#so now it feels kind of cringe | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

The Tumblr office adopted Tommy, an 11-year-old Pomeranian.

#so now it feels kind of cringe

shimmershy · 6 months

Note

What does kin mean?

The meaning can tend to vary depending on who you ask, but it generally means (TLDR:) identifying with a character in some way. Although it originated from the term "otherkin", which means identifying with an animal/another species, the way it's typically used in this context refers to "fictionkin".

Many people use it to describe simply relating strongly to a character and don't really see themselves as the character in any way, but it was originally used to describe identifying as the character in a spiritual/psychological way. To clarify, it doesn't mean that you think you literally are that character right now, in a physical way etc. It's more of an identity thing. (I could go more in-depth on what that means, but I'm going to assume that's more information than you're looking for.)

It's kind of a Tumblr/internet culture thing, but I'm not very involved in the community or anything because it's more of a personal thing for me specifically, so. I really don't feel like the best person to ask if you have any more questions. I apologize if that's too much information for such a simple question; I guess it's a bit complicated to explain.

#ask #anon #anonymous #i feel embarrassed dumping all this information here out of the blue like i know more than i should.#especially with this being the kind of thing a large number of people find weird or 'cringe'. but whatever.#like i said it's more of a personal thing to me so i don't ever post about it and probably won't in the future unless asked about it.#which i am not opposed to because AS YOU CAN SEE I really like going on and on about things.#it's taking all my restraint not to type up every single piece of irrelevant information i have on this topic right now.#please please please don't send me mean asks or anything related to discourse or whatever after this. I'm just a little guy.

61 notes · View notes

nocentis · 9 days

Text

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands.

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her.

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow. A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it.

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

#v: ✗ ┆ siegrain ┆ ◜ canon divergent ◞#⚶ ┆ ◜ drabbles ◞#I was in a silly goofy mood #reader beware #this one was an exorcism.#needed to purge this depravity.#hey guys what if I bare my soul and it's a festering wound.#did I provide context? no. am I sorry? also no.#this only works in darkverse.#this is very obviously not inline with canon Jellal's personality but with a mutated version of him I created to balance ->#the healing arc I'm putting him through in mainverse.#not love but a secret other thing (obsession. possession.)(...take my money... I don't need that shit...)#& now she haunts the narrative. in my mind. and his too.#In my defense I've never claimed not to be a degenerate #yeah actually I am kind of embarrassed about this thank you for asking #never thought I’d have to say this but I do not endorse or condone cannibalism.#hey Sieg have you ever thought about chilling. calming down perhaps. I say as if I did not put him in this situation.#I fear this is one of those things I’m going to look back on in a few months & say: that should've stayed in the drafts.#me personally I love posting cringe. it's what I deserve.#if god exists I will have to answer for this. catch me in the river Acheron sipping on straight up anguish.#can you tell I have been confronted by the fleeting nature of mortality more often than usual lately. be honest.#actually I decided to not to go too into depth with the gore this time. I feel like keeping it vague lends more to the fugue state #also because it was giving me REALLY weird dreams. so like. yeah. I could've made this worse. but should I have?#tags bout damn long as the drabble. sorry gang.#cannibalism tw #gore tw #main character death tw #body horror tw #dayne’s depravity #daynedepravity

8 notes · View notes

caregivingchrysalises · 3 months

Text

awe hi baby, what’s wrong sweetheart? i know i know so many big feelings,, it’s alright love baba’s got you~ you’re allowed to be as small as you need to be precious, i’ll take care of you no matter how big or small you are! feel your feelings fully sweetheart, you’re safe here dewdrop. i’ve got you, baba’s here for you angel.

#i may be cringe but i am free #good heavens the caregiving names went a little wonk in this one #it’s one of those big feelings kind of days #when it’s all a bit too much #the chrysalis is here for you #now that’s what i mean when i say reassurance #agere reassurance #send me asks so i can stop waffling in the tags #new caregiver title just dropped #agere caregiver #agere comfort #sfw caregiver #age regression caregiver #sfw agere #send me asks please #comfort

7 notes · View notes

mintacle · 1 year

Text

I generally hold that we should let teenagers just be melodramatic and I detest the word 'cringe' because teenagers are just discovering, just beginning, that experience of artistic expression. Being unexperienced in expressing the genuine does not mean that they are in fact ingenuine. But beyond the fact that teenagers should have the freedom to not be embarrassed out of sheer human dignity and respect, I also look back at my own younger self and think about how I used to be embarrassed for them, but now think that I should have been far, far more expressive.

Now I realize that the pain my 12-year-old self was expressing was because I was being abused and neglected by my parents. And only now do I know that the abuse was real and not just an exageration on my part. Now I'm listening to songs I forgot I had listened to. I think about my early sleep disorders and remember being awake at 2AM listening to these horribly sad songs. I listen to them again as an adult who has long since moved out and I understand the pain my old self was going through clearer. This child I used to be was not being cringe or exagerating and if that wasn't such a popular narrative on teenage hurt, then maybe I would have actually gone to child protection services when I wanted to. Or been honest to my teachers when they asked me if everything was alright at home. Maybe I wouldn't have felt fucking embarrassed like it was my fault when my teacher came to me about my homework I handed in, in which I wrote something about destructive love and lack of love of parents for their children and how their children loved them still but they weren't being loved back. And I lied and said it was nothing, but that I had just seen a movie recently with something like that. And I laughed and said that I would just come up and say it if something bad was actually happening. And my teacher said that it can be very hard to do that. And I shrugged, feeling guilty for having made fun of those children who actually have it hard, because I didn't think I have the right to say that I was one of those kids.

Because, my god, is it jarring and gut-wrenching to be re-discovering the songs you used to listen to and remembering exactly how alone and how hurt and desperate you were. And then to realize you were right all along. To think that so much of this is being ignored and degraded to mere teenage-melodrama; both the internalized narrative some adults have of themselves and the things some teenagers are going through again, right now, because we can't think of emotion as anything other than immature (for teens and kids) or entertainment and art (for adults).

Art.

Artistic expression of my PTSD is something I revel in, but there is no need for people to learn first how to weave poetry or paint into their pain before we deem it valid. Being unexperienced in self-expression of the emotions deeply ingrained in the human condition, does not mean that teenagers feel these emotions any less intensely or truly.

#ramblings #personal #I can't believe how all of this was being swept and explained away back then #extremely anti cringe #Also now as an adult I am constantly drawn to topics of trauma and tragedy and I believe I am still trying to express something #and I am constantly surprisedby the fact that I am not being shot down or dismissed for these things #the only thing that changed was my age seriously #honestly the way we treat teenagers is kind of fucked up though #it's like they lose both the protection we give children and the respect we have for adults #I'm not saying stop critiquing the tiktok culture. because definitely do not stop critiquing that #but I am saying stop making teenagers feel like they can't talk to anyone about their problems #or something #anyway listening to 'the lonely' by christina perry and thinking how sad it was that I would feel so strongly connected #to such a song at 12 y/o

58 notes · View notes

tiny-brain · 1 year

Text

gUYS

SOMETHING AMAZING HAPPENED LAST NIGHT

ok so over the past few months I was in a couple of local talent shows, and both times I sang a song by The Aquabats. First time was Red Sweater, second time was The Story of Nothing.

Well, my parents started sending the links to the videos of me singing those songs to their siblings

WELL APPARENTLY my dad‘s brother knows a person who knows a person who is APPARENTLY FRIENDS WITH THE LEAD SINGER OF THE FREAKING BAND, CHRISTIAN JACOBS

THE MC BAT COMMANDER SAW ME SING RED SWEATER AND MY MIND IS BREAKING

#AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH #MY BRAIN #WOOOOOOOOO #he said I did a good job #honestly I feel kind of embarrassed I’m so cringe sometimes ughhhhhhh #the aquabats!#Aquabats #my life is complete now #ive peaked

24 notes · View notes

haarute · 14 days

Text

was thinking earlier about this distant cousin i met once like almost 15 years ago when my godparents visited their relative's house and brought me along and she was super fun and we bonded over a mutual love of naruto, which i was very into as a 13-14 year old. and i still remember how we right away had this really involved conversation over things that we both liked, and i was thinking about how this is an event that stood out to me so hard that it's still in my mind to this day very clearly, because i just don't think i've had another moment like that happen to me in real life? you know, meeting someone and immediately clicking and talking about fun things together very excitedly? which i'm not sure if it's a normal thing, or a very sad thing lmao.

#sorry i accidentally spoiled jiraiya's death to you but also thank you for not being super angry at me for it. you were awesome.#i've had similar moments online because it's easier to find people who share your interests online #but also. i think often about how socializing used to be simpler before adulthood. i feel.#because even going out of your way to make an effort now still feels like everyone is guarded or just tired because of life #so that simplicity of being a teen and just talking to other teens is very much lost i think.#no one has the energy or inclination for it anymore #which is also why i love those being cringe and free memes because like #some of the best things in my life happened because i was very much open and cringe to someone who also was that to me #and i think that growing up does kind of force that out of you even if you don't want it to. and it sucks.

2 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

villainapologist

saved url / main blog: @eobard-thawne

saichisugimoto99

Cereza

jupter1

No mundo da lua

auliq

Oscar Auliq-Ice

littlesweetfenty

SADEY®SON