#sincerely: not enough

[vonlipvig]

the severed pregnant lady side plot in severance is so crazy like. if i think about it for a second my brain explodes.

[momokarp]

the way you draw michael adds ten years to my life thank you <3

Omg you left like another nice comment in my inbox a while back, thank you so much!

Have a hastily drawn Michael for your travels ✉️

[krokodil-zombie]

i remember when watching videos of people violently dying on the internet was a liveleak thing and not a shared everywhere all the time thing

not to sound religious but should peoples deaths not be treated with more heart and empathy than this?? you do not need to watch a video of life leaving them to "understand" a situation- its practically self-flagellation, it will not change anything, youre doing nothing more than treating their lives as content to be consumed for some kind of percieved moral high ground

liveleak visitors relentlessly desensitized themselves and became unable to see peoples deaths as anything more than some kind of twisted entertainment. do not do the same to yourself in the name of activism

[gammija]

tiefling jon's first day at the Archives

[eshithepetty]

So. Others have noted that 'aiming for the boss's gut" could mean 'filling the boss's gut', and "putting that dead meat in its place" could mean just like. Cooking steak or something. And that perhaps ENA is just misunderstanding this and thinking she'll have to kill the boss because of her prior history with violence, and that Froggy only worded it that way because that kind of wording is more familiar to her and he was imitating her ('as you say in that wacky language of yours')

So, from this, we can deduce that ENA Dream BBQ is possibly just a story about a woman experiencing microagressions and PTSD while trying to deliver a doordash order. And that's just insanely funny to me lol

[thesulkycroissant]

Saw an out of context panel of World's Finest that required me to go and find the issue because it seemed to me like Clark was about to scold Dick, but instead it was Clark scolding the random child he obtained for a few issues. But anyway what was fun about that was that Dick whispered to him, "I know you can hear me. Don't do this in front of his friends," and you know what. Clark listened. No questions asked. So I continue to adore the way Mark Waid showcases the respect and partnerships between Dick, Clark, and Bruce.

[pinkysberg]

what do u fucking mean obsessive androgynous vampire x yearning catholic monk existed in a canon setting and none of u told me. worse yet, do any of u even KNOW???

[artscheese]

Happy Splendid Balanniversary!! Wishing everyone a good one ❤️

[elodieunderglass]

The post about the informal shanty-choir earlier has reminded me of an anecdote of my dad's

He used to work in a pub, run by a landlord with an astonishing bass speaking voice. They had a few live music acts who'd pass through the pub on a regular basis, including a Welsh male voice choir who every single year would try to pressgang the landlord despite his protestations that he couldn't sing ("We can teach you to sing, we can't teach that pitch!").

Accordingly I'm imagining Charlie and Ken enthusiastically chatting up the deepest voices that come down the Kennet and Avon, and probably even managing to recruit them (I bet they've got an amazing chill-cop/un-chill-cop routine)

(In reference to OC Charlie and his boater friend Ken, who sing in pubs if you can’t get away fast enough)

POV you go to the wrong pub (any boater pub is the wrong pub but this isn’t your fault) in the middle in the southwest of England in the mid-2010s and gradually become aware of a sixth sense of being watched…. No……. Not watched….. overheard??

You answer a phone call, and when you hang up

it’s

suddenly

No listen the bass just has to go “aaaaaaah” - you don’t even have to say ANY words

[koiukiy-o]

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 001 (II). the student.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 0.6k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: here's chapter 1.5 !!?? its supposed to be in anaxa's pov hehe <3 its not big enough to be a chapter in itself, but its also not something i wanted to squeeze into the original first chapter. i had to rewrite this a million times so i cld express his inner oopie goopie feelings as naturally as possible aughhhh !! i hope i did him justice :") -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

The first time Anaxagoras sees you, he barely registers your presence. Another student, another mind seeking knowledge—no different from the rest. He speaks, and the hall falls into rapt silence, his words measured, precise. He does not need to raise his voice; the magic woven into the walls ensures that even the softest murmur carries.

When he looks at you, it is brief, a mere flicker of attention. Your thoughts are guarded—not uncommon, but rare enough to be noted. A foreign mind, one not yet shaped by the Grove of Epiphany.

Interesting, perhaps. But not remarkable.

Anaxagoras continues his lecture, brushing you off as just another scholar passing through his world.

The second time he notices you, it is because you are watching him.

Not unusual. Students watch him often—some with reverence, others with trepidation. Some attempt to discern his methods, while others marvel at the way he manipulates the arcane with the ease of a sculptor shaping clay. But your gaze is different.

He meets your eyes briefly, his mind already cycling through possibilities. A challenge? No—your expression is too guarded for that. Curiosity? Perhaps. He allows himself a moment to observe, to test. Your posture, the way your fingers tighten around the notebook in your lap. A mind on the edge of inquiry, but hesitant.

When he looks away, it is because he has already determined the outcome—you will either retreat or step forward. The choice is yours.

You return.

That is when he begins to watch you in earnest.

Not because of your presence—there are many students who linger, drawn to the Grove’s vast knowledge, but the way your attention sharpens when he speaks, the way you absorb his words not as mere instruction but as something to be unraveled, understood. You are not listening out of obligation.

That is why, when he calls upon you, it is not an arbitrary selection, for he does not waste time on students who lack potential. He watches the momentary scramble of your thoughts, the way you hesitate—not out of ignorance, but out of care. And when you answer, he finds himself satisfied.

Not impressed. Not yet.

But satisfied.

You do not sit in the back after that. He does not need to look to confirm it—he knows. Your presence is closer, a ripple in the pattern of the lecture hall. He tests you again, weaving your name into the thread of discussion, shaping the tempo of the lesson around your answer without drawing attention to the fact. And each time, you meet the challenge. Not perfectly. Nowhere near flawlessly. But well.

He notes the way your pulse quickens when he acknowledges you, the way your breath hitches for just a fraction of a second before you compose yourself. It is an instinctive reaction, untrained. He wonders if you realize it. He wonders if you know that you give yourself away.

And then, another question. He watches you as you answer—not just the words, but the shape of your reasoning, the way your mind reaches for knowledge and stitches it together with careful precision. It is this, more than anything, that makes him pause.

He does not smile often.

But perhaps, just then, he does.

After the lecture, as the students disperse, he catches fragments of conversation, the murmurs of intrigue. Your name spoken in passing, your presence noted in a way that was not before. He does not interfere. He does not need to.

He has seen this pattern before. Minds that shine brightly in the endless constellation of scholars. Some burn hot and fade quickly. Others endure.

He wonders which you will be.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat (send an ask or comment to be added!)

[240vo]

we are finally space cowboys

[demaparbat-hp]

Want to know what I believe? It's right here

Dig a little deeper and it's crystal clear

.

(WIP)

[grimalkhiindi]

I know it makes most sense that Oscar's letter was washed away in the water because yeah obviously. HOWEVER. I think it is infinitely funnier to interpret it instead that John just lied and recited poetry to Arthur because he's still Oscar's number one hater and wanted to make one last ditch effort at motivating Arthur.

[chiliyue-archived]

cause i love to love, to love, to love you

↬ in which you have him all lovesick and smiles

includes; dazai, chūya, atsushi, fyodor

notes; i am gonna pretend i didn’t disappear for 2-3 months. this has been in my drafts for so long :( i tried to clean it up as much as i could but it’s really old jfjdks

DAZAI

dazai appears happy. present tense.

his typical inquiries for double suicides came to lessen to conscious degree, substituting in drinking sake together when the sun cowers, nothing but a string of nonsensical chatter proceeding each sip.

he was sticky like that: unannounced visits, impromptu phone calls, sudden changes in his schedule to accommodate yours. in any case, he isn’t one to shy from stooping as low as whining if it rewards him with your familiar face.

( his windpipes splinter before he could mutter it out loud, but the solitude that’s wedged deep in his bones for so long felt lighter when you were near. he questions how long such benevolence would last before becoming sullied by his hand… ).

…and yet all things considered, it hasn’t deterred him from courting you nonetheless. at times he can’t help but think he’s taken a bite of his own medicine when he’s the one skipping around like a helpless maiden.

and yet again in spite of it all, his brazenness remains perpetually untouched as ever. he entertains different approaches if only to coax out a new reaction from you and he’s not bashful in the slightest. so much so, he remains unruffled even under the scrutiny of your coworkers.

. . .

“ this is highly unprofessional.”

“ don’t be so mean, bella. don’t you know how much i missed you?”

your eyes flit down to the man currently using your lap as a headrest, the rest of his body stretching over the expanse of the couch. he was shameless, that much was certain, but his ability to remain unperturbed whilst in his lovey dovey state was impressive. you cocked a brow, sighing.

“ osamu.” his lips visually twitched at the call of his name; it’s a word warm on your tongue but leaves the hairs on his nape at your mercy anyway. " you saw me fifteen minutes ago—”

“ twenty.” he corrected, cheeky (and quite frankly, you wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled that number out his ass). “ but it was the longest twenty minutes of my life.”

he was unrepentant as ever, experimentally positioning his head to rest on the plush on your thighs. by muscle memory, he began to absently draw shapes wherever he could reach, a crude rendition of stars decorating over the bend of your knee.

he smiles innocently when you squint at him, the gleam in his eyes unwavering. “ only a couple more minutes and i would have been yours,” you mutter out, your voice not as sturdy as you hoped. “ at home.”

dazai almost turns pouty at that. almost. “ but my love, i’ve missed you like crazy. twenty minutes is too long, how can i possibly manage?” the words come out through a breathy exhale and you watch as his lashes kiss his cheeks when he flutters them closed. “ all i could think about is you. and now i have you right here.” he hopes his words carry as much truth as the way his heart does, scurrying away the cold that's mocked him for so long. “ can’t we just stay like this a little longer? pretty please?”

resigned to your fate, you could only clamor your palms over your features— if only to salvage your waning dignity from your coworkers.

unfortunate though… that in doing so you miss the blissful smile curling on his lips as he peeks at you from below. and atsushi notes(after throughly grimacing, not expecting him to be so blunt), it reaches his eyes too.

CHŪYA

" chūya-"

" you can't flirt with me. i have a partner."

terse, stubborn and slurred. if the groggy voice wasn’t enough to confirm your suspicions, the shit-face look belonging to your boyfriend did. he was drunk. wasted if you were to speak bluntly.

in truth, it really doesn’t come off as much of a surprise; his ability to hold his liquor was nothing to brag of (despite what he may profusely argue) and you’re half-convinced he’s already forgotten his own name.

still, you don’t loosen your grip on his sleeve even under the figurative holes he’s burned with his stare. “ chūya. i am your partner.”

“you—! wha-!” his voice erupts into a sudden warble, eyes akin to saucers. " you… you are??"

he takes what’s left of his thinning rationality to study you proper; the style of your hair, your clothing, the smell of perfume/cologne, the familiar quirk of your lips—

oh, he thinks as you push back the loose bangs veiling his face. he doesn’t make any attempts to move, feet stalled and eyes blinking, evidently stunned.

you decide to press on. “ do i look familiar now…?” the lilit of your voice grazes against his ear, plucking out a faint memory tucked somewhere in the crevice of his fuzzy head.

oh. he thinks twice, the stern look bruising his face thawing.

without realizing it, he squares his shoulders in any attempt to remedy his current disheveled appearance, slumped posture pulled taut in— what he hopes— was a more put together frame. conversely, he wobbles on his feet when you continue to eat away at the distance, the ghost of your touch pushing pinpricks into his skin.

“ you’re- you’re really all mine…?” he cringes as soon as it leaves his mouth, coming off eager and hopeful. something like a laugh escapes you and he can’t tell if that’s what made his stomach turn or the alcohol. perhaps both.

“ that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you. you’re so stubborn when you’re drunk.” you punctuate the words with a kiss to his cheek, now warm with revelation. chūya, exhausting the last bits of his energy, shrinks beneath it, a gloved hand clutching his reddened face defensively.

“ why haven’t i made you my spouse yet?” he remarks it so suddenly, you nearly choke on air. he can’t even comprehend what you say thereafter or register the look beginning to contort your features, nothing but liquid courage keeping him afloat.

but- well, if there’s anything the haze trotting his head and his thinning cognition could agree on, it’s that your ring finger appears a little too barren for his liking.

( but not for much longer, he hopes )

ATSUSHI

the sudden change in atsushi’s behavior was a notable observation within the ADA, many of whom watched as the weretiger became stupefied by a face belonging to you. it wasn’t long before concluding it was all the result of a crush; the culprit of which being atsushi himself who played his hand poorly at discretion.

the lovesick chatter would leave his mouth without much rationality, waxing of "[name] this" or "[name] that," and effectively becoming on the receiving end of his praises. it was almost a routine of sorts, occupied by stutters, belated responses and his fidgety footfalls. by the end of it, he fruitlessly attempts to steady his rabbiting heart— if only to stop his blush from staining beyond his cheeks.

even now as he silhouettes by the agency door, the rattle of rain is deafened by the rush of blood to his ears. he anxiously worries the handle of the umbrella in his palms, bouncing from one sole of his feet to the other. should he just ask you? maybe he should wait… now that he thinks about it would be more appropriate to just leav—

“ damn it.” he perks at your sound of displeasure, his heart spiking. “ so much for leaving in a hurry…” you stiffen, realizing you have nothing but a coat protect you from the weather. the flimsy jacket you hurriedly plucked from your wardrobe only added flavor to your disappointment.

atsushi doesn’t miss the opportunity; his feet carries him to you before the unpleasant voice lurking deep in his subconscious bullies him otherwise. “ we can share,” he gestures to his own, silently praying his voice was leveled. it wobbles anyway and by now his knuckles are sheen white as a product of his nerves.

with the organ jumping around in his chest, he almost doesn’t register your ‘thank you,’ only that his fingers were quickly undoing the straps of the umbrella before you could change your mind ( he impulsively bought it earlier that day— his previous pair worned out and far too tiny for two people. but when you thank him with a kind smile, hands slightly brushing with each step, he argues it was the best 800 yen he’s ever spent ).

… that said, a more appropriate question is how you managed to remain naive to all his pining for so long— he’s become despairingly obvious against his own good and yet he can’t find it in himself to change himself, a perpetual lovesick look copy and pasted whenever you entered his proximity.

the same can't be said to everyone else however and he wasn’t particularly pleased when he caught wind of the bets exchanged among his treacherous colleagues. he fears it's only a matter of time before one of them blabs their tongue to you. at this rate, perhaps one of them should.

. . .

" y'know atsushi," ranpo once said, offering his companion a gleaming simper. " you reallllyyy talk about [name] a lot."

"oh.”

his heart flutters, eyes slowly blinking.

" yeah,” he smiles. “ i guess i do.”

FYODOR

" you've been awfully quiet, my dear." fyodor’s voice was just loud enough over the sound of clashing cutlery, fixing you a gaze of genuine interest. " is the meal not to your liking?"

you feel your lips twist into a frown. for being attentive, he (for once) falsely saunters pass the source of your displeasure, failing to recognize the extent of your internal woes. " no- no-" you fidget with your fingers, ignoring the way your propped elbows skidded against the table. the behaviour doesn't go unnoticed by the former, who takes it upon himself to hook his index fingers with yours. “ there’s something i’ve been meaning to ask of you. a… request of sorts.”

“ what is it? i’ll have it shipped to you by the end of the week,” he offers generously though it quickly fades into a confused hum when you shake your head at the proposition.

" it isn’t something you can buy…” you drop your gaze from him to the scantly poked portions of cuisine on your plate. fearing he may misinterpret your words and assume it to be unattainable - perhaps gifting you something ludicrous as a piece of land - you amended quickly. " it’s not what you assume to be either.”

at that, he bums questioningly. “ then what displeases you, my darling?” he provides a faint squeeze to your hand, igniting something warm and paradoxical to his thin layer of frigid skin. “ what can i offer to rid you that frown?”

" just your company.”

" my company?"

" yes." perplexed, he cocks his head; an invitation. willing an inhale to your lungs, you took a moment to gather possession of your words. “ these days you've been rather occupied. i was hoping for perhaps… if we may spend some time together?"

fyodor appears vaguely surprised by that, something unfamiliar fortifying around him. requesting his time felt like a hefty expenditure just in itself and it wasn’t too far fetched to assume he’ll disregard it in favor of some plot embellishing deep within his brain. but a swift refusal never comes.

“ i see,” he finally says after a brief pause. his voice was so soft you wondered if it was meant for you to hear.

it's grows quiet before he speaks again, the fingers curled around your hand withdrawing but not before providing the tips a delicate squeeze. " i can arrange some time tomorrow for you,” he proffers. “ will that satisfy your request, myshka?"

hardly anything can catch fyodor off guard, but something had to be said in the way you brightened at the suggestion, a deep curve coasting over your lips. how pleasant you are.

" yes," you hastily replied, dipping your head slightly. " more than perfect. thank you."

the way your lineaments crossed into a smile was always enduring to observe — exasperated, but one he wouldn’t mind seeing tomorrow knowing he was the cause for such elation.

( idly, he wonders what he can do to see it again ).

A/N !

i’ve been meaning to post this for months but it’s so old & i never quite (and still kinda don’t) liked it :(( fyodor’s is bit ooc jfjdkskla

彡 [BSD m.list]

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[daisyelixir]

btw saying that you hate americans bc of trump is like saying you hate russians bc of putin. do we understand how stupid that is. do we understand that nobody hates trump more than the people who are directly affected by his mentally deranged choices every single day.

[cowboyskeletons]

hermie the unworthy should have been on game changer actually. the latest episode would do unfathomable things to his psyche