#my heart is literally ACHING

[whatamibutaperson]

rant time!!! this is gonna be ALL about adventure time so strap in and listen!! (spoilers ahead)

i have been watching adventure time for literally all my life. probably since it first came out in 2010. and that fact i finally finish the series 13 years later is just. wow.

building off of that. i am so attached to these characters that i just broke down when i finished the series. like in distant lands during episode "together again" i just started sobbing. like these characters that i have loved my whole life are now dead and ahh!! it hurts so much!!!!! and finn and jake had one last adventure together fighting off literal death before being reincarnated and forgetting all of their memories as finn and jake :(. also and thats another thing!!! the fact that they have always found each other after death and gotten reincarnated together is just so !!!!!! their bond is brotherly which leads me to another point

i will probably never have a relationship like finn and jake. im a girl, with no brothers, so that means probably no brotherly bonds, especially ones you grow up developing and stuff. even despite that, ill probably never have a friendship like theirs' either which is so sad :(((((

ill also never have adventures like theirs either!!! like in modern times growing up in a treehouse with a magic dog, a mini robot, and surrounded by candy people is not likely to happen. even without all the magical stuff, just having adventures like them fighting off bad guys and stuff will never happen :(

my favorite character is bmo and let me tell you why! first, bmo is genderless throughout the entire show, which is amazing! and bmo is literally like the character who has saved multiple worlds from collapsing while still managing to build relationships and have a childlike attitude to things!! like amazing job bmo!!! also the sounds bmo makes while moving around are so nice. the little clickity clacks while he moves around is so calming! and the whole thing with football is a little weird but its so cute because you know bmo will always have a friend no matter where he goes!!

i feel incredibly guilty and bad because i messed up rewatching the show :(. i was watching it on hulu, which doesn't have the very last episode. i of course didnt know this and watched all of distant lands before the last episode of the series. i just kinda thought the show wanted the viewer to interpret what happened in the mushrooms wars their own way. and i suppose it worked out kinda, like for the dl episodes BMO, and the pep. butler one it works out because those dont necessarily build off of the finale. but for obsidian and together again its kinda crucial to watch the finale, especially for obsidian. like you need to know that marcy and bonny made up and became girlfriends in the finale before watching obsidian where they are suddenly gfs and kiss (which is just so good and i love they finally got together!!), and also why simon is suddenly no ice king anymore. and for together again, i would consider it important to just watch the finale and know that jake didnt die some horrible death during the mushroom wars, rather dying of old age like finn, plus its just kinda normal to watch the finale of the series before watching the two main characters die.

okay i think thats all for now but if i need to add something on i absoutely will!!!

[juststarsandthemoon]

listening to creep by radiohead for the first time and i am not okay

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Daddy, don't go.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[wow-wow-wubbsy]

Clark Kent is like that swole teddy bear plush

Also featuring a very tiny Lois because they are the embodiment of "big wholesome and tiny feral"

Based on this post where I already added my drawing, but I thought I'd make a separate post too.

[sentfromeden]

fellow travellers- 1.05

[lgbtiwtv]

he didn’t even think she could dream.

he spent 70 years thinking she didn’t dream. he believed the lies she told herself just like he believes the lies he tells himself. he didn’t think she would lie. he didn’t think about how she suffered too, how she needed the stories too. how she’s a complete person with fears and hopes, how she would lie to herself to get through the pain of life just like everyone else. he forgot so much of her, so much of the realities of everyday life that he believed her when he himself witnessed otherwise. he didn’t even think she could dream

[bolly--quinn]

The craziest part of the episode to me is the ice cream table exchange about Beth tbh like Morty truthfully believes that Rick would say

“This may as well be our real daughter because she’s just as real as you.”

and

“Put it this way. You’re all basically NPCs. Only Morty and I are real, so your side quests don’t matter. The main quest is us.” (referring to he and Diane exclusively)

And when Diane, rightfully, combats him for his thinking with

“You’re disgusting. You’re talking about our baby girl like she’s theoretical?”

Beth throws in “Welcome to the family.”

Which might be one of the most heartbreaking lines in the whole thing to me because Morty has observed Rick enough to believe that this line of thinking is entirely in character for not only Rick but for the rest of the family too. Like Morty truly believes that Rick doesn’t care about them in anyway and that when faced with this, even Beth would just respond with the belief that this is the norm, at least from Rick anyway. So much so, that he uses an outside character in Diane to call out how insane it is.

Morty believes that Rick only cares about Diane and literally everyone else doesn’t matter and that’s just so sad to me, especially when we have seen otherwise but he can’t be faulted for thinking that when Rick carries that facade with him almost always, and especially to Morty directly.

[vcrnons]

ATTACCA op2 jacket shoot // VOCAL UNIT.

[viperbooty]

Back to talking about the Fantasy Fandom and the racism that tends to be part of it!

I genuinely think if Wyll were white he'd get way more attention and love. He'd have sparkle flower crown edits saying "My sweet cornball!!" "My boys got daddy issues!!". Also Warlock is a class beloved by many. And as someone who plays a warlock in bg3 having two of them fucking ROCKED, I always had spells at the ready. So really saying "buh! buh! two warlocks is just bad!" its really not, short rests and cantrips out the asshole really make it easy.

Anyway.

If Gale were black he would be fully ignored and people would, in masses, complain about how annoying he is, how useless he is, how he doesn't really fit in with the rest of the "way more interesting cast". How he's so unbearably straight because all he talks about is his ex.

Lemme keep on this though because if Shadowheart was a Black Person she would have been fucking Crucified for the way she talks about other races, other religions, and just in general the way you have to pull information out of her like pulling teeth. Also if she were a black woman she'd be reduced to "uncaring boss bitch who "dont need no man"" or "unbarable bitch who needs to be Killed"

Am I getting my point across enough?

Wyll was shafted by the game by having literally less content than the rest of the party. Wyll DOES have an interesting story. Wyll is also corny, he's funny, he's so sweet, and his conversations with Karlach are soooo great and yet it's all abandoned because he's generally viewed as "boring".

And by the way. You are allowed to like and dislike characters. But I see a lot of people side stepping the Fantasy Racism to say "but hes just boring thats why I dont like him". Like sure, if you gave Wyll an honest chance and still found him boring then that's your opinion and choice! HOWEVER!! We CANNOT ignore that he is being LEFT OUT of edits, of fan art, of character discussions. When I see posts that are the entire cast MINUS Wyll it tells me everything I need to know about you.

Also one last thing... I cannot imagine being Wyll's VA and seeing how many times you are being left out on purpose. How so few add your character to edits, or fan art. It has to be crushing to some extent, even if you expected it.

[bitternace]

(06/06)

[ID: a digital bust drawing of zexion from kingdom hearts facing left. The background is transparent and the colors are flat. He is mostly expressionless as he looks downwards, mouth tense. His hair is shaggy and the back ends are pointed outwards. a green line follows the underside of his figure, from the chin, around the hood of his coat and the under the strands of the back of his hair. /End ID.]

[warpedpuppeteer]

Buck was a baby when they took his marrow for Daniel and it failed and Daniel died. How much did his parents blame baby Buck for it?? They can't even stand him when he's an adult I can't imagine how bad it was as a baby?? I'm thinking if they left him crying to himself because they didn't want to deal with him. If they just fed him and changed him and just left him in the crib so that they didn't have to deal with him. And baby Buck is just there all alone babbling to himself because his parents wouldn't care to play with him or comfort him.

I wonder if Maddie had to awkwardly carry a baby Buck from his crib so she can try to play with him or to comfort him when he was bawling so hard his face was red and he was gasping for air and Maddie couldn't stand the fact that their parents didn't do anything. Even if she had just lost her other baby brother. If she had to learn how to make milk just right so that she could feed him anytime, even through her own grief. If she hated changing diapers but she didn't want him to get a rash and so did it anyways. I wonder if she's the one who saw him crawl first. If she saw him holding himself up on furniture to start walking and cheered him and little baby Buck just grinned at her and tried to toddle towards her. I wonder if his first word wasn't mom but "mathie" (because he couldn't say the letter d yet). I wonder if he'd look for her when he was upset, throwing a tantrum when she wasn't there and his parents tried to calm him down but all he screams is "i want maddie!". I wonder if he'd have a nightmare and crawl into Maddie's bed and hide there. I wonder if he asked if he can help her comb her hair and Maddie agrees even though he tangles it. I wonder if Maddie got him his first football, teaching him how to kick a goal.

I wonder if years later, when they're more apart than they've ever been, Buck will curl into a little ball while crying and think about crawling into Maddie's arms to feel loved again. If Maddie thought about hugging Buck really hard and hiding under the covers, so that she could feel safe again, fingers trailing over a postcard he sent, smiling but his eyes sad, hoping that even though he's sad, that he's safe. I wonder if every time Buck travels in the jeep, he feels like Maddie is with him, showing him the way. Maybe he even calls the jeep Maddie sometimes and talks to her, just to feel like she's there.

I wonder if Buck walks Maddie down the aisle and thinks about how he once toddled towards her because she loved him, kept him safe and happy and now Buck gets to walk her towards someone who makes her feel safe and happy and loved. And Maddie thinks finally. Finally they are both happy and safe and together again.

[betterthanbatman1]

MY BOYYYY

[chirpsythismorning]

I’m just gonna come out and say it… Byler’s best scene has gotta be the rain fight. It just is. It’s arguably Finn and Noah’s best performance for their characters’ dynamic. It has everything. Repression. Instant regret. Groveling. Heartbreak. Devastation.

Me, rewatching the rain fight to feel something that is akin to every single feeling one experiences after watching a masterful feature length romance, only in this case it’s all happening in one single scene:

[sainzinnorris]

look. logically nobody benefits from this. williams if you let this happen, it's going to look so so so bad on you. like terrible bad. it wouldn't benefit anybody. literally nobody. you destroy out logan in every way possible. give him the worst season possible, something or the other screwing him. kimi has skipped out all of f3 , hasn't done a full proper season in f2. the jump to F1 is massive and insane. and if he underperforms? then what? you're just setting another driver who could have used a bit more practice, and ruining the potential that could be achieved with their experience. and williams.. this is going to backfire. if logan's replaced mid season, the fans will lose it. logan's doing whatever he can in that williams to his capacity, and people were already enraged with how he had to swap his car so alex could drive his.. this could definitely be frowned upon and disliked by a majority of fans.

[sentientsky]

"I forgive you." It came out like a blood clot—like an artery dripping gore—like an oil spill. Crowley felt his shoulders rise, fall, fall, fall. The air between them hummed, the tension of six thousand years turning every atom electrified and silently screaming. Breath shuddered out of him, human and terrible and hollowing. He had never been more grateful for the swallowing darkness of his glasses, for the way they hid the centuries of pre-emptive grief and wicked terror. The air was suffocating, the once familiar bookshop turned catacomb.

And then, hating himself for it but seeing no other way forward, he spoke the words aloud. "Don't bother". And then he was out in the middle of Soho and the breeze was harsh against his too-warm skin. Stepping out into the sun felt like rising to the surface of some great ocean—the gasping, desperate feeling in his lungs, the sudden crash of noise. A woman across the street called for her wife. A car horn. A dog barking. Laughter, cruel and far-off. He pulled breath into lungs that didn't need it, winced as he felt slivers of cold drive into the soft flesh of his throat.

So that was it; five and a half million years of want and need and burning, aching somedays, cyphered pleas for "our side". All gone in the space between shaking half-breaths and a kiss still seared against his lips.

Fuck it.

He'd ruined it the first time, had forced them both to look directly into the sun, to face the thing they'd been dancing around for the better part of six millennia. He could do better—would do better. At a music café some years ago, a human had been playing the piano—something soft and slow. A jazz number, if the demon remembered correctly. But the remarkable thing wasn’t the song itself, but that they were playing it with their eyes closed. Aziraphale had pointed this fact out to Crowley, excitement lilting in his voice (even then, the sound had thrilled him, sent a stab of warmth through his heart). It was only after the final note reverberated through the room that the artist opened their eyes, blinking in the sudden rush of stage lights. Aziraphale, ever the music connoisseur, approached the musician. The pianist had explained that, for them, reading music never came easy. Rather, they learned by touch, by the way the keys felt on their fingertips. In fact, the only way they could play a song was with their eyes closed. If they watched their hands as they played or thought too hard about their next move, they got confused and tripped over the notes. Muscle memory, they’d said.  It was muscle memory—the galactic familiarity of finding the space between seconds and prying—that guided Crowley now. He hadn’t done it since Not-Armageddon, but it came easily to him just the same. Time, you see, operates kind of like sound, like music; it loops and sways and carries forward in waves. If you know where to look (as the demon did), you can disrupt the flow, send it back towards the shore. 

And this was what Crowley did now. Drawing his hands through the ripples of minutes and seconds and hours and millennia, time stilled around him. It was natural. Easy, like breathing or sleeping. Or loving Aziraphale.  Slowly, the world turned backwards; humans retreating from whence they came, cars driving in reverse, the wind blowing in the opposite direction. If Heaven had taken notice of their "half-a-miracle", Crowley expected them to be able to see this from every edge of the universe. He likely only had one shot at this.

The world aligned itself once more, and time returned to its regular, steady gait—a rubber band snapping back into place. Something hummed in Crowley’s chest. Something bright and burning and the shape of a neutron star.  Hands shaking, he reached for the handle of the bookshop and pushed. The bell above the door rang, clear and and too-loud in the morning air. Aziraphale whirled around, a trembling half-smile on his face. Oh. Oh, somebody, this was going to be harder than he thought. It felt like all the oxygen, all the courage, had been punched clear out of him "Crowley!" A beat, a shuddering breath. "Angel". He pressed his still-trembling hands into his pockets and strode forward. "Oh, Crowley, dear, I've been looking for you. I have excellent news." His stomach did a little flip, something deep within him growing hollow and fearful. "We have to talk," he managed to choke out around the heart still lodged in his throat. "Yes, I quite think we do. I have something to tell you." Aziraphale strode forward, all grins and beauty like a flickering star, all plasma and heat. He could practically feel the agitated warmth roll off of his angel. Crowley shivered. "I just met with the Meta—” "No. Wait," the demon held up a hand, pausing the rushing torrent of Aziraphale’s words. "Just let me say my thing, please." "My dear boy, just—oh, what is that lovely human expression—"

"Hold that thought," Crowley muttered. His eyes burned behind his glasses. Aziraphale looked pleasantly taken aback.

"Yes, how did you know? I—" "No." The angel's eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "No?" "No," he repeated, enunciating each letter with perfect clarity. He was going to do it right this time. He was going to keep him from leaving. He could be good. Right? "I’m gonna speak, and I want you to listen to me without interrupting, m'kay?" Words were building in the basin of his sternum now, pushing up on his airways. He was going to have to say it outright this time; no more waltzing around this frenzied galaxy of emotion. Willing his hands to steadiness, he pulled his glasses from his face, and tucked them into the collar of his shirt. Aziraphale's breath seemed to catch for a moment, meeting the ferocity of the demon's gaze head-on. A deer in headlights. And then, "Crowley, I really—" (Eons hurtled through his mind in a split second, the serrated knife's-edge of want like a being all its own. Aziraphale in the garden. Aziraphale in the tavern, on the cliffside, on the West End stage, in the Bentley, in the bookshop, in the very marrow of Crowley’s bones.) "I love you," he rasped, ichor writhing in his veins.

There, he'd said it., said it fully and completely, without so much as flinching. It was the same love he'd expressed for the past several thousand years in a million little, unspoken ways: an ox rib, a revolution, a church, a burning bookshop and the bottom of a glass and a lost best friend. A yellow Bentley, a lifetime of tethering his life to Aziraphale's, of trailing after him like a moth to flame—like a dog to its owner. "I love you," he pushed on. They were both looking directly into the sun again, Crowley urging them to stare straight into the heat of it all. The words were spilling out of him now, a heaving, thrashing current falling to the bookshop's hardwood floors. "I love you and you can't go to Heaven." Aziraphale froze, pupils blown wide and unblinking, for just a moment. Tension stretched out like a thread between them. And then he pulled in breath like a drowning man (who wasn't really a man at all), and tears were gathering in the corner of his eyes, and oh god, he'd made his angel cry. Fear and guilt and horror slammed into him at a million kilometers an hour and left him halfway between dizzy and nauseous. His fingers tensed at his side, desperate to do something, fix what he'd so obviously broken. Heaven would be on the front step any moment. It was too late, wasn't it? It was always too late. "Crowley—what?" Aziraphale breathed, mouth twisting into a brutal, terrible, heart-wrenching sob. Crowley ached, panic lancing through him like a knife. "I—I really, I can't. You could come with me." He stepped forward, moving to place his hands on the demon's shoulders. Crowley leaned into the touch, almost unconsciously. "Don't go," he croaked, tears beginning to prick his own eyes once again. This time he didn't reach for his glasses, didn't try to hide his fear. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. And then Aziraphale could hate him and his desperate, hungry, reverent love in the aftermath. "Don't go where I can't follow. Please".

His angels blue-grey eyes searched his own, and the weight of his gaze was impossibly heavy, pressing down on his chest like a river-smoothed rock. "Crowley, please. I don't understand. The Metatron said—" His palms found the sides of Crowley's throat, thumbs resting gently on the side of his jaw. Crowley sucked in a breath. "Angel," The scent of earl grey—of old books and soft tartan chairs. Aziraphale's hands were shaking. "I know what the Metatron said," he intoned, soft as rainfall. "You can't go. It's not—they won't change. You're better than that." "But you could be an angel. With me," he murmured, soft thumbs running across sharp cheekbones. "Be my second-in-command." "Don't want to be. Want t' be an us," he felt tears—traitorous, burning tears tip over the edge of his lashes and fall against his face. "Crowley, darling, please." A beat. "I love you." The bottom of the world dropped out from under him in that moment. Aziraphale loved him. He loved him and he'd said it aloud and now it was out there in the world and it was as though every nerve on his body was on fire. His angel pushed on, "Truly, I love you. I need you with me. Please, come with me. We can do good, I know it." He could never say no when his angel asked something of him. Especially not when his kind, gentle hands were holding him like something good, something precious. Especially not when Aziraphale had just admitted to needing him, had injected the word with so much warmth he thought his all-too-human heart might beat clear out of his chest. But there was a first (technically, second) time for everything. He drew in a heavy breath, and tilted his head, breaking his angel's hold on him. Aziraphale's hands—now empty, still shook. He made a soft whimpering sound, and Crowley ached to kiss his fingertips, banish the fear. But instead, he looked up towards the ceiling, to a God who was not there—who maybe had never been there at all. He felt the Heavenly Host drawing near, a sense of hollow emptiness, the scent of absence. This was the time of last-ditch efforts, of holding his heart out and hoping Aziraphale might take it as it was, bruised spots and all. "I can't. I won't. I need to be here, on Earth, with you." "Crowley, please. I don't think you understand what I'm offering you," he huffed. A residual shard of anger stabbed at him then, and he turned his gaze sharply back to the angel before him. "Oh, I understand perfectly well, angel. I'm fairly certain I understand better than you do." Aziraphale's mouth drew into a thin line, tears welling fresh in his eyes again. And still, Crowley ached. A beat. Something in the angel shifted, then, turned on its edge—the walls beginning to go up again, and it was just like it had been not fifteen minutes ago. He was watching the same moment play out over and over again; some cyclical, torrential nightmare. "I would like you to come with me, but," Aziraphale paused, voice breaking in the middle. "But I'm leaving, with or without you." And there it was, like it was predestined. Despite the love, despite the want, despite every shared bottle passed between them, every half-accidental touch and glance and whispered word—despite the way he would’ve let Aziraphale run a sword through his chest... It wasn't enough. It was never enough. They were re-enacting their old magic trick, right there in the bookshop, this time with Crowley staring down the barrel, letting Aziraphale pull the trigger. Aim for my mouth, but shoot past my ear. Aziraphale wasn't shooting past his ear. His bloody ribcage felt as though it might splinter apart. Wingbeats in the distance, a grief wide enough to drown the sea. Crowley reached down, pulled his sunglasses from their resting spot against his clavicle. And then the hunger in his eyes was once more hidden, and he was walking towards the door like a man headed to execution. "Crowley—" Aziraphale nearly keened, the wall crumbling for a split second. Without turning, Crowley said the only words he could think of. "I forgive you."

[mintedwitcher]

y'know what now that we've canonically established that Fourteen is more emotionally open than Ten ever was can we PLEASE get him talking about the Master, and getting more than just "we were friends at first" like PLEASE.

we now have a Doctor who has experienced two (technically three, silver beard!Simm my beloved) other regenerations of the Master: Twelve with Missy (so sad Missy never actually met Eleven on screen because oh god the CHAOS would've been PERFECT), and Thirteen with SpyMaster. Two very very different versions of the Master with very very different motivations and impacts on the Doctor and I want him to talk about it goddamnit!

I would love to have the Master return in the specials, I really would, but barring that possibility, I just want to see Fourteen actually talk about who the Master is to him.