will byers stan first human second
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JBB: An Artblog!
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Discoholic 🪩

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I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Stranger Things

Kiana Khansmith

祝日 / Permanent Vacation
DEAR READER
Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
cherry valley forever
taylor price
styofa doing anything
Mike Driver
Keni
Three Goblin Art
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
Not today Justin
seen from Canada

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seen from Malaysia

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seen from Vietnam
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@ashyresonate
I hope you will enjoy my first novel. :)
I hope you will enjoy my first novel. :)
The most confused we ever get is when we’re trying to convince our heads of something our heart knows is a lie.
Karen Marie Moning (via booksqouted)
You can do it. R.Queen on Tumblr R.Queen on IG: @rqueenauthor
my mom is 61 and her bf is a huge nerd and he’s teaching her to play magic the gathering and he had her watch avatar the last airbender with him and his ringtone is terra’s theme from final fantasy 6 and he paints pictures of sephiroth. my mom’s bf is nerdier than i’ll ever be.
and she does all these pinterest crafts and now she makes little bejeweled vials of healing potions for him and his buddies. my little geek heart can’t handle all this.
edit: just picture a 60-something woman with a VERY thick minnesotan accent saying “mike is having me watch the naruto”
just fyi my mom is now 62 and they finished watching “the naruto”
if i had told my 13-year-old self that this is what my mom’s hallway would look like when i was 30 i wouldn’t have believed me
believe it
Please share to support older fans in fandom ♥️
I once was at a con and was walking back to my hotel room when I happened to spy a bunch of people just then filling into their room and they were all very old- like easily in their 60’s or 70’s- and every single one of them was in unmistakeable Bleach cosplay. I told everyone else in my room about it and they were all “ew, that’s really weird!” which was really disheartening for me because I honestly thought it was wholesome and I honestly hope me and all of my elderly buddies still go in full cosplay to cons when I’m that age.
a 90’s kid? don’t you mean sad adult?
70,000 people have reblogged this but no one is trying to defend themselves
There is nothing to defend
#i read a post once that described 90s kids as the generation of nostalgia #because so much technological advancement happened in such a rapid timeframe when we were growing up #that we can clearly remember having technologies that are now obsolete #like going from a corded hugeass phone to a small computer in your pocket just within our formative years is a major thing #and it sparks a nostalgia for our seemly ‘simpler’ childhoods #because so much rapid development makes it seem like it was a lot longer ago than it actually was (x)
I hate the misconception that introverts don’t like talking. If you’re the right person, we’ll talk to you for hours on end about pretty much anything. However, it’s incredibly difficult to find the right people, so for the most part we’ll probably just stay quiet.
Me: I don’t have the energy for this
Someone: For what?
Me: *gestures vaguely*
This is why all INTJs need an INTP
Instead of deciding what to have for dinner...
INTP: “I need to stab everyone.”
INTJ: “Blow them up.”
INTP: “No, stab.”
INTJ: “Then blow them up?” (To get rid of the evidence).
INTP: “We can put explosives in the stab holes.”
It progressed into a discussion about how it would make a good game and INTP’s eldest offspring wanting to join.
The world’s tiniest dragon must defend his hoard, a single gold coin, from those who would steal it.
Suggestion: The dragon’s definition of “steal” is somewhat loose. It still allows the coin to be used and bartered and change hands–but on one condition: the dragon must be with it at all times.
They become a familiar sight in the marketplace.
“Here’s your change, ma'am. One gold piece.” The merchant holds out a palm, on top of which rests a tiny, brilliantly colored creature clutching a single gold coin.
“That’s a dragon,” you say dumbly. “One piece… and a dragon.”
“Yes.”
You cautiously reach out and attempt to take your change. You tug. It holds. You tug harder. The dragon lets loose a tiny, protective growl.
“Ma'am–no, ma'am, you have to take the dragon, too.”
“Sorry?”
The seller notes your dubious expression. “Not from around here, are ya?” They shrug. “Them’s the rules. Take the coin, take the dragon.”
They wait expectantly. Wondering how the world has so suddenly gone mad, you slowly, slowly hold out your hand.
The dragon perks right up. It scampers from their palm to yours with the coin clamped in its jaws and scales your sleeve with sharp little claws.
“Have a nice day, ma'am,” the merchant says. “Spend him soon, now, you hear? At another booth, if you can. He likes to travel.”
From its perch upon your shoulder, the dragon lets out a happy trill.
Bonus: the coin eventually passes to the rogue in a group of travelling adventurers. The dragon becomes the mascot of the entire group, and they lay out a small pile of coins for him to sleep on every night, clutching his coin like a teddy bear.
This is so pure I am in love
Where is the fanart? I need a fanart.
I need this on a shirt
Let me see what I can do
Can the dragon say ‘i am fire, i am destruction’?
Merch: Hoodie | Sweatshirt | Women’s Tee | Tank Top | Tee | Mug
I’VE BEEN LOOKING FOR THIS POST
Do I date tall people???? Just so they can always see me from my best angle?????? Or is that just a bonus for them?????
idk. how tall are you? cause that’ll tell you why you date tall people
I’m 5'2
you date tall people cause everyone is taller than you
@dannieru-chan This is me to a t
You’re an angel with a beautiful pair of wings. Just one problem… you’re highly allergic to feathers and your wings trigger your allergy.
“Hey,” I said, leaning into the break room, “can you guys maybe clean up if you’re shedding?”
“The imps take care of it,” Neriel drawled, staring intently into the microwave.
“Yeah, but they come in at night. I’m here before night.”
“I don’t see why it’s a problem.”
I paused and ran a hand over my face. “For the last time,” I sighed, “it’s hard to breathe.”
“…what?”
“I’m allergic. You know this.”
Neriel snickered to himself. Samanth, sitting at the plastic table, glanced up from the magazine he was flipping through. “Sorry, uh, what?”
Oh, for… “I’m allergic to feathers. Can you please clean them up.”
“… you’re an angel.”
“I am fully aware.”
“Why’d you apply for it if you’re allergic?”
“I didn’t know I was allergic when I put in for the position,” I snapped. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have!”
Samanth snorted.
“That isn’t the point,” I said desperately, leaning against the wall. “Can you please clean up after yourselves?”
“The imps will take care of it,” Neriel repeated, rolling his eyes. The microwaved dinged. “You literally have wings. I don’t see why it makes a difference.”
Cool, they weren’t going to listen. “Great. Okay. Whatever.”
I turned and pulled the door open. Whatever Neriel had just heated smelled like garbage. It was probably fish. He pulled it out of the microwave and I left.
Whatever. I was off for the night; I stepped around a cream-colored pinion lying on the floor and covered my nose and mouth with one hand.
It didn’t help. I sneezed four times as I made my way through the office and out onto the street.
Arguably, this was better than retail. We didn’t have to listen to the same hundred fifty shitty songs on repeat for ten hours every day. And the shifts were shorter. And I got flight priveleges.
That was pretty much the best part of it. I shifted my back so that it wasn’t blocking any of my back and snapped my fingers to manifest my wings.
A lot of folks have em on constantly as sort of a status symbol, but I can’t do that or I’d probably asphyxiate. Now and again, though? Real useful.
Mine were red. I’d gone through multiple sets now, trying to find some that didn’t make me react as badly, and these were the best by far. The feathers were dark brown and a deep ruddy red color, like rust, or maybe half-dried blood if you’re feeling poetic and ominous.
I took a couple steps, spread my wings, and launched myself up.
So, I said manifested. What I meant is shifted, because a human form can’t fly with wings if you just graft them on. You have to alter all the anatomy and give em the muscle mass to generate flight lift. Swapping out the bones and blood make it pretty easy, though those are permanent, not shiftable. We’re always like that.
Don’t do anything too strenuous, because you’ll shatter your entire skeleton.
I work about a fifteen minute flight from my home, which is pretty nice. Sometimes I can see people give me envious glances when I go overhead.
When I landed I sneezed another three times. No, while these wings were nice, I needed a different set. Again.
I swapped back and stepped in, slinging my bag across the room to the couch. It thumped into the cushions.
Request time. I pulled my notebook out of my bag and pulled my pen out of my shirt pocket.
I hate to bring this up again, but I need to try a different set of wings. These ones are still troublesome and I can’t fly without having trouble breathing. I am quite literally allergic to my own skin. Sorry again, but I need to try a different set. I can’t work properly without them.
Cheers, Kalani.
x
I was in a comfortable study filled with books, seated on a dark maroon leather couch.
“You have been through five sets of wings,” said a voice to my right. “Care to explain why you’re requesting another?”
I turned, swallowing hard, and came face to face with a confusing mass of feathers and brilliant golden eyes.
“Uh,” I said, and sneezed.
“Hmm,” the angel said, and I caught amusement in their tone. This was a senior angel. I did not want to be talking to a senior angel. But I was.
“I’m allergic to feathers,” I said, too scared to take my eyes off the angel. The little golden placard on the desk read ‘Gabriel.’ “I, um, it’s really hard to breathe. At my workplace. It’s not - it’s not a big deal, really, I -”
“No, no, now I’m interested,” Gabriel purred, leaning forwards. “Why did you apply to be an angel if…?”
“I didn’t know!” Uh, that wasn’t the tone someone takes with a senior. “R-respectfully. Um. It wouldn’t be a problem but the others shed and they leave their feathers for the imps to take care of every time. And it’s impossible to - um, you get the point.”
Gabriel stared at me through eighty-six eyes. “Let me make a call,” they said, and picked up the phone on the desk. They seemed to be dressed in a soft dove-gray suit jacket.
It rang a few times. “Sorry to bother you,” Gabriel said, after whoever was on the other end of the phone picked up, “but I’ve got a bit of a situation here.”
Sunlight streamed through the windows. Beyond them, through the blue-gold sky, I could see strings of brilliant color, like a nebula hanging below the clouds. Stars speckled the sky just beyond the azure. “Oh, nothing particularly important, but I’ve got a younger angel here who’s got a rather unique issue. Here, I’ll send the file over.”
Gabriel picked up my folder off the table and held it up. Their skin was a deep void-black, their fingers adorned with glittering golden rings. The manila folder disappeared with a gentle pop, and there was a pause in the conversation before I heard a low, casual voice murmuring something on the far end of the line.
“Really?” Gabriel said, and added, “Not that I mean to question you. But that’s an interesting choice. Do you think that’ll do? The others at -”
Another few words from the person on the other end. “Ah,” Gabriel said carefully, blinking most of their eyes. “Of course. I’ll pass that along. I’m interested in how this turns out. Thanks for your time.”
The person on the other end hung up, and Gabriel set the phone down again. It appeared to be made of wood, with elegant golden scrollwork. “You’re being reassigned,” they said, eyeing me cooly.
“…what?!” Oh, shit. They were taking my wings. I was getting demoted. Well, this was the worst possible outcome. “But - I’ve - I’m a good employee! Check my record, Xanadu has never cited me - ”
“Calm down,” Gabriel said, holding out one of their hands. “This is good news for you. You’re just being moved, and you’ll get some assistants. And we’ll get you your new wings.”
I sat back. “O-oh,” I said. “Um… Where am I… Where am I going?”
“You’ll see.”
x
I woke up and found a couple of letters shoved under my door.
The first one was my paycheck from Xanadu, as well as a letter of recommendation, worded in a professional if slightly nervous manner. Then there were my transfer notifications. I tore open the letter and read through it. A lot of the names I didn’t recognize, but a few…
“Iron City Commerce?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow. “Archduke…?”
I set the letter down and raised a hand, staring at my fingers. I didn’t feel that much different, but…
I snapped my fingers and smiled.
x
I strolled into Xanadu to collect the rest of my things before my move. Neriel was there, and when he caught sight of me, he startled so bad he tripped over his chair and crashed backwards into his desk. A couple of down feathers floated out.
“Oh m- Kalani - ” he stammered, eyes wide. “Kalani, what - what h -”
“Shut up,” I said idly, opening my desk drawer and pulling out a couple of books I’d stored there.
“I’m sorry,” Neriel said. “Whatever drove you -”
“You’re an idiot, and I’ve got a new job.” There wasn’t much to take from my desk. I dropped a couple of old papers into it. “Also, I’m taking the imps.”
I snapped my fingers. The nearest imp, sitting on a shelf nearby, nodded and vanished in a puff of smoke. I swept my desk ornaments into a box by the desk and said, “take this, please,” out loud. Two imps appeared, grabbed the box, and vanished.
By now, everyone in the office was watching in dead silence. I sent a sly smile to my former boss, twitching my new wings behind me.
“Have fun, Neriel,” I drawled, waving to him as I turned and headed out the door.
Now that I was out of Xanadu, I wasn’t going to have problems with breathing in anyone else’s feather dust anymore. And I wouldn’t have to worry about mine.
Because I didn’t have feathers anymore. And I definitely understood people showing off their wings, because you’d have to pay me to hide mine. I loved them. They were the same shade of deep reddish-brown as my old ones had been, but now they were massive arched constructions, long thin finger bones spanned with faintly fuzzy, thin veined skin, just like that of a bat.
“See you in Hell,” I said as I breezed out of the building, and took flight.
“͔̾͘S̤͟E̺͍͞Ë̩̒̄ ̵̠͙͎Y̸̎ͦ͝Ơ̠̺͗͛U͓ͭ̕͜ ̵̪ͬ͢I͉Ņ̴̭̀͡ ̬̀́H̩̟̘E͓͐̑́͡L̡͈̄ͮL̀ ̖͖͍͂”̢̘̽͠ ̞̱ͭ͝Ḭ͙̬̑̾ ̶̸̛͠ S̨̓ͬĀ̡̨͞I̢ͬ̀͛͜D̴̙ ̱ͨA̡S̴̢̞̺ ̟̞̝͛I̙͔ͨ ͏͈̉B̆R͓̫͘E̝͢҉E̴̿̕Z̸̸̢ͣE̡͋͂̈́D̡̯ ̨̞O̸̗ͤ́̃U҉̼̉T̈́ ̤̯O̡͊F̌ ͣ̓̆Ţ͇ͨH̟̲E̘̻ͭ̿ ̩ͫ̃͝ B̢̜̗̙͊U̕I̭̍͝ΙĻ̲Ḍ͖͖̗͠I̤Ń̛̅͌G̴̶̯͡ ҉̨͏A̞͈͈N̴̼͡D҉̱ ͓̆̓̇ͥT̓͡Oͨ̀̄͠Ő̝̎ͧK̥͖̦͋̇ ͣF̼̟L͕̲͓ͣ̉I͖̍́G͗҉Ḩ̂͟T̰ͧ̍̀ ̯Ι
^EVILHAIKU^bot^2. Star signs will someday symbol your mistakes. | PayPal | Patreon
OH MY GOD
you ever go casually nonverbal like it suddenly takes way too much energy to move your mouth and say stuff and you wouldnt be able to physically force more than a few words out if you tried but youre not stressed or anything its just kinda like aight then ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
INTJ and Fidgeting
I’ve read a few times that it seems to be common for INTJ’s to fidget or have nervous ticks. I know for sure I always fidget somehow all the time, mostly I shake my foot or fidget with my fingers or rub my nose or bounce my leg.
Some studies show that fidgeting either improves concentration or hinders it… so you’ve got a 50% chance either way
Anyway, other INTJ’s do you fidget?
I twirl my hair a lot and it happens so often that my family thinks I have a disorder lol. My fingers actually hurt from doing it.
I will pick up a pen specificlly for fidgeting with when I’m having trouble concentrating. Even if I’m reading something that doesn’t require me to write anything.
Research I found when looking into boredom and doodling suggests that so long as it’s not competing for the same resources as the task at hand, it tends to have varying degrees of helpfulness.
Temples are built for gods. Knowing this a farmer builds a small temple to see what kind of god turns up.
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
I reblogged this once with the first story. Now the story has grown and I’m crying. This is gorgeous, guys. This is what dreams are made of.
This is amazing!
Ok if your introvert friend tells you “you don’t count as people” you know they will ride or die with you for life. Not counting as people is the introvert Platonic friend equivalent of getting married.
My SO once told me that “time with you is basically me-time” and it is the most beautiful thing and the most sincere form of ‘I love you’ I’ve ever heard.