All of my mutuals are so talented & funny! I’m not gonna tag anyone specifically but the ones I speak to on a regular basis are like little rays of sunshine in my life! I’m so lucky to have met them. I hope everyone is staying safe!
there’s a person on tiktok making sad phineas and ferb povs and i cannot stop watching them
love the vagueness of this rec I’m about to go read it right now lmfkdhjshhs I’m not even gonna read the blurb. i want no warning beyond this ask about the crack it has in store for me
I think I read somewhere Tom found Timmy and Tommy and took them in…
im bringing back rp icons thank u n goodnight
Guys i just saw the second season first episode of fruits basket and it was AMAZING!!!!
- what your muse’s name is in mine’s phone
my other half ♈😈
- what your muse’s picture is in mine’s phone
- what your muse’s ringtone is in mine’s phone
make me feel - janelle monae
- my muse’s last text to your muse
[sent at 6:30 pm] Because we never see anyone on campus wearing a crazy hat?
[sent at 6:31 pm] And no, making Hudson put on a cowboy hat does not count
[sent at 6:31 pm] Even if it’s colorful and has sparkles
just thinking about how kim is either gonna die by the cartel or is gonna disappear and eventually meet up with gene in nebraska
lookin at one of my old friends art and crying WHEEEEEEEEE
guys there’s Adrienette on IG tonight and I’m screaming this is so cute
Out of curiousity I counted how many headcanon asks I wrote for the last time I did this, and I did twenty four of them (this isn’t counting some of the asks I had to delete because I couldn’t come up with anything :( )
on this day, the 6th of april, 103 years ago, two things happen - one that will echo down through history, and one that will be forgotten. one that brushes against millions of lives, one that no one but three and a little nameless, nothing village will ever notice. one that is blinding in its importance, cheered for and wept over and reviled; one that is small, silent, insignificant. two things happen, and history won’t remember one: a country enters the war to end all wars, and a meaningless boy dies in the countryside.
it’s friday. blake is going home on monday.
in the early hours of the morning, when the world is still icy and black and lit stark by flares, german boys sit huddled in their trenches, murmuring and laughing and thinking of home - softly, gently. officers walk down the lines and tap men quietly on the shoulder: let’s go. and silently, in the pre-dawn cold, they do.
at the same time, in the empty darkness before sunrise, an orderly wakes general erinmore. he lights a candle, sits up in bed, wraps a dressing gown around himself; the room is dusty and close and dim. “sir, the planes have spotted something over the new german lines. it’s regarding the second devons.”
and in the hours before dawn, erinmore sits at his desk, with a map sprawled before him, and listens. “can we send them a message?” “they cut the phone lines, sir” “can we send a cavalry runner?” “the land is impassable, sir” “do any of the officers have a son? a nephew? a brother?” “there is one, sir”
across the channel, scho’s wife wakes up to gentle honey light in their bedroom. blake’s mother wakes up alone to the sound of birdsong and sheep. both of them imagine the morning across the channel, the morning in france - what it looks and smells and feels like. wonder at whether the sun shines, wonder at whether the flowere are starting to bloom, if there are any flowers left at all.
blake’s mother checks off another day - three to go, and her boy will be home. she smiles at the thought, and with the smile comes tears. three days and he’ll be back in her arms, drinking tea at the kitchen table. three days. she gets out of bed to clean the house; she wants it to look nice for him. she’s still smiling. blake smiles, too, as they finish their breakfast and wander over to doze against their tree. three days. he pulls his helmet over his face, still smiling.
it’s morning when they set off. it’s still morning when he dies. and it’s still morning, not even midday, when schofield begins to inch across the ruined bridge.
that night, and into the cold, black, rainy morning of april 7th, while schofield lies unconscious upon the steps of a lockhouse, blake’s body lies before the felled orchard with the stars and the moon above him. a breeze stirs the leaves of the cherry trees and makes them rustle. they’re already beginning to brown and wilt. soon the stones will rot into the soil. the night feels empty, quiet, lonesome. the grasses on the hillside whisper. it’s peaceful. cold. forgotten. ghosts haunt the still, silent orchard.
the family that lived there is long gone. the little girl who was born there, whose doll was abandoned in the chaos, lies in the lowest drawer of a dresser, in a warm cellar where a fire crackles soft and golden. another orphan murmurs to her through the night.
the next morning, at six o’clock, a boy with shellholes for eyes stops an attack and leans against a lonely tree before the rising sun. it’s peaceful. quiet. empty. warm. blake’s mother wakes up smiling and checks another day off. and blake’s body begins to rot with the cherry stones.
every year, the ghosts live it again, tread the ground where the trenches and the ruins used to be. they don’t know the world has changed; they don’t know that world is dead, and that at the end of it they will die as well. again. over and over and over. till their hearts have been broken for the thousandth time. and then next year, they live it all again.
i cOULD SCREAM FOR THE SPIKEMUTH SIBLINGS