Playlist #1

I have always been a lot like my father. I have his hair, his face, his taste in music, his last name, some of his old jackets and shirts. I’ve often hated that I’m so much like him, as the only thing I don’t and will never have from him is his support. Now, however, I carry pocket watches and work towards education, a feat he never achieved. I do not use his last name, he doesn’t deserve the credit of my success. His music I’ve integrated along with violins and melodies that his rough and tough demeanors would never fit into. His clothing and jackets are reserved for when I make art, the paint that is left on the shirts show how I can make beautiful things as opposed to the blood that had previously stained them when he got into fights. I am very much like my father, but never will he be like me.

trans masculinity, when u have a shitty father, is abt taking pieces of him for yrself & reclaiming it & turning those things delicate & caring in ways he could never, ways that would disgust him. in his hand-me-down jacket, i carry bandages. the knife he used to skin deer is now the knife i use to sections apples to share with my brother

May you burn with the monster that plagues your soul; may you lay in the ashes of your very sins and damnation. May the devil do with you as he sees fit and throw you deep into the pits of the eternal hellfire, and may you reap what you have sown.

Cole, Tacita Corvus (my book)

Just an amazing comic my an amazing artist 

i can’t stop thinking about @ehlihr‘s teacher!jon au i couldnt NOT draw something for it

Start of chapter four, Sins of the flesh.

Link to Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/1263570085-sins-of-the-flesh-chapter-4-raised-from-perdition Link to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38974686/chapters/103642149#workskin -CAUTION: This one may include trigger warnings for those who are sensitive to descriptions of hell and very mild gore. You have been warned- ---- Hell was a horrible place; it was filled with the vilest of human beings, demons and creations you could ever imagine. People who had sold their souls were hung on hooks like meat hung in racks; in hell, a human and a cow were no different. The stink of sulphur, blood, smoke and flesh was constant, but if you were there you would find that the rotten scent was nothing compared to being whipped; to having your flesh torn and ripped repeatedly as blood and sweat rolled down your back. It was always ablaze, fiery hot and bright; never for a second was hell silent, but you would get used to the splitting headaches and the lack of sleep eventually.

Screams of pain and gurgles of pure agony surrounded Dean in hell; pain radiated throughout the man’s body and he didn’t have his blindfold over his eyes to allow him to feign ignorance to the many bloodied and beaten people surrounding him. The man didn’t remember how long he had been in hell, the pain too much for him to think about anything else; he hung on hooks, screamed and bled until he couldn’t take it anymore. He fought as hard as he could, avoided becoming a torturer at all costs and tried to remember what earth was like and who he was.

He was a priest, yet he was in hell; he struggled for forty long years until a saving grace came upon him. Hell lit up with a yellowish-white glow bright enough to blind you with a single glance, demons perished all around and Dean was raised from hell once again as a hand burned his left shoulder.

~♰~♰~♰~

Dean gasped as his eyes flew open, arms flailing and hands desperately grasping at something to hold on to; the first thing he registered was the feeling of cold stone beneath him, as well as beneath his palms when finally he had a grip on something.

Looking up, he saw towering ceilings and archways stretching high above his head; the many depictions of angels painted skywards were new to him, he had never even known that they were there. His left shoulder ached, and he came to realize his left hand lay on a very familiar statue; dozens of rosaries hung around her neck, swaying just slightly in a breeze that carried itself through the open door at the very back of the church. Dean sat up, breathing in the still-stale air; he could smell rain on the breeze and yet the church’s oxygen remained dusty and scented like history, it seemed no one had cleaned it properly in a while. The man only barely registered the pounding in his head as he looked around at the pews and the windows of his church, still a little disorientated by the sudden drag up from hell. Finally understanding that he was safe, Dean hauled himself up onto shaking legs and got a more thorough look at his surroundings...

autistic people are allowed to fit autism stereotypes

i take things literally. i don’t get a lot of neurotypical humor and often feel left out of the joke or even feel like i’m the joke sometimes. i’m gullible. there’s no way to sugarcoat it or put it more nicely, i’m just gullible. i don’t always know what’s satire. i’m socially awkward and have a hard time befriending or remaining friends with anybody who isn’t like me.

much of the autism community puts so much emphasis on “all autistic people aren’t x” and not enough on “who cares if we’re x, we deserve rights”

this goes doubly for ID and nonspeaking autistics btw i just can’t speak to that experience personally

Y’know it's kinda screwed up that I had to rely on books to give me comfort growing up and that translated in perfectionism and writing obsessively because I'll now never be satisfied with my reality because I'm always chasing the feelings I've gotten from certain kinds of media despite knowing that I'll never feel that way again. BUT ANYWAY, C’EST LA VIE, GO BE HUMANS, GO HAVE FUN :)

You can love someone and still choose to say goodbye to them,

Tara Westover, Educated

To see into the soul of another, you must first see into your own.

Myself, Sighlas-Rhodes

I have a mixed relationship with studying.

On one end, I absolutely adore it; the classical or gentle music I listen to as my pen glides against the page, the controlled chaos that litters my desk and the dim lighting of my lamp.

On the other hand, however, I hate it; the seemingly endless hours I spend studying and yet never learning, the few bits of knowledge I do retain about these subjects I despise barely enough to get me passed with a decent enough grade.

If only I could learn to love the ache in my hands after writing for hours again, the challenge of understanding new knowledge made fun again.

I am not usually one to read fics here on Tumblr, but for all that is holy, I loved this fic. The way you describe emotions, describe the setting and actions is simply incredible; my eyes and mind have been blessed with this godly creation and for that I am thankful.

I’m out of my element (I can’t breathe)

a03 link

masterpost link

Word Count: 3,593

This is my first time writing anxceit, so I’d love to hear what you think! 

When Janus finds Virgil alone in the common room, sobbing and struggling to breathe, the scene can’t help but feel achingly familiar. He’s been in this position so many times, seeing Virgil at his most vulnerable – but it’s been years.

So much has gone on since then, so much has changed. Bridges have been burned, at least that’s what it can’t help but feel like. Janus has seen hostility and bitterness and little else from Virgil for so long; it’s not completely unjustified, either, not nearly. He would do anything to keep Janus from seeing him like this now, Janus is sure of it.

But regardless, he’s found him. And he needs to act.

“Virgil, hey, hey,” Janus says quickly, crouching in front of Virgil sat on the couch, hugging his knees and trembling so hard, “Hey, it’s alright. Do you need me to get you, someone? Do you need Patton? Logan? Roman?”

Janus supposes perhaps Virgil wouldn’t do anything to keep him from being seen this way, just most things. Because as impossible as it often seems, something’s been established between them in the last few months. What it is, Janus can’t possibly say. But he can assess with confidence that whatever it is, it’s raw, and it’s fragile, and it feels moment from breaking each day.

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