Sheltered and carried throughout my entire existence, and shown movies that grant unrealistic expectations in life: I've become the idiom of a hopeless romantic, with no real sense of how things actually work.
His palms’re spaghetti,
Knees weak, Arms spaghetti.
There’s vomit on his spaghetti already; mom’s spaghetti.
But he’s nervous,
cause on the surface he looks calm spaghetti, to drop bombs, but he keeps on spaghetti…
#*dies of emotion* #but what if molly was his companion once #and now he stops by for breakfast #and keeps commenting because it seems like every time #there’s another ginger kid #adn when he sees harry it’s like ha! #i knew they couldn’t all be ginger! #and molly doesn’t bother telling the doctor that harry isn’t hers #because he is after all one of her boys #and she loves him just as though he was a weasley (via dwcompanion)
those tags broke me a little inside
#Molly Weasley turned Daleks into actual pepperpots, because, honestly, she doesn’t have time for their nonsense.