#i physically cannot handle this

[poughkeepsies]

[pedgito]

pedro woke up today and said i’m ending the entire fandom

[royalarchivist]

Wilbur: Who's the lucky- who's the lucky lady, who's Missa, what's she like?

Phil: It's a dude. *laughs*

Wilbur: Phil, you didn't tell me you were bi, and also polyamorous.

Phil: Definitely not.

Wilbur: What does Kri- what does Kristin think of your- of your... husband?

Phil: SHE'S NOT CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE! And we- and it's not like that, it's not like that- it's uh, we're- it's platonic, we're just dude's hanging out protecting an egg-

Wilbur: Who's the top?

Phil:

[loudcackles]

THE HAIR THE SMILE THE JACKET IM GONNA PERISH

[quirkycritters]

“It’s getting worse again…”

[this-hopeless-war]

i sent my friend this photo (they've read the book but aren't super into the outsiders other than when i'm outsidering at them and they've never seen anything from the musical) and they're first response was "SHES SO CHERRY VALANCE WHAT"

bro GETS IT!!

I can't get over how damn happy she looks

[ravi-is-my-beloved]

Now this might seem like a controversial opinion, but I'd rather have an Eddie NDE than a Buck NDE.

Mostly because Buck's last NDE was only like two seasons ago and Eddie's last one (if my memory is correct) was in season four. Eddie has been put through the emotional wringer a lot (especially since he's still kinda being put through the emotional wringer since Chris hasn't come home yet), but we haven't seen him physically hurt in a while.

So I feel like it'd be so much better if we got an Eddie NDE, especially if that paves the way for Buddie realization/confession.

[dizzybizz]

incoherent mumbling and whimpering and sobbing and-

[wereoz]

girl help it’s autumn and im going thru a rough patch so im regressing and feeling parental over neil perry again

[merakiui]

ALIEN SCARAMOUCHE WITH OVIPOSITION MERA ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME 😭 I need more, what would he look like, what are his motivations... Omg... Maybe some kidnapping going on...some experiments on humans...him studying how humans reproduce and if his race can use them... Aaaa my mind is going crazy with ideas, please do share yours too! <3

What if he doesn’t have a form of his own (something that sort of ties into canon Scaramouche’s obsession with wanting a heart and a purpose)? And maybe he’s more like a shadowy mass that can take the form of anything so long as he’s encountered said thing (i.e. made contact with it? Or maybe he has to kill the original in order to take its form? Or it’s something like a reflection where if you happen to look at him long enough he’ll have a good enough idea of how to replicate your form from staring and analyzing it.) and since he’s so dedicated to having a form that really fits, that truly feels like him, he’s continued to adapt and evolve as the years pass throughout every planet in the solar system.

Perhaps he does have a few features of his own, but maybe they’re sort of scattered?? Or they aren’t really features his species is known to have? He’s like a mixture of various things he’s observed over the time he’s spent on your planet in an effort to shape himself into something beyond the formless shadow he’s lived as for so long. Like a patchwork copycat composed of so many different parts because he’s desperately trying to understand all of these things. It’s like his version of trying on clothes and new fashion styles. So maybe he has horns or maybe cat ears because he’s seen so many stray cats and they’ve always fascinated him for some unexplainable reason (maybe in order to have these features he’s had to ingest part of the living thing he wants to replicate??? Just something a little extra horrifying for our beloved alien mouchey. <3) And maybe the only thing he has from the one who created him (Ei) is the same piercing stare in a pair of brilliantly colored eyes she graciously bestowed upon him.

Maybe Scaramouche can’t understand human emotion in the usual sense that other humans might, so he assigns flavors to these unusual feelings. When he hurts the things he likes or is interested in (cats, the human he stole his current appearance from (i.e. Kabukimono; let’s pretend they’re two separate individuals hehe), and even other gentle things or creatures who are completely innocent), the taste in his mouth is sour or bitter or so very intolerable. I think over time he hardens himself and learns to live with the foul flavors he often encounters when he attempts to blend in with humans and utterly fails because he can never replicate their emotions as well as he can copy behaviors or appearances. He starts his journey so curious and sweetly innocent, albeit murderous and eerie, and he tries so hard to learn and be good and explore the world with the eyes his mother gifted him and yet he always finds himself hurting. He hates it. It tastes terrible. It feels terrible, and he has never truly felt before. This is new.

When Scaramouche is captured by Dottore, a human scientist who is a little too dedicated to the pursuit of forbidden knowledge, he finally tastes the cruelty of humankind—learns of the lengths they’ll go to in the name of scientific breakthroughs. The researchers run dozens of tests on him. He can’t feel external or internal pain from wounds or injuries; he’s sturdy, birthed from a substance foreign to humans, intended to survive the harshest conditions. But Scaramouche feels pain—the emotional kind. He’s never felt fear; he’s what humans would call an apex predator. He’s strong. He’s never needed to feel fear, and so he doesn’t fear the unknown. He isn’t scared of the sharp tools, of the peculiar creatures he’s shown in hopes that he might replicate them and their features, nor does he fear the trajectory of this new life. The concept of ethical practices means nothing to him even though he’s aware he’s a lab rat, a grotesque curiosity that doctors poke and prod at. He reacts to everything in unique, defensive ways. He impaled a doctor through the throat with a strange shadowy spike. It moved as though it were liquid, yet it struck very solidly, sharply, deadly efficient. Dottore likens its movements and behaviors to that of an octopus’s tentacle; Scaramouche is unsure of this comparison. This is merely a shadow of something he has observed—a reflection. A cheap copy. He has never been original.

You’re the first human he meets who isn’t adorned in sterile white. No lab coat, no gloves, no goggles, no protective gear. Just clothes. Normal clothes. The both of you are separated by indestructible glass, placed in two very white rooms, and you can see one another so clearly. Scaramouche hates the purity of white because he knows that when he’s forced into a white backdrop he’s meant to stain it red. And lately he doesn’t want to break things that are undeserving of it. Perhaps he’s feeling too much. Perhaps he ought to tear these human feelings out and go back to the blank, shadowy slate he once was. How he intends to accomplish that, he has no idea.

He’s uninterested in you at first. You’re a human. He’s seen humans. He interacts with them daily. He’s killed plenty. But you spend nights in that white room and he watches you sleep. He tries to sleep in the same way you do; he has no need for sleep. He regulates his energy differently. He tries to breathe like you. He blinks at the same times you blink—or he comes awfully close. He tries to copy your movements and mannerisms. One night he presses himself to the glass and takes your form and watches you, counting every rise and fall of your chest as you lie so comfortably on the very uncomfortable cot. With hands that mirror yours, he pokes at these human features. He fits one hand in the other and pretends he’s holding your actual hand. There is no warmth, though. Humans are warm; Scaramouche is not. He’s frigid. His home planet is gloomy and cold and desolate. He thinks humans are lucky for cyclical days—for being in close proximity to the sun. There is no sunshine where he hails from. He likes the way the sun feels on him. It used to burn terribly when he first arrived on this planet. Now it’s like a hug—a hug that still singes, but a hug nonetheless. He’s never known what a hug is, but he thinks this is what it must feel like—like the burning warmth of a sun.

Scaramouche feels true, raw, animalistic, paralyzing fear when you’re taken out of the room after two weeks and replaced with a new human. You’re gone. Replaced. Are you dead? Did he kill you? Did he stare too long? He’s distraught, overcome with a horrifying emotion that has him curled and trembling in the corner of his white room (a cage if he’s ever known one). Why aren’t you here? And why is he so…restless? He can’t call it fear because he doesn’t know that word. But oh he’s scared. He’s so scared. You were the first human to smile at him, to put your hand on the glass where his rested, to sit close to the glass and eat meals alongside him. You were like the stray cats he’s interacted with: kind, soft, gentle, sweet. He’s so scared he loses the ability to remain in his human skin, and he practically melts into a shadow, clinging to the corner like glue or slime. He’s empty and alone. It tastes terrible. It feels terrible.

The humans that follow are terrified of him. Either that or they’re disgusted, baffled, cautious. He hates every one of them, so much so that he’s tried to break through the glass numerous times to dispose of them. Weeks pass; he’s forgetting your features. There are no mirrors here, so he must rely on the reflections shown in the glass. Some days he thinks he looks just like you; other days he’s certain he’s a monstrosity—a sloppily stitched version of you. The you he saw did not have pointed fangs or curling horns. He hates his reflection because it isn’t you. Most importantly, he hates that the humans he’s forced to look at are protected by this thick layer of glass. If it wasn’t so indestructible, he’d tear through every human nuisance until he reaches you.

Scaramouche is not sure how many months pass, but you return. And when you do the fear ebbs away. He feels…happy? Is that the right term? He’s pleased to see you, and for the first time in a while he returns to his human appearance—to the one he took from a young man many centuries ago. You’re back. You’re here. He’s so happy. He detaches himself from his corner and he tries to smile in the way you do. And, though it’s awkward and strange and sharp-toothed, you smile right back.

Dottore decides then that you are to be the next subject in this experiment. He’s observed Scaramouche’s reactions to you and compared them to reactions to the other humans and found that you are the best suited to this role. If anything, the alien couldn’t have picked a better specimen to adore. You’re helpless and so naïve. You need the money; it’s why you allowed yourself to live in that room for a few weeks. You were paid handsomely for it. He’ll pay you beyond handsomely if you agree to what’s next. And, really, when you’re in between a predator’s jaws do you really have much of a choice?

Scaramouche needs a human match, and the scientists need to study more than just the social biology of an alien. They promise you he won’t hurt you, and if he does it’s all right. They’re kind enough to respect the wishes of the dead. You must let Dottore know if you’d prefer a burial or a cremation. There’s nothing special in this distinction; it’s just a precautionary measure. You’ll agree to participate in this experiment whether or not you want to.

Your new home is the white room that faces Scaramouche, and after some more time and observations to ensure you won’t be killed the moment you step foot in his space the glass barrier will be lifted. Dottore wonders how Scaramouche’s kind mates and reproduces.

There’s only one way to find out.

[mo-ok]

concussion king Yuma Ozora pls observe

[ambidexedition]

some days I am perfectly normal and then other days I think about 999 for two (2) milliseconds and start screaming and wailing and throwing up and

[sankttealeaf]

"for what it's worth, i think i always liked you"

and

"he did miss this"

what if this is how i died hm? hm??? im eating up these crumbs like durge eats flesh are you KIDDING me??

theyre so tragic.

[bxsmxx]

ITS 3AM I WAS ABOUT TO SLEEP BUT?????? HANGING MIC COMEBACK????????? FAIRLY LOCAL AND HEAVYDIRTYSOUL IN SETLIST????????

[nekovale]

i LOVE the chuuya training at Kouyou's brothels hc 💖 and your art is so wonderful

Thank you so much!! <3 And I'm glad lol, at some point I had to check with my friend if it was mentioned in canon that Kouyou actually had brothels and I had missed it, because of how many times I saw it in fics lmao

[whitegoldtower]

Just wanna let my panic disorder and somnophobia folks know that it’s okay if you’re a grown ass adult and still need to hop in bed with your mum/dad/parent.

For me personally, I cannot sleep alone. Luckily I’ve found a way around it: weighted blanket, electric blanket, body pillow, background ambience of people, audiobook. This works for me, but it might not work for you.

Before I figured this out, I’m literally over 20 and my brother (6 years younger than me) would laugh at me because every night between 1 and 3AM I would run into my mother’s bedroom and get into bed with her because my panic attacks convince me that something is seriously medically wrong with me, that I’ll die painfully in the middle of the night or stop breathing in my sleep and that nobody will be around to help me.

He stopped laughing about it when he came into my room when I was already asleep (moments before a panic attack woke me up - he came in at 1AM roughly because he wanted his water bottle and I’d nicked it) and saw that I was thrashing around and making sounds of extreme distress.

The only way to calm me down would be to wake my mother up, get her to check my pulse/temperature, reassure me that my symptoms are just a panic attack and then have her hold me until I would fall asleep.

It’s a fucking nightmare and it’s embarrassing as hell, but you have to do whatever helps, and if that means being a grown man who still needs to be cuddled to sleep by his mother then so be it.