#but also my insomnia is writing this

[queenofwoldrans]

The New Who doctors embodying the 5 stages of grief:

9th Doctor=Shock/Denial

10th Doctor=Anger

11th Doctor=Bargaining

12th Doctor=Depression

13th Doctor=Acceptance

The funny thing is that it can also be reversed and still work.

13=Shock/Denial

12=Anger

11=Bargaining

10=Depression

9=Acceptance

It really embodies the idea that history rhymes and an ending is just a new beginning.

9 and 13 are the two doctors that are trying to redefine themselves after an identity breaking event. The destruction of Gallifrey/the timeless child. Both are so lost and clinging to the human that saved them from themselves and being the most war like of the new 5. They are also the ones with the most wonder of the world because they are so used to destruction. They hide their feelings and deny the situation happened in order to not get bogged down by grief. They put a smile on and pretend the pain doesn’t exist. But they also accept the events that have happened and move on from it to try to be better. They learn from their grief.

10 and 12 are the doctors who go through so much grief and lose so many people so dear to them. They are trying so hard to be better and yet they never feel like they do enough. This leads to them crossing every line they have ever believed in in their anger: water of mars/hell bent and leading towards their depression eras after the next events burning a sun to say goodbye/being tortured for 4.5 billion years for a single chance (+darillium and time can’t be changed).

11 is definitely bargaining. The whole idea of time can be changed and avoiding fixed points and saving the impossible girl on the third try because maybe this time I can do it. He is trying to bargain with the universe and trying to avoid saying goodbye because if you don’t say good bye then it’s not really over. 11s whole act was finding another way or tricking people or being tricked. He fits the bargaining stage.

[decisions-at-3am]

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

[nat-20s]

Martin Blackwood writing extremely mediocre poetry for himself and himself alone in his late 20s is like soooo endearingly cringey but then YOU try writing extremely mediocre poetry for yourself and yourself alone in your late 20s and it's like OH. OH GIRL I GET IT!

[avernusreject]

Look all I’m saying is as the centuries pass after the events of bg3, I choose to believe some bard is going to make a really god awful cheesy opera or musical about the tragedy of durgetash. Forbidden lovers doomed from the start? Practically writes itself. It’s has to be so obnoxiously over the top melodramatic. It barely follows any of the actual events. Like it’s just so bad that Bane makes Gortash’s afterlife punishments even worse because of it’s existence.

[ah-bright-wings]

Sound - A Triduum Story

Malchus can feel the heavy gazes of the others. He ignores them. His own eyes are pinned to the door they guard, listening to the drip of water condensing and dropping onto the floor. There is no rain, but the air is damp, as if the heavens are drawing out the wet stores of the earth in preparation for a storm. 

Customarily, the chill would make him wish for his bed. He’d grumble with his fellows about the weather, about the work, peppering complaints with a few stout curses. But there is no discussion tonight. Malchus sits hunched forward, forearms braced on his thighs, and he waits.

What are they waiting for?

Cold fingers touch the lobe of his left ear. He turns to see Jesse, who’d touched him, withdrawing, fingers curling into his palm. The apology is gruff. “Just wanted to see.”

That’s a lie, thinks Malchus, turning back to the door. They’ve already seen tonight. What’s left is to believe.

Malchus doesn’t ask permission before he rises, taking the flask which hangs on a wall hook, and the keys there beside it. The eyes of the others follow. He unlocks the door and slips in, shutting it behind, and then pauses, palm flat on the wood. He takes a breath. 

Drip.

Drip.

The Nazarene’s hands are chained so that he must stand. His head bows, forehead resting against the bruised back of his right hand. He lifts himself when Malchus enters. His lips, which had been moving silently, still.

Malchus holds out the flask. Then, as an embarrassing afterthought—the man is in chains—he uncorks it. 

“It’s just water,” he assures when the man doesn’t move to drink. He tips the flask close enough to meet the cracked lips. The Nazarene swallows twice and then pulls back, chains jingling. His face is wet. Tears, Malchus thinks, until he hears the drip of water dropping onto the man’s head. It slides down his temple and dirty cheek, carving a clean track through the crust. Malchus re-corks the flask.

It’s not quite fear that he feels. He had felt fear on his knees in Gethsemane, blood down his neck and a howl on his tongue. The world was silent, then, and shrieking, dizzy with pain and the terror of new loss. When strong hands cupped his face, he clung to them. He grabbed hold of words he could not hear but lips he could see moving, breath he could feel on his face, brown eyes he could see.

And then, he could hear. 

It was as if he’d never before heard sound, not true sound, but only echos, half-formed, half-heard, until that very moment when he heard truly. Each noise was crisp and new. Around him were the night birds stirring in the trees, the puffed breath of the disciples, the crackle of licking flame, the creak of leather belts. He heard them all, and he hasn’t stopped hearing since. Creation is vibrating, uncountable voices overlapping in the same tremulous song. Even the breeze seems to have a voice, and the water running on stone. Even his own heartbeat. They cry out when the rest of the world is silent.

“What did you do to me?” Malchus asks, voice barely above a whisper, for everything is new and he cannot make sense of it. 

The Nazarene’s smile isn’t mocking. It’s as quiet as his voice, and it crinkles the corner of his good eye. “I know how long you’ve waited to hear.”

They’ve never met, of course. Of course not. This man doesn’t know him. How could he? Malchus has taken great pains to hide his gradual loss of sound. Each year, the muffle covers his ears a little more, stealing his senses, deadening the world to him. If he misses a call, he plays it off. If he cannot hear his wife calling, he feigns captivation by his task. He does it well, he thinks, well enough. Perhaps his wife suspects. But only he knows, only he and his God. And this backwater Nazarene with an accent pulled from Galilee’s fishing waters—because Malchus can hear the accent now—cannot know Malchus. How could he? No, he does not.

But he knows. 

Malchus is sure, standing before this man who made him more than whole, that he is known. Known, and known truly. And here stands Malchus, his jailer. His enemy.

“How could you know?” he asks, eyes searching the Nazarene’s. The water drips, drips. A rat scritches at a bit of stone. “I can’t do anything for your case. They’re bringing you to Pilate.” His grip tightens on the flask—his only offering—and the stale water it holds. The words pour out of him. “I’m a guard. They told us to go, so we went. I had no stake in it, see? See, we were told to go. I was told to go. I never intended—”

“Malchus,” the man says softly, almost fondly, as if he is interrupting a brother and not one walking him to his death. “Will you pray with me?”

The request startles Malchus out of his own thoughts. He pauses, wary of some trick. Without meaning to, his hand rises to touch the warm outer shell of his ear, tracing the connecting point between the cartilage and his skull. There’s not even a seam to show where it had been severed.

Mouth dry, Malchus finally nods, and the Nazarene closes his good eye. The water slides again down his temples. His words fill the damp space, and Malchus recognizes them at once, joining the recitation:

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,

and naked shall I return.

The Lord gave—”

The man breathes in, and Malchus breathes with him.

“—and the Lord has taken away;”

Their breath stirs the stale air of the room. All has finally gone quiet. The Nazarene opens his eye and tips his head to look up, past the stone roof, past the courtyard and the trembling earth, to the heavens, spread out over them like a tent. The water no longer falls. The rat is silent. 

“Blessed be the name of the Lord,” he says.

[fallstreakfeathers]

Human as you are

When you tell him you want to demat his hair, you're met with a scoff

"It'd have to be cut. All of it. Make me uglier than I already am" he snarls

You disagree, and sweetly push, reassure, promise

He rolls his eyes, fights, tries to intimidate

Mumbles a sarcastic "only if you're naked, too"

He hopes it shuts you up. Embarrasses. Deflects your horrible insistence

To his shock, terror, you agree.

You sit behind him, nude in water a little too warm for your liking, muscles undoubtedly to cramp in the small space of a tub not meant for two people, but that's okay

It's claustrophobic, suffocating

But that's okay, too, because he's letting you close to him

Letting himself be vulnerable

An honor even his sister rarely sees, you're aware, even if he's mostly hidden himself from you by the ridiculous amount of soap bubbles that surround your bodies like snowfall

Even if he refuses to let his weary eyes meet yours

Gentle hands soak his gnarled, broken strands with conditioner and detanglers

He flinches under your touch

Your touch, which has never hurt him, would never, could never

But the world has, the world will, the world takes wicked joy in it, and that is enough to justify the tenseness of his shoulders and the bobbing of his throat as he swallows, forcing himself to still

To trust his judgement

To trust you

You pretend not to notice, preserve his pride, devour your own

He swears it burns where your flesh touches his, wonders if you think him as diseased as everyone else does, wonders if you even care

Wonders if Daki allowed you this time away from scrubbing floors to spoil her dear brother

Wonders how you stand the stench, human as you are, of the blood and gore and the decomposing filth that may as well take up as much of his head as his dark locks do

A bladed comb cuts through the worst of it, straightening the rest as much as his hair allows

He watches your reflection in the water, watches your tongue poke through your lips as you concentrate on a particularly stubborn mat, watches you smile as you massage the falling suds into the spots on his shoulders- not to erase but to soothe

You would never hurt him

You work long, and pull so many unsavable chunks from his head he fears you really might cut him bald

You work hard, and resist the urge to playfully squish the inky dots below the corners of his mouth

There's no pain in your work, not enough for an Oni of his strength to notice, but you apologize every time the brush catches his knots anyway 

It's cute

You're cute, he thinks

Eventually, slowly, he allows himself to lean into you

Relaxes in the warmth surrounding him

He tells himself it's only so you don't have to stretch so far to reach him

Wouldn't want you to hurt your weak human arms

Ignores the inner voice that snickers with the knowledge that if he weren't so ugly, prideful, scared, he may have even allowed himself to smile

And when you leave, finally, to let him to wash his lower half without the threat of you, and he's left to sit in cooling water, eyes wide in the confusion that someone dares to care for him in such a way, like he's not disgusting, like he's not a monster, like he's a person, he pretends the tears threatening to fall is just the water left from his hair.

[ubejamjar]

“Come, let us find you a warmer place to read.”

[baalzie]

I've been listening to Hot Wings on repeat the whole night and I got this idea for an Alastor fic with a latina Reader, like I just wanna write it for the sake of writing this scene I have in my head.

Imagine Reader going to a party but everybody from the hotel tags along cause Charlie said "Hey bonding exercise!" and also Reader really wants to party with Vaggie cause they're comadruchas (gossip buddies).

So cue everybody getting to the party and the whole scene screams "latin american cultures mash-up", everybody knows reader cause is basically the territory that it's at can count as a little town (and in el pueblo everybody knows everybody), reader is introducing everybody with her close friends, good songs start playing, reader NEEDS to dance, and her favorite dancing partner is obviously Alastor (atp they are friends getting quite close), but clearly Al doesn't know how to dance that type of music, but he makes the effort to learn, because she made the effort to learn how to Fox Trot and how to Charleston.

Then THE scene begins, readers close friends see the magic that is happening over there, they begin the beat of Hot Wings, thay start singing, the floor starts making room for Al and Reader to get closer to the best zone, and then the part in the song where Jewel sings is sang by the reader, who btw looks absolutely divine, and that is the moment that Alastor knows he's down BAD

He sees her flying as she sings, her bird wings shining beautifully reflecting the colorful lights around them, her lovely face glowing with that enchanting smile that he appreciates oh so much, and he just knows that she has him wrapped around her pretty finger, cause no way in hell would he be there if it wasn't for her, no way in hell would he be making a fool of himself learning to dance those alien songs if it wasn't for her pretty smile.

And yeah, that's kinda the concept I have for that scene, I'm REALLY debating writing a fanfic cause my English is atrocious. Anyways.

[sammusbird]

I wish more modern horror stories, movies, whatever focused on mental illness as horror. NOT mentally ill people, but the illness itself. I think it would be good to add as a spice to heighten the horror in classic slasher style stuff. I want to see more sympathetic and strong characters to navigate a world where their perception and needs are different than others. not in a superpowered way. I want our final girl to survive bc they fought harder, got luckier, and ran faster than the others. I want to see characters with more ‘ugly’ mental illnesses we are meant to love and root for and cross our fingers they don’t get kersploded! I want to see how specific struggles make being in a horror movie worse

[transfemgeorgecostanza]

finished the new walter moers book last night, and i loved it. it is not flawless - some of it feels a bit too familiar within the series - and he may perhaps never again reach the heights of Rumo, City of Dreaming Books, and whatever Der Schrecksenmeister is called in English, but it feels like a return to form. it's less about plot and more about dabbling in the sending up of northern german island culture/tourism, but more focused, more engaging, more Zamonien than, say, whatever Prinzessin Insomnia und der albtraumfarbene Nachtmahr is called in English, or the two thinner volumes of Zamonia novels that felt more like writing exercises than actual writing.

[jaqobis]

tbf i get why the show avoids using the terms saidin or saidar and explicating their differences, like. the second you really start getting into differences in the One Power is when you're putting yourself on the fast track to gender essentialism city, avoiding which in tyool 2023 is a solid and understandable choice. i get why people miss the terms!, and it does sometimes lead to odd narrative beats like siuan criticizing rand for not learning more when he has objectively fewer opportunities than a girl who could study at the white tower or with a wisdom or something. but overall i think it makes a lot of sense to draw less attention to this beat outside of the salient madness issue.

[morethanwords229]

i was feeling bad for only writing half a chapter this weekend when i'd been planning to write the whole thing but then i looked at the total word count for the story so far and

i feel better now

[feverflushed]

A and B share a bed, and B has been dealing with a terrible cough for days. It's loud, and painful. The spasms shake the whole bed, and the effort of coughing continuously leaves them hot and covered in sweat.

A REALLY needs to sleep. B's cough has been keeping them up for days, and they can't sleep more than a few minutes before their partner's painful hacking wakes them up again. At 3 in the morning, after what seems like the thousandth fit of the night, A snaps.

"OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!!! Drink some water, have a cough drop, do what you want but just SHUT UP AND LET ME SLEEP!!"

As soon as they manage to get their lungs under control, B gives A the saddest look. A mentally slaps themselves for being so insensitive, while B silently grabs a blanket and shuffles to their cramped, uncomfortable couch.

A quickly changes their sweat soaked bedsheets, and immediately goes back to B, who's still coughing to the point of tears on the couch, looking really unwell. A squats down next to them, and gently kisses their forehead.

"I'm sorry, love. I'm tired, but you're sick, and you can't help it. I'll take the couch. You go back to bed, and get better soon".

A gently guides a slightly less offended B to the bed, making sure they're cozy, before closing a door between them and finally crashing in the living room.

[kawaaiju]

It's been a long day of catching up with various clues Anderson left him from her night of surveillance, putting them all together and now Casey was feeling the exhaustion of the day catching up to him. The apartment was warm, he was laying in the sunny spot on the couch and from the distance he could hear the sounds of water running and quiet humming. He was content. Content and quickly drifting away. He promised he wouldn't, promised to stay awake since he hasn't seen Alan in almost a day but the second he closed his eyes sleep took him over. The water shut off and the humming quieted down few moments later. Silence filled the sunny apartment and then soft steps approached the couch.

Alan draped the blanket over the sleeping form before him with a small huff. He debated it for a second before climbing in himself and snuggling close, stealing some of the blanket for himself.

Seeing Casey relaxed made him calmer. Last few nights were again filled with restlessness and tears. He trusted Casey could take care of himself but every night he was out on a case, made Alan uneasy. But he didn't want to be a problem so he just pretended to be asleep when he finally felt the other man slip into the bed and curl into his side. His anxieties started eating at him to the point he was unable to fall asleep even with Casey there the whole night, warm and asleep under him.

But for now the sun felt so good in his hair and on his skin and closing his eyes, Alan begged for a few moments of sleep. Few moments in the warmth that he created.

Casey stirred and sleepily pulled him closer, kissing his forehead.

It made him tense for a second, remind him of his fears, of darkness, of FBC. But he couldn't worry Casey with any of that, not when he was on a new high profile case, so he calmed down and just pretended again.

[tarantula-hawk-wasp]

Not sure even the jcs soundtrack can save me tonight

[kakusu-shipping]

You’re all getting another unpromted headcanon dump because I’m very personally tired of the “Mario would hide his struggles and trauma post Movie from Luigi because he doesn’t want to look weak and keep up the appearance of the Strong Older Brother” take. Don’t Eldest Daughter Syndrome Mario. He and Luigi are a team. A pair. He would tell Luigi everything.

Anyway here’s everything I think Mario personally struggles with and would rely on Luigi for

The Mario movie put it very blatantly on the table that Mario’s a little touchy about his height. It’s probably more so because he’s use to being picked on as The Short Guy on the sports team rather than it really actually bothering him all that much. He’s just assumes someone calling him short is an insult. The only personal problem he has with it is being shorter than Luigi. They spent a lot of their childhood the same height, and Luigi being taller still messes them both up from time to time

This is another left over from Highschool; Mario and Luigi (accidentally) kind of fell into the trope of the Smart twin and the Sporty twin, with Mario being the ladder. This messed with his head in a way he couldn’t really articulate, being expected to be a Meathead like the other guys on his sports teams did actually cause his grades to go down, especially in Math which use to be his best subject, which of course caused a lot of concerned backlash from their parents, especially his dad. Now he has it locked in his brain somewhere he’s stupid when he’s not.

He’s bad with people. Luigi’s a lot more of a people person than he is. He has a hard time connecting to people, or making simple small talk. He can be pretty blunt, or awkward, and maybe a bit aggressive sounding, especially to someone not use to how loud and confidently he speaks. As he gets older he gets quieter, speaks less, falls into a much more comfortable selective mute life style, and it suits him much better than trying to fumble through talking to people. He prefers to listen

He’s definitely a workaholic, he’d gotta be busy busy busy all the time. A lot of people will see him run from one project to the next, never turning down a request for help with something, constantly juggling tasks and working on something in his spare time and think it’s all because he’s such a nice, hard working guy. But no. It’s the stress of not doing enough. Or because he anxious being alone. Luigi’s the only one who knows Mario will keep going till he crashes, and is the one to always stop him and remind him he’s doing enough, he’s enough. Take a break.

Mario’s always struggled with separation anxiety. He’s never been one for the whole concept of “alone time”, he’d much rather be near people he loves and trusts and can relax around. He use to joke it stems from being born first, those few moments before Luigi was born was more than enough alone time for a life time. He tries to wave it off occasionally, but it really is a problem. If he is ever left alone, say Luigi goes off on some grand adventure without him, he finds things to work on until he passes out, and then just sleeps and lays about until Luigi comes back.