Latest Posts by biscuitsandgravy - Page 8

transmasc urge to just go back to bed

relationships with ur parents are so weird, arent they? like... i hate you for what you did, i love you because you bring me soup when im sick. i want to get away from you. i feel safe with you. i want to run away from you. i want your hugs. i wish you understood me. i wish i understood you.

My mom sent this to me and i’m howling

just ate an orange… no scurvy for me thank you… #NoScurvy

Last night, I told my mother "I wish I was dead" in a fit of rage and winter clouded her eyes. But it wasn't white and it wasn't quiet, it resembled something like helplessness and rage. She was in pain and I knew I hurt her. I wanted to say something, anything, but how do you withdraw a declaration of war? How do you stop the bombs that already destroyed homelands? In that moment I remembered how she always told me that when she was a kid, she was too afraid to sleep with the lights on. Not because she was afraid of monsters, but because she feared her grandmother would die. Because when you're a kid, not seeing it means it doesn't exist anymore. I saw the winter in her eyes again and I knew I had switched off the light, she wasn't angry, she was afraid.

And I also remembered how she always told me I'd always be 3 years old for her, always a child, and for the first time, I heard in the voice of a three year old "I wish I was dead". My heart broke. And I wanted to hug her and hold her, tell her I was sorry, that I didn't mean it. Before I could move a hand, she left the room. The entire evening, I saw myself as she saw me, a 3 year old child. I saw the child hurt herself and cry herself to sleep every week, fight her friends with her tiny hands and two ponytails, I saw her depression and her anxiety, I saw her yell "I wish I was dead" and I knew. I knew. I wanted to shout through the walls, yell and cry and tell my mother that now I KNEW, but I didn't. I wept and wept until I heard a quiet knock and a soft familiar voice whispered, "Dinner is ready".

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire

sometimes you have to pretend your kitchen is a club dance floor and get a little whorish while cooking your frozen pizza. it’s called living deliciously in a pandemic

found this 😌

Musical tableaux; playlists for the killers of NBC Hannibal

Or else it’s just murder // You should have let me plant her // We’re making our family // I see what you are // a little more wit // actually… I was going to kill you // am I alive? // we are hawks // ragged bits of scalp // I am the Dragon

Tattoos in the Dark

Dean wasn't one for taking breaks. John never let him, and he had no reason to let himself be any different, even though John was gone. but Sam was gone too. There was no one for him to take care of, at that moment, there were no cases, no things to hunt, no people to save, and for the first time in his life, Dean had no idea what to do.

There was nothing but him and the open road, a half-empty pack of cigarettes in one pocket, a lighter in the other. The thought of smoking used to scare him. It would be a bad example for Sam, but dean already knew that his life wasn't going to be a long one, so he may as well enjoy it while it lasted. It reminded him of his high school days, smoking behind the bleachers, hooking up with anyone who was willing, and pretending the smoke that saturated his jacket was someone else's. It still sent shivers down Dean's spine, thinking of what john's reaction would be if he knew, but right now, there was no way for him to find out, and nothing that could stop Dean.

He pulled up outside an empty corn field, wandering through the thin paths, jumping over the occasional fence, until he reached the other end. There was a platform there, easy enough to climb up, an empty billboard that could no longer see the road.

The sun was already starting to set, playing with the colours of the field below, painting the sky gold and red. Dean leaned against the back of the platform and lit up a cigarette, enjoying the smoke as it funneled into his lungs. It wasn't going to kill him any faster than the job, and at least this way it would be something he had control over, instead of being daddy's little soldier.

Dean sat there until it was dark and the butt of the cigarette no longer glowed. Walking through the uneven path without any sort of light probably wasn't the best idea, but Dean's mind was fuzzy, and nothing like that really seemed to matter. Maybe he would get a tattoo. His own one, not the stupid demon one that john had made him get the moment it was legal. He would've made his sons get it earlier had bobby not intervened.

"You can pick," said Dean a few hours later. He was at the front desk at a tattoo place. it smelt like ink and home, unfamiliar but comforting nonetheless. The guy behind the counter smirked and nodded, then grabbed a binder from under the counter and led Dean through to another room.

"Where do you want it?" asked the man in a smooth voice. It wrapped around dean, a shroud of comfort that he couldn't quite understand, and he thought for a moment. Where was the one place he couldn't hide it?

"Up here," he said, pointing to the patch of his neck that showed above his collar. If he let his hair grow out again, it would be hidden, but John had been pretty firm that if Dean was going to be a man, he better fucking look like it.

Getting the tattoo was strange. He was completely relaxed, even as the needle drove into the skin beneath his ear, unlike the last time, where every fiber of his being had been tensed beyond belief. Now he was calm, almost enjoying the experience. The cracked leather chair he sat in reminded him of his car, the smell, the feeling, everything, but the hands on his neck that deftly made permanent a piece of art he couldn't even see was even more comforting.

"All done," said the artist some hours later. The studio had closed hours ago, but Dean hadn't been told to leave, and the artist seemed content to work. "Do you wanna see?" Dean nodded, stomach churning with anticipation as he looked into the mirror the artist was holding.

A black scorpion curved around Dean's neck, pincers beneath his jaw, the tail curling under his ear, a sharp contrast to the slightly red skin around it.

"It's perfect," said Dean, inspecting it with pure glee. The artist smiled, clearly proud of his handy-work, before wrapping it and giving dean some basic care instructions.

"So, I gather you're not from 'round here," said the artist as he organised the payment. Dean shook his head, the tattoo twinging ever so slightly with the movement. "Didn't think so. So where're you staying?" Dean realised there wasn't enough on the stolen car to cover the tattoo and a motel for the night, but he didn't really care. He'd get a new one in the morning.

"My car, for tonight. Then I'll be heading off who-knows-where." Dean laughed without humour at the thought of it. Back on the road 'til John gave him a case, or he ran out of money and had to go back to Bobby's.

"Well, my place is free for the night. Just up stairs. Free of charge." Dean considered it briefly, studying the man in front of him. His pale skin was coated almost entirely by ink, piercings wherever almost everywhere, and a loose black shirt over ripped jeans. Not straight, definitely not, and it seemed unlikely that Dean would get any sleep. He said yes.

Dean hadn't hooked up with a guy in years, and when the morning came and the night's events came back to him, he couldn't imagine why.

The artist, whose name, Dean had learned some time during the night, was Jamie, was up long before Dean, and already opening the shop when Dean went downstairs.

"How's the tattoo holding up?" asked Jamie with a smirk.

"Better than expected," replied Dean, mirroring the expression. He booked another tattoo immediately, once again letting Jamie choose anything he wanted.

Dean stayed in the tattoo parlour for a week, each day with more ink, each night learning more about his partner. It was nothing official, of course. Dean wasn't going to let that happen. Not when his phone could ring at any moment, and he'd have to leave Jamie for ever. But he made ever second count. Lingered with every kiss, keeping the memory of Jamie's hands on him long after they'd left.

Then the call came. A case two states over. And Dean's break was over.

"Life catching up with you at last," joked Jamie, but there was no humour. All of a sudden, Dean's jacket felt far too heavy, almost oppressive. It wasn't really his jacket, was it. It was John's, a constant reminder that he'd never grow into John's clone, and that would always be his biggest downfall.

"Keep the jacket," said Dean, slipping it off and handing it to Jamie. Their fingers brushed, and Dean held the contact for as long as he could, before he turned on his heel and left.

The car felt a lot less like home as he slipped into the front seat, his inked up forearms no longer fitting in, his tattooed hands not gripping the wheel in the same way, but the cracked leather reminded him of the chair he'd spent so long in over the past week, and that was enough to make him drive.

Hours passed in the silence of the road, all music Dean once loved now a stark reminder of who he didn't want to be. Nothing felt as right as it once had, nothing felt as right as sitting in that tattoo chair, or lying beside Jamie in his bed. And nothing would for a long time.

we are all hand in unloveable hand rn

who is looking at me?

@ gays what are your laptop backgrounds i’m genuinely curious 

I'm very amused by this current celebrity drama regarding showers

starting a collection

The Psychos are doing their bit.

You can't have germs on your hands if slag burnt them off.

[Honor The Father] Commissioned by @border-spam as well as partly a personal project(?) Had so much fun working on this with all the world building we’ve done in our little discord server with a bunch of friends ;’) I’m glad i took my time on this

Dead Space Official Teaser Trailer – EA Play Live 2021

Hello to all you DeadSpace fans! It was a pretty long journey, but it’s finally done. DeadSpace Insurrection! My first ever novel written, 3 years in the making, many many arguments with the wife and well…no sleep. Since E.A still holds the licensing rights and no publisher wants to touch it, it’s a shame to let it rot on my hard drive. So, If anyone is interested, drop me a pm message and i’ll send over the PDF to you. It has about 80.000 words in about 230 pages so yeah…it’s a lot. Yes, Isaac Clarke is alive and Yes, the Earth is infected and it’s all action packed from one end to the other. I wrote it simply because i loved the game way too much and i had to do something. I still have some ideas for another one, tho, i doubt i will ever get the chance to write it. I’ll just have to make my own stories for the next one. Anyway, here’s the cover for it, ( that photoshop was made for Nasa!), and if you feel like reading it, like i said drop a line.  the book is free, and please, don’t forget to leave a feedback or a review, i really wanna make a career as a writer so it would be really helpful. Best regards to everyone and “ Altman be praised!”. And please share to anyone who might be interested.

Dead Space Inks  :) One of my favourite games from last generation.

Deadspace motorbike helmet

favorite themes/songs

By the end of Tuchanka, it’s become exceedingly clear Shepard doesn’t expect to live through the war. 

They say they hope Mordin is putting in a good word for them in the afterlife, and the “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” comment is just so… resigned.

They hope they can win the war, but they don’t really expect to see the peace. They know they’re going to give everything to this. 

Damn.