moodywritesmoody

[moodywritesmoody]

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[moodywritesmoody]

Religious art leaves out the best part and it’s such a goddamn shame. Livestock, Agriculture and Food is an integral part of any culture and we all need to be pushing for more realistic sheep in religious art. #FATTAILSFORJESUS

[moodywritesmoody]

Obsessed with Xie Lan as a character. Like I know everyone reads these books for the romance but the individual character concepts are hilarious.

Xie Lan is a prince. He eats poison on the reg. He’s forever stuck looking like he’s nineteen. He’s the oldest guy in the communication array. He knows kung fu. He dressed in drag to catch a ghost on two separate unrelated occasions. He’s the world greatest detective. He’s kind. He was forced into a trolley problem and chose to pull the lever. His cooking is awful to the point it could kill a god. He’s kind. He tried to give CPR to a ghost. He’s the unluckiest man alive. He’s been kicked out of heaven multiple times. He’s kind. He caught a kid from certain death and everyone was pissed at him forever about it. He regrets nothing but coming back to heaven.

[moodywritesmoody]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48304663/chapters/125024356#workskin

Chapter 8(?) Snippet:

Their flat was dim and moody, since they’d put off buying light bulbs for quite a while. There was the floor lamp over Sally’s head, still alive because she liked to read in her armchair long after Stella had gone to bed. Then there was the dining table lamp, which they both used to look over their papers when work spilled over.

Instead of the blue glow of the television, Stella had prepared the fireplace, and it burned quietly in their tidy rooms. They were both immediately aware, when they first moved in, that they’d landed a prime spot. The old details of the mouldings and wainscoting, the herringbone floors and light fixtures taken right out of an art nouveau catalogue, had done most of the heavy lifting for them. The two of them, in turn, tried to be worthy patrons of the place. They were a little chaotic, but between their books and pillows and mismatched mugs, as well as part abandoned art supplies; they did alright.

Stella had an electric guitar that gathered dust by the living room window; it was purple with stickers all over it and it leaned precariously on a small amp. She’d maybe plucked at it once since they’d made this house home. But sitting together, feet to the fire, croaking out story after story – that was their ritual.

“So then Druid pulls Gran onto the dance floor and, I kid you not, they both start doing some choreographed dance to this Russian song. Whole time I was just keen to leave this surprise after party.” Sally’s description of events had gradually but steadily gone from weird and concerning to hilarious. By Stella’s estimation she’d had quite a good time, even if she wouldn’t admit it outright. Stella was laughing along, but her chest felt weirdly tight. She kept stretching her arms to ease a nagging feeling of constriction.

“Druid is the tall one with the piercing, yeah?”

“That one. I could never pull off a piercing like that.”

“Really? You know actually, I always thought you could rock a nose ring really well.” Stella said.

Sally gave her a confused look, licking the remaining crumbs of baklava on her fingers.

“I mean, I don’t really remember why, I guess I’ve just had the passing thought once that you might…” she couldn’t think of a way to save the sentence so she abandoned it.

“Anyway, does this mean you’ll be spending more… quality time… with your Gran. Enjoying street parties and generally obstructing the law?” Stella asked, she cast a curious glance over her steepled fingers.

It was odd: Stella found herself truly hoping the answer was yes. She wanted nothing more than for Sally to finally venture out of the flat again, so Stella couldn’t help but eye any new opportunity with a mixture of hope and suspicion. And Sally was strong, very strong, but wounded. She was like a fireball: an icy fireball, she embodied the impossibility; duality at its best.

Chill it then light it on fire, and then watch as everything melts: such was the Donovan MO. She really just wanted to see her get out and raise some hell again - even if it was with cool looking people who had cool aliases and colourful stories, and not Stella.

For a silly moment she considered saying something to really piss Sally off so she could feel the prickling chill and the sizzling burn that sprouted with the attention of her withering gaze. It was a look that sized you up, weighed you, and tossed you aside; and then awaited your gratitude. But she didn’t actually want to piss Sally off, so that was a bust. She’d have to settle for some better shameless attention seeking ploy.

Fuck.

Jealousy, that was the weird squashy feeling in her chest, she recognised it with a mute disappointment. She supposed it was only natural; she’d get over it soon enough. And seeing Sally at the end of the day was enough; how much was really changing?

And what’s my face doing right now?

“Nobody recognized you, then? As ex-police?” Stella prompted on, it was past her bedtime but she was far too awake.

“I don’t think so,” Sally drummed her chin with three long fingers, as she did when she felt uncertain - one of these days, Stella might point it out to her. Actually, if she did that Sally might become self conscious and avoid it. “I mean out of Uniform it's probably hard to tell.”

“Right.”

“And I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only one, just statistically, but it still feels a bit, you know..”

“Like a dirty secret.” Stella interpreted.

Sally said, exactly, with her eyes.

And then there was a long quiet moment where Sally fixed her with a look, and they both waited for the words to proceed. Even the fire was nearly mute.

“What?” Stella asked before she got too warm in the cheeks and had to look somewhere else. It was so dumb, wanting to make herself a spectacle but then immediately wanting to duck out and hide at the slightest brush of attention from those eyes. She was in her thirties for god’s sake. She identified as grown/jaded.

“I just…” And Sally paused again, conflict drawing itself in deep lines on her brow, “I wish you could have been there, Stell. You’d have loved it.”

Those were the words that did it, in a second the heavy feeling in her chest evaporated. A Millstone lifted off a feather; she wasn’t quite sure she wouldn’t float away. As usual, she avoided the train of thought that would lead her to… somewhere. Nowhere, since there was nothing.

“You think so?” She croaked, it was all that sugar probably, she scrutinised the baklava on her plate because she knew her eyes couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information.

When she did risk a glance at Sally’s face, Sally had looked away, but ...only just. Casually looking at the wine glasses on the coffee table between them. Casualness that was imperfect, slowed by the booze and betrayed by the wideness of the eyes; casualness that had no business making Stella’s heart race over an invisible starting line. But it was a false start; the runners had to stop and return to the line.

…

((Uh oh someone needs to do some reflection))

[moodywritesmoody]

[moodywritesmoody]

[moodywritesmoody]

Stella and Sally see Tchaikovsky

I guess this will have to do instead of mass dropping 13 chapters of fic. I’ll trauma dump in the author notes as I post bit by bit over the next year instead. Assuming no asteroids hit or aliens announce global rulership… and even then I’ll prolly still post.

Life of a shrine rat

[moodywritesmoody]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/48304663/chapters/125024356#workskin

Chapter 8(?) Snippet:

Their flat was dim and moody, since they’d put off buying light bulbs for quite a while. There was the floor lamp over Sally’s head, still alive because she liked to read in her armchair long after Stella had gone to bed. Then there was the dining table lamp, which they both used to look over their papers when work spilled over.

Instead of the blue glow of the television, Stella had prepared the fireplace, and it burned quietly in their tidy rooms. They were both immediately aware, when they first moved in, that they’d landed a prime spot. The old details of the mouldings and wainscoting, the herringbone floors and light fixtures taken right out of an art nouveau catalogue, had done most of the heavy lifting for them. The two of them, in turn, tried to be worthy patrons of the place. They were a little chaotic, but between their books and pillows and mismatched mugs, as well as part abandoned art supplies; they did alright.

Stella had an electric guitar that gathered dust by the living room window; it was purple with stickers all over it and it leaned precariously on a small amp. She’d maybe plucked at it once since they’d made this house home. But sitting together, feet to the fire, croaking out story after story – that was their ritual.

“So then Druid pulls Gran onto the dance floor and, I kid you not, they both start doing some choreographed dance to this Russian song. Whole time I was just keen to leave this surprise after party.” Sally’s description of events had gradually but steadily gone from weird and concerning to hilarious. By Stella’s estimation she’d had quite a good time, even if she wouldn’t admit it outright. Stella was laughing along, but her chest felt weirdly tight. She kept stretching her arms to ease a nagging feeling of constriction.

“Druid is the tall one with the piercing, yeah?”

“That one. I could never pull off a piercing like that.”

“Really? You know actually, I always thought you could rock a nose ring really well.” Stella said.

Sally gave her a confused look, licking the remaining crumbs of baklava on her fingers.

“I mean, I don’t really remember why, I guess I’ve just had the passing thought once that you might…” she couldn’t think of a way to save the sentence so she abandoned it.

“Anyway, does this mean you’ll be spending more… quality time… with your Gran. Enjoying street parties and generally obstructing the law?” Stella asked, she cast a curious glance over her steepled fingers.

It was odd: Stella found herself truly hoping the answer was yes. She wanted nothing more than for Sally to finally venture out of the flat again, so Stella couldn’t help but eye any new opportunity with a mixture of hope and suspicion. And Sally was strong, very strong, but wounded. She was like a fireball: an icy fireball, she embodied the impossibility; duality at its best.

Chill it then light it on fire, and then watch as everything melts: such was the Donovan MO. She really just wanted to see her get out and raise some hell again - even if it was with cool looking people who had cool aliases and colourful stories, and not Stella.

For a silly moment she considered saying something to really piss Sally off so she could feel the prickling chill and the sizzling burn that sprouted with the attention of her withering gaze. It was a look that sized you up, weighed you, and tossed you aside; and then awaited your gratitude. But she didn’t actually want to piss Sally off, so that was a bust. She’d have to settle for some better shameless attention seeking ploy.

Fuck.

Jealousy, that was the weird squashy feeling in her chest, she recognised it with a mute disappointment. She supposed it was only natural; she’d get over it soon enough. And seeing Sally at the end of the day was enough; how much was really changing?

And what’s my face doing right now?

“Nobody recognized you, then? As ex-police?” Stella prompted on, it was past her bedtime but she was far too awake.

“I don’t think so,” Sally drummed her chin with three long fingers, as she did when she felt uncertain - one of these days, Stella might point it out to her. Actually, if she did that Sally might become self conscious and avoid it. “I mean out of Uniform it's probably hard to tell.”

“Right.”

“And I’m sure I wouldn’t be the only one, just statistically, but it still feels a bit, you know..”

“Like a dirty secret.” Stella interpreted.

Sally said, exactly, with her eyes.

And then there was a long quiet moment where Sally fixed her with a look, and they both waited for the words to proceed. Even the fire was nearly mute.

“What?” Stella asked before she got too warm in the cheeks and had to look somewhere else. It was so dumb, wanting to make herself a spectacle but then immediately wanting to duck out and hide at the slightest brush of attention from those eyes. She was in her thirties for god’s sake. She identified as grown/jaded.

“I just…” And Sally paused again, conflict drawing itself in deep lines on her brow, “I wish you could have been there, Stell. You’d have loved it.”

Those were the words that did it, in a second the heavy feeling in her chest evaporated. A Millstone lifted off a feather; she wasn’t quite sure she wouldn’t float away. As usual, she avoided the train of thought that would lead her to… somewhere. Nowhere, since there was nothing.

“You think so?” She croaked, it was all that sugar probably, she scrutinised the baklava on her plate because she knew her eyes couldn’t be trusted with sensitive information.

When she did risk a glance at Sally’s face, Sally had looked away, but ...only just. Casually looking at the wine glasses on the coffee table between them. Casualness that was imperfect, slowed by the booze and betrayed by the wideness of the eyes; casualness that had no business making Stella’s heart race over an invisible starting line. But it was a false start; the runners had to stop and return to the line.

…

Uh oh someone needs to do some reflection

[moodywritesmoody]

What a duality folks, what a pair.

?,!’$,&/!,$)/&/!!/$$;&… “all the tiiime, I’m grateful all the tiiiime..” 😂

2nd Pic.

Stel: “..we should get hotpot after the Nutcracker.”

Sal: “…again.”

Jan, off stage: “Taxi’s here!”

Shipping these two is like being a priest at the shrine of a lower deity from a popular offshoot of an old religious sect. If the alms ever stop I am dead.

[moodywritesmoody]

‘tis the day, etc etc

[moodywritesmoody]

Happy birthday, Sherlock :]

[moodywritesmoody]

God thanks for putting the pain in such precise terms. He can’t reconcile what’s right in front of him and what he thinks he deserves. Worse is that since Dômeki clocks this tendency early, he spends their entire relationship adjusting for it. Always ways leaving just enough room between them so that they can keep walking together as long as possible.

He knows the proof of their connection is in emotional intensity not emotional pleasantness. The backbiting and name calling tells him he still matters. Anything but apathy.

Watanuki knows it’s not that simple

For so long, everyone knows but… the words are never said.

But it’s clearly felt.

(Rip, Yuko really tried to spare them the pain and nudge them closer 😭 she did enough)

They made up for it in decades worth of sleepovers in the shop I guess. Nameless domestic bliss lol.

Watanuki’s character is about the inability to accept equal, lasting, reciprocal love despite being immensely loving and kind. Having lost his parents at such a young age, he is unconsciously averse to developing bonds that are free of barriers to true intimacy. He can fawn over Himawari because he instinctually knows her condition makes it so he can never get close to her. The motherly spirit lady’s presence nearly kills him. Haruka is dead and they can only meet in dreams. A child such as Kohane is much younger and therefore safe to love. He can accept his affection for Yuko because her role as wish-granter/Time-Space Witch as well as her wisdom, power, age and otherworldliness sets them apart.

For Watanuki, there is a single person with whom there exists no gulf of them being unhuman, much different in age, dead, a dream, more powerful, cursed, or harmful to him: Doumeki. Terrifyingly, he is similar, accessible, and beneficial to Watanuki. What’s more, he repeatedly proves his love through his actions. From the first flying kick, Watanuki intuited what the fortune-teller divined to him: Doumeki is the one who can become truly close to Watanuki. Thus, he is reflexively seen as a threat. 

Holding a dead cat, we see that Watanuki identifies himself with fundamental loneliness. When Yuko dies, Watanuki is fixated on his desire for her to return in part because he knows it will never happen. Love, to Watanuki, is not about mutuality and constancy, but about insurmountable distance and pain.

[moodywritesmoody]

Douwata coded lololol

(All my gays like to fight 🎶)

My ass is not arguing with a prettyboy. Whatever you say, handsome.

[moodywritesmoody]

TAKE MY REVOLUTIOOOOOON

I missed their anniversary but happy visibity week to the inventors of yuri‼️

[moodywritesmoody]

Well… he’s a boy who needed to become a strong man 😭 So he wears Yûko’s Kimono’s as a daily magical ritual of gay misery and pining.

Just reread this scene so it stuck out to me.

*boy wears kimono for the strength to live on and on and on and on and on and on*

[moodywritesmoody]

Ughhhhh beautiful. This scene is landlord of my mind lol.

Literally the stuff of dreams.

Also Yûko’s working VERY hard to get this numbskull to stumble into his feeling. Between her and Dômeki they have the patience of saints 😂

Something I drew after watching the anime

[moodywritesmoody]

When I first started reading xxxHolic I always wondered why Yuko lived the way she did- drinking constantly, smoking like a chimney, attitude like she’s got nothing to gain or lose from any of this-

And then as the series is approaching it’s end we find out there really is nothing. She’s dead, she should have died so so long ago and this existence that she’s trapped in is the closest to hell most people are ever going to get. She is lonely and probably in pain, and waiting for the day she knows is coming, the one which will right the wrongs that kept her alive in the first place. Yuko is waiting to finally be allowed to die.

She knows there’s important work to be done first. She knows there will be a beautiful but achingly sad little boy, as lonely as herself, who has to be loved into reality, and that she needs to guide him toward the people who will help him survive, lest he disappear the same moment she does.

But the drinking, the smoking, the drama she can’t help but be blasé about- those are numbing. They’re distractions and they help to pass the time. At least she gets to leave, I thought. I can’t imagine what would happen if this were a stuck-in-a-tower kind of curse.

But we didn’t have to imagine, because we see it.

Watanuki takes up the mantle.

Yuko didn’t anticipate loving this boy. Most of that has been burned out of her by now, too tired to hope for anything but rest.

But she didn’t expect his eyes to be quite that big, that sad. And when she meets him and the power inside of her reaches (without her permission, as it has always been prone to doing) for a glimpse of his future, she’s struck by the sensation of emptiness. Of nothing. An apartment whose tenant the landlord can’t remember. A desk with no child inside. Anger. A boy whose dark eyes search halls for something he doesn’t know or understand. A family name which carries a legacy that Yuko remembers. Yuko worked so hard to will life into Watanuki, spent so long teaching him the selfishness and the tragedy of his own sacrificial self loathing. He didn’t need to be a martyr, there was nothing he needed to die for. He was a casualty of a war that had nothing to do with him. She tried, over and over and over, to offer him a way out. I think all the time about how she must have felt knowing that Watanuki took on her imprisonment and compounded it, made it that much more intense, made it that much worse. You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink. I wonder if it hurt.