#hmmmm thoughts

[loxare]

On their wedding day, he put his hand to her cheek and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

He could have been correct, from an objective standpoint. Truly, she was one of the beauties in town. Her curls always in perfect order, her smile plump and joyous, her figure comely, even hidden modestly beneath clothing. From an objective standpoint, he was wrong, as nothing about beauty is objective, but none in the town would have disagreed with his assessment.

They spent several years together, in loving bliss. They built their house together, they planted their garden together, they grew together.

And then came the day that a hole in reality opened beneath him. Without thought, she jumped in after, a bare half second after he vanished.

When she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else. The stars were different, and wrong. There was the wrong number of moons, and the sun was the wrong colour. But the worst, most egregious wrong was that he was not there next to her. This, she could not abide.

She had nothing to her name besides her labour, but that she had in abundance. She travelled, from town to town, trading hours of work for food and board. She taught herself to draw, and she drew her love. Over and over, she drew him. In the dirt, on walls, on her own clothes. Asking, always asking, if any had seen him. Eventually she acquired paper and ink, and drew her husband again. Her inquiries became easier, more frequent, although the answers never changed. For none had seen her love.

She learned many things as she travelled. She learned how to fix a carriage wheel. How to tend to livestock and how to weed a garden far larger than the one she had known. She learned to shape a bowl from clay and to chop timber and to carve wood. She learned to fight off brigands who would take from her her sparse money, her life, or worse.

She learned other things, about this place she was in. It was a place where many came, and few left. A nexus one called it. A refuse heap, another said. But the method of arrival was always the same. One moment in the familiar, the next falling into the strange. But the people were the same, for all that they were often of alien appearance. Some looked down upon her dirt covered hems and worn boots. Some ignored her. Most were willing to at least listen to her question, to look at her picture, so carefully drawn. To keep an eye out, and pass on a message should they find him.

Time passed, and passed, and passed. The world she came from did not have things such as magical crystals or soul mates or wizards, or if it did they had none of the power that those here did. Regardless, one town she stayed in recommended she find the local witch, for they specialized in red strings of fate.

And so she did. The witch gave her a bowl of stew and a comfortable chair, and then listened when she spoke, and looked carefully at the drawing. It was a different one. She had drawn many, over the years, as the old ones wore out, and as her skill increased. And the witch said that they did not know if he was indeed her soul mate, but if he was, then the red string of fate that they revealed would lead her right to him. She need only follow it.

It was not an easy ask. The witch wanted a blanket woven by her own hands in payment. And so she stayed in the town, longer than she had stayed anywhere. She traded her labour and her art for thick wool, and weaving lessons. It was near winter before she had a result she was pleased with, carefully folded in her arms to be presented to the witch. The blanket was unfolded immediately upon delivery, shaken out to its fullest extent. The blanket was scrutinized, for quality of the weave or for something else that she could not fathom. Finally, the witch nodded their head. They turned back to their cottage, moving to close the door. She protested, concerned about her end of the bargain, but needn’t have worried. For around her finger was tied a red string which hadn’t been there before. The end led off, through the woods.

And so she followed it. She followed it through fallen leaves. She followed it across rivers. She followed it through snowbanks and through melt waters and through hot summer sun. Finally, she followed it into a clearing on a mountain. And fell to her knees in despair. For in this clearing was nothing but moss, and the end of the string, fading into nothing.

She did not have long to weep however, as a hole in reality opened above her, and down he fell. Without thought, she moved to catch him.

He was just as he had been on the day she had left him. And as he opened his eyes, she suddenly felt ashamed. For he was here, perfect and whole and young. But it had been years and years for her. Her hair was frizzy and knotted. Her lips were thin, her hands were rough, and her figure both hard and flabby at once.

But he opened his eyes, and he called her name, and she nodded. And he smiled at her, and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

On a truly objective standpoint, he was incorrect. Both because beauty was not within the realm of objectivity, but also because there were many women who could be called more beautiful, subjectively.

But she also knew that he was speaking nothing but the honest truth. For he loved her. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He loved her hair, frizzy as it was. He loved combing it free of knots, and helping her braid it in the mornings, and loved tucking flowers into it, to surprise her when she looked in the mirror. He loved her smile, and loved seeing it, and loved being the cause of it. He loved it when she spoke to him, when she told him of the things she had done, and what she had learned. He loved her art, even as he blushed darkly at being her only subject. She taught him what she knew, and delighted when he found particular pleasure in pottery. They travelled, to find a home that suited both of them. The first time she defended him from brigands had been a terrifying and yet exhilarating experience for them both.

And they built a house. With a room full of paper and clay. And a garden, and a loom. And always, forever, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

[the-star-rigel]

‘loving you but not enough to save you’ vs ‘you can’t save people you can only love them’

[littleplantfreak]

danyl you arent a lawyer im taking your client to jail

[resolmn]

Ok currently playing SDV rn!! I’m thinking of voices for everyone but I only have a couple I know for sure. First, Elliot HAS to be Christian Bale- specifically Howl. Also Sebastian is Angsty Teen (FNAF) I don’t make the rules. If I think of more I’ll add to this

[daily-hanamura]

for some reason the brainworms have been thinking about yosuke w a ring-shaped scar bc of an electric or fire attack + his ring = ouchies

I love that and you know what, imagine if it was given to him by Souji because Souji was brainwashed/charmed/etc and used a Ziodyne on him, permanently scarring Yosuke-

[valinoar]

i need to make a book rec list for alicent stans i think that would be so fun

[saltyfilmmajor]

Somehow the fates allowed us a second chance to meet

[uselessaussie]

if you really think about it (and hyperfixate enough) every character is interesting even if they were only on screen on a minute or popped up occasionally throughout a game, or mentions of them

[gh0st-b0und]

thinking abt how i wanna draw the goat hmmm

[justasillywarlord]

So uh Detroit : Become Human jazzprowl? Anyone? No? Just me? Okay-

*run and hide*

[vagueconfusion]

Feeling real ridiculous for not having realized that Baron's "stark father" was the Nightmare King until now

[jesuistrestriste]

Art Donaldson with literal loser reader? This is for the netizens of the world who don’t do anything but homely activities. Like for the depraved girls/nbs/boys whoever frfr like? Reader who’s obsessed w him, met him through a friend or sm??

art knows you don’t get out much.

he knows you’d prefer to stay inside and obsessively scroll twitter or tumblr or play video games as opposed to accompanying him to a party on campus.

by now, he knows all of your little habits that you’ve developed through your early youth and have grown to enjoy more than anything. he accepts them, because he accepts you.

but he also can’t deny that he’d love to take you out more than you usually let him.

he wants to take you out to a club and grab your hips and rut into your backside while you two drunkenly dance. and he wants to show you off to his friends when they all go out to the bar.

so when he fucks you.. he sometimes lets this stuff slip.

he’s pushing you down into the bedding and moaning into your neck, little gasps punctuating each roll of his hips against yours as he fills you with every single girthy inch of him. he reaches down for one of your hands and directs it to the back of his blonde locks, silently pleading with you to tug on them the way he likes.

“fuh-fuck,” he groans, his eyes rolling back as he gets close, “nobody even knows we’re dating… you— mngh—! you gotta come out with me this weekend… ohh god..”

and you pull on his hair and wrap your legs around him; your insides too stirred up to form a response. you feel him pummeling the deepest parts of your walls with an intensity that only washes in when he’s aching for something.

“… but.. ungh, fuck fuck fuck, i.. i think you like it, don’t you? staying in when im out… letting me come back to you at the end of the night and stuff my dick into this pretty hole of yours… letting me use you… AH— baby—! fuckkk, i’m gonna come inside you— i’m gonna come inside you, ’m gonna fucking— ohh god, please—“

and then he’s pulling himself out and slamming back in once, twice, three times before he lets out an anguished moan and spills warmly into your body; coating your parts in a thick, sticky, milky dose of desperation and longing as he pulls your back up into an arch while you yelp under him. he presses his stomach to yours as he rides out his high.

he so desperately wants you to quit the internet so that he can take you out properly and show you all of the ways he can make you happy.

he knows you liked him first—he was told that you’d had a huge crush on him—but none of it really mattered now. he’s obsessed with you too, so..

why won’t you let him show the world?

[cologona]

You guys ever notice how when the Todds were first introduced and Jason's death wasn't yet a sparkle in Starlin's eye, Willis' list of crimes seems very deliberately non-violent? Stealing cars and car parts, carrying betting slips and money to-and-fro for the local illegal lottery... it's very mundane.

And since Jason was introduced doing a car-related crime as well, there's a connection made between Willis' criminal activity and Jason's. Sure on one hand it's supposed to be seen as Batman says- Jason lost his father to a life of crime~ and now he's falling~ too. But on another level Jason and Willis are being framed somewhat nobly. Jason only steals what he needs to survive, and the mundanity of Willis' crimes point to Willis being similar (if not the source of Jason's attitude.)

I gotta think, if Jason's code was to keep your head down and to get by while doing as little harm as possible, what did it do to him when Batman showed him that violence *could* be justified? That it didn't have to be a thing you tried to avoid while eeking out a living, but something that could be used for the greater good (even when you have more money than god!)

If Jason had never died his character might've gone down the path of Steph and/or Mia (idk much about her) emphasizing that there's always a choice you can make and such, but since he *did* die... well a different point is raised.

"I'll be the you you're supposed to be."

[vos0q]

INSERTING…. Disc A| Aya 💽 Disc B| Mitsuki

Album: The Guy She Was Interested in Wasn’t a Guy At All

[after-witch]

I love the idea of a yandere who gives you your own separate bedroom where you're being kept. If you behave, they might even let you decorate it exactly how you want, although this may depend on the yandere in question.

Even if it's not exactly to your liking, the bedroom is something like a comforting space. You're allowed to sleep in there sometimes, you're allowed to sit quietly and spent time alone if you say you want to recharge, you can sit and do little hobbies with the door shut and be yourself (whoever that is, anymore) for a little while.

But this freedom, this little sanctuary where you're allowed to retreat to, comes with a price.

They can give you that little comfort, that ounce of freedom--and they can take it away.

Run away, squirm, fight, yell, bite, or generally act out? Your bedroom door gets taken off. No more privacy, no more shut door, no more ounce of comfort that you get from being alone for a little bit.

Refuse to let them snuggle with you, argue about sleeping in their bed a few times a week? Your bed goes away, and you sleep with them until further notice.

In the end, the bedroom may be yours on the surface, but it's theirs to do with as they like. They can choose to yank away the comfort you get from it at moment's notice.

So do your best to be good for them, okay?

[sssssssim]