#or perhaps she's haunted

[roboticchibitan]

I'm going to go on a rampage like Godzilla.

So back in December I spent $163 to get Tabitha (my sewing machine) serviced because the one step buttonhole broke.

Guess :) what's :) still :) broken :)

And I'm outside the repair warranty window so I have to just use alternate buttonhole making methods until I can scrape another $163 together. It's on me for not thoroughly testing it after I brought it home.

I fiddled with it for half an hour and used an entire Bobbin's worth of thread trying to get it fixed and I finally did! Wrote down all the settings it was at. Made my two buttonholes. And kept sewing! Except. My buttonholes were placed wrong so I went back to those exact settings 4 hours of sewing later to make two new buttonholes and it wouldn't work.

Unwilling to spend another half an hour tweaking it until it worked, I did what my grandma told me to do when I told her my machine was broken and looked up how to make bound buttonholes. I was pissed and tired and it was my first time trying this method so they look pretty bad...

They look like assholes but I don't really care at this point. Better than doing it by hand. Quicker too. Tho it takes about ten times longer than doing it on my machine when it's working.

I got 75% of the way done with a pair of pants before realizing the buttonhole placement mistake, btw. Tomorrow I have a waistband to sew and then the green linen pants that I spent eternity embroidering will be done! And! I have enough fabric leftover to make a matching crop top! Gonna have a wardrobe like a box of crayons after decades of 60% of my wardrobe being black!

[cherrywhite]

Silt Verses protagonists // Returning Home

[leavingautumn13]

doing a little lore work for my pokemon emerald fic eye of the storm, so here's a sketch page

absol should be weirder.

so should mt. pyre.

[book-lover85]

ok but what if we got a scene of Sophie telling someone she could feel herself cracking

she'd witnessed too much violence

maybe she's had less of a problem attacking people

maybe she's killed someone (Gisela?)

she can feel the cracks in her mind

[scoriarose]

A Noisy Chicago Apartment Ghost

Here's a little spooky story of something that really happened to my girl and me a few months back when I was still living in my apartment in Chicago (Specifically July 11th through the 14th, so not that long ago!)

Chicago is a place with a lot of old buildings, not sure if that means more ghosts? But I'm also the sort of person that if something spooky is going on, I'm usually the one that's most likely to experience it, and surprisingly my little girl did too!

We were living on the fourth floor of an apartment in Edgewater that was so old I had to sign a waiver that I knew the walls had lead somewhere in the paint omelet the landlord coated the interior with. There was something else there, something I couldn't see, but it made itself known by throwing things, mostly. Most would think, "Are you sure it didn't fall?" But most of these things were sitting on a flat surface, sometimes for months before they were suddenly flung with force across the room. Whatever it was didn't like my cat, as several times I'd see him run out of a room then something be thrown out of the doorway at him. I lived alone, and he very well couldn't have done it if it was thrown after he was out of the room!

This is a photo I took of the hallway just before I moved, which is where the most recent spooky things happened. To the left is the bathroom, to the right is the walk in closet my cat claimed as his room, and the far back is where I had my bed. My computer desk and girls were against the opposite wall, so I had my back to this area. Around the time it happened, most of my things were in boxes, aside for what I needed on the daily, so if something was out of place it was pretty easy to tell.

One thing that's nice about working from home is I could have my baby girl chilling with me, and she'd often be snuggled with me while I organized video shoots, booked talent, or worked on preproduction. So one day early in the afternoon I was buy working away on something when I heard a loud sound behind me. Imagine someone holding a leather biker's coat above their head and dropping it to the ground- it sounded exactly like that. Owning a leather biker jacket, that was the first thing I checked and it was still on its hanger. In fact, nothing was out of place, which is pretty strange since that was a rather loud sound- but not a thing had been moved! So I just added it to my mental list of weird things I can't really do anything about and went back to working.

The next day, around the same time, I heard something get thrown into the bathtub. I'm half wondering if this time I'll actually find something or it will be another mystery sound- and I find my makeup case thrown from a shelf into the bathtub. No reason. I put it back and again add it to my mental list of things I can't explain and just have to accept happened. Third day, around the same time, I again hear a sound in the same area of the hallway, just outside the bathroom door, but this time it sounds like something plastic got dropped. I rush over, worried that something like my live crickets or isopods got flung (and subsequently LOOSE) in my apartment- but again, nothing out of place.

At this point, it's become a daily thing at around the same time. Was their a reason this started? Are they upset I'm moving? Whatever the reason, on the fourth day I've notice the trend of something weird happening in the hallway behind my desk around the same time. Today, the fourth day, I was holding my baby girl.

Scoria is sweeter than pie and she lives to play, explore, and love her family. Absolute sweetheart. She was wandering about in my arms, but then stopped and started staring into the empty hallway. She periscoped up, just staring, and I couldn't see anything! Then she hooded up bigger than I'd ever seen her hood before, like something scary was there and she was trying to intimidate it. There was nothing new in the hallway, again, it was pretty empty since most things had been packed away for the upcoming move, so it wasn't as though she were misidentifying something unknown. Whatever she saw, this tiny little gummyworm thought was dangerous- and she was going to protect us.

Thinking back to the prior three days of things I couldn't explain, and the possibility of ghosts in my mind, I honestly wonder if she saw someone I couldn't. And what the heck do you do in that moment? I did the only thing I could think to- I talked calmly to her, asking her what she saw, and what was wrong? After a few more moments she relaxed, her hood melted down, and she looked at me as if to say, "Everything is okay now Mom."

And the weird things in that apartment completely stopped through to the day we moved. I honestly wonder if my girl scared a ghost? Experience with the paranormal has taught me that most ghosts use to be people, and the beliefs and fears they had in life go with them into the afterlife. So if whatever was in my apartment use to be a person afraid of snakes, well now they were a ghost afraid of snakes. Even little teenie tiny gummyworm snakes. There's a surprisingly high number of people afraid of friendly little gummyworm snakes. And I guess this ghost was one of them!

I certainly appreciate my baby girl squaring off with this thing I couldn't see or do anything about. Somehow she could? I guess? And she was my brave little girl, who would protect her family from whatever scary thing she saw. This is just one of so many reasons I love her more than words could ever express.

( @yeetntve you liked my other post so I tag u so u can see the story.)

[itsdappleagain]

CARMEN SANDIEGO OC WEEK DAY 4: TRAGEDY June 10th

Python was coerced into joining VILE after the death of her parents as a young adult. She was left with sole custody of her younger sibling and was struggling with the burden of student loan debts. VILE had taken note of her due to a few papers she researched whilst in university.

VILE approached her and, when she refused to join the school with a specialty in intimidation tactics and methods of torture, they suggested that she join and send money back to her sibling- under the threat of a hit on the sibling.

Python now works with VILE with few complaints. She and her sibling rarely see each other- they think she is working abroad, which is not entirely untrue, but they obviously don't know what Python does. The two of them live comfortably because of VILE, and Python is able to know that, due to her working for VILE, her sibling will forever be protected, sheltered, and fed without any money worries...as long as Python never acts out.

Python has long since accepted her place in the world as a living weapon. Knowing what she does keeps her sibling safe, she is able to detach herself from her work as soon as she "clocks out" for the day. It's the only way she can preserve her sanity.

[antirepurp]

all hail shadow is told from the perspective of maria robotnik in this essay i will -

[spiderwarden]

The fact Minthara would be acting a little odd socially in Drow society, being just attributed to the fact her mother - Sos'umptu, was by all the accounts that are written about her, a social hermit, feels fitting somehow.

The way no one questioned her eventual discconnect at pleasure parties or disassociative stare in the middle of the noble talk. The way she would silently grieve the people she thought she could love or be her friends, because she wanted that familial and friendly connections so badly and no one recognized it. Oh, it's just High Priestess Sos'umptu's daughter, this is to be expected.

[chiropteracupola]

Motion, wardrobe, and change for the oc of your choice!

KATE TIME!!!

motion: How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?

she is Bouncy she is Wiggly she is Never Ever Still. climbing and perching and leaning on people when she's around them. and also she is very likely at least moderately hypermobile!

thus, a lot of her clothing is relatively tight-fitting with the intention of, if not actually keeping her joints in place, then giving the sensation of doing so. also the big coats give the impression of her being Wider and more powerful than she really is, but can be easily discarded if she gets into a sticky situation.

wardrobe: How big is your character's wardrobe? Do they wear things threadbare, or can they afford new clothes often? Are they any good at mending and repairing their own clothing?

kate's got a Slightly more than reasonable amount of clothing for her social status — three waistcoats, a coat and a caped greatcoat, two-three pairs of breeches, a few shirts and pairs of stockings, two neckcloths, pair of shoes. she would very much like to have more waistcoats than that... as it is, she's got the Nice one (teal), the everyday one (lilac) and the One She Doesn't Like (gray).

cannot repair her own clothes to save her life. this is partially a function of her personal determination to prove she's Bad at Womanhood, but also this mostly expresses itself via the fact that she's deeply self-centered and entirely uninterested in doing anything at all that she does not want to do.

change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?

...and here we are at the reason why I picked kate for this particular set of questions. kate is perhaps my character with the most Distinct appearance change of all — unconventional yet not Entirely outside of convention 18thc masculine styles into ceiling-crawling ghost girl.

kate, beyond everything else, is showy — there's a certain part of her that misses getting to wear physical clothes, but also this is easily overshadowed by the sheer joy of escaping the limits of gravity.

[fragmentedblade]

I think I've become an official HI3 player. I check the HSR leaks hoping for iterations of HI3 characters now

[nocentis]

Black Arum ┆ Siegrain

Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.

╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.

A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.

That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.

So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.

╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.

Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.

Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.

There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.

“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.

The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.

He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.

Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 

Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”

Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.

A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.

His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.

"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”

The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.

His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.

He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.

He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”

Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 

He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.

But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.

He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.

The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.

Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.

It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.

Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.

He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.

This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.

A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.

She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.

What are these hands for if not this?

Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.

The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.

Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 

What are these teeth for if not this?

Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.

The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.

He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.

Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.

He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.

You’re no better than this starving world.

He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.

[filmnoirsbian]

Why do you like Jason Todd so much? (I like him too! Just wondering your reasons)

My favorite fictional character of all time is Sophocles' Electra. Being a Jason Todd girlie is simply in my blood.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

i canot participate in the pm smashorpass going around but reading thru th tags yall are on another fucking LEVEL oh my god

[ilaria]

THE PHYSICALITIES OF ILARIA'S CURSE.

if ilaria goes long enough without feeding, black tendrils would appear over her body in various areas, most notably her upper back or shoulder blades, and they continue to spread until it's been satiated. when indulging, the tendrils appear and spread to the person she's with, demonstrating the literal stealing of one's energy / vitality bit by bit.

[chelleinyy]

Abigail Baines - Dolorifuge

Bernadette You are my liberty I celebrate the day That you changed my history of life and death Will always lead you into love and regret But you have answers And I have the key for the door to Bernadette

All images used are not mine, credits to the rightful owners on Pinterest

[aspiringhexgirl]

"I've never been wanted anywhere" "all I want is to be cherished, and here I am talking gibberish with a selfish man." "you can't come home with me"