#metaphorically covered in flies

[yan-lorkai]

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ A/N: It's been a while since I've wrote something for my beloved, and I miss him 🥺💕

.⁠｡⁠*⁠♡ Warnings: Yandere content, lots of hunter and prey metaphors, implied kidnapping, gn!reader.

Rook's smile is sharp as he hands you the bow, his eyes gleaming with that unnerving mix of admiration and obsession that makes your heart skip a beat — for all the wrong reasons, few months ago you wouldn't mind how his fingers remained touching yours or how his eyes kept staring at you. But now, after you caught him burying one of your friends, blood on his hands, the same hands that used to pat your head or massage your shoulders, or hold you in his arms. You couldn't help but shudder.

His touch lingers on your hand as he helps you grip the bow correctly, his voice a low murmur in your ear, like the hiss of a predator close to its prey.

"Mon trésor," He whispers, the endearment curling around you like a hook. "You must learn to wield this with precision, with grace, it has to be as natural as breathing. And no one's better to teach you than a hunter like me."

The word sends a shiver down your spine. You know he isn't just referring to your normal hunter; there's a duality in his words, a hidden message that reminds you of the dangerous game you've been forced to play. Rook’s obsession with hunting isn't limited to the creatures of the forest. No, his most cherished hunt is the one he conducts every single day — the hunt to keep you by his side, to ensure you never escape his cruel clutches.

He stands behind you, his breath tickles the back of your neck as he aligns your body with the target. The air is thick with tension, each inhale feeling like it's laden with a hint of danger, a promise of what will happen if you ever dare try to escape him.

“Steady, mon amour,” He purrs, his hands pressing down on your shoulders, holding you in place, as if testing just how easily you could be trapped beneath his grip. This soft touch used to make you giddy, now the only thing you feel is dread. “Feel the tension in the bow, the way it quivers, longing to release… like a heart yearning to be free, n’est-ce pas?"

Your fingers tremble as you pull back the string, the bow straining under your touch. He’s close, too close, his presence overwhelming, making it impossible to focus on anything but the feeling of being trapped. You feel like a prey caught in his web. Rook’s hand covers yours, firm and unyielding as he adjusts your aim.

“A true hunter understands the delicate balance between freedom and captivity,” Rook continues, almost purring, his voice a silken thread winding around your thoughts, binding them to his will. “The prey… it runs, it flees, but it always falls, in the end. Always.”

The arrow flies from your grip, slicing through the air and embedding itself in the target with a solid thud. Rook’s laughter is soft, approving, but there’s an edge to it, a dark satisfaction that chills you to the bone.

“Magnifique,” He praises, though you can’t tell if he’s admiring your shot or reveling in the power he holds over you. His hands don’t leave your shoulders, instead sliding down your arms, his fingers brushing over your pulse, feeling the rapid beat of your heart beneath your skin.

“You are my perfect prey, mon couer,” He murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “So fragile, so beautiful in your attempts to escape. But no matter how far you run, the hunter always catches his prize. I will always catch you, that I promise you.”

You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling in your chest like a stone. There’s no escaping him, no slipping through his fingers. You are the deer caught in his sights, the rabbit trapped in the hunter’s snare. He has trained you with the bow, but the weapon feels useless in your hands, a cruel mockery of the freedom you so desperately crave.

You can learn how to hunt, how to hide. But are you a truly hunter or just a prey playing pretending? You don't know.

Rook steps back, allowing you a moment of space, though the distance feels hollow, meaningless. His gaze is still on you, piercing, possessive, as if he’s already decided your fate. The forest around you is silent, the trees closing in, forming a cage with no visible exit. Even the wind seems to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable.

“My dear,” Rook says, his voice carrying the weight of a promise, a warning. “Remember this, my beloved, no matter how skilled you become, no matter how fast you run, my heart always knows where you are, for it beats for you and my eyes always know where to look for you."

You lower the bow, your hands shaking. The lesson is over, but the real lesson was much harder to swallow. There’s no true escape, only the illusion of it, dangled before you like a carrot to a starving animal. You’re trapped in Rook’s twisted love, and the knowledge of that truth settles in your bones like ice.

The bow falls from your hands, landing on the ground with a soft thud. Rook’s smile widens, a huge grin, and he steps forward to claim his prize; a kiss from your lips, the breath from your lungs.

And the worse part is that you let him.

[everlastingfable]

as much as I love robbie's silliness, I think this line about him is my favorite because of how it says so much in so little. robbie is impatient, distractible, easily frustrated. heartsong in particular well establishes that. he's can't finish his dramatic wolf thoughts without getting distracted by a squirrel and chasing after it, he gave up relatively quickly on catching a deer because it was too fast, he couldn't last more than 15 minutes when he decided to give kelly the silent treatment etc etc

so it makes moments like these hit hard. here is robbie, finding a pack nearly broken by grief. though they are kind enough not to immediately run him out and even kinder to give him a place to stay. but the house is blue blue blue, both physically and metaphorically. it was where it all started to fall apart. a constant reminder soaked into the living room floor

did it remind robbie of his own mother? seeing her covered in flies while the wolves that found him whisked him away from the carnage? her death loomed over him for years, preventing him from truly bonding and becoming part of a pack. but somehow. somehow he managed to remove the stain. how long did he spend scrubbing it away? trying to fix something that he didn't have to. but he did because he cared. and I think that's one of my favorite characteristics about robbie, he's naturally impatient but he'll try anyways for the people he cares about

[beyourselfchulanmaria]

【Part 1】

你先通過我的城市-高雄柴山的挑戰之後我就向你推薦和建議其他台灣的山脈 After you pass the challenge of my city - Kaohsiung Shoushan first, I will suggest other mountains in Taiwan to you ha!

👆 我這張封面頭像的故事背景就是我住的城市有一座人盡皆知、依山傍海並且滿是台灣猿猴的"柴山"，山上有很多爬山的路線，退休老人當然都選比較容易健行的路線，而我們卻挑戰一條俗稱"A線攻頂"。(The story background of my cover photo is that the city where I live has a well-known "Shoushan／Monkey Mountain", which is surrounded by mountains and seas and there's full of Taiwanese apes. There are many climbing routes on the mountain, and retired elders of course choose the easier ones to hike. route, but we challenged a route commonly known as "A line to the top" The path very less people go even young guys under the sun heat day.) ～

We chose a way It's really terrible difficulty climbing path to top of mountain, especially way to back I still remember clearly want me die at the time. lol and look my face… XD I was serious thinking & praying secretly : Jesus, Did I use my two legs get down to moutain or could you give me wings flying but rather a ball rolling down straight to the hospital better?! You know that I even almost cry to please : Oh No!

柴山 (Shoushan, Kaohsiung/Taiwan) - 入口位於中山大學文學院旁 / A線攻頂記 ◠‿◠ in 2015, April. 28. (It was 9 years ago. Time flies! lol)

Since a story He was a New Zealand mountaineer, explorer and philanthropist. On 29 May 1953, Hillary and Nepalese Sherpa mountaineer Tenzing Norgay became the first climbers to reach the summit of Mount Everest. once He said: "The key is not just to climb to reach the summit of Everest, it should be able to secure more important down." And as people said that " It's not ending on the hilltop, Must be returned safely to be successful. If you want to mountain climbing, be sure to leave enough time to come back. "  then climbed on mountain, though laborious, but not prone to danger. If down the mountain, It's easily slip down. so have to grasp the balance. And if the speed is too fast, legs and feet will be sore and trembling. Accidentally, it became a free fall and fell directly down the mountain. In addition, the metaphor ~~~ "When a person's social status will improve honored, It's easy for their life, but if It became lower status, it felt embarrassed and sad days. Must be learn and To face it also." ...much regard.

距今約70年前第一個登上珠穆朗瑪峰的紐西蘭的登山家和探險家艾德蒙·希拉里曾經說過：「攀登珠峰的關鍵並不只是登上頂峰，應該是能夠安全下山更為重要。」以及「登山不是登頂就結束了，還得安全返回才算成功。如果要登山的話，一定要留夠回來的時間。」意指上山雖費力���不容易發生危險，下山雖省力卻容易失足。下山時���力重心是向下，自身作用力也是向下，所以要確實掌握住平衡，弄不好前衝力過大，會發生危險。以及速度如果太快，腿腳會發酸並且發抖。一不小心變成為自由落體直接滑落山下。另外，比喻~~~「當一個人的社會地位提高時感到榮耀，日子容易過，但若是地位降級時感到丟臉，日子難過。」

[the-possum-writes]

[Day 5] Facesitting

Character: Marceline Tags: NSF/W, gen neutral pronouns, AFAB reader, oral, facesitting, casual hook up, use of the pet name "Baby" Word count: 1033 Synopsis: A fun night at a dance club leads you to meet a stunning woman who has you both aroused and scared for your life.

There are flashing strobe lights, cigarette smoke and music beating into your eardrums as crowds of people fill your peripheral vision but even in the busy space of the night club you managed to see her through everything covering your sight.

Her long black hair is raised into a high ponytail, cascading down her bare back and striking out from within her bright red tube top and leather mini skirt, trailing down the fishnets surrounding her long legs and ending in a pair of punk boots with metal accessories dangling from them. She caught you staring at her and disappeared in an instant, you look around hoping to see her again but to your surprised she manifested right beside you and threw her arm around the back of the booth you're sitting on.

"Heeey~"

"Hi." You're voice is barely audible through the music and the chatter.

Marceline notices your gaze focused on her teeth, prompting her to smile even larger. "What's wrong, baby? Do they scare you?" Her innocent tone does not match her gaze, and you are taken aback, but she then leans closer to your ear and says something that makes your face flame. "You should see me in action and they won't look so scary, I promise they don't hurt." Despite the loud music, she manages to speak to you in a sensuous voice that sends tingles down your body and into your core.

"Promise~?"

Marceline grabs your hand and leads you backstage, both of you giggling and exchanging desperate kisses that felt like they were about to devour you, but she takes her time, pressing you against the rugged wall and lifting your leg as she trailed her kisses down between your thighs. You're not sure if it's the music, the thumping, or your own heartbeat, but there's a deafening ring in your ears as you watch Marceline pull your underwear aside and give a long lick upward your slit, with the tip settling on your clit, swirling it around to add pressure on that spot in particular.

The excitement of the whole event is heightened by the possibility that someone could stroll in or she could end up actually biting you; you could never be certain. Marceline licks your slit a few more times before dipping her tongue inside of you and swirling it around you as she pokes and prods your gummy walls. You had no idea what she was thinking, but you guessed she was having as much fun as you were. Her moans echo through your pussy, and she tightly grips your thighs, almost to the point of bruising. She growls a little as you attempt to break free of her grasp, but all it does is make her clutch tighter and cause her claws to pierce your skin. She then does the unimaginable and floats upward, carrying you with her. Marceline flies in such a way that she is on her back, forcing you to hold onto her head for support as you ride her face. The movement causes her to eat you out more erratically, slurping and licking your folds and hole, switching to rub your clit with her tongue again while her thumb penetrates you repeatedly. The stimulation has you unconsciously lurching forward as the build up has you dangerously leaning on the edge, both literally and metaphorically.

"Hah... Maaaarcy..." You're on the verge of tears, your body deliciously trembling as you try to hold back whether it's because you're scared of falling or because you don't want to create a mess on her face. In any case, she safely supports you with an otherworldly grasp as she speeds up her ministrations on your clit, abusing the heck out of your g-spot while fingering you.

"Come for me baby, I wanna hear you. See you... Taste you~"

That was enough for you to cum on her face, experiencing the most intense orgasm you've ever had with your body while sobbing and pulling at her beautiful long ponytail. Marceline is merciless, continuing to stimulate your sensitive clit to the point where you squirt a little all over her, leaving you absolutely satisfied and a little embarrassed, but Marceline was overjoyed as her fangs and lips glisten in the residue of your climax, licking them as if she had just had the best meal of the night.

"Oh baby, you're the sweetest little thing... I could eat you up." Marceline moans, hugging you upwards as she whispers in sinister tone that doesn't match her playful flirting from earlier. "...maybe I will."

You nervously laugh it off, but the tight grip she has on you feels like that of a boa snake as she transforms into an enormous bat creature with coarse black fur that scratches your face as she moves closer to your neck. You struggle to free yourself from her clawed hands as she breathes heavily into your jugular, and panic sets in. Instead of suffering a horrific death by her fangs like you come to expect, she pinches the side of your neck and you scream in surprise, while she bursts out laughing and returns to her regular form.

"I'm just messing with you baby! I wouldn't hurt someone so sweet like you. I made a promise didn't I?" Marceline lowers you onto your feet, supporting yourself against the wall as you join her with an exhausted chuckle. "Alright, you had me there for a moment not gonna lie."

"So, you wanna come back to my place~?"

"Promise you won't rip me to shreds?" You raise an eyebrow at her and this has her laughing again.

Marceline holds out her pinkie finger. "Promise~!"

[dicenote]

This is so, so self-indulgent and rushed but I had a shower-thought and had to realize it. So here's part of a Hurricane cover but instead it's Matsuda in the last episode. (Audio transcript under the "Read More")

The metaphor of the "Hurricane" is really interesting because I feel like it can be taken in two ways. One is the more obvious "force of nature" comparison that Light uses. He believes he's God and that the world is going to feel his power, like the winds of the hurricane. Essentially, he's the one in control, and everyone is going to fear him.

But the other way to think about it is that Light is swept up in the power, like the water is pulling him under. He isn't the hurricane itself, he's a victim to his own power-trip. This kinda comparison also works with Matsuda in the end of the story, as Matsuda flies into a rage and nearly kills Light himself.

Also something about "writing is a gun, I only have to aim" when Light is literally shot is kinda funny ngl. It turns out that the thing that can beat his metaphorical gun is... a gun.

LYRICS:

You say you're God of a trembling world But you will have to pray If he could be here, what would your father say?

"Oh, there are lines That can't be crossed" But he told you those words in vain

To you, the lives That we all lost Meant nothing!

The hardest rains The coldest winds But you are not a hurricane

You're just a man With all his sins On display

I'm gonna shake, I'm gonna scream 'Cause it's like I'm drowning in the hurricane!

[raisindave]

[Chapter 65] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: This chapter has mentions of sexual assault.

It's hard to complain about shitty sleeping conditions if you have nearly no memories of where you laid your head last night. Hours spent pouring over details, running through every textbook's spine, and scouring for a groundbreaking case study left you on the brink of utter exhaustion. Hoping that one of them will give you some direction because, at this point, you're coasting off hope in miracles. After hours of heated discussion, often boiling into screaming and resulting in a couple of shattered ceramic mugs, you'd retired to the dingy motel they're keeping you at. All you remembered was a drizzly outdoor walkway leading to your door, musty orange floral sheets and dead flies settled at the bottom of tinkering light fixtures. Frankly, you didn't have the mental capacity to process anything around you. 

So here you are now. A styrofoam cup of burnt coffee on an empty stomach compounded electrified nerves in the same repurposed restaurant. All of your Task Force comrades, plus a few more, stood in cross-armed silence, awaiting your solution. You and KKpt Wolf stood straight-backed and tall when your superiors filed in, a memo that Professor Kraus seemed to purposely miss. He doesn't owe these generals and captains the time of day; they asked him to be here, not the other way around. You could only silently envy the way he could lazily lick his cinnamon-covered fingers as Laswell filled you all in on the updated situation. 

"So, as I'm sure we're all well aware by now, more messages got in. They're demanding four million euros and a spot on daytime television to share this tape," she tapped a blocky black cassette down on the tablecloth. "Or they'll start executing."

Your fingers wrung your eyes, diffusing the words even as you could sense them coming. You'd seen their sign portraying the ultimatum as you passed the theatre, painted on the back of a glossy movie poster with scratchy black marker. A proud middle finger to your efforts, it made your forehead prickle with sweat from the stress. 

"We're still no closer to understanding the message," the Korvettenkapitän spoke for the linguists, and you sheepishly met Price's stare in agreeance. 

"But the words have meaning," One of the unknown faces with a reddish beard spoke up, some Joe from the German military that the KKpt yielded to. "They're not just random letters and numbers."

"Might as well be," Professor Kraus smacked with a mouthful of pastry. 

"If it's possible to crack it, aren't there algorithms to break these kinds of things?" Soap's foreign Scottish accent was cut off. 

"Attempting to break a one-time pad manually is like trying to shoot a bullet with another bullet, blindfolded, with your wrong hand, pissed drunk, while riding a horse at 70 kilometres an hour," Kraus interjected, reclining in his seat. 

The corner of Soap's mouth flickered into a smile, but the collective's stony expression only hardened. Clearly, Professor Kraus' metaphor didn't land. It would make sense for an auditorium of keen linguistics students but not for a choir of stone-faced army folks who don't have the patience for theatrics. 

"It's essentially impossible," you chose to break the cringeworthy stillness. "You can't see the message without the key, and the key doesn't make sense without the message. You can't have one without the other."

"How are they getting these messages, then?" Gaz asked, sliding one of the messy pieces of handwritten nonsense into his view, frowning at the scratched-out words.

"The message the hostage showed us was in a physical format, the most secure form. They could be using some sort of binary transmission, but it wouldn't make sense for them to add a seal of approval afterwards," you rubbed your eyes as you spoke. "The seal implies it's coming from outside the theatre, but all evidence says they're not being delivered by hand."

"Agreed," Kraus audibly scratched his stubble as he spoke, not even facing the direction of the conversation.

"Are there any underground tunnels?" Ghost asked, shifting on his hips with folded arms. 

"We have the original blueprints. There's nothing underground, not even a well," Laswell answered calmly, glancing at the professor's odd posture. 

"Even still, our heartbeat sensor would pick up any secret dropoffs." Price grumbled, his signature hat peeking into the corner of your vision.

"Let's double up overwatch. We clearly need more eyes on the building," Ghost ordered, nodding to Gaz and Soap.

"I already said they're not being delivered by hand," you bit back sharply, sucking your teeth in deep thought.

Only after another eerie creeping silence did you realize your transgression. Like something straight from a nightmare, everyone's eyes fell on you coldly, as if the teacher had just called your name while you were lost in thought. Speaking back to your lieutenant's order is a serious offence in this career, especially in the direct company of Captain Price and Laswell. A panicked surge of sweat and bile crashed into your system, and the room felt 20 degrees colder.

"-Sir," the correction meagerly slipped from your throat. 

It's easy to forget that he's your commanding officer, even if Price and Laswell are significantly higher up the totem pole than him. Even in the state that you've seen him in. It gets frustrating when you're talking in circles. Repeating old points that'd already been eliminated. It made you sharp and jaded, unaccustomed to the standard military dress. Luckily, Korvettenkapitän Wolf took the reigns, leading the conversation to wrangle attention off your risky insubordination, leaving eloquent closing remarks that silenced the investigation.

Eventually, they left just as quickly as they came in. The second that glass door clicked shut behind the last pair of polished boots, you could let out a long-held sigh. However, the tension wouldn't entirely dissipate. There was still so much work to be done. It's not wholly your expectation to solve this mystery. The linguistics team is just one cog in the machine. If anything, the overwatch squad has The Man's breath down their neck, as their iron blockade had been penetrated again. Your team is under additional stress because you're the closest to finding a solution. But that's the thing; you're no closer than them. One additional clue, likely entirely useless unless they happened to transmit game-changing information in a single message.

You'd started with creating potential profiles of the five terrorists, age profiles and demographics based on shoddy intel thus far. Having five of them suggests at least one is in command, delegating orders to the others and a second in command to help enforce command. The cult only lets men be their sacrificial lambs in their escapades, so you can expect five men between the ages of 18 and 45. Not much to work with…

Kraus was almost certain he found the word 'the' in the cipher, but you had to break his heart with the reminder that that's assuming they're working with a substitution cipher. Even if such a discovery would be a blessing, not unlike the feeling of a newborn child in your arms. The KKpt was tapping away at a laptop at one of the cloth tables, but every once in a while she'd slam it shut in frustration, let out a heavy sigh, and pry it open again only seconds later. 

You'd all reached a somewhat steady rhythm of work, about two hours of silence, looming over a book or laptop with an aching posture. Once the silence made everyone nervous enough to snap, you all broke into a fear-fueled, impassioned discussion. This was the kind of stress you'd feel if you'd found out the deadline for an essay was 11:59 that night, and it's worth 60% of your grade. Panic was only alleviated if you could focus long enough to forget where you were. There wasn't a reprieve in checking in on your colleagues either; the windows are all blocked to keep peeking soldiers and press at bay. Your British buddies could've given up on you and moved along to the next mission for all you know. 

Saliva stuck in a clump in your throat when the clock read 22:00. There's no way this day ticked past so fast. So horribly fast. An entire day spent in this restaurant, feeling like you could easily dissolve into a sobbing mess if you allowed yourself the time to feel the emotion. Your second day had melted away with nothing to show for it. One more day. Tomorrow, better make a difference. 

The stagnation made you stir crazy. You'd reached diminishing returns. When your eyes dragged over text passages, the words no longer sank into your mind, instead gliding off like rain on a wing. Passages about WWII linguists cracking Axis transmissions looked just as foreign as that crumpled letter the hostage pressed to the window, begging for your competence. Before you knew what was what, you'd entered the starkly lit kitchen, not even glancing to see if your peers were even present anymore. Wolf, Korvettenkapitän Wolf, had the same idea. Fresh air from the back door where countless sous chefs took their smoke break, a cool slab of concrete that separated the cobblestone from the swinging metal door. Streetlights were a foreign sight, and the darkness of the night sky was blinding. You settled in beside her, and she shifted to make room. Your polite smile was met with a curt nod, but you'd come to expect that from her at this point. But just as a comfortable silence crept over the two of you, her voice cut into the night air, and you didn't even notice her eyes on you. 

"What happened here?" KKpt Wolf tapped a dark finger on her cheekbone, mimicking the location she was referring to. 

Your voice caught in your throat. For a moment, you genuinely didn't know what she was talking about. Her pressing gaze persisted, and your exhausted mental faculties sputtered into action, remembering the bruise you'd suffered only days ago. Lorenzo. The shiner he'd graced you with as a parting gift. You didn't have any makeup to cover it up, shit. What do you say to her? The half-truth you told Gaz manifested on your lips, ready to explain it as a training mishap, but a foggy mind resisted the elusive response. 

"I rejected the advances of my trainer and…" you shrugged, forming a nonchalant smile on your lips to deflect any blooming pity. "I was leading him on, but then it- it suddenly started going too fast and I-"

"Did he come here with you?" she leaned in, gravely serious despite your attempted diffusion. 

“No- no,” you gulped. "He's back at the base we'd just left. One of the guys beat him within an inch of his life, I think."

Her pressing expression and snake-like eyes didn't relent, even when you were sure it would. If anything, she's more intense. The sudden surge in energy and attention made you cringe and tremble under the weight of her gaze. This was a can of worms you hoped to leave sealed, but your subconscious seemed to have insisted that it'd already been cracked open long ago. 

"I just don't know why I didn't just lean into it. I wanted it," you fumbled the words. "I panicked. I haven't had this problem before wit—" You cut yourself off before you overshared, luckily. 

That fucking stare didn't relent. Not even to blink. Two dark orbs tear into you like bullets through paper, wringing the truth from you with ease. It doesn't help that she keeps her navy uniform on 24/7, probably even when she sleeps, making her feel like a titan of forbearance and self-control. 

"I- ran away when he put his hands on me, I didn't even say a word. I guess he didn't like that, and he socked me," you tried to conjure a punchline and a weak chuckle to ease this electricity. 

She didn't even do you the kindness of sharing your laughter. Fuck. You were stammering like you'd taken a cookie from the cookie jar, wracked with a pang of guilt you couldn't understand. This silence stayed, though. She shifted her posture back, illuminating her face under the overhead door light. 

"Anyone with your best interests in mind will hear 'no' and not think twice about it," she finally spoke, her softness unfaithful to her grave expression. "I think something in you knew he was bad news."

"I think you're right," you sighed. 

"This career isn't kind to women," that severe tone you were expecting manifested again. "You have to come forward when something like that happens. Even if it might not always seem like anything changes afterwards, it does make a difference. If not for you, it'll make the path easier for the next woman that happens to." 

She spoke with a level of confidence that made your gut wrench, sure that was speaking from experience. The thought made your face wrinkle in despair and your heart soften in a conflicting cocktail of emotions. At some points in her speech, you weren't sure if she was scolding or comforting you, but that just seems to be the way she is.

"-And it doesn't sound like he'll be groping any more of his students anytime soon with the beating he got," she added, a smile finally cracking onto her lips.

It's like she's finally allowing you to laugh. And you did. Fuck, it felt good to laugh. There's nothing more embarrassing than being psychoanalyzed by a stranger, except for the fact that she's entirely correct. Someone you met less than 48 hours ago reads you like a book. Laughing away the stress felt like the relief you craved, even if the quip wasn't that funny. The change in gears stunned you. Not just her shift in attitude, from cold and calloused to displaying a steady thrumming heartbeat of compassion and respect, but also the unexpected change in tune from the slog this workday had been. 

"Better get some shut-eye. Tomorrow's the last day," she warned, dusting off her heavy coat as she stood, ordering you to do the same. 

"Goodnight," you nodded, meeting her face one more time before you parted for the evening.

Renewed hope for life and crushing dread at the current circumstances created a battlefield in your mind. It would usually be fodder to keep you awake for hours, and yet muscle memory commanded your sluggardy muscles to follow the route back to the motel. Boots tapped on creaking iron steps that brought you to the second floor of the same dingy motel, fumbling with a rusty room key past heavy eyelids. You collapsed on the squealing mattress, surrendering into the sheets and breathing in the stale pillow. You barely had the mental faculties to slip off your cargo pants under the sheets before you were deep into an impenetrable sleep. 

Dreams fill your mind with colours entirely absent from your vision for the past 48 hours. You dreamt of old memories with friends, times you'd snuck out late at night. Swaying palm trees and sturdy redwoods. Of the Korvettenkapitän's forgiving glare. Dreaming of that seaside park, peace and warmth at your back, of the osprey's wings slicing through the air. Warmth at your back dissipated, and you turned to see your front door, just in time to be met with an outpouring of dread. The dream shifted, and a wave of silky blue rose petals were washing on the sidewalk shores in front of your house, rising. You run to your front porch, desperate to escape the surging wave. Fingertips are a breath away from your front door; you can practically feel the biting metal before it slips from your grasp. The front door fades from view, and a crushing onslaught of velvety petals surge into your lungs, sapping the life from your veins.

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Master List

[offstage-euthymia]

Jewels and smoke.

On the window stains.

Smoke cessation

Empty facial expression.

Drowned in the colours of brown.

Wooden bar, tables and doors.

Dimmed in the within sparks of cigarettes

Ashes on the tiled floor

Maladaptive coffee drinking.

Along with cold spirits blinking.

That greet you warmly.

Either your throat or you personally.

Those who talk and those you drink.

On a brink of eye closing.. clapping softly in dreamy meandering .

With a soft word, with a sharp drink.

I sink below and i can see them talking.

But i can see them bearly speaking.

Smoking covering eyes along with time that flies by

Smoke crying, did you say something?

And by the minute the bags are packed.

And i sing with a metaphor of saying goodbye

Sockets closing

Endorsing in a good night...

Stained window glass in red blue and green.

Church in a bar?

Or blurry oiled painting of the streetlight?

Perhaps walking down the street and fainting.

Blacking out in a fever along with my tired liver.

By Marko Tivanovac

[bibyebae]

i have rotted on the inside. my body is covered in moss and flies. i am all black and dark and dead.

i thank god for making suicide haram or else that what i would be thinking about all the time.

i failed all of them. i will continue to do that because thats all i can do.

nothing is going to fix this.

nothing is going to fix what i did to them.

i am as dark as midnight, i am as dead as an uprooted tree. i am covered in hurt that i deserve. i am a lonely comet that falls and burns and hurts.

poetry that comes out of hurt is the most beautiful. such an irony. when i get to heaven as im sure god at least forgives me, i will pray for my parents forgiveness. i will write beautiful poems that stem from love.

my sister sleeps beside me but she despises me. no, im not imagining that, it is a fact that can be seem from miles away. she is not here because she wants to, she only has no option, she is stuck in this disgusting hotel room

i smell of death and vomit and snot and piss. i will go shower now.

i promised them that i will be good, even if i never felt good in my life anymore. thats the least i can do trying to make it up for the hurt i caused.

my dreams have rotted anyway. as dead as the uprooted trees. that house near the living green tree has burned. my imaginary beautiful garden has withered.

who knows, when god forgives me he may give me my house near the forest with blooming flowers and green trees. i dont want to be the heavy snow that broke the branches, i dont want them to rot too, i have already broken enough in my fall. not anymore tho. the uprooted trees can not break anything anymore.

this is the bottom of the decaying well. dried up and useless. i didnt think i will get stuck there. that i will get trapped into the scary well that coraline describes. that i will metaphorically put my head in the oven. that i will overdose on the lamest medications. that i will vomit it all as i have never did in my whole existence.

funny how my words sounds so beautiful to me, maybe thats what i will do my whole life in my desolate dream home. but instead of dogs and butterflies and lady bugs and birds and a majestic ginkgo biloba tree i will have melancholy and broken poems.

funny how i adored mary oliver and my amazing friend said i am the arab mary oliver. we thought that because i will write beautiful poems. but she suffered most of her life. that i did not think tgat i would be.

funny how i will never be in love as mary was when she got her wife. how i will never have the claude monet colorful flowers. how i will cut my ear, again metaphorically. how i will bring my downfall like.. i have no idea who, maybe that what i will be remembered for after my death.

i hope my death is close. all the people dying in bombs and hunger and hurt. i deserve it more. i wish i can take their pain and hurt. i deserve it and they dont.

the sun is rising over the busy city and its beautiful life and beautiful looking people. i saw many beautiful things here. gods parting gift i suppose.

maybe i will flee the country when my parents are gone from this world. maybe then i will come here to see what i wanted to see and wanted to feel and wanted to touch. maybe gods consolation will be enough money for me to do that.

melancholy in the villages. melancholy in the city. melancholy, god i loved that word all my life, funny.

the skin above my eye is bruised. its a beautiful blessing from a beautiful god. no one will notice it.

i had a dream yesterday about a girl i used to probably love. probably. she was with me with kisses and hugs. her husband got her pregnant. she was happy. when she went into labor i left her on the hospital floor as soon as the nurses came to care for her. i knew that i never will see her again.

its okay. whoever might reads my rotting words should know thats its okay. when if i am not. the bottom of the well is good. its is as dark as i am . as empty as i am. at least i know that i can’t get any further into the earth. a blessing from a merciful god. la ilaha illa allah wa alhamdulla.

i used to love myself to bits and pieces.

i used to have a beautiful life.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

i used to.

[journeytojaburo]

Zeta thoughts, comments, questions, concerns, etc...

Favorite episodes: To Earth, Amuro Flies Again, Cinderella Four, The Messenger from Axis, Casualties of War

Characters I thought were interesting (a condensed list):

MIPs (Most Intriguing-Looking Players) (mobile suits) from each faction:

What I Liked:

Man that finale…the ending of course really got me emotionally, but I loved the part in the abandoned theater where all those theater metaphors they made throughout the show paid off

The dramatic relationships in this were so good they made my chest concerningly hurt at some point

Following up on this, I knew Four and Kamille were going to get me emotionally because they're kind of like Lalah and Amuro 2.0 but I wasn't expecting Emma and Reccoa to fill me with such deep despair with how their relationship fell apart/the full reversal of their roles

The Cyber-Newtype stuff and the additional Newtype stuff (see: Kamille covering the gundam in psychic armor) was really fascinating

What I Disliked:

Had the sequel problem of extending its scope way too much. so it had a hard time juggling all the new characters and plot points which I felt hurt the potential of a few storylines (Scirocco and Haman as effective villains, Katz and Reccoa believing they were being forgotten, etc.)

More characters means more female characters but with that came way more misogyny (might expand on this later)

I wish the returning characters had a little more time to shine though I can understand why that’s the case

IDK if it was just the particular DVD set I had but the translation was really scuffed at points

Overall conclusion: It's a sequel! With all the ups and downs that come from that...I think overall I'd say I enjoyed my time with it

[deltaruminations]

one of my more out-there theories is that “mike” isn’t a regular secret boss but a name for the strange someone that connects all of the secret bosses, short for “michael,” as in the archangel commonly interpreted as the leader among seven archangels — metaphorical for six “enlightened” and especially powerful darkners + the strange someone who led them. this is possibly reflected in memoryhead having six faces (seemingly representing the memories) encompassed in the braincase of a skull (perhaps representing the one remembering) — one figure bringing six others together as it speaks into a phone. deltarune’s possible seven-chapter structure theoretically lends itself to confrontation of six enlightened darkners, then with “mike” themself. spamton may have still felt allegiance to “mike” because they helped him, and he still believed on some level that mike would come back to save him someday. in-game, his references to “mike” start with the insistent “WE DON’T NEED [[MIKE]]” — suggesting that mike had helped him at some point — before a wistful “… Mike…” — betraying sentimentality for someone he seems to consider a friend. as spamton NEO, he appeals to mike, seemingly asking if mike is proud of him; maybe he looked up to them. the reference to “mike” on the DAMN YOU, TENNA page being black text on the black background brings to mind a figure that’s shadowy and hidden, whose existence is shrouded in darkness.

if we take it to be true that strange someone is gaster, then “mike” could be a pseudonym he adopted — maybe as a symbolic practice, maybe just to cover his tracks. gaster having been metaphorically an “angelic” figure as strange someone — the secret bosses’ Michael — is consistent with angelic and luciferan motifs already associated with him, gaster being an intermediary figure between higher and lower planes (between light and dark worlds, in this case; then, post-shatter, between the player’s and deltarune’s realities) who may be seen as having rebelled against “god” (or at least the natural order of the world, the light-dark balance) by exposing the true nature of darkners’ existence to them and empowering them to change their own fates — to transcend the roles they were meant to serve to their gods — with he and the other rebel angels “falling from grace” (the secret bosses having lost themselves and becoming marginalized even further; gaster himself being figuratively cast into hell(s) in the Underground and/or out-of-bounds) as a result. aside from layering in the “leader of a powerful, select group” aspects of the Michael mythology, blending the “Michael” and “Lucifer” characters might serve additional purposes in maintaining mystery; the choice of “mike” as a name gives the figure an innocuous quality that flies under the radar, and “lucy” or “lou” might have been a bit too on-the-nose for a savvy audience.

anyway spamton’s mention of mike is probably just foreshadowing a future SB but it’s fun to imagine lol

[blubushie]

the undiagnosed autism is BLOOMING in my brain LMAO

Artificer's campaign! A few hundreds of cycles past the events of Spearmaster, our perspective is changed observe the aftermath of a battle in Garbage Wastes. Corpses of Scavengers, scattered spears and, of course, the killer - Arti! She eats a scavenger before going into the next room and finding a little flying drone thing, we call it Sofanthiel:

This guy! It just flies around and follows Artificer. The game advises you to move forward, which you can... technically not do at all and just go back directly into Hell itself! But we won't do that.

Artificer travels with the drone, eventually reaching Five Pebbles' superstructure. Moon's condition is unknown - you can't enter her region at all in Artificer's campaign.

Anyway, Artificer comes into FP's puppet chamber (the room with the little guy) through the access shaft and is given the Mark of Communication. The drone is revealed to be an ID Drone, which ... technically makes Artificer a citizen of the city on top of FP's can - Metropolis.

FP suggests that Arti clears out his city from those annoying ass scavs and Arti (racist) agrees.

The rest of the campaign is...honestly just murdering scavengers in a city. I'm not joking. They're everywhere oh my god

In the ending, Artificer kills the Scavenger chieftain, essentially the king. She then goes on a rampage and becomes the new Chieftain, in the 12th Council pillar, the House of Braids.

Unhappy ending because her slugpups can't be brought back with violent revenge. yup

Instead of more sadness, here are fun facts!

Artificer explodes in water, making her the worst swimmer

If she covers a spear or a random rock in her saliva, they'll turn explosive

Because the city on top of FP's superstructure is so high up, the deadly rain doesn't reach here (the rain is deadly because there's literally so much of it creatures get crushed and drown in floods. Iterators are making too much vapor.), so instead we get nighttime! Which is horrible there's so many scavengers oh god

Artificer's Karma (mechanic added to turn metaphorical skill gates into literal ones. If you die too often you just can't progress the story) is permanently stuck at 1 (Violence), which means she deadass just can't go anywhere. Instead, she uses the killed Scavengers' Karma to open gates! Chad move if you ask me

A lot of peeps seem to think Arti has no impact on the story. And you know what?

WRONG!!!! The Scavengers were in their golden age, they caused singularities and used them as weapons, they started figuring out armor and politics! And then Arti singlehandedly (singlepawedly?) pushed them back into their lowest point! She's important! and is also not good despite being the main character of her campaign

She's also the only slugcat Pebbs likes OK ARTIFICER ERA END. in one ask. shame on me

"Racist slugcat commits genocide" is one hell of a headline

Also I'm heading to a doctor's appointment so keep sending these and I'll read them when I get back!

[cadaverjuices]

sane/insane

cast; hunter [he/him], septimus [he/him] word count - 3202 CWs// violence, blood, animal harm metaphors, religious themes, emeto, self harm stuff whump specific; BBU/pet whump, intimate whumper/carewhumper, whumpee is in love with whumper and vice versa, transman whumpee, gay whumper, and a female whumper is mentioned.

summary;

the overlap between predator and prey, what each does to quell traumas bygone.

A/N - originally two different short stories i wrote!! featuring worlds most fucked up rabbit boy hunter, and septimus. who multiclasses as a whumper/whumpee/caretaker because hes special [specially traumatized].

hunter stared as the blood ran down the drain, his body feeling faint, his consciousness feeling foggy like he was underwater- and even as the tap blares a loud sound as rushing water runs through it, he can’t focus on it, it becomes an inaudible buzzing in the back of his mind, muffled by the screaming of his body.

there's not much to be said about what he felt.

he felt scared, disgusted to the core.

he wanted to cry, scream, run away, but he stood still, staring absentmindedly at the blood being washed off of him, pouring down in a reddish-pinkish hue, pain searing all the way through his body.

how did they get to this?

why- like moth to flame, is he like this?

and as he coughs again, gagging a disgustingly wet and rancid sound as more blood pours out, he felt himself cry, a weary smile on his face, tears prickling at the edge of his eyes and pouring down.

it’s not the physical pain that hurt, but the images that haunted his mind.

septimus-

'gather yourself,' hunter tells himself, hand grasping his leg, his shoulder feels sticky, wet skin against a wet tile wall, 'what's going on?' he asks his own dazed, dizzy mind.

he’d been hurt again.

well, that one was obvious, wasn't it?

devoured like some sort of prey animal, he could feel the deep gash wounds scream in pain; twisting, churning like the waves of a deep red ocean, screaming for some sort of relief.

but it doesn’t come, it never does, no matter how far hunter thinks he gets in his 'journey', he is always back there again.

hurt and broken and on fire, no matter how good hunter feels in one moment, the next he feels just as empty, just as depressed as before, in need of that 'fix' again.

always the same, always the exact same empty feeling, the same depression, the same gnawing deep need for what he knows will set him free, and always... the same relief he gets from his 'fix', being hurt.

always the same relief he gets when he starts to boil with self-hate, bubbling out of him and showing its ugly face to all those around him, all those whom he should care about and should find comfort in, when they leave him.

alone again, pretty?

an echo of a memory within his mind, loving affectionate voice, juxtaposed with a face he knew did not mean well.

and then, it's always the same person- or same kind of person, that he always gets that final relief, that final comfort from, a twisted, dark, and sick kind of comfort, a disgusting kind, an impure kind.

septimus.

tall, beautiful septimus. looks of an angel, hands of a devil, he denies it every time. saying he's not worthy of that moniker, calling himself twisted and impure- it only convinces hunter more. scars on his back, yellow eyes like a cat at night, and black hair with yellow streaks, he always smiles like he's getting a twisted joy out of everything, as if he doesn't deserve it.

hunter’s fallen angel.

perhaps if it was someone else hunter would have to ask himself where he was, but he knew. nobody had quite the decoration like his septimus. holes in the wall, dust flies about glittering in the yellowed flickering lights, he sees discarded cigarettes and broken trash, there's some mysterious grime in the corners of the bathroom that he was being careful to not touch and of course- the piece de resistance.

blood covers from here to fro, hunter was far from the only bloody thing in this house he was sure.

he always has wondered, where does that blood come from? as far as he knows septimus doesn't really have any friends, with or without quotations.

when he feels a hand from behind rest upon his shoulder, he knows he's right.

from the corner of his eye, he sees him kneel, a hand squirms its way under his chin and sets itself upon his cheek, he burrows into it as he's pulled to look at the man himself.

septimus.

on him there is blood, his clothes are frazzled, hunter sees the parts where his hands were probably just pulling at, and in septimus' hands, he holds a bloody sheet.

a gentle voice, “don’t go ruining this place again, hunter.” it speaks, smooth, soft, and yet unsettling; a coldness creeps in like a morning breeze, so gentle, but hunter feels himself freeze in fear at it, like a rabbit caught by a hawk, he's smiling at hunter, a thumb caresses his cheek, in his eyes, hunter sees the unimaginable adoration he holds for hunter, a sick kind of love.

his voice turns mockingly upset, “you know i can’t keep on cleaning up after your mess, you just need to be still and nothing like what happened last time will happen again.” it says, so chillingly sweet, like a toxin making it way into hunters gut, making him shake, he feels lips against his other cheek, a kiss.

“come on, answer me.” he says, voice lower, tightening jaw and a hand tightening on his neck, nails prickling at his skin like knives, threatening to tear in at any second.

he doesn't think septimus is aware of it, even, as his brows furrow- desperation, hunter has seen it a thousand times before.

just as broken as the other, just as desperate for affection and approval as the other.

it's frankly pathetic; for both of them.

hunter nods slowly, half-lidded and exhausted, feeling the pressure release from his neck, and sees as septimus goes to stand up over him, “good.” a breathy, disgustingly cheery voice says, a short laugh, breathy, “good, yeah, good.” and hunter is pulled up, feeling himself stand on shaky legs, held lovingly like fragile glass, but nails dig into his skin like rodent caught by bird.

hunter takes a shaky, painful breath, and leans away from the blood puddle from where he sat, being pulled away firmly; gently by septimus, feeling how he clings onto him, grasping him, squeezing him just slightly enough that he can feel the stinging of the gashes at being pulled at, he slowly looks up into the mirror, seeing himself, bloodied and torn apart like wet tissue paper, and septimus behind him, a crescent, crude smile on his lips, eyes staring back at hunter, poking at hunters skin, pulling at the skin, opening up those wounds he himself tore into hunter, there is a sense of pride he shouldn't perhaps have.

artist and his work?

a hand slowly travels up and grabs hunter's face, this hand more covered in blood than the last- he shivers at the wet feeling the blood gives on his skin, feeling sick as he feels himself tense up, but he stays still, nails gently poking at his skin as septimus twists his face to look at him.

“hunter.” he asks, a quiet and smooth voice, nose against his, his thumb caresses hunters face slowly, “you know i love you right? that this is out of love, right?” and, as hunter breathes slowly, shakily… a little smile creeps on his face.

the fix.

cure for his sickness, he lets himself be covered in worse disease, a shaky, weak breath from him- it's an intoxicating feeling.

“of course.” he says, septimus stares at his face for a second longer, absorbing the moment fully, a gentle kiss onto hunter’s bloodied lips, and he backs away, letting hunter go, his tone suddenly shifts, colder, disinterested. in his eyes, hunter sees how he stares off into nothing yet again, always only focusing on the candle as it's burning, moth to flame alike.

“i’ll go call that doctor guy for you, you seem to have had enough of me now.” he mumbles, "you'll be fine in here yourself, right?" he asks, eyes digging through hunter, seemingly looking through him. hunter nods and then watches as his beloved fallen angel goes out of the bathroom, leaving hunter alone.

rabbits are not supposed to love hawks.

hunter stands, feeling himself wave from side to side as he stands, and then starts to cry, there's an exhausted smile on his face as he slides down.

it hurts, oh it always does.

it hurts so damn much, and yet he can’t stop coming here- and no matter how hurt he is, no matter how much pain he feels, no matter how broken he gets, it's still never enough is it?

he still returns to him, or others. he still comes back to be broken, torn apart.

and god, each time after- through the bewitching words septimus weaves, like blades through his skin, he’s always left feeling as if nobody will ever truly care for him that way again, obsessive sick love.

he doesn't know what septimus would do if he told him how much he adores him.

he doesn't know how he would bear with never seeing the worst of his coping mechanisms ever again.

but it's the only thing that keeps him feeling sane.

lower than dirt, lower than worms, there he is.

it’s not that he didn’t love hunter, oh he loved him. but an animal untrained is unrestrained in its behaviour.

a sharp beak picks apart fine rabbit bones, it’s instinct. it’s all he knows.

affection is something that cannot be afforded to morons, where his hands trace only bruises are left- his existence was bloody destruction, tearing apart the things he wishes he could care for whenever he is left without a muzzle around his head.

restraint was not something that he was ever taught. joy was not a privilege an animal like him deserved.

every feeling of joy, affection, and love was counteracted by a feeling of anger, disgust, and most of all; hatred. hatred for hunter for instilling the feelings of sin within him, a hatred for himself for daring to feel that way, a hatred for what was lost, what was never given, and what he cannot do.

contradiction was something he knew very well. the contradiction of being desired yet never loved, the contradiction of wanting love but not being able to give it, of being trained like a refined pet and yet rabid like a feral dog.

the things he would do to fix himself. pull out teeth, rip out nails, but nothing could ever kill the filth that was weaved finely into his entire being, a silk of only the worst he could do, never anything good coming out of him.

oh, it wasn’t that he hated hunter, no. it was that he hated himself.

to have someone who still accepted him was something he hated, something he wished would not happen, he curses anyone who forgives his sin. but he still never refuses it; a feeling of being starved, he longs for someone to treat him normally. but he can't treat anyone normally himself, the hands of a sinner. bubbling up.

it always ends the same.

bloody hands, bloody apartment, the taste of regret at the back of his throat and yet intoxication at the only affection he could afford. bloody love, the sign of the heathen he was always meant to be. created to hurt, created to suffer, created to destroy.

he wasn’t human anymore, he was something else by now he was sure of. sins pile up and twist one's form. maybe he never was one.

hunter didn’t- hunter did not come to him for love. no, he came for… other reasons to be sure, but septimus didn’t mind being used, even pain and fear, tears rolling off one’s face, could feel like being loved after being starved of it, he knew that very well himself.

so when he was asked not to tear, not to hurt, but to restrain himself, he was… anxious, afraid.

sweetness from each kiss hunter gave him, he didn't know how to reciprocate that, his hands wrap around hunters wrists, loosely as to not make him bleed as he always does.

refreshing intoxication emanates from hunter as his warmth does, to be so gentle with a monster was a virtue he was so jealous of.

disgust builds up at the back of his throat.

rotted bile, rotted mind, rotted morals.

unreciprocative trash

hunters voice was quiet, painfully kind as he speaks, “septimus?” he mumbles, and even though he doesn't answer hunter continues, “this… this might be really out of nowhere, i’m sorry..” he whispers, and as septimus hears the way that hunters voice gets choked up he wishes, he could tear flesh from bone, his throat hurting as if a ball were stuck in it, constricting flesh around the obstruction.

constricting hatred around the obstruction.

“i just- i... i like this, i think” he said, and the bile growing in the back of his throat couldn’t be more distracting, this wasn’t right and it wasn’t something that should happen “i like us, i love us like this-” and before he finishes the sentence septimus steps away.

he hated this. he hated himself for the way he acted, when he leaves he doesn’t say a word.

he almost wants to laugh at the irony of it all, something once so holy, so pure- now twisted.

wingless angel, the means he would go to so that he could feel human. but he still wasn’t one despite it all, even when tearing feathers from flesh, flesh from bone, his wings removed from his body by his own hands, he only turned into a monster. a snarling rabid beast.

the memory of hunter running his hands along the scars on his back crosses his mind. 'how did this happen?' the rabbit asks, he had never answered, it's not that hunter wouldn't understand, more than anyone else he would, but it's that he still felt shame- he still wanted to be more than...

more than a pet bird.

he had seen a beautiful girl once; from afar, a long time ago, rabbit ears on her head, a tail behind. hair and fur like acorn brown silk, soft and warm, eyes deep, dark shades of a midnight hue of brown.

and just when he finds himself starting to get lost in them, he feels his mistress' heels click on the floor, and he stands upright again, looking to her with a practised 'loving' smile, but his eyes were empty as he stares at the woman.

she runs hands along the white dove-like wings he once had, that he swears he can still feel burning in pain, and he tells her every sweet nothing she wants to hear.

his mistress.

he was below even a doormat.

today that beautiful 'girl' had sat before him again, now a boy he feels hopelessly in love (?) with. his hair and eyes as beautiful as he remembers, now close he can look at every freckle on his face, like stars to the dark sky in his eyes, he has piercings and tattoos now, and on his body septimus could trace a thousand scars with a thousand stories.

some like his, some by him, some for other reasons.

but he can't take what he dishes, unending adoration, unconditional love- from him, sick and twisted, but from him... like sun rays kissing his skin.

the scars on his back burn.

vomit sits below his face, cast out like the feelings he was not worthy of, that he didn’t deserve to experience. the disgusting taste covers his mouth, and the acid makes his throat burn, he lets out a groan as he stares at it in disgust for a few seconds before going to wash his face.

cold water makes his face numb, but he still feels the nails he drags across his face.

he hates how his body rejects normality.

but no matter how much hate he bears, no matter the tears he sheds, no matter the blood he draws out of himself, it’s never enough to cleanse him of that instinct to destroy; to hurt.

there's a knock at the door as he bites into the skin of his arm, hunter’s voice rings out, “are you okay?” he asks, distress in his voice, “i heard gagging?” and septimus only glares at the door as he doesn't answer, a familiar liquid warmth running down his arm, iron taste in his mouth.

then, there’s a long silence, a silence where septimus feels the way tears try and pour out of his face, and how his breathing tightens further, choking silently with his hatred of himself, his weakness, silently suffocating any of the tears that he may have shed.

“i…” the voice is quiet, septimus thinks that hunter is leaning against the door now with how his voice is muffled, “i’m worried. i.... care about you, okay?" a pause, he cringes at it, he feels like hes being lied to- that's why there's that pause, if it were truth it would simply come out, "can you let me in?” he asks, and septimus feels the shaky breath he lets out, panic makes his skin feel as if pins dig into it, he hits the wall with his uninjured fist.

a nervous smile crawls onto his face as he feels his chest rise and fall faster and faster, “and i don’t. only love you for the blood you spill, fucking leave.” he says a fearful chuckle escaping him.

his body burns with adrenaline. fear, anxiety, and hatred, all in one disgusting mixed concoction. he hears the slow- and then fast footsteps as hunter walks away, the closing of the door, and when he does he pulls his head back slowly and suddenly, harshly, bangs it against the door.

surely, it was hard enough to leave a bruise.

and as the pain on his head pulses he slumps down, his tears and hyperventilated breaths finally coming out, like a waterfall, a wash of relief over him, the stabbing of hatred and guilt piercing his heart.

and then he hits his head against the door again. and again. and again. and he continues doing so until his breathing calms down.

unholy mind and body joined together, the twisting of a dove, the beast he is now doesn't deserve love like what hunter wishes to give him- it’s better to hurt himself than to let him ‘love’. put your hands inside the cage and you know what you’re gonna get, to get your fingers torn from that is a question of one’s own stupidity, a stupidity that was like a grace to him, but to open the cage was too reckless, even the beast knew that.

the hunger for what he doesn’t deserve makes him feel almost insane, despite his knowledge that he only feeds and does not reciprocate.

regret does make him feel insane, however.

the knowledge he hurt hunter is something he's not surprised by at all, and yet still wishes would not happen, but beak and claws do not love like mouths and hands, an animal like him just wasn’t made for love.

you cannot do something over and over and expect a different result.

you cannot do something over and over and expect a different result.

[wibble-wobbegong]

RM Renfield and Victor Creel

Okay, this is a mini Dracula parallel post because this doesn’t really fit in with the bigger analysis but it’s way too on the nose to ignore. For those who don’t know, Bram Stoker’s Dracula was on the board of inspired movies for S4. The parallels between this movie and the show are absolutely NUTS

For starters, RM Renfield was once a solicitor in the firm of Hawkins and Thomkins. He’s now a patient in an insane asylum as he’s ended up dedicating himself to his Master who has promised him immortality; Dracula. Dracula never fulfills this promise of immortality, rather eventually killing him after he warns Mina to run from Dracula due to it being an act of betrayal against his Master. It’s hard to ignore the narrative parallels between Victor and Renfield here, considering that Victor moves his family to Hawkins and later ends up in an insane asylum himself. Textually, it’s more interpretive but Victor does have a strong wish to join his family, specifically saying, “I tried to join them,” which strongly indicates Henry’s presence in his life as his saying to those he declares as victims is to ask them to join him. Dracula teases Renfield with the possibility of immortality and it seems possible that Henry teased Victor with the chance to see his family again.

Both Renfield and Victor perform acts that bring them closer to being a true victim of their respective demon. Renfield lives on a diet of live animals, primarily bugs, because Dracula and those he turns into vampires too live on a diet of live creatures. Victor tries to carve out his own eyes in an attempt to recreate the results of one of Vecna’s curse victims, who’s eyes are lost.

What I find to be really, really interesting is this conversation Renfield has with his warden Jack Seward.

“You see, it’s life that I ingest. Gives life back to me.”

“A fly gives you life?”

“Certainly. But you might as well ask a man to eat molecules with a pair of chopsticks than to interest me in a lesser carnivore.”

“I shall have to invent a new classification of lunatic for you. What about spiders? Spiders eat the flies.”

“Yes, spiders eat them.”

“What about sparrows?”

“Oh, yes. Did you say sparrows?”

“Something larger perhaps?”

“Oh, yes. A kitten. I beg you. A little sleek… a playful kitten, something I can teach, something I can feed. No one would refuse me a kitten.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer a cat?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. A big cat. My salvation depends on it.”

“Your salvation?”

“Yes. I need lives. I need lives for the Master.”

“Master? What Master?”

“The Master will come. And he has promised to make me immortal.”

I mean, come on. Flies, spiders, big cats? It’s literally describing the shit that the show is showing us to a T.

The fly is the victim of spiders. The flies represent victims, and we know of two characters who match the description of the flea from Mr. Clarke’s metaphor; Henry and Will. Fleas and flies are both under the same class, so it’s not a stretch by any means. The spiders eat these flies: Virginia and Henry are both spiders. Virginia is a spider as we see from Henry showing her spiders in the bathtub (those visions are only holding up a mirror). Henry functions as a spider through the Mind Flayer. These are literally in the show, but it goes bigger.

If we’re following these connections, then there’s a third layer between Henry’s spider and Henry himself; the sparrow. Sparrows eat the spiders. The most likely candidates for these sparrows are Brenner and Owens, seeing as Brenner seemed to be above Virginia considering that she was trying to take Henry to him and he later covered up her death. Owens experiments on Henry’s spider in S2, discovers ways in which it can be damaged through the hive mind. It’s also implied that the shadow which was in control of the meat monster was removed and somehow ended up in the hands of the Russians, which shouldn’t have been possible since Owens’ team was there before they would’ve had time to do such a thing. It seems that Owens is still experimenting with the shadow, somehow, through or with the Russians.

Yet, even though there is another layer, Henry still sits above them all. Henry is the cat; the wild cat the officers claim are killing those animals in 1959; the silver cat that feeds. Henry eats the sparrows. Or, in this sense, he serves as the highest predator. As Henry himself states, Brenner is just a man, but he is more than that. He’s the ultimate predator.

What I really love about this conversation, is that the big cat isn’t being described as a predator at all! Not because Henry isn’t a predator, but because this only reinforces that Victor is meant to be paralleling this guy. Renfield wants a cat he can teach and feed, something to take care of. In fact, doing so would appease his Master. Henry’s relationship with his father is one very much so based on neglect and ignorance, which is why he considers him naive and stupid, but for some reason it seems that Henry may be continuing to visit his father. Honestly, I think this could be implying that Victor does wish to have Henry back or that he wants the chance to raise his child right. It would appease his Master, who would then grant him the ability to join his family. Henry may be using Victor’s want for Alice and Virginia to make himself a father who cares. Of course, Victor is doing this because he misses Alice and Virginia, but he can ‘join them’ if he appeases Henry, who wanted to be cared for by his father.

This stuff doesn’t really fit in with the larger picture that Dracula paints, but i think it’s a neat little nod to the hierarchy of predation and Henry’s longing for a father who cared (though he also takes this chance to punish Victor by dancing this opportunity in front of him and never giving it to him. It’s also a form of revenge i think).

[emsee22]

Still 4x12 Tempus Fugit

This time I got my boyfriend to rewatch the Bethylsodes with me. He brought up how it seems totally unnecessary for Daryl to stand the grandfather clock up straight, as it wasn't even in the way. Well, specifically he said he should have just left it there so that the clock didn't chime and the walkers didn't come. I said they do that to draw attention onto the clock, where the time is 2:52pm and Tempus Fugit means time flies, because it has some kind of significance that I am not exactly certain of. But then the whole sequence became clear to me. The clock was at 2:52pm. In this time, Daryl and Beth are in the shop. She steps into the mannequin arm that foreshadows her the way she falls when she is shot. Then she changes clothes into the yellow shirt and the white cardigan. She tries to take down the Rich Bitch body, asks Daryl for help, and he says "It doen't matter, she's dead." Beth says, "it does matter" so Daryl covers her up with a sheet to help Beth (doesn't take the body down, just conceals it).

Then the clock strikes. It was 8 minutes till 3pm when the clock was shone. Eight minutes till the clock strikes 3. This is important for 2 reasons. Firstly, we keep seeing 8s around Beth. Secondly, 3 is the Christian resurrection number. A whole bunch of walkers come to their location. Beth and Daryl run from oncoming walkers, but Daryl stops running and fights them off. As he is clubbing the walker in the green sweater to death, there is a playing card shown twice by the walker's head. It is a 4 of clubs/4 of clover. I have seen conflicting meanings of the card itself in cartomacy, but I perceive it as the 4 leaf clover, since a club is a stylized clover. In killing the walker, Daryl smacks the blood onto Beth's new, white cardigan (I think it is a metaphor for the luck symbolized by the 4 clover being given to her), so she removes it and crosses into the next room. As she enters the next room, the painting of the blue heron/Bennu (Egyptian resurrection bird) is behind her. So I think this whole sequence symbolizes Beth's death, the fact that her body was only concealed and not laid to rest, but that she actually was lucky and survived, but her old self will be shed and she will be transformed. Side note: I think the focus on the walker couple behind the bar holding each other is just more romantic imagery alluding to Beth and Daryl's developing feelings.

[measuringbliss]

Spider-Man Read-Through 013: The War on... (ASM 93-99) P2

MASTERPOST

So in the last batch, Stan Lee and his team decided that the main plot would be drugs, be it with Harry taking some, or the Goblin's metaphorical addiction. To do so, they even renounced stamping the front covers with the Comics Code label.

Issue #98 continues right off the bat, with the Goblin interrupting Peter trying to save Harry from an overdose, which is great conflict.

The art is perfectly alright, but not comparable to the Master. I appreciate the hands coming out of the panels though, it's a nice idea! But more importantly, we've got Peter bridal carrying Harry and I'm eating this up.

The Goblin flies away after half-recognizing his son, and Peter once again thinks of Harry as "too weak to handle MJ's rejection", which, oof.

Meanwhile, back in London, Gwen gaslights herself into being completely dependable on Peter and thinking she asked too much of him.

Peter meets Harry's gay drug dealer and takes care of him.

I see quite a lot of nuance regarding drugs in this story, which is great and probably forward for the time, but I can't get over Peter calling Harry "weak". Do I feel like it's out of character for him? I'm not sure, I'd have to think some more about it.

For what's worth, the issue features some great perspective.

The Goblin and Spidey engage in some crotch riding and having absolutely no shame whatsoever, they do the deed right in front of Harry's salad.

The issue ends on a bittersweet note that is even more bittersweet if you know where this all leads. At least, Norman's amnesiac! Again. For the third time. Or the second. We're not sure if SSM #2 counts.

I haven't seen any reader's letters for a while now, which makes me very sad.

So in #99, Peter tries to ask for Gwen's hand. I say Peter, but he and Gwen have been replaced by the Bogdanov brothers and are strikingly terrifying.

They just kiss though, and the narrator argues that they're giving them space because this isn't a romance story, which shows me that the narrator is absolutely clueless. Spider-Man is peak soap opera.

Peter is becoming a man (...) so he takes the chance to ask for more money to Jameson. I'd also ask for more money, if I had enough work to begin with. Hahaha. Ha.

So Peter helps tame a riot in the prison and then participates in a TV show, but the police quickly close on him and he forgets to ask for money --which is needed to go out with Gwen that night and propose to her.

Except!!!! Turns out Gwen spent the afternoon cooking. So all's well that ends well!

What a handsome motherfucker.

Be careful, Stan. You're setting my hopes very high.

The letters are back!

YES, George Farguson. You're right!

Dean Nakayama from Hawaii roleplays as Captain Stacy from Heaven, meanwhile.

More Prowler appreciation. I really don't see him as a villain, though. Sure, he was an antagonist in his first story, but he quickly became a rather neutral side character. That's part of why he's so great!

[alyjojo]

Advice to Work on Yourself 🛁 in February 2023: Virgo

4 Pentacles - The World - Strength

Regarding: King of Wands

Everyone is pulling King of Wands this month, it’s a running theme. Your advice is to heal from a relationship with this person, assuming they’re a Leo or a fire sign. If not, they embody this grand, charismatic, social and inspiring sort of popular (often attractive) type of personality that wins fans just by being themselves, a big personality. They could be a family member, someone at work, an ex partner even, but it’s a connection that’s deeply affected you and needs healing - in yourself. You’ve held back a lot of angst from this person, they may not even know where your head has been at. You’ve been overcoming stress, anxiety, worries, genuine upset, heartbreak even with that charm here, but you say nothing. Or it comes off in a possessive & protective way, a tough front covering a vulnerable heart. You may not even be speaking to each other, and these are the sorts of emotions you’ve felt since you last spoke. It’s possible this person has moved on to a whole new family, lover, situation in life, and it leaves you feeling…heartbroken. Bitter. Probably with good reason.

Your response has been to refrain from talking to this person. No apologies from either side. No how are yous. No rushing in with communication about this that or the other. Though you’re tempted. The reading implies that you should be reaching out to this person, bond over foods, solo trips, and butterfly all indicate something has changed. Or maybe that you just need to see that for yourself somehow, especially if this is more family related. They’ve changed. Doesn’t say if that’s good or bad, just that they’re different.

Animal Oracle: Walrus 🦭

“Remain vigilant about the current situation; pay attention to signs and omens, and let them dictate your choices.”

Signs and omens show up in myriad ways, from the wind’s rustle of the trees that make it seem as if they’re whispering to you at a barely audible level, to the rainbow that appears just before an event in which you’re participating. When you’re pondering any kind of question about your life purpose, relationships, career, or even everyday concerns such as whether to actually take the vacation that you’d been planning, you can ask Spirit to give you clear and specific signs. Then watch, listen, feel, and allow thoughts to flow. While you may not always get absolutely clear responses, more often than not you’ll pick up on signs or flies through your eyes, ears, sensations in your body, or thoughts that seem to come out of the blue. You may even have remarkably lucid dreams that you can easily recall in the morning.

Look for the unusual and repetitious. For example, if you hear someone at the supermarket talking about Phoenix (auditory); spot a billboard advertisement with the word Phoenix prominently displayed (visual); and then recall a period of time when you lived in that city, feeling a calmness and joy (sensations) when you bring up that memory (cognitive), these are all clues. It could be about the city of Phoenix, Arizona. Or it could be a subtle way that the spirit guide is offering you their help when you’re ending one cycle completely and beginning another, like the metaphor of the Phoenix rising from the ashes. Omens are perceived in the four ways mentioned. Journal about anything you find significant, and look for repetition. When you see an animal showing up repeatedly, Spirit is with you. Trust the signs and your discernment of them, they’re a personal and significant way Spirit helps guide you along your path. Your Spirit knows how to get *your* attention 🙏

Artist Oracle: J.M.W. TURNER

- Find the facts in a feeling.

- Nature does not sit still.

- The sun will rise whether or not you are there to watch it.

Advice:

- Bond Over Food

- Take a Solo Travel Trip

Charms:

Butterfly 🦋 on King of Wands show a complete transformation of someone you probably knew as an important figure in your life. Family, friend, career, a lover, it could apply to any of them. Someone is very happy, and you’re unhappy about that. Whether it’s less time with you, or if it’s an ex that’s obvious, a favorite coworker, what have you. It seems like this was the best thing that could have happened to them. The World shows this as an ending that was meant to be, it’s not some random thing, this person is following their soul path. But that doesn’t mean you can’t talk? Depending on the circumstances involved. Walrus indicates some can, some can’t.

Broken Heart 💔 and Treble Clef 🎼 on JMW are probably heartbreaking songs as the most obvious translation. You have to feel what you’re feeling and music is the best way to do that, especially if there is no way or point in communicating with this person, or that’s how some of you feel. The feelings are still there. Grief is just love with no place to go, that’s a beautiful quote from someone…idk who, but it applies with this reading. Take care of your heart ❤️‍🩹