Story Teller.

Played like a d-mn fiddle.

I really can't express to you how much I love the phrase "played you like a d-mn fiddle"

I don't know why, it's just funny to me to turn to someone who's just been bamboozled, and instead of sympathizing you compare them to an instrument of fools. For example: "...I feel stupid-" "..." "please don't, I'm ridiculed enough-" "He played you like a d-mn fiddle" "I'm leaving you"

ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛꜱ

ᴅɪᴀʟᴏɢᴜᴇ ➼

"pull me closer..."

"coffee or tea?"

"get the blankets."

"I'm turning up the heat!"

"it's fine. you're here now."

"look at the moon..."

"my hands are cold." "is that a pickup line?"

"ugh, finally!"

"remember that time...?"

"do you want to sit?"

"have a coffee."

"let's share."

"oh, it's adorable!"

"shall I start the fire?"

"ugh, you make me dizzy."

"you're my happy place." "don't get cheesy on me."

"you smell nice."

"hold my hand. please."

"did you make that yourself?"

"that smells so. good."

"what film?"

"this is somewhere I feel safe."

"I'm going to fall asleep..."

"it's already twelve?"

"it's just how I remember..."

"look, look!"

ᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ➼

draping a blanket over their sleeping body

knowing how / if they take their coffee

squeezing hands

splitting a cake in a small café

spinning around together until you get dizzy

crashing together on the couch after a long day

knowing each others' tells

watching the rainfall

jamming out to the radio at midnight

cooking for the sick friend even though they're bad at it

lighting candles

snuggling in a blanket in front of the tv

hiccuping tears into their shoulder

rocking back and forth in their arms

pulling out that favourite hoodie

/ the collection of stolen hoodies

staying up until midnight to talk

roasting burnt marshmallows

sneaking out to look at the stars

playing god

Me: ...I need a way to get rid of all these crows so that this plot hole can be fixed. Also me: Let’s just flood the town and attack them with lighting; yes, great, perfect.

May you burn with the monster that plagues your soul; may you lay in the ashes of your very sins and damnation. May the devil do with you as he sees fit and throw you deep into the pits of the eternal hellfire, and may you reap what you have sown.

Cole, Tacita Corvus (my book)

“Sins of the flesh” Prologue!!

Hello everyone, I’ve been writing a new fic, so I figured I would post the prologue here in case anyone who views my blog would enjoy reading it! I hope you like the prologue, I’ll include the link to the fic here! Ao3 ink: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38974686/chapters/97482780 Wattpad link: https://www.wattpad.com/1222916487-sins-of-the-flesh-prologue --Prologue-- John Winchester was a righteous man; he was well-known throughout his community as an excellent priest and had seen most people every Sunday throughout their entire lives. He was known to be a very loving and selfless man, though many knew that dwindled slightly after the death of his wife. This is also the time he began hunting, leaving his young sons alone for days at a time and only returning for Sunday mass; no other adult knew of his hunting. No one knew what exactly had happened to the priest’s wife, the priest did not discuss it, but everyone knew that there must have been a truly horrifying sight involved; see, John kept his eldest son, Dean, blindfolded with a black satin cloth after the death of his mother. The boy never seemed overly bothered by it, although it was a little difficult to navigate through different places and do different tasks blindly at first. Since he was four, no one within the town had seen the boy without the blindfold on, and he was always wearing clothing that covered his entire body; his father did not take his sons out very often, and thus the only time the town people ever even saw them was at church. Most of the time, if you attempted to speak to Dean, he would not speak; his younger brother, Sam, however, would constantly go on delighting rants about whatever he was currently learning in school. What the people did not know is the purpose of the blindfold; unsurprisingly, neither did Dean, but he followed his father’s orders blindly as he was raised to. His father told him to put on the blindfold, he did. His father told him to stay quiet, he did. His father told him to hold out his arms so he could inflict bruises on them whenever he was out of order… he did. He saw his father as a hero, and it seemed no matter what the ma did to him, Dean always trusted his judgement. John knew the reason for the blindfold, though, and why only his oldest son needed it; it was to keep him holy, keep his soul pure, to stop him from falling into the sinful romance and lust with a man. You see after his wife had died, a being came to him and told him that the earth was a cruel and horrid place; it told him that if he was able to keep his oldest son pure, if he was able to keep him from falling in love with a man as he was fated to, then God would use him as vivisection for all his angels see so that they may aid him with creating more righteous beings for the earth. Delighted, John had not questioned the gold-eyed being, for he believed it was an angel, and thus did everything in his power to bend the fates of his son by engraving the belief that death would feel like waking up from a nightmare, that when he passed, Dean would be used as a model for all righteous beings to come if only he could keep away from lustful desires and the sin of a male lover. John Winchester was a fool; you cannot bend the fates, cannot change the course that life has given you to follow. The man who thinks himself God will undoubtedly be struck down, for he is an impersonator attempting to steal the power of another.

I have always been a lot like my father. I have his hair, his face, his taste in music, his last name, some of his old jackets and shirts. I’ve often hated that I’m so much like him, as the only thing I don’t and will never have from him is his support. Now, however, I carry pocket watches and work towards education, a feat he never achieved. I do not use his last name, he doesn’t deserve the credit of my success. His music I’ve integrated along with violins and melodies that his rough and tough demeanors would never fit into. His clothing and jackets are reserved for when I make art, the paint that is left on the shirts show how I can make beautiful things as opposed to the blood that had previously stained them when he got into fights. I am very much like my father, but never will he be like me.

trans masculinity, when u have a shitty father, is abt taking pieces of him for yrself & reclaiming it & turning those things delicate & caring in ways he could never, ways that would disgust him. in his hand-me-down jacket, i carry bandages. the knife he used to skin deer is now the knife i use to sections apples to share with my brother

Yesss, finally the proper representation for Donnie!!

Watch "Donnie (Rise of the TMNT) | Autism Representation in Media" on YouTube

We're finally talking about autistic ninja turtles.

...I think this was on my bucket list ten years ago.

I am not usually one to read fics here on Tumblr, but for all that is holy, I loved this fic. The way you describe emotions, describe the setting and actions is simply incredible; my eyes and mind have been blessed with this godly creation and for that I am thankful.

I’m out of my element (I can’t breathe)

a03 link

masterpost link

Word Count: 3,593

This is my first time writing anxceit, so I’d love to hear what you think! 

When Janus finds Virgil alone in the common room, sobbing and struggling to breathe, the scene can’t help but feel achingly familiar. He’s been in this position so many times, seeing Virgil at his most vulnerable – but it’s been years.

So much has gone on since then, so much has changed. Bridges have been burned, at least that’s what it can’t help but feel like. Janus has seen hostility and bitterness and little else from Virgil for so long; it’s not completely unjustified, either, not nearly. He would do anything to keep Janus from seeing him like this now, Janus is sure of it.

But regardless, he’s found him. And he needs to act.

“Virgil, hey, hey,” Janus says quickly, crouching in front of Virgil sat on the couch, hugging his knees and trembling so hard, “Hey, it’s alright. Do you need me to get you, someone? Do you need Patton? Logan? Roman?”

Janus supposes perhaps Virgil wouldn’t do anything to keep him from being seen this way, just most things. Because as impossible as it often seems, something’s been established between them in the last few months. What it is, Janus can’t possibly say. But he can assess with confidence that whatever it is, it’s raw, and it’s fragile, and it feels moment from breaking each day.

Keep reading

Salutations.

I am confused, I am caffeinated and preppared to make bad descisions.