#angsty time

[lanthanum12]

When Fingon was young, he gave Maedhros one of his golden ribbons. Maedhros treasured it and tied his hair back with it or used it as a bracelet. Even when he couldn't visit Fingon, he still had something so special to remember him by. Then he was captured by Morgoth and the ribbon was taken along with everything else lovely he owned.

Imagine his joy when he was reunited with the person dearest to him and once again a golden ribbon was woven in his hair. When he awoke after being rescued, one was finally there again. A tangible reminder that he was safe.

Every time Maedhros saw Fingon ever after, Fingon would gift him another ribbon for his collection. They got lost sometimes in the ever increasing battles of Beleriand. It was no issue, as Fingon was always there to give him more.

Until Fingon perished in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and thus there would be no more ribbons as gifts. Maedhros kept his remaining ones safe and wore them scarcely as to not soil them or risk loss. Despite these precautious, bits of fabric were easy to loose in the wilds and one by one his collection dwindled. The final proofs of his bond slipping away, leaving only memories.

He maintained them throughout the lonely years he fostered Elrond and Elros until it was time for them to leave and move on in the world. As a gift he gave them his remaining two which they held onto throughout the years. Elros kept his in his diary as a bookmark and it came over to Rivendell with the Faithful. Elrond tied his onto his silver harp. A little reminder of where they came from.

Once it came time for Elrond to depart for Valinor, he brought both shining strands of gold with him and wove them into his hair as he landed on the shore. There waiting for him, were Maedhros and Fingon with hair shimmering like the sun. They both saw those familiar ribbons and smiled. For they rightly took it as a sign that their legacy and love had lasted.

[xxfabulashxx]

Thinking about how touch starved Spamton and Jevil would be

Like Spamtons been living in a dumpster for like 20 years isolated from everyone. He occasionally pops out when he hears someone walking by to sell them something but the most physical contact he'd probably get is a punch in the face or something. Bro probably sees couples out on dates hugging n stuff and just sits there watching

Jevil even more so cus he's been in prison for so long. How many people actually go down to his cell? Maybe like a guard every so often to give him food but they're not gonna stay and chat (unless there's like a different thing that gives him food that is not alive like a machine or something) he hasn't had physical contact in so long he's probably forgotten what it feels like or even knows what a hug is anymore

[frxncaise]

@prodijedi asked: [INJURY]: after having been badly wounded himself, [DOOKU] tries to reassure a frantic [ANGÉLIQUE] by cupping her face and comforting her.

HOW MUCH HEARTBREAK COULD SHE endure in one short lifetime? TRAGEDY seemed to follow wherever she went. All she had known was suffering and loss, yet she attempted to remain soft in spite of it all. Nevertheless, she had grown TIRED after surviving by fight or flight for far too long. The only time Angélique would ever rest was when she would meet her actual death.

 ⠀  ⠀Returning back into public life put an even larger TARGET on her back than the one prior to her supposed death. Her security detail had been ENHANCED more than it had ever been. Like in her youth, Yan Dooku was by her side as her personal guard. How strange how he went from her PROTECTOR to ASSASSIN and to PROTECTOR once more.

 ⠀  Unlike in their youth, instead of maneuvering both of them OUT of harm's way, the reformed Sith Lord had taken the shot meant for her. As the chaos unfolded around them, the former phantom remained transfixed on him. Their Dyad had only recently been completed. Ange had lost him once, she could not bare to lose him AGAIN.

Cradling his hand that caressed her cheek, she desperately applied pressure to his wound with her free hand. “Don't you dare die on me, Dooku!”

[eydilily]

small victories ^^

[inkskinned]

you said you were stuck in a time loop, which was fine. i feel like late-stage capitalism has us all in a time loop, ammiright? you came barging in at 5:33. in the morning. i hadn't even processed the idea of coffee.

but you had this look of utter panic in your eyes. terror like the ocean. you grabbed my cheeks. im in a time loop.

i don't know why in movies the first reaction is to deny it. when someone is panicking like that, it's not appropriate to ask them to calm down. it didn't matter if i believed it, what mattered was that you believed it so much that it was consuming you.

so here we are. i pour you some of the dark roast. "you look like utter and entire hell," i say.

you push your fingers into your eyes. "you always say that."

i try to think of something funny to say that i wouldn't have said on previous time loops, but jokes don't land without the proper timing (lol). "remind me to think -"

"-yeah, of a joke that only works in the future. and before you say anything, i know you're pissed i just stole your punchline." you bolt the coffee, which is wild. it's very hot. you don't seem to notice.

i blow on mine to cool it down. i both am very pissed at you and also i can't see you in this amount of panic without wanting to help. but i'm also not really sure what we are, not since i saw you kiss her like that, no offense. it just was like, kind of rude when you knew i liked you.

and besides. i'm just like, barely a person. i write omegaverse fanfiction. i love the concept of a time loop, but what the fuck am i gonna do? send an alpha in there? i open my mouth.

you point at me. "you're about to ask why me. and then say some disparaging shit about yourself. i'm just a nerd who plays dnd or something. that self-own is slightly different each time." you sigh. "i know you think you can't really help me. i don't know who can help me. i only came to you because you fucking believe me." you check your watch, sigh, and throw your head back. you cover your eyes with one hand. "i've come here on 26 separate revolutions," you say. "you have believed me every time. and yeah, i have no idea how you fit into this but i just -" you sigh again. "i just like fucking talking to someone about it."

"do you need more cof-" i start, but you're already holding the empty cup out. i frown at it. "you're not getting any more until you promise not to bolt this one like an animal."

you laugh a little and sit up, pushing your hair out of your face. "okay, that's new dialogue. but to be fair to you, i'm not usually this rude. i'm still pretty new at all of this." you check your watch again. another sigh. i guess you're cruising for a personal best in the Sigh Olympics.

i almost tell you im not an NPC but i've played enough video games to know i'm very much an NPC. i pour you another cup. "so what happens in the loop?"

"really bad explosion." you mutter into the mug. you put your elbows on the table (rude) and bury your face in your arms like an angsty teenager. one hand floats up while you talk, because evidently you literally can't talk without your hands. "i have to save the day and there's this bomb and i have no bomb training and it keeps moving, you know."

"do i die?"

you peek up from your arms. "yeah. bigtime. you keep trying to run or stay or do anything and you always super die."

"oh."

"to be fair, like, everyone dies in it though.... so you're in good company."

i hate that you make me laugh. i hate that being around you always feels tingly and strange, this electric tension between us. something that is evidently (given how you stuck your tongue down a stranger's throat literally 3 days ago) (well. 3 for me) super one-sided. i take a sip of my coffee and close my eyes.

i die today, i guess. a little spark of panic starts at the top of my hands and starts whipping up my wrists.

"shit," you say. you look at your watch and jump to your feet. "i have to go. if i can come back, i will. i am still trying to figure out when is best to do everything, you know? the order of stuff. maybe morning isn't good for us."

i look up at you and think about how you keep kissing me in the back of my car and in alleyways and in the dark. and i can never fucking get a read on you. and i also think about how incredibly panicked you look. how broken. how long have you been doing this? "i don't want to die," i say.

you glance downwards. "well, you're not really dead, you'll come back in the loop."

"but i will have died." my hands are shaking. i am trying really hard to stay calm.

you push your hands through your hair again. "i really have to go. i will have this discussion with the next version of you, though. it is like, something i am thinking about."

"but i don't get a next version," i say. i don't really have the language for this, because i haven't had 26 tries with you. i only have my memories: you, a week ago. drunk and telling me you loved me in my ear. you, kissing her anyway. you, months ago, throwing up on my birthday, whispering to me i ruin everything i touch, always, over and over. please don't ask. i can't ever fucking have that be you.

i run my finger along the rim of the mug. "i don't want to die in this one."

you seem baffled by this. "i get that but - time will reset, you'll be fine, you won't even remember we talked about this."

"but i know now." i stand up too. "i have to live the rest of this day knowing i could die. knowing i probably am going to."

"you could always die, to be fair."

i feel my hands get out of control. "earlier, you said i always say a different insult about myself. what if you're just going through different parallel universes and those are all just different - but real - versions of myself? what if you're not in a time loop, you're in a fucking universe loop?"

"if it helps, i've wondered this too. also, you're hot in all of them. if that helps."

i point at you. "no flirting. i'm trying to figure out if i die today."

"who's flirting?" you catch my wild hands and give me that long, perfect smile. like we're in this together. "i won't let ya die." you check your watch and sigh again. "well. maybe not this time."

i grit my teeth. you are so not making quips at me while i try to explain the existential dread i'm having. "does the time loop reset if i fucking kill you?"

"honestly i don't know how long it continues after i die, because i just wake up. it could be that the loop goes until the explosion for everyone, and we're all in the loop, or it could be that when i die, the loop restarts. when i die i wake up, is all."

i pull away from you and stalk into the kitchen and start doing all 3 of my dishes. "okay, first, you know i was joking. and secondly, this is exactly my point. you don't know if this is just a parallel universe. maybe in the ones where you died, the explosion happened and nobody reset and it's just you travelling." i have to stop and push my heel into my eyeball. "... how often have you died?"

i look at you. you look at me. you give me this very sad, halfway smile and a little what can ya do shrug. something in that action seems so old and weary that i want to burst into tears.

"i have to go," you say. "really. for real. there's this family of five i save from getting into a car crash. and i know it's like oh but we're all gonna die in the explosion anyway, what's the point. and..." you shrug again. "it matters to me, is all. at least i saved them for now. at least i saved anything."

you pad over to me and wrap me in a tight hug. you always seem so tall against me. i feel your cheek rest against the top of my head for a moment. for a second, it's just us, and the space is warm, and my heart is a little broken hare.

you leave me there, and i stand in my stupid badly lit kitchen with my stupid mugs. i think about you. i start texting my mom that she needs to get out of the city, but it feels pointless.

i don't know what to do. tomorrow is the same day for you. but i have to prepare to die in my today.

[suretkerim]

i had this thought for a while about how convenient it is that of all the fenton inventions it is the shields that do not work on danny :)

[noodles-and-tea]

twins in time continuation of that blue doodle comic thingy, but fidd is forced to take care of stan when Ford gets into the portal stuff, leaving him behind.

I reckon he teaches him math…

[notherpuppet]

“You could end up like Lucifer”

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[mcducky1356]

Firefight by @remedyturtles is all wrapped up! If you haven’t read it check it out! It is so good!

[sykloni]

DP x House M.D.

9. Bleeding out in an alleyway

This is kind of the vibe with DP x House M.D. crossovers:

Danny is injured and sick with some mysterious illness on top of that. Just overall bad time for him. He is a minor. The hospital wants to call his parents. He doesn't. How would he even begin to explain that he is in New Jersey!? His doctor is kind of mean and probably will figure out what's wrong with him while figuring out what's wrong with him.

This is one of those crossovers that feels kind of random, but is super enjoyable. There are 6 DP x House M.D fics on FFN! It's been couple years since I read them. I remember the one where Danny ends up hospitalised as Phantom being my favorite, but I think there were also other good ones.

[petricorah]

relax bro no one's taking him from you [id in alt]

lineart below cut

[da-janela-lateral]

So many subspecies...!

[nkogneatho]

This is a PSA for all the writers who exclusively write only fluff and angst:

we love you. we still read your fics. no we don't care if it doesn't have smut in it. it is still valid and it is beautiful. thank you for existing. have a good day.

[anniilaugh]

”So.. somebody forgot to mention it’s their birthday, huh.” 💚💛

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.