#the urge to rewatch this show is such a painful thing

[homefryboy]

random lil factoids from the muppets abc.

-Kermit told piggy that airlines serve pre-flight calzones and got a calzone to her on who knows how many of her flights bc he--rightfully--thought she wouldn't fly w/o them / if she found out they weren't a thing

-floyd believes the earth revolves around the moon which creates winter (but also believes the moon doesn’t exist)

-Robin's ~30 yrs old, just still tiny

-piggy once somehow accidentally performed at a dictator’s bday party and he was so pissed he decimated a city. she and kermit only survived bc they hid in his pile of stolen art

-uncle deadly has apparently banged Gloria estefan

-on the farm where piggy grew up, pigs who got injured were taken away; over the yrs she saw her former friends and family served at bbqs and butcher shops

-scooter goes "whee!" every time he rides an escalator

-janice participated in building a wicker man

-uncle deadly has woven such a web of lies around piggy that she doesn’t know her dress size or age

-kermit hates pumpkin spice shit as much as the next guy

-animal can't handle life on the road bc he ends up laying too much pipe

[cuntyji]

LOVE IS A FOUR LETTER TUG ‪‪❤︎‬ RYOMEN SUKUNA X FEMALE READER

Synopsis: They say fate works in mysterious ways, but no one ever mentioned it could be petty, nosy, and just a little bit theatrical. Tethered by something neither of them asked for, two very tired people must now navigate a world where privacy is a myth, insults are practically foreplay, and the universe apparently thinks it’s hilarious. There’s no guidebook for this sort of thing — just a suspiciously persistent string and the overwhelming urge to win every argument, even if no one remembers what it was about. After all, love might be written in the stars… but this story? It’s scribbled in crayon and aggressively underlined in red.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, fluff with crack, red string theory with possible inaccuracies (this is my interpretation of it), (mentioned) yuuji, nanami, choso, geto, gojo, uraume but they're a cat (they/it pronouns), office worker! sukuna and reader, modern au, implied reincarnation/lovers in every lifetime trope

Note: red string art by vidhic0re on pinterest, red divider by enchanthings

‪‪✶⋆.˚ Ao3

You were never one for romance clichés.

Soulmates? Sounded like a scam from a desperate deity with too much time on their hands.

Fated love? Cute, if you're into spiritual tax fraud.

Red thread of fate? Sounded like something a drunk poet made up while tangled in yarn.

You’d entertained the idea once or twice — late at night, probably during your fifth rewatch of a trashy show, tears pricking at your eyes as two characters found each other across continents. Then the next morning, you’d stub your toe on the coffee table and remember that your only soulmate was pain and poor impulse control.

So you can’t really be blamed for not noticing it happening now.

Not with the humid press of bodies in the metro car, the stale air thick with too many armpits and not enough personal space. Your headphones had long since died, your patience hanging on by the fraying thread of your tolerance for humanity. And then —

Snag.

“—You fucking kidding me?”

You jerk around, already tensing for a fight. A man stands before you — or rather towers, broad-shouldered, impossibly tall, and stupidly pink-haired. Like, offensively pink. His eyes are sharp, crimson, and burning with indignation. Tattoos coil down his arms like they’ve got somewhere to be.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he’s already hissing, tugging at his shirt. Your watch, of course, is gloriously embedded in the fabric near his waistline. Because God, or fate, is an asshole.

“I didn’t do it on purpose, dickhead,” you snap, trying to free yourself without causing a striptease. “If you hadn’t shoved your way in here like you own the place—”

“Shoved?! You clung onto me like I’m your long-lost sugar daddy—”

“Please, you couldn’t afford me.”

He bares his teeth, and for a second you think he might just eat your soul for fun.

You yank. He yanks harder. Somewhere, a sleeve audibly tears. A grandma beside you makes the sign of the cross.

“Stop moving!” you shout.

“Then stop yanking like a rabid raccoon!”

And just beneath the chaos, something else stirs.

Delicate. Quiet. Crimson.

A thin, glowing thread coils out from the fabric of reality — slow, curious — like it’s stretching from an ancient nap. It slinks around your pinky like a cat testing warmth, then tugs itself toward his hand. Wraps, binds. Neither of you notice, too busy trying to kill each other with passive-aggressive tugs and very active-aggressive insults.

“Jesus Christ, your shirt’s made of velcro or what?”

“Maybe your watch is cursed. Did you rob a priest?”

“Why are your abs out—”

“Why are you looking at them—”

You both freeze.

Your faces are this close. Breath shared. You can see the specks of gold in his eyes. He can smell the faint shampoo in your hair. The train jostles again, and your bodies bump together, awkward and too warm. He blinks. You blink.

And that little red thread? It pulses once. Content. Smug, even.

It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like years. Years of verbal sparring, the kind that leaves mental bite marks and a permanent twitch in your eye. Years packed into that hellish metro ride — the suffocating crowd, the friction of bodies, and the absolutely unholy closeness of you and Sukuna, the pink-haired plague on your peace.

It was a symphony of irritation: your bickering crescendoed, echoing off the glass, punctuated by the occasional dramatic gasp (yours, because how dare he bring your mother into this?) and a startlingly feral hiss (his — honestly, who hisses like that? You still weren’t over it).

“Your mom should’ve taught you how to dress like a functional adult,” Sukuna had scoffed, voice sharp enough to pierce through metal.

“And your dentist should’ve filed down your fangs, Edward Cullen,” you’d snapped back, right before his pupils dilated like you’d just told him Santa Claus wasn’t real. He looked like he was ready to bite you. Like literally bite you. You wondered, not for the first time, if he was just feral or if the metro air made people feral.

And then — click.

Freedom.

Your watch finally popped loose from his clothes, the poor thing traumatized but intact. You both immediately fled to opposite doors like bitter divorcees pretending they didn’t share a Netflix password.

“I hope the next time we meet, I’m deaf,” you shouted across the train.

“I hope the next time we meet, you’ve been replaced by a potted plant — it’d have more brains,” he snarled.

You both stomped off the train at your stop, muttering curses like two gremlins banished from the underworld. Behind you, the invisible red thread simply stretched further, smug and undisturbed, lengthening itself like some magical slinky that refused to be cut. It trailed behind you both like the worst kind of cosmic joke, blissfully unaware that you were both one wrong word away from starting an actual fistfight in the middle of the platform.

After what felt like an entire saga of mentally cussing him out, climbing three flights of stairs because the lift was always slow, and mentally filing an angry complaint to the universe, you finally reached your apartment door. Peace at last.

Well, almost.

You turned toward the elevator, digging through your bag for your keys, and there he was.

There. He. Was.

Leaning casually against the elevator doors like a shampoo commercial gone wrong, arms crossed, pink hair gleaming under the shitty hallway lights, and that same smug little curve on his lips like the universe had just handed him your misery on a silver platter.

You blinked. 

He blinked back, slower, smugger.

“...Are you stalking me?” you asked, flatly, because honestly, at this point, what else could this be? He barked out a laugh, loud and sharp. “You wish. I’m moving in.”

You stared at him. Your brain short-circuited. Your soul left your body and came back just to kick you in the shin.

“What.”

“New tenant,” he said with a little wave. “Landlady said the floor had good lighting. Guess she forgot to mention the infestation.”

“Infest—infestation?!” You nearly dropped your keys. “I hope you fall down the stairs and land teeth-first.”

“I hope your kettle explodes next time you try to make tea, dumbass.”

You both glared — the kind of glare that had probably made old gods weep and babies cry. Somewhere, the elevator dinged softly, its doors opening to welcome one (1) petty pink-haired menace and one (1) emotionally done human.

You both stepped in without looking at each other. The red string followed, still wrapped around your little fingers, stretching gently behind you both — a silent, glowing third wheel that refused to take a hint.

Fuck your life. And fuck fate too, while you were at it.

You really, really thought the next morning would be better.

After the disaster that was yesterday — the metro, the snarling pink-haired gremlin, the revelation that said gremlin lived on your floor, and the fact that you now had to cohabitate oxygen with him — you’d gone to bed with the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that promised at least one thing would go right the next day. Just one. Just a sliver of peace, maybe, a moment of normalcy to prove that the universe wasn’t actively putting you on a hit list.

But hah. Nope.

Because you open the front door, step into the hallway in your slightly wrinkled work clothes, clutching the little baggie of food like a knight bearing gifts, and there he is.

Kneeling beside the apartment building’s most beloved freeloader — the white stray Uraume who ruled your collective lives with an iron paw and a fluffy tail — is Sukuna. Hair slightly damp like he just got out of the shower, wearing the kind of shirt that looks like it was bought solely to be hated, crouched down with a tin of wet food in his hands, and smiling.

Smiling. At Uraume, of all things.

Not at you. God no. His smiles for you usually look like they come with optional knives.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you blurt out, the cat food bag crinkling in your hand like even it is alarmed.

“Feeding the cat,” he replies without looking up, his tone smug, too casual, too comfortable. “What does it look like?”“It looks like you’re encroaching on sacred territory,” you snap, stomping closer like you’re about to perform an exorcism. “It’s Wednesday. My day.”

“They don’t know days,” Sukuna shrugs. “It’s a cat. They don’t give a shit if it’s Wednesday or the apocalypse.”

Uraume, for their part, is sprawled between you two like a tiny fluffy deity watching its mortal worshippers squabble, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking lazily as if amused by the sheer idiocy in front of them.

“They know me,” you insist, pointing an accusatory finger. “I bring them tuna. They purr for me.”

“They just purred for me,” Sukuna says smugly, leaning down to stroke their belly. They stretch like royalty, perfectly content. “Face it. They like me better.”

“They tolerate you,” you sneer, crouching down too, now both of you on either side of this indifferent god, cat food containers in hand like offerings in a duel. “Also, why are you using that cheap-ass brand? Uraume’s got a refined palate.”

“You feed a stray like they’re your tax-dependent,” he scoffs. “No wonder it acts like a brat.”

“Uraume is royalty.”

“Uraume has fleas.”

“So do you, probably.”

Uraume chooses this moment to pounce — not on either of you, but at the air just in front of them. They bat at something, paws swiping with focused glee, and you blink.

“...Is she high?” Sukuna mutters, watching as the cat wiggles their butt, springs, and lands on a very specific patch of empty hallway.

“Zoomies,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure. “They do that sometimes.”

Uraume keeps chasing something you can’t see — something red, something delicate, something that dances just ahead of their claws, curling through the air between the two of you. Something threadlike, and taut, and glowing — though not to your eyes. You both just keep bickering, oblivious.

“Seriously though, can’t you go menace someone else?” you grumble, finally standing and dusting off your knees.

“Can’t you find a new hallway?” he shoots back. “This one’s mine now.”

“God, you’re like a mold infestation.”

“And you’re like the stain on a public toilet seat.”

There’s a pause. Uraume is now gently gnawing on the air between your hands, satisfied. You look down. You look up. 

And, with a sigh, you finally mutter, “...What’s your name, anyway?”

He looks vaguely surprised, then smirks. “Sukuna. And yours?”

“Why? Gonna hex me with it?”

“Can’t hex someone without a name. Now cough it up.”

You tell him. He repeats it, rolling it around his mouth like he’s testing how annoying he can make it sound later. “Figures,” he says, straightening up. “Your name sounds like it comes with unsolicited opinions and a constant need to be right.”

“Your name sounds like a rejection email from a demon,” you fire back.

Uraume sneezes. The red string flickers, coils tighter. 

And neither of you still have any goddamn idea.

Despite your better judgment — and trust, it really was against every instinct for self-preservation that you had — you were starting to accept the possibility that maybe, just maybe, Sukuna wasn’t entirely the worst.

Not that he was good. No, you would never say that. If anyone ever dared to suggest that Sukuna had an ounce of decency in his entire six-foot-something frame of walking rage, you would probably burst out laughing and then list ten reasons why they should be on a watchlist. You were just… developing the world’s strongest tolerance, like some psychological cockroach capable of surviving nuclear-grade assholery. Yeah, that had to be it.

Because there was no way that Sukuna was a good person.

Not when he once looked old man Nanami in the eye — the sweetest, politest senior citizen in your apartment complex, the one who offered you coconut cookies every Thursday — and said, with no hesitation, "If your grandkid doesn’t shut up by 10 p.m., I’m gonna eat him. Protein is protein."

You were there.

You saw Mr. Nanami’s soul briefly leave his body while clutching little Yuuji, who was just trying to learn how to walk and scream at the same time. You were genuinely surprised Sukuna wasn’t served legal papers the next morning. (You think the only reason Nanami didn’t call the cops is because he didn’t know how to explain ‘My upstairs neighbor threatened to eat my toddler with his whole chest’ without sounding like he was the unhinged one.)

And it wasn’t just the elderly and the infants. Sukuna’s temper was democratic — he picked fights like they were his cardio. Someone sighs too loud? Fight. Someone stands too close in the elevator? Fight. Someone dares to exist within a five-meter radius while also having a smug aura? That was instant fucking fight. You’d honestly gotten used to hearing vague yelling down the hall and not reacting until someone used your name. That was the protocol.

But then there was Gojo.

White-haired menace. Lives somewhere close enough that the chaos occasionally spilled into your airspace. Visits Geto every few days, usually late at night, wearing clothes that screamed "I think rules are suggestions" and a smile that could probably trigger a lawsuit.

And every. single. time. Gojo entered your building, it was like watching two angry cats lock eyes across the hallway. Hissing. Posturing. Threats that sounded like they were ripped out of a trashy sitcom. Once, you woke up at three a.m. to actual growling outside your door.

“For fuck’s sake,” you’d yelled, groggily throwing it open, “Go home or kiss already!”

Both of them had frozen mid-snarl, their hands halfway to each other’s throats.

“Shut up, we’re not into each other!” they barked at you in perfect unison, like that wasn’t the most suspicious thing they could have said.But here was the kicker: he was never like that with you.

Oh, he was still rude. He called your music taste garbage at least twice a week and once accused your bathroom cleaner of smelling like a rotting lemon corpse. But he didn’t fight you. Not like that. Instead, he held elevator doors open with his back against the buttons like it was nothing, barely even glancing at you as you skidded across the floor with your laptop bag flapping behind you like a dying bird.

“You always run like the building’s on fire,” he’d mutter.

“Maybe I’m trying to escape your energy,” you’d shoot back, breathless.

He always told the trash guys to wait when you were sprinting down the stairs with two bags of waste in hand — one dry, one wet, both swinging dangerously. He’d lean against the rail and bark, “Oi, she’s coming,” before casually flicking his cigarette and watching you descend like a chaotic meteor of domestic failure.

“I could’ve managed,” you once grumbled, tossing the bags in as the garbage truck revved.

“You would’ve tripped and died. Then I’d have to feed your cat.”

“Uraume’s not even mine.”

“Then why does it hiss when I call them my cat?”

Touché.

He wasn't nice. He wasn't.

Not to other people. And not in a way that made it easy to like him. But maybe he was conveniently decent to you.

Probably because he wanted a favor someday. Or he was playing the long game. 

Or maybe it was just that he found your chaos mildly entertaining and liked being the one person who got to annoy you without being hit.

Definitely not because he liked you.

Right?

Right.

It wasn’t like you two would wait for each other by the elevator every morning. No, absolutely not — you were both far too emotionally constipated and aggressively independent to admit to something as wildly intimate as synchronized elevator rides.

And yet.

Somehow, like clockwork, you’d step out your apartment door and he’d be there — leaning with one shoulder against the wall beside the lift, arms crossed, coffee already in hand, expression set to his usual ‘who the fuck woke me up’ setting. And on the rare days you were early, you’d pretend you weren’t glancing up from your phone every five seconds just to see if you’d hear the familiar thunk-thunk-thunk of his heavy shoes dragging toward you.

You never greeted each other like normal people. God forbid.

“Oh look, the hallway’s ugliest plant finally bloomed,” you’d say sweetly.

“Aw, how cute. A raccoon in office clothes,” he’d grunt, stepping into the elevator first like the absolute bastard he was.

You two always made it a point to bicker through the entire ride, then all the way to the station. And then — just because the universe hadn’t punished either of you enough — you somehow took the same line to work.

It’d start off harmless — like Coachella 2025, which you both agreed was a walking tragedy, but couldn’t agree on why.

“I’m just saying, you can’t call it a comeback if the vocals sound like someone left a kettle screaming on the stove.”

“They were experimental vocals,” Sukuna huffed. “Not everyone wants the same autotuned garbage you listen to.”

“Says the man whose Spotify Wrapped had three songs Fetty Wap songs in it.”

“Hell yeah it did.”

Or you’d end up arguing over Nanami’s latest sweets — the ones he passed out in neat little boxes with origami on top and a handwritten note. And Sukuna, who had the nerve to say “This tastes like diabetes” with a scrunched-up face, had the audacity to later be caught in the act — crouched in front of the communal fridge, shoveling the leftover sugar-drenched delicacies into his mouth like he was trying to erase all evidence.

You stood at the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. 

“You want me to get you some insulin, champ?”

He didn’t even stop chewing. Just said, around a mouthful of icing, “Fuck off. It’s called recycling. I’m saving the planet.”

And your little morning routine would be incomplete without the stop at the rickety cafe around the corner — a shoebox-sized shop tucked beside a bookstore, smelling like toasted bread and too much cinnamon. The place was run by a sleepy-eyed, nose-ringed man named Choso, who you later found out was Sukuna’s cousin through what had to be divine punishment.

“He looks like he listens to sad violin music in the dark,” you once whispered.

“He does. But he also makes good coffee. Don’t let the existential energy fool you,” Sukuna muttered.

The place was always packed, but somehow, your order would be ready by the time you got to the counter. Tea for you, coffee for Sukuna. Every damn day.

Except for the one time the cups got swapped.

You didn’t notice until you took a long, scalding sip and promptly had your soul exit your body.

“Why does this taste like shit and caffeine?” you coughed.

“Because you’re drinking my coffee, dumbass,” Sukuna muttered from his end, eyeing your cup like he could will it back into his hands.

Neither of you had time to swap. So you just… drank it.

You were wired until 4 p.m., typing up emails like a possessed gremlin. 

Meanwhile, Sukuna? Snored in the middle of a team call. Snored. In his swivel chair. (He still claims the spreadsheet was boring enough to induce a coma.)

And maybe the most ridiculous part of it all was the way the day would end — with both of you pretending like you weren’t keeping an eye on the metro clock, waiting.

“You’re late,” Sukuna would grumble when you jogged up to him, hair windswept, tie lopsided.

“You’re still ugly,” you’d pant, and both of you would file into the train like two mismatched puzzle pieces forced into the same space.

And sometimes, between the back-and-forths and the sleepy evenings, the rocking of the train would lull one of you to sleep. And it was always the same — if he passed out first, head thunking against your shoulder, you’d just sigh and adjust your bag so it didn’t jab him in the ribs, pretending it wasn’t a little warm having his weight on you.

And if it was you, drooling slightly, head falling against him? He’d hiss a bit. Complain. Say things like, “Great. I’m a fucking pillow now,” under his breath. But he’d stay still. Wouldn’t shove you off. And he’d glare at anyone who even so much as looked at the seat beside you like they were thinking of sitting there, as if to say: “Touch her and die.”

And yet you both swore — swore — that none of this meant anything. Just morning routines. Just bickering. Just accidentally tolerating each other. Totally normal. Nothing weird about it at all. Right?

By the time the elevator dinged on your floor and the two of you stepped out, it was the usual symphony of tired bones and overworked brains, the air thick with the shared scent of corporate despair and too-sweet coffee you shouldn’t have had at 4 p.m., but did anyway. Your body ached, your bag hung off your shoulder like dead weight, and Sukuna was just behind you — jacket slung over one shoulder, shirt half-untucked, tie loose and mouth full of complaints he hadn’t started voicing yet. But then —

A tug.

Sharp and sudden, like a fishing line catching tension, like the universe pinched your pinky in a moment of bratty playfulness. Your hand jerked slightly, and you looked down, frowning.

And oh. There it was again. The string.

The same one you thought was a caffeine-induced fever dream. The one that had flickered into existence before, soft as spider silk and just as annoying, but now it was solid — scarlet red, humming faintly with a shimmer of something that felt way too personal and real. It wound snug around your pinky, stretched across the two feet between you, and found its twin grip around Sukuna’s hand.

And he was staring at it too.

His face was unreadable — which was new. Gone was the usual smug, twitchy grimace of a man permanently five seconds away from telling someone to choke. No, right now he looked… quiet. Contemplative. Like he’d seen this before. 

Like he knew something.

“Hey,” he started, voice unusually low, not his usual bark or snarl, but a drawl trying to reach for something softer, something that made your stomach twist unexpectedly, “There’s something I—”

But his words were promptly obliterated by the sudden thump-thump-thump-thump of tiny hands and knees against the floor.

A pink blur came barrelling up the stairwell like a demon on all fours — two-year-old Yuuji, in all his diapered, wide-eyed, suspiciously-strong-for-his-age glory. He practically launched himself up the final step and planted himself directly between the both of you, letting out a squeal of delight as he sat on the floor and began excitedly grabbing at the air.

No — not the air.

The string.

Your eyes widened as his chubby fists tried to catch the flickering red thread, cooing and giggling and babbling nonsense in toddler tongue as if the world’s most entertaining toy had just appeared before him.

“Reeeeddddddd!!” he crowed, crawling into Sukuna’s office shoe like it was his new throne.

You blinked. “Wait. You can see this too?!”

Yuuji looked up at you, beaming, nodding with the pride of a war general. “Pretty!”

“Oh fuck me,” Sukuna muttered under his breath, eyes darting toward the stairwell just as the loud clomp of formal shoes came echoing behind the kid.

Nanami appeared — flushed, panting, tie disheveled like he’d just run a full marathon in work shoes, one hand clutching the stair railing for dear life. He stopped dead when he saw where Yuuji had gone. 

“Oh thank God,” he gasped, bending slightly with his hands on his knees. “I thought I was going to have to file a police report.”

“Your kid just speed-crawled up three floors,” you pointed out, vaguely horrified.

“He does that. I can’t stop him. He’s like a golden retriever possessed by Satan,” Nanami said, coughing.

Meanwhile, Yuuji was now crawling in circles around the two of you, still trying to catch the red string, occasionally grabbing at your legs or Sukuna’s pants like the thing was taunting him. You and Sukuna exchanged a look — not your usual annoyed-glare combo, but a genuinely confused what the hell is going on look.

And again, you noticed the way Sukuna was looking at the string. Not shocked, not panicked. Just tired. Thoughtful. Like a man who had been putting off something inevitable and just ran out of time. You tilted your head. “Okay. What do you know that I don’t?”

He looked like he might say it. Really say it.

But then Yuuji yanked at the thread hard enough to make it pulse — and you felt it, a zap of something warm curling around your chest like it’d coiled straight through your ribs.

“What the hell?!” you flinched.

Sukuna sighed. Muttered something under his breath you didn’t catch. And then, looking straight at you, jaw tense:

“…I’ll explain tomorrow.”

“You better,” you hissed, heart hammering for reasons you refused to unpack right now. 

And behind you, Yuuji was still squealing with joy.

“Red! Red! Red!!”

Nanami quietly took out a juice box from his briefcase and bribed him down the hall. You couldn’t help but think he had the right idea.

Because if you thought the red thread was a joke, now you were the punchline.

And Sukuna?

You were starting to think he’d been reading the script the whole damn time.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been lying there — not really. The air in your room was heavy, too still, the kind of quiet that felt a little like grief, or maybe a little like denial, something sharp and slow and suffocating all at once. You were on your back, lights still on, phone somewhere lost in the folds of your sheets, your speaker untouched and silent for once — no pop music or shitty love songs to drown out the thoughts.

Just silence.

And the thread.

That fucking thread.

It glowed faintly against the backdrop of your ceiling, rising gently from your pinky like a tendril of smoke, an unwanted, uninvited thing that refused to leave. You lifted your hand, half-wishing it would vanish if you blinked enough times. 

It didn’t. It shimmered in the low light, stubborn and elegant, like the universe had decided it was feeling poetic this week and picked you as its tragic metaphor.

You gave it a slight tug, just to see.

The resulting sting shot through your finger like a spark, making you flinch — and from behind your wall, you heard him.

“Oi!” came Sukuna’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him, rough and indignant, like you’d just elbowed him in the ribs. “What the hell was that for, you—?!”

You immediately turned your back to the wall, rolling with a sigh so dramatic it could have won awards. You stared at your curtains, dull in the soft glow of streetlights outside. “Not now,” you muttered to no one, hoping the string would relay that too.

There was silence. Maybe for five seconds. 

Then another tug. Gentler this time. Hesitant.

You glared at the wall. “What?”

A long pause. And then:

“…You’re not gonna talk to me?” Sukuna’s voice came quieter now, like he didn’t know what to do with it either. “You’ve been quiet for hours. I thought you’d… I don’t know. Start yelling or something.”

You sat up a little, pressing the heel of your palm against your eyes. “Yeah well,” you muttered, “I’ve used up my yelling quota for the month. Thanks for that.”

There was a rustling on his side. A beat. Then another tug — not a sting this time, but something like a nudge, like a poke in the shoulder.

“I didn’t think you’d freak out,” Sukuna admitted, voice low. Too honest. “Figured you’d laugh. Say it’s stupid. Call it a dumb romance trope or whatever.”

You let out a shaky breath, pressing your forehead to your knees. “It is a dumb romance trope,” you whispered. ��Except now it’s… real. I can feel it, Sukuna. It hurts when you pull it. It glows. Why does it glow?!”

He didn’t answer for a moment. Then softly, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud:

“…Because it’s always been there.”

You froze. Slowly, you turned to face the wall.

“What?”

Sukuna exhaled — you could hear it, rough and frustrated, like he was mad at himself more than anything. “I didn’t… I didn’t know how to bring it up. I thought maybe I was just seeing things for a while. It didn’t show up for you yet. But I’ve—”

A pause.

“I’ve seen it. Since the day we met.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

He’d known? This whole time?

“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” Your voice cracked mid-sentence, sharp with something you didn’t know how to name.

“Would you have believed me?” he bit back, not harsh — just defeated. “You already thought I was insane when we met. You still think I’m insane. Imagine if I’d told you there was some red fucking magical string tying our souls together, huh?”

You opened your mouth to argue. He would’ve sounded completely unhinged. You dragged your hands over your face, trying to breathe through it. Trying not to feel like the floor had dropped out beneath you.

“What does it mean?” you asked, quietly now. “Why us?”

A long silence.

Then Sukuna, tired:

“…I don’t know.”

You swallowed.

“But it’s real, right?”

Another beat.

“Yeah.”

And neither of you spoke after that. But the string pulsed once — soft, warm — and for the first time, you didn’t tug back.

The days after that were strange — soft in the kind of way that crept up on you, like the first breath of cold after a long summer. Not that either of you would admit it, of course. Not in words, not directly. Sukuna still barked when you burned your toast too loud at six in the morning, and you still scoffed when he sprayed too much cologne and gave your sinuses a five-hour long panic attack. But even the insults were different now, frayed at the edges with something gentle.

When Sukuna left for work with his tie somehow inside out — you’d swear the man had to try to do that — you clicked your tongue, rolled your eyes like you wanted to stab him with a fork, then silently pulled it off and fixed it for him. He grumbled under his breath, as always, but didn't move a muscle while you smoothed it out. 

And when you tied your hair back with such rabid intensity that you gave yourself a headache halfway through lunch, he reached over the table without looking up from his phone, tugged the scrunchie loose with one hand, and shoved a protein bar into your other.

“Don’t pass out before five,” he muttered.

You didn’t even say thank you. 

You didn’t have to. The red string hummed for you.

And it was little things like that, really — like how you’d pick up his package when he wasn’t home, and he’d grumble and call you nosy, but then you’d find your favorite sour candy stuffed inside the handle of your apartment door.

Or how you’d snatch the umbrella from his hand because “You’re gonna get electrocuted holding metal near the power lines, stupid,” only for him to give you the umbrella in the morning again, saying it made your ridiculous frog print raincoat look less lonely.

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you were on the road.

And sometimes, you swore you’d been on it before. Like the rhythm of this whole mess felt familiar, not just in this life.

Maybe once you were a dog and he was a cat, and you spent your days yowling and chasing each other up fences, knocking over trash cans in the name of something feral and tender. 

Maybe once you were thunder and he was a crooked old mountain, always meeting, always crashing, never quite learning the other’s shape but staying anyway.

Maybe once you were two flowers growing on either side of a forest, reaching for each other across centuries of sunlight. 

Maybe once you were nothing but stories told by firelight, over and over, in every tongue — about the fox who chased the wolf through storm after storm, until both of them finally curled up together under one tree.

And maybe, just maybe, it was always you and him, clawing and biting and bickering and loving.

Because now, in this life, here you were again.

In a train too crowded for comfort, someone’s armpit too close to your face, someone else’s elbow poking your spine, and yet you were standing on your tiptoes just to peer through the sea of heads, holding up your pinky so the string between you would tug. Not hard, just a little nudge.

And across the crowd, Sukuna turned.

He was pretending to read the ads above the windows, face bored, mouth twitching like he was already planning to insult your taste in shoes or how your hair looked like it lost a fight with the wind — but when he felt the tug, his gaze softened, just a little.

Then he looked at you. And without a word, he tugged back.

You smiled just a little, and the train rolled on.

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds like it had been waiting all morning.

Inside, the red string pulsed with something warm.

And for once — for maybe the thousandth time across a hundred lives — you wouldn't have it any other way.

[wolvertooth]

what if, victor, logan and wade were all boyfreinds, all three cant die so they said fuck it

here u go anon. the 1st piece of sabes n wolvie fanart i ever drew(back in july 2023) after rewatching hulk vs wolverine, feat. deadpool(not my 1st wade, we had quite the history in highschool)

i think my brain is so gripped by sabrevine that it cant think of them being with anyone else.....but i'll give it a shot. for wades sake.

i do see them all as post weapon x survivor besties. and immortality homies.

wade is basically an honorary feral type, since he literally shares his dna with logans. wades an odd case, due his killer instinct being...natural. in a human way. he was born with the urge to kill n maim. which is different, but im sure they'd get to a point to trust him enough to wanna chat about it.

wade n logan would bond over their psychosis, even tho being fairly different experiences. i can see them also having a lotta smoke hangouts while logan just listens to wade rant

vic n wade would bond over their shitty dads, and also talk about being dads. as well as their merc lives and heavy knowledge of killing(infodump sesh on weapons)

all of them would bond over their memory problems.

group therapy would be a thing. calling out eachothers bullshit. problem with that being that logan would get ganged up on pretty frequently, and thatd piss him off....all 3 of them hate being told theyre in the wrong, logan getting frustrated by it the most. seriously, logan gets picked on a ton by these guys and thatd be something they’d need to sort out lol(maybe he enjoys the attention sometimes tho)

i kinda wish they showed more of wade n vic being buddies in the comics, since it was mostly in deadpool 2016 issues 8 - 12, showing when they used to work together and how theyre still sorta pals…..

i think both logan n vic see wade as someone they should take care of, mostly from the standpoint of having some age on him. bit like a younger brother. that does make wade kinda the odd one out, but hes got other lovers in his life at least(is his wife still alive? i havent caught up on the comics since like 2016)

they all share the burden of being cursed to forever deal with their fucked up brains, never being able to escape who they are, and that can make for some good sleepover conversations ig. like, its not even a lovers thing, its a ‘ur the fuckers im forced to spend eternity with, and even tho we all have in common the shit we hate about ourselves, im glad its with u’ type of thing

oh and theyre all pain junkies so u know the sex is freakyyyyyy

[eveningspirit]

Ive rewatched the Pitt again and I gotta say! I think my favorite headcanon I’ve come up with is that:

Langdon is Adhd and that’s why he���s so responsive and patient when it comes to Mel. Because to some extent he understands the ticks that she has because he probably has them.

Example: First episode when the patient has died and their doing a moment of silence. Langdon bounces up and down the entire time.

Not to mention through most of the show Langdon is seen always moving and or on his feet. Like he has to keep busy in the way the others don’t. But then again maybe it’s me projecting! Thoughts?

Hi and thanks for the ask, Nonnie. :)

ADHD can be very different in different people, and because we each judge by our own experiences, we latch onto different things. I say that to emphasize that your headcanon is absolutely valid, even if my response doesn't agree with this concept.

But that's simply because my ADHD is completely different (probably also because it's compounded by depression). This is the reason I'm looking for reasons of Langdon's... let's call it hyperactivity ;) -- in something other than hyperactivity disorder.

In general, hyperactivity in ADHD is not a feature on and of itself, but rather a coping mechanism for lack of dopamine in the brain. Some low-dopamine brains encourage their bodies to move, because movement (stimuli from proprioceptive system) makes brains produce more dopamine.

My brain mostly encourages hyperfixations, btw.. ;)

There's a large percentage of people who enjoy moving for reasons other than producing dopamine. Or, who feel pressured to move. I'm not yet headcanoning Langdon's addiction in any context, but for the purpose of this response I will--some medications create that urge to move in people taking them. Also, the need for a medication that the body is used to (or addicted to), can create that urge (as I was writing this post @silverhandy made a post arguing that Langdon exhibits the signs of withdrawal). And that is, imo, a more plausible explanation for Langdon's hyperactivity (restlessness, that's the word I was looking for, restlessness).

Also RedBull. He's drinking a lot of RedBull.

I'll admit that I have tried to find the reason for his hyperactivity in the context of chronic pain, and it's kind of a stretch? For one, the medications he might be on, do not hyperactivity cause. Stronger painkillers, as well as muscle relaxants (benzos) have a sedating effect, not stimulating.

The only way I see it making sense is, when a person who's in pain takes a medication that takes the edge off, or makes them pain free, they feel the joy of moving, so they want to do that more. See contrast between Langdon in Ep 3 and in Ep 7 (4 hours is about as long as Tylenol works):

But like I said, this is a bit of a stretch. The restlessness and anxiety from withdrawal seems to be the most plausible explanation.

I'm sorry that my response isn't a confirmation of your ask. :) But like I said, ADHD can vary from person to person. And I may absolutely be wrong in my headcanons.

[wayiiseetheworld]

50 Ways

{ Chapter Four }

Summary: Fifty Ways Jack Abbot shows his love.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x OC!Wife. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Depression. BiPolar. Medical inaccuracies.

Word Count: 2,837

Author Note: I am obsessed with Abbot, Robby, and The Pitt. Slowly going to post my stories from A03 on here. Rewatching ER and Animal Kingdom because of this show. Thank you so much for reading! || Not my gif.

Based off this Tumblr post : https://shorturl.at/a51iG

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64495642/chapters/165620575

Prev | Next

IV : “Can I kiss you?”

The sharp scent of antiseptics filled her nostrils, mingling with the acrid odor of what she assumed were cleaning chemicals that lingered in the air. The rhythmic beeping of machines thrummed in the background, interrupted by the muted conversations of medical staff bustling around her. A man’s voice pierced through her haze, saying, “I think she’s waking up,” though she couldn’t see the face attached to it.

Every sound reverberated in her mind, intensifying the pounding in her head and clouding her ability to grasp her surroundings. With a flutter, she opened her eyes, wincing as the harsh light assaulted her senses. Squinting against the brightness of the lights above her, she caught sight of a nurse's name tag, where the words "Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center" stood out above the name listed on the tag. Confusion washed over her, but yet the familiarity of the name brought her some sort of comfort, intertwined with the clinical environment, urging her to assemble the scattered memories of how she had ended up in this moment.

A slight moan of pain leaves her lips when she feels someone press up against her leg. She attempted to move her head, hoping to see the faces of those caring for her, but then she felt two unfamiliar hands gently restraining her. “Don’t move your head, okay?” A woman’s voice insisted, almost commanding. “I’m Doctor King. You are at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, do you remember what happened?”

Doctor King. I know that name, she thinks to herself, he’s talked about her. Everything she’s heard about her were good things, she was a second year resident, on track to becoming a senior resident. She is a caretaker, twenty-four seven between her work at the hospital and taking care of her sister at home. The woman on the gurney shook her head in response to Doctor King's question, unable to remember what had happened. She pondered silently whether the shift from night to day had already occurred. The woman mumbled, her voice sounded almost broken to her own years. “Abb…Abbot?”

“Abbot?” King echoed, her brow furrowing in curiosity. “Are you asking where Doctor Abbot…”

Melissa “Mel” King was mid-sentence when the doors to the trauma bay swung open, and Doctor Michael Robinovich—affectionately known as Doctor Robby—strode in.  Nurse Jesse van Horn walked in behind Robby. His commanding voice resonated throughout the room as he surveyed the team, firmly asking, “What do we have?”

“Mich…” Robby’s gaze shifted from the woman to the bed, where he had caught the first syllable of his name. He closed his eyes, a curse escaping his lips.

Mel glanced at the woman for a brief moment before replying to Robby’s question, his inquiry still hanging in the air since he’d entered the room. “The paramedics reported that she was struck while running. They found her alone on a side road, and we have no way of knowing how long she lay there or who she is. She does have a medical bracelet on her wrist indicating an allergy to penicillin, shellfish and lavender and a request to be brought to this hospital. Which I don't think I have ever seen on a hospital bracelet before.”

She took a deep breath and continued, “Regarding her injuries, she’s sustained multiple traumas: contusions and abrasions on her arms and legs, a suspected fractured collarbone, and we believe there’s a broken bone in her tibia. There’s also significant bruising across her torso. She’s exhibiting signs of a concussion, a loss of consciousness—and there's a laceration on her scalp that will need attention.” Mel's voice was steady, she moved herself away from the bed, taking a step back and moving to the back of the bed to allow Robby to move closer. 

“Okay—” Robby moved to the front of the bed, lowering himself to meet the woman in the bed’s gaze. “Oh oh no. Hi, Aila.” The woman on the bed managed a soft hello, and he noted the relief in her eyes at seeing him. It was comforting to know he could provide her with some sense of calm, even though she recognized no one else in the room, he would be there for her.

“Alright—” he continued, maintaining a soothing yet focused tone, acutely aware that any hint of panic wouldn’t help her. “I need to assess your injuries thoroughly, Aila. First, we’ll need to control the bleeding from that scalp laceration and call for neurology to evaluate you. Once we stabilize you, we'll order imaging to check for fractures and ensure there’s no internal damage. We’ll also get you something for the pain, okay?” 

He paused for a moment, locking eyes with her to provide reassurance. Aila seemed to be absorbing his words, and he anticipated a soft nod in agreement. Instead, a surge of anxiety washed over Robby when he noticed her eyes fluttering close once more.

Robby cast a worried glance over the bed at Jesse, urgency written all over his face. “Get Abbot, now. I know he’s in a meeting with Gloria in her office, but we need him here immediately.” His voice was resolute; he knew his best friend would want to be informed that his wife was on the table in the emergency room. He also recognized the close bond Jesse had with Aila—having met her years ago when she would bring food during night shifts for her husband and anyone else on duty, they quickly became friends after their initial encounter. “Hurry,” Robby insisted.

Jesse nodded sharply and sprinted out of the bay, his footsteps echoing on the sterile hallway tiles. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach at the thought of what was going on in Trauma One. Upon reaching Gloria’s office, he knocked loudly before stepping inside and interrupting the conversation between Gloria and Abbot. “Abbot, Aila’s here, Trauma One.”

Back in the trauma bay, the air was thick with tension. Aila’s eyes opened once more, her breath shallow and rapid. Robby leaned in closer, speaking softly yet firmly, “Aila, stay with me.” He noticed her attempt to nod in response. “I need you to focus. You’re doing great. Can you tell me how you’re feeling? Do you know what day it is?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.

“Day... not sure,” she murmured, her gaze darting around the room as she struggled to find something solid amidst the disorientation. She didn’t understand why she was so confused. “Jack... I don’t feel…feel... very good.” She was struggling to get the words out of her mouth.

Robby's heart sank. The mention of her sister stirred a sense of dread. “Jack’s coming, Aila. But I need you to stay focused on me, okay?” He attempted to distract her from the panic that rolled off her like a fog. “Just breathe. In and out. You’re in the best place you can be right now. We are taking care of you.”

Aila's breathing grew rapid, and Robby noticed a fear on her face that he had never seen before. He gently brushed his thumb across her forearm in an effort to reassure her. “Aila, can you feel your legs? Can you wiggle your toes for me?”

She hesitated for a moment, a tremor coursing through her lower body as she attempted to respond. After what felt like an eternity, she managed a faint but resolute wiggle in her toes. Her eyes met Robby’s, and she tried to form the name of her husband, reaching out for him. A wave of relief washed over him at the sight of the wiggle, though the relief was short-lived. Years of experience in trauma had taught him that visible movement didn't always reflect the underlying reality.

“Good,” he said softly, offering a gentle praise even as he continued to monitor her vital signs. “You’re doing really well, Aila. I need to know if you’re experiencing any pain.” Leaning closer, he maintained a calm and reassuring tone. “I understand you’re in pain all over, but can you tell me where it hurts the most?”

“Stomach…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Robby’s heart raced as he registered her discomfort. It had only been six minutes since she arrived in the bay. “Your stomach?” he asked, glancing quickly at Mel, who had shifted her focus from the clipboard to Aila, her demeanor serious. “We need to assess her abdomen. Mel, can we ramp up the monitoring? We need to rule out any internal bleeding.”

“On it,” she replied, deftly adjusting the equipment around them.

Robby's attention returned to Aila, who was now wincing, her fingers clutching the edges of her hospital blanket as if it were the only thing grounding her. He could see the effort it took for her to remain awake. “Aila, I’m going to examine your abdomen, alright? I need to check for any tenderness. Just a bit of pressure,” he instructed gently, lifting the blanket with care.

As his fingers made contact with her abdomen, Aila gasped, her expression twisting in pain, and a small yelp escaped her lips.

He swallowed hard, his stomach twisting at the sight of her distress. A curse flashed through his mind. “I know, I know. You’re doing great. Just hang in there.” His pulse raced; time was of the essence. “Mel, I’m concerned she might have some internal bleeding. We need to prep her for imaging and alert the OR to get ready just in case, alright?”

The doors swung open, and Jesse returned with a breathless Doctor Abbot at his heels. The moment he stepped into the trauma room, the air shifted. “Aila!” Abbot’s voice—an amalgamation of shock and fury—echoed through the sterile bay. Fear wrapped around his heart like a vice as he took in the sight of his wife prone on the gurney, her face pale and slick with sweat. He rushed to her side, but Jesse raised a hand, subtly indicating for him to hold back.

“Jack, Mel has contacted Garica and she should be here any moment,” Robby said in a soothing yet assertive tone. He noticed the growing panic in Abbot's eyes, the raw fear of a husband witnessing his wife in distress. “We’re doing everything we can, but it’s important for you to stay calm for her, alright?”

Abbot hesitated, his heart racing as he took in the surroundings—the IVs, the beeping monitors, the concerned looks from the medical staff, and the pain etched on his wife’s face. “What happened?” he asked, his voice trembling with a blend of desperation and anger. “Is she going to be okay?”

“We’re working on stabilizing her,” Robby replied, his attention divided between Aila and Jack. “She was hit by a car while she was running. There are several injuries, and we need to determine the extent of the damage before we can provide a clearer answer.”

**** **** **** **** 

The muted light of the recovery room filled the space, casting soft shadows that enhanced the peaceful atmosphere. Abbot sat slumped in a chair beside Aila’s bed, his head resting tiredly against a blanket, his hand resting gently over hers. Exhaustion had enveloped him, a byproduct of the anxiety and worry from earlier in the day. After receiving reassurance that Aila was stable following her surgery, he had finally given in to a light slumber at her side. 

Aila began to stir, her eyes slowly opening as she regained awareness of her surroundings. The rhythmic beeping of the monitor served as a comforting reminder of her survival, and as she squinted in the dim light, she became aware of a bandage snugly wrapped around her abdomen, along with pain radiating in her right leg and a sharp sensation in her shoulder. Confusion washed over her momentarily, but it was quickly replaced by a sense of calm as she recognized her husband’s familiar figure nearby, providing her with comfort.

“Jack,” she whispered, her voice raspy and weak but filled with longing for the man who always made her safe, her husband. 

At that moment, Robby, who had been standing at the foot of the bed checking Aila’s chart on the computer, noticed the faint flutter of her eyelids. Earlier, he had arrived a few hours before his shift to check on both Jack and Aila but had left after Aila’s surgery, only to be urged by Jack to go home and get some rest before returning for his seven am shift. Robby only slept a few hours before walking back into the hospital at five forty-nine am. A wave of relief washed over him as he saw Aila was awake. “Aila, you’re awake!” he said softly, a smile spreading across his face at the sight of her open eyes. He moved around to the other side of the bed, gently squeezing her shoulder to reassure her. “I’m so glad you’re back with us. How are you feeling?”

Aila’s eyes moved to where Robby was, the man could see the woman was exhausted.  “Jack?” She asks again, her voice was rough.

Robby nodded at Aila’s request. Robby shook Jack’s shoulders, “Hey, Aila is awake.”

Jack stirred at Robby’s voice. It took a moment for him to comprehend the situation. He roused himself from his doze, blinking against the soft glow of the room, and then focused on Aila. His heart raced as he straightened in his chair, the remnants of sleep fading away instantly. “Aila? You’re awake!” 

Aila managed a faint, weak smile at the sound of Jack’s voice, remaining still in the bed. “Jack…”

Jack’s breath hitched in his throat as he absorbed the sight of his wife. Her face appeared pale, a stark contrast to the vibrant woman he adored, but an overwhelming wave of gratitude surged through him that she was there, alive. “Oh, Aila…” he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. He leaned closer, resting his forehead gently against hers.

“Everything hurts?” Aila asked, unsure why the statement came out as a question when she clearly understood the sensations in her body. Her voice was barely above a whisper. The memories leading up to her surgery were a blur, and she struggled to make sense of what had transpired. “Why am I in the hospital?”

"You’re currently in recovery at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. You were struck by a car while running earlier today," Robby explained, maintaining a soft and gentle tone. "Jack, I'll be right back. I need to inform the nurses and doctors that she's awake."

Aila nodded slightly, taking in the information as she glanced back and forth between the two men. She watched Robby exit the room, then turned her attention back to her husband’s face. Jack's eyes were filled with worry and love, which made her heart ache, and her mind raced with concern that something might have happened to him while she was asleep. “You’re okay? Are you… you hurt?” she asked, her voice filled with concern for his well-being even in her vulnerable state.

A small chuckle escaped Jack’s lips, and he couldn't help it. “Always worried about me, huh?” She nodded slightly in response. “I’m fine, baby. My only concern has been you. You really scared me today. Maybe it’s time for you to get a gym membership. It would be much safer,” he added, gently brushing his thumb across her cheek, his heart swelling when he sees her lean into his touch.

“Okay,” she murmured, fighting the sleepiness that tugged at her. “I am tired, Jack.” The warmth of Jack’s hand that moved from her cheek to her hand tightened around hers, grounding her in a moment between anxiety and relief. 

"You can go back to sleep soon," Jack reassured her. "Just let the nurses and doctors check on you when they return with Robby, alright? After that, you can rest." 

Aila nodded in response to his words, but then another whispered plea escaped her lips, "Please don't leave me."

“Never.” 

A light flickered in Aila’s eyes, a mix of gratitude and determination. She wanted to push through the exhaustion, stay awake until the doctors and nurses could check up on her like her husband told her only moments ago. 

“Can I kiss you?” Jack asked, yearning to feel her lips against his. He thought that a momentary distraction, even a brief kiss, could help her. Aila nodded, the idea of a kiss from her husband sounding wonderful to her at that moment. He leaned in, pressing his lips gently to hers, moving slowly as a soft moan escaped her, a sound he cherished. He only pulled away when he heard the door to her room open. “Aila…”

She responded with a gentle smile. “I know. I know.” Just then, the door swung open, and a doctor and a nurse entered the room, their expressions focused and professional. Jack stepped back slightly, but in her eyeline to show he is not too far away, allowing them space to do their work. 

Today was a bad day but tomorrow would be better, Jack thinks to himself.

[tornrose24]

After finishing rewatching all of The Ghost and Molly Mcgee, these are my thoughts.

I think this is the one time in who knows how many years I’ve been invested in something that came from Disney. I haven’t seen this kind of passion project in a long time and sadly I don’t know if I’ll ever see that magic again for awhile, considering how Disney itself has suffered with many poor choices.

As for the show, a lot hits different when you know how it ends. Certain moments become a lot more meaningful with that knowledge.

I’d say first season was the better of the two. There was far more at stake and the story was building up to its climax in numerous ways compared to season two. The threat of The Chairman and the discovering of the duo’s friendship is very much felt in more episodes compared to Jinx.

Scratch’s character development is really noticeable in season 1, but in a way Molly’s is as well, given how one learns to open up and learn kindness and optimism while the other also needs to learn to open up in other ways, as well as grow into the wise, yet still optimistic teenager she becomes at the end of the show.

Season two… the stakes aren’t as great here. As stated by others, the Chens are overall not given much as a threat for season 2, and Jinx is used too sparingly so the penultimate season does feel a bit rushed. I honestly would have taken out some episodes from this season and replaced them with ones that could have addressed this, especially had the creators known they’d only get two seasons. Though of course they did not when starting out and it’s surreal to think that–had things gone right–we’d be waiting for season 3 right now.

However, I’m still sticking to my initial thoughts regarding ‘The End.’ I still don’t think it was necessary for Scratch to forget Molly.

The first problem is that this plot point is already one a lot of us are familiar with (I’ve seen it quite a lot in my case). Doctor Who used it (before it got changed), Spiderman No Way Home used it to a painful extreme, and Gravity Falls temporarily used it in its own finale. There’s a novel called ‘Just like Heaven’ that is a more romantic version of TGAMM, and it ended with memory loss as well (though the movie has a happier ending). I feel sad, but I also feel angry, which leads to my second problem.

Molly and Scratch’s friendship is the heart of this show. We were entertained and moved by it, as well as how far they would go for each other. So when Scratch forgets, we feel Molly’s pain as observers to her and Scratch’s story. We want Scratch to live his life as a human, and we wanted him to go out and see the world, but he should NOT have had to forget Molly in exchange. I know we always have to say goodbye and that there are some people who were special to us that we might/will never see again, but dear lord, being forgotten is a certain type of pain that hurts even worse. 

Rewatching/remembering certain scenes is now more painful, knowing now that Scratch will forget them. Him saying that he’d hate to forget Molly was too cruel. When I was getting cloer to revisiting ‘The End’ I was feeling reluctance to continue on, and not just because I was almost done with the re-watching. When Scratch merged back with his body and the screen turned to white, I had to fight the urge to shut the episode down and pretend things went differently. That’s how much it hurts when it’s not just a casual viewing. I know these characters ultimately belong to someone else, but I wouldn’t want to put them through that kind of suffering.

Had I been in charge of the show, but kept the idea of ‘taking risks is what makes if worth living,’ I would have used one of two different endings. One where its the same, but Scratch remembers Molly. The other would have been a time skip, when Scratch returned to Brighton with Adia and he reunited with Molly who is a little older but is still the girl he knew.

But… I do appreciate the small ray of hope that was given. That Scratch’s behavior as a human and certain use of words–as well as calling Molly by name despite supposedly never hearing it before-fuels a lot of hope that one day Scratch will remember and he will reunite with Molly one day. That even a few writers proposed a reunion story where Molly hugging Scratch would trigger his memories to come back gives me hope that there's still a possibility in that story. (If anyone tells me I'm stupid to be thinking those things, please don't because I care about those characters THAT much.)

Until then, we have aus, what ifs, and fan fics to fix that.

So… I don’t know when I’ll rewatch the whole show again, given the emotional toll. I’ll still revisit some episodes and scenes. But I’m grateful that Disney allowed this show to exist–it deserved more love and attention. If this had to be the very last good thing to ever come out of Disney, I’ll take it.

[polaris-stuff]

Hey, its the anon that was holding out hope and not see it as the family abodoning moon after the lakes episode.

And now this episode...oof.

I am...so hurt. But I am hurt for the both of them. I have a feeling I am gonna see a lot of people be very angry at Sun very soon.

But I sat there watching the episode. And rewatching it. And I am crying for both of them. I see two people that love each other. Hurting each other to protect them.

I don't think sun is taking any joy in these actions. I bet he knows it's a mistake. But can't stand to be in the same room with him and is doing the only thing he can. Even if it's objectively awful.

My thoughts aren't in order yet. Dunno where I am going with this. But I have a feeling I am gonna see a lot of sun hate. But I am gonna stand behind his desission (even if I think it's not something he should do. I see how the character in his current emotional state would)

And I stand behind all the pain people are gonna feel at this betrayal. Cause they should help Moon. they should know.

Moon is self destructing so so so hard. I want my Happy show back. And I hope. I really hope that the writers got plans to fix this mess. Cause the more it goes on. The more I am afraid they'll write themselves towards a corner where a 'fix' could feel like a redcon

I hope you, and people that had hoped for sun to pull him through are doing okay. I don't think this is what either side wanted.

Take care of yourself!

-Noffy

Ngl, It hurt me so much to see Sun abandon Moon in the cell. And strangely, it seems like everyone is celebrating Foxy for wanting to kill New Moon and bring Old Moon back ??

I still have faith in Sun, even if it's little, the way he acted at MGAFS today hurt me so much. You can hear the pain and the urge to cry in his voice. Foxy was an idiot today. Pushing and prodding Sun to decide what to do at that moment and when Sun told him "we won't do that", Foxy just told him that it was for the best. ?? So why the hell are you asking Sun's opinion, Foxy, if you're still going to want to make your plan!

I'm mad, i'm sad, i'm smad

[chirpingchorus]

Alphonse elric 25 & 26 please!

I took forever to answer this one, but I need you to know I woke up super tired and seeing this got me out of bed this morning. That, my friends, is the sway Al has over me.

25. What was your first impression of this character? How about now?

Oh man, oh man... I don't remember my impressions of him from the very first episode, just that I really liked both of the Elrics. I had the feeling starting from a few episodes in that he was going to die, and have fond memories of looking at thumbnails for future episodes and breathing out a sigh of relief upon seeing he was still intact. During the confrontation with Scar in ep. 15, my jaw was on the floor and I legitimately thought he was a goner. That episode had the first Al Moment (TM) that really got to me, when he urges Ed to keep fighting even if he dies, and gets upset at him for staying to try and save him instead of fleeing. That scene says so much about him, and I love thinking about it in regards to the show's ending.

My initial impression of his personality was just that he was a gentle giant, and Ed was the impulsive and violent one. In the 5th Lab, he begs Ed not to make the Philosopher's Stone, even though it means he'll die. This gave me the impression at first that he really didn't like the idea of killing/harming others, but looking back, I think it's more that he didn't want to force his brother to go through the trauma of killing dozens of people just to get his body back. He really wants his body back, yes, but he values Ed's safety and sanity more overall.

Al, as it turns out, can be quite cruel at times for the sake of his brother--I'm reminded of when he suggests they just. Rip off Wrath's limbs and give them back to Ed. Because that's how limbs work. It was really at that point in my first watch that I started to see how Al's unfortunate disconnect from humanity could be impacting the way he sees the lives/feelings of others. My gut feeling is that if he were somehow in that 5th Lab position where he could make the philosopher's stone not only to save Ed but to restore Ed's body, he would absolutely do it, even if it would cause him distress. There's a lot more I could say about the 'deeper' parts of his personality that others have elaborated on with far better understanding and knowledge. But he's Not Well and I'm 100% here for it.

More of my opinions now: On my rewatch, I'm noticing how painful it is to see this kid in a huge suit of armor. The scene where he pretends to eat food for Nina while Ed just has the saddest look on his face? That killed me. He can't relate at all to the feeling Ed had as he felt Barry was about to kill him. He thinks the best way to avenge Nina is to use Tucker's research to prevent future cases like hers. He points out in episode 5 that (even before joining the military!) the brothers had no control over what happened that day. Bonus amnesiac Al point: He says in CoS super nonchalantly that his soul seems to leave his body easily!?! Girl!!!!!!

I'll hopefully have a better grip on his personality once I'm done with my rewatch, but there's something about it I can feel but can't quite articulate that just draws me in like nothing else. In case it isn't obvious, I'm pretty darn sure Al is my favorite character this time around.

26. What's something the character has done you can't get over? Be it something funny, bad, good, serious, whatever?

I already talked about a lot of these, but I have more--we'll do a few serious ones and a funny one.

Ep. 6 - He says, "I wonder if I was that warm and soft when I was born." Then starts to cry a little. (I hate this show, I wrote down in my notes.)

Ep. 1 - It's a very small detail, but Al seems to believe resurrection could still occur with the Philosopher's Stone, while Ed doesn't buy it for one minute. This reminds me of Al's similar hopeful attitude in episodes like 10. I think he has a habit to look at things as they're given to him and not much further, as long as they make him happy--of course the Stone should have all those powers, and of course a woman just like his mother would be incredibly kind. He's very much the type to march on ahead no matter what and ignore the implications of doing so. That's not to say he's stupid--I don't think he is. He's quite introspective and insightful, he just chooses not to dwell on some things as he tries his best to reach his goals. Maybe I'm a bit closer to understanding him now...

Ep. 5 - Alright, a silly one. When he's about to beat up the criminals and he appears all menacing and says, "いらっしゃい" ("welcome"), that got a great laugh out of me. He's so silly.

[bookworm-1196]

I finished rewatching season 1 of Shadow and Bone. It was fun but I’m not feeling the immediate urge to watch season 2, so this will be the extent of my rewatch for now. I feel like the hype of the cast being so perfect for their roles and the stunning visuals etc really made my opinion of the show during my first time watching (early 2022 I believe) be that it was the best TV show I had ever watched (I say this about every TV show I love : Lockwood & Co, Friends, PJO, Heartstopper… although those are all strong contenders for my favorite TV show of all time).

This time around, I watched the episodes at a slower pace (around one a day) and while I did still have a lot of fun watching the show, and while I am still devastated we won’t be getting a Six of Crows spinoff (the list of amazing things we will never get to see onscreen makes me want to pull all my hair out), it’s not my favorite TV show of all time. Adding the Crows into the plot line was fun, and they were certainly a highlight, but I do feel like a person who hadn’t read the books (say, my dad) would have been extremely confused about how they fit into the plot and why their story was relevant (especially Nina and Matthias).

My favorite things about Shadow and Bone :

-Malina (childhood friend to lovers who would go to the ends of the world for each other, what more is there to say? I actually shipped them more this time around than when I read the Grisha trilogy or watched S&B the first time)

-badass women (Alina Inej Nina Zoya Genya)

-the dynamic between the Crows, my beloved found family (and don’t even get me STARTED on the Kanej scenes. Quite understated in this season but I was still screaming and freaking out)

-the amazing special effects and the gorgeous settings like the wilderness, the sets… it felt so immersive

-the tiny little GenyaxDavid scenes we got like the “Ingenious” and them looking at each other at the fete when the other isn’t looking… they deserved better in the second season

-friendships (Jesper and Inej !! Alina and Genya !! Jesper and Milo !!)

-that scene with Jesper in the train shooting volcra while holding Milo the goat. Iconic

-the heist the Crows did to steal the Little place blueprints. Devastated that that’s the closest we might ever get to seeing the Ice Court Heist bc they executed it so smoothly etc… what a missed opportunity

-I feel like Nina and Matthias’s enemies to reluctant allies to almost lovers was way too fast and a bit unrealistic in that sense, but I did love their storyline so much and it’s so sad we won’t get to see them get together (although it does save me the pain of witnessing chapter 40 of Crooked Kingdom adapted onscreen)

I probably have a lot more thoughts to share but as of now I can’t think of any. Might post a part 2.

[seeasweetsmile]

To my miraculous fans followers

I'm sorry but more the serie continues, more I’m turning myself into the dark side (aka the ml salt).

Maybe you saw that I didn’t reblog gifs from episodes since S4 (just a few) like I did for S1-S3 and to be honest, the wait between seasons/episodes and the way I’m slowly detached myself from the show to discover others cartoons or animes didn’t help either.

For S4 and mostly S5, the traitement of the characters, the Ladynoir/Adrinette chaotic relationship, the way Lukanette and Adrigami were killed at the first two episodes of S4, Marinette’s hypocrisy, Gabriel’s madness and his growth grudge towards Marinette, Chloé’s caricatural treatment, Lila being mastermind, no adult has a brain anymore, even if there’s globaly good ideas and so much potential, the fact they were awkwardly or badly executed were a pain to watch.

And you know what is the most painful? I loved that show.

Because is that : I loved that show.

It’s been 7 YEARS (almost 8 years in september if I remember correctly) since the serie debut, and like so many fans, I grew attached to the worldbuilding, the characters, the bond between all of them, the humor or the banters, the lore about the miraculous, the design of the superheros and the supervilains, their powers and how complex/funny/interesting they were... and if you have the inevitable urge to read/write fanfics, look/create the fanarts, or even read analysis/meta post about the episodes, you grow even more attached to the characters and the show!

But when you watch from a objective point of view, you realize there’s so much problems consistency issues (I don’t list them, others fans on tumblr and salty hashtags do it better).

Like I said in a previous reblog, if the writers didn’t want to make episodes just for shocked the viewers (remember when they said each episodes of S4 were equivalent of Chat Blanc??) because all the excessive drama around ladynoir or adrinette, if they didn’t push these things to the extra way, if they didn’t get anyone involved (Alya, classmates, adults) to tell Adrien and Marinette what to think or what to do, it could have been so much better. I firmly believe that friendship is a fondamental piliar to any relation. Adrinette started with a good way (cf origines), but they shaped Marinette into another girl who idolazed Adrien without sincerly knowing him (and when they start to give Marinette some retrospective of her behaviour, what we got? we got Alya to tell her she kNoW AdRiEn instead of listening genuinely her best friend and step back), and Adrien, even though he sincerely liked Marinette and held her in high esteem, he ends up becoming the perfect boy madly in love with her who forgets everything as soon as she is in his field of vision or as soon she breathes. If the others characters had LISTENED to Marinette when she questioned herself and preferred to remain friends with Adrien because she realized she didn’t fully know him, and if the others characters had LISTENED to Adrien when he told them he wasn’t agree with their crazy plans (they didn’t listen and the MCs sighed, abandonned their spine column when the classmates insisted a little bit too much), I repeat myself ; it. could. have. been. so. much. better.

To leave Marinette and Adrien figuring out how to do the things at their own rythm. Instead of a healthy, good and solid friendship that transform into romance, we get a forced ship. Because “ThEy MaDe FoR eAcH oThEr” like everyone said in millions times (I was temped to rewatch since the beggining to counts exactly how much the characters say this stupid sentence but I’m not strong enough). And they say this as if we were dumb and we didn’t know Adrinette was the endgame since day one.

Also, another thing that bug me : since S4 to S5 –and I don’t know if anyone felt that– but I have this distrubing impression that Marinette and Adrien mostly  were just puppets in the theater/playhouse and they didn’t have a soul. Sometimes it push me out of the show when I watch the episodes.

Anyways, if you made it until here, thank you for reading my rant post. Two more episodes to left for S5 that will air early july (I read the script of the finale and boy...) and I still don’t know if I will watch the S6. With Gabe and Chloe out of the picture, Lila stepping as main vilain (still wait for her background) and Emilie being here, maybe they’ll do something correct ? But as I said in a previous post, if I watch the first few episodes and if it irrated me, I’ll stop.

I’m tired to hurting myself.

[kazesauce]

TWD:DD Rewatch Recap Ep 3

I'm rewatching the first season of TWD: Daryl Dixon to look for anything that stands out now that we know all the characters and how the season ends. The third episode gets into the meat and potatoes of the plot and character interactions. As usual, strap in or scroll on. Ep1 Ep2

Fallou and Quinn

They both lead a small community and are adept at playing whatever angle they can to get what they need. Fallou is a commanding presence that knows when to be forceful and when to be gentle, while Quinn is a self-serving, materialistic scumbag that uses his charisma to manipulate people into doing his bidding. Fallou knows how to navigate the underbelly of Paris, but he isn't part of it like Quinn is. They both save Daryl's bacon at some point, but Quinn's sins are punished with a slightly redemptive death. Fallou's only flaw is believing Losang isn't full of it.

Codron and Genet

Codron cut an intimidating figure walking down the tunnel to go meet Genet, but his face showed a terrified man trying to act tough. Genet was skeptical about hiring him to find Daryl until she saw how passionate he was about avenging his brother's death. She found the easy button to manipulate him, or so she thinks. Genet showed Codron the walker experiments Daryl disrupted and he is disturbed but undeterred. Another tally on the wall of why he ends up turning in the finale.

Daryl and Isabelle

The first half of the episode is Daryl being fed up with Isabelle lying about radios. The one at the abbey was broken, the one in Angers had been dismantled by a lunatic to create an inventively macabre walker orchestra, and the third place actually used homing pigeons instead. After suppressing the urge to throw Isabelle off the roof, Daryl was ready to leave and try to find the way home on his own until Fallou and Isabelle stopped him and said they could still help.

Isabelle took him to her apartment to gather her stash of drugs and stolen goods to barter for a trip home for Daryl, and they talked obliquely about their lives before the outbreak. Isabelle was trying hard to connect with Daryl, but he was staying politely distant. What made him finally soften towards Isabelle was her obvious pain and guilt over abandoning Aimee and seeing her as a walker trapped in overgrown vines.

When Quinn reveals himself to be Laurent's father and starts aggressively manipulating Isabelle, Daryl goes into full blown savior mode and removes her from the situation. Isabelle is livid and they fight in the catacombs. It almost feels like Daryl is fighting with Isabelle while simultaneously reliving his fight with Carol. Isabelle said she could handle it, and Daryl said everybody has something from their past they're trying to run from and she's not really mad at him. This felt like things he wishes he would have said to Carol, to be compassionate toward her desire to run away and to admit that he wasn't really mad at her, he was mad at how his fear of losing her physically and emotionally made him feel. Isabelle, however, informed Daryl she was actually mad at him for dragging her to Paris because all he cares about is his promise (to Carol, we find out in Ep5). She said they weren't the same and admonished him for taking over and trying to save her, that she only asked for his help, not for him to be a hero because she doesn't need one. Daryl just scoffed because he had no response. He thinks protecting people from the hard things is being a good friend, but really he needs to support them through the hard things. In Carol's case, he doesn't understand why she's reluctant to open up to him (Rick's words in Indifference), which leads to him being frustrated and feeling rejected. I hope with all of my soul that Carol finding Daryl in France finally convinces him that she loves him and wants to be in his life forever, and Daryl reacts to seeing her with exuberance and gratefulness that finally convinces her that he will love her forever, no matter what.

Isabelle, Laurent and Daryl

I thought the fable of fortitude about 'the woodsman who wanted to die but had a change of heart when death came so asked for help with his burdens instead' was going to be meaningful, but I have a different take now. Both that fable and Laurent declaring Daryl will not die in Paris are meant to make Daryl and the audience question whether Laurent is special. The fable doesn't apply to Daryl's situation or mental state at all, and confidently proclaiming the titular character will survive is as risky as declaring the sky will be blue tomorrow.

When Laurent is being greeted reverently and given gifts at Fallou's place, Daryl makes a comment about how much pressure Laurent is under and Isabelle responds with “God chooses our burdens.” No, lady, the burden placed on Laurent to be treated like and behave like some kind of savior is entirely earthly. Sonia, the inconsolable widow, allowed Laurent to hug her because she's been told he was special, not because he actually is.

Daryl attempts to sneak away at the end of the episode because he no longer feels wanted or needed, and they aren't doing a good job helping him get home anyway. Isabelle invokes Laurent to try to manipulate Daryl into staying. Daryl is unswayed, but tells her she needs to tell Laurent the whole truth about him and his parentage so he can decide for himself if he wants to continue to play the role of humanity's gift from God. Isabelle's weak response is that Daryl just doesn't understand how special Laurent is. Daryl says Laurent isn't special, he just got lucky and lived, and she just needs Laurent to be special for her own reasons. Isabelle has a weird smile on her face when Laurent hops out of bed screaming that they did this and he hates them both before running away. Turns out Quinn led Codron to the American, so Daryl's attempt to leave is thwarted yet again. He's thrust back into being Isabelle and Laurent's duty-bound protector, but now his desire to help them runs a bit deeper than the deal they made at the abbey.

Carol Connections

There was a tiny woman with short gray hair manning the weapons locker at Fallou's place, so shout out to her.

There were multiple shots of the Carol-like knife during Daryl and Isabelle's escape from her old apartment building and his fight with Codron, including two shots where he dropped the knife and recovered it yet again. Daryl fell through a glass roof like a cartoon character and still managed not to lose the knife. It's so frequent and obvious it has to be symbolic.

The pigeon man, Antoine, was adorable and his line “Maybe he has a girlfriend, we all have someone who waits for us somewhere” was followed by a shot of Daryl bowing his head in sadness in a frying pan reminder of Carol and his promise to her.

Isabelle and Daryl see “The Water Lilies” and Daryl says it reminds him of home, lingering by it even after Fallou called them away. My mind was immediately filled with memories of Daryl and Carol sitting by the pond talking. I can't think of a single non-Caryl scene at a setting that resembled that painting.

Odds and Ends

A French cover of “Strange People” playing while they're walking past Jim Morrison's grave was a great choice.

The Demimonde looks a lot like The Third Rail from Fallout 4. I guess all apocalyptic nightclubs have the same aesthetic.

I had a theory that Codron was Laurent's real father, so Quinn's reveal absolutely blew my socks off. All of Laurent's on-screen family members have light, straight hair, so there's part of me keeping hope alive that Lily had a romp in Marseilles with Stéphane with the dark, curly hair.

Isabelle explained that people joined The Cause because after the outbreak they needed to cling to order. Daryl quipped “or God”, earning a stern glare from Isabelle. Daryl equating The Cause and The Union of Hope feels like foreshadowing that The Union of Hope isn't wholly benevolent.

[whimsicallyenchantedrose]

Season 2 Rewatch Drabbles--2x17 Welcome to Storybrooke (Bonus)

Summary:  A series of 100-500 word drabbles to accompany my    rewatch of season 2 of Once Upon a Time as an attempt to finally jump    start the muse again.  There will be a drabble–either a deleted scene, a    “fix it” fic or a character musing for each episode of the season.     Focus will be on Emma, Henry, the Charmings and Killian–with an    emphasis on the very beginnings of Captain Swan’s epic love story, as    soon as a certain dashing pirate makes his appearance.  

Word Count: 439

​​

Other Chapters: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21-22) (22)

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Note: I had two ideas for this week’s rewatch drabble and I couldn’t decide which one I wanted to go with, so surprise! You get a bonus chapter this week!  As I watched this week’s episode, I couldn’t shake the thought that Graham deserved better.  So much better.  He didn’t fully realize it until Emma showed up, but I can’t help but believe he had moments even before when he sensed that something just wasn’t quite right.

He’d dreamt of the wolf again.

The dream was incomplete, no more than a jumble of images, a feeling of freedom, but the wolf was always there, his guide and companion.

It was such an odd dream.  As the sheriff of a small town in Maine, he’d seen the woods, of course, but he’d never seen a wolf, and certainly not one with a bright red eye like the one in his dream.

Graham knew in his head that he had a good life.  He had a satisfying job, a girlfriend, a sleepy little town full of residents he liked.

But every now and again, he couldn’t shake the sense that he wasn’t truly happy.  Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what.  It was like that nagging feeling when you know there’s something you should remember–something important–just at the tip of your tongue, but you just can’t access it.

Yesterday had been one such day.

He’d been going about his normal routine, reading the paper as he sipped his morning tea, when he’d had the strongest urge to go to find the newcomer–Kurt Flynn–and detain him for drunk driving.

He’d tracked the man to Regina’s office and had just started to take the ranting and raving man into custody when suddenly the man shoved something off of Regina’s desk and Graham had felt a sudden, intense pain in his chest, a pain so strong it dropped him to his knees.

For a moment, for just one single moment, he’d been confused, suddenly wondering what he was doing.  This man wasn’t drunk driving; he wasn’t even driving.  Why was he so compelled to arrest him for a crime he obviously wasn’t committing?  He didn’t want to do this; it wasn’t his choice.  How many other times had he been compelled to do things that he didn’t truly want to do?  Why was this happening?  Was he losing his mind?

But then Regina had retrieved the small wooden box and returned to it some sort of red, glowing object that Graham hadn’t gotten a full glimpse of, and his mind cleared once again.

He had a job to do.  He had to detain Kurt Flynn for drunk driving and keep his son Owen from leaving, no matter what it took.

He got to his feet and gave chase.

Now, this morning, he puzzled over the entire affair for another moment as he laid upon his bed trying to fully wake. 

But then his mind went once again blank.  He suddenly somehow knew that Regina wanted him to make a stop at her house before work.  He best get to it.

                                                                                    NEXT CHAPTER-->

[textualviolence]

um what else am i currently or have ever been ashamed of or felt pressure to disavow ummm...

i liked good omens both seasons. Writing on season two couldve been better but those two actors have good chemistry & comedic timing its entertaining to watch them on screen and the little cringe love story did tug at my heartstrings a little like i do care what happens to them.

I was also very much a bbc sherlock fan during the peak of tjlc and i believed in it with all my heart and when the last episode of s4 came out i was in denial for 4 months and then i pretended id never heard of the show in my life for the following few years...hbomberguy made a whole video calling me a stupid idot loser for falling for it and it felt like a knife to the heart. & you know what i rewatched it recently with a lightened soul & no karmic debt & now recognize the pain behind the vitriol cause he was clearly also a disappointed fan though i could not see that at the time. maybe not tjlc who's to say but he loved bbc sherlock & hated himself for that once the last episode came out and we all realised it was bad its pretty obvious in the way he talks about steven moffat like an ex-lover who betrayed him. But i think its not even bad i still like it ill rewatch it and have a good time,

and yes i am a johnlock shipper. those ugly british men have a handle on my psyché though with the shifting tides im feeling like i would enjoy a wider range of pairings and themes from that show. I am generally very susceptible to outside influence when it comes to these things its part of why i find it hard to ignore when the trends oscillate wildly between loving something absolutely and hating it with a passion i find it very tiring because i feel it in my heart as if the urge came from the inside...sometimes something is just okay and its okay to like it an average amount without having to wildly overcorrect to atone for having liked it more than it deserved. maybe i was too intense about bbc sherlock and got my heart broken even though it was obvious i was projecting something that was not there on a cryptic blank screen, and so it is mostly my own fault but i don't have to hate myself for it either its all fine.

Loving something a little too much and being heartbroken when you realise it wasn't actually what you thought is painful but its part of life its not something to bury into the earth its fine....and im uncool to the extreme ive never been cool not once in my life im sort of embarrassing in most of the things i do and say and thats okay too i don't have to change because i can't anyways and besides its not hurting anyone. I'm literally a theater kid and theres something very freeing about being in the middle of a gaggle of nerds well sort of like being a tumblr blogger but the two balance each other out. I can't be cool on here because im a theater kid to my core in real life in the hamilton fan sort of way and i can't be cool in really life because im literally a tumblrina of the superwholock variety and in both there is a kind of peace and relief knowing that i will never have to be cool and am always lamer than most people around me at least in my heart of hearts...

[myloveinpieces]

goodbye

my dear,

it has been a while since i wrote to you. a few days feels like forever when you consume my mind.

my first urge after my day was to call you about it. tell you about the funny things that happened. tell you all of my thoughts. but you weren't there. your ears are no longer open for me. your eyes no longer see me. you are no longer mine and i am not yours.

i have rewatched our favorite shows. i have listened to our favorite songs. i have done so many things to remind me of you. i know i need to stop, but they are all i have left of you. i truly hope that you are doing better than me. i don't want you to suffer. because even though it pains me, i love you. i don't know when i will write to you again. but know that i wish you well and i love you.

best,

e

[mightyaphrodytee]

Lol, that was season 5, but…

Holy shit so much information has poured all over us for the last two months, it’s hard to keep everything straight in your head. I broke my shoulder during Scandoval, I had endless time in bed, in pain, so I did a rewatch (I’m currently mid-season 7, and I’m not committed to seasons 8 or 9). Every episode. Every blowup, every fight, every meltdown, all the drunkenness and drug abuse, all the infidelity and accusations and denials and tears. And I have thoughts. For posterity, darlings.

I’ve learned (and seen with my own eyes—Florida Girl) that BOTH Tom AND Ariana had some kind of pact, and I think they both took it seriously until Tom abandoned it for Rachel, that they would keep their private struggles, whatever they might be, OFF the show and hidden from their castmates and “friends.” I believe with all my heart that nobody on the show or in production really ever questioned it. No one ever leveled an accusation at their relationship. Tom and Ariana were like the closest thing to an audience pov on the show. The DRAAAAMA was Jax, Jax, Jax, Jax, Stassi, Stassi, Stassi, Stassi, fistfights and party crashing and cheating and a breakup…! We were barely shown Tom and Ariana’s conflict over having children, which seemed significant when Tom said it was a dealbreaker, then immediately retracted it when confronted by Ariana. That, plus their difficulties with intimacy and Ariana’s body image issues, was all we knew. They had each other’s back to an insane degree for YEARS, because of this pact, and now the floodgates are open, And we know that when Lala tells Ariana about what really happened at that party the day Ariana’s grandmother dies, Ariana had a meltdown and refused to film with Lala, who had to sit at a table and wait while production talked Ariana down and got consent to film. That’s why she abruptly turns and yells for Tom to come join the Lala info dump, saying I’m not gonna do this, so…let’s get him. And he was absolutely stone cold caught in a lie right then and there.

How could Ariana so easily dismiss the certain knowledge, via Lala, who was there at the party with Sandoval (and Raquel), that TOM LIED TO HER ABOUT NOT FINDING AN UBER SO HE COULD STAY WITH RAQUEL. So, like, I feel like that should’ve been the red flag to end all red flags.

And she definitely had her doubts, no matter how hard she rode for him publicly, because her INTUITION told her to see what she could see when she had the perfect opportunity to look at his phone. The photos app I guess, which is the iOS camera roll. What a shock it must have been. It’s like you’re flying off the edge of the earth, right up into outer space, no tether to humanity because everything is a lie. UGH I RELATE and probably am projecting my shit onto Ariana, which I’m not trying to do fr fr.

Dude, if she had followed me she would have known I wasn’t at Schwartz’s WORST STATEMENT OF THE EPISODE CONGRATS SCUMBAG

But every time you stayed out late or overnight, Ariana checked your location, which was always at the complicit Schwartz’s house

So you left your phone there while you went off to Rachel’s?

Because OBVIOUSLY you’re no fucking stranger to her apartment (!!!)

There is no way in hell I would ever believe that Sandoval wouldn’t run to his work wife, in whom he has confided everything, and confess every detail, with a TON of drama because it’s Sandoval, to expunge his guilty conscience alllllll over Schwartz. Please. He knew everything from the jump, but of course he took no action beyond urging Sandoval to confess. For seven months. He knew. These people are such great liars.

Every line out of Ariana’s mouth, in her confrontation conversation with Tom, was poetry. Eloquent, blunt, sincere, honest, brutal, true. That woman! I admire her dignified reaction in this episode while also side-eyeing her own complicity in not wanting any breaches of the wall of positivity that she helped create. But everyone on this show has their good and their bad, and we’ve seen it all. Ariana’s very first episode! Disaster. She was playing a tough girl character, not herself.

Brittany is the exception to that and has never done anything wrong or shady or hurtful or mean girl-ish.

[skylerskyhigh]

Rewatching Spiderverse and I have the urge to write a crossover where the other turtles come together. And they see Rise and are like "They're children. They're us. Gasp! They need guidance!"

And they do kinda help. But what the other turtles are good at, aren't fitting with what Rise is good at. Formal training. Hardened hearts. Rigid fighting style. That's not Rise.

They have good intentions. But the way they do it isn't what Rise needed. Trying to help but it ended up making things worse for Rise.

The other alternates want to help. They want to see Rise grow and blossom into the best version of themselves. To be able to handle any threat that comes their way. They also want to spare Rise from the pain that will surely come their way. They don't want Rise to lose their innocence, but they also can't let Rise face the dangers up ahead unprepared.

The Rise team want to be like their alternates. They want to be cool, and strong, and capable. They want to be the ones who people rely on for help. They want to be able to save the world. They look up to the other turtles, and they try their best to imitate them and follow their lead.

But it just doesn't work. The rigid training. The formal fighting style. The strict rules and overly serious disposition just throws them off. And they are trying. They're trying so hard and they do pick up on some stuff. But they feel like they're just failing. That they're not growing as fast as they should. That they will never live up to the greatest as their more mature and capable alternates.

But like in the movie, the alternates are on borrowed time. They can't stay for long. They have to get home. But they don't want to leave these younger versions of them behind because they feel like the Rise team aren't ready to face the threats that's coming their way.

They don't know, nor understand, that the Rise turtles are just built different.

Then, at the climax, Rise is allowed to be themselves and show these older, alternate versions of them that, "Hey, we're cool too. We're awesome. And we're badass. Just watch us!"

And the Rise team just handles it perfectly, in their own way.

Change isn't bad. What works for previous generations, won't work in the current one. Sometimes what's best for someone, isn't to give them a mold for them to fit in, but to give them the tools to carve their own way.

Just a thought.