Amputeer - . - Tumblr Blog

characters who crave affection but at the same time have no idea how to respond to actually receiving it due to the fact theyve rarely ever experienced it are my absolute favourite

Send to get a kiss from my muse!

Add 👀 to give my muse the kiss, instead.

Send ❤️ for a romantic kiss. Send 🖤 for a neck kiss Send 💚 for a familial kiss Send 💙 for an accidental kiss Send 💜 for a platonic kiss Send 💛 for hand kiss Send 💝 for a a kiss on the forehead  Send 💞 for a dip kiss Send 💓 for a cheek kiss Send 💟 for a kiss on a wound Send 💔 for a bite on the lip Send 💘 for a kiss goodbye Send 💗 for a good morning or goodnight kiss Send 💕for a deep, passionate kiss Send ❣️ for a kiss that conveys an emotion Send 💖 for an anniversary Send 😍 for a kiss in greeting Send 🤜 for a punch in the kisser Send 🍝 for a food-based kiss Send 💋 for a kiss of the receiver’s choice

“ it's kind of funny, or ─ an annoying &. dangerous precedent. misconceptions of shit override original intent, like y'know how many people take schrödinger's cat like it was played completely straight, and not an absurdist strawman argument ? ” his own private delight'd buzzed in a 𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, a blurred lax to the mild curl of his fingers over an open palm / eventually he'd tip his head back to look, to slowly &. brush the hair from his brow. “ guess people are like that . . . with other people, though . . . fuck, right ? ”

he'd taken to prefacing so many things with well, in my head —  a thing not super encouraged by that court appointed therapist, not when the implication was so doused in diminishing the integrity of whatever the hell he was about to say. 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 was preferable, say 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸. but that felt a whole lot more like translating one language to the next with nothing on hand but a shitty tourist dictionary, like one word was ever a true equivalent for the other, like the meaning between the lines &. all the blank spaces didn't say a thousand things. in my head, in my head jacob sports counselor custos was the little wooden flag pole stuck in the dirt, marking a space, keeping a measurement, in my head jacob was this . . . focal point. this tether, this ᴛᴜʀɴ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɴᴏᴡ sign. you think too hard, and for too long, and it'd been easy using him like that, when he'd needed to turn back that film reel to a time before he'd known the way his friends looked caked in each other's blood, back then when it was just jacob sitting out on the island deck &. shooting the shit with nick, with kaitlyn, and then felt a realization like a static shock that in dylan's head, he'd never really looked at him without anyone else sharing the frame, never really handled the whole subject of him without the contextualization of kaitlyn's, emma's, nick's, mr. h's. it's a funny thing to zero in on as abruptly as that train of thought'd come careening through, to put a stopper on the permanent lens that'd glued itself to every mundane decision from there on out ( keeping pill bottles uncapped now, cutting open a bag of chips with a pair of craft scissors, choosing what to order based less on taste &. more on what did and didn't require an extra hand with an extra utensil ) and it's a funny thing to tuck his wrist into his jacket pocket and to lean forward in his seat, to look at him clearly under so much fluorescent lighting and wonder for the first time if his resting face'd always looked so somber, if he'd always taken as long as dylan did now to just pick some random plate off some basic menu.

in his head, there were these objective facts about shit that'd happened that summer, all laid out in black &. white bullet points like he were reading it off a true crime wiki, like he'd had no part, like he hadn't been there : he knew in some unattached way that jacob'd been upset, and at the time'd felt . . . disproportionate. inconsequential. a passing foot note, because the 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚢 could've found any willing rebound after the van would've dropped him off, in dylan's head, from his point of view, from his shitty obscured perspective. he knew jacob'd gotten his ankle all fucked up, had been . . . somewhere. somewhere else. it'd all boiled down to words scrambled up in some police report somewhere, some case file gratefully put to bed in every area but the cavity of his own aching head. it's when dylan had brushed the french fry salt of his fingers that that weird fragile layer of roleplaying as the sort'a well adjusted adults you see on old late night sitcoms warped out of place, when he'd mention some obligatory shit about keeping in touch &. doing this more often, when he'd been too fried in the head to attach a 𝙞 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣, 𝙣𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙤 to the tail end of the request that jacob let him punch in his cell number to alleviate kaitlyn of middle man duty ──  just to forget for a split second, to reach across the table with the wrong arm, to stare in some far removed numbness where his fingers should've been, where there was just a curve of skin &. bone knocking against jacob's phone and making his lock screen flash.

the eye contact's always the worst part, isn't it ? when jacob speaks, it's a stuttering floodgate, an irregular faucet without a stopper, and it blankets heavy on dylan's lighter shoulder the ever - present option to shimmy out of his side of the booth &. interject a bathroom break intermission ( had the twitchy dejection in everything he'd never known jacob to be not suggested that he too would've melted into the sticky floor tiles, given half the chance. ) “ you couldn't have just, ” and dylan sags in his seat, his back to the padded plastic for the first time that outing, lifting his forearms off the tabletop &. holding his wrist loosely against his sternum, “ dealt with the rejection ? like we all did ? ” but it's . . . the way the words fall out to tumble in those chasms of discomfort, they're room temperature at best. lacking heat, but not icy, nearly just hypothetical in their dull probing, and a flicker of a sharp smile yanked on a harsh exhale, like a shuffling of every feeling sitting on standby while he organized the entire mess of it. these were the objective facts, what he knew, from brain to the thumping pulse tightening in his chest : one. nobody was actually upset about a shitty van shitting itself. two. nobody knew their summer camp safe haven for grade school kids was actually a death trap by way of calendar pages &. piss poor planning. three. nix all the shit that'd gone weird, the only one that would've left that night any worse for wear was jacob, jacob and his shitty idea and his beat up heart. ( and four. ryan was always gonna go wherever the wind blew him. nothing changed that. not them. not dylan. )

“ you, ” and there's that little hesitation, the flash of a smile more teeth and confusion than anything malleable before he'd picked up one overcooked fry and traced out a wobbly circle in a little pool of ketchup, filling it as he spoke &. gestured, “ you created a condition where all this shit that wouldn't have happened, happened. and outside of that little isolated bubble was 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘭𝘭𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 — ” another circle then, outside of that circle, messy and jagged and glaringly red. like an eye. “ the bigger circle is mr. h and his whole fucked up family's entire fucked up operation, okay, and yet it wasn't mr. h's fault you broke down the van. right ? you'd agree, that was your choice. so then ? same rule applies to your circle. wasn't your fault abi ran into the woods, that werewolves exist, or that i . . . ” &. it's there that that spontaneous well of tenacity dried up quick, curling those clipped words into something sour on his tongue, something pulling him to tear his eyes down towards the mess of red smeared across his plate, to run his tongue between his teeth &. to close five fingers over the jut of his empty wrist, drumming, breathing, relaxing the stiffened slope of his spine. “ this wasn't your fault. i mean . . . i'd know if it was, i was sort'a there. ”

˚ [ @thequarrey  ] jacob  : ❛ 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝. 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝. ❜ ⚘⚘

alright i'm casting this npc as dylan's boyfriend

self indulgent hc time as a side effect to taking forever building up my main verse but maybe finally being done, let's go

despite the casual ease that he approaches the topic with in all his jokes and flirtations, dylan was a virgin all through camp, and just sort of . . . benefitted from a contrary assumption that boys were always gonna be boys, and all that shit. there'd been mild experiences, situations in passing that didn't overstay more than their car ride's welcome, but that wham bam thank you ma'am moment doesn't come until a good while through his second semester with a guy from class called josiah who'd placed him as the hand guy from north kill once, then had the decency not to bring it up unnecessarily. but he was cool, was very into world of warcraft and always good to share a bowl, and had had a whole philosophical conversation with his back against the shitty braided hippie rug about monogamy just not being the right thing for him at this exact point in his life - and that was totally respectable. and they fool around in those occasional hazes, and it crosses that finish line one night, and dylan had woken up a little while later with his head tethered in a foggy way back to jacob of all people, and about emma, and ultimately . . . always back to ryan. and not even in a melodramatic way, not in a regretful or misplaced romanticized way, but just, just in a thoughtful way. a detached pondering way, the way you'd think on some vague happenstance while waiting in line for the self checkout and rifle through all the scattered variables, all the different ways things might've played out had any number of details been different, had you yourself been different. dylan had woken up, had blinked up at the popcorn ceiling listening lazily to whichever crawlers track had been left playing over the shitty tinny stereo speakers, and patted down the bedsheets to find his phone, to text kaitlyn, to sort through all the mist with at least a little more than nothing to help feel out the ground

good afternoon i kinda already want a new pfp ughh hate me, anyway sometimes i think abt how you can miss the dodge qte with dylan in the scrapyard and you'll still get one extra chance to grab the mini flamethrower off the ground to save yourself ... unless abi broke the cabin door and started that whole domino effect that caused dylan to lose his hand. then you just. get a different version of that scene where he's reaching and reaching and trying to grab the flamethrower, and then has this horrible oh fuck oh god realization that he doesn't have a hand to grab it with, and it's hopeless and brutal and he dies scared and alone all because he insisted that ryan needed to cut off his hand :peace:

can you come out of the walls to hold my hands?

i'm coming out for some refreshments, could i get some ummmmmmm orange juice ? and could i get someeee nuggets of chrissy's thoughts and experiences with the horror - filled world of which we have no explanation for because science can only determine as much as we've thus far established within the boundaries of so many exact measurement systems where not everything can or will fit in the neat n tidy way that we've conditioned ourselves to digest

gm, i love how dylan is just an extra liability in the last chapter and how the teambuilding vhs tape just kinda sums up that entire thread as "you worked together to escape the scrapyard, therefore kaitlyn has dylan's company at the lodge" because that's actually exactly all it is ?? because i mean like yes if dylan dies or transforms before the last chapter, kaitlyn just wanders around completely alone, investigating shit and talking to herself. but if dylan's there too, kaitlyn still has those same exact lines, but now it's with dylan walking up .02 seconds later like "hey what's that :-)" and then he says something smart and they make several dumb cute little jokes and it's jussssssst ??? like even though he adds nearly nothing to the last chapter and you gotta keep him safe ( unless freezer route / dylan kaitlyn hug ending but that's one of like twenty extremely specific outcomes idk ) not having him there to just walk up and say something and make kaitlyn smile is so much lonelier ah

i love you with all my heart hi

hi ! . . . . y'know we could hold hands 🤔🤔

there's a factor of irrationality to his feelings about ryan when everything's said and done, and he makes himself acknowledge this, prefaces everything with a puffed little laugh and a shaking head, the sort that said yeah i know this is so stupid. because it comes down to this, and it's so simple, it's so painfully simple : you barely knew him, because he didn't want to be known. not by you, not by any of the hacketteers. and he'd had to ask kaitlyn that night with that same painfully irrational smile, that let me down gently look, had had to ask if he'd been crazy for thinking there was something there, because all it'd taken was a kiss, and a couple smiles, and a little encouragement when he'd put his head down and made himself useful. the hurt in the afterwards feels unearned, unjustified, embarrassing, like he's being too heavy about so much nothing, like what happened hardly validated the ugly sickly filter that'd retroactively come down to color the memory of that summer, and all the summers before that, because it wasn't his pseudo family, they weren't together, he owed dylan nothing, picking that side over them was fine. toughen up, buttercup, because it's simple, painfully simple : the deliberate separation was about more than just the obvious, and he never had faith in you anyway. not in a party game, not in life.

kinda feel like my dylan playlist is getting a little specific . . . wonder what all that's about : thinking :

“I may think of you softly from time to time. But I’ll cut off my hand before I ever reach for you again.”

— The Crucible, Arthur Miller (via macrolit)

just dropping by to say that your writing constantly makes me salivate in the most unbecoming way. just straight-up frothing. the smell of roasted garlic to a starving man. (and yes i still need to reply to your starter on my multi, i'm so sorry, don't @ me)

i was keeping this bc it made me laugh and also like super hungry and then today i remembered this other time i got an anon mssg that said my writing was like an old timey cheesecake recipe bc it was incomprehensible and i'm wondering if my calling is actually to be the world's most insufferable master chef and WAIT i forgot, maybe i should actually repost that since i wasn't using beta yet and that's gonna screw everything up ?? anyway tysm you're so cool and i admire your taste and your style so bad, ty for dealing w me as a moot <3

˚ [ @thequarrey  ] ◟ . .. kaitlyn 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘴  : ❛ 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ? ❜ ⚘⚘

in no wishful ( or probable ) estimations of the beginning of the rest of his life from way down on the dirt paths that'd run like veins throughout hackett's quarry had the image of the here &. now ever posed itself as one of the multiple choice options, or one of those open - ended 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵's and 𝘸𝘩𝘺's. there'd never been enough lined spaces to jot it all down, anyway. not the freshly familiarized lump in the couch cushion digging into the back of his skull or the freezer burned nuggets he'd been picking at with one of kaitlyn's shiny silver forks while that beer n' a half ( and so on . . . and so forth . . . ) guided the thoughts in his head down a pleasant stream, bobbing, floating like fallen leaves all collecting in a clump to swirl around the drain. all things to contribute to the drowsy loll of his head &. the fringe of hair flopping across his lashes when all the tidying up was said and done, and he'd been well on his way towards a night buried under a usual designated bed of throw pillows and borrowed blankets —  but she rearranges that status quo on a whim of an unassuming request, and the exhaustion tugging down to the very tips of his very few fingers'd rendered him way too tired to do much more than pause in his movements, stillness &. silence blanketing and molding into the lax emptiness of the sidelong glance he'd shot, the well - versed exhale and the safely familiar incline of his head when he'd offered up ye ol' faithful “ 'kay, yeah. but no funny business, buster — ” and slunk on after her without much more question ( a routine still saturated in the smell of dirt and blood, and the rain that'd fallen that night, muscle memory to guide so much mindlessness like the bumpers at a bowling alley ) &. planted himself face down on whichever side of her bed looked less well loved.

thing was : it'd been a summer in miserable company &. the shared hilarity of exhausted stupidity, the way 𝘯𝘰𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺 really saw your shittiest side the same way the people you worked with did. but there's this degree of separation that'd persisted, an honesty in having stared numbly at the modest scroll of numbers in his contacts and realizing with a wave of fatigue like an eighteen - wheeler'd unloaded a bed of bricks on his back that 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚝'𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 wasn't a one size fits all experience. his worst, his best — it'd come splintered out like an unneeded spine, oozing excess in every pulse &. left bleeding with hands still gripped to the crane controls, still splayed out and stained across the floor of the lodge. the entirety of him just . . . condensed into a chapter, one that'd fit so neatly into kaitlyn's, and just kaitlyn, and . . . that's the way it is. that's the hackett's quarry story, the size of it that fit them, caged them, shrink wrapped into claustrophobia and a forced peace that sometimes still sounded a whole lot like choking &. falling shotgun shells.

it's not the ending he'd been trying to curate, but that's a relative detail, a funny little footnote gracing the indents of saving somebody's life &. being saved back, and then deciding somewhere down the line that said person actually meant a whole damn lot to you ( and 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙡 if that isn't the most in the reciprocation department he'd ever gotten from anyone, anywhere ! shit that's sad. ) “ kaitlyn ? ” and it's a mumble, a voice muffled deep down into her pillow until dylan had turned his head, lashes flickering &. flicking against the fall of his hair. the followup, the question, it dissipates before it could make it further than the highest spokes of the cage of his ribs up from the sore plum - bruised beat of his heart / so he reaches instead, takes a cautious measure to gingerly balance the healed end where his wrist curved 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 against her back. couldn't exactly call it a hug, not a pat or a there there rub, but. it's there, and dylan turns his face down further against the pillow.

fell asleep while writing and

bears. bears ? bears.

@aquariusvibes​​​   ..   [ ˡᵘˡᵘ ]    : ❛ i’m afraid that once i’ve said it, i won’t want it anymore. ❜ there was always an out from the things that struck more sharply than he'd had the taste for, a well - worn exit faded from excessive use &. summer after summer burnt out by the sun. if it wasn't always a self - centered fear, maybe it'd been just . . . a lazy, flimsy unwillingness to sticky his fingers in something he'd need to hang around to tidy, an investment no matter how brief where he'd need to care about the ending &. the 50 / 50 chance it was gonna be a bad one.

then he'd dub it a worthwhile course correction that the smile that'd jumped to yank on the ends of his lips hadn't come partnered with much more than a 𝘩 𝘶 𝘮 &. a grimacing acknowledgement, petering out the slow spin of the rusty cogs holding his brain together while unmoving eyes read the same jumble of words on his laptop words over and over, and then over again. “ not always a bad thing , ” and every word's paced slow &. deliberate, heavy to taste and like a rattling ease of pressure once they'd gone. “ so    ──  i know you get the whole thing about superposition, all that ? couldn't you say it's sort'a the 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚎 ? uh, it's, it's here and it's there, and then you determine your definitive position on it when you . . . speak it. when you put yourself into perspective. that can't be a bad thing . ” [ x ]

pov when dylan's explaining the ideas behind particles vs. waves and what's essentially the immeasurable undetermined pixelation of our entire physical world on an extreme microscopic level, and then he looks at you and says sorry did i stump you, and then he stares you in the eye and you better not let him see you look at his left hand oh you better not look

chloe, did you know i’m in love with you… more?

can i confess something . . . . . . . i also did not know what your icon was supposed to be until like a couple days in, i was like oh is that a marble. but no. it's. the moon. it's. it was the moon.

chloe, did you know that i am in love with you

i mean i didn't wanna assume nothin' 🥺👉👈

i'm working on slapping together a new header and pin thing ( new year new me whatever ) and man the freezer endings are so brutal . . . and there's like waaaaay more variations than you'd expect, like how many different ways do you wanna see kaitlyn and dylan watch each other die, and then the correct answer is yes and then that's the freezer path in a nutshell

holds dylan's hands :(( <3

he's squeezing your hands so tightly, but like . . . in a super cool, subtle way. in a i'm totally okay type of way.

my work week from hell is finally over, now i can start planting seeds in ur mind about how you should definitely ship w dylan, starting with this super subtle hc about how it isn't about getting someone to laugh, when you make telling jokes a major protective facet of your personality, laughs aren't that hard to come by. it's always nice, but what matters, what he needs and can't so easily find and hardly even knows that he wants is just to be heard, to feel sought after and valued and understood, to have someone's benefit of the doubt because they believe that your good qualities will out - pace your bad ones