#( anyway. he suffers with me )

[hinamie]

I don't want to regret the way I lived

[justaz]

*merlins magic gets exposed in front of the knights*

merlin, magic user: oh fuck

arthur, finally taking this opportunity to pretend as if he just found out merlin has magic after agonizing for the past month on how to bring it up: you have magic?

lancelot, merlin defender, already knew of merlin’s magic: no! i have magic

gwaine, merlin defender, already knew of merlin’s magic, lover of chaos, ride or die: no, i have magic!

mordred, desperate for his hero’s approval bc no matter what he’s done emrys just stares at him with distrust and the poor boy is tired and so close to tears: no…i have magic.

percival, raised by druids and bonded strongly with mordred over that and does Not agree with the persecution of magic in camelot, had an inkling that merlin had magic but no proof: no. i have magic.

*leon and elyan exchange a look, elyan, amused and leon, exhausted, elyan shrugs*

elyan, knows how much gwen adores merlin and completely understands her stance bc merlin…is merlin, down to clown and put on a show, really playing up the dramatics: no! i have magic.

leon, exhausted, has known of merlin’s magic since he stepped foot in camelot, knows of his feelings for arthur and arthur’s feelings for him, knows arthur knows of merlin’s magic and wouldn’t harm him, thinks everyone is being absolutely ridiculous:

*the knights stare hard at leon and even merlin looks slightly offended at leon not jumping to his defense with the rest of the knights, arthur hasn’t said anything and is staring at leon expectantly*

leon, sighing: …no. i have magic.

[teh-inggris]

pvp civ nation...... this aint much but pls take my contribution for this series bc im going insane i love hate this man so much get him out of my head

[sunderwight]

Further speculation on Shen Yuan transmigrating in some kind of Beast:

Werewolf Shen Qingqiu.

And like, major emphasis on the wolf, in his case. Not wolfman. Every full moon Shen Qingqiu has to make arrangements for himself to turn into a gigantic silvery-white wolf that retains extremely little of his consciousness, and mostly just seems to want to do Wolf Things, though according to PIDW and all information he has on the matter, he ought to be turning into a violent and bloodthirsty predator.

However, it turns out that the wolf form does retain some awareness from the mind/soul of the human, meaning that the reason SJ's wolf was so incredibly unsafe to be around was because it was constantly trying to process SJ's trauma in wild animal terms. So, it was hostile towards the vast majority of humans and in a heightened state of anxiety, always anticipating violence (and reacting accordingly) whenever something unexpected happened. Matters were not helped by SJ's decision to try and lock himself up for every transformation, which of course freaked his wolf out even more (trapped) and resulted in self-harm as it desperately tried to escape. It was just that SJ interpreted the self-harm as a sign that the wolf was so extremely violent that it would cannibalize itself rather than go a single night without the taste of blood.

SY, who is a lot less traumatized, conversely has a much more calm and curious wolf. Like he's extremely cautious and nervous about the whole thing, because he's expecting it to be violent based on his information, and since he doesn't retain much awareness of his transformations he has little idea of what his wolf-self does. But he also isn't great at locking himself up like the original goods did, and he never really seems to wake up covered in blood or anything? Once or twice he thinks he might have hunted a rabbit, but they definitely were rabbits and not like his subconscious somehow going after children in the middle of a wilderness somewhere, because when he came to the wolf had brought the leftover bunny bits along back to the ruined temple he was supposed to be shutting himself up into.

The new Shen Qingqiu consequently gets a bit complacent about the whole thing. He can only blame himself. Maybe he should have anticipated Luo Binghe, with his boundless curiosity and interest in his shizun, would notice the oddities in his schedule and follow him out one night. Everyone's supposed to believe that he's just going to brothels and engaging in purely mundane debauchery, though, so why would Binghe doubt his story?

But he did, and so of course Luo Binghe ends up witnessing his shizun's terrible transformation into a wretched and hated beast. Stunned, the young disciple stands transfixed (no doubt in horror) in the moonlight. The wolf sees him, and though Shen Qingqiu doesn't retain much memory, he recollects the running, the leaping, the... uh... licking...?

Well. Turns out that even Shen Qingqiu's subconscious wolf mind recognizes Luo Binghe as pack, and thank goodness too, because at least he didn't attack him!

Although after that it becomes an extreme challenge to explain to Luo Binghe why he can't accompany Shen Qingqiu for his transformations every month. It's not safe, the wolf is unpredictable and Shen Qingqiu can't promise that he won't startle or suddenly change his tune and lash out, and even though Binghe's cultivation is progressing in leaps and bounds, the wolf also isn't limited to normal mortal strength. It would be able to track his scent and follow him relentlessly, chasing him down to catch and pin him beneath its massive paws, and... Binghe why is your face so red? Are you feeling alright? If it's too frightening, then let's not describe it any further, but the point is that it's dangerous.

Shen Qingqiu has to put his foot down. In the end, he has his suspicions that Binghe is still circumventing him, as he could swear he sometimes remembers running around the wilderness with company. (Binghe is absolutely sneaking out to go spend time with Wolf Shizun.) But there's nothing concrete enough to be certain. Meanwhile, Luo Binghe has at least agreed to keep it secret (for now -- probably not once the time comes for Shen Qingqiu to be put on trial) and fusses over his shizun, helping him keep track of the moon scheduling and always making sure he has a full belly before he goes into wilderness seclusion (Shen Qingqiu never says, but somehow Luo Binghe guesses anyway that he doesn't like waking up to find that the wolf had a snack during the night...)

Another hazard: lycanthropy in the PIDW setting is a curse. Like admittedly it's kind of a kickass one, but it still has tons of negative associations, most commonly befalling impoverished individuals or travelers who get bitten by wild wolf demons, and survive only to find that a piece of the wolf's spirit has gotten stuck to their own. Cultivators with lycanthropy are often associated with demons and disrepute, like Wu Yanzi, and there are countless tales of them turning on their own people or being revealed as violent, depraved criminals. It's only slightly more acceptable than being a demon outright.

In other words it's not a desirable circumstance.

And yet, for some reason, Luo Binghe is reprehensibly lapse in his protections against lycanthropy. Shen Qingqiu has told him all of the precautions he knows against it, and yet it's almost like Binghe keeps doing the exact opposite things! Listen, wolves are cool. Shen Qingqiu knows that. He's actually kind of fine with turning into one, since it seems to be less of a ravenous beast situation than he'd feared. But there are still social consequences to this kind of a thing! Luckily, it doesn't actually matter much because even with his uncharacteristic youthful irresponsibility, Binghe's heavenly demon blood protects him from ever being cursed. The only way he'd get lycanthropy would be if he deliberately let a werewolf bite him and then just refused to excise the curse, and even then, he could purge the tainted wolf spirit from him just by force of will whenever he wanted.

Seriously, though! It's only when Shen Qingqiu points out that Luo Binghe is going to make people suspicious with all his negligence towards basic precautions that Binghe finally smartens up about it.

(Luo Binghe, out in the woods during a full moon: Wolf Shizun please bite me? Bite Binghe? Then we can be together every full moon! Look here I'll stick my hand in your mouth... just, just chomp down... no don't lick... *sigh*...)

Anyway, the plot still goes mostly the same, except that when Shen Qingqiu put into the water prison it's the full moon. He expects this is part of Luo Binghe's plan against him -- Binghe probably couldn't reveal the lycanthropy without also admitting he'd known before and helped hide it, but this way, Shen Qingqiu can just get caught as a wolf by the palace guards. But Luo Binghe's just been so frazzled and distressed by everything that he genuinely forgot what phase the moon was on. Shen Qingqiu's expecting a lot of things when he wakes up after transforming in the Water Prison, but being back out of the Water Prison and snuggled up to the protagonist's chest wasn't on the list.

Turns out that after his confrontation with Luo Binghe and the Little Palace Mistress, Gongyi Xiao went to check on him and found him transformed. After Gongyi Xiao alerted the rest of the palace, the Palace Master determined that Shen Qingqiu being a werewolf was as good as a confirmation of guilt, and had the wolf dragged out to be killed. Luo Binghe intervened, Shen Qingqiu took off, and between one thing and another the whole night was spent with Huan Hua and Cang Qiong cultivators trying to catch him (for different reasons).

Of course it was Luo Binghe who eventually cornered the terrified wolf, at which point the wolf actually, finally did bite him. But when Binghe failed to react, it whimpered and went back to its usual behavior, and let Binghe lead it out of the city and off to its usual territory near Cang Qiong. The wolf then proceeded to act like an overjoyed puppy whose owner had finally come back from war, until Binghe broke down and sobbed himself to sleep. It must have curled up onto his chest afterwards.

Shen Qingqiu is deeply embarrassed, but... somehow Luo Binghe doesn't seem to be taking revenge on him?

He's going to need to treat that bite wound soon, though.

Binghe.

Binghe, you are going to treat that--

[wispurring-moss]

no thoughts just These TwoTM touch-starved losers gradually evolving into the epitome of casual touching/cuddling for absolutely no reason and they probably don't even realize they're doing it lol <'3

[medicalunprofessional]

sorry guys they finally showed me peak fiction . Its called “phantom of the paradise”

[yennao]

Girl there’s no way a shield woulda helped him.

[rystiel]

that annoying moment when getting left for dead in the trunk of a car in your 20s comes back to haunt you 40 years later (take a shot every time ford says “stanley”)

[fellowfights]

Y'all non-disabled folk are pissing me off. Actually mouthwashing fans. Someone does not DESERVE disability and disability isn't "karma" or "justice".

[tzarrz]

This came to me in a dream - PART 2

[afterthelambs]

⚠️Spoilers for Look Back but I was initially confused about what Fujino and Kyomoto's relationship had to do with pursuing a career as a mangaka. After thinking about it, I interpret it as a narrative device to represent what will come when choosing to pursue art (of any form, whether it's comics, painting, animation, music, etc.).

Think about it, what's Kyomoto's role in the story? She is what got Fujino to take art seriously in middle school, and what motivated her to continue after she initially gave up. However, she's also the only thing in the story that makes Fujino wish she quit art. First, halfway through 6th grade and then later after her death. She serves as Fujino's motivator and de-motivator.

I think the scene of Fujino wishing that she never told Kyomoto to come out (that pursuing art only led to suffering) represents artists' regrets. We literally look back and see an alternate universe where Fujino never pursued art and it has a happier ending. Anyone that pursues artistic dreams will end up regretting it at some point. It's not easy, any artist will tell you that. The story is saying yes, you probably will end up healthier and more stable by giving up your dreams. Because art is suffering.

But then Fujino enters Kyomoto's room after reading the comic from the alternate reality and all of a sudden we get a montage of the happy memories and accomplishments they had pursuing their dreams together. And we realize that, everything we saw of them in the alternate 'happier' reality pales in comparison to this:

The happiest both of them look in that alternate world is when they finally meet and promise to work together someday. They loved art. They loved each other. Giving up on your dreams means missing out on all of that, and nothing in the world can replace it. Because yes art is suffering, but art is also joy and love.

And so the end of the story where Fujino goes back to work isn't her moving on. She tapes the comic strip in front of her to remind her of Kyomoto, to remind her of why she got into comics in the first place. Basically, Kyomoto IS art to Fujino. A life with her means experiencing both suffering and joy, while the life without her means having none of that.

I might be wrong about this, like maybe Fujimoto just wanted to tell a mangaka story with doomed yuri (valid) HOWEVER i like my interpretation so im sticking with it.

[captain-astors]

The Crown Prince

[innielove]

Changbin during ATE era for anon

[kristoffs-lullaby]

Jealousy, Jealousy

[capquinn]

hear me out…… no kissing sex with bf!quinn right now.

it would be its own kind of torment, the kind of heat and frustration that makes your skin flush before anything even happens. it would start slow, almost awkward, both of you trying to work around the glaring fact that his lip — split, stitched and swollen — has taken away one of your favourite things about being with him.

“This is so stupid,” he’d groan, his head falling back against the headboard as you straddle his hips, your hands resting on his chest.

His fingers grip your thighs like he’s holding himself back, his touch firm but not nearly enough. His hair, all tousled and soft from a restless night, frames his face in that boyish way that makes you ache to kiss him. But you can’t, and it’s killing both of you.

“You don’t think I know that?” you shoot back, your voice soft but laced with the same frustration, your lips so close to his that he can feel your breath against his skin. “So hard for me to sit here and not—”

“Don’t,” he groans, cutting you off with a sharp exhale, his eyes flickering to your mouth and then away just as quickly, like it’s a temptation too great to bear. His hands tighten on your thighs, his grip firm but still trembling with restraint, like he’s barely keeping himself in check. “Do you even know how hard this is for me?” His voice dips, low and rough, frustration simmering beneath every syllable.

You don’t, not really. You couldn’t possibly, because if you did, you wouldn’t be sitting there looking like that — lips parted, eyes heavy with want, your body pressed so close but not close enough. His eyes trail over you, lingering for a second too long, and it makes his chest ache. God, you look good like this. So good it’s unfair. And you’re right there, on top of him, inches from his mouth, and he can’t even close the distance.

“I can’t even fucking look at you right now,” he mutters, his voice breaking on the words as his head tilts back against the headboard, exposing the sharp line of his jaw. “Not without wanting to kiss you.”

His fingers dig harder into your thighs, a low, frustrated groan slipping from his lips as he fights every instinct to kiss you the way he wants — needs — to.

Now one of your hands is splayed across his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat pulsing beneath your fingertips, while the other rakes through his hair. You lean in, your lips brushing the faintest, most tender kiss to his forehead, just enough to make him tense beneath you.

“I’m the one who’s perfectly capable of kissing you on the mouth right now — I’m just not allowed,” you murmur, your voice low and teasing, though the weight of your own frustration bleeds through.

Then, with slow, deliberate precision, you lower your head, your lips hovering over his jaw, just barely brushing against his skin. His hands tighten on your waist instantly, dragging you closer, his restraint slipping. His chest heaves under you, each breath shallow and uneven as his frustration and desire bleed into one another.

“Fuck,” he mutters when his lips twitch toward yours instinctively, the pain pulling him back with a sharp wince. Yet even then, he doesn’t let go, his hands gripping you tighter, as though he’s determined to keep you there, despite the torment of what he can’t have, desperate to hold onto what he can.

It’s almost comical at first, the way you both try to navigate around the glaring absence of your usual kisses, but then the humour fades, replaced by something heavier. You start pressing kisses to his neck, slow and wet, trailing your lips along the warm expanse of his skin. Each touch earns a low, shaky breath from him, his chest rising and falling under your palms. You nip lightly at his shoulder, letting your teeth graze the muscle, and he groans again, his head falling back.

“You’re not helping,” he rasps, his hands sliding up your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt.

And then it's all heat and frustration. There’s no teasing this time, no soft kisses to ease you into it, because the second his lips even try to skim your skin, he winces, the sting of his injury pulling him back with a startle.

Your knees are pressed against his hips, and you can feel the tension rolling off him in waves in the way his hands slide up your thighs, rougher than usual, tugging you closer with a strength that leaves no space between you. It’s desperate, like he’s trying to make up for everything he can’t do with the touch of lips. His chest is heaving under yours, and when your hips shift against him, his head falls back against the headboard with a sharp exhale, his jaw tightening.

“You’re killing me,” he groans, his voice strained, and his hands move to your hips, gripping you tighter as he guides your movements. There’s a rough edge to the way he’s holding you, his need for you consuming every thought. His eyes flick to your mouth, then away again, like even looking at your lips is too much. “I can’t even fucking kiss you,” he mutters for what feels like the hundredth time, his voice breaking with the weight of his frustration.

Your lips find his neck again, dragging slowly across his skin, your teeth grazing his shoulder until he lets out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a plea, vibrating through your entire body.

“I’m frustrated, too, but,” you trail off against his skin, your voice thick with your own desperation. Your hands slide up his chest, your nails dragging lightly over his skin, and he shudders beneath you, his hips jerking up into yours. “Just gotta make do.”

He doesn’t respond, not right away, but the way his hands drag you closer, harder, says everything. Like he’s trying to make up for every kiss he can’t press to your lips, against your neck and down your chest.

His head tilts forward, and his lips, though injured and off-limits, press lightly to the curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin. It’s not enough, not for either of you, but it’s all he can manage, and it only makes the ache sharper.

“You don’t get it,” he mumbles softly, his voice rough, almost pleading. “You’re right here, and I can’t even…”

His sentence trails off but the words still hit you like a match to gasoline, and your hands move to his shoulders, gripping him tightly as you rock against him. You can feel his restraint slipping, the sharp edge of his desperation bleeding into every touch, every movement. When you lean down, pressing your lips to the curve of his shoulder, his breath hitches, and when you bite down, just enough to leave a mark, he moans, his fingers digging into your waist so hard you think you might bruise too.

“Fuck, you’re making this worse,” he groans but there’s no mistaking the way his body responds to you.

The way his hips press up into yours with every movement and the way his hands slide up your back, his touch firm and unrelenting. He buries his face in your neck again, his breath ragged against your skin through parted, swollen lips that are stinging with the pressure he's placing.

It’s raw and messy, the desperation between you heightening every touch, every sound. He’s rougher than usual, his movements fueled by frustration and need, and when you finally fall apart, it’s not with the usual gentleness but with an intensity that leaves you both breathless.

[medicalunprofessional]

never change, man !