#they’re all a mess

[etaleah]

Imagine being Gerald Robotnik. You love your granddaughter so much that you build an entire colony in space just for her so she can have a chance at life. You sanitize it, sterilize it, ensure nothing can get in and make her sick. You live up there with her, sacrificing everything you might have loved on Earth, and stay in the same isolated area for 16-ish years to ensure she’s taken care of. She’s so important to you that you work day and night to create a cure, but it’s so impossible that you have to risk destruction of the entire Earth by getting an alien involved because how else will you create a living being? And sure, it’s dangerous, but it can’t be helped. You love your granddaughter above all else, and you create this life form just for her. Then as a safeguard, you develop a cannon that can destroy the alien comet to ensure the planet she loves so much has at least some form of protection. All of this is long, hard, grueling work.

And then imagine she dies anyway. She dies because of your research. She dies because of your creation, the one that was supposed to save her. She dies because someone you trusted, someone you hired and brought into her life, tipped G.U.N. off about what was going on. She dies in a horrible, painful, agonizing way because you weren’t there to save her.

Imagine being Maria Robotnik. Knowing how hard Grandfather worked for you, how much he sacrificed and made happen for you, how you wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for him. And that means you can never complain. You’re not allowed to be resentful and bitter about being stuck in here, missing your childhood, feeling lonely, isolated, bored. You’re not allowed to be unhappy because how can you make Grandfather feel bad after everything he’s done for you? So you smile. And you tell him how grateful you are. And you hide how much you want to scream and cry and rage.

Imagine being Shadow and seeing all of this firsthand. And probably having so many emotions of your own but bottling them all up because Maria and the professor have enough to deal with.

[vikhorrorschau]

Watched Good Omens 2 yesterday, you get this now.

[shepscapades]

Your highness… I don’t feel so good

[metamatronic]

“It makes sense why ASGORE took so long to hire a new Royal Scientist. After all, the old one... Dr. Gaster. What an act to follow!” “One day, he vanished without a trace. They say he shattered across time and space.” “Well, I needn't gossip. After all, it's rude to talk about someone who's listening.”

it’s 2024 and i’m drawing undertale fanart of *checks notes* the gaster followers??? yeah sure alright.

((also i know goner kid is monster kid’s sprite but baby alphys intern has my heart))

[aardvaark]

the leverage team would have had a games night… once. everyone cheated so much and in such increasingly extreme ways that all mentions of monopoly are banned in their headquarters (this makes talking about marks who monopolize the market very confusing)

[azulmagpie]

Hanger my beloved

[sage-lights]

SHAYNE’S GETTING HIS DREAM! OVERNIGHT AT SMOSH!!! + ghosts?!?!?

[astrobei]

he’s very tired after his surprise party btw

[criminalmindsfanantic]

POV: Elle and Hotch meet up after the early seasons team left the BAU and went rogue

Hotch: What have you been up to?

Elle: Leading a revolution with JJ.

Hotch: Good for you two. I’ve been freelancing as a hit man, putting my skills to use.

Elle, nodding: It’s about time after spending years cooped up in that office 24/7.

Hotch: You can say that again. Have you heard from the others? Derek?

Elle: He’s doing vigilante shit now.

Hotch: Sounds about right. Gideon?

Elle: Happily living as a hermit in the woods. Did you hear about Reid?

Hotch: Wrongfully locked up in an asylum, yeah, which reminds me, I need to go break him out later.

Elle: Let me know if you want help with that. JJ’s girlfriend knows how to pull strings, we may not even have to jailbreak this time.

Hotch: That sounds like an excellent plan.

Elle: Look at us, getting the team back together again :)

[kingofthecotas]

part time soulmate full time problem

soulmate au, indonesia 2022 | ~ 1.6k

fun little au where everyone has a romantic and a platonic soulmate. all the mess happened but Worse because vale has an added level of neurosis about choice etc

(this does mention marc’s crash but no details)

——

The message comes among a flurry of others, from a number Marc hasn’t saved but can’t bring himself to block.

Don’t die. Faded marks are very unattractive.

He doesn’t read it until he’s through the other side, until they’ve run every test possible and decided he’s not concussed, he’s not dying, and he can have his phone back. It makes him—not laugh, but a sharp exhale that’s almost a laugh.

You’re such a dick, he replies, and does the mental maths behind the drumbeat headache. It’s almost five in the morning in Italy, so he has some time—

His phone buzzes. Not a message tone, but insistent. Fuck.

Despite himself, he answers.

“Marc?” Valentino’s voice is sleep-rough, unpolished in a way Marc hasn’t been privy to in years. His breath catches; the silence stretches on. “Unless you’ve let Álex loose with your phone.”

“No,” Marc says simply. “It’s me.”

“Hi,” Valentino breathes, and he sounds—

Marc swallows down something he can’t quite name.

“Are you flying back soon, or waiting for the plane you had booked anyway?”

“I’m not flying until after the race.”

“You’re not racing.” Valentino’s voice drops dangerously.

“They cleared me. I’m fine.” His head hurts like a motherfucker, but Valentino doesn’t have to know that. He doesn’t get to know that.

“No—no, no. Have they tested for everything?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Valentino snaps. “Everything. How can they clear you that quickly?”

“They said I’m fine,” Marc repeats, then, because his head hurts and he’s feeling snippy with it, “Why do you care?”

He knows what’s coming by now, the usual litany of destiny is such bullshit, I can decide my own life, I hate having you on my body, but unfortunately we’re linked for the rest of fucking time. He’s surprised Uccio sticks around, to be honest, if he’s getting something similar thrown at him.

That doesn’t come. Instead, Valentino exhales down the phone, shaky.

“Valentino?”

“It woke me up,” Valentino says finally, like the words are being pulled from his throat one by one. “I woke up, and I felt—I felt it. And for a second, the mark—” He breaks off. “Just a second. And you were back.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Marc mutters.

“Don’t say that!” It’s sharp, cracking like a whip. It’s more than he’s had from Valentino for years.

“I—I didn’t mean that,” Marc whispers. “You’re right, that was—I’m sorry.” As if he’s the one who crossed the line first, as if he’s the one who sent a jokey little text about losing his mark. About losing his soulmate.

Because if Valentino isn’t lying—and he doesn’t sound like it—then Marc flickered, faded, even if for a split second. For a fraction of a moment, he was dead.

(Álex hadn’t said anything; but Álex would have had his leathers on. He might have felt something, but he wouldn’t have seen, wouldn’t have pulled up his shirt to an ashy smudge.)

That doesn’t help his throbbing headache.

“Please don’t race,” Valentino says after a long moment. “I—I can’t do that. It felt like I was dying.” More uncertain, more off-centre than he ever allows himself to be.

It’s nice he cares, Marc thinks, fighting down a burst of hysterical laughter, even if it’s to avoid himself suffering. He’ll probably add this to the long list of reasons he hates having soulmates—just another way for someone to hurt you. In the end, he snorts. “For me as well.”

“Marc.”

“Valentino.”

“You are—such a dick.”

Now Marc laughs. “I know. You told me a lot.” Not for a while; now, they just don’t talk. Sometimes Marc presses his fingers to his mark—still intact, despite it all, despite the twist of scars—and remembers. Just like always, the bad follows the good, and he stops that line of thought before it becomes too painful.

He’s doing it now, though, tracing one finger over it, again and again. Still dark and clear, despite it all. It hurts, but his arm always does, more when he pushes down on his soulmark.

“Marc,” Valentino says again, and just that, just his name, makes him close his eyes. “I know—I do not have any right to ask this—”

Marc hums.

“—and I know I spent so long telling the universe where to stick her soulmates, but please. Please do not get on the bike.”

“You didn’t call after Jerez,” Marc says instead of any promise.

Valentino makes a pained noise. It’s costing him a lot; it will have cost him to even pick up the phone, to roll over and show Marc his weakness. And yet Marc just wants to prod the wound a little more, to make Valentino run his fingers over his mark and feel the old throb of a bruise.

“After the first operation, when I woke up, I asked the surgeon.” Fine. If Valentino is going to offer him something, he can have something back. Give and take. Blood for blood. That’s how they do it. “He was so—shocked I was even asking, that I thought—but I couldn’t think straight, you know. All the drugs.” He smiles despite himself. “I didn’t want it to be gone.” I didn’t want you to be gone. “But you—you would give anything to get rid of it, no?”

It’s quiet for so long Marc wonders if his phone has died. Then—a slight hiss, a crackle in his ear. A breath.

“You don’t get to do this,” Marc says. “You don’t get to—you can’t tell me what to do. Not after everything.”

“You never listened anyway.” Valentino sounds—God. “I don’t—I don’t want to get rid of it.”

“Hm. Changed your tune.”

“Marc,” Valentino says. His name again. “It’s five o’clock in the fucking morning. I’m watching the Moto3 race because I’ve been awake since the middle of the night, and I can’t go back to sleep, because for half a second my mark faded.”

It used to be a little joke between them, whispered across sheets and pillows in the grey of early mornings in all their languages. My mark, mi marca, my Marc.

“I think—I cannot do that again. And…” A pause. Consideration. “You wouldn’t do that to Álex.”

“Bastard,” Marc growls. Low blow. Unfortunately, it’s working. He blinks, and his vision blurs, just for a second. To take his mind off it, he picks at the scab again. “Uccio must be thrilled. How many years has he had you telling him you don’t want soulmates?”

“Uccio knows what I mean when I say it.”

“Yeah?” It’s an old argument, familiar veins of hurt wound around it. Familiar pain, like pressing on a bruise.

“I want the choice. I would be friends with Uccio anyway, and I want that to be my decision. I wanted—” Valentino sighs. “I wanted to choose you. I would have anyway, back then.” Give and take. He’s never offered honesty like this, not for free.

Marc balls his fist, presses his knuckles against his forehead. It helps a little. “Do you think we would have ended up here still?”

“I think so.” It’s almost sad. “And at least then—”

“You don’t have the reminder. I know.”

“But without it—well, I would not be woken up at three o’clock in the morning. And I would not have called.”

Marc moves his hand back to his arm, presses the tip of a nail in. Traitorous thing, really, his soulmark. He understands Valentino in a way he was too hurt to, back then, back when it was unravelling like a cut thread. “That’s something.”

“Is it?”

And a hot flash of irritation, over quickly; even at their lowest he could never stay angry for long. “Not for you, then.”

Another silence—Marc is getting good at living in them—before Valentino says, “I am going to make coffee. The machine is loud. Just warning you.”

“What—?”

“It’s nearly five o’clock.”

“You keep saying.”

“If you are going to wake me up, you can wait while I have my espresso.”

You. As if Marc is the one etched into his skin.

(He is.)

“Now you avoid the conversation,” Marc mutters under the sound of beans grinding.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He pulls his phone away just to check the time, and—they’ve been on the call for eleven minutes. It should feel earth-shattering.

It doesn’t.

And Valentino wants Marc to wait.

He could hang up now. He could. It would be easy, easy as pressing down on his mark. One finger.

He doesn’t.

“Are you trying to distract me?” he says when the machine stops groaning. “Keep me on the phone so I miss the race?”

“That wasn’t the plan, but now you mention it…”

“You have a few more hours.”

“I can manage that.”

“Yeah?” And then, because he can’t just leave it the fuck alone, “Been a while, no? Lots to catch up on.”

“Marc.” It’s a wrecked noise this time, his name. “I am trying—”

Marc doesn’t apologise this time. Valentino hasn’t apologised at all, but that’s—

He expects that.

With a sigh, he closes his eyes again, accepts the white flag. “Can’t, anyway. They have to get me in a helicopter to get back to the circuit. No phones in there.”

“Ah. Thought I had convinced you.” There’s resignation now.

“You know me.”

“Yes.” He does. They do. But—they all know the deal with soulmates. You can’t be selfish with your life, not when you live on somebody else’s skin. They know that too.

“It’s not fair,” he says, half to himself into the silence that, for once, means Valentino is listening. “This was—this year, everything was supposed to be done. Start over.”

“Without me there?”

“Not everything is about you.” It’s too late when Marc realises that he’s smiling, and that there had been a laugh curled around Valentino’s words.

“This is.” More certain now. Putting his foot down. “Do not race.”

“And why is it about you?”

This time, in the quiet, he wonders if he’s pushed too far.

Until Valentino says, “Marc,” on a breath, like he’s pressing hard enough to draw blood. Like he’s feeling Marc for the first time without wanting to rip him out of his skin.

[dreamofcamelot]

Someone contact the bbc I have Merlin season 6 right here

[turtleblogatlast]

No but like every time I think about Splinter and what he had to go through just to keep the boys alive, my heart hurts for him so badly. Is he perfect? No not at all, but none of them are and by god does he love his sons.

The fact that all of them are alive, and grew to thrive despite the circumstances surrounding them is a testament of how much Splinter loves his boys. He raised four babies following the most traumatic time of his life, all alone with nothing but the sewers to house them (to hide them.) I feel like he’s not given the credit he deserves for all he’s done.

And I get that it’s easy to hold up his flaws and faults when it comes to parenting, I myself like looking into them because flawed characters are super interesting and said flaws make them more realistic and engaging, but he tries, and again, so many others would have given up on the boys or failed along the way but Splinter didn’t.

He’s their father, for all his faults he did his damndest to make sure they survived.

[bi-pisces07]

Imagine in Shrek 5 the gang is looking for Puss cuz they need his help for the quest and there in a place when suddenly explosions go off and there’s chaos and music.

An cat laughing is ass off lands near them and is like “oh, hey guys! :3”

And everyone is just “whelp that was easy”

But then fireworks go off and cause another explosion and near them lands another cat??

Everyone is like “wtf” but Puss immediately gets heart eyes and goes “amor!!!❤️❤️❤️���

And now everyone’s mental health is going to have to deal with the fact that omg there’s two of them and where did that dog come from?

[captaincanonly]

guh… doctor… call the doctorr,……,,,

[moghedien]

Shallan will find out that Jasnah Kholin has been waiting outside of her hospital room for days, forsaking all of her research just so that she could visit Shallan the second she was allowed to do so, and she’ll still be like “Jasnah probably actually hates me 😔”

[zorosdimples]

puppy boys with fat cocks