#what is typing

[addicted-to-darkness]

“Don't like what you saw? But if you so much as touch a single strand of my hair, there will never be peace. You're not that foolish, aren't you? You dared raising your weapon against my lord and master. This I will never forgive you. 

I will get my revenge on you, trust me on that.”

[bluevsblue]

Good I'm such a mess I can't even make it halfway through HICCUPS by Waters without crying

THAT ANIMATION HAS RUINED ME

[teamiplierconfessions]

[mastermegatron]

Initial impression: super colorful. Needs some color lessons though. What a mess. But way more funny than his Megatron.

Current impression: Still a mess, but also on the inside. There is a lot that's still a mystery about him and his universe so Rodimus is in no place to make a judgement on that, not his business. He is not trying to see the good in Raphael or something, sometimes you are just evil and touch starved or have other unresolved issues, so he lowkey pities him and hopes for the best for him. He is somewhat biased enough to give Megatron a chance now. Maybe they are not all inherently evil? Some of them can be pretty alright, actually. And he would like to get to know this one somewhat better, for better or worse.

Bisous 😗

How does your muse perceive my muse?

Stop calling him Raphael.

If he was more gracious, he would thank Rodimus for giving him a chance, for expanding his field of view beyond his looks, for respecting his right to not talk about things, or when he does, not trying to compare the sins of one universe against the next. Rather, they can laugh about the ridiculousness of it all instead.

Bisous? Merci, mon petit chou...

[i-like-the-stars-archive]

okkkkkayyyysystys gn little gay ppl in my phone. i love yho

[mhalachai]

typo of the day

Getaway carp

[l0chn3ss]

Aubade

noun | au·bade | \ō-ˈbäd\ 

1. A song or instrumental composition concerning, accompanying, or evoking daybreak. 2. A poem or song of or about lovers separating at dawn

Listen.

Or so the guitar said.

He strummed it as he sat under the window that night with the moon behind him, falling gently into the floor just in front of him. It was full that night and it reached above his head, looking for a way in. But Soul couldn’t stand the natural brightness. He pulled his legs away from the light, preferring to be bathed in the candles’ glow instead.

Time didn’t flow the same way with wax and fire. Several flickering lights were set in a crescent around him, one of them was scented with his roommate’s favorite smell, though it was too sickly sweet for his taste. He knew how to lure her out from the darkness, however, and she would come soon. All he had to do was to listen.

His fingers plucked out various strings, stopping every once in a while to take a sip of wine, and his tune vibrated through the night until finally, Maka appeared.

She stepped softly across the living room, walking around the patch of blue moonlight that was growing closer, and then into his semicircle of flames. Silently, she sank down into the empty space next to him, placing her head on his shoulders as he continued to play.

Soul heard her deep breathing, her quickened heartbeat, and her sigh of content. How romantic, she seemed to say. And he took another swing, setting the bottle in front of her feet.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying each other’s presence. Listen, his guitar said, and Maka obliged without a word.

Both of them met up like this for a long time now, under the window and against the moon, and every morning, they went back to their respective places. Soul missed her dearly though; this was the only time he could see her.

He looked over to Maka, who’s eyes were closed and who’s lips were just parted slightly, slightly red from the glowing embers. Soul set his guitar down to drape an arm over her shoulder, holding her closer to his chest. He could hear his own heartbeat, and no doubt she could too, but she continued to nuzzle herself closer, to listen.

One of the candles snuffed out then. Soul sighed heavily, placing a hand on Maka’s waist, and she scooted slightly to the side to allow him to stand. He walked to their coffee table and picked up the lighter near the cork from the wine bottle.

The moon had drifted closer to their sanction now, and it shone against his face as he made his way back. Soul ripped the curtains closed, leaving just a crack. Dawn was coming soon.

As he picked up the shortened vanilla scented candle, he noticed Maka’s furrowed eyebrows and the deep circles under her eyes. Her face was more pale and she looked smaller, weaker. She looked at the lighter in his hand, and shook her head slowly.

Listen, she said. It’s almost time.

He dropped both items and ran to her, hugging her tightly as he shook. His hand made its way into her hair and the other looped around her waist. The crack of the window revealed a sliver of warmth, but he rejected it. Stay, he commanded.

You know I’ve got to go, Maka whispered. You know I wish it wasn’t so.

He held her tighter, as if it would keep her there, delaying his misery. This was the only time he could see her. The only time she was here and the only time he could feel her. The only time he could listen to her.

Soul gritted his teeth in anger, directing it all at the break of dawn. It ruined everything, he believed. What was daybreak if she weren’t there to walk with him in the sun? He hated the moon and it’s truth, and how it whispered for him to listen.

It told him that tomorrow, she’d be gone.

That dawn would always come.

But he fought it, rebelled against it, sipping his wine and drinking himself into a daze that lasted long enough for him to see her, to hear her. He stayed in his dark apartment, alone and trapped within the walls of his own home. As if it would change anything. But he couldn’t bear to go outside now, not where she didn’t exist.

He felt his fingers getting pried from her body and looked up at her fading form. It was no easier to say good bye than all the other times. There was no shadow of her as dawn peeked through, and as she vanished, Soul glared at his own. 

He pulled the curtains all the way closed, the force blowing all of the wicks out, and dragged his sober body to bed to sleep away the day, head dizzy and heart burning. His guitar laid on the floor abandoned where he’d sat alone all night, and where he would sit again soon enough. 

The apartment was dark.

It was quiet.

There were no sounds that would ever get him to listen.

Insp. by this song