#ghaffas

[venusthms]

hi! i'm currently using your 'elara' page for one of my other blogs. is it possible to make the title of the page lowercase instead of automatically uppercase?

Hi there & thank you for using my page 💛 And sure, you can change that by adding the following line before </style>

.intro h1 {text-transform:lowercase!important}

[selwynkane]

i didn't know that online school would have SO MUCH WORK, like im already behind wtf (also im on my period so that just makes it torture) and all my professors are so bitchy; and THE SKY WAS LITERALLY RED ALL DAY it felt like stranger things or good omens or smth

amara HONESTLY i think it’s sad that we literally didn’t install proper procedures in our universities for this? i’m SO sorry your professors are the worst, i don’t get the point of making students miserable?? ALSO i didn’t know you were in the area! the west coast is near & dear to my heart, please stay safe and let me know if theres anything i can do to help!! sending u so much love!

SEND ME ANYTHING, IT’S HONESTY HOURS!

[4you]

one does not question miracles, or complain that they are not constructed perfectly to one’s liking.

[kaznej]

harry potter

not in the fandom sry!

send me a character and i’ll tell you if i would sleep with them

[slytherdornet]

CURRENT MEMBERS

I’m sorry to be annoying to all of you, since I know that you are all busy with school and your own lives, but I really would appreciate it if everyone would accept their requests I sent them for the private chat blog.

I did get everyone’s email addresses, but only seven of you have accepted the request. I need the rest of you to do so. I really need to find a second admin to help me out, and I want to give everyone a fair chance, since I know some of you that wanted to apply for the position haven’t yet.

I’m starting my senior year of college on Monday (August 22nd), and it would really help me a lot to know that everyone is on the private chat blog now and that I can officially choose the second admin to help me out during the school year when it comes to running the net.

I would also like to start our first challenge in September, and I would like to discuss ideas with all of you.

I’m tagging you here not to put you on blast or anything (I’m not upset, I just really want to make sure everyone fairly gets a say in things) but to make sure it shows up in your notifications so you’re reminded!

Thanks so much, you’re all great. I can’t wait until our group work for the net officially starts.

Zelle x

@thebloodybaron @ghaffas @parvatispatils @dracovmalfoy @pansyprknson @lunavlovegood 

[pushkins]

all relationships have an inevitable end. it starts in the way paint peels from the edges, with your nails scrapping at it in an attempt to smooth the surface once more. the crack just keeps going until your nails are worn, flaked red residue trapped beneath — endless hours spent under tap trying to wash all traces. lucifer examines them under concrete coloured light bulbs. still stained.

to love someone when you have no more secrets has romantic merit, but when Truth has raised an army and is battering at your doors, the heart stops. it is a mechanism of self preservation, because a heart is frail, beating a hummingbird rhythm down a winding path. you can't love an instrument of the apocalypse if you can read the scripture lining their insides. that is not a secret. that is a fact.

the horsemen are God’s tools, the archangels are His enforcers.

war's fatal flaw is not pride, but lucifer thinks that she is already magnificent in her wrath: igniting, burning, her hair covered in ash, the way her insides open spilling ruby eyeballs along the flames — she's here and nowhere — sunken eye sockets empty. her eyes need to be everywhere on this battlefield, and her true eldritch nature obliges her wishes. she can see.

war appreciates the honesty of his approach, lucifer peels back her skin with no preamble and watches war spill onto the floor, he pays close attention to the bones, to the skin. he squints as he reads for hours on end with an unspooled horsemen at his feet. his fingers press down on those tiny carved rust letters as war's existence becomes a dimming heartbeat.

in her opinion, archangels and horsemen have never really been friends; having the eldritch core of her being exposed like this means nothing.

the hinges are rusted, the doors open with the sound of grinding teeth. the army-like rows of mouldy, cracked benches, the carpet is the colour of damp earth, the frayed strings like maggots wriggling beneath her boots. this place was holy because people believed it so, without them there are only echoes of their hope behind. unanswered prayers written in the walls.

lucifer watches war stitch herself back together: skin, ligaments, muscles; slotting, and twisting and cracking. her ribs are lined with feathers, her innards blink sleepily at the archangel as they entwine with the small mouths that line the stomach. a galaxy or two for each horseman, supernovas that feed God's tools.

lucifer with galaxies for pupils. he never promised the horsemen anything because they were tools - there was nothing they wanted for themselves, their purpose carved in scripture along the inner lining of their physical forms (archangels on the other hand have watched humanity enough to learn want). her hands cupping lucifer's cheeks as the world burns: she's breathlessly desperate to finish her task. gabriel's preference for war makes no sense to him.

— Horsemen & Archangels [ starshaping ] || Eliot C. 

[lettinggomv-blog]

i. the guilt is an ocean, the blame is a river, the river if blame sources the ocean of guilt, an inescapable ouroboros. ii. the complaint is a garden, the backlash is a forest, the garden is small, quiet, subdued, the forest looms, heavy, dark, oppressive. iii. we are the guilt and the blame, the quiet, the invisible, the dark, the monotone, the melancholy. iv. we are the complaint and the backlash, the monumental, the brutal, the endless, the history, the past.

"are there solutions somewhere beyond blame and guilt, complaint and backlash?" // n.a

[pushkins]

A king with a silver hand sleeps curled up against the soft entrails beneath the skeletal armour she wears. In her bed at night with her obsidian wings delicately pinned to the wall, Itzpapalotl rests easy (her domain is made of souls that burnt out — too bright, too fast) a being with blood-soaked hands is nothing if not in the right place Here. At her side.

When she comes home his fingers weave through the damp strands of her hair while Itzpapalotl sheds the skeleton armour; metal against her scalp while he rinses away the blood, her eyes the colour of smoke as she holds his gaze.

And he was a king in the realm above her own, but here she is queen, and he is but a trinket to love.

 — life goes on || Eliot C. ©