#we die like men etc

[oleanderbailey]

The Dinner Party of Adolescence

An internal monologue from Ives Gannet, the main character of my WIP novel Into The Vortex. Ives, the soon-to-be serial killer nicknamed the Portland Maneater, reminisces on how she chose to let her putrid nature develop back when she was still capable of stopping it.

1323 words // 6.5 minute read

Not a recommended read for those sensitive to mentions of sexual themes, murder and child molestation.

The only times I’ve felt true desire were those moments just before sleep. That’s the time most people tend to drift into yearning, right? They lay in bed and think of sweat-covered, glistening bodies and masturbate their worries away until they fall asleep. I do things a little differently.

My way of experiencing nightly desire seems to be less practical than the normal way, but that’s usually the case. These trains of thought never lead me to happy places – instead, to a tear-stained sleep and a jaw so tense it hurts in the morning. I don’t think of shirtless men with rippled abs or bikini-clad women, yet, I still find something to long for. I long for the desperate yearning of memories. I long to look behind me at everywhere I’ve been, and scramble back towards it, clammy hands reaching for the good that supposedly so heavily riddled my past. I long to be able to trace my winding trail of footsteps through the scenes I’ve seen, the homes I’ve lived in, the people I have loved, all the way back to my first everything – without feeling such an intense sorrow.

Even in the most benign-looking places I could visit in my head – break-times at my first school, the quiet walks in the local park, the kitchen of my childhood home – at any little disturbance, the bugs hiding in the cracks and the crevices will scuttle out of their hidey-holes, and I’ll remember. I’ll remember how disease and dirt has infected every experience I call my own. I’ll remember how other children would giggle amongst themselves and point at me as I paced the playground alone, I’ll remember only feeling safe enough to cry in the solitude of the deep woods, I’ll remember how much blood was on the kitchen floor and how I felt nothing when I saw my own mother’s lifeless body. Her head was pointed towards the door when I walked in, her mouth hanging open inhumanly wide, her trademark rosy cheeks a paper-white, eyes merely scattered with the remnants of fear. The fear I should have felt, too, but I didn’t.

All I felt was fascination. And then, I’ll remember why instead of lusting after memories, I fantasise about taking a gun and blowing them out of my head. They’re too irregular for me to understand. After a certain point, I stopped walking through life, and instead tripped over and was dragged through dirt to where I am now. I’m too tired to get up.

I don’t know why I’m like this. I just want to lose all comprehension of myself and rebuild my consciousness from scratch, because honestly, I think I’ve fucked up from my first thought. And unless I get a chance to start over, I’ll fuck up until my last breath.

If I were to try and rationalise myself – an admittedly bad habit that I sometimes try to get out of - I’d explain my current state as a consequence of my experience with sex and family and life being fucked up so young, so early into my development that I can’t see any point trying to be normal moving forward, because I never will be. Instead of doing what others do and push down any “forbidden” intrigues or desires, why shouldn’t I just embrace them? I never had the normality that they cling onto, so what have I got to lose?

I understand why so many psychologists jump to theories that serial killers and rapists were molested as children too, even when there’s no direct account to suggest it. It’s such a dark and morbid thing that, to the human brain, it’s only logical that things so vile must have sourced from another evil. To some extent, they’re right. Mixing childhood or trauma with sex can really, really fuck you up - if you let it. That’s the key to it that not many of these psychologists can ever get because they’re talking about experiences they will never have; it’s not as simple as “get molested, become a sexual deviant” with entire inevitability, it’s more like having the option of becoming an absolute fucking freak offered to you at the dinner party of adolescence, whilst everyone else was served “a thing for boys with brown hair” or “a thing for girls making fun of them”. Well, “offered”… you’re never able to refuse it completely.

See, the dish I was served, it had teeth, malice, and a thirst to ruin the life of the prepubescent it saw before itself. Before there was any hope in stopping it, it jumped up from the table and sank its teeth into my flesh. If you were to ask for forceps to rip it out, although the fight and the desperation would be gone, you’re still left with the wound, and then still left with the scar. You’re not truly free from it. But, you are free from the danger you could manifest. You know how to easily keep a lid on it.

Others like me immediately asked for the forceps – they were scared by something feeling wrong in their head and they cried to their parents about it, who quickly whisked them off to a child psychologist who knew what they were doing and knew how to ensure this child’s wounds turned into perfect, shiny scars. Something I struggle with when I look into the mirror each morning is that I liked the feeling of the curse gnawing at the muscle in my forearm. I was intrigued by these thoughts and that I was thinking beyond the trivial hand-holding that my classmates were discussing on the playground. But, most of all, I didn’t care that it wasn’t normal – because I never knew if I was normal! Pushed out of my family, pushed out of any conceivable social group in school, I never had a reference. So, I just never asked for the forceps. Because I didn’t know they existed. I looked at the demon making mince of my flesh and I took it as a fascination.

I know that’s not entirely my fault. I was just a kid – a very, very lonely kid – who didn’t know that her brain was driving on the other side of the road until it was too late. Everything just aligned too well – I was born morbid, I lived in morbid, and was in perfect shape to react to something like the murder in the way that I did. On the other hand, I feel like I still would have loved the way things were going even if I knew they shouldn’t be going that way. I didn’t want to stop this when I could, or to seek treatment when it would have made a difference. There’s no way to know, of course, but after all these years I have never been able to shake the feeling that my demented decisions caused all of this, and if I was a kinder person to myself, things wouldn’t be like this. I chose to be this way.

I am an evil reimagining that my holier self sees in the bathroom mirror each morning. I see her, too. I see her disappointment in what she knows is inside herself, and what she is capable of. To her, I embody filth. To me, she embodies everything I could have been. Just to scare her, I stare into her eyes sometimes until she starts crying.

Being so comfortable with what is vile about myself has led me to reject the parts of me that are wholesome and good. I want that cunt through the water-stained glass pane to wake the fuck up and realise she is already what she is so afraid of being; she has just sugar-coated everything to deceive others and hopes that she will eventually deceive herself. But - she won’t. I know she won’t. Because it didn’t work for me, either.

Purity is fucking overrated.

[henswilsons]

all you're giving me is friction

buck/eddie | 7k+ | ao3

“Now that is a handsome man.” The first thing Hen notices about New Recruit Eddie Diaz is that he is in possession of a remarkable set of abdominal muscles. The next thing she notices is the wedding ring. And Buck is staring at him like a piece of meat. “Oh, nuh-uh,” she says immediately. “Don’t even think about it, Buckley.”

ao3!

[basu-shokikita]

Happy Birthday Dethday, Toki!

I've been busy this week so I tried to whip out something real quick for the best boy's birthday! 🎂🌈

Happy Birthday Toki, you make my world a better place 🩷

Birthdays weren’t exactly celebrated in the Wartooth household, so Toki didn’t know they were supposed to be important. He never received a cake for it, or even a congratulations from his parents. He didn’t have friends, either, so it’s not like someone else could’ve celebrated for him.

Birthdays were just another regular day as far as he was concerned, and that’s exactly why he had no idea when his was. So, when Charles asked him, a few days after joining Dethklok, he panicked and went with the first date he could come up with. September 1st.

Later on, he realized that he had seen that date on a movie displayed on the big TV screens displayed by an old store, right across the alley Toki used to sleep in. The children were happily going back to school to reunite with their friends. It was September 1st.

He couldn’t imagine it being that important, so he quickly forgot he ever gave that information. Nor did he think it would be relevant in the future.

…

“Toki! Hey, Toki!” Someone shook him violently. “Toki, wake up!”

“Mmh?�� Toki turned around in a daze. “Pickle?”

“We’re late, Toki!” Pickles said, seemingly stressed. “Get up already!”

“L-Late?” Toki sat up and grabbed his pants. “Lates for whats?”

“The…The show!” Pickles urged him with his hands. 

Toki glanced at the clock in his room. “But it’s-”

“Just huhrry up!” The drummer dashed to the hall and out of Toki’s sight. 

“Wait, Pickle!” Toki put on the nearest t-shirt he found and followed him.

The apartment seemed near empty, which was weird because it wasn’t even 10 am. Because of their growing fame, they had moved to a new place in LA. It was more spacious than the Florida apartment and now everyone had their own rooms, but still you could hear what everyone was up to. Which made this silence even more ominous.

“Pickle?!” Toki called him, to no avail. Suddenly, he heard a scream coming from the living room. Freaked out, he ran towards the voice, hoping nothing bad had happened to Pickles.

When he walked into the living room, the words ‘Your time is up’ were written in thick, black letters on the wall. Whoever had written that, was still in the house because the ink seemed fresh. Horrified, Toki looked down to see Pickles’ body lying next to the message.

“Pickle!” He screamed and bent down to hold his bandmate. He seemed unconscious, was he even breathing? “Oh, no, Pickle…” Toki sobbed quietly. 

He didn’t have time to grieve, because a couple of footsteps behind him chilled his blood. The subsequent creaking on the floor confirmed it, there was someone else in the room. And he was fastly approaching him. Toki felt his breath hitch and his heart about to burst out of his chest.

Slowly, he turned around but before seeing the face of the assailant he was splashed with a thick liquid. He screamed and closed his eyes as he awaited for the substance to melt his skin or something equally deadly. When a few seconds went by and he felt no pain, he opened his eyes. 

“Huh?” He cautiously touched his face in fear and stared at his hands stained with red gooeyness. “Whats the-” 

“Happy Birthday!” Several voices went off at once, prompting him to look up. 

Murderface was right beside him, holding the empty bucket in his hands with a smile. Nathan, Skwisgaar by the table a handful of feet away, clapping in delight. Even Pickles, held between his arms, was cheering too. 

Toki felt close to fainting.  “What ams…what ams goings on?”

“Its yous borfdays, dildos.” Skwisgaar said, with a smile. “Remembers?”

Like a hazy dream, Toki remembered giving the information to Charles. Right, so today was September 1st. Still, it didn’t explain this demented display. He looked at his completely ruined shirt, entirely lost. 

“It’sch pig blood.” Murderface helpfully informed, with a grin. “Pretty brutal, right?” 

Toki was bewildered. Blood? He splashed him with fucking blood?

“Dude, look at his face.” Nathan commented, told Skwisgaar. “He totally didn’t see it coming.”

“Tolds you, he wouldn’ts eggspekts dis.” Skwisgaar snickered back.

“Oh, yeah, Pickles, the pretending-to-be-dead bit was a really good touch.” Nathan said.

“Nuh, that was forreal.” Pickles pointed at the bottle by his feet. “I tripped. Behd.” 

“Oh.” 

Groaning, Pickles got up, leaving the speechless Toki crouched on the floor. “Come ahn, Toki.” He offered him his hand. 

Toki grabbed it and Pickles pulled him on his feet. It happened kinda fast, though, so it left Toki feeling kind of dizzy.

“Check out the cake we made.” Pickles said.

“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking brutal.” Nathan agreed and Toki followed his stare.

There was a big black and white cake on the table, with a deformed thing on top that seemed to be his old Flying V. Red stripes decorated the sides and Toki assumed they were supposed to be blood. 

“I deskigneds its.” Skwisgaar said with his chest puffed up. “You ams welkomes.”

“Tis ams for mes?” Toki pointed at himself. 

“Well, ye!” Pickles patted him in the back, joyful. “Its yer birthdei, dood!”

“We schtill get to eat schome, though.” Murderface added, appearing on his other side.

“Wowee…” Toki was overwhelmed. “I…Is never…”

“Had such a brutal birthday celebration?” Nathan completed his sentence.

More like, never had anyone celebrating his birthday. He nodded with a smile. “Ja.”

“Obviouslies.” Skwisgaar said, putting a black cone with sloppily drawn skulls on Toki’s head. “Happies birthdays, eh, Toki?” He patted him on the shoulders. 

Toki looked down, unable to process all the attention given to him on a day that, until moments ago, was just like any other for him. He really didn’t want to cry, because that wasn’t brutal, and he didn’t want them to see his flushed cheeks either, because that was embarrassing. “Thanks you…” He muttered, unable to meet their eyes.

There was a short-lived silence, because the others weren’t any more able to deal with emotional stuff either, until Pickles shouted. “Alright, get the alcohooool!”

While the rest dashed to the kitchen to get drinks, Toki wiped his eyes surreptitiously. Honestly, it’s not like they’d notice if he cried with all the blood he had on his face. He looked at his cake again and noticed the date written under the guitar.

Guess his birthday really was on September 1st.

[mandiemegatron]

ʟᴀᴡ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢɪɴɢ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ʜɪꜱ ᴇɴᴅ ɢᴀᴍᴇ. ɢᴇɴᴅᴇʀ ɴᴇᴜᴛʀᴀʟ ᴘʀᴏɴᴏᴜɴꜱ ; ꜱᴜɪᴛᴀʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ ᴀɢᴇꜱ, ᴍᴅɴɪ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟᴀʙᴇʟᴇᴅ 18+.

There's a subtle difference in the way you looked at Law.

He barely notices it at first; it's like a breeze that blows through his entire body, chilling and warming him at the same time. It's the way your eyelids twitch slightly when he says something funny, a small grin ticking up your lips at the side, and the movement fuels Laws ego. It's the warmth of your palm that radiates through his sweater when you pat him as you walk by, throwing him a small smile with a nod.

It barely registers, the gooey feeling that floods his senses when you bring him tea and a snack every single time, without fail. It's the sinking feeling that settles in his stomach when he sees Shachi pull you close, whispering something in your ear that causes you to cackle. It's the way your hands hold his heart, gently stitching up the broken pieces, without even knowing.

It's the way his eyes widen and his brain stops when he sees you, standing on the deck of the Polar Tang, watching the sun set with a content expression. He'd seen you like this a thousand times, day after day, whenever they were above the seas, but it was like someone dumped a bucket of ice water over his head, freezing him to his spot. You slowly turned and looked at him over your shoulder, your own eyes slightly wide and confused until you felt it.

It was like a tug at your heart, pulling the two of you together until your hands met, closing the space between your bodies as your eyes fell shut.

It was a subtle difference, the way you looked at him, and the way he looked at you.

[lowpolybread]

surprise crowley

[flintstill]

I don't know what it is about this lil 'stache on him, but it makes me absolutely feral

[mariocki]

Donald Sutherland guest stars as the appropriately named Philip Guest, a less appropriately unbalanced kidnapper, in Gideon's Way: The Millionaire's Daughter (1.21, ITC, 1966)

[imaginarianisms]

everyone say hiiiiii a.lys r.ivers witch queen of h.arrenhal!!!!!!

[silverysongs]

Arthur is late one morning to breakfast. Guenevere doesn’t think too much about it; he’s cheerful as usual, apologizes even though she tells him he doesn’t have to. (She doesn’t have to say You’re the king. She doesn’t say I don’t mind waiting for you.) Breakfast proceeds as usual, and it’s not until it’s over that she notices something is wrong.

He stands—practically bounces out of his chair—and then sways, very slightly. He catches himself on the table. Guenevere doesn’t miss the way he swallows and stares at the plate he’s left behind.

“Your majesty,” she says, watching his face, “are you well?”

Now his head snaps up. “Perfectly,” he says, smiling, and his eyes are bright—too bright, she thinks. She opens her mouth to protest, but he announces, “My good queen, today we are going to change the world, just wait and see.”

“I’ll be waiting and watching,” she says wryly as they start down the hall. He takes her hand as they walk along, which sends a flash of surprise through her—but she doesn’t say anything more. Sometimes he is impulsive in his affections, her king, like when he leaves flowers on her vanity, or when he asks her favorites in the middle of a conversation. It’s endearing, the way he flits from thing to thing, and always with that boyish grin when she surprises him—

Suddenly he presses her hand very hard. When she looks up at him, his face is pale. “Your majesty, what is it?” she asks.

He smiles, but it’s clearly painful. “Genny,” he whispers, and then he’s falling against her, almost collapsing but his boots are scuffing the floor, trying to find his footing. She struggles to hold his weight up, wraps her arms around him like a desperate lover’s embrace.

“Your majesty? Your majesty,” she says urgently. “Arthur, what’s wrong? Are you going to faint?”

He huffs a laugh against her hair, reaching outwards—for the wall, she realizes, and tries to guide him so he can lean against the stone instead of her poor support. “I must confess,” he says, voice weak, “I do feel a little lightheaded.”

“Well, sit down,” she demands, masking imperiousness over her panic. “I’ve—I’ve heard it’s good to put your head between your legs. It’ll get the blood flowing to your head.”

He slides down the wall, still grasping her hand tightly, and she does her best to help him settle, sitting down beside him. After a moment he takes a deep breath and raises his head to look at her. “Well,” he says, “I don’t suppose I’m going to the Table this morning.”

She wants to scoff at him, but he looks so miserable, even smiling. “You’re quite flushed,” she notes, reaching for his face; and then, feeling it, “Oh, Arthur, you’re burning up.”

“Not literally, I hope,” he says, “because I feel quite cold.”

“Arthur,” she says. “Stop making jokes.”

“Do you know, this is the most you’ve called me by my name instead of your majesty?”—and there is a tease in his voice but his eyes, though fever-touched, are soft.

Footsteps round the hall, and Guenevere turns away. “Oh, Sir Kay,” she says with some relief, as the knight stops and looks at his sovereigns sitting against the wall. “The king is ill. Would you please help him back to his rooms?”

“Certainly, your majesty,” Kay intones. Arthur groans as the knight hauls him off the floor. “Not sure I was up for standing yet, Kay,” he manages, and Kay slings an arm around his shoulders.

“Please rest, your majesty,” Guenevere says.

He smiles; he’s always smiling. “Go to the meeting, Genny,” he says. “You know all the policy. Go change the world—since I’m not fit to do it today.”

“Make sure he actually lies down,” she tells Kay. Kay, already looking beleaguered—perhaps familiar with the king’s flightiness—nods.

She watches them for a moment, then shakes herself. Nothing to do but go to the meeting alone.

--

It’s a few hours into the meeting and she’s half-heartedly listening to Lionel and Sagramore argue for the twentieth time that morning when Sir Kay slips into the room. She meets his eyes with a smile, expecting him to take his seat at the Table, but instead he makes his way behind her to speak in her ear.

“Your majesty,” he says quietly.

“Sir Kay,” she murmurs, trying to keep her eye on Lionel as he gesticulates wildly. “How is the king?”

“He’s asked for you,” Kay says. “Repeatedly.”

She looks at him, astonished, but keeps her voice low. “For me? Whatever for?”

Kay looks uncomfortable. “He’s very insistent, milady. He sounded…”

Now the panic is beginning to creep up her chest again. “He sounded what?”

“Very desperate,” he says. “Ma’am.”

For a moment she’s frozen, hearing Sagramore’s reply but not comprehending any of the words. She has to make a choice.

“Excuse me,” she interrupts. Twelve heads swivel in her direction, and she clasps her hands in her lap as a way to keep hold of her composure. “Thank you, gentlemen. Something urgent has come up that I must attend to.”

“Is everything all right, your majesty?” Dinadan pipes up.

Her first instinct is to lie, but she knows that if the king’s illness is actually serious, she’ll have to tell them eventually. “I hope so, Dinadan,” she says carefully. She sweeps her gaze around the Table. “We’ll reconvene tomorrow at the same time.”

If the king is better, she doesn’t say. She can see curiosity, doubt, maybe even hostility on some of the knights’ faces—Lionel looks particularly suspicious—but she turns her back on them and leaves the room.

Kay catches up with her in the hall. “Ma’am.”

Annoyance rears its head; she had been relieved to be able to show her true feelings on her face walking alone. “Yes, Kay, what is it?”

“I was just going to escort you, your majesty,” he says, undeterred by the irritation in her voice. He pauses. “And to tell you—you did well in there.”

She glances up at him. He sounds genuine. And, now that his small kindness is extinguishing her frustration, she can admit that she likes him. There’s a steadiness about him, a quiet security that isn’t threatened by ego, so unlike the other knights. She remembers suddenly that Kay is Arthur’s cousin, the same that led Arthur to pull the sword in an attempt to find a blade for a trivial tournament. He does not seem jealous of Arthur’s position; he does what his king asks, without complaint. And now, somehow knowing that she feels inadequate in this crisis, he compliments her. What a strange man.

“Thank you,” she says, a bit awkwardly. They walk in silence for a few moments. “You must love him very much,” she says finally, as they round a corner.

The twist of a smile. “Oh, he makes me want to throttle him sometimes, your majesty,” he says. “But. Yes. I do.”

“I haven’t known him for nearly as long,” she says, fighting her own smile, “but I feel much the same way.”

She’d meant the throttling, but he looks at her for a long moment. Whatever he sees in her face, he nods at. “I’m sure you do, ma’am,” he says quietly.

--

Kay doesn’t tell her anything more about the king’s condition, just leads her to the door of the king’s room and leaves with a bow. She has to shake off the sudden apprehension she feels standing in front of the door, alone. Arthur’s voice is coming faintly through the wood, and that must be a good sign. If he was silent, she reasons, pulling the handle, then she would know something was wrong. Perhaps her fears had been misplaced. Maybe he thought of an idea and simply had to share it with her. She will feel foolish for ending the meeting early, but there are worse things than feeling foolish.

She can see the king chattering at the physician as she approaches the bed. “—just lie still, your majesty,” the physician is saying, sounding haggard, but he turns at her approach. “Ah, my queen,” he greets, bowing hastily. “I’ll leave you—I must get a few things from my apothecary—”

He bustles out of the room before she can ask about the king’s condition.

“Your majesty,” she says, turning to the bed, perching on the chair the physician had left behind. The king in nightclothes now, covered up to his waist by a thick quilt, but he doesn’t look much better than he had in the hallway—pale except for the color high in his cheeks, hair a little mussed. And, she notes, looking closer, not entirely present. He’s quiet now, not looking at her, focused on something in the distance. It’s a familiar expression—when he is really deep in thought, he’ll adopt the same look, standing still in the middle of a room—made chilling by the glassiness of his eyes.

“Your majesty,” she repeats, concerned, “you were asking for me?”—and now he seems to hear her, because his head twitches and his eyes settle on her face.

“Oh, Genny!” he cries. “Merlyn was telling me we’d lost the war in France, but I told him I’d show you to him and prove him wrong. See, Merlyn”—and he’s looking away.

“Your majesty,” she says carefully, “there’s no one here but us.”

He looks at her, blinks dazedly, and there, he seems to see her again. “You are really here, aren’t you?” he murmurs, soft, unsure, raising a hand slowly as if to touch her. “You’re not something I dreamed up?”

Oh, and what if he’s gone mad? What if the fever has taken his brain and she’s left to rule this stoic, cultureless country alone? She tries to take a deep breath. Fevers give terrible dreams sometimes, she reminds herself, and maybe this is something like that. “No, your majesty,” she answers him.

“We really did win the war in France?” His breath is shallower than usual. “Sometimes I thought we’d be fighting forever, you know, just hacking away at the country until it was a bloody piece of meat. I’m not very good with a spear but I can use a sword alright. I don’t know how many people I killed. I don’t ever want to know.”

She is stunned at how forlorn he sounds. “You won the war,” she whispers. “You won me.”

“And then we traded one kind of death for another,” he continues hopelessly, “except it was your death, because we took your choice from you. I can’t begin to apologize for that, I can’t—”

The physician returns then, shattering the moment, and she’s too much in shock still to do much of anything but get out of his way.

“Your majesty, you must rest,” he chides the king. “Here, take this, it will help you to sleep—”

He helps Arthur drink the foul-looking draught he’s brought from the apothecary. It must taste as bad as it looks, for Arthur makes a face. “Merlyn,” he mumbles.

“Rest, milord,” the physician intones, gathering up his empty bottles on the nightstand. Guenevere watches as Arthur shuts his eyes. His brow smooths over. In moments, he’s asleep, vulnerable as a child.

“Is it—” she whispers, and the physician seems to realize she’s still in the room. At his probing look she clears her throat softly. “Is it a—dangerous sickness?”

The physician—she finally remembers his name is Gaius—sighs. “It might not be,” he admits. “It’s the season for fever, milady. Several of the knights have had some form of it in the last few weeks.”

“But?”

“But,” he continues, looking more grave, “it is a higher fever than I’ve seen recently. You’ve seen his moments of delirium. If it doesn’t pass in the next day or so—”

She has no thought for her expression, too caught in the tempest of worry building in her chest, but he must see something in her face because he stops and smiles, grandfatherly. “I’m getting ahead of myself,” he says.

“His dreams,” she says woodenly, meaning to ask a question, not remembering what she had wanted to say. The physician nods as though she had made perfect sense.

“The king has had vivid dreams just about as long as I’ve known him, your majesty. The fever seems to make them more palpable. It’s not a particularly bad sign.”

She swallows, trying not to think about Arthur’s pained expression. “What can be done?”

Gaius gathers up his medicine kit. “Watch and pray, milady,” he says. “I’ll send word if the king is better tomorrow.”

[candycryptids]

Finally finished writing my silly little thing about Urianger, Mochiie, and coping with Death 😵‍💫‼️

You can read it on Ao3 here

Notable tags are Referenced Character Death and Spoilers for A Realm Reborn patch 2.5 part 1

[kkujo]

bruabba and fugio are good ships however 80% of the people who post about them are annoying about it. like. same with jotakak and kakyoin stans actually. the way ppl obsess over them and water it down until it's so uwuified and far removed from the source that the characters are just bland and boring. idk where i was going with this

[basu-shokikita]

Skwisgaar Skwigelf can f🎸ck with your head

Inspired by @mirrorshards's suggestion to make a certain video I showed her about Skwisgaar and Toki, I’m posting this silly drabble I wrote. Original will be linked after the drabble ‘cause I don’t wanna spoil.

Thank you @triplefaggot for the screenshot edit 😚

Have some Scandinavian shenanigans!

“Stops, just stops.” Skwisgaar said without any emotion in his voice. “Comes here.”

Toki swallowed heavily, releasing the grip on his guitar. With insecure steps, he walked out of the booth, where Skwisgaar was waiting for him on the couch. As well as the rest of the band…and Knubbler.

They were in the middle of recording a new album and this week, especially, was dedicated to the rhythms section. After watching Murderface get chewed out for not learning his parts, Toki had spent the whole night practicing in panic. At the very least he couldn’t afford to be as pathetic as Murderface, who most of the time didn’t even know where the chords were. 

He had to do better.

Problem is, he had no idea if his efforts had given any fruit as Skwisgaar’s expression was more inscrutable than the guitar resting on his lap. Nathan and Pickles had adopted a completely laissez-faire attitude. As far as they were concerned, Toki was Skwisgaar’s responsibility and they didn’t want anything to do with it. Knubbler looked almost bored, his face resting on his hand, awaiting for Skwisgaar’s verdict. 

With deliberate slowness, Skwisgaar folded his hands in front of his face, as in deep thought. His eyes bore into Toki’s and it felt like they were piercing his soul. He would’ve felt naked standing there for Skwisgaar to watch, if it wasn’t for his guitar shielding him.

“You says you prackstickeds last nites, ja?”

“J-Ja.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Amazings.” Skwisgaar mumbled and Toki wasn’t sure he had heard him right, though he didn’t dare to ask him to repeat. 

Weakly, he cleared his throat. “Um…?”

“Toki,” Skwisgaar put his hands down. “I has a massive problemks with yous playingks today.”

Feeling like someone had thrown a rock down his stomach, Toki looked down and braced himself.

“And its dat I wish you playeds like dis before.” 

Toki raised his eyes, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “Skwisgaar!”

“Because if you hads,” Skwisgaar continued. “Dens I would knows yous playingks ams gonna be mines cause of deaths.”

“Oh…” Toki lowered his eyes again. “Sorries…”

“And by cause of deaths, ams talkingks abouts Obituaries’ Cause of Deaths.” Skwisgaar said. 

Obituary, the band? Like, the ones that made the classic death metal album Cause of Death? Was Skwisgaar praising him?!

Toki couldn’t help the excitement drumming in his chest, that Skwisgaar had compared his playing to such a quintessential part of death metal history. “Thank y-”

“You knows how the bassists’ cause of death was cancers?!” Skwisgaar interrupted him.

Okay, now he really was lost. “Skwisgaar,” He scratched his head in confusion. “I don’ts knows if you ams insultingks me or nots.”

“Oh you don’ts?” Skwisgaar stood up, seemingly infuriated. “Okej, den lets puts it simples and easies: packs your shits, dildos, yous off de bands!”

“Whats?!” Toki squeaked, feeling a rush of blood to his head.

“Whoa!” Nathan was just as shocked.

“Skwisgaar, th’ts a bit too much…” Pickles tried to calm him down.

Skwisgaar ignored his bandmates and kept talking. “Because you shoulds be playingks in de best bands in de worlds!” He opened his arms effusively.

Although still recovering from the previous shock, the words moved Toki. “Oh, Skwisgaars, dat ams…”

“Aren’t we the bescht band in the world?” Murderface intervened.

“Quiet, Willy.” Knubbler silenced him.

“Just nots any worlds dat ams in.” Skwisgaar crossed his arms, staring down at Toki. 

“Am really confused here, dood.”

“Yeah, me too.”

It was comforting in a way for Toki to know the others were just as puzzled as him, but he was still on the receiving end of the lecture. “Alls do betters…” He muttered with closed eyes.

“Because, honestlies, Tokes, ams jealous of you.” Skwisgaar said.

Toki’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “You ams?!”

“And yours totals refusals to cares abouts yous playingks.” He took a step closer towards Toki. “Dis ams not fits for humans ears, noes, dis shoulds be listeneds by gods what has mores sophistikateds ears and infinites kindness to save humans from playingks likes dis!”

Toki was barely registering the words anymore, his head was spinning, he felt dizzy, like he was caught somewhere between a dream and a nightmare. Well, maybe it was the fact that he stayed overnight practicing so he had had little rest. Maybe he had fallen asleep mid practicing and this was nothing but an illusion? Maybe he never left his bed this morning? Maybe this wasn’t happening?

“If you dieds now, dens you wouldnts has to lives a lives whats you never does betters dan todays.” Skwisgaar said, though none of those words made any goddamn sense.

“T-Thanks you, Skwisgaar…” Toki managed to stutter before collapsing on the floor.

The rest of the band watched his unconscious body as a less than impressed Knubbler went to get the Klokateers. Their faces denoted something between slight concern and total indifference.

“Well, you knocked the kid out, Skwisgaar.” Pickles finally spoke. “Ya happy now?”

“Uh, he looks dead.” Nathan commented with a grimace.

“He ams gonna be fines.” Skwisgaar waved a dismissive hand before letting his weight flop back on the couch.

“I’m gonna draw dicksch on hisch fasche.” Murderface announced, producing a sharpie out of his pockets.

“Will ya stop thinkin’ about dicks for a second?” Pickles gestured at Nathan to help him get Toki off the floor. 

“What? He totally did the schame thing to me lascht time I pasched out!”

“That was different.” Nathan argued. “You deserved it.”

“What?!”

“Whet were ya tryin’ to tell him, anyway?” Pickles stared at Skwisgaar in exasperation.

Skwisgaar, who had started fretting from boredom, stopped. “I thoughts it ams was obviousk.”

Pickles and Nathan gave each other glances before looking back at Skwisgaar. “No?” They said in unison.

Skwisgaar shrugged, fingers back on the strings. “It was just okejs.”

------------------------------------------------------------

If you recognized the skit this is from, bless your heart, and if not, here you go:

Congratulations, now you understand my elaborated shitpost

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

If you think women and girls being bombed is compatible with your feminist beliefs, you are wrong.

If you think women and girls being acceptable collateral damage to the things men have done is compatible with your feminist beliefs, you are wrong.

If you think retaliating by harming women and girls of one group for the harm done to women and girls of another group is compatible with your feminist beliefs, you are wrong.

If you think women and girls dying may be necessary to "liberate" the people, you are wrong.

[shoshiwrites]

from the 100 paired prompts list - ⁶¹⁾ peach pits and a pressed shirt collar for Jo and Joe. (yes you heard me.)

The sun rises early in late July, the beginning of August. She’s too warm, lying here in bed, unable to fall back asleep. Outside, a blackbird in a backyard tree sings. A warbler too, as she watches the light on the floor barely touch the murky outlines of their furniture — the dresser, the vase, the lamp, the mirror.

A sleeping Joe lies heavily beside her, soft snores and uncombed hair, the faintest stubble he’ll be shaving away in an hour at most.

Her tongue sticks in her mouth, tastes like teeth. Craving something. None of it’s been too strange, or at least no more strange than how she normally eats. Salt with the sweet, sour with the fat. She won’t ask him, she decides. She can take care of it herself. She can’t sleep anyway.

A few scattered mornings have seen her do this, take the car. Joe doesn’t mind, of course. He doesn’t put the work into it for nothing, he says. She’s dressed loosely, throws an old jacket on over all of it. Takes her wallet, her sunglasses. She almost smiles — it feels almost like stealing a Jeep. The air outside is fresh and cool, not yet hot with the afternoon sun.

The stand she’s thinking of is indeed open, a wooden sign wet with dewy grass. Plump peaches — Sugar May, the farmer calls them — brilliant nectarines and deep purple plums, delicate apricots, a few containers of cherries, like a lipstick ad in Technicolor, come to life.

She doesn’t know him well enough to dissuade the help loading a small box of the peaches into passenger seat, and something tells her he would’ve offered anyway. Something about him reminds her of something gone, his kind and wrinkled smile, faded flannel and work trousers, a lost summer afternoon before the war. He tells her to enjoy the fruit; she tells him she will.

Joe’s up by the time she’s back; she smells coffee from the open door when he’d gotten up from the table at the sound of the car pulling in. She sees his steaming mug on the blue-checkered tablecloth, hers set out on the counter. He’s dressed in blue too, collared chambray work shirt and darker trousers.

He looks surprised, at her early-morning mission, but doesn’t say so. Doesn’t look at her like anything other than who she is — the woman he married, the girl in love, the writer who chased the story halfway around the world and came home to him. He looks like a boy in love, when he looks at her.

“These look good,” he says, taking the box from her after his greeting, the good morning, the kiss he’d pressed to her lips after she’d set hers to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“I thought I might try and bake with them,” she says. “Evie sent over a recipe.”

She pushes her hair back behind her ear, catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Disheveled, hair a little wild from the open car window. Pink-cheeked. She wonders when the doctors are going to try and put her on bedrest. She’s getting there. She doesn’t know how she’s going to handle it.

He’s already holding one in his hand.

“Go on,” she says, smiling. “He wouldn’t let me leave without extras.” There’s a nectarine or two nestled in there, two clusters of plump cherries.

He doesn’t argue, only leans over the sink and bites. The door’s closed, the light beaming through the curtains he didn’t open. She can do this, now. Press her fingers to his, sticky from the sweet white flesh, ignore the clock on the mantle, kiss him breathless against her heart.

[gioiaalbanoart]

"Purity is fucking overrated."

Wow! I'm impressed (and a bit scared too) 👏👏👏

The Dinner Party of Adolescence

An internal monologue from Ives Gannet, the main character of my WIP novel Into The Vortex. Ives, the soon-to-be serial killer nicknamed the Portland Maneater, reminisces on how she chose to let her putrid nature develop back when she was still capable of stopping it.

1323 words // 6.5 minute read

Not a recommended read for those sensitive to mentions of sexual themes, murder and child molestation.

The only times I’ve felt true desire were those moments just before sleep. That’s the time most people tend to drift into yearning, right? They lay in bed and think of sweat-covered, glistening bodies and masturbate their worries away until they fall asleep. I do things a little differently.

My way of experiencing nightly desire seems to be less practical than the normal way, but that’s usually the case. These trains of thought never lead me to happy places – instead, to a tear-stained sleep and a jaw so tense it hurts in the morning. I don’t think of shirtless men with rippled abs or bikini-clad women, yet, I still find something to long for. I long for the desperate yearning of memories. I long to look behind me at everywhere I’ve been, and scramble back towards it, clammy hands reaching for the good that supposedly so heavily riddled my past. I long to be able to trace my winding trail of footsteps through the scenes I’ve seen, the homes I’ve lived in, the people I have loved, all the way back to my first everything – without feeling such an intense sorrow.

Even in the most benign-looking places I could visit in my head – break-times at my first school, the quiet walks in the local park, the kitchen of my childhood home – at any little disturbance, the bugs hiding in the cracks and the crevices will scuttle out of their hidey-holes, and I’ll remember. I’ll remember how disease and dirt has infected every experience I call my own. I’ll remember how other children would giggle amongst themselves and point at me as I paced the playground alone, I’ll remember only feeling safe enough to cry in the solitude of the deep woods, I’ll remember how much blood was on the kitchen floor and how I felt nothing when I saw my own mother’s lifeless body. Her head was pointed towards the door when I walked in, her mouth hanging open inhumanly wide, her trademark rosy cheeks a paper-white, eyes merely scattered with the remnants of fear. The fear I should have felt, too, but I didn’t.

All I felt was fascination. And then, I’ll remember why instead of lusting after memories, I fantasise about taking a gun and blowing them out of my head. They’re too irregular for me to understand. After a certain point, I stopped walking through life, and instead tripped over and was dragged through dirt to where I am now. I’m too tired to get up.

I don’t know why I’m like this. I just want to lose all comprehension of myself and rebuild my consciousness from scratch, because honestly, I think I’ve fucked up from my first thought. And unless I get a chance to start over, I’ll fuck up until my last breath.

If I were to try and rationalise myself – an admittedly bad habit that I sometimes try to get out of - I’d explain my current state as a consequence of my experience with sex and family and life being fucked up so young, so early into my development that I can’t see any point trying to be normal moving forward, because I never will be. Instead of doing what others do and push down any “forbidden” intrigues or desires, why shouldn’t I just embrace them? I never had the normality that they cling onto, so what have I got to lose?

I understand why so many psychologists jump to theories that serial killers and rapists were molested as children too, even when there’s no direct account to suggest it. It’s such a dark and morbid thing that, to the human brain, it’s only logical that things so vile must have sourced from another evil. To some extent, they’re right. Mixing childhood or trauma with sex can really, really fuck you up - if you let it. That’s the key to it that not many of these psychologists can ever get because they’re talking about experiences they will never have; it’s not as simple as “get molested, become a sexual deviant” with entire inevitability, it’s more like having the option of becoming an absolute fucking freak offered to you at the dinner party of adolescence, whilst everyone else was served “a thing for boys with brown hair” or “a thing for girls making fun of them”. Well, “offered”… you’re never able to refuse it completely.

See, the dish I was served, it had teeth, malice, and a thirst to ruin the life of the prepubescent it saw before itself. Before there was any hope in stopping it, it jumped up from the table and sank its teeth into my flesh. If you were to ask for forceps to rip it out, although the fight and the desperation would be gone, you’re still left with the wound, and then still left with the scar. You’re not truly free from it. But, you are free from the danger you could manifest. You know how to easily keep a lid on it.

Others like me immediately asked for the forceps – they were scared by something feeling wrong in their head and they cried to their parents about it, who quickly whisked them off to a child psychologist who knew what they were doing and knew how to ensure this child’s wounds turned into perfect, shiny scars. Something I struggle with when I look into the mirror each morning is that I liked the feeling of the curse gnawing at the muscle in my forearm. I was intrigued by these thoughts and that I was thinking beyond the trivial hand-holding that my classmates were discussing on the playground. But, most of all, I didn’t care that it wasn’t normal – because I never knew if I was normal! Pushed out of my family, pushed out of any conceivable social group in school, I never had a reference. So, I just never asked for the forceps. Because I didn’t know they existed. I looked at the demon making mince of my flesh and I took it as a fascination.

I know that’s not entirely my fault. I was just a kid – a very, very lonely kid – who didn’t know that her brain was driving on the other side of the road until it was too late. Everything just aligned too well – I was born morbid, I lived in morbid, and was in perfect shape to react to something like the murder in the way that I did. On the other hand, I feel like I still would have loved the way things were going even if I knew they shouldn’t be going that way. I didn’t want to stop this when I could, or to seek treatment when it would have made a difference. There’s no way to know, of course, but after all these years I have never been able to shake the feeling that my demented decisions caused all of this, and if I was a kinder person to myself, things wouldn’t be like this. I chose to be this way.

I am an evil reimagining that my holier self sees in the bathroom mirror each morning. I see her, too. I see her disappointment in what she knows is inside herself, and what she is capable of. To her, I embody filth. To me, she embodies everything I could have been. Just to scare her, I stare into her eyes sometimes until she starts crying.

Being so comfortable with what is vile about myself has led me to reject the parts of me that are wholesome and good. I want that cunt through the water-stained glass pane to wake the fuck up and realise she is already what she is so afraid of being; she has just sugar-coated everything to deceive others and hopes that she will eventually deceive herself. But - she won’t. I know she won’t. Because it didn’t work for me, either.

Purity is fucking overrated.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

character study