#I'll leave it at that lol
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if "To Be Loved" was a cartoon Saloon movie heh đ„°
Spoilers i guess??? Cause of little Elfwine... this is also a scene from the fic itself... takes place in the chapters leading up to the climax of Part 1 of the fic,, before, y'know... the ~Great Tragedy~ strikes đłđŹ
#eothiriel#eomer x lothiriel#eomer eadig#lothiriel of dol Amroth#elfwine#lotr#lord of the rings#tolkien fanart#lotr fanart#i don't usually draw in such a stylized exaggerated style but it was fun :)#also YES the great tragedy... let's just say halfway through the fic uhhh VERY tragic things happen#i'll leave it at that lol
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who is the coworker eli is in love with đ
i assume is his demon bud?
if you asked eli he'd say no one, if you asked keth he'd say "me, obviously," and if you asked anyone else eli works with they'd sigh and point to bentley. eli denies he has feelings for them but has been in love with them for years. they're also the only person eli considers a friend (which keth is offended by)
#I'll leave it at that lol#eli's relationships & feelings are... complicated#asks#freefallverse#freefall#bedevil#father eli#elias leon#keth#kethmannoth#bentley#maria bentley
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BANG CHAN ⥠GIANT JACKET MAKING MOVIE
#stray kids#bang chan#bystay#staysource#channiesnet#createskz#staydaily#skzco#usersa#staytay#dreamytag#userbeepls#usertsu#usersemily#bitsforkitts#melontrack#*mine#do re mi fa king giant#anyway i have to leave for class in a few so this will be the last i do for now#i'll be back later or tomorrow w more gifs depending on how i feel when i get back from class tonight lol
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would you want to change anything in your life?
definitely.
anonymously ask me one thing you want to know about me
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it's bothering Patrick hours every hour
#fobedit#fall out boy#pete wentz#patrick stump#peterick#fob#anni edits#bothers you bothers you bothers you bo-#leave the poor boy alone#tell that boy i'll leave you alone now /lying#he's so annoying <3#mmrs one not quite the same but it's cute to gif lol
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punkflower text posts đžđ» (1/?)
#spiderverse#punkflower#hobie x miles#đžđ»#punkflower texts#hobie brown#miles morales#this one's for the honestly startling number of people showing up for these two in that one poll#also i forgot ten pics is the limit so. i'll leave it here for now lol#img descriptions added!!
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had a scene from @lunamugetsu's dpxdc fic "If you find a vigilante in the dumpster" on ao3 stuck in my head and had to get it out lol
the image of little Danny feeding Red Hood portage with space stickers all over his face and helmet in chapter 15 was hilarious lmao
#dpxdc#dp x dc#if you find a vigilante in the dumpster#do we add character tags for dpxdc crossovers?#I'll be cautious and leave them out lol#hope you dont mind me tagging you...#dp x dc fanart#jax art
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Black Butler Amino, Black Arts Magazine - Holiday Party
it doesn't quite look like a holiday party from here, but what I imagined as a humble little piece is~~ Ciel and Lizzy sneak away from the big bustling midford Christmas party and raid the kitchen desserts, like they did when they were kids(it was Lizzy's idea, Ciel clearly hasn't been himself since he returned, and she wanted to bring him back).
#okay it's been a really long while so hi! I hope everyone has had a cool holiday season so far and will soon have a very great years end!!#and merry christmas to those who celebrate#I've been busy with work and art and unfortunately but obviously fortunately meeting and talking with a lot of people. it's very new to me#and I'm very happy with it. even if I havenât had any chance to open my digital art folders#but yea that's to say that I'm good. i know no one's worried lol but school's been good and not a killer#I'm back in merica but when i go back i hope that ill be able to get back into the swing of drawing and stuff#I've had plenty of time to get settled and would hate to leave all of my big projects for this summer#I'll see!#kuroshitsuji#black butler#kuroshitsuji fanart#fanart#ciel phantomhive#digital art#elizabeth midford#lizzy midford
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Thinking about Silver and the references to his love of (blue) skies đ”âïž
#silver the hedgehog#sonic the hedgehog#Sonic Forces#Sonic colors DS#mario and sonic at the olympic games#Sonic 06#the last ones translated from the Japanese side of forces if anyones wondering why its diff from the english line#This all started because I was curious about the JP side of forces lol#also the text with silver and blaze is from Otherworld Comedy aka the 2023 calendar stories#its a very cute detail#if you wanna read the 2023 calendar i'll leave a link in the replies to a really great fan website that has them all translated into english
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This year's big web! This one marks five years of big web!!!
#finished product sans wip updates!!#it's a couple weeks later than usual this year BUT we've literally never taken it down right after halloween so it's fine lol#doing it around halloween is just an excuse anyway tbh. this isn't a halloween decoration this is a 'jay likes spiders' decoration#I do LIKE the free zone but maybe in the future I'll leave a little more space? đ€ hm#also I could maybe have filled out more of the frame but 1) I'm at the mercy of Amount Of String On Spool#and I forgot I wanted to try starting a fresh spool for the spirals until after I was already doing them#and 2) honestly I'm so sick of doing it by the end of it anyway gkjhkfdg by the time the spirals are that big it's HARD TO DO!!#about me#my art#spiderweb#big web
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never love an anchor (e.m. x reader)
"On some level, I think I always understood that a ship could never really love an anchor."
warnings: severe hurt/brief comfort, suicidal ideations, severely depressed reader. again: detailed recount of suicidal ideations. dead dove: do not eat.
wc: 5.8k+
an: i cannot emphasize this enough - this fic deals with a severely depressed, and blatantly suicidal reader. it is extremely heavy. it is extremely triggering. it is extremely self-indulgent. the romance aspect is ambiguous and the comfort aspect at the end is brief. this is a genuine, and sincerely personal piece of writing. it is an outline of how suicidal ideations may present themselves to some people. of these 5k words, 4k is deeply littered with reader's ideations without sugar coating. please, please, please do not read this unless you're in the state of mind to read it. you've surely heard it before but i'll say it just to be sure: it is a permanent solution for temporary feelings. and, just in case no one has told you, i'm glad you're alive. if you're reading this, i'm glad that you're alive. you're enough.
if you find yourself feeling like reader, i urge that you find resources such as those linked. hotlines, therapists, friends, your doctor, your family - please. i do not wish these emotions upon anyone, and they should never be taken lightly.
that being said, here are my guts from a very vulnerable moment, spilled out across the page. please handle them with care if you choose to read.
Technically speaking, the pressure that the human body is capable of handling almost seems infinite. When introduced slowly, and time is given to adjust, there is no pinpointed amount of pressure that dooms the human body. Like a crab in slow boiling water, your body should be theoretically able to handle a steady increase, bit by bit, and never truly notice.Â
So why does it currently feel like youâre dying?
The pressure was never an overnight thing. It was a conglomeration youâd gathered, piece by piece, collecting little souvenirs of all the responsibilities you canât currently remember if youâd ever agreed to along the way. It hadnât been sudden, it hadnât been with lack of adjusting, it hadnât been a pressure suddenly unloaded upon you all at once â youâd done this, brick by brick, all with your own two hands.Â
Keeping up with friends, keeping up with work, keeping up with expectations. Always trying to run ahead of the curve, always trying to be better. You should be fine. You shouldnât even notice. You shouldnât be sobbing on your bathroom floor, clutching the edge of your porcelain tub, every single breath a labor of survival.Â
It feels like every bone in your body is splintering. It feels like the world has cracked open your ribs, one by one, just for show. You donât feel poetic like the movies, you donât feel like a valuable lesson learned in the books. You feel as though youâve become nothing more than some crude display in a contemporary art gallery, and you were the one to hang yourself on the wall.Â
Needles prickle across your skin with another heaving sob, as if you can feel the push pins youâve used to spread yourself out for consumption.Â
We still on for tonight?Â
The text from Eddie glares at you from your phone discarded on the floor mere inches away. Youâre lucky the screen hadnât broken when youâd thrown it down on the ground on your way to the toilet, dry heaving through all your tears.Â
He wasnât a part of the issue. If anything, he was part of the solution.Â
A shining clean slate, pristine whites and a scratch-free surface for you to press your cheek to when it all got a bit much. An abyss of freedom and openness for when the world was all a bit smothering. An anchor to cling to, a rope to tie around your wrists to keep from floating too far. The willow tree in a graveyard to rest your back against, the caress of a warm sun even if only momentarily as you stared out across headstones of all the pieces of you that you can never get back. Every version of you that has long since buried, a few even with newly churned dirt resting upon them. Something soft, something sacred, to rest your hands upon.Â
Why does he still let you rest your bloodied and dirtied palms on his shoulders? Did he ever agree to that to begin with?Â
You canât remember. Or maybe your brain is simply refusing to recall.Â
I hate to cancel, but Iâm sick. I donât think I can come out tonight :-(Â
What? Is everything okay? Are you okay? Do I need to bring you anything?Â
Please donât.
The please is what gives you away. You should have forgone it, should have offered him a lighthearted response instead.Â
But there is a pit in the bottom of your stomach, and seeing all the question marks across his text only made it more terminal. Only gave it more reason to swallow you whole. Only gave it more reason to grow and to tangle up and to restrict each stuttering breath of yours that you canât seem to steady.Â
Another buzz comes from your phone, but you donât look to read it. You resort to resting your forehead against the lip of your toilet, all attempts at a deep breath futile as you finally taste the salt across your lips.Â
Were you too much? Were you not enough? Was it possible to be an odd juxtaposition of both?Â
A harrowing thought crosses your mind, and you know if Eddie could read minds across the intricate webbing that connects cell phones, heâd grab you by your shoulders. Maybe shake you until you see sense, or maybe cling to you until the thought has faded into nothingness. As if he could squeeze you hard enough to press together all the splinters that are left of your bones, forming a new body â a better body. One that can handle the pressure. One that isnât imploding upon itself. A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.Â
Does it even matter anymore? Would it even matter if I simply vanished?Â
Would it be so bad to let the pit finally consume you? To just give in, to let it erase you from existence. To finally wave your white flag and let the awfulness inside of you finally win the battle, erasing you from existence and leaving behind an empty space in the world that could be filled with someone better.
Someone who could be a better friend. Someone who could be a harder worker. Someone who wasnât choked up on their bathroom floor, beginning to contemplate if the painful gasps were even worth it.Â
Were you worth it? Were you worth the air in your lungs? Or could it better serve someone who could handle all the pressure?Â
And it wasnât even that much pressure to begin with, if you pick it apart thread by thread. It was the natural weight of the human experience, and you were still crumbling.Â
There was a full bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. There was a busy street not far from your home. There was a bathtub that could easily be filled with water â youâd never been good at holding your breath, unless someone counted the last few months, in which that seemed to be all you were good at.Â
There was even a bridge, 5.27 miles away from your house exactly. You could already envision the patch of grass you could park your car at, feel the drop in temperature as you stood and overlooked the tame waves of a man-made lake.
Maybe your feet didnât even have to leave the pavement. Maybe it would be enough to just stand in the silence and see the jump with your own two eyes.Â
You felt like nothing more than a ghost of yourself, yes, but maybe. Maybe, just maybe, there would still be a broken shard within you that could stir awake at it all. Maybe if you got up off the bathroom floor and set yourself into motion, it would open its eyes just in time to scream no.Â
Ghosts donât just appear. They were a vibrant soul once â they were somebody once.Â
But itâs hard to imagine that you ever were. When it gets like this, itâs hard to push through all the tumultuous thoughts and loathly emotions to remember that. A version of you vibrant, a version of you that might have been worthy, if only for a moment.Â
A version of you that wasnât insulting to compare to others. That was capable of progress, of earning your blip of existence.Â
You donât want the bottle of ibuprofen. You donât want the busy street. You donât want the overflowing tub. You donât even want the calm of the bridge. You just want it to stop.Â
Thereâs a knock on your front door that echoes through the entire apartment. You dread that you already know who it is, but you canât get up to answer.Â
You canât move from this very spot. Youâre terrified of what will happen when you do.Â
Will your bones collapse into ash upon the floor? Will you make one wrong move, and in a fit of pressure, make a terribly permanent decision for what feels like a terribly permanent feeling?Â
Maybe you were born with the pit in your stomach. Maybe you were born with that black hole inside of you. Cursed to always be yearning, always be a juxtaposition, always be a ghost of what could have become.Â
You think you hear the click of your front door opening. You think you hear heavy footsteps across the hardwood floors. You think, you think, you think. Thatâs the issue.Â
The tears are still coming and going in erratic tides. The salt is drying out your lips, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes. Youâd thought youâd been incapable of any more emotions like this, but your tear ducts have managed to prove you wrong.Â
Does it even matter anymore?
Youâd left the bathroom door wide open.Â
Were you worth it?
Youâd been home alone â past tense.
A more durable mind, a more capable suit of skin to occupy.
A soft gasp of your name has you microscopically lifting your head from the toilet seat. You know what the scene looks like; it looks like nothing more than the excuse youâd used. You look as though youâre ill, like youâve been spilling your guts across the bathroom floor all night.Â
If you had been, would it all feel a little less heavy?Â
âHey, Eds.âÂ
Youâre tired. Youâre exhausted. Your voice is nothing more than a drag of a whisper as you look up at your anchor standing in the doorway, his face painted with concern.Â
Maybe you were an anchor â maybe being an anchor wasnât a good thing. After all, what use does an anchor have beyond weighing down the ship?Â
âJesus,â he mutters as he rushes to your side, falling to his knees carelessly as his hand flies out to brush back tendrils of your hair, âYou look like shit.â
You felt like shit.Â
Selfishly, you lean into his touch, desperate for comfort. Desperate for those caring palms to soothe the ache youâd carried since birth. Desperate to hear him tell you that youâre wrong â hands to promise you that youâre worthy, fingers to wrap around your bones rather than these burning ropes. Youâre bloodied and raw, fully on display, and you just want to be okay.Â
You donât want the bridge. You want Eddie. You want him to magically make it okay, and thatâs unfair.Â
Youâre not his weight to carry, not his burden to shoulder.Â
After far too long of a silence, one in which he sits patiently in with you, all you can really reply is a broken, âYeah.âÂ
Immediately, he knows something is wrong. Because of course he does.Â
Because heâs a good friend. Heâs a good person. He has the right words more often than not, and his hands were always formed to heal rather than injure. Create rather than destroy. Those warm palms are made to hold the space heâs earned in the grand scheme of the Universe, and it almost makes you nauseous as the jealousy spreads.Â
Heâs good.Â
And youâre simply rotten.
You used to lie to yourself and say it was simply one rotted bit amongst plenty of good, but tonight, it all seemingly comes to clarity. You canât dig out the bad, cleanse yourself of the rot, because itâs all decay.Â
You donât have to let the pit consume you â it already has. You were born with it, and it had swallowed you whole from the first cry that had ever left your lips.Â
He makes himself a bit more comfortable, and you almost feel bad for reducing him to nothing more than the bathroom floor, âYou wanna talk about whatâs really wrong?âÂ
âIâm sick.âÂ
âThis isnât just some stomach bug.â
Your throat begins to tighten again, and suddenly, his gentle touch across the crown of your head burns. Your eyes water ferociously, and your chest caves into itself.
You canât make a better body or a more sound mind out of the mess youâve become. You canât pull gold from tarnished rubble.Â
Confessing to him will only be handing over something heavy, something terrible, that he shouldnât have to struggle with as well. But not offering him a sliver of the truth almost feels more dishonoring.Â
âDo you ever feel like a waste of space?â you croak, leaning back, finally accepting that the small space of the toilet that had been cooling your face has gone warm. Another thing youâve ruined, in hindsight, âLike, this world is filled with great people, and I just⊠I just, Iâm taking up the space- Iâm wasting the space-âÂ
You canât get out the proper words. You donât know how.
How do you say you want to cease to exist when youâre not really sure if thatâs the truth? Youâre miserable, and youâre selfish, and youâre not entirely sure your feet would have ever left the pavement if you had driven yourself to the bridge. Youâd be too scared to do it. Â
Too scared to miss the day that science announces itâs found a cure to all your rot, a miracle drug to erase the pit, a way to reverse all the damage youâve been comprised of your whole life.Â
His brows furrow and his hand stops all the calming movements, âWhat? Are you- are you saying you feel like a waste of space?â
It feels silly to admit it to other people. To try and describe how it all feels. Like a child trying to convince their parents the Boogeyman is real, you have to make him see that youâre right. You have evidence, you have proof, and itâs not just a feeling.Â
âI donât feel like Iâm a waste of space,â you finally correct, both yourself and him, âI know Iâm a waste of space.âÂ
âBullshit.â
âEddie, donât-â
âNo,â he cuts you off. And somehow, in only a way that heâs capable of, itâs not offensive, âYouâre not. Iâm not going to sit here and listen to my favorite person claim theyâre wasting space-â
âI am!â Itâs your turn in the cycle of interruption. You pull away from him entirely, chest heaving with the weight presenting itself once more, tears starting to fall all over again. You canât even distinguish where the old tears stop and the new ones begin, âI really am. All I seem to do lately is just exist. And thatâs such a- such a- thatâs such a waste. I canât read any of the things I should enjoy these days, I canât even write. All of the words feel like they just come out wrong. Iâm letting everyone down left and right, Iâm never living up to whatever pedestal youâve put me on. I donât even know what Iâm doing with my life. I donât even know where Iâll be in a year from now â I canât even see that far in the future.â
Heaves become sobs, and the crumbling has begun once more. A cycle of breaking, a cycle of demolition. Even leaving behind the rubble feels like a crime. A waste of space.Â
âI donât think Iâm a good person,â you manage to spit out between all your visceral reactions, âEvery year, I tell myself the same thing â Iâll be better, Iâll be kinder, Iâll be worth it. And every year, I fail.âÂ
Can he see it? All the fractures and splinters and pits and metaphors?Â
Can he smell it? All the rot and the destruction and hopelessness?
Can he feel it? All the pressure?Â
Through your sniffles, you press your back to the tub, knees to your chin as you wrap your arms around your legs, desperately trying to shrivel up. To take up less space. To waste less space.
âI used to think I could make up for it,â you whisper, âI could offer people things that made them forget Iâm⊠so useless. But I donât think Iâm even capable of that anymore.â
If heâs about to respond, itâs drowned out by your cries. You press your eyes hard into your kneecaps, until you see stars, and you try to swallow down all the embarrassment. Try to stop all the hurt from spilling out, to stop all your guts from painting the bathroom walls.Â
He could simply sit there, let you wallow in your misery alone. Sit and stare as the artwork finally serves its purpose to the visitors of the gallery. Maybe jot down some commentary on how with your bones all spread out like this, the point the artist was attempting to make becomes oh so clear.Â
And yet, he doesnât.Â
You know itâs his arms that are wrapping around you, pulling you from the chill of the tub and into the warmth of his chest. And you let yourself smother within the fabric of his shirt the same exact way in which youâve convinced yourself you smother everyone around you, let yourself breathe in drugstore cologne and his last cigarette rather than think about all the thoughts that had been spiraling you into dismay over the last twenty four hours â over the last twenty four years.Â
Heâd probably been smoking while waiting on your call tonight. Probably riddled with anxiety, if the shake of his hands pressing into your back are anything to go off of. An anxiety and waiting game that wouldnât have to exist if you didnât exist.
The thought makes you cry harder.Â
If a ghost dies, can it even still return back as itself? Can it still find it within itself to haunt empty hallways, and watch the ones it once loved find peace?
âYouâre not useless,â it sounds as though Eddie might be crying as well, if not just a little choked up, âYouâre not- I swear- Youâre not useless, okay? Never have been, never will be.â
His murmured words are nice, but they fuel an unimaginable guilt. It was supposed to be a nice night. A night of movie marathons and midnight coffee, of trying to remind yourself why you still stick around. A moment of incomparable joy and sweet reprieve as your stomach ached from laughter, your cheeks swelling with an infallible grin that Eddie always seems to pull out of you.
Thereâs no smiling, no giggling, right now. Just his favorite band shirt from the show you two had attended a few years before, soaking with a fast-growing stain from all your tears.Â
When you donât answer him, only manage to wrap your selfish arms around his waist, he continues, âHow long have you felt this way, sweetheart?â
And if you hadnât already been shattered previously, that would have finally broken you.Â
You canât pinpoint when it started. You canât clear the smoke of memories and find an exact moment that you can point to and say, there. Thatâs where the hurt starts â thatâs where the rot starts.Â
âI donât know.â
In your mind, itâs a wail. Loud and ferocious, efforts of all it has taken to withstand the pressure of your undoing screamed out loud.Â
But on this quiet bathroom floor, it canât even be considered a whisper. Nothing more than the spoken words lingering from a ghost who canât give up the haunt. An echo of a memory, an echo of the piece in you that canât let go, not yet.
Not of existing, and not of him. Your fists hold him so firmly against you, youâre scared that youâre going to bruise him. Hurt him just from the sheer effort of trying to show that you love him.Â
The only way you know how to love â a violent dog who will always bite the kindest hands. Leaving behind bloodied knuckles even if you hadnât so much as snipped this time.Â
You take a sharp breath, aware of the levity of the words youâre about to say, âI donât want to exist anymore, but I wouldnât even make it off the bridge if I tried.â
Itâs not about the bridge anymore. In all likelihood, it wouldnât be the bridge you turn to. Thereâs a grand metaphor somewhere in the admittance, but your mind is just too tired to try and paint a prettier picture of it for him.Â
Because exist is just a placeholder. And thereâs a bigger, scarier word that should stand in its place.Â
He starts to break the hold, and you nearly sob out again just at that. Losing the warmth of his chest and arms strike pain somewhere deep within you, just north of the pit thatâs devoured all thatâs left of you.Â
âBridge?â Phrased as a clarifying question, but when you see his face, itâs clear he knows. There are no good words left to say about it, âSweetheart, no.â
There are worse reactions to be had. More scenarios that end in slamming doors or deafening silent treatments. Realizations that youâre right and itâs not worth it â defense mechanisms that involve them leaving first.Â
âI couldnât do it, even if I want-âÂ
Even if I wanted to. The words you canât speak, dying on your tongue.Â
Do you want to? Where does the pain begin? And where could it end?
âYou really donât see it, do you?â he laughs humorlessly, his hands still gripping your biceps in a death hold, âYou⊠you justâŠâÂ
He doesnât know what to say, and you donât blame him. You knew this was heavy; you knew this isnât the type of bomb to drop on someone you love.Â
But if you didnât, where would the bomb have gone? Youâre not equipped to detonate it. Youâre not equipped to survive the explosion. You wouldnât want to survive that explosion.Â
âIâm sorry,â your words pour out, beginning to shake beneath his palms, âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry, Iâm sorry.âÂ
Dry, cracked lips feel as though they nearly split from the apologies. More violence, more devastation, more of what you always knew you were. You can see it in his eyes â youâre dragging him down with you, right down to the bottom of the ocean. Youâre being an anchor.Â
Heâs all stutters and harsh breaths, panic filling the space with your own as his eyes search yours, âDonât apologize. You donât have to apologize. Just-â
He cuts off and is pulling you close again. Slamming your bones into his, wrapping up around you as if he might be able to keep you safe from the world. From your own mind.Â
âI donât need apologies,â another squeeze of your closer to him, another attempt to pull you away from the dangers that lie within, âI donât- I just⊠Can I help? How do I make it better? Just say the word. Iâll do it.âÂ
Itâs not your job. Thatâs not your job.Â
You donât realize youâve said the words out loud until heâs squeezing you so tightly that you now canât breathe. Until all you are is him. All his old t-shirts heâs lent to you that hang in your closet, all the nights spent with tangled legs as you sit across from each other on your couch, all the phone calls in which he refused to be the first one to hang up. Cologne that is too cheap to be able to cling so ferociously as it does to all your surroundings, chain-smoked cigarettes you always chastise him for because theyâre gonna kill you one day, the smoke of his latest blunt resting in an ashtray as his head finds home in your lap.Â
All the inside jokes. All the hugs. All the simple texts, if for nothing more than to just check in on each other. The broken reminders of having someone out there that cares. That loves you.Â
How can such rotten hands pull such love from others? How have you yet to infect him?Â
âI know itâs not my job,â he finally says, and you know for a fact heâs crying along with you before the first of his tears have wet the crown of your head, âItâs never been a job. Youâre not a job. Okay? Get that through your head. Thereâs- Fuck, thereâs plenty of things I wanna drill in that pretty little head of yours right now, but I know I canât, so just get that.â
Heâs trying. A little trill of his tongue that falls a bit flat when he refers to your pretty little head, a brief squeeze of your shoulders as he tries to relax a little. He wants to make you feel better. He wants to make it better.Â
But heâs still holding you like heâs terrified. You did that â you instilled that fear.Â
âIâm a mess,â you whisper in bitter realization, ash on your tongue as you process what youâve done. Youâve already apologized, but youâre seconds away from doing so again, âIâm- Iâm a mess, and Iâm dragging you into it, and Iâm sor-â
âStop being sorry.â Definitive words, no room for argument. The smallest of shifts as things click into place. He isnât budging â he isnât letting go, âDo you remember when I first met you?âÂ
You canât tell if the question is meant to have a point, or if itâs meant to be a distraction. You let it grow into the latter.
âYeah,â you breathe out against him, melting into his chest, trying to focus on his voice rather than the ones in your head, âBut tell me about it anyway?âÂ
âTwo years ago. Technically, two years and seven months,â he starts in the same voice he used to take on during Hellfire sessions, before the members had scattered from coast to coast and his D&D club only became a rarity when the stars aligned. Thereâs still a crack to his voice from his tears, but that doesnât stop him, âWe were in some cursed fucking diner we donât even go to anymore, in the dead of the night, and all the servers knew your name and order,â he paints the picture with a humor that should feel out of place, but it settles some of your breathing. Omitting all the vivid details, opting for triggering the memory with words youâd just get. You can feel the stick of the plastic beneath your thighs, you can smell the grease of the kitchen. You can see the cloudy night out of the oversized windows. Heâs a natural born storyteller in the most subtle of ways, always knowing his audience, âYou were sitting all alone in that booth, and all of Hellfire had just left. Gareth had just told us how he was going to college in California â did you know that?âÂ
âI didnât.âÂ
âWell, he did,â his chin presses against the top of your head, a huff of a laugh escaping him, âDropped the bomb it was our last summer as a club probably. We were happy for him, though. Real fucking happy. Got milkshakes to celebrate and made plans to get drunk off our asses the next night to keep the party going. It was dumb, and Iâm getting off track, butâŠâÂ
Baited breath, youâre waiting for him to continue. No thoughts of the bridge. No thoughts of your failures. Living in a small memory with him on the floor of your bathroom.Â
âAnyways, you were sitting there all alone, with a plate of fries and ranch.âÂ
âOh, God,â your nose scrunches and you try to pull away, suddenly remembering how embarrassing this memory ends for you. It suddenly didnât seem like the best way for him to make you feel better by any means, âNo, I remember how this story ends, and-â
âIâm not done,â he locks his arms around you, and you can feel the whisper of a smile as it brushes against your temple, âObviously you know where Iâm going with this, but Iâm not done, sweetheart. Because all the other guys had just left, and Iâm sitting there, realizing the only other customer was some random person over across the diner, scribbling away in some notebook. Thought you looked cute when you were all focused like that, yâknow? But then you were so focused that it became distracted, and you spilled that ranch all over yours-âÂ
âPlease, stop.â
Youâre laughing through the words, weakly, the air of desperation in the word please being far different from earlier in the night. No bridges, no failures.Â
âI was probably being a weirdo, trying to run over and help you or whatever the fuck I was trying to do. I probably made it worse, right?âÂ
Youâre there, remembering a version of Eddie that was a stranger, taking napkins to the knees of your jeans and smearing the ranch rather than really helping you clean it up. âYeah, just a little bit.âÂ
âSorry for that, by the way,â he airily apologizes before continuing, âBut I just remember thinking about how focused you were on that notebook. And how you laughed with the waiter. And how you were just⊠lost in your own little world. And how you were so cute. You were so nice. The type of person I wanted in my life. Took one look at you with that ranch all over your lap and thought, huh. I want to get to know that person.âÂ
âNice? I was not nice, I was-â you cut off, heart all but stopping as you recognize the point of it all. It wasnât meant to just be a distraction. He was making a point. âI was a⊠a mess that day.âÂ
âExactly.â
He pulls away again, and this time, itâs a little easier. The world has put a pause on its ending and you can handle the weight of his arms lightening for a few seconds, just so he can get a good look at your face.Â
âYou were a mess the day that I met you, and I still wanted you in my life,â he says each word deliberately, not breaking eye contact. Fear has broken through to determination. âAnd even if youâre still a mess today, I still want you. Nothing changes. You get that?âÂ
No bridges.
No failures.
The weight of it all had been heavy. The type of sorrow you thought was never meant to be carried by more than your own two hands. But he had taken it in his palms, lifted it from you entirely, even if it would only be temporary. One day youâd have to endure the pain again, get to the root of the problem. Figure out if all your ailments had been something wired into you since birth, or things youâd picked up along your way. But for now, you could breathe again. You could hear the drumming of your heart in your ears, and you could hear every single one of both yours and Eddieâs breaths in the silence, and that was enough.Â
âI donât want to die,â you finally quietly admit. Saying one of the bigger, scarier words. The thing youâd been too afraid to let slip off your tongue originally. âI just- sometimes it all gets a bit loud, you know? And I know you said donât apologize, but I am sorry that I scared you. And Iâm sorry that you have to take the bad to also get that little bit of the good with me.âÂ
His hand leaves one of your arms for the first time since heâd first wrapped you up, and it finds its way to cradle the side of your head. Holding you as if youâre porcelain still. You know that wonât go away, not tonight. âIâd rather have your bad days than have nothing at all,â he chokes up once more, and you can see tears threatening to welt in his eyes, âYou get that, too. Alright? Youâre worth it. Bad, good, funny, sad â give it to me. Iâm asking for it. Just donât⊠donât leave me with the nothing.â
Youâre worth it.Â
Heâs found a worth in you attached to nothing at all. Heâs sitting here with you, on the bathroom floor, and his perception of you has nothing to do with what you can only offer.Â
It just has to do with you. He sees you, and heâs decided youâre worth it. Even now.
He smiles softly, as if he can see the realization dawning upon you, âYou wanna get up off the floor now? We can go sit on your couch or bed or something.âÂ
Youâre quick to shake your head. Your knees are partially digging into his thighs, your breaths are matching his.Â
âOkay,â his face falls slightly, but not entirely. Not entirely, âThatâs okay. Do you want meâŠ. Do you want me to go?âÂ
Another shake of your head. But this time, you need to offer more than just the motion of your head, especially when you can feel tears returning as your throat tightens up, âNo. No, just- Stay with me? Please?âÂ
Your hands reach out without you even processing it, gripping his wrists, desperate and clinging and still verging on the edge of violent. The thought of being alone is terrifying, but the thought of having to watch him walk out of this room is even more petrifying.Â
He doesnât even flinch as you sink your claws in. His smile only returns, and he shuffles to pull you both to hold your backs up against the wall across from the toilet, âOf course. Iâll stay, sweetheart. Iâm not going anywhere â wouldnât even dream of it.âÂ
His words shake just a little less than they had when heâd first entered the room.Â
He canât fix it all magically. That isnât his job, isnât his role, isnât his choice. But he can sit here with you, on the floor of the bathroom, endlessly patient and tragically caring as he urges you to lay down. He stretches his legs out and pats his lap once before hovering his hands over your shoulder, guiding you until your temple is flush with his thigh.Â
He can choose to not hesitate as his fingers immediately push through the baby hairs by your temple, a soft hum in the back of his throat that sounds exactly as you feel.
Hesitantly content. Just for now. Itâs enough.Â
The storm is receding. As hours pass by, and noises of uncertainty become more confident hums of a song you faintly recognize, it all settles. He stays. You stay. The storm passes for the time being, and the hole tempers itself for just the night.Â
Itâs enough for now. Youâll worry more tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that. Youâll talk more about why you feel this way, and heâll offer better solutions. The weight wonât simply be passed into his waiting hands and forgotten â one day, youâll find a way to lighten it through dissipation rather than through catastrophe.Â
One day, the seas will calm, and youâll find yourself the ship rather than the anchor.Â
And the captain can be the boy who sits on the floor with you through the sadness, content to wait out the storms with you until you find the worth he sees in you.
#not using taglist due to the triggering nature of this fic#ghost's stories#eddie munson#eddie munson x reader#eddie munson angst#tw suicidal ideations#this felt more like a journal entry than a fic at times#but i needed to write it so i did#writing eddie's bits were hard because i've always been bad at being on that side of these things#finding a way to have two humans discuss the emotions in question out loud was just hard#and in case anyone who's reading the tags needs to hear this: you're not a burden for telling your loved ones when you feel this way#i guarantee they'd rather have these hard and uncomfortable conversations than the alternative#the ending only feels rushed and like a band-aid because i truly don't know if i'm capable of writing that type of dialogue#it's already scary enough posting this as it is lol#but save the leaves? idk now im using humor as a coping mechanism#alright i'll shut up now no one is reading this far into the tags
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Troublemakers pt. 2
#I'll leave it up to your imagination for what Ran does to Sanzu lol#Tokyo Revengers#æ±ćFA#Manjiro Sano#TR Mikey#Haitani Rindou#Haruchiyo Sanzu#Haitani Ran#Kakucho#TR Kakucho#Hajime Kokonoi#Mikey TR
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when your bro asks you to look and see if it really looks âthat badâ
#the bad batch#star wars the bad batch#commander mayday#a silly to go with the gifset LOL#could've put a MUCH raunchier caption#but I'll leave that to the rest of you haha#feel free to use as reactions or memes idc#star warz
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song about something you'll never be forgiven for. beepbox link here, and a singalong under the read more :''-)
starting point "âŠso don't look back" i took your hand and led you astray into the light i fear i might have made a fatal mistake walk in a straight line walk in a straight line i couldn't ask i only hope that sinners are saved but in all honesty, my honor keeps me somewhat afraid walk in a straight line don't dare look behind â«â«â« i had a dream we tried to reach the finishing line but in the silence still the time we killed had come back to life walk in a straight line walk in a straight line the signs had merged into a single "end of the world" where every undead thing was damned to sing "esrever ni gnos a" walk in a straight line âŠtell me that you're fine â«â«â« walk in a straight line (walk in a straight line) don't dare look behind (don't dare look behind) tell me that you're fine (something that had died) you're still breathing right? (are you satisfied?) walk between the lines (how to save a life) don't dare look behind (change the ending line) reach the end this time (tell a little lie) bring me back to life⊠â«â«â« if i'd look back and held the hands that led me astray into the light i'd proudly cry "this is my final mistake" walk with me this time walk with me this time i should have asked i know the answer's somewhat clichĂ© but was it worth the price and worth the pain? you're fading awayâ walk with me this time bring me back to life⊠if i'd look back⊠if i'd look back⊠if i'd look back⊠if i'd look back⊠if i'd look back⊠if you'd look--
#i've been sitting on this song for a while now... i really wanted to make a video for it but it's late and i can't afford to stay up#for much longer. and i know if i leave this for tomorrow it won't get finished until like. 839482394 months later.#i'm just glad i was able to sketch something that i don't completely hate LOL#anyways.. many many thoughts and feelings poured into this one#i will say the primary thing that inspired it was killua & gon#and also yhk . They Looked Back#wish i could somehow concisely explain my thought process for the song's original meaning but its somewhat convoluted#i guess in essence it was motivated by the idea of ''what if orpheus really did somehow manage to Not look back?''#''isn't it more tragic that way? that he never looks back and just keeps walking?''#sniffles. yeah. shoutout to killua ''rip to orpheus but I'm Different'' zoldyck for that one#theres a lot of other different ways to interpret the song but that one's still one of my favorites...... lol#okay hugs and kisses and goodnight.... maybe one day i'll be able to make that video of mine. smiles#lalala#fishbowl
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#one piece#sanji#black leg sanji#everysanji#sbs#this is going to be entirely unrelated to the sbs above here bc i havent seen reservoir dogs#but i feel like i havent done a little tag life update in a minute#as of time of queuing this the season has been going for about a week#work hasnt been too bad we're normally done closing by like 3:45 but we still have to wait for the bus#which doesnt leave until almost 5 which. i get it.#like the lifties dont get done til after 4 and same with retail and such#bc rentals arent due until 4:15 so they have to stay open for at least that long#but man its not fun just chilling in the lodge for over an hour until the busses start loading#but the work is fine i'm enjoying it enough#hopefully by the time this posts i'll have been able to start taking my ski lessons which i'm super excited for#i want to learn to ski so so bad#also!! i managed to befriend one of the ski instructors on accident#he's from the same area i am as well so we talked a lot about that lol#but he's sweet i like talking to him#i made a comment about how my brother was getting so old bc he turns 18 in june and he went#so what does that make me#sorry but you are 21 you are baby to me (a whole 24 years old)#the difference is i've known my brother for his whole life and you for all of like. three days#but yeah that's mod's life so far its been chill#but man i get winded just climbing the stairs up to the lodge every morning#tbf we are at like. 11000 feet above sea level so like#the air is suuuuuuuuper thin#also we're right along the continental divide too#its beautiful 10/10 would recommend#also editing this on 11/21 to add the steve buschemi screengrab
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It was supposed to be a TSC fanart but I can't finish it
I just cant draw them like actual stickfigures đ
#wip???#I really dont have the motivation damn rn lol#I'll just leave it here#animator vs animation#ava#alan becker#ava the second coming
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