onepiecehasnopeace

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I know I said it before but wind breaker really is a love letter to the lonely

and it's a love letter to the "other". to the people who can't fit into the impossibly small boxes others draw on the pavement and expect everyone else to stand in.

it's a love letter to people that have been ostracized for one reason or another. it's a love letter to the bullied, to the ones who have beaten down by rough pasts and unfortunate circumstances and yet still stand. it's a love letter to the people who have scars from their pasts that haven't quite healed yet, a love letter to the people who are only just now applying bandages and stitches to those open wounds.

wind breaker is also a promise to all of those people.

"It's going to get better. maybe not now, and maybe not immediately. but it will. you'll just have to try. and you'll find your people, your community. you'll get out of the place that's hurting you. you'll heal. the wounds will fade into scars, and even those too will fade with time. You'll be able to find a place to grow into your true self, a better version of you. and it will be beautiful."

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i have confined the beast

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some strawhats being silly

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Honestly, no one is doing it like Vinsmoke Sanji. He's royalty. He's homeless. He's a convicted criminal. He is a damsel in distress. He's a knight in shining armor. He takes down the Government at 10 am then makes a Bouchée à la reine from scratch at 11. He has the empathy of a buddhist monk in the Himalayas. He will beat up a 90 year old. He has never given a fuck, he cant sleep at night cz of how much he cares. He is a ballerina. He sets his legs on fire. He is a slut. He is a virgin. He is a feminist He is a pervert. He's a fashion icon. He wears Alexander McQueen suits to the beach. He has never known happiness. God has personal beef with him.

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If you see this I am praising you for behaving well.

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I feel like a virgin when I search up “x Reader” with a new character I like

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My cats have this meow that means "please come with me to fix this" after which they'll lead me to the problem in question, usually a empty (or 'empty') food bowl or a closed door they want open. They look at the 'problem', they look back at me, clear message.

What fascinates me is how this illustrates what they percieve as being in the realm of my 'power.' I control the food, I control the door, sure, but my cats love to sit on the balcony in the sun, and it has happened plenty of times that on a rainy day they come get me, go to the balcony and show me... the rain. "Please fix this" they say. "Please get rid of the wet"

"Silly kitty," I say, "I can't control the rain." I then walk into the shower and turn on the rain.

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Astronauts talking about viewing the earth from the moon, from The Overview Effect: Awe and Self-Transcendent Experience in Space Flight

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This is incredible!!

Man or Monster

[Frankenstein’s Monster!Shigaraki x Reader]

♡ ♡ ♡

The moon is full, but the village below is none the wiser as black clouds blanket the sky, moonlight replaced by lightning, streaking and cracking endlessly through the night. Beyond the village is a steep, rocky hill, and atop that hill sits a lonely stone tower, teetering on the edge of collapse.

Metal rods protrude from the rooftop, creaking and groaning as they’re thrashed by the harsh winds, and they lead to a large complex machine within. At its center is a glass tank filled to the brim with pigmented fluid, which, occasionally, spills over the rim as gusts slip through gaps in the stone walls. It produces a subtle glow, illuminating the room just enough to see the Doctor’s expression–lips taught, creases between his brows, lower eyelids squinting slightly, framing his intense stare.

It mirrors your own but for very different reasons, you were sure. The Doctor is leaning forward, propping himself up with a splintering wooden chair. His grip on it is tight, but his fingers continue to fidget. Then there’s you, slightly shrinking into yourself, holding your writing paper to your chest as if it's a shield. Your pounding heart is intensifying by the second.

This isn’t the first time this experiment has been conducted, and at this rate, you’re fairly certain it won’t be the last. Every attempt so far has failed. You’re used to that being the case by now, but it’s those few times…those few times where a ‘failure’ gets a little further than the others. That is the outcome you stress over most.

That outcome means you won’t be leaving the laboratory unscathed.

The silence between the two of you is filled with the howling and rumbling of the storm outside. Each bolt of lightning lights up the chamber, and your heads jerk up to stare intently at the murky tank. Each time, you’re plunged back into the dark with only the slightest bit of light emanating from the tank.

There’s a flash and crack so loud you feel it in your bones. The floor is shaking beneath your feet and you barely catch the jagged streaks of electricity coursing through the metal rods and into the machine. It fully illuminates the vat to reveal the silhouette of a man suspended within, back arching as the lightning rushes through it.

The machine groans as metal grinds against metal and smoke puffs from the joints in the piping. The various parts appear to slump as they make one last creak before going quiet.

The tension in your body dissipates–another failed test.

Your back straightens, and you release a shaky breath as you look down at your papers. You’ll have to write up a report identical to a dozen others. You think you preferred it that way. Slouching, the Doctor slowly lets go of the chair and mutters curses as he turns around to return to his work desk.

The silence returns, this time filled with both disappointment and relief.

The next few days will be filled with repairs. You walk forward to disengage some of the mechanical components, releasing some of the built up pressure within the pipes. The rusted knobs are cold and rough, and they squeak loud and unpleasantly as you turn them.

Maybe that’s why you don’t notice the massive glass tank judder behind you.

You’re walking back to the Doctor when you hear a deep pop followed by a crack from behind you. You spin around just in time to see the tub falling from its metal frame. The pipes that were previously attached to it are showering the room with chemicals, filling it with a pungent odor–sulfuric.

Alarmed, you shout for the Doctor as you rush forward in an attempt to stabilize the tank, an absurd decision on your part. The only way that ends is with you being crushed beneath it.

It crashes against the floor before you can even reach it. The liquid spills over the rim just before the glass shatters. You step on the pieces and slip. The ground is hard and cold when you collide with it. Your head is spinning, and you get to your hands and knees just to be knocked onto your back by the body–the failed Nomu.

You’re sprawled out, clothes and hair thoroughly saturated as the body lays across your lap and lower abdomen. As you prop yourself up a harsh chill racks through your body from the feeling of the naked hodge podge of corpses on top of you; it’s cold and stiff. You hesitantly reach out to push it away but pause before running your thumb across the deep stitched up incisions that wrap around its arm. You remember how it felt to weave a needle through the tough, dead skin, much more difficult than working with something still alive.

A low moan emits from the Nomu, your hand freezes, then it shifts in your lap, head rolling to the side to face you. Its eyes blink open to reveal blood-red irises, a slight haze of white film making them appear cloudy. You get the sense its looking through you until they flicker up to meet your gaze, and you go tense.

Then it winces and curls in on itself, releasing an even louder, strained groan. Your heart is battering against your ribs, but you gentle rub the creature’s arm in an attempt to soothe it. Its arm lifts to grasp onto your shirt.

You hear loud footsteps splashing over to you, and the Nomu is yanked off and away from you.

“It’s–I–I think it’s–”

“It’s alive…” the Doctor finishes your sentence for you, face alight with excitement.

You don’t get even a moment of reprieve as he ushers you into action, ordering you to take his place as the Nomu’s crutch. Eyebrows pinched, those red eyes never leave you, even as soaked powder-blue hair falls in front of them. You find your place against its side, arms wrapped around its waist to keep it from teetering. It’s shivering.

The Doctor is talking to himself, boasting about his success and how eager he is to report the good news. He examines the Nomu as you keep it from collapsing, and you startle when you feel its arm press against your back. You get the sense that it’s trying to mimic the way you’re holding it, and your eyebrows twitch.

You’re too focused on the creature to realize the exam is complete and the Doctor is taking his leave. You only snap back when he orders you to move his new creation somewhere it can be contained.

He also gives it a name. Tomura.

You do as you’re told, carefully shuffling the weak Nomu–Tomura–out of the lab and down the narrow staircase. The first few steps are challenging to coordinate, and your bodies bump against each other as you struggle to stay in sync. Gaps in the wall meant to let in light during the day now allow gusts of wind to blow through, whipping your hair against your face.

Gradually, you make your way down to one of the few unoccupied chambers that isn’t actively crumbling away. It’s cold and damp from the gaps in the stone wall that fail to separate indoor and outdoor conditions. There’s a constant whistle from the wind sweeping across the exterior of the tower.

You don’t recall a time when this room was in use, so it is no surprise that there are no lamps or candles to shed light across these dingy walls. The only things you in here with you are a wooden bedfram and a secretary desk, both rotting away.

You lead Tomura to the bed for him to sit, and as you bend over to make the transition a little easier, he becomes off balance. He stumbles and, because of the way you’re latched onto each other, so do you. The wood creaks, giving way slightly as you collapse onto it together in a heap.

Tomura releases a soft groan as you attempt to clamber off of him, careful of your hand placement as you do so. You adjust him so he’s sitting up, albeit a bit slumped, and watch him for a moment.

His skin is a mosaic of stitched-up incisions, each piece a slightly different shade, but everything about him contains a sickly undertone. His head hangs but his eyes are open and staring back at you. You feel small and vulnerable under his gaze, and your breathing is shaky as you shift closer to move him so he’s lying down instead.

You’ve done as you were told, so there’s no reason for you to linger–part of you is eager to leave and let this night be over with–but you decide to sit with him for a while longer, for observation purposes. At first, you feared he would be hostile, but from what you’ve seen thus far, he appears to be docile.

You brush his wet bangs out of his face to look closer at his eyes. At some point the white film faded, leaving his irises more vivid than you imagined. You’re disappointed and confused when he shuts them. You notice your hand is still entangled in his hair and quickly draw back. Tomura grunts, and his eyebrows slowly press together. It almost looks like he’s frowning.

The room is cold. You can’t imagine how Tomura must feel without any clothes, and you wonder just how much he’s capable of processing external stimuli. You should get him something to cover up and stay warm with, just in case he’s cold, too.

Opening his eyes, Tomura finds the strength to push himself up and groans out when you stand up and walk to the door. It’s hard not to notice the way the rise and fall of his chest quickens the further away you get. He starts shifting to the edge of the bed.

“No,” you say quickly, and he pauses. “I need to go.”

His eyebrows knit together, and he makes a disgruntled noise in response before sliding a leg off the bed frame.

“No,” you repeat and walk over to move him back. “I’ll be back.”

You wait for any sort of response from him, but he’s silent and still even as you leave the room. You hurry further down the tower, your footsteps echoing through the staircase, until you reach the room the Doctor has lent out to you as you help him with his research. It’s smaller than the one you found for Tomura, but you don’t mind much. You pull a basket holding a stack of extra linens out from underneath your bed and gather them into your arms.

You try to be swift as you ascend back up the tower to return to Tomura’s chamber, but the sound of clattering urges you to go even quicker. You come to a clumsy halt when you see Tomura stumbling past his doorway. His eyes are wide and his facial features have contorted into something harsh and unpleasant. A shiver crawls its way down your spine.

You’re hesitant to call out. “Tomura.” His eyes dart over to look down at you, and you frown. “You need to go back inside.” You’re not sure how much he truly understands, but you try to reason with him anyway.

His hunched shoulders heave as he sucks in a deep breath and takes an unsteady step in your direction. His legs buckle, and he crumbles against the stone wall but continues to inch in your direction. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, partly due to the cold that creeps its way through the halls of the tower and partly due to your nerves.

Tomura huffs as he reaches the first step leading down to you, and you urge yourself to do something other than just stand there. Your quick steps echo off the stone as you rush to him before he stumbles closer.

He pauses when you stop just in front of him, reaching out as far as you can without letting the linens drop to the damp floor. He copies you, hand hovering in the space between the two of you. You stare at it then look up at him. At some point, his expression softened, eyelids more relaxed and lips lifted from their earlier grimace, the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen from him.

You take his outstretched hand and move around him to give a gentle tug towards his room. He doesn’t put up a fight and lets you direct him back inside. You let him go to close the heavy wooden door behind you and place the stack of blankets on top of the desk, giving them a soft pat to flatten them out.

You don’t need to hear him to know Tomura is looming behind you, his presence thick and potent. Taking a sheet from the top of the stack, you face Tomura and hold it out, offering it to him. He looks down then back at you.

You raise your hands a little higher and say in a soft tone, “These are for you.”

He raises his arms up in a way that makes you think he’s mirroring you rather than understanding what you want from him. Still, you place the sheet in his hands and grab another for yourself, walking over to lay it across the bed frame for cushioning. Tomura follows you over and drops his sheet onto the bed in a crumpled ball on top of the one you neatly laid out.

You cover your mouth to stifle a surprised laugh and glance up at him with crescent eyes. He looks back at you, and the corners of his mouth twitch into an unnatural grin. His lips are dry and look as though they might crack if he smiles any wider.

You continue to make him a bed to the best of your ability, handing him a few more blankets as you go just for him to toss them like he did with the first one. You wonder if it’s to get a reaction out of you like before, but last you checked, the Nomu aren’t supposed to have that much cognitive freedom. The Doctor is creating them to take orders, and that’s it.

As the wind continues to whistle across the exterior of the tower, you can’t help but think it might be nice to have another person to talk to. It’s only you, the Doctor, and whoever the Doctor reports to here. Socializing is a foreign thing within these walls.

It’s lonely.

“Tomura,” you say as you lay out the final thick blanket across the rest, “Do you want to sit down and try it out?”

He looks at you, then the bed, then you again. You sit down to show him what you mean, and he follows suit, the bed creaking under his weight.

“How do you like it? Comfier now, isn’t it?” You smile at him, even though it’s likely you’re just talking to a wall. You can still see goosebumps across his forearms and decide you’ll wrap him up next. It’s a little awkward being around a naked man anyways, regardless of his condition.

“To—To—” his voice comes out as an unsteady rasp. His vocal chords were stripped from a corpse, so that doesn’t come as much of a surprise. What does, however, is that he can talk at all.

“Tomura,” you finish hesitantly, assuming that’s what he’s trying to say. You stay quiet for him to respond, but he doesn’t.

You breathe out a soft sigh and grab one of the wadded blankets he dropped earlier. As you rise to your knees to wrap it around him, you feel heat radiating from his body. As you adjust it, his skin gives, no longer stiff with rigor mortis.

Your brows furrow, and you don’t miss the way he does the same. You purse your lips before sitting back, earning a huff from Tomura. He frowns, bottom lip pouting, subtle enough for you to miss.

There are a few uncomfortable moments of silence where the two of you stare at each other and do nothing else. You’re each waiting for the other to act first, and eventually, you give.

“Tomura,” you repeat, glancing to the side. He takes in a sharp breath, and when you look back at him, his features have relaxed some. You release a shaky exhale and reach towards him to adjust the blanket so it covers his lap for modesty. Your hands linger as you elaborate, “That’s you.”

His chest swells beneath your fingertips. “You.”

You lean back again, and his eyes narrow. It’s unnerving, and you retract a hand but leave the other to press firmly against him—against his chest, where his beating heart hides behind skin, bone, and muscle.

“You—” Your fingers give a gentle tap. “—You are Tomura.”

He frowns again, and this time, you copy him, hand slowly pulling away.

“You,” he says again with a voice that puts the wind and thunder to shame. Your heart lurches when he throws a hand into your chest, knocking you backwards onto your palms.

You figure the moment of peace is over and begin scooting away. The Nomu before him, the ones who also had brief moments of life, were mellow at first, too.

Until they weren’t.

He leans forward to grab you by the shoulder and pull you back to him as if you weighed nothing. Your breathing is rapid and your heart pounds in your ears as you clutch to his arm with trembling hands. You’re trying to pry him away, but he doesn’t so much as budge. He glowers down at you through his tangled bangs, eyes wavering between yours.

“You.” There’s nuance behind his voice, a demand, maybe even curiosity. Your eyes widen and lips part. He does understand.

He does…

Your vice-like grip on him loosens as your body relaxes. You tell him your name, and his eyebrows rise.

Then, he says it back. His hand releases you and glides down to hold your arm so gently you almost can’t feel it. His breathing slows in sync with yours as his rough thumb brushes against your skin. He repeats your name once more under his breath, eyelids lowered and a ghost of a smile on his lips.

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A Thousand Years of Silence|| R. Sukuna

♡ After years of separation, Sukuna is stunned by the reincarnation of his lost love, grappling with overwhelming emotions as he watches her, unaware of their shared past.

♡ short shot

♡ Reincarnation, Emotional Turmoil, Longing, Past Lives

♡ Genre/warnings: Angst, Emotional Distress, Themes of Loss, Unresolved Feelings, unrequited love, sukuna stuck inside of yuujis mind, our love can't do anything (saddd)

♡ Note: he considered you his wife in the past …but now there's nothing there

w.c: 1.1K

VIP: @moonchhu

It had been a millennium—an eternity stretched far beyond the reach of mortal minds—since Ryomen Sukuna last laid eyes upon you. A thousand years since your heart ceased its steady rhythm in his presence since your breath no longer lingered in the air between you. And yet, in all those years, not a single moment passed where he hadn’t felt the weight of your absence. Time had become a cruel mockery, an endless river he could not escape, and with each passing century, he had drifted further from anything remotely human. Now, confined within the vessel of a boy, Sukuna had become little more than a ghost in a cage—a god reduced to a whisper, suffocating in a body that wasn’t his own.

And then, you appeared once more.

The moment he saw you, the world collapsed. Time, which had weighed like chains upon him for centuries, halted. Each second stretched into eternity as though the gods themselves had chosen this precise moment to mock him. You stood before him, the same yet entirely different, the very air around you pulsing with a vitality he had forgotten. For a fleeting instant, Sukuna forgot to breathe. His breath froze, stolen in reverence, as if the universe had finally granted him a mercy he neither deserved nor expected.

But it wasn't mercy.

It was tormenting.

You were beautiful—more beautiful than memory allowed. Your hair had changed, shorter and unfamiliar, and the hue of your eyes had deepened, something unknown to him in past lifetimes. The curve of your lips, the way you stood—these details were altered, but they were insignificant. It was you. The essence of your being, the soul he had once intertwined with, was unchanged. Everything else was inconsequential. Every lifetime, every version of you was etched into him, stitched into the fabric of his being, as eternal as he was.

He stood still, as though rooted in place, the chaotic landscape of Yuuji Itadori’s mind fading into nothingness around him. This was a moment he had craved, longed for, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself. He had waited, suffered through lifetimes of bloodshed and isolation, through endless carnage that offered no solace. And now you were here again, alive, breathing, exuding a warmth that struck him like a blow.

It was unbearable.

The rising tide of emotions threatened to drown him, an onslaught so unfamiliar that for a moment, he questioned whether he was still the Ryomen Sukuna he had known. The god reduced to mortal weakness, overcome by the sight of someone who had undone him centuries ago. It was you. Only you could render him powerless in ways no mortal could dream of. Not with weapons or curses—but with a simple glance.

You turned, and your gaze locked onto his. For an instant, Sukuna swore the veil of centuries lifted, and it was as if you remembered. His heart quaked in his chest, a sensation so foreign that he nearly lost his composure. He hadn’t realized it, hadn’t thought that in the deepest recesses of his twisted soul, he had wanted this—needed it. The fire that flickered in your eyes burned into him, rekindling the embers of a connection that should have been long extinguished.

Your smile, tender and soft, was like the caress of a breeze on a spring day, brushing against him with a warmth he had forgotten. And yet, here you stood, untainted by the ravages of time. Sukuna, the King of Curses, felt his chest constrict in a way that made him despise the vulnerability you brought out in him. He had razed kingdoms, struck fear into the hearts of gods and men alike, but here he stood—undone by a memory. A memory made flesh once again.

"Hello, Yuuji," you said, your voice lilting and sweet—so achingly familiar.

It shattered the fragile walls he had built to contain the torrent of memories. The sound of it, that melody, filled him with memories of a time long past. How could something so simple bring him to his knees?

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, the cruel joke of the gods. How Ryomen Sukuna, who had ravaged nations and reduced men to ash, could be undone by something as simple as a smile. He felt his hand move before he realized it, wiping away a tear he hadn’t known was there.

When was the last time he cried? Has he ever?

The realization struck him hard, like a blade lodged deep in his chest.

You noticed, of course. Your brow furrowed in concern, a mirror of a look you had once given him on a mountaintop long ago. The concern that had soothed his battle-weary soul centuries before. "Are you alright?" you asked, and those words—spoken with such genuine care—hit him like sunlight breaking through the endless storm of his existence. The cold, relentless winter that had gnawed at his immortal soul thawed, just for a moment.

The irony of it all stung more than he could bear. Sukuna, the god of curses, reduced to something human. Mortal.

"I’m fine," he murmured, though the words felt inadequate, as though he was saying them more to himself than to you. Fine was a lie, but it was all he could offer in this cursed vessel, trapped in the body of the boy who carried him. His lips curled into a smile—not the mocking, vicious grin that was his signature, but something real, something so rarely seen that it surprised even him.

It was you.

No matter how much time had passed, no matter the distance or the lifetimes, it had always been you. You were his beginning and his end, the one constant in a world that had long since fallen to ruin. Even now, even without your memories, you were the same soul that had captured him once, the only being who had made him feel something beyond rage and bloodlust.

Sukuna’s heart—immortal, untouchable—beat again, fiercely, with a strength that shook him to his core. He was not accustomed to this vulnerability, this raw ache that clawed at him from the inside out. The feeling was dangerous, a double-edged blade held to his throat, threatening to cut deeper than any wound he had endured in his many battles. But for you, he would bear it. For you, he would endure a thousand more years of silence, a thousand more years of waiting if that was what it took.

Because it was you. It had always been you.

Bby just wants you to remember him :( ...give him what he wants

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Usopp is the reason for this post i fear

do you ever just hate a character so much then come to the terrifying realization it’s because they remind you too much of yourself…

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do you ever just hate a character so much then come to the terrifying realization it’s because they remind you too much of yourself…

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Bakagou: hey nerd, what’s your love language?

Izuku: hmm maybe gift giving?

*casually slides over quirk gear that costs 8 years worth of salary*