#this is a sad one

[afewproblems]

For the angst prompts ;

"You look like hell." "I feel like it."

Famous Eddie showing up on Steve’s doorstep years after Eddie left

Oooo love this idea, thank you very much for sending it Nonny! I hope you enjoy!

***

"So, he's back in town," Robin says instead of a greeting into the receiver, a leading lilt in her voice.

Steve sighs and knocks his head into the wall beside the mounted hand set, "yeah".

She hums, the sound crackles over the line like static in Steve's ear.

"You want me to come over?" Robin asks carefully, as though dismantling a bomb, picking through what to say as gently as she can, hoping it's right.

And Steve hates it.

He hates that even after all these years, Eddie Munson can get right under his skin like this.

It should have ended back in '88, when Eddie had left them all behind to 'make it big'.

Or at least, that's what the note had said.

The one in hastily scribbled blue ink, dropped on the cold and empty side of the bed that Eddie had left. Steve had awoken alone, with only the note and the smell of weed and cigarettes and sex on his sheets.

He had tried calling the trailer, only for Wayne to pick up and explain that Eddie had been planning this for weeks, 'didn't Ed tell you?'

Eddie had left for New York along with Gareth, Jeff, and Grant, bound for city lights and a better music scene.

No, Eddie hadn't told him, but Steve didn't say that. How could he?

Instead, he thanked Wayne, his voice hoarse, and hummed something close to a yes when Wayne asked if Steve would make sure to drop by when he had time, the Pacers season had started after all.

"Steve?"

Robin's voice breezes through the phone again, jolting him back to the present.

"Sorry Birdy," he sighs, shaking the last memories of the Munson's from his mind, "don't worry about me, really".

She scoffs and Steve can almost picture the way she's certainly rolling her eyes, "I always worry about you Dingus, that's what I'm here for".

"I know".

They talk for a little longer, speculating on how much longer Clinton will last in office now that the truth has come out and which of them would host the finale of Seinfeld --'it deserves a special night Steve, we are taping it, getting as many snacks as we can, and indulging in some good old misanthropic comedy'.

He tells her goodnight after another half hour, and insists that he'll be okay.

And he will, of course he will.

It's been ten years since Eddie Munson set foot in Hawkins, and there was absolutely no reason for them to run into one another.

Well, sure, he still kept in touch with Wayne over the years --how could he not when the old man seemed to pull excuses to see him out of thin air.

Robin had always cautioned Steve on his continued relationship with Wayne, questioning why he insisted on maintaining contact with Steve.

But it was nice to have someone to watch the game with over a beer, the occasional barbecue in the summer and hell, Steve had even celebrated a Thanksgiving or two or three with Wayne Munson.

With Steve cutting off his own parents years back, it was nice to feel like he had still had someone looking out for him.

And really, there was no reason for Eddie and Steve to run into one another.

Steve would be fine.

***

It's almost a week after his call with Robin that the doorbell rings and Steve's world comes to a stop.

He's putting away the small grocery trip, and to call it that was a bit ridiculous considering the snack to fruit ratio, but Robin had been very specific about their Seinfeld watch party slated for the coming weekend.

Steve opens the fridge door to pop the milk in, tossing a, "coming!" over his shoulder as the bell rings a second time.

Steve hopes it isn't his neighbor again as he makes his way to the front hall of his small home. It would be her third time angrily telling him that the tree in his backyard had shed even more crabapples over the fence and into her yard.

And considering their postage stamp lots, where else was the poor tree going to do it?

"Look Mrs. Patterson," he says wearily as he flips on the porch light and opens the front door, "I'm going to do something about the branches this weekend--"

But it isn't Mrs. Patterson standing on his front porch.

It's Eddie Munson.

Steve blinks, feeling as though part of himself has been wrenched from his own body to watch from above. His palms are sweaty all of a sudden and there's a tightness in his chest that grips his lungs, he can't breathe.

Eddie tries for a half wave and a smile, but the effect is lost as Steve continues to stand in shocked silence.

He's thin; Eddie had always been on the lanky side but his shoulders were still broad and he was strong enough to lug his band equipment around. He's almost gaunt now, with deep set bags under his brown eyes. His curly hair hangs somewhat limp over his shoulders and he reeks of stale cigarettes.

But it's undeniably Eddie Munson standing at his front door.

There are so many questions, and Steve wants nothing more than to demand answers if he can manage to get the words out without yelling.

What are you doing here? Why are you here now? How did you know where I live?

How could you leave like that?

"You look like hell," Steve says instead, his grip tightens on the door frame as Eddie drops his head in a nod.

"I feel it".

His voice is slightly deeper, more gravely in tone now than it was ten years back.

But perhaps that's what screaming into a microphone and partying in New York for ten years will get you.

"How did you know where I live?" Steve asks after another beat of strained silence.

"Uh, Wayne, I ask him about you a lot and about half the time he'll give me an answer when he's not calling me a dumbass and telling me to call you myself".

"Wayne has been telling you about me" Steve says faintly, feeling as though he might be sick on Eddie's shoes.

Wayne, someone that Steve had been looking up to, getting advice from, and spending so much time with, had been doing so just for Eddie.

All this time.

Robin had been right to tell him to be careful.

"Leave," Steve whispers suddenly, making Eddie step back in surprise, "I don't want to see you, either of you, again".

"Wha--no, Steve, wait!"

But the door is already closing, slammed against Eddie's hands that knock and knock, pleading with him to open the door, to just hear him out.

But how can he?

It wasn't just Eddie showing up after all these years, but on top of that, everything that he thought he had with Wayne had all been some ploy to help his nephew keep tabs on him.

He'd let himself be hurt again, by another fucking Munson, one he thought he could trust.

Steve locks the door and flips off the porch light, uncaring of the muffled curse from the other side of the wood.

He doesn't want to hear what Eddie has to say, after all, Eddie hadn't cared enough to stick around all those years ago.

Why should Steve?

#steve harrington #eddie munson #hurt steve harrington #wayne munson #famous rockstar eddie #but make it almost as angsty as my cheating!eddie au #afewproblems writes #afewproblems answers #oof baboof these get sadder with every prompt i write yall #hurt no comfort #please read with caution #this is a sad one #hurt/no comfort

[f1-birb]

a little dando snippet, just to say though it is sad

"Stop." Lando hisses, turning his head away, but it's overshadowed by giggling.

He zooms in more, laughing softly as Lando presses his jaw back into the crook of his elbow, peering over his arm and Daniel's breath catches in his chest when long eyelashes flutter as warm eyes crinkle at the edges.

He keeps it fully zoomed, capturing the straight slope of Lando's nose, the freckles either side, the steep curl of his eyelashes and the brightness in his eyes.

God he loves Lando's eyes, wishes he'd caught more of them before they flick away again, Lando giggling, "Stop it."

He presses play again. He's lost count how many times he's watched the clip that's barely thirty seconds, but he must be in the thousands by now. It's one of the few pieces of Lando left that is solely his.

He'd posted the video without sound, a post captioned with kisses in French, slotted neatly amongst several other photos, just a tease. Here it's different.

The thirty seconds of Lando he never shared, where Daniel gets the giggles and the feigned whining and Lando curling shyly away from the camera. He gets all that, for him, selfishly, in the home that they never got to share. The home that should've been theirs but he never got the chance to ask. He never had the chance to fold Lando into his arms, out on the patio watching the setting sun and the breeze coming through to chill them both, kissing his curls and whispering, "Stay. Move in with me. Stay forever."

He presses play again.

#little sneak peek #ilmf #dando #daniel/lando #this is a sad one #based on the bisous video daniel posted #that i made sadder with married life from up #birb writes

[sournatromanoff]

favorite crime — elvis presley x reader

a/n: this is my first elvis fic, and i really hope y’all like it! i based this off of “favorite crime” by olivia rodrigo, if you wanna give it a listen while you read. I also imagined regular elvis half the time and austin’s elvis the other half, so imagine whomever you want, bb 😂

warnings: angst, cheesy use of lyrics as dialogue? let me know if i miss anything that you think i should put in the warnings.

word count: 1,244

It had been a year since Elvis came back from his service in Germany, and you had felt the rift in your relationship ever since. You had hoped that by setting up this dinner for the two of you, it could be fixed. But sitting in front of him now, you slowly began to realize that nothing can be mended with him. You watched as he grimaced at his gold watch, and your heart broke when you heard him speak.

“I have to pick up Priscilla from the airport. Could we have a rain check on this, darlin’?” You swallowed as you nodded, tears filling your eyes as he ran out to his car. You knew he had made friends overseas, especially Priscilla but you never thought he’d brush you off for her. You always thought the two of you were solid, unbreakable. But as you began to pick up after the untouched meal, you realized that your fiance had other thoughts in his head. He had another girl in his heart.

You sobbed as you put away the meal, humming softly to yourself to keep from breaking completely. You had lost your own appetite, thinking of what you would do when Elvis came back home. Would you scream at Elvis? Would you throw your ring at him? Would you just hide in your bedroom and cry until he notices? Would he notice at all, anyway? You had felt no reason to be upset at Priscilla, she was being a friend. The girl was sweet enough to even write to you when she wrote to Elvis. But he was too far gone, and you couldn’t do a thing about it. You knew how he was feeling, deep down. But you stayed anyway. You helped him break your heart, and watched as he buried you, all four of your hands bloodied.

All the things you did just to keep him by your side. All the nights spent awake talking while he was out of state. The numerous trips to visit him while he was filming. The hours spent by his side trying to talk him down when he was anxious. All the time and money spent on dresses, makeup, hair, so that everything was to his liking. And yet, here you are, picking up an untouched romantic dinner while he runs off to get Priscilla.

-+-

By the time Elvis came home with Priscilla, you had gone upstairs to get ready for bed. You put on your satin slip nightgown, braided your hair for the night, and walked to the bathroom to brush your teeth. When you had just finished rinsing out your mouth, Elvis walked into your shared bedroom, a frown smothering his face. “Why weren’t you downstairs when we came home? Priscilla was excited to finally meet you.” You began to wash your face of the day, trying to keep your voice steady as you talked to him. “I’m sorry, love. I just had a headache after dinner so I came upstairs early. But I can go say hi to her when I’m finished here if you’d like.”

Elvis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Goddammit, Y/N! I don’t understand your problem. I know things haven’t been perfect since I got back, but you don’t have to feign a headache so you don’t have to talk to my friend. Priscilla is a sweet girl. I don’t get why you don’t like her.” You blanched at his words. Under your breath you shuddered out, “I don’t have a problem with Priscilla.” He turned back to you. “What?” You blushed, speaking up to him. You finally voiced everything on your mind. “I said, I don’t have a problem with Priscilla. I think she’s lovely, and I’m really glad you’ve made friends while you were away. But I do have a problem with you forgetting about me and our relationship in favor of other people.”

You really had no problem with Priscilla being here, not at all. No, your problem was Elvis not telling you before leaving that she was staying over. Your problem was being pushed aside once again, even after defending him to your friends. After trying to reason that Germany must have changed him, and that he’d be back to the Elvis that held you for hours just because he wanted to feel you against him. The same Elvis who would smother your face with kisses before leaving the house, no matter how long he would be gone. The same Elvis who made love to you in a way that made you feel so seen, like a blind man regaining sight. But now it’s clear that Elvis is gone, replaced with an Elvis you’re not sure you can continue being around.

You continued when he didn’t speak. “Look at what became of us, Elvis. We haven’t had an actual date in over 6 months. You never told me that Priscilla was coming to visit. I tried to make us a nice dinner so we could finally spend time together, and you left to pick her up. I would’ve been fine if you had just let me know in advance that she was coming. I could’ve moved the dinner. Hell, I could’ve made extra so she could eat, Lord knows plane rides make people hungry. I’m exhausted having to try over and over to please you, and your focus is somewhere else. I haven’t talked to my friends in months because despite how you’ve been acting, I didn’t like how they talked about you. I gave up school to be with you. I moved an hour away from my family to live with you. I gave up so much, and you can’t even tell me when your friend is coming for a visit. You can’t be bothered to kiss me or hold me anymore.”

You sighed as you put your head back, finally letting the tears out. “I will stay in this house until Priscilla has left to go back home. I won’t stay in this room anymore, and once she’s gone, I’m officially leaving.” You take off your engagement ring, setting it in front of Elvis, seeing his face pale at your words. “The things I did, just so I could call you mine, Elvis. I love you, I do, but I can’t keep living like this.”

As you grab your things to put in a bag to take to a guest room, Elvis finally speaks back up. “Baby, please don’t do this. I’m sorry I made you feel like this, I am, but can’t we talk about this further? Please. You’re my girl. My li’l mama. Please, Y/N.” He reached for you, attempting to hug you, crying into your shoulder. You cried into his arms that were wrapped around your chest. “No, baby, please. We both let this relationship go a long time ago. I think we need to realize that. I was just trying to fix something that was far too broken to fix.”

You let him sob into you a little bit more, trying not to break down further yourself. Finally making him let go, you went for the door. “I think it might actually be better if I sleep in a hotel. I’ll come back for anything I missed in a few days.” Stopping at the door, you turned to look at your love one last time. “I hope I was your favorite crime. You were mine, baby.”

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis imagine #elvis presley imagine #austin butler #austin butler elvis #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #this is a sad one #but i hope it’s good 🤞🏼

[arkytiorwrites]

Day 4: good 4 u

Supreme Strange x Male Reader

I am SO sorry this is late, my sweet duckies. It’s finals and I am dying, but I will make it up to you today, scouts honor.

Stepping up to the mic of the small club, Y/N spoke, "Is this thing on? Testing, testing. Your mom’s a slut and so is your gal."

There was a roar of outraged laughter at that, causing the musician to grin mischievously.

"Sorry couldn't resist. And I’m kiddin’, boys. Gayer than a unicorn shitting rainbows at a Pride Parade, I'm afraid,” he admitted as he sent a flirty wink to the men seated right in front of him. "So, how is everyone tonight? Obviously, not well, considering the fact you're here rather than literally anywhere else.”

Waiting for the laughter to die down, Y/N double checked that his electric guitar was properly tuned.

“Honestly. Same. I've been havin' the shittiest month I've had in years and that's saying something. Especially when you take into consideration barely scraping by to get into college after your homophobic assholes of parents kick your cute ass to the curb."

There were groans and tuts of sympathy.

“Yeah, my boyfriend broke up with me. In the worst way imaginable. And no, I don't mean over text, although he might as well have. You know what the asshole did?"

…

“Steph! Baby I'm back!" Y/N yelled as he slammed the door shut with his foot. He came into the front room of the tiny apartment he shared with his boyfriend of three years, Stephen Strange, a med student who was hellbent on becoming a neurosurgeon at any cost. What Y/N stumbled upon made him wish he'd paid more attention to that little red flag.

Stephen's lab partner, Christine Palmer was hurriedly readjusting her shirt, while Stephen calmly sat there with lipstick all over his mouth and his shirt half undone.

"What the actual fuck, Strange! " Y/N yelled as he dropped the groceries.

“We're over, Y/N,” the other stated coldly.

“I'm sorry. I just violently hallucinated. What?"

"I said, we're over. It was fun, but I've lost interest,” Stephen said, face void of any emotion.

...

The crowd bellowed their displeasure.

“Right? Jesus Christ, what a prick. So, I figured I'd perform a little something for you all. Get it off my chest,” Jack explained. “Stephen Strange, I'd say kiss my ass, but I wouldn't let you touch you with a thirty- nine-and-a-half-foot pole. This is for you, asshole.”

With a middle finger thrown high in the air, Y/N began to play his pain.

"Well good for you, I guess you moved on really easily

You found a new girl and it only took a couple weeks

Remember when you said that you wanted to give me the world?

(Ah-ah-ah-ah)

And good for you, I guess that you've been working on yourself

I guess that therapist I found for you, she really helped

Now you can be a better man for your brand new girl.”

…

"Hey babe, how was class?" Y/N asked as he looked up from his textbook at the sound of Stephen coming home.

“Horrible,” the med student groaned. Collapsing onto the couch with his head on Y/N's lap, he wrapped his arms around the artist’s waist and started to trace abstract shapes on his hip.

"Poor thing," he cooed, combing his fingers through Stephen's thick, dark hair.

“Love you, starlight,” Stephen murmured.

…

"Well good for you, you look happy and heathy

Not me, if you ever cared to ask

Good for you

You're doing great out there without me, baby

God, I wish that I could do that

I've lost my mind

I've spent the night cryin' on the floor of my bathroom

But you're so unaffected, I really don't get it

But I guess good for you."

As Y/N sang, angry, bitter tears began to trail down his cheeks.

What had he done wrong? Why had Stephen been so damn cold? Where had they gone wrong? He had thought they were happy, Stephen had acted so happy. What the fuck was with the sudden one-eighty? Nothing made any sense anymore.

"Well good for you, I guess you're getting everything you want

You bought a new car and your career’s really taking off

It's like we never even happened, baby

What the fuck is up with that?

And good for you, it's like you never even met me

Remember when you swore to God I was the only

Person who ever got you?

Well, screw that, and screw you

You will never have to hurt the way you know that I do!"

…

"I swear to God, everyone in that class is an idiot," Stephen snarled as he stormed out of his advanced biology class.

Y/N chased after him with his skateboard in hand, hoping to placate the other before he got to his next class.

"Or, maybe you just need to move to a higher class?" Y/N suggested, wrapping an arm around the taller man's waist and nuzzling into his shoulder.

Freezing in the middle of the hallway, Stephen mulled over his words.

"You're a genius, sweetheart,” he announced, dropping a kiss on top of his head. "I'll see you at home, I’m gonna be late. Love you!"

“Love you too!”

…

"Well good for you, you look happy and healthy

Not me, if you ever cared to ask

Good for you

You're doing great out there without me, baby

God I wish I could do that

I've lost my mind

I've spent the night cryin’ on the floor of my bathroom

But you're so un affected, I really don't get it

But I guess good for you!"

…

Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. Y/N knocked on the door of his once apartment, wishing he was anywhere but here. Christine answered, and she looked startled.

“Oh. Um, Y/N. Hi," she greeted awkwardly.

"Stuff the small talk, Palmer. I'm just here for my shit," he snarled frigidly, pushing past the redhead and heading towards the bedroom.

Tears pricked his eyes for the umpteenth time that week when he saw every last one of his possessions had been packed into boxes and were clearly waiting for him to take them.

“He really couldn't wait to get rid of me,” Y/N thought, heart breaking all over again.

"Um I can help you carry your things. If you'd like?” Christine offered softly from the doorway.

"It's fine, I can carry it in one trip. You won't have to see me again.”

…

“Maybe I'm too emotional

But your apathy is like a wound in salt

Maybe I’m too emotional

Or maybe you never cared at all

Maybe I'm too emotional

Your apathy is like a wound in salt

Maybe I’m too emotional

Maybe you never caved at all!"

Y/N never felt more liberated as he told the whole club about his pain and heartache. Yeah, leaving Columbia after fighting so hard to get in sucked like a bitch, but he would be able to start again. He wouldn't have been able to with the constant threat of running into Stephen.

"Well , good for you, you look happy and healthy

Not me, if you ever cared to ask

Good for you, you're doing great out there without me, baby

Like a damn sociopath!

I’ve lost my mind,

I’ve spent the night cryin’ on the floor of my bathroom

But you're so unaffected, I really don't get it

But I guess good for you!

Well, good for you, I guess you moved on really easily.”

Y/N grinned as he reveled in the screams of approval from the crowd.

Things were gonna be okay.

#arkytiorwrites #marvel #marvel x reader #stephen strange x reader #supreme strange x reader #supreme strange #838 stephen strange #stephen strange x gn!reader #stephen strange x male reader #this is a sad one #sorry #(okay not really) #crackmas 2022 #crackmas #crack fic #good 4 u #Spotify

[cerriddwenluna]

The Diary of Kurt E. Hummel (8/24)

This diary belongs to Kurt E. Hummel.

Please do not read this without my express permission. (Yes, that includes you, Finn.)

***

Have you always wanted to find out what Kurt writes in his diary? Now is your chance! But, ssssht! Don't tell Kurt we stole it... ;)

Read chapter 8 now, below the cut and also on AO3 and S&C!

Read from the beginning

Thunder

Dear Journal,

I'm scared. There is a big storm tonight and the thunder is super loud. 

Mommy always made warm milk and she told stories about giants and dwarves and magic mountains. And she would let me sleep with her and daddy. And they would hold me and keep me safe until I wasn't scared anymore. 

But mommy is dead now. Daddy said she is an angel in heaven now, but I don't know if I believe that. If she was an angel in the sky, why doesn't she just stop the thunder? I miss my mommy. 

I can hear daddy snoring real loud, but I don't want to wake him up. Sometimes I hear him cry when he thinks I'm asleep, and he always looks super tired. He probably needs to sleep real good too. I am tired too but I don't want to go back to sleep. What if the thunder hits the house? How will we get out?

Grandma says I have to be a big boy now, but I don't know what that means. I'm already the tallest in my class. How much bigger do I have to be? She also says that big boys don't cry. But mommy said that I shouldn't always listen to grandma. She said grandma is an old generator and that this is a new millennium. 

Daddy cries a lot. And daddy is a very big boy. If daddy can cry, maybe I can too? 

A boy in my class cries a lot too. But he cries because he is a bully. He wanted my pencils but I did not want to give them so he cried and told the teacher I stole them. He always does that. Britt says bullying is mean. I think so too. 

I think the thunder stopped. I'm really tired. I'm gonna try to go to sleep now. I hope the nightmares won't come back again. 

~ Kurt

Thanks for reading! ♡♡♡

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

#Klaine Advent 2022 #Day 8: Thunder #glee #klaine #klaine fanfiction #epistolary #gwen writes #and makes art now too! #klaine fanart #this is a sad one #but little Kurt demanded to be heard #He is about 9 years old here #so there are mentions of canonical character death

[mia-ugly]

oh my god, all the world?!?!

When the fist of winter uncurls into spring, you decide that the days of cloistering yourself must end, and you should visit your step-brother. Francis is willing to go with you but he does not seem in any way pleased by the prospect, and so you do not press it. Besides, it is time for planting, and there is a stray kitten that comes to your backdoor for scraps and milk every few days - you are fond of it despite yourself, and would not want it to go hungry.

“When you return, there will be a freshly planted garden waiting for you,” Francis tells you with a kiss, “and a cat with a bit more manners, since I refuse to spoil him as you do.”

“Ah yes, of course. I suppose I’m the one who sneaks extra bits of meat out on our porch when they think no one’s looking.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“And you won’t be too lonely?”

“You’ll only be gone two weeks,” Francis says gruffly. “I won’t have time to turn around before you’re home.”

He stands at your gate and watches you ride away. Every time you turn to look back, he’s still there and your heart is every bird in the world, and they are all singing.

When you return, two weeks later, the door is locked and the windows are dark.

#wips #fitzier #all the world #this is a sad one

[capsicle13]

I posted a new superfamily fic based off a dream I had. It’s a sad one, guys! 😭

#ao3 fanfic #steve rogers #tony stark #stony #superfamily #posted on ao3 #peter parker #this is a sad one

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Kite Artist

There are some coastal towns which are famed amongst tourists for their postcard-perfect views, beloved by families for their sandy beaches and amusement arcades, or renowned by surfers for their fearsome five-foot waves, but the bay around St Triston has always been known for its artists.

Every summer, they flock like gulls to the apartments that cluster in a horseshoe looking out onto the sea, and spend their days soaking in the golden light that rises over the harbour. They travel here from miles away to make their own attempt at capturing that perfect dawn, the way the sunbeams dance across the cresting of each wave, as many famous painters have set out to in the past. In doing so, however, they often find it captures them instead.

That was why they always came back. There were only so many way to capture the idyllic blue-green of a rising swell, the glittering silver of the crashing surf, but each artist felt the need to paint the same landscape again, and again, and again. They tried different materials, watercolour or acrylic, even glass-blowing or sculpture, and styles from a delicate pointillist foam to a fauvist's vivid strokes, but none sufficed to satisfy that appetite.

Their recreations would never be enough. They were entranced by the real thing - enthralled - ensnared, like a herring at the end of the fisherman's line. Some of them might migrate north in the winter months, huddled safely by a fire somewhere inland, and even imagine themselves free. But when summer sang its siren song, they found themselves reeled back down to their second home, to St Triston, summoned to paint its portrait once again.

The town's narrow streets were filled with minor galleries, nestled in the corners between fudge shops and tea parlours, where a visitor might sample any number of differing depictions of the view a few short steps away, able to judge for themselves which attempt best did it justice and then baulk at the price of taking that memento home. It was a common way to pass the time, between light café lunches and long strolls out to the pier.

But Pia preferred to walk along the promenade. The long, sheltered beach that accompanied the esplanade was home to a different breed of artists, those who made their works out of the beach itself. Sand-sculptors, who spent their days buildings castles beyond her own childhood dreams, vast palaces complete with turrets and a curtain wall, and an entire portfolio of other forms besides.

She saw a golden retriever formed from sand alone, its fur lovingly beach-combed into life. A sea turtle mounded into shape, its carapace a mosaic of other shells. An octopus whose tentacles were made to rise and disappear beneath the surface of the beach. Many of them were familiar. Pia's family visited St Triston every summer, and some of the artists were present year-on-year, endlessly creating their temporary art: Sisyphus with a hammer and chisel, or in this case a bucket and spade.

Her favourite used to be the kite-boy. The seafront always bore a healthy breeze, and one artist was out there early every day, flying a kite upon the sands. She was an older woman, wrapped up in thermals and gloves, but there was no faulting her dedication: she'd never missed a day, as far as Pia could remember, and she'd been to watch her work on every morning they were staying there. At least she had, up until the day she'd had to stop.

It always started with the kite. A perfect diamond tiled with stones, a bladder wrack string with oarweed ribbons. The boy came next, painted in pebbles of different hues so that the sun appeared to shine upon his cold grey cheeks, his smile an arc of seashell teeth, a pair of softened seaglass eyes. The exact design varied day-by-day, but he was always perfect, and it had always given Pia a smile to see such a loving depiction of childhood innocence amongst the masterpieces on the beach.

Every morning, she went out to watch the boy fly his kite. Sometimes she went back later, as the tide came in, as fledgling waves were dashed across his pebble-dashed boots, a duvet drawn to tuck him gradually beneath the waves. Or sometimes he was painted upside-down, the kite drawn like an anchor that pulled towards the ocean - on those days, the churning tide consumed him head-first, leaving only two vast and trunkless legs of stone.

Other details changed from one dawn to the next: when emerald seaglass had been scarce, the child's eyes were the pearlescent white of upturned scallop shells, or glinted with the sheen of coins tossed down by passers-by, the artist's payment to the boatman who would take the kite-boy home. Pia had always sought out those changes with keen eyes of her own, looking forward to each day's fresh interpretation whilst the sand sculptures remained identical throughout the week. That was why he had always been her favourite.

But that had been until last summer, when she'd overheard a couple pass behind her on the esplanade, and learnt the awful truth behind this particular muse.

"Oh no, that one's a bit morbid, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

Pia had been watching the artist work, but she spun around at that exchange, suddenly hooked by these strangers' conversation. It was all that she could do not to ask Why? herself - her instinct to defend the kite-boy and his honour. She'd spent so much time with him, in his various guises, that she felt a certain attachment to the piece, even as it was washed away and rebuilt every day.

"There was a boy who drowned, not far from here, wasn't there?" They'd been an elderly couple; perhaps locals, perhaps artists, perhaps there for a holiday themselves. "He was flying a kite, and it pulled him into the sea?"

"Oh, gosh. Now that you mention it, yes, I did hear something about that. That's awful. You think that the artist knew?"

"It would be a strange coincidence, wouldn't it? I'm sure they mean it in the right way, but it seems a strange way to honour his memory. Recreating the way that he died."

Pia looked out towards the sea, considering the sculpture not in the golden glow of the famous St Triston dawn, but the new light of these revelations. She hadn't heard about the drowned boy. Perhaps it had been before her family had started visiting; perhaps she'd been too young to be told, and they'd just kept her closer to hand, and hugged her extra tight before bed for a few weeks afterwards.

She searched the waves for his final resting place, if it had been here, but it would be impossible to tell. There could never be a marker there, in the ever-changing patterns of the surf. If a tribute was meant, the beach was the only setting - and why not a sculpture out of pebbles and shells? A hundred tiny headstones, arrayed in a graveyard all his own. The remains of lives washed out of the sea, in exchange for one it had claimed for itself.

Pia tried her best to justify it, but she couldn't help but share the feeling it was wrong, permanently tainted by this knowledge. Would flowers have been more appropriate? She saw them at the scenes of other tragedies, on corners following a recent car crash, but even the most beautiful bouquet would die and decompose with their intended. Was that better than capturing the boy like this: alive, and lost in this moment of innocent joy? A sculpture that was made anew each day, so that his memory would never be forgotten?

She didn't know why, but it felt like it was. This felt... well, morbid, as the couple said. Disrespectful. The intention sounded good on paper, but perhaps some memories were meant to fade with time - the dead deserved to rest, and their families with them. Most headstones wished their tenants peace, not constant re-enactment of their lives, and let alone their deaths; flowers left upon a grave would wilt and shed their petals with their mourner's tears, but perhaps they were a gentler tribute for their transience.

"I wonder if the family know," one of the strangers said. Pia found herself walking slowly after them, not wanting to lose the end of their conversation. Leaving the kite-boy behind. "What must they think?"

"I read at the time that his father had a drinking problem, which was why the boy was left to entertain himself. The papers blamed him, and I dare say that he probably blamed himself. I don't know that he'd be in much a state to complain."

"And the mother?"

"Who knows."

His mother wishes that she'd been there, the kite artist thought, listening as their conversation faded away into the crowd, just as a sculpture gradually cedes into the sea. She wishes that she could have saved him. But even if he had to die, she wishes she'd had the chance to hold his hand, to be there for him as he went, to say her last goodbyes. To tell him he was loved, and that there wouldn't be a day she wouldn't wake with his reflection in her heart.

Now, Pia spent her time further down the front, throwing her arcade change to other artists - those that didn't make her feel uncomfortable, or raise those questions in her mind. The kite artist noted her absence, having become familiar with her visits every year, but she observed it in the same silence with which she watched the dawn rise over the sea. She didn't mind being left to work alone. This wasn't something that she did to be observed.

Even in the winter months, when St Triston was all-but-empty and a harsh wind whistled through the sands, she was glad to have been left to make her morbid art in peace. To stroke her kite-boy's cold grey cheeks, assembled lovingly in place, to hold his outstretched hand as the first waves came lapping at his shoes. They would never be apart for long. She would never not be there, as she'd vowed when the news first tore her world in two. She would never forget about him again.

A hundred headstones to his grave, and a hundred more tomorrow.

#writing #creative writing #original fiction #original writing #this is a sad one

[writing-and-wondering]

HI OMG ik we havent talked in forever but for the ask game, heart (i'm a hopeless romantic. i want to know)

HI !! it's so good to see your name again :D

aight let's go, this one is from a sad wip called "To see you in the stars":

"She lived everyday with my dad in her heart... she loved him with every ounce of her being and it showed." Bradley tells you, his voice quiet, "He lived on through her."

Your throat tightens as you listen to him speak, the tears in your eyes blurring his pained expression.

He places his hand across his chest, "Because he was here," His hand moves to rest over your heart, "And I'm here."

#this is a sad one #for sure #and a longin #hehehe #lano answers an ask #ask game #bradley bradshaw x reader

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Thank you insomnia for bringing the world this terribly tragic micro-fic.

#remus lupin #this is a sad one #i wrote this instead of sleeping #pro remus lupin #angst #heavy angst

[artkaninchenbau]

Crocodile finds a strange stray cat an 11-year old Nico Robin (AU where they met 13 years earlier. Robin's been on the run from the World Government for 3 years. Crocodile's 27 and has not set up base in Alabasta yet)

It seems like I have become possessed. By some sort of demon.

Bonus:

#My art #One Piece #Nico Robin #Sir Crocodile #Y'all the OP brainrot is BAD #According to an SBS Crocodile would absolutely spoil his child rotten if he had one. *We all know how Robin's childhood went* #Scary mofo who does not know how to parent a child but boy does he have the spirit + Child who has never had proper parent in her life #They'd make. An absolute disaster of a duo. This AU concept is so fucking funny to me okay #But also sad because I would fucking die for baby Robin she deserves the fucking world #This poor girl has never been spoiled in her entire life AND NOW PAPADILE IS HERE TO SPOIL HER #You know it's funny. I know 11 yo Robin should LOOK older than 8 year old Robin. But Crocodile is a fucking giant so she's still baby sized #Also I just had too much fun drawing Robin looking as pathetic as humanly possible lmao #She's a like a wet kitten in the rain 😭

[bagelbongos]

Sorry

“Better safe than sorry,” Emily had said, worry lines around her eyes heavy enough to stop Rose from arguing. 

#this is a sad one

[sga-owns-my-soul]

reblog to give ur mutuals a soft lil kissy on the head

#i can't reblog this from everyone so this is just me giving all my mutuals a soft lil kissy on the head #if u see this #*muah* #soft lil kissy on the head #and if u don't want one u can have a head pat #or i can lovingly send soft lovey vibes your way #all options are valid #idk i just #need to spread some love today #i'm tired and sad and stressed #so i'm giving u all some love #bc i need to fill myself with more of it #love u all hope u have/are having a good day #mutuals #not stargate

[ether3um]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dream SMP Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Kristin Rosales Watson, TommyInnit & Kristin Rosales Watson Characters: TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Kristin Rosales Watson, Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson | Philza

Additional Tags: Mentioned Wilbur Soot, Mentioned Ghost Wilbur Soot, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Hospitals, Birth, Phil Watson is Not Technoblade's Parent (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson is Not Wilbur Soot's Parent, This is a hard one to tag tbh, Dark, Dark elements, Phil Watson is TommyInnit's Parent (Video Blogging RPF), Good Parent Kristin Rosales Watson, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Death, Dead Wilbur Soot, It Gets Worse, Hurt, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, my beloved, the fluff only lasts for like five minutes guys, Dark Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Baby TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Religious Guilt, really it’s more of trauma, and it’s implied, Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Trauma, Morally Ambiguous Character Series: Part 6 of I’m not Throwing Away My [one] Shot Summary:

(to elevate the man) Title from Digital Silence by: Peter McPoland

======

“The doctors,” Kristin sighed, “the doctors think it's too late. I shouldn’t have even gotten this far.” A dark, twisted feeling of dread started rearing up at the back of Techno’s mind. “I knew I had to, though. For Tommy.”

“Why-- where are the IVs? Surely there’s something you could be on!” The pinkette’s voice rose as panic filled him. He looked closer at the woman, and the signs were there: crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, breath strained no matter how hard she inhaled, and a look of simple tiredness behind her empty stare.

“They offered, but I said no. Not until the baby was born. I want him to have a better life than I could. It’s not fair to deal him bad cards just so I can stay around a little longer.”

“You had a great life!” Techno nearly roared, gripping the duvet like a lifeline.

“It wasn’t what it should’ve been.” Her fogged over eyes were roaming the room. “And I will always regret that.”

======

OR; Techno finds himself with Kristin’s child in his arms and with a promise he can’t keep.

OR OR; Kristin + Techno Birth AU

#technoblade fanfic #mumza fanfic #tommyinnit fanfic #mentioned wilbur soot #philza fanfic #this is a sad one #i had fun #you probably wont #>:]

[arkarti]

The Fall

the final moments of angel!crowley

Twitter: X

#good omens #crowley #aziraphale #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #artists on tumblr #one rare sad/angst moment :'3 #suffer with me ♥ Imma wreck a lil havoc as a treat

[dingledraw]

A short comic about Crowley’s hair🐍

#no more long sad comics #retired from being sad🤙😎 #for now 👀 #one of ​my fav tropes is Aziraphale loving and finding Crowley beautiful no matter how he presents 🩷😩 #good omens #crowley #ineffable spouses #aziraphale #my fanart #ineffable husbands #aziracrow #fem!aziraphale #fem!crowley #my comic