#PERFECTLY WRITTEN

[joffyworld]

THE OWL

Today is Superb Owl Sunday, so here is some Oko whittling.

[megmoon1111]

[lycanine9]

my absolute favorite shot from the movie

they both hold a special place in my heart and i’m sobbing

[tinartss]

something something two guys walk into a garden

[crimsonlyinglilly]

How is it a redemption when Klaus is still putting himself first before everyone else, when he still hasn't learnt to let his family live without his choices dictating their lives.

Hayley, Elijah and their relationship were all reduced to plot devices to make Klaus more sympathetic, and it failed, ruining them all.

The way the writers made Hayley's death be more about Klaus and his relationship with Elijah, over her own death, is insane.

Why was her death centered around Klaus? And why didn't he care more about her being gone from his life forever, instead of whining every single minute about how Elijah gave him up? Klaus was constantly prioritizing Elijah over Hope and Hayley in important moments, yet he's the one who gets the more credit when it comes to parenting Hope, and he's apparently the better brother in everything.

He didn't even comfort his own brother, who was in absolute misery after losing the love of his life, it's very implicit he told Hope her uncle didn't bother "saving" her mother, ignoring how much Hayley and Elijah adored each other, how his brother didn't even feel what they all meant to him, all because of his bruised ego.

Hayley didn't deserve to be so discarded in season five, especially not over Klaus and his codependent relationship with Elijah.

[bisexualenbyblueberry]

Grover's big wet eyes and loser boy personality have captivated me

[worfsbarmitzvah]

there’s such an attitude among ex-christian atheists that religions just spring up out of the void with no cultural context behind them. like ive heard people say shit like “those (((zionists))) think they own a piece of land bc their book of fairy tales told them so!!!” and they refuse to understand that no, we don’t belong there because of the torah, it’s in the torah because we belong there. because we’re from there. the torah (from a reform perspective) was written by ancient jews in and about the land that they were actively living on at the time. the torah contains instructions for agriculture because the people who lived in the land needed a way to teach their children how to care for it. it contains laws of jurisprudence because those are pretty important to have when you’re trying to run a society. same for the parts that talk about city planning. it contains our national origin story for the same reason that american schools teach kids about the boston tea party. it’s an extremely complex and fascinating text that is the furthest thing from just a “book of fairy tales”

[madaqueue]

CRAWLING BACK TO YOU

playlists | 'do i wanna know' x hozier

pairing: satoru gojo x gn!reader

themes/content: angst. alcohol consumption, a not-great breakup, sometimes you don't have to say 'i love you' to know it. 18+ MDNI (wk: 1.5k)

a/n: maybe putting this man in a situation will get me out of my writer's block

“Hi, baby,” Satoru’s slurred voice crackles through the speaker, cold metal held to your ear.

At least through the shitty phone you refuse to upgrade, he can’t hear your sigh from the other end. “Where are you?”

“I’m not telling,” he sing-songs, ending with a hiccup he can’t quite stifle.

Not that his answer really matters, only half playing through the otherwise-silent bedroom. You’re already up, groggily pulling on sweatpants and palming for the shape of your keys, lit by the tiny screen blinking his name.

“Well, don’t go too far. I’m on my way.” You hang up before he can complain (not that he would - if you had stayed on the call for a second longer, you would have heard the contented sigh slipping from his lips, a quiet ‘thank you’ that his microphone might have missed).

The bar is sticky and hot, uncomfortable at any time, but especially at 1:30 a.m. when you should be at home under soft sheets and moonlight. Shedding your coat does little to fix the air clinging to your skin like a vice as your eyes scan past neon lights, parsing through the blaring music for something familiar. A flash of white across the room, and your steps fall in a straight line.

When you place your hand between his shoulder blades (gently, of course - you know he startles easily), he manages to pull his head from the haven of his elbows, a temporary shelter along the wooden countertop.

“You came.” His grin is wild and unruly, only half there, but his eyes pierce through you all the same. You’ve always felt too bare under them; you tug your jacket on.

“Let’s go, Satoru.”

He doesn’t protest as you loop one arm around his torso, and lets you pull him to his feet. It’s always a bit of a balancing act to get him through the door, his lanky limbs colliding with yours, his shoes heavier than the rest of his body. Drunken giggles tumble into your ear from where his head rests atop yours, watching you kick his ankles away to keep him upright.

“Were you born with two left feet or something?” you grumble to yourself, muffled by the screeching chatter encasing you.

“Don’t think so,” he says earnestly. With a slow glance downward, he hums. “Nope. Right and left.”

You scoff to hide the giggle that threatens to escape. You wish he wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t charm you and force a smile, wouldn’t make you ache with forgiveness.

The night air is cold and welcome, finally letting your lungs expand fully for the first time in what feels like days, in spite of Satoru’s crushing weight on your shoulders. Opening his door first, he falls into the seat, enveloped by the familiar cloth, and you fasten his seatbelt before stepping into the driver’s side. In the confined space of the car, the smell of alcohol lingers on his breath, slowly making its way towards you, and you sniffle. The engine hums as you drive, roads and turns you know better than the veins coursing below your skin, ones that tingle under a watchful gaze.

With a quick glance, you find Satoru’s eyes lazily fixed on your own.

“You’ve got a staring problem,” you state.

“Just admiring the view.”

The thrum of your pulse picks up. You resent it.

“I still love you, y’know.”

The leather covering of the steering wheel creaks below your tightening grip. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” If you didn’t know him so well, you’d think he was teasing, playing coy, pushing your buttons until he finds the one that makes you force him out along the highway. Unfortunately, you know it’s genuine.

“Because.” You exhale. “Because you broke up with me.”

A groan is muffled beneath his palm, rubbing into his skin as if he could wipe the words away. It was mutual, you told your friends, who took it well, your parents, who didn’t, as you tried to hide the familiar stinging in your eyes, as though you hadn’t just emerged from the bathroom where the water ran cold from scrubbing salt stains off your cheeks.

“It doesn’t make it any less true.” When he’s forced to hear the click of the turn signal too many times against the silence, he continues. “And I didn’t wanna break up with you.”

Ah, his favorite excuse. It makes you grimace at the bitter taste rising in the back of your throat. ‘I don’t want this either,’ he said as you screamed and cried in his arms, as he held you until the worst of the shaking was over. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.’

“Whatever,” you acquiesce (he’ll never shut up if you don’t give him something to cling to).

(He only feels sane when he hears your voice. The silence aches for it; it tears at him from the inside out. If his agony could sound like you, he’d suffer like this forever.)

Before he can beg for more, his door opens. You reach across his waist to undo the seatbelt and toss his arm over your shoulders again.

In his hazy mind, he wonders how many times you’ve done this - he never really remembers this part, so it makes it hard to count. But there’s a fluidity as you shuffle towards the garage, punching in a code he never dared to change, as you wait the three seconds for it to rise just above his head and maneuver him inside.

And of course he doesn’t have to guide you towards the bedroom (he has to call it that now, ‘the’ bedroom; he thinks you got upset with him for calling it ‘our’ bedroom once, but that’s foggy, too).

With a huff you toss him onto the bed, every muscle uncoordinated, too out of it to scramble for the shreds of his dignity. Instead, he watches silently as you untie his shoes, unlatch his belt, unbutton his shirt. Even in just his boxers he doesn’t feel bare, not under your eyes, ones too gentle to cut.

“There’s water on the bedside table, and I put some crackers there, too. Please eat them.”

“M’sorry.”

“What?” You try to ignore the way your throat burns, the way your legs can’t move.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”

“Satoru, what-”

“That’s why.” When he finally removes the arm that had been shielding his face, those bright blue eyes are dull, clouded with tears. “That’s why I - hic - fucked it up. I wasn’t strong enough to protect you. I love you so much and I wasn’t strong enough.” I couldn’t risk anything happening to you, I was too dangerous, I would have gotten you hurt. I should have protected you, he wants to say, but the words get stuck in the thickness at the back of his tongue.

Some part of you, a part you tried to crush and kill and bury, claws its way out. You sit at the edge of the bed and rub his arm.

“It’s okay. I loved you, too.”

Loved. What a wretched thing past tense is. He wants to scream.

“No!” he cries, the sound weak and cracked. “I can’t…I can’t do anything but this, but love you. You’re the only one. And I ruined it.”

He makes no move towards you, curling into himself instead, sucking everything in until you’re captured by it, too. Your hands cradle his face, and let the tears spill over your fingers.

“I’m sorry I called you.”

The sobs have started to quiet, his breathing becoming less labored. He’s shaking less, now, with your skin on his.

“It’s okay.”

Your fingertips travel along his jaw, and you try to ignore how beautiful he looks with tears catching under the moonlight, how the comforter is stained darker beneath his cheeks. You try to ignore the way this hurts worse than any wound could, that you would have rather be killed for loving him than suffer through losing him. You try to ignore the way your heartbeat slows with your skin on his.

Through parted lips, his sleep-laden sighs fall steadier. His forehead is warm beneath your lips.

His protection is a funny thing, you’ve grown to realize. Maybe it’s his upbringing, or his job or his role or something else that has infiltrated and woven its way into his mind, but he seems to get it all twisted up, entangled in the ropes of it. How funny, to protect someone by alienating them; how funny, to make them watch as you destroy yourself.

But you don’t mind. Not really, not when you get to brush damp strands of hair from his neck, when you get to pull the blankets up to his shoulders and watch the soft sheets tickle his skin.

You don’t mind that you’ll always have a space in your heart with his absence carved out of it, that you’ll always leave your keys on the bedside table, that you’ll always come back, even if you’re crawling, your hands and knees will carry you to him. You have to protect him too, after all.

Softly, you whisper, “I’ll always answer your calls.”

[deonysus]

i find it strange that it’s a huge headcanon in the fandom that lily and james ‘rushed’ into marriage just because james got lily pregnant like.. c’mon.

they both knew they wanted to get married before they even had sex, maybe two or three dates into their relationship. and it’s absolutely terrifying when you realise that the person you’re holding hands with really is the person you’re meant to spend the rest of your life with even though you’re only seventeen and being married isn’t something that has ever crossed your mind because there’s a war going on and you don’t know if you’re gonna even make it to twenty.

but yeah. yeahhh. that’s exactly what happened to james and lily potter. they found a soulmate, a life partner in one another, and they couldn’t wait to get married and do it all together; to share a vow and a future and a home, to live under one roof and be there for each other through it all, to become one and to grow together.

and they weren’t held back by the same struggles that usually hold back other pairs of lovers; they were financially stable, and they’d both completed their education and were in the same stages of their lives. nothing stood in their way. they were ready to get married the moment they’d left hogwarts.

so no, they didn’t rush. it wasn’t because of an unexpected baby or a war haunting them; they didn’t get married because they thought they were running out of time. they got married because they couldn’t wait to spend the rest of their lifetimes together.

(they had no idea they were running out of time.)

[sunlightnmoonshine]

It's very interesting that queen of tears is playing so hard into the "these characters were born to love each other" notion. It's repeatedly empathised (and although in a comedic vein) by haein and hyunwoo and in their inability to let each other go no matter how hard things get. At the same time with the flashbacks to how they were each other's first loves and how the osts really point to the two of them being the "one" for each other, it really speaks to how much these characters were meant to be in each other's lives, essentially soul mates, destined to be together.

What's refreshing though is that they said okay you two might be soul mates but that doesn't mean your relationship doesn't take work and that you are going to drift so far apart that it's going to feel like love no longer exists between the two of you. They said hey, being destined for each other and having to still put in the effort to make your relationship work are not mutually exclusive and should never be because that's not how the real world works. But hey, put in the effort, talk, listen, learn, and grow and you'll see why you two were born to love each other.

[myokk]

She hears him calling her name as she flees down the spiral staircase, almost tripping over her feet in her rush to get away from him, but he catches up quickly, reaching out to grab her arm in an attempt to slow her down. She stops running immediately - she supposes her traitorous body wants to see what he has to say, or maybe it just wants to bask in his intoxicating proximity. He crowds her space, and she sees that unfamiliar look in his eyes again. So very different from the cold disdain she had seen the last time she had been this close to him, during the argument that had ended their friendship.

Oh, Merlin, he's getting closer to her, and she can now clearly see the freckles dusting his cheeks and nose and forehead and then before she knows it, his hand is sliding up her arm, leaving goosebumps everywhere he touches and then he's caressing her jaw with his rough thumb and he pauses. Her eyelids flutter closed as her head tilts towards him - she couldn't stop herself even if she wanted to (what does she want?). She can feel his warm breath ghosting over her lips and she has the improbable, ridiculous thought - how is he remembering to breathe? - before he speaks. His lips brush against hers with every soft word and a deep shiver runs through her body.

"I," she hears him say, his voice so, so low, "haven't been able to think since last week."

That's all she needs to hear, the brush of his bottom lip against hers all she needs to feel, to push her into closing what minuscule distance there is between them and then his lips are on hers and it's better than anything she's been imagining. His mouth is soft against hers, insistent, and her hands go up to grip the collar of his plaid jacket to make sure he doesn't go away or disappear on her.

from my oneshot💘

[cloismami]

sobbing bc this is canon, idc

more than the world itself

summary: just a collection of my personal rafe headcannons about his childhood ❀

warnings: Ward Cameron (ew); this is about Rafe’s childhood trauma, especially concerning his father and his mother’s death so please read with care!

word count: 2.2k

a/n: I envision Rafe’s mom to be half French, half Portuguese fyi! ❀

It’s a languorously lazy Sunday morning, the kind where sunlight has been streaming through the gauzy curtains for well over an hour and warming the fluffy comforter. You and Rafe have been stirring in a state somewhere in between slumber and wakefulness for the past half hour. He finally lets out a groan as he stretches and yawns, muscular forearms flexing alluringly. Reaching out to hold you tightly, he buries his face in the nape of your neck, your hair tickling his nose. The sweet scent of your shampoo fills his senses as he pulls you closer to him under the crisp cotton sheets.

His fingers lightly drum, absentmindedly, rhythmically against your sternum as he often does, tracing an invisible melody across your skin. You frequently wonder about the root of this subconscious habit of his, wanting to understand everything about him, what makes Rafe Rafe. Sometimes he sits at the bench of the glossy black piano at Tannyhill, fingers hovering above the gleaming keys, but you’ve never heard him play. Once you asked him about it, if he could play something for you, and the flat tone of his no articulated to you that this was just another topic that was off-limits, one of the many that caused Rafe to tense up, a furrow forming between his brows as he clenched his jaw and changed the subject with a sense of finality.

You are not the pushy type of partner, not wanting to press Rafe into sharing more than he is willing, wanting him to be able to confide to you in his own time, but you sometimes wish that he could talk to somebody, if not you, about his past, his thoughts, the things that he had done. Because somewhere inside of Rafe, there is a broken, angry boy, who hungers for more than you can possibly fathom, and sometimes you fear that he will always be there. That time will not heal Rafe’s wounds.

Turning around to loop your arms around his neck, you press a soft kiss to his mouth before you broach the subject that’s been on your mind since yesterday afternoon.

“Rafe, my love,” you say, skimming a hand over his broad shoulder, “I was thinking about something.”

He looks down at you under his golden lashes, his eyes still hooded with sleep, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Mhm?”

You capture his hand, the familiar weight of his palm soothing. “Well, I was shopping for stationary yesterday, and I saw this journal and thought of you.”

He looks at you questioningly, as if to say, is that it?

You continue, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “I just thought that maybe you could use an outlet to, you know, express your feelings,” you shrug. “I know that you don’t necessarily want to see a therapist, and journaling can be a good way to process things.”

“I don’t know,” he says doubtfully, sitting up, abs flexing as he mussing his sandy blond hair.

You look up at him earnestly. “I think you should give it a try. It could be really good for you, just having the space to write down your feelings and thoughts.”

He nods and looks away, and you can tell he’s still disinclined to the idea. “I’ll think about it,” he says, kissing the top of your head and getting out of bed. “Crepes?” he asks, and you nod, lingering in bed for a few more moments before padding to the kitchen, where he’s slicing strawberries, to help him prepare breakfast.

About a week has passed since you mentioned journaling, and Rafe has just gotten off the phone with Ward, who is pressing him to be more assertive with clients, to be a better executive, to be an adequate son who is worthy of the Cameron name. Sighing, he runs his hand over his face and lifts his thumb to the corner of his mouth, biting down on the already ragged skin and wincing a little. An all-too-familiar pit of self doubt is settling in his stomach and he breathe the way you taught him to, inhaling and exhaling slowly to soothe the ache in his chest.

He glances at the corner of his desk, where the plain navy notebook you bought for him sits, blank and impassive. It practically taunts him, lying there, its pages clean and unblemished, and he’s almost afraid to touch it for fear of sullying your gift with his thoughts and words, the things he would like to say.

Shaking his head as though to clear his thoughts, he mutters a low, “Fuck it,” grabbing the journal and opening it to the first page, where he sees a post-it note with your handwriting.

Rafe, my love, if you’ve opened this you should know that I am so proud of you for using this as your own private space to express yourself. I know it can be hard to get started, so here are some ideas in case you want to write about something.

He scans down your list of prompts and questions until one in particular catches his eye.

What is it like being your father’s son?

Rafe chews the end of his pen absentmindedly, musing over the question posed to him. What is it like being Ward Cameron’s heir, his only son, the eldest out of all of his siblings? There are many things he could say: it is hard work, it is high expectations atop of unsteady shoulders, it is an ache in his chest that doesn’t ever quite leave.

It is being five years old, Rafe waiting excitedly for his father to come home so that he can show him the new prelude he has learned to play on the piano. It is Ward brushing him aside, snapping that no, he does not want to listen, he does not have time for him, he’s a busy man and can’t Rafe understand that? It’s his mother’s face as she runs a thin hand over her face, looking so profoundly tired as she whispers to him that his father will be more patient next time, that he is overworked, that she is sorry, baby, and won’t he go wash up for dinner?

It is dropping his glass of water, shards glimmering on the kitchen’s tile floor. It is his mother’s pale face as she claps a hand over her mouth and turns to look at his father, trembling. It is his father’s thunderous shouts, it is Rafe’s hands pressed over his ears, it is salty tears, it is his wrists bruised with purple for days after.

It is six years old and his family has had an unusually good day at the beach, where Sarah is building sand castles in her pink cotton bonnet and his father is helping Rafe find seashells. It is his parents’ hushed conversations late at night about money and his father’s job, and suddenly Ward is not so angry anymore, he does not come home raising his voice and his fists. He smiles more and brings Rafe to work, where he meets his father’s secretary, and Rafe feels special, important, enough.

It’s seven years old, on the school stage under bright spotlights, his palms sweaty and heart racing as he squints into the audience to find his parents, his fingers trembling as he sets them down on the ivory piano keys. It is after he lets out a shaky breath and gives a bow, seeing his mother’s bright face as she cheers for him, her smile radiant as she applauds, the seat next to her empty. It’s after his recital, when she pulls him into a tight embrace, praising his performance, and five-year-old Sarah gives him a bouquet of yellow roses; it is when she says Ward couldn’t make it, that he was in an important business meeting, that he was sorry, that he would be there next time, with a sorrowful expression that said she knew he wouldn’t.

It’s nine, when his mother first gets sick and he catches his father in his study, face in his hands as his blonde secretary, Rose, massages the tension from the broadness of his shoulders. It is Ward’s face snapping up when he sees Rafe, his expression hardening, blue gaze turning cold as ice, his secretary’s eyes widening with guilt. It’s curling up with Sarah, ears pressed to Ward’s oaken study door to hear murmured conversations between his father and Rose, catching snatches of illicit parleys.

It’s visiting his mother in the hospital with white tulips and a card that reads Get well soon, recalling his father’s whispered tête-à-têtes with Rose from the night before. It is a guilty ache throbbing in his chest as she greets Ward with a cheery embrace, clutches a baby Wheezie to her body, her disposition hopeful despite her hollow cheeks and thinning curls.

It’s ten years old clutching his mother’s hand in the hospital, trying not to be frightened by the beeping heart monitor or snaking tubes of intravenous fluids taped to her frail wrists as she whispers into his ear. I love you more than the world itself. Be strong for your sisters, everything will be okay. It’s walking down the hospital hallway, his shoulders shaking and vision blurred with tears as his father roars at the nurses to do something, to bring her back, the clatter of hospital equipment being thrown filling his senses.

It is coming home to a silent house which feels larger and quieter than ever and curling up in his mother’s closet, the faint scent of her perfume almost imperceptible. It is a silent, lonely Mother’s day spent avoiding his father, the absence of his mother unbearably suffocating. It is as if his family is drifting apart at sea, their anchor lost in the briny depths.

It is his eleventh birthday, his first without his mother; there is no cake, no celebration, not even an acknowledgement from his father. It’s his bottom lip quavering as he tries to hold back tears at the kitchen table, his father hunched over the uneaten pasta that Rose has made. It’s Rafe being unable to stomach a bite of his dinner, blurting out, “I wish Mom were here.” It’s Ward slowly turning his gaze towards Rafe, his cold stare glacial as he slowly says, “Do not ever talk about your mother again.” It’s Rafe nodding, a pit of dread gnawing in his stomach as he takes a bite of Rose’s pasta, tasting nothing but bitter shame. There are no birthday wishes except for his own futile hope that his mother will come back and hold him, stroke his hair and tell him that she loves him more than the world itself.

It’s fourteen and Rafe has long since discovered that playing the piano will turn his father into a hostile man. He has given up speaking French and Portuguese in fear that his Ward will turn to him, his eyes flashing, with anger in his voice and brutality in his fists. It is coming home from school and calling out for his mother for just a split second, until the realization that she is gone hits him like a punch to his stomach, his heart sinking and tears burning his throat. It is taking a shaky breath, remembering that his father does not like it when he cries, and shoving his grief into some unknown corner deep within his heart.

It is fifteen and sitting numbly in his navy suit watching Ward and Rose recite vows, holding each others hands. Somewhere deep inside of him, Rafe despises his mother for leaving him behind and breaking his family, and he hates himself even more for these treacherous thoughts.

It is seventeen and days will pass before he thinks of his mother, and he realizes that he has forgotten the exact shade of brown of her eyes, that he cannot remember the sound of her laughter bouncing around the bright kitchen anymore, and he is overwhelmed with guilt and fear. Sometimes he sits at the piano bench, his fingers itching to pour out the music inside of him, and it is in these moments that he is faintly able to recall the feeling of her hair brushing his shoulders as she sat next to him, the lilt in her voice when she called his name.

It is now and he is slowly unlearning what his father has taught him; he is able to differentiate between fear and respect, is able to sit with his feelings. When Rafe is with you, he is able to remember what love feels like. It is your gentle smile in the morning and quiet reassurances at night. It is feeling adequate, enough, sufficient. It is conquering his fear of facing his emotions, it is being able to cry properly for the first time in your arms as you stroke his hair. It is sobbing so hard that he cannot breathe, the ache in his chest dissipating as he sheds his sorrows, knowing that you will sit with him as long as he needs. It is learning to love himself as much as you love him, more than the moon and the stars, more than the world itself.

[tathrin]

Hey, so do you ever stop to think about how the premise of Lord of the Rings being an in-universe book written by some of the characters who lived through that story means that they decided what parts and perspectives to use to tell that story...?

And when our authors weren't there to experience the events themselves, they have to rely on what they're told about them by the characters who were there, right...?

Okay so stop and think about the Glittering Caves.

We never actually go to the caves in the narrative. Tolkien LOVES describing nature and natural beauty, but we don't actually see the caves described "by him" the way we do other places. Obviously Gimli's words are Tolkien's, yes; but we only see the caves filtered through his words about them, after the fact.

When Gimli and Éomer and the other Rohirrim take refuge there, the narrative doesn't follow them. Obviously from a narrative standpoint this is to keep the focus narrow, and not to interrupt the battle-sequence with a long ode to the beauty of the caves, and to create tension in the reader who doesn't know if these characters are okay or not. Which all makes sense!

But think about it in terms of the book that was written in Middle-earth by the folk living there. Why DON'T we get to have a direct experience of those caves? Gimli obviously related several other parts of the story that none of the Hobbits were there to witness to them, and which were written into the books as Direct Events Happening In The Narrative (think of the Paths of the Dead scene, for one of the more visceral moments!). So why not the Glittering Caves?

Was it because they wanted to keep that narrative focus and tension, and so they didn't include his perspective on that part of the battle? Perhaps, that's certainly a possibility to consider.

But also consider: when we do hear about the Glittering Caves, what we hear is Gimli telling Legolas about the Glittering Caves. THAT is the part of that event that is considered of importance to include in the book: not Gimli's actual experience when he was in them, but rather the part where he relates that experience TO Legolas.

And I kind of just THOUGHT about that today.

And went HUH.

[bornnraisedinsilenthill]

The first Moomin book came out in 1945 and the last in 1993.

The Moomin animated series came out in 1990.

So it’s not unreasonable to believe, that Risotto Nero, leader of the hitman team, both read and watched the Moomins, which led to Metallica’s (Stand) Hattifattener design.

If I were to write a head-canon, that the same Risotto, who murders people for money, was reading the Moomins to at night in his childhood and probably owned a stuffed Moomintroll, it can chronologically make sense.

Now since he murdered his cousin’s murderer in 1991 (1973+18), it isn’t unreasonable to believe, that afterwards he went home, washed himself off of the blood, changed and sat down in front of the television to watch an episode of the animated series. Then cried about his childhood and loss of it, yet also finding a certain type of outlet for his pain in remembering it.

Metallica (stand) is in his blood to fill up the emptiness inside him and, as his childhood was killed when he was 14, it also fills up his empty childhood by looking like something from his childhood.

But, as he himself has become, it is twisted and grief stricken, stitched together after an unfortunate accident and never properly healed.

[hellsite-hall-of-ex-girlfriend]

[thecookieshop]

Been obsessed with this zotash high school fic for a good while, (title is Days of Youth) and this scene made me laugh out loud so I had to draw it. Thank you for the zotash food @thought-about-it I love your work‼️‼️