fake edit tag

3

running with all of my brothers
i always wonder how far we could go
if we could break through the ceiling above us
there’d be no point of us looking below

8

make me choose!

Real Frank Rants or Fake Frank Rants?
requested by Anonymus

yeah so i have a gta cow chop au up on ao3 and i have just now gotten to telling tumblr about it, whoops. but i made a thing for it. im gonna just leave a link for ya here. its called Abate

i have forgotten how to be gentle, i think, or else i’m a different kind of gentle now. the kind of gentle that can kill. the kind of gentle that asks to be killed.

i’m the kind of gentle that begs everything that’s listening for death but it doesn’t come, or it does but then i wake up not knowing where i am, my bedroom or yours, or the bottom of the ocean and it’s not fair, do you hear me, it’s not fair to want something so bad and only get to taste it—


i think i’m the poorly-executed drawing on the fridge of the universe and god’s too sadistic to take it down. saying look at this, look at what you did, look at what you are, look at it forever.


i crawl into your bed because it’s the closest i can get to dying anymore. i crawl into your bed for all the romantic gestures like gentle choking, gentle bruising,


i think you know that.


how i use you for pain and not pleasure, or sometimes both, sometimes, if i want it to really hurt. if i think i deserve it. you say i’m too young to feel this way and i say i’ll get older, i say when i grow up i want to be a corpse six feet under so you can walk over my body, dirt in my eyes, seeing nothing.


i think i have forgotten how to be gentle. i think i’m sorry.

—  e.k.t., “leave bruises or just leave” (@slaughtervoid, @p-ercolating)
Icarus Wasn’t the Only One With Hubris

A/N: warning for major character death. aka why i shouldn’t listen to sad songs

The story was never about the sun. The story was never about flying too high or too low. It was the story of freedom. The story of a moment of joy and a moment of grief. Of a father loosing his son to the ocean grave as they covered the body and carried it down below.  Of a father freeing the son in the first place. Freeing him to his ultimate destruction.

If the Golden Boy was Icarus, flying too close to the sun, reaching out with curious fingers on brilliant wings, then Ramsey was Daedalus. The one who created the Golden Boy, the one who took the wax and feathers in his hands and showed him how they melded together. Who led the flight, who gave warning but didn’t think to look back. Didn’t think to make sure he listened. Didn’t think of the doom he was leading them towards.

Keep reading