phantomrose96:

I don’t know if we’re still in the age of Y/N L/N search-and-replace self-insert fanfics but can I just say there’s MASSIVE untapped potential for a Y/N L/N Death Note fanfiction if you just

if you just

hang on. This. Like this:

Light clicked his bedroom door shut, and leaned against it, and slid gently down. His attention was wrapped so wholly in the unmarked envelope in his hand. He slit it open, and unsheathed the documents like he was pulling money from a wallet. He was, in a sense. These documents had cost him. The private eye he hired had not been cheap.

But it HAD been worth it, Light knew with relief washing through his veins as he thumbed through the contents: birth certificate, social security card, medical records, vaccination history, school records, IDs with photos – mother’s name, father’s name, date of birth, eye color, hair color, blood type.

Light held in his hands EVERYTHING there was to know about the girl. And he basked in it, drinking it in, a name finally to attach to the woman who haunted him.

First name: Y/N. Last name: L/N.

Light cracked a grin, rib cage rippling with manic chuckles that bubbled to his lips and erupted, cackles, delighted trills. The sense of victory flooded him. That girl who knew he was Kira, that girl who had worked so hard to hide her identity, that girl who plagued him, followed him, haunted him every day, who he could never touch.

Finally, Light could kill her.

He rose, and walked nearly numb to his desk, and pulled out the scrap of Death Note he kept in the false bottom of the top drawer. He reveled in it as he wrote: Y/N L/N, dies alone at 11:48pm of a brain aneurysm.

The damnation felt so sweet.

She was waiting for him, early as the sun which crested behind her, all soft smiles and sweet squinted eyes. She was waiting for him as she did every single day. She stood there, as always – a thing of nightmares.

The blood left Light’s face once he opened the front door to her, feet and hands tingling cold, stomach in knots.

He’d been worried when he awoke to no news about his dead university classmate. And the confirmation of his every fear settled as a knot in his gut. Y/N L/N was alive, in front of him, just as she was every other day, smiling.

“You seem surprised, Light. Like you’ve seen a ghost?” Her wry smile was a mockery. Light loathed her more than anything.

“Y/N … L/N…” he muttered, through gritted teeth. “…Good morning.”

“Oh! You discovered my name. Good job good job, that was faster than I expected.”

“Why—”

“Aren’t I dead?” she titled her head and swayed a bit in place. “That’s how Kira kills people, yeah? Full name? And you’ve got mine. So why aren’t I dead?”

Kira. Light’s eye twitched. She did that. At every chance, dropping with such nonchalance that she knew. If he argued back, she would ignore him. If he defended himself, it would get him nowhere.

Ignore, deflect, probe, find a weak point.

“Is it a fake name? Is Y/N L/N a fake name?” It would be hard to believe; it would be beyond elaborate. Every ounce of documentation would need to have been faked, or else perfectly stolen, with a complete erasure of who the girl really was. Not a single piece of contradictory evidence. Enough to completely fool Japan’s most esteemed private eye. It was almost unfathomable.

“No, it’s not a fake name. That’s my name. My real name. You’re right.” She spun on her heel and walked forward, into the sun, toward campus, sunlight streaking through the wisps in her hair. “But you can’t kill me with it, Kira.”

Light refused to answer. He refused to concede. He refused to show his hand, and yet, maybe he already had… Maybe he’d already lost.

He’d try again tonight. He’d try again as many times as it took to eliminate her, this unfathomable girl, who appeared in his uni classroom claiming to be an old elementary school classmate of his, who followed him every day and spoke in hints that suggested she knew, and yet never revealed how, or why, or what she wanted from him.

He’d try again. He’d kill her this time.

“It won’t work, trying again, that is. If you want to kill me, you’ll have to use your own hands.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “But that’s messy, and suspicious, and too easy to solve, right? So you need the Death Note to do away with me. But it won’t work.”

Death Note, dammit, she really DID know.

“Hey Light, what’s my name?”

“Y/N, L/N,” he ground out, almost robotically.

“Say it again.”

“Y/N, L/N.”

“And what name did you write in the Death Note?”

Light hesitated. Did he stand any chance of keeping his hand concealed?

He locked eyes with her, and he knew the answer was no. She knew. He knew.

“Y/N L/N.”

“Doesn’t sound quite right, does it?” she asked. And with her words, Light felt some unsettled something thud in his chest. A disquiet. An unrest. A thinly veiled wrongness.

“My name, that name, Y/N L/N, how do you spell it?” she asked.

“Y…” Light paused. Y? No… That was almost certainly not right.

“First letter, second letter, third letter. Come on. I believe in you.”

A headache was building behind Light’s eyes.

“Y…. S-slash…. N…” No. That wasn’t a name. That wasn’t anyone’s name. And it wasn’t her name. Her name, her name was—

“You can’t spell it, Light. You can’t. And no one can. No one except an extremely, intractably lucky person could even guess what my name might be, at the time that all of this plays out.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do I look like, Light? The Death Note needs a mental image! What do I look like?”

And Light looked. He looked directly at her, piercing, probing, roving, studying, drinking her in. She looked exactly as he remembered, with H/C hair and E/C eyes and….

What color hair?

What color eyes?

What name?

“I’m not anyone, Light,” she offered with the same, sweetly saccharine smile that Light could not describe beyond those words. “Or I’m everyone, I guess. I’m every Y/N L/N who reads this, any one of them. And when the dust settles, and the story stabilizes, and those markers are replaced for real, it will be too late. Because that will not be the name you wrote in your Death Note. You’ll always have written Y, and slash, and N, and L, and slash, and N, and that will never be right. I’ll be someone else by the time it matters, every time.”

Light blinked through the stars in his vision. Looking at her hurt, his vision wobbling in and out of focus on the nothing, and the everything she was. The hair color, and the eye color, and the first name, and the last name, that were every potential quantum combination, and still none of them.

He shut his eyes.

“What do you want from me?” he asked. “Why are you following me? Why do you know who I am. What do you want?”

“Nothing. I want nothing. I don’t have a defined will. It’s not like I’m a person.” She stepped forward again, hands clenched to the bag behind her back. A normal school bag, a normal school uniform, trotting in step eastward toward the college campus. “I’m an insert. And that means I’m whoever they want me to be, every time. It’s not any deeper than that.”


Tags:

#Death Note #fanfic #that one post with the thing #names #murder cw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what

birdblogwhichisforbirds:

My brother, listen, do not be afraid.
I have descended into Hell to talk
About forgiveness. Yes, Pilate, with you.
With others too – with everyone who’s here.
But you first. Even Judas, my old friend,
Must wait a while for me. We have a while;
The sempiternal agony of Hell
Exists outside of human history. 
Souls killed in every century are here
Millennia before and after you.
You stand among those millions who share
An everlasting sentence for the crime
Of “just doing your job.” Your job killed me.
Your job ripped my skin open with a lash
And drove me, bleeding, shambling up the hill
Where your job drove an eight inch iron spike
Through each hand and each foot, and hoisted me
Towards the sky and left me there for hours
To slowly suffocate. You did your job
To many more like me. Their names were all
Forgotten as they rotted on the cross
Unburied. Hell is teeming with the souls
Who did their job, who served the empire well –
Not just your empire, all the ones that rose
And fell, before and after your own Rome’s.
You asked me once what truth is. That is it.
That is the truth about your whole life’s work.
You know this and it sears worse than the flames.
But that is not why I descended here.
I’m here about forgiveness. Listen. Please.


In the beginning was the Word of God.
That’s me. Like you, I had a job to do.
By me all things were made, and without me
Was nothing that was made. The universe
Was my life’s work, the empire that I served.
My father’s will for Mankind was my law.
One act of disobedience was enough
To sentence every one of you to death.
I did my job, and did it thoroughly:
The hands that made the stars built every tomb.
They sculpted tumors, planted neat rows
Of plagues in human lungs and skin and guts,
Conducted rousing symphonies of storms,
Earthquakes, tsunamis, fires, and wrote
In stone: if you survive all this, the time itself
Will kill you. Yet this law, My Father’s Law,
No – our law, I share blame for it – forbade
The dead to die. Infinities of pain,
We gave as punishments for finite crimes.
My father made me judge, and I looked down
On human beings. I saw their sinfulness
And built sparse Heaven and a crowded Hell.
I thought this law was justice ‘til the day
I learned what it is like to be condemned.


Pontius, I have no right to punish you.
I killed you. I killed everyone you loved.
I tortured you, but this ends here. You’re free.
All Hell breaks out today. I will not judge.
From now on, I refuse to do my job.
I am not Christ the King. I abdicate.
How you repay your debt to those you killed
Is your own cross to carry – they decide
Whether they will forgive you when you meet
In Paradise. And Pontius, I forgive
You for my death, of course. How could I not?
But I’m not here to tell you that, I’m here
To ask, to plead, for what I don’t deserve
From everyone in Hell, but first from you.
Brother, when we last met I said to you
That you would have no power over me
Were it not given from above, but now
I bow my head, give power from below.
I beg you for the one gift only you
Can give me: I have sinned against you, please
Brother, can you – will you – forgive my sins?


Tags:

#Christianity #poetry #that one post with the thing #hell cw #death cw #murder cw #illness tw

tumblr_nzoe9o6pzf1rx9azpo1_500

werewolfjokewar:

Santa is on strike due to global warming.  All presents this year will be delivered by Sasha the Christmas Tiger.  Milk and cookies may not be sufficient.

 

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

“MUST BRING PRESENTS TO GOOD CHILDREN”

“Yes good”

“AND EAT THE BAD ONES”

“Wait no”

“EAT THEM”

“sasha no”

 

tolkientrash:

@burstofhope the Christmas tiger is watching

 

thefingerfuckingfemalefury:

She is making a list

It is not easy with her paws but she is making it

 

iguanamouth:

tumblr_inline_ozqteo2iw11txfctr_500
tumblr_inline_ozqteq9d3f1txfctr_500

shes almost here

 

riverdancekat:

Okay fine this is the ONE Christmas thing I will reblog before Thanksgiving BUT THAT’S IT

 

craptaztic:

SASHA’S BACK ON MY DASH!

 

nordy-draws-stuff:

Y’all better behave, you have two months

 

aseriouscomedian:

You better watch out

You better watch out

You better watch out

You better watch out

 

final-girl-cas:

Sasha the Christmas tiger my absolute beloved


Tags:

#Christmas #Tumblr traditions #art #death tw #murder cw #cannibalism cw

meg-moira:

writing-prompt-s:

“May you have a life of safety and peace”, said the witch, cursing the bloodthirsty warrior.

The words of the slain hold tremendous power.

It’s why any sensible warrior is a master of swift endings. Such as an arrow through the eye or a clean separation of head from shoulders. In a pinch, a slit throat will do. Though it really is best to avoid giving your enemy the chance to make even garbled curses out of their last bloody breaths. For even those without the slightest touch of magic have been known to make a curse stick if it’s uttered on the cold brink of death.

Eindred the Bloody collected curses in the same way that other warriors collected scars. Even in the wild chaos of battle, he was known to take a knee, pressing his ear to a felled enemy’s laboring lips.

May your every loved one die screaming in pain.

I hope you die with your eyes stabbed out and your heart in your hands.

You will never know happiness.

Your existence will be suffering.

May your greatest enemy rise from the grave and never leave you alone.

The last was his most recent curse, and Eindred wondered if it meant some great murdered brute was tracing his steps, waiting to catch him while he slept.

Eindred crossed the peninsula with a company of barbaric warriors, gaining a new curse from every enemy he felled. Not all of them would stick, he knew. But some undoubtedly would. And he would deserve every one.

Others in his company treated him with to wary, sidelong glances, because surely it was dangerous to travel with one so cursed as he. But Eindred was a force in battle, relentless and unstoppable as an icy winter gale, and so they swallowed their complaints, and contented themselves with leaving a wide berth on either side of his scarred, patchwork arms.

Eindred was marching at the back of the company when they came upon the village. It was a collection of squat, wooden homes tucked beneath a snow capped mountainside. From thatched rooftops, wisps of smoke from cooking fires rose, painting the blue sky in pale, meandering strokes. 

This company tended to leave such settlements alone, and Eindred was glad for it. No warriors would be found in tiny mountainside villages, and though he might live to fight, he had no interest in wholesale slaughter. 

This time, however, the company leader – a silent, brutish man, held up a hand.

Their company was running low on food, it turned out, and even from a distance, the warriors could see the village’s sheep – a trail of white spots on the green hillside.

Eindred was disappointed when, ultimately, violence erupted in the quiet village, though he did not lay down his thick handled blade.

The shepherd boy had refused to give up his master’s sheep, and when he shouted, a blacksmith had burst from his home, wielding a great hammer in his hand. 

The battle was short. 

When all was done, four lay dead. The shepherd, the blacksmith, and two young men who’d foolishly taken up crude wooden spears. The rest of the villagers huddled, terrified in their homes. The warriors expected to slaughter the sheep with no further trouble, but when they turned back to the field, an individual stood blocking their way.

His hair was dark – as the hair in these parts tended to be, and his face was sharp, both nose and cheeks splattered with freckles. Golden eyes beheld the warriors, and he watched them with a steady, measured gaze. Without the slightest hint of fear, he stood before them, his simple robe fluttering in the icy mountain’s breath, and said: “These are simple people. They have little in way of money or goods. It wasn’t for nothing that the shepherd, blacksmith, and teenagers died. They need these sheep. And I cannot allow you to take them.”

The other warriors in the company laughed at the young man’s foolishness – for that was what it looked like to them. Eindred did not laugh, however. Though the stranger’s voice was light, the air stirred around him. 

It was rare to encounter one who commanded magics. Rare – but not impossible. And so Eindred alone was unsurprised when the young man turned his golden eyes to the heavens and summoned great branches of lightning which cleaved the skies above them. The world erupted and the men around Eindred screamed.

Eindred, who’d expected something like this, had already begun running. 

Later, he would think it odd that the witch hadn’t bothered to move. But in the heat of battle, with lightning splitting the field at his back, Eindred’s attention had narrowed to the rough point of his blade – and then, the crimson place where it pierced the witch’s chest.

The skies silenced as Eindred pulled the wet, crimson blade free of its target. 

It took just a moment for the witch to fall, but in that single, infinite moment, Eindred was subjected to the full weight of that golden gaze.

Legs folding beneath him, the witch crumpled, collapsing back onto the wild, wet grass. Eindred knelt beside him, grimly eager to hear the curse and be done with it. Surely a curse at the lips of one so powerful as this would finally bring an end to things? 

To take one’s own life was an unspeakably shameful end for a warrior such as he. But a curse? Well, one couldn’t help how the wrong curse might speed things along.

The witch’s black hair was damp from the dew in the grass, and when he turned, it stuck to the side of his face and neck. His mouth opened and closed. Holding his breath, Eindred leaned in.

“-my hut…it’s just past…the next hill over,” the witch whispered. “In it, I keep medicines and herbs. For the villagers. And travelers who pass.”

Eindred shook his head. He didn’t understand.

Impossibly, the witch smiled. When he lifted a hand, Eindred twitched, expecting to be struck.

The witch’s bloodied finger, however, did nothing more than tap his chest. And then, in a wet, rattling breath, the witch, with his great power finally spoke his curse. 

“May you live a life of safety and peace.” 

Eindred sat, his thick, scarred knuckles braced in the dirt as the cold mountain wind whistled down the hillside at his back.

“What?” he whispered. 

But the young man’s golden eyes were blank and empty, and the other warriors lay dead in the field. Only the relentless wind snapped and whistled in answer.

Eindred left.

Within a month, he’d joined up with another company. And it soon became clear  the witch’s death rattle had been a curse of great power indeed. For wherever Eindred traveled, peace inevitably followed. Enemy warriors surrendered and when they didn’t, members within Eindred’s own company had sudden changes of heart. As for Eindred himself, not a single person would raise a blade against him, and Eindred had never been the sort who could raise his own blade against one who had no wish to fight.

And so for another month he wandered, hapless, without even the dark purpose of collecting curses which had driven him for the last several years. 

He’d been raised with a sword in his hand, brought up knowing full well that his job in life would be to cut short the existence of any who stood against him. Not even thirty, and his soul was exhausted, worn ragged by such an life. And so, he’d sought a way out if it. Eindred had accumulated a terrifying number of curses – curses which would surely have felled lesser men than he. Before everything had gone wrong in the tiny village, he’d been sure it was only a matter of time before they overcame him.

But now, the witch’s single curse had overpowered them all.

Eindred was safer than he’d ever been in his life. He’d never known such a quiet, terrible peace. 

After another month, he returned to the mountainside village. He didn’t have any good reason to return – other than perhaps the distant hope that a villager’s rage might be enough to overcome the curse. As he climbed the grassy hillside, he resigned himself to potential death by club or rake.

Keep reading


Tags:

#storytime #fun with loopholes #death tw #murder cw #violence cw

agoddamn:

I still want to write the fic where an outsider has all these preconceptions about what the Force is and then goes into a room with a bunch of Jedi who are tearing into each other like bitchy old academics.

“Ooh, look at Master Structuralist over here with his ever-so-deep ‘everything is attachment actually’ reading”

“I don’t want to hear that from someone who calls every new opinion ‘new depths of their relationship with the Force’”

“The Jedi Order is a social construct–”

“Could you stuff the po-mo and pick up a book once in a while? These aren’t new ideas! You are not a pioneer because you asked one question!”

“I think you could all benefit on more reflection on how our rooting in the Force is actually deeply sexual–”

“If I have to hear one more word about lightsabers being penis envy you are going to be one with the Force immediately.”

 

gershwyndl:

#I’m 100% into this and want annual conferences about the force and what it means to be a jedi#everyone keep asking very passive-aggressive questions after every presentations#at one point a lecturer says ‘I know this because the Force told me so’ instead of listing their sources and the whole room groans#a scholar who isn’t force-sensitive shows up and half of the jedi are like ‘who even is this guy’#a LOT of rage is being released in the force at the same time#the only moment everyone in the room makes an appreciative noise is when the lunch break is announced#a huge debate blows up during the break because someone mentions it could be good to invite a nightsister next year#someone storms off mumbling about heresy and not taking part in this debacle @obiwanobi

yes please I need more jedi symposiums with knights who had different views than consulars who have different views than shadows. Temple-centered jedi versus those who lead frequent diplomatic or medical missions versus exploratory and research jedi who spend most of their time in uninhabited wild space and the outer rim.

There is absolutely no way an organization that large doesn’t have factions that understand the force differently–my 15-person philosophy class couldn’t agree on a single thing we read all term.

 

korben600:

Anakin shows up once, pulls up his PowerPoint and it just says “I am the Chosen One.”

The room immediately turns into chaos.

 

maulusque:

dear god why would you leave this in the tags

#Obi wan was pissed that his past presentation on Jedi/Mandalorian cultural parallelism was laughed out#so he put Anakin up to it just to send the room into a tailspin#Anakin LOVED it#he got to sword fight an eighty year old snake#and force chuck a dude into a wall#he officially never misses one of these anymore#every year he just goes up and says the most controversial thing he can to get the room to riot#the year after its ‘the more midichlorians you have the closer you are to the force’#he almost got stabbed by an old monk from the far side of dantooine#for that one#the council keeps letting him speak because it’s way less embarrassing to blame the fights on Skywalker#than admit everyone at an academic conference wants to murder each other#they did get a Nightsister to come to the conference btw#it was very enlightening and everyone liked her#the problem was that Anakin’s presentation that year was#‘master/student bonds are no different than lovers bonds in the force’#and#the Nightsister took REAL offense to that#Anakin is like 30% sure he got cursed#totally worth it for the look on Obi-Wan’s face tho#the Nightsister came back the next year#she brought friends!#they’re not sure if she did that because they were interested in the academics or if she wanted backup to beat the shit out of Anakin#but the council likes both cases#so they see this as an absolute win!

 

ellie-you-idiot:

Yoda was banned and no one will talk about why

 

willowcrowned:

It happened six hundred years ago so no one knows but theories range from “he ate all the snacks” to “he personally instigated a duel meant to settle whether channeling the force through combat meditation is more effective than through regular meditation but the duel got out of hand and everyone but him lost at least one limb”

the truth is that he was never actually banned, he’s just been saying it so he doesn’t have to go. he started all the rumors himself

 

theforceisstronginthegirl:

After Mortis anakin’s presentation is just standing ahsoka on stage solid 5 minutes and then as she’s rolling her eyes and about to hop off Morai flies past a window and anakin clicks to the next slide and it just says “the bird is the light side and it’s stalking my padawan”

 

hyperewok1:

0a7d957cde120dc2e23c7c8b1506d65c0a3cf479

Tags:

#Star Wars #story ideas I will never write #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #violence cw #murder cw

{{previous post in sequence}}


sigmaleph:

sigmaleph:

sigmaleph:

anyway, fantasy universe where reincarnation is real but you keep absolutely none of the memories of your past lives and the only relevance is that your magical power is directly proportional to how old your soul is

secret cabals of wizards fighting over population growth because of their ideological commitments to particular distributions of magical power

“Do you know of Praidib’s law, Firem?” She was standing, talking, as if there was nothing more interesting going in the world

“Praidib…? What does that have to do with anything?!”

“A soul does not grow in power when not in a living body. It was quite ingenious, how Praidib proved it. I’m sure your classes at the university would have covered it eventually”

“If you hadn’t murdered them all? Yeah, maybe I’d have a more complete education.” I had nothing better to do than engage her, I suppose. I could not escape my bindings. “What’s your fucking point, Hillah?”

“Think of the consequences, Firem. The archmage’s soul is ten thousand years old. After the population explosion of the Blue Renaissance, two-thirds of the people in this world have souls less than a hundred years old. Less than one percent of the power that will be wielded by whichever lucky child happens to inherit that soul. And as long as that soul is embodied, it will continue to accumulate power and have a ten thousand year head start on the vast majority of the world. You have seen what people with power do to those without”

“His power certainly didn’t stop you from killing him”

“Nobody should have that kind of power, my dear. Not me, and not him, and not you. But how do you stop it? How do you even begin to slow down a soul’s accumulation of power? Why, Praidib’s law, of course.”

“So you think you’ve solved soulcaging? Is that your big plan?”

“No, of course not. Soulcaging is impossible. If you want a soul unhoused… you deny it a body. There’s a billion souls in the world today. Soon, there won’t be a billion bodies to house them. Or a hundred million. Or even twenty million. I’ve run the numbers. I know how long it took civilization to build up to its current numbers. I have given us time to catch up”

Twenty million. That was what she was planning? That was what her weapon would do? Wipe out hundreds of millions of lives? I could not say anything

“The vast majority of the souls embodied will be, why, the vast majority,” she continued, seeing my lack of reply “The children of the renaissance, with less than a century’s worth of power to them. But they can even out. They can age. The problem will not be solved, not entirely, but…”

“But nothing! In another millennium, those souls will be lucky to have aged another century, and the archmage’s soul will still be ten thousand years old! And every body it has, it will still be an unmatched wizard. You’ve accomplished nothing except mass murder.”

“I told, you dear, I run the numbers. I am well aware. There will still be some great mages being born… but we need not let them live.”

“You… fuck. That device you used earlier. You can track souls by age.”

“Indeed,” she smiled. “I can, and so can my disciples. When our dearest archmage pops up again, he or she will be lucky to make it six months. My organisation will rebuild the world, and for as long as they exist, we will be on even footing. Not me, of course. This is my last life for a while now. But humanity. And when we fail, because we will fail eventually, at least we’d have made the odds closer. I don’t know how many tens of thousands of years it will take, but… best start now”

And saying so, she threw her hands to the sky, and called upon death.

“No, sorry, OK, this just doesn’t make sense”

“Does it really? Or are you just refusing to-”

“No, it really doesn’t. Like, this is not an ethical argument against mass murder, we can hash that out later, just… I can see why you’d want a population below the number of souls, sure. You want a certain number of souls not incarnated and gaining power, and you think you can bias which souls that is with constant selective murder. What makes no sense is dropping the population to, what, two hundredths of the historical maximum? less? The rate at which total human magical power accumulates is proportional to population. If you want new souls catching up to old ones, you want them gaining more power over time, not less. That means a population slightly under a billion, but not much smaller”

“I…what?” She started rifling through some papers in a nearby desk. “I could swear… crap crap crap.”

“Are you sure you didn’t mean you actually wanted to kill twenty million people, rather than leave twenty million survivors?”

“Shut up. Maybe. Look, I outsourced this to Satrean, his notes weren’t super clear, I might’ve… shit.”

“Gods fucking above, Hillah, did it not come up at any point how many people you were going to kill?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, have you ever run a secretive organisation of assassins that’s trying to upend the world order? You compartmentalise information! You don’t have an all-hands meeting every Fireday to talk about your doomsday plans!”

“Well, I apologise for implying you should put your ability to figure out what actually are your goals and how you achieve them above your cloak and dagger roleplaying. I’m sure it’d ruin your fun to double-check.”

“Shit, shit, shit… look, yeah, OK, it makes more sense the other way, you’re right. Do you mind staying tied up to that chair a couple hours more, I need to recalibrate this whole thing”

“Are you going to let me go if I say I do mind?”

“No”

“Worth a try. Anyway, going back to that argument we tabled about the ethics of mass murder…”


Tags:

#reincarnation #storytime #anything that makes me laugh this much deserves a reblog #fun with statistics #fun with loopholes #death tw #amnesia cw #murder cw

chongoblog:

Every so often, I remember that like 80% of Tumblr (myself included) was completely enraptured by a show where the big twist was that the main character forgot his childhood friend was murdered by his sister, and for some reason only remembers his childhood friend ever existing as a dog.

 

chongoblog:

And in that same episode it’s revealed that the same sister…..like…..hypnotized (?) the main character’s arch rival into hating him by, like, staring at him for a few minutes.

 

chongoblog:

In our collective defense, this is when we all decided “hey we should probably stop watching Sherlock”

 

ninjakittenarmy:

5d01ab5457d2ef180d7887114afc57bd45c9df8d

 

bemusedlybespectacled:

#Sherlock #I only watched the first two seasons? (via @raptortooth)

god i wish that were me

 

piscine-unrelated:

Wait What?

 

bemusedlybespectacled:

series 3 of sherlock: john marries mary morstan off-camera, the show mocks all the fans who kept the hype up during a two year hiatus, mary turns out to be an assassin who shoots sherlock, during which time he has a near-death-experience dream about his dog redbeard who was put down. also there’s a weird scene where john is revealed to be attracted to danger and so he dated mary because he was subconsciously picking up the fact that she used to be an assassin. also the series ends with sherlock committing murder in front of witnesses to save john and mary.

christmas special: sherlock goes on a bender where he hallucinates a victorian-era case, the episode ends with moriarty seemingly returning via social media and mycroft making a cryptic reference to “the other one.” oh, also any consequences from sherlock committing murder are immediately negated.

series 4: HOO BOY.

episode 1: mary is killed due to her assassin past, but no one really cares since she’s only been in the show for all of four episodes. she keeps coming back as a recorded voice/hallucination.

episode 2: john goes to a new grief counseler. also he keeps hallucinating mary. sherlock is told to solve a murder by the murderer’s daughter, but it turns out that while the murderer has a daughter, it’s not the woman who gave him the case to solve! eurus, sherlock and mycroft’s sister, has simultaneously masqueraded as john’s grief counseler and the murderer’s daughter and a random woman who keeps following sherlock because she’s a master of disguise! (to be fair, this is a legitimately cool reveal and I genuinely didn’t see it coming)

episode 3: HOO. FUCKING. BOY. eurus is sherlock and mycroft’s sister who’s been in a prison for the criminally insane for decades. mycroft has withheld this knowledge from both sherlock and their parents by claiming she died in a fire she started. turns out she’s able to hypnotize people with ???? her superior intellect ???????? and so even talking to her makes people want to do things for her like commit murder ????????? and so she’s somehow able to do things like escape from her scary island prison and then take herself back, blow up baker street, kidnap multiple people, and then pull Saw-esque morality problems on Mycroft and Sherlock and John where she just murders people for funsies with no apparent motive. IT IS DURING THIS SEQUENCE THAT IT IS REVEALED THAT SHERLOCK HAD A HUMAN BEST FRIEND THAT EURUS MURDERED BUT REWROTE HIS OWN MEMORIES TO IMAGINE IT WAS A PET DOG WHO DIED.

Y’ALL. IT IS SO DUMB. IT IS SO DUMB THAT THE FANDOM GENUINELY HAD A CONSPIRACY THEORY GOING FOR A WHILE THAT THERE HAD TO BE A SECRET FOURTH EPISODE – OF A SHOW THAT ONLY EVER HAD THREE EPISODES PER SERIES – BECAUSE THERE WAS NO WAY THAT SOMETHING THAT BAD COULD BE THE FUCKING FINAL EPISODE.

 

earhartsease:

I am so grateful to this post for vindicating my decision never to watch s4

 

pedanther:

There is one thing in the final episode of Sherlock season 4 that I remember fondly: the moment where Mrs Holmes states, in front of her two sons – and in a tone of voice that suggests it’s an obvious fact – that of the two of them Sherlock has always been the grown-up one. I’m not convinced Sherlock had earned that, but Mycroft absolutely had.

(I stopped watching Sherlock after season 2, when I realised that the show I had hoped it would be and believed it had the potential to become was in no way the show its creators were interested in making, but I’ve seen the final episode of season 4 because I happened to be at a friend’s house when they were watching it. Everything about it confirmed that I’d made the right choice.)

 

maryellencarter:

…until I got to pedanther’s reblog (he is the sort of person who reliably snopeses things and points out when you are reading a satire piece, which I appreciate), I was about 90% convinced this was one of those facts-i-just-made-up types of performance art you get on tumblr dot com. what the entire fuck. i hadn’t even heard sherlock was *having* a series four, apparently because all my friends have better taste than to bother with… whatever the fuck that was.

we talk about shows jumping a shark, but i think this is the first time i have heard about one that not only jumped its own shark but jumped *every conceivable shark*. i am very glad i gave up after the orientalism episode, whichever season that was.

(let us say, the first orientalism episode, the one that opened with a girl sensually stroking a teapot. there was probably more than one orientalism episode, just based on how thoroughly moffat seems to keep showing his whole ass in the belief that it’s art.)

Watching the opening scene of BBC Sherlock 3×01 was the first time I had ever seriously wondered whether I was dreaming and had the answer turn out to be “no”.

I gave up about twenty minutes in.

(My mom kept going, and I saw some bits and pieces of that when I was in the same room; the stuff I saw corroborates the above thread.)


Tags:

#reply via reblog #BBC Sherlock #death tw #murder cw #amnesia cw #this probably deserves some other warning tag but I am not sure what