#four spoke

[velovelo]

[corviiids]

im trying to have a good day but i can't stop thinking about this is how i disappear (the fic where light gets executed not the MCR song)

[wannabemylover]

rewatching the first episode of Hannibal and holy shit I forgot how good this is but it's actually insane that Brian fuller set up the ep like this, he introduces will and Hannibal by first briefly showing them at their core, at the darkest, most vile part of them---we get a glimpse behind the curtain---and then its gone, the curtain is snapped shut and we see their masks, their human suits.

Will empathizes with killers because he likes it, and he wants to kill but he refuses to give into the urge because he knows how much he'll like it and he won't be able to stop. So he lives vicariously through other killers, satisfying his own dark urge by feeding it little morsels of secondhand blood lust. Every crime scene he works gives the urge something that satisfies it, not enough for it to grow, but enough for it be sate. Enough that he can ignore it for long enough that he can walk around and be Professor Will Graham who is Weird, Brash, and Non-sociable.

And Hannibal is a cannibal at night and a psychiatrist by morning.

[its-all-papaya]

landoscar with 24 pls

kiss prompt fills are back bby!! and this one got rlly out of hand!!

send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss

24. as a reward | landoscar | 1.8k (but like. i rounded down. a lot.)

“Therapy,” Oscar says, apropos of nothing, on the first Thursday of summer break.

Lando looks up from his fridge, where he’s been poking around looking for breakfast, and knits his eyebrows together over his shoulder. Oscar is right where Lando had left him at the kitchen table, sweat from their run drying his shirt to his skin. He looks pleasant enough with his elbow propped on the table and his water bottle wedged between his thighs. Not like he’s just ambushed Lando about anything, least of all that fucking word again.

“Been talking to Jon?” Lando bites out. He turns back to the collection of containers and picks something at random. He’s got a feeling he’s not going to be hungry in a few minutes anyway.

Oscar’s fingers are tapping absently on the tabletop and it’s making Lando’s skin crawl. It goes like this every time anybody brings it up, like his body can’t physically bear the thought of the conversation.

“Not any more than normal,” Oscar says, which isn’t even a real answer.

Lando stares at him, deadpan, for a handful of seconds. Then he pries the lid off the container and sets about preparing the contents.

“Do you want anything to eat?” He asks Oscar.

“That’s alright,” Oscar responds, still unbothered. “Have you thought about it?”

“About eating?” Lando asks, incredulous.

“No,” Oscar says. The other thing, then.

“Yeah,” Lando says after a beat. He places the container in the microwave and sets the timer. It’s not even a lie - Oscar would know if it was; he’s scary good at figuring those things out when it comes to Lando. Also, Lando knows one word isn’t going to cut it in this conversation, but if Oscar wants to discuss this stupid subject, Lando’s going to at least going to make it difficult.

“What about it?” Oscar asks, tone exactly the same as it’s been all morning. Like they’re discussing the weather, or what route to take on their way back to Lando’s.

“That I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Lando says. His eyes stay locked on the microwave plate, turning slowly behind the tinted glass, “All my…” he raises a hand and waves it half-heartedly, knowing Oscar will understand. He always does, somehow.

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal,” Oscar says. The microwave timer ticks down. “But I think it’s getting kind of close to one.”

Lando clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering. “Yeah?” It sounds a bit mean, even to him.

“You’re not sleeping well,” Oscar says. Lando’s fingers tighten on the edge of the countertop. He’s going to run out of muscles to tense if Oscar keeps going. Oscar does, though, still measured when he says, “Might help you relax if you have someone to help sort through everything up there.”

“I don’t need to relax,” Lando says, “I need to drive better. A therapist isn’t going to fix that, I just have to get my shit together.”

The microwave timer goes off. Lando could slam the door closed if he wanted to, Oscar probably wouldn’t even react to it, but what he’s feeling isn’t even really anger. He’s not a child. The annoying thing is, he has thought through it all. He thinks through it every fucking Sunday, when he’s miserable in the shower after handing over another P2 trophy to the team and kicking himself about losing, kicking himself about not being happier about it. It’s not new, it’s just more, and it’ll all go away if he just starts performing. He doesn’t need a therapist to tell him that.

“It’s not about fixing things,” Oscar says as Lando carefully moves the container to the countertop. It’s hot still. He licks the tips of his fingertips where they’ve gone red from the heat.

Oscar keeps talking. “It’s like… you see Jon when you’ve got a backache, right? Or for a massage. Or it’s like the cold tub. They don’t change your driving, but you can drive better when your body feels better.”

“You have been talking to Jon,” Lando looks up at Oscar with something next to a glare – a little less hostile, though – as he locates a fork from his silverware drawer.

Oscar shrugs, “When we run into each other.” Lando’s eyes go back to him, and he at least has the sense to look a little apologetic, “You’re the main thing we have in common. It comes up.”

Lando had originally had plans to eat at the table, but the distance between himself and Oscar feels safer at the moment, so he stays put. “My brain?” he asks around his first bite.

“Sure,” Oscar says, “and how you love to deflect.”

Lando stops chewing to make this glare more effective. “Stop meddling.”

“I’m not meddling, Lando,” Oscar sets the water bottle aside and crosses the kitchen easily, leaning on the island opposite Lando like he knows abandoning the separation completely might send him over the edge. “I love you,” he says then, “and I want you to feel your best. I know you want to get better on track, but it’s not one or the other.” Lando’s about to protest, to say that’s not what I even said, but when he thinks about it for a second, it sort of is. Not this argument, maybe, other than kind of abstractly, but definitely in other arguments with Jon. Maybe even one with Oscar in the past – Lando loses track of who’s said what with how closely their arguments clearly overlap lately. And more than he’s said to either of them out loud, Lando knows that dichotomy is buried at the bitter end to every circle he runs in his own mind in those post-race showers and the long, long nights after. If he stops telling himself that what he’s done isn’t good enough, what if he starts believing it is?

He sets his fork down. His shoulders are still drawn, cheek still caught between his teeth, but he’s stopped adding new tensions to that list.

“What if it is one or the other?” he asks. His microwave beeps behind him. He’d forgotten to shut the door at all.

“What if learning how to be a little nicer to yourself makes you worse on track?” Oscar asks.

It’s not a good-faith question, but Lando doesn’t have the voice to unpack it. It’s close enough, anyway, so he just nods.

“Then you stop.” Oscar says.

Lando looks up. Oscar’s hand is laying in the middle of his countertop, palm up, and his eyes are set on Lando’s face.

“Really?” Lando moves his hand towards the center of the island, fingers splayed on the cool marble.

“Yeah,” Oscar says, “I mean, I can’t control what you do anyway. Obviously. But if something doesn’t work, don’t do it. Clearly nobody can force you, and you’ve got a lot of practice deciding what does and doesn’t help you. It’s like upgrades. Dev can talk them up, but we don’t know until we’re on the sim and in the car. They might be kind of shitty, but you won’t know until you actually drive with them.”

Lando presses his lips together to keep from smiling. Stubborn. Leave it to Oscar to come up with a fucking car metaphor for his broken fucking brain, though. God.

“But,” Oscar continues, “most of the time the upgrades work. Because the team knows what they’re doing. And the test drivers know what they’re doing, too. They see our data and they know our cars and they take our feedback and they know what to do with all that.”

Lando’s getting a little lost in the parallels Oscar’s trying to draw, but Oscar can clearly tell, because he closes the last of the gap until their fingertips brush together and says, “Just like Jon, babe. He knows you really well. He’s good at seeing where there’s a little room for improvements.”

Lando taps his fingers one by one against the counter. Oscar taps back, the pads of his fingers drumming against Lando’s nailbeds.

“Can I think about it?” Lando asks. The first thing he’s said in a long while.

“You can,” Oscar says back. His hand is completely covering Lando’s now, thumb rubbing up and down the side of Lando’s forefinger, “but can you text Jon and tell him you’re thinking about it?”

Lando’s eyes narrow, but Oscar’s already moving around the side of the island and flipping Lando’s phone over so it’s face-up on the counter. “Please?” Oscar says.

Lando concedes. Oscar’s hand rests low on his back while Lando taps into his messages and finds his trainer’s thread. He starts and deletes half a dozen different texts, but Oscar’s eyes feel heavy over his shoulder.

“I don’t know what to say,” he admits eventually.

Oscar’s arm slides fully around his waist, and Lando is surprised when his own body melts easily into Oscar’s side. As soon as they’re pressed together, Oscar shifts his grip up until he’s squeezing some tension out of Lando’s shoulder with firm fingers.

“You could just ask him to schedule the appointment,” Oscar says. Lando knows if he had the nerve to look at Oscar’s face, it’d be that self-satisfied grin on his lips.

“This doesn’t feel ethical of you,” Lando says.

“I’m not forcing you to do anything,” Oscar’s voice is light, amused, “but I can tell you to do it, if that would make this easier.”

Lando elbows him in the side, just gently, and Oscar tightens his grip on the side of Lando’s neck for a moment.

“Okay,” Lando says.

“Okay,” Oscar says back, “just ask him if he’ll set something up for you in the next week. That way if it sucks, you can forget about it before Zandvoort.”

“Okay,” Lando says again.

“Okay,” Oscar says back.

Lando types out the text while Oscar watches, thumb rubbing soothing little circles into the skin of Lando’s shoulder the whole while. When it’s finished and delivered, he tosses his phone back onto the counter and turns fully into Oscar’s arms, buries his face in Oscar’s chest to counteract the overwhelmed tremor he can feel starting in his muscles. It helps. Oscar presses kisses and shhh’s into his hair until Lando feels a little normal again. It smells like sweat and still a little bit like Lando’s body wash from the night before, there against Oscar’s shoulder. They’re going to need another shower. If Lando asks nicely, he wonders if Oscar might wash his hair, since he’s so worried about what goes on with Lando’s head.

Eventually, Oscar tips Lando’s chin up with a hand under his jaw and kisses him for a long, long moment. He nips at Lando’s lip and licks over it after, just the way Lando likes.

“Is this a bribe?” Lando asks when they part.

It makes Oscar smile and earns Lando another short kiss on the mouth. “You’ve already made the call, love. I can’t bribe you to do something you already did.”

“A reward, then.” Lando tries again.

Oscar’s smile goes sticky soft, “You don’t have to earn anything from me.”

“But?” Lando lifts an eyebrow.

“But.” Oscar says, hands on Lando’s waist, “I’m proud of you.”

[raceweek]

the way he casually describes how he broke his ribs in the most insane sounding accident but then remembered he’s speaking to ten year olds so drops in a but it was all okay the next day :)

[mysterycitrus]

something that i honestly didn’t predict when i started writing fic is how much my original fiction would impact the stories i wanted to tell. thinking about the nightmare sequence at the circus or the unreliable narration. like yeah ig almost exclusively writing character focused introspective horror junk in my free time would affect how i write about batman

the other thing i didn’t realise is i unintentionally wrote dick grayson as a guy who hates hats.

[blue-eli]

Ink October day 3: Sophistry

An argument that seems plausible, but is fallacious or misleading, especially one devised deliberately to be so.

[louissviolin]

“She was marvelous and it was sexy.” -Raymond Burr

[princerevelucide]

nobody else gets it the way you do

[alfredosauce50]

Allen working as a butcher and seeing a pretty girl in the store then moving mountains to be with her and even going to the lengths to try and convert to Catholicism simply because she’s Catholic 😭

Yeah baby I’ll get baptized if that’s what you like 😌 Then he goes in a confession box and is like wow I just rattle on all the ways I fucked up? Aight that’s cool with me. Anyways, on Sunday, I got into a fight

[violetregrets1837]

YALL I HAVE A QUESTION

Um. What sort of accents do you guys think each Link has???

I was just looking through a draft and I was reading Twillight's dialogue and then somehow the voice that I read him in was some sort of cross between some sort of vague southern (I not american I have no idea what sort of accents you lot have over there) crossed with Australian???? Of all things???? HELP?????

And now I'm thinking even more about the different accents that everyone has.

Like, I absolutely adore fics that mention that Warriors has an accent because of him either being upper-class or lower-class and how the others in the Chain react to it or still treat him normally or wkfblshcoejclsjfksjgkfh

What about Time who totally adopts his own accent from Malon and Talon. As someone who has picked up on and has started speaking with a slightly thicker countryside accent (irish) I know he absolutely would. He just would!!! And would he even have remnants of how the kokiri and the deku tree talk??? WHAT WOULD THE KOKIRI ACCENT BE LIKE??????

And because I am biased, I'm imagining Wind with a filipino accent. Come on, he's a tropical island boy, he would have our accent!! I remember reading a fic where everyone from Wind's era was speaking tagalog and I was getting emotional because omg me too!

Wild would have some sort of amalgamation of accents from all the different regions. I have no idea how it would be, but he picks up on the Rito, the Gerudo, the Gorons- hell, maybe even accents from the Sheikah or from Hateno Village!!! He's a codeswitching natural, he teleports all across Hyrule almost daily!!!

[nebulous-bounds-of-bad-taste]

Guys. Will kissing Nico for the first time over Jason's death had a greater purpose.

It's not about Will being more important than Jason, or romance being more important than friendship.

It's about finding joy even in the midst of intense grief. A light even in the worst, darkest moments of your life.

Which is the thesis of the dam book.

[3416]

sorry but them being roommates for FOUR years is so many more than i expected... fnlkdsxz like. and the way he refuses to denounce it entirely like the little eye roll "well it WAS great but" KLFJDSKF... he needs his singular 30 minutes of social recharge time and then he's back wanting to be in everyone's space again.

[5and3nevermind]

About Face Off:

About Alone and/or Face in general:

[hushberry]

i do get the distinct impression that roier is genuinely annoyed by bad most of the time and prefers to avoid him, but maybe i'm seeing things where there's nothing

[pochapal]

well. i mean. kind of. yeah. but not really at all. that's not exactly how "existence" works, natsuhi.