#to force myself to commit to the idea

[festivelyfestive]

as an avid hater of valentines day, i think it's funny to make goofy aro-coded cards for it and i fully intend on continuing that personal tradition this year

my current plan is to do cards based off of the godfather and do one each of sonny, michael, and fredo, but you all just have to wait and see as to what the cards will contain

it's not going to be necessarily aro-coded this time around more so just goofy but [trails off into my evil schemes]

[gerbiloftriumph]

Lost and Found (ao3):

Grandpa's story of the goblin caves started out familiarly enough, but as he spoke, the story started to twist and change. New friends, new conversations, and new ways to use old items transformed the tale, and the young king discovered new ways to be brave in the dark tunnels beneath Daventry.

~*~

An attempt to reinsert the cut lines from the subtitle file. Ch2 has a ton of cut content, and a lot of the lost dialogue is grand, but currently the only way to read it is in a contextless, barely legible slurry in the game files. I'm reconstituting it and fluffing it up and out to make it more accessible.

(2/?)

“Goblins love stories so much that they force everyone around them to playact with them,” Grandpa said. “Do you remember all the stories the villagers were living?”

“Sure!” Gwendolyn counted them out on her fingers. “Wente and Bramble, the bakers, were in the Gingerbread Man. Amaya was the Big Bad Wolf, ready to blow down her house of sticks. The Hobblepots…um.”

“I was never sure either, but I like to think they were Hansel and Gretel, with their witchcraftery and interest in food, but I suppose any sort of witch in any fairy tale would do.”

“Like the witch in Jorinda and Joringel?”

“Now, where did you hear about a rare story like that?” Graham was impressed.

“Mom knows like, every story ever written, I bet.”

“The libraries in the Green Isles are quite extensive. Cassima must have had a good selection of books growing up.” Graham nodded at the mirror. “The goblins knew lots of good stories, too—there was another one that we didn’t talk about last time. A fairly famous fairy tale. I bet you know that one about Jack and the Beanstalk, right?”

“Of course, Grandpa.”

“The version you know probably didn’t have a giant that looked like this, though.”

~*~*~

After being on a diet of vile squishy porridge for a couple days, getting some meat (of questionable origin, don’t think too hard about it) had given Graham a burst of energy that he desperately needed. He was prowling the upper levels of the spiraling stairs, trying to get past a grumbling goblin guard. 

There was a rusty lever that he could push to activate some sort of alarm, making the mushrooms pulse in a bizarre way that he would forget to ask Muriel about. He fumbled in his pocket for the cobwebby rag, carefully folded on itself so the abnormally sticky web wouldn’t ruin his pockets. The spiders down here had to be unique to make something so sticky. He’d have to be careful not to run into any of them; no telling what sort of prey such things would like to eat.

But it was perfectly fine to use a little inventively, he thought, eying the puzzle before him. It was easy enough to trick the goblin guard into touching the lever with cobweb draped over it, temporarily trapping him in place. Graham slipped past while the poor guard struggled to untangle himself.

The new room soared around him, huge and echoey. Cool air pushed his curly hair around. Huge chasms yawned around him, and he cautiously kicked a pebble into one, listening to it plink and bounce against the rock sides. He wasn’t sure if he heard it land, or if it was just more echoes. Something dark and deep down there. Probably best avoided.

Ahead of him, a series of goblins were clustered around the base of a column, all looking up and chittering. One was swinging an axe. A tall line of thick vines was already half on the ground, chopped edges raw in the dim light. It looked like he’d been chopping for a while, but the others were pushing him aside and yelling and pointing up, like he’d forgotten to do something first.

And, standing at the top of the column, high above the goblins…Acorn.

Okay, not standing. He was lying prone on some platform up there, gripping the edge of the rock ledge for dear life, and even though Graham couldn’t make out an expression through that helmet, he could imagine the terrified look the knight had to be wearing. 

“’Fee-fi-fo-fum.’ All right, I said it. Can I get down now?” He wailed, “I really, really don’t like heights!” The goblins ignored him. “All right, fine,” he said, shakily, and continued to recite, stiff as a child rehearsing a school play. “’Be he alive, or be he dead. I’ll grind his bones to make my bread.’ Ooh, yeah, that’s nasty. Wente would not like that.”

Graham could see a little sign next to the base of the column now, with a drawing of a beanstalk on it, and a little golden goose. Of course. Jack and the Beanstalk.

The goblin chosen to be Jack, wearing a tattered leather jerkin, had been chopping down the vines they must have used to haul Acorn up to the top of the platform. He twirled the rusty axe, and Graham’s fingers itched to get hold of it, to get it to Amaya, but he couldn’t risk such a move in front of the four or so goblins glaring at the axe-holder. They pointed aggressively again, and Graham could see a couple of golden painted things next to Acorn. A harp and…yes, a common duck, with what looked like glittery paint dumped on it. It squawked and landed on Acorn’s helmet. He hoped the duck would be okay with the paint on its wings, but it was already dripping off, so Graham suspected the paint was more water based than anything else.

Apparently, “Jack” was doing things out of order and had gotten too excited with the chopping down part. He’d forgotten to gather the giant’s treasures first. A scrambled fist fight was starting to break out between the players. Costume pieces were at risk, though they weren’t particularly quality pieces to begin with. 

“If you let me down, I’ll knit you all sweaters,” Acorn said, swatting a hand briefly in the duck’s direction before clamping back down on the ledge. The duck fluttered back into place on his helmet and pecked at one of the horns on it. “Come on, fun size, you know you want a sweater. Or, at the very least, your Jack costume could use some work. Do you have any fabric allergies? I know a guy…if you’d let me down.”

Since the beanstalk vine ladder was now cut in half, there wasn’t much they could do to continue the game. They turned and walked off in a huff, still pulling on each other’s tattered cow ear headbands and stained costume tunics and normal helmets and snarling at each other. They ignored Graham completely. He stared after them, noting with vague disappointment that they were taking the axe with them. So much for that idea.

“Wait til Princess Madeline hears about this,” Acorn sighed. “Too bad she’s at music night. At least this will make a few good pages for my scrapbooking project. Helloooo! Is anyone else down there?”

“Acorn!”

“Princess Madeline, is that you?”

Graham hesitated. “Does it sound like Princess Madeline?”

“…no, I suppose not.” Acorn leaned a little further over the ledge, knuckles turning white against his grip as he tried to look down into the shadows. “King Graham? Is that you, little buddy?”

“Yeah! What are you doing up there?”

“Learning how to yodel. What do you think? I got pounced by goblins and dragged down here and they put me up here and I’m afraid of heights and I want to get down now.”

“How can you be afraid of heights? Aren’t you the tallest person in Daventry?”

“Somehow, that feels insensitive.”

“Sorry,” Graham said, smiling sheepishly. “But I’m not sure how to get you down. The goblins cut off the ladder.”

“I wish I had my trapping ropes, or something,” Acorn said glumly. “I didn’t think I’d need ‘em on a walk with Whisper. We were looking for a specific flower, for my paint dyes. It’s hard to see on a clear day, but it’s got a glowy edge to it when it gets wet, so, the rain, y’know. He wanted to come, ‘cos I use the dye to print the labels for his hair treatment line. But we didn’t get far outta town before we got jumped.”

“Whisper too?” Something was happening here. He just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Why did it seem like all the friends he had in Daventry had been caught with him? It wasn’t like there weren’t other knights or villagers in Daventry. Cooper Smith, a man whose name and profession didn’t make much sense at all, hadn’t made an appearance down here, but Amaya and Acorn had. But. Why?

“Yeah, but I haven’t seen him for a while, we got split up in the dark and the tunnels and I dunno, maybe he got away. I sure didn’t, though. Would you hurry up and think of a way to get me down? I’m really just a sensitive artist, you know, I’m not built for whatever this thing is.”

“I’ll think of something,” Graham said.

“Hurry up!” Acorn glanced at the pile of treasures the goblins had left him. “I think I’d rather have a golden harp stolen from me more than my dignity,” he muttered.

Graham paced around the base of the split vines. The goblins had left behind a shovel, which he quickly claimed, though he wondered vaguely if a goblin might protest it as a potential weapon. The dirt was freshly disturbed. He curiously checked it, and he uncovered a handful of beans. “Oh, magic beans!”

(“Magic beans,” Gwendolyn repeated, emphasis on the beans.)

“You know those aren’t real, right?” Acorn said, looking on. “Real ones aren’t purple. Or glittery.”

“Never look a gift bean in the mouth,” Graham said, stuffing them in a pocket. “They could be really beanificial later.”

“I’d smack your feather hat right off your head for that if you were still wearing it. The crown looks nice, by the way. Bespoke craftsmanship. I wish I was into metalworking like that sometimes. But you know how it is. Gotta pick a craft and stick to it, else your closet’ll just fill up with unused tools.”

“It’s, uh. Well. Thanks.” Graham shifted it back on his head, feeling the weight of it again. Best to not get into it now, really. He ran a hand over the vines, but they seemed pretty mangled and destroyed. “I’m not sure I can fix this yet,” he said. “Acorn? Are you okay hanging around up there a little bit while I look for something to help?”

“No, I was thinking of going for a little stroll around the caves. Of course I’ll stay up here, Graham.”

“Uh. Right. Sorry. I’ll be back, I promise!”

“You’d better hurry up. Ya’ll are lucky the bull is retired, or else I might start throwin’ things.”

“Right, right. Sorry. I’ll find something, promise.” And he pushed deeper into the caves, Acorn muttering under his breath behind him.

~*~*~

Quite aside from Acorn’s tower, Graham found all kinds of fascinating things and places he would have loved to poke his nose into. But he couldn’t explore them all properly, distracted by the sound of a scuffle. He hurried past a room filled with strange hexagonal rocks, down a little dark side tunnel that he wouldn’t have even noticed if it hadn’t been for the racket beyond.

He hadn’t gotten far before he realized he recognized at least one of the voices.

“Don’t fret, little rock goblins. Whisper will sign all the things!”

“Oh no.” Graham started to run. Mushrooms kicked up iridescent spores as he dashed forward. They floated down gently behind him. He skidded around a bend, arm flung out to catch a stalactite that dripped nearly to the ground, spinning around the corner, boots scraping, and he slid to a halt, staring.

Whisper stood in the center of a surging pack of goblins, at least a dozen, all pushing and pulling and trying to get him to move, while he stood perfectly steady, giant signing pen in hand, scribbling on helmets with elaborate flourishes.

“No need to push, you crazy little fans,” he chided. “Don’t crowd! Don’t crowd! …okay, crowd. Whisper loves a crowd.”

“Oh, no.” Graham repeated, stepping back. They hadn’t noticed him yet, but somehow he didn’t think he’d be able to keep his balance in that crowd quite as well as Whisper could. He was sick of being tackled.

“Who should I make this out to? Rocky Stoneman?” Whisper asked, jotting something down on a goblin arm. “Unique individual message for you. And unique individual message for you. And unique individual message—” he glanced up. “Graham! It’s been far too long! And I see you’ve earned your mane of excellence, just look at that shiny hat! It’s nearly as good as mine! Well! Whisper has, and will continue to be, a fan. And speaking of fans! Fans, my fans, right this way! Follow me!” He marched forward, pushing past spears and hands without a pause.

“It’s good to see you too, Whisper, but those aren’t—”

“Can we push this line against the wall?” Whisper yelled over the chittering mass. “Oh, yes, I totally remember you from Adventure Con,” he said, beaming at a fierce goblin with a spear trying to prod his arm but failing due to the armor, the sharp point plinking uselessly off reflective metal. “I would love to sign your baby!”

“Whisper!”

“My fan club rocks!”

Graham sighed. “Whisper, that’s not what they are.”

“Of course they are! Who else would they possibly be?”

“Really dangerous kidnappers?”

“Not with cute little faces like that!”

“They’re wearing masks!”

“They’re still adorable. Back up, people, Whisper needs to talk to King Graham!”

The goblins paused, all turning to glare at Graham. He shrank back, hand pressing against his crown to stop it slipping down over his eyes. “No, it’s okay, I’m supposed to be here. I’m, uh.” He searched his pockets frantically, and he came up with a little dustpan and broom a goblin had thrown at his head yesterday. “I’m just sweeping this tunnel!” He swirled dust this way and that, grinning tightly. Which was entirely pointless since the tunnel was nothing but dirt and dust, but no matter. “Just chores! It's fine! We’re all fine! This is fine!”

They seemed to reluctantly accept this, and they went back to trying to push Whisper forward. The knight was perfectly poised and perfectly planted though, and he was not going to be swept off his feet. Probably because he’d practiced sweeping too many other people off their feet.

“So, Graham! What brings you here?”

“Um. They did.”

“Mmmhmm, nice, nice,” Whisper said, definitely not listening at all. “Look, do you think you could help me form an orderly line here? Whisper’s pretty sure he’s signed the same helmet twice.”

“I don’t think they want your autograph, Whisper.”

“Of course they do! What else could they possibly want?”

“Probably to push you into a fairy tale reenactment. That’s what’s been happening to everyone else so far.”

“Everyone else?”

“All the villagers are here, too.”

“Oooh, even the enchanting Miss Amaya Blackstone?”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“Yes, well. Fairy tales, hmm? I wonder which one Whisper would get! Which one has the most handsome famous adventuring prince in it, Graham?”

“I could definitely hear you being in Beauty and the Beast for some reason.”

“So long as Whisper is Beauty!”

“Sure. Oh! Speaking of fairy tales!” Graham turned to face the goblins. “Hey! Guys! Um. I mean.” He cleared his throat and upped the dramatics, complete with elaborate hand gestures. “Attention, attention, hear ye, hear ye, and all that!”

They stopped chittering and poking Whisper with their spears and turned to face Graham, spears raised in his direction instead. Graham stepped back again, hands now frozen in a pleading defense. “No, no, no, hang on, I want to make a trade. For your knight. I have something much better!” He hoped none of these goblins were the ones that had been playing Jack and the Beanstalk back in the other room or had been part of the arts and crafts team that had painted these ordinary beans purple.

“Better than Whisper! No such thing!” Whisper said, affronted, hand to his chest. His signing pen splattered ink across a few goblins.

“Shut up, Whisper,” Graham hissed out of the corner of his mouth, keeping as wide and desperate a grin as he could in the face of prickling spears. “Now, who amongst you is the wisest goblin? I, as the very important King of Daventry, can only deal with the wisest goblin, to trade for that knight there for these incredible and very real magic beans!” He withdrew the little handful from his pocket.

“You know those aren’t real, right?” Whisper said, eyeing them. “Real ones aren’t—”

“Whisper.”

“All right, fine, it’s your fault for making bad trades.”

One of the goblins started to step forward, apparently deciding it was the wisest goblin best suited to this trading task, but another goblin took great offense at that and shoved him back. Meanwhile, a third had started forward, hands outstretched, and another swatted his arms with a spear shaft. The hit goblin hit back. Another goblin, totally unrelated to the budding argument, decided now was a good time to take revenge for some earlier offense and stepped in. A helmet got shoved off, an ear got yanked, the goblins started wailing and tackling and leaping at each other. Graham ducked to avoid a swinging spearpoint.

“Whisper, come on.” He shoved the purple beans back in his pocket. One or two bounced loose and pinged across the floor, which just added to the chaos as goblins lunged for them. “Let’s go!”

“But, my fans!”

“There’s plenty more around here, don’t worry about that.”

“Oh, all right,” Whisper said reluctantly. He turned and sketched a dramatic bow at the crowd of yelping scuffling goblins, saying, “The building has left Whisper! Adieu! Farewell! May we find each other again at another, more organized, venue!” As he bowed, a stack of signed portraits fell out of his armor, and Graham instinctively scooped a few up to return them later. 

Graham watched over his shoulder as they scrambled out of the tunnel, but no one followed them, at least not right away. He pushed Whisper into an alcove, out of sight in the shadows. A lizard chirped at them and flared bright blue, irritated at the intrusion, casting glittery reflections across Whisper’s armor.

“Whisper, I’m so glad to see you,” Graham said, and he grabbed the knight in a trembling hug, fierce and tight like Whisper would vanish into the shadows and leave him alone again. “I mean, I’m not, you shouldn’t be here, but—do you know what’s happening?”

“Not a clue! But Whisper thinks it looks like more adventure sought out you.” He pushed Graham back a pace and gently tilted his chin so they were looking eye to eye (helmet). “Ready for more adventures?”

Graham shakily smiled, adrenaline starting to fade after the goblin faceoff. “Always.” He straightened his crown, and tried to look regal and expectant and ready, but then his knees gave out and he sank against Whisper again. “Ha…with some help.”

“Whisper can do that!”

[arolesbianism]

I may be failing my plan to not make any isat aus. So there's this guy her name is Euphrasie right. What if I took her and combined what could be 3 separate au concepts into one. And in the process forced myself to go back and reread a bunch of shit to make sure I know how to maximally fuck over this sad wet puppy of a woman

[the-owl-tree]

I'm a little very much obsessed with your Isekai story idea. Are you going to end up writing it?

first of all THANK YOU!!!!

at the moment no :( i've got some short comic/stories/video ideas i want to do and i'm currently working on the refs of some of the side characters but that's about it. A full on story project like that would mean fleshing out every Clan, all the members of the Clan, the worldbuilding (or lack of) and the finer details. I also need to figure out the ending because whew i've got no clue how the story ending would look lol

sooo these gal's will probably just stay as doodles i do from time to time, i appreciate the interest though!! have a sneak peek at a certain bad dad

[sorikkung]

people interacting w wgoin in my notes... this would be a rly bad time to say all my writing will probably be on hiatus for the indefinite future huh

[coridallasmultipass]

.

[broodsys]

and while im waiting to get started with a therapist i think im also going to look into.... idk what exactly, but smth to do with other ppl. it’s hard bc im immunocompromised af so it rly cant be in person for the most part but maybe ill look around for an online book club or smth. another big part of the problem is that my world has become way too small - it’s just this house. it’s so easy to blow things out of proportion and stick to it bc it feels that big when it really isnt. at least when i was in school i had that to keep me grounded

[illogicalghost]

currently thinking about how i havent talked to my childhood best friend for like 4 years and wondering if she thinks i hate her... i can keep making up excuses but at the end of the day im just terrible at keeping in touch with people. i never know what to say, so i don't put in the work to keep in contact, and let relationships decay... and now it's been so long that im afraid of taking the first step of reconnecting. i dont hate her, i want to talk to her, but since we don't see each other at school everyday anymore, it's like we have nothing to talk or bond about. i don't know what to do. i've been pushing down my regret about this but it keeps coming back up and whenever i see her name pop up on steam, or my mom asks how she's doing, or i run into her mom in town, it's just unavoidable... i feel like a terrible person. i mean, i once drove 3 hours just to see her at her college because she said she was lonely, and now i know nothing about her, nothing about her life, how she's doing, what she's doing, any of it. i've never reached out because, what, it's too hard? its too difficult to say hi now and then like a normal person? its no wonder i don't have any close friends anymore, i never reach out to anyone, i just complain about how much my life sucks on tumblr and never do anything about it because thinking about it makes me depressed. it sounds harsh but its true. what the hell am i doing with my life, man.

[alphalesbian]

Youll just be minding your own business when all of a sudden the inherant intimacy of solo instrumental music is realized upon you. Like youre just supposed to proceed normally after

[chuckling-chemist]

anyway happy 4/13 here's my once a year oc fic

A long time ago, there was a princess.

Her blood was tyrian pink, as all princesses were. Her hair was long and black, tied back in a simple tyrian pink ribbon that matched her blood and her eyes. Her horns stood above her head and curled inward, giving off the impression of a drawn butterfly’s antennae. Nothing to make her look especially tall, like the horns that belonged to the other members born into the aristocracy and upper crust of Alternia, but she didn’t need it.

Nor did she need an especially fancy dress the way the others here needed it. She wore a simple pink gown that went down to her ankles that matched her ribbon and her blood and her eyes, a simple pink butterfly mask for the occasion and a simple pin of her symbol – an inward spiral – pinned inside her wrist corsage made of pink carnations and pink roses.

The roses and carnations were once white. She didn’t know much about flowers, but knew enough to know they didn’t come in the shade of pink her blood did.

Nothing much did. Not other trolls, or other flowers, or anything outside of herself and the relatively recently crowned Empress, Carica Elsker.

This gala wasn’t in Carica’s honor. No more than any other gala and party drawing every royal out of their posh hives and ivory towers was or wasn’t in Carica’s honor. This one was in celebration of some major victory their military had off-planet that turned their tide for them, and with Carica currently shuttling herself over to the site, it meant the only Heiress had to go in her stead.

The only Heiress who was a part of a completely different lineage from the Elsker line of trolls. Yoscan.

They used to rule, likely generations of highbloods ago. She’s not sure how long the Elsker’s have dominated each other instead of another fuchsia. Reports differ on if it was Carica’s ancestor who overtook the Yoscan’s or someone earlier, and Carica’s ancestor culled another Elsker for the throne instead.

The Elskers, she learned early on in her history lessons, had a penchant for rewriting in their favor. Even if her tutors never called it such.

She shouldn’t be too mad. Because of Carica’s ancestor (or her ancestor’s ancestor?), the first Beguiler, she didn’t hold the emissary of the Horrorterrors as her lusus. And, because of Carica’s concern of being overtaken, her caste weren’t required to charge for the throne immediately upon adulthood. If she wanted to, she could pursue anything she wanted. Run a restaurant. Command an army. Stay on planet and resume being a rich socialite, as she currently technically was.

A shame all those options sounded so terribly boring for someone like her. A Yoscan.

Whatever that meant.

So she stood here, nearby the punch bowl, staring at rich trolls born into their affluence and rich trolls who worked for their affluence, both of whom stepped on more than a few heads to get where they were. This were not the events she frequented of her own volition. Perhaps the patrons of the gala sensed her nervousness, her naivete, and as such avoided her. She wouldn’t blame them. She probably would do the same.

Though, she didn’t have many events she did frequent. Her tutors kept her on a rigorous schedule, leaving her only time for hunting to keep Carica’s lusus sated and silent.

She should have expected someone to come toward the punch bowl. Should have, and yet when a finger brushed against her shoulder, a gentle tap to inform her of a guest’s presence, she jumped, immediately turning toward the source of the individual: a violetblood with ornate fins and tall horns that curved into what appeared to be an S stared back at her. His mask was dark, an inky black except for a thin white line that took on the shape of a pair of glasses, and his suit equally dark. What she assumed was his symbol – a circle with a line down the center – was pinned against his suit with a small amethyst behind it.

He felt familiar. A face she was once told had a name. She wondered why she couldn’t place it.

“Ah, my apologies,” he said, lips forming a worried line. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

She relaxed, smoothing down her dress and giving him a stilted smile. “It’s no concern. Ah…”

He took a step back and bowed, letting his gaze drop to the floor. “Simply Inaeis is fine,” he said.

She fought back the urge to frown, though her drooping fins failed to hide her disappointment. The name didn’t feel nearly as familiar as his face. “You must be the most recent Heiress,” he added, “The Yoscan?”

There was no point in hiding it. Mask or not, unless she were a freak of nature she would have come from one of two lines. The mask was little more than the thinnest veneer of anonymity for her.

She nodded, motioning for him to stand up. “Kisoku, yes. I take it you’ve heard of me?”

His fins twitched. “In passing, yes. For those of us with our fins to the sea floor, it’s hard for someone in my field of work not to hear of the first fuchsia not wearing Her Imperious Beguiler’s sign in sweeps.”

This time she did frown. “What’s your field of work?”

He allowed his expression to relax into a smile. “Nothing terribly important. Investigative work of a kind,” he said.

“Like a private investigator?” She furrowed her brow, eyeing him quizzically. “Isn’t that below the stature of a violetblood?”

His smile widened, eyes glinting underneath his mask. “Only if you think of it as such.” Inaeis stepped closer to her, leaning against the same table she did. “I hardly feel there is any such law stating I must join the fleet as a high ranking admiral, when my skills are better used elsewhere. And as a violet, I am effectively free to do as I please.”

She remembered her lessons, remembered seeing the various charts and diagrams explaining the setup of troll society. Each caste and each role for each caste. Rules and structure most are forced to learn the second they step outside, but her role as heiress and fuchsia was the maximum enforcer from the top. If she (or the Empress) didn’t put the pressure on the violetbloods, they wouldn’t put adequate pressure on the purplebloods, and so on and so forth.

(“Like a diamond,” her tutor said. “Their true beauty comes from the force of its surrounding area.”)

“Only social pressure,” she said.

He looked at her, eyebrow quirked, and let out a short huff she assumed was a laugh. “We’re at the top of the proverbial food chain,” he said. “Despite whatever your lessons taught you, there is no social pressure. You could run away and change your identity and no one would care.”

“I’m sure someone would care,” she said. “I am an heiress.”

He turned away from her, looking over at the other side of the ballroom. It was a small ensemble made of an assortment of midbloods, but currently only the jade pianist plucked away at the keys, playing a soft tune she didn’t recognize.

Much like herself, the other patrons chose not to acknowledge them, instead mingling around with each other. Something she felt confident in saying had to be a common event, leaving them to become little more than paid window dressing.

“Suite number 28, by Debusy,” Inaeis said. “In case you were interested.”

“I’m not sure I am,” she paused to glance between the musicians and Inaeis, “but it looked like you were.”

Another huff, this one undoubtedly sounding amused. “I consider myself a fan of the arts. Unlike many of them,” he gestured forward with a white gloved hand at the crowd in front of them, “who could not tell Suite 10 from Debusy between Shopan’s Null Opus. They merely pretend. Collect what isn’t there’s, if the item is physical. I’ve seen more than my share of forgeries hanging in a cobalt’s hive” He let out a laugh, the sound ringing hollow in her ears. “They’re told supporting the Empress and lavishing in their wealth is what’s most important in life.”

“So what is, then?”

Inaeis was silent. She watched as he glanced around the room again, clearly searching for something, before he stretched out his gloved hand.

“A dance.”

She looked up at him, suspicion crossing her face.

He was avoiding the question.

Why was he avoiding the question?

With a nod, she gingerly took his hand, letting his looming frame lead her toward the center stage of the dance floor. The song, apparently Suite 28 by Debusy if he was to be believed, continued on, the pianos fingers dancing on the keys as the music swelled.

And Inaeis, to his credit, was an excellent dancer. He seemed to register her inexperience, choosing to guide her through each spin and twirl with deft movements on the center of the dance floor. With each turn, each run of piano keys going up and down, he pulled the two of them tighter and tighter together until she could feel his breath on her fins, the pleasant heat against her own cold skin making them twitch.

In that brief moment, they felt more like one unit than two individual trolls, with blessedly not a single soul in the room looking at them.

“You need to run away.”

Her aquatic blood pusher turned frigid. Had he not continued to guide her, she would have stopped. As it was, she merely tripped over own feet, saved from the harsh clacking of stumbling shoes by a sudden dip that aided in slipping her back into position.

She pulled away, putting distance between the two of them without stopping the dance. “What?”

“The Empress. Her Imperious Beguiler. She doesn’t take kindly to other fuchsias outside her lineage who pursue her own political theater,” he said.

“Yes, but-”

“She’s the Empress,” he said. His words were cold, somehow colder than the ice in her chest. “She doesn’t need to cull you with her own trident for you to wind up face down in the ocean.”

“Even if I have no interest in becoming Empress?”

“Do you have another pursuit?”

She shook her head. “Of course not. This is what I’ve been raised to do.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” His fins drooped. “I’m serious though. After tonight, run away. Change your name, hide your blood caste, anything. But you are a Yoscan, and in Her Imperious Beguiler’s eyes, a threat to her position.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

He didn’t need to answer. The hollowness and pained expression on his face told enough horror stories she determined she didn’t want to know.

Fine, she thought. A different question then.

“If I’m not to pursue this life, what do you suggest I do?”

The song ended. The two of them parted. He nodded politely to the pianist, flashing the briefest smile of encouragement to the jadeblood. The jadeblood locked eyes with him for just long enough to see it, before turning away, face flush.

How interesting to see one from outside the brooding caverns. I didn’t think that was allowed, she thought.

“Live. Be free,” he said. “Live a life so full no highblood here could dream of it.”

***

Not that long ago, there was a princess.

Her blood was tyrian pink, though she didn’t think about that too much these days. Her hair was long and black, its waves and curls held back only by a teal ribbon tied up to keep it out of her face. Her horns stood above her head and curled, looking like the swirl of her symbol in its infancy. She stood tall against her company, a female brownblood with horns not dissimilar of a deer, but only thanks to the heels she insisted upon wearing as they entered the abandoned chateau. A supposed storagehouse of Informer Duskfire for his confiscated art collection, according to the brownblood’s research. Lost to time alongside his dubiously legal library, the very same library the brownblood’s moirail resided in for years.

Both of them were only illuminated by the lantern sitting on the floor between them, and the twin flashlights pointing at the distressingly familiar portrait on the wall.

“It’s not real,” she sneered, staring at a prim and proper looking version of herself. “It’s a fraud. They fucking told me I was the only one of my line!”

The brownblood pursed her lips in irritation. “And who’s they, exactly?” Because this looks like you.”

“It’s not.”

She gestured up to the horns that made the fuchsia bare her fangs in annoyance. “Those are your horns.”

“Shorty’s said horn patterns can repeat.”

She pointed at the familiar swirl in the fuchsia blood’s jewelry. “That’s your symbol.”

“Coincidence.”

“On a fuchsia? The single rarest caste to exist?” The brownblood sighed, adjusting the hold of the flashlight to hold like a knife, the light now illuminating the deep scar going down her face. “Can you choose not to be obtuse for once in your life, Mayola? I wouldn’t have bothered showing you this if I didn’t think this was you.”

“I’m not being obtuse,” she said. She pointed her light directly at the painting, desperately hoping to burn the face off of the stupid fuchsia standing in front of her. “My stupid tutors fucking told me when I was barely out of pupation I was a freak of nature who shouldn’t exist. And believe me, Careen loved throwing that one in my face too when she could.”

“And it didn’t once occur to you that they were lying?” This time, she didn’t wait for Mayola to answer. “Because they do. You know they do. You were the one to stumble upon my ancestor’s tomb with Ektome. I don’t know how this is so different.”

Mayola sighed in irritation.

“Because-”

Because it means my life has been a useless lie.

Because everyone around me treated my existence as if I was another lowblood cog in the machine until I ran away.

Because it means now I’m living in the shadow of an ancestor and destined to finish what she started.

Because I’ll never be free.

She snarled, throwing the flashlight at the wall. It landed with a soft thud, the portrait seemingly undamaged while the light pointed toward something an abstract painting of a calvalreaper. The brownblood didn’t even flinch, her stare continuing to bore holes into Mayola’s soul.

“Because it just fucking does, okay Valeba?” she exclaimed. “Are you fucking happy now?”

She spun around on her heel, ready to be march out, only for Valeba to catch her arm and pull her back with her free arm, forcing Mayola to stare at Valeba in the face.

A part of her brain was dimly aware Mayola was far stronger than Valeba. Her kismesis was a brownblood, and no matter how skilled Valeba was at combat, most seadwellers could outmatch her blow to blow in physical strength. If she wanted to, she could yank her arm free and take off, leaving her in the dust.

But yet, here she was, letting this brownblood, second bottom out of the castes, seamlessly manhandle her and keep her in place with little more than a knowing stare.

“You told me once you weren’t leadership material. It wasn’t in your blood,” she said.

“’Cause it’s not. Plain and simple.”

Valeba sighed. Her flashlight dropped to the floor. Hot breath tickled Mayola’s face.

“Funny. It looks like I’m staring at the evidence right now.” Her tone shifted, into something quieter, less sure, as she added, “The second Heiress Apparent.”

A light breeze, no doubt a draft in this decrepit mansion, blew between them. It danced along the edges of Mayola’s hair, making her suddenly long to chop it off again.

She sucked in a breath.

She wasn’t so blind to not see what she was staring at.

“Now take it.”

Mayola had never closed the distance and kissed her so fast in her life.

[isekyaaa]

I really want to write a survival story of someone that really wants to die, but can't. Not because they were cursed with immortality, but because of the fact that they simply cannot bring themselves to die. Everyday they wake, their body just moves without their permission—gathering supplies, fighting hostiles, ensuring their survival. They want to die, but stronger than this is their undying will to live.

[tiredf-o-u-r]

Hm. And what about when I go outside and have to be me? That fucking sucks I don’t wanna do that. I don’t see that working out as far as attracting friends but maybe I’ll at least get used to seeing people my age again

[suiana]

SHUTUP I GOT AN IDEA BECAUSE OF THIS TUMBLR POST I SAW

imagine being the spouse of a high ranking court judge. the problem is that you're a big ass criminal (like, tax evasion and stuff idk) and you finally get caught by the police.

thankfully, your yandere! judge has decided to save you.

"you are convicted for several accounts of tax fraud and love scamming. do you plead guilty?"

"yeah, i did it. I'm not trying to lie or defend myself. anyway, is it really my fault if those guys were so gullible-"

"silence in the court."

you can only stare awkwardly as the judge enters the cout room and silences everyone. why was his voice so- oh. it's your husband..? IT'S YOUR HUSBAND?!

you weren't really sure what happened throughout the rest of the court session. you heard something about how you weren't in the wrong and how your husband would often go on tangents about why your crimes weren't considered crimes because it was you who did it.

before you knew it, you found your lawyer cheering in joy as the judge announced the results of the case.

"partially guilty. punishment is to be on house arrest for a month and to give their husband attention. case dismissed."

"s-sir! there is clear evidence of them committing-"

"you heard me the first time and i won't repeat myself. case dismissed."

you were in a daze the rest of the way home. was it... really that easy? i mean, you knew your husband would bend the world and back for you but to blatantly excuse your crimes like that... in front of tons of people too! isn't that-

"honey, you-"

"why would i put you in prison? that would be a punishment for me as well. also, have you forgotten who i am and my status? i'd break any law ethics for you, and no one would be able to say anything."

wow.... you never knew he was so... romantic.

i mean, you knew he was obsessed and loved you when he stalked and practically forced you to marry him but this had to be the ultimate act of love!

"also, i killed the guys you love scammed."

wait what?

[exspiravited]

^ Called out.

[acid-ixx]

✮ — 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍 : in which control is your only friend . . . (concept idea)

guys let me cook on this one but i suddenly want to post about an isekai trope au with modern! reader being transported into the world of dc comics. of course you're sentient, but sentience doesn't mean autonomy, because you're forced to don a new identity as a vigilante; guided by a malicious system only you can perceive.

a superhero, a new canon to the world, whose body is still adjusting to its given powers. you are not omnipotent, you are not a deity, and you most certainly could not adapt at such a timely rate; but you were once omniscient to the multiple plots and universes of the world you now live in. that is the only advantage you have amongst the unease you feel at the knowledge that eyes are now plastered all over your existence; a twisted game toying with you, with the price being your very life.

turns out, your existence is controlled by the very viewers (you guys, the commentors, the voters) who determine whichever fate you land on, a rule told by the system from when you were once transported into the world. whether it'd be mere yes or no answers to awkward questions, or even something as major as choosing to save others, or yourself in a life or death situation, and even as far as your love interests— only they can choose, and you'd be left to commit upon such acts, with or without your consent.

imagine, not only your presence is bared naked to the entire world, but every word you say are remembered, are criticized weekly. each and every action of yours that aren't determined by your cruel fans will gain both equal and opposite reactions.

your superhero name is chosen by whoever is the sick mastermind of this entire game. and you! for now, silly you would enjoy the momentary lapses of excitement meeting your favorite characters, but happiness in such a world does not exist. the longer you stay, where every week, your own destiny dictated by phone calls, comments, likes, reactions, and polls; the more you wish you never once set out to abide within the rules of this... game.

it is only your emotions, your thoughts that you can control, but never certain actions at major events. there is no such thing as discontinuity, or changing plotlines once you're able to catch a moment on what you truly wish to say.

as your story is published amongst thousands of people, it is up to your viewers, your deities, to decide whether or not you should live, die, or give you a chance to try to survive without them.

and it is up to you whether to fight back, or to allow their choices to destroy your very life.

either way, your tale is set to capture the hearts of many. and the only destiny nobody, not even your fanbase, nor you, could change, are the multiple set of characters within your world to eventually set their eyes on you.

and my, oh my, it is never once mentioned within these lines of texts that these characters are controlled by anybody, no?

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ are you interested to join your journey ?

♛ —⠀YES !⠀ yes, i'd love to see where this goes.

♚ —⠀NO !⠀⠀i'd rather not endanger myself, no thank you.

[foldingfittedsheets]

You wouldn’t blame a crowbar for an act of destruction, you would blame the wielder. For this reason I can’t be held responsible for what happened to my friend Charlie’s bed. I was merely a tool that force was applied through.

It happened like this: Brendan, Charlie, and I decided to have a late night movie viewing at Charlie’s house. We watched The Hogfather and Groundhogs day and we stayed up until 4am. Then we were all too tired to drive home and crashed. I got the bed and the boys took the floor.

Four hours later, Charlie’s parents woke up. They learned that Charlie had people over. They. Were. Furious. Because unbeknownst to us it turned out they had swine flu. Charlie should had been quarantining not bringing people to his plague house. They ordered Charlie to kick us out that very moment.

Charlie came to rouse us. I am… not at my best in the morning hours. Four hours of sleep did not leave my disposition gruntled. Charlie began trying to rouse me to pretty much no avail. He pulled the covers off, shook me, tried to take my pillow, but I was a tiny ball of sleepy vicious rage. When he shook me I’m pretty sure I bit him.

I should be clear, I wasn’t really awake. A baseline function was taking place but no real actual thought. I was piloting on pure instinct and the instinct was: need more sleep. Charlie tried everything while Brendan watched in bemusement.

Finally Charlie got the idea that if he physically lifted me out of bed I’d go. He managed to get his hands under my arms and start dragging me off the bed.

Two things happened very quickly. My toes wrapped around the top of the railing to his bed frame, and I went limp everywhere else. Charlie staggered and almost dropped me, because holding a floppy corpse body is much harder than a tensed one, a fact I had learned from many roughhousing attacks by my brother.

He swore and then gamely started trying to drag me backward, thinking it would be easy to dislodge my toes from the bed frame. It was not. I’ve mentioned before that my toes are strong, but Charlie was flabbergasted that their grip on the bed was so strong that he couldn’t drag me away.

I was going on pure stubborn instinct. I did not want to leave the bed. Charlie was fully committed that a 90lb gremlin wasn’t going to beat him in a contest of strength with only her toes. So he pulled. And I held on.

Both of us were shocked when there was a tortured shriek of wood and something in the bed frame cracked. It was loud enough that I actually woke up. The rest of my brain surfaced in confusion to join the lizard brain whose only goal had been not to leave the bed.

I released my toes and took my own weight and Charlie and I stared at the bed.

“You ripped the railing off!”

“Well, no, you ripped the railing off, I was just the tool. If you hadn’t been pulling on me-“

“If you had just let go! What is up with your feet?!”

We griped as I readied myself to leave his plague house, joining his parents in being mad that Charlie hadn’t told us they were sick. I drove home to sleep more.

Over the years of our friendship Charlie still maintained that I broke the bed. I disagreed and think I was only the tool by which he broke the bed. Only you can decide who bears the most sin, the dragger or the dragee.