kaisollisto

[kaisollisto]

🙂‍↕️a baby

(I tried to draw Isha 🏃)

[kaisollisto]

🙂‍↕️a baby

(I tried to draw Isha 🏃)

[kaisollisto]

Beatrice grew up with knife in hand. Tightly held, knuckles whitening. There's your anger. Release it. Release it.

It was moulded against the shape of her palm. Her mother would adjust her posture by a single tap against a surface. Practised in. All a part of the act. Her father would make her lift her head higher and she would hide her hands behind her back where the resentment lay. She would pretend the gesture didn't make the blood drip down her fingers.

It made her ache. For the acknowledgement of her father and the acceptance of her mother.

She never got it.

The good thing about it, because she needed to believe she got something good out of it – was that she grew skilled at using it to her advantage.

It kept people at a distance. Knives glint, so do her eyes. In warning, in desperation. Don't come closer. (Please do.)

She carried it through her time in boarding school, quiet and on guard. She learned in time that there was more than one use for it. Authority liked someone who they could control. Who could take every order with a small nod of their head and rise of their shoulders. She learned that it kept others away. Good.

If she could not be wanted, she would be needed.

The OCS needed her to fight. Finally she could fight. She could lay her knife before God and pray for forgiveness. He would make her pick it up again. Rise. With bruised knees and scarred knuckles. Be useful.

Her bones ached with every hit. Doesn't matter. Hold on. Her hands shook from the hours upon hours of practice, repetition of the clash. Repeat it. The knife gives you purpose. The knife makes you useful. Be useful.

You need to hold on.

Don't ever let go.

She had no doubt of the latter until a woman who beamed, breathtaking, like the sun, (could she be the sun?) Nudged her hand open, finger by finger and made the knife fall.

It clattered, rattling through her lungs – to the floor.

Beatrice despised her for it. No. No. But God did it to scare her.

“You can relax, Bea. We choose this location for a reason, right? There's no danger here.”

You're wrong. She wanted to say, bite. You're the danger. Everything unravels when you're around and I am not strong enough to handle it.

The church in Switzerland was fifteen minutes away by foot. Beatrice slid out of bed, stiff to the bone from having Ava's body against her – warm, so, so, warm. Burning. Perhaps it was the halo. She had to look into that.

Ava didn't notice her leave, or at least she didn't acknowledge it the many times it happened.

Beatrice came before God empty handed. What else did she have if not the knife? What else was she if she couldn't grip it?

She quickly realised Ava reached for everything. In the need for touch. In the need to feel. She took her hand one day and squeezed.

Beatrice squeezed back, lungs rattling in replay.

Oh, this will be her downfall.

But she would hold on. She would hold on.

Let her burn. Let this be her destruction. For it, at least, would always be warmer than the blade.

[kaisollisto]

Beatrice grew up with knife in hand. Tightly held, knuckles whitening. There's your anger. Release it. Release it.

It was moulded against the shape of her palm. Her mother would adjust her posture by a single tap against a surface. Practised in. All a part of the act. Her father would make her lift her head higher and she would hide her hands behind her back where the resentment lay. She would pretend the gesture didn't make the blood drip down her fingers.

It made her ache. For the acknowledgement of her father and the acceptance of her mother.

She never got it.

The good thing about it, because she needed to believe she got something good out of it – was that she grew skilled at using it to her advantage.

It kept people at a distance. Knives glint, so do her eyes. In warning, in desperation. Don't come closer. (Please do.)

She carried it through her time in boarding school, quiet and on guard. She learned in time that there was more than one use for it. Authority liked someone who they could control. Who could take every order with a small nod of their head and rise of their shoulders. She learned that it kept others away. Good.

If she could not be wanted, she would be needed.

The OCS needed her to fight. Finally she could fight. She could lay her knife before God and pray for forgiveness. He would make her pick it up again. Rise. With bruised knees and scarred knuckles. Be useful.

Her bones ached with every hit. Doesn't matter. Hold on. Her hands shook from the hours upon hours of practice, repetition of the clash. Repeat it. The knife gives you purpose. The knife makes you useful. Be useful.

You need to hold on.

Don't ever let go.

She had no doubt of the latter until a woman who beamed, breathtaking, like the sun, (could she be the sun?) Nudged her hand open, finger by finger and made the knife fall.

It clattered, rattling through her lungs – to the floor.

Beatrice despised her for it. No. No. But God did it to scare her.

“You can relax, Bea. We choose this location for a reason, right? There's no danger here.”

You're wrong. She wanted to say, bite. You're the danger. Everything unravels when you're around and I am not strong enough to handle it.

The church in Switzerland was fifteen minutes away by foot. Beatrice slid out of bed, stiff to the bone from having Ava's body against her – warm, so, so, warm. Burning. Perhaps it was the halo. She had to look into that.

Ava didn't notice her leave, or at least she didn't acknowledge it the many times it happened.

Beatrice came before God empty handed. What else did she have if not the knife? What else was she if she couldn't grip it?

She quickly realised Ava reached for everything. In the need for touch. In the need to feel. She took her hand one day and squeezed.

Beatrice squeezed back, lungs rattling in replay.

Oh, this will be her downfall.

But she would hold on. She would hold on.

Let her burn. Let this be her destruction. For it, at least, would always be warmer than the blade.

[kaisollisto]

vintage televisions and computers

[kaisollisto]

A baby pangolin is born quite helpless, other than the ability to suckle and cling. Until the baby is big enough to travel on its on, a mother pangolin will tote it around on her tail.

Images: Firdia Lisnawati

[kaisollisto]

I'm popping up this random Tuesday to share a few reminders with my fellow fanfic writers

Even your favorite authors had to work hard to get good. We are all awful writers until we decide to improve and take steps.

Every day is an opportunity to be a better writer than you were yesterday if you put in a little work

The love for your works must start with you. Be your own biggest fan

You're allowed to write at your pace.

its okay to embrace some "imperfections" in your writing. Imperfection is part of art because it makes you unique.

It's okay to let go of the writer you were yesterday. Change is normal and it's okay. You're still awesome and your new work will still have an audience. It's okay to look fondly upon a past you perceive as your "glory days" but don't let that make you insecure. Your heart of a writer and your creative talent remain true. Embrace the writer you've become and confidently run with it

Any story you come up with, and your writing style are both special and precious because it's your art

its okay to crave validation and compliments for your fanfic-writing. You poured your blood, sweat and tears into it like any other artist.

No matter how you feel about your writing, it is special because no one can do it like you.

It's okay to be satisfied with just being a fanfic writer. Having amazing writing talent doesn't mean you must force yourself to write original works or to be published.

Fuck AI

[kaisollisto]

A brief one-shot to start the year off right! (I will be circling back to the hallmark au shortly, I promise!) This was based on the prompt: Stars and Light for Wyper. If anyone is interested in sending me some prompts I’m happy to take them :) happy reading and thank you!!!

[kaisollisto]

[kaisollisto]

accidentally caused myself to get a stomach ache by vividly imagining myself eating the burger i was planning on having for dinner tomorrow

[kaisollisto]

Computer Science major here, it's not working because the computer doesn't respect you. download viruses on it to remind it who's boss.

follow for more tits

[kaisollisto]

(Based off of the reality of having a metal ring in your back as a constant reminder of your fate and how that affects you as a person set in the Switzerland arc)

“Does it hurt?” 

Ava’s pressed face down into the pillow sleep curling around her limbs. She hums, she can’t remember what she says, she’s exhausted. Her arms are tangled beneath her pillow. She holds her fingers tightly between each other, her bones ache from the pressure but her hands no longer shake. Ava hasn’t experienced this before, a fear that haunts her at night. (She finds she cannot stop dreaming about dying. It’s stifling in the cover of night trying to figure out where she is.) 

She slowly opens her eyes and squints in the darkness. Beatrice is facing her a furrow in her brow that Ava knows she’s doing unconsciously. Ava’s lip quirks a smidgen, Beatrice looks funny. It’s a bit silly to her, Beatrice no doubt working out a solution to an unknown problem that Ava has yet to see in the middle of the night. In her sleepy state she wants to laugh at the imaginary cogs churning in Beatrice’s head. 

Beatrice scooches closer and Ava panics, her skin can taste the dust of Bea’s forearm. She hoists herself up on her elbows, turning to face Beatrice. “Wha?” Ava’s shaking off bits of sleep from her mouth when Beatrice repeats herself. 

“Does the Halo hurt?” 

She doesn’t know if she wants to answer that. Ava peers over Beatrice squinting at the harsh light of the digital clock on Beatrice’s side. Ava loves it, it reminds her of the early 2000’s and the aesthetic of waking up to an alarm to go somewhere. The clock blinks an innocent 1:43 Am, and Ava debates on letting her head thump back down. 

She turns her body on her side, she can feel the halo shifting in her back and it makes her want to throw up. The sides of the halo press against her shoulder blades and Ava resists the urge to yank it out. She grits her teeth and settles ignoring the skin of her back pulling tight to accommodate for the ring. Beatrice is still expecting an answer and Ava can’t lie to her, she pulls the covers of the sheet up to her chest hoping to bide more time for an answer. 

"Everything hurts Bea," Ava smiles, "getting my ass handed to me is hard work."

Beatrice frowns displeased but looks at her through her lashes, it's unguarded, the stress and worries of the world stay out of their room in the dead of night. Her lashes are so pretty and Ava wants to curse the soft glow of the moon. There’s just enough moonlight to illuminate her eyes but overshadow her freckles. Ava swallows down the taste of defeat, she can’t win, she thinks. 

Her gaze is soft, Beatrice is looking at her and it’s different yet the same. The same feeling in her chest constricting her lungs, the same soft gaze of Beatrice. Beatrice who likes what she sees in Ava when Ava can barely see where she begins. She doesn’t like to dwell on it, the truth of the matter being what belongs to Ava.

If she closes her eyes she can pretend just a little longer. She can give herself the hope of the future and what comes after all this. She can put down the fighting and the artifact and live. Ava doesn't want to think about it anymore, at least not tonight when Beatrice is here with her. 

Beatrice is soft. She knows it from hours and hours of training. She's felt it when Beatrice corrects her form, in the way she talks. She speaks from a place of care like she has turned the harsh words in her brain over and over to soften the syllables spoken to Ava. And Ava doesn't linger on it, the meaning behind it, (Ava didn't think she'd make it this far, finding a person who cares quite like Bea does.)

And Ava's got it bad, she knows she's fucked because Beatrice doesn’t say anything about her language and Ava can't not tell her the truth. She looks down, her hand fiddling with the bed sheet underneath them. 

"It doesn't hurt," if she thinks about it she can feel the fibers of the cotton between the pads of her fingers. "But it's very uncomfortable." She doesn't want to find the response in Beatrice's eyes, content to hear it from her voice. The soft British lilting accent that holds her just as soft as a touch. 

She waits, she can picture Bea’s mannerisms with her eyes closed but maybe she should check just to be sure. Ava peers up at Beatrice and she’s suddenly closer. Her eyes really are pretty, there’s a depth to them that Ava wants to spend an ungodly amount of time studying.

“Can I help?”

[kaisollisto]

every time I do a web search, right at the top I have AI info dumping on me

just give me the top result please

[kaisollisto]

would you put a discarded fruit sticker on my forehead in whimsical jest yes or no

[kaisollisto]

If I ask nicely will people reblog this and tell me what their most common breakfast is? Not your favorite necessarily, just what you have for breakfast most frequently? 🙏🏽

[kaisollisto]

Smooching notes~!

So the people on Twitter seemed to find my notes very useful, So I am sharing them to you guys as well

have fun!