Snow-that-is-in-colour-red - The Writer's Bastard

i would like to propose a new fanon part of cwilburs design: a small cut in his face, from when ctommy hit him with the sword :)

瞬発的に衝動的に描くなんて自分でも驚いている

それほどに影響力があったんだなと実感

筋斗雲って呼べばくると思っていた子供の頃がなつかしい

I was surprised at how quickly and impulsively he drew, and I realized that he had such an impact.

I miss my childhood when I thought that if I called him Nimbus, he would come. I picked up some sticks from around the area and seriously wondered if I could improve my Nyoi-bo, and I seriously tried to see if I could learn the levitation technique if I tried hard enough…

more Poco’s Udon World fanarts!

(please watch it)

"You smoke?"

Tommy looked over at Schlatt. He was shaking a cigarette out of a pack and into his hand. Where he'd gotten it, Tommy didn't know. It was the afterlife; he didn't expect drugs to be in the afterlife.

"Fuckin'... no, I don't smoke," He huffed back, "What do you fuckin'..."

Schlatt shrugged, brought the cigarette to his lips, produced a lighter, and lit up. "Your loss."

Wilbur had warned Tommy that occasionally they'd fade in and out. The afterlife wasn't a concrete plane to be in, he'd said, so Tommy should prepare for him to pop in and out occasionally.

Tommy had thought he was ready. He was not.

He'd clung to the man ever since he'd died. He was the only person he had left who cared. At least, the only person he had left who cared and he could still talk to. And even if Wilbur was only going to be gone for a little bit (though time worked so strangely here, who really knew?), Tommy wasn't ready for that separation.

And he sure as hell wasn't ready to be left alone with Jschlatt.

He didn't like kids, that much was obvious. Or anyone, really.

Apparently he and Wilbur had talked quite a bit before Tommy's arrival, which Tommy couldn't blame him for; Wilbur had to talk to somebody, and until now the afterlife didn't have any options except for the previous tyrant. But the moment Schlatt had seen Tommy, palpable disgust had formed on his face and he had fled the scene.

That was fine by Tommy. He didn't like Tommy, and Tommy didn't like him.

But now that Wilbur was gone for a while, being around Schlatt was better than being alone.

Schlatt coughed after a drag. Tommy eyed him uneasily.

Schlatt didn't have scars, Tommy was noticing. Wilbur did. He had a big ugly one in his chest from where Phil had stabbed him, gaping and hard to ignore. Schlatt, having not died to something so physical, had no such thing. But his eyes looked vacant, tired, and bloodshot, and drool seemed to constantly drip down his chin. Disgusting motherfucker, Tommy thought.

It did get him thinking, though. He hadn't seen himself once since his death. When he'd asked Wilbur about his gash, Wilbur had confessed that all the injuries they'd received subsequent to their death would probably remain and hurt forever. Tommy himself had aches all over his body; Dream had done a number on him. He was left with a head that pounded almost constantly and a body that throbbed with every movement.

He wondered how he looked.

He cleared his throat and called, "Oi, bitch."

Schlatt looked to him, unimpressed. "Hm?"

"Ey, uh... so we're all a bit ghost-y now, yeah?"

"Sure."

"You gots your little... red... devil horns, 'n Wilbur's got his scar..." Tommy crossed his arms, "... What do I look like?"

Schlatt took pause, pulling the cigarette from his mouth. His lips fell to a frown as he scanned Tommy up and down, his eyes filling up with something that was almost, almost pity. Tommy's stomach sank; that didn't bode well.

Schlatt tore his eyes away from him and shook his head, gaze cast down.

Tommy swallowed nervously. "Well?"

The only thing Schlatt said after a long pause was, "Stay away from mirrors, kid."

I think the most tragic part of Law’s character is that for so long he didn’t believe in unconditional love.

He thinks Rosinante saved him because he’s a D. He thinks he has to repay Rosinante for his sacrifices to mean something, when all Rosinante wanted was for Law to be free. Sengoku telling Law "don’t try to find a reason for someone’s love" truly hits like a punch to the gut because it’s so impactful—so fucking important. It completely shatters Law’s view of love (and life) and how it must be transactional.

Finally, he realizes that Rosinante just loved him. There was no debt to be paid, no expectation. He can love and be loved without reason.

In South America, after Cas says "I love you", Dean says "and I you, Cas".

If the reciprocation was in the original script and the CW cut it off cause they decided to go with that shitty ending, this is the proof. They forgot to tell their homophobic plans to SouthAmerican countries.

Fuck off homophobic CWUSA. We win.

“The Proof is in the Soup”

A slightly different take on that chicken soup scene in Releves. For @messy-scandinoodle

Hannibal generally isn’t one to argue with himself. He knows his own mind, he knows what he hopes to achieve, and he knows how to either get what he wants or how to adjust any situation so that it is more advantageous to getting what he wants. If he doesn’t get what he wants, he can still at least amused by the process.

Except…

There is now the Will Graham issue to contend with.

Where Will Graham is concerned, Hannibal does find himself second-guessing some of his choices. There are too many choices, or not enough of them. Hannibal wants certain outcomes more than others, and he doesn’t think he’ll be satisfied with just amusement at the process.

So as he prepares the soup he intends to bring to Will’s bedside table, Hannibal wonders how best to approach a recipe he’s recreated many times.

Should I leave the dates whole, or chop them? Might they infuse the broth with too much sweetness? What if Will doesn’t like dates?

Have you thought of that?

And the star anise…surely Will  knows not to eat them. Perhaps you should remove them after they’ve imparted their flavor.

Even on the way to the hospital, with the soup done and packed in its carrying case, Hannibal frets over how best to introduce the meal.

Make it sound artistic and complex. Impress him with the exotic components, like a composer showing off rare instruments.

But what if he sees the truth? What if he sees your true intentions?

He won’t. He’ll be dazzled by the ingredients.

In the hospital room, Will stirs from sleep as soon as Hannibal begins unpacking the meal.

“Smells delicious,” he says, hair tousled and eyes still drowsy.

“Silkie chicken in a broth,” Hannibal explains. He decides on a small history lesson. “A black-boned bird prized in China for its medicinal values since the seventh century. Wolfberries, ginseng, ginger, red dates, and star anise.”

Will’s eyebrows go up. A cartoon light bulb practically goes on over his head.

“You made me chicken soup?”

Hannibal freezes in place. His inability to respond lasts only a split second, but it feels like ages. His mind screams at him.

HE KNOWS. WILL GRAHAM KNOWS WHAT YOU’VE DONE. HE HAS SEEN THROUGH YOUR ARTISTIC RUSE.

Time slows to a crawl, nearly stops entirely.

YOU FOOL. YOU FOOLISH FOOL.

Will’s expression bores into him like a tunneling electron microscope, ferreting out the purest essence of the truth.

HE KNOWS YOU HAVE MADE FOR HIM THE NUMBER ONE ILLNESS REMEDY MADE FOR LOVED ONES SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL. CHICKEN SOUP! CHICKEN SOUP! WHEN YOU LOVE SOMEONE, YOU MAKE THEM CHICKEN SOUP!!!!

Hannibal forces himself to remain outwardly calm and waits for time to begin moving again.

“Yes,” he finally says, his tone curt.

CHANGE THE SUBJECT, YOU FOOL.

“The nurses tell me you’ve been wandering, Will,” he says, and hopes the burning he feels inside cannot be seen from the outside.

(end)

Hoy me duele Lima

Hoy me duele Lima,

y hoy me duele Italia.

Hoy me duele Argentina,

y también Australia.

Hoy me duele las vidas que no llegué a vivir.

Hoy me duelen las mentiras que no llegué a decir.

Hoy me duelen las noches por las que he llorado.

Hoy me duelen las tardes en que me he alegrado.

Hoy me duele Lima, la Lima con esplendor.

Hoy me duele Lima, la Lima con amor.

Hoy me duelen las noches estrelladas.

Hoy me duelen los días y las tardes desoladas.

Hoy me duele Lima, pero la Lima que me ha amado,

no la que nunca estuvo de mi lado.

Maybe I'm also sad that Phil's love never counts as something worth living for

Awkward question, but what do you think Holmes saw in Watson?

Oh, my goodness. Well, he was everything Holmes needed; wry, and kind, and occasionally snarky, generous with his praise, and honest about his own flaws without being too hard on himself. He loved music and knowledge and beauty. He knew how to live through hardship with dignity and how to enjoy good things when they came without becoming dependent on them. He was adventurous. He was incessantly curious. He was a wonderful listener, and intelligent, and quick to comprehend, and enjoyed being taught. He never let himself be bullied or overawed. He was confident in what he knew. He was compassionate. He was deeply sincere. He knew how to keep others’ secrets, and respect their limits and their privacy and their humanity. He despised cruelty. He didn’t judge by class, but by character. He was a hopeful realist. He was quick to defend Holmes, even from himself. He valued truth and justice above even the law, which is an essential trait in a passionately fair man’s partner. He was capable of instant obedience or of acting promptly on his own instincts, whichever was necessary. He was absurdly brave. And he was a flaming bisexual.