#so you can have it

[hyperfocusthusly]

Sometimes you see a @sulkybender post and loose your mind

Original meme under the cut

[notcactusman]

Listening to tmagp 17 is giving me Welcome To Night Vale flashbacks

[cloudwhisper23]

When Abby first met the ghost, she didn't realize he was a ghost. He certainly didn't look dead. Or act dead, to her knowledge.

"What are you drawing?" he asked.

Abby startled, her crayon dragging across the page. Frustrated she crumpled up the ruined picture. "Nothing anymore."

The blond boy just blinked at her. "My friends don't draw anymore."

Abby pulled another sheet of paper toward her, not replying.

"I think it's cool that you do."

Abby wondered if the kid was very lonely.

[whumpiary]

for anon, who requested christopher and cassius' last time.

content warnings: dubcon, grief, grieving an abuser, choking, death thoughts, passing suicidal ideation

-

Christopher is playing the guitar. Cass can hear the soft notes and chords halfway down the hallway, before he can even see the light spilling out, where the door has been left ajar. If it’s a particular song, Cass can’t pick it. But that’s not unusual. Sometimes Christopher just picks up the guitar and starts tinkering, the music winding in and out of different refrains and patterns, transitioning endlessly from one to the next.

Cass has fallen asleep to the sound of him playing more than once. Curled up on the couch beside him, head against Christopher’s hip. Or on the ground at his feet, arms looped around his calf, the lower notes sending humming vibrations into his bones. The easy tempos schooling his breath. 

It occurs to him, standing outside the door, just out of sight, that he won’t ever be able to do that anymore. That after tonight, he’ll probably never hear Christopher play the guitar again. 

For a moment, he doesn’t step inside. He rests his head on the door frame and listens. To notes weaving in and out. To the subtle ringing scratch of Chirstopher’s fingers moving up and down the frets.

It’s beautiful.

And full of longing.

And very fucking sad.

The music doesn’t stop as he steps over the threshold. But a note rings out longer than the rest and he can see Christopher note him in his periphery. 

They haven’t talked since it happened. Not really. He’s not sure they’ll talk tonight either. He’s not even sure that Christopher will let him stay. But he wanted to see him. He wanted to be in his space, part of his furniture. For one last night.

He doesn’t know what the fuck is wrong with him, actually. For wanting that. But he wants it.

He tucks himself in the corner of the room, on the corner of the couch, far away from the solitary arm-chair Christopher has elected to sit in tonight, and listens to the music. After a while, it seems to not be music at all as much as it is scales, and then tuning. Out of one key into the next. Then more scales.

When Christopher’s hands finally go still, the final strum reverberates out across the room like the ripples in a lake. There’s the final scratch of strings as he puts it down and then there’s nothing. Just quiet.

Without the sound the room feels too still. Too empty. Cass can feel Christopher looking at him. He picks at the skin around his nails and doesn’t look back.

Christopher’s anger is always a weighted, silent thing. Cold and smooth like lead, poisoning slowly on contact.

Sometimes it could be assuaged. Warmed up slowly by syrupy sweetness and good behaviour, or snapped in half and turned into something else, pointy-edged and vicious. Cass doesn’t have it in him to try for either tonight. He isn’t sure it would work either. 

After what feels like an hour of staring, Christopher stands, moves to the bar cart, fixes them both a drink. Himself a whiskey. Cassius a gin. Their fingertips brush as the glass is passed, Christopher’s cold with condensation. Neither one of them looks at the other. 

Cass skin prickles in anticipation of Christopher sitting beside him but it doesn't happen. Instead the man keeps moving, taking gliding steps over to the bookshelves where the record player sits, drawers full of vinyls below them. He starts thumbing through them silently, taking idle sips of Glenfiddich as he does.

Cassius sips his own drink and doesn’t taste it. There’s just the sensation of cold on his lips, down his throat, down his chest.

Christopher seems to want to take his time with every piece of tonight. Or maybe he just can't decide which record. There is a dull crackle when the turntable starts up, before strings ring out, and then a melodic voice.

One kiss, one little sigh That’s all you gave me When you said goodbye.

“Cassius.”

Cass raises his head but he can’t force his gaze to meet Christopher’s. His eyes snag somewhere by his waist. He watches Christopher put down his whiskey. Put his hand out.

But someday, baby Someday, darlin'

“Dance with me, darling.”

You're gonna miss me.

Grief strikes Cass' heart like a spear. Like a physical thing. Sharp and penetrative. Right in the middle of his chest. He stays staring at Christopher’s hands. He feels his features pinch. He shakes his head.

“Cassius, please.”

Christopher’s desire is a steady pulse. For once, not a ravenous, glutinous thing but a low and hungry ache. He wants closeness. He wants gentleness. A quiet goodbye. Cassius can barely stand it. The thought alone makes him want to crumble. He shakes his head again 

Christopher’s voice is sharp and loud. Thunderclap in the middle of the night, “You are still mine.”

Cass tenses to hold down his own flinch. For a moment there is no movement but the tiny slosh of gin in his glass, threatening to overspill the rim. No sound beyond the music.

Christopher breathes sucks in a breath so deep it shakes in his chest. It’s such a strange sound. When he speaks again, his tone is back to its usual softness.

“For tonight, you are still mine.” His voice cracks on the final word. Thick with grief. Close to tears. Cassius doesn’t know what to do with that. “And you will do as I ask.”

Cassius can feel himself shaking. He feels stupid for it. He holds his gin so tight his hand aches, the crystalline patterning of the cup pressing into his palm. He can’t look up.

Christopher tries one more time, gentle and pleading, “Please, Cassius. Dance with me.”

Connie Francis keeps crooning from the record player.

Cassius unfolds himself with the same delicacy as someone folding their hand over a fistful of broken glass. His feet are cold on the floorboards. He can’t feel his hands until they slip into Christopher’s. Then all at once he feels he’s far too warm.

Christopher taught him how to waltz in this room. And to tango. Large warm hands gently holding his boy’s smaller one. Soft laughs at missed steps, a little thrill in Cassius’ stomach when he was twirled or dipped. He wasn’t very good at it. But it was fun. And it felt kinda romantic. For a while.

He knows the steps. How to follow Christopher’s lead.

Oh yes, you're gonna learn I'm not the only one whose heart will burn

What else has his time here been but following Christopher’s lead?

'Cause someday, baby, someday darlin'... You’re gonna miss me

Over and over and over and over.

The song fades out. There’s a small crackle before the needle finds the next.

I was dancing, with my darlin’, to the Tennessee Waltz When an old friend I happened to see

Christopher changes his grip on his boy's hand, brings him in to hold him closer. The steps become smaller and slower. More of a rock. A swaying embrace.

I introduced her to my loved one And while they were dancing My friend stole my sweetheart from me

All at once Cass can’t take it. He feels grief bubbling up and up in his chest like a rising tide, high in his throat and then behind his eyes. Christopher’s gentle grip becomes a vice around his wrist as he tries to shift away. He’s held close, tight, and he pulls against it as a sob wracks him.

“I can’t,” he says. “I can’t do this.”

“You can.” There’s a tightness to Christopher’s voice. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t want to. I can’t-”

“Cassius.”

He lets out a cry, protest and defeat in one breath, a final tug against Christopher’s grip the last bit of fight he has in him. He presses his head to Christopher’s chest and his shoulders shake. He regrets everything all at once. It comes pouring out of him in crushed up sobs, each choking in his throat one after the other. 

“I’m sorry,” he can barely make his voice go louder than a whisper, broken up . “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t- I didn’t want to.”

“Don’t lie to me, darling boy. Not tonight.”

“I love you,” he says instead, voice thick as he pulls back to look at him. He feels like he's dying. “I love you.”

Christopher takes his boy by the chin, running a thumb over his bottom lip. His eyes look so dark in the firelight.

When he brings their lips together, his mouth is soft and hot. Cass sobs into it, kissing him like it’s the only way he knows how to breathe. He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him. He can’t stop crying. It takes him a while to realise Christopher is crying too. 

He brings his hands to the man’s face, thumb running over his cheek, intercepting the path of a tear. He’s seen Christopher cry a small handful of times. He doesn’t think he’s ever been the cause of it before.

“I don’t want to go,” he whispers. Confession and heartbreak.

“Don’t lie to me, love.”

Christopher lifts him easily, kissing him again and again as he walks them both to the bedroom. They don’t speak. When they get there, Cassius is undressed piece by piece. It’s only when he reaches for Christopher’s shirt that the man pauses to undress himself.

It feels right for them both to be bare for this. Skin pressed to skin, heart pressed to heart.

Christopher’s hands feel so hot that Cass is sure a trail of singed flesh must be left in the wake of his touch. There must be blackened skin and ash falling from him. Every part of him burned up like a match.

He cries out when Christopher enters him, sobs rattling his ribs and head falling back against the pillows as his body arches up, lets him in. There’s an ache to it. There’s an ache to all of it. To everything.

Christopher’s hands stay on his waist, Cass’ crying an off rhythm staccato to the movement of their bodies. In. Cass can’t breathe, lungs suddenly too big for his chest, expanded by grief. Out. Sobs shake him faster than he can keep up.

Christopher brings his mouth to his boy’s chest, teeth grazing the juncture of his neck, tongue working up his throat. The kiss is suffocating. So deep Cass feels like he’s drowning. In and out. And in and out. And all he can think about is getting closer to him and closer to him and crawling into Christopher's skin so he doesn’t have to leave come morning.

He isn’t surprised when hands encircle his throat. Christopher shifts back, face stoic and unreadable if it weren’t for the tears on his cheeks, not yet pressing in. The want for Cass to stay, to stay still, to stay here, to never leave, bleeds off of him like ink through water. Like an oil spill.

Cass sucks in a breath. When Christopher cuts his air off it feels like being pulled under by a riptide.

He wants to stay there forever, Christopher buried deep inside of him, hands around his throat, claiming him, owning him, killing him. He wants to stay like this. He never wants to separate. He wants to die like this.

He doesn’t want to go.

It’s Christopher who can’t take it in the end. He lets go all at once, brow pinched in his own grief, and collapses forward to pepper kisses all over his boy’s gasping face. His hips snap faster. He grips tight enough to bruise. To claim. To make them one.

When Cass can breathe again, words fall out of him unheeded, “I’m sorry.”

“Shhh.”

“I love you. I love you.”

His body hurts.

He wants to stay like this.

His mouth is dry.

He never wants to separate.

Everything aches. Everything, everything aches.

He doesn’t want to go.

Christopher finishes inside of him and pulls out, sweeping him onto his side to hold him close, kiss his hair, rub circles into his back. Cassius doesn’t know how long the both of them weep for.

Cassius goes to sleep curled against Christopher’s chest, the man’s arms tight around him, the sheets damp with tears and everything else, his body an empty shell.

He wakes up entirely alone.

[mari-lair]

i keep starting things and never finishing them help me

[lailuhhh]

Oh cool it is Wednesday

Jack always blamed himself for Mac getting injured. It was a thought that was lodged so deep in his head that there was no way of it ever leaving. If he was there when the injury took place it was his fault, because he was there and he should’ve been able to stop it from happening. When he wasn’t there it was his fault, because it wouldn’t have happened if he had been present.

Mac never blamed him for anything, even though there were things that were explicitly his fault, because in Jack’s head, everything was his fault.

There were instances where Mac had forgotten the injury because there was nothing to prove it happened; no scars, lingering pain, evidence of visits to med. Jack remembered nearly all of them; the time Mac broke his arm, time he got stabbed, time he got poisoned—

Then there were the instances where there were scars. The scar from the gunshot that just missed his heart. In Como. That was the day Jack was certain he was pulling Mac’s lifeless body out of the water. There was just so much blood, coming out too fast.

That was definitely Jack’s fault. He was there, hadn’t paid close enough attention to their surrounds and got knocked from behind, only waking up who knows how long later, to see Mac lying on the side of the bank unmoving.

And then was the time where his hands were useless to him after literally pulling Jack out of a fire. Mac’s hands were everything to him, and having him purposefully put them out of commission for Jack’s sake only made the guilt set in harder. His hands healed yes, but there were patches of smooth, almost callused skin where the burns had been so bad that it was unavoidable.

Jack saw those scars every day. He knew they’d get easier to look at with time, and the memories wouldn’t bring as much guilt as they currently did, but they would always serve as constant reminders. Two distinct failures that caused Mac pain. And Jack would never forgive himself for those.

[sanguinifex]

You gotta read and watch some old books and films that aren’t 100% modern politically correct. I’m not saying you should agree with everything in them but you need to learn where genres came from to understand what those genres are doing today and where media deconstructing old tropes is coming from.

Also, more often than you might think, they’re not actually promoting bigotry so much as “didn’t consider all the implications of something” or just used words that were polite then but considered offensive now.

Kill the censor in your head.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Knowledge Revenge.

[sunbentshadows]

Hey all, you know how internet searches suck now? When the results are awful, full-of-AI, death-of-the-internet levels of bad?

Start appending date constraints to your searches - "before:2023".

My results have gone from 90% AI bullshit to ~60% usable - which frankly at this point is a huge improvement.

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[lgbtlunaverse]

The world exists in such a baffling state of simultaneous sex-aversion and sex-hegemony. Every social platform on the internet is trying to banish sex workers to the shadow realm but I can't post a tweet without at least two bots replying P U S S Y I N B I O. People are self-censoring sex to seggs and $3× but every other ad you see is still filled with half-naked women. Rightwingers want queer people arrested for so much as existing in the same postal code as a child and are also drumming up a moral panic about how teenage boys aren't getting laid enough. I feel like I'm losing my mind.

[apollos-boyfriend]

having such an obvious favorite character trope is life ruining bro

[gayvampyr]

asking people to be mindful of others when sharing a communal space (especially one you cannot just up and leave from) is not selfish or misanthropic. come on now

[chessb0r3d]

Analysis so bad you don't even know what it's talking about anymore.

[shesmore-shoebill]

"I had choice paralysis :(" is a KILLER line.

He's such a comedic powerhouse, I'm glad more people are getting exposed to him :'D

[crabussy]

hey. don’t cry. crush four cloves of garlic into a pot with a dollop of olive oil and stir until golden then add one can of crushed tomatoes a bit of balsamic vinegar half a tablespoon of brown sugar and stir for a few minutes adding a handful of fresh spinach until wilted and mix in half a cup of grated parmesan cheese and pasta of your choice ok?