#gonna put

[mikeandwillsweddingofficiant]

GUYS LET ME COOK

[princescar]

She's late for work!

Or a piece inspired by @aparticularbandit's fic

Extras that actually relate to the fic

[justthegirlinthemirror]

I think nessa should be herself. Like yeah she’s fucking horrible in the second act and she’s like .. terrible ti everyone but like. Idk I relate to her and I always have. She just wants love and to be loved but it doesn’t happen bc her family’s fucked up and she can’t love without it being to much or not enough. There’s no control and she needs it, she needs it because she’s never had control, she’s never had someone who loves her for who she is, and so when there supposedly is someone who does, it all goes wrong. Because she doesn’t know how. This is the thing,, she doesn’t know how. she’s never been taught, she’s never seen a healthy relationship, someone shows the smallest bit of affection to her that's unrelated to her disability or out of obligation or because they can't get over their dead wife, and she jumps on that. honestly i really think nessa has a lot of symptoms of cluster b personality disorders, which is kind of hard to address but makes a lot of sense to me.. idk i don't condone her actions and obviously it does concern me slightly that i relate to her and see myself in her so much but like. in another universe i think maybe she could have been ok. she could have made it out. i'm gonna make it out.

[fieriframes]

[CAN I TASTE THIS? SURE. JUST GIVE ME A BOWL OF THAT. NO, IT'S GOT TO BE COOKED. GONNA ADD SOME BANANA LEAVES. ONE SPOONFUL IN HERE. GONNA PUT THE CHICKEN, LITTLE PIECE OF HOT PEPPER, A COUPLE OF PEANUTS, THE OLIVE.]

[redpasserines]

people who see fans simply enjoying the mess that are comics and have created a sort of amalgamation of Things They Like from countless recons and say “wEll bUt tHiS iSnT cAnOn tHoUgh???”: where is your whimsy? Your sense of fun and happiness?

[writingfromruins]

There’s a poem growing in me and i can feel it high in my throat, where air and spit split courses, a root system all the way down to my lungs and stomach. It makes me queasy. It makes my breath shallow. I can barely turn a phrase over in my mouth to say it without the poem taking its tithe, swallowing sentences whole before they can trip off my tongue because my tongue is covered in wide waxy leaves to catch words like rainwater and funnel them back down my throat. There’s a poem growing in me. Not all of them are like this, some of them sit in my palms or pour off of me like steam but some sink their roots deep enough that i have to go in with a shovel. Have to crack my ribs to get at them. It makes my breaths shallow. It makes me queasy. It makes it easier, when the pain is low and lonely and eating its way through me, to call the things growing in it poems. I go in with a shovel and tear up the roots of the poem, piling them in stanzas beside me as i go, the rich wet rot of my pain still clinging to their roots. I chase the rot and the roots to the corpse of the pain where the poems grow and it is looser, from the growing. it gets looser still each time i pull the poems out of me. One day it may be loose enough to lose.

UPROOTED // PD

[beaunydoorin]

hi the journal page where ellie writes what looks to be a poem/song abt joel after his death and also drew him is obviously tear stained and im broken