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callmegaith · 5 months

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Down the Rabbit Hole pt.4

LOOP CONCLUDED

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

comic/David playlist

thank u everyone so much for joining me and David on this small trip. Hopefully there will be more to come in the future :D

And again, thank u for encouraging me and supporting me to create something so special about a character that I love so deeply 🥰

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faithinlouisfuture · 10 months

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#back on my bullshit #unable to move on #fitfwt memes #knees #Barbie legs

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tragedy-for-sale · 2 months

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Mourning Daze

It was a sacred temple filled with golden light. Even in times of tragedy, the temple shimmered golden. A day like this would enhance the beauty of such a sacred place, if the reason wasn't for death. AKA Anakin mourning the loss of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

It was a morning of quiet whispers. Ahsoka hadn't spoken a word, neither did Plo Koon when he picked her up outside the door of her quarters. They walked side by side in silence. Ahsoka looked up and out the windows and then down at the sunlight that beamed through. If she looked forward, she could almost see Master Kenobi, who always looked happiest when the sun shone on his face and his hair a warm glimmering gold. But she'd blink and remember, he was gone, and it was time to say goodbye.

Ahsoka reached out and grabbed Master Plo's hand, he hadn't left her side. Last night, she'd gone to Obi-Wan's room, she didn't know why she knocked. Ahsoka found Obi-Wan's robe, folded neatly on his bed. She buried her face in it, it still smelled like him. Her eyes watered as she held it tight, as she held him tight. Falling back onto the bed, she didn't know how this could've happened. Ahsoka opened her eyes and they were in the room outside the burial chamber. She scanned for Anakin, and beside him, she could see Obi-Wan too, a weary smile on his face, hand on Anakin's shoulder. But Obi-Wan wasn't there, and Anakin was alone.

"Master Plo," Ahsoka looked up, squeezing his hand tightly. He looked down, giving her a small nod before he let go. She took her hand back and walked towards her master, but for all the steps she took, he kept drifting farther and farther away. There was a chime and the chamber door opened. Everyone filed in, hoods up and not a word spoken.

The death of a Jedi used to be such a foreign thing. Anakin had never seen the funeral chamber before, Qui-Gon's funeral wasn't here. As Anakin stood there, staring at the covered body of his best friend, he felt a flicker, he blinked and he saw Obi-Wan, young and exhausted by grief. Beside him was a little boy, who held Obi-Wan's hand so tightly, so scared to let go, so scared to lose him. Anakin stared at Obi-Wan's face, silent tears streaming down. Obi-Wan never recovered from Qui-Gon's death, he'd return to this moment a hundred times, wishing it had been different. Anakin opened his eyes and stared at Obi-Wan's body and wished desperately that it had been different.

Funerals came and went but this pain was forever. The death of a Jedi was a tragedy, but it seemed to be happening more and more. "Master Kenobi's-" Anakin's eyes went wide as he tried to see who had spoken, "-Master Skywalker, we want you to know how-" He could sense their sorrow, feel their remorse. But Anakin couldn't see, he was certain he was outside his body. Existing in a place outside of this one. "-Take as much time as you need-" The floor started to fall away and Anakin was free falling. "-We're so sorry-" So sorry- So Sorry- So Sorry. That wouldn't bring Obi-Wan back.

Anakin sat on Obi-Wan's bed, trying desperately not to breath. He couldn't hear Padme's steps as she folded clothes that didn't need it. Padme could have been talking and had pressed a kiss to his check, but Anakin couldn't listen. He stared at the door, waiting for it to open, he could sense Obi-Wan about to walk in, the pillow he held tightly would be prefect to throw at him. But Anakin took a deep breath and found himself laying down, the room darkened by night. Anakin pulled the pillow closer, Obi-Wan. He was just here. He was just here.

The bed had been made imperfectly, there was dirty laundry in a basket, an empty wrapper on the dresser, water droplets on the shower. This room had been lived in, it had been a home but it was now an empty room. Anakin held the pillow tight, staring at the blinds, "Do you want me to open the blinds?" Obi-Wan asked before walking over. Anakin closed his eyes, waiting for Obi-Wan to sit on the bed. The blinds were half open, his boots were unzipped with one pair on its side, his comb had a stray hair on it, the toothpaste tube was half empty. Obi-Wan had lived in this room, how was Anakin supposed to just pack up all of his things when Obi-Wan was just here? He was just here.

He'd wait another day to pack up these boxes, and another day after that. Anakin stood still, body heavy as stone. He trudged down the corridors until a face caught light. He had Rex's face, but he wasn't dressed in blue. Orange and white, a warm glimmering gold. Anakin felt his heart race, the very essence of hate. His mind flashed red, his lightsaber so naturally finding its place in Anakin's hand. He darts towards this man, blade swinging. Then Anakin blinks and Cody is at attention. Anakin tilts his head ever slightly, sensing the sorrow in this man's soul. Anakin could take it away, his eyes flashed red, it wouldn't take much, his lightsaber was right there.

Cody marched down the corridor, Anakin watched him go. Obi-Wan walked beside him, robe flowing free as he tossed his head back and laughed. But Anakin turned away, his mind flashed red. This isn't darkness, this is mourning. This isn't hatred, this is sadness. This isn't pain, this is purpose. This isn't Anakin, Obi-Wan doesn't exist anymore. He wasn't there anymore, his eyes flashed red, rage seeping in. But it wasn't rage- Even if it was, there wasn't anyone to tell him this was rage. Obi-Wan couldn't tell Anakin to let him go, that everything would be okay, or to tell Anakin that he was okay, Obi-Wan couldn't tell Anakin anything anymore, because, well,

Because he was dead.

─── ❖ ── ✦ ── ❖ ───

#Hardeen arc angst #anyone??#I always think about how Ahsoka says Anakin hadn't spoken since Obi-Wan died #I imagine he couldn't speak #he was lost in his mind #replaying that moment over and over #unable to move on #star wars #clone wars #anakin skywalker #commander cody #obi wan kenobi #ahsoka tano #padme amidala #the clone wars #sw #Hardeen arc #tragedy's fave

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pickletrip · 8 months

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Only Friends

Episode 3: Emergency contact

Trigger warning: Attempted suicide

Ray's trauma

#only friends the series #only friends #khaotung thanawat #Ray #thai bl series #gmmtv bl #gmmtv series #my heart was breaking and bleeding for him #not once have we seen any involvement from his father #he's carrying the guilt and burden of his mother's death #unable to move on #unable to move past this event in his life #he feels he's worthless #tw: suicide

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thehorriblepoet · 9 months

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Human interaction has left me

Cold and burnt alive

Desperately trying to warm my hands

In the midst of a blizzard

But only subjugating myself

To torture in its purest form

As my frost bitten fingers burn

Pinpricks of pain spreading

At the fire’s heat

The warmth now overbearing

I am unable to adapt

Would it be better to amputate my fingers?

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commanderfoxdeservesbetter · 2 years

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Happy May 4th!! Here’s a little fic I wrote for this day

Enjoy!!

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wikoymi · 2 months

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So eepy

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communistkenobi · 6 months

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It’s so funny when liberals lecture communists about not knowing how anything works, that we need to grow up and face the real world etc, while publicly demonstrating that their political imagination is so deeply impoverished that they genuinely believe the only thing the leader of the most powerful country on the planet in all of human history can do is block a slightly more fascist guy from taking his place every four years

#one of the reasons I am a communist is because I believe in the wondrous power of a state in the hands of the working class! like it is #legitimately moving to learn about the transformative ways socialists use a proletarian state to direct a socialist society #what boer calls god-building and newton calls demiurgical. the state has a universe-building potential to it #and even setting aside socialist history the idea that the president of the US is unable to affect any local or state policy within his own #borders or foreign policy without is so baldly laughable it shouldn’t even be worth considering #except for the fact that so many people profess to genuinely believe that #whether they actually do is another story but christ alive man.

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poorly-drawn-mdzs · 6 months

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"See you tomorrow"

MDZS Disco Elysium AU part 4 [prev parts]

#better drawn mdzs #MDZS Disco Elysium AU #mdzs au #Lan wangji #wei wuxian #yiling laozu #Happy Belated Halloween!#digital art #Thank you all for your patience as I drove myself into a madness only known by those lost at seas alone.#I put a lot of time into this one! It's not perfect but I am very happy with it + I am so happy to put down the tablet pen.#Digital art has some nice features but I'm sticking with traditional! I need a month to recover from the 2+ weeks of torture.#Okay lets talk about the AU and the comic now #Disco elysium has some of the best existential-horror-dream sequences I have ever seen.#The dialogue here is heavily inspired by The Final Dream - A scene I'd love to talk about more were it not so heavy with spoilers.#My AU is a lot more complex than a simple character swap but I really felt like LWJ + YLLZ fit this scene.#The final dream is about being unable to move on from a lost love. From something You made holy. From something You ruined.#It is about realizing that no matter how smart you are or what you offer or how you try to change -#You will never be able to turn back time. You will never ever be able to fix what is broken. That you also have been broken for a long time #You are a fuck-up who worships the nail covered ground of someone who did not want to be holy. And even though it hurts-#You cannot let this nightmare go. The pain keeps the love close. It is worse to forget. You promised to remember.#WWX died thinking LWJ disliked him. LWJ lost someone he thought was revolted by his love.

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i-will-write · 7 months

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I swear there are only 2 types of writers:

the ones unable to do any kind of math

gimmie the numbers, I want to crunch the numbers, I love using the numbers

#like... its a yes or no thing or us lol #unable to do 2+2 #or regularly engaging in complicated equations to figure out how long exactly character D is going to take to move from one city to the next #writing #writers #writer #writers woes #writers meme #writer memes #which side are you on?#im the gimmie numbers kind

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hitmeupaep · 3 months

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i would also never move on if i was part of the greatest love story ever told

#like i’m already unable to move on i can’t image being part of it all #knowing all the behind the scenes conversations #being asked if it was okay #watching it all go down live #recording it on my phone #writing a song about it #writing a poem about it #telling my wife about it #trending over the election because of it #like truly i get it #i can’t move on either #we are in this together #supernatural #destiel #misha collins #jensen ackles #cockles #dean winchester #castiel

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pangur-and-grim · 1 year

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I have been trapped

#pangur #unable to move

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faithinlouisfuture · 11 months

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and what about it?

#fitfwt: cuyahoga falls #fitwt memes #louis tomlinson #UNABLE TO MOVE ON

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novelconcepts · 11 months

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There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.

Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.

Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).

But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?

How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.

How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.

How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.

How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.

How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?

All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?

They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.

#yellowjackets #yellowjackets spoilers #yj meta #long post #shauna shipman #lottie matthews #taissa turner #van palmer #misty quigley #natalie scatorccio #the question not being how do you survive the wilderness. the question being how do you come BACK.#the way each of them tries so hard to keep moving forward #unable to untangle the girl in the woods from the adult suffering in polite society #how the world doesn’t want to hear about the pain or the night terrors or the sleepwalking or the addiction #the world wants the bright colors and the flash-bang headlines #the world doesn’t want who they are. who they had to be. it wants pretty perfect tragedy #that specialized environment lives on in each one of them every day #but it’s not a place anyone else can ever go #how do you feed that for so long and then just…stop?#constantly thinking about nat saying we didn’t make it out. none of us.#because no. no they didn’t. the girls died the minute that rescue chance did. what came back was risen from those ashes

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darkfantasyfeedee · 1 year

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ex ballet dancer got way to addicted with weight gain shake 👀