#it makes me want to chew on drywall and all that

[spoonatic]

reading the ‘autobiography of James T Kirk’ rn (AMAZING book love his characterization and how the authors use his ‘voice’ essentially very nice) and he describes his childhood as a lot of time spent in a idealistic sort of crafted environment on his family farm with his brother and how he always felt safe and loved it there and how his brother was always very logical and withdrawn and his mother left to do space work and his father was just cold and distant and anyways got me thinking abt how when Kirk went through all this shit (amazing book, have I mentioned that already? Here it is again.) so anyways all of this got me thinking that when Kirk went to space and went on his first 5 year mission he was probably naturally drawn to Spock’s coldness and harsh nature and it probably felt very homey and comfortable for him which is also why he navigates it so well and can read Spock so well and also and also and also and also erm getting my phd in devastating yaoi studies rn

[crazymecjc]

satisfied (serenity in order.)

[raviollies]

Sometimes being a girl is falling to your knees and eating glass because you thought about your OTP (they love each other so much that their happiness is just being close to one another)

[saotoru]

[pumpkinrootbeer]

ogfoofodoxx thinking about how the most defining character trait of haymitch is how protective he is. not in the sense it's the most obvious, but how all of his actions are fueled by this desire to protect. how hard he works at keeping katniss alive in the first games, him fighting to keep them from augmenting katniss's body, him yelling at plutarch to keep finnick from having to share his trauma, him being so involved in peeta's recovery and being the one to bring katniss home. him holding mayslee's hand as she died, fighting for plutarch to stay and rescue peeta, being the one to find katniss and finnick when johanna had an episode, begging coin to believe peeta's warning. it being heavily implied or either outright stated that he was one of the people who fought to protect effie.

makes me physically ill because no one does that for him. everyone who would of, died.

[wannaliveattheholidayinn]

silly little political show thinks it can hurt me?!?!

[bakuzen-xiv]

FFxivWrite2024 (Day 7): Morsel

Orion turned the corner towards the Ebony Stalls, avoiding any possible glances of nearby people by hiding behind his cloak. One hand slipped into his pocket to wrap around a piece of paper—a lengthy shopping list for all the delicacies he'd been craving.

It had been a long time since he'd found himself in Gridania, so he decided to jump on the opportunity to stock up on some local delicacies. Bland delicacies, some would argue. Others would leave out the second word entirely. But it was comfort food to him, and he knew how to prepare it in a way that was less offensive to the average palate.

More or less, anyway. Some Scions still weren't sold on his favorite fermented beans from the local Mun-Tuy Cellars.

His mind wandered to the subterranean network beyond the Cellars, down to the underground city that had gone largely lost to history. The city of Gelmorra. The underground city was hidden far underground, its infrastructure turned to ruins by centuries of merciless decay. And despite it all, it still connected to the living world through these cellars that had survived the test of time.

It was a connection he cherished, small as it was. Being a Duskwight, he was certain he shared an origin with Gelmorra's inhabitants from centuries past. It was all he knew about his origins—more he knew about his mother or father or even his place of birth.

There as a void where he yearned to see faces and names and memories, so if bland beans was the closest he could get to knowing his bloodline, he would take it.

Orion pulled his mask up and his hood down. Shrouded in dark garments, it was hard to make out any of his defining features. He wouldn’t be able to fool those who truly knew him. His gait, the way he swung his hands, the angle of his ears poking against the fabric of the cloak hiding him from head to toe–they were all undeniably him. But the people here did not know him as his friends did, so he weaved his way through the crowd with ease.

On a quiet day, he would be happy to visit the market as himself. He enjoyed talking to people, and their enthusiasm for his heroism was mostly tolerable. But today was not a quiet day, and he would not let himself be delayed by a gathering crowd.

Eyes still followed him, as was expected in such a get-up. Some vendors tracked his movement with a guarded tension, hands resting on their wares. It was a nauseating reminder of what could’ve been had Hydaelyn not chosen him. He’d be just another Duskwight, unable to enjoy Gridania’s atmosphere without the accusing glares of other locals.

It wasn’t a worrying fear anymore, not here and not now at least. If their suspicion of him ever escalated, he could always throw off his cloak and surprise them with the familiar face of the Hero of Eorzea, Savior of the Star.

Their eyes would widen in surprise right away. They’d apologise for their embarrassing conduct. Perhaps a few of them would not recognize him or his name, and someone would whisper to them that he may be a Duskwight, but he was one of the good ones.

The Hero of Eorzea, Savior of the Star would however stay anonymous, for the sake of his peace, and he turned his attention to the food stall in front of him. He nodded a quick greeting to the vendor before glancing around at the various Mun-Tuy products showcased on its shelves. That’s what he came all this way for, he thought, his mouth watering while he imagined all the dishes he could make with them.

“—Orion?”

He nearly whipped his head around, but instead he forced himself to make strong eye contact with a jar of beans.

“Oh, go on! I could do with a morsel of gossip��you’ve got to spill the beans for me!” 

“I swear, ran straight into him at the Bobbing Cork! He couldn’t resist me, not after I showed him my secret technique he couldn’t–”

Orion’s eyes widened. The last time he visited that inn was to help the damn Ixal build dirigibles, and that certainly didn’t include any lady’s secret techniques.

He realized with a start that the shopkeeper was staring right at him, from an angle that showed a bit more of his face than he was comfortable with. He glanced back, hoping it would be less suspicious than appearing to be shocked at the sight of Mun-Tuy products, but this only attracted more of his interest.

“Hey,” the man began carefully, yet a little too loudly for Orion’s comfort. “Aren’t you…”

Orion coughed loudly, more occupied with protecting his identity than his pride right now.

“I’ll take these beans!” he yelled, before the vendor could say anything else. With a loud slam, he shoved enough gil on the wooden table to keep the man from continuing his train of thought.

“Would you like–”

“Thank you!” He grabbed the beans and bolted.

That was yet another part of being a hero he still hadn’t gotten used to. Perhaps it would still take a while before he could return to those peaceful days he longed for.

[someonefantastic]

Absolutely losing my mind over Prue Halliwell. She conquers her fear of drowning—essentially conquering her fear of ending up like her mother, of meeting the same fate that she did—only for her greatest fear to then become someone killing her sisters. Meaning instead of her greatest fear being that she’ll wind up like her mother, it becomes that her sisters will end up like their mother

[guinevereslancelot]

my supervisor felt the psychic vibes of me searching for other jobs on my lunch break so he pulled me aside for a meeting about how i'm not good enough at my job <3

[grandapplewit]

I know I’m a tragedy enjoyer, but this is getting ridiculous. My favorite mdzs ships are:

The main characters parents and his love interests uncle, who had a falling out and one party died before they could make up

The narrative foil antagonist and the man he murdered

[the-dragogirl]

Loved the vid so much... and ooohh spoilerr!!! but the little bit at the end was cool, I always eat up oc lore...... but.... the last line killed me and stayed in my head for the entire day, and I really can not hold it in anymore...

" I know what you are. "

thumbnail art for the Preservatory

[graham--folger]

it's a great day to love my ocs. it's also a great day to inflict just. so much pain and suffering on them

[deservingporcupine]

*whiny voice* but maaaaa, i don’t WANNA be in a video game fandom

[chiligerlofe]

Nils what the heck 😫

According to my calculations (2nd grade math), Cody and Obi-Wan are both physically 50 years old in 7 BBY. This is making me feel something

[undyingdecay]

thunderbolts bob is a cutie patootie and we all love him but my body and soul yearn for pre!thunderbolts bob. like, give me that meth addicted, minimum waged loser of a man right now

(tw: do not romanticize this shit, sex while under the influence)

a relationship with pre-thunderbolts bob would be awful. i don’t think people really sit with that long enough when they fantasize about it. it wouldn’t be ‘damaged boy needs love’ it would be ugly, it would be sharp-edged and heavy and uncomfortable in your chest all the time. it’d hurt you, and you’d hurt him, and somewhere along the way neither of you would know who started it, because it was always gonna end like this anyway.

there’d be nights you’d have to physically shake him awake. not in some cute oh babe you overslept, time for work kind of way, but in that panicked, stomach-twisting way where you’re not sure if he’s breathing right. sometimes he’d wake up swinging, teeth bared and pupils blown so wide they ate up whatever color used to be in his eyes. sometimes he wouldn’t wake up at all, not really — just mumble something about a guy named rick or i swear i paid him, i did and then roll over, leaving you sitting there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, counting how long his breath stuttered between inhales.

and you’d stay. like a goddamn idiot, you’d stay.

you’d clean him up when he came home reeking of chemical sweat and bar bathroom mildew, eyes too shiny, jaw working like he was chewing something invisible. you learned real quick how to tell when it was a good high and when it was the kind where his skin itched too much for him to sit still, pacing holes in the floor, muttering to himself about things you couldn’t see.

and when he got mean — because he always did, sooner or later — you told yourself it wasn’t really him. you told yourself it was the pipe, it was the lack of sleep, it was the impossible weight of existing with a head like his. even when his voice got sharp, slicing clean through you like it was nothing, even when he knocked over a chair or punched the drywall so close to your head you felt the plaster dust in your hair. you still reached for him.

“it’s okay, baby. i’m here. it’s alright.”

he hated it. hated the way you tried to soothe him, hated the way you wouldn’t leave like everyone else did. made him feel small, made him feel weak. you could see it twist in his face, that war between craving your touch and wanting to shove you away so hard you never came back.

and he’d disappear. because of course he would.

for days sometimes. no calls, no texts, not even that half-lucid voicemail he usually left at 3 a.m. the ones where he sounded like he was underwater, like he was already halfway to dead. there were nights you sat at the kitchen table with your phone in your lap, screen dim, thinking about filing a missing person’s report. you never did. because he always came back.

a little more broken than before. a little more frayed around the edges. sometimes limping, sometimes bleeding. once with a bandage on his neck he refused to talk about.

and every goddamn time, you let him crawl into your arms like nothing happened.

maybe you told yourself it was about love. maybe you told yourself it was loyalty. but deep down, it was survival. because no one else knew how to handle him when he was like this. no one else could get him to lie still long enough to remember he was human.

the worst, lowest, filthiest part was the way he’d fuck you after.

not hard. not rough. not some tender, making-up-for-it kind of thing either. he wouldn’t even move half the time. just be inside you, soft sounds shaking loose from his throat like it hurt to talk, lips pressed to your neck or your chest, sometimes just mouthing there like he could crawl inside you and stay.

“‘m sorry for yellin’,” he’d mumble. voice small. a little slurred. “‘m sorry, baby. promise i won’t leave again.”

liar. but you’d forgive him anyway. because in those moments, with his cum leaking out of you, with his heartbeat stuttering against your ribs, you could almost believe it too.

and then he’d be gone again.

because that’s who pre-thunderbolts bob was. a thousand contradictions in a body that barely held itself together. a ghost you kept chasing even when you knew he was dragging you down with him.

and you wouldn’t leave.

you never would.

[godseyeaemond]

hmm. finishing tlk has increased the osferth brain rot 300% [ scribbles in notepad like a scientist ] fascinating