🟢 You are still a writer even when you haven't written in a while.
🟢 You are still a writer even when you feel like you aren't writing enough.
🟢 You are still a writer when you feel like your work isn't good.
🟢 You are still a writer when other people don't like your work.
🟢 You are still a writer when you aren't published.
🟢 You are still a writer when you only have works in progress.
🟢 You are still a writer if all you write is fanfiction.
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can’t blame vampires for gettin erotic. you’re already suckin on someone’s neck but also your natural state is Cold and the bloods all fresh and warm and addicting like hot cocoa but sexy
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Hello, Ray!
For the expression challenge, how about No. 3 with General Lilia?😁 I just find it so adorable to see him flustered❤️
I love that really, he look so cute with such expression X"D 💕💕💕
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Daughter, you have barely touched your killing and murder. What is wrong? Is it not good?
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"the narrative is going to kill you!" "the narrative loves you!" have you considered; the narrative loves you so much that it's killing you. you want to escape but it smothers you and swallows you whole.
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they did not appreciate my longsword technique at the job interview
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ive always thought loam was such a beautiful word. its ratio of soft consonants to vowels is incredible.
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Gucci Teal Blue Velvet Cape
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diasomnia month // prompt 08 — spring
death had been kinder as of late.
forget-me-nots carpet graves almost as soon as the marker has been set in place, a dreamy cushion of blue to ease the aching grief of gathered loved ones. the soldiers fallen in the fields glimpse one final sight of their ravaged bodies cradled by poppies, effervescent and sweet, before they depart for the afterlife— a strange sense of peace to comfort their violent souls. and for the animals, the gentle creatures who nestle in the arms of the earth to return home, a bower of weeping willows with a green-pearled curtain to shelter them in their final hours.
as the heir to their immortal kingdom, such unusual blessings did not go unnoticed from malleus' keen supervision.
he has known the god of the dead for far beyond the mortal realm's ability to comprehend, and lilia has persisted for millennia beyond even malleus' incredible existence. it is not an existence that he is particularly boastful about, though many gods would be— malleus knows of private conversations that he was not meant to hear, of lilia's despair at the endurance of his belief, when malleus' own mother was cast down into the terror of obscurity by the ever-changing whims of humanity. as such, he knows that lilia regards the humans they are meant to shepherd with a sense of bitter apathy; it is not hard to understand, even share his beliefs, when humanity continues to devour itself with senseless wars, the lives of themselves and gods in the invisible balance.
so it is more than peculiar, strange even, that lilia should be taking such an active interest in the weeping and wailing of the very people he despises. and such abnormality calls for a visit— an unprompted one, by the prince of all gods, who prided himself on his ability to prepare for even the worst of circumstances.
(could it be? had lilia finally left for whatever great unknown that awaited gods, had the absence carved into his immortal soul by the loss of malleus' mother and father finally poisoned him so, his duties now carried on by some new and unfamiliar cult figure?)
all of this, malleus was prepared to accept.
malleus was not, however, prepared to find the god of the dead, the lord of the very underworld himself, frolicking in a field of wildflowers with a child laughing and bouncing gleefully on his hip, with baby fat fingers fisted into locks of shadow-slick hair and a smile bright enough to rival the sun.
a child, bearing the blessing of lilia's godly might— a child, malleus realizes with awe and an eerie sense of impending doom, whose very blood sings with lilia's own ichor.
a demi-god.
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it's so wild that the best lyric in pop music history ("tell your boyfriend / if he says he's got beef / that I'm a vegetarian and I ain't fuckin scared of him") and the worst lyric in history ("do the hellen keller and talk with yo hips") are both from the same song ("DONTTRUSTME" by 3OH!3). just. crazy how that works
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Casa Galimberti, Milano, Italia.
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