#the i forgive you WOUNDED ME.

[watchingwisteria]

listen i want to hate aziraphale for that “i forgive you” shit but every ex-christian knows it’s a canon event to be conveniently offered a leadership position just as you’re on your way out the door

[tommygettingwrittenoff]

i just think if roles were reversed and buck was the one saying those gay ass lines to eddie, eddie wouldve proposed like four seasons ago

[ultimateloserboy]

im currently in the middle of reading the book of bill and i had to put it down because the nostalgia made me cry a little…

i remember being a kid and never seeing bill as very evil. i knew his actions were wrong but in my innocent little kid brain i saw a guy that deep down just wanted a party. i firmly believed he was misunderstood. i thought that he HAD to have been hurting to be this awful— all i could think was shit like— stop being so mean, mr triangle man! ill have a party with you! you dont have to be awful because i love you!

and i know it’s ridiculous because hes literally just a cartoon villain,,, but ive always held that sympathy for him in my heart even if im older and see him more maturely— a part of me always saw myself in him. to everyone else i was so loud and strange and nobody really liked me… i found stuff that was disturbing or strange to be cool and others disliked me for it. i saw weirdmageddon as the coolest shit EVER!! i knew the way he went about things was shitty but come on man GIANT FLOATING FUCKING PYRAMID??? THAT SHIT WAS FIRE!!!!! i was fully convinced that if he just calmed the fuck down a little with the murder that he could be better—

im very critical of things nowadays, and i hate to defend any character of anything in this way because i hate my own bias, but hes so much different to me.. because i saw him as a child… because i believed he needed love… because if i had met him i wouldve told him hes so cool and he didnt need to be mean to dipper and mabel anymore because he doesnt need to hurt people to be awesome… and sure, that may be pretty unreasonable, but i feel like holding onto that empathy shaped me as a person in some crazy way. i adored him. i adored him so much i wanted him to be better. and even now reading the book, not even halfway done, i still hope he is better. i still believe in him. i still pity him somehow, because i still feel that little kid in the back of my throat.. i still feel that understanding that we are strange and loud and unbearable together…

i know its so fucking stupid but this page of the book got me bad because of the baggage hes holding that i KNEW he had been holding since i was probably like 9… especially with the added context of the axolotl poem..

literally i want to throw up reading this I KNEW YOU WERE HURTING OLD MAN I HEARD IT IN YOUR VOICE I SAW IT ON THE SCREEN I KNEW SINCE I WAS LITTLE!!!!

chat which mental illness symptom is this because its hitting me hard..

[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.

[reel-fear]

Hey if anyone wants to check out Moving Pictures Redrawn [a fan-made remake of the first chapter of BATIM that Mike n Meatly may have ordered to be taken down? It's unsure at the moment] Guess who downloaded a copy before they did that~

[rimouskis]

sigh someone on twitter extolled the virtues of furiosa and said it was better than fury road. I just saw furiosa. they are wrong.

[loud-whistling-yes]

I saw you going insane in the tags and figure I'd give you this idea to work off from:

In double life, having had her loyalty scorned by Scott, she doesn't actually try to win it back at any point. She just tries her hardest to take everything from him (she uses his slip to take ownership of his house but beyond quoting that exact line always refers to it exclusively as *her house* not their house as well as making many attempts to get Cleo to stay with her, even when rabid she never attacked Cleo first,) attempted to make him suffer as much as possible (mostly through the powdered snow but also often in other ways,) and when they had seemingly made up she told him to his face that she planned to betray him and join the other side, so she is unflinching loyal but also incredibly vengeful if that loyalty is tossed away and discarded.

LITERALLY. SHE DRIVES ME SO FUCKING CRAZY I CANT WITH THIS. its almost like she embodies the parts of scott and cleo people associate them with and went absolutely batshit hogwild with it. scott's unwavering loyalty + cleo's bloodthirsty vengeance + pearl's own tendency to fixate ALL that shit towards one and a half of a person and be fucking unhinged while doing it = whatever the fuck dl!pearl was on. she forgives scott at the very last minute when she thinks scott gave up the victory for her BUT by the time limlife comes around you can tell shes not completely over it. like i fucking cant with these two. i CANNOT. the way the two of them work how when together they're unstoppable and loyal to the bitter end but simply by the nature of how they are once betrayed their relationship can NEVER go back to the way it once was. they're two sides of the same coin. pearl is devoted the way scott is loyal and scott is petty the way pearl is vengeful.

like seriously just typing this out i just realised??? the traits many people associate with scott???? how petty he is and how loyal he is???? pearl has it too. the thing with her is that with her she takes it to the extreme and always to one person only. just take a look at her and impulse in limlife. impulse kills her once(1) and she DOES NOT let go of that grudge for the rest of the entire fucking series. im not joking rewatch the whole fucking thing again and count the number of times she declares wanting to kill impulse after the boogie kill. scott might do it more frequently but when pearl hates someone shes never letting that shit go

and the fact that she dies this season, underwater, stabbed by scott, trashing around and yelling "this isnt fair"? i wonder if that's another grudge she'll be keeping for a lifetime

[bisan-is-trying]

Every time i see ads for language courses, I'm like, ooooh, should i?? Maybe it would be easier learning the language from someone whose job is to teach it? But then i remember i "studied" hebrew for 4 years in college, and all i graduated with were basic grammar rules and like 30 words.

[reynardodo]

I once again reached the 'Reynard… I beg you. Say it‘s not so. Tell me it‘s a filthy lie.' and 'To see son stand against mother rent my heart. I… I… wished to help.' part and once again have yet to recover from it. The way he begs her for another chance when she sends him away and her voice breaks when she answers 'No' is just too much.

[cassandralexxx]

the world is in a disastrous state of affairs when people are supporting a school shooter over the community bc “forgiveness is free” and “are people not allowed to change”

[everdreamtree]

I hope everyone lives their best lives that they want to live. Live the way that you want and with all the freedom that you can have.

You are the most important person in your life. Yes, there will be others that are very important to you too, but don't forget about yourself. Who you are and how you feel matters.

Take care of yourself. Be happy.

[vhssnuff]

gore turns me on way more than anyone could ever know and at this point? garbled noise over tv static

[chamerionwrites]

Back on my bullshit (by which I mean, in this case, both "Skyrim" and "being unhinged about fraught father figure relationships even when they're not all that central to the narrative") but. Occasionally I think about how what we see of Arngeir's characterization beyond generic mystical mentor type is basically that of a guy with a naturally hot temper who, over the course of a long life spent meditating in a monastery, has painstakingly learned (though not mastered!) the art of chilling the fuck out or at least graciously apologizing (even as that same cloistered religious lifestyle has probably also fueled a bit of a stubborn/dogmatic streak).

And then I think about what this potentially suggests re: his feelings toward noted local stubborn intemperate hothead Ulfric Stormcloak (y'know, the guy who broke all their previously-shared religious vows yet still deferentially refers to him as "Master Arngeir") and go ever so slightly insane

[piraticalwit]

@twistedwit: finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for . (soldier)

The pub is a haze of smoke and laughter, a blend of music from an ill-tuned guitar played by a shy owner with a quavering voice and the shouts of a crowd that insult and encourage with equal fervor... and from his chosen table in the back corner, Killian watches through a warm fog of drink. Dimly he's aware of a sharp crack on a what should've been easy note, and a small voice in the corner of his mind wonders why someone hasn't put the poor sod out of his misery already, phantom fingers plucking at invisible strings as an aching wrist is shoved further into his jacket pocket. Smee laughs at one of Starkey's jokes, a loud and raucous noise followed by a flush of embarrassment as he realizes too late that he's reacted too soon ... so afraid of being left in the dark by those he considers friends that he's willing to risk the part of the fool. His eyes flicker toward their appointed leader, the glue that holds their band of misfits together despite the jagged thundercloud that so often lashes out like a whip, as if awaiting Killian's judgment - but the Irishman is too lost in the weight of the knee currently nudging against his own to give a damn about poking at the easy target that is William Smee.

A single brow arches as that leg nudges his all the harder, stubbled features giving way to the grin that slides slow and easy across rum flavored lips. Fingers seek out the older man's own, interlacing in a tangle of warmth and acceptance that sends his heart thudding against the hollowed cage of his chest while he does his best to feign interest in whatever the fuck Starkey and Cecco are arguing about now. It's the same really - aye, it's as if nothing has changed. Poor acoustics and a packed pub giving way to a night where they all spend many a hour talking over the top of one another and doing their best to drown less important people out. Smee is confused as always, head swiveling this way and that and brows furrowed as if he's trying to work out whether or not any of them are having the same damn conversation... Cecco is loud and boisterous, thumping the table in emphasis of some strongly held opinion that no one gives a shit about while carefully avoiding the reach of any punch that Starkey might decide to throw at him.... and Starkey is that ever stalwart presence, the one who watches the castle fall down around him and spends every waking second patiently repairing it, stone by stone meant to bolster his best friend's ego and keep their half rotten dinghy afloat. Killian watches it all with fascination, wonders how things can feel no different when so many things are (the loss of a hand, the gain of a new addition), and carefully avoids that knowing grin that his best friend (first mate, as he likes to say) sometimes throws his way.

Later, when they've all stumbled their way out the door and into the cold night air (some more gracefully than others), the Irishman holds back, pretends an attempt at regaining his balance by leaning against the rough brick wall, hand and wrist shoved firmly into pockets. He plans on apologizing, maybe saying something vague and offhanded in the chance that his date has spent the last four hours trying to plan an escape from the three ringed circus that is Killian Jones and his band of misfit followers, but he remembers the playful nudge underneath the table and the way his fingers felt wrapped in the other man's own .... so when Guy steps in front of him, a presence he can feel as if the very air is charged between them, forget-me-not blues open to meet ones so akin in color to their own.

"Hello, gorgeous." It's a playful greeting, a slur of words carried on a drink flavored lilt.. but before he can offer up anything else (a joke maybe.. or an offer to use the measly amount of money in his wallet to buy them a pizza or something..), the other man is catching his chin with a grip that he is fairly sure sends his heart leaping from his chest and into the middle of the bloody pavement.

Fuck.

The kiss, when it comes, is everything he had always wondered if it would be - a promise sealed in mint and scant beer and the taste of something that he will later come to know is distinctly Guy and the Irishman feels the what was give way to what will be. Somewhere the shadow of his life before the desert heat and the harsh flames of a vengeful god evaporates into the night, and some new part of him leaps at this chance of hope and rightness that weaves its way into his bones. When the older man moves to pull away, fingers creep out from their hiding spot inside his coat to curl around the nape of the taller man's neck, drawing him down until their foreheads rest against one another. The pub has emptied now, the last few stragglers have made their way down the street, unheeding of the two lives that are changing a mere meter or two away from them, and as a hush falls around them, blue eyes meeting blue, Killian is almost certain he can hear the moon overhead whisper his earlier statement, stars echoing it with a playful chuckle.

Hello, Gorgeous.

[dirt-str1der]

Kazu/maji is soooooo different than sae/maji this is because saejima and majima are best friends who go together everywhere and frequently close the toilet door in each others faces because they keep trying to follow each other inside and the other guys like No. im going to take a shit and kiryu and majima are like guys who are knotting each other every time they meet and conjoined at the groin , like majima will carry kiryus baby and saejima will raise it with him you know what i mean theres a lack of commitment (but no shortage of passion) with majima and kiryu theyre each others one night stand every single night but saejima and him stick with each other through thick and thin come hell or high water

[superconductivebean]

#312: >_> <_<

low-key amused at wright's awkward crush on sharp she didnt realise she had if not for imelda pestering her about it all the time bc of some vicious rumor, following #294

not me writing lines in tags again