sorry about the blood in your mouth

i wish it was mine. ⁽ᵃᵘᵗᵒ⁾

[weirdocalypse-blog]

                                 ╳ 🔺┋❝ ⟨ ▾ @sixtruths. ▾ ⟩                                          ⟨ ▾ re: starter call. ▾ ⟩

                  ❝ —- c’mooooon, fordie. you know it’s a GOOD DEAL. ❞ 

          ——& it is, for a tiny, fragile sack of flesh and brittle bones like him ! mortals are just so BREAKABLE ; whoever came up with the DESIGN and thought it was ADEQUATE ought to be shot on sight, in his humble opinion. or, perhaps, given a warm handshake – if their intent was to be a TOYMAKER, not a GOD. but, back to it ; for STANFORD PINES, it really is the best deal in the universe. not only does it mean his own SURVIVAL, but ascension – ELEVATION from one of seven billion humans to one of THEM. ( it also means escape from what’s likely a fate worse than death ; bill isn’t going to be HAPPY if he doesn’t GET what he came for. but all that’s just TECHNICALITIES, no ? ) 

         all it’ll cost him is ONE LITTLE UNIVERSE. that’s not so high a price, is it ? 

                    ❝ your own galaxy. a lifetime supply of LIFETIMES. infinite power. –& all you gotta do is give me that equation. just takes a HANDSHAKE. ❞ 

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

clockwork brain, synapses act as second hands & minute markers instead of transmitters for love & hate & humanity / this is a sacred, devilish calculation ------ eyes harsher than the ambition of god, burnt into his very core like a brand, marked with darkness, one eye, one sense of presence, gilded by an unnatural gold, blossomed from some hell / some plane of twin dimensions. the start of refusal lurks in his throat & in his mouth, ghosting across his teeth, the harshness of a ‘no’ echoes like the prayers that he once whispered / the angel - eldritch singing in maddening tongues, lapping at him, pulling at his synaptic cognizance: asking him, who are you ? THE FOOL.

A GOOD DEAL. in whose perspective ? always, yes, of course, in bill’s: perhaps, one of a selfish intention would agree ------ & despite ford’s self - preservation, he has learned a selflessness / pseudo - selfishness with the presence of the twins, & so this, this becomes a test of wit & emotion. the ‘no’, so eager & ready to erupt, to explode in a brutal glorification, is slowly dissolved by the slow process of catalysis, a single possibility in thought, manifesting as some cruel mockery of hope & survival. HE COULD SAY YES, he could make bill regret it.

his mind makes its decision, the ‘no’ wails in agony at the back of his throat before it is slaughtered, cut apart at its own guillotine. the anger upon his features withers, as though he learned to contemplate & reached a revelation. a somberness remains, haunting every angle of his expression, as he worries if he has damned himself or saved them all.

❛ ------ if i say yes, it will be under my explicit conditions. ❜ & the unspoken: at this moment, cipher, you need me more than i fear you.

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

*&.

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I:

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@eolqglvpv liked this for a starter !

a profound kind of analysis, sometimes, he finds himself surprised ( pleasantly, of course ) by the works that fiddleford is able to produce. there’s an innate admiration of sorts, blossomed like daisies, little white flowers dotting the edges, & certainly, it is a sensation of satisfaction that they are working together. ( no matter the subtle moments of jealousy, the self-doubt at the sight of a possibly higher intelligence. he tells himself these thoughts are frivolous & harmful, pushing them aside as best he can. ) fingers lift, fixing his own glasses, pushing them back up slightly as he presents a stack of neatly folded papers. he clears his throat.

❛ fiddleford. i’ve some findings i would like to -- go over, with you. ❜

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

ford wat

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[aspeneyed-a]

      @sixtruths​ !! ❤

   A simple equation was all he needed, was that so much to ask? He wanted to get out of this stupid hick town, for the party here had gotten boring. There were MANY more places to conquer, more lands to burn to the ground, and more galaxies to throw parties the human mind couldn’t even comprehend.    The only thing standing in his way though, was this ONE human, this one man who showed him this puny race was not as weak as the majority was. This singular mortal was the only thing that stood in his way from universal domination. Oh how Bill wished he could just dive into his mind and tear it apart until he had that equation. Yet, even his newfound powers had limits, limits that were holding him back, and limits he would go beyond when he got out to the field.    Another blast shot out of his eye onto the man as the laughed manically. One eye that went into the depts of one’s soul and corrupted it with insanity stared down the six fingered man. His patience was growing wearily.

❝ SO HOWS ‘BOUT IT

                FORDSY, YOU READY TO TALK YET?!                  OR DO I HAVE TO BRING IT UP TO A                  THOUSAND VOLTS?! ❞

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

there exists a thin line between physical & mental pain, especially in the context of the demon that is bill cipher. one must understand that volatility&survival are of the same tune; this adamance in silence, this lip - bitten, pain - bearing digression is what keeps&kept him alive. how much pain can one bear before breaking? a strangled cry erupts from the wounded self, torn from his throat like a brutal slaughter; it hurts to scream, now, because he’s done it too many times already, he can feel it raw --- through gritted teeth, he maintains the perfect defiance, blatant within unwavering eyes. hostility soaked to the soul; remnants of a broken friendship & a torn trust cutting deep into every synapse like something born in & for agony. 

TOO LATE, BILL CIPHER! this man, this notion of intellect --- he is too affixed with stopping you, with protecting the world for what it’s worth ( despite all that it has done to him! all that it has denied him! ) to ever shed a further light upon the words you seek from him. 

a shudder of pain, racking through him; he winces, grimace upon grimace, this furthered anguish & suffering tastes too real, tastes too physical that perhaps one might call it a brevity of liberation --- in which he is given a moment’s distraction from the torment that has always stuck to his mind & thoughts. slowly, softly, there begins an inhale, shaky -- & then an exhale. his gaze -- once absent & disoriented, despite their violent defiance, regain their clarity at the demon’s taunting, fixing upon the triangular form. another pair of slow & subtle inhale - exhale, harsh, hissed through the clutches of a torturous pang.

❛ you will never get the equation from me, cipher. ❜

[backburns-deactivated20161018]

❛ @SIXTRUTHS

      a sharp gasp sounds among the crying of gulls as they, frightened, take to the skies. ‘ hey, stanford! c'mere! ’  stanley wastes no time in waiting. he drops to his knees, ignoring the wonted sting of the sand biting into his already reddened skin, and buries his fingers into the earth. ‘  check it out! real buried treasure! ’ as it turns out, the gulls he’d scared away had been eyeing something only half buried in the floor of the beach: a glinting roll of quarters. ‘ this has gotta be at least two dollars! d'you know what this’ll get us? ’ a rhetorical question, of course. he’s already envisioning their pockets filled to the brims with candy.

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

he’s straggling a bit behind, but oh! he’d never admit that he needs a while longer to catch up to his brother. the sand shifts&sinks beneath his feet, & it’s almost enough to make him stumble, but the slipping balance is quickly regained, & he’s quick to kneel down beside his brother ( much more slowly, though, than his counterpart. ) a certain excitement makes its marked appearance ‘pon his features, already smiling lips pulling further -- turning into that of a grin, quite frankly overjoyed at his brother’s discovery. he presses his hands against the sand beneath him, scooting closer to the roll of quarters. at least two dollars! for a brief moment, this thrill lasts --- but then, he begins to wonder if someone might be looking for this, if someone once owned&needs this. a pause in his joy, his gaze lingering on the quarters, weighing his decisions.

❛ ...d’you think someone might be looking for it? ❜

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@atmosphir liked this for a starter !

a startling intrigue remains alight in his eyes, & a sickly sort of amiability has found itself burned & etched deeply into his very self: offered forth like some sort of worship - sacrifice. he finds a strange kind of familiarity in the presence of the other, mind working & instantly connecting this one - eye & flat geometry to his friend & muse bill cipher. of course, caution remains ever prominent beneath this postured geniality, but even then with that wariness worn beneath pleasant veneers, he is completely fascinated.

❛ --- & you are? ❜

[aestui-m-deactivated20191216]

Weary eyes stared listlessly as the specter floated about, a grin filled with razor-sharp teeth splitting her lips– she was no doubt satisfied with herself after the stunt she had caused Ava to pull in class earlier that day. Even still, the glare in her scorching gaze was unmistakable, and Ava desperately wondered what she could have done to deserve getting stuck with HER. 

This thing, this demon– was it really a mere conjuration of her own dysfunctional mind? All this time, had it been HER spitting all those venomous words, sabotaging her own relationships and fighting tooth-and-nail to take her own life? The thought that it was her own subconscious desire to hurt herself and those around her ( to drive her BEST FRIEND to attempt suicide ) made her feel rather ILL. She couldn’t accept it. She wouldn’t accept it.

Mercifully or not, the sudden sound of shifting gravel jostled her out of her thoughts. Oh no, Ava winced, bracing herself for the worst. But the voice that greeted her was calm– unexpectedly friendly. 

❝ That’s… That’s me… ❞ A slow nod punctuated her reply, crimson pupils dilating as her gaze wandered ever-upward to meet that of the other. Was this… some sort of joke? Ava had her suspicions, but no matter how she looked at the situation she couldn’t sense that the boy had any kind of ill intentions. Though, that didn’t worry her as much as SHE did, and for a moment her attention seemed to wander elsewhere, toward something only she could see.

❝ I’m not– I mean, I don’t know if I’m someone you’d want to be around… ❞

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

the smile begins to waver, & a delicate paranoia finds itself intertwining into his framework, tugging downward at his lips, whispering in his mind as fast-paced thoughts plague him ( she’s simply trying to be nice about saying no. ) he sways on his feet, shifting weight as a means to lessen the unease, & still, he’s a picturesque determination; he forces himself to maintain the smile, to press it further, & though it might look a tinge forced, it isn’t born out of malice, but out of hope & self-doubt. his hands shift inside his pockets, clutching at the fabric, an extension of his nervousness, a softened manifestation that beckons him inward & yet motivates him to branch outwards.

❛ well, i wouldn’t know until you are around, for at least a bit --- but, if you don’t want to sit with us, that’s okay, too! i mean, i don’t want to make you do something you don’t want to do... ❜

his voice lingers, trailing off into a self-aware, self-conscious silence. he glances at her, gaze seeking to flit away, find something else to which he could affix his attention --- but before he does, there’s a brief moment in which he notices her distraction, & he follows her gaze, meeting the sight of nothing, but a sensation of something. he blinks at it, deciding perhaps that she’s like him in his dislike of maintaining eye contact for very long, & returns his gaze to her, before letting it fall to the ground. & then, shoulders lift slightly, appearing into a shrug, a slow rise & fall, as he tries to settle himself into an image of muted apathy & calculated casualness.

❛ nonetheless -- if you ever want to sit with us, we sit over that ( he pushes himself onto his tip toes, reaching out an arm & pointing with his finger, gesturing vaguely & as best as he can ) way, somewhere over there. ❜

[criwes]

“Sometimes art is a method of living, but sometimes it means nothing to me.” — Shin KwangHo

[limitlessplaylist]

Visit Original Link

Stage by stage I tear apart If brokenness is a form of art I must be a poster child prodigy…

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

@backburns.

a burdened frustration, evident in all ways & in none: in the furthered tightness of his fists, in the way his hands are not clasped but folded behind his back, in the subtleties accentuated not by expression but by variation. he stood, hovering above his work, fixed there --- suspended in an almost startling stillness, an unease of silence: his hands shift, briefly, & his gaze remains hardened, focused upon the papers neatly spread across the table. he’s been there for hours, now, simmering in a complete quietude; this blockade for ambition gutting him, pulling through synapses for an ingrown anger, always restrained but seeking freedom. suddenly, there is a sweep of blunt emotion, cutting outwards with a hiss ---

❛ enough of this. ❜

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

*&.

v. even while it burns their hands | reverse. - stanford gleeful verse. t. this rot in childhood. - child/teen ford gleeful. t. there is no miracle. - adult ford gleeful. t. the world opens its arms to death. - old ford gleeful ™ v. angular hearts gilded by souls | ava’s demon. - ava’s demon au.

[harmonicjourney]

Visit Original Link

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

@gotheart liked this for a starter !

exuberant kindness, certainly, he has the capacity for it. rarely does it surface, anymore, but in the company of such a joyous being --- it’s become slightly more difficult to keep himself restrained to the somber persona that he’s been perfecting for years. & so, formality dwindles to a backdrop, lingering at a half-conscious thought, & he’s beyond amused at her humor, thoroughly impressed by this sort of wit.

❛ mabel, you have a wonderful sense of humor. ❜

[sixtruthsarchived-blog]

rosierings​:

   ❛  Oh, PLEASE. Don’t compare me to the likes of that NO GOOD stick-up artist. ❜

aggravated hostility, painted like a hallmark, poised like a statue, stands viciously brilliant in his frame & features. he maintains an accusatory volatility, fists tight at his sides, festering in a silent restraint. there’s a pain in his chest, a pain in his skull: this sense of betrayal, this violent paranoia, this knife to the ribcage --- he swallows, hoping to speak, but his pride sticks to the back of his throat like liquid gold, burning hot & suffocating.

❛ ---- what do you want. ❜