#aaaaand that's it!

[juulz]

Gig

(How They Met)

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7

[ceaselessbasher]

I arrive at the yarn store and grab a skein off the shelf, the exact same brand, type, weight and color of the one I bought a week ago. Everyone in the store immediately knows that I miscalculated the amount of yarn I'd need for a project. They start booing at me. They are throwing crocheted tomatoes at me. The old lady giving knitting lessons in the corner is shaking her head. She had such high hopes for me. The cashier spits at me when I pay for it.

[whateveriwant]

Good evening, I can't stop thinking about Simon going brain dead as he fucks you :)

Like, just imagine. You're on your elbows and knees as Simon's hitting it from behind, when suddenly you feel something wet land on your back. You know it's not him finishing given the fact that he's still buried deep inside you, so you look back over your shoulder to see what the hell that was you just felt.

And when you turn around, the sight that greets you is one for the ages. There's Simon, eyes unfocused and glazed over, mouth hanging wide open in the most fucked-out expression you've ever witnessed. He looks like he's never had an intelligent thought in his life; like he's been reverted back to a primitive brain, whose only drives are to eat, breathe, and fuck.

As you watch him rut into you like a sex-crazed animal, it's then you spy the source of the mystery liquid dripping onto your back. There, dribbling steadily from Simon's ajar mouth, flows a thick stream of drool. It leads down from his bottom lip in long, viscous ribbons, landing and settling itself along the curve of your spine. If he even notices (which, by the look on his face, he's too far gone for such higher-order thinking processes) then he doesn't care. He just lets his spit pour freely from his open mouth, like some kind of wild beast that's got its eyes locked onto its next meal.

Simon is so mentally checked out that he can't even hear you as you gently say his name. No, all he can think about – all his shriveled little monkey brain can focus on at this moment – is how fucking good you feel around him and how fucking badly he needs to fill you up.

When Simon does finally cum, he can only manage a garbled string of grunts and groans that doesn't even come close to resembling human speech. After three, four, five thrusts as deep into you as possible, his whole body is shaking, and his trembling limbs give out.

He collapses on top of you without a second's consideration of his size, pinning you to the mattress beneath his warm, heavy frame. You can still feel him drooling a little as his face comes to rest in the crook of your neck, the mess on your lower back getting smeared between your bodies.

It's hard for you to breathe being trapped under Simon's weight like that, so you try lightly tapping him on the head to ask him to roll off you. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it's no use trying to gain his attention right now. You're going to have to give him a few minutes to collect himself, love.

The poor guy just fucked himself stupid, after all.

[blam-marie]

A Metaphor's Guide to Rewriting Destiny

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We hurried to the hotel’s coach house, where we took one of the nondescript carriages that were used to ferry around paying guests at their convenience. Our same coachman as on the first night took the reins and Jeanne, perhaps having gotten into her head that she ought to keep an eye on me, begged us to wait as she changed into her footman attire before catching up to us outside.

Compassion and two of the scholars climbed inside of the cabin after me. There was an air of heavy expectation as the carriage rumbled over cobblestones as we undertook our journey. The men tried to draw me into conversation but I did not have the patience for it. I shut them down and they lapsed into tense silence.

Sat on the seat facing mine, Compassion watched me with dark, pensive eyes. We had never been companions but I had tried to kill him many times, and we kept aware of each other’s work. This situation was unlike either of us. But few knew what I did outside of the times when Walls actively deployed me as their Rage, and few believed the rumors of what Compassion got up to outside of the sanctuary of the various temples and monasteries where he kept incarnating. That was because they did not understand what Compassion truly was. I did. I had asked myself the day before, when wondering how he had known how to take down a magical barrier, ‘compassion for whom’. That was a flawed question. The answer was ‘yes’. It was ‘everyone’, or ‘whoever happened to be in front of him at any given moment’. Regardless of who that person actually was.

I was not surprised that he was involved in this brewing revolution. What surprised me was that he was not involved more. He did not care about politics but he cared very, very much that people were suffering.

Unfortunately, here and now, it was me that he was focused on. My suffering which he sought to diminish or ease. I clenched my hands into fists and stared out of the window. I didn’t want this. It would have been better for everyone if he had cut me loose at the gate of the Lighthouse and turned his purpose towards those who actually wanted him. I was keeping him from them now. I was restless under his attention. I never should have pushed him into the cell and extracted his promise to help.

I closed my eyes. I tried to remind myself that I was doing this for Astoria, that I owed her this at least. I tried to lie to myself that there was still something that I could do for her, that my efforts were not too little and far too late. It didn’t help.

I wished that I could simply set this city ablaze with everyone in it and never have to look upon it and its misery ever again. There was a time when I would have. When torching vast swatches of land instead of pretending to be a nice little civilized Exemplar who played by the rules was an option that was open to me. But not anymore. The world had gotten too complicated. I had made too many ties, gathered too many stories to keep locked behind my breast, safe from the world and the passage of time.

I had gotten soft. And tired.

This exhaustion was exactly what made Compassion so dangerous to me. His purpose was the end of mine, and therefore it was he that would be the end of me, some day. This had not been prophesized, nor was it written down anywhere for anyone to see. But I knew it, and I suspected that he did too.

After three thousand years I was well aware by now that my destiny was set in stone, and could not be rewritten by will nor stubbornness alone. There were some who believed that Anydrite was not truly gone, and that one day she would return and call back her aspects to her, and that this would be the end of the Exemplars. Others believed that if only the three hundred of us could just gather at the same place at the same time, then our powers would be pulled out of us and she would be re-formed. But these were ridiculous and fanciful notions, formed by minds who had not been suited to immortality and strained under its weight.

We were nearing our destination. As our carriage slowed down, I set my jaw and told myself firmly that whatever end awaited me, today was not that day. I caught Compassion’s eyes again. He seemed to sense my renewed resolve, for it was he who lowered his gaze now.

We rolled to a stop in front of some manner of factory. The door opened, and Compassion turned to our boy leader.

“I will speak to the workers here. Don’t wait up.”

He stepped out. Then a tall man in faded clothes emerged from the factory’s shadowed doorway. He exchanged a nod with the Exemplar and climbed up into our carriage to take his place. Jeanne closed the door firmly behind him. We felt the coach dip as she climbed back onto her perch at the rear. The two scholars greeted the man, who seemed rather exasperated with them. He shot me and intrigued look, but as no one had yet introduced me, he chose instead to sit next to our charismatic blonde leader. He removed his hat and ran a hand over his bald head.

“I appreciate your kindness in bringing me to the train station,” he began before anyone could say anything. “But if this is another attempt at convincing me, I will remind you that my position is perfectly clear—”

“The situation has changed,” interrupted the leader of our cause.

“Jean-François...” cautioned the other scholar under his breath.

Jean-François twitched a hand towards him, as if ordering him to settle down and let him work.

“I apologize for being so candid,” he told the man whom I assumed was Ambreville, “but we will not gain anything by hiding behind manners and double-speak.”

The other man sighed. “Speak plainly then. What exactly has happened that is so important that it could change my decision?”

Jean-François and the other scholar turned to me then and waited. Perhaps they thought that I would speak, or at the very least lift my veil. I did no such thing. I had been a propaganda piece for longer than they both had been alive. I knew how best to play my part. I raised my chin and tilted my head to the light coming through the window, knowing that the glow of my inhuman golden eyes would shine through the dark fabric.

Ambreville noticed, and his expression fell into frank astonishment.

“Another? But I thought... Compassion...” he gestured back the way we had come.

“She is nothing like Compassion,” said Jean-François, leaning in. His eyes glowed almost as much as mine in the shadowed interior of the carriage. “Mr. Jules-Honoré Ambreville, let me introduce you to the Exemplar of Rage.”

***

As expected, my presence had the desired effect. They spoke animatedly the rest of the ride to the train station. I kept my eyed fixed on the man I had been brought here to convince, my posture confident but alert, my hands loose on my cane. I knew how to give the impression of a predator, coiled dangerously in the darkness. It made men’s pulses race, sweat gather at their temple, their breathing grow shallow. Their entire body trembled in terror, when they knew me their enemy, or excitement, when they thought me their tool.

Sometimes, I even had that effect on other Exemplars, who really should know better. Or perhaps they were stirred because they knew me and what I was capable of. I wondered whether I could arouse such turmoil in Compassion if I really applied myself to it. It seemed unlikely. He did not seem a man easily threatened, and he was not foolish enough to think that I could be controlled.

As expected, I did not need to speak to Ambreville, nor was I asked to. As the conversation washed over me, I let my mind wander. There had been a time when I would have cared about such things. The first of me had been a king, a leader of men. He would have had much to say about this revolution. But that had been the first and last time that I had had any such power. Every one of me afterwards had been part of the lesser, the downtrotten, the ones who did not have a voice until I started stabbing in their names. The world seemed different from that angle, desperation more cruel, pain more raw. Lessons had been learned.

[taxidermychrist]

peace and love on faggot earth

[sensitiveheartless]

Rest of the comic is under the cut, because LONG :0

Also! Content warnings for body horror, guns, blood(although in black and white) and just...horror in general tbh

Operation "Fall of the Hooded Hawk": For situations where one half of skk has to shoot without having clear vision, and relies on the direction of their partner. In this case, Chuuya was giving Dazai coordinates of where to fire by tapping against his ear. (It's kind of like a trust fall)

I scripted a whole followup conversation with more explanation of what exactly the mirror was, and just general context, but this comic has gotten so long that I'm gonna write that as a short scene in prose, because it's mostly dialogue and if I try to draw it all then I think my hands will secede from my body lol — I'll probably be able to get that done in the next couple of days. But in the meantime, thanks for reading! :D

(3/5/24 edit: Followup convo is done!)

[qifreyplushie]

you, are god. my god.

happy birthday prince of xianle, xie lian. 🌸👑

[zipmode]

AQUATIC CREEPYPASTAS:

Jeff the KRILLer

Slender MANTA RAY

Ben Drowned

The LAKE

Smile DOG FISH

Squidward's Suicide

Russian SWIM Experiment

Eyeless JACK FISH

[syn4k]

SAHARA MERCH IN RHE YEAR OF OUR LORD 2024??? JUST IN TIME FKR CHRISTMAS??????? WE HAVE TRULY BEEN BLESSED

[beif0ngs]

C'mon heart, beat loudly again! 💓

[aphel1on]

mdzs/untamed misc text posts (pt 2)

[gringolet]

honestly living in camelot is not that great like you guys love to romanticize it but as someone who lives here it low key sucks. the public transit system is so bad bc trains and buses dont exist yet and the rent is crazy high. “oh but the culture” what culture? the tournament scene? watching some random relative of gawain get unseated by some random relative of lancelot every three weeks is not culture its barely entertainment. and dont get me started on the tourists

#vent #personal #no hate im just so sick of squires posting about going to camelot and making their fortune #not gonna happen and dont move here #ur driving up cost of living 🙄

[amiinkles]

GET HER

[existwound-moved]

someone get him out of there

[toonsforkicks22]

…and they never loved another godkid.

I was crying at work last night thinking about making this 🥲

[themmidraws]

250 posts!

Holy shet

LETS FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I HAVE POSTED THAT MUCH!?!?

(99% is original content)