Latest Posts by einshi - Page 5

an important part about ogata's character is how much he actually loved his mother. for some reason it's a source of argument on certain spaces but i think the og work was clear enough: ogata never learned how to love, so his love is bound to hurt.

neglected as a kid as he was, his mother stopping talking to him at some point during his childhood and spending day and night submerged in her hallucinations and daydreaming of a man who would never come back for her, growing up in poverty and with no other contact than his elderly grandparents, ogata never truly learned how to display love, never even felt as though he received it.

so when he explained "...then one day i fed rat poison to her. i thought that if father truly loved her, he would at least come back to her funeral. but you never came." it's the logic of a kid who wants his mother to be happy, to at least meet the man she loved and so she can go back to her old self who used to sing lullabies to him.

in the end it didn't work.

fast forward years later and skipping the fact he killed his father, because that's a whole other topic, i think his dynamic with asirpa is another big example that he can't properly conceptualize love and often offers "affection" or shows that he "cares" in the same way a cat would bring dead birds or mice to your bed.

ogata shooting wilk is an example of it. wilk, a father whose intention was to send his young girl to lead a war and to her demise, ogata understood killing him as making a favor for her because he did kill his own father, and as he explains "i think patricide is taking a step forward into adulthood" in barato arc, his mind understand this killing as a blessing to her even though she doesn't see it that way.

and throughout the story ogata continously makes offerings like these, because it's logical, that's how it's always been for him, so why shouldn't it be that way for everyone else?

but it's during the bad omen arc - and when the images of the brother he shot during the siege in PA and the girl he's gradually growing fond of as a projection of his own dead brother - that he begins to realize "oh, maybe there IS something wrong with me after all" and he rejects the idea because it scares him, scares him more than anything that love has always existed and that his father could have loved him, could have loved his mother, he just chose not to. and that his mother could have also loved him and he couldn't see it. scares him that love had always been there but never for him.

it's easier to rule out the existence of a sentiment than to admit that he's never received it, that he remains unloved.

A lot of sketches have been piling up since last month… on twitter

𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄  𝐑𝐏  𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒  .  .  .    Set  the  stage  for  lingering  touches,  stolen  glances,  and  words  laced  with  double  meaning.   ✧  ˚₊  Themes:  tension,  teasing  &  unspoken  desire.

✧     ›    HEAT   &   TEASING   .

My  muse  runs  their  fingers  along  your  muse’s  wrist  absentmindedly,  tracing  slow,  lazy  circles.

My  muse  leans  in,  their  breath  warm  against  your  muse’s  skin  as  they  whisper,  “You’re  enjoying  this,  aren’t  you?”

My  muse  grabs  your  muse’s  waist  to  steady  them,  but  doesn’t  move  away  immediately.

My  muse  catches  your  muse  staring  and  smirks,  tilting  their  head.  “See  something  you  like?”

My  muse  playfully  tugs  your  muse’s  necklace/tie/collar,  pulling  them  just  a  little  closer.

My  muse  brushes  their  lips  against  your  muse’s  ear  as  they  murmur  something  just  for  them.

My  muse  traps  your  muse  against  a  wall,  eyes  dark  with  something  unreadable.

My  muse  challenges  your  muse  to  a  game,  but  the  stakes  are…  interesting..

✧     ›    FORBIDDEN  ROMANCE   .

My  muse  stops  your  muse  in  a  dark  hallway,  their  voice  barely  above  a  whisper.  “If  anyone  sees  us—”

My  muse  shoves  your  muse  against  a  wall,  breathing  heavily.  “Tell  me  to  stop,  and  I  will.”

My  muse  lingers  at  your  muse’s  door,  knowing  they  shouldn’t  be  here.  “One  last  time.  That’s  all.”

My  muse  runs  a  hand  down  your  muse’s  arm  before  pulling  away.  “We  can’t  keep  doing  this…  but  I  don’t  want  to  stop.”

My  muse  is  forced  to  work  with  your  muse,  pretending  there’s  nothing  between  them.

My  muse  warns  your  muse  to  stay  away,  but  the  way  they  look  at  them  says  otherwise.

My  muse  kisses  your  muse  in  the  shadows,  knowing  full  well  what  it  would  cost  them  if  they  were  caught.

Gojo will eat any chocolate that Geto receives so keep him in mind when you confess to Geto

𝐏𝐄𝐎𝐏𝐋𝐄 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐀 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

LAST SONG I LISTENED TO : mushroomhead - solitaire

FAVORITE COLOR : black or red

CURRENTLY WATCHING : rewatching a bit of psycho pass while on the treadmill at the gym. sakamoto days too and severance every friday with bestie.

LAST MOVIE ╱ TV SHOW I WATCHED : watched Pearl last weekend. i support women's rights and wrongs. plan to watch X and Maxxine this weekend.

SPICY ╱ SAVORY ╱ SWEET : depends on the food but i'm mostly into spicy things because y'know... 🇲🇽🇲🇽🇲🇽

RELATIONSHIP STATUS : married to makima

LAST THING I GOOGLED : google translate so i could read a vietnamese socmed au on twitter lmao 😭

tagged by: stole this from @altarfates :^) tagging: @limel1ghts @burntpa1ace @lustraveil @psielapki @cymerae

@cursedfell

the different font being used is so amusing to me. also are we sure they havent kissed

kogami is the type who doesn't think much of valentine's chocolates, just accepts them as long as they're friendly but if it comes with a confession he might turn them down or just say a polite thanks.

gojo however is the type to parade around receiving chocolates because he loves sweets even though he's not going to accept any proposal he just wants to eat so that makes him sort of an asshole but no one cares because he's being cute about it.

geto is the type to politely accept chocolates and kindly reject confessions, but he does it so nicely that there's a line of people waiting their turn to be rejected.

as for liu xiao he will disappear that day, he doesn't exist.

“ I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep my promise. I wanted to go into a line of work where I could protect people. That’s why I became a detective. But Makishima changed everything. That man will continue to kill people. And yet, the law can’t judge him. As long as I’m a detective, I can’t touch him. This case made me aware… that the law can’t protect people.” - shinya kougami.​

Happy Birthday, Selle! ♦

fav screenshots of Luka from F I N A L

thinking about how kogami must've felt alone all this time, like time would pass and he'd never be truly seen, all that comes with it, and he'd probably resigned to make do with the world he had at hand but the catalyst to his switch into discovering aspects of himself that hed never thought existed was no other than makishima and even after he's long dead, kogami still invokes his ghost because that's the only person who's ever truly understood him, and by killing him kogami sentenced himself to that cycle of isolation

what's your literary archetype? — tagged by @lustraveil for kogami

the mentor.

you're a natural leader, you've got a specific aura about you that draws people to you. you're smart, not just academically, but worldly smart. people tend to go to you for help and advice, and you're more than happy to help. of course, that also means that you feel like you're a therapist rather than a friend, family, or lover. it can make you feel isolated from everyone else, and i hope that people realize you are human before a teacher.

tagging: @psielapki @limel1ghts @burntpa1ace @sukareo @cymerae @yeonban

rewatching the last ep of s1 because i was trying to find vein / red eyes hints in the scenes where red eyes is present and remembering how liu min is liu xiao’s older brother— i just know that when the two hung out, liu min had to be like “how’s my bitchless bro” seeing that guy take out a fucking shakespeare book at the dining table

To that one meme—!! There’s not just one thing I like about how you play your muses! Your writing is beyond compelling, and you capture all your characters distinct personalities without fail. But a notable thing would be: for Liu Xiao, seeing how you portrayed a character with such little background information other than a brief summary was/is amazing! How you managed to stay true to the personality we see in the show and expand on it where you see fit has me 👁️👁️ I’m glad as our little trio watched the show further, there were those parallels to Makima bc you play her incredibly too! It’s just fun watching you write all your 😈😈😈 muses. I could go on all day with this

AAAAAAAAAAA THANK U SM 🥹🥹🥹 I owe u and Ivy my life for introducing me to Liu Xiao and beat me up to finish link click lmao I wouldn't have continued watching if it weren't for U guys. I ain't forget our faces when lx appeared in the cinema with xf pulling the best Makima move in history HELPPP

I appreciate ur words bc ur one of my fav writers 🫶🫶🫶

@12reset // what is ONE THING you like about the way i play my character?

what is ONE THING you like about the way i play my character?

@cursedfell

My Dark Disquite

You'll forget it when you're dead, and so will I. When I'm dead, I'm going to forget everything–and I advise you to do the same.

Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut

kissing your client enemy while holding them at knife point / a kiss to end sexual tension. @ lx ( -and then xf goes missing…. jk )

wired-shut jaw, the distant throb of his arm. the blade’s kiss around his throat is cold and unyielding, much like the blue fire behind xia fei’s pupils. he feels more than he notices the anger: it leaks through the pores, dark and thick like tar, painting everything the color of the night. liu xiao can only affirm the imprisonment by offering a smile, willful, calm as the breeze: “it isn’t me who you’re looking for. i know you’ve heard about powers, but mine aren’t something so significant that you ought to consider me a prime suspect in vein’s death.”

as if on cue, the very mention of vein’s name garners him a hiss through sharp teeth, knife pressed deeper and more cruelly into tender skin. any more than this and the fibers will give in under the sharpness of it.

liu xiao often thought about fear.

when he was young, and naive, and his brother was still alive, liu min asked him why he wasn’t scared of the dark as he was. they shared the same blood, the same upbringing, so why was it?

is it because you’re younger?

that’s foolish, shouldn’t the older brother be more brave? he’d asked.

it’s instinct, he supposes. he’d come to the conclusion that some people are meant to fear, to feel it as something strictly human. others lay awake in the dark and trembled - not like the first people did but for something else entirely. it’s a simple fact, knowing you have something to lose, something that awaits dormant in a corner that makes it all so terrifying.

loss, pain, regret.

liu xiao doesn’t know what he’s afraid of, but it might have been something less substantial. something that can’t be controlled.

he also knows that he should’ve drawn his own knife.

their figures blend with their surroundings, the alley growing darker and narrower as the sun is engulfed in an array of blue and purple shades, both of them perched in the shadows just out of sight of the main streets and unwitting eyes. if xia fei’s come this far, he could have easily slipped past vein’s monitoring, their defenses and out of the cover of anonymity, given his missing status. but instead he’d come here, looking for answers, body drawn flush and steady against liu xiao’s own that it was almost comical that he hadn’t noticed it before. xia fei is as dangerous a piece on the board as the rest, especially when gaining partial awareness.

“why is that you’ve come, besides asking — well, demanding, information. ” his gaze darts from the knife to xia fei’s expression, wary, so close that he could feel the damp touch of hot breath as it crept along his mouth. his answer comes and he’s not surprised by it: soft lips and a hungry bite, tasting like copper and pounding adrenalin. red blossoms from his wounded lip, making his heart catch in his throat.

what was he afraid of?

not death. not the dark.

the leap that his stomach brings him closer to fear than he’s ever been. so there are other ways - some other way that humans could be hurt that they feared more than dying. dark eyes stare back at xia fei, stained with the usual hues of apathy and quiet amusement - black, unmarred, like gunpowder. the sting of steel against flesh. it’s his own special agony. “why was that? to kill me? you should be more ruthless, i might grow fond of this new you.”

@limel1ghts

it didn’t take a strategist to recognize the advantage presented to their forces. 

the thought had been nagging at him since then, since his eyes laid on the digital shape of the ghost he’d chased for so long. kogami hardly notices the abstract sort of anger that drifts from his grip as an afterthought, subdued as it eases through the quiet of the shared space: “it’ll only be makishima’s grave.”

if only that were true.

he’d lament for the lack of action and pursuit, but he knew better than to rush the persecution. makishima is meticulous, clever, has a tendency for the theatrics and whatnot. making a halfhearted attempt at identifying his whereabouts would cost them more than just kogami’s life or an enforcer’s badge. it’s unfair for anyone else involved, for makishima to be the source of many headaches.

“figured i’d let you know, in case you thought this was going anywhere different.” his attempt at a lighthearted joke isn’t well-received, if the glare flashed in his direction is any indicator.

“i thought we weren’t doing this again.” kogami says, though he knew his words couldn’t possibly be convincing with the festering sickness inside of him, forgotten some days while others were so painfully acute he can barely stand it. time and stubbornness are the only things that numbed him to the painful sense of awareness that he’s no more different than a hungry beast and prey dangling on the limits of his territory. kogami hated himself for it. he hated himself now, too, for mercilessly rubbing salt into old wounds.

talk about selfishness.

“guess i don’t listen.”

kogami’s hand retrieve a second cigarette, caging it between sharp teeth. a lover’s kiss. as if nicotine still needed an invitation. “i don’t know what else to say to that. you’ve got me, gino. it might be my own foolishness which drives me right into the wolf’s den, but at the very least i can say that any progress that’s created a window for me to pass through and bring me one step closer to where i want to be couldn’t have been possible solely with my own efforts.”

he’d tried to keep his voice even; to give off a facade of level-headedness and sensibiliity that he’d tried to maintain since the confirmation of makishima’s existence, but as he swallows coarsely and a bitter aftertaste coats his tongue, kogami thinks that perhaps this hunt, makishima, whatever it is that he’s mapping out across the terrain’s of sybil’s jurisdiction might be driving him a little fucking insane. stiffness sets into his knuckles again, fingers clasped around the lighter. it takes him another second to finally ignite the flame, hues clinging to his features like molten gold. without sparing a second thought, and perhaps testing what’s left of his luck, kogami’s shoe taps lightly at ginoza’s side, for old times’ sake.

“liven up. you can start by punching me in the face if you see me derail too far from the path and be done with it.”

his jaw continues to tighten as he listens, the frustration clearly building. despite that, he does his best to mask it. the words don't seem to strike the chord Kogami might have intended. Part of him can appreciate the vulnerability, but there's a much stronger, overwhelming part of him that still only sees and hears utter betrayal.

"You're sorry," his tone biting as he turns to face him, "do you even understand what that means anymore? or is it just something you say when you know you've gone too far?"

there's a pause, his lips pressing into a thin line as if debating whether or not to even bother continuing. was he worth it? the words are already there, bubbling beneath the surface, ready to spill out. clearly, he's worth it. he exhales sharper, trying to regain some sense of control over the emotions tightening in his chest.

"You speak of Sasayama like his ghost is the only one in the story." his tone sharper, more pointed. "Like the rest of us don't have our own burdens to carry." wasn't that the point? Life being a constant cycle of suffering, and continuing to persevere? "But the difference between you and me, Kogami, is that I'm still trying to make something of this life. While you–" he has to refrain, as the emphasis is with a raised tone, "you're stuck in the past, chasing a memory, a history you can't change. You keep telling yourself this is the only way forward."

much like the story, Moby Dick – like Captain Ahab and his obsessive pursuits.. and if tale goes to show... the consequences of obsesion and the fine line between justice and revenge never end well for the martyr. "but, it's not forward, is it?" his voice wavers a moment, a crack once again, he has to contain himself. "I don't need your apologies. Sasayama's death doesn't give you the exclusive tight to a path of self-destruction."

he steps closer, the tension between them palpable now, "You think you're the only one who's lost someone?" he forces his composure back into place. he'd lost his father and thought of it every time he walked through this damned building. lost his best friend, in more ways than one. but he didn't let it consume. or , so he thinks, anyway.

he turns his head away, shaking it, shoulders taut. "I can't make you care about the people who are still here." him, namely. for a moment it seems like he might stop there, but he glances back at him. his features are suffused with a mix of anger, remorse, and resignation. "I'm tired of burying people who matter to me." he pause a beat. "Don't make me bury you, too."

// @einshi

❛ you’ve broken me. all i can think about is you. ❜ (sugimoto at ogata)

a piece of you for every piece of me.

pain is what he feels first. like the first intake of breath at birth. second comes remembrance, the recollection of moments fluttering in repetition: the arrow, razor-sharp cuts on his face, the vacancy, sugimoto’s voice calling his name and grounding him to reality, to life. ogata’s chests heaves in a desperate attempt at regaining full consciousness and control of his body, limbs gone weak with misuse and the feverish haze blurring every corner keeps him nauseous enough to remain pressed to the makeshift bed.

his throat goes dry, voice rasp and low like sandpaper. “enough.” is all ogata manages to say.

there’s something… something odd in the words that made ogata’s hair stand on end. he’d felt this general unease before: bile accumulating in his mouth, the chill of a ghost in-passing, crawling through their feet. 

they’d faced the ruthless winter in Hokkaido, storms that devoured everything that crossed their path. rampaging wolves, ravenous, a wounded beast with a mouth covered in fangs. sugimoto isn’t so different from it. he’d sunk his teeth deep into flesh, rip apart anything that made him hungry enough, and in that manner, ogata could find a strange affinity for whatever this static was, between them. but anything beyond that mirroring ambition — for the gold, or the appetite for destruction —, turned every passing second into a reminder that he should’ve killed him, that he should’ve made sure that sugimoto wouldn’t come back and root himself in the back of his mind.

the warmth of sugimoto’s body half-pressed against him floods him with unnerving, pristine clarity: their proximity, the way silence seems so loud and piercing when all he can hear is the pounding in his head, sweat gone cold. 

he can smell sugimoto, the scent of blood and deer innards, the scent of a monster, the same as he is.

not this, what he’s pretending to be, what he’s pretending they can be as though the mere hint of normalcy can strip away every sin that keeps him awake and haunted. 

the asymmetry of sugimoto’s scar comes into clear view, air gone thick and heavy; ogata’s hand moves by reflex, wrenching sugimoto’s jaw away from his face, gaining him the opposite effect: sugimoto is wide awake, eyes flashing gold in the dark, arm pinning down ogata with as much ceremony as taking down cattle.

ogata laughs, mirthless, head thrown back and eye rolling back to his skull, delirium and exhaustion ebbing at the dregs of his consciousness.

“i said enough. i don’t know what kind of game you think you’re playing, but creeping up on people in their sleep is foul play even for someone like you.”

words drag on sluggishly between rasps and morphine, what’s left of it in his system, weak. it’s not as threatened as it is pitiful, the mournful cry of a wounded animal. ogata attempts to focus his attention back on sugimoto’s scars, his amber eyes, the crease of his eyebrows drawn up in confusion. this is what he prefers, this is what he knows best. anger is easy, predictable. “we’re not in the trenches, i’m sure you can ask someone a little more lively to take care of your needs for you. unless this is the kind of thing you’re into.”

@lustraveil

nobody asked but i tried to practice coloring with vein because i love his design

how many ppl do you think he can hide under his coat

me watching you reblog our old satosugu like:

Stop smiling and bring back gojo I am no longer asking @crucifor

not me getting notifs that you rbed our thread thinking i was getting more tojisugu content........

Worry not I will make tojisugu real even if it's the last thing I do before collapsing on the floor, geto will get his birthday death today @inverteds

long time no see, my son

mother?

skrch

a print of this is available!

*

day bled into night, unusually warmer than the previous days, making it easier to smell the humidity off the soil and grass within the first minutes of darkness. it’s the perfect combination to make insects of all kind drop their guard, like now. 

suguru stands below the lamplights, only a step away from the vending machines and his face is lit with the artificial lights but he doesn’t mind the reflection. his attention is focused on his palm, which lays open in the air as he watches a big, brown moth land on its surface. a piece of its wing is missing - bitten off, more like. the little thing struggles to even reach a vertical line with them, before they collapse back at its sides.

this place is full of broken things, he thinks.

sorcerers were a rare breed and so much rarer it was to make them submit to the rules and formalities of jujutsu society as it was. yaga’d been vocal about it, just the right amount to keep them aware, but leaving out any personal bias that could put him in a bad position with the higher ranks. they pulled boys and girls from across the country, the dregs of sorcery, until they filled up the classrooms with the bare minimum attendance. he figured they brought Haibara from the countryside, judging his accent. Nanami? he supposed a witch or two could be traced back in the family tree. if the letter came now, he doubted it would convince him the same way it did back then.

bitterness coats his tongue in a dull flavor. his fingers curl instinctively and the moth is crushed beneath. it’s late when he notices, the creature resembling pieces of torn paper, no hint of its previous nature. suguru clicks his tongue and wipes the remains lazily against his pants.

he hears more than he notices footsteps coming from behind. he’s pulled from his position before he can do anything about it, ‘  satoru? ’ 

stale air is replaced by a familiar scent, the solidness of a body pressed against his back and satoru’s arms are fast to wound around his waist. needy? probably, but he doesn’t mind. his gestures have the petulance of a kid whose favorite toy has been returned to him, though he knows satoru’s attachment has more depth to it than ownership. suguru’s head tilts only slightly, until he can make out the messy hair haloed by the moonlight.

‘  did yaga send you to find me? or are you that enthusiastic for conversation? both seem likely.  ’  he lets out

❝ yeah, yeah ⸻ they called me in for this. ❞

leone's arms uncross, expression disgruntled. he hates doing jobs for the school, but money is money, as long as they're not expecting him to beat up a damned grade 1 or worse on his own. but, that's what contracts are for ⸻ covering his pathetic ass so that this grown adult can be chaperoned while he does his job.

sorcerers are usually capable of conducting their own investigations, but there's no denying that when leone's cursed technique is useful, it's useful.

still, he's decidedly glad to be such a pain in the ass to the school in turn. he's known @vzmky since his unemployed days of sitting on stoops and drinking himself into a spiraling stupor, and as much as he's actually come to like his company, a special grade companion means a ridiculous job.

❝ you still carry that lighter around ? pass it here, will ya ? apparently, i'm gonna need it. ❞

💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋💋 from gojo for geto

the gentleness is only temporary.

lips that slowly caress his cheek, the ghost of fingers trailing down the length of his sleeves, a touch so experimental and comically innocent he just has to laugh. then, as if on cue with the humor, satoru dives in deeper, goes hungrily about it. greediness turned force: suguru walks back twice, back hitting the wall and he allows satoru the brief sense of victory before he rolls them back to their initial position.

‘ behave. ’ his voice is soft, chilling, a knife cutting through the silence of the night. he looks satoru up and down, taking in the sight as it is offered to him - lips coated in spit, flushed skin, expectant eyes and arrogant smile, confident that suguru knew what to do.

and he did.

suguru guides him close, guides him in.

their bodies are pressed flush in a second, fitting like they were meant to be and that’s how it’s been for a decade now. he splits satoru’s mouth open, thumbing at the edge of sharp teeth, forcing his tongue in. vaguely sweet, warm and wet, and it only got wetter and warmer the further he teased. there’s some biting, too, because he’s not used to anything that doesn’t hurt a little, a reminder that none of this is an illusion, that they’ll always return to this, to what they know best.

he shakes the thought, focusin on the sensations, feeding him, stuffing his mouth until he can’t go without air any longer and break apart. ‘ haa… needy, aren’t we? ’

‘ do something about that mask of yours. unless you want to keep it on, i won’t stop you. however… ’ suguru hooks a finger in, uncommitted, but teasing all the same, ‘ you’d do better getting on your knees. fits the looks, don’t you agree? ’

@chipen

❛ You cannot know how frightened gods are of pain. There is nothing more foreign to them, and so nothing they ache more deeply to see. ❜ pspsp from gojo

@chipen // BOOK STARTERS VOL.56    CIRCE    MADELINE MILLER

his eyes travel across the mountains on the other side of the glass, the wagons rattling with their metallic sound as the city retreats and disappears in the corner. rarely does satoru follow, busy as he is on solo missions, so between the growing mountain of curses disposed by his hand and perfection of his reverse cursed technique, there’s hardly any chance for their paths to cross for longer than a brief glance or a good morning, have you eaten? wave.

satoru’s voice lures him in and out of his thoughts.

frightened. i don’t think i’ve ever seen you truly scared. he doesn’t say.

‘ hah, isn’t that funny to hear. you’re a half-god yourself. ’ prodding at his ego is easier, so he goes for that, masking the tiredness weighing down his shoulders with a low chuckle, voice gone soft, ‘ …going in headfirst does little to keep pain at bay, that much is obvious. you don’t seem all that affected by it - the pain. might be part of being made of halfsies. ’

suguru finds the irony amusing, a sort of innocent arrogance that never fails to paint a smile on his face as he listens to satoru ramble on. this time, though, it leaves a bitter aftertaste. it’s partly distance — the division that separates a god from human, strength from anything broken —, the other bigger part is despondence and it’s getting harder to hide it behind the illusion of a fox-like smile. some days, his muscles don’t follow, frozen into an expression that he can hardly call indifference because the embers of something akin to anger linger.

this time it spills, briefly, not enough to stain the room but just enough to rekindle the conversation, words rasp like sandpaper, ‘ what does it take to make you into a God, then? the fear, having something that scares you to death, or wanting it more than anything else? you don’t have to answer, i’m just wondering. ’

#me erasing the stitches so i can see my princess

mother