#tumblr deleted my first draft

[j0kers-light]

https://www.tumblr.com/j0kers-light/765684731693154304/you-know-when-you-really-want-to-talk-abt-your-ocs?source=share

Just saw this.....

Could you tell us about some of the boy's beige flags?

(And Y/n's friends too, please!)

The post in question. Hey hi anon 🖤✨

Let's rewrite this since tumblr did not save my original draft. 😤 I did not know what a beige flag was. I had to Google it. TikTok relationships are so... 👀 Making something out of nothing.

A beige flag is a dating term that describes a quirky or odd behavior in a romantic partner that's not a deal breaker, but also not a plus.

Anyhooo, I love talking about my ocs so let’s get into this! 🤭

Frost

He's ex military so everything he does will be odd to a civilian. Frost can sleep anywhere and with his shoes on. He still uses military time (and no he will not convert) He checks the radio periodically and doesn't explain why... yeah I can go on and on anon.

Eats cold food, no biggie. Unbothered King.

Mac

He carries a calculator on him at all times. Mac uses his phone as a fidget spinner (like a Blackberry) and is very nitpicky about parking. Its picture perfect every time. He knows the right people when the situations calls for it, I guess it’s the frat boy in him. That or he buys his way out. Remembers a person's name by the scent he identifies them with.

Gets personally offended when his favorite product is discontinued. Buys the company to get the product for himself.

Neo

Licks his gold grills mid conversation and chews plastic straws after he finishes a drink. Can measure a gram just by eyeballing it, and it’s always right. Neo can’t leave the house if his outfit doesn't have pockets. Fast reflexes (like Spider-Man fast) and he throws his trash away like a NBA Player. Secretly a sneakerhead, but don't tell him that.

Knows baking recipes from memory. Does not bake.

Morgana

Sings to her plants as if she has secret powers. Has a plush toy that she carries around in her purse, she panics when it’s not there. Can guess your favorite flower right upon meeting you. Forgets she's half Chinese sometimes and shocks herself when she understands the language. Morgana can recite the periodic table in order.

Obsessed with fancy ice molds on IG. Drinks room temperature water.

Florence

Will silently judge your hair even if it looks good. Doesn't use a fork, Flo eats either with her hands or a spoon. Florence makes a playlist for every situation, (gym session, grocery shopping, etc.) does not use headphones while out in public. Uses Uber religiously despite owning a car. Takes incredibly long showers.

Is the slowest texter ever. Falls asleep on FaceTime.

Cindy

Uses proper etiquette and decorum likes is the 1920’s. Scared of riding on escalators and would rather take the stairs. Corrects people mid conversation if they say something incorrectly. Mouths/reads aloud when typing and has the same coffee order for the past twenty years. Cindy instantly knows it’s wrong, just by looking at it.

A tech savvy businesswoman. Still uses Firefox.

[tunastime]

Restful Dreaming, Mr. Freelancer

hi everyone :3 so um. I may have gotten very much into rvb smiles. and you know what happens when I really love something! and when I really love some guys from a something! yeap. here we go again. I just think caboose could be friends with everyone. I'm a caboose enjoyer what can I say. I love him.

Washington follows the Blue Team back to Valhalla, where he tries to get some much needed rest. Emphasis on tries. (3828 words)

When Tucker and Caboose find the unused, fourth room in the base, it’s Tucker that sweeps his arm out and gestures grandly to the room around them. It’s not very large—bed, closet, table, desk, bathroom. Enough space to walk around in—enough blue-white light to make sure nobody goes insane in somewhere so dark. Caboose goes on about how they’re almost neighbors, listing off what they could do being so close, gossip and sleepovers and the like, and Tucker goes on about how that’s nice, Caboose, and sure thing, buddy, and both speak to a Wash that’s not listening. He’s looking over the room, filtering in through a fine layer of yellow, just enough to change the hue from cool to warm, and something settles in the slope of his shoulders. He turns after a beat, folding his arms.

“You’re certain I can stay here?” he asks. Tucker shrugs.

“Yeah, I mean…” he starts, in the way that Tucker always seemed to do when he was on the edge of a decision that ultimately made him uncomfortable. “Just repaying the favor. Plus you’re the only one who really knows how to get Church outta that thing.”

“Epsilon,” Wash corrects. “And it’s a memory unit, not a thing.”

“Sure,” Tucker shrugs. “Whatever.”

“We still don’t know where that thing is,” Wash says, but it’s without any of the usual bored sting he might’ve normally laid on. He can feel the worry in the room like water around the ankles, like it invaded his boots. He steps side to side for a moment, trying to shake the feeling.

“We’ll find it!” Caboose pipes up, nodding several times. “We’ll find Church. I know we will.”

Wash sighs. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I hope so.”

There’s a beat of silence. Wash feels his lungs work against the tight feeling in his shoulders all the way up until the point where Caboose breaks the silence.

“I’m going to go make lunch,” he says. “I’m starving.”

“Good point, Caboose,” Tucker agrees. He turns to Wash as he adds: “You, uh, let us know if you need anything. You’ve got the tour, now, so…”

Wash nods.

“Right,” he manages. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

The silence leftover is mostly full of the sound of air circulating through the room and pulling into his helmet. Washington stands in the room in that long moment, finding his head spinning just enough to rock his balance. He’s not so sure he should even be standing, but Tucker had handed him enough med-kits to keep him running, and his bones felt mostly in place, despite some nasty bruising up his shoulder and back, all the way down his right hip and thigh and knee. He pulls himself from his stuck spot, finally gathering the strength to unlatch his helmet. Both thumbs hook under his chin until it clicks, and he sets it in the armor stand. 

The thing about the armor is that they’re not necessarily supposed to take it off. It does come off, huge chunks of titanium alloy perfectly compressed to fit each wearer, to sit comfortably against layers of computer arrays and magnetic fasteners, bolts and straps and sealers. As soon as he starts pulling, chest pieces and arm braces come loose, and he sheds the exosuit slowly. Underneath is the cool-black bodysuit. That’s the part that really shouldn’t come off. It did, every once in a while, when there was enough time to spend recalibrating, readjusting, resyncing. The suit and all its layers, down to the skin, down to the channel of his spine, from tailbone to nape of neck, aligned with sensors and biocomponents along a fine, white scar to a thick, but equally healed one at the base of his skull, took time to adjust to. That time was precious.

But it didn’t matter with this suit. There was no connection. The suit would simply communicate without having to know, would respond to forces it knew best, and rely on what he had without a physical, grounding connection. He was free of it. The scar and its components would fade from his body. They’d be nothing but a memory.

Carefully, Wash dissects the titanium bodysuit—kevlar—coming apart at the seam, carefully fastened, skin-tight. It’s uncomfortable at first, adjusting to the air of the base, without the suit’s micro-adjustments for temperature and humidity, but he eventually shirks free and places everything in the armor compartment. 

He feels light. He also feels exposed and a little small. He searches for any sort of replacement, sleeping clothes, uniforms, anything plastered with UNSC across the arm or chest or back. When he does find it, he’s quick to pull it on and over his head. The shirt falls crooked across him, pants similarly too large, and he has to wonder what sort of Spartan these were made for, knowing how he certainly wasn’t the smallest soldier he’d met. It’s something, though, and he doubts he’ll be wearing it for very long. In fact, he finds himself tugging it off as soon as he figures out the shower, and douses himself in hot water long enough to get the plastic smell off his skin. 

Without the shadow of the day, his reflection in the mirror takes on a sunken quality. His eyes are dark and tired, lines stretching out underneath them, and the already-pale, now-bony quality of his face does little to hide it. He’s turned all sharp angles all too quickly. But if he’s got anyone to bitch to it would be himself. Well, maybe Caboose and Tucker would listen. But they probably wouldn’t understand. Epsilon might’ve ratted out his bad sleeping habits to Caboose, were he still around to actually see them. But he very well was half the reason they existed, so, touche. 

Besides, now Wash was looking out on a bed that was impossibly too big for him. He pulls back far too many layers of blankets and pushes aside pillows and makes himself a space between it all.

The lights are dim, casting long, fine shadows in the cool light. They dim further to a blackness as he settles, lying back in the few pillows and pulling still-starchy sheets around him. His tired body all but sinks into the mattress, body aching at every joint from overuse, begging to stay and to be comforted. It's there he lies for a moment, adjusting to weight and pressure, air and texture around him. He sighs. It’s the longest exhale in what feels like a very long time. The back of his throat, up through his nose, starts to burn. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a sharp breath in.

Washington’s hands come up on instinct, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes as he fights back a sound from deep in his chest. It’s hard—it feels so stupid to call this hard, because he could just crack, just for a second. Just for a moment of relief, and—he does, shutting his eyes tight still and willing in a breath through his nose as he turns his face into pillows that he hopes were nobody else's and probably never were and never would be again. Nobody knows he’s alive. Not Command, not Project Freelancer, not the Meta—Maine. Not even Epsilon. For now. The weight off his shoulders was so instant it nearly winded him, on a bed seemingly too large. It was simply him, unshackled, and the blue-white armor in its case, and Caboose, and Tucker. And the base around him was quiet. 

Washington lets his body relax. Sleep comes like a heavy blanket.

His second week’s worth of sleep doesn’t go as well. Tonight, Wash is still awake. It’s not of his own choice—if it were he’d already be asleep, curled into the plush pillows and firm mattress. He stares up at the ceiling. His eyes are dry, and it’s not all that comfortable to blink, actually. He’d prefer to focus on sinking into this nice bed, but he’s having a bit of a hard time. What he means by nice bed is that he’s gotten so used to sleeping on the ground or in the back seat of a moving Warthog or the jet or his cot so folded and unfolded that it stopped being comfortable, or the bunk that was just the right size but not nearly deep enough to fit him without moving, that having actual room to move around is really good. It’s really good, actually, and he’s not sure when the last time he had such a nice sleep was. 

He’s not even sure when he woke up that first day, aside from the fact that it was Caboose waking him up and it was still dark out—or had just gotten that way. Maybe he’d slept that whole day. But he wandered around the Valhalla base instead, swallowing down the ache low in his spine. He mapped the rooms in his head, twisting around the circular hallways. Kitchen, armory, five rooms, garage, a small central living quarters that remained barren and empty, aside from bits of broken computers, radios, and robot parts. The floor still smelled like cleaner, remnant from the UNSC’s thorough cleaning.

Anyway—he’s still awake in his own room. His eyes hurt. He’s looking into the dark grey ceiling and wondering if sleep might crawl its way back to him when there’s a knock on the door. There’s a brief pause before it happens again. He frowns, scrubbing at his eyes as his brain fights the fog settling over it.

“Agent Washington,” a voice says, feigning a whisper through the sliding door. 

“Caboose?” he whispers back, furrowing his eyebrows. Isn’t it late? He looks over to the bedside table, reading the dull red numbers on the clock—yeah. Late. “What are you still doing up?”

He hears Caboose sigh. If he thinks hard enough he can imagine him leaning against the metal frame, cheek pressed against the door, looking about as pathetic as he sounds.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, part tired and almost part sad. 

“Why’s that?”

“I—” Caboose lowers his voice even further. “I had a nightmare.”

Wash blinks slowly, sitting up, eyebrows still furrowed as he frowns. He counts himself lucky that his head isn’t spinning from lying down too much. Sighing, he presses his fingers to his eyes, rubbing the sleep from them, trying to make the blurry room come back into focus.

“You—” he tsks as he words jumble in his brain, hazy with sleep. “Why did you come here?”

“Can I come sleep with you?” Caboose asks, completely ignoring the previous question. Heels of the hands to his eye sockets. Alright. Fine. He waves uselessly at the door, knowing full well Caboose can’t see him. Then it clicks in his brain: response. Right.

When Wash goes to give him an answer, it’s replaced by the sound of his bedroom door sliding open and shut and Caboose wandering in. The muddled dark obscures his silhouette more than usual and the normally wide slope of his shoulders was much more drawn in than Wash was expecting. He’s partially shrouded by his own blanket, wrapped around him as he steps in. 

Wash feels something rolling around in his chest as he watches Caboose shuffle over, like his brain isn’t absorbing the situation properly. He mostly just feels lost. He’s still sitting up, slouched forward, mouth a fine line. His arms pool in his lap, head tilted just so as he observes Caboose in front of him. This is weird, right? Not in a bad way. It’s just weird. 

Caboose stands there, frowning just a little bit, enough to almost be a pout, mostly looking at the bedside and not at Washington.

“I—” Wash starts, trying to protest. Caboose looks up at him for a moment with wide, brown eyes, and Wash feels his chest tighten. He shuts his eyes, sighing out of his nose. Then he pulls the covers back, gesturing vaguely to the space next to him as he lies back down. If there was one thing he’d learned from Caboose, it was that there was no arguing a point once he’d made his mind up. He was as stubborn as he was strong, and the man wasn’t slight. 

There’s a beat of silence as Washington gets comfortable again against the mattress again, feeling Caboose move to his left. He worms around a bit, knee bumping the outside of Wash’s leg, elbows knocking together as Caboose makes more of Wash’s bed his own space. With Caboose’s arm now pinning his own, he clears his throat.

“Caboose,” he says firmly.

“Washington,” Caboose says, like his name holds the same weight as it did so long ago. At least someone’s impressed.

He sighs. Caboose is a heavy, warm weight against his side, and although he clings to his left arm like his life might depend on it, Washington couldn’t necessarily call it bad. 

“You can either get comfortable,” he says slowly. “Or I’m going to ask you to leave.”

“Okay,” Caboose says quickly, wriggling further over. As his head lolls, it falls against the bone of the high of Wash’s shoulder. He ends up curled up in the space Wash’s side leaves open, head on his shoulder and arm over his ribcage. He’s heavy, holding himself and Wash to the mattress as he relaxes. Wash’s arm ends up pinned under him, bendable at the elbow, enough to shift around and find a comfortable spot to rest it. Caboose manages to pull the blankets over them both haphazardly, lying part on him and part over Washington’s torso. He squeezes his eyes shut. Caboose cannot be serious. This can’t be his solution, right? He takes a long breath in. Caboose finally says:

“Thank you, Washington,” in a soft and sleepy voice mostly muffled by his shoulder.

Washington sighs.

“Sure, Caboose,” he says, resigned. “Glad I could help.”

Caboose hums, sounding comfortable. In the time it takes for Caboose to finally knock out, how short of a time that was, Wash finally relaxes. He lets the weight around him settle him on the mattress, tired and heavy, and lets his eyes close. He can’t catch the edge of sleep just yet, but he can lay here, quiet and still, so that Caboose can sleep. He matches the slow rise and fall of Caboose’s shoulders, feeling his muscles slacken as he drifts off. Maybe it’s nice, actually. The weight against his side, pressure to the muscles that ache, warmth and heavy comfort. He can’t remember the last time someone shared the same bed space as him—those bunks were too small to really fall asleep next to somebody in, and sleeping in shifts wasn’t the same as someone sleeping against you. 

He can faintly feel where Caboose’s cheek is crushed against his shoulder, where his arm rests over his chest, hand tucked against his other side. When he looks over, Caboose’s eyes have shut, face relaxed in sleep. There, he leans, pressing his cheek to the top of Caboose’s head, squeezing his eyes shut. Maybe it is nice. Maybe being needed for something so innocent as comfort could be nice. His chest twists, something as painful as it is warm weaseling up next to his lungs. 

It reminds him of Invention. Nobody really wanted to leave York alone after the accident on the training room floor. He could fall or trip, he could miscalculate and hit into something harder than expected. They spent time crammed into the bunk spaces, shoulders to shoulders, to hips, to legs over knees, trying to catch sleep in between missions, how little time that was. Washington found himself in these moments more often than not, and now more than ever it seemed that touch was a thing not often disseminated. But he had it now, and he let himself have it. He let Caboose snore into the hollow of his shoulder and tuned it out as he tried to rest.

In the morning he’ll ask him what bothered him so much that he couldn’t sleep, or why he thought Wash could help. It wasn’t important now. 

For now, he just tries to sleep.

Wash feels heavy. 

He blinks his eyes open, the world coming to in barely-there light and soft blankets. There’s a weight over him, warm and solid. Caboose still sleeps soundly even as Wash shifts to stretch pins and needles from his left arm. The world stays still, held in a quiet balance. In it, Caboose breathes slowly and evenly against his shoulder, torso still haphazardly thrown across Wash’s chest. He’s curled his hand in a loose fist, snagging part of Wash’s shirt. 

Washington sighs. There lingers a heavy, groggy feeling over his mind that he thinks he’ll have a hard time shaking, remnants of running too hard, too fast without stopping. He fought so hard only to again come up empty handed, aside from the now-bitter taste of his freedom. But for now he focuses on this moment. He rests his cheek against the top of Caboose’s head. 

As he does, Caboose hums, waking enough to tense and relax again.

“Good morning, Caboose,” Wash manages tiredly, lying still. Caboose doesn’t move either, except to shift his cheek to a more comfortable position.

“Hello, Washington,” Caboose says, slow and sleep-thick but cheery. “You let me stay!”

Wash huffs out something, maybe a laugh and maybe a sigh.

“You’re surprised?” Wash asks, staring at the ceiling. It takes a minute for Caboose to answer, and in that time, Wash’s eyes shut, too heavy to hold open. Caboose draws his arm back from his chest.

“Tucker’s not very cuddly,” he says, only partially answering the question. “I can’t really judge if people will like it.”

“I take it not many do?” He asks. Caboose shrugs, somewhat stilted, speaking in that long, sighing way that he does.

“It varies.”

Wash hums.

“Right.”

In a beat of silence, Caboose unravels himself. He sits up, swaying a bit, shuffling around. It leaves a cold hollow where he used to lie, and Wash pulls his arm back from where it used to curl around him. He folds his hands over his sternum as Caboose sits up and shifts back.

“How did you sleep!” He asks, leaning forward, arms resting on his knees. Wash nods, finally blinking his eyes open.

“It was fine,” he says slowly. “How did you sleep?”

Caboose shrugs again.

“I slept okay—” he says. “You scared off all my bad dreams I think.”

Wash snorts, furrowing his eyebrows. Caboose blinks down at him with wide eyes. It’s almost catlike, the way he watches over him, like he’s waiting for Wash to reach out and force him to move out of his space. He’s still slightly blurry, courtesy of the sleep in Wash’s eyes.

“I did?” Wash asks. Caboose nods, looking sincere

“Yep.”

Wash looks away, huffing out. Something turns in his chest, warmly at that.

“Well that’s good,” he says. Caboose nods again. He’s just far enough away that in the dim lighting Washington can’t really read his face, but it seems soft and comfortable and Wash tries to remember if that’s a good thing. There’s only so many times you see someone’s face while being out in the field that you sort of just learn reactions based on tone and less on body language. After a beat, Wash says, haltingly, brain trying to find the words:

“Caboose, what… what is it that you had a nightmare about? What—why did you come to me?”

Caboose shrugs, waving his hands back and forth. He’s not looking at him.

“Oh, you know, just about Church and Epsilon, and Tex, and you, and everyone dying and exploding and dying again,” he sighs, shoulders falling, looking distinctly less bothered than Wash expects him to be. It puts something cold-to-cool in the pit of his stomach. “But it’s okay, you’re still here! And nightmares are afraid of you.”

Wash swallows.

“Oh,” he says lamely. It doesn’t feel right, all of a sudden, to just be sitting here. Caboose tilts his head at him.

“Did you have a nightmare, Agent Washington?” he asks, leaning forward a bit. He squints at him. Wash stares back, eyes wide. “You look kinda pale.”

“Um, no,” he says plainly. “No I don’t… normally dream.”

“Oh,” Caboose says. His face drops. “That sounds sad.”

Wash shakes his head.

“It’s fine.”

Caboose hums, tapping his hands on his knees.

“You can tell me if you ever have a nightmare,” he says, smiling, a pleased look crossing his face. “I can come and scare it away.”

Wash snorts, a smile creeping onto his face. He folds his hands together, tracing out the edge of his thumb with his other thumb. He furrows his eyebrows as he looks up at Caboose.

“Are you looking for an excuse to sleep next to someone?” He asks, a curious lilt to his voice. Caboose blinks, eyes falling to his hands. He shrugs.

“No…” he says. Then, “Maybe.”

“Well it…” Wash sighs, shutting his eyes again. “It was nice. Thank you, Caboose.”

“Mhm,” Caboose says sleepily.

There’s a moment of silence. Wash moves to get more comfortable, shifting back to rest his head properly on the pillows. He can feel his body sag as he does, that tired tug pulling on his shoulders and hips and eyes. He drums his fingers against his sternum, watching Caboose. Caboose’s eyes slip shut for a moment as he leans hand against his hand. 

“I’m uh…going to try to get some more sleep,” he finally manages, clearing his throat. Caboose stays still, as if he’s fallen asleep again, shoulders weakly rising and falling as he breathes. “Caboose?”

There’s no answer. Caboose leans sideways as Wash goes to reach for him, folding like he’d lost all his core stability. As he crumples, he falls forward, half onto Wash in front of him, half into the bed itself.

“Caboose,” Wash tries again. Caboose doesn’t move, sinking further into his side.

Wash sighs. Caboose stays, solid and heavy and thrown over his chest. He feels like a little kid again, sharing a room with his sisters, or he feels like it’s some time back in training, both cats making their home on his chest. Caboose was kind of like a cat. If a cat were a dog, were late to the punch, were the same level as unable to catch the joke as he was. It was kind of sweet. Wash shifts him ever so slightly, until he’s leaning into his side again, head against his shoulder.

Caboose yawns, sighing out against his shoulder, shuffling to get comfortable. Wash curls his arm over his back, hand cupping around his shoulder, smoothing his thumb over the seam of his shirt. Caboose makes a little noise, a little sigh, and falls quiet. The world, too, is warm and quiet. Somewhere in that warmth, a soothing feeling washes over him.

Just a little more sleep, he thinks. Then he’ll get up.

[spigosaur]

hatchetfield hc

the lords in black used to have 2 sisters but then wiggly realised he’s actually a man

Ooooo the Lords in Black and Gender! I have opinions on that!

First of all, more power to you and your trans headcanon!! I have a very different idea of the lib's (and by extension Wiggly's) genders, but I fully support this.

I myself like to lean more into the eldrich horror aspect of the Lords in Black rather than humanising them too much, and the point of eldritch horror is that it's so different from anything we know that it becomes incomprehensible. Gender is a human concept, so why would these eldritch gods adhere to it?

I think of them as inherently agender and the gendered language and presentation they use says nothing about them or their identity, it's more of an aesthetic to play around with that doesn't actually mean anything. To them gender is more like clothes than an actual part of themselves. And the he/him and masculine gendered terms of the Lords in Black is basically a uniform.

That's why Webby is the only one to whom her gendered presentation actually means something. Not because she actually identifies as a woman, but because she uses it to distance herself from her brothers. I imagine that if and when she was still part of the lords and evil herself, she would have called herself a Lord in Black rather than a Lady in Black and gone by he/him too.

Thank you for the ask and I'm sooo sorry it took me this long to answer.

[thedaythatwas]

rip to the genuinely brilliant meta essay I wrote last november and deleted one minute after posting because I thought it was an objectively weird time in my personal life to be posting nagito komaeda character analysis. I can’t remember what you said exactly, but I fear (hope) I’ll never come that close to spiritually communing with komaeda again. lost but never forgotten.

[aphverse-confessions]

I have a conspiracy theory that whoever is in charge of this account keeps track of the people who forget to turn on anon for their confessions whether by simply keeping them in the ask box waiting to be answered, or by screenshotting them. And when the day finally comes for this account to be defunct there will be BLOODSHED.

that or you secretly work for Jess, or ARE HER! *que dramatic music*

Okay I was gonna post this as a normal confrssion but I changed my mind. So all of my response is in the tags teehee

[velvetjune]

Spoilers for Alan Wake/Control games and DLCs: one of the things I really like in Alan Wake 2 is the confirmation that, no, Alan can’t create something out of nothing. There were implications in-story that supported that, but it was good to have that be a big part in the sequel. The AWE control dlc easily made it seem like Alan himself had a role in the events of the game and the formation of the FBC, and, personally, seeing it through that lens cheapened a lot of the game and Jesse’s story. Instead, having his writing influence the Hiss and try to manipulate (even out of desperation) Jesse/the FBC to end Hartman and get help, fit right into plot and conflicts of Alan Wake 2, with Alan being sympathetic, but also an asshole for trying to change and control people’s lives in his writing.

[lavenoon]

What kind of outfit would *Eclipse* like to see on his s/o? Hehehe!

And the snipe at everyone who wasn't sniped before, incoming!

Eclipse fortunately has no timelines to account for, so this one will be a bit shorter. Though we are getting reaction and preferences!

His focus is above all comfort, as someone who dislikes dressing up because of how restrictive it gets. Suits with four arms just aren't all that comfortable, which is why he opts for turtlenecks!

But if a partner likes to dress up, and they have outfits they like to show off, he's all for it! Chances are, he'll be awestruck - and the rest of his reaction depends on the outfit itself.

He's a trinket and accessory fiend, but he knows they get snagged on things easily, so he won't rush up to them to hug and twirl them unless he knows he won't risk tugging on necklaces or earrings where it might be uncomfortable. So if the outfit includes accessories, he'll most likely go very quiet and just hover near them but not quite touching, hands fluttering from accessory to accessory. With his partner's okay he'll start fiddling and prodding though, just to look closer! About as giddy as you'd expect, of course <3

As for what clothes he likes, this man is whimsical. Sleek and elegant is nice, yes, but he wants whimsy! Patterns or fun colors, suits with holographic shine, or contrasting colors are great! Loves flaring dresses, long or short, with ruffles or not - he just wants to get lost in the mesmerizing flare of a twirling skirt if he invites them to an impromptu dance! And, like with suits, bows are a bonus! <3

Definitely also the touchy kind, I mean, the man has four hands! Would love to assist with anything if only to stay close and have an excuse to sample the textures, he's curious, he wants to know! Will near immediately forget the actual purpose of whatever event is being attended, and if he gets to see them at home he'll be very put out if they can't be talked into skipping the boring formal event to instead be his entire focus for the day/ evening! Would definitely be open to (comfortably, so for him the turtleneck/ suspenders combo) dress up for just a little park or picnic date. That's what whimsy is for! And if you make up your own reasons to dress up, he won't be as sad about only seeing you all fancy only for events where he has to focus on something else, too, and keep PDA to a polite minimum!

[lily-orchard-gossip-blog]

You know it really doesn't help your case when you have to pretend not to be able to understand what Lily actually said about choking someone.

If you want to call out Lily for things she says please stick to things she has actually said and not what you want to pretend she says.

You must be new. Because she said exactly what we said she did:

Tell me anon, what does that look like?

Because to me, it looks like Lily is pushing all responsibility of choking onto the sub.

She is actively saying there is no precautions one can take to do the activity safely, when in fact, there are thousands of experienced Doms and Subs out there who would tell you otherwise.

Leaving everything up to the Sub, and to have all responsibility of knowing when to stop onto the person being chocked, is dangerous.

The sub could pass out before they reach that point and then die. The dom could crush their windpipe and kill them if they don't know the proper techniques.

I can guarantee you, telling a judge that "it wasn't your fault, the sub knew the risks" isn't going to fly when you get arrested for killing someone.

Lily is actively spreading information and a mentality that could get someone killed, and the fact your defending this makes me sick.

[soupforsoup]

I've tried THREE. TIMES. to upload my mediocre robby edit that I finally made after it's been rotting in my brain like one of cassandra's visions for two weeks but tumblr wants to stomp me to the curb and spit on my dying corpse my beloathed ihateyouihateyouihateyou

[baby-yongbok]

Tumblr just posted a fic I had drafted for Saturday and I almost had a fucking heart attack. Oh well, my Jeongin fic OnlyFans is out... against my will.

[09lover]

What is paradox live? The characters look cool

wowidjehdj WOW WOWAHDH.… IM SO GLAD YOU ASKED. TEARS UP

Paradox Live is a hiphop music project where 8 groups (originally 4 at first) compete in the competition called Paradox Live in Club Paradox, standing a chance to win 10 billion yen as well as an opportunity to challenge the legendary rap duo Buraikan!!!

How it works is that once one gets accepted, they will be competiting against the other group(s) with their own composed music that follows the given theme of each round…. It is also followed up by a provided voice drama that comes in two parts or more and music video (shown every round) that features the competiting groups + their interactions with each other.

To further support themselves, they can hold Phantom Lives that requires them to use accessories specialized with the material called Phantometal which chemically reacts with their DNA and emotions to create illusions on stage. But unfortunately after the usage of their phantometals they will then suffer (a rough estimate of a few hours later) from illusions of their past trauma which is called Trap Reaction…

After each vd and mv drops for each round, people are able to vote on which group they think the mv was best and also fitting to the theme in order for the group to win and progress!! you can gain multiple votes by achieving some stuff but i kinda forgot that how to…

so yea its basically like milgram!! voting system + mvs and voice dramas!! except the vds are really long help. AND THE ANGST IS HEAVY IN SOME OF THEM…..

[timeguardians]

“Are you frightened?” - amoret to elizabeth maybe some fun ghost / pirate adventure?

The wooden decking gives off a guttural, twisting groan beneath otherwise steadfast feet. Tattered sails above the blonde's head flap ominously, offering whispers of danger upon the backs of the wind. A promise of death hung headily in the soupy, heated-air.

Was there something, out there? Had she imagined a hulking figure piercing in and out of the cloud-like billows of fog? Sharpened oaken orbs more keenly afix to the horizon as Elizabeth strives to swallow down a growing sensation of dread. Elizabeth Swann may consider herself unflappable, but her countenance tells another story. Especially, as Amoret's voice spooks her from her station.

Swann squares her jaw, tipping it upright just enough that her honeyed curls catch the salted breeze. "No. Of course not." She does her best to sell an insignificant white lie. "Why should I be? Ghosts are but imaginary, fairytale-like creatures. Therefore, the chances that they'd be able to harm, or seriously maim, are nill." She mutters. "Right?" Then turning her gaze back to Amoret she inquires, "are you?" @swevene

[meri-meri-mwah]

Luis Sera is the type of man to melt into oblivion if you scratch the back of his head and call him a good boy, especially during a cuddle session.

Like you two are just chilling in a small cabin, sprawled out on a clean bed. Luis is resting his head on your chest, relaxed, and then you suddenly place a hand on the back of his head. He doesn't question it since he thinks you're gonna twirl strands of his hair like usual (his hair has been getting longer lately). But then you start scratching it and say, "You've been working hard, babe. Such a good boy~" And now Luis is burying his face into your chest to hide his reddened face (and to prevent a sudden mewl from coming out).

[masterofrecords]

The Ravages of Time episode 2

Oh this is… a fun one. For you, not for me, because “The Book of Later Han” doesn’t exist in an English translation. There are some excerpts out of order included in the Zizhi tongjian (Comprehensive Mirror in Aid of Governance), but the relevant chapters from that have also not been translated into English, as far as I can tell. So. Uh.

I did my best with the notes available on ctext and my own knowledge; this translation is obviously less reliable than actual professional translation (like Liu Bei’s biography excerpt I will post for episode 3), but hopefully it will still provide some context. Again, I just want to impress that as far as I can tell, some parts of this excerpt have never been translated into English, and so my ability to compare notes was limited.

That said, the Dong Zhuo entry in Rafe de Crespigny’s “A Biographical Dictionary of Later Han to the Three Kingdoms (23-220 AD)” is at least partially based on “The Book of Later Han” and has been invaluable in helping me make sense of the donghua card, as has been the baidu article on Dong Zhuo that is written in much simpler language than a Han dynasty chronicle.

I’m going to suffer similarly on episode 13, I believe – the ones before are either only referenced from historical records (and seem to be modern Chinese, though I haven’t yet had the chance to take a proper look), or have translations available. Zhao Yun’s biography, however, has not been translated from what I’ve seen.

Episode 2

[From historical records on Dong Zhuo] Dong Zhuo, courtesy name Zhongying, was born in Lintao county in Longxi Commandery. He had a fierce and resourceful character, in his youth spent time among the Qiang [1] and befriended many distinguished people [2]. After he returned home, many followed him, and Dong Zhuo had a lot of livestock slaughtered for a grand feast with them. His guests were impressed, and upon return, gathered a thousand heads of cattle to give him, acknowledging him as a great swordsman. After the Emperor’s death, General-in-Chief He Jin and his subordinate officer Yuan Shao conspired to kill the eunuchs, but the Empress Dowager resisted, so He Jin ordered Dong Zhuo to bring the troops to the capital to threaten her. When Dong Zhuo arrived, his foot and horse troops only numbered three thousand. That was too little, and in order to , Dong Zhuo for four or five days had the troops exit the camp every night, only to make a big show of them entering the next morning so Luoyang would think his army was getting reinforcements. Dong Zhuo than took control of He Jin and his younger sworn brother Miao’s troops [3]. He also convinced Lü Bu to kill the imperial guard Ding Yuan [4]. Dong Zhuo’s army grew significantly. Dong Zhuo gathered the officials in front of the Palace and threatened the Empress Dowager into deposing the Emperor Shao [5]. He said: “The Emperor is in mourning and has no heart, he is not fit to be the Emperor. Remove him to be the Prince of Hongnong.” – excerpt from “The Book of Later Han” – Biography of Dong Zhuo

[1] Qiang – ethnic group from northwestern Sichuan

[2] distinguished people – not necessarily nobles, from what I understand, but usually people in power, could refer to rebel leaders or tribal chiefs, for example. I ran into a bit of a cursed loop with this word – one of the sentences used to showcase the usage of it on baidu was… the very same sentence from “The Later Book of Han” I was trying to figure out.

[3] This abridged version kinda… skips the moment He Jin and He Miao die. He Jin was killed by the eunuchs, while He Miao was killed by He Jin’s faction for sympathizing with the eunuchs. Politics.

[4] Lü Bu was Ding Yuan’s protege, but looks like that’s not mentioned in Dong Zhuo’s biography.

[5] Emperor Shao – Liu Bian

Once more, read more for 2000-years-old spoilers!

Liu Bian is depicted as a child here, but it is likely he was 17 when Dong Zhuo came. Admittedly, "The Book of Later Han" contradicts itself on this in different chapters - he could be 13.

As you can see from the above excerpt, Yuan Shao was... very much there when it happened. In fact, he and Dong Zhuo had a discussion about deposing Liu Bian in favor of Liu Xie - and Yuan Shao was against it. In the end, Yuan Shao left the city and Dong Zhuo had to be persuaded not declaring him a wanted man.

A massacre did happen, but that was before Liu Bian was deposed, it seems.

You might be wondering about Lü Bu's weapon - I certainly was. It is a ji (戟) - sometimes translated as a spear or a halberd. This is how historical ji typically look like:

This, however, is how Lü Bu is often depicted.

It seems to be a later modification? It's actually a bit confusing, in all honesty, but it's definitely used in modern martial arts. Regardless, the donghua continues the tradition of depicting the Sky Piercer this way.

In general, Lü Bu is quite a legendary character, in part thanks to his depiction in "The Romance of the Three Kingdoms". There are a lot of legends about him that we might or might not see later in the donghua, so I'll save them for now. I'll just say that his horse - Red Hare - is almost equally famous, to the point where it was said "Among men, Lü Bu; Among steeds, Red Hare."

I'm not sure if the numbers of murdered ministers and other officials has any basis; if they do, I haven't been able to find any indication of that. Dong Zhuo did use his power to have some officials executed; and there was a massacre beforehand where along with the eunuchs, many young men in the palace were killed, but the massacre depicted in the donghua seems to be greatly exaggerated.

The Sima family was indeed caught in Luoyang at the time of these events. It also seems to be true that Sima Lang was at some point arrested. His escape, however, was far less dramatic - he bribed his way out.

As for the first encounter with the legendary trio of sworn brothers - I'll leave that for the next time, when I will present to you the excerpt from Liu Bei's biography.

[salti-thelatediagnosedautist]

I’m currently reading ‘Unmasking Autism’ by @drdemonprince. My favourite quote from it so far is

“When you’re trapped under the mask, all love feels conditional.” 

This one hit deeeep for me.

Even since primary school I was praised and even awarded for how ‘kind’ I was. However, I never felt as though I deserved the praise I got. It felt like my kindness didn’t come from a kind heart. Or a good nature. It came from a battle for survival. A desperate need for attention and acceptance.

In primary school I tried to make friends with my classmates but they all fizzled out over time. To make up for my difficulties connecting with others I started masking and people pleasing. I did have one friend all throughout my schooling, but they turned out to be neurodivergent too. I thought I was normal and people just didn’t like me, but looking back the other kids must’ve sensed I was ‘different’ somehow.

To try and connect I would change my personality to suit whoever I wanted to try and get along with.

In high school it got to the point where I was TERRIFIED of different friend groups in my life meeting each other. I masked really differently for different people and if they met I was so scared that I would be called out for ‘pretending’ or ‘lying’.

Masking inadvertently landed me in the ‘therapist’ role and into being the ‘leader’ of my main friendship group in high school. I was the one who organised events, who initiated hang outs and meet ups. No one ever invited me to anything.

I felt like I was being used. But the reality is, is that my mask was making me seem eager to be used. All my friends had social anxiety and so they were happy for me to take control, and I seemed eager to. I always had a mask of either joy or indifference. Nothing ever seemed to bother me. So why would anyone check in? But I felt like my friends didn’t care. I didn’t know that I had to express my needs for people to fulfill them.

I felt like if I did express my needs or ask for help, I wouldn’t be loved anymore. This made me really depressed obviously.

But then there are a couple of phrases I heard that helped me to break free from my mask.

“If you never express your needs, you never give others the chance to fulfill them.”

This quote made me realise that it wasn’t that my friends didn’t want to help me, it was that I never gave them the chance. If one of my friends had asked me for help, I would happily oblige. Helping those close to me is important to me, it’s important to me that they feel okay. I realised I never gave my friends or partners the chance to try and help me. I realised how damaging that was for me.

The second phrase was “Stop asking why people love you. They just do.”

Part of the reasoning for my masking was to try and give reasons for people to love me. Part of maintaining that mask was to try and focus on the parts that people did love. But this quote made me realise that I don’t love people for specific reasons. Maybe I became friends with them because we are similar, but as time passes I begin to appreciate them for who they are, even if they change. It made me realise how pointless masking was. Those who truly love me would (and did) continue to love me without the mask.

Disclaimer: Not all masking is bad. It can be a helpful tool, but for me I was masking to even my long term partner and my life-long best friend. But yeah, basically thank you Dr Price for summarising this experience for me so eloquently.

[kotoyin]

this is getting finished this weekend or so help me god i am eating my tablet