I Beg - Tumblr Posts
Holy Fuck even when i am on the edge of a mental breqkdown this is Sick as Fuck
Turn up your brightness to see the whole picture !!
Guys I think I love realism
halloween 2021 ARG will always be dear to me :( I’ve taken the story and made it my own, so I guess these guys are more my OC’s than the creators WHAT WHO SAID THAT me. I did.
can we as a society make puppetry cool again. like lets make it trendy. Mainstream. more people should get into doing it and more people should appreciate it. puppetry requires craftsmanship and charisma and physical acting and vocal performance!! you can’t get that from ai. it has a charm to it that neither 2D nor cg animation has. Have you ever watched a puppetry performance and realized you were genuinely convinced that the puppet was getting into bed or eating something or giving a hug that you wholly forgot there was some guy’s arm in there.
isn’t it lovely. to make a funny little guy to tell stories with. is that not so human of us. it’s such a lovely art form. I love you puppets I love you muppets I love you marionettes I love you handmade sock puppets I love you paper bags with googley eyes I love you armatures I love you I love you I love you!!!!!
I’m posting this now to get the idea out of my head and hopefully it’ll give me a reason to post a full thing later
Curt sat on the ground of his hotel room, his head pressed against the chipped paint of the beaten up wall as he threw his head back to drink every last drop of whiskey. He wiped his mouth, his eyes burning from tears, staining his vision. He threw the empty glass to the side, it clanking against the other 3 he had downed that night. It would’ve been easier to drink them all if he was sharing them. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the leather jacket that one belonged to the man he would’ve shared a whiskey with.
Owen’s screams were in his mind, a hideous song trapped in his head, unable to leave him alone, pounding in his brain, banging, begging to be set free and to give him what he deserved. He deserved death, to be crushed under the exploding facility, not Owen. Owen didn’t deserve to die. It wasn’t Owen’s fault Curt fucked up.
Curt watched the phone carefully, tempted to leave his spot of hesitant comfort to use his legs that barely worked, legs that were pressed to his chest, knowing he didn’t deserve for them to work, knowing that them working wouldn’t help, wouldn’t change the fact Owen fell. He was tempted to pick up the phone, but what was the point of calling anyone if it wasn’t Owen?
Curt should’ve slipped on that banana. It was his fault to begin with. Owen didn’t deserve what happened to him. Owen was the better spy, the one who got things done. Cynthia was right, Curt was always fucking up. He fucked up tonight, he fucked up every mission. How could someone with the title of greatest spy be so weak? So foolish? To cry over a partners death?
Owen wasn’t just some partner. He was his partner. His Owen. The one who knew everything. The one Curt found himself confiding in, the one whose arms felt like a home Curt didn’t know he had. Any hotel room, any safe house, any facility Owen was in with Curt, that was his home. He didn’t have a home anymore, he didn’t deserve one.
Curt felt his legs move, he felt himself leave the comfort of the corner and found himself with his hand hesitatingly lingering over the top of the phone he had been eyeing, his hand clenched before he grabbed it, dialing his home. It wasn’t home anymore, but it was the closest he had to it.
It rang for a moment, Curt forgot his mom was probably asleep. She slept a lot since he got his job, since he stopped visiting as much. He should’ve visited more, she wasn’t going to be around forever.
“Hello?”
Curt felt a wave of relief wash over him as the familiar voice of his mother filled his ear. He grabbed the edge of Owen’s old jacket, gripping the leather tightly in his hand, pushing it hard against his chest.
“Hey Mom,” Curt choked out, sitting down on the bed he and Owen would’ve shared, the bed he would’ve been holding Owen in right now. All he wanted to do was hold him, to wrap his arms around him and squeeze him so hard against his chest his partner could barely breathe, to feel their skin against each other, to taste Owen’s lips, to leave marks on his neck Owen would have to hide when he went back to work.
“Oh, Curtis! How are you sweetie?” His mother’s voice was happy, excited, Curt’s heart pounded in his chest. When we the last time he talked to his mom?
“I’m uh-“ he held his breath for a moment, biting down on his lip, “I’m ok.”
“Good, good.”
Curt gripped the phone cord, “Do you think I could stop by for a few days?” He asked, choking on his words, his throat closing as he spoke.
His mother practically gasped on the other end, Curt could hear her. He gripped the leather tighter, “Oh absolutely! Stay as long as you’d like!”
Curt nodded his head and clicked his tongue, “Cool, thanks Mom.”
“Is that all?” She asked. Curt knew what she wanted. She wanted him to talk, to be open, to just hear her sons voice.
“No, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Ok, I love you, Curtis,” she spoke gently into the phone.
“I love you too, mom. Talk to you soon,” Curt hung up his phone, letting it slip from his grip as he sat back on his bed, a bed he was supposed to share with Owen, a bed meant for two, only used by one.
my absolute favourite unlikely duo
send me random shit to the inbox I. haven't had anything for a bit :[
people always saying i’m intimidating i’ll cry … i do not want to be scary i want to be a friend of the zero day people 🙏🙏🙏🙏
i need to see more fics of them.
i am Shaking. i apologize please do not do such a thing 🙏😰
heavy tw
been thinking about this for a while… binge disorder andre.
he stays on a diet during the day, bringing his own lunch to school and watching his calories all the time. his obsession with food is always blamed on being an athlete. whenever anyone asks him about it, he mentions some nutrition book he read or a diet a favorite runner of his has. he works out nonstop, even at home. he’s constantly doing push-ups, sit-ups, and jumping jacks in his room.
when darkness falls, he starts eating. he sits out in the kitchen while mel meows at his feet for food. there have been nights where andre is crying while eating and begging himself to stop, but he can’t. he feels disgusting after, often throwing up or working out until he has to start getting ready for school.
there’s a scale by his bed, right by his nightstand. he checks it every morning and bases his entire day around it. he’s passed out multiple times during track practices and meets, but he convinces himself it’s because he’s been eating too much.
it’s a vicious cycle. he can’t escape it.
every time i remember that andre keuck has not replied to my dm i lose a part of my sanity…
HEAVENS HELP ME WHY DID I GET SO ATTACHED TO MY TAV AND WHY DID I MAKE THEM SO HOT
Hey, can y’all rb this if it’s okay to send you messages asking about your ocs, cause on god I wanna interact with y’all but I am terrified of being annoying lol
if we’re in the kitchen and i jump up to sit on the counter it’s an open invitation for you to stand between my legs and start touching me
Honestly as a blind person I’m so tired of seeing fictional blind characters who don’t use white canes or other guides. “They have special powers so they know what’s around them” or “they’re confident enough to not need a guide” are common tropes, and I’m tired.
Are people scared that using a white cane will make their blind character seem weak? They can’t use a cane because they’re so special that they already know what’s around them, and other blind people who use guides are inferior because they’re not special?
I’m tired. Give your blind characters white canes and other guides. Let them hold onto their friends, let them have guide dogs. Don’t make white cane users feel ostracized for not being “strong enough” to go without.
Another thing that pisses me off is when a sighted character comes up with the fantasy equivalent of braille and teaches it to the blind character. Braille was invented by Louis Braille, a blind man, in 1824. The blind character should be the one coming up with it.
Tldr I’m blind and tired of sighted people lol
🔪 Sighted People MUST Reblog This 🔪
big question. what is your song of the year so far? the one you listened to most, the one that touched you the most, or for any reason. for me its where do we go now? by gracie abrams 🌟
If you are hesitant to comment on AO3 because it's just fanfic and it probably doesn't matter to the writers, know that I got a one word comment ("Beautiful") on a fic nobody ever has bothered reading before and it made my night. Merry Christmas to me! Seriously, though, comments feel so good to writers! Please feed us! We're hungry!
The Island in the q!Cellbit view:
The most terrible thing about it all is that he loves the island. He never had anyone. q!Cellbit confirmed that his name came from the cell phone he had in prison, so until he was eighteen he had no name, probably being an orphan. In the war, he briefly had someone who cared for him and vice versa. Before, he says it was worse than life in the arena and later, we meet f!Cell, a suspicious and angry person. So imagine, after years of therapy and escaping from the world's most secure prison, he's trapped again on an island full of strange people and a bizarre organization that intimidates, kidnaps and tortures him. And yet, he loves this island. This is the happiest and most peaceful moment of his life. q!Cellbit has found a place with people he loves, where he feels free to feel, laugh and cry, he has a family and a person he loves and cares about. And yet, he wants to get out of there. Not for himself. Do you understand this? He wants to end the Federation, he wants everyone to be able to leave...Even if it means he's going to be alone again. There's nothing off the island for him, no place or family. But he learned to love and care for everyone there, so he would never allow them to feel like him. Trapped by fate and people he considers "cowards". Headcanon:
Imagine if...On the off chance that the contract he signed with the Federation is permanent. Everyone can leave, but... He's there. He signed the end himself and when everyone is running away he feels weak. He can't scream for help and there's no time. He is teleported away, while everyone flees. And he gets stuck on the island, empty... And everyone's memory of the island also disappears. It seems like it's just been a long vacation...And the name of q!Cellbit fades from their minds. And years later? Life went on. q!Roier has some friends he hangs out with sometimes, he doesn't remember exactly how he met them and that's it. Is he happy? He thinks? But q!Roier still twirls the ring on his finger. He doesn't know where it came from or why it has the puzzle symbol, he just... He can't get it out. He feels enormous sadness whenever he tries. Something is just wrong and yet...He just don't know what it is.
Meanwhile, q!Cellbit doesn't build anything. He even tries to investigate something and go against the Federation, but they doesn't seem to care about him either. He becomes just a little island mouse. They build a base far away and leave him there. Isolated, around empty bases without their owners. And he only has the pictures, his ring and his own memories. But there's no way out. He knows it. In the end, the island became something he also hates, because those who made him love it... are gone.
The hero was halfway home when they got the call.
“I’m sorry,” the person on the other end said, voice wet with tears, and the hero knew.
They knew that tone of voice, they knew this sinking in their stomach. They knew.
Their phone shattered against the ground, fingers numb.
Their friend was dead.
Again. Again, again, again again–
“Fuck,” the hero muttered, heart clenching. “Fuck.”
They were crying by the time the villain appeared next to them, and it took everything in the hero not to punch them.
“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” the villain said, eyeing their tears.
“What, love?”
The villain tipped their head slightly. “No. Love things you can't keep.”
The hero was sure it would kill them this time, the heartbreak. They had thought after enough centuries, enough people loved, enough funerals attended, death would be an old friend and not a bullet wound. They had hoped it would hurt less.
But it still hurt, and death was chronic.
“What, you expect me to be you? Cold, killing people for fun?”
The villain raised an eyebrow at their tone.
“I don’t kill people for fun.”
“Don’t you?”
“No,” the villain shrugged a shoulder. “I just don’t care if there are casualties. Besides, not everyone is a good person in the first place. I’m doing the world a favor, half the time”
“How can you say something like that,” the hero hissed. “Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how awful you sound right now?”
The villain gave the hero a long look.
“Hero. You fight the worst people this world has to see for a living, and you’re standing here saying they deserve a second chance?”
“Yes,” the hero snapped. “I am.”
“You are a bleeding heart,” the villain observed. “It’s amazing you haven’t turned into me.”
“You and I, we are not the same.”
The villain half-smiled. “Aren’t we?”
“Shut up,” the hero looked away, chest tight. “These people, these lives, are so precious, so, so fragile, and you take them away like it is nothing.”
They were shaking, and they weren’t sure if it was rage or fear or something else. They couldn’t stop. The hero wondered if this was what death felt like. If this is what it felt like to have your body betray you, longing for the ground and solitude of a grave.
“I am not going to stand here and debate morality with you when you are breaking apart at the seams.”
“I’m fine,” the hero managed. They willed themself to stop crying.
“Death is inevitable, and you are hiding from the truth of that.”
The hero’s throat closed before they could respond.
“Your friend is dead, and no matter how much you fight, you will not win the war against death a second time. Do you hear me? You and me, we already won. We are time’s children. We will be here longer than ‘here’ will be. Death has no claim to us, and yet you keep pushing, and pushing, and pushing, because you cannot bear the weight of this gift.”
The hero’s knees gave out, and the villain caught them.
“Stop letting the guilt of being alive break you.”
“I don’t want this anymore.” It was a pitiful thing as it fell from their mouth. Something broken, worn out and tired.
The villain rested a hand on the back of the hero’s neck. “You cannot undo this any more than you could the last time you tried. I promise.”
It almost sounded like an apology.
“I am tired of loving precious, fleeting things.”
“So don’t,” the villain said easily.
The hero closed their eyes. “How?”
The villain hummed, voice soft. “Love me for a while. Until the burden of existence fades. I won’t leave.”
“You say that like loving you is easy.”
“It isn’t. But you’ve done it for centuries–what’s a few more?”
“You kill people.”
“No. I just don’t save them, and I don’t carry the guilt of not saving them, because it isn’t my job.”
“Yeah.”
“It isn’t your job either.”
The hero had known that, centuries ago. Somewhere along the way of funerals and eulogies, it had been hard to keep believing it wasn’t their fault when they were always the one left alive.
So they had stopped.
“Promise you won’t leave?”
“I couldn’t leave you if I tried.”
“Liar.”
“Yeah,” the villain agreed. “But never to you.”
Just like the hero had known it to be true when they were both fifteen, mortal, and wild, the hero knew it was true now.
And so, like every time this had happened before, across centuries and continents and deaths, the villain brushed away the hero’s tears; and they went home.
Do you still remember her face even after it all? ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･💜༄⋆⭒˚｡
Sweet summer child ༻✧