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where should you be kissed?
knuckles
it feels as though you have fought every day of your life. sometimes, you cannot even tell how much of the blood on your hands is your own... and how much comes from those who've tried to hurt those you defend. you deserve the gentleness of a kiss to your bruised knuckles and broken skin, a reminder that you are not only made of violence.
Curl up & Die is such a Stuilly song (especially when thinking about Stu surviving) In this essay I will-
I'm assuming you're talking about curl up & die by Matt Maltese and OH MY GOD THANKS NOW IM SO SAD
I hope you know you’re feeding @muttmacher under the table and he’s not supposed to eat human food
What Kind of Warmth are You?
comfort jacket
you're gentle, thoughtful in your kindness, and very careful when you're helping others. your warmth is obvious only to some── but to them, it is life-saving. you don't think of your warmth as much. really, it feels like the least you can do. but you are providing something that no one else can. there are people out there that will not be helped by reckless optimism. but you see love as a risk, and when you take it, you will heal others (and yourself) in ways you didn't see as possible. you do not believe that people are good. really, you don't believe that you are good. they can be. you have been. no one is better than you at offering warmth to people who are difficult to love. i am asking you to offer that same warmth to yourself. even when you think you don't deserve it. especially when you think you don't deserve it.
Stolen from @phonokinetix
Remus: Hold the fuck up!
Sirius: I'm a fuck up. Please, hold me.
🌺 - Ume sometimes sits there, looking at her linkpearls, and contemplates reaching out to her friends to see them when she's feeling lonely, but talks herself into thinking they don't deserve the trouble of dealing with her lower moments
10/10
Ok, first of all– OW! How dare you?
But this is 100% accurate. She often sits alone on her stump in the woods and spends a lot of her time talk to herself and even sometimes a little beady eye friend she summons to keep her company. But sometimes her own kind company isn’t enough and she gets extremely lonely. She absolutely thinks about reaching out to someone she knows to ask if they would care to keep her company but in the end, she often decides that she’s just not worth it.
@leadenheart.
To the surprise of no one, the slightest mention of art has Nixon practically bouncing in excitement. It’s the very reason that he has a high-priced membership for The Met, dragging Aspen with him to view art that they’ve both seen hundreds of times. It’s the very thing that will have him opening up within seconds. Unfortunately, it’s also one of the many things he’s lost inspiration for. Even years after freedom, after escaping a fate he’d never thought possible, he shrinks at the touch of a paint brush. Some days it’s even difficult to pick up his tattoo gun, but it’s not the same as charcoal or paints. Painting was the closest to bearing his soul he could get. To Nixon, they had been everything — only to be taken away and mocked.
He doesn’t paint anymore. At least, he tries, but it’s hesitant, not as free as it once had been. On top of that, it’s emotionally draining, and most of the time he ends up ripping the canvas in two. Anger shouldn’t guide his outlet, yet it’s one of the few things that has him trying again only to end up in disaster. He doesn’t paint, no matter how bad he wants to and no matter how often Aspen gently pushes him to. It’s hard to explain to himself let alone to his boyfriend, so he avoids it altogether, stores any brushes and palettes he bought on a whim in a box shoved far into his closet.
As he glances over at Deacon, a pang of envy washes through him. He’d give anything to be able to hold a paintbrush again without seeing his hands shake and hearing the mocking tone of his ex as he destroys piece after piece that he slaved over. He wants to paint and draw and sketch beautiful portraits. He wants to feel satisfied after seeing his artwork, not choked. Deacon doesn’t have that problem. He’s jealous — so fucking jealous — that what feels like drowning comes naturally to his companion. He’s so tired of feeling this way.
Impulse opens his mouth and claws the words out of his throat before he can stop them. “Can you help me paint?” Nixon stills before he tears a nervous hand through his curls. He shakes his head. The usual smooth baritone of his voice is higher, shaky, and he falters as he stares helplessly at his best friend. “No. No, I… I don’t know. I’m— I don’t know. I… want to but I’m… scared.” Of what, he isn’t sure. Nixon examines his hands, head dipped low in shame. “It’s stupid. I just… I haven’t painted in years. Not since I was fifteen.”
via midnite_tremors
You will always be nothing more than a vessel, doomed to walk behind the Pharaoh's shadow. Even now, as he's enjoying happiness here you are, staying stagnant.
He took a slow, deep breath. After a moment, his fists at his sides relaxed as he swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Yes. You're right. I'm just a vessel, it was my only purpose and damn did I do my job well. But you're mistaken about something, his happiness if my everything. The fact he even gets a second chance at a life that was a stolen from him, is all I ever wanted. I want to see him flourish and be happy. What happens to me? Doesn't matter."
Yugi looked at the grey-face.
"And if you try to fuck with his happiness, I'll take you out at your kneecaps."
