#Cassius Life

[sinnamonscouture]

Method Man Covers Cassius Life

[goldencassius]

Decided to post this since i finished it before it got to late. Seeing grians snail coming down the mine was the best thing ever and it live in my head rent free now

[sforzesco]

BALAK, PANGAGAD

uhhh conspiracy. can be a courtship dance. ritual. so to speak. & hosting one in your house is an act of service

[somecoolpigeon]

So I was gifted tomodachi life, then I held a poll on twt and was convinced to add my fav characters onto the island. So far, I've mostly added gbf and twst characters. Anyways, here's art I've made based on my favorite moments that have happened recently lol

[doobydoobydoowau]

imagine this: you're the baddest bitch in the Roman Republic. you have spent the past few decades fighting, fucking and planning to take control of the known world. you've killed millions of people. you became the fucking pontifex maximus and used some guy's idea to reinvent the calendar. you were the first roman to have a terrible vacation experience in the UK. you won a civil war. your best friend likes to commission naked statues of you and stand in front of them calling you a king at parties.

it's the 15th March 44 b.c.e and life is good. the people love you and you just became a dictator for life. you leave your mansion, ignoring your wife's pleas for you to stay (venus above that woman is in love with you) and shake off the soothsayer who keeps following you around and talking about your doom (spurinna is obsessed with you). you swagger into work, sit down, and are immediately stabbed by a bunch of your coworkers. you stagger around for a bit feeling sorry for yourself, before collapsing down dead at the statue of the guy that you had that civil war against. what a way to go.

[constant-book-hangover]

Darrow: heartbroken

Lyria: heartbroken

Sevro: heartbroken but will barely admit it

Volga: “He was the most handsome man I have ever seen.”

[insignificant457]

Life on the Archimedes (755 PCE)

[kald-dal-art]

I have no read your 60th Games fic yet so you may have addressed this there, but who do you think was the gamemaker at the time?

Funny have written the 60th game from the Game Makers POV as a WIP, so have a good idea on who he is lmao

His name is Rasmus Rembrandt and he had been a head gamemaker since the 53rd game-ish and really like his job as a gamemaker

If you want a preview on how the one shot goes here it is

[fangirlingovernothingg]

A pet peeve of mine is Cassius Sencen existing

*hides under blankets*

[catilinas]

if you were to make an ides of march themed coffee drink what do u think screams a man getting stabbed several times over?

sleeplessness as a Motif in jc is OUT from now on we are focusing on cassius' anachronistic coffee machine.

Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar, I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council; and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.

i think in the space of that incomplete line (i have not slept) brutus should take a massive slurp from a mug of coffee. (i can excuse the anachronism but i'm not sure if cassius would actually drink coffee? maybe he just makes it for brutus. who Has Not Slept). artist's rendition of brutus' mug:

do you think the number of stab wounds in caesar being relatively way fewer than the number of conspirators / the general poor aim and accidental injury among the conspirators was due to jittery hands from the coffee from cassius' anachronistic coffee machine (which he obtained through The Time Loop. btw). do you think the reason cicero was not included in the conspiracy was because then cassius would have to let cicero try coffee and that would have been genuinely cataclysmic to the political state of rome (i think tiro deserves to try coffee though).

anyway. if i were to make an ides of march themed coffee drink i think the only appropriate addition / flavour would be blood

[telltalecoyote]

Summoned by Rytlock Brimstone to face punishment over the previous night's deeds, Cassius grapples with guilt and remorse for the crime that led to the injury of a fellow soldier at the behest of his sire's strange dream for the legions. Very short story below!

AKA Cassius did a bad thing and now he faces the consequences

(This is a VERY early scene I was thinking about a LOT as I do my play-through of base game)

With no sleep the night prior, Cassius had been sitting at his desk for hours, head planted firmly in the palms of his paws, a summons was delivered not long ago and laid before him, very pointedly left on the blank side as he hoped it would simply disappear.

“Tribune Brimstone.” The signature at the bottom of the summons read, not ‘Rytlock,’ or the even more informal ‘Ryt’ that he was known to use with Cassius for short notice and that alone made stomach drop further than it has in any of his recent field assignments.

He knew what this was about, and the astonishment lingered. Despite covering up his tracks and his sire's, he had even made it seem like no crime had been committed at all. Cassius thought to himself, "What was I thinking? It was treason on both our ends. I was an idiot for believing him, I deserve whatever happens."

His mind raced back to the promises of last night, of revolutionizing the legions, his sire's assurances that no cub would face the horrors he had endured nor have to grow up struggling with no support for similar situations as his. Cassius, however, knew it was too good to be true. A good man was comatose because of him, and he felt responsible. "Change the legions, might as well make me Khan Ur while you’re at it."

The walk to Brimstone's office felt agonizing, minutes stretching into an eternity due to his overwhelming guilt. Rounding the stairs, he tried hard not to glance out over the balcony and over towards the Asuran portal where it all transpired, but he couldn't resist.

With a curt nod to the charr standing guard outside the Tribune’s office, Cassius stalled a moment and took a deep breath, hearing from his flank; “Brimstone’s pissed, hate to be the guy who got on his bad side.”

“Agreed.” Cassius couldn’t tell if he was being mocked or not, but it mattered little. As he entered the office, it felt as if the air was sucked out of the room once it was just the two of them, despite having half expected to find his sire dragged in here as well, bound in cuffs.

“Ryt–” Cassius started, hands folded behind his back in respect as he straightened up, he could anticipate the anger in the Tribune’s voice.

“Brimstone, Witherpaw, it’s Tribune Brimstone.” Rytlock growled, Cassius couldn’t see his face as he stood by the office’s window, back turned. “You know why you are here, did you think I wouldn’t know?”

Cassius gulped. “...Sir, It was a mistake, I don’t know what went through my mind–”

Rytlock spun around, slamming his fist against his desk, causing a ruckus; startling and silencing the younger charr who still stood firm. “Are you stupid, Witherpaw? Or do you just think I am?

Cassius didn’t respond, grimacing as he couldn’t find the strength to meet his superior’s gaze.

"You were such a good soldier, did everything I asked,  went above and beyond with little asking from me," Rytlock's gaze unmoving, "And yet, you were so eager to throw everything away like this? Because your sire filled your head with lies?" 

After a brief pause and no response, he continued. “Even I used to think Ash was stupid to let someone as arrogant and sloppy as Oberon be a spy, but maybe I was wrong if he was able to pull the wool over your eyes, of all people!”

"I apologize, sir. It’s just, he’s my—Oberon, he gave me reasons to trust in what he was doing, even if not for those purposes, he would have no reason—or even ability—to use that information for harm, you’ve said you trusted my call in these sorts of situations." Cassius spoke up, his voice notably quieter.

“That was before you got your fellow charr hurt.” Rytlock didn’t yell this time, and yet it felt even worse. "Do you know what power that words can hold for charr like him; charr even worse than him? Thinking like that is dangerous, Witherpaw." 

Rytlock spat, his glare burning holes into Cassius who struggled to maintain eye contact. "Thinking like that is what creates defectors, it always does, like... like moths to a flame, THE Flame!"

Behind his back, Cassius’ claws dug into his arms as he weathered the assault. Cassius was much younger than the tribune, but he was no cub. Yet, he felt like a child being scolded by his father, a pet being punished by its owner, he couldn't help but take this treatment on a personal level rather than the interaction between military personnel like he should have.

Eventually, Rytlock sighed. Cassius had been one of the tribune’s most loyal legionnaires in what felt like ages; he didn’t wish to give Cassius more reason to turn on him, that would be a waste of talent. "I could have you executed on the spot, but for both our sakes, we can say this was just another crime being pinned on his back by a rival of his. I trust you."

Cassius kept his head low, and despite the words of reassurance; he simply was too afraid to look up. "More importantly, I already have an inkling as to where and to whom that information is going; it won't prove to be any more trouble for me as far as I am concerned. I am simply disappointed in you." 

"You won’t screw up like this again. I have a few assignments coming up that call for my attention, I know I can trust in you to join me." Rytlock grumbled, he approached Cassius and hooked a claw under the younger charr’s chin, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. “There, you will listen and do EXACTLY as I command.”

"Yes, thank you, Tribune Brimstone," Cassius gulped, noting the change in Rytlock’s tone—stern, reassuring, and familiar. "Anything you ask."

[sforzesco]

ANTONY cry 'havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war

earlier in my script (which is not Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar), Antony refers to Dolabella as one of his ‘dogs of war’ when talking to Cassius (which IS a reference to Shakespeare’s JC), and it comes back around after Cicero writes to Cassius and informs him of Trebonius’ fate

While these things were taking place at Rome, Cassius and Brutus were collecting troops and money, and Trebonius, governor of the province of Asia, was fortifying his towns for them. [...] Trebonius, who was captured in bed, told his captors to lead the way to Dolabella, saying that he was willing to follow them. One of the centurions answered him facetiously, "Go where you please, but you must leave your head behind here, for we are ordered to bring your head, not yourself." With these words the centurion immediately cut off his head, and early in the morning Dolabella ordered it to be displayed on the praetor's chair where Trebonius was accustomed to transact public business. Since Trebonius had participated in the murder of Caesar by detaining Antony in conversation at the door of the Senate-house while the others killed him, the soldiers and camp-followers fell upon the rest of his body with fury and treated it with every kind of indignity. They rolled his head from one to another in sport along the city pavements like a ball till it was completely crushed. This was the first of the murderers who received the meed of his crime, and thus vengeance overtook him.

App. Civil Wars III. 26

For Dolabella is in Syria, and, as you have foreseen in your prophetic soul and have foretold, Cassius will crush him while they are on their way. For Dolabella has had the gates of Antioch shut in his face and got a good beating in trying to storm it. Not trusting in any other city, he has betaken himself to Laodicea, on the sea-coast of Syria. There I hope he will speedily pay the penalty of his crime: for he has no place of refuge, nor will he much longer be able there to stand out against an army as large as that of Cassius. I even hope that Dolabella has by this time been overpowered and crushed.

Cic. Fam. 12.14

Place then before your eyes, O conscript fathers, that spectacle, miserable indeed, and tearful, but still indispensable to rouse your minds properly: the nocturnal attack upon the most beautiful city in Asia; the irruption of armed men into Trebonius’s house, when that unhappy man saw the swords of the robbers before he heard what was the matter; the entrance of Dolabella, raging,—his ill-omened voice, and infamous countenance,—the chains, the scourges, the rack, the armourer who was both torturer and executioner; all which they say that the unhappy Trebonius endured with great fortitude. A great praise, and in my opinion indeed the greatest of all, for it is the part of a wise man to resolve beforehand that whatever can happen to a brave man is to be endured with patience if it should happen.

Cicero, Philippic 11

Philippi and Perusia, Ronald Syme

ko-fi⭐ bsky ⭐ pixiv ⭐ pillowfort ⭐ cohost ⭐ cara.app

[callie-shifts-apparently]

PLEASE I NEED TO KNOW ABOUT YOUR FANTASY LIFE SOSOSOSOSO BAD🛐🛐

RAHHHHHHH BEST ASK EVER EVER EVER IM CHEWING ON TABLES.

okokok imma tryyyy to keep this shortish but i might end up infodumping cus theres sooo much i could say abt this.

SO as I said, I'm an apprentice for THE researcher/scholar for the behaviour of dragons, Cassius Clearsky. Cassius was my bio dad's best friend before my parents died so he took me in and I live with him on these floating islands called the Peregrine Islands.

Dragons in this universe (Equinox) are kind of super under-researched, so we know very little about them. Princess Isadora funds the Peregrine Islands Operative so that more is known abt them!!! eventually we're gonna have to write a big ol book and its gonna be a huge task but its gonna be my pride and joy <3

We each have designated riding dragons (mine is an orange feathered wyvern, his name is Solstice :)) but there are like, 6-9 other dragons that just. chill out on the islands fulltime because its an easier life lol.

I havent 100% decided what EXACTLY my work always entails, but ik its varied. like, sometimes its camping out to watch migrations, sometimes its watching social interactions, sometimes we get written to as the dragon authority and have to go figure that out like a scooby doo style quest.

Tbh the life isnt AS "high fantasy" as i originally planned on it being - for humanoids, theres only humans and elves - but the main focus of my life there is the dragons, 100%. Its medieval-ish, but with kind of magical steam-punky influence in more developed cities (especially The 9 Capitals)

Dragons are like super duper intelligent (depending.) and have a LOT of opinions so youre definitely not gonna get along with all of them. but theyre all sooo interesting and different and cool !!!

Like, Juno, Cassius's dragon? shes a Great Dawnshadow, which is ridiculously uncommon because their eggs only hatch during an eclipse. and they have different variants based on whether its a solar or lunar eclipse too :3!!!!

RAHHH THERES SO MUCH TO SAY... im working on compiling all my current info in a Notion thingy rn so. AAAAHHH ILL KEEP U UPDATED

[xkcdbracket]

Literal March Madness

Middlemarch, A Study of Provincial Life. Novel by George Eliot

Ides of March. Assassination of Julius Caesar

[whumpiary]

this is for anon, who requested some cass angst. and for @wildfaewhump​​ who single-handedly tipped the poll in this piece’s favour. thank you for the excuse to get this bad boy into existence! it’s lived in my head for... so so long.

strong content warnings: grief, loss, death, suicide, guilt, self-blame, whumper as caretaker (please note - this piece is heavy. if you are wanting to read but are cautious of the warnings, please shoot me a message or an ask and i’ll happily elaborate)

-

Ace is still putting his shoes on when Tucker comes in to collect him. 

“Do you know what day it is today?”

He looks very proud of himself. Tucker feels exhausted already. “What date is it today, Ace?”

Cass gives him the biggest grin he’s seen on him in weeks, “You really don’t remember?”

“No.”

“It’s our anniversary.”

“...Our anniversary,” Tucker repeats, unamused by the notion.

“Of the day we first met,” Cass beams. “It was a year ago today.”

Tucker can feel the shape of the quip he might’ve used to shut him up or shut him down. He can’t bring himself to use it today. He just sighs, chest tight and uncomfortable, “Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm. Was doing the maths and I’ve been here eight months. Or just over, anyway. ‘Cause Simon said the other day the quarterly thing is coming up again, right?” He looks over at him for confirmation as he finishes lacing his shoes. Tucker hums in the affirmative. “Right. And I know that there was one right after I got here, and then another one that happened a couple months back because the lab techs wouldn’t stop bitching about it and that means we’d be coming up to a full-”

Tucker cuts him off to gesture out the door, “Can we walk, please?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ace moves past him and the sliding door closes behind them automatically. Tucker presses the keypad that activates the lock as Ace keeps prattling, turning around to walk backwards, face Tucker as he talks. “Anyway, that means by the next quarterly thing I’ll have been here over a year, right? But I was trying to figure out what the actual date that I got here was. Like my Facility birthday, you know? But because of the fuck around with the transfer papers and the whole…” he waves his hand, vaguely. “I mean like I wasn’t exactly with it, you know? So the dates are fuzzy. So then I was trying to remember-”

“Left.”

“Huh?”

Tucker points down the juncture in the hallway, “We’re going left. Lifts.”

“Oh. Okay.” He looks the other way down the hall and turns to move down it, falling in step beside. “Anyway then I was trying to think about the last time you came to the estate, because that would’ve been a few weeks before I left, right?”

He presses down on the elevator and Tucker reaches across to press up instead, “Something like that.”

“Right. And then that got me thinking bout the first time you came to the Estate-”

“We didn’t meet the first time.”

“Yeah, no, I know. But I remember it because Christopher had had a party, like, the night before and I was fucked. But I remember seeing a new car coming down the drive.”

Tucker hums noncommittally as the elevator doors slide open and they step inside. Another day and he might’ve prodded a little more about what the midweek party of a billionaire entails. Today he just stares forward and presses the button for the top level.

“And I know that the party was on the 12th of July. And you were coming once a fortnight for those first few visits…”

“Mm hmm.”

“Which means the date we met was-”

“It was July 26th,” Tucker says definitively. “I remember.” Hard date to forget for him personally.

“Right,” Cass says. Tucker can see him grinning out of the corner of his eye as the doors glide open. “So what I’m saying is happy anniversary.”

Tucker sighs again and leads them up the last stretch of stairs to the top. “Mm-hmm.”

“You know, you don’t seem that impressed,” Cass objects after him. “I was hoping there would be a little more fanfare or someth- Oh shit, I didn’t know there was a rooftop.”

Tucker holds the door open wide for him to invite him out onto it. There was a reason Cassius didn’t know about the damn rooftop. But he needed somewhere with an iota of privacy. The boarding room walls were woefully thin. Most of the conference rooms had at least half a wall  of glass.

Ace wanders his way out onto it in his usual saunter, pockets sliding into his pockets, admiring the skyline painted gold by the afternoon sun, “It’s kinda pretty actually, woah.”

“Yeah. Well. Didn’t bring you up for the view.”

He glances across and smiles, "You’re not gonna throw me off or something are you? ‘Cause that’d be kind of a douche move on our anniversary and all.”

“I just wanted somewhere quiet,” Tucker says, a little clipped. 

“Oh my god, are you gonna propose?”

Enough. Enough bullshit. “There’s something I need to tell you, Cassius.”

Cass frowns at the sound of his own name, and then laughs through obvious discomfort. “Jesus, full name, huh? Someone die or something?”

Tucker sighs, chest uncomfortably tight, pushing his glasses up briefly to pinch the bridge of his nose. He truly fucking wishes he could’ve delegated this task to anyone else. He probably could’ve, on reflection. But wouldn’t that’ve felt like utter shit? He sighs. Bandaid off. Get it over with. “I got a call today. From the Estate.” 

Ace’s face falls with immediate dread. “...They’re not meant to contact.”

Tucker holds a hand up to stay him, “I know. And they don’t. Usually, But the call was abou-”

“No, I don’t care what it was about.” The panic in him is plain, pulse already visible in his throat, speech fast and clipped, “They’re not meant to contact. He’s not meant to contact. It’s in the contract.”

“I know. But this was-”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Exceptional circumstanc-”

“No contact. That’s in the fucking contract-”

“It was about your brother, Ace,” Tucker snaps.

That shuts him up. Cass’ mouth clicks shut in shock, eyes wide and unsure. Tucker sighs again. There's no way to ease into it slowly now that it's out of the bag. His voice softens to take the step off the cliff, “Look, there’s no easy way to say this. Henri passed away early this morning.”

Cass’ face falls in shock. And then screws up in confusion. And then he blinks. Shakes his head. And a smile is creeping on his face. “Alright. Very fucking funny, fuckhead. Haha.”

Tucker shakes his head. “I’m not joking, Cass.”

It takes a moment for it to click. The loose smile hangs there a beat or too, and then slides off his face like melting wax, dread and horror left in its wake, “No. No that’s not right…”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No, he’s not even there anymore.”

“He wasn’t in the program, anymore,” Tucker corrects. “He was still in residence.”

“No. After I left, he had four months left.”

Tucker’s mouth makes a grim line. “He wasn’t well, Ace. We all knew that. After you left, it was determined he wasn’t fit for independent living-”

“No. Shut up.”

“And that he should stay on as a resident. I know how you feel about the place so I’ve been keeping tabs. I didn’t want to tell you because-”

“No. Shut the fuck up up. He only had four months left,” Cass spits, near belligerent. “And it’s been eight months. I was just saying that. It’s been eight.”

There’s nothing for it but to keep going through the protests, “He’s been on a downhill slope for a while. They’ve been trying treatment-”

“No.”

“And different interventions but-”

“No this is… this is a joke.”

“He hasn’t been responsive to them.”

“You’re fucking joking.”

Tucker shakes his head, a little surprised by the genuine pang of sympathy in his chest. Hasn’t felt that in a while. “A staff member found him in his room early this morning. By the time emergency services arrived, it was too late.”

For a moment, Cassius looks untethered. Like Tucker’s pushed him into space and cut the line. 

His voice is weak. Wavering, “Tell me you’re joking.”

The empty wind bats the buildings around them. “I’m not joking, mate. I’m sorry.”

“Tᴜᴄᴋᴇʀ, ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴍᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴊᴏᴋɪɴɢ.”

Tucker shakes his head, palms up and empty. He wishes he had more to offer. “He’s gone, Cass.”

There is a moment of stillness, where he sees the world ending in Cassius’ eyes. It’s a sinking ship. An exploding star. An atom bomb clearing everything in sight. 

And then Cassius takes off in a bolt towards the rooftop's edge.

Tucker moves before he thinks. He lunges, grabs Cassius by the scruff of the shirt and yanks him back, arms snaking around the idiot’s waist to hold him. They fall back together, landing hard on the concrete, and Tucker holds tight, winded as Cass’ elbow finds his ribs.

“Let me go.”

Tucker holds tight, feet pushing against the ground to pull them both backwards and away from the edge. Cass keeps lunging forward, tearing at his arms. Little shit trying to draw blood.

“Tᴜᴄᴋᴇʀ, ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ.”

Tucker keeps holding, teeth clenched tight in the effort of it. He has never been more glad that Ace’s little trick falls flat on him.

“Tᴜᴄᴋᴇʀ, ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ɢᴏ, ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ fucking go.”

A hand flies back to bash his face, knocking his glasses half loose. Elbow finds ribs, too-short fingernails scratch and pull at his hands.

“Let me go.”

Tucker shifts their shared weight back, trying to adjust his grip for a stronger hold. Ace kicks his feet like a mad thing, as if trying to knock them both off balance. When that doesn’t work he angles his head down to bite the meat off Tucker’s thumb, earning a sharp yelp, a hand flying, a moment to escape.

Cass makes it all of two steps before Tucker has a grip on him again and is hauling him back down, two hands bunched in his shirt. He pulls him on top of himself like and takes the blows that come before he can fold Ace’s arms up into the vice grip needed to keep him place. He keeps him pinned down with his own body weight, and hand tight around his wrists.

In the helplessness of the hold, the snarling demands crumble into pleas. When the begging proves just as futile, Cass opens his mouth wide and screams. He wails.

The sound is raw and belly deep. An animal screaming in pain and terror and confusion. And in grief. In utter grief. It’s the scream of a kid wanting to go home, in the voice of a barely grown man who knows he doesn’t have one anymore.

Each cry sends electric chills through Tucker’s veins that he doesn’t care for. It rings in his ears and he has to tilt his head back and away from the noise to stand the soul-splitting sound of it. He keeps holding the kid anyway. What else is he meant to do?

It’s then that he knows he was right to bring them to the rooftop for this, despite the near fatality. Out here, Cass can scream. Tucker doesn’t tell him to shut up or clamp a hand over his mouth. And he might’ve had to if they’d still been in the lodging rooms. Out here, Ace can wail his little heart out. The sky doesn’t give a shit. The office buildings don’t care.

He screams. He cries. He screams. He twists his body, he begs to be let go. He screams and screams and screams.

Each burst of sound from is its own living thing. Like one explosion after another. Each one could only be braced through, not avoided, with aftershocks that come in the form of a full-body struggle. Tucker does his best to keep limbs folded tight. At one point he can hear a tear in his suit.

The screams, eventually, turn into sobs. Which in their own time crumble into a broken-hearted weeping.

It’s a strange feeling, echoic and unfamiliar, to hold someone through grief like this. Tucker wasn’t sure there was a soul in the world who’d mourn him this hard if he died. His mother was less likely to waste breath on tears or a eulogy than she was to utter ‘Good riddance.’ and hang up the phone. His own brother, maybe, would at least take a moment of contemplation. Neither of those things were grief. Not this kind. Not this deep.

Eventually, he shifts them so Ace is practically folded in his lap, Tucker’s arm still wrapped around his waist in case a second wind comes. It never does. What churns up instead are confessions of guilt, complicity, regret. One after the other, like rocks falling down a cliff-face.

“I left him there. I fucking left him there.”

Tucker offers the closest thing to comfort he can, unsure if he even entirely believes it, “It’s not your fault, Ace.”

“He was meant to have four months left. It was only meant to be four months.”

“I know.”

“I fucking killed him.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wanna die, just let me die.”

“Not today, Ace.”

“I wanna die.”

He squeezes his shoulder. Rubs his back in a way that he intends to be comforting. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Down below, the traffic is congested and continuous: thousands and thousands of people honking at red lights and swearing at too-slow pedestrians, utterly oblivious to the fact that on a rooftop twenty stories up, someone’s whole world just ended.

Apocalypse in a teacup.

Armageddon in the heart of a twenty two year old.

The weeping does not stop.

[beeapocalypse]

i love to play toys (think abt inane alternate timelines with mine ocs)