#my genuine angst

[khaoskrakenart]

Once, there was flame.

Our hearts ignited; dancing toward the sun as if it would never rise again.

We would howl to the void; so that the stars and planets, would remember our names.

And people questioned the heights we said we would claim! ... the MOMENT you said you'd take my name...

So we set the world ablaze!

Even the Gods had learned our names...

It all fell apart... and we were to blame.

ONCE there was a flame... now it's all ash in the rain.

[hinamie]

all i have left

[writeouswriter]

My followers: And is this “writing” you’ve been “working on” in the room with us right now?

[littlecrittereli]

That moment when your non-affectionate brother is suddenly affectionate

[sapphoismymuse]

don’t think about Bilbo never having a picture to remember Thorin, Kíli, and Fíli by

don’t think about Bilbo realizing, one day, decades later, that he can’t remember what they look like

don’t think about Bilbo writing down the story of The Company of Thorin Oakenshield in a last attempt to remember their voices and preserve their stories

don’t think about Bilbo getting stuck on memories he’s forgotten and writing to the rest of the company to ask them to fill in the blanks

don’t think about the dwarves realizing that they, too, are slowly forgetting the look of their smiles and the sound of their laughter

don’t think about Bilbo wiping his tears away as he describes Fíli and Kíli’s deaths

don’t think about Bilbo improvising dialogue he no longer remembers, and adding words that he wished he could’ve said if they had more time

don’t think about Frodo, confused why his uncle Bilbo spends day after day writing in his study, but won’t share the story yet

don’t think about Bilbo sharing the story with the company after his retirement, of them laughing and fond memories and holding each other through the sad ones

don’t think about Frodo living alone in Bag End, realizing why his uncle seemed so changed after he came home from his adventure

don’t think about Frodo coming home to the finished story after his own adventure, realizing why this story was so important to his uncle

don’t think about Frodo finally understanding how much Thorin had meant to Bilbo through his story

don’t think about Frodo spending months writing the story of his own adventure to cope with his own losses

don’t think about two hobbits, forever unchanged, leaving Middle Earth behind to remember them through their stories

[birdy-babe]

I’m 100% sure this is already general knowledge but it’s my first time thinking about it and I’m kinda obsessed-

Bc of S2 Ep3 Exs and Ohs we get a small glimpse into Moxxie and Blitzø’s backstory, where we find out that they meet RIGHT after Moxxie’s impromptu “break up” with Chaz

And then based on the trailer we got a glimpse of what is supposedly (and in my opinion, most likely) Blitzo and Millie’s first meeting, based on how young they look and the fact that Millie has long hair.

So…

Does that mean Blitzø introduced Moxxie and Millie?

I don’t know why but I’m obsessed with the idea that Blitzo introduced them. I think it’s such an adorable plot line <3 I love the idea of them both being friends individually with Blitzø before they became a couple.

It would also describe why he’s so obsessed with the two of them. Maybe because he’s so happy to see their love bloom, knowing he helped get it there <3

(But maybe it’s also because he had to sit back and watch them get the thing he’s always wanted most in life: unconditional love. He looks at them sometimes and just thinks “why not me? When will it be my turn?”)

[tobyisave]

It drove me nuts that Steven never tells Peridot what happened on the moon in Can't Go Back. Of course, I forgot that in canon it was daytime when he got back and she was already out of the house, so this scene isn't quite plausible. Oh well!

[mikakuna]

thoughts about time travel shenanigans where robin jason and bruce are thrust into the future and find themselves on a rooftop during a stormy night? because listen.

they both find themselves on this random rooftop in gotham, but they're not alone because right in front of them is batman of this year and a man wearing a red helmet. this wouldn't have raised much of a concern-- they probably could've just asked the future bruce what happened and how to get home-- except this batman is more violent than jay or bruce anticipated. they watch, stunned, as this batman repeatedly rains his heavy fist down on the other man's face, chest, ribs, and wherever else he can reach.

they watch as the man with the red helmet struggles weakly, consciousness slowly leaving him, before they catch sight of his face in the crack of his hood. both jay and bruce realize at the same time who it is-- that this is future jason despite the hard lines and large ragged body so different from jay's own.

the realization hits right there-- that bruce is beating down on jason more violently than batman has handled any villain.

the bruce of the past feels it before he sees it-- his jay flinching away from him and his tiny hand ripping away from his cape in fear. bruce looks down at his son, his child, and sees the absolute terror in his eyes. after all, why wouldn't jay be so upset? didn't bruce promise never to lay a hand on him like so many adults in his young life already have? didn't bruce swear, crouched down in front of his little boy and gently holding his hands, that he would keep him safe now?

and yet as they stare at each other with horror-filled eyes, the jason of this time finally loses consciousness as his bruce drags him away by the cracks of his helmet, bloody knuckles pressed over his swollen eyelids.

bruce distantly remembers the way jay had shyly called him dad just two days ago. now, he stares as his sweet boy takes a trembling step back, tears threatening to spill down his wide eyes. bruce doesn't think he's hated himself more.

[sturnina]

Jealousy

Chris Sturniolo x Fem!reader

— tags;; mentions of a physical fight & injury, injury tending, fighting, pet name (baby), no use of yn, toxic habits (overprotectiveness)

— wc;; 1282

— author‘s note;; my take on overprotectiveness since i hate the „touch her and you die“ trope, hope you enjoy <3

He did it again.

You don‘t know how to feel as you silently drive home, Chris in the passenger seat, seemingly oblivious to the storm raging in your mind.

He did it again. He hit a guy just because he looked at you weirdly.

Don‘t get me wrong, you love his protective side. It is hot, honestly. The way he always makes sure everyone knows you‘re his girl, the way his arm sneaks around your waist at parties, the way he gets rid of other boys trying to flirt with you.

But this… this wasn‘t protective, this was violent. He hit a guy, for the second time this week. The second time in four days.

Yes, the guy was rude and obnoxious. Yes, you felt uncomfortable around him. Yes, you were relieved when Chris came to your help after the guy wouldn‘t listen to your No’s.

But Chris‘s punch, it wasn‘t protective. It was violent, brutal, merciless. And of course, the guy hit him back, right on his cheek.

When you glance to your right, you can see the dark patch forming on your boyfriend‘s cheekbone.

You arrive home — your house, not the triplets‘ —, and you go to fetch the first aid kit immediately after entering through the front door. Chris trails in behind you, unbothered by his split lip and bruised cheek.

He just sits down at the kitchen table, knowing you will take care of him. Expecting you to.

You take an ice pack out of the refrigerator and settle down next to Chris, all in complete silence. You can‘t bear to hear his voice now, or your own. You‘re afraid it might give your thoughts away. And your eyes, your eyes will surely betray you, so you keep them focused on the ice, the bruise, your hand, anything but Chris‘s eyes. That he is looking at you constantly isn‘t helping.

But eventually, he picks up on your uncharacteristically silent behaviour.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Everything alright?”

You swallow thickly, knowing your voice will give in the second you try to speak. So you remain silent. For exactly three seconds, dabbing a cotton pad at his split lip, before Chris speaks again.

“That dick won‘t bother you anymore.”

Of course, he thinks that‘s the problem. Of course.

“That‘s not what I‘m worried about,” you mutter, stoically keeping your eyes on his injuries.

“You‘re worried about me? Oh, baby, you know I can take care of myself,“ Chris says warmly.

“That’s not… I am worried about you, Chris. You need to stop this. But-”

“Baby, you know I won‘t,“ he mutters, slowly tilting your chin up with the hand that isn‘t holding the ice pack. “Those pricks deserve it.“

“Besides the fact that no one deserves to get beat up, that‘s not what I mean,“ you say, pulling away from him. “You need to stop or you‘ll end up in serious trouble.“

“I won‘t,“ he says softly. “I promise. I just want to teach them a lesson-”

“You‘re not listening to me, Chris!”

“What are you talking about, of course I‘m listening to you,“ he says, his brows furrowing.

“No you‘re not,“ you scoff. “I see the way you look at the guys you‘re going to hit. I‘m not blind. I can see that you want it.“

“Of course I want it,“ Chris says, laying a hand on your arm. “I need to protect my girl-”

“That‘s not what I mean, and we both know it,“ you snap, quickly closing your mouth and taking a deep breath. “I am just an excuse. Don‘t deny it!“

He already opened his mouth but closes it again, worry and confusion clouding his gaze. “Baby-”

“No. Listen to me,“ you interrupt him, trying to keep your tone calm. “You like the confrontation, don‘t you? The adrenaline? But you can‘t see… You don‘t see the way it‘s hurting me.“

Chris‘s expression falters for a moment. “I don‘t- what are you- what do you mean? I don‘t understand…“ he stutters.

“No, you don‘t,“ you say softly, pulling your arm out of his grip and standing up to bring more distance between you.

He really doesn‘t. He doesn‘t understand the way your heart clenches every time a guy even just glances at you in public. He doesn’t understand the way your thoughts start racing even when someone is just walking in your direction. He doesn‘t understand the way you‘re terrified of talking to anyone while out with him — out of fear to trigger his jealousy.

The air feels thick as you look at his expression, his desperate eyes, the bruise on his cheek and his still-bleeding lip.

“Explain it to me,“ he says, “please, what am I doing wrong?“

“You don‘t see the way you‘re hurting me, hurting everyone around you,“ you whisper, your voice just as thick now. The words feel like they‘re stuck in your throat and you have to force yourself to speak them. „I hate seeing people hurt, especially you. I hate seeing you get hurt, and knowing- knowing that it‘s because of me.“

“That‘s not true, baby, I‘m-”

“Please, Chris,“ you whisper, tears collecting in your eyes, “Please let me finish. I hate avoiding to go- to go out in public with you just because I can‘t… I can‘t trust you not to lash out at someone, I hate b-being scared every time someone looks at me or talks to me, I- I just… I hate seeing you angry, I hate seeing you violent, I hate seeing you like that… And yet you- you keep doing it, n-no matter how o-often I ask you to stop…“ Your throat is clogged, your breaths are laboured, your eyes are watering, and you physically can‘t speak anymore, the words having drained out of your head. But there is one sentence left, one you‘re terrified to even think.

And Chris is just standing there, the words burning in his mind, on his skin, digging into his flesh while he tries not to rush to hug you because he knows, he knows it wouldn‘t help. And then he feels the tears running down his face, and the pain ripping through his chest. You don‘t trust him. You can‘t trust him, you said it yourself. You‘re scared of him.

Fists clenching at his sides, he lets that sink in. Everything he‘s done for you, everything he thought he‘s done for you, crumbles under the heavy weight of reality, the realisation that he‘s been hurting you all along.

He steps forward, raises his arms, and sees the way you cross your arms. A shielding gesture. Chris thinks he can hear his heart finally shatter at that, after slowly cracking over the entire conversation.

There are no words he can use to explain himself. He knows he should apologise. But how do you apologise after terrifying your girl over and over again without even noticing? What words are there to express the mixture of frustration, fear, and self-hatred he‘s feeling against himself?

Chris drops his arms to his sides.

He turns around, and leaves.

And you are left alone. The front door slams closed, but you don‘t even flinch. Your mind is full, and so are your eyes, your ears, everything is clogged with memories, everything is breaking inside you, but you are relieved.

You are relieved, because how could you bear his overwhelming presence any longer, with one last question, one last sentence burning on your mind, a question you can‘t ignore but also can‘t speak, not in front of him?

How can you be sure he will never lash out at you? How can you be sure that you will never be on the receiving end of his fist?

masterlist

[delicioustarong]

And that's a wrap! Ford happily dies right by Bill's arms :D

Creator: @honeqq

7/7

Pt 1 | Pt 2 | Pt 3 | Pt 4 |

Thanks for all the support and tears you all have supplied, it fueled my motivation to finish this comic! XD

This idea came to me in a dream one day and I couldn't stop thinking about it, so after days I finally decided to make it. This is my interpretation of how Ford died and the before events of Route #9 in the Mr.BillPines AU! I really love that au and it's potential for angst, so definitely props to Honeqq for inspiring me :3 (Go check out their AU if you haven't yet 🫵)

[ratzhatz14]

Lol can I request assistance in spreading " Dragonfruit " Twisted Sprout propaganda to the fandom? I had this idea to redesign him into a dragon with these root horns, ichor spines on the scarf, and little leaf wings. He's got his own lair in the Diner floor with a hoard consisting of stolen kitchen supplies. Somehow recognizes Cosmo.... the pastry has a dragon buddy now. I love this whole Dragon Twisted Sprout thing too much.

Ehe... I lost my drawings with my own idea of this t.sprout

BUT THANK GOD I HAVE A WORKING GALLERY

I also love this silly ol fella

Must protecc precious

[wild0moon]

the lucky one

[riaki]

haii >:3 i was wondering of you could write a thing on if reader was a classmatw of gojo when they were in jujutsu tech? ur hsbullt gojo was really well written 💗

sorry if i sound rude, im not familiar with how tumblr works ;(

hey there!! thank u sm for ur ask nonnie ! hope this is good... and don’t worry!!!! ur perfectly fine my love 🤍

classmates | satoru gojo x reader cw: calls u princess, swearing

1:34PM. 5/21/06 - JUJUTSU TECH GYM - more than friends, less than lovers

"fucking hell, satoru!" you rub your head slowly, gritting your teeth as pain hammers the side of your skull; feels like a bruise is going to form, and you’re pretty sure you have basketball line marks on your face.

satoru jogs over to you, the rubber soles of his shoes squeaking on the gym floor. there's that pesky grin on his lips again, and his eyes shine, a vibrant glow of youth. he’s not apologetic at all, you think with gritted teeth. he slows to a stop a few yards away from you, a panting, sweaty mess, yet you find yourself irritably drawn to him either way. he shoots you a quick wink, fanning himself with his shirt in a way that lets the dip of his hip expose itself to the musty air of the gym. a droplet of sweat slides down his skin, and your face burns.

"yo! pass me that ball, [name]." he waves an eager hand towards you, and you roll your eyes, tossing the basketball in his direction. it lands square on his chest with a thump, eliciting a little ‘oof’ from his lips and pressing the cotton of his shirt against his damp skin. and it sticks, defining his muscles in patches of wet cloth. the summer heat must really be getting to you, because the sound of his voice has your thoughts running far, far away from you.

you’re yanked back into reality when a little huff escapes his glossy lips, wiping his forehead and messing up his soft white hair, stray strands clinging together over his eyes. shoko made away with his sunglasses, which means you’ve got a front seat view of those gorgeous, yet equally uncanny irises. "hey, you've got a solid throw. you should give it a shot, yeah? why not join me 'n suguru for a round—"

“hell no.”

he just laughs at that, haughty and everything you should really learn to hate as he turns on his heel and heads back toward the center of the court, where suguru is waiting with an irked expression on his face.

“suit yourself, princess.” he tosses a wave in your direction of his shoulder, and you raise a hand to your chest, feeling your heart slam against your ribcage.

9:02AM. 11/06/07 - JUJUTSU TECH CLASSROOM - best friends

“so.”

gojo glances at you, as if surprised you broke the silence. you can see your own reflection in the lens of his shades, hiding his gaze from the world. sunlight filters in through the windows; it’s early, a break between classes. it shouldn’t be stuffy in the classroom with the windows open, but it still feels suffocating.

you stare at him, and he stares back from his seat atop your desk. his lips are curved down in that usual unamused look he’s always sporting, but there seems to be weight in his shoulders; a ghost tugging his muscles down, stiffening the muscles in his neck to the point where you wish you could just offer him a massage. but you’re not sure if he’d let you get close enough to ever do that.

“what?” he snaps, glaring at you as he sticks his bottom lip out. at least, you think he’s glaring— it’s been harder to tell lately, what’s on his mind. not that you were ever able to read him easily before, though. he likes to hide.

you kick the leg of the desk he’s sitting on with a foot, sighing and humming to yourself for a moment or two. you don’t see it, but gojo’s expression softens slightly and he looks back up at the ceiling again, callused fingers curling around the edge of the desk. the pale color of his skin makes the veins on his hands more prominent; a subtle, muted blue that makes you want to run a hand over his arm.

the two of you had stopped by a store that morning. you’d bought a cup of coffee and two onigiri for yourselves, but it seems like he’s already finished his. you know right now is the prime time for his appetite to flare up— with adolescence and all, but he doesn’t seem to be eating much. or at least, not from what you can tell.

“here, have this.”

gojo glances down at you once more, letting himself observe you with his full vision; not one that’s always hidden behind a layer of thick black stained glass, meant to absorb the pain and the headaches for him. you, who’s so gentle and soft with him— surely you wouldn’t cause him any sort of aching, if not for the one inside the cavity of his chest. it takes him a moment to realize you’re holding out something to him— your onigiri, half eaten. there’s a shriveled little plum showing, burrowed between the layers of sticky rice and dry seaweed wrappings.

he’s uncharacteristically silent as he grabs it from you, the crinkle of the plastic wrapping the only noise in the world as he stares at it for a moment before starting to eat. his cheek puffs when he starts chewing; the bob of his adam’s apple in his throat when he swallows makes it hard for you to stifle a smile. even with the weight of all he’s carrying, gojo still manages to look like a child every now and then. you can’t help but think he’s grown up too fast.

you let a moment of silence pass, stealing a long glance at him as he busies himself with his half of the rice ball, wolfing it down.

“i know i cant offer much to you, satoru…” you started quietly; tenderly, if he listened closely. the way you say his name makes his throat constrict in a way he’s not familiar with.

“…but if you ever need something— anything— i’ll be here. plus, i never finish my onigiri anyway. so you can have the half i don’t eat,” you laughed, closing your eyes and listening to the morning breeze outside. gojo takes the opportunity to observe you; the soft curve of your cheeks, the way your lashes curl, the soft fade of your full lips at the edges and the hair that frames your face.

you can feel his eyes on you, but you let him get away with it. it feels like an infinite eternity goes by before his voice finally cuts through the thick air.

“…have you been resting? the bags under your eyes are darker than usual.” he pokes at you, shifting again, but you seem to revel in the comfortable familiarity of his banter; something that makes his heart ache in a way only you elicit from him. the way you pull at his heart strings is so natural and easy that it’s unnatural to ignore.

“probably more than you have,” you teased. gojo sniffles, and you chalk it up to the seasonal illnesses.

2:46AM. 12/07/08 - JUJUTSU TECH DORMS - ?

it’s half past two in the morning when you get gojo’s text. or, more accurately, the one you forced him to send when he returned from his mission.

m done. u can come pver

he looks a little too much like a zombie when you knock on the door of his dorm and it swings open for you, revealing him in all his tired glory. the bags under his eyes are redder and darker than usual, and his hair is tussled and messy. it’s obvious he hasn’t bothered to clean himself up. his white tee is stained with something damp; his tears, but you don’t dwell on it. there’s a bandaid on the bottom of his jaw; you can see a hint of angry red scrapes peeking out from beneath the beige material.

“you look like shit.”

“are you gonna come in or not?”

you oblige and step inside, the plastic bag in your hand rustling with each movement. it’s a bit loud, and you just pray you don’t get caught sneaking into gojo’s room this late at night. at least you know which boards creak.

he closes the door behind you, crossing his arms over his chest and observing you. you look the same as you always do, but the way your hair falls over your face makes him want to brush it back, like some unresolved impulse. he doesn’t do anything about it; hanging around you for so long has taught him how to keep himself in control. for as long as he can manage, anyway.

he speaks up first, voice hoarse and low with lack of use. “what’s in the bag?” he makes it sound like it’s something illegal. and at this point, you’re not sure if the feeling that pushes you to do things for him should be considered so, because sometimes it feels like it.

“a birthday cake. or— it’s a fruit tart i stayed up to make.” you said, placing the bag on his cluttered desk, pushing away photo frames and bloody tissues and pencils shaven down to eraser stubs to make room for the box. satoru meanders over to you, peering over your shoulder with one hand on the desk to support himself. you can feel his breath on your neck, hot even in the darkness. it makes your hands clammy.

moonlight spills in from the windows next to his bed, but it’s not enough, so you turn on the lamp and open the box. the tart’s been through quite a bit— jostled in transport, marred in the making— but the sweet smell of fruit and cream makes his mouth water nonetheless.

“wow, that’s nice of you. weirdly so, actually. are you really [name]?” you can hear the grin in satoru’s voice, and you know he can hear the exasperation in your voice when you reply, using the plastic utensils you packed to cut a slice for him. the red strawberry juice stains the cream as your knife slices through, a rivulet of vermillion.

“shut up and be grateful. you get the slice with kiwi and the rotten blueberries just for that,” you huff, indignantly in a way that reminds satoru of a rather petulant housecat. he takes the tart from you, cold fingers ghosting over yours as the golden brown crust crumbles in his palm.

ignoring the sour berries, the taste is like a bite of heaven, but not the distant kind that’s hidden behind a veil of clouds. the kind that’s only found within the quaint, humble warmth of a homely kitchen, made with love by one’s own hand. your hand. the knowledge tastes all the sweeter on his tongue.

he’s snapped from his dazed pastry-savoring stupor when you speak up again, enjoying a slice of your own.

“happy birthday, gojo.” he stiffens, but he’s not quite sure why. if you notice his change in demeanor, you don’t say anything about it.

“congrats to another year,” you smiled, lifting up your half-eaten tart, not unlike the onigiri you’d shared with him a year ago. except this time he reciprocates, and you share a toast of berries and cream in the darkness of his dorm, at 3am on a quiet sunday.

the dorms are silent. the only sound is the wind outside, throwing leaves and dust at the window panes as it sings a tune in ode to winter. come tomorrow, it’ll likely be silenced by a coating of thick, white snow; unmoving, burying the secrets of the earth beneath the glittering icicles. not unlike the boy next to you, with pretty blue eyes that are constantly focused yet distant all the same, hair the color of clouds and face worn with age unbefitting of a child.

come tomorrow, the snow will fall and snuff out the life of the flowers and plants. but in this tranquil bubble of time, satoru is as free as a dove outside of its silver cage.

he reaches over, pulling you in by the sleeve of your night shirt and pressing a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of your lips. it happens in the blink of an eye; a moment of impulse, where for once, he allows himself to breathe; to let down the walls he literally holds up around him, to let his fingers curl into the fabric of your clothes and breathe in your scent, taste the heat on your skin and the buttery sweet crumbs dotting the curve of your lips; the dips in the corners of your mouth that make you always look so pretty when you smile.

when he pulls away, he refuses to meet your gaze, instead staring down at the only remaining clue of the tart in his palm— a single, rotten blueberry, squishy and soft. the silence rings in his ear as his face becomes hot.

“what was that for?” you ask quietly, staring angrily— in embarrassment, into nothing.

“there were crumbs on your mouth,” he explains.

nothing more, nothing less.

my (riaki) stuff. don’t repost and/or plagiarize !

[axolgodl]

“Waiting for you…”

I just realized i’ve been lurking here again but haven’t posted any art here in 1838483 years so here is a tiny painting I made last year for a very good friend of mine in the SJ discord 💖 Qijiu angst owns my soul

(Cross posted long ago on twitter don’t @ me)

[justanotheryellowsoul]

Loop tells Siffrin they ate a star once and Siffrin gives it a go too (pictured offscreen is Loop chasing them around camp)

[justaz]

i don't like putting homophobia in my fictional worlds so like when i think of bbc merlin i like to imagine uther as a classist anti-magic bigot but a hashtag ally. anyways i thought of a way to make homophobia make sense in canon without it being like. serious?

we know that true love is a force powerful enough to overpower any love spell so i think it's safe to say that love is the most powerful force in albion, above even magic. and this is smth i maybe made up but sex is a sacred thing in magic and to the druids. sex rituals happen all the time and the power from sex fuels spells to make them more powerful.

how would uther weaken the magical community? outlaw wlw and mlm relationships to that love and sex can't be used in magic. he couldn't outlaw love and sex entirely as men and women needed to have children to continue on the population. he uses the new religion to push that it's immoral to engage in mlm/wlw relationships and that's what arthur grew up hearing but he's known since he was a kid that he's gay so he has his own super deadly secret he can't let anyone know.

the druids never bend to uther's laws and continue their free love and that's why arthur is always sympathetic to their plight and hates when his father sends him to raid their camps because part of him feels like he's hurting his own people. it's also why uther is able to get away with attacking peaceful people without anybody bashing him for it - they have magic and they're immoral.

so uther has his anti-magic laws but also his anti-love laws