#v : don't ask. don't tell.

[umblrspectrum]

this has been on my todo list for actual goddamn months. do you know how long i've been waiting to draw this fucking t

[shimmer-like-agirl]

[riddle-me-fear]

Hey ed, why did you switch from suits do flannel and messed up tank top?? did you sell the suits to make the race tracks or did your fashion taste just change??

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Spoiler Warning! - Major spoilers for Batman Arkham Asylum & Batman Arkham Knight

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Edward sighs and rubs the part of his nose that's right between his eyes, lifting his glasses a bit, as that is exactly where it rests.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh not this again, listen, I was going through some shit, ok?? And no! Of course I didn't sell my suits, those are custom tailored! I- I was in a dark place, you don't understand- How do you think I felt when I- when he...

Something about Ed feels strange. Off. He was known for his sudden impulsive outbursts, but this is very uncharacteristic for him. His voice is shaky, hands trembling, and his eyes seem glassy somehow. Is he about to cry? Jon moves closer to comfort him.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ed... ya don't have ta talk about it if-

Edward sniffles, rubs his eyes and sighs deeply.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

No, no... It's fine. I should- I have to talk about it. Maybe it'll lift some weight off my shoulders. You know?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ya can stop any time.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Right, so... Ahem... Ahumm, mmh... How did we get from suit, tie and bowler hat to flannel, dirty mechanic vibe and the whole racing obsession? Take your seats, folks, this one's going to take a while.

So... Jonathan and I have been an item since before the whole "Joker takes over Arkham Asylum"-incident. If you remember, during that incident, Jon got... badly hurt by Killer Croc and... uhm... Well, of course I found out, I was actually the first non-participant to find out, keeping up with every single thing Batman did. And that... it... I... I need a break.

Edward leaves for the balcony and Jon follows him. They remain there for a while. You can hear Ed blowing his nose outside. After several minutes passed, they return to the living room sofa.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Right, uhm, where was I? Ah, yes, me just seeing Jon nearly having his body split in two by Croc's jaw, witnessed through Bats' little gadgets. I wouldn't have believed it, if I didn't see it with my own... God that image is engraved in my brain still... Well anyway, this very much distracted me, made me make several mistakes and ultimately get caught by the Dark Knight, or well, ratted out by him to the police, who locked me back into Arkham.

Right... So... So I was left to my thoughts, which I usually very much enjoy, but this time I wished there was an off-switch. I kept spiraling, in denial that Jon was truly dead, hearing his body still hadn't been found on the goddamn news every fucking day it- It was tough. I cursed my stupid feelings for him, which I wished I didn't have in that moment, more than ever before. I've been sent to solitary on several occasions, because I wouldn't stop crying and screaming during some nights. It was actually Pamela that pulled me back upon my feet, probably for the sole reason of her being annoyed beyond measure by all this. Both of us escaped, and I set up a new hideout.

Then the whole Arkham City bullshit happened. Still no information on Jonathan, but I did find Waylon. It wasn't hard to accomplish at all, the guy isn't the brightest and not the best at hiding, especially when you know he'd most definitely be in the sewers somewhere. I don't remember much of that conversation, my mind was blinded by rage and grief. I swung at him, again and again, punched my knuckles bleeding. Probably did only as much as tickle him, but it took some steam out of my engines. And Waylon just stood there, taking it. By the end I cried, he cried, it was a whole mess. You know, most people, like the Bat-family, the police, the fucking Arkham staff, they don't think some of us Rogues give a shit about anyone but ourselves, and couldn't care less if one of us died - that belief is definitely popular with people that have opinions about me. Which is such pure and utter horseshit! Just because we don't give a crap about most people, doesn't mean we can't care about others. Look at the Joker's death, that even affected Batsy himself. Badly. But we're not there yet. So, Waylon apologized a million times, saying he didn't know, he was blinded by rage, thought it was Arkham staff or police he was attacking. He's still apologizing to this day. He probably has the kindest heart of all of us, I almost felt bad for all the things I yelled at him. What came from that whole thing of which I am SO glad nobody but Waylon and I witnessed, was him offering to help me look for Crane.

And so, well, hmm... Jon and I have ways of communicating in secrecy, which we especially established for the possibility for situations such as these. As you could expect, I was glued to the screen on a constant, waiting for a signal, a message, literally anything we agreed on, while Waylon scouted the waters, and my goons were on the look-out for any other signs anywhere else. The way I fucking lost my shit when one of my henchmen came to me, complaining about a crow not leaving him alone- You have no idea of the composure I had to maintain in order to not break out into tears right in front of my underlings. I ordered to bring the crow to me, and the second I was alone with it, the flood gates opened wide.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

An' Nightmare's been attached to ya ever since. She musta really felt it.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

She was my only comfort then... Hhh... Mmh... Another break?

Some several minutes later, Ed and Jon return, refreshed and ready to continue.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Alright. So, Nightmare had a ring around her foot with a code on it, which I immediately deciphered as a location. Crane's hideout. I won't get into the details, but the reunion was, phew, all over the place, I went through all the stages of grief all over again, back and forth, I think I intentionally kicked your broken leg, didn't I?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ye sure did. An' immediately apologized after. Fuck, what a night that wus.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

One HELL of a night, yes!

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Fuckin' all night, you been cryin' all night, but kept yellin' at me not to stop, it wus a hot mess.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Oh "hot mess" describes it perfectly, alright. Things were looking up from that point, even if it took me a VERY long time to get used to the way you looked. But, being demi-sexual, I found the appeal, since you were still, well, you. That was, until your borderline obsession with flooding Gotham with fear. Can we just both agree right now, that that was a horribly IDIOTIC plan?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Ya said that too when ye first heard it.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

AND I WAS RIGHT!! Anyway, once Gotham City failed, Jon rallied some of the Rogues together, me included, telling everyone of his grand master plan. And then he joined the game. Enter: The oh so mysterious Arkham Knight. You know, I'm so glad it was Jason, because I absolutely HATE that guy's guts.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Yeh, ya were so mad, ye locked yerself into the old orphanage.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

I'll admit it, I'm the jealous type. The very jealous type. And it certainly didn't help that you'd ignore me, only spend time with HIM and set your plan in motion, while Bruce was going fucking insane on me as well. Yes, you let me have my fun, spreading my riddles around town, messing with the Bat long enough so you could succeed in your endeavors.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

But ya got lonely.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Of course I got fucking lonely! Nobody paid any attention to me! Not my own boyfriend - that I thought had DIED, I just wanted to emphasize on that. Not any of my friends, as they got out of town with the other citizens, and also not the man himself, because he was too busy handling family drama and stopping you! Sooo, you can imagine I kind of lost my mind just a little bit.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Tiny bit.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

A nano-bit of insanity data on my hard-drive. So, I went with a flannel. Why? It's Jon's, that's why. The shirt underneath? Jon's. The pants? Alright, those I stole from some guy working on train tracks. I just customized the flannel a bit. I looked like I hadn't showered in weeks, because the clothes still smelled like him. And, as disgusting as it sounds, being covered in dirt and sweat reminded me of him... Made me feel like I was closer to him. Like I said, I was nowhere near alright. ...And the car thing, eeeh that happened on a whim of madness. I wanted, craved Batman's attention like nothing else, since I didn't want to ruin Jon's plans and couldn't focus on him. So I did anything I could think of, kidnap Batsy's favourite kitten, so he'd come find me, play any game with him I could think of, and that simply included race tracks. I had no ulterior motives whatsoever.

Jonathan looks over at Ed, raising an eyebrow.

Alright, I did train Batman on how to get through several obstacles to get to you, because I secretly wanted you to fail, and I'm sorry, ok? I already told you that. And that's all there's to say to that, I believe. Batman is exposed, but still brings the both of us behind bars, you're an anxious and terrified mess, and I have to admit, I did enjoy you suffer that moment. After that we got transported to a newly restored Arkham Asylum, or as it's now called, Arkham Rehabilitation Hospital. So pretentious. Jon got his face fixed, somewhat, there's lots of scars all over it now, but you no longer look like a walking corpse. Although I do know you liked that. Both you and I slowly returned to our senses, enough to recognize ourselves again, at least. And that's the story of why the change of appearance, and why the races. Needless to say, I'm back to suits now.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

Pretty long fuckin' speech fo' such an easy question. Heh, hya, ya know what's been crackin' me up most 'bout that whole thang after tha fact? That ya pretended ta be outraged an' disbelievin' that Batman is Bruce Wayne. When you've known this whole time.

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Just goes to show what a brilliant actor I am, and that no one truly knows the real me. No one but you, that is. And Bruce, a little. Very hard to hide anything from that guy, just as he has trouble hiding anything from me.

Right, that took a while.

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

How ya feelin'? Lighter?

Edward Nygma | The Riddler

Yes, as a matter of fact... Huh. Well, dear Jade, this definitely wasn't the answer you could have ever expected, but it's the answer you got. And it was quite therapeutic simultaneously. Haaaah, now I'm in the mood for something sweet. What say you, I take you out on coffee and waffles?

Jonathan Crane | The Scarecrow

How could I eva say no ta that.

[astardewresident]

Hey there, Clover! You know, I just noticed the design of your clothes. They look very unique! Does it have any connection with your culture? I'd love to know more about your background.

— V ( @ur-farming-weirdo 💚 )

Hehe... Let's just say this jacket may be missing for a certain blonde...

But no, it has nothing to do with my culture. ...I'd rather forget that part of my life. We weren't allowed to wear anything like this. My home was very criminal, and there were strict rules about clothing we could wear, and items we could carry around. ...Pretty much only sleek, colourless clothes. That, combined with the most boring items as the only things we could carry around. It was like a prison in my own home.

Mama always used to tell me it won't be like this forever, but mom always got mad at her for saying that. Something about not giving 'useless' hope. ...

[ Sniff ] I'm sorry for crying! I- I'll leave now. See you... Later!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Christopher Wiggins at The Advocate:

A federal judge in California has ruled that a lawsuit brought by LGBTQ+ veterans against the Department of Defense will move forward. The forward momentum of the suit, which claims the Pentagon has failed to discharge LGBTQ+ service members honorably post-don’t ask, don’t tell, marks a significant victory for those caught up in the homophobic policy.

U.S. Magistrate Judge Joseph Spero’s decision allows the plaintiffs to argue that the process of correcting their discharge papers is not only lengthy but also re-traumatizing, Reuters reports. These veterans, discharged under discriminatory policies, contend that being forced to navigate a complex system to amend their records violates their constitutional rights to equal protection and due process. The class action, filed in the Northern District of California, aims to mandate the Defense Department to proactively update the discharge statuses of LGBTQ+ veterans. Lawyers for the plaintiffs celebrated the ruling, noting its importance during Pride Month as a step towards rectifying past injustices. The lawsuit highlights the struggles of veterans who have been unfairly labeled with less-than-honorable discharges. Such discharges can prevent them from accessing crucial benefits, including healthcare, loans, job opportunities, and tuition assistance. The discharge papers often explicitly state the reason for their discharge, effectively outing them whenever they need to present their military records.

“Requiring LGBTQ+ veterans to first bear the stigma and discriminatory effects of carrying indicators of sexual orientation on their DD-214s, and then navigate a broken record correction process to seek resolution, violates their constitutional rights,” the lawsuit states.

Judge Joseph Spero has ruled in Farrell v. Department of Defense that LGBTQ+ veterans can sue The Pentagon over DADT-era discharges that were “less than honorable.”

[encryptedlunacy]

Yeah these are the only ferns in my possession - that's a lie, I have a blue star fern in another pot, but it's not looking too hot rn so I'll correct myself and say the only HEALTHY ferns - and they just sit in a jar. I don't have to do anything; they ignore me, I ignore them, we have an arrangement.

[tues-dayy]

some pre-canon v. post-canon twin shenanigans

[avaelangel]

As a masochistic fiend that watched YOU the whole time it was airing (and still will) I present to you:

Gothy looking London Thor as Stephanie, getting traumatized by Love Quinn's mom if I remember correctly.

[kuromi-hoemie]

i've tried making some sort of post about it since last night probably 4 or 5 times, but I finally got to read through Dungeon Meshi and it's hard to like..... talk about how i feel about it...? not that it is a confusing story!!

I think it is genuinely so good in so many different ways/directions it's kind of hard to pick just one thing and roll with it you know? but it felt life-changing kind of.. in a way that's hard to put into words.. yes i will take things slow, yes i will stop looking at food and rest as rewards and not the bare minimum my body needs for it to carry out the tasks i give it effectively. yes i see the importance of not only doing the things you want to do, and the ways that only doing what you want can come back to bite you in the ass.

so on and so forth, it was just really good.. i think the biggest bittersweet thing i felt by the end of it was a gut punch feeling of wanting to share a meal with someone ಥ_ಥ there is also something very raw in watching someone literally give themselves the strength they need to make it through the day, and it's not even extraordinary it's just.. they take care of themselves. each other (⁠´⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠.̫⁠ ⁠.⁠ ⁠`⁠) i hope to find myself in similar company one day.

[f-ngrl]

Imagine this: Leellamarz knocks on your door. He brought a strawberry vanilla cake with him for you. All made by himself.

What would you do?

hii I'm sorry I forgot about this 😭 idk what to say, i think i'm too aro for this 🥲 i don't think he would ever make/bake a cake 🙈 i'm sorryyy 😭

[iniziare]

Tag drop: Dorian Pavus

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[imaginarycyberpunk2023]

OC: Macha Richter

All alone in space and time There's nothing here but what here's mine Something borrowed, something blue Every me and every you Placebo - Every You Every Me

This was the first motorcycle shoot after I asked for help - and @pinkydude came to the rescue. It's been still somewhat difficult because the Arch just wouldn't stay completely straight, even with lifting, resetting etc.

But I found the poses he mentioned and they make a ton of difference for the dynamic. Now today I wanted to take some action shots but photomode glitched me into the ground repeatedly when I tried that. So yes, some wins, some losses.

Also I noticed again...she has an amazing butt.

Bonus: an action shot that worked lol

[moe-broey]

Idk if I'm gonna be able to articulate this on the fly like first thing in the morning, but. I think my ENTIRE body of work is This: Examining how family ties, bonds or lack thereof, the good and bad AND ugly, seep into every facet of who we are and how we come to interact with others. How sometimes, a family tie (or again, a Lack of one), will sometimes bleed into how you act and treat specific people. Will bleed into how you CONNECT with those people (or, will be the very reason you fail to do so).

HOWEVER. HOWEVER. THERE IS A DELICATE LINE. A BALANCING ACT. You CANNOT just simply attribute fanon flavored ideas of found family to such characters. That's too simple, and sometimes, is a complete disservice to the specific character you're working with. I am once again bringing up Chilchuck. YES, him being a dad Absolutely seeps into how he treats his party. But if you call him the party's dad, you're Insane. Do you know ANYTHING ABOUT THAT MAN???? He would prefer you didn't. But I digress. He strikes a fascinating balance, between having The Qualities and ESPECIALLY expressing his care for his party in a Really Specific divorced (separated.) father of three fashion, but that does Not make him a "dad friend". He's a professional. He's on business. He's going home at the end of the day, and at the end of this adventure he's thinking of setting up a shop. I wanted to keep this more vague and broad but like. The Chilchuck example REALLY DOES perfectly articulate What I'm trying to get at, here. He's the perfect encapsulation of How his family shapes him, how that bleeds into his relationships with others, vs Who he is as a person.

How we were raised, our family ties, whether you adhere to it or you've fallen FAR from the tree -- you still fell from that stupid fucking tree. It's in your blood. Literally. It gave you shape, whether you liked it or not. And sometimes some things just set off weird domino effects, that also affect us irrevocably forever.

WHICH IS. TO SAY. I have no fucking idea what I'm talking about. I'm always trying to figure that out. Found family is/can be real, you're not strictly bound by blood if you don't wanna be. BUT. The bullshit I'm constantly on, is trying to figure out how to balance all that without slotting everyone into reductive roles. I'm gay and I seek to destroy the nuclear family. Not attempt to recreate nuclear family 2.0. You CAN reconstruct What Family Is/Means from the ground up, but you have to accept that things are going to get Weird. Because you're Queer. You are fundamentally incompatible with the status quo and normalcy, the solution is NOT assimilation and palatability, the solution is to just. Get weirder. And be fluent in canon. Okay. I love you

[pomfiores]

the nice thing about living at work being offline for chunks at a time is the people u used to really dislike seeing on the dash (by no one's fault, promise), it doesn't really bother you anymore when you see them pop up as recs or smth. like. neat. lol. it's nice! it's comforting. i feel like I've def moved on from things, its liberating.

[lizzerswillpoststuffmethinks]

I'm so eepy RAAAAHHH