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#help i'm not okay
sky-is-the-limit · 3 months
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Eiffel Tower Charles and Arthur amen
You just snapped me out of my John x Me x Javier fixation to jump on that tower instead, thank you.
✨️ No, but reverse cowgirling Arthur while sucking off Charles ✨️
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superpsycholore · 2 years
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in this life
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or the next
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ladye-zelda · 3 months
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*runs around in circles*
TWILIGHT PRINCESS ZELINK
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whysochaotics · 2 years
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i still haven't moved on from Victor Vale (yes i read vicious like six months ago)
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ghostswritenovels · 2 years
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Help I'm all of a sudden additcted to making icons
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lucidloving · 8 months
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@inanotherunivrse // You're On Your Own, Kid— Taylor Swift // @inkskinned // Richard Siken, Crush // @lilcowgirl7-deactivated20210223 // Heather Havrilesky, How to Be a Person in the World // Zoe Heller, "Everything You Know" // Atticus
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skullingwaydraws · 1 year
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sitting on this one for a little while but... bibically accurate body horror fractal sunflower
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ladeldee · 5 months
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I just like the idea that once Missa hears Phil has another "kid" he'd try and do whatever he can to help and Phil feels emotions about it
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attleboy · 5 months
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little doodle to celebrate going into 2024!!! 🎉 idk what's coming but may we make the best of it :D
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poohsources · 8 months
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it's okay if you aren't writing right now. it's okay not to be online. it's okay to take breaks. this is a hobby, not a job, and you should spend your time however you want to, not how others may want you to. don't stress yourself over not being around enough; it doesn't matter if you take days, weeks, or even months — it's okay to do things the way it works best for you. and if that means taking longer to reply, then so be it. people are usually far more understanding than we give them credit for.
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pumpkinhead666 · 2 months
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Dean actually found Castiel in the empty after they defeated chuck and kissed him
look at my proof ⌄
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silverwhittlingknife · 3 months
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poem: "accident report in the tall, tall weeds" by ada limón
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sanyaoxsis · 9 months
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girls night
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rjshope · 4 months
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the cutest 🥟 in a bucket hat for @cordiallyfuturedwight
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sciderman · 2 months
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How did your meeting go with the surgeons?
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it was memorable
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actual-changeling · 6 months
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i crave the emotional catharsis that would come with crowley taking care of his plans, in so much pain but swallowing it down and pretending it's not real, finally having the mental breakdown he deserves.
he's taking care of his plants, a detached look on his face, misting them and making sure they're all healthy and have enough space to grow. after he returned, he stopped talking to them for the most part. they welcomed him back, they had missed him—shax is not the nicest or most interesting company to keep—and now they're worried.
crowley sleeps, paces, mists his plants, gets drunk, and sleeps some more. everything to stop feeling. until he sees a leaf spot on one of them. a tiny imperfection, barely worth a shout, and yet.
a tremor works it way through him, his knees always giving out, and he presses one palm against the wall to keep himself upright. wave after wave of shame, bright and stabbing in the middle of his chest, reminds him why he left.
not good enough.
crowley had tried, someone knows he tried. it's hard to regain a soul, harder yet to shape it into something worth loving, someone worth living for, but he had tried.
his fingers curl around the pot and before he can stop himself he flings it across the room, listening to it shatter. can't even do that right, can he? can't raise fucking plans, can't keep his STUPID mouth shut, can't make him stay because who would want to be stuck with him forever? no one, that's who, and after six thousand years, aziraphale had seemingly reached his blessed limit and taken the first chance to leave.
another plant follows with a scream, dirt and broken stems covering the floor and staining the walls, and then another and another and another until he can fall to his knees amidst the ruins of his life.
clay shards are cutting his palms open as he doubles over, sobs wrecking through him like thunder, and his tears carve clean paths down his dirty hands.
"i tried," he whispers, voice hoarse from yelling, "i'm sorry, i tried."
crowley's wings unfurl with an almost silent gust of air, blacking out the sunlight streaming in. he drags himself to the nearest corner before wrapping his arms and wings around himself, and curling up as tightly as possible.
"i tried," he keeps breathing into feathers and fabric, "i tried, i tried, i tried."
over and over until his voice fails him and then some more. it is almost a lullaby, the words taking whatever is left of his heart and gently rocking it back and forth. crowley falls asleep like that, exhausted and broken and lonely. just as sleep pulls him under, he stops his repetition, his mouth shaping phrase after phrase.
for the very first time since his fall, crowley closes his eyes and prays.
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