#still thinking about that

[nightskylersstuff]

Some Canelle content

[revelisms]

He's not a religious man. 

Superstitious, perhaps; spiritual, hardly—but Fate has her ways: claw-tipped fingers blue and demure, weaving chance like a seamstress bobbins thread.

And maybe Vander, the Hound, Zaun, this child—maybe all of it exists as the needle; he, the tear in need of stitching.

A loose thread; a future yet to be sewn.

A patchwork parable: smoke and schemes.

They spoke of his mother like a sickly omen, and his father like a begone spirit, vanished.

They spoke of him like something intangible: a concept, a slip of a butchered tongue, a wash of light from a galaxy gated in smog. Yet his steps hold sound: heavy-footed heels, heel-to-steel-tipped-toe, a graceless carryover of the mines; his clothes hold scents: of the Lanes' sweet-soured stench, of tobacco and juniper leaf, of cedar oil and citrus and clove. 

In the churches, he splits the silence with every stride, and sinks into an empty pew, in an empty hall, incense pluming fragrant off glittering tile and gilded glass and a child's scribble tucked in his pocket, paper pinched half-minded beneath his thumb—and he does not pray.

No, he is not a religious man. 

To be anything near it would be to deny the blood-soaked earth on which he stood: the blood his roots have drank from, his branches have beared fruit from, that his people have devoured: stripped the leaves for their bedding, splintered the branches for their kindling, consumed with the careless abandon of a youth's first harvest—one who has forgotten to sew the next.

(Needle, or thread?)

Most days, he wills himself not to care.

Superstition begs differently.

He will wash his hands thrice, on the mornings the sun shines too cleanly, simmers through jade-paneled glass and sits like a pyre on his cave-chilled scales; he will turn the lamps down low, on the days the storms wash the streets clean; he will keep a gun at his back and a knife at his waist, on the days he feels safe enough, and a dozen more, on the ones he doesn't; he will eat alone, standing, hunched at the open draft of a night burned with neon, before he ever thinks to sit at the kitchen table.

Strange habits. Stranger beliefs.

They say the Sun's a devil of disease, don't you know? That the storms of Jan'ahrem's sleeves are the oldest gods of all. That one ought to wear a bullet for every Sump-layer they cross. That those buried within their bowls may just as soon be buried beneath the rubble.

A canary, they called him. An irony.

Sooner to squawk than to sing; a wingless creature slimed from the Pilt.

A manifest.

Needles and thread.

He sung only at an ivory cast of 88 keys, a girl at his knee and a set of knobby fingertips skipping beneath his own, as the words little girl blue slipped too quietly off the tongue.

He prayed only at the altar of Vander's knees.

In the churches, he leaves his tithes, and slithers off in a prowl of loping boots. Heel-to-toe thud-thudding, hands pocketed, wool sweeping. 

The streets greet their Unholy, their Deliverance, their Own with blind chaos, devouring. Countless lives lived; countless threads, stitched and unraveling.

From his breast pocket, he snaps open a gilded cigarette case, and walks on.

Tobacco weaves through the fibers of his coat.

silco / on prayers

[squirrelthing85]

Sunday at outlaw fest Bob said “Happy birthday ringo. You’re not here but you should be.” And that was real as hell. Ringo should be here…

[storiadinessuno]

To the curly god at the service station - need to warn me up about eye contact so strong, ima need birth control to prepare for such a gaze

[dwtdog]

I’m happy to know dnf will always have each other

always always always

[canisonicscrewyou]

Between the musical numbers and the teasing at Susan it feels like this season so far was tailor made just for 15-year-old-Ryker/Andrew.

Like if you told me back then that one of the new episodes of Dr Who stars Jinkx Monsoon and ends with a big musical number and stuff I would've looked at you and asked outright if you were making fun of me for my special interests.

Anyways.

We are SO back.

[mihai-florescu]

Enstars is not fujo bait it's actually himejoshi bait

[lumeha]

:3c

I'm considering getting a new pokemon tattoo

which one should I go for if I go for it

I actually do have an artist in mind

and well almost a money emergency but hm you know

it's for after all that :3c

[origami-trust]

me: :| my single demon brain cell that determines what goes through my mind at any given time: Four on a barge pole, for me~ my single demon brain cell: ! my single demon brain cell: *downloading update* my single demon brain cell: it's a Pi̵n̷o̵c̴c̸h̴i̸o̶ me: :3

[bnnuy-wabbit]

The barbie movie mad eme feel really good about being a Woman i think

[agnesandhilda]

shoutout to the woman from my high school martial arts class who liked to get me in joint locks and then joke about how I was easy to catch. you cannot comprehend how psychosexually formative that was for me

[tr-shb-g]

"never too late to be who you might have been" by sara yukiko mon | still from i saw the tv glow, "there is still time"

[peachebo]

just me yapping about my au you seemed to like

continuation of this post

[skrunksthatwunk]

see 0 note flop posts aren't that bad when they're personal but 0 note fandom posts feel literally so bad. like if you don't wanna play toys with me anymore just say that. i'll pack up my super cool awesome things and go and i'll sit on the other side of the playground by myself and i won't even look at you. fuck

[captainjonnitkessler]

Sometimes I wish we would start calling out the performative radicalism on this site for the poser bullshit it is. "Remember, it's always morally correct to kill a cop!" "Don't forget to firebomb your local government office!" "Wow, it sure would be a shame if these instructions on how to make a molotov cocktail got spread around!"

Okay. But you're not killing cops or firebombing government offices. You are posting on a dying microblogging website to a carefully-curated echo chamber that has radicalized itself into thinking that taking the absolute most extreme position on any subject is praxis but that anyone discussing the most practical way to effect actual change is your sworn enemy. You do not have the street cred OR the activist cred to be talking about killing cops, babe.

[liquidstar]

If my mom sees a significant amount of blood she gets lightheaded, and has fainted on some occasions. Once it happened when we were kids, I wasn't there to witness it but I heard the story from my dad. Basically my brothers, around 7 or 8 at the time, were playing outside while my mom was making their lunch, and she accidentally cut her finger. It wasn't anything serious, but it drew a fair bit of blood and she passed out. My dad saw this and rushed over, but he didn't really know what to do so he just sort of started slapping her to wake her up (not recommended, but he had no idea and panicked)

At that exact moment my brothers both came in from playing, and all they saw was our mom unconscious on the floor and our dad slapping her. So, like, without even saying a word to each other they both just INSTANTLY start whaling on him, like, full blown attack mode to defend our mom. Which obviously didn't help the situation, but she did wake up and everything was fine.

Now our dad says that he's actually really glad they attacked him over what they thought was going on, because it means he raised good boys. And I still think that's true, they're very good boys.