#somebody DO something!!

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet is making me worry so much i hope they’re ok😭

the kids are gonna be ok. eventually. 😬👍

[lovebunnie]

“i love being aromantic” i say as i feel my chest cavity rotting from the inside at the unquenchable desire for love in a way that is truly a secret third thing but its not a secret i want to keep it is a secret nobody is willing to listen to and im trapped in a state of isolation of my own making because no matter how much love i have to give it will never be enough. it will never be enough. it will never be enough.

[keo-k]

trans men are allowed to paint their nails.

trans men are allowed to wear dresses or skirts, or any generally "feminine" clothing.

trans men are allowed to wear makeup.

trans men are allowed to embrace their more "feminine" side.

it does not make us any less of a man.

EDIT! : ALL MEN are allowed to do these things, but this post is more centred around the idea that "oh, people who 'claim' to be men and wear dresses and shit are not trans!" yes, we are. skirt go spinny. painted nails are nice. its not that hard to understand.

[always-a-king-or-queen]

The ache will go away, eventually. 

That was what the Professor told them, the day they got back. When they tumbled from the wardrobe in a heap of tangled limbs, and found that the world had been torn from under their feet with all the kindness of a serpent. 

They picked themselves off of the floorboards with smiles plastered on child faces, and sat with the Professor in his study drinking cup after cup of tea. 

But the smiles were fake. The tea was like ash on their tongues. And when they went to bed that night, none of them could sleep in beds that were too foreign, in bodies that had not been their own for years. Instead they grouped into one room and sat on the floor and whispered, late into the night. 

When morning came, Mrs. Macready discovered the four of them asleep in Peter and Edmund’s bedroom, tangled in a heap of pillows and blankets with their arms looped across one another. They woke a few moments after her entry and seemed confused, lost even, staring around the room with pale faces, eyes raking over each framed painting on the wall and across every bit of furniture as if it was foreign to them. “Come to breakfast,” Mrs. Macready said as she turned to go, but inside she wondered. 

For the children’s faces had held the same sadness that she saw sometimes in the Professor’s. A yearning, a shock, a numbness, as if their very hearts had been ripped from their chests.

At breakfast Lucy sat huddled between her brothers, wrapped in a shawl that was much too big for her as she warmed her hands around a mug of hot chocolate. Edmund fidgeted in his seat and kept reaching up to his hair as if to feel for something that was no longer there. Susan pushed her food idly around on her plate with her fork and hummed a strange melody under her breath. And Peter folded his hands beneath his chin and stared at the wall with eyes that seemed much too old for his face. 

It chilled Mrs. Macready to see their silence, their strangeness, when only yesterday they had been running all over the house, pounding through the halls, shouting and laughing in the bedrooms. It was as if something, something terrible and mysterious and lengthy, had occurred yesterday, but surely that could not be. 

She remarked upon it to the Professor, but he only smiled sadly at her and shook his head. “They’ll be all right,” he said, but she wasn’t so sure. 

They seemed so lost. 

Lucy disappeared into one of the rooms later that day, a room that Mrs. Macready knew was bare save for an old wardrobe of the professor’s. She couldn’t imagine what the child would want to go in there for, but children were strange and perhaps she was just playing some game. When Lucy came out again a few minutes later, sobbing and stumbling back down the hall with her hair askew, Mrs. Macready tried to console her, but Lucy found no comfort in her arms. “It wasn’t there,” she kept saying, inconsolable, and wouldn’t stop crying until her siblings came and gathered her in their arms and said in soothing voices, “Perhaps we’ll go back someday, Lu.” 

Go back where, Mrs. Macready wondered? She stepped into the room Lucy had been in later on in the evening and looked around, but there was nothing but dust and an empty space where coats used to hang in the wardrobe. The children must have taken them recently and forgotten to return them, not that it really mattered. They were so old and musty and the Professor had probably forgotten them long ago. But what could have made the child cry so? Try as she might, Mrs. Macready could find no answer, and she left the room dissatisfied and covered in dust. 

Lucy and Edmund and Peter and Susan took tea in the Professor’s room again that night, and the next, and the next, and the next. They slept in Peter and Edmund’s room, then Susan and Lucy’s, then Peter and Edmund’s again and so on, swapping every night till Mrs. Macready wondered how they could possibly get any sleep. The floor couldn’t be comfortable, but it was where she found them, morning after morning. 

Each morning they looked sadder than before, and breakfast was silent. Each afternoon Lucy went into the room with the wardrobe, carrying a little lion figurine Edmund had carved her, and came out crying a little while later. And then one day she didn’t, and went wandering in the woods and fields around the Professor’s house instead. She came back with grassy fingers and a scratch on one cheek and a crown of flowers on her head, but she seemed content. Happy, even. Mrs. Macready heard her singing to herself in a language she’d never heard before as Lucy skipped past her in the hall, leaving flower petals on the floor in her wake. Mrs. Macready couldn’t bring herself to tell the child to pick them up, and instead just left them where they were. 

More days and nights went by. One day it was Peter who went into the room with the wardrobe, bringing with him an old cloak of the Professor’s, and he was gone for quite a while. Thirty or forty minutes, Mrs. Macready would guess. When he came out, his shoulders were straighter and his chin lifted higher, but tears were dried upon his cheeks and his eyes were frightening. Noble and fierce, like the eyes of a king. The cloak still hung about his shoulders and made him seem almost like an adult. 

Peter never went into the wardrobe room again, but Susan did, a few weeks later. She took a dried flower crown inside with her and sat in there at least an hour, and when she came out her hair was so elaborately braided that Mrs. Macready wondered where on earth she had learned it. The flower crown was perched atop her head as she went back down the hall, and she walked so gracefully that she seemed to be floating on the air itself. In spite of her red eyes, she smiled, and seemed content to wander the mansion afterwards, reading or sketching or making delicate jewelry out of little pebbles and dried flowers Lucy brought her from the woods. 

More weeks went by. The children still took tea in the Professor’s study on occasion, but not as often as before. Lucy now went on her daily walks outdoors, and sometimes Peter or Susan, or both of them at once, accompanied her. Edmund stayed upstairs for the most part, reading or writing, keeping quiet and looking paler and sadder by the day. 

Finally he, too, went into the wardrobe room. 

He stayed for hours, hours upon hours. He took nothing in save for a wooden sword he had carved from a stick Lucy brought him from outside, and he didn’t come out again. The shadows lengthened across the hall and the sun sank lower in the sky and finally Mrs. Macready made herself speak quietly to Peter as the boy came out of the Professor’s study. “Your brother has been gone for hours,” she told him crisply, but she was privately alarmed, because Peter’s face shifted into panic and he disappeared upstairs without a word. 

Mrs. Macready followed him silently after around thirty minutes and pressed an ear to the door of the wardrobe room. Voices drifted from beyond. Edmund’s and Peter’s, yes, but she could also hear the soft tones of Lucy and Susan. 

“Why did he send us back?” Edmund was saying. It sounded as if he had been crying.  

Mrs. Macready couldn’t catch the answer, but when the siblings trickled out of the room an hour later, Edmund’s wooden sword was missing, and the flower crown Susan had been wearing lately was gone, and Peter no longer had his old cloak, and Lucy wasn’t carrying her lion figurine, and the four of them had clasped hands and sad, but smiling, faces. 

Mrs. Macready slipped into the room once they were gone and opened the wardrobe, and there at the bottom were the sword and the crown and the cloak and the lion. An offering of sorts, almost, or perhaps just items left there for future use, for whenever they next went into the wardrobe room.  

But they never did, and one day they were gone for good, off home, and the mansion was silent again. And it had been a long time since that morning that Mrs. Macready had found them all piled together in one bedroom, but ever since then they hadn’t quite been children, and she wanted to know why.

She climbed the steps again to the floor of the house where the old wardrobe was, and then went into the room and crossed the floor to the opposite wall. 

When she pulled the wardrobe door open, the four items the Pevensie children had left inside of it were missing. 

And just for a moment, it seemed to her that a cool gust of air brushed her face, coming from the darkness beyond where the missing coats used to hang.

[lazylittledragon]

ok i swear i'm not going to talk about my breakup forever but the thing that just keeps bothering me:

i know that not getting what you need in a relationship is a COMPLETELY valid reason to end it but also. i feel like having a very vulnerable moment where i opened up about my struggles with intimacy and being relieved that i didn't have to keep doing things i wasn't comfortable with, then being dumped a YEAR later because of my lack of intimacy. is something i should be allowed to be very hurt by???

[uncanny-tranny]

I think it would really benefit people to internalize that mental illnesses are often chronic and not acute. Some of us will never be able to jump the hurdle of managing illness, much less sustaining a sense of normalcy. Many of us will never "recover," will never manage symptoms, will never even come close to appearing normal - and this is for any condition, even the ones labeled as "simple" disorders or "easy-to-manage" disorders.

It isn't a failure if you cannot manage your symptoms. It isn't a moral failure, and you aren't an awful person. You are human. There's only so much you can do before recognizing that you cannot lift the world. Give yourself the space to be ill because, functionally, you are.

[laurellala]

A Shakespearean comedy of errors

bonus:

[black-and-yellow]

The walk home from UA

[hypewinter]

Bruce was busy sweet talking yet another heiress at the gala when he felt a tug at his suit. He looked down to see a child very reminisce of his own brood.

The child looked up at him with big blue eyes and asked, "Do you have games on your phone?"

[civetside]

Your Harrowhark is a stress ball they give out in company meetings. I want to violently throw her at a wall.

you know who ELSE wants to violently throw harrowhark nonagesimus at a wall

[yuwuta]

half of these tiktok relationship/break up/whatever pranks would not work on most of the jjk boys, but nanami is esp funny because he just becomes immune to it. you tell him you two should break up and he just sighs and nods, continues making dinner even as you flutter around him and try to start a fake argument. “kento, hello? i’m saying we’re finished!” and he just hums, and chops the vegetables, “that’s nice, dear. did you want red or yellow peppers this time?” 

[zuzu-draws]

[The Cursed, Unwanted Child: Ostracised by the Village]

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 119

Another divine twitch chat Au? Another divine twitch chat Au. With a bit of a twist. 

Billy would like to say it is in fact not his fault. It’s really not. Who hits someone with magic they obviously don’t know how to use? Well okay maybe he had done that before, but it’s not like he ever did it around other people where they could get hit! 

But someone was an idiot and now he’s here, as his normal ten-year old self kicking his legs while sitting in the Watchtower as the others argued. Apparently the League thinks he’s been de-aged, which is good as his secret isn’t out. 

The uh, issue is that something about the spell might have um, partially manifested the gods- or as he called them the Mediterranean Magic Men, if only because of how annoyed it made Zeus. Now everyone can see the chat that’s usually only visible to him and apparently it’s concerning. 

He doesn’t see how it’s an issue, Zeus has been silenced for the next hour and Hercules has been dying of laughter for the last three. Oh, wait, it might be from Mercury’s constant attempted flirting with Flash. …Or the fact they’re trying to convince him to commit a crime and he’s honestly down for doing so seeing as he’s a homeless ten year old who is down for getting clairvoyance and super speed for the next thirty minutes in exchange…

[odakota-rose]

so many gems in the Doctor Who script library the BBC just released but today I'm here in 4x02, The Fires of Pompeii

[trinketstar]

That one really cute fan song made me come around on funnybunny and now I'm realizing I just like ALL of the Pomni ships. At the same time even. Pomni just shows up at this crazy place and literally everyone including the NPCs is like "wow that girl is cute..."

(I just realized i didnt add zooble or kinger but tbf ive never actually seen those ships before... not that i couldnt hypothetically be talked into em.)

[bunnieswithknives]

Wolf doodle from school :3