“oh God I’m Gonna Marry Him If He Keeps This Shit Up” And It’s A Fictional Character.

I passed through Canary Wharf tube station today & I couldn’t resist.

I think people often hate Jason for reasons they should feel sorry for him

you hate because he's too perfect? he lives with pressure of everyone's expectations that he'll be perfect.

He has no personality? he was raised a child soldier, a tool for the gods and wasn't allowed to be his own person. despite that he did develop a personality and hera took it from him.

we don't know anything about him? he doesn't know anything about him.

He's not Percy Jackson? he's all too aware of that.

Что тут надо делать?

literally

“I’m being forced to go to a poetry reading by this visiting author i’ve never heard of and i’m waiting for it to start when you sit down next to me and i try to make conversation, and yup, you’re the fucking author” au

AO3

—

Jyn needs to pass Latin American literature in order to graduate next month.

And she is. Kind of. Well, almost.

She will be passing once she gets her extra credit points from attending this goddamn poetry session.

She’s never been quite the best at analyzing literature or writing essays or poems or anything of that kind of sort (she’s a maths kind of girl or more specifically, a programming kind of girl), much less anything past British literature. But she needed to knock out her goddamn global cultures and writing flags before she graduated, so she figured the class could kill two birds in one stone.

The only minor problem being that, her stone was not killing either birds, figuratively.

Which is how she finds herself at some dumb poetry reading by a Mexican author of sorts who is supposedly an alumnus or grad student or other at Yavin University of which her professor could not stop going on and on about because one of his former students was published—and really, Jyn can’t help but roll her eyes to the back of her head.

It’s a bloody poem, Christ, not a cure to cancer.  

Seguir leyendo

Remember, a Jedi’s strength flows from the Force. But beware: Anger, fear, aggression - the dark side, are they. Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny. Luke… Luke… do not… Do not underestimate the powers of the Emperor…or suffer your father’s fate you will. Luke… when gone am I, the last of the Jedi, will you be. Luke… the Force runs strong in your family. Pass on what you have learned. Luke… There… is… another… Sk… Sky… walker…

Every night struggle

Loki in library  📚 📑 📖

okay but are you going to be understanding if your dom is a little nervous and not as suave as you'd expect their first few times when domming you? are you going to make them feel comfortable enough to slip into the role without making them feel stupid about it? are you going to accept that real sex is not always as rigid as it would seem in text posts or your fantasies and that it is okay if there are some unserious moments in between the intensity? do you understand that we are all just people having fun and we need to be gentle with each other when showing this vulnerability?

So, this is for an ex-friend. My therapist just said it would be nice to share it, something about helping me let go... Anyway, it's a sad attempt of poetry <3

The saddest thing about all this is that my door will still be open for you. For any of the others that had walked away from it. Stubborn is the human heart that denies itself a closure. Because under all that scarring, under all that crying, under all that hurting anger, a part of me is still yours, and a part of you is still mine.

Do you remember? Do you remember me when you hear a laugh similar at mine? Do you think of me when you see someone with my same hairstyle? Do you smile as you remember a joke I said once? Do you cry when you realize we are no longer the same? We are no longer mirrors of each other. We don't keep the same images, the same time, the same looks. Do you feel as if a part of you is missing? I do. Every time I believe I hear you laugh, every time I hear someone talk about a series you liked, every time my mother asks how you are.

Why did we change? Why did we grow up? I still remember our positions on that table on the corner, how we shared a salt container because of how awful the food was. How we would play and talk and laugh. We would have philosophical talks. We would discuss the human and divine. We had all the answers and, at the same time, none. We were something and nothing.

Do the walls remember us? Does that table still remember which place each girl took? Do you think they would remember how we laughed? How we cried? How we would stress about simple things?

When life was simpler, when we were still great and proud. When we were infinite, star dust playing with other stars. When we believed in everything and how we would, someday, be great, and together, we would be unstoppable and uncontrollable. When there were four of us. When we were alive. When you were here.

Maybe it's just the human experience to break something so pure and leave it tainted. Split. On the verge of dying but not giving the final blow.

How do I explain it? How do I say to you how much it hurts? How do I tell you how mad it made me when you beg for me to squeeze back into my old self even though I grew out of it? I did it anyway. Because I believed you. Because I loved you. Because I thought, if I squeeze back, everything would be the same. And we would laugh, and we would sit back on that corner table that was ours and share our glorious days again.

I was wrong. I was mistaken. I was cheated. I squeezed back on my sheded skin only to find that you didn't care if I did. I felt a joke. I felt stupid. I feel mad and uncontrollably taunted.

What's worse, I still wait. Sheded skin on hand, I still wait. My mind sits back on our corner table, and I still wait. I wait for the other three glorious girls that I once called sisters. The girls that grew up with me and I believed would stay until I part this world. My life line. My home.

My home is broken. There's nothing that I can do to fix it. I weep. I've lost something too, and it is not coming back. It's gone with the sea and its powerful waves. I long for it, even though deep down I know, it won't come back.

I write this thinking of you, thinking of me, thinking of her, and thinking of she. Thinking of how we are now a past thing. A "used to". A picture hidden on the back of a closet. A faint brush of the past. I think of times when we were interwoven, so closely that others could barely perceive one without the others.

I weep a lost. I cry a missing star. I crave a hint that you are still you, that you still see me every time you close your eyes. I pray that you still feel them, how they used to laugh, how they used to talk, how they used to walk. I don't hate you, no matter what you think, I am mad, that much I will admit.

But I still have space for you, if you ever need a place to stay. The rooms of my heart might have been left, might have been forgotten, but they do not close. I'm too fond of them to tear them apart. Others may say I'm stupid for denying myself the satisfaction of closing the door and forbidden entry again, but I believe there's a certain charm on how the light still hits every spot you used to touch.

I find lovely the way the place fills of cobwebs and dust takes it seat in the places you hang out. How the room is still filled with your scent but now is old and feels cold. I might be stupid, but that hasn't stopped me before.

If you hear this, if you see this, if the wind or the moon is so gentle as to let you know I wrote this for you, please just know, you still have a room in my heart. Sure, now it's cold and dusty and full of melancholic cobwebs. But it's yours. No one, but you will use it. No one, but you can close it.

cassian: you look pretty tonight

jyn: what

k2-so: he said you look shitty goodnight