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ashintheairlikesnow · 1 month

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ash i love vince so much he is my number 2 babygirl (antoni number 1 babygirl forever)

i would like to formally request some vince having a Bad Time, either past stuff with owen or present with recovery being a bitch

because there is nothing better than lovely characters having bad times that they absolutely do not deserve

CW: Alcoholism, withdrawal/cravings, alcoholic anger, Vince and Jameson both PTSD-ing all over the place, guilt

Oh, poor Vince. Takes place post-the Same Bed Arc, after Vince is living with Nat and Jameson.

Vince doesn't even look up when he hears Jameson stop in the doorway. He just pours a few shots worth of the gin into the glass, staring fixedly down at it. The liquid, clear as water but with the herbal scent washing over him like a welcome spring rain, spreads over the ice with those gentle cracks he knows better than his own heartbeat.

God, it looks good.

His hands don't shake, now. His heart doesn't race. He doesn't feel sweaty, or upset, or like he'll be sick.

He just feels like he's staring at the solution to all his problems, and all he has to do is swallow it down.

This should feel awful - he knows it should. It should taste awful, there should be something to remind him of the damage he does to himself every time he drinks again. He should hear his sponsor speaking in the back of his mind, he should hear the voices of the others at the meetings he goes to - one for alcoholism, one for survivors of sexual assault, twice a week there's movie star Vincent goddamn Shield among the normal people and admitting he's barely human, just a wreck that only survived Owen Grant because Nat decided she gave a fuck about him for reasons Vince still doesn't understand.

Here he stands, a hollow shell wearing a nice face who let someone else suffer in his place and was grateful for it for far too long.

Kauri hates him but it's nothing compared to how much he hates himself.

Vince lifts the glass, hesitating at the last second with the cool rim just touching his lower lip. Gin smells like blacking out and right now he could use the blessed darkness, hangover be damned.

He can worry about that when the headache kicks in tomorrow morning.

He realizes he's waiting for the sickening crawl of guilt at letting Nat down, at-... at letting himself down. Maybe that will come later, but right now... He feels goddamn good. Settled. Calm.

He and Jameson meet eyes just as he tosses the drink back, three large swallows of juniper-scented gin down his throat like water, leaving only the ice cubes behind.

The burn is perfect.

He pours himself another drink, feeling the warmth slowly spread through his chest to his shoulders, eyes briefly closing. God, it feels like goddamn heaven.

He looks up.

Jameson is still standing there in the doorway, looking oddly soft in a loose sweater that's far too big for him and a pair of old jeans that probably cost a dollar at a yard sale and even that was too much. Vince has jeans that distressed, somewhere.

His cost more than five hundred dollars.

He chokes on the next drink from trying not to laugh.

Jameson's eyes narrow. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Vince takes another sip, eyes half-closed, letting himself take it slow this time and really enjoy the taste.

He'd honestly been surprised the little liquor store down the block even carried this brand of gin. Not that he wouldn't have bought whatever he could get, when he stood there feeling like he would die if he had to go another day, but still. It's nice to have seen his favorite stuff, top shelf, pricier than it had any right to be. It's not even that good, but it's still his favorite. It still tastes, to him, like the nights he sleeps without nightmares, few and far between.

Gin tastes like those nights he gets to sleep at all.

The cashier had looked surprised as she wiped off the dust and rang it up for him. Then, with a shy smile, she'd asked him if anyone ever told him he looked a lot like Vincent Shield. He'd been kind of sad she didn't card him - it would have been nice to see the look on her face when she saw his name.

Instead, he paid in cash, laughed, and told her the standard I get that a lot, actually.

Jameson doesn't move closer, or leave. "It looks like you're fucking yourself up," He says, lingering in the doorway. "You can't just start drinking again. You know that, right?"

"Oh, I sure as hell can." Vince laughs, but it's a bitter sound. He licks the gin lingering on his lips, then gestures at the bottle. "Have some with me."

He's caught, for just a moment, when he sees Jameson wearing an expression Vince has never seen on him before. He looks... nervous. Afraid, almost, instead of angry.

"I-I don't want to," Jameson says, but there's a way he says it that makes Vince think he'd drink if he offers again. Maybe he wants to, or maybe he just doesn't want to make Vince mad.

If he commanded it, if he gave an order... Jameson would be as he's told, wouldn't he? Damn, that would be some power to have over someone.

This must be why Owen liked it so much.

No.

He won't think about Owen right now.

Vince gulps down liquid until he's breathless, almost panting. The warmth is like the familiar cradle of a softer reality settling in. He makes himself slow down this time, picking up an ice cube and sucking the juniper taste right off it before crunching it with his teeth.

"Vince." Jameson's voice gets harsher, and something seems to break his brief paralysis. He moves closer, grabbing the bottle and pulling it away when Vince puts a hand out to pour the third drink. "Fucking... look at me. What the fuck?"

Vince's hand just... hangs out there, reaching for a bottle that isn't where it was. He stares at the empty space, and feels that dark inside of him threaten to well up yet again. "What?"

Jameson swallows, his eyes moving to the glass, back to Vince's face. He steps backwards, and Vince watches the bottle go with him with a piercing need that could easily knock him off his feet if he weren't holding onto the back of a chair. Jameson clears his throat. "Aren't you... like, sober now?"

"Mmmn. Was. Got the like... three month chip thing and everything." He's gotten thoroughly wasted so many times in his life. Nothing relaxes him better than enough alcohol to force his body to stop living in constant, unending fear of who might hurt him next. "Right now, I am tipsy instead. In about an hour, I'm going to be absolutely fucked up. Give me back my gin."

Jameson's hand moves - then he jerks it back, taking a few steps backwards until he's back in the doorway. His eyes are on Vince's face, watching him with a total focus that Vince recognizes from the others he's worked with over the years - Jameson's just a trained pet, in this moment, watching to see if the master will be angry.

It makes him laugh again, more bitterly this time. Is he the master? Has he ever been his own master, let alone anyone else's?

"I... I can't do that," Jameson says, and Vince hears that he doesn't say no. When Vince moves towards him, he backs up a little more, and Vince comes to a stop just a foot or so away.

"Am... am I scaring you?" He asks, suddenly.

It wasn't what he meant to say, he meant to demand his drink again. Instead, this question that... that just sort of falls out of him like a waterfall.

Jameson's jaw sets and his eyes narrow. "You're not doing shit to me," He snaps, but Vince knows he's really saying yes.

Is this why people buy pets? So they can see something pretend not to be scared, and know they're the monster not just under the bed, but in it?

"Oh," He whispers. "What is it? Why are you scared? I'm just a drunk asshole, why are you scared of me?"

Jameson bristles, but then he offers - as if it's pulled out of him against his will - the softest explanation. "Brute and Robert got drunk all the time. I know what happens when-... when people get this kind of drunk."

There's a look in his eyes Vince has seen before in Kauri's. Not fear of him, not directly, but fear of someone like him, maybe. Fear of having demands made that can't be denied.

Is this how Owen felt, every time Kauri had to playact the loving boyfriend with bruises on his wrists and terror making his heart race? Is this how it feels to have power over somebody else when you can't even control yourself?

It's... it's good, almost.

It feels better than he thought it would.

"Back up, Shield," Jameson hisses, like a cat spitting and arching its back, ready to attack with claws and sharp teeth not because it's confident in victory but because it's so small it has to fight to have even the slightest chance to survive.

Vince looks him over, reading with an actor's expertise how he's projecting a confident swagger he never feels, how the irritation layers itself so carefully over a vulnerability that he sees as weakness. Vince has lived that way, too, since he was twenty-one, since his best friend turned out to be a rapist who wanted Vince to himself, since he started drinking to forget every single night and putting on the perfect face during his days.

They both survived, didn't they?

Jameson just did it by fighting his way out, and Vince by pretending to be someone he wasn't until nobody knew who he actually was, and that's a way of surviving, too. Wear another face, and make sure no one sees the fear in your real one, so they can't refuse to help you... because you've never asked.

"No." At least one of them can say it. Although that makes Vince's heart twist with ugly guilt, the petty cruelty of the thought. "Give me my gin," Vince says, pitching his voice low, and holds out his hand. "Now, Jameson. Give it to me."

"I can't." The strength is gone from Jameson's voice, and he looks at Vince with those dark eyes searching his own, trying to make himself understood. "If you drink, your-... your body's not used to it anymore, if you drink the same amount you'll fucking kill your stupid liver."

"What do you care about my liver?" Vince's voice drops low, almost a whisper. "What do you care about me, about my goddamn joke of a life, huh? What the fuck do you care? Why should anyone care?"

There's a flicker of something in Jameson's eyes - recognition, maybe. Something that lights up, just for a second, before the other man shoves Vince to the side with sudden violent strength and stalks to the sink, turning the bottle over and pouring that expensive artisan gin right down the drain.

"No!" Vince's voice is a ragged shout as he lunges after him, but it's too little too late.

Jameson's foot kicks out and slams into Vince's calf, sending him stumbling, clawing desperately as the gin is gone, glug glug glug, down into the pipes, disappearing towards the ocean.

Rage and terror fight in Vince's mind in a sudden white noise and he gets to his feet, grabbing Jameson by the arms and squeezing as hard as he can, shoving him back across the room. He hears Jameson hit one of the chairs, the clatter of wood and Jameson's grunt of pain as both hit the ground hard. The bottle is in the sink, and even when Vince scrambles to pick it back up, there's less than an inch of gin left.

He sucks it down, and only once he's gotten that final drop does he suddenly go still.

Oh.

There's the guilt and the horror and feeling sick at himself, just... twenty minutes too late. He sets the empty bottle carefully down, and then turns slowly around to look at Jameson.

Jameson sits on the kitchen floor, staring up at him with wide eyes. His face is pale, making the scar that twists the corner of his mouth stand out even more. His hair is nearly grown back in now, the bald patches hidden by the rest.

Vince exhales in a rush. "Oh, hell. Jameson-" He holds out a hand.

Jameson flinches.

Vince pulls his hand back, backing up until his back hits the edge of the sink. "Right. Okay. I'm-... I'm sorry Jameson-"

"Yeah." Jameson's voice is gruff, all the vulnerability and fear wiped away as soon as he realizes it's showing. He gets to his feet, shoulders protectively hunched, arms crossed in front of himself defensively. "Whatever. Sure you are. Drink yourself to death, shitbag, if that's what you want."

"I'm so sorry."

Jameson's jaw works. "... Everybody's always sorry. Then I get fucking hit again." Then he turns and walks - limps, really, his knees threatening to give out with every step - away. Vince stands there, frozen, listening as he makes his slow, painful way up the stairs.

Vince stares at the place he was for a while - he isn't sure how long. The gin is sinking its velvet claws into his mind, and he's drunker than he should be after only two drinks.

But then, it's been months.

Months, he made it without taking even a sip.

He swallows, again and again, and then pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, finds a contact, and presses the button to make the call.

The phone rings until he's certain it'll go to voicemail, before a voice he knows as well as his own is in his ear.

"What the hell do you want?"

"I-I need to talk to you," He stammers, his heart cold. "Please. Please. I-I've been drinking. I need... I need help."

There's a pause.

"From... me?"

"Yeah... yeah. You'll-... I need somebody who won't be nice to me-"

"Oh, well, if there's anything I love it's the chance to be mean to you, let me drop my entire life to come listen to you whine about yours."

"Please."

An exhale. "Whatever. Yeah, okay. I'll be over there in like... half an hour? An hour, maybe. Drink some water and I'll be there as soon as I can. Don't leave the house."

"Thanks... thank you, Kauri."

Kauri hangs up.

Vince pours himself a glass of water over the leftover gin-soaked ice, sipping it, barely flavored with a hint of the liquor he wants so badly. He rights the chair he'd accidentally shoved Jameson into, and listens to the creaking floorboards and muffled cursing above him as Jameson makes his halting painful way from stairway to his room, a couple thumps when he clearly falls and had to force himself back upright, until the pacing abruptly stops when he must have collapsed into his bed.

He hears the gentle patting of Trash Cat's paws as she leaves her place on the living room couch and follows him, too, her soft meowing until Jameson opens his door to let her come in after him. Then silence again.

Vince sits back down at the table, leaning over with his head in his hand, staring as the ice slowly melts, cooling the water around it.

He should have called his sponsor instead.

Whatever Kauri is about to say can only make this worse.

But he deserves it, anyway.

Vince doesn't move a muscle until he hears the sound of Jake's truck pulling into the driveway, crunching briefly over gravel before it's on the pavement again, when he raises his head.

Kauri walks in without knocking, stops in the doorway to the kitchen, and looks at him like his younger self ashamed of what he's grown into. Vince knows Jake must have driven him, but he's nowhere to be seen - maybe just staying outside, for now. He's clearly dressed for bed in a matching navy blue silk button-up and pajama pants, barefoot even.

"Hey," Vince says, weakly. The alcohol feels like poison now, not the soothing warmth it had been before. "I... I fucked up, Kauri."

"Yeah, I can tell just by looking at you, you're a goddamn mess." Kauri looks at Vince head-on, even though it still hurts him to do it, and Vince can see the flinch he suppresses as the headache kicks in. His blue eyes are identical to Vince's in nearly every way, except that Kauri's gaze has always been stronger. "What the hell did you do?"

"I got... I drank."

"Yep. I can see the gin bottle. Did you drink all of it?" Kauri's voice is flat and businesslike. It's like having his own younger self dressing him down, and somehow that feels... really good. Better than he thought it would.

"... No. Just a couple drinks. Jameson poured the rest out."

"Good for him." Kauri flickers a smile. "Where is he?"

"I-... I scared him."

"... you scared him?"

"Yeah. I was-... I wasn't-... I didn't mean to, but-"

"Shut up. All right. Tell me what you did. I'll fix it. This time, taking your place so I suffer for years while you run off and become obscenely wealthy is off the table, got it?"

Vince looks at him in horror only to see a surprising warmth in Kauri's smile. Not... not affection, but something like it. A wry compassion, maybe. Something else he doesn't deserve. "I don't know. I don't know if I can fix this, Kauri. I don't know."

"Well... I happen to the resident expert in trying to avoid dealing with your problems while making them all worse, so talk to me. Tell me what you did, start to finish. We'll figure out what comes next."

Vince lowers his head into his arms.

"Thank you," He says, muffled.

"Not enough thanks in the world, dumbass. Lucky for you I'm an amazing person who just happens to have spent most of my twenties making stupid drunk mistakes. So stop stalling and start talking."

@finder-of-rings @endless-whump @arlin-always-writing @newandfiguringitout @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @whumpyourdamnpears @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @outofangband @hackles-up @grizzlie70 @mylifeisonthebookshelf @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @autophagay

#whump #ptsd tw #alcholism tw #withdrawal tw #alcoholic whumpee #recovering whumpee #recovery whump #vincent shield is not a hero #erase to control #since kauri makes an appearance #jameson bb #box boy universe #drunk whumpee #whumpee turned whumper #briefly and not on purpose

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mumblesplash · 5 months

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i say if you’re gonna have the mysterious entities speak in rhyme you might as well commit (EDIT: part 2!)

(posting an unprecedented Part 1 of At Least 3 bc i actually have the entire script and most of the storyboarding for this done already)

#yknow. got an idea. had a breakdown. bon appetit #this was the creative impulse i was referring to on sunday #my art #secret life #secret life spoilers #slsmp #grian #geminitay #briefly #trafficblr #also #mostly bc i am proud of it and partly bc i want people to know it’s on purpose:#grian is not trying to rhyme at all in this part. he is being deliberately unhelpful #he lowkey tries to fuck it up on purpose in that second to last panel but the secret keepers just switch rhyme schemes #the one time he completes an end rhyme is because he lost his temper #anyway yeah this was motivated mostly by me wanting to see if i could do it

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zed-sabre · 7 months

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I just miss these kids

#academy x #new x-men #noriko ashida #surge #david alleyne #prodigy #julian keller #hellion #yes i KNOW julian's tk aura is green but for the purposes of my colour scheme #besides it was briefly pink in spider-man and the x-men #i do agree that green looks better though #it's classic #zed art

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rexscanonwife · 2 months

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I'm getting the hang of making tiktoks now! I thought this one suited them really well 😂😂

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oliveroctavius · 9 months

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"I like my hair." (USM #18)

#doc ock #usm #oliverliveblogs #in ASM doc ock is the first person to truly kick Peter's ass--however briefly--and it gives him a real scare #they do a similar scene here but Peter's already gotten dragged over the coals by both the Green Goblin and Kingpin #so it doesn't have quite the same purpose #love the whole USM 20 ockfight and its crazy 2 page layouts to pieces

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bonefall · 8 months

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I don’t know if the Erin’s are romanticizing abuse, don’t realize they’re writing it, or both because this is genuinely getting concerning

They’ve written how many abusive husbands and then said that those husbands are actually great people who deserve everything?

Well, let's apply Occam's Razor. Which of these makes the most sense;

The writing team has accidentally written at least 3 (more like 5) realistic depictions of domestic abuse, and just happen to be consistently more sympathetic to the men in the relationships, and find that romantic involvement makes a character humanizing in general Or

The writing team has a warped perception of what healthy love is supposed to look like, and think that the behaviors they depict are normal and just part of relationships.

I think the phrase "romanticizing abuse" is kind of unhelpful tbh, because it's not totally accurate. Most people believe they're doing the right thing. It's not likely that they KNOW what they're doing is destructive, and are secretly twirling an evil mustache as they write it into a teenage cat book series in the hopes of making more victims.

It's not entirely romanticism/glorification, it's deeper. It's the idea that these behaviors are normal, understandable, and they as writers either a total disinterest in the internal lives of the victims (Turtle, Bumble) or the desire to "explore" the relationship as if both sides are on equal footing/mutually toxic (Squilf)

And Tom... Tom's redemption ties into the narrative about blood that DOTC tells. It says that having children produces a goodness in men, and biological connection (even to people you don't know) is an intrinsic, sometimes tragic fact of life. The only time Tom ever does something that wasn't actively malicious was saving his daughter, Sparrow Fur.

For that, and that alone, he is redeemed. And thus deserves a cutesy reward in his afterlife.

#the 5 depictions btw are raggedstar tigerstar clear sky tom and bramble #But ragged and tiger are... at least briefly depicted as bad on purpose #warrior cats analysis #At the very least it's an interesting mess to dissect #tom is also an interesting example of the sexism in warriors imo #It does not go over my head that what redeems him is his masculine willingness to die for his daughter #As if that is equal to his entire life spent literally torturing women and controlling people #That for him everything is okay as long as he died for the right reason #bone babble

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notmoreflippingelves · 7 months

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Wardrobe Appreciation

↳ Esteban Flores (Elena of Avalor)

#elena of avalor #esteban flores #chancellor esteban #this gifset is entirely about his little sailing/archeology/adventure outfit #that's why it has pride of place in the middle #realistically i know that he is really not THAT much more underdressed than in any of his other outfits #but to me; he is still in a delightfully shameful state of deshabille comparatively:#his neck exposed because he has *gasp* no cravat and has unbuttoned his shirt two whole buttons #the yellow sash belt that clearly has no other purpose except to remind us that his waist is snatched #no longcoat to partially cover his hips and the back of his legs? the brazen audacity. I need some pearls to clutch #moment of silence for all of the cute little potential esteban fits we never got to see on the show #at the very least; we were owed a nice little Navidad look in the snowbound ep #maybe a nice green jacket and/or one with little embroidered poinsetta accents to match elena's dress?#a carnaval fit would've been gr8 too; even gabe of all people got one (tho esteban still has more outfits than him overall so it even outs)#i would say that esteban should have a dias de los muertos outfit too (maybe matching francisco's)#but that would require the writers actually putting him in said episodes to begin with #i mean; i get it #it's not like he has any lost loved ones that he might hypothetically want to remember on day of the dead--OH WAIT!!!#i mean word of god is that he's visiting his parents' altars off-screen; but it would've been nice if we could've seen this once #even if he's just shown briefly in the background #also i *hate* that the shuriki era uniform looks so good on him #i mean she's still a monster and was definitely a hell of a boss to him #but dang; the woman has quite the sartorial eye #and you'll never not convince me that her chancellor looking excellent in black #isn't the entire reason the palace guards wear black too #she knows how to coordinate a retinue #esteban flores: assigned goth at conquest #poor thing #lucky (or is it unlucky?) he carries it off so well

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fictionadventurer · 26 days

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Sometimes I think I have run across all the types of nihilistic despair that exist in the world.

And then someone new tries to argue on one of my pro-life posts.

#went to bed late #woke up earlier than i wanted to and can't get back to sleep #check the tumblr for some mindless scrolling fun time #see reply attacking the pro-choice arguments post that in no way refutes any of my points #consider very briefly engaging with the stupidity #look at the blog bio #see that the person calls themself an anti-natalist #has an entire blog devoted to the concept that it is wrong to bring new life into the world #understand with expanding levels of dread that there is no earthly way to drag someone out of that level of despair #that they have purposely chosen and advocated for this absolutely hopeless worldview #and i do not in any way want this person interacting with me ever in my life #block immediately #and then start praying for their soul

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vulpinesaint · 3 days

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talking the way that i do (metric ton of endearments in every sentence) is so silly and so inconvenient in daily life. like man you can't be calling this girl you've spoken to exactly one time in class "my darling" as you're coordinating this project over text. rewrite that message. you're going to make people uncomfortable 😭

#being SO good about not calling every casual friend 'babe'. keeping it to 'babes' to keep it casual even. dfkjhgs #i am so wasted on bitches who don't enjoy words of affirmation as a love language.#like what do you mean you don't appreciate that i call you my love and my darling and sweetheart and babe and babydoll. do you hate me #my dear. my beloved. my love my life my all my everything. honey. gorgeous.#so hard being the most charming boy alive. like someone had to do it but god damn #born to make pretty girls giggle when i call them sweet things in french. and i'm following through on that purpose #calling my friend sam 'mon ange' just to see her get a little giddy. you know how it is.#need to call miffy ma chèrie more often... things to think about #someone i was in love with very briefly called me mi cielo and it had my heart melting out of my chest. i'm a very easy man at the end of i #valentine notes

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t4lon · 1 month

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I'm very conflicted.

We were recently diagnosed with DID, but this was not a new discovery for us. We have been operating under the partial assumption that we have the disorder for exactly a decade this year.

I say partial because it genuinely never stuck. The nature of our trauma and resulting anxiety prevented us from seeking any sort of mental health treatment, in any capacity, which as you can imagine, precludes any hope of diagnosis. So, from the age of 14 onward, we existed in this strange in-between state, where we gained and lost insight at different times. We lack self confidence, and though we supported the right of others to self diagnose, we (particularly Moira and myself) believed it would be silly to think any of our research could possibly be adequate. DID is a heavy diagnosis, and it's very hard to feel justified in claiming the label.

We tried many different methods to be okay with existing as more than one; and this is why the existence of endogenic systems was NECESSARY for our mental health. As someone who absolutely could not get diagnosed due to abject fear, and whose low self esteem and lack of expertise prevented them from trusting their own judgment, the idea that there are people who just allow themselves to exist without needing professional validation seemed like the only way forward for us.

Ultimately, I still think it is. I would not be this far along in my personal journey without the existence of the wider plural community, and though the rest of our system does not share my personal anti-psychiatry sentiments, it has been extremely important for them as well.

But it hasn't worked yet, and this feels a little bit like a failure on our part.

We finally hit a breaking point fairly recently, and found a therapist who then quite promptly diagnosed us. Since then, it's been night and day. Alters are more active, we switch more frequently, we are capable of leaving the house on short notice (and at all!). Our social anxiety has largely vanished, at least for the time being. It's like waking up after ten straight years of a depressive haze dominated by our repressive persecutor-host, and she is finally getting the rest she needed.

But really, after all that? The journey to self discovery, the repeated attempts to convince ourselves that we CAN just choose to be this way, that we can just act the way we naturally wish that we could... the only thing that could break through the wall was still to validate it through the framework we were trying to escape.

We tried so, so hard to truly believe that it would be okay for us to just be, but it just... didn't work. We still needed a therapist to tell us it was okay, that we really are the way we think we are, and that it is healthy to embrace. And it didn't matter how many peers also told us this; we needed a professional. We just did not believe anyone else, even though we desperately wanted to AND deeply respected their journeys and experiences.

This isn't really meant to be a Sad Post or anything, I mostly just think we have a lot more work to do. We were deeply damaged by things like fakedisordercringe AND many anti-endogenic sentiments in online system communities, and it is not nearly as easy to shake the self hatred and doubt as I'd hoped.

I do, to some extent, resent the fact that we ultimately felt that we needed someone to give us permission to exist. But. Well. We do certainly feel like we are allowed to exist, now. Perhaps even a bit vindicated.

Strange.

#did system #syscourse #<- mainly for blocking purposes! This is NOT a syscourse post but I briefly mention it #🪐 post #also clarifying that I do not mind this ending up in the syscourse tags. I didn't forget

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venndaai · 24 days

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I'm curious about how common my way of playing games is

#a thing about me is if a game puts me in a very minimally decorated level that is obviously only meant to be briefly experienced for #aesthetic/storytelling purposes #i will still need to go look at every single visible asset #which is why it takes me hundreds of hours to finish any game

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barbieaiden · 8 months

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i can't really get over this shot of kas tbh it doesn't help that my computer keeps showing it in the photo tab when i press the windows button in the corner

#i think kas's peak in life is all the years between starting the cult until he gets infected #during that time he's you know. obviously a bad person he kills people and stuff #but he's very. idk expressive and theatrical and treats all of it like a play and he's the star #he's very charismatic is what i'm trying to say but then later on he's just #very numb to all of it killing isn't fun anymore obviously life becomes pretty mundane in a zombie apocalypse #even when you have a cult to run like #he does briefly remember what life used to be like but has lived in the apocalypse for the majority of his life #and i imagine it's kind of at a point where there's no hope for humanity the people who still live just get by #eventually everyone's going to be eradicated and kas has lost the joy of the only purpose he had #not to mention he's you know. slowly turning into a zombie so his future is neither bright nor long lmao #the only time he really expresses any emotion at all is when preaching about him becoming a god or whatever but deep down #he knows that isn't the case it's all just a fantasy to him #he doesn't stop being a terrible person though if anything he gets worse because he's seeking out the thrill it used to give him #and when it doesn't he gets angry and tries even harder and it becomes this cycle. you know #until tristan kills him

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flowers-that-sing · 9 months

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"baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad"

(a post s3 steve harrington songfic based on Gibson Girl by Ethel Cain)

TWs// sexual content, dubious consent to put it lightly but it's more implied to be sexual assault, past csa, grooming, it's not super detailed (the csa much less so, and told through memories where steve doesn't even exactly know what's happening), but like. you know. it's pretty bad. referenced physical abuse. referenced past incestual sexual abuse. alcohol consumption, smoking. lightly implied drugging.

also, disclaimer: this is all told through steve's eyes—the way he sees things is very warped, his relationship with sex is unhealthy to say the least, and just because he's saying he feels good does not mean that anything that happens in this is good. it isn't. nothing about this is good or healthy at all.

She approached him in the dark behind the bar, where Steve was half-considering lighting up in spite of his promise of quitting to Robin. He had drank enough that it didn't seem to matter. She had leather pants on, and sunglasses, despite the dark.

"Corey Hart fan?" he asked lightly. She didn't bother to answer.

"Just saw you leave the bar. I'm glad you stuck around."

Steve didn't recognize her, and she didn't seem to recognize him either. She was dragging her eyes across his body, and Steve was suddenly all-too conscious of his scars on display, his sweat-melted hair wax.

He was sick of it, he was sick of feeling ugly, and this girl had desire in her eyes. Steve was craving desire.

And he was craving thrill. His thoughts had been rapid all week, his body more fidgety, his stomach constantly filled with bees and his energy so high he hadn't needed more than a couple hours of sleep a night. He had so much time in every day, but nothing to fill it with besides the monotony of work, and he needed adrenaline. There weren't any monsters to fight now, and there weren't any basketball games to play since high school, and he needed the feeling. The melting, excruciating, nauseating excitement, racing heart, the feeling of something about to happen, the fear, the risk.

"You came alone to me—from however far away," he mused, lighting his cigarette, delicately placing it between his lips, exhaling into her face.

"How'd you know?" she asked with a grin.

You're all the same.

Steve shrugged. "Lucky guess."

She stepped in, so he could feel her breath on his face. "You gonna buy me a drink?"

Steve put the cig out on his thigh. He didn't feel the burn. "I was just about to ask."

If I'm still walking straight, I need another drink anyway.

They went inside together, sat back at the bar. Steve opened a new tab.

By the time he had a glass of whiskey in his hand, she had a hand on his thigh. She didn't even pretend to drink the vodka she'd ordered, and he was still downing his last gulp of whiskey when she pushed it into his hand with a little half-smile. He drank it.

The lights were bleeding all over him.

He felt a hand in his back pocket, and when he looked up, she was pulling cash out of his wallet.

You wanna love me right now?

"You wanna get alone with me?" Steve asked. Her eyes were bright, and she nodded, pulling him to his feet and all but dragging him out of the bar. He wasn't exactly sure when he'd gotten there, but he was in the trunk of a car, the backseats folded down to make room. "You wanna get my clothes off and hurt me?"

He hadn't meant to say 'hurt.' But she just laughed and grinned, and ripped his clothes off.

☤

"Baby, if it feels good, then it can't be bad," Lynn says. Steve's eight now, beginning to question if it was wrong. He's remembering his Sunday school teacher talking about how nakedness was wrong, or something. And a new word, he doesn't know what it means. 'Chastity.'

Lynn's touching him, she says it's to make him feel good. He doesn't really know how he feels. It reminds him a little of his grandfather, but Lynn's a woman, and she's not family, so it's different. It's better. If he closes his eyes and lets himself sink into it, he likes it. Is he supposed to like it? Lynn says he's supposed to like it.

He tells her he does, and opens his eyes when she's done, and she's smiling. She promises him a new teddy bear. But for right now, it's his turn to make her feel good.

☤

Steve likes to think he's a good person now, but he knows he's still a whore, and he can't deny the high that comes with being immoral in a stranger's lap. He's kissing over her chest and grinding down onto her leather pants, and she's digging her nails into his back. He still doesn't even know her name. She doesn't know his. Maybe it's better that way.

She hasn't taken off more than her shirt still, but he's fully naked. It's dark, the only light coming from a dim greenish streetlamp outside the car, and he thinks maybe she can't see his scars, but she's running her hands over the scar on his chest, from where the Russian guards had cut him open. She looks at it with something he can't quite decipher. It almost looks like fascination, but he knows that isn't it. Her eyes are wide, her pupils dilated.

Ah. Desire.

"You know, I was serious about hurting me. You wanna add some more?"

☤

"I'm in love with your body. That's why I'm fucking it up." Steve listens to Lynn's voice from where she sits on the back of his legs. He is on his stomach, face turned to the side so he can breathe. He can’t see her. He sees his disorientingly patterned wall. He smells rosewater and orange zest, and his head feels fuzzy. Something hurts. Everything hurts. He doesn’t think about it too much. He just focuses on the warmth, the heat from the points of contact between him and his babysitter, the sweat in the backs of his knees, on his upper lip. The bedsheets are damp. It’s itchy.

☤

Steve tasted his own blood on her teeth as she bit his upper lip. He was starting to see colors in the spaces where she'd been after she moved. And then his face was between her thighs, and when had her pants even come off at all? His heart was racing, exactly like he'd wanted, and his body was wracked with tremors. He listened to the music coming from her lips, the moans rising from her chest, and his heart leapt. I did that. I'm making her feel good.

His arms felt a bit numb as he reached up to rub his thumbs into her hips. She was panting hard, and he was giddy.

"Oh, fuck—you really are special, baby," she hissed.

Steve's eyes widened, watered, and he whimpered against her.

I'm special. She said I'm special.

Steve was going to ride this high for at least a week. He was desirable, wanted, special. He basked in her attention, even if he knew he wouldn't see her again after tonight.

He felt like he was being shown something he could never have. Something he'd searched for all his life. For a second, he could pretend it was love. Love for his brain and his scars and his body. Him taking all of her attention and giving back anything she wanted in return. Just to feel special. He'd do anything.

Because that's what love was, right? Love, want, attention, specialness, was just tied to sex. Maybe his parents didn't love him since they couldn't fuck him. His grandfather loved him, his babysitter loved him, and for one night at a time, anyone could love him. And growing up, it was the only way he was really touched, with affection, at least. In ways other than a beating.

He knew that wasn't right, because him and Robin loved each other. He loved the kids—never in that way, ever, and he still loved them. It was a different kind of love. But then, it was another different kind he was looking for, anyway. Maybe he was ungrateful. But he was hungry for attention, for someone to call him special, to want him around, he was starving for it.

His thoughts weren't making much sense anymore.

She was holding him in her lap, his boxers were back on, he was resting his head on her shoulder. He assumed she'd finished at some point, he didn't remember, and he knew he hadn't, but he hadn't really wanted to anyway.

He was drooling, and he couldn't stop himself, and he couldn't see much, but her body was warm. He crawled closer, squirmed in tighter. It felt good to be held. He felt good.

He woke up almost naked on the sidewalk in the sun with drool pooling at his chin and the rest of his clothes on a pile next to him.

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