#i am wallowing

[sequentialprophet]

This breakup has everything - mixed feelings, torn loyalties, hammers, public attempted murder, a small angry wet English man, mentors who think they know best

[cosmonautilus1]

I just watched all of candela obscura circle of needle and thread and. Holy fuck. I am destroyed

[match-your-steps]

i was looking up kuroo from haikyuu because i can never be sure i have remembered any of the characters in that thing correctly but instead of typing haikyuu kuroo i just automatically typed hetalia kuroo (i often forget things about hetalia as well) and not only is it embarrassing how confused i was for a good sixty seconds until i figured out my mistake but now every time i try to look up something about hetalia for actual real, my search engine auto suggests hetalia kuroo from my search history so i think i am not allowed to let this go and forget about it apparently

[infamous-if]

[coochiekrab]

Most of Octoberish comms…comms are open again for November

[crsssie]

ring ring - spencer reid x sharpshooter!reader

"DAVE—"

The bullet pierces through her hand before anyone can think, and you waste no time pinning her down and throwing her on the ground, listening to the way something crunches when you make the arrest.

"Jesus Christ. I'm all for evil women but this one just has no redeeming qualities." You pull her to her feet, walking her to the cop car. "Nice try, though."

"You BITCH." She bites.

"Yeah, been called that a few times. It sticks."

"Nice shot." Morgan nods. "How'd you know?"

"She had no signs of torture." You point at her clear skin, chuckling. "At least try some makeup next time before your escape, hm?"

"Like the purple on your neck?"

"Oh, I'll do a better job next time." You stretch your arms, glancing at the rest of the victims. "Are we free?"

"Let's ride back. They'll take care of the rest."

You glance at your ringing phone, answering as you slide into the backseat.

"Hey."

"Hey. All safe?"

"We're all good." You hum. "You wanna get dinner after this? I'm starving."

"Indian?"

"I'm so down." You groan. "A good butter chicken with naan right now sounds like heaven."

"Sounds good." Spencer hums. "Nothing hurt?"

"Nothing. She tried killing Dave, but—"

"She?"

"What? God forbid a woman be evil for once."

You raise a brow when Rossi glances back at you.

"I'll see you in a bit. Rossi's giving me a weird look. I don't want to get re-evaluated."

"Alright. Stay safe. Love you."

"Love you too." You turn off your phone, pursing your lips when Morgan gives you a look.

"So. I love you, huh?"

"Love you too, Derek."

He barks out a laugh.

[hiraethwrote]

anyways, suguru has the sluttiest waist

[edsbacktattoo]

one of my favourite things about season 2 is 'you wear fine things well' 2.0. like that phrase means so much to us, the super sexy audience, so knowing that it means a lot to Ed AND Stede as well?? oh my god. it means enough to the both of them that when Ed says it, Stede immediately knows what he's getting at. like sure he's saying 'you wear fine things well' with his big baby cow eyes and his little kitty cat collar but what he means is, 'this was the moment i fell in love with you. and now i'm saying it back.' and they put that in the tv show that we, the super sexy audience, watched. fucking cinema.

[somethingintheforest]

I understand why some people want to view Watson as Neurodivergent alongside Holmes, and honestly good for them. It's a sucky sucky world out there, go project to your hearts content. But for me personally, I have to see Watson as neurotypical.

My little neurodivergent ass saw Holmes and imprinted on him like a little lost duckling. And then there's Watson, who sees Holmes and his Behaviours™️ as something wholly out of the norm but absolutely adores him anyway, quirks and all. It's so refreshing to have a implied-neurotypical character who comes across neurodivergent behaviour and is just like. 'oh! that's new. ok then, on we go.' he doesn't try to change Holmes, only tries to help him away from destructive behaviour , like weaning him off cocaine.

Doctor John Judgey Watson saw Sherlock Holmes and did not judge him. instead he was just facinated by him. adored him. acepted him.

that being said, Watson is Fucked Up. that man is not 'normal', but I do think he is neurotypical.

[starry-bi-sky]

no context snippet for a "SY is SJ" au i thought of at 1am last night, because i am a firm believer of the "amnesia doesnt erase your trauma it just erases the context of it" agenda.

(although in SY's case he DID kinda forget that trauma.. at first. it's coming back to him. the system gave him a grace period. there that's my excuse)

crossposted on ao3 too in case anyone wants to read it there instead

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Shen Qingqiu is painting again.

He's found himself doing that a lot lately, now that he's out of seclusion and Binghe is in the bamboo house, squirreled away into the side room where the Head Disciple should be. Painting is, of course, a logical course of action for a peak lord to do! Especially one such as himself, the Peak Lord of Qing Jing, which was basically the peak of the creative arts.

But— well, he wasn't expecting to find himself liking it so much. Or doing it so often. Painting in the style of the time period is a lot easier to learn than he expected, and it gets him B-points for in-character actions! Who knew the Original Goods was such an artist of the time? He had such an evocative way with his brush, he should know — he's found some of his works!

(They were tucked away like a dirty secret in the back of his closet, locked away in a qiankun chest that Shen Qingqiu found the key to far too easily. He’ll admit to being a little disappointed in the Original Goods’ predictability — a false bottom in the vanity, really? Anyone could find that!) 

This brought him to his next issue; he was getting headaches, and he thinks, perhaps, just a little, that the Original Goods' thoughts and feelings were bleeding into him. Just a tad! And he was certain it was the Original Goods too, because— because, well…

He keeps flinching. You know how you’re walking down a public but otherwise empty hallway, and turn the corner and nearly run right into someone, and your heart jumps three spaces to the left and back? Subconsciously you knew there was a chance you were going to see someone, but their sudden appearance still startles you? 

Yeah, that. He keeps experiencing it with Binghe. He about jumps right out of his skin whenever Binghe emerges from the side room or the kitchen, even though he knows his disciple is there! And he knows it’s not a habit from his old world, because Shen Qingqiu lived with three other siblings in the house, and always knew to expect someone to be right around the corner. 

And he knows, especially so, that it’s not a habit from his old world, because along with the mini heart attacks that come with Binghe’s presence in the bamboo house, is the discomfort. A distinct yet indistinguishably vague feeling of unease that comes with sharing a living space with someone. The kind that makes his hackles rise like a particularly disgruntled and cornered street cat. 

Again, he grew up with three siblings! That could not be coming from him. It has to be an Original Goods feeling slipping in, and it was really getting in the way of things! How was he supposed to give Binghe a sense of belonging and a better upbringing if his presence in the bamboo house made him feel horribly exposed?

Some days, he just can't escape the gnawing feeling of dread in his chest when he returns to the bamboo house at the end of the day, knowing full well that it will soon be accompanied by someone else. Even if that someone was Binghe. 

That feeling of a lack of privacy makes his skin crawl and his shoulders lock up to his ears with every step. It was inconvenient; annoying. 

It was utterly unscientific, it was his house! And it was only Binghe, who, currently, is a harmless little white sheep! There was no darkened protagonist here, come to tear his limbs off. There was nothing to be so… tense about. 

It does nothing to stop the little swooping his heart does when he opens the door to, sometimes, Binghe already there, kneeling at the table like a dutiful disciple as always.

Oh, and that's not starting on his steadily increasing dislike of physical touch. It had to be something to do with the ludicrous amount of layers he wears and the modesty standards of the time period — and, also, of course, the Original Goods' own aversion to it.

He knows he's never felt so uncomfortable in another human being's presence before! Sure, he wasn’t the most social of people in his old world, but he still remembers being able to leave the house and be among the masses with relative ease. Here, though, was an entirely different story. His personal space bubble seemingly doubled, no, tripled in size, and it was irking him quite unhandily. 

The worst offenders were the Peak Lord meetings, it had to be. Navigating through the sea of disciples, cultivators, and visitors on Qiong Ding was a nightmare enough on its own — lessened only by the fact that said mountain occupants parted like the red sea when they saw him coming — but sitting in a secluded room with eleven other people, majority of whom still disliked him despite his turnaround? Awful.  

The proximity between him and his martial siblings isn’t even that bad, either. He has plenty of elbow room and in fact, would need to make an effort to reach out and physically touch anyone on either side of him. But, still!! Too close!! 

Shen Qingqiu made the conscious decision to sit as close to the door as his own comfort would allow, but not so close that he couldn’t see it — he tried that once. He doesn’t want to speak of the incident. The stress alone will give him heart palpitations. 

(He, pointedly, doesn’t want to think about the time he arrived at a Peak Lord meeting and found the Long Ning Shou Peak Lord sitting in His Chair either. Shen Qingqiu has never been particularly territorial about ‘assigned seating’ before, up until that moment. While he’s proud to say that he didn’t do anything to Chen Qingxuan for sitting in his spot, he’s mortified by how childishly petulant he felt about it for the rest of the meeting. He’s pretty sure everyone could sense his sour mood.)  

Why, just a few days ago he nearly bit a poor disciple's head off during martial lessons when they accidentally tumbled into him after a series of spectacularly fumbling footing. The child had been so horrified and apologetic that Shen Qingqiu remembered to reel himself back in time and merely scold them, rather than tear their skin right off with a tongue lashing.

But— enough about such stressful things! Shen Qingqiu was painting, and when he was painting, Binghe knew not to bother him, and to not let anyone do so either. Lest they all be dealt with a moderately grumpy Shizun. 

(His emotions may be as volatile as a hormonal boy lately, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t know how to keep them in check!! He still had a reputation to keep.)

His studio offered him a sense of privacy and solitary that not even his bedroom allowed him — for Binghe could knock on his bedroom door to alert him for whatever needed his attention, and while he could do the same to the studio, the fact remained; a Shizun interrupted during his precious studio time, did not, a happy Shizun make. 

There were silencing talismans painted into the walls — courtesy of the Original Goods — that Shen Qingqiu really quite appreciated. It allowed him the peace of mind to do things his face could not allow him outside of it— and that is, he got to muse aloud to himself, and hum songs from his old world that he couldn't anywhere else. Some songs that he still knew the lyrics to, he was happy to half-sing under his breath.

It had to be a form of meditation, it had to be! With how much peace and grounding it brought him, it couldn't be anything but a form of meditation.

Currently, he was just letting instincts lead his brush strokes while he hummed a melody from some myth musical he stumbled across a few weeks before he died. The songs had been so catchy that he had most of them all but memorized! He's tried repeating the instrumentals on his guqin and ruan with varying degrees of success.

Painting helped kill his migraines the most. As it stands, he’s had a killer one hammering at his skull since this morning. Bad enough to the point that he nearly snapped at poor Binghe during breakfast, and the child could all but sense the sour mood radiating off his master, and in turn had been silent and subdued until he left. 

Aish, that child… Shen Qingqiu hasn't quite quelled the guilt in him. Something about that awful subservience rankled him in a way he couldn’t explain, making him want to recoil and snap out at the same time. Something dark and deep in him had reared its head, wanting to reach over and shake Binghe for it. 

He'd been horrified by his own thoughts, and then locked himself in his studio for the rest of the day.

Even in death — or wherever the Original Goods was — he was still making things difficult! It was only natural that Binghe would go quiet and careful at the sight of Shen Qingqiu’s bad mood, he used to beat the boy at whim for imagined slights! He’ll have to reassure Binghe better that he wasn’t going to hurt him. 

Bah. He was supposed to be painting, not thinking about things that made his head pound worse or his mood dampen more! He didn't want to think about Luo Binghe right now — a surprise, even for him! — he wants to focus on the scent of ground ink and paints, and his own soft humming.

He blinks, once, twice, and focuses on the painting. It happens, like now, that he would zone out and paint entire landscapes, people, whatever, without realizing. It was always a guessing game of what he's made when he lets his mind wander. Some of things he painted were merely of Qing Jing, other times— 

— a burning red fire, encased on canvas, hangs off his eyelashes. And following it, the ensuing qi deviation he'd shoved off. —

Other times aren't worth mentioning.

He's painted a boy this time, a young one, with dark skin and even darker hair, and a smile that isn't quite right. There's a beauty mark right above the corner of his lip, artfully placed, as if it had been hand-placed by an expert craftsman. The boy's upper face remains unpainted, as if he’d been born without eyes. Yet, even without them, the boy looks completely serene and non-judgemental. Mn, no, perhaps more accurately he looks passive? Peaceful? 

Shen Qingqiu can feel his gaze, missing as it is, burning into him. He frowns immediately. His headache no less lessened, in fact— he thinks it's gotten worse. There’s a horrid familiarity about the boy in the painting, like a word poised on the tip of his tongue that he can’t quite place. "Don't look at me like that." He says aloud, bah, he hadn't meant to! But it’s not like there’s anyone to hear him. "Don't you know who I am?" 

En, no, it’s placating. That’s what it is. The boy is placating him. How unscientific! Unneeded; ridiculous. Why would he paint a boy trying to placate him? He was a scum villain, and a grown man!

The painting says nothing, as it ought to, it was only wet ink and dry parchment. Shen Qingqiu's ears burn anyways, and his eyes drop down to the smile on the boy's face. 

He finds that he deeply detests that smile on his face, it disgusts him. 

It disgusts him in the way only sheer incompetence can, a burn of irritation that bubbles up every time he saw an objectively wrong take in the PIDW comment section. As if he can't believe someone would look at him, a scum villain such as himself, and still be able to smile like that.

More than that, it's not right. That smile. It's— there's something wrong with it. Which can't be right, Shen Qingqiu hardly makes a mistake when he makes these trance-made paintings. But there is, he’s looking at it right here. He hates it. That awful smile. It's so— so… insincere. If you're going to smile at him, at least mean it, eh? Doesn't he deserve that much?

Long, slender fingers dip into the small wooden paint bowl beside him and lift back up, dripping wet ink onto the side table, and then onto the floor, across the last two layers of his robes that he always strips down to in here.

He reaches for the canvas to— to what? Smear that stupid smile off that boy's face? Mould it into his own image, back into place like the way it should be, paintbrush be damned? That wretched child, smiling at him like that. That smile is too straight, too perfect. It's mocking him.

Where is the tilt? The slant in it? That boy always smiled with an off-kilter turn of his lips, crooked, that made him real the same way blood in the mouth did, and now he's not, and it's wrong. He will wipe that smile off the boy's face himself if he must, if only to get him to wear anything else—

There is a knock on the door, gentle, hesitant. Only his cultivator hearing is what allows him to pick up on it. Shen Qingqiu's head pounds terribly at the sound. It makes a screeching sound go off in the back of his skull, like an abrupt kick to the teeth. His jaw clacks together on pure adrenaline as he regains the sense to not snarl wordlessly.

Didn't he say not to interrupt—?

His ink-stained fingers snap back, a gunshot recoil that sends splatters of ink flying and splatting coldly against his face. His nails dig painfully into the soft flesh of his palm, and Shen Qingqiu gathers himself back into his lofty cultivator persona with a single breath and a ramrod straightening of his spine. His ears ring horribly. "What." He calls, perhaps a little too coldly.

"Shizun?" Binghe says softly, and the sound of that child's voice is like a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. Recognition hits him, and the guilt crawls back in at his earlier irritation. "Forgive this one for interrupting, but Yue-shibo is here."

Shen Qingqiu is still staring at his painting, but the boy’s smile burns behind his eyelids like a fire. It takes half a beat for him to respond; "…Alright," he says, and stands up, "prepare some tea, Binghe. And use the ginger root this master owns, he has a terrible headache."

He walks around the stool, fingers still dripping black, and plucks his robes up from the chair he draped them over. His head still hurts, and there’s a peculiar ache in his heart. He takes his time putting his layers back on, vindictively tying each button and knot leisurely. 

Surely Yue Qingyuan has the patience to wait for this one after he so rudely arrived unannounced, hm?

[amberantlers]

While I overall find the adaption of Glintshore disappointing, there were a few things I did like and find interesting

I do think Percy fighting Ripley (and Orthax) alone is an interesting choice. She's his narrative foil, the other side of the same coin. This is his fight

But this also means he died alone. None of his loved ones were there with him. Ouch (kinda love it tbh. Angsty)

TLOVM Percy wanting to give Ripley an honest chance at redemption is a fascinating choice vs campaign Percy who said "I forgive you but I cannot let you leave." Fascinating, genuinely

[wistfullywaiting2]

Atsushi and Pain

wanted to talk about the 55 minutes pain paragraph so here we are

In fiction, there's always been the trend of finding loopholes to prevent fatal injuries from actually being fatal. Characters magically able to live in situations where they definitely should be dead or sometimes even just brought back to life. Bsd unsurprisingly is no exception, from basically the third chapter and onward Atsushi is constantly taking blows that he only manages to live through because of the "healing" aspect of his ability. Even to the point of losing limbs.

Because of this I find often large injuries in fiction are something you easily become desensitized to, which is why this moment the 55 minutes light novel is so notable to me. Usually something like two bullet wounds (the injuries Atsushi has in the scene) seems simple and almost standard. He is shown getting worse injuries all of the time. So to read that casually and then to be hit in the face with four paragraphs on Atsushi's relationship with pain and for it to be described to the audience that pain is not something he has gotten used to but instead a constant agonizing experience that he has learned to endure throughout the span of years gives the scene so much more meaning. To have pain be described as something Atsushi has learned to perceive as integral to his very identity and existence shifted my entire view on Atsushi character and in all honesty I think of "Atsushi hated pain." everytime that he gets hurt in the main manga.

(Also specification of Atsushi negating his wounds not healing or recovering them was actually monumental to me personally)

[decisions-at-3am]

How cruel it is, To have so much love. And no one To give it to.

[ghost-bxrd]

Reading that bit about wounded/poisoned Dick turning up in Jason's new kingdom to try and bargain with his brother to spare Tim?

That...has the potential to be a GREAT reverse version of the usual fanfic trope of Bruce or Dick seeing Jason and thinking he is a ghost or a hallucination.

Jason, guilt ridden and horrified by what he did, expecting Bruce to turn up any minute with Bat and the army to avenge his 'real' son, not quite sure whether he will fight Bruce if it comes to that point given he's convinced he deserves what he gets now.

Dick, pale and gaunt, looking a bit like something that climbed out of a grave even to a more impartial observer, maybe a bit out of it from the poison and/or infected wounds.

Jason is seeing his brother's ghost haunting him, pleading with him to spare the kid, spare their dad...

I mean the illusion wouldn’t be able to hold up very long unless Dick finds a way to stay hidden from the dragons and all the other people.

But dang Jason would regret everything so much so quickly because he never wanted Dick to die in the first place. Not really. And now thinking he’s being haunted? For the sake of the Replacement? For the sake of Bruce? Ouch.

[lowlightsahead]

Who is he ???

No no who is he

Are we getting a Dazai backstory reveal or is this just the beginning of a realisation like "he is the one who is supposed to guide me and keep me from losing hope" and all that stuff

No seriously who the fuck is this guy

[iamthetruestrepairman]

On your telephone a little walking angel