#tusersvolt

[itsbaditsgood]

transcript under the cut and in alt text

i sat by the lake last week and i offered my mother

a slice of my orange, and she said no

and i felt so lonely that i pretended i was two people

so i’d have someone to share with

[lanzhans]

People are naive about such things, and they would rather write them off as evil than attempt to understand them. An unfortunate truth, but a truth nonetheless. x, x, x.

[badslands]

favorite songs: gasoline by halsey

lighting matches just to swallow up the flame like me?

[maharaanis]

—about.

hi! i’m anjali, pronouns they/he and my main blog is @hideos so i follow from there! all of my projects can be found on my projects page (which is still a wip). i love to write, whenever i’m doing it (which is close to never gjdkjfkdjfd) and i attempt to do it well. 

—wips.

BEND THE STARS.

Known as the Star Priestess, Adhira Bakshi plays puppeteer for the sky. She bends the stars into new constellations, glittering new patterns every night to leave the kingdom of Batra mesmerized. She’s little more than a showmaster, all gold and luster with no real shimmer.

But there are changes coming, changes fast. The capture of the last known ravi- a face from her past- starts a tumult of change and unravels everything Adhira and the kingdom of Batra has ever known.

introduction. page wip. wip tag.

—taglist. 

(ask to be added/removed)

@ksiezniqzka @sincerely-milli @adastrals @yaqarah @gnymedes @nyctophobiaandroses @kalliopeian @herondalelucies @xiyais @tatsumekos @agnosthesias

[junecapulet]

transcript under the cut

you look like a renaissance painting in the grass,

and you have two freckles on the shell of your right ear.

i want to paint small flowers on our hands,

and maybe brush your hair away from your face, feel its softness.

don’t mind my soft fantasies, i’m living in a playwright's world

[cursed-dreamss]

late nights ; kyrstan

a vlv fanfiction by raven atarah

She was often called into the prince's room to bring hot chocolate, late at night when the curtains were drawn, the moon was out, the palace asleep. She would knock timidly on the ornate door, tray of cocoa in hand, and Prince Drystan would call her in. She could always hear the smile in his voice through the door. He used to be so happy.

She placed the tray on the bed where Drystan was perched, seemingly alone. She knew better, though.

“Shall I bring biscuits for you and the Illeron boy?” She would ask Drystan, who’s eyes would widen. They used to sparkle with childish mischief. Innocence. If only he could have known what he would become. If only she could have known.

“I - what? Kyrell’s asleep in his own room, I presume.” Drystan insisted. She would purse her lips, smile, and nod, leaving the room. She would then hover in the hallway for a moment, just a moment, and hear the Illeron boy emerge from the closet and hear his and Drystan’s laughter as they sipped their hot cocoa. She would smile, then hurry back down to the kitchens and return with biscuits, which she would place in front of the door, knock, and dash away again.

She wouldn’t leave completely, though. She had a strange fascination with the prince and the Illeron boy. They were so utterly and completely happy together, exchanging laughs and insults over hot cocoa and biscuits, building forts and stargazing. She would take extra shifts at the palace to watch them, to bring them their cocoa and their biscuits, and, when they were younger, she would be sent out to the market for lollipops. Kyrell had grown out of that, though, but he certaintly hadn’t grown out of Drystan.

She hovered in the hallway as Drystan peaked his dark head out, looking back and forth the long dark hallway before picking up the basket of biscuits, smirking. She could’ve sworn she heard Drystan call “thank you” before going back inside, but it was probably just her imagination.

She never knew if the boys knew she watched them, for after Drystan fell from his throne she was fired by King Illeron. She had to make a new life for herself, but when the nights got long she would think about the boys, those sweet innocent boys, and she would hope that somehow they would find each other again. They deserved that, if nothing else. They deserved happiness, and she knew they would only be happy with each other.

[ohh-deary-me]

kyrstan lockscreens for ios ~ viva la vida; volt r-m

the thunderstorms were louder now.

[pergaias]

excerpts from books i’ll never write ; i

i have a confession. i can’t fucking stop writing. 

it’s like nuclear fusion. i have loose ideas that i shove into my backbrain, and every now and then they’ll all smash into each other and turn into a cohesive, write-able whole. so i decided - instead of letting them rot in my hard drive, i’ll put them here. have fun reading these dead projects lol

title: untitled i  word count: 750

My dearest Emmalina,

The first thing that you should know is that I’m not in love with her anymore.

Maybe I never loved her. Maybe I never stopped.

But the one thing that I’m certain of is that she was the only real thing in my life. The girl who had eyes that held galaxies and a smile that spoke of nuclear war.

Pippa’s eyes … God, her eyes. Two wide black moons. The promise of universes and everything that entailed scattered within, flecks of gold like fragments of stars. Do you see the stars or the darkness between them, Juju?

Pippa was the only one that ever got away with calling me “Juju.” - not even you, dear sister, had that privilege. She had only ever called me Jude twice—the first time that I kissed her, and the last. 

Our first kiss had smelled of Pippa’s floral perfume and turpentine and the oil paint smeared on my hands, colors that I thought I knew until that moment. My life had been black and white, charcoal on paper, until Pippa had painted it all in colors I’d never be able to see with anyone else.

Our last kiss had been colored by rain and tears. There was no buttery sunlight filtering in through studio windows, no giddy laughter or messy kissing or stumbling around in a drunken semblance of a waltz. Pippa kissed me once, hard, painted my mouth red with her lipstick. I had felt her tears hot on my cheeks. 

My heart broke, Lina. Maybe it was broken to begin with. You’d know. 

And then - and then she was gone. Phillipa Grey was a novelist, a ballerina, and a composer of paracosms and daydreams. She bled ink and breathed stories like I bleed oil paint and lies.

She knew damn well that I’d ruin myself a million little times to bring those moments—our tangled fingers, her breath in my ear, her dark dark eyes catching the lights and reflecting a thousand unseen stars.

I made her into a liar. I twisted the bright goodness in her into something—something else. Jude Watson was fucked in the head. Pretty Miss Grey didn’t need her and her champagne problems—did I even have them?

Pippa loved Degas, which was something that made me fall in love with her a little more—if that was even possible. You would expect a girl like my Pippa to love Kandinsky or perhaps Picasso, something colorful and abstract and almost musical in its organized chaos.

Pippa, my Pippa, she loved Degas’ ballerinas. She loved Monet’s landscapes, his brushstrokes, the way sunset orange blended with misty, cold-water blue.

I loved Pippa, past tense. I don’t love her anymore—maybe I never loved her at all. Maybe—maybe I never stopped.

I’m a fraud. 

But Pippa wasn’t. And I hate myself for roping her into this, for gaining her and losing her and loving her and everything in between.

I forge art. I step into the souls of painters long dead, making the architecture of my hands the architecture of their hands and coloring my heart with the colors of theirs. Yellow ochre. Raw umber. Vermillion green. Alizarin red. 

The trick isn’t in copying, Lina. It’s in emanating, in being. You needed confidence to paint a canvas in Monet’s style, to age the paint so it cracked, to make it seem like a painting that had been found after all this time.

My job was to paint pretty Degas ballerinas. Pippa had suggested it—Don’t do a Da Vinci, Juju. Mayhaps a Degas? She pronounced Degas with a perfect French accent, a musical lilt to her British one. A Degas would be easier to pass off.

I was mesmerized. Silky black hair—no, it was such a dark brown that it seemed black, like her eyes. Pippa was tall, but in heels she towered. She was gorgeous. She had the aura of a woman who was unafraid. Maybe Pippa really was.

But I was going to paint the ‘Degas.’ Pippa was going to play the part of a passionate finder and sell it to a museum or a collector. If it went well, we’d do it again.

Neither of us expected to fall in love. Me with beautiful, untouchable, enchanting Phillipa Grey. Pippa with Judith Watson and her paint-splattered hands, a creator of art forgery and perfectly spun lies.

Pippa was never one of them.

But neither of us expected for it all to go perfectly, inevitably, unfixably wrong.

                                                                                               Your loving sister,

                                                                                                                  Jude.

[ariqvintana]

amelia/june they/xe my main blog

about me fandoms page writeblr art blog gif blog goodreads spotify header cred icon cred nav credit

dni: racists, queerphobes, exclusionists, pedos, etc, or if i know you irl

[itsbaditsgood]

ONE LAST STOP: songs: love of my life (queen)

[maharaanis]

i love you the way the sun loves the stars

[junecapulet]

transcript under the cut

my love, my love my love, my beloathed, beautiful, fanciful rival. you make me want to compete with my feelings until they stop feeling. fuck you, truly, for casting some sort of tantalising pull on yourself. i know you are to be loathed; i know you do not possess one quality i could grow fond of.

perhaps it is merely the thought of destroying your reputation that seduces my mind.

call me back when your insides make the acquaintance of embarrassment,

or if you’re ready to grow up and beat me at a game of kisses instead of childish word games.

[doodlesofams]

my newest wip

yes i put a watermark on it, it took a lot of work. lmk if you want the unmarked version

(click for better quality)

[ohh-deary-me]

falling sins and saints i knew this was coming okay i'm gonna go be productive for an hour but i'll be thinking about tumblr!vlv do not fret

[itsbaditsgood]

Okay its tomorrow, i have no idea what his eyes look like, and the linework is shit. But here he is

He’s smiling bc i want him to.

I'm asking jace all <33 good luck nessie!!!

do you have a crush on anyone?

maybe. 

what’s your favorite candy?

chocolates, probably?

favorite love song?

he wouldn’t know so i’m answering for him, it’s heather :)

what was your first kiss like?

*hesitates* surprisingly, i haven’t had one yet. 

what was your last kiss like?

*rolls eyes* see above

sexual/romantic orientation?

gay. very very gay.

do you prefer poems or love letters?

p o e m s :,)

favorite fanfic trope?

e-enemies to lovers?

have you ever been in love?

i have not yet had the privilege. maybe i should count myself lucky.

favorite milkshake flavor?

vanilla.

dinner dates or brunch dates?

the former.

favorite flowers?

why did i want to say gladiolas they don’t even grow in novattha

favorite perfume/cologne?

*visibly flustered* whatever it is that dyllon wears *cough*

favorite candle scent?

scentless? scented candles always make my head hurt. 

what’s your ideal first date?

anywhere. just. first date in general. yknow?

favorite love story?

*laughs* whatever princess and marsolle have going on.

what’s the most attractive thing a person could wear?

nothing at all

chocolate, vanilla, or red velvet?

vanilla.

snow, rain, or sun?

snow.

sweetest romantic memory?

*trying very hard not to blush* waltzing.

fictional crushes?

*valentine, leaning in* bold of you to assume that he reads

what’s your dream wedding like?

[censored]

what makes you blush?

pretty boys.

do you believe in love at first sight?

yes?

do you believe in soulmates?

also a very tentative yes?

denim jackets, leather jackets, or bomber jackets?

oH SHIT JASE IN A BOMBER JACKET

are you single?

indeed 

do you prefer to charm, or be charmed?

i usually charm, so being charmed would be nice for once.

guitar or piano?

guitar

favorite romcom (or any romantic movie)?

oh please tell me jase wouldn’t completely stan legally blonde

do you fall in love easily?

i wouldn’t know, i’ve never fallen in love before

cloud gazing or star gazing?

both?

do you like to dance?

with the right person, yes.

what’s your OTP?

as i said before, whatever princess and marsolle have going on.

kittens or puppies?

puppies.

coffee, hot chocolate, or tea?

coffee.

do you prefer gazing wistfully out the window or lying dramatically over the sofa?

lying dramatically over the sofa, obviously.

favorite ABBA song?

answering for him again: dancing queen, why would it be anything else

favorite pajamas?

soft ones??

favorite liquor?

my [censored] had the best bourbon lmao

do you think about love a lot?

doesn’t everyone?

a walk in the park or a walk on the beach?

the latter.

hand kisses or nose kisses?

hand kisses, although i suppose both are nice.

what’s your dreamhouse?

anything that isn’t a castle.

[itsbaditsgood]

That Scene from ols. pls take my humble offering, sundry nation

do not repost, reblogs > likes, etc

IMAGE ID: a digital drawing of jane and august from one last stop by casey mcquinston. jane is a tall chinese woman with short hair. she is wearing a white tee shirt. august is a white woman with curly brown hair. she is wearing a yellow shirt. august is kissing jane hard, with both of her hands on either side of jane’s face. her body is positioned as if she was running to get to where she is. both of the girls eyes are closed. behind them is the q train subway station. it has beige tile walls, a blue ceiling, and grey floors and tracks./ END ID.