#It applies

[bitofanupsidedowner]

argyle is underappreciated he is one of like THE most ride or die friends in the entire show because this dude shows up intending to deliver pizza to his bestie and ends up escorting a dead body into the desert while his bestie sits in the passenger seat and tries not to absolutely lose his marbles watching michael wheeler go on his 5th coded confession about how he doesn't love his gf while will does not pick up on the red flags and continues to try to repair the relationship because he is the architect of his own worst nightmare. he drives from california into a broke ass hawkins that just got totally apocalypsed and does not give a fuck. he solves so many of all the obstacles they run into even while just barely knowing what’s happening............  what would they have done without him tbh. died i bet.

[princess-of-the-corner]

Robber: I tought dragons were supposed to be magic users

Alfred: Abracadabra *fires shotgun*

Alakazam, Jackass!

[i-am-megalodonna]

Gravity falls moment

[acourtofquestions]

Update: Celaena is on her vigilante shit again

[greatandquestionablecontent]

A little scribble in which an undead person thinks about their favorite ghost

Unreality, nonexplicit discussions of death and corpses, dreamy nonsense, gay if you’re looking for it

Ilya: the ghost, he/him

Delta: the one who dies and comes back repeatedly, #camebackwrong, they/them

Also mentioned: Andromeda, Moriine & Daishin are alive people. That’s all that matters here.

~

Andromeda had always been there when Delta came back, but it was Ilya who they found in that space between. Not always. Sometimes it was instantaneous, going from a dying body back to an undying body, with no gap. But sometimes there was a space of nothingness, and sometimes the undying dragged on and on, and Delta could retreat back into that nothingness while their body reformed. It was in that space that Ilya was most powerful and present, and in that space that Delta was less real than ever.

Without Ilya, it was empty and empty and empty and then there were hours (or they felt like hours) of simply Alone and Dark, interspersed with fleeting visions and passing ghosts, a sense of presence or a passing possession. Sometimes the ghosts would speak to Delta, and rarely they understood. Delta would find themself dreaming twice removed deaths, a spectator to a hazy mirage twisted and half forgotten in the space between ghost and Delta, lost in translation.

Ilya was different, of course. Only Ilya could take Delta from un-nothing into another plane of unreality so solid Delta came to believe it was its own reality. There was the world of the living, the void of the dead, and then there was Ilya.

The previous Delta had never believed in any religion; they knew that now not from memory but with an ingrained certainty, because they also knew that this was closer than they’d ever been to believing in something the way people talked about gods.

None of the other ghosts manifested so solidly, to sit on the floor beside Delta’s corpse and talk for hours.

The other ghosts shared their deaths in kaleidoscopic cloudy memories, chaotically interspersed with memories of their lived. Ilya brought Delta to the day he died, and Delta walked through it again and again, until they knew it as well as they knew their own waking world. That old castle and the flames and the screams, the bodies and the crumbling stone and the magic and flesh… It became Delta’s home, too. Delta lay inside Ilya’s body as it burned.

But Ilya would also take Delta to his life. Delta met his family, saw Andromeda herself through Ilya’s eyes so long ago, even Moriine and Daishin, and many others with blurry faces who had died alongside Ilya, or before him, or since.

They’d walk together through a vast library, blurred at the edges, with books that Delta couldn’t touch or read, but with beautiful golden spires of sun reaching up to the skylights. That was Ilya’s favorite place, always empty of any other souls or remembered persons, vague and idealized. They’d lay together on a rug that had never existed in front of a warm fireplace and stare up into stars that made no sense indoors.

“Do you do it on purpose?” Delta asked once, when they were both in the waking world again, and conversations were linear things that had words and sequences. “The way I could choose to draw a picture, and decide to add something that isn’t real? Or is it more like dreaming, and I just come along?”

“I hadn’t thought about the difference before,” Ilya said, and vanished. He was prone to doing that.

Several days later, as Delta was falling asleep, Ilya’s voice was there in the empty room. “It used to be just like dreaming,” he said. “And then I learned to chose certain themes of dreams, and throw them at people. But now, it’s more like a fully lucid dream. I can influence parts of it.”

“I’ve never lucid dreamed.”

“You know what it means, though.”

“Yes. In theory.”

“So, to answer your question, I didn’t decide to add the stars to the library ceiling, that just happened, the way dreams happen. I didn’t question it, and neither did you. But if you had questioned it, I could have made them go away. I’ve never tried manifesting stars for you, just the way I would draw a picture, just because you want to see stars. But perhaps I’ll try some day.”

And then Ilya was gone again, though he hadn’t really been there to begin with, but somehow Delta knew when the room felt empty again. And then they had the space and privacy to linger on thoughts and feelings that they didn’t need the ghost to know. Not that they really understood those thoughts and feelings either.

It just meant laying there thinking, he said he wants to manifest the stars for me. He said he wants to manifest the stars for me. For me. If I wanted, because I asked, for me, the stars, in his world, in his mindscape, just for me, for me.

It was a warm, floaty feeling. It felt like the library. Safe and bright and idealized and private and impossible.

And then would come some deep seated dread Delta couldn’t understand. The kind that came whenever they had unacceptable thoughts which could never ever be glimpsed by anyone else, which had to be carefully tucked away lest they wander into reality.

[breealtair]

I've only known lady Farina for five minutes, but if I have to suffer through another five minutes in her presence, I'm going to kill everyone in Fontaine and then myself.

[patchoulimodelo]

wildbow's opinions on drug use are exactly the same as a DARE officer you met in elementary school who told you that if you breathed in marijuana smoke even once you'd ruin your life and end up in prison

[raedas]

you are so sick i'm going to answer one of your old asks from 2022

I KNEW IT

[delulu-4-lewlew]

Girls will be like “My baby. My sweet cherub. My heart. I must protect you from the outside evil” and they‘ll be talking about an older sportsperson who’s just shorter than them.

[frownyalfred]

Tips for writing those gala scenes, from someone who goes to them occasionally:

Generally you unbutton and re-button a suit coat when you sit down and stand up.

You’re supposed to hold wine or champagne glasses by the stem to avoid warming up the liquid inside. A character out of their depth might hold the glass around the sides instead.

When rich/important people forget your name and they’re drunk, they usually just tell you that they don’t remember or completely skip over any opportunity to use your name so they don’t look silly.

A good way to indicate you don’t want to shake someone’s hand at an event is to hold a drink in your right hand (and if you’re a woman, a purse in the other so you definitely can’t shift the glass to another hand and then shake)

Americans who still kiss cheeks as a welcome generally don’t press lips to cheeks, it’s more of a touch of cheek to cheek or even a hover (these days, mostly to avoid smudging a woman’s makeup)

The distinctions between dress codes (black tie, cocktail, etc) are very intricate but obvious to those who know how to look. If you wear a short skirt to a black tie event for example, people would clock that instantly even if the dress itself was very formal. Same thing goes for certain articles of men’s clothing.

Open bars / cash bars at events usually carry limited options. They’re meant to serve lots of people very quickly, so nobody is getting a cosmo or a Manhattan etc.

Members of the press generally aren’t allowed to freely circulate at nicer galas/events without a very good reason. When they do, they need to identify themselves before talking with someone.

[sunriseovergotham]

characters have to be a little bit awful in ways that you cant defend. its good for the ecosystem. your honor he did do that. He did in fact do that

[marisatomay]

People will claim to be a fan of some thing and then hate all of the themes and motifs and story lines and plot lines and protagonists and antagonists like man I don’t think that you actually like it here

[aidenwaites]

I think in the same way there's a 90/10 rule with horror and comedy (horror works best when it's 90% horror and 10% comedy and vice versa) there's a 90/10 rule for some relationships in fiction that's like. Wholesome and fucked up. A good friendship is at its most compelling when it's also 10% a bit fucked up. Fucked up relationship is at its most compelling when there's at least 10% of something actually sweet and substantive within. Do you get me

[etherealspacejelly]

sometimes you just have to let yourself be a bit neurodivergent.

i hate going out, it gives me a lot of anxiety and sensory input that i dont like, and i am often forced to talk to people.

so i do this thing on more difficult days, or sometimes just for fun, where i "bring a fictional character with me". i walk and imagine Fictional Character walking next to me. they talk to me, reassure me, hype me up, whatever i need them to do.

today dean winchester came christmas shopping with me. he went over the list with me of stuff i needed to get, told me i was doing a good job every time i finished in a certain shop, reminded me to take a deep breath when i got a little overwhelmed.

and yea. its kinda silly. and i know its just me talking to myself in a different voice, but it Works! especially since all of my special interests/hyperfixations tend to be tv/movie related.

so do what you gotta do to Get Shit Done. stop holding yourself to neurotypical standards. if you need Fictional Character to tell you you're doing a good job, do it! if you need Favourite Singer to walk you to school, do it! yea it might feel silly but you're literally fighting against your own brain to get stuff done every single day. you can have a little self indulgent daydream, as a treat.

[bajoop-sheeb]

PLEASE for the love of the universe read anti-colonial science fiction and fantasy written from marginalized perspectives. Y’all (you know who you are) are killing me. To see people praise books about empire written exclusively by white women and then turn around and say you don’t know who Octavia Butler is or that you haven’t read any NK Jemisin just kills me! I’m not saying you HAVE to enjoy specific books but there is such an obvious pattern here

Some of y’all love marginalized stories but you don’t give a fuck about marginalized creators and characters, and it shows. Like damn

[whumpster-dumpster]

"My poor baby. My poor sweet little boy," I lament out loud over a whole grown adult man who is not mine but is in fact a fictional character with fictional hurts. What matters is my feelings are real