) . hint of secret encounters. no use of y/n. nothing completely explicit. i wanted to start with something light, be patient with me haha. sit on lap. not defined features or body, so feel safe. my ‘daddy issues’ can be reflected a little-a lot. wc; 1,1K.

a/n; I could be said that this is a small ‘teaser’, you know, to test the waters before deciding to write something longer and more detailed. So I apologize in advance if you feel it's too short or rushed. I would also like to mention that English is not my first language, so really sorry for any grammatical error! written in the app, btw!

Maybe this was all you needed.

No, this was definitely all you needed.

The warmth of his body against yours, his strong arms holding you firmly, making you feel safe. Protected. Allowing you to hide in the hollow of his neck while your tears soak his shirt, letting you feel vulnerable for the first time without embarrassment about it. Big hands traveling down your back, sneaking inside your clothes where his calloused touch leaves soft caresses, causing chills in your skin. You wished that everything would stay like this, that you could stay the rest of your life in his arms without having to worry about anything or anyone else—the pain didn't exist when you were with him.

You clung tightly, as if you were afraid that at any moment he would leave you.

Apparently Tommy seemed to realize it, reading you like a completely open book—that or probably he just could really read minds. You feel his face sliding all over your neck, stopped once he was close enough to your ear. “Do you want to talk ‘bout it?” He whispered in a soft and low tone, giving you some tickling.

You shook your head, a ‘no’ escaping as a whisper from your lips—at least not now. You hadn't said much in a long time, and you feared that, if you started speaking, the only thing that would come out of your mouth would be meaningless babbling for the moment your voice began to break. You wanted to spare yourself the shame and the effort. Not to mention that, most of the energy you had during the day, had been completely drained from your body.

Man, a really bad day.

Bad days.

Those kind of bad days that end up giving you a terrible k.o in the confines of your bed once you step on your room. Those that take away your ability to feel emotions and you only have a blank head and an empty chest. With a strong painful knot suffocating your throat, and no matter how much saliva or water you swallowed, it was still there. Waiting so patiently for you to have enough courage to cry.

And today was one of those days, which left you spending the whole afternoon watching the ceiling as if you depended on it. Tried to process what happened, what you felt, a why. Hoping that Tommy have read your message and maybe, just maybe, come to see you earlier than it used to be—despite how risky it would be if a neighbor caught both of you. Today you needed him more than ever. You needed to get into his arms, sit on his lap in the back of his old jeep, and above all, listen to his voice. You needed it so much that at one point it was embarrassing.

But apparently the universe thought you were being very demanding.

For the bad news, your previous wish was not fulfilled; Tommy's work had become heavier, ruling out the possibility that he would arrive earlier to your house. That left you impatient, waiting for the night to fall quickly while you moved all over your bed. Looking at the clock every couple of minutes that passed, until it marked 12:00 o'clock at night. The usual time.

You waited.

Listening to the ‘click clack’ of the clock above your bed.

And when you heard your phone vibrate with the arrival of a new message and the white light sneaking through the openings in your curtains, you wasted no time. You got out of bed so quickly that you felt dizzy, tripping slightly with your feet on your way to the window. You watched Tommy's gray Jeep park on the side of the street, just a few meters away from your house to avoid attracting too much attention—in case by pure chance someone saw him.

You walked away from the window as soon as you heard the engine turn off, hurrying to grab your sweatshirt and the pair of shoes you had thrown in the corner of your room. Once you made sure that everyone at home was sleeping, you met Tommy, who was patiently waiting for you outside. His body leaned in the worn gray of the old jeep, a slight smile illuminating his face when he watched you walk out the door. You hadn't even let him greet you before you were already in his arms; just when your body remembered the effect he had on you, you burst into tears. The tears you hadn't managed to release.

“Oh, hey, hey, hey… what happened?” You didn't answer and it was enough for him. Tommy didn't say another word; he was silent, letting you be, wrapping his arms around you a short time later. You don't remember how long you two lasted like this, but what you actually can remember is the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, guiding you to the passenger seat. The heat of his hand now taking place on your thigh, moving down to your knee where he left sweet caresses while he was in charge of driving to his house.

You two didn't enter once you were there, instead you stayed outside parked on the porch. Being right where you were now, on his lap in the back seats. Making you reaffirm that this was what you needed.

His lips brushed against your cheek, where he planted a kiss before moved away. “It’s alright, I gotch’ you,” You felt the emptiness of one of his hands leave its place inside your shirt, only to feel it some time later cardle the cheek that he had not kissed. Separating at a slow pace your face from where it was lying hidden in his neck. “Just want to see your pretty face, m’kay?” He murmured when he felt you tense up at his action, comforting you with a soft laugh behind his words “You haven't let me see you and I miss you, y’know?”

He took the time to admire each of your features once he had you face to face—as if he hadn't seen you in years. “There you go,” he earning a weak and small smile from you, which he didn't hesitate to return. By this time both hands now cradled your face with affection—fearing that it could break at any moment if something like that was possible—his thumbs wiped the odd rebellious tears and his eyes searched for your lost gaze. A characteristic glow in them once they finally met yours.

“Let's make you feel good, what'd you think?”

The sweetness of a kiss melting on your lips when you nodded. His hands filled again the void they had left inside your shirt, and his fingers traced back that familiar path on the skin of your back, going down with that characteristic slowness until they found the hem of your shirt, pulling it.

Tommy always knew where to touch and where not.

How to treat you correctly.

And above all, he was an expert in how make you feel good.

© dabflies.

[lelengerine]

hi can i be apart of the youth lovesome event? may i request johnny and call me- wayv

🫧

͙͘͡★ bubbling messages

song prompt. “we’re in the same class, and i’ve only ever known you as the person who never speaks—until i missed a lecture and asked for your notes, and for some reason, i can’t stop texting you about the weirdest things. turns out i was just looking for excuses to talk to you more”

pairing. classmate!johnny x academic weapon!reader

tags. strangers (classmates) to crushes au, lots of fluff and a bunch of teasing bc... c'mon its johnny, no specific prns used, not fully proofread, i can't tell if i missed out on anything...

wc. 1.3k words

notes. super sorry this came out late op 😞😞 honestly you can think of this like an alternative universe to the other johnny drabble i made for this event 😭 though i like how both have parallels in a sense hehe !! lmk ur thoughts on this onee ;0; likes, reblogs, and feedback are very much welcome <3

꒰ m.list | event m.list ꒱

you know johnny suh by name, by reputation, by the way his laughter carries across the lecture hall, reaching even the farthest corners where the shadows settle between rows of indifferent students. his voice has a way of peeling away the stillness, scattering it like leaves before a sudden gust of wind.

he’s the kind of person who doesn't merely exist in a room—he claims it, not through force, but through the gravity of his presence. leaned back in his chair with an effortless sprawl, long legs outstretched as if daring the world to ask him to move, he speaks with an easy boldness, a glint of mischief ever present in the curve of his mouth.

you are the opposite.

your place is in the quiet: the corner seat near the window where light pools and dust dances lazily in the air. you take your notes with almost sacred precision, pages filled with neat, unbroken lines that feel like a small kind of rebellion against the chaos of everything else and slip out before anyone has a chance to remember you were even there. 

you are, by all means, forgettable and you have built your life carefully as such, like stacking stones on a riverbed with each piece meticulously placed. each day being unremarkably the same. it wasn’t like you minded. the silence was a sanctuary for someone like yourself, a fortress made of soft, uninterrupted minutes. 

it is safe.

it is enough.

it has to be.

at least, it was—until johnny misses a lecture, and for the first time, he sees you.

the first message arrives on a random thursday evening, when the world outside your window was blurred by rain and the air hummed with the distant growl of thunder.

hey, do you take good notes?

you stare at your screen, fingers pausing midair, stunned not by the fact that johnny suh is texting you—even though that alone was unexpected—but because the answer to his question was so obviously yes that you wonder if he’s ever even looked in your direction. 

your fingers hover over the keyboard. it would be easy to leave him on read and to figure out his own sufferings, but something tugs at you—a quiet curiosity, a whisper of possibility that eventually causes you to act before thinking.

yeah. sending them now.

you watch the file upload, the small spinning icon hypnotic in its slowness, and you tell yourself that’s the end of it. a transaction, nothing more.

you expect silence in return. you expect him to forget you again, as he always had before, but the next day, your phone buzzes during breakfast.

thanks again! you saved me big time.

and then another, hours later.

also, your handwriting is scary neat. are you really human? you almost laugh—almost—and realize, with a strange flutter of realization, that he is still talking to you.

at first, it stays tethered to class. questions about assignments. clarifications about lectures. easy, straightforward exchanges that you could pretend meant nothing, but soon, the messages begin to slip loose from their academic moorings.

if we replaced all the blood in our bodies with capri sun, would we survive?

you frown at your screen, forehead vaguely creasing at the absurd thought because no. that’s not how blood works.

right, but imagine if it did. hypothetically.

you snort after realizing he never needed a proper answer. he just wanted to talk, and strangely, you didn’t mind indulging his antics.

everything else happens gradually after those exchanges. his texts weave themselves into your days, filling the small spaces between routines, like vines curling into cracks in an old wall. a random observation here, an outlandish question there. sometimes, he doesn’t even wait for a response before sending another thought into the void of your inbox.

have you ever looked at a word for too long and it stops making sense? because “giraffe” is really throwing me off right now. 

hey. what’s your stance on people who bite into string cheese instead of peeling it?

you pretend to be exasperated each time a notification pops out with him as the sender, a long sigh escaping your chest, but your fingers type responses faster than you’d like to admit. each reply carries a little more of your personality, a little more openness, and you begin to wonder whether this was all just an excuse to get you to open up to him.

the thought makes your stomach flip, and you tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. that you’re overthinking. that you’re imagining things. but when your phone buzzes, and your heart leaps before your brain can reason with it, you realize you’re lying to yourself.

you like this.

you like talking to him.

and maybe it’s because of that fragile, forming truth that you start to notice him more—not just through your phone, but through the living, breathing spaces between you.

the way he leans back in his chair, fingers drumming against the desk when he’s lost in thought. the way his laughter catches you off guard, warm and unrestrained, a sound that makes the room feel smaller—like a shared secret. the way his gaze lingers now, like he’s studying you, like he’s seeing you in a way no one else ever has.

and the worst part?

you look back.

sometimes, across the lecture hall, you catch him watching you. and sometimes, just sometimes, you let him.

your phone buzzes one evening while you’re curled up in bed, and you already know who it is.

be honest. you’re kinda enjoying this, aren’t you?

the words hang in the air, heavy and deliberate, brushing against something inside you that's too tender to name. you hesitate, heart stumbling over itself. something about the message feels different. more intentional. and you know this isn't related to another silly joke of his. 

your fingers hesitate over the keyboard, the action of sending a reply feeling foreign now that your brain is wracking itself in search of a response. you could downplay it, deflect, pretend you don’t care as much as you do.

but instead, you type a vague maybe.

you expect him to tease you, to turn it into something playful, but his next text is surprisingly soft.

good.

two letters, one syllable—and yet it feels heavier than anything he’s ever said before. you stare at the word until your vision blurs, heart thrumming a shaky rhythm against your ribs while you remain unable to respond.

guess i needed an excuse.

you wonder what he means. an excuse—to talk to you? an excuse to see you? an excuse to notice someone he was never supposed to notice?

you swallow. there’s a feeling blooming in your chest, slow and hesitant but undeniably there. something about him unsettles you—not in a bad way, but in a way that makes you feel seen, as if he’s reaching into the quiet parts of you and bringing them to light.

the next morning, the campus is washed in the soft gold of early sunlight, the world still carrying the hush of a day not yet fully awakened.

you enter the lecture hall, expecting the same routine, the same comfortable invisibility.

and yet this time, he’s there.

johnny, standing by your usual seat, hands tucked into his pockets, looking so casual it feels deliberate. "hey," he greets, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, waiting for you.

you only blink, unsure if you’re still caught in the haze of sleep. 

his grin widens, eyes twinkling with something unreadable but unmistakably warm. "thought i’d sit next to the person i’ve been texting so frequently today. you cool with that?"

your pulse flutters. you try to scoff, to act unaffected, but the way he’s looking at you makes it impossible. somehow, you find yourself nodding, lips curving into something small but genuine.

johnny falls into step beside you, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush. and when he sits next to you, tilting his phone so you can see his next absurd text in real time—

you realize you don’t mind this at all.

actually, you think you might want more of it as long as it's him.

[tooies]

your blog is becoming tonyzaret

tony zaret is famously both the inventor and sole user of jokes

[14dayswithyou]

Ren owes me 20 dollars :D

Is there a particular piece of non-spoiler 14dwy info that you really want to talk about but haven't gotten a chance to yet? I would like to hear about it if so :3

⌞♥�� The hidden Purity and Decay mechanic!!

The Purity meter tracks tracks how Angel treats Ren. The higher the meter, the more likely Ren will consider Angel's treatment towards him as something done out of pure, genuine love. The lower the meter, the more likely Ren will start to associate Angel's treatment towards him with something tainted — something his father would normally do.

The Decay meter tracks Angel's "influence" over Ren. The higher the meter, the more decrepit things he'll suggest or indulge in. The lower the meter, the less likely he'll suggest/indulge in darker things. Basically... if Angel acts cruel towards others or shows an interest in darker themes (like his own father), Ren will start to regress back to his old ways in order to "submit" and placate them. But if Angel does the opposite, then he won't feel as inclined to bend himself backwards and indulge in hurting others to appease them.

So!! If the player has a high Purity and high Decay meter, Ren will see things like killing and mutilating others as an act of pure love. High Purity and low Decay will have Ren keep up the usual behaviour seen at the beginning of the game (A Normal Guy who does Normal Things™). Low Purity and high Decay will have Ren killing and torturing others as a way to appease Angel and keep them "satisfied" and interested in him. Low Purity and low Decay would just confuse Ren lmao ("Does Angel despise me because I didn't suggest kicking Olivia down an empty elevator shaft???? ;_;")

[fobnsfwdoodlesbackup]

Finding out Pete wrote the lyrics for Baby Blackout by Daisy Grenade and going insane. She was a teen girl writing about a breakup your honor. Anyways, here's Pete on the cover of his own shojo manga because he deserves it and I think he'd like it.

(more webweave-y gender truthing type shit below the cut)

[ruvviks]

All That's Left follows two journalists and their friends in post-apocalyptic United States as they travel from the fallen east coast megalopolis Opportunity back to Los Angeles, crossing through a harsh wasteland overrun with zombies— only to find out that there is a lot more life left than what the protected cities want them to believe. On their journey they meet dozens of people living their lives as peaceful as possible away from military forces, corporations, and corrupt governments; and they learn that the same mutated ghouls that took down Opportunity are spreading rapidly through the country, destroying everything in their path. Will this finally be the end of the world as we know it?

taglist (opt in/out)

@shellibisshe, @florbelles, @ncytiri, @hibernationsuit, @stars-of-the-heart;

@vvanessaives, @katsigian, @radioactiveshitstorm, @estevnys, @adelaidedrubman;

@celticwoman, @rindemption, @carlosoliveiraa, @noirapocalypto, @dickytwister;

@killerspinal, @euryalex, @ri-a-rose, @velocitic, @thedeadthree

[d8tl55c]

me: waiting for shoe(s) to drop

Personified Alan Becker YouTube Icon: oh... buddy...

[puppppppppy]

footnotes arent enough I need you to talk to me like im fucking Amelia Bedelia

[thatgirlwhokeepsreading]

The thing the people don’t tell you about re-parenting yourself/similar gambits is that for bitches of a particular temperament (it’s me I’m bitches) it sometimes makes you so so mad when it works. Sold all my baby dolls in a garage sale when I was eight not because I didn’t want to them anymore but because I thought I shouldn’t want them anymore, and now the only thing that had me sleeping like a rock after fortnight of hells is this elaborate LARP so I can convince my central nervous system that there is someone in charge who a) wants to take care of shit and b) can take care of shit.

RSD emotional hangover making you too agitated to sleep even though you’re intellectually aware the conflict is resolved? Not anymore with the power of making dairy-free chocolate milk and listening to ten minutes of Dune on audiobook while reading alongside on your e-reader before you pass the fuck out.

Like you would think cringing into the sun* would keep one even more awake than the vague background radiation of little-T traumas (which has actually reduced after five years of medication and psychology appointments), but I guess it is really about quantity over quality. Guess one big cringe is less impactful than the relief from convincing the quivering little toddler that’s been left in charge of the sleep lever in your brain to come out from under the desk and do their job by putting up a sort of flimsy curtain so they can no longer see the wall of painting symbolising your mild disconcerting experiences

And I reference temperament when I know that my annoyance is in fact also a huge part to do with socialisation, particularly being primed towards abnegation + a fundamental suspicion towards adults engaging with things culturally associated with Children and Childhood, both of which are things I challenge on principle consciously/intellectually. But knowing that it’s completely harmless, and like hey I could be doing meth or something, does not change the fact that when I mimic the running commentary I do with babysitting kids Just In My Head To Myself and immediately become head-nodding sleepy, I’m instantly like “oh we respond to this and not a haunting amount of melatonin? cool. yeah. sure.”

(*Of course none of this is cringe when other people do it, as they are allowed to experience Quirks and Vulnerabilities in peace because they are Not Me. That said, when I’m not venting on tumblr dot org I do generally avoid calling any of this stuff cringe bc I am aware that caveating with “This only applies to me because I’m Not Like Other Girls (I’m Worse)” often doesn’t actually make the other person feel assured you’re not judging them.)

[swan2swan]

Remembering how the comics even ruined the Earth King's character... the feats in that were staggering

[feline-evil]

Now we're nearing the end of my move (fucking finally) i can safely say that if i had not had the Song of Salvation on repeat for large stretches of time during this i do not think i would've made it through as well as i have