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PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
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RMH
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Monterey Bay Aquarium
$LAYYYTER

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Aqua Utopia|海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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ojovivo
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@killtherxchkid-blog
sneak preview of my next drawing 👀👀
CHARACTER AESTHETICS #OO1
↳ Nathan Prescott → Life is Strange
— ❝Max, It’s… It’s Nathan. I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. I didn’t want to hurt Kate or Rachel, or… didn’t wanted to hurt anybody. Everybody… used me. Mr. Jefferson… is coming for me now. All this shit will be over soon. Watch out, Max… He wants to hurt you next. Sorry.❞
I can’t say no Though the lights are on There’s nobody home Swore I’d never lose control Then I fell in love with a heart that beats so slow
“YOU ARE NOT CRAZY. YOU ARE NOT DREAMING.”
indie max caulfield – penned by Dingo
RP partner: *raises voice just enough to be heard* “do you want Angst?”
me: *at full volume* “I’M ALWAYS A SLUT FOR ANGST”
"That's... A lot of blood."
Like he didn't know that. His eyes glanced around, trying to avoid the sight of bright red blood in the sink.
Shit.
He forced a breath out. It sounded ragged, like there was something that he needed to get out of his lungs. But, it was just the stress of everything/everything/everything. It wasn’t like he meant to. Okay, he meant to, but he hadn’t meant for it to be this bad.
“ No shit, Sherlock. The sky's blue, too, if we're pointing out the fucking obvious. ”
Nathan didn't really have the room to be so argumentative. He just tore himself open in Jefferson's own fucking house. Shouldn't have done that. Shouldn't have done that. Why does he always fuck up like this, goddammit, goddammit, why couldn't he stop himself sometimes? He knows what's right and wrong, yet he doesn't know how to stop himself.
But, seeing just how much blood – letting his eyes drift down to the sink – made him that scared, lost little boy he really way.
“ Sorry. I'm really sorry. ”
some days you’ve just gotta buy yourself some flowers.
troye sivan // lost boy
“No one messes with you and gets away with it.”
“ I don't need you to protect me. ”
“ Can't you just leave me alone? ”
“ i’m fine, i can walk, just give me a minute ”
“ You say that, but– ”
Nathan looks away because even though he has seen a lot, he is not exactly good with blood. The sight of bright crimson makes him feel sick, which is funny because there is so much worse in life than the sight of blood.
“ Shit, what did you do? ”
musingsource:
injured memes
“ oh my god what happened? ”
“ you’re bleeding! why are you bleeding? ”
“ who did this to you? ”
“ that’s… a lot of blood ”
“ i think… it’s broken ”
“ can you move? does it hurt? ”
“ we need to get you to a hospital ”
“ what are you talking about? this is not just a scratch ”
“ it’s just a scratch ”
“ it’s nothing, i’m totally fine ”
“ that’s not supposed to bend that way ”
“ what the hell did you do? ”
“ don’t you pass out on me ”
“ i’m just so tired ”
“ hey, whoa, you alright there? ”
“ i just need to sit down for a minute ”
“ let me carry you ”
“ it won’t stop bleeding! ”
“ you’re gonna be just fine, i promise ”
“ hey! i said stay awake! ”
“ tell me what hurts ”
“ does it hurt when i do this? ”
“ ow! that hurts! ”
“ i’m fine, i can walk, just give me a minute ”
“ it was an accident ”
sentence starters: protective edition.
“Don’t let them talk to you that way.”
“I get so angry whenever I hear them talking about you… you don’t deserve it.”
“You could have been killed!”
“What were you thinking?!?”
“Are you alright?! Do you need anything?”
“I can’t leave you here alone.”
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“If they lay a finger on you, I swear I’ll kill them.”
“I’ll protect you with my life.”
“I’ll never leave your side. Not until we can ensure your safety.”
“Who did this to you?!”
“No one messes with you and gets away with it.”
“I’ve got you, don’t worry.”
“Come on, tell me what happened.”
me: im struggling with depression
family: not possible, because at 4:45pm on april 16th 2007 you smiled for 2 seconds
Room 93 (a Life is Strange Fanfiction)
Chapter 8: Ghost — Everything about Chloe is blue, and Max used to be covered in her colors. But, now, she can’t understand why she’s devoid of any color at all.
Chloe runs a hand through her blue hair. The dye has permanently tinged her fingertips blue.
Max picks up Chloe’s hand and squeezes it affectionately. The girl doesn’t meet her eyes. Max’s gaze falls to the hand she’s holding.
It had never occurred to Max that the dye on her hands matches the blue of her jeans. It is fitting that she’s seen her pop pills of the same shade.
Everything about Chloe is blue.
Max’s eyes glance around, the tension of the situation making everything seem sharper: Chloe’s nails, the wind from the open window, the bed sheets.
She doesn’t speak because she can’t without feeling her mind slip out from under her. She wants to support Chloe, but she’s trying not to focus on why her thoughts are so grey. She wants to ask Chloe, but she doesn’t know what it means, and she’s afraid.
Max breathes in sharply, and Chloe sighs.
“I think she saw me as just a friend,” Chloe mumbled. Her hand runs through her hair again. “I think she was using me.”
“I don’t think—“
“I gave her everything. I thought she was the red to my blue, not to get all fucking mushy or anything.”
Max nods quietly, listening more than understanding.
“It’s like, the moment we started hanging out, we were…lilac, and she fucking hated being purple.”
Now that Chloe mentions it, Max can relate. When they had reunited, she could feel herself being affected by Chloe’s presence. She could think in a different way, speak a little angrier, plant her feet more firmly. Maybe Rachel hated feeling like that. Maybe she didn’t want to be changed by someone so much.
(Why are you giving her the benefit of the doubt, Maxine? She tried to steal Chloe away and you’re defending her?)
“That’s…” Max begins, but she can’t think of the words to finish. She feels bad, but she also doesn’t actually feel anything.
“I mean, apparently she was fucking everyone she could. Everyone knew she slept with Jeffershit, ugh. Then, Frank. Who knows who else.”
Max can’t believe Rachel would willingly lay a finger on Jefferson, but considering Stella is under the same impression and that cryptic letter she left back at the junkyard, maybe there is some validity to the rumor.
“Two people does not mean everyone, Chloe.”
(There you go again. Rachel Amber was obviously a manipulative bitch. Hm. Sounds familiar, actually. Are you sure this just doesn’t hit too close to home?)
Chloe’s eyes narrow, and she balks, ripping her hand from Max’s grasp.
“She was also fucking me, and I had no fucking clue about any of these other douchebags! Why are you taking her side, Max?”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side, Chloe. I’m just saying—“
“Yeah, well, who fucking asked you?”
Max recoils, Chloe’s words punching her in the gut. The sensation permeates her entire body. She wonders if this is what black and blue feels like.
She gets up from the bed and stalks out. Max doesn’t move, only watches her leave. She thought she would feel regret or something, but after a few moments, nothing changes. Her eyes drift to the hotel carpet.
Max and Chloe are different. Chloe is blue. Sad. Displaced. Everything she feels is so intense that it cannot be contained. She must shout from the rooftops, write it on the walls in black ink, destroy her own body because, otherwise, how will she get rid of her pain?
But, Max is a dreary shade of grey. She has no affect. She knows she should feel sad, or guilty, or something, but instead, she feels nothing. When Chloe holds her hand, it’s not the same. It used to be that her heart would leap, and she would feel warm, and the tips of her fingers would start to become tinged with Chloe’s shade. But, there’s nothing now.
(Maybe you don’t love her as much as you thought—)
Max shakes her head. She does love Chloe, she just…can’t feel it right now. To be fair, she can’t really feel anything. It’s not Chloe’s fault, it’s hers.
She knows there’s something wrong, but she can’t really find the energy to care.
(Read more on AO3.)
Rachel Amber, Mark Jefferson, and Toxic Masculinity (a Life is Strange Meta-Analysis)
(cw: violence, abuse, Jeffershit)
So, I’ve been thinking a lot about Mark Jefferson and his involvement in the plot of Life is Strange, more specifically, about people’s reactions to Jefferson. When the finale came out a few months ago, a lot of people expressed that they didn’t believe Jefferson had adequate motivation to do the things he did and that the game’s ending was a cop out, a cheap stab at fetishism. While there may be elements of that argument that are true (you can’t possibly remove Life is Strange from the framework of rape culture and systematic sexism), I would like to argue that not only is Mark Jefferson a perfect antagonist for Life is Strange, but his lack of motivation is what makes him such a great villain.
Now you may be thinking: “Hold up. The fact that he doesn’t have a specific reason for drugging/having sex with/killing young girls is what makes him a compelling villain????” Well, think of it in the whole context of Life is Strange.
Jefferson is the culmination of the the all the instances of the devaluation of women throughout the game.
Keep reading
When did Jefferson start taking photos of women in the state he prefers? Why did this occur?
The when:
Always. Artistic expression in many different medium, can paint you a literal and figurative picture that will reveal and reflect the soul of it’s creator.
With Mark Jefferson, there are a set of recurring themes, and patterns about all of his photography shots printed out around Blackwell as well, and the ones taken in the Dark Room. But I’ll begin with what is in public eye.
In his photography displayed across campus, and printed in magazines, the female subjects appear with disheveled clothing and a grim expression on their faces, as if in the present tense of vulnerability. They’re usually in an urban decay type situation, grungy warehouse vibe and I will refer to why I think that is, in a different headcanon.
In one of the shots, it’s a woman seated in a chair, a male’s hand on her shoulder, commanding, dominant. She’s looking down and away from the camera- ashamed, or uncomfortable. The strap of her shirt fallen down her shoulder, sexually suggestive, but sexuality is only a limited part of each picture.
The male-centric shot I would like to bring attention to, is that of a police officer standing over another individual in a way that promotes an oppressive and dominating tone alone with the way he is positioned front and center and how the other subject is seated in a hunched over, almost defeated position.
The why:
Roughly based on headcanon, he wasn’t getting what he wanted from models he photographed for magazines and etc. The posing, the jaded attitude. He craved innocence and purity alongside beauty. It was a rare commodity in the world of professional photography- so he took it upon himself to create his own niche, an artistic retreat where he could have nothing but the most honest form of expression.