#I literally died inside

[crowleyinaturtleneck]

[beetlerings]

I love you funny elf

[puppyeared]

personal character design headcanons + brainrot

Note: the re-bound!au does NOT belong to me, it belongs to @chipper-smol I’m just not normal about it lol

[sharkieboi]

Metatron: *dies by a carefully crafted murder/suicide with Lyra’s parents sacrificing themselves for the sake of humanity*

Meanwhile

Will: Hey what’s in this glittery box, there’s something alive in there

Lyra: idk cut it open

*the shriveled body of GOD is hit by sunlight and shrieking in horror dissolves into dust and dies*

Will: …

Lyra: …

Both of them: …damn that was weird. anyway. where are our daemons?

[bluberimufim]

I am actually so insane about Bruno Zero. He was born as a slave made to be hunted for sport and then forced to be a butler after he survived. And then Gallerian was the first person to treat him like a human being and free him from the Freezis family and even so he chose to become Gallerian's servant because he genuinely wants to be by his side. He compares their relationship with Allen and Rilliane's and says he would die for him. And even when everyone else leaves him and Gallerian starts accepting bribes from the family that enslaved him in the first place, despite saying that taking down the Freezis family was his deepest wish, he still stays because of how much he cares about him. My god, the WRITING!!!

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

yazs faith in my fic mostly amounts to no alcohol and vegetarian jelly babies and vague religious anxiety on occasion, partially bc i dont know a lot about islam so i dont really have a lot to work with and partially because the show doesnt really give us a whole lot to work with either

but i do kinda like how, especially in this current fic where i give her a sort of explicit eating disorder past, that like, the main ways that god ends up playing a role in her daily life this way is through what she puts in her mouth or not

if the doctor is restrictive, emotionally psychologically nutritionally, and the master is excessive, yaz sort of hovers in the middle, pulled at from both sides

seduced by restriction vs seduced by excess. swallowing your anger vs spitting it out. desire and consumption and the way the human and the holy meet in the fallible body. you can become the doctor by acting like the doctor. you can make yourself holy by Doing The Right Actions

[kassycreations]

Brad Tudabone, Echo Julien and Akita are all like “I love my partner.” And their partners are horrors beyond mankind’s comprehension

(This post is about citrus, greenflower and jadewolf)

[enough-spider-noir-stuff]

*slaps noir and hobie* this bad bitch can fit so many issues

[mysteryshack324]

Me: Finally manages to take a nap

My brain: *Decided it was time to have a past life trauma dream of a seaside home I used to live in that was alongside a huge mountain in a ancient city being destroyed by a volcanic eruption and me barely escaping it by diving into a sea tunnel/cave*

[avaelangel]

As a masochistic fiend that watched YOU the whole time it was airing (and still will) I present to you:

Gothy looking London Thor as Stephanie, getting traumatized by Love Quinn's mom if I remember correctly.

[pochapal]

if we're addressing this then i think my prevailing theory is that beatrice was either a real human woman or a stand in for whatever dodgy war profiteering landed kinzo the gold. in either case she is representative of an immense sin that is enough to thoroughly haunt anyone who knows anything about it

[princess-of-purple-prose]

[ID: A short Trigun web weaving. First is a quote from Antigonick by Anne Carson that says, "a husband or a child can be replaced / but who can grow me a new brother". Second is the manga panel from the last chapter of Trimax of Knives' apple tree. End ID]

[flowercrowngods]

and today in sometimes i write shit that fucks me up for weeks: time travel au steve & trees

Steve gets up. Goes into his room — not his room at all, it’s not his home, it’s not his — knowing Hopper won’t follow him, locks the door knowing El will unlock it if she needs him, and crawls under the blanket. He doesn’t cry, just curls up and lies there in numb misery of feeling too much, thinking too much, knowing too much, and not having the right words to express anything.

The air under the blanket gets too warm to really be comfortable, but he doesn’t want to move. He’s turned into a tree again, as El would put it. Another pang of guilt and misery runs through him, because he doesn’t want to be fucked up like that, fucked up enough for a child to call him a tree because he loses his reality a lot; but then the thought of being a tree almost feels so relieving it makes him want to cry.

Because trees don’t think about their friends dying. Killed. Murdered. By forces greater than this world’s imagination. Trees don’t watch the blood seeping from them over and over again until they lose their minds and go into shock that this world doesn’t support, instead tugging him back and forth until all there is is nothingness, because there is no time to think or feel or process, and once there is time, there is too much to even start. And no one to talk to about it. No one to listen.

If he could turn into a tree and never have a single thought again, he would without hesitation.

But he can’t, so he thinks, and the thinks until he falls asleep and the thoughts turn into memories morphed with fears until it’s Steve who kills them. Steve who fails. And Steve who does it over and over again. In the Upside Down, in Eddie’s trailer, at school, in Mike’s basement.

It’s Steve. Like it was Billy.

[…]

Walking on legs that haven’t quite accommodated to being upright yet, stiff and heavy in the dark of night, Steve makes his way through the forest, tumbling and stumbling, but never enough to make him stop. He’s heaving breaths now, willing the cold air into his lungs to stop everything from feeling so wrong, to break through the haze and the fog and the cotton, to pierce his insides with little pinpricks of ice as December is fast approaching. It only serves to make him more dizzy, his head spinning, glowing spots of black and white appearing in his field of vision until he leans against a tree, catching his breath and holding it.

Holding onto it with whimpers and wheezes and pathetic little groans that make him want to scream. He punches the tree, his hand numb with pain upon impact, his knuckles stiff and scraped up; bloody, even in the pitch black darkness.

Bloody. His hands are always bloody. It stains them, has seeped into his skin, like a reverse tattoo that only he can see. This, though… This is real. It’s his blood.

And so he punches again. And again, until his breath has evened out, and the pain has moved from his arm and his side over to his hand. Over to something real.

He flexes his fingers and watches them, can barely make out their shape, and focuses on the pull of his skin, the scrapes making it feel too tight — but in a real way. In a way that… he’s not going crazy. It’s real. It’s all real. And it’s burning, sizzling along with all of that anger, the grief, the confusion, the complete and utter fucking lostness. The loneliness.

Steve punches the tree one more time, then turns around to put more distance between him and familiar walls and stale air and worried glances so heavy they slowly scrape away the scar tissue growing over all those rawest of feelings.

He walks and walks without direction or destination, simply placing one foot in front of the other as his racing heart calms down and he is overcome with an absolute, all-consuming kind of exhaustion that makes him sway the very second he stops. His eyes are getting heavy, like his body is slowly coming to the realisation that his beside clock said 3:38 a.m. and that he hasn’t slept through the night for some days now, or maybe weeks, always awoken by nightmares — on days that he even dared to fall asleep.

No one should have to feel this kind of exhaustion, Steve thinks. Even after the Russians, after torture and fighting and more torture, followed by running and more running and almost dying in a car crash and then in a fire… Even after all that, he wasn’t as exhausted as he feels right now.

Probably because back then, he had Robin. Robin who would hold his hand, Robin who would share a glance with him and resuscitate everything that died inside of him with just one brave little smile.

God, she was so brave.

Steve leans against a tree, closing his eyes for just one second as he pictures Robin — alive and smiling and determined. Robin, in the passenger seat of his car at ass o’clock in the morning, grumpy and tired, leaning in to give him a hug hello and a hug goodbye. Robin, who would roll her eyes at his antics, his insecurities and his worries — Robin, who would explain hours later, her hand in his, that he had no reason to doubt or worry. That he was fine. That he was perfect. That everything else would slot into place soon and be perfect for him, too. Payback, she’d called it.

Payback, he thinks now as he heaves another breath, willing it through his constricted throat, and just barely keeping himself from screaming. Payback, because he failed. Payback, because he watched her die and nothing, nothing good will ever come out of that.

As much as he will try to save her, she will always have died. As much as he can try to keep her safe this time around, he will always have failed her.

That’s nothing he can take back. Ever. Nothing he can fix. Nothing he can make un-happen.

It’s the cruellest constant.

One that won’t leave him alone. One that won’t let him sleep at night, one that won’t leave his head even for a minute, flooding his consciousness with memories of blood and failure, weighing down his conscience until he can’t fucking breathe, and—

A sob escapes his throat even as he stumbles forward, continuing on his nonexistent path that feels a lot like running, fleeing from this new life, as though he could magically make his way back to the old one. Because they have died. They’re dead. He watched them. This new world won’t fix that. Won’t fix him. And he doesn’t deserve fixing anyway.

So he runs.

[demigod-of-the-agni]

So how does it feel to know that the Web Warriors are coming to the big screen??

I'm screaming and sobbing I'm actually going to pass away from sheer excitement because YES I'M GETTING THE MILES AND GWEN AND HOBIE AND PAVITR CONTENT I DESERVE!!!!!!! I'M GETTING THE WEB WARRIORS CONTENT I DESERVE!!!!!!!!!!!!

[lesbiansforboromir]

oh OH hO spicey ohhh having a spicey little tantrum about the boromir tag don't listen to me at all do NOT listen I mean it I mean it this is so petty

[garoujo]

Comfort sex with roomate!Nagi🥺

The sounds of soft whimpering and stiffled cries rouses him from his post-practice nap on the living room couch. A moment later, and Nagi is greeted by your trembling form emerging through the entrance to your shared apartment. He takes one look at your crestfallen expression, cheeks dampened by tears, and the 190 cm striker is immediately drawn to your side. Nagi isn't the best at consoling others, preferring not to get involved with emotional matters since they often involve far too much effort. However, seeing his beautiful and sweet roomate in such a distressed state causes his chest to tighten and an uncharacteristic feeling of anger to well up inside of him. He gentley wraps his arms around you and brings you into his broad chest. Full body sobs wrack through your body as you clutch onto him. Nagi is warm, his presence soothing, and you feel so safe in his arms. After some time passes, you timidly glance up at your tall, and handsome roomate. His eyes are gentle, honeyed voice enticing when he offers to " help you forget the pain."

Your lips are petal soft, an ephemeral presence against his own. However, if you give a ravenous man an inch, he will gladly take a mile, and Nagi had been lusting after you from the moment you first met. It's your vulnerability, laid bare before him, that finally gives him the resolve to pursue these carnal desires.

He fucks you like a man possessed, large hands molded to your hips as you weakly wrap your arms around his neck. Nagi's taken you several times already, but the silver haired man shows no signs of stopping. Your tears of sorrow are rendered into tears of ecstasy. The pleasure is mindnumbing and all encompassing. You can scarcely remember your own name, let alone the cause of your despair. He'll make you cum as many times at it takes, until all your troubles are forgotten and the only thing you can remember is his name and the feeling of his cock against your velvety walls.