#and I am sorta sad

[cowardlykrow]

Even a hero needs some hope

[build-a-buddy]

Sleeping is REALLY hard when you have PTSD nightmares constantly, even though you are prescribed a lot of special anti-nightmare medication. ):

[pepperpixel]

Initial drawings of that old man… I literally, I haven’t finished reading the book of bill yet!!! I had to stop and take a break for a week to feverishly draw fanart of myself petting fords floofy hair and giving him attention and shit…!!!! The urge was too great….!! I’ve literally. I had a crush on this guy the instant he was first REVEALED in the show, but I did not have the artistic prowess to draw good looking old men back then… but I do now… thank god… thank fucking god

[electricabsolution]

im so obsessed with how similar Thorin and Boromir are despite being in two completely different stories. their whole arcs are SO similar, from beginning to end. especially the end.

the whole prince of a failing kingdom vibe … makes them both pretty grim even if they don’t always act that way. Boromir isnt going to be king exactly, but the fact that his father is (just) the steward puts him in the same sort of listless position that Thorin is in to me. there’s uncertainty. (and, in that, loss of hope.)

Thorin gets obsessed with the arkenstone, similar to how Boromir becomes swayed by the ring. they’re the two main characters who become “““bad guys”””.

however. ignoring all of that, it’s the nature of their death scenes thats really striking, in the sense that they’re both purposefully short. empty.

im talking about the book versions here, by the way. they do die heroically in battle! and we root for them! but Tolkien does not let us watch at all.

in the Hobbit, the narrative follows Bilbo during the battle, where he meets an already dying Thorin. same in TTT, it follows Aragorn to find Boromir already riddled with arrows. we aren’t privy to the fights themselves.

the movies show the epic battles, of course they do! its gripping and emotional. but Tolkien is writing about war, from personal experience. he’s telling the readers that we shouldn’t want to read about something that horrific. so he doesn’t allow it to be entertainment.

how many enemies they killed in battle, or what sick fighting moves they made were not deemed important enough for Tolkien to write about. what was important, though, were the connections they made with other people before they died. that although their burdens were too much, and they made mistakes along the way, they still have friends there to remind them that there is still hope for a better future. even if it’s difficult to see.

[deoidesign]

.

[miscellaneoussmp]

I am genuinely sad, so people get to be sad with me. I am sorry. Anyways, here's Roier and others making onto the boat (cw/tw: implied/referenced death and implied/referenced suicidal ideation):

It goes like this:

There are ten seconds left. Roier is on the boat. He can't see Cellbit. Where is he? Fit and Bagi make it on the boat.

>adios guapito.

No. No. Cellbit isn't doing this to him.

>no pendejo.

They aren't saying goodbye like this. Till death do they part. This isn't death. It can't be.

>te amo.

Don't do this to him. Roier can't take another heartbreak. Jaiden isn't on the boat. Nor is Richas or Leo. Roier doesn't know about Foolish or Vegetta either.

>donde estas?

Where is he? Where is he? Where is he? Where is Cellbit? Where is the love of his life? Cellbit wouldn't do this to him, right? Cellbit promised he wouldn't betray Roier.

It goes like this:

The timer hits zero. The boat is moving. There is a shockwave and a large explosion. Roier reaches over the railing towards hell itself. Bagi and Fit keep him from falling overboard.

No Pac. No Tina. No Ramón.

No Cellbit.

It goes like this:

The boat is moving. There is no timer.

There are tears running down Fit's cheeks. Real tears. Bagi sobs. It's a mix of rage and genuine anguish. Tubbo is looking at his hands blankly. Philza has his arms around Tubbo. Roier screams as his heart finally shatters into a million little pieces.

It goes like this:

Roier knows how to get to the highest point of their castle. His wedding suit should still fit? He wants to be buried in it.

[fivekrystalpetals]

Okay, going into #bsd fyodor tag is still impossible for me :/

Look, I love Bram a lot, but how are people saying that Fyodor somehow killed Bram??

'Cause if you see it in order:

Bram orders his vampire to kill Fyodor -> Fyodor dies -> Crime and Punishment activates -> He becomes Bram

So, in this case, (cuz we do have a lot of other things to blame Fyodor for lmao) but in this particular case, what are we blaming Fyodor for lol? Dying? Getting killed by Bram? His ability activating involuntarily?

Dazai literally says this:

Meaning, Fyodor has no control over his ability. He becomes whatever or whoever kills him, so he has been morbidly molding his masterplans around his own DEATH all along! He was frantic because he feared he will be MURDERED by the wrong person!

No wonder, he wants a world without abilities! Because, no matter what, he just cannot DIE. No wonder, he says this. He almost sounds envious other humans can die so easily?

Also, did he manipulate Bram into killing him? No. Fyodor has not made contact with Bram at all. He let Bram do whatever he wanted. Bram was under direct control of Fukuchi, btw. And, it was Ranpo who asked Bram to kill him with one of his vampires.

In fact, Fukuchi says he locked up Fyodor faraway in prison so, he won't interfere in any of Fukuchi's plans.

I mean, once again, this panel:

.

Sorry I am salty, but I guess seeing him as a demon who feels no pain in killing others or even himself (rather than the fact that he has been killed who-knows-how-many-times over the centuries yet is unable to "die" and be set free from the world -- this has made him completely desensitized to the idea of pain felt over death) makes it easier for everyone to plot out the next plan for "its" the demon Dostoyevsky's death.

.

Murder is the activation condition for his ability god just just think about it?

He might have lived his whole life as a normal ability-less person

until the day he was......... killed

I wonder if he died a death of natural causes, his ability would never ever have activated??? idk

but this also carries the heavy implication that he has never died a death of natural causes.

Only murdered by another human every. single. time.

[aimfor-theheart]

longfic is like the once-favored, now wrongfully scorned daughter of an aging, deranged monarch that is fandom

[triaelf9]

ugh I reallllyyyyy didn’t want to get in on this but like

The assumption that all atheists are people who’ve “never touched a religious text in their life” basically says to me you have a specific view of atheists and have probably not known many.

Most of them grew up IN the system and DO know the text and THAT’S why they walk away. 

If you’re gonna make a whole post on ppl not using nuance with CR stuff right now the least you can do is use nuance yourself and not paint an entire group of people with a brush that TV taught you, or a bunch of white men into power *cough* Dawkins *cough* coopted a movement in a society where to not believe in god is synonymous with being immoral.

So just keep in mind, the representation of people without faith that you see on TV or twitter isn’t the majority and 9 times out of 10 isn’t correct at all.

thanks ^_^

[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.

[foreverxdaydreaming]

x

[violynt-skies]

please where the fuck are all the sonic fans

bc i need someone to hold my hand and meticulously explain or tell me how to learn all of the general overarching sonic lore in an step by step - easy to follow and chronologically ordered way please im begging 😭

bc i wanna join in the fun and be in the know but sorting through all of that content and material and not knowing where to start and what goes with what by myself is too overwhelming for me and it makes it sound more like work than smth id actually enjoy LMAO 😭

i’ve always liked watching sonic content but i don’t know anythingggg about the background and origins of the characters like shadow and rouge (besides the fact that they get along and that maria dies lmAo)

friend suggested watching cutscene movies cuz i’m really not the biggest gamer or let’s play watcher but there’s also like a gazillion games and idk which ones to start w so yknow

there’s just too much bro 😭

someone needs to turn this into a college course powerpoint or smth istg ahA

[autism-disco]

i need to watch i saw the tv glow but i'm too scared of the Feelings

[tacomedli]

So yesterday I was finally able to catch up on Jaiden's most recent stream, and-

I love q!Jaiden. So much. I want to scream.

How is her lore/streams so funny and yet so sad at the same time?!?!! I don't know how long her trip to Japan is supposed to be or when she'll be able to stream again but I really wish I had a fast forward button because I am going to DIE from all this suspense!!!

[captainderyn]

I’m in my ✨agent feelsss (tm)✨ and have we considered the following:

All three idiots are painfully loyal to each other. You would think of the three of them, Five would be the one that is “ImpInt first, friends second” but NOPE he’s the worst of the three. He’ll burn it to the ground for his people. What makes him different? Because everyone assumes he’s ImpInt before all else and he’s cultivated his reputation around that, he can get away with so much more in the way of taking care of those close to him AND his subordinate agents.

This is why he becomes so frustrated when he can’t pull strings to get Era out of What Happens To Cipher Nine. It’s one of the first times his loopholes don’t get him anywhere except the door slammed in his face.

Roslynd intensely advocates for all the cipher agents, probably more than she should as a fixer. Her concern should, per policy, just be Five. But she’s gotten in the faces of her superiors to advocate for the ciphers. There’s a reason Five is Agent Dad and she’s Agent Mom.

Building on the Ciphers, though it absolutely breaks policy, Five and Roslynd host home cooked dinners for the small, tight knit cipher deapartment. Many of them don’t have families to go home to and they deserve a hot, home cooked meal.

Referencing Five again, Roslynd and Rhys will be the first to put themselves between a threat and Five, whether he likes it or not. Especially by the time he retires from ImpInt, he’s one of the most effective Ciphers but I would argue the one on the thinnest hairpin of self destructing. It drives him crazy, but they don’t stop doing it from the time they’re in the Academy to the time Five medically retires.

Rhys is just as much Agent Dad to Era as Five is, even if she gravitates more towards Five. He’s always been behind the scenes trying to protect and help her. That’s OUR agent daughter (says the Dream Team)

[disgruntledseagull]

So, well over a decade ago Steph gave me some sweet little chore coupons for my birthday because we were very poor and that's what she could afford.

It was lovely and made me very happy.

I just spent the last one! She has to do the laundry now!

AAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!