#Creep Chromatic

[thesearenotphotographs]

Red Bull Culture Clash NYC 2024

On Saturday, June 1, 2024, the latest edition of Red Bull Culture Clash took place in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Four crews competed in four rounds to win over the crowd, with each team representing an annual NYC parade. There were decibel readings for each team after every round and the team with the most points would be crowned the winner.

The four crews were Remezcla (Puerto Rican Day parade), Papi Juice (Pride Parade), Eastern Standard Times (Lunar New Year), and No Long Talk (West Indian Parade). I was assigned to document NLT’s stage, which I was super excited about since my father was from Jamaica and I went to many West Indian Parades growing up. The final round had the crews bringing out special guests and it was pretty tough to beat No Long Talk’s surprise guests: YG Marley and Wyclef Jean. NLT also brilliantly handed out noisemakers to their supporters to help them be the loudest.

There’s a few images on my website here, plus a recap on the Red Bull website here, and a few more images on their Instagram accounts here and here.

[honeywyrdie]

Divine Flesh

part 1 {part 2} {part 3}

Priest Jeongin x Fem Reader

summary: When he took his vow of celibacy, Jeongin was so confident that he'd always be strong in the face of temptation. Nothing could get in the way of his devotion... Until he laid eyes on you. There was something...unnatural about his desire for you. /// word count: 1.5k /// genre: smut, angst /// warnings: priest kink, sexual themes, hierophilia, corruption kink, masturbation, shame and guilt, straight up blasphemy a/n: I didn't grow up catholic but somehow I ended up with a priest kink anyway? I did my research as best I could, but there's bound to be inaccuracies. This will be a 3 part fic for the spooky season <3 if you'd like to be added to the taglist, reply to this post or send me a DM!

(⁄ ⁄•⁄ω⁄•⁄ ⁄)⁄

I have only posted this here and on AO3 - user: spookwyrdie

The mist outside clings to the stained glass windows, turning the translucent colors opaque. It’s a small, narrow window, only the image of the cross surrounded by a chromatic, patterned web. It feels so much more solid today on this cold morning, no sunlight filtering through the multicolored panes of glass. Jeongin tried to keep his focus on it, counting the hues, to distract himself. Though he could feel the chill seeping in through his robe as he held the basket of communion wafers, he had something uncomfortable smoldering in his chest. He felt an impure warmth creeping up his neck beneath the crisp white clergy collar.

You are in line. He hasn’t seen you come up for communion in weeks. When he wasn’t paying attention, you must have finally confessed some mortal sin to the aging Father Park.  As he avoids your eyes, he wonders in vain what the nature of your sins are. A small, impious part of him hopes they’re carnal. But here you are, eyes locked onto him any time he glanced away from handing the body of Christ to another parishioner. 

You wear a serene smile on your face - unbothered, reserved, and almost shy - innocently fluttering your eyelashes like a fawn licking dew off of a leaf. How could you look so virtuous after the things you did with him, to him, in his dreams? The way he’s seen those eyes look down at him from above with a dusty pink glow so many times, he felt like he could paint them from memory. Jeongin felt a bolt of hot shame drive through his heart like a nail. It wasn’t your fault that he met you every night after he fell asleep as you did wicked things with your hands, your lips, your tongue in his dreams. 

He had only moved to this small parish in the middle of nowhere a few months ago, settling into the provincial town easily. But for the last few weeks, his slumber has been plagued by visions of you on your knees, on your back, on his mouth. He’ll jolt awake in the middle of the night, panting with need, cock hard and leaking. Once he awoke to find himself desperately fucking his hips into his mattress. It made him feel like a schoolboy again with a wild, uncontrollable need. You make him feel out of control.

You walk down the aisle towards him, hands together, eyes hooded. Jeongin could swear he saw a faint dusty pink flare in your pupils, but he dismisses it outright. He’s imagining things he wants to see, and he wants to see you glowing.

You only take your eyes off of him for a second to bow in reverence. The way you step towards him makes time nearly stop. Everything moves in slow motion before Jeongin’s eyes as you kneel on the threadbare hassock. It’s as if the air between the two of you shivers, almost like the heat of a flame bending light around it. Your supple form in your modest clothes, he’s imagined what lies beneath a few thin layers of fabric and his eyes. You’re so close to him, eyes closed as you tilt your head up. His eyes flit around your face as he takes in all the small details: a wayward freckle in your cheek, a minuscule scar on your chin, the delicate curve of your lips. You look up into his eyes, peeking beneath your eyelashes.

“The b-body of Christ…” he stammers. 

Your eyebrows crinkle upwards with what could be called a worried expression, but the way your eyes sparkle makes you look like you’re teasing him. Jeongin feels frozen, his feet screaming at him to run but his heart gluing him to the spot. A slow smile dawns on your face before you lean forward, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out to receive the dry little wafer. Your soft pink tongue rests on your lower lip as you stare up at him, waiting for his next move. 

Jeongin would do anything to feel that tongue. That tongue that his sleeping mind tells him is wet, hot, and skilled. He lifts the wafer, gingerly placing it on your tongue, lingering for as long as he’ll allow himself before anyone can get suspicious. 

He begins to pull away when he feels it. He feels a gentle pressure, the lightest kitten lick of your tongue over the tip of his thumb. His eyes go wide, pupils flaring with the sudden urge to claim you. It takes all the effort in the world not to dip his thumb into your mouth - the mere thought has arousal hurtling through his body, clenching his abdominal muscles. That coy smile is still on your face when you finally turn away, sauntering back to your seat. To Jeongin, each step feels like it singes the carpet underneath your feet, the image of your swaying hips imprinting in his chest.

It’s all he thinks about when he’s in the shower later. The icy temperature does nothing to calm his nerves as his flushed, hard cock bobs at the thought of you. Somehow, he made it through the rest of Mass without anyone catching on to the light sweat that prickled his skin. The focus he had on slow breathing during Father Kim's sermon was the only thing standing between him and a tent in his slacks in front of the whole congregation. 

Father Kim noticed that he seemed tense and gave Jeongin the rest of the day off to meditate on what bothered him. After thanking him, Jeongin practically ran back to his living space - the small studio with one spacious bathroom. Feverishly ripping his collar off, unbuttoning his shirt, and kicking off his slacks, he hopped into his shower. Blasting his body with frigid water seemed like the right thing to do. He yelped, arching his back as his skin screamed at the rapid change in temperature.

This is good, this is what he needs. He needs some sort of distraction from thinking about you. He took his vow of chastity very seriously, but today was putting his commitment to the test. Jeongin didn’t have a ton of experience, but he wasn’t a virgin before he took the cloth. He was so confident that he had a handle on any sort of temptation laid before him, no carnal desire could overpower his devotion to the Lord and his duty to the church. 

No temptation, that is, until you. 

The guilt slammed through him as arousal thrummed in his blood. The first time he laid eyes on you, kneeling for a prayer during his first Mass in the new parish, caught him completely off guard. There was something so magnetic about you - the way your hair fell on your brow, the slight pursing of your lips as you prayed, the delicate clasp of your hands around your rosary. You were breathtaking, but it wasn't until you smiled at him that he felt chained to you, fully at your mercy.

 The bitter cold of the water sends stinging shivers through his body and settle at the base of his spine. Building more pressure in his pelvis, he finds his hips shaking as he grows hard, trying to control the thrusting of his hips at the thought of you. He hasn’t been this sensitive to lust ever before in his life. The way your plush lips framed your tongue as you presented it to him… he hisses. His skin is buzzing as if every nerve ending is lit up like a neon sign.

Jeongin starts whispering the only prayer that comes to mind at the moment in an attempt to pull himself back from the edge of insanity. 

Hail Mary, full of grace -

He leans his forehead against the cool blue tile of his shower wall, closing his eyes trying to focus on the words.

The Lord is with thee - 

The cold water pouring against his skin isn’t enough to cool him down, he feels like his body is on fire. Pressing his upper body towards the shower wall, he gasps the next line of his prayer as his nipples come into contact with the chilled tile, pebbling at the sensation. 

Blessed are thou amongst women -

He doesn’t know when his hand found its way down to his cock, but he cries out at the contact, bucking his hips into his fist. He’s so hard, it’s almost painful. The tip of his cock a ruddy color as it throbs in his hand. 

And blessed is the fruit of thy womb - 

“Jesus!” he huffs, his hand picking up speed, chasing his sacrilege to its inevitable end. The haunting image of your eyes, glowing that faint dusty pink, flashes in his mind again.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners - 

His stomach curls, sliding down to the shower floor on his knees. His balls tighten, his hips pistoning his cock into his hand. He can’t control the whimpers leaving his mouth now, he’s almost past his breaking point. He thinks about your pink tongue, glistening in low light, pressing the tip against his thumb.

Now and at the hour of our death.

He cries out as his body convulses, his orgasm pulsing through him. It’s electric, he feels his hair stand on end. Thick ropes of white splatter against the shower wall, the shower quickly washing away any evidence of his sin. 

“Amen,” he sobs, slumping over in defeat, his hair clinging to his cheek as the water continues to pour over him. His vow of celibacy shattered in a single instant.

~~~

{part 2} {part 3}

if you'd like to be a part of the taglist, reply to this post or send me a DM! <3

[reasonsforhope]

"Lead is a neurotoxin; it causes premature deaths and lifelong negative effects. It’s said “there is no safe level of lead exposure” — as far as we know, any lead causes damage, and it just gets worse the more exposure there is.

After a 20-year, worldwide campaign, in 2021 Algeria became the final country to end leaded gasoline in cars — something the US phased out in 1996. That should make a huge difference to environmental lead levels. But lots of sources remain, from car batteries to ceramics...

Bangladesh phased out leaded gasoline in the 1990s. But high blood lead levels have remained. Why? When researchers Stephen Luby and Jenny Forsyth, doing work in rural Bangladesh, tried to isolate the source, it turned out to be a surprising one: lead-adulterated turmeric.

Turmeric, a spice in common use for cooking in South Asia and beyond, is yellow, and adding a pigment made of lead chromate makes for bright, vibrant colors — and better sales. Buyers of the adulterated turmeric were slowly being poisoned...

But there’s also good news: A recent paper studying lead in turmeric in Bangladesh found that researchers and the Bangladeshi government appear to have driven lead out of the turmeric business in Bangladesh.

How Bangladesh got serious about lead poisoning

The researchers who’d isolated turmeric as the primary cause of high blood lead levels —working for the nonprofit International Center for Diarrheal Disease Research, Bangladesh — went to meet with government officials. They collected samples nationwide and published a 2019 follow-up paper on the extent of the problem. Bangladesh’s Food Safety Authority got involved.

They settled on a two-part approach, starting with an education campaign to warn people about the dangers of lead. Once people had been warned that lead adulteration was illegal, they followed up with raids to analyze turmeric and fine sellers who were selling adulterated products.

They posted tens of thousands of fliers informing people about the risks of lead. They got coverage in the news. And then they swept through the markets with X-ray fluorescence analyzers, which detect lead. They seized contaminated products and fined sellers.

According to the study released earlier this month, this worked spectacularly well. “The proportion of market turmeric samples containing detectable lead decreased from 47 percent pre-intervention in 2019 to 0 percent in 2021,” the study found. And the vanishing of lead from turmeric had an immediate and dramatic effect on blood lead levels in the affected populations, too: “Blood lead levels dropped a median of 30 percent.”

The researchers who helped make that result happen are gearing up for similar campaigns in other areas where spices are adulterated.

The power of problem-solving

...When the Food Safety Authority showed up at the market and started issuing fines for lead adulteration, it stopped being a savvy business move to add lead. Purchasers who were accustomed to unnatural lead-colored turmeric learned how to recognize non-adulterated turmeric. And so lead went from ubiquitous to nearly nonexistent in the space of just a few years.

That’s a better world for everyone, from turmeric wholesalers to vulnerable kids — all purchased at a shockingly low price. The paper published this month concludes, “with credible information, appropriate technology, and good enough governance, the adulteration of spices can be stopped.”

There’s still a lot more to be done. India, like Bangladesh, has widespread adulteration of turmeric. And safety testing will have to remain vigilant to prevent lead in Bangladesh from creeping back into the spice supply.

But for all those caveats, it’s rare to see such fast, decisive action on a major health problem — and impressive to see it immediately rewarded with such a dramatic improvement in blood lead levels and health outcomes. It’s a reminder that things can change, and can change very quickly, as long as people care, and as long as they act."

-via Vox, September 20, 2023

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Idk if anyone asked this before but: how do you think each member of the chromatic crew would react after learning about Epic's nightmares and him (possibly) avoiding sleep altogether?

I've been craving Epic angst for the last few days! Specifically those regarding his nightmares and I wanted to know what you think

I think I might’ve answered something like this with the epic sanses specifically, but I suppose this all depends on what exactly Epic feels comfortable sharing with the crew, and how much they might’ve already noticed or pieced together themselves.

Especially those who’ve known Epic for awhile, like Cross, or those who might’ve lived with him for awhile or seen and interacted with him regularly, like Color and Delta.

Killer may be the least familiar with Epic starting off when compared to the other three, but he is observant, curious, intelligent and on high alert in a new environment.

Also maybe exploring the house when others are asleep (or supposed to be asleep), and frequently encountering Epic up and about at late hours. Knowing the way these two tend to be, like pulling teeth to get them to talk about things like this, i wouldn’t be surprised if they fall into some type of quiet, unspoken routine at night.

Even if it’s just as simple as Epic will continue doing whatever he is doing to avoid sleep and stay awake, and Killer will stare at him from the corner like a creep.

Similar to Epic, I think Color tends to try and avoid sleep as well.

Of course, I do think all of the Chromatic Crew tends to have issues with sleep—there’s no way they don’t all have PTSD/CPTSD, which often tends to mean frequent nightmares and inability to fall or stay asleep.

But Color, similar to Epic, has an issue with sleep in that he feels like he’s wasting time doing it. Back in the Void, all he could do was sleep. Sleep, and walk and pace around, and talk to himself and the souls and Gaster and no one at all, count the cracks in the floor and the pillars and imagine what would happen if Papyrus were to somehow appear in front of him—there to save him and take him back home—and try to ignore the hunger eating at his bones.

Of course, though, if you HC Color to have something like narcolepsy, actually successfully staying awake would be an issue for him. So as opposed to Killer’s solution of also not sleeping, or Delta’s ‘here’s a productive distraction for you’ approach, perhaps Color leans more into other areas.

As in: i think he and Epic cuddle a lot. Color will hold Epic in his arms, and stroke his skull. Sometimes Color will talk, utilize those creative storytelling skills he had to develop with Gaster in the Void to survive.

Sometimes he will sing, sometimes he reads Epic a book, sometimes he doesn’t speak at all and just provides physical comfort and presence or will get up to make Epic something comforting to drink or eat. Sometimes it helps Epic fall asleep, although it’s unfortunately never a peaceful sleep and he never stays asleep for long.

Sometimes Epic starts to fall asleep, lured into relaxation and safety, but then startles back awake suddenly and isn’t able or willing to try for a few more moments of sleep.

In those moments, I like to think that Color just lets Epic lay his head on his lap, and he will go back to petting Epic’s skull. Or sometimes they just lay facing each other and talk, about the past or the future, or dreams.

Sometimes Color will talk about the Void—about the worlds and stories he and Gaster made together, the rules and games they made and how at some point it stopped being games, or stories, and just became real in a way. Or maybe they—or he—wanted them to be, because at least they were better than their actual reality.

Maybe Color even sometimes opens up during these moments about how, despite how much used to long to escape—almost killed himself attempting to—now that he’s actually out, he just sometimes finds himself wanting to go back more than anything.

They talk. I doubt Color ever actually talks much about himself, preferring the stories and worlds and characters, but Color opening up so casually can sometimes make Epic comfortable enough to attempt to do the same.

I think Epic can feel comfortable waking up screaming, confused, afraid and in pain when lying next to Color because he knows that not only has Color been in that position before himself—but because if Epic wants to be comforted, almost like a scared child, Color is able and willing to happily do so.

He’s happy to wrap his friends up in his arms, and hold them as much as they need—and I like to think that whenever Color is filled with Kindness, he tends to run a lot warmer—like a heater.

To me, when filled with Kindness especially, Color is the type who isn’t afraid to just immediately crawl into bed with a sick friend and hold them while they cry—even if he ends up getting sick too. Like a teddy bear.

I don’t know, I just like to think that Color is who the Crew tend to go to when they age regress to a younger version of themselves — even if they don’t have the words to describe that experience, or in Delta’s case, whenever Beta is out and is a child— and sometimes they can feel so safe with him, that they just do.

Then, of course, Cross. Epic’s bruh. Ironically, despite being Epic’s longest friend, i wouldn’t be surprised if opening up with Cross is harder than it should be for Epic. Not because he doesn’t trust Cross, not because he thinks anything bad of Cross, but simply because it’s hard to let down that outer shell of him. Maybe here, Epic’s fear of what Cross would think of him after is immense.

I don’t think Epic would have a detailed conversation about this with Beta, because Beta is the child and shouldn’t have to handle things like that. Beta isn’t oblivious—they know what nightmares and being unable to sleep are like, unfortunately, even if their nightmares are different from Epic’s—and he will definitely have questions and concerns.

I don’t think Epic’s the type to lie to the kid just because he’s a kid—he’s a kid who’s been through and seen too much already.

I do think Epic will tell Beta that he’s having some trouble with sleep, even if he doesn’t go into all the details, but he’ll probably just say he doesn’t want Beta to worry about it and reassure the kid that he’ll be okay. The others are taking care of him, before he changes the subject back to whatever activity the two of them were doing.

[kayusenreads]

Star-Crossed || Chapter i.

In a city divided by power, loyalty, and blood, love was never meant to be an option.

When Kim [Y/N], the daughter of an influential family, steps into the gala celebrating her induction to the family legacy, she’s only looking for a distraction from her rapidly increasing anxiety. Instead, she finds Jeon Jungkook, a boy from the wrong side of the war—a world of neon lights, whispered promises, and inevitable ruin.

Their love is reckless, electric, and entirely forbidden. But in a world where family names mean everything and betrayal is paid in blood, love is the most dangerous gamble. As tensions rise and secrets unravel, they must decide: can love rewrite fate, or were they doomed from the start?

This is a re-interpretation of Romeo and Juliet, weaving a story of desire, power, and the price of challenging fate.

Pairing - Jeon Jungkook x fem!reader

Genre - 18+, smut, romance, angst

A/N - Hope the first chapter is enjoyable. I understand if the story isn't that interesting yet, but it will take a few chapters to get to the good stuff lol. Btw, all names of secondary characters are not meant to represent anyone in real life. Even the likeness of the BTS members aren't meant to be offensive in any form. I hope we can all have fun here :)

Also because I'm not well versed in trigger warnings yet, if something is triggering to you or may be potentially triggering to others, please notify me so I can fix it. I will add a full list here and a list at the beginning of each chapter. 

Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

Wordcount - 2.4k

masterlist

Jungkook

The neon lights of the Ecliptica Lounge flickered sporadically overhead, a hue of pink and purple casting a garish glow on the rain-slicked pavement. In front of the blacked-out windows, I stood right next to the bright red open sign with a silhouette of a nude woman straddling it. 

While watching pervy patrons scurry for the front door, a cigarette found its way to my lips and there it sat while I fished in my pockets for a lighter. Loud sensual music filled the sidewalk as the door opened for another set of shameless individuals to enter and a different creep was thrown out.

I fumbled with the lighter and brought it to the cigarette's tip, my eyes narrowing with frustration as the weak spark barely flickered. The small metal rectangle was weathered, with its once chromatic surface faded and scratched. Every time I pull it out, it reminds me of how long I’ve let this habit go on and that quitting will become infinitely harder after every light. 

One would think that a smoker would just trash the damn thing and buy a different one as the refilling of lighter fluid is considered tedious. And while it is true, I would never replace my lucky lighter even in this moment of irritation.

With a deep breath, I flicked the lighter’s wheel again, flint scraping against the metal, but the paper-wrapped tobacco refused to catch the sputtering flame. A low groan slipped past my lips as I feverishly tried to ignite the cigarette, each failing attempt adding to my mounting anxiety. Irritation and impatience took over as I shook the lighter, hoping to coax the remaining fuel into action. 

It was at this moment I couldn’t tell if my shaking was because the cold winter rain was piercing my skin or the stress caused by the withdrawal my addiction had prized me with. My composure slowly drained, and my lower half became restless as I slowly rocked on my feet. The sighing grew frequent unknowingly, thinking about the cigarette untouched by flame that was mockingly slipping from my mouth.

Before it became too embarrassing, the lighter glows long enough for an inadequate flame to catch an ember. One deep, satisfying drag later, my nerves finally settled alongside a mixture of resignation and irritation. My body softens slightly as it happily fills its lungs with toxic smoke.

As much as I know this was wrong, the way my body reacts to this cancer stick, I know I can’t fight it. I will always be weaker than my addiction, so I choose to blame the cigarette over myself. 

I started smoking soon after my grandfather passed away. Out of everyone in my family and community combined, I was the most devastated. Grieving affected me hard, my father refused to allow me to process the emotions properly. I never understood if it was because of his stance on emotional men or the fact that his father was a terrible parent. 

I heard the stories they told of how unforgiving he was, how he was a hard-ass and never let anything stop him from getting his way. The family describes him as authoritative and intimidating, but I only saw him as merciful and protective. 

Even so, they all admit he seemed to have mellowed out as he got older and I fear the picture they painted of him being brutish and rigid fit the description of his son more than him.

They say I’m lucky to have never known that side of him, but in all actuality, they haven’t got a clue how much I was fortunate enough to witness. It’s painful to think I could’ve learned so much more from him if he hadn’t left me so soon. 

I brushed my thumb over the engravings made on the last thing he ever gave me. With a weak smile, he repeated the same saying to me. 

“What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.”

My younger self didn't fully comprehend what it meant, never mind what he was trying to accomplish. But as time passed, digging through his belongings for the truth and watching my world darken and numb, I began to understand and took it upon myself to make things right. 

The lucky lighter returned to my jacket pocket, where it'll continue to be just a spent relic of mine. In that moment, I was pulled out of my daydreaming, long enough to realize my cell phone had been vibrating for a while.

I chose to ignore it, knowing exactly what it was for and not wanting to deal with work right now. 

Even after all that stress and effort just to light the smoldering roll I hate every minute it takes to burn and smoke it to completion. My chest grows hot as I inhale it into my lungs, the tightness I feel is unpleasant as useless air tries to escape. 

Shallow drags allow me to ease into the light-headed but pleasant hazy feeling that is present every time. My scrambled brain might finally take a second to calm or my achy depressed body might be soothed, but the blissfulness doesn’t always last long.

So I decided to take deeper, longer puffs, hold them purposefully, and repeat. I eventually find myself feeling sick after a moment or two because I greedily overdid it, starving myself from sweet fresh oxygen and trying to heal myself through lethal means.

But the cycle continues every few hours if I am lucky enough to last that long. No matter how much I always hated my bad breath or dry mouth, the feeling of even just part of my body wrapped tightly around a warm blanket was far more delightful than facing the senselessness and emptiness of my situation without it. 

I know I must quit. I’m killing myself slowly, which I’m well aware of, but I just can’t. 

The vibrations start back up again and I reach into my pocket for my phone. 

I answer.

“What?”

“Oh my god, finally!” My cousin Taehyung exclaims on the other end, sounding completely exasperated. “We need you to come quickly to the Poisoned Chalice, it's urgent! Your father-”

I hung up the phone at the mere mention of that wretched sperm donor, I’ve reached my daily emotional capacity for him already and I need a much-needed break. 

Grinding the remaining embers on the brick of the strip club, I toss the cigarette butt at my feet and dart my hands into my jacket pocket. The blistering wind is harsh on my skin after exposing it purposely for several minutes. My legs take long and quick strides into the building, feeling nothing but sensory overload when entering the lounge.

The air was thick with a scent mixture of cheap perfume, potent hard liquor, and sweet musk. This amalgamation mingled with the strong stench of tobacco and marijuana clung to the back of my throat. Dimmed-colored lights bathed the room in a lurid glow, causing my vision to see other patrons unclearly. 

Alluring and sensual music boosted its bass through the speakers, ear drums humming, and floor vibrating. My heartbeat thrums in synchronization with the rhythm and flashing lights. The room pulses and gives sober guests migraines. 

Glittering girls moved fluidly on stage, their costumes and lingerie catching the stage lights and sparkling. They danced hypnotically with a blend of seduction and athleticism as their bodies twisted and arched with grace. Both men and women watched, their faces lit with the glow of their drinks, enraptured by the performance. 

Everywhere you looked, there was movement, color, and noise, each element competing for attention in a relentless onslaught that left people reeling.

I walked through the kaleidoscope of colors and shadows to get to the bar. It wasn’t far from the entrance, but it was easy to become distracted and turned around. Navigating past clusters of bodies seated at or around plush couches, eyes fixated on the dancers on platforms a few feet in front of them. 

Reaching the bar top, I slipped past a guest retreating and taking their place at the counter. My gaze fixated on the woman behind the tending station, a gorgeous older woman with a striking figure. She was dressed more modestly than the other workers in the club, in a short and tight-fitted black dress that highlighted her curves.

As she wiped the countertop with practiced ease, her eyes flicked up to meet mine. A hint of recognition sparked her eyes seconds after, pairing it with a warm welcoming smile.

“Good evening, Jungkook.” She proclaimed with a smooth and confident voice that cut through the cacophony surrounding us. Instinctively she pulled a glass from below the bar and set it between us. “The usual?”

I returned her smile with a playful grin. “You know me too well, Nayoung.”

She fixed a neat whiskey, making it a double with no ice. As Nayoung poured the drink, she pressed her body on the counter, leaning over slightly to bring attention to her cleavage. 

“Let me know if there’s anything else I can get for you.” She smirked and slid the glass into my hand, intentionally touching my fingers and lingering for a moment. 

Every night I come to the lounge, she does this same song and dance, but she’s not to blame. When a man walks into a club dressed in his nicest suit, he stands out in a sea of casually attired guests. It is only business that she flirts with me to get me to throw cash around, pun intended. 

Flashing a wink in her direction, I grabbed the glass and turned away, propping my elbows up on the counter. I swished the drink in my glass, taking in the oaky aroma. Bringing the glass to my lips I tasted only a fraction of its contents, letting the burning sensation replace the sheer discomfort of a dry mouth.

My eyes darted across the room, looking through the haze of neon and shadow, methodically searching for the one reason I came here. The only reason I find myself here so often is that I’ve become familiar with the exasperating scene and eager bartender.

Jihyo.

From the bar I could see my beautiful Jihyo in the far corner of the lounge, performing on a small platform for a few other guests. My pulse quickened the moment my gaze locked onto her, the dim, sultry glimmer of the club intensified her presence. The stage lights cast her in a halo of seductive glow as the rest of the room seemed to blur, leaving only a luminous angel.

I could feel my eyes consuming every ounce of her being, so thirsty they could drink an ocean dry. Jihyo wasn't just another dancer, she was a vision from a dream, a muse trapped in a world of neon and velvet. Her movements were a delicate, rhythmic poem that captivated my senses. 

She was the embodiment of all my deepest yearnings and unspoken desires. 

Throwing back my drink, I finished it in one large swing and turned to place it back on the bar. Nayoung took notice, smiling coyly and making her way back over. I reached into my pocket and fished for my wallet. After fumbling with it briefly, I grabbed a fifty-dollar bill and placed it between us on the counter. 

The bartender’s expression brightened even more as she slid the bill into her possession, quickly pocketing it, probably afraid someone else would snatch it right up. With a slight wave of the hand to convey thanks, she went on about her business helping another patron.

I chuckle as I turn on my heel, feeling like I’m walking on air. My feet carry me over towards the other side of the club where my heart wishes to be. 

My body and stride radiate with only pure elation, an energy that is nearly impossible to contain. My state of being seemingly comes alive with an electric vibrancy as if every one of my nerve endings is celebrating. The muscles on my face grow sore as my smile stretches wide and almost unrestrained.

Whatever's going on back at that bar with my father almost completely escapes my mind, and once that happens, I'll achieve unadulterated bliss.

I approached a small doorway with an even smaller man standing in front of it. His perfectly stout frame sure acted as a better barrier than the skinny velvet rope that hung in the door frame behind him. When he made eye contact with me, his serious demeanor fell and flashed a delighted smile.

“Well if it isn’t Mister Jeon,” Yeesung, the owner of the Star-Crossed Lounge, snickered. “Back for more, I see?”

I try not to contort my face as he unknowingly addresses me by the title my father prefers to be called. 

“It’s been a rough one, this is the only spot to clear my head.”

The irony hits me as the words leave my mouth and reach my ears. The Ecliptica Lounge was the last place to collect yourself and take a mental break. How could a space where all your senses are overwhelmed help reduce stress?

My gaze caught the attention and hopeful stare of my Jihyo, who must have finished her performance just seconds before. As she retreats towards a staff-only door, her eyes meet mine accompanied by a devilishly sweet smile. A temptress she is known to be, but it’s only I who calls her my beloved. 

She is mine. 

“Who do you want to request tonight?” My attention was rudely pulled back by the manager in front of me. “We’ve got plenty of gorgeous ladies who would love to spend a moment alone with you.”

His tone was relaxed and playful, but I couldn’t help but feel annoyed by his proposal. There was only ever one woman I came to see, everyone working in this club knew it. 

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” I snapped, admittedly too harshly. “Only the love of my life, Jihyo.”

“Uh huh…sure…” Yeesung's voice trailed on a moment, carrying a tone of uncertainty. “...pay the fee and I’ll send her in.”

He sticks his hand out waiting for payment. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, rolled bills in the expected amount and traded it over. The manager wasted no time in counting it, knowing I have never and would never jip him. He unhooked the rope and stepped out of the way to let me pass, a beaming smile plastered on my face as my stride carried me through. 

$1,200; a small price to pay for love. 

[hor-wod-flir]

I've decided I am gonna start a little series called "Meet the parents" where I show off my hatchery breeding pairs in their designs and skins.

In my breeding cards they are always just showing off their genes and their potential kids but this series is just focused on them being my beloved dragons and not advertisement for the hatchery, so they can be the focus once!

Gonna post a new pair once a day and tag them all with #meet the hatchery parents

Posted:

Seaside Sundown

Saltmarsh Lurker

Forgemaster's Heart

Blazing Promethean

Chromatic Cows

Snowmelt Jewels

Tricktooth Rascal

Creeping Maleficence

Pale Premonition

Anthracite Snowstrider

Bloodbound Imperium

Morpheus Embrace

Mossborne Bastion

Itinerant Coveguard

Witching Hearth

[slutforslytherin]

girls just want to have fun

warnings: kissing , slight choking , kinda fingering(above underwear) , swearing , smoking , underage drinking , weird men / underage girls / based in baby on netflix. but they are hp characters.

summary: y/n = you + best friend pansy (ludo) skip a halloween party to go to a hookers club pansy’s been going to for awhile. you arrive and get flooded with compliments but one boy catches your eye.

-

“I dont know pans” , i sigh in front of my begging friends body. “Please y/n you will have so much fun , plus who wants to go to a stupid school party” she giggles holding my hands tight , i think about it for a few seconds deciding it wouldn’t be as bad as i thought.

“whatever then this better be fun” i point in her now red face , she jumps up happily scolding my waist into a tight hug “i wont disappoint” she winks in my direction as i put on a slight smile.

Rummaging through clothes i find the perfect dress , stops just below my thigh covers up just enough of my body revealing certain body parts to make people crazy “pans whatchu think” i give a small twirl as her eyes trail around my body “sexyyy” she circled me poking my back causing me to squirm “you look sexy to” i wink biting my lip slightly as the sight of her in a beautiful red dress hugged her body perfectly.

“Pansy we are leaving now , see you later” pansy’s mum knocked on the door walking away with a gentle sigh. which was the perfect time , i pulled out a cigarette from my velvety purse along with a lighter reading ‘cry babies do it best’ ,. i light the cigarette which is placed between my lips taking a gentle drag inhaling the strong smoke before handing it over to pansy.

After a while we check the time reading ‘7:36’ , the party came around at like 8:15 so we rushed. Grabbing each of our purses burning the remainder of the cigarette and walking out the door “you exited” she asked sitting in the drivers seat of her car , me following behind in the passenger.

“i guess you could say that” i teased leaning my head into my hands “oh yeah guess who’s there” she said my eyebrow slightly raising “Theodore nottt and his puppets” my jaw drops eyes opening wide “what the fuck seriously” i questioned since there the popular boys who wouldn’t be seen dead with hookers.

She giggles as she pulls up outside a large building three big men standing outside in suits and tuxedos grinning at beautiful ladies walking beyond them in small dresses hardly covering there body “i wont have to fuck no old grandads will i” i joke hoping for a good answer “only if you want” she winks grabbing my hand as we run towards the entrance.

“fiore” pansy nods my eyes meet with a beautiful man standing in front slowly shaking pansy’s tiny hands “pansy evening, nice seeing you again” he smiles “this is” he pointed in my direction slowly grabbing my hand “im y/n , its nice to meet you” i gave a shy smile as he placed a gently peck on my knuckle.

small pecks of blush creep on my cheeks as he holds both of our lower backs to lead us in , we took small footsteps in our tall red heels him in the middle posh black shoes placed on his feet “here we are ladies enjoy” he winks giving my back a small push as i get greeted with loud music flashing purple lights and small smiles.

“grrr” men whisper in our ears as we walk through wine glass in my hand sipping and licking as pansy plays fiore’s tie “hey check it out” pansy nudges my arm as i look over and see theodore sitting beside matteo and draco sipping on cool white whiskey admiring my body by the looks of it “is he looking at me” i turn around facing pansy “hes walking towards you” she winks pushing me back as my back falls into his chest.

“So a whore huh” he spoke “excuse me” i took slight offence as he held his hands up in a surrender motion “kidding , why are you here princess” he teased my body holding onto my waist digging his longer finger nails into my hip “pansy invited me , and you” i questioned , theodore has been a good friend of mine ever since primary school but we kinda drifted away since we got older “matteo invited me , like a year ago haven’t stop coming since” he ate a olive out of his drink as music played gently.

“why are you here y/n , a sweet innocent girl like you being flirtatious with older men hm” he put a strand of hair behind my ear as my eyes look down. I felt his hand creep to my throat gently tugging “i uh i didn’t fancy going to the school party so” as i tried to finish his lips connected with mind.

Our tongues played with each others top and bottom lip until he slipped it into my mouth , “mm” is all i managed to get out as his fingers swam beneath my dress.

His finger going over my covered clit

causing a small whimper to escape into his burning mouth. i grinded upon his two fingers as his hand had a tight grip on my throat squeezing ever so often “fuck” i moaned into his mouth gaining a small smirk “feel good cara mia hm” he kisses my temple as i felt a knot in my stomach “m’so close” i bit my lip bruising it as my legs shake.

I seriously just came on THEODORE NOTT’S fingers at a party? oh my , he continued rubbing my clit until it throbbed begging for him to let go “i i came theo” i put my head in his neck as he removed his fingers “hm take that as a warning bella come back here again it will be a punishment” he winked.

my body left shaking in the middle of a dance floor as he sits back down with his friends acting like nothing happened.

-

AWFUL I KNOW STAWP

[feebisart]

The Door You Don't Knock On (3/4)

(( Trigger Warning: Unreality, Transformation, Body Horror, Derealization, Dissociation, Hints of Past Abuse, Drowning, Death, Existential Horror, Emotional Manipulation, Mental Health Struggles, Surreal/Disturbing Imagery, References to Violence, Grief/Loss. ))

A/N: Please keep in mind the trigger warnings. Thank you.

Billy opened his blue eyes, reflecting the stars and galaxies squished into streams of Saturn's spinning disk. He blinked a couple of times, rubbing at the sleep with the back of his hand.

"Oh." He uttered as he gazed into the surreal sky.

Gingerly, he pushed himself up, feeling the pleasant heat of the couch beneath him. He gave the sofa a soft pat—a habit of thanking inanimate objects. Around him, a haze of heat gently rested over a fiery sea, furniture bobbing leisurely throughout the molten tide as tubes drifted down a waterpark's lazy river.

Peering over the side of the comfortable couch, Billy hesitated before dropping onto a stone slab atop the vibrant sand. Multicolored grains shifted beneath the piece as the foot met pavement. It was, of course, a migraine to look at. However, it wasn't lava. He won't look a gift horse in the mouth, after all.

A giggle bubbled out of his mouth, surprising the young boy. The silliness of it all—the marshmallow-soft cushions and the flaming ocean provided the backdrop to his amusement. Billy had slept on dozens of surfaces before—hardwood floors, tile, rock, and even the branches of trees. Now, he could add roasted marshmallow cushions to that list.

In the distance, the molten rock hissed as if affronted by his laughter. The gurgling mass of creeping lava spewed spectral radiant mist that drizzled glitter over the coast around him. The grains collided with a soft yet strangely metallic sound as the mist met the sand. Curious, Billy crouched closer and spotted a glint amid the chromatic, iridescent particles. The sand wasn't just sand—it morphed between tiny sand crystals and larger metallic jacks.

"That's so weird." He muttered as he brushed some ashes off his sweater. Stretching his back, he surveyed the area. Marble slabs scattered across the sand like lily pads floating across a pond.

Did anyone say Leapfrog?

Billy grinned from ear to ear, leaping from slab to slab like a child playing hopscotch, waving his arms to balance himself with each jump. Nearing the end of the path, he teetered on one foot, almost stepping into the sand before catching himself on the rock's edge.

A large gap loomed before him, filled with kaleidoscopic minerals torn between quartz crystals and knucklebones. A faint cling reverberated as a breeze brushed past. Wind chimes as it weaves through colliding metal scraps or, perhaps, mocking laughter.

Beyond him unfurled a black-and-white checkered pattern floor. The boy drew in a deep breath before launching himself across. He landed and slid onto the sleek, slippery floor, emitting a harsh squeal—grating rubber squeaking onto a slick glass surface.

Flapping his arms with a hint of desperation, he glided to a halt in the middle of an elegant hallway, gasping for breath. Doors were lined in uniform repeating patterns along the hallways, and their handles were in particularly unique places—some were far too high, some were two inches from the floor, and some were just floating in the air—just out of reach. Billy blinked, wondering where he should go next.

The tingling crept around Billy's shoulders, wrapped around the boy's shoulders like a white cloak. A faint, high-pitched ringing stalked him—a persistent mosquito honing into the sting. He had thought the further he walked from the sand, the fainter the sound would get. But apparently not. The hallways seemed to turn and twist sideways, looping into themselves in a never-ending Moebius strip. Every turn he'd been there before, every step left a resounding echo.

The ringing amplified, adding the soprano of screeching feedback, the base of discordant laughter, and rhythmic faint taunts using distorted versions of Billy's voice. It wasn't just his ears but also his taste. Every time his voice screamed into his ear, he tasted the stinging, metallic flavor, tasting the noise itself. An earworm that wouldn't leave gnawed at his thoughts, a continuous spiraling loop. Billy knew plenty of earworms—songs that wormed their way into your brain, settling comfortably to never leave, much like Mister-

No, Billy shook his head quickly, cutting off the thought. He needed to find what It Is Not. The boy could not afford to Spiral. He pinched the bridges of his nose as it howled into his ear, dropping all pretense of subtlety. There was no doubt in his mind—It was getting impatient.

Perhaps in annoyance or wanting it all to stop, he grabbed the nearest door handle and pulled it without thinking. His pale fingers curled tightly around the handle, and with a swift, violent force, he yanked the door open. The panel slammed against the wall, and chips of wood fell onto the ground from the pure force. Static surged into a deafening disharmonious crescendo, an ice pick to the head regarding ear-splitting notes.

All of a sudden, nothing.

The door sealed shut behind him, hissing shut with finality in the form of air decompressing from a pressurized chamber. A faint rush of air brushed against his back before all was still. He concentrated on hearing the ringing, which was still there—faint, in the background, waiting.

The room was quite ordinary, if a bit cluttered. Art Deco flair seeped into the gold and black orchid wallpaper, sleek and aerodynamic furniture, and black and white tiles with gold accents. There was a hint of paint and wood shavings in the air. Open and empty cans of paint scattered across the floor. Baskets and containers of pencils, pens, markers, and chalk were piled on each other. Blank Canvases were scattered around the room with palettes of every imaginable color. Brushes were placed at each art stand, overflowing the holder.

It was overwhelming—every medium of art stacked on each other in a gaudy display of choices. He could see perhaps a faded yellow couch propped up by a couple of sketchbooks, but it was dwarfed by the mountain of yarn balls on top of it. Despite the hodgepodge, there was something quite familiar about the place, a sense of déjà vu that piqued Billy's curiosity.

Billy placed his hands on his hips, clicking his tongue as if affronted by the mess before him. He rolled up the sleeves of his sweater, using a piece of yarn he chewed off to tie it up. (He would not look for sharp items in that Mess.) He heaved up a heavy bin of rolled newspapers, nudging an open can of reddish-brown paint aside with his foot as he gasped for breath.

At least, it was silent.

Billy huffed, hands on his hips before he dived into piles of art supplies. He disliked too much mess since it made it hard to think. There was so much stuff—baskets of watercolors, buckets of oil paints, tubes of acrylics, and towers of jars filled with miscellaneous supplies. He began separating the chaos into categories, which made his brain happy—drawing, painting, fabric, knitting, etc.

As he's moving a metal tin of colored pencils, his gaze caught onto something strange: a pair of pointed shoes, brown cap-toe oxfords, still polished with a gleaming sheen. As he moved away a bucket of unopened paint, his breath caught in his throat as he discerned the pant leg of a familiar brown suit.

"It can't be." Billy's voice hitched. "Mr. Dare…"

Dan Dare. The detective.

His stomach sank as he hurriedly clawed into the clutter, his trembling hands scraping against metal tins. Boxes of chalk toppled, spilling pink dust into the air. Bins of sketchbooks teetered precariously—a makeshift Tower of Pisa, while buckets of crayons were knocked over, a few loose crayons tumbling around. Billy's desperate cleaning halted; his breath hitched as he stilled at the sight.

A chair.

It looked normal enough—the sleek, glossy finish of the Beech arms and the soft, supple, genuine leather for the cushion. But the form? Following the curve of the backrest, the cushion flowed into a lower torso with a pair of legs clad in brown pants underneath. They were human. They were Dan.

Where flesh met wood, there wasn't a neat seam or clean cut of timber, but a continuous languid flow. Veins snaked through the beech wood and flawlessly transitioned to the chair's grain in the arms above. The lungs were absent, yet the lower part of the torso continued to inflate as if breathing.

Billy's gaze drew to the legs that twitched ever so often. Feet that stretched and relaxed as if leisurely resting on the ground.

Is this what it means to Become It?

This was not just horror nor the grotesque. This was the annihilation of everything that you are—a complete and total erasure of identity, and for what? To turn you into a tacky chair.

He realized a pivotal point—the Spiral was no longer playing with its food.

In fact, it was Hungry.

.

.

.

What if I stop being me?

Billy choked on inhaling his next breath. His heart fluttered like a hummingbird's wings as he clutched his chest. The Lichtenberg scars underneath his sweater pulled and ached as black crept along the edge of his vision.

The world tilted—skewed and slanted.

Billy's chest tightened further, and he thought his heart would crush his chest with the weight of Everything.

This wasn't about him.

He inhaled a deep, painful breath.

He breathed again to solidify himself, the darkness receded as he took continuous deep breaths in and out.

Back before his job at Whiz Radio, He remembered Mr. Dare.

Blonde, slick-back hair, a sunny smile, and an ear to listen to. "Do you have any allergies, kid?" The man warmly asked, handing Billy a brown paper bag from a sandwich shop. The smell of Cuban cigars and Hawaiian roast on his breath lingered in the cool, wintry air.

It's not fair.

He hadn't seen Dan for a couple of weeks. The kid figured Detective Dare was off helping TV moguls or multimillionaires. Not this.

Never this.

Crouching over Dan with his knees on the floor, the boy's hand wavered over the brown pants leg, hesitating over the fabric. Yanking his hand away, He placed it on his lap.

Billy's voice cracked as he crouched over Dan Dare, "Mr. Dare, I- I don't know if you can hear me, but you were a good person." His fingers scrunched up his jeans, balling into fists.

"I'm sorry you got turned into... this." A quick glance at the leather cushions wrapped between brown beech wood lurched the orphan's stomach. He reverted his gaze to the human part—the familiar half.

"You were a great detective. I'm glad I got to interview you." The small reporter sniffed, remembering the man's animated tales of intrigue, stakeouts, and close calls with Carol over Whiz Kid radio.

"It doesn't get to take that away from you." The boy wiped his eyes. "I'll remember you and make sure Fawcett remembers you, too."

At first, staring at the chair made him disgusted; nausea rose to his throat, threatening to empty into a paint can. But he pulled back; the disgust simmered and bubbled within him into something else—something hot and sharp. A spark ignited within him.

Was this funny? Did it make the Distortion tickled pink from warping Dan Dare to this?

The boy's gaze flicked to where the spray paint cans scattered near Dan's legs. "Fine," he spat, throwing the cap off as it bounced off an elegant black and gold orchid on the wallpaper. "Let's see how you like it." The spray can hissed out a streak of neon yellow across the flower and several phrases such as "STUPID" and "UGLY" right on top of a particularly offensive spiral.

He held the can out as he punted the aerosol container and jettisoned it into the sky with his foot. Anger burned deep within his stomach, churning a whirlwind of anger, grief, and something Else—something that Distorted. The tinkling of bells echoed in his ears, a constant ringing after a concert.

His hair grew longer, dangling over his face in tangled loops as he heaved a couple of breaths.

Shifting his eyes to the left, he glimpsed a hint of black amongst the plastic containers. The ringing sounded like pulsating beats of his heart with every step. Billy grabbed the box, flipping it open to reveal perfectly intact charcoal sticks.

His heart thundered as he held a handful of them to his eye.

The sight of it irritated him for some reason he couldn't explain. Charcoal—dust and ash, all left of a cloudless blue sky.

He crushed the charcoal sticks in his hands, his nails digging in deep. Black dust etched into every crease and line of his palms, leaving dark stains on his skin.

Suddenly, his eyes teared up. He wiped his eyes with his knuckles, only making it worse—staining charcoal smudging into his eyes, a blindfold of stinging tears and ashes. Blue and black melded and flowed as if a thumb coated with soot ran across the eyes of a watercolor painting.

Swaying across the room, Billy's dangling arms knock over paint cans and water cups as they absorb into the boy's fluid structure. His hair drips down a waterfall of purple, blue, and yellow pigments. His heartbeat takes on multiple tones as if played over a speaker underwater—muted, warbled, and barely recognizable.

He can't see. He can't see. He can't-

The high note and screeching tingling that hits his ears has his hands brush over a basket. It was powdery, smooth, and circular. Chalk. Where there were colors and almost overwhelming imagery, there was nothing but darkness. Red and yellow dripped over him as a cape, and he felt crushed by the immense pressure.

The lack of control over his body and form was too much. He retaliated the only way he knew how. He flipped the basket.

It erupted. Pounding, migraine-inducing bass vibrating the very ground, the facsimile of a boy stood. Reddish-brown powder and chalk dust reached the ceiling, unfurling into the shape of a mushroom with an expanding ring of dust and debris that rippled outwards; pieces of crayons and pencils rolled away from the epicenter—ripping his life into pieces.

Strangely enough, he sees with touch. Sensing the colors and shape, the liquid seeped into the pile, bringing up a floating piece of equipment. A microphone was connected to a wooden broadcast console. He wrapped a tendril of water around it, bringing the mic up the last recognizable part of his body—his mouth. He could feel that water was entering his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He was drowning in his own liquid.

He opened his mouth and uttered, "SHA-"

The lips hesitated, closing as if swallowing.

"Go on, finish it." The smug, gloating voice whispered in a sing-song tone reminiscent of a lullaby.

It was inevitable.

The mouth took one last breath and exhaled a word.

"No."

The static rose to a crescendo; it could feel the vibrations coursing through everything, inside and out. An earthquake shaking the very foundation of being. Baskets of arts and crafts tumbled and tossed in a salad, a blender ripping into every sense and meaning.

The water crashed, overturning the mouth, melding it to its giant amorphous fluid. There was no mouth, not anymore.

The shaking gradually ceased, and a stray chalk fell to the ground near the puddle of water within a bucket—streaks of watercolors, paint, marker, and ink swirled.

The Distortion waited for it to finally digest.

.

.

.

It thought it was erasing him, turning him into a fluid to easily digest.

Water can't be erased.

It adapts. It endures. It Becomes.

Transformation was nothing new to him. From street rat to Demigod, from kid to adult, and from life to death—he had faced change, and every change was a journey he would take—a responsibility he would shoulder.

He took a hypothetical breath.

Five things to see. The sense of vision was curious when it was seen through taste. The painted water flowed through the remnants, seeing the flavors amidst the entropic landscape— salty ink pooled into itself as it absorbed, gaining mass; sour paint flowed into thin, vibrant streams, sweet markers bleeding onto canvases; bitter oils floated on the surface, creating an iridescent sheen, and savory, metallic flavor of the colorful mist from a dented spray can. Four things to feel. The gurgling flow of water filling up a container, the drops of water dripping down onto the canvas below, the chaotic splash of the overflow, and the plop of liquid mass pooling onto a fractured ground. Three things to listen to. The plastic aroma of a fresh coat of acrylic as the water rippled, the harsh, sharp odor of spray paint gases mixed into the atmosphere, and the sweet, musty smell of watercolors spilled across a table. Two things to smell. The coolness of the slick surface, the roughness of the jagged edges of broken tiles. The water seeped through the cracks to pool near a slanted tile. One thing to taste. A yellow chalk teetered on a precarious edge of the ground, as water wrapped around it, the rushing force bringing it to the tile.

The Distortion watched as a child would drown an ant in a puddle it created—its fragmenting, twisted body filled with ever-changing fractals and shapes loomed over the body of water.

A chiming, crackling laughter escaped its body, glass shattering from the ocean's depths. The sound echoed, a sharp, discordant symphony of cruelty.

The sound reverberated through Billy. He may not have been able to hear it, but he felt it in his very being. It was a grating, uncomfortable feeling that rippled through his waters.

Still, he awkwardly fumbled a stray chalk to swirl in a faded-yellow spiral.

"Go on," it crooned sweetly, smug with indulgent malice. "Try your best."

The spiral began to take shape on the black tile under his makeshift, fluid-like hand. With each wave, he etched more of the spiral until it was recognizable.

He pushed against the tile with every lapping wave until it stood upright. Vertical with its spiral, menacingly observing the water before it.

He was not going to go through it.

He was going over it.

Expanding his mind, he concentrated on each piece of water. It was like peering around only Not. He could vaguely feel specks of warmth scattered around, or perhaps he tasted their colors.

Stray droplets leaned against the edges of the scrambled room before, fragments of color scattered about the surface. The leaning tower of sketchbooks stood proudly, having survived the tempest of the Distortion's anger.

Erosion.

At the base, a precarious point lay in wait in this game of Janga. All it would take was one move and the entire structure would come tumbling down.

And that was precisely what Billy needed.

The waves lapped at the tower's base, testing it as a school of piranhas circling their prey might.

Water crashed into the structure, prodding at one of the books. It wiggled, teasing the sketchbook loose from the stack with its alternating crest and troughs.

Soggy pages curled up in the edges, torn off by the constant ebb and flow. Water absorbed into the pages, smearing the black ink into a gray shadow.

It Is Not What It Is laughed, mocking the boy's efforts—a discordant melody of metal scraping onto cherry petals.

It only took one slip—a push against a particularly slippery journal binding, and the cracks propagated throughout. It started to sway like a skyscraper in the first tremors of an earthquake—sketchbooks and journals fell like a sudden deluge.

Pyroclastic flows of ripped pages and book bindings descended upon the water, creating deep amplitudes and displacing water in violent shifts.

The distance between the waves stretched further, rippling outwards.

As the crest approached the shallower water, the seabed of paint tubes and crayons slowed the approaching wave—faster water flows and built the wave higher and higher.

Then, the water began receding from the tile. Static churned in the air—a pressure drop and the oncoming storm's sharp, metallic scent.

Red tubes of paint lay scattered like uncovered seashells. Broken paint brushes stuck out of the glittering sand, drenched seaweed poking out. Interference intensified to howling winds through a tunnel.

Suddenly, a prominent crest rushed towards the black slate in a whirlwind of multicolored water. Billy's consciousness was on top of the wave's crest, surfing right on top, perched in the fierce, foaming waves. The Distorted, fractured form grew darker, tasting of soot and ozone.

As he neared the tile, Billy leaped over the upper border, soaring over the bar with droplets glinting like pearls. Fractals overhead roared in thunderstorms, and streams of yarn dangled like string cheese.

Like the bar of a long jump,

Billy felt absolute elation as he made it past the surface,

mere inches from the top.

The skim of liquid fell towards cracks and through the broken foundation before the roaring water broke the tile with the force.

A scream pierced through the air, amplified through the water, blood-curdling absent of the Distortion's nauseating imagery.

It was deeply human.

Desperate, almost.

.

.

.

Billy slipped through the gaps in the foundation, falling into darkness. Heat wrapped around him like a suffocating blanket. Droplets of water hissed as they evaporated, glistening like diamonds. They formed rivulets in the sky—blue, red, violet, and orange rivers.

The water that made up his current form began to foam and boil. Steam rose, transforming into trails of light behind him, like the tail of a comet. Above, the checkered sky framed his descent, starkly contrasting the flowing colors.

As he fell, the boiling water left behind dried remnants of color: red, black, white, yellow, and blue. Slowly, his form simplified, reducing into a watercolor figure. He tumbled through a surreal animation, flipping between frames of black-and-white paper.

The small orphan stretched out his arms, desperate to gain control over the rapid tumble. He slowed, his vision sharpening on a distant sphere—black or white, an inverse of the background behind him.

It wasn’t just a sphere. It was a hole. And he was falling straight into it.

As he drew closer, the sphere grew, consuming the entire frame. Now a speck against its vastness, Billy could feel time slipping away. It moved strangely, bending and warping in ways even the performative chaos of the Spiral couldn't achieve. Wonkier than anything he’d ever felt, not even the peculiar doors of The Rock of Eternity compared.

He tried everything to stop himself. Jumping, swimming, kicking, flying, running—none of it mattered. The pull was relentless.

The numbness began in his legs, spreading upward as they sank into the abyss. Then his stomach, his heart, until the darkness swallowed his eyes. It devoured his memories, form, and every piece of what made him him.

And then—

Nothing.

︵‿︵‿୨𖦹୧‿︵‿︵

Prev || Next

[slowfalter]

My inner child has a crush on your inner child

driving home in silence

as an exercise in thought mining

as an exercise in poetry writing

and the best line I could think of was

we’re all poems in the end

or would that be the beginning?

and you said there’s a poem in that

and I said yeah a bad one

I can’t write long poems because my world is very small

mostly it’s a kettle and a bed

but these distend and retract as required

sometimes over the kettle you’ll swell and scatter

like sugar through fingers

your timelines hatch chromatic

from that crystal that hangs in the window

and I want to know all of the people you were before

even the ones who creep into your sleep

just to embarrass you

like the one with all the hair gel

and the one with all the frills

I'll pluck them from your family album

and cradle them in my palms

I’ll say it’s okay

I know it feels bad right now

but this will all be a poem in the end

or it would be if I could capture them for you

so I could show you

their finest light

and beamingest smiles

neatest hair

first beer

first love

they’re someone’s favourite son

fastest run

funnest time

I’ll show you what I know

and I know that they were all the best people

they had to have been

because they led you here

————

[omegaremix]

Omega Radio for December 5, 2015; #99.

Savages “The Answer”

Westkust “Jonna”

METZ “Eyes Peeled”

Radical Dads “Tomorrow’s Trash”

JuliaWhy? “Turntable”

Novella “Land Gone”

Courtney Barnett “Aqua Profunda!”

DIIV “Dopamine”

Personal Best “This Time Next Year”

Speedy Ortiz “Raising The Skate”

Bichkraft “A4″

Diet Cig “Scene Sick”

Looper “Farfisa Song”

Flesh Panthers “Bleed Black Leather”

Title Fight “New Vision”

Cheena “Dreaming”

Mourn “Silver Gold”

Eternal Summers “Heart Squeeze”

Twin River “Bend To Break”

Sheer Mag “Sit And Cry”

Leather Towel “Nacho Chips”

Interrobang?! “Love It All”

Guerilla Toss “TV Spell”

Downtown Boys “Future Police”

Beech Creeps “Sun Of Sud”

Institute “Cheaptime Morals”

Viet Cong “Death”

Nebraska “Stand Your Ground”

Lust For Youth “Basorexia”

Cannibal Ox (ft. MF Doom) “Iron Rose”

Silvana Imam “Imam Cobain”

Future Punx “Manhattan Loverboy”

Hot Chip “Huarache Lights”

Metric “Too Bad So Sad”

MNDR & Sweet Valley “Like Liars”

Chvrches “Leave A Trace”

Grimes “Flesh Without Blood”

Plaitum “Let Me Hold You”

Alice Glass “Stillbirth”

Health “Stonefist”

Chromatics “Just Like You” (Hazy Mountains RMX)

First Year 4 broadcast. First of two Winners Of '15 shows, #99.

[noxcorvorum]

The train arrives, and the mechanisms leave, perhaps getting cosmically irradiated in the process, unable to see the collapse of yggdrasil before the metal of their bodies peels the scourge from their systems and the rainbows from their eyes, before aurora gets out of range of the exploding oil slick in colors unseen and imperceivable covering every planet like a shroud and bringing snapping mouths and hungry teeth and rending claws ripping into the fabric of space as loki and sigyn join each other in death and the bodies of the occupants of the ratatosk express spill into physical space, frey's corpse flayed and frayed and split at the seams, freyja fused with the wall, bones and flesh merged with metal dripping with golden-red, heimdall's empty sockets gazing at nothing and everything, seeing to all the edges of the corruption, tyr and garm entwined, tyr's new hand gripped by garm's sharpened teeth and garm's heart clutched in tyr's ragged fingers, odin's serpentine form slumped on the floor of the observation deck, single eye wide and staring out into the abyss as her blood tinged with acid and deadly rainbow drips from thor's borrowed hammer and mingles with his own where he lies nine steps from her corpse, and the knot of cosmic horror spreads, and spreads, and spreads until it encompasses yggdrasil and all its nine planets, and still it creeps forth. No one goes near yggdrasil, anymore. Just like fort galfridian, abandoned during its fall and left to rust and rot and burn and plummet into avalon, the yggdrasil system is left alone and watched and monitored as the squamous things creep closer. They seem to slow, as they get further out, but it never stops, an oil slick spreading infection and mutation and horror over everything it touches, for the flutes have stopped, the doors have opened, and azathoth awakens. The sole survivor, an inspector second class of the midgardian transport police, must move often and quickly, as they drip corruption behind them like a cloak, like so much water on soaked earth, and it spreads and screams and rips and rends if they do not leave whatever planet they stop at before it puts down roots. Everyone they encounter can tell they have been fundamentally changed, by the swirling colors in their eyes and the slight echoed song in their voice and the chromatic smudges that leak from their fingertips onto everything they touch. The void does not let them die, knitting their flesh and sealing their bones back together on a tide of vivid color and nauseous patterns. They take to music and storytelling, narrating the fall of their planetary system as a way to commemorate its existence, and as a warning to any who would listen of the distortion and decay raging its way forth, for they are herald and harbinger for the squamous things, and it will never let them go.

[ungoliantschilde]

Ride the Lightning, 1984.

Every aspect of this album was an improvement over Kill ‘Em All. The writing, the composition, and the variety of sound.

Fantastic album.

There was an error edition of the vinyl albums. A small number of the first printings were produced with a green hue. They’ve been bootlegged and copied. Original error editions are VERY valuable in the vinyl collector’s world.

The only single was “Creeping Death”, and it’s about the Israelites fleeing Egypt. Stoned Sour did a great cover of it. Great, great track.

My picks for the best are basically Metallica’s signature song, “For Whom the Bell Tolls” and “Fade to Black”.

“For Whom the Bell Tolls” is the song you’re going to expect when you see them live, and be fucking pissed if they don’t play it. Cliff Burton’s bass chromatic intro is based on what got him hired by the band. It’s… iconic.

“Fade to Black” is the perfect example of them broadening their musical tastes. The acoustic intro was initially derided by the hardcore fans. This climactic ode to suicide is one of their best.

[squirrel-on-a-typewriter]

THOUSAND-YEAR REIGN, Prologue - Divergence

AO3 | Fanfiction.net | FIMfiction

Kofi

With the threat of Nightmare Moon never coming to pass, Princess Luna garners a portion of Equestria for herself, the Court of the Moon reigning alongside that of the sun.

After prosperity and peace for a thousand years, stirrings of unrest, both magical and mundane, spread across the land. A changeling of an unknown, forgotten hive awakens, quickly wrapped into an adventure that takes her across Equestria. From the sands of The Badlands, to the heights of Canterlot, she'll find herself, and, just maybe, find out what happened to her swarm.

Thrust into both royalty and hailed pantheon they were thrown; saviors of all hoofed, horned, and winged kind, the chaos of Discord quelled by their combined harmonies. Despite all their power and immortality, they knew it wise to seek counsel, for what would two rulers be without gaining knowledge to better protect Equestria?

To the highest peaks of the Frozen North they ventured, discovering their sought quarry hidden away within a small, molding cabin cast in the great mountain’s shadow. A whipping blizzard raged outside as they awaited by the flickering glow of a lit hearth, feverish howling pounding away at the shack’s walls.

The rags-clad figure of the hermit stepped forth once preparations were finished, casting a handful of sparkling powder into the fire’s crackle, its color changing from a vibrant spectrum of reds and oranges to a cold white, spilling out and growing tall enough the edges of the flames licked the ceiling of the hut without burning it.

All warmth left the abode in that instance, the once cornered shadows emboldened to creep out longer, darker. The two princesses shivered, visible breath on their lips as they gazed onward, startled by this display.

Within this marrow-pale blaze, they witnessed visages of themselves, all passing by so fast it was almost a blur, too much information to process at once. Day by day, scene by scene, plucked portions of their lives that had occurred, or were yet to transpire.

Some were moments of weakness, others of triumph. There were ponies they knew, or didn’t know at all. They stared, mesmerized at these dreamlike interactions.

“What will become of us, oracle?” Asked the eldest, failing to hide the worry in her voice as she tried to discern this barrage of knowledge, eyes flitting over to her sister, gauging her reactions.

“We have been told your prophecies all come true in some manner,” commented the youngest. “Please, we must know, no matter what it may be.” She tried to appear calm, maintaining a stifled demeanor.

“You will rule. Your land will flourish. Your people will be happy, for a time. Too happy.” Her voice grated louder than the storm. “From this prosperity, bickering will arise, jealousy seething into anger, anger boiling into a darkened heart.”

“Corruption shall overtake thee, a magic most foul.” she pointed a long, pointed nail at the youngest, who stilled at the accusation, her ears and tail lowering shamefully, while the eldest bristled.

The sisters shared a glance, the images within the hearth slowing down almost mockingly to the two of them arguing. Shouting, demeaning insults, barely withheld threats of violence in their body language.

Then, the youngest transforming into a form of pure midnight, all of her most dreaded aspects magnified to a malicious degree. They clashed through both land and sky, their battle taking them across Equestria, destroying their home in the process.

It ended with a brilliant light, six chromatic beams piercing the veil of oily blackness and banishing the Night Mare forevermore.

“All brought on by the youngest demanding she be treated as an equal worthy of praise,” the crone turned her lidded head to that of the moon. “All because the eldest neglected her sibling in her self-righteous stupor.” The hooded face of judgment fell upon the sun.

The fire sank back gradually, heat returning as it did so. Tears were budding in the eyes of both alicorns as they stewed with this revelation settling upon them.

“Do with this what you will,” the sage said, extending an outstretched palm to both of them. “My services do not come without a price. Our agreed-upon payment. Now.”

Barely snapping back to the present, Celestia nodded shakily, her horn glowing with all the splendor of dawn. Joining her, Luna’s own horn surrounded itself in a night’s worth of arcane essence.

The hag grinned wide, accepting their tokens all too eagerly, exchanged for a glimpse of what the future held, lest they changed their ways.

And change they did, restructuring how Equestria operated as a kingdom within weeks of their visit. Rather than a dual-rulership over its entirety, they agreed to separate their territory into two equal domains, one led by the day’s light, the other by the night’s shroud.

The noble families and descendants of the settling leaders were most unpleased with this change in status quo, but who were they to disagree with their princesses? Those who disparaged the idea either fell in line or were exiled to neighboring countries.

These divided lands would come to be known as The Sun Court and The Moon Court, while still being part of Equestria proper, not wishing to disrespect the name founded by the three tribes.

A ‘friendly’ competition was formed to decide who would keep their home of Canterlot, as it was a central point of power that would define the dividing line between the realms. Champions from both sides partook in a tournament that lasted three days and three nights, with the reigning victor handing Celestia the mountain-city, as well as the southern portion of the country.

Luna, and those who followed her, would establish the Moon Court’s capital of Lunar Bay in the north, resting underneath the protection of the Crystal Mountains.

Both societies would co-exist and develop alongside another for a millennia; while the catastrophe of their fated conflict had been averted, a deeper, more familial problem arose. The sisters drifted apart, the unity that initially bound them unraveling.

They saw each other on occasion during festivious events or times of crisis where they were forced to band together for intervention, but otherwise, time and distance separated them. The Elements of Harmony were sealed away, as less and less use for them were required, year by year, century by century.

It wasn’t until a thousand years later did Princess Luna realize she was lonely. Life had become a flash of the vaguest sense of passage, lost to her in a deluge of duty. She had advisors, loyal guards, those that relished in her night, but still she knew she felt … empty.

She truly hoped that her sister, living on that distant mountain so far away, felt the same.

[filmgad]

imagine i documented chromatic sounds for 5yrs of my like and not once carlene pull me aside and say i am doing some good work or thanks now lets see how we can pay you. i remember when creep said it's not in the budget to pay me or else he'd have me come on events with him to photograph his set, man i nearly rolled my eyes down to my feet when he said that shit to me he doesn't care about paying creatives man and i found out the hard way when i never got paid for fixtape & nothing good came from that

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I headcanon Color with narcolepsy type 2, but he manages it well enough that it's not easy for outside sources to guess he has a sleeping disorder at all. (Obviously Epic, Delta, and Killer can made educated guesses, since they know the bastard)

However, it is the excessive daytime sleepiness that gives him the most trouble. It takes him forever to get out of bed, and even longer to "wake up" completely once he's gotten coffee.

This could serve as another foil between him and Killer, since Killer avoids sleep and perhaps can't stay asleep for long, Color can't seem to get away from it even though his anti-depressants help his functioning substantially.

This becomes more apparent once Killer learns how often Color experiences sleep paralysis.

Oh that’s an interesting headcanon. Read one little article on it, will probably read up more, but according to the article, a way to help daytime sleepiness is having planned 20 minute naps throughout the day, and like, I can see the Chromatic Crew all reminding Color to take naps if he doesn’t have anything planned for the day, which probably actually isn’t very often with how much that old man is out exploring or wants to be out exploring.

Actually I can see it like, Killer often times going out in nature walks and trails with Color (whenever he doesn’t want to be alone and have some time to himself), and like they carry along stuff like a little picnic blanket and stuff so whenever they stop somewhere, they just lay out the blanket and maybe enjoy a picnic and use this as time to see if color needs to take a nap or if he’s okay to keep going or wants to go back home.

And whenever Delta, Epic, and Cross go out on the walks with Color, I like to think they kinda carry or give him a piggyback ride home if he’s so tired or sleepy to walk— which isn’t often, but enough to be noticeable.

And like, because neither Killer or Epic really sleep much, I can picture like—they take turns sitting around and just talking to or reading to or just sitting near color or gently touching him/encourage him to try and move a muscle whenever they notice that he’s dealing with sleep paralysis.

It’s probably most likely to be Killer, since they probably share a room in their home in the Omega Timeline, but im picturing a scene where they aren’t sharing a room yet and Killers out roaming the house and being a little creep—checking up on everyone and entering their rooms and watching people sleep (probably because he hasn’t yet settled in with the crew or in the new environment and wants to find out as much information as possible), and like—all Color sees is Killer stepping out of the shadows out of his bedroom and approaching him and staring at him with those big fucking eyes and creepy ass smile before he starts trying to help him out 💀

(And like maybe color falls asleep again not long after and killers gone when wakes up and he thinks killer was like his sleep paralysis demon or something)

And reading up on this disorder a little gave me a few ideas on how killer might try to ‘help’ but in a way that’s kinda toxic and fucked up despite good intentions due to lack of grasp on clear boundaries and morals (and possibly just doing what was done to him thinking it’d help/need for control) but I’ll not talk about it here

{ @sarcosticsarcomere }

[wolf-look-at-chicken]

[A video is attached. It's a bit glitchy around the edges, but still plenty visibly shows Wei Wuxian sitting right in front of the camera. He gives a silent but gentle look into it, before raising his flute to his lips and beginning to play.

The melody starts slow, but it is haunting. Dissonance creeps into the notes and chromatic runs skip between the rhythm. The glitchiness increases, the audio distorts a little, as the melody intensifies, on the verge of screeching but not quite. It induces... not quite anxiety, but certainly some kind of adrenaline.

The crackling and glitching worsens and worsens until--

The camera suddenly clears. In front of it is... some sort of Pokemon, probably, that has a small, round, pitch-black body with crimson resentful energy swirling around it. It twitches a bit, and then glances back at the camera.

A Rotom.

"Hello, little one," Wei Wuxian says softly, and it jolts back around to face him. He holds out a hand. The Pokemon gravitates towards it with a painful amount of caution, and practically melts into Wei Wuxian's touch. He cups another hand around the Rotom. "You must be tired after hanging on for so long."

The video ends.]