#hmmmm thoughts

[loxare]

On their wedding day, he put his hand to her cheek and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

He could have been correct, from an objective standpoint. Truly, she was one of the beauties in town. Her curls always in perfect order, her smile plump and joyous, her figure comely, even hidden modestly beneath clothing. From an objective standpoint, he was wrong, as nothing about beauty is objective, but none in the town would have disagreed with his assessment.

They spent several years together, in loving bliss. They built their house together, they planted their garden together, they grew together.

And then came the day that a hole in reality opened beneath him. Without thought, she jumped in after, a bare half second after he vanished.

When she opened her eyes, she was somewhere else. The stars were different, and wrong. There was the wrong number of moons, and the sun was the wrong colour. But the worst, most egregious wrong was that he was not there next to her. This, she could not abide.

She had nothing to her name besides her labour, but that she had in abundance. She travelled, from town to town, trading hours of work for food and board. She taught herself to draw, and she drew her love. Over and over, she drew him. In the dirt, on walls, on her own clothes. Asking, always asking, if any had seen him. Eventually she acquired paper and ink, and drew her husband again. Her inquiries became easier, more frequent, although the answers never changed. For none had seen her love.

She learned many things as she travelled. She learned how to fix a carriage wheel. How to tend to livestock and how to weed a garden far larger than the one she had known. She learned to shape a bowl from clay and to chop timber and to carve wood. She learned to fight off brigands who would take from her her sparse money, her life, or worse.

She learned other things, about this place she was in. It was a place where many came, and few left. A nexus one called it. A refuse heap, another said. But the method of arrival was always the same. One moment in the familiar, the next falling into the strange. But the people were the same, for all that they were often of alien appearance. Some looked down upon her dirt covered hems and worn boots. Some ignored her. Most were willing to at least listen to her question, to look at her picture, so carefully drawn. To keep an eye out, and pass on a message should they find him.

Time passed, and passed, and passed. The world she came from did not have things such as magical crystals or soul mates or wizards, or if it did they had none of the power that those here did. Regardless, one town she stayed in recommended she find the local witch, for they specialized in red strings of fate.

And so she did. The witch gave her a bowl of stew and a comfortable chair, and then listened when she spoke, and looked carefully at the drawing. It was a different one. She had drawn many, over the years, as the old ones wore out, and as her skill increased. And the witch said that they did not know if he was indeed her soul mate, but if he was, then the red string of fate that they revealed would lead her right to him. She need only follow it.

It was not an easy ask. The witch wanted a blanket woven by her own hands in payment. And so she stayed in the town, longer than she had stayed anywhere. She traded her labour and her art for thick wool, and weaving lessons. It was near winter before she had a result she was pleased with, carefully folded in her arms to be presented to the witch. The blanket was unfolded immediately upon delivery, shaken out to its fullest extent. The blanket was scrutinized, for quality of the weave or for something else that she could not fathom. Finally, the witch nodded their head. They turned back to their cottage, moving to close the door. She protested, concerned about her end of the bargain, but needn’t have worried. For around her finger was tied a red string which hadn’t been there before. The end led off, through the woods.

And so she followed it. She followed it through fallen leaves. She followed it across rivers. She followed it through snowbanks and through melt waters and through hot summer sun. Finally, she followed it into a clearing on a mountain. And fell to her knees in despair. For in this clearing was nothing but moss, and the end of the string, fading into nothing.

She did not have long to weep however, as a hole in reality opened above her, and down he fell. Without thought, she moved to catch him.

He was just as he had been on the day she had left him. And as he opened his eyes, she suddenly felt ashamed. For he was here, perfect and whole and young. But it had been years and years for her. Her hair was frizzy and knotted. Her lips were thin, her hands were rough, and her figure both hard and flabby at once.

But he opened his eyes, and he called her name, and she nodded. And he smiled at her, and called her the most beautiful woman in the world.

On a truly objective standpoint, he was incorrect. Both because beauty was not within the realm of objectivity, but also because there were many women who could be called more beautiful, subjectively.

But she also knew that he was speaking nothing but the honest truth. For he loved her. He loved her, he loved her, he loved her. He loved her hair, frizzy as it was. He loved combing it free of knots, and helping her braid it in the mornings, and loved tucking flowers into it, to surprise her when she looked in the mirror. He loved her smile, and loved seeing it, and loved being the cause of it. He loved it when she spoke to him, when she told him of the things she had done, and what she had learned. He loved her art, even as he blushed darkly at being her only subject. She taught him what she knew, and delighted when he found particular pleasure in pottery. They travelled, to find a home that suited both of them. The first time she defended him from brigands had been a terrifying and yet exhilarating experience for them both.

And they built a house. With a room full of paper and clay. And a garden, and a loom. And always, forever, she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

[eliotheeangelis]

alain prost | 1982 f1 season

[daily-hanamura]

for some reason the brainworms have been thinking about yosuke w a ring-shaped scar bc of an electric or fire attack + his ring = ouchies

I love that and you know what, imagine if it was given to him by Souji because Souji was brainwashed/charmed/etc and used a Ziodyne on him, permanently scarring Yosuke-

[fuckalicent]

i need to make a book rec list for alicent stans i think that would be so fun

[thetypingpup]

No thoughts. Head empti. Mile high club pilot Mingi🫠

wait a minute was this from the immortal songs stage? bc the vibe i got was definitely yo ho ho i'll rock his boat i'm sorry i'm not funny 🤧

this pic is definitely giving pilot tho

[owen-not-carvour]

ocean getting Roasted after wtwn is just to show the others that they still have a Chance bc they’re probably used to her just getting everything in life

bc think abt it. if they thought ocean was just Automatically gonna go back to life, why even try!!

not to mention that ocean Really needed that ego check lol

[saltyfilmmajor]

Somehow the fates allowed us a second chance to meet

[hubrisdotcom]

is there a comphet equivalent but for aromantic people?

[uselessaussie]

if you really think about it (and hyperfixate enough) every character is interesting even if they were only on screen on a minute or popped up occasionally throughout a game, or mentions of them

[vagueconfusion]

Feeling real ridiculous for not having realized that Baron's "stark father" was the Nightmare King until now

[after-witch]

I love the idea of a yandere who gives you your own separate bedroom where you're being kept. If you behave, they might even let you decorate it exactly how you want, although this may depend on the yandere in question.

Even if it's not exactly to your liking, the bedroom is something like a comforting space. You're allowed to sleep in there sometimes, you're allowed to sit quietly and spent time alone if you say you want to recharge, you can sit and do little hobbies with the door shut and be yourself (whoever that is, anymore) for a little while.

But this freedom, this little sanctuary where you're allowed to retreat to, comes with a price.

They can give you that little comfort, that ounce of freedom--and they can take it away.

Run away, squirm, fight, yell, bite, or generally act out? Your bedroom door gets taken off. No more privacy, no more shut door, no more ounce of comfort that you get from being alone for a little bit.

Refuse to let them snuggle with you, argue about sleeping in their bed a few times a week? Your bed goes away, and you sleep with them until further notice.

In the end, the bedroom may be yours on the surface, but it's theirs to do with as they like. They can choose to yank away the comfort you get from it at moment's notice.

So do your best to be good for them, okay?

[robogart]

Feeling a lot of things lately (including gender things) and found this old comic I never finished from a conversation with my old therapist.

Copy/pasting this from my patron post: if you're seeing this and are having gender thoughts - always be true and real to yourself, however that might be. You define yourself on every step of your journey - that is a power ONLY you have and that no one can take away from you. However you identify, at this moment and in your future moments, is the truest and most genuine way for you and that is beautiful and should always be celebrated. Your expression - internal and external, how it might stay, how it might change - and all the splendor within it is because of you and who you are. The world is more lovely to have you in it and its beauty is expanded by your presence every day. Please remember that. 💖 💖

[kiaraalazulu]

post julai merylwood

ref pic from @/miukumauk on twitter

[antiwhores]

The first time you and Bakugou sleep in the same bed he gets hard from the feeling of your tits being pressed against his back.

[tarottsi]

DBF this. DBF that. What about dad’s mortal enemy?

His name was always mentioned in disdain. Him alone gets your dad’s blood pressure rising, right before he swallows the pills after a work disagreement. You have no memories of him now, you’re far too busy to do anything other than your job and your studies. Early twenties are for career building. Dating financially unstable guys your age comes later.

(never at all if possible)

Then here he comes, the kind regular with a pleasing smile , with a huge monetary tip every order. He has his favorite spot in the cafe, a rattan chair for his back, never the heavy mahogany ones. The salt and pepper hair is a cherished sight for all. He’s in his forties but it doesn’t stop the rest of the staff from crushing on him too. You swore the flowers by the window sill face towards him rather than the sun with how attractive he is.

His kindness is extended towards everyone at the cafe—regulars, staff, and delivery crew.

You came to know his kindness as you were heading back home during a rainy day. The wind was getting strong, so even the light drizzle was enough to make the hem of your skirt drenched. You frown, it was your favorite formal skirt. Your dad wanted you to eat at the fancy restaurant downtown as a family reunion once in a while.

Thirty minutes in and no bus came in sight. Perhaps stuck in traffic or suffering in the rain, like you.

You were about to call your dad to pick you up until a white car stops in front of you. The passenger window slides down and you see the cafe heartthrob offering you a ride. You wanted to decline but he insists to return the kindness as his favorite waitress.

Whatever happens within the car is between you and him, alone. You just have to make sure no evidence remains on you or it will pique your family’s curiosity even more. They had their guesses, but no one could imagine it was a your dad’s most hated co-worker.

[yashley]

Fearne has seen a version of herself that has gone down a very bad path in EXU. […] She doesn’t know where in the timeline that Fearne was, and if every sort of step that I’m taking, “Is this gonna lead me down to that path - to the bad Fearne?"