#it hurts my heart and soul

[nexischillin]

Gojo and Geto could have flourished in the Jujustu world If they confessed a little sooner but Yuji and Megumi were doomed the second they entered it.

In other words, Gojo and Geto were in a burning building with a fire they made and let fester. They could have put it out, but by the time either of them tried, it was too late. Gojo didn't even know there was a fire until it had fully engulfed Geto and started crawling up him as well. Geto knew about the fire and made no effort to stop it because he saw no point

While Yuji and Megumi stepped into a burning building hand in hand and watched together as the fires grew. They were aware of the fire they had set and that it would engulf one or both of them soon enough they just didn't know how hot and harsh the fire would get

[giddlygoat]

i need to talk about time and punishment. 

gosalyn didn’t travel to some alternate universe born from totally different circumstances or simply entertain some nightmarish hypothetical. she got a direct glimpse of the aftermath of her absence within her own timeline. that’s her dad they hush and cry and scream in terror about. that’s her launchpad alone in that empty tower. that’s her world that crumbles and cowers under the iron grasp of the person she’s supposed to trust her life in. 

she saw firsthand how quickly he descended into madness. she heard about how launchpad had tried desperately to repair drake’s shattered life and keep their heads above the water but it just wasn’t enough. the rock of drake’s existence wasn’t enough. the most stubborn and justice-driven man she knew got knocked down and never got up. he sunk and sunk deeper into the muck of his heartbreak and mania and everything she’d ever known and loved paid dearly for it. 

he looked her in the eyes when he pointed the gun at her. do you think she ever looked for those eyes in drake after she returned? he was really going to do it. it doesn’t matter that he didn’t in the end, because he had decided, for even just a second, that he was going to do it. 

do you ever feel like the pin in a grenade? 

[hinamie]

just looking at these hand poses was enough to give me carpal tunnel and that's how u know they're prime megu material

[rockleesnegrowife]

She just wanna ball😔😭

She so pretty but look at her

[windienine]

lavender bath

[totallynotsarkaz]

I am here, waiting for you to return

[moonlight-s0nata]

I think the most devastating thing about heartbreak is seeing yourself change and becoming someone unrecognizable. I had such a pure open heart full of love. I miss my innocence.

[xxplastic-cubexx]

If i ever stop thinking of ‘when i saw you fumbling, teetering, when i saw your desperate desire to be loved crushing you— what did i do? what did i do, charles?’ please for the love of everything assume ive died because wht the fuck.

[mymitochondriaforpresident]

The racism my beloved Simon had to face….my baby. 🥺💔

Although painful to watch, it felt incredibly validating. It was so annoying watching some people say this show was “only about class” while dismissing the BS that Simon had to go through. The abuse was ten fold because he’s POC and S3 finally exposed that.

That being said, and on a more positive note, it was so incredibly sexy when Simon sang happy birthday to Wille in Spanish (he feels safe with him!) and when Wille admitted to fantasizing about stroking those beautiful curlssss (and then actually did it). 🥹❤️‍🩹

Wilmon forever. 🤎🤍

[jackshiccup]

whatever you do, do not think about the layers behind jack saying, “we’re good friends, the wind and i.” the implication that jack and hiccup were meant to cross paths, to find one another at all points in their lifetime even if they weren’t aware of who they were to each other yet. that their first and second lives are inextricably linked— hiccup, as a spirit, drawn to jack when he was still human while jack, as jack frost thrown back in time, drawn to hiccup in his present. that their love and friendship is a circle, in a way that they’ll keep meeting in the middle over and over and over again. in a way that it’s infinite and transcends time as long as there’s proof of memory. in a way that there is no telling where their story really begins or ends, only that it exists, that it's continuous. in a way that it’s inevitable, fated, like every moment that passes, whether they spend it together or apart, are all puzzle pieces that connect. that their love is constant, always in motion, in a way that’s tried and true.

whatever you do, do not think about how they both waited 300 years (and some more) until they could experience what it was like to have a companion again. i repeat, do not think about, “you were always there. weren’t you? you’re the wind.”

[rockingtheorange]

Henry gasping for air, unable to accept how Alex was there fighting for them, for him.

Alex was there regardless of Henry leaving, of an ocean between them, regardless of their public roles and futures...

Alex knew Henry was his future, but Henry never imagined the possibility of even having one, in the first place.

I associate Henry's gaps with this quote:

"And you can't explain it, when it really happens, when you feel all the weight of the irremediable condition of human being. While feeling the body forcefully slamming against the walls of the soul. The exact moment you know you love."

(Come Anima mai - Eng translation)

Original quote from Come Anima Mai by Rossana Soldano:

E non puoi spiegarlo, quando davvero accade, quando senti addosso tutta l’irrimediabilità della condizione di essere umano. Mentre senti il corpo sbattere prepotentemente contro le pareti dell’anima. Il momento preciso in cui sai di amare.

[passivenovember]

So. I read all 41 Chapters of Maybe There's a Beast last night.

And. Okay. Listen. LOOK. I'm not one to harass an author or demand more chapters of something because I get enough of those messages myself, and I don't want to make anyone uncomfortable, so we'll keep this in the family (the tag). Alright? Great.

So.

Between you and me, this thing is so well written, like. So well written. And that means something coming from me, because I'm not a slow burn kind of girl. I like a moderate burn myself, but this fic slaps. And devours. And stabs you, truthfully! In the heart! Owie!

And I've never been quite so moved by a dynamic as this. Where I want to commit crimes for this version of Billy. And run this version of Steve over with my car. And shove their faces together until they kiss kiss kiss because they'll belong together even when King Steve is sticking to his guns and Billy is opening up against his better judgement.

Fuck, it's so good. But I'm probably the last person on earth to read it.

(on the off chance that you haven't: Here's the link----> Read at your own risk and have your life CHANGED PERMANENTLY! )

And, between you and me, I need to go wash my mouth out with soap, for the way I was talking about Steve last night. I cried like Billy's a part of me, (because he is), and I'm mad. And in love. And invested.

I'm so invested.

[frodo-with-glasses]

So uh. I might’ve found a pattern here.

From The Fellowship of the Ring, “Three Is Company”:

From The Two Towers, “The Uruk-Hai”:

From The Return of the King, “The Houses of Healing”:

Now I know Tolkien hated allegory. And I know LotR is not a copy-and-paste parable about WWII (which he didn’t fight in) or even WWI (which he did). But the man did see war, and so did people he loved, and he had a non-zero amount of trauma, and some of that is gonna make its way into his writing somehow.

And I think his soul might’ve had something to say about soldiers being forced to walk until they dropped from exhaustion.

[a-dreamersjournal]

Writing is my curse.

Writing is a disease—it truly is. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t feel so infested with words all the time, like remnants of a virus spreading through my veins. Each vessel carries them, replacing every cell, every platelet, with wretched syllables—a testament to the torment shadowing my existence. I want to stop.

Stop the words from bleeding out of me, stop spilling prose from every cut on my skin. I feel like a vessel cracked open, spilling ink instead of blood, a broken jar that can never be sealed. I want to cease inhaling the weight of my being, and stop exhaling poetry in return.

Let me be free from the snares of these words. I don’t need any more evidence of my sorrow. I don’t want to record my suffering anymore. I feel sick—so sick—and I’m terrified that the next time I purge, it’ll be words again. More words. More pieces of my heart, more fragments of my soul, spilling out until nothing is left.

Until the void inside me stretches endless and terrifying, a hollow abyss I’m too afraid to face. It yawns like a black hole, hungry and infinite, pulling me in even as I resist.

Don’t strip me of myself. My grief is all I have left. Take that away, and all that remains will be a husk—a corpse with withering skin and crumbling bones. What was once my solace has now consumed my life, devouring me from within, demanding to be set free.

And yet, as much as I long for release, I know I cannot stop. The words are both my disease and my cure. They fill the void, even as they carve it deeper—an endless cycle, as infinite as the abyss within me. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The words will escape, as they always do, and I will fade. A mere shadow of who I once was, left behind in fragments of ink.

A memory, and nothing more.

[mccallhero]

favourite ouat scenes: 48/?

[nikoisme]

Nothing like a story where the happy ending is death aaghh