#i feel realigned

[corpsepng]

first time back in my cloffice (closet office) in weeks. nature is healing and I am writing

[sheltershock]

I don’t know if anyone else has thought about it, but I think the first time Sasha and Milla met would have gone terribly. Because if you imagine what it’s like meeting them for the first then you think of both of their backgrounds? They would be afraid of each other.

A fire survivor paired up with someone who smells of (cigarette) smoke? With someone who smells like death?

Someone with complicated mother-related issues being paired with a cheerful, outwardly affectionate girl? With someone who’s calling everyone “dear, darling, sweetie, honey, baby”?

They could have that “love at first sight” trope where they meet for the first time and get butterflies in their stomach. But the butterflies are on fire, and screaming, and chewing through their skin because it’s trauma-induced anxiety.

And they smile through their teeth trying to get through the interaction. But then he gets her name wrong, and her heart skips a beat and she has to tuck a suddenly levitating piece of hair behind her ear and they find the other endearing to the point that they can’t bring each other to hold this pain against them. They both intimately understand it’s purely them, and not the other person’s fault.

And over time they spend more and more time together and those butterflies begin to still. Brutal, breath stealing smoke starts to feel more like a gentle hearth you’d crawl next to. Oppressive, maniacal smiles more closely resemble the small grin you’d have when you listen to a song for the first time you know you’ll play over and over again. And then one day neither one of them don’t feel any of that anxiety at all, and they start to realize after that feeling goes away that they might be in love with each other.

[silviakundera]

today's random snippets of strangely established relationship moments in the Story of Kunning Palace novel. wherein our girl is grieving for You Fangyin.

//

But today, she didn't say or do anything, yet Xie Wei seemed to know what she was thinking.

She did want to talk to someone.

It's just that after realizing that he knew everything, she kept in silence, and it seemed that there was no need to say any more.

Jiang Xuening sat down quietly on the small wooden bench next to the stove, watched Xie Wei put the chopped diced into the ready-to-cook porridge, took a spoon to stir it slowly, and finally said: "I haven't really killed people."

Xie Wei stirred it well, and put the lid on the pot again.

He also sat down by the stove, next to her. His eyes fell on the red-hot coals, and he was extremely calm: "There is always a first time."

Jiang Xuening slowly hugged her knees, leaned down, blinked, seemed to be thinking more, and did not speak.

Xie Wei was beside her.

After waiting for a while, when the outside was completely quiet, he poured some porridge into a bowl and served it to her. The two of them didn't bother to move an extra table, they just sat by the stove and ate a half-hot bowl in this slightly cold frosty night.

Xie Wei sent her back to the house, knowing that she was not in a very good mood. He tucked her into the bed, kissed her on the lips, and said: "We won't practice the qin tomorrow morning, you can sleep late."

[... Some Time Later...]

Zhou Yinzhi gritted his teeth, stared at her, and his voice came out of his throat like dripping blood: "The girl promised! That letter! You clearly promised, as long as I am willing to help the insider, you will forget the past, forgive me."

Jiang Xuening looked at him with pity: "So you actually believed it?"

At this moment, Zhou Yinzhi's face turned ashen.

But Jiang Xuening just raised her head, looked at the city gate that had been opened wide, thinking that the world is ridiculous, and said slowly: "That's right, in the eyes of Mr. Zhou, a person like me is considered good and easy to deceive."

She thought, it's getting late, and it's better not to delay the army from entering the city.

So she stretched out her hand to the swordsman beside her.

Jianshu handed the sword to her.

She has almost never held a sword. The sharp long sword was pulled out of the sheath, as if the weight of human life was pressed on the blade, and it fell heavily on the human wrist. When the sky shone, the cold light glistened!

Zhou Yinzhi was struggling.

But there were soldiers on the left and right who came up and held him down.

Jiang Xuening was struggling to hold the sword.

Xie Wei stepped up, covered hers with his palm, helped her hold the sword tightly, only directed it towards Zhou Yinzhi's neck, and smiled softly: "I'll teach you."

[milfzun]

That poll giving TGCF characters modern technology is so tempting but the problem is that almost all of them are wrong. Shi Qingxuan should have a TikTok yes but Ling Wen should have the Twitter (so she can subtweet her so-called “colleagues”), Pei Ming should have the Fit Bit (to accidentally reveal all his manwhoring), Mu Qing should have the Tinder so he bitchily swipes No for eternity, and Hong-er should unquestionably have the gun.

[idsb]

There is just a lightness in my brain that hasn’t been there in a very very long time rn and idk how to explain it other than like. Weights lifted depression cured and it’s not one thing it’s everything

[firstfullmoon]

tragedy this poetry that. actually catharsis was invented by ethel cain with sun bleached flies

[stolligaseptember]

oh. sanctified by matt maeson a vegas song.

[mars-ipan]

the back pain from getting comfy in bed after sitting and standing all day is so fucking satisfying

[defective-and-effective]

sigh. the follicular phase has begun. now I have to fix my entire life and manage all my relationships

[gumheel]

bojack horseman (SHOW!!! not character) is sogood sorry. augh. i can't really think of a more genuinely touching (to me) scene than the one at the end of s2. it gets easier every day it gets a little easier but you gotta do it every day that's the hard part. but it does get easier. ah

[bogunicorn]

Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually wrong and I really am asexual, or only attracted to women, and then I tell my friends who are (presumably) not attracted to men that [man celeb name here] is hot and that's why I got distracted from the conversation and they go "...if you say so" and I realize that while my body may be riddled with dysphoria and insecurity, my soul is very slutty and easily sidetracked by Hot People

And also that my taste in hot people is better than literally everyone around me

[aro-aizawa]

I'M HOME!!!

[neverendingford]

.

[dredshirtroberts]

i think my least favorite pops in my bones are the ones that happen because i'm laughing. like! my guy! i'm over here trying to have a good time i did not ask for a spine realignment! Thank you!!

[euclydya]

vibrates normally like. Can I please draw Pansy. can I PELASE draw pansy

[aaetherius]

[ @cxffexngel​ // for RoB lucifer! Local goth lucifer receives a fateful visitor! 👀 ]

It all happens too fast, blows exchanged between the archangel, the crew who had his back and the greater force they had waged war against - one of far too many powerful primal beasts who mindlessly rampaged causing havoc against the skies without a mind about the disaster their power harbored. Sandalphon always taking the heavier blows, always using himself as the shield of the skies he wanted to protect, he was the one deserving each painful swipe of claws and magic that charred skin that later healed quicker than some of the mages of the crew could even begin trying to heal. Twelve wings, blinding with power that could break space and time itself flare to their full might, with the intend of banishing the primal beast towards it's endless slumber and mercy so it could rest once for all - he understands the pain of sentience, the burdens of being given life yet blinded with rage and to be left alone, so it's a war out of mercy, even when the rampaging beast fights and fights until drawing it's last breath.

Time had become nothing to sandalphon, sounds muted at this point to his ears as all he focuses is to land a last hit, the surge of power from his wings canalized into a so, so blindling light wielding every element etched into his core as he focuses the last hit, charging it with every second, the crew backing him up while flying behind and the sparks of bristling light, fire, winds, earth and water all become pure energy within his palm; molded into a massive sword unlike the purple ones that aid his battles - golden like an angel's halo. It takes one hoarse scream, one for the others to get out the way, the inelegant bristle of wings tinted gold by a light that comes from inside from immense gathered power. It takes only that for the sword to be sent forward at maddening speeds and force that break the sound barrier in a shrilling swipe of his bloodied hands. And it happens all too fast. The flash of light that nearly burns his eyes before he could refocus, the smoke in the distance as wails of the beast fall to a deafening silence, the uncertain peace of nothingness as many eyes wait to see the results of Sandalphon's last attack and confirm that maybe it's a win - and oh how Sandalphon wishes it could be. He was tired, the attack having drained every last drop of energy that he had managed to gather preparing the attack but not allowing himself, just yet, to fall by the aftermath of it. He waits, and the light that magic left residues of unusually staying, like a crack in the sky that as moments pass, makes that feeling inside his chest realize something.

Time stopped.

It stopped in it's entirety. And the realization makes the archangel scan hesitantly his surroundings; clouds don't move, wind doesn't blow, the sun stalled where it is. Maybe, he overdid it, maybe it was the primal beasts's last defense. He doesn't know. But before he could try and investigate more, from behind he feels a void draw him in, and unconsciously his wings flap with all his strength to draw away from it before he could think or curse.

It's all like a blur after that, his eyes at some point having fallen shut tight and braced himself for whatever was going to happen, be it fire, hell, to be crushed - whatever it'd be that was going to be. But he could feel the pull of gravity; the feeling of falling in speeds not even his wings would be able to stabilize. It was too much so instead his wings curl all around him, especially the white ones despise he tries to use more the other pairs as if they had minds of their own - with what he could of the last drops of strength drawn out out pure desperation, a  protective veil of light shrouding the cradle of wings that fall from orange skies of twilight - like a shooting star that had fallen from the night skies. It's a silent fall, one no one ever sees. And the crater left when finally the archangel meets ground is so loud no mortal would've ever survived such a fall. Sand scorched by the light, grass turned to dust - and white and golden tipped wings vanish along the multicolored pairs the archangel bore, only leaving the stubborn, tousled and so out of shape brown pair that continue to shield the now passed out archangel at the bed of his landing.

    His sharp chin rests against his knuckles as a nimble finger glides effortlessly along the old parchment of an ancient tome that seems to scarcely hold his attention. It's an old tale. Nothing terribly inspiring or breathtaking, and one he had memorized long ago. Though that hardly makes it special by any means--it's little more than another book upon the expansive, and densely packed shelves that wind all around him. Hundreds, if not thousands, of golden shelves stretch upwards until they reach the very ceiling of his less than modest study. Why, the collection he possesses would make even the royal library look like child's play. And, upon those numerous, seemingly endless shelves, there isn't a single tome that the ruler of Hell hasn't memorized. Records of wars long since forgotten, crumbled up love letters from dying soldiers, legends from bygone days that harbor a hint of truth to them, tales of other worlds, and precious research that has never seen the soft flesh of human hands. Anything one can imagine, and then some, exists within these walls. For a scholar, it would no doubt be a dream come true, if not for the man who sat upon the scarlet throne in the very center of the circular, maze-like room.

   Lucifer was a name used to strike fear in the hearts of angels, demons, and men alike. But there were few who had actually seen his face. After all, it's rare of him to leave the palace. He harbors little interest in the affairs of mankind, so long as they don't tiptoe their way into territory where they're not welcome. And, even then, he rarely bothers to lifts his own finger to deal with them when there are demons frothing at the mouth to sink their fangs into their tender bones, and devour every last shred of their existence. And, so, the one of the most feared men in the world also became one of the most elusive. Which, of course, encourages humans to imagine, and lends then to create stories--as they tend to do. Each one more absurd and grotesque than the last. Yet, he can't stop a smile from forming upon his glossy lips as he reads over the ghastly scenes depicted upon the tome in his lap. Perhaps, to mere humans, this story they've conjured up is horrifying. A nightmare. Something only the devil himself was capable of.

   But oh the real thing was so much worse.

   He shuts the book, and sends it back, seamlessly, into its place upon one of the many shelves with a flick of hist wrist. How dull. For such imaginative creatures, they're certainly lacking in finesse. But even if the book can't hold his attention, something else is more than capable of grabbing hold of it. Nothing that happens in this world happens without his knowledge. Then again, with an entrance as bold as that one, he suspects there's not a soul within the three realms who hadn't felt the shockwave that had blasted through the earth. But it's not the impact that urges him to tap his long fingers against the arm of his throne, but rather the lingering sense of familiarity and desire that stir within him when he focuses on its source. So he stands, and leaves the stillness of his study to pursue something a tad but more enthralling.

        ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

   The faint click of his shallow heels echoes through the now barren forest that greets him. The once lush greenery has been reduced to ash, and even the soil itself has lost its color. Even if life should return to this land, it would take many millennia for anything to be able to thrive once more. But the buzz of power still seeps into the stagnant air, and lingers all around him. Though he's aware he's never met its source before, it still feels familiar to him. But while he might not be able to place a name to it, he can easily figure out its source--or rather, what its source is. Nor does it take him long to make his way over to that source.

   A man, or rather an angel, flung uselessly into the dirt with a pair of disheveled, brown wings cradling his feeble form. He supposes he could simply take this opportunity to kill the other where he lies, but that would be rather anti-climatic, and one look at him is all Lucifer needs to be painfully aware that this 'angel' isn't from this world. While the power that radiates from him is similar, it's not identical. So, perhaps then, he can find some use for this discard angel after all.

    He kneels down silently beside the other, reaching out to brush some of the debris from those tangles wings before curling his fingers, and lifting the stranger's jaw from the dirt. "Now you've found yourself in a bit of a predicament haven't you, dove? Why now allow me to assist you?"