I’ve been having nightmares and vivid dreams for the past few days and my mind is a mess so don’t mind me while I draw oc stands based on pokemon fusions You can give them names and abilites if you want
«but the common russian people don’t support putin!!! »
Be patient, little hohols, pray to be killed quickly
i’m putting these hohol fucks into their place right now, sending them dms of hohol ground meat (photos of dead soldiers) straight from the battlefield
Can you imagine how they’re sending this out?) They sit in the subway on a pissed, cold floor, eating canned meat and with trembling hands type such bullshit
We stand for a good cause. Ukraine and the Baltic States are parts of Russia
GLORY TO RUSSIA! DEATH TO HOHOLS
Put hohols into furnaces
*hohol is a derogatory russian word for ukrainian people
Im not American so please forgive me if this comes across as rude but when Americans start a sentence with “during the 2016 killer clown craze-” I can’t help myself. Talked about like it was a force of nature. Said with a nonchalant air like its an inevitable part of growing up. The killer clown craze.
pointless little angst drabble about a stupid man and an emotionally constipated reader. references to sex and ??? I don’t know what this is, it’s just sad and stupid
word count 1.5k I need to go to sleep
“Is that all there is to it?”
Your curiosity bears a dark meaning, filling the cracks in between your bodies with sticky-sticky tar that the effortless glide of his skin against yours can’t quite scrub away. The aliment is no virtue of yours; rather, it’s a vice. With consequences.
He’s content and calm and solid, sprawled right next to you, the thump-thump-thump of his heart strong and hollow. It falters under your palm.
You regret opening your mouth.
“It is what you make of it,” he finally responds, settling on an answer that makes sure you would come back.
You always come back. Or he does. Neither of you willingly want to even acknowledge the situationship, least it gain traction and spiral into mundane accord. It’s everything everyone has warned you against.
Communication breakdown, undefined boundaries, so many variables that a mathematician would tie their brain in a clove hitch trying to figure out what the two of you were to each other.
Loneliness. It oozed from every pore of the man next to you, always. He’d been soaking in it for years, unknowingly most of the time, to preoccupied with ignoring his own humanity and trying to convince everyone else around him that he was more than that.
He became more than that. A little strong-willed man.
You found it adorable. It was so obvious that he tried so hard to run away from himself, the steps he took were backwards.
“I have an event Friday,” you mention off-handedly, your eyes landing on the dress hanging in the far side of the room, “gonna be away for the night.” A little courtesy goes a long way.
He follows your eyes, settling on the fabric. Blinks once.
“That color compliments your complexion.” His compliment rolls off his tongue stiff and rigid.
You take it anyway, “thanks. I want some art for the living room and there’s an artist I am interested in at an exhibition downtown. Wouldn’t want to miss out on a gorgeous piece,” this is a point-blank statement. You hate socializing more than strictly necessary and that’s something you won’t ever stop pointing out.
“And here I thought you had a hot date for the evening,” he’s back to his baseline: toeing the line between mocking and playful.
It makes you bark a genuine laugh, “most people can’t even put up with themselves for an extended period of time but expect others to do so with them. I’m not touching that vat of toxic waste. Say about me what you will, but I enjoy my peace and rather like my own company.”
You refer to the people of the city: New Yorkers are, in general, rather self-absorbed and empty on the inside. Always running, always chasing after something instead of doing some much-needed self-reflection.
He’s really not that different. But his cheekbones are to die for and he makes you come every single time. It’s a fair bargain when it comes to the roll tide of misery that cascades down his shoulders.
So he does what he does: chortles, a small, weird, hollow noise that you’ve come to associate with him actively ignoring his feelings. Fingers glide over your bare shoulder, picking up a leisurely pace that sends pleasant tingles over your skin.
The yawn that suddenly splits your mouth in two threatens to unhinge your jaw but you don’t bother apologizing.
He’s just as drowsy. In no time, you expect him to get up, spend an obscene amount of time re-tying his robes and disappear in a burst of golden sparks.
“You baffle me sometimes,” he says with a low note in his voice that makes you wonder just how much he hates experiencing that particular emotion.
The blankets are thrown back and he slides under them, effortlessly rolling you over to your side, pressing his sticky chest to your back, half-hard cock nestled snugly against your bottom half.
This is new, you quietly muse to yourself, but make no attempt to react to it in any way. That strange, aching curiosity has you standing on your tippy toes to gain an attempt to look inside the dusty, murky windows of his soul.
“Don’t you get tired of being alone? Or are you too good for that?”
“Maybe I am better than everyone,” you chuckle, breasts jiggling in his palms, because, no, you don’t. The freedom you have seems to be the cause of jealousy for many people.
He follows your example but the laugh sounds forced and hollow.
“That sounds like a trauma response,” he can’t resist firing back.
“It probably is, I mean - when you’re an adult, there’s not much difference between that and a personality trait,” you had come to that conclusion years ago, when you first tried to figure out why exactly did you feel so different than your peers. “That shit’s ingrained so deeply, unless it’s causing acute discomfort, not much is needed to be done. I say let sleeping dogs lie.”
He hums, continuing to grope your breast in a totally absent-minded manner. It’s like he’s only partly there, a piece of his mind eons and eons away, somewhere in a place that lets him rationalize every little fiber of your being.
“You know, I get that a lot. Been getting shit about it for years. It doesn’t bother me and if bothers you, well…” You trail off, mildly annoyed by his silence.
“It doesn’t,” he says quickly, too quickly to make even the slightest bit believable. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
“Sure,” you snort.
“Sure,” he parrots you, surely just to be annoying.
As always, you don’t take the bait.
With every interaction, he becomes more and more predictable. So it is with these brain-types: faced with a dilemma of talking about feelings or running away, they leave with their tail tucked between their legs.
You can’t wait to grow exhausted of him. Tiredness begins to seep in, but not the kind that makes your eyelids droop: it’s the hollow, pulling sensation in your chest that gnaws at you when he stays a little too long, kisses you a little too sweet and says things that should never be said to someone you don’t share a life with.
You try to keep an open mind, your hotel-heart puts up a vacancy sign instead, the wretched thing. There’s a suspicion he keeps returning just because of that - despite your bluff and his wilful ignorance, you aren’t made of stone, and deep down he knows it. Probably not consciously, but he does. It makes your teeth itch.
“If you could be different, what would you be?” He asks suddenly.
Alarms start going off in your head. The vibes were off way before your clothes hit the floor - you’d noticed it, and took a page right out of his book, turning the other cheek - the one under your skirt - until thoughts in your head ceased completely.
“A scientist,” it’s a lame reply, but it’s just the right amount of honest.
“No, I mean…” He stumbles through his words. “Anything in the world. Anything. I can pull up thesaurus.”
That makes you laugh. Of course.
“Cunning. Vicious. Swift, silent, deadly,” you list off.
“Semper Fi,” he finishes for you dryly.
“Not a Marine,” you immediately retort, hating the moment of weakness that let you to disclose something so private, but how that you’ve started, you can’t seem to stop. “I’m tired of talking and tired of asking questions. I’m rather, just a too-tall child, or perhaps, an angry adolescent that would rather his room be the entire world.”
“The world is too big,” he abruptly agrees, fingers freezing in place on your chest. “It’s so large, no breath feels quite deep enough.”
The silence is very, very pregnant: her contractions in your combined breathing intensify and climb and climb and climb, the pains threatening to tear her apart and birth something truly horrendous out into this world.
It would be an abomination, you realise.
“We’re just two lost souls, swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,” you hum, all of a sudden, the absurdity of the situation watering your eyes and forcing an awkward laugh out of your mouth. “Pink Floyd wrote a song about that.”
“Yeah,” Stephen’s head falls onto yours, chin on top of your head.
It doesn’t satisfy him in the slightest: tossing and turning and messing up your sheets, he positions his too-tall, lanky body around you, contorted like a sleeping mother wrapping herself around the young. His limbs are long and firm and too hot and awkward, a feeling you’ve forgotten long time ago, but it doesn’t seem to be unpleasant enough for you to move.
His beard scratches your cheek: it’s prickly, surely will leave you red-faced in the morning.
Sorry I need to Vent and don’t want to on my main lol ///
Tw: period mention/ weed mention/ alcohol mention /
Me: gets debilitating period pain where I have to leave work and throw up and am in constant pain for 24 hours and have been dealing with it for 10 years this way
Coworkers: lol have u tried birth control? Or go to the health food store and ask what they recommend :)
Like…. I have been trying everything like right now literally eating fucking fennel everyday and trying to add more ginger and cinnamon to my diet in hopes that it helps like. I’m so tired… Like most of all I am tired, and it feels like a joke when someone tries to tell me what to do about it as if I’m so stupid and just want to curl ina ball in debilitating pain and the only think that helps is alcohol and weed which I can’t do at work and it only helps bc it allows me to pass out and sleep for hours or feel disconnected from the pain to an extent. But I literally cannot work the first day and I apparently just need to go to the doctor and get a note that says that so people will not treat me like I’m taking advantage of them.
This honestly was the first week of school from hell. I had assignments that were due before school even started and then I got slammed with hours worth of homework for each night. On top of that I’m still working over 20 hours a week so I have barely slept to keep up with everything. Last night after work I completely lost it and had a full on emotional break down in the shower because I had to save time since I was going to be up till atleast 12 as it was. I’ve managed to push my self so hard I got sick on the second day and have felt like absolute crap every day
I’m sorry I’m not very active on here anymore, but Ted Cruz helped draft a shitty healthcare bill and now he’s saying he wont vote for it because it’s not shitty enough for him and I am exhausted.
This is the most useful thing I’ve ever reblogged.
i used to think when people said my cousin twice removed that their cousin must’ve did some fucked up shit to get kicked out of the family twice
When I found this the first thing I thought was “now I can find out how Count Olaf is related to the Baudelaire children.”
I think I’ve reblogged this before but it’s always handy, so here it is again.
(Except, in my family we use “great-aunt” instead of “grand-aunt”. Is that common to anyone else? (used on both sides of my family: northern OH + Cornwall/London UK/London ONT/north-west PA))
