#everything and anything

[ravenscamander]

Sometimes I forget that Daniel Ricciardo and Jules Bianchi were really close friends.

And then I remember.

And then I cry for a little while.

[astro-gnome]

i think the best solution is to just go the fuck to sleep

[flight0fthecrows]

holds them gently

[teddybeartoji]

ariiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii:33333333333333333

”won’t you pray with me?” a young boy calls, in the visage of your mind — an ever-fluctuating memory. you can hear it, when you close your eyes; a voice far less tailored, dipped in drops of sunshine. the kind of voice that tastes like citrus on your tongue. younger, warmer.  (not yet tainted by the family.)

we're off to a great start i feel like i wanna rip my hair out already (affectionate) "A VOICE FAR LESS TAILORED, DIPPED IN DROPS OF SUNSHINE. THE KIND OF VOICE THAT TASTES LIKE CITRUS ON YOUR TONGUE" RRRRRRRRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH i think this is so perfect for him. the citrus specifically .

”won’t you pray to me?”

.

sunday tilts his head, in rhythm with the glide of his fingertips along your pulsepoint. he’s smiling, just barely, and you can tell that he’s not asking.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCKKKKKKKKKKKK it's always the throat it's always the throat that gets me okay god it really is the most vulnerable place and now you're pairing that up with "you can tell he's not asking" HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH YOU'RE SICK IN THE HEADDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD i love you so much

you’ve learned not to question his late night visits. sunday never leaves you alone for long, never has, though when he was a child it didn’t feel anywhere near as suffocating. even when he’s out of sight, you feel his eyes on you — one of them, all five of them. feel the phantom weight of his hands on your shoulders, guiding you in the right direction. 

what the fuck............................................. the weight of his hands on your shoulders................... him guiding you the 'right' way......................

a chartreuse glow in the dim light of your room, glimmering faintly, a crystallized firefly. he fills your cup, then his own. there’s more in one than the other.

i wish i could eat you and this piece . THE WAY YOU DESCRIBE EVERYTHING IS JUST SOO??!="="=!"!="!="!?"=!?="!??!?="?"!=? I NEED TO GET INSIDE YOUR HEADDDD I WANT TO LIVE IN THERE

his fingers wrap around the glass, one after the other, raising it to his pursed lips. taking a sip, dipping his tongue out to catch the droplets, feel them trickle down his throat; the residue paints his lips burgundy. you picture the sweet, weighty wine flowing through his esophagus, intoxication taking root inside his veins, eager to break into his bloodstream. 

jk i need to devour you actually what is this god-like speech you have hm?????????????????? OHH I'M SORRRYYY "THE WINE FLOWING THROUGH HIS ESOPHAGUS, INTOXICATION TAKING ROOT INSIDE HIS VEINS, EAGER TO BREAK INTO HIS BLOODSTREAM" ????????????????????????? HELLO???????????????? you live in another world as everybody else like you're on another level in another dimesion this is beautiful ari. IT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD TO READDDDD FUUUUCKKKK MEEEEEEE IT JUST FLOWS SO WELL THE WORDS ARE ALWAYS THE RIGHT ONES EVERYTHING GOES TOGETHER LIKE IT'S JUST ALL A BIG PUZZLE YOU'RE A LITTLE MASTERMIND AREN'T YOU HM my beloved little word genius i really do admire you so fucking much

(overpowering, to know he’s picturing you below him. on your knees, at whatever altar he fancies himself.)

sickening. absolutely fucking sickening

”ask me for guidance,” he implores, demands, and you can tell the words are borrowed, stolen from a lesser man. ”and i will bestow it upon you.”

I'M SHAKING YOU BY YOUR SHOULDERSSSS HE DEMANDSS!!!!!!!!! "THE WORDS ARE BORROWED, STOLEN FROM A LESSER MAN" AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

sinners can’t be angels, but gods can’t be saints, so where does that leave him?

sunday wants you to make him holy.  he wants you to expect nothing less.

+

a promise of rot.

oh why don't you just crack open my ribs and take my heart it wants to be with you anyway WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKKKK "A PROMISE OF ROT"? "A PROMISE OF ROT"? "A PROMISE OF ROT"? "A PROMISE OF ROT"? "A PROMISE OF ROT"? you two are both genuinely making me want to tear my hair out this is insane i hope you know that i hope you know how fucking good you are . i mean that

moonlight dances on his skin, reflects in the glass of wine he puts to his lips — every single one of his eyes gazing down at you. pools of gold, the same as you remember, but infinitely colder — infinitely sadder. they look like solemn, broken windows, but there’s nothing behind them. what you see is what you get.

i've said it before but you really do paint the most beautiful pictures. every sentence and every paragraph of yours is like a painting, a watercolor one

you, on your knees, at the altar of his sins. feeding into them, picturing them in your mind’s eye; flowing out of his eyes in tender rivulets, down the curve of his lips. dripping, dripping, dripping down his wrist — (soon, the cup will overflow.)

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

i loved it. i'm IN love with it. with him with you with this piece. i can taste the wine on my lips and i, too, can feel his hands on my shoulders. everything you write always feels so real, it feels like i'm right there like i'm breathing alongside with the characters. i can taste everything they can and i can smell everything they can. idk i just fucking love it okay i love being here i'm glad i'm alive at this very moment i'm glad i get to experience your writing

you made him so extra tasty too like mmmmmmmmmmmmm i want to gnaw on his bones he's so sick . the cold eyes and the smile. the demanding tone and everything. he still loves you but it's just.. different now. he's sad and he's broken but he's trying to act tough in a way - he wants you to make him holy as if that'll change anything.

ANYWAY . i'm building a shrine for you . this a very fitting comment under this piece but ghsadhgsahgdashgah i mean that. you are so fucking amazing and i adore you and i love you and i wish i could just inject your writing into my veins i know the sun would be brighter the sky would be bluer (???) the birds would sing better (sorry birds) and all in all everything would be more beautiful. thank you for existing thank you for writing thank you for sharing your writing with us and with me THANK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU<333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333333

sunday seems so distant, these days.

”won’t you pray with me?” a young boy calls, in the visage of your mind — an ever-fluctuating memory. you can hear it, when you close your eyes; a voice far less tailored, dipped in drops of sunshine. the kind of voice that tastes like citrus on your tongue.

younger, warmer. 

(not yet tainted by the family.)

you had prayed with him, then. had clasped your hands together and wished for mercy.

for him, for robin, for you. for the three of you.

it feels like centuries ago. mountains of rubble, burning stars, two pairs of hands clinging onto yours for dear life. and then the prayers — endless, relentless, yielding to no one. you don’t know if anything is as enduring as a child’s heart.

that was then, and this is now.

”won’t you pray to me?”

sunday tilts his head, in rhythm with the glide of his fingertips along your pulsepoint. he’s smiling, just barely, and you can tell that he’s not asking.

whatever dream you were just in, whatever memory — it’s no more. the boy, the angel, fades away, leaving only a vague imprint on your muddled mind.

and your gaze overlaps with that of a certain halovian.

he still looks the same, fancy clothes aside. the same halo, the same feathers — only clipped, only slightly severed — the same honeyed golden eyes, piercing through the veil of whatever dream you find yourself in. his hair is the same, his bony fingers, his rosy lips.

it’s his smile that’s different. 

the way he speaks to you.

you’ve learned not to question his late night visits. sunday never leaves you alone for long, never has, though when he was a child it didn’t feel anywhere near as suffocating. even when he’s out of sight, you feel his eyes on you — one of them, all five of them. feel the phantom weight of his hands on your shoulders, guiding you in the right direction. 

you can’t tell when the change began. can no longer remember when he started behaving more like a god than an angel, when this distance was born.

his hand slips from your slender neck, slithers down, comes to rest on the bottle of wine he brought with him; a chartreuse glow in the dim light of your room, glimmering faintly, a crystallized firefly. he fills your cup, then his own. there’s more in one than the other.

his fingers wrap around the glass, one after the other, raising it to his pursed lips. taking a sip, dipping his tongue out to catch the droplets, feel them trickle down his throat; the residue paints his lips burgundy. you picture the sweet, weighty wine flowing through his esophagus, intoxication taking root inside his veins, eager to break into his bloodstream. 

you picture sin as a beverage.

it’s not just in the smile, not just in the voice. his whole demeanor has shifted — the elegance he moves with, the calculation, the presence of something that demands reverence even without words. it’s overpowering, to have him so close, yet so out of reach, overpowering to have to sip from your cup and feel the sting in your throat afterwards. 

(overpowering, to know he’s picturing you below him. on your knees, at whatever altar he fancies himself.)

when he parts his lips, it’s with decision. his voice flickers in the shadows of the room; you can almost see them, the words flowing from his lips, can feel them echo through the deepest parts of your soul.

”ask me for guidance,” he implores, demands, and you can tell the words are borrowed, stolen from a lesser man. ”and i will bestow it upon you.”

bestow.

the word rings inside your skull, crawls along your spine. he’s silent, now, unmoving. not even blinking. as if he’s trying to turn into a statue, a pillar of salt. moonlight streams in, illuminates his features, too beautiful to be human. sinners can’t be angels, but gods can’t be saints, so where does that leave him?

when you look into his eyes, you do not see a savior. you do not see your childhood friend. you see an overseer, the man at the end of every dream you have — a man yet to be quenched of his thirst.

you see a bird with its wings ripped off.

(when you flick the light switch of your mind, and squint your eyes — you see a god. your universe.)

the dreamscape outside your window glimmers and gleams, seeps through the translucent fabric of the curtains, licks along the walls; his cheekbones, your fingers. clasping them together comes easy, it’s muscle memory, you’ve done it all your life. it’s the prayer that’s difficult — the lack of a focal point.

you’ve always prayed for his protection, always. but you know that’s not what he wants from you. 

sunday wants you to make him holy. 

he wants you to expect nothing less.

he wants you to ask him for mercy, and he wants to give it to you with his own two hands. that’s all that lies in these late-night rendezvous — a promise of rot. the overseer watches you from across the table, and you know it would hurt less to simply walk away.

but you don’t.

you do exactly as he says.

with elegance, you clasp your hands together, and pray to him for guidance. sunday smiles — a finely tailored, made of silk, barely there kind of smile.

(the smile of a broken bird.)

moonlight dances on his skin, reflects in the glass of wine he puts to his lips — every single one of his eyes gazing down at you. pools of gold, the same as you remember, but infinitely colder — infinitely sadder. they look like solemn, broken windows, but there’s nothing behind them. what you see is what you get.

absolute order. 

gone are the days his slender fingers would search for your own, slipping into the valleys between them, a prayer on his tongue. gone are the days where mercy was the only thing you’d think to wish for. 

this is all there is, all you’ve got. 

you, on your knees, at the altar of his sins. feeding into them, picturing them in your mind’s eye; flowing out of his eyes in tender rivulets, down the curve of his lips. dripping, dripping, dripping down his wrist —

(soon, the cup will overflow.)

[romanceyourdemons]

so much love for characters who are desperately unsure whether they’re a good person, a redeemable person, a person worth saving, but are absolutely certain that they’re a grade a hottie

[pinkravat-art]

"breakfast" a tma s5 animation thing

audio on:333

dawg can't even fry me an egg in this eyeconomy

[VD: A Magnus Archives animation done in orange and teal titled "Pusryčiai" (meaning: "breakfast"). Mellow music plays as Martin cracks two eggs into a frying pan. He turns away to throw the shells while the pan sizzles, and when he returns with a spatula, a "boom" sound effect plays as Martin recoils with comic disgust.

The egg yolks have been replaced by human eyeballs. Martin stares at them for a moment. He then pokes at the egg with the spatula, producing a squelching sound, and one of the eyes blinks with another gross wet sound. Martin goes from disgusted to comically sad and disappointed, and he fades away before the setting does. The video ends on the words "darė Skaistė" (meaning: made by Skaistė) and a quick shot of an eyeball. End VD]

ty @princess-of-purple-prose for the description, i edited it a bit too.

[solidwater05]

Apparently this needs to be said so

Forgetting things is morally neutral! Memory issues are morally neutral!

You're not a bad person if you...

forget things quickly

forget people

can't remember entire stages of your life

can't remember important things

can remember some things very well and forget other things all the time

can't remember things (or anything!) about your interests

forget to eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, etc

forget to reply to texts

remember things and immediately forget them again

can't remember birthdays, events, etc

frequently answer 'I forgot' to questions

can't retain new information

forget things you used to know

only remember things when it's too late

have vague, distorted and/or unreliable memories

depend on others to know how an event you were in played out

have other symptoms that are worsened by memory issues and vice versa

... and anything else I might have missed!

[podargus-strigoides]

every image of a tawny frogmouth is perfection. i've never seen a single picture of a tawny that dissapoints.

[notherpuppet]

Boyfriends AU where they’re literally just boyfriends. Ummm, and they’re in the big city!! 🏙️👨‍❤️‍💋‍👨📻🍎

[keferon]

Empurata!Prowl tries to actually communicate for the first time

What if he wants to say something but he can’t. What if he has no voice to speak, no face to emote, no hands to write. What if every attempt to communicate a message is essentially a puzzle of wit and creativity and yet, the first thing he goes through all these troubles for. Is to say “I love you”?

Don’t ask me how did they get in this room. I have no idea. They escaped the battlefield somehow haha

Next->

[fedzzzart]

spoons🥄🥄

[oposssumsaucee]

Listen All Systems Red is so so funny from Gurathins perspective imagine you grew up with Space Socialism and was hired to go help some pal with science but you weren't allowed to go unless you rented AmaTeslas Torment Nexus Alexa Dot and then when you get there you find out a whole continent of people got annihilated by their Tourment Nexus rentals so you take a moment to check yours quickly and find out it already had disengaged its Don't Kill People box, the only thing you've ever been told prevented them from mass homiciding their clients, something that LITERALLY just happened to people you knew a day ago, and when you say to your fellow socialist doctors HEY I think our Tourment Nexus is fucked up and it's files said it killed dozens of people barely a year ago and we should probably get the hell away from it the same doctors are like look at what you're saying. You're hurting the Tourment Nexus' feelings. The Tourment Nexus is just a little construct who likes Netflix Gurathin stop antagonizing it on the plane ride.

[tinyufoboss]

this came to me in a vision

[lauravian]

Modern day Merthur ❤️

[wulfhalls]

corrupted godhood. reluctant false messiah. prophecy as a creeping all consuming malady. does the oracle see the future or make the future? the horror of trapping yourself inescapably on purpose. the chains of destiny dragging you towards the path you are fighting tooth and nail to free yourself from. there never having been a chance to begin with. no other choice to make. but making that choice regardless.