#// this is a lil sad im sorry??

[sunfyredefender77]

SCREAMING

[agenttommykinard]

I wanted to spread some good vibes in the fandom, so what are five cute headcanons you have about BuckTommy or Tommy? 🥰 And if you want to, send an ask like this to someone else.

OH THIS IS CUTE ty for sending this to me

1. I AM A CAT DAD TOMMY TRUTHER

so obviously he has one in the future but I'm imaging a much smaller, younger Tommy who would sneak out and feed the stray cat in his yard

who coaxed the cat to trusting him and who found the cat a home when his father wouldn't allow it

for a little while he had something soft in his life who loved him just for him

2. Tommy is the kind of guy who is aware that he's a big guy you know? he helps people get things off of the top shelf in grocery stores and volunteers to help pick up heavy things - he's the friend who actually means it when he says he would help someone move

3. one time when Tommy was really low and was just so tired about hiding things, he came across a food tuck that had a pride flag pinned proudly to its's side - all of the food was puns and it was run by three college aged kids and the owner - Tommy sat outside on a picnic table near the truck for the longest time and when he finally ordered - something sweet, this man has a sweet tooth - it was met with a smile, something bright when things were hard, and he followed this truck on instagram and when he was finally out he would bring people to the truck and he is one of their best customers and the owner has a picture of Tommy with the truck on their socials and they make food up for him on the spot - and when he brings Buck there for a date they all know who he is "THE FAMOUS EVAN" and Tommy blushes so hard

4. Tommy's clothes are comfortable and practical, he has a few "good shirts" for the occasional dates but otherwise he just picks what fits - at some point he picked up a jacket from a thriftshop and didn't even know it was designer until someone pointed it out - when Buck buys him a soft cashemere sweater for the colder weather, Tommy wears it and kisses Buck softly and he starts adding a little more color in his wardrobe, but he never feels pressure to, he just likes Buck's smile when he wears them

5. Tommy "avoid lonlieness through various hobbies" Kinard has made candles, he's taken chocolate making classes, he rock climbs when he cans and has had several ball room lessons, at some point he even tried horse back riding, he's done a little bit of everything and later he shares these various hobbies with the family he finally finds

[mudanonaito]

"My name is Dokja. Kim Dokja".

Happy birthday Gaby!!! @kimdokjas ♥

[firenati0n]

people ruin people, i don't wanna ruin you // i am just a sickness and you seem to be the cure

by firenati0n on ao3

M | 3/9 | current wc: 4.3k

tags: musician au, orpheus & eurydice references, a star is born au (very loose), angst with a happy ending, icarus references, alex pov, singer!alex, singer!henry

No one could resist his soulful brown eyes, framed by doe lashes, sitting pretty on a face one could only describe as biblically gorgeous. Dark curls, a chin dimple, the cheekiest smile—Alex was marketable perfection in the sweetest package. But fame comes at a heavy cost.

Or, Alex is a washed-up singer who finds salvation in Henry, and Henry is both his loving disciple and his greatest punishment.

xoxo roop

[xenomorphicdna]

On the string propaganda

Heeellll yeah

Bestie is an entire PLACE

I look at those guys and let me tell you the soul of that thing ain't just in the puppet, it's in all the neurons carrying the thoughts and emotions, it's in the power rails that serve as the heart. All the memories in the memory conflux and all the numbers we see flicker across displays, the flux condensers, the puppet; a little avatar.

No way these massive machines see life the same way we do. They have their own experiences and senses and things they hold dear. A world we can't imagine, a way of living we couldn't even comprehend.

I could never tear an iterator apart to be just a puppet. Who am I to decide how's life supposed to be enjoyed or perceived?

You treat your creechurs however you want- I ain't gonna dictate that. But damn, hearing the thrums and buzzes of the linear systems rail? They are alive with so much power, these mechanical beasts are exactly what they should be.

[mtndw-whteout]

thinkin about 10 yr old teru, trying to use a phone to call his parents... especially like, after claw attacks... or on his birthday... and he doesn't know their number..

just crying into a dial tone.

[sillylittleguyinatrenchcoat]

geto meme batch bc i love one man <3 + this week’s episode broke me like a sad flimsy piñata

[foolssoup]

germs i wanna know if im amongst my peers cuz i feel like im the only gay man watching this show

[olivewormz]

ELLO!!!! GUESS WHO REDID HIS METAL SLUG DESIGNS!!!! i guess you could call it that uuhm

but YEA!! i've been thinking a lot about metal slug lately and i just... couldnt resist redrawing my versions, hopefully i do more in the future for more characters n all, i really want to post more metal slug stuff, i love LOVE these silly guys

im not writing anything at the moment cause i really didnt change my headcanons and im kind of tired to write proper paragraphs (i should stop staying up until 3 am to finish drawings? maybe).

[merry-andrews]

Johnny/Kenshi kitsune au;

Lil fox spirit that guards the sword (Sento) and when swordsman kenshi comes to return Sento to its home, Johnny turns into his human form (but keeping the tails!) and says he'll marry Kenshi and guards his clan by his side on one condition that he won't tell anyone about the mysterious story of how they met and how he found Sento.

They return home, Johnny will be Taira clan's leader's spouse and brings good fortune for the clan and they even have babies but one day, when celebrating yet another victory of their clan with his men, one of them asks about Kenshi's mysterious consort and Kenshi tells them everything and when he's back home, Johnny is back in his fox form, has Sento carrying over his back,

"You told people about me now you'll never see Sento or me ever again." And with that, he jumps out of the window and disappears forever💕.

[todayisafridaynight]

no ones ever gonna understand how much i love daigo doin this stupid shit after dissolving the tojo

[moeblob]

Deacon loves two things: Ymber and digging himself a grave.

Fulj hates one thing: Deacon.

[mysticalsoot]

too, more, and most

A/N: this was originally supposed to be a lil valentine's blurb but then it took a very dark turn so it won't be that unless you want it to be, and in that case then sure, this very dark fic can be a valentine's gift to you all (all 70 of you??? what the fuck??) anywho ty all for the love on my writing, can't begin to express how fucking cool that is and how thankful I am!!!

TW// very dark, death is alluded to until straight out said, sorta MCD but redeemed, lots of swearing, derealization, hallucinations, death ish. that's it I think?

Summary: Wilbur is a broken man with attachment issues, his problems only worsen after reader breaks up with him. he finds out his love isn't here anymore but finds himself discovering what true reality is his.

Pairings: cc!wilbur x reader

Pronouns: they/them and use of y/n and l/n

Words: 3,378 (forgot to add at first, sry)

masterlist

@lvrboysoot love u, elliot. sorry for the pain I'm gonna inflict upon you with this</3

-------------------------------

Wilbur was picky with who he said I love you to. His family was one thing, parents, brothers—those were easy. When it came to others, friends, romantic partners—those were more difficult, more calculated when he eventually admitted it.

But once he did, he never stopped saying it. And he was stubborn, fully set that he loved you more than anything than anyone ever loved anyone else. 

He would say it at least once an hour, and if he was away he'd text the words to you, followed by some stupid mushy gif. He'd write love letters readmitting his feelings for you, attaching a little wild flower he found somewhere in the garden. He'd leave it on your side of the bed and sneak away back into his office. He sat in his desk chair and pretend to work as he listened for you to open the front door. He'd wait there, patiently dilly-dallying whilst he waited for your arms to wrap around him and kiss the top of his head.

He'd follow it by saying; "I love you, darling." His hands resting on your arms that snuck around his shoulders, your chin now on the top of his head.

"I love you too," Is what you would reply with, he'd chuckle and press a kiss to your arm.

"I love you more." Wilbur wasn't one to back down on this exchange, he was sure his love for you outweighed any amount of love for anyone or anything else.

Whoever ended the exchange would say I love you most.

It always mostly worked to end the exchange. Sometimes it just wasn't enough and strings of I love you's were exchanged. The word most wasn't the end all be all, unfortunately.

Or was that even...real?

                                        —★—

The ceiling was far from interesting, but staring at it was better than falling asleep in Wilbur's mind. The other side of the bed was cold, and the lack of warmth and a person beside him, infected his bones with the same bone-chilling temperature the sheets beside him had.

He'd reach his hand over every once and a while, subconscious habits taking over his actions, the exhaustion blurring his mind's ability to keep control. 

He forgot how he loathed being alone. And he regretted not saying those words sooner. You would still be here next to him, your hand on the back of his neck, your own head nuzzled into his chest and his arm holding you close to his body, the two of you now one.

Wilbur should have said I love you a long time ago. Sleeping wouldn't be a dreaded activity and maybe the bags under his eyes wouldn't be so dark they look like black eyes anymore. He'd have a reason to move forward.

His phone had been shut off by him for a few weeks, and the bills still went through but he needed to ignore all the pleas and notifications from friends and family.

No, James, Wilbur does not want to go out drinking and talk about it. He'd much rather have anything else.

And no, Tommy, Wilbur didn't want to join your next vlog at the beach. Do you want him to break down?

Jack asked to come over and play some Mario Kart with him to take his mind off things. They all had valid concerns and they were only doing their best but he didn't want to do anything.

Not when he could have prevented the situation he's in, he's in a void, and he has no purpose as far as he's concerned.

Ash was the most gentle of them all, he asked if Wilbur was okay a few times, always following it up with "you don't have to talk about it, just know that I'm here". He was kind, quiet, and gentle. Wilbur had genuinely contemplated answering his friend, spilling his guts on how it was his fault and that there wasn't anything he could do that would mend it, everything was gone and it was his fault. But he didn’t he kept his thoughts and feelings to himself.

He kept the too, more, and most to himself. He couldn’t tell you, so why tell anyone? It was best held close to his heart like an unforgiving secret, one that if spilled would put a ripple in space and time. So it was a secret forever held behind the bars of heartbreak.

He tried peeling himself out of bed, wiping his face of old dried tears--he couldn't cry anymore so the saltwater stains on his cheeks were days old, or maybe weeks, Wilbur couldn't tell. It took him a few minutes to coax his aching and tired body to sit up at the least--and even more time to convince himself to turn his phone back on. Maybe he would regret doing so, maybe he wouldn’t but the only way to know was to just..do it. So he did, the screen on his phone lit up, the classic white apple illuminating his face as he waited there, his eyes glued to the screen as it booted up. A few seconds and five password attempts later, his phone was unlocked and in the sms app.

He gravitated towards the last messages with you, it didn't take much convincing for him to open it and when he did, it felt like a train hit him. All of the emotions—the regret, the pain—came flooding back to him.

The last message he ever got from you was "I love you". He mentally kicked himself for never saying it and he threw his phone down on his bed, regret bubbling up his throat and he pulled on his hair. Dry, pained sobs escape his chest and he's shaking. This is so stupid. I'm so stupid. His thoughts ran wild, taunting him, stabbing him. Looking him in the face and telling him how this is all his fault. It's all his fault. It has to be all his fault.

He begins shaking, pulling his legs up to his chest, and wraps his arms around his knees, shoving his face between them. No tears fall, and the sobs lessen, although no less painful than before. He tries to take deep breaths, pushing the image of your last message to him that's burned into his vision, further and further from his consciousness. If his brain can push every other bad memory away, why won't it hide this one? God, he's so stupid—what person forces themselves to face the one thing that tore them apart? Wilbur would be it. He is the one to do that and he regrets it.

His breathing slows to a steady pace, and he drops his hands from his hair. He wants to curl up inside himself and just shrivel up until he's nothing but particles in the air. And he wants to, he really wants to. But he promised himself he would go out today and do something helpful for himself. Maybe some fresh air would help.

Or maybe it'll just remind him of you

Either way, he needed out. His bed was beginning to feel claustrophobic and the walls of his room felt like they were closing in on him. Not to mention he hasn't showered in at least a week, and the last time he did shower, James had forced him and stood outside the bathroom door the entire way because he knew Wilbur would try and trick him.

He lifted his blankets and tossed them to the side, throwing his legs over the side of his bed and pushing himself up to stand. His legs wobbled for a moment in a lack of use and then he mindlessly brought himself to his dresser, grabbing a sweater and some jeans, and whatever else he needed before his legs brought him to the bathroom and he turned on the shower.

The water burned his skin but was somehow comforting in the way he turned red as the water hit him. It burned, but it was nice. It was an unfortunate reminder he was alive, and this was real. But perhaps, a cold shower would be even worse, so the reminder of his reality through burning hot water droplets on his skin was a much better alternative than cold ice water douching him in the painful realization of never being able to get you back.

That was worse than anything. That you were forever to never be his again.

It wasn't much longer that he stood under the hot water, and then he soon stepped out, hurriedly wrapping himself in a towel to avoid the chilling cold you always feel after a boiling shower. He doesn't bother to change whilst in the bathroom, but instead snatches his clothes from the cluttered sink counter and pulls open the door, bringing himself back to the warmth of his room while he slips on his clothes, his sweater being last after a T-Shirt underneath.

He knew that if he made any more contemplation over whether he should go outside or not, he'd never make it past his bedroom door. So he was quick in grabbing his keys and wallet before slipping out of his bedroom door followed by his apartment door. He quickly locked the door until it clicked and hurried down the stairs. The faster he got downstairs, the less time he had to rethink his decisions.

He's quick to push open the clear entrance door to his apartment building, passing by some of his neighbors he's never met and then he's out of the stuffy building. He's hit with a wave of wind, hitting the tip of his nose, and the cool scent warming him in calm comfort. It's nice to feel comfort again, it's so, so nice.

He stands there for a moment, taking in the cool, fresh air. To passersby, he looks like an idiot who's most likely high—but in reality, he's a broken man who hasn't left his house in weeks and feels he no longer has a purpose. Neither version is a good one, but what he really is, is much better than the alternative.

He pauses for a moment, taking in what's around him. Wilbur didn't think about what he was going to do past walking outside, so now he's stuck. Maybe he could go right back inside or maybe he—

There's a shadow of a person on the beach, or maybe it just looks like a shadow—but something about it draws him to it. Where the shadow seems to pace on the beach—the person-shaped shadow—isn't far from where he stands in front of his apartment building. He's curious, and the curiosity gets to him and he's hurriedly walking over to the stairs that lead down to the beach. He doesn't waste any time finding that damned shadow, he doesn't even know why he wants to know what it is, so badly. But he does, he really does and his hurried walking turns to jogging until he's full-out sprinting on the pebble beach, the saltwater-twisted air hitting his nose sharply.

The shadow becomes more and more of a human shape the closer he gets to it. And then he's a foot away. And the shadow turns around to face him. And it isn't a shadow anymore. It's a person. It's a fucking person. But it isn't just any person, no, no—it's you.

It's you. It's you. It's you. Oh god, it's you.

But you don't look…alive. You look dead, gone. You're practically transparent and he wonders if this is what it was like for people to see Ghostbur if the DreamSMP was real. Dear god, you're dead. Or are you? Maybe he's just hallucinating, maybe he spent too long in his flat and now his mind doesn't know what reality is and so it's tricking itself into believing you're here. But as a shadow.

He wants to run so badly but something keeps him angered onto the pebble-covered beach. Why can’t he stop looking at you? And why in all things good can he not move?

“Y/N,” It’s the only thing he utters, and it's broken and quiet in the way he says it. 

You simply stare at him, his expression cracking and shattering in the same way his heart does all over again, and then you’re gone again. You simply poof into thin air.

He takes hours before he can drag himself back to his flat, and he still hasn’t figured out if what he saw was real or not--but he’d rather not dwell on that for now. He just needs to get back home, he didn't even bring his phone with him, who knows how many people have tried contacting him whilst he was on his..walk. You could call it a walk, that’s for sure.

The door is opened haphazardly, and he nearly bangs his head against the side of it, not noticing his surroundings. He takes the stairs, his steps slow and by no means careful, and then hes on his floor, dragging himself to his flat. He unlocks the door until it clicks and then beelines for his room and snatches his phone off his bed.

He has a few dozen messages from friends, some from his parents and brothers--but he ignores them all and goes straight to safari;

Y/N L/N obituary

He presses the search button and turns his phone screen away from himself, face down in his lap. Wilbur has been offline for weeks--anything could’ve happened--and who would tell him anyways? Plus, who’s to say what felt like weeks to him, hasn't been months?

A few moments later and with some reassurance from himself, he turns the screen back to face him and his eyes glance to the first result.

Y/N dead at 26, drowned at brighton beach

It’s dated four months ago.

But they broke up with him three weeks ago? You were alive mere weeks ago! How did this--how did this happen?

It was your ghost he saw, that much he knows.

You died.

God…

You’re dead.

Wilbur finds tears sliding down his cheeks, droplets plopping onto his phone screen and he pulls the sleeve of his sweater over his hand to wipe away the salty liquid from his face and he sniffles.

How didn’t he know? Why didn’t anyone tell him?

He should go back to the beach.

The beach sounds great…maybe he’ll find you again, maybe he can ask questions and get answers for all of the wonders wandering his mind.

That’s what he should do.

And so he does, but this time he takes a blanket and his phone with him.

It’s the same path as before but now he knows where he’s going when he steps outside and its dark now. The biting cold wind of dusk hits his face in a harsh sharpness, but he moves on and continues walking, blanket rested over his arm and head held up as he looks around for you.

He spots you on an old pier and is quick to follow you, walking up the crickety stairs, being slow and careful with his steps, cautious to not spook the ghost of you again. He has questions that need answers, and scaring you away does him no good.

He keeps walking to the edge of the pier, there aren’t any railings, and its entirely open. He stops when hes one to two feet away from you and he drops the blanket on the planks of wood below. He looks up from the ground, eyes meeting your shadowy figure slowly revealing details about you, although still transparent, you aren’t just a shadowy figure.

“Hello, love,” Wilbur is sure to put on a soft smile when he speaks, and you shake your head at him, looking down.

You look up, head tilting and bottom lip poking out as a taunt, “I’m not your love,”

“I--I know you’re dead but--”

“No,” is all you say, and then you’re gone again.

Wilbur wants to break down again, decompose, and scream and sob and cry. But instead, he just stands there in cowardice. He doesn’t move, he simply stands in silence. He finds himself walking towards the edge of the pier and then he sits down, legs dangling over the water.

He wonders what would---

No, Wilbur, no.

He recoils. Pulls his legs up. Backs away from the edge. He feels someone push him. He pushes back and tries to find the source of said force--it’s just him up here. But he keeps pushing against the force trying to knock him off and he’s doing a great job of it--until he doesn’t and then he’s plummeting down and he twists in the air as he falls and something in his mind speaks.

“Your end is the same as your love’s”

And then it's all black.

The next thing he knows he’s choking up water or what feels like choking up water. But he doesn’t feel like he’s in water and-- But hes awake? Alive? It feels dry around him but he still can’t see.

He tries crying out, his eyes practically glued shut and he can’t force them open.

He jolts up and his eyes shoot open, his eyes frantically search the room, it's dark and he can barely see anything and then he sees an outline of a person; you. But you’re dead! And he’s dead!

Or is he, or are you? He doesn’t know, he doesn’t know anything anymore.

The shadow-like figure--you, kneel down in front of him, hands on his shoulders and your features come into view; eyebrows knitted in concern, eyes wide with fear, and mouth agape with worry.

“Love,” You inch closer to him and he backs away in fear, breathing rapid and labored, “Are you okay?” You pull your hands away in response to his skittishness.

He shakes his head, “You’re supposed to be dead,” His voice is quiet and it cracks when he speaks like he hasn’t spoken in months.

“What?”

He just shakes his head and pulls his legs up to his chest, hiding the lower half of his face between his knees, eyes the only thing in vision and his gaze is locked on you--completely unwavering.

“I’m not going to hurt you, my darling,” You put your hand out as an offering and he takes it into consideration, eyeing it like it has the chance to burn him.

“You won’t leave?” Wilbur’s eyes glance to yours for a moment before refocusing back onto your offered hand.

You shake your head, a soft smile donning your lips, “Never,”

He utters a small ‘ok’ and takes your hand and a few moments later he catapults himself into your arms. Heavy sobs ricocheted out of his chest. Your arms wrap tightly around him, and his own arms do the same for you. The two of you sit there in silence, the only noises are of the fan set up in your room or the sound of his cries as you hold him.

“I love you,” His voice is soft, small but he means it. He means it so much more than you could know.

“I love you too, bur,” You place a kiss on his temple, your hand reaching to tangle with his hair, “so, so much,”

He hums in response and another silence blankets the two of you in comfortable warmth, and then you’re the one to break it this time;

“What happened?”

He shrugs, “So much,”

You rest your chin atop his head, one hand playing with his hair and the other rubbing his back, “Wanna talk about it?”

He shakes his head, “No,” He pauses, gears turning in his head as he mulls over what to say next, “I love you more, by the way,”

A small, joyous laugh escapes your throat, “And I love you most.”

The two of you spend the rest of the evening like that, in each other's arms, muttering reassurances of your love for the other--and eventually, he tells you of all he’s experienced. And you feel horrible, your heart aches for him but you’re happy he’s in your arms now.

And he smiles.

He knows you’re not going anywhere and he knows you love him too, more, and most.

[merwynsartblog]

Not me thinking whetehr or not Mercury dies first or Fylass does due to age shenanigans, since I dunno Mercury's life span :(

mercury is around king dededes age and i like to think ages are different. so for example king dededes age for me is 360. which rounds about 36 for our age. (ik its weird and i dont have a damn reason for this) and same thing with everyone else like mercury is probably around...320 so around 32 so it just depends but i hc our ages and their ages are different- they live for wayyyy longer than humans

but since fylass is 12 mercury will probably die first sadly BUT. he would leave alot of stuff to his found family (fylass is a part of it) and make sure everyone he cares for is safe off without him

[jkgnggj]

Yk what's kinda sad? There's so many character birthday this month and it's just been one after the other and there's been a few fanart and even fics for some of them and my Tumblr has been like going off with notif after notif these past few days with my moots and friends rb the birthday art and fic for those characters but today has been very quiet? And I've only seen like one Tori birthday art today on Tumblr. I've seen two on insta and like three or four on twt but that's it's... I've seen like three or four birthday posts for Tori today on Tumblr tho it's not art just a birthday shout out text post or something. With like single digit notes on it </3 and i only saw them bc I went to the Tori tag bc there was nothing on my dash <///3 so yeah today's a sad day for Tori enjoyers I think...

[crybaby-bkg]

“Can you help me with this, please?” You ask gently, chin jutting in Dabi’s direction. Your eyes are still glued to the task at hand, but you finally look up when a few beats of silence pass. Dabi’s looking at you from across the table, arms folded, resting the lower half of his face behind his forearms. His eyes are bright in the dimmed light of the living room, and his gaze is enthralling when it snaps from your hands to your eyes.

He doesn’t answer still, as he watches you. Bounces from you tying the party balloons, back to your face, to the other balloons scattering the floor, your face again. He inhales slowly, before sitting up, stretching his arms like a feral turned house cat. He reaches across the table with nimble fingers, grabbing for a balloon, and blows it up with his mouth despite the helium tank sitting a foot away from the balloons.

You blink at him a few times, taking him in—his low lids, tautly pulled mouth, the bored expression on his face, his slumped shoulders. Your head tilts as you place the balloon you just blew up between your legs to keep from floating away, frowning at him.

“What cogs are turning in that pretty little head of yours?” You ask, smiling faintly when he chuckles at you. Dabi blows up another balloon with his mouth before he answers you with a shrug.

“A lot, and nothing at the same time.” He grunts after a while. “Don’t worry about it too much, angel. Shouldn’t be occupied with my shit on your birthday.” Dabi tries placating you with the nickname, but you don’t budge.

“But if there’s something up with you, I can’t celebrate wholly.” You confess, tying a string to the balloon in your lap, gaze focused on him after you let it float to the ceiling.

“And why’s that?”

“Because I feel guilty celebrating myself knowing,” you stop yourself, mouth clamped shut, but you don’t look away from him. Dabi fixes you with a look, his mouth twisted, already knowing what words you were about to spill. He sighs after a long while, shoulders slumping, running a hand down his face.

“I shouldn’t be,” he stops himself, pauses for a long while, eyes fixated on the decorations in front of him. “I never got this whole, you know, shebang growing up. I just don’t know how to—to do this whole thing. Birthdays and decorations and celebrations, and shit.”

“You could always learn with me.” You tell him, barely a beat passing before you answer him. Your eyes are full of such sweetness, sincerity, and it makes his chest ache a little. You’re always so full of hope whenever it comes to him, so full of grace and understanding. How could you pass so much kindness onto a person so bitter like him? He can barely be happy that it’s your birthday without thinking about his own past.

And yet, you grab his hand and smile at him. Throughout the afternoon you hand him streamers and tape and which candles to get from the drawer to light. You help him find his best outfit for the party and bring him into the conversation every time your friends talk. You hold his hand while you’re sung to and squeeze it so tight when you blow out your candles.

He doesn’t understand your grace, but he’s thankful for it. Even if it’s just a tiny bit.