#but if the shoe fits

[lindholmline]

pavel zacha though…that pass was hockey porn

[nicnacsnonsense]

So the day before their wedding Clark and Lois have a little swaparoo where Lois gets Clark’s powers for a day. And the experience gives her a newfound appreciation for Clark’s powers, but ultimately leads to her decide she has to break up with Clark and call off the wedding because every second that Clark spends with her is a second he could be saving someone.

And on the one hand, this is a bad reason to break up. Clark is not an automaton, he cannot endlessly run from crisis to crisis saving people with no time for himself. And even if he was physically/mentally/emotionally capable of that, he shouldn’t have to. He’s still a person who deserves to have some time and happiness for himself.

But on the other hand, the fact that Lois thinks she should break up with Clark for that reason is in itself a good reason for them to break up. Clark is already really good at blaming himself for anything and everything, including failing to save enough people (no number of people saved is ever enough, fyi). He needs a partner who understands that what he does is important, yes, who is willing to roll with some flakiness and with the fact that they will not always be the top priority for Clark, but who is also willing to be selfish on Clark’s behalf. Someone who is going to fiercely guard Clark’s right to rest and right to his own personal life outside of day-saving from everyone who would want to take it away from him, including Clark himself. And if Lois can’t do that, then maybe she’s not the one.

[erinaonice]

I'm not saying I want ilia to flop and adam to win but

[fangirlfreak08]

Just saw someone on tiktok say that Jason struggling to choose between camp half blood and camp Jupiter and ultimately deciding on both was a metaphor for his bisexuality and my worldview has changed

[jinxneedssleep]

Here me out,

If God created mankind

Does that make God technically the first mpreg?

[pjthewitch]

if you think wicca paved the way for positive perception of paganism/spirituality you’re actually a fucking idiot

like that is actually such an ignorant take. indigenous spirituality and ancient forms of paganism would’ve never been viewed positively without our white saviour wiccans i fucking guess.

[avari-legacy]

[gothmoneyswag]

girl help what the fuck is happening in the gintama tag right now

are you seriously having a ship war in almost 2023 are you fucking serious

its the holidays go spend time with your families

[sluttywonwoo]

mingyu’s recent ig post

🧎‍♀️

WHORE

[open-your-heart-and-your-eyes]

I wanna talk to the folx (and especially the kiddos) in bandoms for just a second, because your girl’s been around and I wanna get real with y’all.

The content here may be triggering for some: gonna be speaking on a lot of abuse of power regarding men, some pedophilia/ephebophilia/hebophilia type stuff, and my mental health issues. Take care of yourselves and don’t read on: I will take asks if anyone wants to talk about this more.

________

Honestly… slowly losing my faith in band dudes not gonna lie…

Music’s been pretty much my entire life since I was a young teen. It’s filled voids in my heart on many occasions.

But after seeing weird shady stuff and accusations about bands I LOVED when I was a teenager… it’s starting to get painful. I can’t keep ignoring it.

I’m talking about bands that were part of my formative years. Their music drove me into deep parts of my psyche.. I spent hours making fan art, watching anything I could get my hands on about them, talking about them, archiving pictures. I’ve been to shows, begged for the merch, I own the CDs. I’m still a fangirl at heart, maybe always will be…I’ve been in these spaces since I was a child.

But men I’ve admired have melted away into monsters right before my eyes. I gave them so much of my time, tried to emulate them, made loving them a personality trait, explored entirely different realms of spirituality because of them… and for what? I have a hard time pulling away because their music has helped soothe me during some incredibly dark times, and now I’m emotionally attached. It’s not a good place to be in, kids.

I still love music, I love going to shows, I love taking pictures at live events. Don’t get me wrong or get it twisted… I’m just becoming jaded and quite hurt. These men have disappointed me in ways that I could have never imagined as a band-enamored teen. If being in psychology has taught me anything, it’s that anyone can become a monster under the right conditions, and anyone can be a monster (even those you least expect).

For as many moments of happiness I have felt and witnessed in bandom, I have seen and felt many of disgust. It’s like walking through a golf course and seeing enough red flags to last for three solid days, and naïvely walking past them.

I have seen many fans be incredibly weird and inappropriate, and the older I get the more the parasocial side of bandom is starting to give me the ick. The way people, minors especially, talk about these grown men who they don’t know personally (and for many I pray never ever will) is not okay or healthy. I’m tired of normalizing it.

Many of these men can and will abuse their power over you. They’re not your uwu sugar bun cinnamon rolls. Don’t worship them, please. You do not know them just because you’ve watched all their interviews and met them once. Let me emphasize.

You. Do. Not. Know. Them.

For anyone new to bandom, if a band member or a band sketches you out for whatever reason- don’t ignore that. Trust your gut and run. Don’t get into their music and fawn over them only to be disappointed when your intuition was right. I’ve made that mistake, and untangling yourself from them can prove to be difficult if not impossible. There are plenty of good guys in bands sure…but you know what they say about bad apples, and some of these are laced with enough cyanide to kill an entire city.

Guard your heart and think critically before giving it away. Just be careful. Bandom’s not always as innocuous and innocent as it seems.

[dieamoric]

nonbinary people can be and ARE bisexual/lesbian/gay

forcing nonbinary people to use nblm/nblw/nblnb “friendly” terms like trixic and toric is transphobic, lesbiphobic, homophobic, and biphobic.

if we want to call ourselves bi/gay/lesbian we can! and if we do want to use trixic or toric as well or instead, we can! don’t speak over us or try to box us into using only the latter because your dumbass thinks nonbinary is a singular third gender or sex :)

[wowevenmoreloveonearth]

Was too busy hating on Picasso to notice that I’m disabled and now I’m exhausted :(((

Reason no 1738293828 to hate that man :(((

He hates to see a girlboss winning :(((

Common ableist L

[elodium]

As the Poet says, So do I

Steve Rogers + Bucky Barnes + oc, kinda

Summary : An indulgent small work where mc is feeling very down, depressed and dealing with some non-returned love feelings. Stucky are comfort characters so they're there to fill the gap, comfort and love like she needs in a sad, quiet night.

Words: 1204.

Warnings: None.

Definetely is more of a creative outburst that I've had early in the morning about some stuff I'm going thru and writing with two characters that bring me comfort and good feelings, besides I like a lot actually helped a bit to calm down. Wanted to put it out there. No physical drescription tho, if it could comfort someone else. Sorry for any mispronunciation of both the petnames used in this or bad writing, sad brain late in the night doesn't work that good.

As the poet says, he is half of my soul. Here, she is, to me, half of my soul. The sliced part of my entire being that was separated somewhere through my journey here and left in the heavens to wait for her perfect moment. Until the rightful moment I've met her, that half of me was still further away.

Life gained a bit more color as she painted the walls and the floors around me, drew doors and windows for me to see more of the world out there and leave the days of a blind bubble of a world behind. I feel the love nurtured through the years in the drawings I draw, felt the pain that hurting each other can bring to one's soul and mind when I sob into warm and soft blankets that carries more scents than my own, startle myself in the small smile creaking through my umid sullen face at the memories swimming in the tears of the playfulness and jokes that brought a bit more giggles into the world.

She is half of my soul, as one poet would say had they met me in a distant life and could watch in my bare eyes the amount of feelings pooled there and contained from being handed to the very same small, warm hands I love. She is the half of me I can't love properly as I wish I could. The one kind that life took away from me one way or another, as peaceful and caring as it could have be hurting and thrashing me apart. In the end, neither I feel peaceful and soothed when my feet tremble in my steps towards the warmth that I'm desperate in need of, or feel torn apart to my very core since it's a path I'm long used to feel it under my fingers and had the displeasure to feel it before.

In worse scenarios, surely, but are committed to my memory, to remember me of the tears they caused.

They know that, of course they know that half of my soul is not for me to pour my love as plenty as I wished to. In the arms I fit in, one cold and steel and other warm and soft, I let my legs give up to carry me up and pass onwards a plea. I know there's not an ounce of expression in my emotionless face, all the anxiety and sadness fevers inside, pools and bubbles, only to spill hot through my eyes — feel them burn, exhausted after the hours passed, and I close them under the overwhelming tenderness in which two more arms circle me and the one that first cocooned me in his chest. Safely hidden from the molten steel in the blue of that unreachable stare; eyes a tone of blue with just a drop of gray.

"I'm glad you allowed yourself to my, to our care, be smart and let us hold you for just a minute longer, лисичка, my little fox." I drink in the whisper of a Russian that I don't understand, but can conjure and feel the presence of love and care in it.

Of course they know. That's why I let myself lean into the comfort on the Winter Soldier's sensitivity, fresh in ways that no human will ever be after being locked up from his own self for so long, denied of feelings, and so the softness that bares the metal of his hand may as well be softer than any skin of silk could dream to be as it combs my hair. Cold it's soothing, refreshing, and past half an hour the midnight through warm tears, warm microfiber blanket and warm skin from a bath that drowned half of my tears down the drain, it's the cold and gentle hold his arm has in me on his lap that pulls me down to a reality that doesn't gravitates near mine, but offer comforts nonetheless. And there's the warmth my skin absorbs in ways that feels like starving, the comforting warmth of calloused hands of the good man that guides my unsettled breath in each caress of my back; not the perfect soldier.

"I thought I was strong."

"You are." Both are sweet baritones of voices, tones too near to dreams that could lull me to sleep for dozens of hours if whispered near my ears like that in other universes. "You're just human, mo stór, my dearest, in love." It's the soft feeling of a sound, of warm lips of the one former Captain America that has me falling deeper and tighter under the Winter Soldier's fortress of a body, rattled with the desire to let a sob follow the sniffle.

Winter is cold on the outside, but inside its creations, such as homes made of ice, it can warm and rescue the most victims, better than mundane tents can. Cutting myself of defenses around one soldier made by the winter feels like being embraced by a warm fortress of ice, and rescued and loved with devotion by the one behind me. Whose face I don't look upwards to see but know the tones of the greens in the blue of his eyes that I once stared right back in dreams, and the golden aura that comes from him and seeps into my skin starved for that solace, fiery like ones of those of an angel old books would tell tales about, the gentle ones that would protect the uncared, saddened, ones left to wallow within themselves like me and Winter Soldier. The one good man that sits on his ankles and rumbles small melodies that no one remembers names but a poet would choose to transform their words into sounds. Into sounds that grips my heart of feelings of how I just know in my heavy bones that she's half of my soul whom I love deeply, but cannot share that profound love as it really is, cannot find in me the healed and pure form I dreamt I had acquired already.

So, they feed from it for me, save me from the huge weight of having too much sorrow for the myself I don't love yet, and the other oneself I won't be able to love, in their sluggish and soothing kisses across my bare shoulders. Take the amount of love in me for themselves, for they know how pure and how much of it it is and I have no other place to bear it but my own mind, my own mind that conjures them and gladly embrace me between them, inside myself. Just for a moment, just a night where I can't feel any sensation in my skin other than the cracked and dry tears on my face.

One can't deliver their hearts to others that don't exist. Doesn't mean I can't imagine a world where they hold tight to the heart pendant in my neck with interlaced hands, then proceed, with both hands each, to shower me in love and comfort that I, alone in the dark in a room that they don't live in skin and bones, can't find. 

Or have the prospect that I would have it someday.

[insufferableburnout]

Anytime I get imposter syndrome about my job, I think of all the CEO’s who get paid stupid amounts of money to make the dumbest decisions imaginable

[benjaminalphabet]

my happiest words smell like geraniums —

but i can make the melancholy sweet too.

citrus and clementines.

i can remind you of when the sadness was smaller—

let me wrap myself in your grief like a warm blanket.

i can tell you all about how your hometown used to smell like the rain,

used to taste like sugar water.

i can write you letters in your mother’s handwriting—

i promise, you have never known anyone quite like me.

my sorrow is lemon drops and Lake Superior —

sometimes it seems there is an ocean inside me.

i know the warmest i’ve ever felt was in the dead of winter,

and it was far away from here.

leather couch cushions and marble yellow eyes—

he told me all the stories of the men who were lost to the waves,

and how they saw the lighthouse lovers in the distance

but they never made it to shore.

i stayed up all night rewriting their endings,

i had to pretend they never left once-beautiful wives behind

pacing lakeshore rocks,

waiting for their captains to come home.

he told me —

you are like a history book

but i can always feel you in these words.

your fate could be his.

i never asked him if he could love someone with their eyes glazed over.

i can write foolish words about falling in love,

i could be like a dry and dark red wine you just don’t have the taste for.

i could stain your lips, and your teeth,

and make believe that i am the lighthouse;

but to love me would be like getting lost at sea.

i have found no islands inside me yet.

tidal waves, and hurricanes.

i crash hard amongst my own rocky waters.

my Oklahoma cyclones could bring you to your knees.

i tell my friends they are flowers,

like an oasis in the desert,

i love them like they are letters from a distant, nostalgic home

but they know i will always long for the water.

you must surrender yourself, you must unzip your lips—

and when i bring havoc to your shelter you must not hold it against me.

i can only love you like a mirror.

i have no other choice.

#620

[shawtylike]

THE PROPHECY

my dreams have once again manifested in a way i did not see coming