#bitter truth

[a-carpediem]

No matter how good you are, how nice you are, how kind you are or how caring you are, if you are in the wrong place, you are never valued and appreciated.

[highonoverthinking]

— 🎬 Good Luck Have Fun Don't Die (2026)

[qofalulkizb]

How unfortunate are those who sit on the edge of the ocean for the tide but it never got appreciated and some goes desert and the ocean follows them

[uaravsh]

"We make each other alive. Does it matter if it hurts?"

- Ingmar Bergman, from a letter to Liv Ullmann

[readwithayshah]

"Disease is greedy.It takes pieces of you till you no longer recognize yourself."

-I fell in love with hope by lancalli

[random-xpressions]

Communicating is one thing and explaining a totally different thing. If you're into the latter, then your relationship has already hit the rock bottom...

Random Xpressions

[m-ingrid-larue]

While the way we communicate may seem unhealthy at first glance, sometimes a pinch of bitter truth can clear the air and brighten the situation, leading to mutual understanding. And believe me, being nice isn't an option, you can be nice to strangers, but you have to be honest with your loved ones.

dividers by: @uzmacchiato

[sometimesraven]

@febuwhump Day 07: Forced to Hurt Another

Fandom: The Truth Saga (original work)

Whumpee: Blade (and Erik, a lil. As a treat)

Summary: Blade is a master in the art of violence, but lately the art is feeling empty.

Warnings: Blood & violence, implied torture, choking, implied sexual content

AO3 Link || Masterlist

((Truth Saga taglist: @unclefesters))

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Blade learned at a young age how malleable flesh can be. How it gently parts for the sharpest blade and blooms beneath the roughest hands. He might have considered it beautiful, once. Crimson streams flowing through canyons and mountains dotted with blue and purple and green like fields; glistening on canvasses in every shade.

It wasn't so beautiful, most of the time. Wasn't anything. Manufactured, identical trash printed to please demand — no artistry permitted, no joy derived. Body after body beaten bloody and bruised for the sake of warning or punishment or covering their tracks.

It wasn't that he didn't think his Purpose was beautiful. He didn't dare think otherwise. It wasn't even that he didn't enjoy the work he did for it.

Still, over time the artistry was lost. He could only truly indulge on occasion — everything else was just… the same as ever.

He hadn't even noticed the change until Erik was his canvas. Purple and blue on honey-brown skin provided such rich contrast he wasn't sure he had ever truly seen colour before. The crimson was velvet draped over silk so smooth he was sure he'd be chasing the feeling for the rest of his life. Every breath he stole was a piece he never wanted to return.

He would cut, and Erik would writhe. Tears would streak glittering paths across Erik's cheeks even as their lips pulled into a pained smile. Blade would grip his throat a little too hard and Erik would choke out a shuddering sigh like the hand of God was upon them. He would bite and they would arch like their body couldn't be close enough; like the bruises were markers on a map that always led to him.

Sometimes they would make art together. He would watch Erik slice and snap and Blade would cut and bruise and the bodies they left in their wake were statues paying tribute to the carnage. Erik's craft was brutal and swift. They did not take their time the way Blade did. But the flow of his body made the violence a dance; the glint in his eyes a spotlight he directed where he pleased. They were a pleasure to watch — a stage show to accompany Blade's carvings.

When Blade went under the knife, over and over in service of the boss's art, he did not feel like a canvas. He did not feel malleable. No amount of crimson and blue could make his ashen skin a landscape. For a time, Erik had looked at him like he was. Erik would tend each cut and bruise and crimson trail like he was made of delicate painted porcelain. Admire the mottled, mangled shape of him like he was meant to be that way.

When Erik left, so did the artistry. Without the dance, the carvings meant nothing. Without brutal, his artful was flat and empty. Beauty became business. Colours faded to the same muddy dimness they always had been.

He tried to convince himself he was still an artist. Tried to find pleasure in the torture. Convinced himself delirium was the same as euphora. Fear was the same as worship. Stabbing was the same as carving.

Still, in the end, he was empty. Blade could little more derive pleasure from his art than he could pretend the agony was worth the finished product. Purple and blue was just bruises. Crimson was just blood. Pain was just pain.