#this is what God does to my soul I think

[lightblueminecraftorchid]

Extend to a stuffed animal the love and gentleness and patience required to repair its wounds and clean it thoroughly, knowing it is only going to get torn and dirty again. Understand, from this, how God loves you. Weep internally. Repeat.

[chalkrub]

art trade w/ thrak800 on twit - love this fella !

[starry-bi-sky]

MMMM twins au with danny and dan except its og TUE timeline danny and dan

ok okay i neeeeed o write this down and share it before i explode buT. as the title says. twins danny and dan (who im going to be calling James/Jamie bc i cannot express how much i despise the name dan) where, instead of disappearing into the ghost zone after he's separated from danny's body, Dan rips out Vlad's ghost half, tears THAT in half, and fuses one half with himself and the other with Danny.

Shit happens, and BOOM. Two morally ambiguous and perhaps slightly murderous demonic twins from hell. Daniel James Fenton and his Twin WHose Always Been Here What Are You Talking About :) James Daniel Fenton. They are both depressed, lonely, and one bad day from becoming a mass extinction event :)

this is because i got grabbed by the hair today and dragged into the SVSS fandom screaming and the fanart of Shen Jiu/Shen Yuan/Shen Quingqiu (????) with his fan entranced me. Ice Prince Core is my favorite thing so naturally i have to implant that onto my favorite blorbos ever :)

After the Incident, both their appearances changed and they're practically identical to each other. Sorta. They both have heterochromia and salt-and-pepper hair. But Danny has one green eye and one blue eye and white hair with black streaks, while Jamie has one blue eye and one green eye and black hair with white streaks. I'm iving them both long hair, for funsies <3

nobody can tell them apart, they keep getting confused on whose who and frankly the mix-match hair and eyes make it worse not better asjd. they're horrifically codependent. please do not separate :)

and because i must. im pulling a blood blossom/tales of the passerine and giving them to pre-robin batman. batman and his terrifying demon(??) twins. nobody is quite sure if they're human or not, and the scourge of gotham are a little too terrified to ask.

(they dont HAVE to go to batman while he's pre-robin. however. i think its much funnier that way bc gotham isn't use to A) Batman having kids, and B) Batman having TERRIFYING kids yet. think of all the new fun rumors)

they both use war fans while they're out, and neither of them use their ghost forms because they at least have the remaining empathy to know that they're more likely to murder someone accidentally as a ghost :). Ghost form is for fellow mythicals and Functionally Immortals Only! Not for Squishy Humans.

Jamie: murder. bloodshed. revengggee Bruce: no. no. Justice. peace!! hope! Danny: bittinngggg. blooood. ^-^

They're honestly not bad kids they're just horrifically traumatized two halves of a whole that can never be reunited ever again :).

idk what their vigilante names are but i do know that the underground refer to them in horrified whispers as 'the twins'. this all stemmed from the desperate and sudden urge to see Danny and Jamie, as their vigilante selves, hiding the lower half of their faces with fans and looking terrifyingly judgmental while they do it <333

[shorthaltsjester]

Imogen Temult, Exaltant Hope of the Red Storm

Heroes and Monsters by Penny & Sparrow // Critical Role Campaign 3

[hanzajesthanza]

witcher netflix: [drops]

henry cavill fans: honestly, i don’t really care about the story, i’m just here because hcav is hot asf

me: wtf? how shallow is this… only there because the titular witcher is hot? talk about missing the point…

witcher 4 trailer: [drops]

✨ciri✨: 😡

me: … i understanded.

[lesbitching]

it’s nowhere near the worst interpretation and i do understand how it could be assumed or even be compelling if you’re very interested in the lords in black but one of my biggest pet peeves is the interpretation that the lords in black are manipulating grace and deliberately driving her to where she ends up the entire play. such a big part of what makes grace work is her role as the driving force in the play, an active agent who’s actions directly lead to all the calamity and tragedy that occurs later through sheer religious guilt, desperation and neuroticism. taking even some of that autonomy away from her makes her significantly less compelling.

[sergle]

i was a chihuahua disliker in a past life but have Grown Up since then, but earlier i saw one that made me clench my fists in agony. i wanted her so bad...

[thebirdandhersong]

???? something something deep discomfort with body image is it generational?????????

[vaguely-concerned]

I've been picking mostly only the essential flirt options with lucanis in the romance so far (I've personally found the dynamic much more natural and mutual when you do that, more like forming a solid friendship slowly and inevitably becoming something else and less like you keep pushing on him and getting little back b/c he seemingly just gets overwhelmed and goes into freeze instead), and I think rye is a pretty hard person to read at the best of times even though he's been Down Real Bad from pretty early on and their chemistry as people is naturally really good. so the way the almost-kiss plays out in this playthrough feels a lot like it has the added layer of lucanis realizing that no but for sure rook is flirting and not just being kind or a good friend* it IS actually happening it's not just wishful/fearful thinking!!! and then uh. maybe going a bit too hard a bit too fast in all the excitement at that revelation haha

*in lucanis' defense he has seemingly literally never had a friend who wasn't his cousin-brother before, under those circumstances I suppose some confusion is extremely natural if not outright expected lmao

[luck-of-the-drawings]

IMAGINE. working at ur stupid uhhh job or whatever. pulling into your drive way and ready to work on some crazy project in your garage. opening the door to the most unfamiliar silence. did your wife and kid leave for something? could you imagine knocking on your kids door, hardly getting an answer, and opening it to find the splattered remains of your wife across his room your child is scared! hes hardly consolable, in a state of shock and terror. you are too, but youre the adult here. you need to take charge. you need to protect him. you need to do something. you need to do something.

[madbard]

Sanctity

A Killer Sans story.

Every child dreamed of the Angel.

When Sans was young, he had imagined it as a skeleton, beaming with all the radiance of the stolen sun. Each evening, he kneeled beside his father and whispered the poetic words of prophecy, voice faltering at first, then growing steady as the tale of the Angel settled firmly into his skull. Later, he would kneel with his brother while his father vanished into the lab. Each night, he dreamed of the moment when the Angel would tear down the barrier, at last letting the bright and deadly sunshine in.

Everything could be attributed to the Angel. If a monster was successful, it was because they had a place in the prophecy, an important role which would contribute to their eventual freedom. If a monster fell down, it was because they had failed, somehow. They were not the Angel’s chosen and would never be free.

(Did Sans have a place in that prophecy? If he was chosen, then why was he so fragile? Why would it be so difficult for him to make it to that future? Sans had asked his father that one night, after their prayer. Nothing would ever break that silence.)

When Gaster’s final experiment went up in flames, Sans imagined it made a light brighter than the sun. He imagined its light was like the palm of the Angel, taking his father with it – or casting him, finally, into the infinite darkness of the earth. He spread his father’s ashes on the remnants of the lab and then, as an afterthought, on his younger brother’s scarf. He laughed at the funeral, quietly. He shook the chill hands of fear and doubt from his soul. He had faith.

(Some monsters whispered that the prophecy had been interpreted incorrectly. They whispered that the Angel would indeed free them – that their dust would one day mix with the river and thus find its way to the ocean. Sans ignored them as best he could.)

When Sans was young, he had imagined the Angel as a skeleton. But lounging at his post one day in early adulthood, he was surprised to see it take the guise of a child. He was even more surprised when no one else seemed to see it for what it truly was. It turned to him, looked him in the eyes. Then raised a single finger to its lips.

Sans followed the Angel. He watched it navigate through each encounter with kindness and grace. He watched it befriend his brother, the captain of the guard, the royal scientist, and even the king. He watched it destroy the barrier and finally baptize his people in the all-destroying light of the sun. He felt its eyes upon him, and in that moment knew the gaze of something truly unlike himself. Come and see, those eyes said. He saw the prophecy come true.

He stood with his brother in the light of the Angel, the light of the long-awaited sun. For a moment, he thought himself in heaven.

Then he woke in hell.

That first time, he didn’t even see the Angel arrive in Snowdin. His eyelights flickered slowly as he wandered the icy streets in a daze. The air was still, and thick with a scent he refused to recognize. They had escaped, hadn’t they? After years of prayer and service, monsterkind was finally free. His mouth curved around a quiet, desperate prayer. This had to be a dream…

Just outside of Snowdin, he found his brother’s scarf.

Funny, how these things worked. Sans’ first impulse was to find the Angel. Something had gone wrong, certainly – something had gone terribly, terribly wrong. But he had seen the Angel treat his brother with kindness. It would have protected him… right?

Perhaps he already knew…

“Sans.”

Sans spun around, gripping Papyrus’ scarf. The Angel stood behind him, eyes almost as wide as its smile. A silver knife glinted in its grip. His whispered prayer froze as his eyes went dark. He stood still.

“what happened?”

“Nothing much. And everything.” The Angel stepped forward. “Give that to me.”

“where’s papyrus?”

“Free.” The Angel took another step forward, and Sans felt a chill creep up his spine. “You remember being free, don’t you?”

“i…”

“Don’t you want to be free again?” This time, Sans didn’t have time to respond. Its knife had already slashed through his chest.

The second time, Sans woke in the early hours of the morning. He took a shortcut into the woods, stepping onto the abandoned path which led to the hidden door. Even so, he didn’t quite understand. Even so, he didn’t quite believe. Fear made a nest in his ribcage.

This time, the Angel killed him first, separating his head from his shoulders, and Sans woke up back at home.

If a monster fell down, it was because they had failed, somehow. Sans fell again and again. Each time he died, the Angel would say something different, something new. It spoke of the sun’s rays, the way they warmed at first then burned and bleached and ruined. It spoke of the sins of the surface, the suffering of the Underground. It spoke of an endless loop, from which they would never be free. “Better to end it now,” the Angel whispered, wiping blood from its blade as Sans crumpled to the ground.

The loop continued endlessly. Bit by bit, Sans stopped praying.

The loop continued endlessly. He began to fight back.

The loop continued endlessly. The angel’s words changed.

“Do you know the difference between an angel and a god?” the Angel asked once, after Sans dodged its blade. Sweat dripped down his skull, and the air seemed to frost his ribcage as he gasped for breath.

“sorry. i god no idea.” The knife whistled past his ear, and a hushed “angel’s sake” escaped his mouth before he growled and swallowed the word.

“I’ll give you a hint.” It attacked once more, and this time it didn’t miss. It walked over to his dissolving form and whispered to him. “An angel is a servant. A god serves no one.” It stepped back. He died.

This time, the Angel approached him with an altogether different kind of smile.

“But what is a god without an angel?”

Sans said no in every way he could imagine. Loop after loop, death after death. He joked and danced around the question. He sent another attack. At his lowest, he pretended he hadn’t heard.

“Angels live forever.”

“when everyone else is dead?”

“Angels are never alone.”

“i wouldn’t be alone if it wasn’t for you.”

“Angels are powerful. They are beautiful and loved.”

“heh, that’s kind of a loaded comment, isn’t it?”

“Angels know their purpose.”

“what would a lazybones like me want with a purpose?”

“Gods are tireless. I can keep going forever, and nothing will ever change.”

“…”

“You were made to serve me.”

The funny thing about prayer? Repetition makes it meaningless. There is performance to it, certainly. There is what prayer symbolizes, there is the essential power of routine. But once the words become instinctive, the meaning can’t help but diminish. After enough repetition, prayer becomes little more than muscle memory for the weary. And when the weary recite it, how then can they hope to see God?

Sans kneeled in the hallway, bones aching, magic all but spent. Somewhere before this moment lay the memory of the sun, the way he had rested in its blinding light. Even before that, the echoes of evenings spent in prayer with his father, torn carpet barely cushioning his bones. Those memories were lost now, or buried. So many deaths – had there truly been anything before this? Could there ever be anything after? Sans didn’t know. Eventually, he no longer cared.

“and if i said yes?”

It paused and stared at him. A chuckle started low in its throat, stopped just behind its teeth. Sans wished he could feel a twinge of anger or fear at the sound. He just felt tired.

“Just for one round. Just to try something new.”

“somehow i don’t believe you.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that makes a difference.” The god stepped forward, knife glinting in its hand. Sans closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow. Instead, he felt the warm handle slide into his skeletal grip. “Go forth, my angel. Do as your god commands.”

There was a momentary darkness. He woke at the foot of his bed, hands folded. Eyes dark.

When Sans was young, he had imagined the Angel as a skeletal figure. After maturing, he discarded that image as a figment of childhood’s vivid ego. For a moment in time, doesn’t every child worship a god that looks like them?

Sans was not a god. Through the snow, the water and the flame, he became the angel of death. The flash of his knife answered prayers, scattered dust in the river that it may one day reach the ocean. He remained by his god, always. He watched, as if outside himself, as his knife found the faithful and the faithless alike. He watched his brother die.

“That prayer, in his final moments – you know, before he forgave and spared you. Didn’t you teach him that?”

“…”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It’s hypocritical when you’re the one that killed him.”

“shut up.”

“Ooh.” The god smiled and leaned forward. “But it’s new, isn’t it? Isn’t it better?”

“no. no, it isn’t.”

“Hm.” The god nodded. “Do it again.”

The funny thing about prayer? Its meaning is only found through repetition. Sans scoured through the Underground again and again, knife faltering at first, then growing steady as the path of the Angel settled firmly into his skull. He made a sacrament of death, and his god glutted itself on the dust in his path. He became something truly unlike himself – did that now make him holy?

Holy enough, he decided, waking among flowers with his soul burning bright outside his body, a strange tarry fluid dripping from his eyes. Holy enough for this.

It seemed to know what he was planning. At least, it didn’t look surprised when he brandished his weapon. Nor did it fight back. It only spoke. “You know, you were nothing before me. And you will be nothing after.”

How easy, to kill a god. In the end, how stupidly simple. The Angel laughed as he killed his god with its own gleaming knife, and it laughed too, bright blood staining its teeth.

“i killed you.” The Angel giggled. “does that make me god now?” The god lay still. Its chest had stopped moving a long time ago. The Angel finished his prayer anyway. He had to be certain. “actually, nah, not sure i like that… hey, i’ll figure it out.” The Angel rose to his feet, staggered a bit, then bowed his head. “go to hell.”

What is an angel without a god? From then on, the Angel drifted from world to world. He recited prayer as he always did, utterly divorced from meaning. His knife brought whatever his victims chose, and he learned to see the afterlife in their dimming eyes – the reflection of paradise or punishment, a final acknowledgment of the waiting dark. He laughed in the moment before a creature crumpled to dust – something about it made his soul sting, sharply. It made him feel alive.

Sometimes the Angel would glance over his shoulder, searching for his god’s approval. When he caught himself doing this, his posture would stiffen suddenly, and he would cease his prayer. In those rare moments, a victim might escape. In that way, news spread through the multiverse of his arrival – though ‘Angel’ was not the word they used.

Even to the multiverse’s darkest corners, the Angel slowly became known, and this filled certain people with a cool excitement. Gods watched on and wondered where his allegiance might fall. But this Angel had little patience for deities.

“Aren’t you just fantastic!” The Angel paused, then straightened, turning through the snow of decimated universe to face a small, skeletal figure, dressed in a stained scarf and splattered with ink. “A Sans who no longer believes in anything, but still sees himself as the Angel! A Sans for whom death has become prayer, because prayer never led to anything but death. Odd, definitely – I’d guess your creator was feeling pretty ambitious when they made you…” The skeleton tilted their head. “I’m not sure they succeeded.”

“who are you?”

“Ink! God of Creation. You see, I helped make this universe, so… whoa there, let’s not be too hasty!’ The Angel had raised his knife and taken a smooth step forward.

“god, you say?”

“Hm. Maybe I shouldn’t have said – wow, you’re quick!” Ink swung a massive brush through the air and the Angel’s knife skittered across the brushstroke’s obsidian surface. “Look, sloppy or not I think you came from a place of real excitement and love! I’d like to –”

Ink never finished his sentence. Blinking, the Angel darted around the obsidian shield and raised his knife to stab this god in the chest. He managed to spill a vial of red paint, so much like blood that he smirked, believing for a moment that he had already won. Retribution was brutal and swift.

The Angel no longer felt fear. His god had cured him of that, through the endless resets. Still, Ink’s rapid-fire attacks quickly had him on the defensive, constantly dodging and side-stepping to avoid strike after inky dark strike from the god’s strange weapon. Each time he brandished his knife, he was ambushed by a new attack from a new direction, all coinciding on his form as he struggled to fight back, struggled to survive.

Was this the true power of a god? Something cold settled in the Angel’s soul, causing it to fizzle. He began to seriously consider retreat.

But to where?

The Angel tried to step into another world, but Ink was on him the moment his portal closed, taking advantage of the snow’s blinding afterimage to dig a painted blade into his back. It was dark here, and cold – far colder than Snowdin ever had been. Another blow, and the Angel’s soul shuddered again. This time, he felt fear.

Was this it? Was this where he died?

Another blow.

Perhaps this was right. Perhaps this was what he deserved…

Another blow and sparks flew from his soul, igniting terror and pain. This time the Angel screamed. This time, his mouth shaped a word he’d sworn to never say again.

“ANGEL!!!”

Ink lunged forward, but before his final blow could land something warm and strong gripped the Angel’s ankle and dragged him into the infinite darkness of the earth.

When the Angel woke, he imagined for a moment that he was dead. His sockets could not focus because there was nothing to focus on – the world seemed to have vanished into a brilliant white expanse. He lay there, soul burning, weeping black, emotionless tears. A minute? A year? If the figure hadn’t spoken, the Angel might have lain there forever.

“Greetings, little angel. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

The Angel leapt to his feet. Across from him stood a strange, dark figure. At first, he might have guessed that it was a skeleton – but a tarry black fluid not unlike the Angel’s tears covered every bit of the monster’s body, leaving only a single teal light to stare into his sockets. The Angel might not have recognized Ink’s power, but he could feel this monster’s strength – could feel it in the way the very air seemed to bristle against his presence. This was no mortal. This was beyond anything the Angel had seen.

“what have you heard?”

“In general? Ah, little one, that would require some time.” A fluid black tentacle slipped from the creature’s spine and wrapped around the Angel’s shoulders, immobilizing him. The Angel was still. “But you were asking what I had heard about you. So I will oblige. I have heard that you are a harbinger of death. Some have gone so far as to call you an angel, but I know better than that. After all, what is an angel without a god?”

“i already killed my god. i don’t need another.”

“I do not desire your worship. Besides, there is a title which suits me far better than god.”

“what do you want?”

“A fighter. Someone with little respect for the likes of Dream and Ink, who would aid me in destroying my enemies.”

“you want me to kill gods for you? i would do that anyway.”

“Well then, little god-killer. I have a place for you, if you’ll take it.”

“…and if i say no?”

“Then I shall leave you in the first universe that opens up beneath our feet. You will be free to cause whatever destruction you wish. But if you choose to follow me – oh, you will see and experience far greater things than you could ever imagine.”

“somehow i don’t believe you.”

“Very well. You may return to your dreary existence. But you are limited when you fight alone. You will be more powerful at my side.” The figure extended a tarry hand. “I am not like the other gods. I have no need for angels. But you aren’t exactly an angel anymore… are you?”

The god killer stared at the dark figure, stared at his extended, toxic hand. The dead grass beneath his knees felt like torn carpet. He remembered a different hand, a hollow palm. Prayer was simpler then. The words didn’t yet matter, not like his father’s cool hand on his skull, not like his brother’s chirping voice. The angel wasn’t present in that space. It was only them.

His soul flickered.

“no.” Killer rose to his feet, meeting those deadly teal eyelights. Viscous black fluid burned into his hand. “i’m not.”

The prophecy was fulfilled. The Angel was dead. And for the first time, a prayer was granted.

End credits music:

[whollyjoly]

okay so i saw this on my dash and although i wasnt tagged i just!! really wanted to do the thing!!

shuffle your on repeat playlist and list the first 10 songs:

Julia by Mt. Joy

Wasteland, Baby! by Hozier

Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan

Moody Orange by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

Good Luck, Babe! by Chappell Roan

Wonderful Nothing by Glass Animals

Hide by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

South London Forever by Florence + The Machine

Lips by The xx

Painkillers by Rainbow Kitten Surprise

tagging some people cause fuck yeah!! music is great!!

@thetangycheesemanwithaplan @kyellin @theredrenard @alost-traveler @the-cinnamontography-is-amazing @gourdita @1waveshortofashipwreck

and anyone else who sees this and is inspired like i was!!

happy listening loves 🥰

[sentienceisoverrated]

Ok weird take but like one thing Rimworld taught me is that bad moods are just... an imbalance between a bunch of good things and bad things and all the bads things have outweighed the good. Everything you're experiencing in your life right now adds up into this singular pool of 'mood'. You feel like shit right now? That's because you have a hungry debuff, a recreation-starved debuff, a fucking ate on the floor debuff. Maybe all of those things can't be fixed right now, or maybe none of those things are actually affecting you, so do something that gives you a buff. Eat a nicer meal than usual, look at some art, go outside, redecorate, etc etc. Do something that makes you happy.

I know this has been said a thousand times before, but like this isn't a 'go eat and your mood will improve'. Sometimes you have eaten, but now all that's done is remove the 'hungry' debuff and replaced it with nothing. In Rimworld, if your colonists are unhappy, you change something (and yes yes I know that sometimes includes giving them drugs don't do that in real life).

But people are different than each other! If you have depression, you're gonna have a constant mood debuff (a -10, or a -15, or loe and behold a -20) so naturally you're going to have to do more things to counteract this! Reserve some more time for yourself to get that 'recreation satisfied' buff, eat the 'fine meal'. Fucking just vibe for a bit. Sometimes it's not about figuring out what's making you unhappy, it's about finding more things to be happy about. So don't just fulfill basic needs and expect everything to be fine and dandy.

[lilyharvord]

been thinking about AUs lately, mostly becuase I have had so little time to write due to craziness, and I got back on my bullshit about meeting your soulmate and their first word being tattooed on your skin. And just... the implications of that?

Mare with the word "thief" tattooed on her wrist and having to cover it so as to not give herself away in the Stilts, but when/if she gets caught by officers they see it while they detain her and even if she didn't do anything she ends up locked up for the night because of that word. So she comes to hate it with a passion and tried scrubbing it off, and mutilating it as she grew up to remove it, to hide herself better as she starts to steal more and more to survive. But she would wake up with it perfectly healed. And it is in such pretty penmanship, waaaaay too nice to be a Red's handwritting, or even an officer's in the Stilts. And that scares her, so she forces herself to hold onto the belief that maybe it belongs to some Red who assists a general or something and they have to write a lot and she will meet them at the Choke. When Kilorn sees it for the first time while he is helping clean her up after a particularly bad night in a cell, he realizes he can never be hers because it was no where near his first word to her.

Cal has the word "obviously", and it is so obviously the dumbest fucking word to have. It is literally the most common word. The amount of times he has heard the words "obviously" in his life and turned around only to realize it is someone he already knows? Stupid, absolutely ridiculous. And not to mention that the way it is written on his wrist is horrific and makes him question if this person ever really learned how to write properly. The good news? He can hide it underneath his flamemaker and forget about it if he needs to. And he does, pretty much decides that he'll probably just never meet whoever it is. Besides... he has to marry a lady of a High House, and he's already met all of them and none of them said that word to him on the first go. And it doesn't really matter... it is so rare for a future king to marry their soul mate through Queenstrial anyway. His father was just lucky with his mother, and his grandfather of course met his but got away with keeping him and marrying a Queen. And maybe it's for the best if he never meets this person, it would just be a twist of the knife if he is already married and meets the person who is meant to complete him.

And then, one night, on a dirt road, in the hours before night and dawn, when the stars are still out and the world is dreaming, a thief sticks her hand into the pocket of prince, who catches her wrist, and accuses her with a surprised and confused tone: "thief", and she tilts her head to the side, her eyes sparking as she replies "Obviously". And it takes everything for him not to flip her wrist over and look for the word he just uttered, but he lets go instead, terrified that this is the girl who is meant to come into his life and complete him. And she backs up a step, her eyes darkening as she looks him over anew. Neither comments, neither admits to anything. And Mare is glad for it, because the next day she learns he is a prince, and not just any prince, he is The Prince, and she immediately is relieved because there is no way in all of heaven and earth that she is paired with this man. She didn't see her reply on his wrist... she forces herself to believe that there is a different word tattooed there. That if she were to lift up his sleeve she would see something else, some meaningless word to her, that means everything to him. She never looks though, and he never takes off his flamemaker, so she never has the chance to see.

Then, one evening, in a soldiers barrack, on a Piedmont base in the middle of a summer shower, complete with the distant growl of thunder: Mare glances at his bare arm, wrapped around her bare waist. It would be so easy for her to just, gently turn it and look, to answer the question that has haunted her since a Blackrun fell from the sky, and he held her like they were going to die. She shivers subconsciously and gently reaches down to slide her fingers through his, her heart pounding against her ribs. She can't decide if she wants to see the word there, or if she doesn't. She doesn't know which way would be better, whether it would break her heart if it wasn't, or if she were be terrified if it were. He sighs against her neck and pulls her a little closer when she first goes to rotate his wrist, she freezes, tensing for a heartbeat. He's a soldier, they sleep lightly, and this feels like an invasion even though she has now seen and touched every part of him. For some reason this one spot of skin feels forbidden. Inhaling, she slowly rotates his wrist to face up, and her entire skin erupts in goosebumps as lightning illuminates the room and thunder crashes a heartbeat later. There is her hand writing, her ugly, horrific handwriting, and there is the word she said to him with such tenacity on a dirt road and changed their lives forever. She flips his hand back over and pressed it to her stomach, knots her fingers with his as she tries to slow her breathing back to a sleeping rate. It's no use though, his sigh against her neck is no longer a gentle whisper, but is instead one of relief. "I wanted you to look first." He murmurs against the vertebrae at the base of her skull, before lightly running his lips up to her ear. "I think knew in my heart since the Bowl of Bones." He squeezes her fingers softly, and they never speak of it.

Then he choses a crown, a crown over what those words on their wrists' mean. And that betrayal is so much worse than it ever could have been.

[takeyourdailydoseofcyanide]

know none of any curated worlds more than curated but while forget political climate see sometimes it and am reminded . reminded cannot trust anything I see hear anything no one can be trusted ultimately- can’t call ppl paranoid for saying government is out to get them when it is either

what can be trusted ? never anything . none of you either . please just smth I feel not very good already please just smth never trusted anything or anyone frankly don’t know what trust is but would be nice if one thing could be trusted just one thing but now have even more always did for untrustworthy everything may as well be propaganda , words are so scrambled when reading them so hard to read and think and understand atp my god I’m so tired

“you’re not immune to propaganda and manipulation” I know I know I know I know I know I know what do you think I think about besides worlds hm ?? ? always in head don’t you see everyone is manipulating me aren’t they ??? always was in head every interaction every word every breath it’s all just calculated jargon , even if not still cannot be trusted always ulterior motives their plans hide in their sentences this extends to these political things I forget about but you all have reminded me this suppose exists but it doesn’t it doesn’t it doesn’t when will you all wake up and see the curated nature ??? they’re toying with you and you fall for it but it’s easy to shadow ppl hm hm hm manipulative . no one is a friend can be trusted . disappear again would be optimal

know it’s bc I’m shadow person but only thing brings peace and pleasurable high enjoyment is gore why is it only banality I can appreciate especially about ppl is their insides they can see it they can see it they can see it ok further rant could be given but what of it ? none can be trusted but I wish could yk am forced to rely on impostor which gives meltdowns no one is to be trusted but forced to rely for basic things basic supposed basic my ass this shit isn’t basic listen to me here listen to me

Listen listen listen listen it is curated you are curated none of this is real in the realest sense of real is this a nightmare ? they trap me in dreams can’t tell which is which it’s something just listen everything in curated worlds will always go so wrong everything is off off off off off off freaking me out too tired to cry anymore wait reminds me of lyric надоело плакать надоело мне страдать все равно не выйдет свою смерть предугадать ok anyway no more outside window please ok stop touching body pls but political ? Oh my oh my always something always always always never a break in sight

seeing these political posts and ??? Swarming noisy it’s all just noise there’s so much noise none of this is even truly real but still do you understand ? what is happening - even more know can’t trust anything but even even even more but always knew this you know with previous too but my there is never a break in these curated worlds is there pls jus have stuffies blankies less noise for little while less static what is happening everything always bad always worse escape hm even if static static there is ok just hm smth comforting jus some warmth for little while no option for escape for better times when everyone and nearly everything is against you all there is to do is hope you can be granted capability of death all can do is cry when you realize you won’t even be granted that pls pls pls let me out of these worlds at the very least please give me non existence this is too much are these feelings even mine no they’re not and it’s freaking me out but is that mine and what are they even ??? help get it out then it’s not mine the body is not mine get me out get me out get me out please

I’m uh ??? what ??? supposed to ??? Huh ??? what is happening

confused ??? new world order ??? all rip apart shatter come together simultaneously ??? everything horrible none of this real . can’t do this anymore

assassination is always an option . can escape worlds ? there’s nothing to escape to . everything an elaborate trick , backrooms . I don’t feel good

02:44 am

[gregoftom]

pretty sure i’ve seen romance movies with scenes like this