#pond-porridge

[noctilin]

Hello. Would you be interested in sharing information about Cimmorro? I love your art and I think he is rotating in my brain. Like in a microwave.

of course! even better, let him tell you. he loves talking about himself

there's still a bit i can't quite share because he's my dnd pc. a few bits of his lore are yet to be revealed to our table. :) feel free to ask though and i'll see if i'll be able to answer! (may or may not be answered by cimm again!)

[linkerbell]

Hey, I'm newer to the cotl fandom and I saw your post with the lambsona lineup and it inspired me to make my own! I don't know what to do from here. This isnt me asking you what to do from here I just need you to have the visual of me shaking a little lamb OC and frantically trying to figure out where to put him and what to do with him

Aww yay! 🥰

You can do anything you want with your little lamb oc now! Have fun~ <3

[yourplayersaidwhat]

If I don't remember the exact quote, could I submit something along the lines of "we had to tell (blank) that (blank)" or would you prefer it in half-assed quotes?

We prefer the quotes! Any submission which isn't primarily a quote/dialogue - even if it's describing an approximate conversation - gets automatically deleted. This is because it's hard to draw a fair line between submissions which are a description of primarily dialogue, and ones that are a description of primarily events. Since we're a silly quotes blog, it's far simpler for the mods to have everyone submit quotes. (Besides, no one will know it's not a perfect direct quote unless you tell us!)

[trollmaiden]

With the economy in shambles it’s hard to buy yourself a new home, well don’t worry because I got the home for you!

No paperwork! No Lying! No refunds!

7357 64th Lilac road BT 56537

1 Bed, 1 Bath, 1 Foot,

This open concept is perfect for a single dime sized person or a random chipmunk, you choose! This cozy den sits on the Edge of the Bright Tree Court and right beside a summertime spring, we will not be held responsible if a bored noble Kicks your home across the forest or for any other kinds of damages that occur.

Price : water collected from the inside of a geode or crystal

5834 48th Stump Rot 107

7 ? bed, 9 ? bath, and 1 mushroom ring,

This spacious abode is perfect for those who love to host and it even comes with it’s own natural aroma of moss, wet dirt, and decaying wood. Under the home is a long and complex tunnel system which includes some strange creature that sings Lady Gaga songs upon being offered a bowl of porridge, the map for the tunnel is not included in the purchase.

Price : the beating heart of a oak tree, ice that never melts, and a Man without folly

82766 73rd Magenta Ave apartment 04

1 room, 2 bees,

If you’re here for the hustle and bustle of life you’ll be at home staying here, to your north is the Court of the glass winged Queen Alfhild the gracious, to your east is a goblin market, in the west there’s a spirit Halloween except for the month of October and sometimes November, and finally down south there is a fox that offers free rides in exchange for gossip.

Price : find the answer to my riddle

What lives in both wine and bread? What speaks without a mouth? and What blooms during death?

53881 25th Dickcissel Rd apartment 13

2 bed, 1 Bath,

A comfortable fit for new parents, It’s not just a apartment, it’s a community. There’s plenty of sweet smelling flowers that bloom for spring till early autumn, there is also a public bird bath with a wonderful view, If a serpent or squirrel devours your eggs you can’t cursed us or any of our descendants.

Price : your most beautiful Feature

1263 274th Brook vile 739

1 room,

It might be tight but it sure is cozy! There is a pond not too far away and following the dirt trail will lead you to your new neighbors, Mr and Mrs tuftear who own a bookshop, and Miss Dormouse, who will share her garden with you as long as you eat dinner at her place every once in awhile and are nice to her thirty five grandchildren

Price : you have to marry Bogus, he is a very respectable and talented young man who will treat you right,

[lucianhuntress]

Day 2. Gale Dekarios x Reader: 8. “Did I just see you smile?”

Campfire crackles and its flames dance, illuminating the dark night. Just a few hours back you and your companions stumbled into a cave full of spiders and other nasty beings. You and Astarion somehow got the worst of it when the two of you fell into a pit full of spider eggs. 

Needless to say, the atmosphere has fallen into a rather gloomy state in the camp after Astarion had his emotional meltdown. You two were after all covered in all sorts of spider intestines, juices and other nasty excretions you don’t even have a name for. 

Gale, who had been far more lucky back in the cave, clearly notices how the whole experience has left you speechless as you mostly stare into the fire as if it would burn the memories of hairy spider legs in your mouth.

Much to his disappointment he couldn't get everyone into a cheery mood with his divine cooking skills; he managed to whip up a dinner for the whole party with just a few bottles of alcohol, an apple, a dried sausage and some purple grapes. Honestly, if you ask him, he outdid himself big time.

Yet nobody seems to be elated at all!

Gale finds a spot next to you and sits down, wondering how he could at least cheer you up if no one else feels like it— you have become quite important to him anyway. You would always listen to him, eagerly learning things and, oh, he loves to explain pretty much anything. Your silent presence is what he is used to, but not when you are quivering as you stare into oblivion.

“How was the water?” He asks nonchalantly, observing you cautiously. 

You, and Astarion, had quite the scrubbing ritual as soon as you got to the camp; the two of you nearly ran into the small pond —only after Wyll had made sure the pond contained nothing larger than frogs swimming in it.

“I was thinking,” Gale started after he got no reply from you, “that maybe we should have a dance class tomorrow? You know— we take a day off and just dance like madmen.”

It is normal for Gale to have odd ideas, but this was… well this is definitely weird. So you manage to finally even give him an incredulous side eye.

“Yeah, I know, I know— we have these squiggly little things swimming in our brains, and we should really hurry to Baldur’s Gate, but hey at least we'll have fun before we turn.”

You scoff as you turn back to stare into the flames. It's like the fire has hypnotized you.

“Or, in my case, explode,” Gale adds with a dramatic sigh. You know he is joking, but something in his theatrical effort tugs your lips slightly upwards and he yelps, stumbling back slightly, “Did I just see a smile? And here I thought you had turned into a rock!” 

You gently nudge him with your elbow, your smile widening slightly. 

“Ow!” Gale whines, but you see him smiling as well, “glad to see you smiling though, I don't know what I would do with the rest of the group looking like a goblin had stolen their morning porridges.” He leans in closer and lowers his tone as he mumbles: “nasty goblins those are.”

Heat climbs up your cheeks, even though the fire has been making sure you aren't cold, and your eyes meet. 

“Thanks, Gale.” You whisper meekly as butterflies flutter in your chest. 

“You're welcome,” he purrs and backs away slowly, “my bedroll is also rather empty so you're welcome to—”

You nudge him slightly harder with your elbow once again, earning another “ow!” 

[eulaliasims]

Round 2, Hill Farm 1 / 8

Calm the fuck down, Elmet.

Actually, you know what, I finally found the one thing he and Eisu have in common:

His wants panel just looks like that, like, all the time.

Anyway, while Eisu is sleeping in, the rest of the household is taking care of things. Elmet may have made fish for breakfast, but he did make breakfast. No one said you have to break your fast with porridge or bread.

Drustan: Glamaer thinks babies are made by kissing.

Elmet: Uhhh, yeah, that's definitely how it works. That's why you gotta carefully choose who you wanna kiss when you're a grown-up.

Xiang: Are you filling my child's head with nonsense again, Elmet?

Elmet: Hey, you can explain it to him. This is so not in my job description as uncle. I'm supposed to give him obnoxious toys and teach him how to drink, not do the birds and the bees thing.

Drustan: Bees?!

After a not-at-all awkward breakfast, Xiang, Drustan, and Elmet headed over to the pond to go fishing, something Elmet quickly loses interest in, since he does it every dang night. Okay, maybe a little less often now that he visits Helenet at night...

There's a lot more people here during the day when I change the visitor controller restrictions!

One free therapy session for Elmet was quite enough for Norweni, thank you. This is so not in her job description either.

Looking badass while practicing archery, tho? Definitely in her job description.

After nightfall and his subsequent wolfing out, Elmet returns to the woods, which thankfully are a lot emptier. At least he's easily entertained.

Arturo: I take it you are the werewolf the little mortal was talking about.

Elmet: Ah! Jeez, don't sneak up on people like that! Wait, how did I not hear you? Wait—ooooooh, that's what Helenet was talking about. Huh.

[lostmykiliel]

MileApo Updates

Or what in the Soft Launch?!

1. Yesterday Mile had his big Bulgari event and meanwhile Apo flirted and supported him on Twitter:

Mile's reply is similar to what he said in the KPTS BTS:

2. After the event Pond and Mos went live on IG:

Pond: "P'Mile asks where is Apo"

Mile (in the background): "Apo is eating some rice porridge *laughing*"

3. Mile liking a post where OP called Apo his faen (lover):

4. Apo is at the 'Ignite Thailand' meeting with the government right now. One topic is the marriage equality act:

[elderberries-and-honey]

Baby Jameson has tried his first food - porridge! It was a success, and he really seemed to enjoy it, as made evident by reveling his last infant quirk of being a messy eater. He ended up wearing more food than he got in his mouth, but it was so cute to watch, Valentina couldn't help but to laugh.

And when summer came along, him and Valentina began spending a lot their time in the pond, where they spent many hours splashing and playing in the water to keep cool.

Jameson was an easy infant for the most part, and hardly ever made a fuss, unless he was being carried for too long. Being an only child for the first half of his life made it easy for him to entertain himself with his toys, though he does seem to be liking having a sister so far. His playful spirit kept his mama laughing and his daddy on his toes throughout his infancy.

But perhaps the sweetest thing about Jameson was how quickly his relationship developed with Banjo - the family dog. Even as a tiny baby, they were both curious about each other and Banjo slept by Jameson's crib throughout the first few months of him being born; almost as if Banjo felt protective of him!

Jameson's birthday is just a few days away, and we will be entering the terrible two's, so hang on tight Flores family! We might be in for a wild ride!

[antiquewhim]

I want to make information on Lithuanian folklore in English more public so I am uploading the threads that until now were only on my Twitter. I present to you a comprehensive thread on aitvarai, the ancient Lithuanian deities of the skies

(art credits: Neringa Meškauskaitė, Agroshka )

Aitvarai (etymologically "ones to appease" or "irrepressible force") are domestic creatures associated with all 4 elements: a comet of fire which harnesses wind for chaos, helping Earth and its people while being chased and punished by Perkūnas for stealing water.

Most commonly a black rooster, they can appear as a variety of creatures: different kinds of black birds, grass snakes, whirlwinds, comets and even men if they fall in love with a woman that they want to marry.

Though very powerful ancient beings, Aitvarai choose to associate themselves with people, with villagers being able to either hatch them from an egg of a 7 year old rooster or attract them by leaving out hot, untouched meals like porridge and scrambled eggs.

When part of a household, the duties of an aitvaras were to bring riches to his caretakers, either as money (money carrying aitvarai were golden, deep red or silver in coloration) or as wheat (grey and black colors). Note that aitvarai only served the poor, tricking the wealthy people who tried to use them.

Aitvarai were both a blessing and a curse: while they did bring wealth, they did it by stealing from the neighbors of their master, making them most hated in the local village. They were also clingy and dangerous to keep, burning down the houses of those who mishandled them by feeding them manure, tampering with their meals or disobeying the rules they set for the person.

It is said however that their thieving, evil nature was a characteristic given to them by the Catholic church, which wanted to demonize every pagan creature in Baltic mythology.

In fact, aitvarai were considered genuine problems by those who believed that they would steal from them: from warding off statuettes in granaries to court cases from 1700's accusing people of harboring an aitvaras (I found only one source claiming this, so take it with a grain of salt).

However, the desire to have an aitvaras was apparent as well, shown by modifications peasants would make to their homes: holes in the doors of granaries would be made so an aitvaras could enter the home easily.

Some rituals for stealing back from a flying aitvaras exist as well, ranging from simply showing it your bottom, to cutting oneself with a rusty knife, pinning the corner of your jacket to the ground, ripping or otherwise ruining clothing.

Even if the reaction of people to them was mixed, aitvarai were considered pests by the gods due to their tendency to drink/hoard water, for which they were struck dead by Perkūnas, exploding into sparks that caused forest fires, the thunder god's lightning forming ponds, holes and swamps, terraforming the earth.

[crackedpumpkin]

|| ʙᴀᴅ ɴᴇᴡꜱ || ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜱɪx ||

[ 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ] | [ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 ] | [ 𝐦𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ]

“The gods have decided to rain their wrath down upon my mortal being. I am officially facing the consequences of being too good for this world.”

“Just get a better immune system, silly,” Sakura snorts from your doorway, eyeing the way your limp body is sprawled out on the beige sheets, now slightly damp with the sweaty outline of your body.

A halfhearted groan barely leaves your lips, your face mostly buried in your pillow whilst trying to escape the incessant pounding relentlessly chasing the little remains of sanity in your head.

It’s torture.

“Don’t you have school?” You can see the blurry figure of your roommate shrugging in your peripheral, checking her watch and realising that it is indeed time to leave or she’d be late. 

“Yeah,” She chirps, “Make sure you stay in bed. I’ve already called this ‘Tadashi’ dude and told him you can’t make it today. He said he’d come over in a bit to drop off a few things.”

You hum appreciatively, closing your eyes as your vision starts to swim. Was your ceiling always this yellow? You could’ve sworn it was like, a green or something. God, you need medicine so badly.

“You already took your first dose this morning when you woke up, so make sure you don’t take another till lunch,” She calls out from the kitchen, almost as if she read your mind. Her head peeks past the slightly ajar bedroom door, her shoulder length hair curled to perfection and nearly getting caught in the door hinges. 

“I’ll head off first, call me if you need anything else. I’ll grab some dinner on the way back, porridge sound good?”

It takes all the strength in your body to hold up your hand to send her a limp thumbs up. She chuckles, entering the room and grabbing your ankles, helping to move your body to lay in a more comfortable position. 

You sense her leave afterwards, closing the front door and leaving your own bedroom door open halfway. It takes all of two minutes for you to fall asleep again, the air conditioning set at a mildly cold temperature while you lay under the blankets. 

You stir at the feeling of the warm cloth from this morning now taken away from your forehead, replaced by something cold and wet. You flinch away, hands reaching up to get it off your face as some water trickles down the sides of your face. 

“Crap.”

Is that Hiro you heard…? Can’t be, the jerk’s supposed to be back at the cafe. This is probably a dream, maybe even a nightmare. 

Your eyelids slowly open, and wearily blinking a couple times at the ceiling. Water drips down your forehead and into your eyes. You can barely register the blue blob in your vision, blinking rapidly and using the back of your hand to rub your eyes.

“She’s up!” 

Even his voice sounds as if he’s underwater, the syllables ringing through the air like a ripple in a pond. Who on earth is this guy, and why is he in your room?

Move. You will your arm to grab his hair, and grab his hair you did. “Get outta my apartment,” You mumble while he lets out an ear-piercing shriek that has you wincing. He twists and turns, trying to pull away from your grip. 

“Let go! Tadashi!!” You hear him cry out, hands scrabbling to pull yours away from his hair. Your fingers thread through his curly locks, securing your hold on him with whatever strength you have left in you. That’ll teach him to break into your apartment to steal your stuff. 

“What the-” Another large, taller blob comes through the door. You narrow your eyes, squinting as the shape of a baseball cap comes into view. A familiar baseball cap. 

“ ‘Dashi?” You murmur, your grip all but forgotten. Frowning, you rub your eyes once again and squint as your vision finally clears up. Tadashi’s face is filled with worry and a hint of amusement from the slight tug upward of his lips when he looks at the floor. You follow his gaze to see the supposed intruder groaning with his hands in his hair. 

“Should’ve just stayed unconscious,” Hiro mutters grouchily, massaging his scalp with utmost care after the torture you had just put it through. He glares at you, gesturing to the wet cloth that you now notice next to you on the bed. “Took care of you and what do I get in return?” 

“Hiro, I only asked you to wring the towel so it’s not soaking wet, and you only just got here!” Tadashi’s exasperated chiding has Hiro’s lips pursed into a slight pout, crossing his arms with a roll of his eyes. 

“Wait, how’d you even… where’d you… the cafe?” You stammer, grabbing the very soggy cloth that had soaked through the pillowcase cover and handing it back to Tadashi.

“Yup!” Tadashi nods, watching Hiro leave the room. “Your roommate called Cass and told her about you being sick. So in true Cass fashion, she sent us over here to help nurse you.”

“Correction: She sent you. I, on the other hand, was dragged along.” Hiro calls out from the living room. You sigh, feeling only a tinge of guilt. “Grow up, you’re not balding just yet so get over it.” You retort weakly.

The silence that follows afterwards is sufficient as a reply in itself. Tadashi shakes his head with a chuckle, kneeling down and pressing his hand to your forehead to check your temperature. 

“Yeap. You got a pretty bad fever. Stay in bed, I’ll make you some food.” He promises before getting up and leaving the room. He closes the door behind him, leaving it only slightly ajar. You hear hushed whispers and strain your neck slightly, but don’t manage to catch whatever they’re saying. Curiosity swells and you find yourself on your feet, albeit unsteadily, and making your way to the door. 

The whispers cease, and momentary silence follows. You press your ear to the door, hoping to catch whatever they’re saying. Instead, you hear a small sigh before the door is flung open and you yelp, losing your balance. Your reflexes kick in once again, scrambling to hold whatever is near to protect you from the fall. 

Your hands close around a soft material, metal tips on the end of two strings hitting the back of your hand with a sting. You tumble to the floor, landing on a warm, yet solid surface which also yelps in pain when you crash. 

“Ow…” you groan, cheeks pressed against whatever you had grabbed before falling. 

“Are you guys okay? Did anyone get hurt?” You lift your head up to see Tadashi freeze in the doorway, a pink apron tied around his waist before he purses his lips with an impressed nod, heading back into the kitchen. 

“Wha-?”

“Get off me!” You’re roughly shoved to the side as Hiro gets up from the ground, dusting himself off with a frown. “First my hair, now this?” He sighs.

Your hand stings from the sudden shove, having moved to catch yourself from tumbling once more as your head swims. Your breath hitches, squeezing your eyes shut as the room starts to swim. 

“If I knew that I was gonna get this injured today, I’d have brought a full-body suit or something… maybe even Baymax.” Hiro muses, but his eyes widen upon noticing your curled up position on the floor. “You okay?” He asks, placing his hand on your shoulder and shaking you.

You groan in pain at the movement, trying to press your sweaty forehead against the relief that the cold, hard floor provides. You can barely hear the worry in his voice as a loud ringing in your ears only increases in volume, until everything falls silent.

Sweet relief is all you feel, vaguely sensing yourself being lifted off the floor and placed down again, with a cold compress against your forehead. This isn’t too bad, you muse in your head.

But it’d be much better without this confounded headache.

Which is exactly what you wake up to moments later. Hiro is on the floor of your room with his knees tucked to his chest, playing a rhythm game on his phone with vested interest. You try to mask a cough with a huff, but you spot his shoulders tense, now aware that you’re up.

He turns around, sporting a guilty smile and not quite meeting your bleary eyes. You raise a brow, intrigued by this sudden behaviour of his. “How’re you feeling?”

There’s no trace of malice or meanness in his voice, just genuine, carefully worded concern for your wellbeing. It almost makes you smile. Almost.

“I’ve been better,” You reply back sarcastically, drawing a sharp chuckle out of him. You move to sit upright on the bed, holding back another groan at how much your joints ache from the simple movement. They creak and moan in protest, as if they’re rusty hinges on a broken door.

“Here.” He hands you a cushion, and you settle it under your arms to prop them up. 

“Thanks.” You’re not entirely sure what to make of his sudden niceness, not after the previous night when he had essentially insulted your entire ambition and dream. Something’s up.

“So, look.” You glance at him, observing the way his fingers fiddle with the strings of his hoodie as his eyes remain fixed on them. “I’m sorry about how I pushed you earlier. I…forgot you were sick.”

“Did Tadashi scold you?” You ask curiously, watching his hesitant nod with a little smile. “Well, if that’s how you treat me when I’m sick, I’d hate to see how you treat your friends.” You joke, watching him wince with a small tinge of satisfaction.

However, you raise your brows when he doesn’t respond, sensing that you’ve touched on a sensitive topic. So, you change the subject. “So, you said Tadashi dragged you here. You could go home, y’know.” You chuckle. 

“I guess so.” He replies, finally tearing his gaze away from his fingers to look at you with a halfhearted smile. 

“Why didn’t you?” 

A moment of silence passes as you stare at him, trying to figure him out. His almond eyes are filled with pure guilt and worry. “I don’t know,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

You merely hum in response, not entirely sure what to say to break the silence. Staring down at the calloused skin of your fingers, you pick away at the skin.

“I uh, accidentally saw some of your unfinished articles earlier when you were asleep.” Hiro admits. You look back up at him with a glare, your defensive side softening when you see his tense shoulders. 

Right. Breathe. No hostility. Be civil.

“And what did you think? How’s my ‘journalism’?” You ask him sarcastically, doing air quotes around the last word. 

So much for being civil.

You did feel bad for the guilt that flashes across his face for a moment. “It honestly wasn’t bad.” He says slowly. “I liked them, especially the one you wrote about Tadashi.”

You really shouldn’t feel this happy about his acknowledgement of your work. You shouldn’t take this compliment from someone who had just insulted it last night. 

And yet, you can’t stop the huge smile from making its way across your lips. 

He reciprocates the smile with a soft one of his own, sitting down in your desk chair. “Nope. You. Off.” You instruct, gesturing for him to get off your chair.

“Fine,” He grumbles, but this time it’s a playful, lighthearted one. He sits down on the end of your bed instead, kicking his feet up and sitting cross-legged. 

The atmosphere is much lighter, and it’s easier to breathe compared to earlier. 

A knock comes at the door. “Food’s here,” Tadashi calls out from behind. Hiro gets off the bed to open the door, letting his brother come inside with a small tray with a bowl of porridge and a glass of water on top, along with some pickled radishes and a spoon. He sets it down on the bedside table, placing his hand on your forehead once more to check your temperature. 

He whistles. “Looks like you’re doing much better now. Your head was burning like crazy when we first got here. And you, I brought you here to help, not injure her further. Got it?” He directs the last part to Hiro who nods obediently. 

Satisfied, Tadashi takes his leave after checking the temperature of the room and closing the door, leaving it only slightly ajar. Hiro looks around the room to see another smaller stool in the corner, grabbing it and moving it to sit right next to you. 

“What, am I getting special treatment now?” You say playfully as he scoops out some porridge and blows on it gently. 

“Don’t delude yourself. I’m just doing it so ‘Dashi won’t scold me again.” His eyes have a glint of amusement in them, but the concern is genuine. You would almost mistake it as caring for a friend. 

That is, if you guys are even friends.

“Thanks,” You choose to say anyway, because why look a gift horse in the mouth?

He continues to feed you, obliging even your small requests like placing a pickle in the spoon before scooping the porridge because it tastes better that way. (“It’s a science fact,” you defend upon his odd look.)

Almost half the bowl is gone and you’re getting full. The small pickle plate is empty, and the glass of water has only a drop left. 

“I’m sorry.”

You choke on the last spoonful he feeds you, the remaining burn of the hot porridge forcing its way down your throat as you cough harshly. Hitting your fist against your chest helps it go down faster, but the burn in your throat remains. 

“What?” You croak out, looking at him with pure confusion and watery eyes.

“I’m sorry I called your journalism dumb. It’s not. Well, not as dumb as I thought.” Hiro realises that his apology isn’t worded carefully enough from the way your understanding gaze morphs into a glare. “I mean, journalism isn’t dumb…?” He tries again.

You snort. “Better.”

You level your gaze with him, unable to stop your lips from forming a small smile. “And you’re decently smart for a guy who can’t tell the difference between a flat white and a latte.” 

The both of you dissolve into laughter, before you begin to share with him the new articles you’re working on, while he gives you thorough feedback as a reader. It’s the first time you’re having such an avid discussion with him without insults being hurled by either of you, and it’s actually…pleasant. 

In fact, the both of you are so caught up in talking that you fail to notice Tadashi had opened the door, watching the both of you with a relieved smile. From his point of view, it definitely looks like the both of you have made up. 

One might even say that you’re friends now.

— — — — — 

A few hours before…

“Hiro!” Tadashi calls out urgently, his younger brother popping his head out from behind the doorway of their shared room while he changes his pants. 

“What?”

“Get ready buddy, we’re heading out. Our little barista’s sick today so Cass is sending us over.” Tadashi informs him coolly. 

“Oh no you don’t. You’re not dragging me off when I have a project to get through.” Hiro denies vehemently. 

— — — — — 

“I can’t believe you dragged me here when I have a project to go through.” Hiro pulls his arm away from Tadashi’s strong grip with a glare. 

“The wellbeing of your friend is more important than your project.” His brother chides him gently, taking off his shoes and entering the hallway of the apartment after having shut the door behind him. 

Hiro lingers at the doorway. He could just leave right now, and take the public transport back to the cafe. He could do that, definitely. 

So why does he feel obliged to help? 

He recalls the previous night’s fight between the both of you, shoulders slumping in defeat before taking off his shoes and following his brother into the bathroom. 

“Where did she say the towels were… Aha!” Tadashi finds a light blue towel and hands it to Hiro. “Rinse this and wring it dry.” He instructs before heading back out to the living room, probably to the kitchen.

He does as Tadashi says, but the towel is still dripping wet even after all the times he’s squeezed it as tightly as he can. “Stupid towel.”

“Where do I put the towel?” He gives up quickly, heading outside and hoping his brother doesn’t see the wet mass in his hands. 

“Her room’s the one with the butterfly stickers. Go put it on her forehead, I bet she’s burning up right now.” Tadashi calls out from the kitchen. He hears the clatter of a few pots and pans, choosing not to question it.

Hiro knocks on the door, waiting for a response. He doesn’t get any. Opening the door, he’s greeted with a stuffy room with little to no light. He squints, barely able to make out your silhouette laying asleep in your bed. 

He moves to adjust the fan and crack open the windows a smidge to clear the room of the old air, relieved when he spots the crease between your brows relax once the room becomes more well-ventilated. 

It’s time.

He holds the still very much soggy towel above your head, swallowing a nervous gulp. 

She won’t wake up from this…right?

He takes a deep breath, the wet towel plopping down on your forehead with a loud squelch. He freezes when he sees you frown in your sleep, shifting uncomfortable as the water runs down the sides of your head. 

Don’twakeupdon’twakeupdon’twakeup-

Your eyes slowly open.

“Crap.”

taglist:

@urfavarab

@dee-zbignuts

@frogindisguise

@mangodamochiii

@futureweasleywife

@whoisgami

@millerworld

@aikoluvssyouu

@leafyturtle

[noctilin]

okay sorry for sending in another ask but I'm curious, how do you get the little dots on some of your art? Is it a brush?

yes they are! you can find a lot in the csp assets website but here are some i like to use

1 2 3 4 5 6

[antebunny]

You should've left her in the pond

(A retelling of the swan maiden fairytale. Trigger warnings for: explicit body horror, gore, assault, dismemberment; implied animal death, cannibalism, and sexual violence).

~

He finds her by the water. Deep in the forests where sunlight holds no power and the shadows reign supreme. Fear of the wild has long since settled into his bones. Any hunter that reaches his age ought to revere the wild, or at least respect it. He doesn’t. Fear substitutes well enough. 

He strays too deep and wanders too far and in return the sunset sees him lost, far away from his cottage, still on the hunt. He stumbles upon the pond entirely by accident. One boot slipped over the edge before he registers the dark clearing before him. 

Perhaps I shall spend the night here, he muses. A pond has fresh water and is no safer than anywhere else. Still, unease squeezes his insides. He is still the hunter, not the hunted, but in the dark this can change at any moment. He tries not to think about how long it will take before someone from the village knocks on his door. (A while). Or how long before someone goes out looking for him. (Never?)

Faint splashing has him readying his bow. A catch will make this miserable day end that much better. A missed shot will cost him a precious arrow. He creeps closer, ringing around the pond. His foot slips on something soft and loose. Without taking his eyes off the darkened smudge in the pond where he heard movement, he picks it up. His fingers run over a wet, soft and feathery cloak. 

“Don’t take it!” An alarmed feminine voice rings out from the pond and into the darkened woods. 

His eyes flicker from the woman in the pond to the feather cloak in his hands. He may not respect nature but he did not get this far by ignoring the tales. “Are you a swan maiden?” His voice runs like water over gravel.

“Yes.” Breathless. The swan maiden rises from the water’s black surface, with more grace than he expected from a pond-dweller. She approaches him, skittish, determined. Every finer feature lost to the night, save for her bright red eyes. They’re beautiful. He yearns to know the rest of her. 

“Please,” she begs. “Give it back.”

Something yawns open wide at her words. Bubbling in his stomach, then frothing in the mouth, a waterfall, a hunger; call it curiosity, call it consumption. Or childishness: he just doesn’t want to. “No,” he says, perplexed by his own refusal. “Come with me.”

Her bare feet stumble over each other, closer to him with every step. He won’t fall for the pitiable fear in the curve of her hunched shoulders or be tricked by her fumbling feet. He knows the stories too well for that. And isn’t he owed something from this fruitless day? Doesn’t he deserve some joy out of this wretched night? This is just a different sort of catch, and he is a hunter, after all. It wouldn’t do to defy his nature.

The stories must be true, because she doesn’t fight him. She follows him out of the forests, afraid, stumbling, quiet like a whisper, yet silent in dignity. Let it never be said that swans do not comport themselves with grace.  

(She cries so pitifully the first night that he doesn’t touch her for the next month. But it’s not because he feels guilty. It’s not. He married her, after all. What has he got to be guilty about?) 

~

“Please,” the hunter says. “Eat.”

It isn’t right that he must beg for her to feed herself. 

The swan maiden hisses at him, maintaining her low crouch atop the wooden chest that contains her cloak. “Give me the key,” she says. Too pitiful to be a demand, too confrontational to be a plea. 

“No.” The hunter clenches both hands. In his left, the golden key. In his right, the bowl of duck soup that was supposed to be their dinner. She ought to be grateful. No other maiden in the village receives lovingly made duck soup for dinner. Porridge, perhaps, barley soup or mushroom stew. Never duck. 

“They will come for me,” the swan maiden vows. 

The hunter laughs. “No one,” he says, “ever comes.”

He wonders, fleetingly, if she is telling the truth. If she has a family, how long until they coming looking for her? A week? A while?

The swan maiden bares two rows of perfectly human teeth. “Maybe not for you.”

(Never). 

He hurls the bowl at her feet. Thick, viscous liquid drips down her dress. Those red eyes blink rapidly and well up with tears. He refuses to pity her. He refuses to apologize or return her cloak. He refuses. “Fine,” he hisses. “Starve.”

~

Perhaps it is for the best that he does not hunt or fight with sword or dagger. Sometimes he catches her staring at his arrows a little too long. When he fletches new arrows, she always joins him, across the table, and watches hungrily.

“What are the tips made of?” She asks on one such day.

The hunter reaches for another goose feather. “Flint.”

“Why are they shaped so?” She mimics the triangular shape with her hands. 

“For the highest chance of success,” the hunter replies, “and maximum damage. The arrows enter easiest from a smaller point, like this.” he demonstrates by taking an arrowhead and ramming it into the table. It quivers, and so does she. “Thus making way for a wider wound.”

She tears her red eyes from the arrowhead and leans forward gracefully. (Let it never be said that swans–swan maidens–do not behave with grace). Bony elbows dig into old wood, tongue flickering over pink lips. Hungry. “Will you teach me?”

He pauses, fingers over goose feather. “No.” 

After that, he makes his arrows only when she’s not around. Which isn’t often, since she’s always around. She can’t leave. 

~

The fading sun follows his footsteps back to his cottage. From his belt hangs one gold key and two plump rabbits. He’ll have to skin them himself–he won’t let a knife out of his sight, much less into her hands–but afterwards she’ll turn them into an excellent stew. Well, first she’ll pray over the rabbits and weep. But then she’ll pull herself together. She always does. 

A faint squelch stops him in his tracks and drags him out of his thoughts. There, leading up to his front door: footsteps. No, not footsteps. They’re not human. He squats, hunter’s eyes running over the gentle indentations. A duck. No, a goose. Or a swan. His eyes travel up the goose or swan tracks to the bottom of his front door. Fear knifes his spine. Dread runs deep. He sprints the rest of the distance and throws the door open.

She’s inside, boiling a pot of water. Her hand jerks on the handle when the door flies open, splashing hot liquid on her fingers, and she flinches. By the time he strides to her side, she’s smiling. 

“What’s the matter, dear?”

His breathing calms. “Nothing. I just missed you, that’s all.”

A polite laugh. “Well then.” Smiling, smiling, smiling. “What have you got for our dinner?”

He presents the two rabbits proudly, though he knows what comes next.

“Ah.” Sure enough, tears spring to her scarlet eyes. They spill down her nose, caught in the curve of her lips, because she is still smiling, through the tears, through everything. (Let it never be said that swan maidens do not carry themselves with grace). 

All he can focus on is his relief. The tracks outside do not belong to her. But of course they don’t. If she could leave, she wouldn't stay. 

~

But sometimes he thinks she might love him. 

Sunlight dances on the pink rose petals. They stand side by side in the cottage’s single window and admire the roses together. 

“They’re beautiful, dear,” she says. “But how in the world did you get them? What did they cost?”

He half-shrugs. “You said you missed smelling the flowers.”

“Yes, but–” she stops, cross.

“No, don’t stop. What were you going to stay?”

She hesitates. Licks her lips. Hungry. Who’s hungry? “But roses are so rare around here.”

“I’d do anything if it made you happy,” he says honestly.

“Oh,” she says, and again: “oh.” And she laughs. A bubbling brook in summertime. 

His stomach swoops, because this is real, and it’s true, and it’s burning him alive. And he ignores the tinkling little voice that whispers any thing but one. “If you left you wouldn’t be able to smell the roses,” he points out carefully. Not carefully enough.

She makes a noise, half birdsong, half hum, into his shoulder. 

He draws himself up, shoulder by her chin, lungs filling with fresh air. “If you could leave, would you?”

She hums again, rose red eyes on his neck. “I don’t know.”

And he believes her. (He has to). And it’s good enough. (It has to be).

~

On stormy nights he sleeps uneasily. The slumber of the guilty and the damned. He dreams of his wife’s skin covered in swan feathers, and of his hands, plucking the feathers out one by one while she screams and begs for him to stop. Inevitably the dream reaches the stage where her screams evolve, reaching higher pitches, more animalistic, until from her lips bursts a bright red beak, which opens wide, teeth shining–

He wakes. The hunter throws off his blanket and sits up, willing his heart to calm. Beside him, his wife slumbers on. He listens to the sheets of rain battering the cottage walls and the sound of her breathing; the sigh of spring, a summer breeze. (Let it never be said that maidens–swan maidens–do not live and breathe grace and beauty). 

The hunter slips out of their bed, feet crossing the floorboards without touching any area that creaks. He fishes the golden key out of today’s hiding spot (beneath the bed of roses) and takes it to the wooden chest. 

Fleetingly, he wonders if he can truly keep this up forever. Hiding and rehiding the key every day. Bringing water fowl and small game animals back for dinner, to see eyes that demand pity and fear in her smile. Waiting for her to break. Waiting for her to love him back. He banishes the thought as quickly as it came. 

The wooden chest opens silently. He reaches one arm down and runs his fingers over the soft, silky swan feathers. Pristine from years of disuse. He closes the lid as quietly as he opened it and stands. He looks at the bed. Screams ring in his ears, below the rain, but above her breathing. 

He walks to the front door. Breathes in and listens to the rain hurling itself against the wooden frame. Isn’t there something else, something higher, something calling out in the night? In a fit of idiocy, he throws the door open.

Outside, the forest howls in anger. Raindrops batter his toes and he steps back. Wind threads through the inky black night, bowing the trees to its will. A tiny red light blinks. The hunter squints and strains his eyes. Two tiny red lights blink. With his lack of depth perception, they could be large and far away or small and close by. They look like eyes. But what eyes glow?

The hunter closes the door. “Not tonight.” And he goes back to bed.

Something must have woken his wife, because she speaks when he slides back under the covers. “What’s the matter, dear?” She murmurs. “Nightmares?”

“It’s–” Nothing. She blinks at him innocently and he thinks of the red lights in the darkness, watching him. He cannot see the redness of her irises in the dark, but the knowledge haunts him. “Nothing.”

“Tell me,” she encourages. 

And he almost does. Well, he thinks about it. (No he doesn’t). “It’s nothing,” he insists. A dismissal. A refusal. “Go back to sleep.”

~

A problem is running around the village. He can tell by the little gatherings of people, their positions, their voices. Subtle changes invisible to someone who has not spent their life in this village. 

“What’s wrong?” The hunter asks.

“It’s the water,” the baker says. They’re in the village’s favorite gathering spot. The tavern. “There’s something wrong with the water.”

“How so?” The hunter does not usually engage in midday drinking, but he does today. Something from last night’s rain has not left his mind. 

The baker shrugs. “It tastes funny. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it’s the well. I wouldn’t drink it if I were you.”

The hunter leans back in his chair. “I’ll keep that in mind.” (He won’t).

“Whatever.” The baker shrugs again. “And tell your wife.” She side-eyes the hunter, countless questions in her eyes, questions that he’s long grown tired of. Why don’t we ever see her? Where did she come from? Why doesn’t she ever go outside? Who is she? What is she?

~

The nightmares worsen. On kinder nights she screams for mercy, for forgiveness, for a savior, for peace. On crueler nights she finds that she is the one with no forgiveness to give. 

(A swan head, severed at the neck by an arrow, rolling to a stop at his feet. Red beak opening wide, revealing two sets of human teeth, and one human question: “Why?”)

He wakes panting on those nights, running from the wolves. But they keep howling during the day. He doesn’t stray so deep into the forests anymore. She needs him to be back before dark, after all. 

(Well. Technically, she doesn’t need him, but–)

~

“What’s the matter, dear?” She asks one day when a sudden gust of wind sends him walking into the table.

“Nothing, nothing,” he mumbles. “Distracted, that’s all.” He casts about the little room for their water jug. “How is the soup?”

“Simmering,” she replies swiftly, with a sweet smile. (Let it never be said that maidens do not converse with grace and wit). She turns her back to the pot. “Are you looking for water? It’s right here, dear.” She serves both of them a glass. “But really, if something’s going on, you can tell me.” Her fingers linger on the glass when she hands it to him. She’s as human as they come but he’s never touched another human that felt this electrifying. “I’m here for you.” She smiles, too, well, smiles more, and it’s all for him.

He knows what she’s saying, underneath her spoken words: I love you. She loves him. He knows it. He knows. The hunter gulps the water down like a man lost in a desert. “Do you still want to learn how to fletch arrows?”

The swan maiden’s voice trembles. “Yes. I would love to.” 

“Then I’ll teach you.” 

The hunter leads her to where he keeps his secret cache of arrows–where he’s kept them today, at least. He doesn’t think he’ll be hiding them anymore. He has just a few unassembled materials–sticks, flint and feathers–on hand, but it’s enough for a first attempt. 

He doesn’t plan on letting her try for that long for two reasons. First, he’s developed a frustrating headache, and in his experience the only cure is a long and deep sleep. Second, her eagerness reminds him uncomfortably of her hunger to learn of violence, earlier in their relationship. She ought to know by now that he hunts out of necessity, not desire, and that violence does not justify violence, and that not all hunger is equal. He ignores the argument raging in the back of his mind. (When you first saw her, was that not hunger? Yes, but a different kind, an understandable one, a satisfiable one; after all, it’s my hunger). 

Sticks, not yet shaped. Flint, sharpened, but unattached. Feathers, loose and not yet fletched. A small wood-shaving knife. The hunter spreads them all across the table. “It’s a complicated process,” he prefaces. “Don’t feel bad if it takes you a while to get.”

She picks up the pieces one by one and turns them over in her hands. The stick, which she discards. A white goose feather, which she smoothes over and over. A flint arrowhead. She smiles wide. 

“Oh, I won’t,” she promises. 

Then she rams the arrowhead into his neck as hard as she can.

Well, more like his upper chest, because he jerks back on instinct. The scrape of the flint point across his collar bone is what he imagines burning alive to feel like. No, he thinks. NO. She wouldn’t. She can’t. She loves me. He stands without thinking, shoves her without thinking, and then the anger rushes in. He tackles her to the floor, but she’s got another arrowhead in her other hand and she swipes it across his face. Someone’s screaming, or roaring, like an animal. Is it him? His head spins. He’s dizzier than before, but it can’t be the rush of anger, it must be something else, it must be the water. Blood splatters her face, spraying from above. She screams. Did he punch her? Yes, but he missed. He tries again. One of her hands snakes through, grasps the arrowhead still buried in his upper chest, and twists. Pain explodes across his chest and in his head, pain like he’s never known. His arms give in. She rolls out of the way as he collapses. 

“Maximum damage,” she spits as she rises. 

She swipes something off the table and stoops down. He raises his arms to defend himself, and each slash of flint across his forearms redoubles his screaming. She grabs one of his arms with her free hand, and he was lying before when he said her touch was like no other, because this is like no other, before was merely some pale imitation, a ghostly foreshadowing, this is electricity, fire on his skin, this is burning him alive and–

The arrowhead sinks into his neck. 

He screams, or he gargles, feet lashing out blindly. One flailing arm finds the table’s edge and holds on tight. Sweaty and bloody hand on the old wood. An arrowhead strikes across his wrist, tearing through muscles and tendons and arteries. He didn’t know she had this capacity for brutality. She strikes again; same wrist, different line, making a jigsaw puzzle of his arm. He reels back, hitting the floor right before his hand does, jolting the arrowhead stuck in his neck. 

Someone’s screaming. It’s still him. He clutches his bloody stump with the hand he still has, eyes fixated on the lifeless fingers on the floor a foot away from him. I’ll never shoot an arrow again. A realization and a bargain. Both come too late. 

Blood soaks his clothes. He can’t feel a thing. Her foot comes down on the arrowhead lodged above his collarbone, pressing it in, and suddenly he can feel, but he’d gladly never feel again. His spine curls and he flattens to the floor, head banging against the floorboards. 

She looms over him, those red eyes he once mistook as beautiful overflowing with malice, a gentle curve to her lips. He screams until he chokes. 

Why? A horrible, rattling gurgle escapes his lips instead of a word. She still answers like she heard it loud and clear.

“It’s like you said, dear,” she explains, sweet smile in place. (Let it never be said that swan maidens–that swans–oh, you know). “No one was coming.” 

She reaches down and plucks the golden key from his belt. “You should’ve given me the key.” It may be blood loss but her teeth are longer and sharper. “You should’ve left me in the pond.” It may be the lack of light but there are small teeth on her tongue. Like a swan. Or a monster. She strides to the front door and throws it open. 

The wild streams in. Chipmunks and raccoons, scampering across the floorboards, chittering and growling. Insects, invisible until they’re crawling over him. A brown hare thumps to a stop by his face, eyes large and red and unafraid. The wind blows cool night air into the cottage and her bloodstained dress ripples in the breeze. Something bites him, teeth on his ear, and horror breaks through the all-consuming pain. Many things bite him, only some with teeth, and quickly the horror grows into pain once more.

“Please,” he sobs. An insect crawls over his face and into his mouth. He spasms and curls. The animals gnaw closer.

“What’s the matter, dear?” The swan maiden tilts her head, red eyes blinking, clawed hands on hips. “Isn’t turnabout fair play?” She squats by his side, fingers brushing his hair back tenderly. “I should thank you. It’s because of you that I’ve developed a taste for meat.” Eyes alight, tongue over lip. Hungry. “And I know just what to make for supper.”

[charliebughug]

(the contract between charlie almost killing someone and then the posts about pokemon is wild. whiplash fr.)

(this is anchordeeps-forgotten btw, pond-porridge is my main)

≈lmao free imma need you can’t blame me lollll≈ ≈also I know I look at your blog sometimes just to check in :)≈

[ask-thefox]

(guys go boop my main @pond-porridge )

[lunnietooonie]

Intro to Lunar!

Names: Lunar/Memory

Professional Nouns: They/Them

Mission: Invade Denmark

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Friends:

@pond-porridge how I got into Tumblr!!

@freak-nation femboy, Scam? Likely.

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My Blogs:

@the-fallen-crowns COTL Ask/RP Blog

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That’s about it! I don’t use this account very much if I’m honest. I mainly have Tumblr for looking at art and (more recently) the COTL Blog!

˙ᵕ˙

[anchordeeps-forgotten]

Ransom, the (ex)cult leader!

He/It. Used to run a cult for Kallamar, but being a lamb caused an issue or two so he had to stop that. Now's just a bit... Lost. He didn't exactly remember pre-cult that well, so it's not like he had anything else.

Status: Dead (temporarily, hopefully)

Current Arc Tag: #arc: lambchop/sushi

(get it? cuz he's dead)

Drawings, more information, and @ s under the cut!

finally getting over my anxiety of doing @ s. don't mind me.

@askacultleader "Lamb! Well, the lamb with a cult. That lamb!"

@charliebughug "Tried to kill me once. Other than that she's nice!"

@ask-theredcrown "...I haven't heard good things!"

@ask-thebluecrown "Kallamar!"

@ask-thegreencrown "Kallamar's brother."

@ask-theyellowcrown "Kallamar's sister."

@ask-thepurplecrown "Kallamar's sibling!"

@themysticseller "..?"

I haven't done an ask blog in several years. Please be patient with me.

My main is @pond-porridge

I HAVE NOT FINISHED THE GAME....

Him in casual wear!

also late night drawing with incorrect horns because this is before I figured him out fully. more art will be under the #doodles tag

^^^^ my boy.