#SAY GOODBYE TO WHO I WAS

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Soup solves everything.

[ginpotts]

DOCTOR WHO 2.03 ✧ school reunion

Some things are worth getting your heart broken for.

[axoqiii]

another p5r art dump hiiiiieii 😢😢😢

[crashout-cain]

Just crazy to think about all the things the Doctor doesn't do, that he did for Rose. He never asks twice for someone to come with him. He doesn't go back to give people closure after they get separated. He leaves people behind and he doesn't look back. He doesn't do goodbyes

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The ache will go away, eventually. 

That was what the Professor told them, the day they got back. When they tumbled from the wardrobe in a heap of tangled limbs, and found that the world had been torn from under their feet with all the kindness of a serpent. 

They picked themselves off of the floorboards with smiles plastered on child faces, and sat with the Professor in his study drinking cup after cup of tea. 

But the smiles were fake. The tea was like ash on their tongues. And when they went to bed that night, none of them could sleep in beds that were too foreign, in bodies that had not been their own for years. Instead they grouped into one room and sat on the floor and whispered, late into the night. 

When morning came, Mrs. Macready discovered the four of them asleep in Peter and Edmund’s bedroom, tangled in a heap of pillows and blankets with their arms looped across one another. They woke a few moments after her entry and seemed confused, lost even, staring around the room with pale faces, eyes raking over each framed painting on the wall and across every bit of furniture as if it was foreign to them. “Come to breakfast,” Mrs. Macready said as she turned to go, but inside she wondered. 

For the children’s faces had held the same sadness that she saw sometimes in the Professor’s. A yearning, a shock, a numbness, as if their very hearts had been ripped from their chests.

At breakfast Lucy sat huddled between her brothers, wrapped in a shawl that was much too big for her as she warmed her hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Edmund fidgeted in his seat and kept reaching up to his hair as if to feel for something that was no longer there. Susan pushed her food idly around on her plate with her fork and hummed a strange melody under her breath. And Peter folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall with eyes that seemed much too old for his face. 

It chilled Mrs. Macready to see their silence, their strangeness, when only yesterday they had been running all over the house, pounding through the halls, shouting and laughing in the bedrooms. It was as if something, something terrible and mysterious and lengthy, had occurred yesterday, but surely that could not be. 

She remarked upon it to the Professor, but he only smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “They’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t so sure. 

They seemed so lost. 

Lucy disappeared into one of the rooms later that day, a room that Mrs. Macready knew was bare save for an old wardrobe of the professor’s. She couldn’t imagine what the child would want to go in there for, but children were strange and perhaps she was just playing some game. When Lucy came out again a few minutes later, sobbing and stumbling back down the hall with her hair askew, Mrs. Macready tried to console her, but Lucy found no comfort in her arms. “It wasn’t there,” she kept saying, inconsolable, and wouldn’t stop crying until her siblings came and gathered her in their arms and said in soothing voices, “Perhaps we’ll go back someday, Lu.” 

Go back where, Mrs. Macready wondered? She stepped into the room Lucy had been in later on in the evening and looked around, but there was nothing but dust and an empty space where coats used to hang in the wardrobe. The children must have taken them recently and forgotten to return them, not that it really mattered. They were so old and musty and the Professor had probably forgotten them long ago. But what could have made the child cry so? Try as she might, Mrs. Macready could find no answer, and she left the room dissatisfied and covered in dust. 

Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Susan took tea in the Professor’s room again that night, and the next, and the next, and the next. They slept in Peter and Edmund’s room, then Susan and Lucy’s, then Peter and Edmund’s again and so on, swapping every night till Mrs. Macready wondered how they could possibly get any sleep. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but it was where she found them, morning after morning. 

Each morning they looked sadder than before, and breakfast was silent. Each afternoon Lucy went into the room with the wardrobe, carrying a little lion figurine Edmund had carved her, and came out crying a little while later. And then one day she didn’t, and went wandering in the woods and fields around the Professor’s house instead. She came back with grassy fingers and a scratch on one cheek and a crown of flowers on her head, but she seemed content. Happy, even. Mrs. Macready heard her singing to herself in a language she’d never heard before as Lucy skipped past her in the hall, leaving flower petals on the floor in her wake. Mrs. Macready couldn’t bring herself to tell the child to pick them up, and instead just left them where they were. 

More days and nights went by. One day it was Peter who went into the room with the wardrobe, bringing with him an old cloak of the Professor’s, and he was gone for quite a while. Thirty or forty minutes, Mrs. Macready would guess. When he came out, his shoulders were straighter and his chin lifted higher, but tears were dried upon his cheeks and his eyes were frightening. Noble and fierce, like the eyes of a king. The cloak still hung about his shoulders and made him seem almost like an adult. 

Peter never went into the wardrobe room again, but Susan did, a few weeks later. She took a dried flower crown inside with her and sat in there at least an hour, and when she came out her hair was so elaborately braided that Mrs. Macready wondered where on earth she had learned it. The flower crown was perched atop her head as she went back down the hall, and she walked so gracefully that she seemed to be floating on the air itself. In spite of her red eyes, she smiled, and seemed content to wander the mansion afterwards, reading or sketching or making delicate jewelry out of little pebbles and dried flowers Lucy brought her from the woods. 

More weeks went by. The children still took tea in the Professor’s study on occasion, but not as often as before. Lucy now went on her daily walks outdoors, and sometimes Peter or Susan, or both of them at once, accompanied her. Edmund stayed upstairs for the most part, reading or writing, keeping quiet and looking paler and sadder by the day. 

Finally he, too, went into the wardrobe room. 

He stayed for hours, hours upon hours. He took nothing in save for a wooden sword he had carved from a stick Lucy brought him from outside, and he didn’t come out again. The shadows lengthened across the hall and the sun sank lower in the sky and finally Mrs. Macready made herself speak quietly to Peter as the boy came out of the Professor’s study. “Your brother has been gone for hours,” she told him crisply, but she was privately alarmed, because Peter’s face shifted into panic and he disappeared upstairs without a word. 

Mrs. Macready followed him silently after around thirty minutes and pressed an ear to the door of the wardrobe room. Voices drifted from beyond. Edmund’s and Peter’s, yes, but she could also hear the soft tones of Lucy and Susan. 

“Why did he send us back?” Edmund was saying. It sounded as if he had been crying.  

Mrs. Macready couldn’t catch the answer, but when the siblings trickled out of the room an hour later, Edmund’s wooden sword was missing, and the flower crown Susan had been wearing lately was gone, and Peter no longer had his old cloak, and Lucy wasn’t carrying her lion figurine, and the four of them had clasped hands and sad, but smiling, faces. 

Mrs. Macready slipped into the room once they were gone and opened the wardrobe, and there at the bottom were the sword and the crown and the cloak and the lion. An offering of sorts, almost, or perhaps just items left there for future use, for whenever they next went into the wardrobe room.  

But they never did, and one day they were gone for good, off home, and the mansion was silent again. And it had been a long time since that morning that Mrs. Macready had found them all piled together in one bedroom, but ever since then they hadn’t quite been children, and she wanted to know why.

She climbed the steps again to the floor of the house where the old wardrobe was, and then went into the room and crossed the floor to the opposite wall. 

When she pulled the wardrobe door open, the four items the Pevensie children had left inside of it were missing. 

And just for a moment, it seemed to her that a cool gust of air brushed her face, coming from the darkness beyond where the missing coats used to hang.

[sergle]

I was thinking about this earlier, but losing someone long-term really is like. you are whatever age you were when you found that. you were 9 when you brought a cat home, they pass away when you're 28, you're 9 years old again mourning for it. you meet your best friend and s/o when you're 16, they throw you out like garbage 12 years later, and you're 16 again when it ends, mourning it like a teenager. it just sets you back

[this-simplefeeling]

haha yes it was in fact very funny that the doctor decided to pose as a friend of nerys but do you comprehend what it means that he even remembered her name??? like over a thousand years have passed and he remembers details like that about donna- her domestic life-because i'm sure she would talk his ear off all the time about things like that, friends and family and people from home she loved and hated and ex coworkers and shitty boyfriends and he remembers every. detail. he possibly can because she couldn't remember a thing about him. i'm sick im ill im sliding down the wall sobbing im

[thelilylav]

Applebeauty (the bad ending)

[tit-spoilers]

Like. Dan and Phil are in a romantic relationship yeah sure whatever. That's not the POINT. That has never been the point. The point is that they love each other a lot

[hmsdoodlin]

(139) I need you.

[lotus-pear]

HIII SORRY FOR NO NEW ART have some concept sketches for the fic i'm working on instead

[wherearedagrapes]

I really love how casually Tom refers to Sonic as “kid” for the first time here before Tom is absolutely slammed by the truth of that word.

The scenes in the bar and motel leading up to this do a great job of emphasizing how young Sonic is (the adult bar especially contrasts Sonic’s childish curiosity and antics). And as Tom and Sonic bond, we see Tom realizing how human Sonic is despite his not-so-human appearance and abilities… Tom already knows Sonic is a child, but I think the gravity of that truth really hits him when he turns and sees Sonic sleeping like this. Or rather, I think this is the moment Tom is forced to acknowledge the deeper implications of what Sonic being a child — almost no different than any other child in the world — means.

Sonic is a child. A child that has been on his own, it seems, for a long time. Tom doesn’t know where Sonic’s from, why he’s on his own. Sonic’s clearly taught himself a lot about the world, but there’s still a lot that he doesn’t know. (The kid wasn’t sure what a bucket list was or even how to use an ice pack, it seems, until about five minutes ago.) And he doesn’t have anyone to teach him. There’s no one guiding him, watching him. Running after him when he does something reckless (like, you know, trying to sneak into a bar not only as an alien and a fugitive but as a minor). Sonic doesn’t have anyone looking out for him... except Tom. And if Sonic’s telling the truth about this Mushroom Planet, he’s a child that will be on his own again when this road trip is over.

That’s a lot to reckon with. And up to this point, Tom has kind of been doing his best to ignore All That… Notice right before this how Tom cuts the convo/suggests bedtime when Sonic begins musing about maybe being able to stay on Earth. Because if Sonic stays, what does that mean for Tom? Does he have a responsibility to step in as this child’s guardian? Is that something he can even do? He’s never had kids. He’s definitely never had superpowered alien kids. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. What would Maddie think? And what about San Francisco? What about his plans?

But Sonic needs somebody to rely on, and there’s a rapidly growing part of Tom that wants to be that person. A part that, again, he's trying not to acknowledge. Because it's kinda scary, right? These feelings are so unexpected, the potential responsibility is intimidating, and he's kind of in denial. He's torn between being Sonic's hero, friend (and father figure), the Donut Lord, or finally becoming that big-shot cop in San Fran.

That inner conflict is reflected visually here. Tom tucks Sonic in, watches him fondly, and notices “Make a Real Friend” is the only thing not crossed off on Sonic’s bucket list. (Despite their bonding in the bar, Sonic still isn’t sure where they stand; they’re in this awkward spot between acquaintances and friends because Tom is reluctant to verbally admit he cares.) And then the TV pulls Tom’s attention away from Sonic, the newscast talking about how Tom has become a wanted criminal — a literal reminder of how much Tom is risking to help Sonic. His career. His future. His life. Is Tom doing the right thing?

He’s saving a life, helping someone in need — of course that’s the right thing. But… is Tom doing the right thing by helping Sonic leave Earth knowing Sonic will be alone and miserable again, or is Tom trying to avoid his feelings? What does Tom want, really? A day ago, the answers seemed so obvious. And now… everything is different.

Also, totally unrelated, it is so funny that Tom turns the lamp off knocked over like that lmao

[abisalli]

my mentally unwell daughter <3

[the-heron]

congrats 2 henry peglar for being the only bitch confirmed as to be Fucking That Old Man

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

No teen farewell is complete without embarrassment.

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[gunsatthaphan]

⊹˚. ♡ ⊹˚.