#in case you hadn't noticed

[alltoounwellll]

I want to be besties with sirius black but then also make out with him

[girljeremystrong]

i think i'm going to read the terror in september

[sissiarte]

The mandatory fanart reblog of the new thing i'm into is done for now

[firephoenix2305]

The little smile as he goes down though 😍

DOCTOR WHO | Rogue

[staghunters]

Anyways Hounds Of Love B-Side (The Ninth Wave), my beloved <3

[caffeine-high]

i am once again procrastinating

[wra-1-th]

eternity

dbd promptober - day 3

@dbdpromptober

[writing-hat]

OOOOOHHHH MY GOD

OHHH MY GOOOOOOOOOOD

THIS IS SICK THIS IS INSANE THIS IS HOLY SHIT

MY LITTLE JAY MY CHILD HOLY FUCKING SHIT OMG OMG OMGOMGOMGOGMGGGGGGGG

AND YOU DREW NERVES YOU DID NERVES I LOVE YOU SO MUCH DO YOU REALIZE THAT I LOVE YOUR ART TOO IT'S INSANELY GOOD JESUS FUCKKKK

I AM SHAKING AND SOBBING TEARS ARE ON MY FACE I CAN'T STOP I CANT BREATH I CANT HOLY SHIT

AND THE BRUISE? OW? MY HEART?! IT'S BROKEN NOW

it's in a puddle actually

AND THE NERVES PATH I'M GOING INSANE OVER YOUR ART

YOU ARE FUCKING TALENTED!!!!!!!!

I love this and I love your art I love everything this is beautiful I'll look at this forever from now on

BBNB Jay is having my heart rn

BLOOD AND GORE WARNING BELOW

Here are some skybound requests from the discord!

You BEST BET im not gonna be the one to slack behind when the fandom is doing skybound brainrot.

[alltoounwellll]

I would love to give sirius black a kiss on the mouth

[kinnbig]

KinnPorsche Gif Series | Favourite Characters [2/6] | Ken

[mishkakagehishka]

I'm honestly fully ready to just call my bank and tell them to do a chargeback but i'm giving the college bureaucracy a chance first. But as i said. I don't care who does it and how i get it, those €80 are gonna be back in my bank account by the end of october or so help me

[i-dont-talk-for-days-on-end]

When I write a fic and try to get Holmes's and Watson's relationship right "Granada Style", this is always the scene (and the episode) I try to remember as a reference.

Watson will drop anything immediately to assist Holmes, alerted by just the smallest sound of pain, but there is a very very clear limit to what Holmes will him allow him to do (and it's not much). Watson will expect this, but he will not back off until Holmes gives a minute sign that he is alright, and that he is in fact truly thankful for Watson's help. He will not say it, but Watson will understand. And if Holmes choses to walk off alone after that, he will let him.

Holmes will allow Watson to drape a blanket around his shoulders. Watson is going to disapprove of Holmes's use of cocaine, but even this is going to happen nonverbally (but oh, Holmes understands). Holmes will pretend to ignore all of Watson's advice and take a case although he really should rest, and then he is going to do something absolutely monumental like deciding to quit drugs for good without ever informing Watson.

We never see this, but I think Watson will know. And he will say thank you in just such a indirect way and continue to support Holmes. I believe that Watson would be comfortable with talking things through at least from time to time, but Holmes cannot stand or do it, so Watson just ... learned his language.

There is just so much complicated nonverbal communication between the two! And it's so difficult because I feel like most of the time they will simply know what the other thinks and feels, but they will never truly discuss it.

I’m all right. 

[terresdebrume]

Got a haircut today that was similar to the old one but not completely and I didn't dare to say they kept the top of my hair too long (bc various anxiety reasons you know how it is) but like it's still long enough to tie back into a topknot which I'm very mmmh about

And also I'll be honest part of the issue I have is that my face is too round for my tastes these days and I don't like it -_-

[painless-innit-colourful]

Prophets

(1.4k words, no tws, read it here or on my ao3)

But other than the maths of the situation, there’s another nagging thought that tugs at Tubbo's attention, even as Tommy stumbles over the door jam, cursing up a storm, looking far too bouncy for his last day.

He’s seen this before.

With twenty-one hours and counting down until Tubbo sends his best friend to his death, Tubbo reflects on the choice he's going to make and the nagging feeling that he couldn't have prevented it. Meanwhile, Tommy is thinking eerily of the same thing. It's been a year since this stream broke my heart, and I'm going to make it everyone else's problem.

---

Seven hundred and fifty-eight. Twenty-one. Approximately thirty, but who really knows. Two.

Tubbo runs the numbers over in his head. Numbers are good. They make sense, they’re reliable: when everything else is going to shit, when he’s living in a nightmare, numbers can be relied upon to always provide the truth. So, making the last bed Tommy will ever sleep in, Tubbo runs over the numbers again.

Seven hundred and fifty-eight fitful nights since the Manberg Festival. Twenty-one hours (though creeping uncomfortably close to twenty) until Tommy dies. Approximately thirty people they’re going to save.

And two. Two people left he cares about.

His son, with his rosy cheeks and eyes so bright - as if they’ve never seen the scarring flash of a firework or been kept warm by the heat of a burning nation. His innocent, undamaged, toddler son, currently tucked away with Techno & Phil in the tundra, where he’ll be safe in the case that anything goes very wrong tomorrow. Which it won’t, because the numbers make sense.

And Tommy.

He weighs two against thirty, twenty-one against seven hundred and fifty-eight. Mathematically, the answer is simple. Save the server. 

Lose Tommy.

But it’s not so simple, is it? Tubbo is dimly aware as he checks on a stew bubbling on the stove, toes and heart numb, that he’s facing an imitation of the trolley problem. Leave the train running, and Dream and Punz kill everyone on the server. Flip the switch, and their enemies (and Tubbo’s best friend) roll right into a waiting nuclear bomb. 

Save the server. Kill your best friend.

Again.

But other than the maths of the situation, there’s another nagging thought that tugs at his attention, even as Tommy stumbles over the door jam, cursing up a storm, looking far too bouncy for his last day. Or perhaps appropriately bouncy. Tubbo wouldn’t know, but Tommy would.

He’s seen this before.

I’m going to spend the rest of my life waiting for you, he wants to say, because that’s another undeniable truth. Let not third time be the charm: even though he’ll know it can’t be true, Tubbo knows there will always be a part of him that just expects Tommy to… turn up someday. Walk ‘round a corner in the new town he might build. Come stumbling across him somewhere out there in the bright, big world.

It’s not fair: truth three. It’s not fair. None of this is fair, nothing has ever been fair to them. The steam curling off the crockpot on the stove brushes against his scar.

Right. Seven-hundred and fifty-eight.

He can’t remember when it started. Somewhere in the mess of definitely-not-painless-and-colourful sparks, wither screams and the trembling of the earth, there was a single speck of blackness in all that light. After dreaming of his second death a hundred times, he started to look into the blazing light, and found it to be masking darkness. So he reached for it. He followed it. He built weapons of mass destruction, made impenetrable fortresses, dug into the earth following the promise of oblivion. Of nothing.

There was a moment, on his arrival to the crater of the original nuke test, when he’d seen a figure at the edge of the crater. The shadow was counting.

Counting down.

After the nuke test, his nightmares changed. They’d always been full of explosions - fireworks, countries, withers - but with the advent of Project Dreamcatcher’s success, they became pseudo-apocalyptic. Tubbo had always chalked it up to obvious anxieties (he stole his own nuke for a reason, y’know) but in the past few hours, a chilling thought occurred to him that won’t leave him alone.

In some of his more recent dreams, he stands at the edge of the world, looking out over a crater that stretches farther than the horizon. There is not a speck of a living thing around, and without a doubt he is alone. Those were the nicer ones. Some of the nightmares were just loud bangs, bright flashes and a cloud of debris and poison a hundred miles high.

He’d imagined the moment of a crucial launch so many times. A triumphant, even victorious feeling. Check-fucking-mate.

Looking at Tommy, falling onto the sofa with a contented grunt, he can’t imagine he’ll feel that tomorrow. The ticking of the clock yanks him away from his old visions. He moves to sit beside Tommy.

Twenty hours to go.

—

Tommy remembers how it felt, last time. The weightlessness, the empty mind grasping for something tangible to hold onto and finding nothing, the feeling of being ripped apart and reassembled like a wayward toddler’s least favourite toy. 

Tommy won’t admit it, would rather march off to the prison right now than admit it, but he’s scared. This time, Wilbur won’t be there. Bastard, he thinks, grimacing, couldn’t even stay dead for me.

He remembers the last time he saw Wil; on that fucking beach with the boat and the book. He’ll never forget the look on Wilbur’s face when he started crying, that uncomfortable halfway between resolute to go without looking back and almost staying for him. Maybe if he’d started crying sooner, he would’ve stayed. Or maybe that would’ve made him leave faster.

At any rate, he doesn’t have to worry about forgetting any of it. Not while alive, at the very least. Since the revive book will be out of commission, he’s staying in limbo for a while longer than thirteen years. A thought occurs: a horrible impression that sends a shiver down his spine. He won’t have Wilbur to talk to this time, but he might well have Dream and Punz. He shuffles closer to Tubbo instinctively, pushing the thought away.

The book. The other thing he can never forget. It’s gone now, ash on the prison floor likely, but the words within will never leave him. It almost makes him laugh to remember. The last words he’ll ever get from Wilbur, and they were that.

“Tommy,” the book read. 

“Do you remember when we were dead together? I told you I knew how far away the end of the known universe was. I may have been being a little dramatic (so unlike me, I know), but my point kinda still stands. I said it was 186,000 or so days away. That’s not that many, really, already, but I was thinking about it a little while ago and I realised I had been counting in limbo days. 620 days. 

Tommy, on November 13th, something really bad is going to happen. It’s part of the reason I knew it was time for me to go home. Hopefully this is enough warning for you. Gather up the things that matter to you - your discs, your pictures, Tubbo - and get as far away as possible. Please trust me on this. Whatever’s coming - it was fuzzy even in limbo, but it’s big and it’s powerful and it’s not good and it’s going to destroy everything you know. It scares the shit out of me, a little bit, if I’m honest.

I’m sorry for leaving. I hope you understand. Stay safe, yeah?

Wilbur.”

Tommy gazes at his best friend’s face, less than a foot from his own, eyes lightly lidded as he dozes. The hand clutched in his built the rocket that’s shortly going to end his life. The boy beside him will be the harbinger of this world’s ultimate destruction.

Tommy’s proud of him, in a weird way.

Yes, Wilbur, I do remember you saying that in limbo, he wants to reply. I thought you were just trying to scare the shit out of me. Anyway, I can’t leave. I have people I have to save. Be the hero everyone always told me I was going to be. Are you proud of me? This is the only way we win. Tubbo gets to grow old with his son this way. Your father and your baby nephew get to live this way. And I don’t have to deal with any more grey hairs or aching limbs this way. I think I’m the lucky one.

Tears prick his eyes and he blinks them away as he presses his face into Tubbo’s hair - which smells very, very faintly floral - listening to his best friend breathing, pulling him back to earth for just a few more hours.

I think I saw it coming too. I think we all did. I’m sorry. I hope you understand.

Tommy closes his eyes, snuggles down into Tubbo’s arms and draws in a long, deep breath. Selfishly, on the plus side, he’ll never have to live without his best friend.

---

Taglist: @fruitpilled @zrenia @spaceheatertrash @quixoticfellows @kinda-late-but-here-though @icyisweird @boomybelovd @thatfriendlyanon @rozugold @ilexdiapason (please ask to be added if you wish :)

[stabbyfoxandrew]

okay. so. i have sheets made for my 2 Flagship OCs, the gayest dumbest idiots, created by me at the grand age of 11...

do i post both of them in one post? or. two different ones? separating them... feels wrong and bad TwT

[orione-n-stars]

I mean, is always Raph, but I want to participate 😭

1987: All of them!!! 💖 They are babys and need to be protection.

90's: Raph and Leo. The baby and the leader.

2003: Raph!!! He's so sassy and cool and I love it.

2007: Raph. He really need therapy, poor baby. And f*ck you Leo

2012: Raph and Donnie. Raph is my beloved and Donnie my deary. ... and I think they would burn down a house just to destress.

Bayverse: Raph. My boy is so cool in this movie!!!

Rise: Raph!!! 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖 ¡¡¡Lo Amo tanto!!! HE IS JUST A BIG SILLY RED BABY AND I ADORE HIM!!!

I’m bored and wanna know your favorite turtle boy(s) is from each version 🫵

(absolutely can do all of them that you can I only have seen a few so it’s kinda short </3 working on getting the IDW comics rn)

2012; I love them all but Miley takes the top

Bayverse; Tie between Donnie and Raph

Rise; Again another tie, Raph and Mikey (i’m an avid disaster twins and pb&j duo fan)

Mutant Mayhem; RAPH AND DONNIE AGAIN (there is a pattern 😭)

(also what should series or movies should I watch next idk 🙏)