Heartbreaking - Tumblr Posts

Going from “celebrations on the streets of Rafah as Hamas accepts ceasefire deal” to “Israel chooses to continue offensive in Rafah and is currently carrying out targeted attacks” within the span of an hour is the most viscerally heartbroken I’ve been throughout the past months

Alexander Hamilton, his name is Alexander Hamilton There's not a thing I wouldn't have done to keep him safe, keep him safe

Fade - I

The sequel to Scars

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 ||

Genre: Angst | SoulmateAU!

Word Count: 10100

With your soul mark gone and your heart permanently scarred, was it possible to ever find happiness again?

They say that time leads to change. With time, people would alter their appearance, their tastes or attitudes. You had changed. Over the last five years, your hair had grown longer and had been coloured. You had moved away from your childhood town into a larger city as the job opportunities were promising. Your body had changed. Your face had become sharper, more mature, and that ugly scar that had been burned into your chest had faded away, leaving behind little trace of its existence.

But the scars you bore within your cold, dead heart, those would never change. Ever. Because those scars were permanent. Those scars would last a lifetime.

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BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN (2005) dir. Ang Lee MY POLICEMAN (2022) dir. Michael Grandage

Happy DADWC day Mer!! How for Isseya or another character of your choice the following quote from Paladin's Strength by T Kingfisher: "You are not a failure, you know, simply because you can't endure something unendurable."

THANK YOU FOR THE AMAZING PROMPT JACS it screamed grey warden, but especially for the hard choices Isseya has to endure ;-;

for @dadrunkwriting

-

She goes to be alone, after.

There aren't many places free of bother in Fortress Haine, but she finds one, down the steps from the griffons' tower. The breeze off the mountains carries their scent down after her and Isseya stifles a sob into her fist.

She has no right to cry. Not after what she just did. But she cannot stop the tears that pour down her cheeks or the aching burn in her throat. Her sorrow is the only noise--there are no sounds of roosting or grooming from the griffons above, not now that she's doomed them to such a terrible fate.

The grass around her wilts as the Fade responds to her grief and aimless magic spills from her fingertips. She crouches in the tower's shadow long enough for her legs to cramp, the stone digging harsh against her back.

She's too aware of her surroundings not to notice his approach. Padded feet step gently in the grass until his shadow falls over her face. Her eyes are closed against a painful reality, so she only hears him squat beside her, until Calien's gentle, calloused hands are guiding her into a tender embrace.

She stiffens. His comfort is far more than she deserves. She should be strung up; cast out for the darkspawn to take, for the vultures to claw at until her soul gave way to the Beyond and was doomed to whatever void the truly monstrous were damned to.

Calien holds her as she weeps; he does not say anything as her tears soak through his robes. Of all people, she supposes the Antivan Crow understands the grief of the unavoidable. There are things you must do to survive. There are things that break your heart and destroy your soul. Often, these things are the same.

"I'm a monster," she whispers hoarsely. Calien's hood rustles as he shakes his head.

"No more than I am," he murmurs, stroking the gray-streaked hair that spills over her shoulder. "Who handed you the tools?"

"It was a thing of my own creation. You had nothing to do with that."

He shrugs. It's beside the point and they both know it. Isseya rubs her eyes and struggles to sit up.

"How long did you hate yourself," she asks slowly, "after you made a deal with a demon for your life?"

Calien doesn't answer immediately. His silence is thoughtful, and something Isseya is used to. She knows he is not ignoring her, but searching out the words for the emotions she can feel in the way his heart pounds against her back.

"I don't know that I have," he finally says. His hand finds hers and he traces the staff-made callouses on her palm, the scars of a thousand battles and griffon bites over her knuckles. Isseya sobs a laugh, making a fist of the hand he's holding.

"Good sign for me, that."

"It's a Blight, Isseya," Calien says, not uncaring. "Wardens do unforgivable things to save the world. They are less irredeemable when thousands of lives persist because of it."

"And what of the lives ended?" she answers harshly. Calien just shakes his head.

"There is no philosophy that makes a Blight make sense. You know that."

"There is a difference between not making sense and--and this," she says the last word as a sob, gritting her teeth for some semblance of coherence. "This should never have happened. It's as unnatural as the darkspawn, accepted only because we have a veneer of control. We have no choice, but how are we better than them, if this is how we treat our own?"

"Perhaps we aren't," Calien says, a beat later. He tucks Isseya's head beneath his chin; the vibration of his voice against her skull is soothing as she does not deserve. "Perhaps we cannot be better than base, during a Blight. Perhaps we can do nothing more than survive. That does not make us bad, Isseya. It makes us people."

"It's not worth it," she whispers, new tears pricking at her throat. "I'd rather die."

His grip spasms as it tightens around her waist. "You don't mean that."

She does. But she's nothing if not good at concealing the toll this life takes on her, by now. She tilts her head to press a placating kiss at the hollow of his throat.

"No," she lies, leaning her head back against his chest. "But I'd have a place to put all of this guilt if I did."

Anyone else crying?

it hurts to let go.

Hockey family, my heart is so heavy as I ask that you please take a minute out of your day to think about, pray for, send positive, healing energy toward the boys of the Humboldt Broncos.  While traveling on a bus to a game yesterday, the team was involved in a serious, tragic accident.  At the time I’m writing this, 14 of the 28 on board the bus have passed away and another 14 are injured.  If you can spare it, there is a verified GoFundMe set up for the players and their families.  The hockey community is a lesser place today without these dedicated, hardworking people in it.  Stick taps for absolutely every single one of them.

As if the loss of life wasn’t already horrible enough, family have confirmed the passing of trainer Dayna Brons, who succumbed to her injuries on April 12. 

I’m getting really overwhelmed and emotional looking at the #putyoursticksout and #sticksoutforhumboldt tags, honoring the victims of the Humboldt Broncos after their bus was crashed into on Friday night, killing ten players (age 16-21), their head and assistant coaches, a statistician, a sportscaster, and the bus driver.

“Leaving the sticks out for the Humboldt Broncos boys, in case they need them”

Also, the Gofundme account for the victims families has passed $8 million. Multiple NHL players have visited the survivors and the families, and donated to fund medical and funeral expenses.

W h e r e  w a s   I  ?

excerpt from in-progress "timebending with Zuko" fic

Zuko wakes up and everything hurts.

Most specifically, his scar hurts.

That . . . doesn’t make sense, he thinks, and reaches for it automatically. A strong hand catches his wrist before he can touch it, which seems–fair, yes. Probably a good idea, anyway, because spirits does it hurt. Just . . . so much.

“Uncle?” he asks reflexively, attempting to open his eyes. It’s surprisingly difficult. And Uncle is in Ba Sing Se, of course, but he’s on his back on a futon or bedroll or something similar and someone’s sitting beside him and his head is swimming and he’s injured, clearly, so options for who said “someone” might be are limited, really.

So it’s not Uncle, obviously, but . . .

“Nephew,” Uncle says, very quietly, and Zuko . . . blinks.

At least, half-blinks. The one eye’s in too much pain to open.

The ceiling is metal, he notes absentmindedly. That’s . . . odd. He was in the palace, wasn't he?

“What happened?” he asks, vaguely bemused. Uncle pauses in a very concerning way, and Zuko has about three heart attacks about just how badly he doesn’t want to know what he’s about to say before–

“The Agni Kai,” Uncle says, very carefully. “Do you remember it?”

Zuko frowns–just with the one side of his face, because again, his scar hurts right now. To the point that his whole body feels wrong, does his scar hurt right now.

“Um–which one?” he asks, because there’s been about a dozen this month alone, and frankly he’s getting really sick of fighting them at this point but if the old guard of nobles are just going to keep dragging everything out like this–

“With your father, Nephew,” Uncle says, very carefully.

Zuko . . . blinks.

“Oh,” he says, vaguely perplexed. Uncle never talks to him about that. “Yeah, I remember that. What about it?”

“Do you remember what happened?” Uncle says.

“The part where I disgraced myself or the part where he burned my face?” Zuko says, because it’s so fucked up and awful and horrible that he can’t even get upset about it anymore, except when he’s really upset about it. But if Uncle’s bringing it up, presumably he has a good reason to be, so . . . “Or the whole ‘go find the Avatar who no one even believes exists anymore or you can never come home again’ part?”

“. . . all of that, yes,” Uncle says, still sounding very careful. Zuko frowns a little–again with just the one side of his face–and then looks over at him. His body still feels weird and wrong, but . . .

But . . .

They’re on a ship, he realizes. A Fire Nation one.

Well, explains the metal ceiling.

It doesn’t explain why Uncle is wearing red armor and a topknot like he hasn't in years, though, or why he looks so unspeakably sad.

“Um,” Zuko says, and attempts to sit up. His head immediately starts swimming even worse, and Uncle catches his shoulders and keeps him pinned against the . . . futon? Looks like a futon, yeah. “Where are we, exactly?”

“We are aboard a ship,” Uncle says. “I . . . may have slightly commandeered it.”

“. . . you paid for it, right?” Zuko asks, a little skeptical at that idea.

“Yes, Nephew, I did,” Uncle says, giving him a very tired, pained smile. Zuko doesn’t feel much better, seeing it.

“Is someone dead?” he asks, because he can’t think of anything else that would make Uncle look that way.

“Ah–no, no one has died,” Uncle says.

“Then what’s wrong?” Zuko asks warily.

“. . . you are injured, Nephew,” Uncle says, slowly. Zuko frowns, bemused. “And your father . . . I did not know he was going to do this. I am so sorry.”

Zuko . . . pauses. Looks around the room again, and then realizes: he knows this room, doesn’t he. He knows this ship.

This is the same ship he woke up on after the Agni Kai.

“Hold that thought, Uncle,” he says, then lifts his hands and looks at them. They . . . well, they are his hands, obviously.

But they’re not his hands, obviously.

“Huh,” he says, frowning in bemusement at them; turning them around like he half-expects them to stop being a thirteen year-old’s or something equally ridiculous. They don’t. They are very definitely a thirteen year-old’s hands.

Specifically, his thirteen year-old hands.

Huh.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he says after a moment, putting his hands back down and glancing back to Uncle, who’s obviously the more important concern. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I took you into that meeting,” Uncle says, his voice tight. “And I watched the Agni Kai. And I did nothing to stop any of it.”

“I know,” Zuko says. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” Uncle says, his smile a sad and terrible thing. “You were there because of my actions. My mistakes.”

“You’re not the one who wanted to sacrifice all those soldiers,” Zuko says. “Or the one who decided to throw fire at my face.”

“You were there because of me,” Uncle repeats, his voice tight and his smile no less terrible. It occurs to Zuko, briefly, that Uncle must be thinking of Lu Ten.

He only ever looks like that when he’s thinking about Lu Ten, so . . .

“Uncle,” he says. “Really. It’s not your fault.”

“Nephew,” Uncle says, and his voice is somehow even tighter. Zuko tries to get up again, and his head swims again, and Uncle moves to stop him again. This time he grabs onto Uncle’s wrists and uses them to pull himself up, and then . . .

Well, then he’s sitting up, at least.

So that’s something.

He tilts his head and his hair slips into his eyes. It’s loose, and long. Not shaved on the sides yet, like he wore it the last time he was thirteen. He supposes he should cut it, but then again, why should he? He's not changing anything, after all.

Except for this conversation, he supposes, because that went very differently last time.

. . . hm.

"Uncle," he says one more time, and reaches out for him. Uncle doesn’t seem to understand what he’s trying to do, so he has to reach out a little farther, and then Uncle makes the connection and leans in and lets him wrap his arms around him and alright, yes: that’s better, Zuko thinks, and clings to him.

Just a little, perhaps, but . . .

Yes. He clings to him.

Uncle wraps his arms around him in turn, very carefully, and makes an awful sound.

“My boy,” he chokes. “I’m so–I’m so–”

“I forgive you,” Zuko lies, because of course there’s nothing to forgive.

But of course Uncle doesn’t understand that, does he.

Uncertainties | JJK

›› AU: Established Relationship ›› Genre: Angst (with a capital A) ›› Rating: R (anxiety) ›› Word Count: 759 ›› Prompts: To feel loved ›› Jungkook Snuggle Drabbles

That time when Jungkook was there for you.

It’s 5:14am on a Tuesday night when Jungkook finds you sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea clasped between your hands. Not because you’re thirsty, but because you need something warm to hold on to and curb the shaking. You don’t look up at him, well aware that he can see the streaks of tears on your cheeks. The way your body is curled into itself on the chair. Your eyes probably look void, but your mind is anything but. 

It rages. Thoughts bumping around in your skull and making you unable to go back to sleep. Ice cold chills running through your veins as you carefully comb through every scenario your anxiety shoves onto your already overfilled plate. 

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winter letter ⇾ knj, jjk.[A]

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ jungkook x reader (f.), namjoon x reader (f.)

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ angst, pg

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾ three months before your wedding, you get fragments of a letter from an old friend.

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ 2.1k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ a lil swearing

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾ Order up! Give it a good stir; enjoy!

⤑ le playlist

◖collab. for @bangtan-dreamland​’s drinks and drabbles event. find original request here.◗

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This makes me so sad and angry the these kinds of things happen to this and other breeds of dogs, but also makes me smile because in the end he/she ends up with a good family with the first friend who ever accepted him/her xx

pitbulls aren’t evil. they just want to be loved.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas Let your heart be light Next year all our troubles will be out of sight Have yourself a merry little Christmas Make the yuletide gay Next year all our troubles will be miles away

Once again as in olden days Happy golden days of yore Faithful friends who are dear to us Will be near to us once more

Someday soon we all will be together If the fates allow Until then we'll have to muddle through somehow So have yourself a merry little Christmas now

Judy Garland - Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas (Meet Me In St. Louis, 1944)  

Anakin Skywalker is dead

"Even if it was a lie. I wanted Qianqiu to remember that his benevolence toward Xianle was reciprocated. To believe that doing the right thing will open endless paths. Not like now, where he thinks everything I told him and everything he believed in was all false, lies, and deception. That everything was fucking nonsense! I just...I don't want to see anyone go through what I've already had enough of."

But in the end, who was killed was killed, who was murdered was murdered. However just the reason, however compelling the reason, the truth was that he'd killed, with his own hands, an honorable king who had truly wanted to eradicate discrimination, as well as the last blood descendant of his clan in this world.

xie lian's breakdown in all its fucking glory

wrote a doctor who poem….?

doctor oh doctor

please take me away

to a world full of wonder

new adventures each day

doctor oh doctor

please chose me to stay

i’ll stick by your side

i’d feel special, that way.

we’d travel the galaxy

seeing wonderful things

we’d fly through the stars

till that telephone rings

then off we would warp

to answer the call

here comes the great fearless doctor

the savior of all

i’d feel so special

and you, less alone

we’d pick up distress calls

through that rusty old phone

so many sins

in so little time

and so much regret

you’re punished with life

your first real companion

since the great act of violence

a feisty young blonde

so full of defiance

you traveled the stars

hoping she’d be the one

then doomsday arrived

and you knew you were done

so you burnt up a star

just to say a last goodbye

but all you got out

was a “rose tyler, i-“