#crass language

[love-ardour-anarchism]

what about my "i'm not a woman, I'm a lesbian" "dyke moustache growing" "fully tatted, never shaved" "transmasculinity cherishing" "small tits, big tummy" ass says "i give a fuck about passing"?

motherfuckers cannot even decide WHICH WAY I'm meant to pass anymore, i'm a woman with a beard or a dude with really nice tits, i love being like this, keep your transmed hands off my p̶̧͇̯͍̻͎͎̫̭̅͆̇̑̄͝͝͠e̴̡̧̙̠̙̝͇̘͈̤̝̩̗͙̲̮̋͜ņ̵̡͚̞̹̼̯̠̙̹̱̩͚́̊͌͊̐̀̉̎̊͆̚i̶͚̼͓̙̘͖͕̠̘̫̙͋̀̔̏̄̽̇̓͘͝͠ͅs̴̢̡̢̛͇̺͈̼̥͍̣̦͚̜͇̃̔̑

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Pls, Vince! Bring him some Latte, although he told you to shut it.❤️

Follows directly after this one

(also, @yet-another-heathen asked for heart palpitations for Jameson)

-

At some point he dozes back off. He's not sure when - he's sitting there hating himself and his stupid bullshit fucking legs and hating every single moment from the second Nanda had stopped short, looked at him sort of startled and said oh and then slumped sideways and gone down the stairs and... and it had all gone wrong, ever since, every single goddamn day.

Even when he'd thought it would get better, it didn't. He feels worse right now than ever.

Still.

He dozes off. Trash Cat lays down beside him, upside down with her ilttle paws bent in the air and her soft belly showing. Then she gets up and leaves again, padding silently down the hallway to go have violent daydreams about the birds in the trees outside.

He doesn't dream - he's not quite deeply asleep enough for that. But he's trapped somewhere at a distance from the pain, and it feels so good to even have that small slim barrier between him and his legs that he could cry from gratitude.

There's a time when maybe he slips totally under the surface.

The next thing he knows, there's a hand on his shoulder.

Jameson's eyes snap open.

Before he can even take into account what he sees, he's already throwing the punch with one hand. The other is under his pillow, closed around the handle of the knife.

His fist clocks Vincent Shield right over his left eye, sending him stumbling backwards into a small dresser, his arms pinwheeling, but he just slams back-first into it and then hits the ground. "Shit!"

It's his voice that brings Jameson back to reality. Wide-eyed, he sits up in bed with the knife brandished in one hand, the other aching with the aftermath of the hit. "... Vince?"

"Mmmf. Yeah." Vince's face is white, his cheek already turning bright red where Jameson's fist connected. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and he looks... terrified... of Jameson.

There's a necklace Allyn likes to wear but forgot on their last visit. It fell off the dresser and it currently lays draped over Vince's head like some kind of weird tiara, the pendant resting over his forehead.

Vince's voice shakes when he speaks. "You don't pull your punches, huh?"

Jameson's whole chest is cold. He swallows, hard, thinking of how Jake had fallen with a knife in him, the look on his face when Jameson had come back to himself and realized what he'd done. His heart stops - maybe beats slightly out of time - and he hitches a trembling inhale that feels like it whistles down his throat but stops somewhere before his lungs. "Oh fuck," He whispers. "Oh fuck. I'm sorry, oh shit-... fuck, Vince, shit-"

Vince's eyes go to the knife, but he doesn't move to run or even to get up. He just stays sitting right where he is. His hands are shaking, just a little. Jameson is reminded that that Owen Grant asshole used to knock Vince around, too.

Still.

The millionaire movie star inexplicably getting sober in Nat's house manages a smile. Slightly appeasing, a little bit scared. "You, uh... you good?"

"... no. No, I'm not. I'm not. Shit. Fuck! I could have stabbed you!"

"Didn't, though. Could you... put the, uh, the knife down, please?" Vince takes a deep breath, and then another. With every moment, he looks calmer - and Jameson feels increasing guilt edged with panic.

"Uh. Fuck. Yes. Yes, yeah, of course-" He slips the knife back under his pillow, and closes his eyes against the tears that threaten there.

"Besides," Vince says, groaning a little, "This one's probably my fault." He rubs at the back of his neck, picking the necklace out of his hair and setting it down on the floor beside him. "I'm the dumbass who woke a sleeping rescue without, like, calling from the doorway or something first. That was dumb. Damn it, Nat talked to me about this!"

Jameson feels... so much worse. Nat had to warn Vince about him? Of course she did. Because he's already stabbed somebody once. He almost hurt Nat, too, when he thought she was Robert. He could do it again, at any time. Any moment now. To anyone. His heart skips again and he coughs, it feels like the weird flip goes right up his throat. "She-... she did? About me?"

"What? No, not you specifically. When I first started coming around, like... a decade ago. She told me not to wake anyone up like this. Jesus, I'm an idiot."

Jameson is still trying to catch up to the waking world, and his legs are trying to drag him back down into the ache. He fights to stay present, here and now. "Why... why did you wake me up?"

"Uh. Well. Seems stupid now but..." Vince gestures over at the side table beside Jameson's bed. "I got you some coffee."

"You... what?"

"You wanted to go out for coffee, but then when I came by earlier it sounded like you were having a rough time, so I thought... you know. I'd bring some back. For you."

Jameson looks over, and sure enough - there's a thermos there, and when he leans down, he can smell the rich coffee aroma wafting up and out. "... I am such an asshole."

Vince considers that. "Sometimes."

"I yelled at you this morning."

"You did, yes."

"I told you to fuck off."

"A couple of times."

"Then I punched you in the fucking face when you brought me coffee-"

"No, you punched me in the face because I put my hand on you when you were in a dead sleep, knowing that people putting hands on you when you didn't ask for it is like half the reason you live here now." Vince smiles, and it's smaller and more tired than his magazine-photoshoot smile, but it's far more sincere. Jameson likes it more. "I'm sorry, Jameson. I didn't mean to scare you. God, I want a drink so bad right now. I was trying to drink coffee instead. Got stuck in kind of a cycle thinking about-... you know, Owen, this morning, and I thought coffee would help, but really what I want is a drink, you know?

"Yeah, I kind of do, except for me it's usually that I want a really good deep dicking-"

"Aaaaaand the sweet moment of bonding is gone." Vince turns a little red and gets to his feet, carefully, using the dresser for balance. He leans over to pick up the necklace and put it back where it was before. "Please never say the words 'deep dicking' in front of me again."

"What, you never want that?"

Vince closes his eyes, but he's still smiling, and so is Jameson. Some of the tension is gone, and some of the guilt and anger twisting inside of him goes with it. "Jameson-... Some days, there is literally nothing else I want in the whole world than to let someone in my bed again. But the idea of anyone touching me like Owen did makes me feel like cutting all my skin off."

"... oh. I've never felt like that. Even after Brute and Robert, I still like fucking. I guess that's the whole... like, natural slut thing-"

"I swear to God, you sound like Kauri used to sometimes, when I'd overhear him when I came by."

"I mean, we were both the same Designation-"

"... you know what, drink your coffee. I'm going to go put ice on my eye."

Jameson is struck every time by how utterly normal Vince looks, until he puts on the Vincent Shield Face, changes his posture, morphs into Celebrity Actor Millionaire Man. But you'd never know that, looking at this tired-looking man in his late forties just wishing life would stop throwing punches.

"Vince, I really am sorry."

Vince shrugs. "Me, too. But hey - I look more rugged and manly this way, right?" He disappears out the door, and Jameson shifts to get himself braced against the headboard and his pillows, one leg twitching with nerve pain, but at least the other has calmed down to the usual dull ache he can handle.

He picks up his coffee and takes a sip. It's still hot like it's freshly made, and he exhales slowly, closing his eyes.

How long will it take to stop being ready to throw a punch when someone wakes him up after he falls asleep alone?

What if it never stops?

What if he throws a punch at Allyn?

He drowns the fear in hot coffee and hopes it stays away long enough for him to drag himself to the bathroom for a shower.

[trans-der-vampire]

If Jotaro was to b*ng Josukes mom, the Joestar family tree would be messed up, but it would also be really funny

[female-overlord-3]

Hi Anon peeps I just want to say

IF SOMEONE DOESNT LIKE HOW A WRITER WRITES CHARACTER(S) THEN THAT PERSON SHOULD FUCKING TAKE THE TIME TO WRITE, PLAN ALL THIS SHIT OUT, FOR FREE, AND POST IT SO THEY HAVE WHAT THEY WANT. THIS ALSO GOES FOR THINGS TAGGED AND WARNINGS GIVEN BUT AN ANON STILL HAS TO TELL A WRITER OR ARTIST THAT THEY DIDNT LIKE IT CAUSE OF THE TAGGED THING THEY WERE WARNED ABOUT. WRITERS AND ARTIST ARE NOT FREE SAMPLES YOU SAY SUCKS CAUSE THERE WAS LEMON IN THE LEMON FLAVORED COOKIE YOU TOOK. WE ARE HERE TO ENTERTAIN OURSELVES MORE SO THAN OTHERS. YES OTHERS ARE NICE ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY’RE YOUR FRIENDS AND YOU CAN GIVE EACH OTHER CREATIVE FEEDBACK BUT NOT PRICKS WHO THINK SOMETHING A WRITER DID IS WRONG JUST BECAUSE IT IS THEIR OPINION 😤

Now I get it’s main use is for those who are shy or have anxiety when wanting to post an ask to another blog user BUT it is not for people who want to use it as a one-way mirror to say rude or inconsiderate things. Anon hate is both gross and just an asshole thing to do. To me getting anon hate is as if depression became its only physical form and can now mess with you in a whole new other asshole way. This happens way to often and I’m finally gonna say something about it.

[therealtheshorty]

It's really interesting to be fucked to the point that I'm simultaneously not horny but not opposed to being made horny.

[youandthemountains]

also they have a rule that if you miss more than three appointments they won't take you back and they are literally the only mental health provider taking patients in this area, so nicely done, i fucked up school for myself and fucked up my ability to get help so i could stop fucking up school for myself .

[unfavorableinstigation]

Some highlights from my notes from today's library program training session, where I was preparing the ballad of Tam Lin to be told as a story to school-aged audiences:

"Characters: - Tam Lin (wooo mysterious and also a lady’s man) - Janet (primary characteristic = fuck da police)"

"Problem: Something is up with Tam Lin… woooo he’s so mysterious probably Edward Cullen in disguise or maybe James Bond

          My name is Lin. Tam Lin."

"Events: First meeting – Tam Lin’s like why are you here and Janet’s like fuck you I do what I want"

"everyone is like, oh, are you pregnant? and Janet’s like YUP I DO WHAT I WANT MOTHERFUCKERS"

"Janet asks if TL is Xtian, TL says ‘lemme splain you a thing’"

"TEIND TO HELL DUN DUN DUN   - we finally found out what the hell was up with Tam Lin! Hooray!"

"Fairy queen: 'BITCH PLEASE'"

"Tam Lin: Character Sketch - Role in story: Trophy husband"