#so ''too much'' was generally ''any''

[ourceliumnetwork]

the list of traumas i need to unpack still and my coping mechanisms (or, more frequently, lack-thereof) keeps getting longer and i'm not sure i like that. I think i like less how much i already know they're hangups before they become a problem i have to actively work on, too.

[snarkspawn]

did I doodle this mostly so I had an excuse to draw this spite reaction image?

(YES HAHAHA YES!!!)

[inkskinned]

you know, you know. no gods, no masters, no kings on pedestals. everyone is fallible. death of the author. you know! you are balanced about your intake of media - you allow the wiggle room, the grace, the gratitude, the skepticism. nobody above criticism.

but still. a weird gut-punch feeling, something akin to betrayal. you read the article. surprise! an author you love is actually: a serial fucking predator.

well, shit. what now. no, you knew he was a person (all people are), but now you're wondering - what have i overlooked by accident? what messages have i internalized that are strange and cruel? and also, like, what the fuck?

his actions lay a thick glaze on top of everything. like each place is now ruined, opaque in a new way. but okay, fine, you've done this before. you knew better, right? you've been betrayed by many a cherished childhood author.

still, this stickiness. fuck. can you pick up that book again. will you read it to your children. you've recommended it to others - will you ever do that again? and of course, of course, no parasocial relationships. you were theoretically above this kind of sentiment. but the artist informs the art, right.

so it's not something as clear-cut as feeling he owed you, specifically (a stranger) better behavior - just that you kind of, in a distant and odd way... sort of trusted him to do better. it's not like a real trust or something speakable, just the faint hope that the product (good books) was a thin representation of the soul. now it feels like the product (good? books?) was a mask. in some small or insignificant way, your previous support of this person lent them power. your money and your time and your laughter.

and the thing is - you have this terrible, echoing sensation. how many times will this happen? over and over. you find out that the singer you love is actually a predator. you learn over drinks that your favorite high school english teacher is in jail for what he did to her. you listen to the news idly and suddenly discover that a woman you used to idolize has been abusing her kids for an actual eon.

what can you touch without the static melting off. you can't even really complain about it too much (you were supposed to know better, and besides, you don't want the same re-split "it's not your fault, love what you love" basic advice), but now it's here. somehow, it feels like - you let him into your life.

it's not that things need to be pure or an artist has to be like, endlessly perfect, mindful. demure. it's more just this terrible truth that has been replayed through your veins so often it feels criminally vain. power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely. did you want any one person to be worth that power?

it's just that he wrote books where he seemed to understand that. he seemed to know about hierarchies and unfair systems and bigotry and privilege. you thought they were books about what it means to struggle. you thought they were about having power and still using it for good rather than for control. he spooned you a narrative of being a good guy, a kind soul. you fucking bought what that fucking monster sold.

maybe that's why they were fantasies, after all.

[cozylittleartblog]

Columbo and the Knight (1984)

put me in the universe where Columbo ran through the 1980s and had a crossover episode with Knight Rider. I think they deserved it, and I am not just saying that because they're my two favorite Old Shows. @telebeast wrote a little fanfic blurb about it and I HAD to visualize it into a comic (which is also the longest comic I have finished thus far at five pages...), so writing credit goes to them.

Autism W!

[lapdogchase]

"polyamorous relationships never work" don't like nearly half of marriages in the US end in divorce. i don't think monogamous relationships work either

[lanschpaket]

Eyes

Arcane S02E08 Killing is a Cycle

Here a masterpost/gifset with focus on Caitlyn's and Vi's eyes in their cell block tango the lesbian sex scene

[hadthatdreamagain]

starting a collection

[adhdandcomics]

perhaps the most important question i’ve ever asked:

does anyone have tips for people trying to stop being chronically late to everything in the world that aren’t weirdly judgmental and aggressive or flat out lies

[moeblob]

Gavin mentally: wait... that doesn't add up........

[elftwink]

idk what people pleaser needs to hear this, but everyone at work liking you is the nightmare scenario. there is no light at the end of the tunnel doing that where everyone loves you forever. if you had to crush any parts of yourself to be likable you will forever have to keep the pressure on and you will never get to relax. you have to say no and you have to say I disagree and you have to say actually I didn't like that or I thought it was unfair and most of all you have to stop automatically agreeing before you even have a chance to think about if you do agree. it will feel very painful but it's the difference between stepping on a sharp rock and living with a small splinter in your foot for 20 years. also your coworkers liking the version of you that never complains and always agrees with them is not liking you it is actually them liking themselves which you are reflecting back to them. there is no such thing as everyone liking you. remember this or suffer the consequences

[martyrbat]

my secret confession is i think a lot of current art in comics is pretty but sometimes way too glossy and lifeless... it kinda feels like a sticker sheet where they just swap out generic stock poses that they have on hand for that character rather than the art being reflective of the actual story and moment the character is currently in

[front-facing-pokemon]

[catscidr]

dottore lowkey teaches u how to dissect a dead body to preserve and sell study the organs but make it romantic and weird and im tired cw; gn!reader, descriptions of blood and organs, tension, confession? sorta

His hand is atop your dominant one while your fingers hold onto your scalpel tightly, making sure your grip is steady and precise. Slowly drawing incision after incision, you watch blood seep out of the cuts you make. The flow of it is so slow and serene it nearly brings you peace, as you observe it slide across the corpse’s skin silently.

(plus, you’re doing a decent job cutting it up since there are no surprise blood geysers, so the slow trickle of blood almost counts as a reward for your good work.)

It trickles down the dips and indents of the body, leaving a faint trail of crimson down, down, down until it reaches the cold vivisection table. You watch it form a small pool of ichor, and only when Dottore hums a soft, low 'focus' do your eyes snap back to the cadaver’s torso, where your blade rests.

After you lift the scalpel away from the skin, he slides a swift hand beneath the cut to push the flesh and sinew aside, bearing organs to the cold air of the operation room.

Watching him work so fast and casually after taking the time to teach you how to do something as simple as cutting skin makes your body run warmer than it should when faced with such a gruesome sight. His bloodied hands gently pry the scalpel from your hands, and you do nothing but observe as he works.

Slicing, pulling, prodding, tearing. You subconsciously lean over further, eyes focused on the way his hands and fingers pry apart the deceased’s organs from one another. If you didn’t have a problem disrespecting the dead, you would say that the Harbinger was doing so almost elegantly.

The previously empty metal platter fills with what looks like bloody chunks of meat as Dottore places each organ in it one by one, hollowing out the upper body. The incision might have been a pinch too small, you think, because you notice some streaks of blood that had already oxidized on the bare skin of his forearms from where he had to reach under the skin to take… whatever it was he grabbed.

You weren’t really paying attention to the organs anymore.

You’re pulled out of your musings when Dottore snaps his fingers to grab your attention. Looking up at him for the first time in what felt like hours, you spot a twinkle of amusement in his carmine gaze.

“Apologies, but I’ve called your name twice and you didn’t react. Is something on your mind?” You blink, swallowing down the embarrassment from catching you red-handed, daydreaming about him—not that he knows that’s what you were thinking about, anyways.

...well, maybe he does.

“No, sir. I was just studying your, um... technique," you cough. "Did you need me to do something?” You feel sweat bead at your temple, nervous that he could somehow see your thoughts.

He nods, the corners of his lips curling up into the faintest smile. “Yes, actually.” Turning his back to you, he shields your sight from the carcass on the table. “Hold your hands out, palms facing up and close your eyes.”

Setting hesitancy aside you follow his instructions, keeping your eyes firmly shut. Now unable to rely on your sight, your ears pick up on the tiniest of noises; you hear the sound of a particularly obscene squelch, followed by a quiet, seemingly irritated hum.

You hear the sound of clothes shuffling mixed with a similarly grotesque, squelch-y noise; as soon as the room fills with silence again, warmth spreads across your palms. You bite back the urge to open your eyes to take a peek. Dottore watches your face carefully, examining every twitch and shiver of your skin with rapt attention.

"You can look now," he hums, a smile hiding beneath his tone.

...Your eyelids suddenly feel super glued shut. Pushing through the nerves, you crack your eyes open, gaze immediately focusing on Dottore's face. He scoffs, amused at your sudden demure change in demeanor and glances down at your hands in silent encouragement.

Slowly peering down, your eyes widen as you gawk at the fresh, large organ in your hands, staining your disposable azure gloves a deep scarlet. You're almost unsure of what you're even looking at—all previous anatomical knowledge having flown right out of the window the second your eyes fell on the wet, goopy mess in your hands.

There are no arteries jutting out from the organ, so a heart is out of the question; it was too big to be one, anyways. It can't be the pancreas either, so maybe a stomach? Or—

"Good thing this isn't an evaluation, huh?" Your gaze snaps upwards to the sound of the Harbinger's mocking but light tone, shoulders squaring in pathetic defense. "You're putting me on the spot," you huff indignantly.

(Thank the Archons the only light in the room was the obnoxious overhead light above the table so the fine changes of your features can go unnoticed.)

Taking a step forward, Dottore swiftly invades your personal space as he brings his hands up to cup your own, not unlike how he held your hands a while ago to guide them. He looks down, and your gaze follow his, hand in hand.

You imagine a pulse. Blood flowing through, hundreds, billions, trillions of cells traversing lobes and segments—imagine that it's part your own body in the palm of your hands, held together by the man before you.

(The horrible, irredeemable man before you. Standing, observing, waiting oh so patiently. And he would wait an eternity if need be, for you have been safe from his hand the moment he shared a part of his humanity with you.)

Ridding your throat of the lump that had formed, you crack a nervous smile. "Is this supposed to be a test, or are you trying to be romantic?"

Returning a ghost of a smile, Dottore raises a brow. "Do you really think this is how I flirt?" he asks with uncharacteristic softness. Bloody, gloved fingers trace mindless patterns along your hand, and goosebumps bloom beneath your skin.

"The liver is often thought of as the source of one's passion," he murmurs. "It is also said to be the seat of life and the soul. While I can't prove nor disprove these claims using scientific research, I have come to understand why people view it as such."

Your hands feel slimy even with the latex barrier between your skin and the large liver in your palms, but with this discomfort comes elation.

"It only took me losing my own to comprehend," he continues quietly. You feel his breath grazing your forehead—it makes you itch and burn with the urge to look up, but you abstain yourself.

Dottore's hands slide up, cupping the sides of the organ, containing it solely to your hold. Long ago had his sights left the mound to gaze at your features. Looking at you wasn't all that dissimilar, after all.

(Thinking hard on his words, you want to ask him to teach you how to give him a liver of your own, next time.)

[turtleblogatlast]

“Haven’t You Noticed (I’m a Star)” from Steven Universe works so ridiculously well for Leo

[carmen-in-space]

exile arc hurts so much BECAUSE of the stupid fun they're having right now. there's pain and suffering. but in the moment. they're having a good time. it will go back to pain. but there were good parts too

[prolibytherium]

Would kill to read animal POV fiction that has the animal POV’s interaction with humans be like, semi realistic to the level of caution most predators take with large prey and/or competitors (including humans).

Like instead of the usual - “the human is such a weak, pathetic creature... so slow, no claws, blunt teeth… completely helpless without its 'Fire Sticks'. how is it the master of the earth?” type crap it’s like, the bear protagonist or whatever approaches some dude who spreads their arms and yells and the bear is like “FUUUUUUUUCK THAT THING JUST GOT HUGE. IT'S LARGE AND MAKING NOISES. HOLY FUCK.”