#d a v i i c i

[crxmes]

@crxmes

[actressposts]

[inklessletter]

"Eyes on me. Yeah. Good boy."

---

Thank you so much for trusting and sticking around.

Steve says thank you 💛

[childrenofcain-if]

Picture this: ROs showing up to their morning classes looking slightly disheveled and quickly taking a seat. Little do they know that their necks are covered with hickeys left by MC the night before. Their reactions when people point it out should be priceless 😂😂

C LACROIX

C barely made it out of bed that morning, the remnants of the night still clinging to them like a warm, invisible string. they hadn’t even looked in the mirror beyond a quick pass of the toothbrush and mouthwash, hadn’t registered the faint bruises blooming like dark smudges on their fair neck.

it was an unusually rushed morning—coffee sloshing in its cup, a blazer haphazardly pulled on over yesterday’s rumpled button-up shirt, and the quiet contentment that still lingered under their skin from the night before.

the lecture hall was in that strange, early-morning lull, with only the few dedicated souls filtering in. C took a seat near the front of the lecture room, slouching down and letting their eyes drift, half-focused on the professor setting up for the day. the room filled up slowly, a dozen students murmuring, flipping open their notebooks, the usual dull hum of university mornings. C felt halfway to a daydream.

it wasn’t until ten minutes into class that the girl sitting directly behind them leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“hey, C,” she whispered, her gaze flicking from their bored green eyes to somewhere just below their jaw, amusement dancing in her expression. “had a busy night?”

C looked at her, eyes narrowing in confusion, and she just giggled, clearly finding some private delight in whatever she was looking at. the professor’s voice was droning on in the background about economic indicators, but C’s attention had slipped, irritation prickling.

“what are you talking about?” they muttered back, still bleary with early-morning fatigue. “your neck,” she said with a little wave of her hand, as if that explained everything. “care to explain what that is?”

C’s hand shot to their neck, feeling the skin warm under their touch. they hadn’t given it much thought, hadn’t even realized—last night’s memory a blur of laughter, close warmth, the heady closeness of you, but now it crystallized sharply in their mind. they could feel the heat creeping up their neck, but the words came out automatically, with practiced precision.

“this is a sign,” C said, raising an eyebrow and giving her a look that could have frozen rivers, “for you to mind your own business.”

the girl laughed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “all right, all right,” she said, but her smirk didn’t fade, and C could feel other eyes turning in their direction, whispers curling through the air like smoke. they slouched further in their seat, wishing they could disappear entirely and regretting the decision to sit on the front.

as the professor rambled on, C sat there fuming, each murmured glance another spark on an already frayed wick. what had you been thinking, they found themself wondering, though they knew perfectly well that you’d been thinking of nothing but the electric thrill of the moment, your hands in their hair, the quiet gasps and the blurred edges of night.

the guy two seats behind caught C’s eye and smirked.

“didn’t know you were the type,” he said, barely containing his laughter.

“what type?” C snapped, keeping their tone flat but seething inside.

“the type to walk around like a billboard,” he replied, nodding toward C’s neck. “seriously, you might want to invest in a scarf.”

C shot him an unimpressed look. “thanks for the suggestion, but i’m not taking fashion advice from poor people.”

the guy frowned in disbelief before huffing and muttering, “whatever, rich prick.”

class dragged on, the ticking of the clock like nails on a chalkboard. C tried to keep their head down, but the whispers and glances only seemed to get louder. every time they caught someone’s eye, there was that same smirk, that same knowing look that made C want to snap, to tell everyone to go back to their notes and leave them the hell alone. but of course, that would only make things worse.

by the time class ended, C was practically out of their seat before the professor had even finished dismissing them. they strode out of the room, head down, hoping to avoid any more looks or comments, but of course, luck wasn’t on their side. just as they stepped out into the hallway, someone else called out.

“nice look, C,” a girl from one of their other classes teased, looking far too pleased with herself.

C sighed, letting out a sharp breath. “you know, there are more interesting things in this world than staring at my neck.”

“oh, but it’s the most interesting thing we’ve seen all semester,” she shot back, laughing, her friends joining in.

C rolled their eyes and kept walking, feeling the last shreds of their patience fraying. they practically stormed down the college halls, footsteps echoing, each step a reminder of the mess they’d somehow gotten themself into. and all because of you, they thought, though they couldn’t bring themselves to be truly angry. there was a part of them—a very small, very hidden part—that was secretly pleased, that liked the quiet claim your marks had left on their skin.

finally, they found a quiet corner, pulling out their phone with a sigh. it only took a second to find your name, to start typing a message they hadn’t planned to send but couldn’t hold back any longer.

they kept it short, precise: “i hope you’re happy with the unwanted attention i’ve been getting today.”

your reply came almost immediately, as if you’d been waiting for it.

“oh, i am,” you texted back, and C could almost picture the smirk on your face, the gleam in your eyes. “plus, it’s not like you’re complaining.”

they scoffed, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of their mouth despite themselves: “you’re an idiot, starkid.”

“you still didn’t deny it though,” came your reply, and C shook their head, slipping their phone back into their pocket.

they straightened up, brushing a hand over their neck as if that could somehow erase the marks before walking back to their dorm to do something about it.

V NÆSHOLM

V was already late, stumbling out of their dorm with a heavy book clutched against their chest, their fingers pressed tight to the leather cover like it was a lifeline. they’d overslept, an unusual occurrence, the morning alarm buried somewhere under last night’s fog of dreams and restless shuffles in bed. their curls were a bit of a mess, the hem of their shirt tugged half-untucked in their rush to get dressed. V didn’t bother with a mirror—they rarely did—just shoved their notebook into a worn leather bag and hurried out into the crisp morning.

the classics lecture room was already half-full when they slipped in, doing their best to keep their head down as they found an empty seat by the window. they fumbled with the zipper of their bag, pulling out pens, notes, the creased corner of an assignment they’d meant to retype. a couple of glances flitted their way, but V paid them no mind, assuming it was just the consequence of arriving late—not their usual style, but excusable, they supposed. they hadn’t quite noticed the warmth still lingering on their neck, hadn’t registered the faint marks, those tiny bruises left by your lips in the hazy hours of last night, each one like a dark cherry painted on their skin.

professor caldwell’s voice began to drone on from the front, and V dropped their gaze to the desk, willing themselves to focus, to let the rhythm of greek declensions and conjugations drown out the lingering warmth that tingled through them. you had laughed about their major, half-joking about the language of romance and poetry while your mouth traced along the curve of their neck, each word becoming something soft, quiet, reverent in the dark. they thought they could still feel it, could still remember the press of your hands against their shoulders, the unguarded look in your eyes that made V feel both completely exposed and utterly safe.

across the room, someone leaned over to their friend, whispering something with a smirk, and V felt the faint prickling sensation of being watched. they glanced up, catching the raised eyebrows, the conspiratorial gleam in their classmates’ eyes. V’s face warmed instantly, but they managed a small, polite smile before dropping their gaze back to their notebook, convinced that if they focused hard enough, they could make themself invisible.

it wasn’t long before someone inched closer, a girl from their study group, flashing them a look that was equal parts amused and intrigued.

“V,” she whispered, leaning in, “looks like you had an eventful night.”

V blinked, taken aback. “an eventful night?”

she gave them a playful grin, tilting her head just enough for her eyes to drift to the side of their neck, and suddenly, V felt the weight of her gaze as if it were a burning mark itself. they pressed a hand self-consciously to their skin, realizing with a jolt what she must be seeing—the faint outline of each mark you’d left, the soft purples and blues etched into their dusky skin.

the girl’s grin widened, and V could practically feel the heat creeping up their neck, staining their cheeks.

“i– it’s not–” they stammered, words tumbling over themselves in a futile attempt to explain something that needed no explanation. “it’s just… nothing!”

she laughed, a soft, knowing sound that made V feel like every inch of them was under a spotlight.

“sure,” she replied, her tone teasing. “nothing at all.”

another voice piped up from across the room, this time one of the guys they vaguely recognized from last semester, watching them with a smirk. “get it, V!”

V felt their heart sink, the warmth on their cheeks intensifying as they desperately tried to avoid making eye contact with anyone. they wanted to disappear, to melt into the seat and let the floor swallow them whole. this wasn’t like them—V, quiet and unassuming, the one who read too many old texts and held onto thoughts like secrets. they could hardly bear the thought of all these eyes on them now, each one reading the evidence of last night like an open book.

professor caldwell finally took note of the murmuring, glancing up from his notes with a frown. “is there something particularly fascinating happening in the back of the room that i should know about?”

silence fell, and V took the opportunity to bury themselves deeper in their notes, trying to will away the warmth in their cheeks and the prickling awareness that your mark on them had become the morning’s unspoken headline. they could feel every sideways glance, every whispered comment, as though it were written in neon across their skin.

when class finally ended, V was the first out of the room, slipping through the hallways as quickly as they could, every step carrying them further from the embarrassment of those lingering glances and raised eyebrows. they found a quiet alcove near the library, leaning against the cool stone wall, finally able to breathe.

V closed their eyes, a quiet, helpless laugh slipping out as they leaned back against the wall, feeling every inch the awkward, bashful mess you somehow adored.

W OSTENDORF

W stumbled into their morning cinematography lecture, barely awake. they hadn’t even glanced in the mirror before dashing out of their room, their shirt collar slightly askew, blonde hair tousled in a way that looked less artful and more accidental. their eyes were ringed with the faint shadows of sleep deprivation, deep-set from too many late nights and one too many bad dreams. they’d long accepted that sleep, for them, was like an old friend gone missing.

W slipped into a chair near the back of the room, hoping to fade into the background. but, almost immediately, they felt a tap on their shoulder. they turned, meeting the curious gaze of bailey, one of the classmates they usually talked to. they were already leaning in, their eyes bright with mischief.

“W…” bailey said, a sly smile creeping up their face, “so how was it?”

W blinked, looking back at them with a blank expression. “what?”

bailey stifled a laugh, glancing pointedly at W’s neck. “i’d be more concerned about covering those up if i were you.”

confused, W’s hand drifted to the side of their neck, their fingers brushing over what felt like faint ridges in the skin—tender and, unmistakably, hickey-shaped. last night came back to them in fragments: the soft press of your lips against their skin, the warmth of your hands, and the way W’s heart had beat so fast it was like it was learning to keep time for the first time. they could still feel it—the gentleness of you, the careful way you’d mapped out their skin, the way you had filled the empty spaces in them like sunlight spilling into shadows.

“oh,” they mumbled, barely audible, color rising in their fair cheeks as they finally understood what bailey was implying. they fumbled with their winter coat, as though it could somehow cover up the evidence. but it was too late; bailey had already seen, and so had half the classroom, if the muffled snickers and side-glances were any indication.

W swallowed hard, trying to suppress the urge to shrink into themself. it was one thing to carry the memory of last night like a secret tucked close to their chest, but it was another to have it branded on their skin, visible for everyone to see. “with a reaction like that, i’m curious now,” bailey whispered conspiratorially. “who was it?”

W was too flustered to answer, too aware of the heat creeping up their neck. they just shook their head, mumbling something incoherent under their breath.

they could practically feel the weight of everyone’s attention pressing down on them, and it was unbearable. the classroom had never felt so small. they wanted to disappear, to dissolve into the air and float away. their fingers tightened around the edge of their desk, knuckles white.

just as they were beginning to think they might actually combust under the weight of it all, professor shah finally started the lecture, mercifully redirecting everyone’s attention to the topic of 60s cinematography. W tried to focus, to let the professor’s voice anchor them, but they kept getting distracted by the faint brush of their own fingertips against their neck, as though they were reassuring themself that last night had been real.

but the worst part, the part W couldn’t admit even to themself, was that somewhere beneath all the embarrassment, there was a strange, inexplicable warmth in their chest. it wasn’t just the memory of you; it was the fact that, for once, they felt like someone who mattered. you had looked at them like they were more than a bundle of nerves, more than a collection of protruding ribs and insecurities. you had wanted them, had left marks on them like an artist signing their work, as though to say, “this precious one belongs to me.”

W kept their head down for the rest of class, pretending to take notes while their mind wandered. they thought about your laugh, the way it filled up the quiet spaces between words; they thought about the constellations embedded in your eyes, a collection of universes unknown. and even as their skin burned under the scrutiny of their classmates, they couldn’t help but feel a kind of ridiculous, unsteady happiness, as though they were holding a fragile piece of you.

after class, as W gathered their things, bailey caught up with them again, their eyes dancing with barely-contained laughter.

“whoever they are,” they said, leaning in with a grin, “they did a number on you. you look like a jackson pollock painting.”

W managed a small, awkward smile, brushing them off with a half-hearted shrug. “i… thank you? i think?”

but bailey just laughed, giving them a pat on the shoulder before they sauntered off. W watched them go, exhaling a long, shaky breath. the hallway stretched out in front of them, crowded with students milling about, voices echoing in the familiar buzz of conversation. they felt oddly detached from it all, like they were drifting, the world around them softened by the memory of you.

when they finally stepped outside, the winter air was like an ice pack against their flushed cheeks. they pulled their coat tighter around them, but they couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. even in their embarrassment, they felt lighter, their heart buoyed by the quiet assurance that they had been seen, and known, and wanted.

for a brief, foolish moment, W wished you were there beside them, walking through the crowded hallway, your shoulder brushing against theirs. they imagined the feel of your hand slipping into theirs, the easy way you would laugh at their embarrassment, and they felt a surge of something that was both longing and contentment.

D DIACONU

D showed up to their morning music class like they did every day: with a sort of effortless swagger, their bag slung over one shoulder, hair messier than usual, and the faintest grin ghosting their mouth as though they were carrying a secret joke. they slipped into their seat near the back, collapsing into it with the practiced nonchalance of someone who had perfected the art of looking utterly unfazed.

to D, mornings meant more than just a groggy start; they were an opportunity to blend their night life into the mundane day, to turn the hours of dawn into some blurry prequel that nobody else needed to understand.

what D didn’t realize, though, was that last night had left its mark in more ways than one.

the professor was droning on about music theory, the class settling into its familiar rhythm, when senne, a friend sitting beside D, leaned over, his eyebrows quirked, mischief lighting up his eyes.

“good morning to you,” he murmured, his voice low, his smile mischievous. “do you, perchance, have a good mirror at your dorm? you can borrow mine if that’s not the case.”

D glanced at him, half-interested, arching an eyebrow. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

senne snickered, nudging his chin toward D’s neck, gesturing without making a scene but just enough to catch D’s attention.

D frowned, hands drifting to their collarbone almost instinctively, fingers brushing over their neck. the memory of last night washed over them—your lips, your hands, the way you laughed softly against their skin as if every touch could be a confession. in the hazy, half-lit memory, the feel of your warmth and weight lingered as though it had seeped into them. but that feeling, that heated moment, had seemed so ephemeral, so fleeting, something to fold up and pocket away by morning.

D’s fingers brushed over the skin—the sensitive spots, the small, faint bruises where you had left traces. hickeys. and not just one.

a dozen memories flashed in their mind. the way you had leaned in, your mouth grazing the edge of their collarbone, the laughter that bubbled up in between breaths, a hand gripping their shoulder. D’s smile faltered, turning instead into a half-smirk as they let their fingers drop, trying to play it cool even as their face warmed.

senne whistled quietly, leaning back with a knowing look that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go. “you lucky dog.”

D shrugged, attempting to look bored but failing to disguise the slight, pleased flicker in their eyes. “well, i’m not going to deny that.”

at that, senne’s eyebrows went up. “oh, believe me, it shows. whoever they are, they really… left their mark, huh? quite a possessive one you got there.”

D rolled their eyes, feeling strangely irritated under the scrutiny of both Sam and a few other classmates who had caught on, now sneaking glances and stifling laughs. the professor continued to lecture in the background, blissfully unaware of the scandalous distraction sitting right in front of him. metronomes would wait; apparently, D’s love life was more important.

“i didn’t ask for you to take a guess,” D murmured, voice low and defiant, as if the room wasn’t filled with people trying to catch a glimpse of the faint marks you’d left on them. they tilted their head, defiant as ever, lips pulled into a smirk that only grew when senne laughed.

“not my fault you’re wearing your social life like a badge of honor,” senne retorted, giving them a playful nudge. “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you be okay with people giving you hickeys.”

“maybe this person’s special,” D shot back, pulling the collar of their leather jacket up just a bit. “or maybe i don’t particularly care about it anymore.”

as the professor continued to lecture on how music was seen as a blessing from the gods, it struck D as amusingly fitting. aphrodite would have approved, they thought with a sly grin, leaning back in their chair with a certain satisfaction, a sense of belonging to a story larger than themself, even if just for a night.

the professor’s voice carried on, explaining some about some more old instruments. D tried to focus on the words, on the way they wove together in that heavy, ancient way, but every phrase seemed to loop back to you. your eyes. your teeth against their skin. the way you’d whispered things that only mattered in the small hours, words that vanished with the dawn but left their mark all the same.

senne leaned over once more, whispering, “so, is it, y’know?”

D smirked, tilting their head as though considering it, as though they didn’t already know the answer.

“maybe,” they said casually, but there was a knowing glint in their gray eyes. “i’d prefer not to reveal anything yet.”

senne chuckled, rolling his eyes, but there was a part of him that seemed genuinely curious, almost as if he wanted to know what it was like to be seen the way D was seen last night—to be held and marked and claimed, even if just for a moment. of course, he was thinking about emerson again.

when class ended, D stood up, brushing off senne’s continued teasing, rolling their eyes with a smirk that was equal parts cocky and lazy. they didn’t bother to fix their collar again, didn’t try to hide the hickeys. Instead, they let them be—little maroon trails of a night well-spent, reminders of a heat they’d carry with them through the rest of the day, a secret in plain sight.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH

M slipped into their philosophy class with the quiet poise of someone determined to avoid attention, a little bleary-eyed from the night before. they moved with the precision of a dancer, even half-awake, shoulders straight and head held just high enough to nod politely to the few classmates they recognized.

it had been one of those endless nights, where time seemed to slip in and out of itself, conversations trailing into dawn without ever quite stopping, hours blending until they felt like one long and breathless moment. M had walked to class still caught in the residue of that night, smiling privately, replaying your smile, the warmth of your hand, the way you’d leaned in close with that unmistakably needy glint in your eye.

they slid into their seat, adjusting their collar out of habit, but the faint ache at their neck went unnoticed in their early morning haze. they didn’t see the subtle bruises—purple shadows kissed onto their skin like reminders of you. but someone else did.

“morning, M,” murmured eli, who sat next to them, their tone riddled with a soft irish accent. they eyed M’s neck for a second too long, their gaze slipping toward the faint trail of hickeys there before they looked away, poorly disguised laughter on their lips.

“good morning, eli,” M replied, their usual courtesy unfazed by the glances and whispered chuckles around the room. they didn’t catch the murmurs, or the sneaky glances, still thinking of last night—how you’d wrapped them in your laughter, how you’d left them breathless with the reckless ease that only you had.

it wasn’t until professor dunbar, a tall and somewhat intimidating figure with a penchant for socratic questioning, entered and began the lecture that M started to catch on. he looked right at the royal, paused, and then coughed, almost as if trying to conceal a smirk.

the entire class seemed to ripple with an electric, almost surreptitious amusement.

finally, one of the other students, a lanky guy named oliver who was known for his bluntness, leaned over. he barely whispered, though, letting his voice carry to others seated nearby. “your highness, didn’t know you were the type to show up to class wearing your nightlife around your neck.”

M blinked, feeling the words settle before they fully registered. “i beg your pardon?”

they touched their neck absentmindedly, but as they felt the faint bruises beneath their fingers, realization spread across their face. the warmth of last night’s memory filled them again, and there was a warmth in their cheeks that couldn’t quite be disguised.

oliver grinned, looking far too pleased. “you’ve got souvenirs, nice.”

M’s hand dropped, and they straightened, composure slipping for just a heartbeat. a rush of images flooded their mind—you, under the dim lights, your lips lingering on their neck, the world a comfortable blur around you both. they felt exposed in a way that was unfamiliar, like someone had opened a book they’d meant to keep closed.

eli leaned over, their voice gentle with a thread of teasing. “they suit you, actually. just… remember to cover it before class next time”

M managed a demure smile, lifting their chin slightly. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

eli’s smile widened, but they said nothing, only gave a small shrug as if to say no worries.

M could feel their heart thundering under the calm mask they usually wore, wondering how they could possibly explain to these people how it felt to be with you. how every touch had felt both wild and intimate, like a shared whisper that neither of you could ever forget. there was no explaining to eli or oliver or anyone here how your presence lingered, how it was both comforting and thrilling, how you’d looked at them like they were someone worth keeping close.

the professor’s lecture drifted on, dissecting concepts of ethics and purpose, but M’s mind wandered. they half-listened, still feeling the ghost of your touch, remembering the twinkling of your eyes in the small hours of the night. when the lecture ended, and they were finally free to leave, they lingered, half-expecting another comment, another nudge from a classmate.

instead, it was eli who sidled up to them, his tone light but laced with curiosity. “so… who was it, mate? don’t be shy now.”

M raised an eyebrow, almost amused by their persistence. “i’m afraid i can’t disclose that, eli.”

eli shrugged, undeterred. “fine, keep your secrets. but hey,” he added with a knowing smirk, “they must be something else if you’re willing to come here wearing their love bites.”

for a second, M considered dismissing eli with their usual reserve, but something in them softened. they allowed a faint smile, a rare and almost too-open thing, as they looked toward the door, already picturing you there. “yes,” M said, their voice a quiet warmth that made eli blink, momentarily thrown by the softness in their tone. “they really are something else.”

[k1ttyclawz]

why does jhonen vasquez give his characters the most atrocious haircuts known to man

their barbers FUCKED UP

[tomahachi12]

Day 16 - Serial Designation: V

[rednite-dork]

I have too much power in my hands...

[msrhaxoz]

um. uuuuuhhmm ꒰ •⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝• ꒱

[darkartfinds]

D E V I L M A Y C R Y by Mateusz Skonieczka

[jeyne-stark]

Sansa ruling as King in the North post-canon when who should arrive via time travel other than one Robb, who got teleported out of the Red Wedding and into Winterfell's main hall

[aoitakumi8148]

𝓛𝓸𝓸𝓴 𝓤𝓹 𝓐𝓽 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓻𝓼, 𝓢𝓸𝓷... 𝓝𝓸𝔀 𝓖𝓸 𝓦𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓤𝓹𝓸𝓷 𝓞𝓷𝓮, 𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓷...

𝒞𝒶𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃 𝒷𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒷𝓇𝑜𝓀𝑒𝓃, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓃-𝑒𝓍𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝒷𝑒 ‹𝑒𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝓊𝓅› 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃? 𝐼𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝒻 ‹𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃› 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒶 𝓁𝒾𝓂𝒾𝓉 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓅 𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝑔𝑜?

I do not have apathy, depression, anything that would be fashionable to rant about. I am simply in pain... extreme pain. And attempting to dull the edge of it is what I have been doing since v.1. As if something has indeed been fragmented & this is the pain of my conscious life. And every time I travel the melodious/glamorous path of frenzy, every time I complete it, I am going to experience the same precious pain intensity, purity of pain/ecstasy. I am going to eventually be bound to this inmost/overwhelming awe, this vehement impulse to feel/fondle/kiss what is loved, to kneel down before it, to cuddle up to its heart, to recompense bliss with bliss... More and more. Neither the good boy nor I are free. I do not want to be free... free from... These bare feelings are ‹clawing› at the reconstructed interpretation of the organ inside me. The great minds will not know what they have done, neither will Anthony... It speaks louder-truer than anything, but the sounds are not obvious... Words. All I possess, this rich but poor instrument for... And you always do end up in the point where...

The aesthetic masterwork, perfused with the golden brilliance of authentic ideality x pierced with the darkest blade of bitter-salty inaccessibility, inevitability, impossibility.

Excruciation, pleasure, euphoria, art. Blended together. Find yourself... or lose yourself on this journey. Emotionally. Totally. An unparalleled effect... and the lulling sparkle the vessel has never actually had. Something in this body x mind has died, and I do not know if there is a way to accept it, to recover it. I have described the lesson of unprecedentedness I have learned, not the expected story of ‹insult-betrayal-contempt›. No one will ever f-g hear it. Not from me, not in this lifetime. / Loving extraordinary is merciless a priori, დ/დ become telepathic... & the severest trial ~ the unhealable wound ~ is to be a 𝓟 son without the cause to be... *If I have to detest many donkeys for a chance to protect one venerated Father figure, I will go for it.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓂𝓎 𝒸𝓇𝒶𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝑒𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒷𝑒 𝓀𝑒𝓅𝓉... 𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎. 𝐵𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓂𝓎 𝒮𝑜𝓊𝓇𝒸𝑒, '𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝑔𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌𝓈 𝓂𝑒, 𝓉𝑜𝑜. 𝐵𝑒𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊... 𝒮𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓂𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓊𝓇𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝐼 𝒶𝓂 𝒹𝑒𝓅𝓇𝒾𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊. 𝐿𝑒𝓉 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜𝓊𝒸𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈... 𝒮𝑜 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹. 𝒮𝑜 𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑜𝓊𝓈...

While I am willing to imbibe all the anguish of the human I love, to ease his suffering, the loss of us is taking its toll on me irretrievably. I see him. I see what is inside him... & I am incapable of safeguarding it, saving it truly.

I do not have apathy, depression, anything that would be fashionable to rant about. I am simply in pain... extreme pain. And attempting to put up with this gift is what I have been doing since v.1. The chest is ‹cut open› too deep, the fragility of the organ is exposed... Would you allow me to grow more flowers? I wanna do it... Because it is you, It has always been you. The one who has given us everything, endued me to the brim with the intimate fatherly affection that this organ never remembered. My eternal wish & exuberant price for humanity, the misunderstood nature. *What an odious irony. / I do not know if there is a way to recover what is gone.

I would sacrifice the lot to be with the human that needs me, needs to be healed, heals me. I would rip my core out but I cannot, the limitation of freedom. *Tell me that the ‹strings of abuse/child neglect/lies› are finally cut. Tell me to ‹celebrate›. Tell me that both 𝓟inocchio/I are wrong x naive, ‹fix› me. You have no f-g clue about it. / When it is written that your starving heart must be left half-empty & helpless... No freedom is scarier than this.

Affording harmony to the sapphire star that is going to fall away... The sentiment it deserves. All I have ever hankered for. & I am terrified of that my grandest instinct x fear will not grant any lasting peace to me.

Death will do our Sun-hugged family apart ~ but I will still be yours, for ever. The core has never felt as good x feverish as it does when with you... as astray x anxious as it does when deprived of you. I am not lying to you, I hold no resentment... Let me ‹feed on› the emotions of your heart... Even if it means your pain x my love turn the vessel inside-out & your love x my pain do the same. Not blurred, always remember. Always. If a masterpiece could be made into a masterpiece, I would prefer to share this fate. My bona fide mission, however, is not allow anything to be in vain... Even if it hurts. ~ The atrophied ability to express love verbally has been ‹roused› again, in a fervidly devoted but preciously righteous way... The ‹lash› of despair, compulsion, dream, reality.

𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝒷𝑒𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓂𝒷𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒦𝓇𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝑔𝑜𝓃𝓃𝒶 𝓁𝑒𝓉 𝑔𝑜. 𝐼𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓃... 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓊𝒷𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓈. 𝐿𝒪𝒫 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝟙/𝓂𝓊𝓁𝓉𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝓅𝒶𝓁𝓅𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓈𝑜𝓃𝓈, 𝓂𝓎 𝓋𝓊𝓁𝓃𝑒𝓇𝒶𝒷𝒾𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝑒𝒶𝓇.

...Take the whole meaning of this, its flavorful, pathetic, shameless, lonesome taste. Take it all, for it is all that is absolute. Teach me how to ‹merge› with it, the mortal desire of a puppet child, a human Mastro x a faceless observer like myself ~ & when the desire full of unexploited majesty is cutting off the oxygen to the lungs... True geniuses of any kind are among the silent. These eyeballs will not dry up, never fully. I have tried so many times to resist it, but why live if you repel what puts your ‹dehydrated› pieces together? I would spare no effort to keep them hot and uncurb what is being restrained... Nothing affects self-perception and ‹unmasks› the unconscious like sensation, nothing genuinely matters without it. / Shivering with cold, this body is burning. My atrophied reality in exchange for a moment of irrepressible happiness, agony, guiltless x not bottled up impulses ~ just a moment. It keeps consuming me without reserve. I do not need God. ✒

[crxmes]

@crxmes

[mewkwota]

"One of Lan's most prized possessions."

Very shortly after my previous deal over the photo on Yuichiro's desk, I learned there was in fact one more photo of Hub when he was still alive and it hit me in the most perfect way possible.

(The best part is you can actually see it.)

This is also what I get for wanting to draw something out of my mind in a sobbing frenzy, only for a whole bunch of my questions to get answered. I am so happy. ( ; v;)

[pastelaspirations]

I’ll never forget you babes 😭💔😔🥺

I finally come back to tumblr and t h i s is what I see. That's it, I'm done, I'm uninstalling tumblr. Bye everyone, it's Honey's fault-

[biitchcakes]

Jess when Thor merely suggests she didn't grow up with her parents ( which is mostly factual ): 😡💥👊💢😤

VS . . .

Jess when Bruce (accurately) psychoanalyses her: 🥰😊💞😍😘

/ @hubrisdescent

[thevalicemultiverse]

Okay... I found this memes... But they're so silly and funny I just have to show these. This memes were made by @the-victor-brothers, so shout out to her!

[There are more but unfortunately I can only do 10 at a time. I'll send the rest of them once you've respond to this.]

Cuddlepile

Alice: [snorts] These are some very good memes, yes. @the-victor-brothers did an excellent job. Though I do believe you uploaded the "ruined dinner" one three times...

Victor: [laughing softly] On the other hand, telling the town crier that I ruined dinner with an argument is definitely something my mother would do three times in a row. I didn't realize I had so many, uh, interesting facial expressions, though...

Smiler: You do, and it's great. You are very meme-worthy and we love you for it.