#I thought this was agreed upon

[kris-bliss]

why do people forget and or just do it cause they don't care but its so fucking annoying. I thought it was like agreed upon that when you name the character we are supposed to be... ITA NOT X READER ITS X OC. cause thats not my fuckin name and i know it's not others. OR if you give them a like specific description. Again NOT FUCKING X READER. THATS NOT ME THATS AN OC.

please please please pretty fucking please stop tagging things like this as x reader cause it's just not. You can't have it be a reader insert when i myself can't put my name or think of my own features cause you already made that. So just tag it right, its character x oc, not x reader. Its different if you're talking about body types but thats why theres tags like the chubby!reader one. just tag shit right. 💋💋💋

[gale-force-storm]

I'm really just Feeling Things tonight about the conversation with Gale after Elminster's visit and like. Gale is So Insistent that if Mystra says he needs to blow himself up, then it must be the best option. The only option. And of course he is! Because what's the alternative? If there's another way, any other way, that means either

1. Mystra doesn't care enough to consider whether there might be another option. Gale blowing himself up is the easiest solution, so that's what she goes with. Or, even worse,

2. She does know there's other options, but tells him to sacrifice himself anyways, because it gets rid of two of her problems at once.

Gale doesn't just assume she's right because she's a goddess. He goes along with it because of what it implies about him, and her, and how she sees him if there is another way. He has to believe that this is the only option. Because the alternative? That he's disposable at best and actively unwanted at worst? That's just too much to bear.

[epickiya722]

I said it here, but I'm not going to act as if Sukuna bringing Yuji back to life twice was any favor to Yuji.

Yuji himself would have rather die with Sukuna.

The first time Sukuna brought Yuji back to life (after he killed him, mind you) was because he wanted to use Megumi later after seeing what Megumi is capable of. Yuji is one of the closest people to Megumi and Sukuna was definitely going to extort that.

The second time in Shibuya wasn't really even Sukuna's doing because it was Jogo and the Hasaba Twins' doing. And what does Sukuna do with Yuji's body?

He kills people.

"Oh, but he defeated Mahoraga."

While he killed people. Sukuna is well aware of how to limit just how far his techniques can go. Sukuna could easily have made his techniques just hit Mahoraga. Sure, there were people caught in the crossfire and he couldn't be able to avoid them... but does that excuse him later showing Yuji what he had done?

He meant to kill people and he meant to do it to break Yuji. He's selfish, he's cruel. And even if there was a reason for his behavior, what reason does he have to be that way towards Yuji who didn't ask to be born and practically planned to be his vessel? That's not Yuji's fault.

Yuji does not need to be grateful for a damn thing Sukuna has done. Why in the fuck would Yuji be grateful to the one person who had done nothing but be malicious to him?

"Oh, yes, thank you, Lord Sukuna for bringing me back to life even though you have used my body to destroy many lives including the people I care about."

[chirpsythismorning]

bylers when over 350k people don’t have the exact same thoughts and opinions as them

[romance-rambles]

godheim clarence | because it's you

On a seemingly normal day, as he's braiding your hair in the morning, your husband asks you if he should cut his hair. You try to be brave about it.

1.6k, post-clarence epilogue, misunderstandings + fluff, reader is mc, series: none

"SHALL I CUT MY HAIR short too?"

You register your husband's words as a joke at first. Why would you not? It flows so seamlessly from your own, after all—about how he might actually thank you for freeing up his time in the mornings if you chop off your long hair.

You know full well Clarence will not.

It is not enough to prevent you from chasing after your favorite kind of high. The one where he huffs exasperatedly and tells you as much, as a lovely but faint scarlet hue spreads across his cheek. The one that leaves you with the singleminded desire to kiss him, which you waste no time in doing—because you can.

So, expecting to see a hint of mirth in his blue eyes, you roll your eyes and watch him through the vanity's mirror with an unfaltering grin.

There is none.

Instead, the mirror reflects only the almost clumsy seriousness you've come to expect in his endeavors to prove himself worthy of being your husband. It is both flattering and worrying.

And sometimes, it makes you wonder if you were too harsh on him in the early days of your time together in the void, when you demanded apology after apology from him. Then, you remember that he's the same man who catches fishes only to free them in the end—and that this is simply sort of endearing idiot he is.

It helps immensely.

"Would you like to?" you ask carefully, concealing your silent insults with a half-awkward smile.

You would not like him to.

But it is rare for Clarence to express an interest in his appearance outside of what you make of it. His most frequently worn coat is the one you once complimented him, under a brightly-lit street lamp as he wrapped his scarf around you instead. He always buys the same fragrance, and only when it runs out, with a polite explanation of My wife likes this one the most that drives most merchants mad.

The only response he's ever offered when shopping for clothes is: If you like it, I'm fine with wearing it.

Biting back a scowl, you add, "I think you'd look good with short hair."

Of course he would. Even putting aside his hairstyle when he was younger, your husband is handsome enough to pull anything off.

You are, of course, very biased—it's an accusation you've never tried to deny.

"I see." With a pleased hum, Clarence ties off your braid. "Then I'll pick out a date. Would you like to come along?"

He's careful to adjust the hair tie first, concealing any stubborn tufts hair poking through between the gaps before he reaches for your usual red ribbon. Then, with a practiced ease that comes only with years' worth of repetition, he loops it through the hair tie and twists into a proper bow.

Today, you cannot find it in yourself to admire his careful movements through the mirror.

"I'm never going to hear the end of it if I do that," you answer, shuddering a little at the thought. The people at this village are mostly kind, but a few of the louder ones tend to comment on Clarence's tendencies a bit too frequently for your liking. "You remember what happened last time, don't you?"

Your fingers traverse down the full length of your neatly-braided hair to pull it over your shoulder. Their grasp on the end of it lasts for only a second before your hand falls to the edge of your stool. Gulping, you swivel around and soon find yourself properly face to face with your husband.

He smiles faintly. "In a sense, they weren't wrong."

To properly hold onto his face, you have to scoot closer to the edge. Clarence bends down slightly, further easing the burden on your arms. Your eyes narrow fondly at him before you ruin the moment by smushing his cheeks.

"They were insulting you," you correct him, indignation fueling your flat tone. "I'd say they were very wrong."

His expression grows helpless and fond. Wrapping his hands around your own, he settles down onto the hardwood floor. In doing so, he ignores your chiding entirely; instead, he looks at you with a hint of reverence in his gaze.

"Perhaps," Clarence agrees softly. "I've heard worse."

Inhaling sharply, you press your foreheads together. When you next speak up, your tone is softer. "Do you have a cut in mind?"

"The same as it was when I was younger, I suppose," he says, sounding a bit uncertain.

You do your best approximation of a nod. You're not entirely certain what brought this on, but that won't stop you from being the most supportive wife to ever be supportive. As you squeeze his hands gently, you hope he can sense your resolve.

"Alright," you say, a bit forcefully, as you press a kiss to his forehead. "—now get off the floor. It's my turn to do your hair."

IT'S WHEN YOU'RE CAREFULLY UNTANGLING your braid at night that you remember the conversation from that morning.

"Did you decide on a date?" you ask curiously.

Clarence hums. "I didn't get the chance to quite yet."

He's watching you from his side of the bed, both hands occupied by a book he stopped reading the moment you walked in after your nighttime routine. When you shake your hair back to normal and settle under the blankets, he wordlessly turns the lamps off, with only a flick of his hand.

Accepting his answer, you snuggle up against his chest, fully intent on going to sleep—

Except you can't.

Curiosity nags at you, offering you the same question over and over again in the hopes that you'll break. And break you do as you call out your husband's name.

You can't quite make out what his expression is, but you know he isn't asleep. It's only been a few years—just a little over a decade, to be precise—since they've reunited. Adjusting to a life within the bounds of time, you know, takes some time, especially for someone like Clarence who had seemingly outgrown the need to sleep even before he entered the nothingness.

"Clarence," you whisper, "what made you want to cut your hair?"

For a moment, he remains silent. You can hear his beating heart, and that is enough to let you know that he's flustered.

"Clarence?"

"You said I looked very handsome," he says finally. "The other day."

Upon hearing those words, your mind offers you nothing noteworthy. To you, calling your husband handsome is no different making sure your heart's intact. You think you might actually die if you don't tell him, but you haven't tested it before.

Your heart, however, is filled to the brim with affection for this man, the one you've searched nearly your entire life for.

Even if you do want to throttle him a little bit.

"You'll have to be more specific, dear," you tell him, gently touching his cheek. He's warm, you think. You're tempted to turn the lights back on. "I'm sure I say that every day. And why would that make you want to cut your hair?"

Clearing his throat, he adds, "To be more specific, you didn't say it to me necessarily. You were—" Clarence pauses, a hint of uncertainty to his next words. "—talking about my younger self."

Oh.

The gears in your head start to turn. Now, you can faintly recall the memory of you waxing poetically about the man whose image remains in use on one of the most popular and frequently sold-out stamps even now, centuries later. Mostly, you remember smiling through a comment about how carefully you must've chosen your husband—as if she hadn't pressured into picking a man other than your husband to gush about.

You would've chosen the Archmage who seemingly had no relation to your husband regardless, but it would've been nice to know ahead of time.

Because you do have eyes, Eliza. That's how you know there isn't a man alive that's more attractive than Clarence.

Still, there hadn't been any deeper meaning when you chose his younger self specifically. There'd been a stamp nearby and you'd used it as a reference, in the hopes that it would help the other ladies downplay your incredible knowledge of his features.

You're almost certain they think you're deranged.

"Clarence." You giggle, suddenly amused. "Clarence. You look very handsome today."

Clumsily, you press a loving kiss to his forehead. Then, to the mole under his eye, to the tip of his nose, to his other cheek, until finally, you kiss him on the lips. At some point, while you're busy being productive, he goes from laying on his side to laying on his back.

"What brought this on?"

He sounds bewildered. You think it's cute.

After taking a moment to compose yourself, you begin to explain. Throughout, he's mostly silent, save for the occasional acknowledgement. Still, you don't have to worry about whether he's listening or not.

Until the very end, his hands—still wrapped around you—give him away.

"I like your long hair just as much, because—" You give him another peck on the lips. "—I love you. No matter what, you're always the best-looking man in the room."

Clarence wastes no time in answering you, though he very nearly chokes on his words. "And I...you."

"Good." Feeling satisfied, you rest your head against his chest. "Do you still want to cut your hair? ...Clarence?"

"I think," he says, clearing his throat. "It's fine the way it is."

You don't try to point out why.

[roughbuddy]

does anyone else wonder if your family members and friends actually care about you or they’re just pretending to? is anyone else just waiting for the day to come when they stop pretending to care? because you think that if you were another person who met yourself you would hate you? and you over analyze every time you’re with someone else to look for clues that they actually hate you? and you’re too scared to try and make new friends because you think they’ll hate you?

i keep thinking of what a catch donnie.

ive got troubled thoughts and the self esteem to match

[eyedove]

taako provides literally everyone on the ship their fucking hormones. it is the burden of being the local transmutation wizard. he never gets to use his transmuter's stone for anything else.

once he goes back to providing magnus his testosterone, he very often and very proudly proclaims to anyone who will listen that magnus is on steroids (and that there's a benevolent mastermind behind the delicate balance of mega muscles and puppy-dog temperament and his name is taa-aa-aa-aako, you are fucking welcome)

[sysig]

Animal collection as a hobby, a perfect fit! (Patreon)

[icy-vulpine]

Alright, chapter six of Signals, Space, and Shrimp is sitting at 2107 words now. Apologies for the wait, I've been busy playing the VotV 0.8.0 test build, which is now out as an actual update. On a side note. To all content creators that put uncensored spoilers in the thumbnail of the video, I hope you stub your toe.

[ghostyolive]

Okay but it actually drives me insane just how good Aoi’s design is in 999. One thing that really confused me even after finishing 999 was the relevance of his Santa story in non-safe-end door 6 routes. Like was it there just to be edgy? How did it play into who he was as a person? And then I noticed something about his outfit at 15 compared to 24.

His outfit distinctly changes from having black as the predominant color to being more focused on white. Which is. Hmm.

Something something the original Santa story could be a metaphor for loss of childhood innocence and Aoi feeling as if the younger version of him died (or was killed by himself) after the events of the first nonary game.

[nova-as-a-star-cluster]

tfw you’re reading a positivity post and you’re like “Yeah! Yeah, definitely! I feel so validated rn!” Only to be hit with ‘endos fuck off’ in the tags.

I was just joyous. Stripped away from me like velcro!

-blurry

[hunxi-after-hours]

collecting some of the thoughts in The Disappearance of Rituals on performance, communication, and authenticity:

Chapter 1: "The Compulsion of Production"

"Digital communication is increasingly developing into communication without community. The neoliberal regime encourages communication without community by isolating everyone as the producer of him- or herself. Producing is derived from the Latin verb producere, meaning presenting or making visible. Like the French produire it still carries the meaning of presenting. Se produire means 'to play to the gallery'. The colloquial German expression sich produzieren probably has the same etymology. Today, we are constantly and compulsively playing to the gallery. This is especially the case, for instance, on social media: the social is coming to be completely subordinated in order to garner more attention. The compulsion of self-production leads to a crisis of community. The so-called 'community' that is today invoked everywhere is an atrophied community, perhaps even a kind of commodified and consumerized community. It lacks the symbolic power to bind people together" (13).

Chapter 2: "The Compulsion of Authenticity"

"The society of authenticity is a performance society. All members perform themselves. All produce themselves. Everyone pays homage to the cult of the self, the worship of the self in which everyone is his or her own priest" (16).

"Taylor's moral justification of authenticity ignores that subtle process, within the neoliberal regime, by which ideas of freedom and self-realization are transformed into vehicles for more efficient exploitation. The neoliberal regime exploits morality. Once it is able to present itself as freedom, domination becomes complete. Authenticity is a neoliberal form of production. You exploit yourself voluntarily in the belief that you are realizing yourself. In the cult of authenticity, the neoliberal regime appropriates the person himself and turns him into a highly efficient site of production" (18).

"With the rise of the cult of authenticity, tattoos have also become fashionable again. Within a ritual context, they symbolize the alliance between individual and community. In the nineteenth century, when tattoos were very popular, especially among the upper classes, the body was still a surface onto which yearnings and dreams were projected. Today, tattoos lack any symbolic power. All they do is point to the uniqueness of the bearer. The body is neither a ritual stage nor a surface of projection; rather, it is an advertising space. The neoliberal hell of the same is populated with tattooed clones" (20).

"The culture of authenticity goes hand in hand with the distrust of ritualized forms of interaction. Only spontaneous emotion, that is, a subjective state, is authentic. Behaviour that has been formed in some way is denigrated as inauthentic or superficial. In the society of authenticity, actions are guided internally, motivated psychologically, whereas in ritual societies actions are determined by externalized forms of interaction. Rituals make the world objective; they mediate our relation to the world. The compulsion of authenticity, by contrast, makes everything subjective, thereby intensifying narcissistic tendencies" (23).

[hypnoneghoul]

I thought era 0 ghouls already had names😭

[pennielane]

been thinking about this a lot, how aside from their obvious talent, the secret to the beatles’ success was their humility and their hubris

[andromeda3116]

of all the questions i thought to trip me up with writing this story, the "did the ancient lost city of akkad probably experience much in the way of thunderstorms?" to be the one that i'd have to pay nasa for to read a paper of even passing reliability

[northeasternwind]

Considering writing a short Frogwares Games/Canon (or more likely Granada since then I don't have to deal with Watson's marriage I'M SORRY MARY I JUST LIKE SIMPLICITY) crossover isekai thing where the wave at the end of The Awakened dumps frogwares!boys into a parallel dimension and now Canon Holmes and Watson have to sit here and watch going oh god. We're fathers now

Canon!Holmes: I think a trip to the Diogenes is in order here

Frogwares!Holmes: a trip to the what

Canon!Holmes: WHAT DO YOU MEAN A TRIP TO THE WHAT oh god it's worse than I thought

Poor Sherlock and Watson get to deal with their Cthulhu trauma by obtaining two middle-aged fathers. For literally zero reason I love the fanon that Holmes's father is the one who taught him to box, so he learns that Frogwares!Holmes can't box, immediately deduces half his tragic backstory, goes oh my god you poor child and then realizes holy shit I have an intellectual equal and I can teach him boxing.

Frogwares!Holmes is traumatized but maybe beating up his "older brother" will help. LMFAO.

My idea here is to posit that the fanon "eldest brother Sherrinford" does exist but died stillborn in Frogwares verse, causing the Holmes couple to wait a little longer between babies and making them more demonstrably affectionate toward the sons they did have. Canon Mycroft is as chill as he is because his parents were SUPER detached and he wasn't expected to inherit the estate, so Canon Holmes learns that Frogwares!Sherrinford and the Diogenes club don't exist and puts it all together like HEAD IN HANDS

(Meanwhile canon Watson can say FOR GOD'S SAKE DON'T GIVE HIM ANY DRUGS HE DOESN'T CONSENT TO, IT'S HARD ENOUGH KEEPING HIM AWAY FROM THE ONES HE DOES even though I suspect Frogwares!Holmes has a rather different relation with medicine in general OOP)

I haven't even STARTED on Jon yet, lordt