#Because I am unwell

[mischieviem]

More ouaw stuff because I am 50 episodes in and losing sleep

[zombiechaser]

continuing to draw them is how I cope

[auntieclimactic]

Guess who's already working on OFMD S2 Fix It Fic?

Death is not kind.

First, it’s pain. Izzy never minded pain, but when the numbing darkness comes, Izzy welcomes it. He fades out to the quiet sounds of Ed, Eddie, weeping. Cold starts in his extremities, in his toes and fingers, and spreads up his body until the only points of warmth are Ed’s arms around him. There’s yelling, a burst of pain in his chest, and then—

Death is not the nothing Izzy hoped for. It’s a constant, confusing chorus of sensation. Initially, the sensations seem rather unimportant. The gentle rolling motion melding with a fuzzy prickle of something at the back of his consciousness reminds him of his younger years, sleeping off a dogwatch in his hammock with his ship creaking and groaning around him. There’s a weak thrumming in his ears. He finds it almost calming; he clings to it.

But then the pressure in his chest begins. It builds and builds, roaring over him like waves pounding at the shore. Every gentle roll makes him want to cry out, but his throat hurts. He’s thirsty. Christ, he’s thirsty. Izzy tries to cry out, tries to beg for water, but he can’t seem to find his body.

There’s noise in Death. A constant drumming at the back of his brain overlaid with words that pass through him, some furious, some desperate. Izzy tries to hang onto them, but he only manages to grasp bits and pieces.

“...infected…”

“No! No! You…”

“...not healing! He needs…”

“...little wooden boy.”

“Fuck!”

“...lose him!”

Death jolts his entire body, making Izzy let out a soundless scream. He hurts. He hurts, and Death doesn’t even have the decency to be sweet about it. The pressure is obliterating, burning him through as light pours into his skull, whiting him out. 

Izzy screams into the whiteness.

Hands cup his face. Points of warmth on his cheek. “Izzy! Shit, shit, shit, shit!”

Ed? Eddie? Is he here? Izzy remembers killing him. He wants to weep. Maybe he is. There’s wetness on his cheeks. The pressure on his chest increases, and Izzy fades back into the darkness.

Light fades in and out. Izzy dreams he’s lying in a rowboat, drifting towards shore. Death is there with him. Izzy can sense it lurking on the other side of his eyelids. He tries to pull back his lips and show some teeth, but he can’t manage more than a sneer. A hard thump vibrates Izzy’s body, and the drifting stops. He can smell silica, sulfide, and damp organic matter—sand—and then he’s lifted up, swaying weightlessly, and the sweet, sharp smell of grass floods his senses. Death has brought him to shore. Izzy tries to thrash. It’s wrong, completely and totally fucking wrong. He belongs to the sea.

“What the fuck?!”

A woman’s voice. Unfamiliar and furious. Izzy sympathizes; he’s pretty fucking furious too. 

“Mary, please, he’s dying!” 

That’s Stede, Izzy realizes. Of course. Not even Death can overcome Stede fucking Bonnet. 

“Bon-net,” Izzy tries. His throat is so dry, and his mouth can’t quite manage the nuh and gives up completely at the final plosive. The weak thumping in his ears crescendos, stutters, and throbs. It’s his heartbeat, Izzy realizes, and that’s when the panic starts. 

“Oh, fucking— Doug! Get the…”

Because if he’s alive, if Izzy’s fucking alive, that means—

There’s a needle prick in Izzy’s neck, and everything goes quiet. 

The next thing Izzy hears is the cry of a seagull. His eyes snap open.

[impossibleprincess35]

[weekofobitine] "Peace" | Preview #1

Because if I keep debating this, I might not post it at all. Here's a peek for @weekofobitine:

And in a fleeting moment of peace in between contractions, his hand would reach for the swell of her bare belly, round all over, soft, and warm to the touch. He would seek out the signs of life that had formed within, like the steady thumping of a heartbeat, and then another, hers, thundering in the background. And as her belly would tighten underneath his touch, indicating that a contraction was nearing, he would know that the moment of peace had come to an end yet again. The little mysterious world that resided within her fascinated the Jedi padawan. She fascinated him. He waited by her side as she labored and felt in awe of her, how she had spent her pregnancy rebuilding Mandalore while simultaneously growing life within her womb. It seemed typical of her, for if she did anything easily, it was nothing at all. The newly constructed dome over Sundari seemed like a grander scale model of her expectant abdomen, how it grew in a similar way, curved and wide, to protect a world that she felt so fiercely protective over. And inside her womb, another world existed where their child formed so perfectly in peace that only a mother’s form could provide.

(Updated on 9/17: Here's the actual fic on AO3 now that it's Obitine Week!)

[deuteragonist1]

This has been gnawing at my brain since I first heard it

because

And the way Arthur says it is so honest, so serious, so earnest. He's exhausted but he makes sure to look at Merlin's right in the eye. Like this comes from the bottom of his soul and he absolutely, desperately needs Merlin to understand (and considering he most likely knew he was going to die at this point, well). Look at Merlin's face. There's such solemnity and vulnerability in this scene. It hurts to watch.

[princescar]

Do to some :D circumstances :D the dr0 pin preorder is being :D pushed back a little while :D

I am going to fucking kill someone

[chaos-smoothie]

do you ever just feel anxiety about yourself and the universe just constantly? I used to have panic attacks all the time but now I'm just feeling a constant sense of mortality and dread help

[impossibleprincess35]

I AM ATTACKED.

I AM UTTERLY ATTACKED.

[gelphiegifs]

"Glinda! Is it true you were her friend?" "Friend? Yes."

[lazylittledragon]

they just got to have a sleepover and nothing bad ever happened at all

[certifiablyinsanez]

I am haunted by the detailed, completed map of Hell that Edwin took notes on. You don’t understand, it makes me sick. It’s one thing to have a basic layout, a vague idea, or a rudimentary map but it was meticulously detailed. Down to doors and what they do and where they go. Down to secret spaces in the walls. He even knew what ringing an innocuous bell would do. It can only mean one thing. We don’t know when Edwin began trying to escape, but assuming he started from the get go, it means that he spent all his decades in Hell trying to find a way out. He never stopped running. And that is assuming he never stopped. From his second trip, we could see he resorted to his old ways and ran. But he was eventually caught, reduced to pieces. Even when Charles showed up, he didn’t seem very optimistic about their chances. He could feel every second of those 70 years. There were likely many times he fell to hopelessness, trembling in the corner watching himself be desecrated knowing it was going to happen again and again. How long? How many times did he try to be so, so quiet, hoping he would have a few moments before the next round? How many times did he muster the ability to run, just one more time? How long did it take him to run, discovering the ends of each ring? How many times did he sprint up, down, north, south, east, west, trying to escape? And what happened when he finally escaped? How long did it take for him to be able to relax, even a little? Because he can never relax. He must always outrun Death and her constituents because he can’t count on them to be fair. How many times does he look over his shoulder, waiting for the monster to claim its eternal meal once again? His breath of fresh air, his first taste of companionship in ages not only keeps him company, but sticks by him. And then, in that blessing there comes a curse, because now you have something to lose. Because when you taste ambrosia how can you return to starvation? He feels safe with Charles. Happy and comfortable, but the threat always lingers. And he knows that Charles couldn’t fend off Death. He never considered he could fend off Hell beasts; after all, he’s just a ghost kid. He watches innocents be slaughtered on repeat, unphased by the level of violence but no less affected by it, because no one has even a clue what it takes to be this kind. Even at his most happy, he has so, so much to lose and he goes back to Hell when hope was dangled in his face like the fruit of Tantalus. When he returns, he’s subjected to Hell once again, sustaining through torture that obliterates souls, only to watch his best friend, his confidant, his platonic soulmate, die horrifically. This woman who gave him sea-glass courage, so powerful and yet so fragile. Allowed him to be himself, gave him permission to do so. Was the openness to his closed self, and now she is gone. And he retains his composure, his stiff, British posture because it is what has saved him from madness and Despair, protected him, and now the world is darker without Niko Sasaki in it. But surely he saw this coming. After all, humans are messy. And yet, he shows up for their souls, time and time again.

Edwin Payne is THE character.

[mutantfactor]

Fangs of Fortune 𓆩𓆪 Zhuo Yichen & Zhao Yuanzhou

[crikey01]

inspired by this post by @allthefakepeople :)

this was supposed to just be a sketch to use as a reference and then i was going to paint it with gouache (i still might) but i am too impatient and giddy about them to not post it now. love them so much 🩷🩷🩷

everyone watch dead boy detectives i BEG

[bitchthefuck1]

At the end of the day, they're still just little kids making noise outside his office.

[moron-rights]

Pardon, but I've been thinking about this frame for the last 24 hours:

Astarion, filled with power—literally, figuratively, emotionally. Ascending.

And he's still shot behind chains.

[lyknest]

🤓💖

ThamePo Heart That Skips a Beat (2024)