#and then rarae writes

[raemoriendi]

I’m smack in the middle of a spontaneous rewatch, so do you wanna hear my batshit zombie land saga theory?

(yeah you do, here we go)

so, this guy —

is obviously not who he says he is. mysterious idol producer who spent enough time in hollywood learning makeup sfx skills that makes zombies regularly look like normal living teenage girls, who then despite his apparent egregious talent with a makeup brush, returns to his very small and little known hometown in japan? who happens to also figure out how to bring back girls that have been killed by the Saga curse?

yeah, we as the audience are set up to know there’s more to him that meets the eye. especially with the flashback to him as Sakura’s pre-death classmate, Inui, which I am mentally chewing on like a dog with a bone.

(like romero here.)

but!! while I don’t have a lot of proof, and I'm working from the anime alone (not the manga that came out after or Zombie Land Saga Gaiden), due to my own weird special interest in funerary practices, I have a theory about what he might actually be:

Kotaro either is or was at some point, a mortician, or a yukanshi/nōkanshi.

(putting this under a cut, because it gets long, and also for some s1 and s2 spoilers.)

this initially occurred to me in season one, episode two, when we first saw Kotaro putting makeup on Sakura before a show in the back of the van, specifically applying a flesh-colored putty with something that looked like an offhand spatula to the big scar in the middle of her forehead. You can see it at the timestamp 14:11.

this reminded me of something called Embalmer’s Putty, which is used in the embalming process (or a general process of touching up the decedent minus chemical preservation) to fill in wounds for a viewing, visiting hours, or any gathering where the deceased’s loved ones might want to see their body for a last time.

here are screengrabs from two different funerary equipment companies showing what embalmer’s putty looks like and what it can do:

embalming putty can be already flesh-toned so as to look like living skin, and thus blend in with the mortician’s final product: making the deceased look more lively and at rest, restoring their dignity and giving peace of mind to the bereaved who want to see them off.

this process is actually really well summarized here, in this article from Regal Casket company:

if Kotaro was trained as a mortician or funerary cosmetologist, he would be trained to do exactly what he does every time he helps the girls get ready: making them look alive, healthy, and most importantly, lacking any visible mortal wounds that could upset their living audience. The girls themselves remark on how he makes them not only look like their old selves, but at times even better than before. this is exactly the type of skill set he would need to cultivate if he was preparing bodies for a last moment together with the deceased's loved ones, so they don't remember the celebrant as they were when they died, but how they looked in life.

keep in mind also that if Kotaro really had learned his makeup skills in Hollywood, he would have learned how to apply wound makeup/sfx to in-tact, healthy, living skin to make it look dead or wounded, not the other way around. makeup artists, even special effects makeup artists, are not taught how to work with dead or decaying human skin.

on top of this, a regular special effects artist would not be trained to fill grave injuries or mortal wounds, because their canvases are all living, presumably healthy people with no major injuries, who are able to go on movie sets and act for hours and hours at a time.

Kotaro wouldn’t (or shouldn’t) even be using the same kind of makeup that would go on living people, because dead bodies, obviously, are often room temperature at most when they’re being prepared for viewing, if not colder due to being held temporarily in cooling storage to prevent decay. funerary cosmetics are specifically formulated to account for this lack of temperature in a dead person, because makeup spreads differently over cold skin as compared to the warm skin of someone alive. trying to put on regular makeup, even special effects makeup, would look more than off - something Franchouchou is definitely keen to avoid if they want to keep their cover. (Or wanted to, before the storm aftermath of s2.)

some other points of interest that (to me) can be read to support this theory:

Kotaro drives a black van. while not a hearse (or “funeral coach” as the industry sometimes calls them) it’s still the right color to blend in to a funeral procession if needed, and large enough to store necessary equipment for services, viewings, etc.

Kotaro is always in a suit except when he's bathing or sleeping - specifically, a dark-colored suit. Even when the man was in a full depressive episode by the beginning of s2, he still kept his suit pants and dress shirt. It serves the purpose of being seen as a (semi-)competent idol producer who’s always ready to make a deal for his band, sure! but if his day job when he don’t see him (going away “on business” like during the episode Sakura had amnesia) it also suits him working in the somber, subdued environment of a funeral home. (minus the shades, red vest, and dried squid in his pocket. those are likely just part of his persona for Franchouchou's sake.)

Kotaro had to become familiar with resurrection magic somehow. Who’s to say he couldn’t come into contact with it during his work at a funeral home or as a mortician, something that would keep him adjacent to death and its sacred rites and practices? possibly from a young age, considering many funeral workers can start an apprenticeship or internship in their late teens? Wouldn’t that make more sense contextually than him just stumbling across it in a library, or randomly in a magical encounter in a world where zombies exist?

Kotaro coughing up blood at the end of s2 might be the Curse, but it might also be the stress of managing Franchouchou on top of the stress of his day job. these positions can be highly taxing emotionally and physically, as one needs to be a steadying presence for people on some of the worst days of their lives, and while embalming isn't as much of a thing in Japan (to my knowledge), exposure to certain chemicals from the restoration process over time has proven to be hazardous to one's health.

“okay, rae, maybe,” you’re saying. “but some of these are still kind of a stretch.”

this is where I get a little more speculative, but bear with me:

from the brief glimpse we have of him as Inui, and based on the translation of “Inui” and “Tatsumi” being opposite directions (northwest and southeast, respectively), we know that Kotaro wasn’t always this brash, loud idiot producer we know today. there was apparently a point in high school where he was very shy, and was maybe friends with Sakura, or at least acquaintences.

what if Inui was so shy and soft-spoken because he had grown up in the world of funerary traditions? many funeral homes are often generational, handed down from parent to child as a family business. someone accustomed (or maybe just exposed) to death that early might have some reasons to be kind of quiet and withdrawn.

this might also account for how he knew about the other dead girls of Franchouchou before Sakura. if one of his parents or even his grandparents were handling Saga’s deceased, he would have had an opportunity to hear about the accidents that killed them before the news spread as widely, encounter them in the restoration stage as dead bodies (depending on when they happened and if he was alive yet), and even seen their makeup applied by his predecessors if he was allowed in the prep room, or at least hear their recollections of it after the fact.

we know that he’s descended from Kiichi, Yugiri's love interest from when she was alive, who was a young man dedicated to seeing Saga's return after it merged with another region and lost its name. we also know he's being mentored by the immortal bartender Jofuku, who's said to be Saga's living embodiment, and supposedly is or is based on a wizard from mythology who discovered the Elixir of Immortality. while Jofuku is a likely source for the magic of necromancy, and maybe even selected the girls he wanted resurrected, it would make sense that people involved with Saga's dead were in contact to some degree with the man who is Saga itself, especially since the ZSL fandom wiki has noted that Saga's Curse in current times has manifested as a low birth rate and aging population. if there are more dead and dying in Saga than there are living, a family funeral home would be kept quite busy, on top of all the random accidents that the Curse causes to cut down people who would bring Saga recognition or prosperity.

so let's try this on for size: Inui grows up in a family of yukanshi/nōkanshi, who prepare the decedents for customary otsuya -- a wake held the night before the funeral itself, meant to give the living bereaved a last night to spend with their late loved one. his family likely also participates to some degree in the funeral ceremony itself (osohiki) and the cremation (kasou) before the ashes are interred. (I got my info on Japanese funerals here, as imperfect as it may be.) Inui learns about the historical funerals of Saga's famous dead that he wasn't around for through his family's experiences or through their ties to Jofuku. He begins training to take over the family business maybe as a teenager, this peculiar adolescence maybe leaving him a little more reserved than his classmates.

it might also give him the chance to practice his proficiency with music composition and his instruments -- song selection is a not-small part of modern funerary practices. maybe his family encouraged him to learn to write songs and play so he could perform at funerals? his stage fright evidenced in other episodes would shut that down pretty quickly, of course, but maybe this interest in music is how he becomes friends with Sakura to begin with, as evidenced by the clip of the CD exchange.

but then Sakura is killed in a terrible accident and his world turns upside down. it's bad enough that he's grieving, but then her body might come to his family's funeral home to be prepared for her ceremony and interment. he sees this lively, determined girl he admired dead and cold on the prep room table, her beautiful face ruined, and it's just not fair. how can his heart not break?

maybe he goes to Jofuku and demands to know what the old man knows about bringing people back, and the Curse. maybe he's less direct, but seeks the knowledge of necromancy for himself, with his family so close to death for so many generations. he continues his training for ten years, learning all he can about how to make the dearly departed look like themselves again. look better than themselves, even.

when the Zombie Land Saga Project is in the planning stages, living in a funeral family might give him access to or secondhand knowledge of where all the girls' ashes are interred. eventually, his line of work gives him the opportunity to collect however much he needs from each for the magic to work.

he knows it can, because even though Jofuku himself has never died, Romero has, and has been successfully brought back at some point. he's a little weird and not the prettiest, but he's still very much a dog.

ten years later, when the spell takes hold and his undead Saga champions resurrect, he knows how to make each and every one of them look like their old selves again.

he does Sakura's makeup first, just to see his old friend again as he remembered her.

we know how the rest goes from there, but this is my overarching theory that explains Why Kotaro Tatsumi outside his relationship to Sakura, but also how he could come up with Zombie Land Saga outside of just being a citizen of Saga himself.

anyway!! apologies if this was scattered, I wrote it in dribs and drabs throughout the day, but it's been gnawing at me for a minute. if there's anything canon I don't know about that completely obliterates this theory, then just call it an AU, and if this has already been agreed on in other parts of fandom, just call me fashionably late.

if you've read this long, you're a sweetheart <3

[romanticintheory]

thinking about fellow soldier!reader coming back to ghost after having been mistaken for kia

gn!reader x simon "ghost" riley

-maybe he's back in your shared apartment, holding the last photo he took with you.

-it was taken the day of your birthday, with your arms around simon's waist and a gleeful smile permanently etched on your face.

-you were looking directly at the camera with your eyes crinkled at the corners. simon, however, was looking at you and only you with an expression only a lovestruck fool could manage.

-he had long since stopped crying about what he believed was your death. when price came to him with a somber expression and the news that you were on the wrong end of an explosion, the only thing he could do was cry or be angry.

-now, he felt nothing.

-you could imagine his surprise when he hears the front door open. did he forget to lock it? was someone breaking in? he didn't care enough to prepare himself for a potential attack.

-but, no, you walked in with an ungodly amount of bandaged wounds and a tired look on your face.

-you expected him to stand from his place on the sofa to meet you, but he didn't. he thought he was imagining things, again, so he said nothing.

-"simon," you said softly, not bothering to take off your shoes and throwing you things onto the ground next to you.

-still, he said nothing.

-"i'm sorry. i'm so, so sorry. price said he tried to contact you but that you never answered," you continued. nobody knew where you and ghost lived, and simon's grief took the form of self-isolation.

-he still didn't answer you at this point, and it was becoming unsettling.

-"simon, can you hear me?"

-"you're not real," was all he could muster. he didn't have the heart to tell "fake" you to go away or beg himself to wake up from his supposed dream. "i can't do this again. you're not real."

-you realized just how hard your false death had hit him.

-"i'm real. i promise. i was able to take cover last second and-"

-"no. you're dead with not even a body to recover because i wasn't there to protect you. god, i..." the words got stuck in his throat as he leaned forward on the sofa, holding his head in his hands and near trembling.

-you dropped to your knees in front of him like a follower worshipping their god. taking his hands, you held them tight as you could in a silent attempt at convincing him you were alive.

-there was a moment of silence between the two of you before he drew his hands away from yours. it made your heart hurt.

-"simon..." you were grasping at straws, now, trying to figure out how to convince him of what was true. maybe there was something in your luggage that might help.

-as soon as you turned your body to your bags by the front door, you were pulled right back in by a pair of strong arms.

-he was hugging you like the moment he let go, you'd disappear into thin air (and, in a way, he believed it to be a possibility). after being pulled from your shock, you immediately brought your own arms to reciprocate the embrace.

-"(y/n)," he said, trying to keep his voice stable. there was still a part of him that couldn't believe he had you with him. if he weren't so thankful, he'd be lecturing you about acting wreckless on missions and convincing you to quit your job so nothing like this happened again.

-but, for now, he was content like this.

[lgbtimelords]

a fanfic i'll never write, part 1:

is a mirror just a reflection (or is it the door to a parallel universe)

Dreams are a weird thing.

The lapse between unconsciousness and consciousness. The moment fleeting images show up in your mind and sometimes, they quickly leave. You’re not supossed to remember them, books say. It’s repressed memories, repressed ideas, some that are kept that way for a reason. Most people don’t want to know what they mean. They don’t want to dive into the depths of their minds.

Not her, thought.

The dreams, the weird and inconsistent dreams she has every night, are the only thing she has any autonomy over. Her mind is hers. Even if sometimes it feels like her body isn’t.

They train her. Guide her. Mold her into turning into what they want, into what Alex wants. But not her mind. They can’t take away her mind, her thoughts, her dreams.

And even though part of her knows these aren’t her dreams. She still holds them close, thinks about them. Tries to analyze them, for a lack of something better to do.

She dreams of darkness. And solitude.

She sees punch after punch land against her face, seconds from each other, even though the person above her always has a different face.

She dreams of bodies falling on top of each other, unmoving and pale as they fall to the floor. Althought she never recognizes any of the faces.

She feels pain, always, in one way or another, across her entire body. Nails cursing through her blood and she’s unable to make it stop. Except it does stop, when she wakes up. Even if her beating heart and the residual pain she can almost-feel are still there.

She doesn’t know what they mean and the classic literature books that are mailed to her bring little answers. Just more questions. Just more ideas and thoughts they want to carve into her mind. She doesn’t let it. She tries to argue back with the books that offer no feedback and when Alex arrives, she tells them she agrees with the books- lets him smirk satified as she puts on her clueless face.

She wasn’t always like this. She did fall for his games. She did let him mold her mind. At first. It wasn’t until her tenth reread of The Great Gatsby that she realized it was the only act of defiance she had done against Alex- reading a book. She realized how much he hated her thoughts on it, even though her outlook was a nice one.

Why wouldn’t Alex want me to see beauty?

But she wanted to see beauty. Beauty outside of the compound she’s been confined in. But beauty seems like such a foreing concept to her. What is beauty? The dresses women describe in her books? The money and lavish jewels she’d never seen? The music she’d never heard? The beautiful people her guards describe during their breaks?

She’s not sure she has ever seen beauty. But she wants to. She desperatly wants to.

But she can’t get out.

Her life is just the couple hundred of miles that belong to this section of the Kaznian army. Her sleeping cuarters are not more than four old and empty walls. The training grounds are not more than snowy ground and thick cold air.

And she spends, day and nights, training and reading and studying. For what? She’s never told.

She learns to control her powers to the fullest. Reach their limit and know when to stop right before they leave her body completely.

She learns every language on this planet, Alex quizzing her on all of them until she’s better than him. She learns to mimic every accent and dialect under the sun- for what? She’s never told.

And months pass. Months after months after months. Alex comes and goes, like always.

He comes and goes, but the dreams are always there.

---

The ground is shaking. A lot. She faintly hears objects falling to the floor. Glass breaking. People screaming. She hears pain- like when she heard Mikhail call it out. But she cannot move now. She cannot fly away into the sun and offer her help.

She hears pain. Her feet are stuck on the ground unable to move. And she hears pain, a lot of it.

Someone tugs her arm, forces her legs to move and follow after them. She looks up- and it’s the first time she realizes how close to the ground she is- and finds the back of someone’s head. A man, looks like.

He screams words over his shoulder in a languaje she can’t understand because all she hears is pain. And she notices, when the tall man kneels in front of her, that she’s the one screaming in pain. Fear. Sadness. Confusion.

The man, eyes that she’d seen in her own reflection before, soothes her with his words. And even though she cannot know what he’s saying, she understands the meaning. “Stay calm, inah. It’ll be over soon.”

He picks her in his arms, and she hides her face in the crook of his neck. Hides away the screaming and breaking of estructures she knows they shouldn’t be falling, and takes comfort in the man’s colony and his soft clothes.

But the small comfort is ripped away when suddenly she’s not in his arms anymore. She’s alone. And it’s cold. Everything is so cold. The chair she’s sitting in is cold. Her clothes, which are supposed to bring her warmth, are cold. Her hands are cold. And when her fingers slowly trace the glass in front of her, it’s cold too.

Although the cold isn’t the worst part. It’s the darkness. There’s nothing to see. Nothing to feel. Just her. Alone. Looking forward and never backward to empty darkness.

And then there’s a light. It’s big and blinding. And fear spikes throughout her body even though she’s not sure why. She does not know what the flames are for.

The flames get closer and closer and closer. The surrond the small crystal box she’s in. And so, she screams.

----

Red daughter, they call her.

Or snowbird, for a lack of a better name.

But after a year of her solitude- or, at least, solitude surrounded by people that only spoke to her for a couple of second- Alex tells her her name is Kara.

That her life was taken by an impostor, and that he’ll help her get it back.

And if there’s a shadow behind Alex’s eyes that makes her schomach turn, she doesn’t mention it.

---

She’s flying, faster than she’s ever flown. She’s flying with a clear direction, closer and closer to her target.

She doesn’t really know what her target is until she sees the plane in front of her eyes. She quickly realizes something is wrong. The couple of planes she’d seen in the sky always flew flawlessly and at a constant speed but this one, this one moves through the air carelessly and speedily. There’s no direction, the plane only falls and falls, closer and closer to the city buildings.

She knows she has to save it. There’s people there. She knows it. But most importantly, her heart is telling someone even more important than all of them is there too.

She keeps on flying. Her limbs feel heavy. She feels disorientated. But she keeps on flying.

When her hands touch the base of the plane, there’s a small jump of exciment on her heart but then-

It’s like her hands run out of strength and the grip she had on the plane gives out and she watches as it goes down and down and down.

The plane hits a skycrapper in an explosion and she cannot move. She watches as the fires burn, the building falls, the few people still alive scream. And she doesn’t move.

Her heart is screaming for something, someone. She doesn’t know who.

The tears cover her face in and out of the dream.

---

Alex starts to show her the world.

“Again,” he says, “because Kara Danvers stole your life and memories from you.”

He shows her one city a day. She sees the children dying of hunger while rich men drown in their riches. She sees little towns burn because of big factories.

“So,” she starts, uncertain, “I am Kara Danvers?”

“Not yet. Once you kill her, you will be.”

She sees so many awful things in this world, she begins to understand why Alex is so full of hate. But the only thing keeping her from following him blindly is not his hatred, but his refusal to see the beauty, the love, the hope.

His face at the mention of the last word leaves a heavy weight on her heart.

---

She hears Christmas music.

She hates this one.

She’s standing in the middle of an empty street. She looks around, wondering which one will show up first this time.

The man in the black suit shows up first. He’s always wearing the same thing- a black piece of clothing that covers his entire body, with a symbol on his chest. She always gets a sense of deja-vu when she looks at it, but she never remembers what it means.

“I win,” he says. And even though she cannot see his face, all she sees is a blurry silluete where his face should be, she can tell there’s a smirk in his face anyway.

He punches her, making her lip burst out with blood. She falls to her knees.

When she opens her eyes again, a woman that looks like her is above her. Dirty blonde hair but blueish skin. Her voice always sounds distorted but she also says “I win.” before punching her too.

A red robot is next. He sends a wush of wind her way, making her fall to her knees. She sees someone’s shadow on the broken floor below her before she feels them kick her in her back- it makes her fly again, it’s another woman this time, one with a dark clothes and a mask covering her face.

Her punches hurt the most, they leave her gasping for air and wishing she’d finally wake up. And she does wake up, once they reach the top of a bulding and the other woman lets her drop.

She falls and falls and falls until she’s consious again and screaming in fear, waking up her guards.

---

Alex leaves her alone in a cute little apartment- her apartment. The one that was stolen from her by the impostor that looks just like her.

The apartment is nice. Homey. Just one big space divided into kitchen, dining room, living room and bedroom by the setup of the furniture and one big curtain. And it feels weird and painful that, when she walks around and touches what it’s supposed to be hers, she finds no familiarity in them.

She finds that sense of deja vu only twice; when she sees that picture in the fridge, the one of two women together- herself or the impostor, she’s not sure, and someone else. Brunette, short hair, kind smile. Alex.

Why does the impostor have an Alex? Was there always two Alexs? Which one is the real Alex? Which one is the real Kara? The real her? Is she the impostor?

There’s a thightness in her chest- it takes her a while to realize it’s just emptiness. Empty like her memories. Empty like the walls in her room. Empty like her heart. And there’s nothing to fill the hollowness in her except maybe wish, hope, pray that she is actually real and this impostor has stolen everything from her.

Except it doesn’t look like it. Except she’s only got Alex’s words to believe and she’s not sure how much of them believes anymore.

She feels nothing, absolutely nothing, as she walks around her own things. She guesses she should feel recognition, maybe a sense of deja vu or of belogning. But all she feels is nothing, only curiosity and anger at best. She could be anywhere, an apartment that isn’t hers, and feel the same. She doesn’t know if that’s good or bad.

But then. She sees it.

The portrait sits on the right bedside table. It’s modern, white background and small red hearts all over it. But it’s not that that catches her attention, it’s the picture in it.

The smile on her face- her impostor’s face- is so big, so happy, so excited. She didn’t even know she could smile that big. The blonde’s got her arms wrapped around someone else, a woman, who’s sutting comfortably atop her lap. She’s all dark hair and pale skin, she’s got one arm around her shoulders, pulling each other as close as possible.

Her smile is as big as her double’s and she’s the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen.

And that’s when she feels it. The pang. The ache.

Right in the middle of her heart. As if seeing this woman had suddenly pulled a thread, making her walk closer and closer and closer to the picture until she’s picking it up. Her fingers slowly tracing her face. The sharp line of her jawline, moving to her cheekbones and stopping as soon as her own eyes land on green ones.

It’s like they’re magnetic. Hypnotic, perhaps. And she wants more. More of those eyes and that face. She needs to see in more than a picture, she needs to find the woman because, if only a mere picture could cause such a reaction on her, then what will the real thing do?

She needs to find the woman. She needs to see her. She needs to find her name.

She does so in the pages of Kara Danver’s dairy. She finds it rather quickly. Pages and pages written about Lena. Over and over again. Only interrupted from time to time but other names like Cat, Brainy, Nia, Kelly, Alex. But Lena is the one that catches her attention the most, because every time she reads it, her heart jumps in a way it doesn’t do with anyone else.

And she knows, deep down part of her knows, this woman help her. Will fix her. Give her back her memories.

In the last pages of the diary, she finds a quote written by her (but which her? The impostor? Or herself, before she lost her memories?) on a ripped out magazine page that supports her own hunch.

Lena doesn't realize how much potential she has. I hope now at least the world will.

“Lena Luthor,” she whispers, wonder runs through her veins at the name.

And it’s enough. It’s all she needs. The name and a location.

It’s not long before she’s walking down the streets of National City, stolen glasses on her face and borrowed clothes on her body, moving through the sea of people as she heads to L-corp.

The people at the front door and desk do nothing to stop her nor ask her any questions. They just wave at her, all smiles and excited hellos. She knows they think she’s the other Kara, the one that knows what her place is here. But she is Kara, right? Or at least she was.

A part of her is thankful they do nothing to stop her, her journey to Lena easier than she thought it’d be as anyone that crossed her pointed her in the direction of the woman. While part of her is annoyed that her security is so lacking. What if she was an enemy? What if she was here to hurt Lena?

The rush of protectiveness is sudden, it creeped on her like Alex’s name had. It hadn’t been there and, suddenly, it was. And she couldn’t make it disappear. It only defeates once she sees Lena, safe and sound as she finishes talking to someone and walking into the elevator.

[throughpatchesofviolet]

me and you

Oh my gosh ... one of the legendary Rara asks in my inbox ...! /lh /pos

We are sitting so cozy together ~

[arcy-lethra]

Bate y Bate Hasta Ordeñar La Leche 🥛

— touken, kanetou

Tags: dom!Touka, Sub!Kaneki, handjobs, smut explicit

Era una broma entre ambos: uno simulaba que el otro no se daba cuenta, y el otro se sorprendía cuando recibía el abrazo. Pero ahora esa broma está llegando un poco más lejos…

Link ao3

[raraeavesmoriendi]

idk, I know some posts have given it outsized importance and there’s bigger stuff going on

but I do think it kind of blows a bit that the conversation went so quickly from “hey why did this sole man get nominated for this film that dips into frustrations with the system we exist in under patriarchy, but not the woman that wrote it or the woman that starred in it, this seems kinda blatant ” to “why should this woman deserve an award for a pop feminism 101 tumblr post toy commercial lmao get real problems”

like. it felt like there was Almost a discussion there that that could’ve happened in its own right, and didn’t necessarily have to take importance or attention away from anything else.

but that is. Not the Internet’s Forte, so. another time, perhaps

[morvantmortuary]

sad and frustrated with myself that spooky season is almost half over and I still haven’t had anything finished to post. I will rectify this, dammit!!!

but, in related news… I may or may not have invested in some office wear today, that

if styled and accessorized correctly

could pass as what one might call a “sexy mortician” costume

that I might, hypothetically, wear to a couple of local events next weekend 👀 👉🏻👈🏻

I’ll be sure to keep yall posted on when it comes in and if it all actually passes the vibe check

[aryomengrande]

pause i js learned that my fav tr writer from wattpad retired and decided to discontinue her ongoing work

[sorceressof-writtings]

Ella es un 10, pero siempre resulta arruinando todo y automáticamente pierde su valor.

[eunchancorner]

OK SO

First things first!

THIS is my wonderful little baby Rara!

Her name is just the first syllable of racoon repeated. She has wereracoonism that she CAN’T SEEM TO TRANSMIT TO ANYONE NO MATTER HOW HARD SHE TRIES. It affects her in more ways than just transformation, though. It has permanently altered her brain chemistry to the point where she acts like an actual feral animal, complete with digging through the trash, being absolutely mesmerized by shiny trinkets and being scarily good at stealth.

She will absolutely maim anyone she comes into contact with…

Except for Dexter.

And for some reason, no matter how much he tries, he can’t seem to bring himself to harm her. Almost like some part of him knows that without him, she’d likely bite someone, end up in jail, start a prison riot and get killed.

He’s also found out the hard way that she doesn’t do vaccines.

The second thing (Candy Kevin backstory fic) is under the cut :3

Screaming.

Pain.

Fear.

All of these things were what Kevin was accustomed to.

Ever since he’d signed himself into this experiment in a desperate attempt to make rent, ever since he was brought to this weird fucking lab, it was all he knew.

He’d wanted to escape, but the scientists would tell him what would happen if he was in the public. Something he’d been forced to forget for ‘his own good’.

”They’ll eat you, Kevin. It’ll feel ten times worse than this…”

“They’ll lock you up, they’ll use your blood as syrup. After all, that’s what it is now, isn’t it?”

“They’ll brand you a monster. Lock you up, treat you like livestock.”

“You’re not human anymore, Kevin. What makes you think they’ll treat you as such?”

He’d listen to them. He’d believe them. If he couldn’t depend on the people who literally handled his body on a daily basis, who could he depend on? It wasn’t like he had a choice. He’d signed the contract. He’d gotten himself into this mess, besides, they wouldn’t just abandon him on the side of the road, right?

Well, funny story, that’s essentially what they did. More accurately, they sedated him before dumping him behind the facility, only having used him to prove a point, never for any scientific value. Dumping him, and all of the memories. All of the trauma.

All of the screaming.

All of the pain.

All of the fear.

And all of the rage.

And he knew he wasn’t the only one in that facility. Late at night, when they thought he was asleep, he’d hear the screams of fellow test subjects. Of others tortured for the scientists’ own egos. He’d never been able to count how many, he just knew he wasn’t alone, not by a long shot.

He should have suspected it would come to this. To the facility burning down around him. To the other test subjects rebelling. To the destruction of every single damn experiment in this lab.

But it wasn’t like he expected. He hadn’t seen anyone come rushing out, before or after the initial explosion. He hadn’t seen any living person in the burning wreckage, and he was sure he’d notice if someone escaped.

Maybe the explosion was too big. Maybe they were too close. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe they’d acted as suicide bombers.

Whatever they’d done, it worked. The facility crumbled around him like a hollow cake, everything that was flammable was flaming, everything that was meltable was melting. It hurt to be so close to it, but at the same time, he was unable to draw himself away.

So what was he supposed to feel? Happy it was over? Satisfied they were gone? Jealous that he wasn’t the one to do it? Upset that it seemed few of them suffered?

Some part of him felt everything at once… but another part of him, a part of him that he would gladly cut away if he could, felt grief at the loss of the people who’d basically taken care of him for all of this time. Was it all of these contradicting feelings, or was it the alterations to his brain…?

What made him feel so numb above all else? What made every feeling so small in this moment?

Maybe it was just shock that it was all over… Maybe it was his brain trying to cope with all of this. Maybe he shouldn’t question it, lest he find a different, more horrifying answer…

He let his gaze wander around the facility as he snapped out of the daze he’d found himself in. Burning wood, burning bodies, burning dreams of scientists who never got to plead for redemption, of test subjects who’d forgotten the outside world. Smoke thicker than his candied blood filled the air. His lungs would be burning if he still had proper use of them. He felt hot, sticky, pained. He couldn’t tell if he was sweating or if his skin was just melting. He would’ve taken a deep breath if he had use for one, but all he could smell was his own sugary scent. 

Slowly, he sat down in the center of the wreckage, staring up at the fire in the center of the facility, behind thick walls and broken windows. He had half a mind to just stay here. Let it swallow him up. Become one with everything he used to feel part of. But he knew he’d leave. He knew he’d run. He knew he’d try to find a place to stay, or someone to help. But for now he’d stay here. With the fire. With the memories. And with everything he knew from before.

All of the screaming.

All of the pain.

And all of the fear.

[raemoriendi]

okay but what does it say when the only time I identify with my agab is when she’s dead

and not even the traditional “she’s dead and I killed her” because I didn’t, I don’t resent her that way, I don’t know that she’s even totally gone

dead in the sense of when I was thirteen there was Me and then the version of me I wanted to drown in the bathtub. because I was angry, because I wanted to protect her, because I wasn’t sure if that finally meant we’d be free of what people in that fucking place wanted from me

dead in the sense of I felt out of time, out of place, like something had already happened to me and I never got off that operating table when I was twelve and they thought it was cancer

dead in that the only time I felt beautiful was when I looked like I hadn’t seen the sun in years, where my makeup looked like shock from exposure, or like there was blood across my mouth that might even have been mine

dead as in I keep writing stories about women who claw their way out of the grave and don’t quite know what they are now, if they’re even still alive, if they even want to be women anymore because they’re too tired to get the cemetery dirt out of their hair

this weird in-between where people call me “ma’am” at work and I smile like I’m hiding fangs behind my upper lip, tight and not quite real because the masquerade is safer lately, but ugh, having to keep up the sunlight charade is a chore

dead as in “you killed her, and I am the thing that came back in her place” with everything that threatens and promises

I don’t hate her, she doesn’t haunt me, but she lingers. sometimes she possesses me and sometimes she’s separate, a second reflection in my mirror

we’re at peace, even if our house creaks and groans with phantom footsteps

[banannabethchase]

Hihi 😃👋🏾

Playing with their hair while their head’s in your lap.

With a sapphic pairing of your choosing

Thank you!!

~

Piper closes her eyes, head in Reyna's lap. "It's been a long day."

"I can tell," Reyna says, brushing through Piper's hair. It's a little tangled at the ends, requires a lot more care than usual. "What happened?"

Piper waxes poetic about the day caring for the preschool kids, the exhaustion of navigating naptime when she can't sleep and has to address the kids having nightmares, the applesauce thrown in her hair at afternoon snack time.

It tells Reyna everything she needs to know, and she stays quiet, letting Piper rant. Her fingers massage Piper's scalp, comb through the tangles, smooths out the mess. Piper's eyes begin to flutter closed, finally relaxing.

"Sounds tough," Reyna murmurs, "you want to take a bath together?"

Piper looks up at her with those bright eyes, pleading. "Please?"

Without another word, Reyna scoops her up in her arms and carries her to the bathroom, setting her in the tub.

"Water's gonna be cold," Piper mutters, eyes already closed as she relaxes against the cold porcelain.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Reyna teases, but she makes sure none of the water touches Piper until it's hot, like she knows Piper wants it.

[littleravenette]

Welcome to the "i have finished the tged novel and is going insane" club! How do you feel about Kim Suho being Lloyd frontera and Lloyd Frontwra being Kim Suho? Also, how do you feel about the reunion scene at the apartment in the end?

eyyyy thank you thank you, also im gonna answer below read more because there are spoilers

IT'S A LOOP!!! that's what i was screaming when i read that part. i like it but i actually don't have a lot to say about it? it's like a neat detail that i go insane from time to time. i wanna analyze the shit out of it though but honestly i really can't put it into words, so i'll sit out on this one. just know i go insane over og!lloyd's promise to be diligent.

THE REUNION SCENE!!! PROBLABY MY FAVORITE THING OUT OF THE NOVEL!!!! THAT WHOLE CHAPTER HAS MY HEART!!!!

kim suho realizing the fact that all he did for the frontera estate as lloyd was all for nothing? kim suho who thinks it's so unfair for him to go back like it's nothing? kim suho punches a mirror out of pure hurt? kim suho checking iron-blooded knight to see there are no traces of himself? kim suho going to the namsan tower to see the love lock railing and to see that it's still there? kim suho eating kimbap alone in his gosiwon and realizing that he's gonna rot in there for the rest of his live? mwah perfection

and the reunion oh my god. javier crying and saying "i miss you lloyd" my fucking god. brain worms are wiggling because of them my god.

i have some other alternations i wanna make of that scene because i am like That™ but those are secrets~ also planned fics~ so you won't ever see them. aha.

thanks for the ask! goodbye

[famwhy]

Ur work is amazing !! Thank u for sharing it

My heart—

You're so sweet, thank YOU so much for giving me your time of day and reading my work 🥰🥰🥰💞💞💞💞

[noctis-tempore]

Name: Rara

Age: ??? Shes been in the forest for a long time

Species: Elf

Pronouns: She/her

Height: 5’0

Vision: Hydro

Weapon: Catalyst (she uses her fists)

A whimisical lady with a big hat, curious about everything outside of the forest. Rara is a very outgoing and kind person, helping lost children and travelers throughout the forest. She adores music and the arts, appreciating the joy it brings to the aranaras. Though she may seem to be oblivious, she easily catches on and analyzes things faster than most. 

[raraeavesmoriendi]

I love when I can hear my cat’s little bell jingling down the hall and heralding his approach, I love when I say “hey big guy!!” when he walks in the room and his fluffy tail stands up with the little crook of the tip that means ‘hey! hi!! there you are!!!’ even though I haven’t moved from the last time he saw me ten minutes ago, I love when he hops up where I’m sitting and purrs before he curls up to join me and we just chill together

cats are miracles in fluff and whiskers, man