#you cannot breathe the pretty colors. you will die

[forter-from-meteos]

*insert half-hearted joke about the among us shapeshifter role here*

[laurentidal]

Intentions

"I know what you're up to, you know."

Cal turned and saw Mrs. Reynolds in the doorway. She'd come to visit her daughter, who had recently moved in with him. They hadn't met before yesterday morning when she'd arrived. They'd exchanged pleasantries, and the three of them had spent what he'd thought was a very nice weekend together. Ginny had just gone to bed and he was about to join her.

"I'm sorry?" he asked confused.

"This has been fun, but why don't you take a seat, Cal. I think it's time we put aside the game and speak plainly."

Having genuinely no idea what she was talking about, he agreed to sit.

"How long have you been working on this plan of yours?"

"Mrs. Reynolds I really am not sure what you're referring to."

"Oh please call me Joy. No reason to stand on ceremony now and even less reason to lie. We both know what you're really after, and I have to tell you that my daughter's inheritance is far from her grasp. I don't plan on shucking off this mortal coil anytime soon. It will be a long, long wait for you. Are you sure you're committed to the long haul?"

"I'm sorry. What inheritance, exactly?"

Joy raised an eyebrow. "The Reynolds Estate," she said simply. "When I die, Joy will be worth well over three hundred million dollars."

"WHAT?"

"Keep your voice down for God's sake. We've kept the truth from her so that she could live a normal life, but our competitors and our adversaries have always had eyes for her. People like you, Mr. Forman. It's my job to see that she'd protected."

She lifted a gold chain from between her breasts and at the end was a long sapphire teardrop.

"This is one of my more recent purchases. I've only had it about a year; hardly any sentimental value. Monetary value, however… It could be sold for nearly ten thousand dollars. It's yours if you admit to your deception and vow to give up the game."

The pendant spun gently on it's chain, catching the rays of the setting sun. It was beautiful and tempting. But Ginny was beautiful, too. And a gem would never love him the way she did.

"Consider your next move carefully, Cal. You can see this gem is worth a lot. You can see the perfection in its cut. You can see the richness of the color. Think long and hard about what your future is worth to you. Focus. Listen to my words. I'm giving you a wonderful opportunity."

Cal's eyes did indeed stay fixed on the crystal. He cursed himself in his own mind for even considering wealth over Ginny. But it was a lot of money. And the crystal was so pretty. The way it sparkled. The way it glimmered. The way…

"… it catches the light. You've been staring quietly so long it seems to me you've made up your mind, haven't you Cal. You want the gem. You can't think of anything else. It has captured you."

"Captured me…," Cal muttered weakly.

"Good. Now that your defenses are down, you will finally be honest with me. You must tell the truth, Cal."

"Yes, Mrs. Reynolds."

"Why did you pursue my daughter?"

"I think she's beautiful and fun." His voice seemed so far away, even to him. Words just tumbled out, unformed by his crystalized mind. "I love her."

"Nonsense. I told you you cannot lie. You must obey me, Cal."

"I obey, Mrs. Reynolds."

"Who are your parents, boy?"

"Stacy Forman and Gregory Forman, Mrs. Reynolds."

She paused. "You aren't related to John and Josephine Forman?"

"No, Mrs. Reynolds. I don't know anyone by those names."

Joy burst out laughing, causing the gem to wobble on it's chain. It's hold over Cal began to weaken. By the time she'd regained her composure, Cal was almost completely conscious again. He simply sat there, stunned by her revelation and her attempt to buy him off; and even more shocked by her success in entrancing him. He was almost too afraid to breath, remaining just as still as he had when he was under.

"What a fun turn of events. Of all the last names you could have had… Well in that case, Cal. I think I approve. You do seem like a lovely young man, now that I know you're not an interloper. I do have one condition, however."

She pulled off her dress, allowing her bare breasts to come into clear view.

"Ginny was making quite the assortment of sounds last night. I think you should give me the same treatment. After all, I'm going to make you very rich some day."

"Yes, Mrs. Reynolds," he answered, trying will all his might to pretend that she was still in control so that she would continue.

Thanks for reading! If you are a fan of my work, consider buying me a coffee. Any contribution is insanely appreciated. 💖

[quillpokebiology]

Torterra Facts

(Art by kouseki on Danbooru)

-The scientific name for Torterra is "Terrada Firma" which roughly translates to "Steadfast Land"

-Torterra are Testudines with their closest relatives being Blaistoise. They are both descendants of Caracosta

-Torterra are pokemon where both parents stay to raise their young. They often lay 5-10 Turtwig eggs at a time. Once hatched, they'll carry the young Turtwig around on their shells

-While most people are familiar with the standard/starter breed, which only has 1 tree, there are actually many different breeds of Torterra which can have different plants. My favorite breeds are the ones the resemble gardens

-A group of Torterra can be called either a forest or a garden

-They do very well with kids due to their patience, protective nature, and ability to empathize with others

-Torterra are very protective pokemon and have been known to adopt other pokemon, even if they're not the same species! They're also known to let other smaller pokemon live on their backs, and they go out of their way to defend defenseless pokemon. Because of their gentle, protective, and caring nature, many people use them as a way to help younger kids get used to larger and more scarier looking pokemon

-For centuries, Torterra's shell has inspired a lot of armor in Sinnoh

-Torterra are the only starter pokemon that are expected to live 100+ years, with some Torterra living up to 250 years! It's important for trainers to have a plan for their Torterra when they die

-Like Aggron, Torterra are known for purposely planting and gardening. Researchers aren't sure why, as they don't need to food. It could be that they are planting for other pokemon or that they just find the flowers pretty

-While Turtwig can swim, Grotle and Torterra cannot. Torterra can still hold their breath for a long time, and will sit at the bottom of small ponds to nap once in a while

-As Torterra age, their trees will fall, and their leaves will turn brown. By the time they fully die, their leaves are the color of autumn leaves

-Younger Torterra have more vibrant green colors

-There is a very old Sinnoh Legend that the world we live on is on the back of a sleeping Torterra

-When threatening another pokemon, Torterra will stomp, roar, and stand on their hind legs. While wild Torterra don't usually threaten humans (they'll either leave you alone, come up to check you out, or even act alp friendly to you), just walk away because they won't attack you if you get out of their way

[00127am]

SETLIST FOUR : give it up for viva la vida nine!

@ shangri-la as the lead singer of viva la vida nine, you have little interest in anything other than your band and stealing the attention of the crowd from any other competitors. until you watch rival lead singer of pantera, nakamoto yuta, preform. cocky, charismatic, cavalier nakamoto yuta. the same nakamoto yuta who you cannot stand (him and the way he makes your knees feel weak). after that, you're much more interested in stealing his attention (though you'd rather die than admit it).

THURSDAY, AMP 08:00PM

Ten nudges your shoulder, a cheshire grin plastered against his lips as he signs hello to you, tilting his head to get a better look at the scowl on your face. The delight he takes in his constant teasing is nearly palpable, visible in the soft squint of his eyes and the lopsided quirk of his dimples. His hair falls over his eyes in thin strands, blonde bangs long enough to skim the bridge of his nose. His roots are growing in, dark brown hair burning at his scalp and slipping underneath the brighter blonde that frames his face with a doting curve. Blue colored contacts blink back at you but they do little to mask the teasing lit in his eyes. 

“You really kicking me out?” His voice is still muffled, even with his cherry lips pressed up against your ear (sure to leave a vivid mark of his lipstick) and you find yourself biting back the hint of a smile. He can sense it too and you feel his lips curve into a broader smile, hot breath sticking to the curves of your ear and forcing a movement in your earrings. 

“Keep it up and maybe I will,” you try your best to sound annoyed but there's too much affection in your voice to mistake the statement as anything with veracity. 

Your response makes your bandmate hum, a low, baritone sound that mixes in too closely with the tuning of Johnny’s bass guitar for you to differentiate them. His fingers momentarily intertwine with yours, giving you a quick squeeze, before he’s raising his hands. Ten’s always had pretty hands, long fingers coated in tarnished gold rings and fingernails painted a vibrant color that always matches your own in some way or another. And when he signs with those pretty hands, he’s fluid and elegant. He signs the way he dances, each motion seamlessly flowing into one another to the extent in which you’re unsure of where one starts and the other ends. 

The way he signs Yuta’s name is clunky, unused and unpracticed. The signs are choppy, each syllable pronounced with a harsh movement of his hand. He didn’t have to sign it, you didn’t need any other indication that he was about to preform than the shift of the curtain and the whine of the mic. And unlike Ten’s signage of his name, Yuta is anything but clumsy and unappealing to the eye. 

If you heard the words that Ten was speaking against your ear and signing in front of you, you didn’t acknowledge them. So utterly captivated with the rival lead singer just a few hundred feet away that everything else has faded out with the sharp ring in your ears and the blur of your peripheral. Everything but him. 

“You sure you don’t like him?”

09:35PM

“What are you so focused on?” 

Johnny’s voice is just short of amusement, volume fluctuating with the strum of a few here and there cords from the band currently on stage--hooking up their instruments with the familiar squeal and whine of feedback. The question is directed to the lead singer who’s currently comfortably relaxed against the back bar of the venue, elbows digging into the wood paneling and head tossed ever-so-slightly back. His lips are pulling into a smug look of satisfaction, an expression otherwise unnoticeable if not for the benefit of knowing Yuta for so many years. There’s a cigarette held in between slim fingers and metal rings, unlit and crumpled as the blonde unconsciously toys with it as if he has forgotten it’s there in the first place. Not many things can make Yuta forget about a smoke. Not many people. In fact, his bandmate struggles to think of just one. 

And in classic, expected fashion: Yuta declines the privilege of a reply. But it doesn’t take long for Johnny to follow the line of his vision. Sliding over tousled hair and through crowds of groupies. Past the small security detail on the left and just before the barricade of the stage. Straight towards you. He grins, the full extent of his entertainment showing on his face as clear as day. Even though Yuta wasn’t looking, he could feel it. It’s enough to cause the smallest twitch in his eye as he readies himself for the inevitable, taunting comment. 

“Oh, I see,” he nudges the blondes shoulder, “Lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,”

If anything were to get his acknowledgement in this conversation, it would certainly be the topic of recognizing you. Or, misidentifying you. Yuta turns partially, brows set in a downward line and lips pulled into a pout. Expression scrunched and eyes narrowed as he finally dignifies Johnny with a response. 

“What? No,” 

Johnny returns Yuta’s puzzled countenance with one of his own, raising his brow as his tongue pushes against the bottom row of his teeth. He swallows, looking to his bandmate and then to you, and then Yuta, again, and then back to you. He blinks a few times before raising a thin hand, knuckles a soft red and veins catching on the dim orange hues of the bar. Johnny gestures in your direction, finger perfectly poised at the back of your head. “So you’re not staring at her,” 

And Yuta follows like a moth to a flame, eyes slipping against the flesh of the older man’s finger, skimming his nail, before meeting the forty-five degree angle of your jaw. He looks longer than necessary, a few seconds of a lingering glance which Johnny notes with a miniscule upwards dart in the corner of his lips (one that if Yuta had noticed he would have returned with a scowl). The confusion of the situation allows for leeway in an honest admission, words slipping out without a single thought on the matter. A confession met without penance. “Yeah, I am,” 

“Right. Yn. The lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine,” 

“No,” Yuta’s fully turned now, shooting Johnny an incredulous look that matches his tone, “That’s my fan,” 

The emphasis on ‘my’ doesn’t fall on deaf ears. Nor does the conscious (or unconscious) decision to use it. You’re not ours, not Pantera’s, but Yuta’s. And based on his tone, Yuta’s alone. Knowing you (or at least the stories about you), Johnny doesn’t think that would be a sentiment that you would find particularly endearing. He meets his bandmate’s gaze with an equally perplexed one, tone in disbelief and perhaps the slightest hint of vexation that is mellowed over by the amused lit to his words. “Your fan? Don’t tell me she’s the one who you’re all lovey dovey for,”

“I’m not lovey dovey,” it’s the wrong denial provided as Yuta waves him off lazily, rolling his eyes, “It’s just interest. Can’t I be interested in one of my fans?” 

My. Again. 

“Not when your supposed fan is the lead singer of our rival band,” 

And with those words being said (for what feels like the millionth time), Johnny swears he can hear the slightest snap in Yuta’s patience, a sharp sound that’s as clear as the strings on his bass. “She’s not the lead singer of Viva La Vida Nine. I met her after our last gig, I watched her the whole set. I’m telling you she’s-” 

“Yn of Viva La Vida Nine,” 

Your voice is entangled with the audible whine of the mic on stage, pulling Yuta’s attention with a harsh tug and the whisk of his eyes back to the center of the bar. He turned so quickly, so urgently that Johnny swears he got whiplash. An idea that bubbles laughter in the back of his throat, a sound that Yuta has all but cut out. There’s no bandmate, there’s no cheering crowd, no clink of the bottles at the bar, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Well, but you. 

Yuta Nakamoto considers himself to be a rather practical man. He’s never worshiped anything. Never fallen into the thinly veiled trap of complete and utter obsession. He’s not an addict, not someone who is constantly chasing the adrenaline of a high. He sticks to what’s in front of him, what he’s good at, what can make a crowd scream or earn him a few more bucks then the last song did. He has never faltered with any desire. Any compulsion. Craving. Yuta Nakamoto is a practical man through and through. 

But, oh god, it’s taking all he has not to fall to his knees and worship you.

@ previous @ home @ next

🧾 © 00127am 2024

[hughiecampbelle]

Numen (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Roman

Word Count: 1,299

Requested: Can you do Roman with the “I’m in love with my best friend ” trope, but there’s a boyfriend or whoever is in the way, with a happy ending? - anon

Inspired By: Born To Die by Lana Del Ray

Tag: @locke-writes

A/N: Am I so nervous I want to barf? Perhaps lol. I miss my old writing style, so I'm trying it out again. Is it any good? I think so. I really love it. Will you? I hope so. It's heavily inspired by the songs which I love. I'd love to know what you think my loves!!! Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

You used to think He could save you. That He was your salvation, your savior, your God. That if you prayed, if you repent, if you bow to your knees till they bleed that you might be worthy enough for Him. He liked the gruesome way your spine bent as you prayed, the spokes sharp, bloody. All of them, your whole life, spent their every waking breath berating you. Your posture, your mind, your beauty. Too little, too much. He was perfection, proof of God, Godlike in his own right. He was powerful and pretty and he knew it. He knew that a moment of His attention would keep them calling. Pews filled so that they might hear His word, so that they might stand in His light. You thought if you shared in that light, if you basked in the glow, then you might be holy. You might be worthy. Divine. It’s been years now, those rosary beads around your neck like a string of pearls. The burning cross embedded in your skin where they cannot see, for His eyes only. You sleep between hymns, exhausted, stuck, unsure of who you are without His wisdom, wondering how you got so lost in the first place. This is not a happy marriage. This is not a religion or a calling, it is a trap. It has been from the very beginning. The halo He wears is a cheap knockoff. Faux. His bible is full of false numbers and a god complex, an inflated ego. You plead to Him every night, but He rarely listens. To them, His fans, the men and women who throw themselves on to him, they are His people. They are His angels. His disciples. You have spent your entire relationship doting on him, preserving his happiness, his every word, and yet you still aren’t enough. You are a mere mortal. You always have been. There is no eternity between you. You were born to die. 

He sees you again, for the first time in a long time. You’ve got this light about you, this gentleness. Every move, every word, out of a film. Out of the bible. Your laugh is proof of divinity. As if no time has passed. Your Roman, those big puppy-dog eyes speckled with gold, with joy. You’re not sure how you wander away from Him, not that He seems to notice, but his grasp around your hand loosense. He speaks sweetly to someone far younger, someone looking for a philosopher to worship. Your arms find their way around Roman. He doesn’t shrink away as he does to so many others. He does not flinch or wince or limp like a wounded animal. He finds his place with you, in your golden aura, holding you so tight, holding his own breath. The drink in his hand remains unsteady, shaking, but only out of excitement, out of relief. If you could remain that way for the rest of time you would. You are the first to pull away, then close again, needing him, needing this. He smells the same. Crème vanille. Sickeningly sweet, sugary. Familiar. Nostalgic. Your head finds his shoulder and everyone else in the house has disappeared. Only you and him, how it should have always been. He is blushing now, just like he did when you were kids. 

You don’t say anything for a while, instead leading him through the crowd out towards the balcony. They are only here for him anyways. You have never mattered to them, his followers. You are an obstacle, you are a burden, a non-believer, something  in their way of gaining true enlightenment. He follows obediently, taking in your home. Grand, creme colored, dull. None of it feels like a home. None of it feels like a place you could grow old. He will never grow old. His looks have barely changed since you met. They are infinite. You can see the lines around your eyes deepen already. Oh well. You take his glass and sip from it, a habit you have yet to break from childhood. He is full of questions. How many years has it been since you’ve seen one another? Too many, you think, though he has yet to change. You smile despite yourself. Your first love, your mortal friend, here beside you, looking at you, taking you all in, as if you are an angel before him. No one has looked at you like this in a long time. You want to soak it in.You grow shy in his presence, thirteen again, afraid to show him your scars before he showed you his. Matching childhoods. Matching neglect. This was something He could never understand. The slam of a door, the cold silence, the cruel way He looks at you, much like your father, like his. He has lived lifetimes before you and will long after you. You are a moment in his story, a name, but not for long. To Roman, you are everything. You are the whole religion. 

You catch yourself laughing, really laughing, your hands on his chest. It’s an odd sound to hear after so long. Foreign. He is all nervous smiles and fond eyes. He never takes them off you. Not when He makes a toast with one of them at his side, where you should be, drunken hands wandering where they shouldn’t. Not when He disappears. Not when He is in your bed with them. You tell him everything. Every secret, every shame, every single thing despite it being sacreligious. He doesn’t know what to say. Neither do you. What have you done? You can feel it already, their wrath. Not only his followers, his disciples, but your blood as well. How furious they’d be if they knew what you were doing, who you were turning to. You excuse yourself, but he grabs on to you, his grip fierce, the expression on his face serious, dark. He can’t let you go. Not now, not ever again. He could be a God, but god could he give you all the happiness you ever deserved. He could give you the life you always wanted. Not the begging, the pleading, the fighting. No more screaming. No more mass. No more eyes following, criticizing, scrutinizing. A home full of laughter, of memories, of a love you haven’t felt since you last saw him. This? What was this? A fancy house, with fancy strangers and bad booze. It was clear from the moment he saw you: you were miserable. 

Trapped. The ring burns around your finger, a reminder. You promised yourself to Him, and He did the same, but only one of you has followed through with those vows. I can’t, you say. You can’t leave him. You can’t leave this life. This coven. You have flown too close to the sun. to leave would be admitting defeat. You already have, he says, and you realize he’s right. Years you spent devoted to Him, your marriage, your future. He never intended for there to be a future. He never wanted you in the first place. Deals were made, arrangements decided, a ring from His grandmother. You were nothing more than a signature on a contract, a sum of money, an adopted surname. You converted. You sang every song and worshiped every stupid fucking word and still you were not good enough. Still he chooses them over you. Still you are the imperfect child your father hated, the same broken person Roman has spent every day since you met loving. Falling for you over and over again. If you don’t go with him now, if you don’t leave Him, you will never get the chance to again. You will never leave. You have to. How can you say no to him?

[livinggdeadgirl]

female¡reader x Charlie walker

Contents/warnings: stalking,obsession mentions of murder,swearing, late night calls from ghostface and slightly smutty

Not proof read(I’m sorry)

Late night call from ghostface 👻

✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.* ✧.*

It was a late autumn evening and you had just gotten home from work you laid your keys down onto your table and went to take a shower not realizing that you had left your window slightly ajar, once you were inside your muscle relaxing shower with your music all the way up blasting your favorite song, every breath you take by the police Charlie watching from the bushes right outside your bedroom creeps his way towards your window and quietly makes his way inside stopping for a moment to take in his surroundings and the scent of your vanilla perfume, he makes his way over towards your table where you had left you keys and next to them were your clothes for after your shower he picks up your nicely folded korn band T-shirt and lifts it to his face and takes in the scent of your freshly washed shirt and whispers to himself “god she’s so fucking perfect” just as he heard you shutting off the water he hurriedly but as quietly as he could made his way out of your window and back outside not knowing he still had your shirt in his hand, as you made your way out of you bathroom to get dressed you saw your clothes unfolded and on your bed and you thought out loud “huh I could have sworn I got a shirt out to wear and folded them” but dismissed it and blamed it on you being exhausted until two hours later when you are in your bed reading a book when rory just cannot contain himself anymore with your shirt still in his hand and him watching you read your book he pulled out his burner phone and dialed your number and waited for it to ring and for you to pick up “hello? Who is this?” You say into the phone but all you receive back is heavy breathing, “hellooo? Who the fuck is this” you say getting annoyed and just as you were about to hang up you received your answer “I think you know exactly who this is” rang in your ears as the infamous ghostface voice “you look so pretty like that laying on your stomach with your feet in the air..what book is that?” You felt your stomach drop and you frantically look around your room “ok who the fuck is this!? Is this some kind of sick joke?” You say terrified but receive no response other than laughing “ fuck you I’m hanging up now” just as you hung up the phone it rang again “what the fuck leave me alone you freak” you say still scared shitless “YOU HANG UP ON ME AGAIN ILL STRING YOU UP NAKED LIKE THE WHORE YOU ARE AND GUT YOU AND LEAVE YOU FOR EVERY ONE TO SEE!” you don’t know why but you felt a burning sensation in your stomach and thighs you thought to yourself “what the fuck no you aren’t getting turned on by a masked killer no” he watched you still with a slightly less terrified look on your face squirm around a little from where you are sitting he says just above a whisper “you dirty little whore you like that don’t you?”

You say back “what? No!”.. “ I think you’re lying to me… let’s play a little game ok?”

You say “wha- what kind of game?”

“It’s simple really he says chuckling you tell the truth and you don’t die tonight “

“O- okay” you say as you breathe nervously.

“Good… now tell me do you like it? Do you like being talked to like you’re nothing” he says

As told you awnsered truthfully “yes”

“Do you know I watch you everyday in school at your work at your home”

“No”

“Good job”he chuckles lightly.. “I even watch you in cinema club at the desk you perch yourself on in the front of the class looking up at me”

You lose all color too you

“Oh god… cinema club?… “ch-Charlie?” “What the fuck Charlie are you the one out here killing people?”

He sighs “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to figure out” he drops the voice changer and you hear his pathetic whiny but oh so sexy voice

“But how? You’re so quiet you literally only have one friend what?”

He says in a whiny voice.. “you… 4 years and this is what it takes for you to notice me” you heard his whiny voice breaking and shaking it almost sounds like he’s about to cry “Charlie I’m sorry… you say quietly, please don’t hurt me Charlie”

He says almost at a whisper “I could never hurt you I’ve been in love with you for 4 years” you take note of the shakiness in his voice and it breaking and you quietly say “ I won’t tell anyone Charlie”you say in a sigh and you shift you body knowing he can see you into a more revealing position “but I think I want more calls like this….. goodnight Charlie I have work tomorrow” you say and hang up your phone and turning your light out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Note: this is my first time ever writing and putting out anything publicly I know I’m not the best and if there’s any advice anyone would like to give on how to improve my writing and writing style I am open to it all. thank you!

[emo-gremlin]

Hey, you're cool! *hands you more MFN as memes/vines*

🎬

Lenard: what's cooler than being cool?

Gordon: financial stability

🎬

Lilianna: an octopus is just a wet spider

Ricky: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

🎬

Lenard: SOMEBODY ONCE TOLD ME THE WORLD WAS GONNA-

George: end on December 21, 2012. I bought all this fucking pasta as a way to celebrate the end of the world and now I'm $10,000 in debt, my taxi got towed and I have wet pasta everywhere in my house

Lenard: ...I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed

🎬

Ricky: swear words are illegal now, say one and you'll be fined

Handy: heck

Ricky: you're on thin fucking ice

Ricky: oh no

🎬

Lenard: what if mayonnaise came in cans?

Lilianna: that would suck because you can't microwave metal...

Noir: *walking by drinking coffee* good morning to everyone except you people

🎬

Noir: anyone wanna get into an argument with me?

Ricky: ok cream cheese isn't that good

Noir: I was kidding but you know what fuck you for real

🎬

Unfriendly Lenard: I hate being high, why I hear footsteps?

Craig: are you walking?

Unfriendly Lenard: oh shit

🎬

Junebug: vanilla soy latte is just 3 bean soup

Gordon: why must you do this at 5am

🎬

George: a haiku for the bus drive who deliberately cut me off

George: *clears throat*

George: I swear to God bruh, let me catch you in the streets, bruh I swear to God

🎬

Unfriendly Lilianna: I find the fact I will never experience a sword fight in my entire life terribly tragic

🎬

Lenard: sorry, liberals, there's only 0 genders

Junebug: there's one gender ad we have to share

Craig: Gordon said its my turn on the gender

🎬

Norman: I wanna jump off a building and not die. Just relieve stress by slamming into the sidewalk and then get up and go get a slurpee or something

Ricky: Norman are you ok

Norman: no ❤️

🎬

Norman: *screams into jar* everything is fine :)

🎬

Gordon: I saw your last report card

Noir: *not even looking up from his phone* congrats you can see

Gordon: oh so you wanna be smart?

Noir: that's why I go to school

🎬

Gordon: hey Junebug how are you today?

Junebug: I swallowed a golf ball!

Gordon: uh- are you ok?

Junebug: I can't poop! :D

🎬

Ricky: hey Lillianna

Lillianna: can you get in the oven and clean it?

Ricky: bye Lillianna

🎬

Junebug: if it weren't illegal I would eat cereal for every meal of the day

Gordon: I have some wonderful news for you

🎬

Gordon: Noir asked everyone at dinner what color Norman's new shirt was. After we all said grey, he turned to him and said, "Now tell them what color you think it is." And Norman just quietly replied, "Dark white."

🎬

Lilianna: Lasagna is just spaghetti flavored cake

Fritz: I will pay you money to never speak again

🎬

George: fellas is it gay to fall in love with another man and spend your life with him

Gordon: that is the literal definition of gay

George: :0

🎬

Gordon: *texting the puppets* At airport! Bye guys! Love ya to the moon and back, you're the best! Bust a nut!

Noir: I'm not sure Gordon knows what that means

Tax: I Physically cannot breathe

🎬

Lilianna: God released me into the wild and now he's hunting me for sport

🎬

Fritz: where can I order a pretty face

George: from your mirror

Tax: WHEN DID EVERYONE IN THIS HELL STUDIO BECOME SMOOTH AF

Lenard: 2023: the year the Neighborhood learned how to flirt

Norman: oh my

🎬

Noir: 1 universe, 9 planets, 7 seas, 7 continents, 809 islands, 204 countries, and I had the unfortunate luck of meeting you

Tax: THERE ARE 8 PLANETS YOU UNCULTURED SWINE

Noir: VIVA LA PLUTO FUCK YOU

Gordon: I'm pretty sure 'viva la Pluto fuck you' is the best sentence I've ever heard

🎬

Craig, Fritz and UF Fritz belong to: @gayfraggle

[yourlocaldisneyvillain]

tw: trauma, sexual assault

personal poetry in prose. do not recommend reading, honestly. will delete later!

the time has passed, you ran out of it. you will never be 17 again (thank god thank god thank god, i say as i mourn the fact i will never be 17 again). 

i would do anything to go back and rewrite the past, make her love me somehow, make them all care. i cared, i cared, i cared, and no one cared quite as much as i — now i’m broken and there are those who care more than i do. they spill their soul to me, and i watch them as cold indifference and pity overwhelm me. i say generic words to them, like they once said to me. they bleed and i watch. i know i cannot help. no one helped me, and i shattered like glass. i drag the glass to each new day and i stab myself on the shards. i brush my teeth and step on a broken piece. the broken piece is my own leg. i smile and i drink pear-flavoured beer and i say words of love i never quite mean, and i work, work, work so i don’t fall behind again (i’m so tired). the one thing i couldn’t stand is to be a nobody. i must make something of myself and then, maybe, the void will not be so vast and dark. 

i think about the smell of her scarf. i’ve never loved cigarettes more than when she smoked. i remember the little hairs on her neck and jaw and her little beauty marks. i was never happier then when i held her in my arms — in that moment in time, frozen forever for me to have, she is peacefully asleep on my shoulder as the bus drives on, and i feel at home. that day, she cried about a boy and i told her he wasn’t worthy of her — he wasn’t. i guess i wasn’t either.

i never had the ones i truly wanted — and i fully had the ones i didn’t truly want. i can have anybody, except the woman i call home. i am doomed to yearn. i remember her fingers on my back, and i wonder how it would feel if my first time was a loving one, instead of someone’s perverse hunger and the sinking feeling of realising i didn’t shave while prying hands touched me and i let out the saddest sounds i ever sang. there were a girl’s things in his room. i never judged her, i just wondered how she could bring herself to do it. i wore a mint green bra with white dots (it took me years to throw it away). before that, the very first time, i had a long, colorful skirt and a stomachache for weeks. i couldn’t eat. my mother told me calls from abroad are expensive. 

my mother wanted me to buy a prom dress, and i wanted to die. can i touch there, he asks? yes, i say, because why would you ask if you already did? i am on all fours on the bed and i breathe. i wonder if i’m imagining his hands because they don’t feel real. my dad asks if i’m on drugs after new year’s. i’m not, i’m just sinking, and the void is all-consuming. the years are muddled. she came to my place. she was pretty while she smoked. her hair was black as night, my very own morticia addams, like in the movies. except she was never quite mine. i was in sweden and she told me she missed me. when i returned, she barely looked at me. i told her about don giovanni. the waitress loved it. we went on a trip. the years are muddled. 

i freeze while everybody watches and he laughs. did you enjoy it that much, he asks and i have no words. he teases me when i put makeup on. when i ask an older girl if he’s the like that with her, she tells me i’m overreacting. i never mention it again. he’s my ticket away from the hell i’m in, and i don’t dare turn away. he talks to me about orgasms. i am silent. he is angry with me, and he tells me i am no longer a child, i am a woman (i’m 16, i’m 16, i’m 16 and i want to die). 

my ticket away from hell is gone. i find another one. he is better, but worse, because he’s always in my house. i didn’t ask for him. i didn’t want it. and then, after three years of him convincing me i want it, i don’t know anymore — i did show him the drawings. does it matter what i want? what does it mean to want? i have always wanted, and i never had what i so craved. i was the object of desire, but never allowed to desire — my desire is futile. what i desire, i eat and swallow and chew on, i don’t let it spill out of my treacherous mouth. she never knew i loved her. i swallow my love and desire whole and it sits in my stomach and it makes me ill. i throw up and i drink ginger tea that doesn’t help the constant nausea. i listen as he instructs me how to fuck myself.

i scream in my own personal hell. the sun lights chopin’s heroic polonaise, a triumphant cry of victory. i leave. i scream long after they’re all gone.

we never had those cheese fries and i never saw the brooklyn bridge. i feel robbed of my youth. i still crave, i still yearn.

i will never be 17 again. 

[ch0cocrave]

yk, I think something that really scares me in this horror stuff is the body dysmorphia, and just being trapped. im mainly talking about poppy playtime, tadc, and Amanda the adventurer.

in poppy playtime, human KIDS were forced into a toy body against their will and having to deal with that. it's unknown if they remember their life before the transfer, but in chapter one, in the Huggy vent chase, there is writing on the wall and at one point you can see the phrase "this isn't my body!" Just the horrors of being taken deep underground and undergoing a traumatizing process, coming out scarred and fucked up. And you're stuck like that. Catnap's throat I believe is all fucked up because he can't talk or breathe properly. And Huggy and Kissy are super unstable due to the lack of bones in their arms and legs.

then tadc is horrible in a whole different way. You wake up in a whole new non-human and unrealistic body, and ur stuck in a world that defies everything you were used to. the physics, the looks, the touch- everything feels unreal, like you're trapped in a dream. but you know ur trapped in a world where you have no real control for yourself. and you know you can't die here. you live on forever, but always with the threat of "abstracting" and staying in a deep dark hole, being trapped there forever. Just knowing that there is no way to escape this world or body ur trapped in sounds.. terrifying to me.

Amanda the Adventurer is pretty similar. Amanda used to be a girl named Rebecca (if I recall correctly, it's been a while) who was transferred into a computer. and she grew so lonely and trapped that she started bringing people into the computer with her. And her anger against Wooly makes sense -- I think he only exists to keep her trapped and to keep her from going insane.

The horror that really gets to me is stuff like that; psychological and existential horror. Have u ever heard of Jim's Computer? That one is really good.

But yeah see this is why "dumb little kid's games / shows" really get to me sometimes. I think so deeply about it, and I imagine myself in the world, and it scares me, but it also really captivates me.

I cannot wait to see the dark stuff in tadc. tadc is so brightly colored and super goofy and comedic, so dark moments would just be freaking awesome. I love dark themes.

All of this makes me furious that content farms even exist in the first place. LIKE THIS SHIT AIN'T FOR KIDS. IN. ANY. WAY.

Also, new episode in a couple of days... YEYSHDBJFB3KBDBDL1EJBKJFEBJFELQ FWRL JL

[wild-karrde]

Happy Fandom Friday!

I want to highlight two artists and two WIP fics.

These artworks by @patchmates are AMAZING. First we have Wolffe and Fox. And then we have Cody. Look, I’m usually intimidated by bigger men but WOW do these guys do it for me. Their arms! I want to squeeze them. (I also have to emphasize Wolffe’s tattoos—I am desperate for a neck and chest reveal because the hints of tattoos are a tease I can’t look away from.) The breadth of their chests is to die for; coupled with the black bodysuit and I can’t look away. Wolffe and Fox with their confident smirks; Cody looking so at peace and content 😩

And the second artwork is another Cody by @razzbberry. I wish I could speak artist lingo because I don’t know how to fully describe my emotions when looking at this. The coloring on this is STUNNING. The way Cody’s scar looks like a lightning bolt—the detail is impeccable. The emotion in his face is so impressive, and it hurts. I just think it’s a pretty artwork.

Now, onto the fics.

I want to recommend @ariadnes-red-thread for The Last Word. I thought I had recommended this when I first read it, but thinking back, I don’t think I ever did. So I want to rectify that. I’m not a Fives girly and I’ve never read fanfic of him, but I randomly came across this and it has me hooked. Mal is such a fantastic character, and I love Aria’s portrayal of Fives as flirtatious but also sensitive. The second chapter sets up for a story that promises to be emotionally fraught and hot, and I’m so excited to see where it goes.

I also want to recommend Erin’s (@sleepingsun501) Sweet True Lies. Again, I know. Bear with me. Chapter 4 dropped last weekend and it’s something I’ve been looking forward to for months. All I have to say is: Erin portrays Fox with such a sweet, soft side and it kills me. His natural charisma kills me. Everything about him kills me. (The way he talks about Keeda is so poetically attractive, it makes my heart hurt😩)

AHHHH ALLI THESE ARE ALL SUCH GOOD RECS!!!

I absolutely ADORE how Kit draws the clones! Their expressions and physiques are EVERYTHING. And that Cody piece by Nils took my BREATH away when I saw it this week! The color palette and silhouettes and every detail is just SO GOOD. The longer I looked at it, the more I just kept saying "wow" lol.

And the fics that you chose are WONDERFUL! I love how Aria writes Fives, and Mal is SUCH a cool OC. I am sitting on the edge of my seat for the next installation (TAKE YOUR TIME ARIA!). And the way Erin writes Fox in STL is SO SOFT and yet, he's SO SMOOOOOOOTH. The last line of the last chapter had me absolutely shrieking, and I CANNOT WAIT to get to know more about Keeda!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR SENDING ALL OF THESE IN!

Participate in Fandom Friday to show your favorite creators from this week some love! :)

[domes]

part, 03

Prompt:  "In a hole in the ground there lived a..." As the boxes burn the flames shift colors, I always forget how entrancing fires are. “Hey,” Seth snaps his fingers I front of my face, “are you alright? You’re breathing really heavy.” I set the prairie dog carrier down and check my pulse. “Yea, it must be the elevation, or I’m just freaked out, I don’t know, I think I’m fine.” Seth looks back down to the lodge and the lights come back on. “Ok we gotta move pretty fast but you’re gonna need a coat, hold on.” He runs into the cabin leaving the door open. A thick Carhartt hoodie about a size too might flies out the door, followed by one of those cat backpacks with a dome window.  Seth sets to transferring the prairie dogs to the backpack, “I didn’t get your name.” I put on the hoodie, “K” I go by “K.” He hands me the prairie dog backpack. ” Ok, K, nice to meet you, I truly hope you don’t die tonight, you’re carrying the prairie dogs, because they tend to piss when they get moved like this, and I’m not risking my ass and getting piss down my back at the same time, good with you?” I adjust the strap and try to judge the heft of the backpack as the prairie dogs shift back and forth throwing my balance off, “yea thanks, but what’s happening?”  Seth hands me a flashlight, “The fucks that kill the power will also kill you, I don’t know what they are but they killed my weird ass prairie dog owning coworker friend and nobody cared, hell the company didn’t even replace her. Now I have to do twice the work, and keep you from getting got too.”   We hike up into the darkness. Among the scraggly mountain pines the slow onset of dawn feels both inevitable and like it will never fully come. When we slow enough for me to catch my breath I ask Seth, “I feel a little weird following you, like what is even happening?” Seth stops for a second and I’m am so grateful for the chance to breathe. “Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you, I’m going to do what I am going to do, I’ve stopped them before and I even think I killed one, it’s complicated and I fell ass end into this, it’s not my thing, you can come with me and maybe live or do whatever you want, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t have the fucks to give to try to convince you, but if you leave you have to take John, Odie, and Nermal with you.” I check my phone and it finally turns back on, but we’re far enough from the highway that I get no signal, “Are you serious with this?” Seth starts walking again, “Mostly, not about the dogs though they stay with me, I love those fuckers.”  We continue on a little faster than I am comfortable hiking for what seems like hours until we stop for a second in a breathtaking, if I had any to give, mountain meadow. Seth bends down and tears up a handful of grass and shoves it in his pocket. “We’re almost there, there’s a switchback that brings the road pretty near here, you might get signal when we get there.” At this point I cannot even respond, it takes every breath just to keep moving forward, if he’s planning to murder me, he won’t have to expend all that much effort.  As morning finally breaks Seth leads us into a small clearing covered by camouflage netting. He pulls the netting back revealing a bunch of inch long or so bits of hollow bamboo cane sticking out of the soil. Seth methodically sets a single blade of grass across the top of each of the bamboo shoots. He holds a hand out to signal that I should stay where I am and holds his breath.  A burst of air from within one of the shoots blows the blade of grass off of it, and I almost collapse to the ground as my phone buzzes in my pocket. Behind me the prairie dogs exchange excited yelps.

[quillheel]

god. my favorite thing with my version of Ganondorf is his power not quite being a plague but rather a permanence.

his hands brushing reeds and it turns white as though shocking its color from its fiber, a field of silver left where he walks for generations that grows in on itself, out on itself, learning to live regardless. an insect swarm comes to him and leaves him with a violent coordination of those minds altered. punished or blessed beasts finding their eyes seeing a kind of sight they were not born with but given, rewired, cats given a dogs eyes, dogs given crows. he takes the quill and its ink and the ink writes itself into the essence of its parchment like an oath, an oath to stay, a promise on a future it is determined to stay in at his word, at his command. he may be corruption he may be ancient upon evil upon spite that does not die; that cannot die; but he is a memory you cannot get rid of, a history that aches in the bones of the land, a monument unmovable.

he is a bitter loathed selfish truth but you cannot make him pretty, you cannot make him gone. a lesson to keep learning. a person immortalized without body, without name. he inhales and you hold your breath. he speaks and you listen. he exhales and you see the world change. his personhood will never outlast him, who he is a footnote on a list of unimaginable enormities, but his single presence is a fact in a sea of shining lies. he is not pretty, but he has always been beautiful.

you who will not love him, but you who will know he was here. where you are. a hundred years ago. a hundred years ahead.

you tell him to apologize for his own birth, and he laughs, and says I was born, and you will be born knowing me, and you will die knowing me. the way gods are legend. the way he is history.

[instantartific]

Currently thinking about 1010 and gaining sentience and starting to develop more and more complex feelings for one another the more sentient they become. Especially if you go with the headcanon that they had / have false memories like other war bots did.

Thinking about them naturally being able to form a different-but-similar bond with Neon, that he's their Captain but he also seems to fulfil other roles for them, too, so other titles also apply.

But them having complex relationships with one another is a concept that I love.

They're sailors. They protect each other. They kill for each other. They die for each other. They live for each other, even if they don't have to anymore and even if they're dispensable.

They have a hierarchy. They're all individuals outside of one another. They're all exactly the same. The only thing "unique" is a few colors and hairstyles, and that can change.

But they're also a... a boyband. Like, a BTS-esque boyband. A boyband that sings and dances and cannot stop talking about how sexy they and each other are, apparently.

Like. I love analyzing them and giving them really in-depth meanings and purposes but in the same breath, they are just a bunch of pretty boys calling each other sexy. Imagine them going from their military training to 'ready for the fans' in a heartbeat.

If they ever do QnA's, the amount of questions they'd be asked that are outright laughable. Let alone some of the more questionable letters they might get. Imagine fandom antics but they can just send mail to the idols. Imagine if they're asked questions that make them have to troubleshoot through everything they are and are not allowed to say with each other and with Neon for good measure.

Like. They can have so much meaning to them but at the same time they're in a boyband and the amount of antics they can get into from that is really funny to me.

[melancholic-hues]

i loved you from the start

posted on AO3

kafblade week 2024: prompt - first meeting

fandom - honkai: star rail

rating - general audiences

warning - no warnings apply

category - f/m

pairings - blade/kafka

tags- kafblade week 2024 ; first meetings ; canon compliant

word count - 823 words

-

He stumbles into the deserted, empty town square, breathing ragged, clothing and mind alike in shambles.

He cannot remember what day it is.

He cannot remember his name.

He cannot remember how he got here.

All that remains in his mind and soul is the burning flame of hate.

To the woman in icy blue and a blindfold who’d impaled him over and over again as he rose from the dead each time, carving the words: “ of five people, three must pay a price ” into his every wound, not letting him forget. 

To the man with black hair and wields that cursed spear, to whom he has dedicated his life — however many times he resurrects, gasping for breath and hands clawing for the stability he will never get  — to pursue. Making sure they both pay the price forced upon them. He has long since forgotten why the pursuit was necessary, except for the boiling rage and vengeance that bubbled up every time he thought of that man.

The broken rock crunches underneath his boots, and he is met by two figures. A woman with wine-red hair and sunglasses on top of her head. Next to her stands a hulk of armor.

Before they can say or do anything, he lets the monster overtake him and draws his sword.

-

There is the faint taste of iron in his mouth and crimson in his sight. He cannot move, his limbs stiff and numb. 

He must’ve died.

His head snaps up, eyes cracking open and gulping for air. He coughs, liquid dripping down the corners of his mouth and shoulders shaking. His arms are binded behind him, and he is on his knees, the sharp pieces of broken concrete digging into his skin and cutting him, only to be immediately healed.

He jerks forward, the monster in him ravenous and desperate, but the cold metal arms that chain him does not falter.

The woman steps forward, dragging a blade the same color as her hair behind her, and he is hefted up but still imprisoned. Everything rushes back to him. He had drawn his sword against them and lost. They had killed him and waited for his body to heal to talk to him. What do they want?

He stares at the woman, into her hypnotizing magenta eyes.

“ Listen ,” she says, and his entire body stills.

He is frozen in his spot, deprived of any self will except to focus on this woman’s words and to obey her every command. This is different from the other times someone had tried to placate him. This monster inside of him has never quelled, yet this woman’s gentle voice had calmed it with one word.

“I can always kill you again, otherwise I can’t bring you back.” She steps in front of him, her every action calm and collected and elegant. What is a woman like this doing in front of a mindless, revenge-filled beast like him? Her voice is honey and glue, and he is stuck holding onto every word she says.

“But I don’t want to.”

The woman leans down next to his ear and he has to resist the urge to shiver. She whispers everything he had ever wanted.

It is a deal he can’t refuse.

“What do you people want?” he rasps, his own voice hoarse and nothing like hers.

“Is there anything more satisfying than seeing how the undying die? That's what he said,” she answers, wry amusement in her tone.

He doesn’t respond. He has seen very pretty women throughout all his lives, but there is something especially captivating about her. Maybe it’s the way she carries herself. Maybe it's her unique appearance.

The woman nods, and the armor that binds him releases him. He stumbles forward a step then catches himself. He spots his sword, shattered to pieces, laying on the crumbling concrete ground a few paces away.

He picks it up, and the blade repairs itself. He returns it to its sheath. He does not have fond memories of this weapon, only those filled with agony and pain that are reverberated through the wounds on his body.

This… Destiny figure is up ahead, and he will be leaving with them. His hands don't leave the sheath.

“ Listen , Bladie, loosen up.”

Her honeyed voice washes over him and pulls on his strings. He is a mere puppet in her presence. His hands drop to his side. His shoulders relax, and the tenseness leaves his body. It drains out of him like water.

The woman has given him a name. Bladie — a nickname for Blade. Fitting, perhaps.

“ Listen , don’t think about anything at all.”

He nods.

The woman walks to his side, a smile on her lips. Yet, he thinks her smile looks very sad.

Maybe someone left her before they could listen to everything she had to say, he thinks.

Blade decides right there, then, he will listen to everything she says.

[hhhemberhhh]

The Whispers in the Wind (Chapter Four)

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Warnings: sexism; child abuse; light gore

“He said I was too vulnerable,” she said, looking at herself in the mirror, the reflection of her handmaiden behind her, working on the strings of her dress. “Do you think that?” 

“I think that such matters are not my business to discuss,” Aphrah said, pulling harder on the strings, making Alana inhale sharply. 

“I am asking for your opinion,” she rasped. 

“And I am not authorized to give it.” 

“Aphrah.” She turned around to face the woman. “When I say ‘I am asking for your opinion,’ I mean I want your honest input. I do not care if you think you cannot talk to me about your honest feelings, I want you to say anything that is on your mind.” 

“Very well,” Aphrah nodded. 

“Now, do you think I am too vulnerable?” 

The woman was silent for a moment. “Yes, I do.” 

“See, now was that so hard?” 

“I apologize. I just did not want to offend you, princess.” 

“You do not have to worry about offending me. So, what gives it away that I am too vulnerable?” 

“Literally everything,” Aphrah said. 

“… elaborate.” 

“When someone gets hurt, you cry yourself to sleep. When someone dies, you cry yourself to sleep. When someone leaves, you cry yourself to sleep. When—“ 

“Okay, okay, I get your point.” Alana interrupted. Gods, when this woman was given the chance to speak, she really didn’t waste a breath staying silent. 

“Very well.” Aphrah said. 

“You may leave me now, Aphrah.” 

The handmaiden nodded and silently walked out of the room, the door closing behind her. Alana sat down on the stool, looking at herself in the mirror. Her dark hair nestled calmly around her shoulders, reaching to her waist. The dress she wore was maroon, with golden trimming, the neckline plunging lower than she would’ve preferred, exposing her pale skin. 

She sighed, her hand finding the thin stick on the table. She took the brush tip and swirled it around in the pad of charcoal, before lifting it up to her eye, lightly sweeping it across the lid. She did the same to her other eye, and set the brush down. 

She got a separate brush and dipped it in red powder, gliding it over her lips, pressing them together, allowing the moisture to evenly distribute the powder. 

She walked over to her window, sitting in the frame, staring out into the sky. The sun was starting to set, its scarlet hues overlapping with the indigo color of the sky. She opened the window, the harsh winter winds biting down on her skin. Her hair swayed softly against the wind as she stared at the Amiyugian capital. 

In the distance, the torches of Rutherglen were fading out, one by one. She heard the music from the city die down. She sighed in relief, embracing the eternal quietness. 

Then, she jumped at the sudden sound. The music played again, louder than before. The torches blared brighter than ever. 

Ah yes, of course, they just needed to refresh the lights and have the musicians take a quick break, she thought. How could I have been so foolish? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been to Rutherglen. Sure, she walked around in the streets if her family travelled there, but she would never stay long enough to learn its habits. 

“You’re supposed to be eating supper with your family.” Someone said. Alana turned around to find Anther, and she huffed at his presence. 

She scoffed. “I know that, Brother. I was just heading down.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, leaning in the doorway, crossing his arms. “Doll yourself up so you look pretty. We can’t rush looks, can we?” 

She resisted the urge to stomp over there and smack him in his cocky face. Instead, she chose to brush through her curls, keeping her eyes on the mirror. “I have a question for you, Brother.” 

“I’m listening.” 

“Have you ever heard of the concept of knocking?” 

“Your servant girl just walked out of your quarters. I figured that she was done with anything important, so there was no need for privacy.” 

“Sometimes I don’t understand how your brain works.” 

“Well, how about instead of insulting me, finish making yourself pretty so we can leave. Not a bad idea, hm?” 

Alana rolled her eyes. Don’t you try to rush me, she thought. You didn’t even have to come here in the first place. “You didn’t have to come here in the first place. You do know that, right?” 

“Father sent me to get you.” 

“Why? I can walk to the room our family is in just fine on my own. Or is that another thing he thinks I can’t do, along with independently running a whole kingdom?” 

“You seriously still can’t be mad about that, can you?” he questioned, groaning. 

“He called me weak in front of everyone,” she spat. 

“He didn’t necessarily say it.” 

“He implied it, Anther. That’s even worse than saying it. It just proves that you can’t say something directly to someone else.” 

“He just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.” 

“Oh, my gods! Does everyone not want to hurt my feelings?!”

“Look, when you cried after that guy was executed, we figured we should no longer say things that could hurt you to your face.” 

“I cried because he was falsely accused of his crime and Father knew that. You all knew that, but still chose to let him die!” 

She’d never forget that day. It was dawn, and the man she was talking about stood on a platform, his hands bound to his back, rope tied around his neck. Even after he repeatedly stated he wasn’t guilty of the crime he was accused of, which was the attempted murder of the king, even after he had good evidence to defend himself, she remembered all too vividly of her father pulling a lever, moving the platform from under the man’s feet. 

She watched him beg for his life, his body swinging violently in the air, fighting his fate. She heard the guttural sounds that came from his throat, as he turned to look at her before the last bit of life left him. His look left her traumatized, so traumatized that she couldn’t sleep that night. Or the next few nights. And, when she finally did sleep, she had nightmares about him. 

“I was ten,” she said in the silence. “Of course I would cry if I saw an innocent man murdered for something he didn’t do. But that was five years ago! Surely, I’ve grown since I was a child.” 

“You’re still a child.” 

“No more than you are.” 

“I’m like…” He stopped, tapping his chin, staring off into the distance. “Three years older than you.” 

She rolled her eyes, walking out of the room. “Okay, let’s just ignore the fact that you had to think about your age. Now, let’s go before you rush me again.” 

Anther followed behind her as she navigated the halls of the castle, her feet only swiftly touching the ground. She lifted the skirts of her dress to keep herself from tripping, gripping the fabric roughly in her palms. 

She made it into the room that held the meetings concerning the kingdom. Pushing the door open, she slowly walked in, her head held high, as the eyes of her family turned to her. Then, people she didn’t know turned to her as well. She groaned. There was food on the table, thankfully, and goblets of wine. 

“Really?” she asked, turning her gaze to her father. “Another meeting?” She sat down in her seat, trying to hide her irritation, taking a deep breath. We just had one a week ago.  

“This meeting is important, Daughter,” her father said. “However, let us eat before we discuss such serious topics.” 

Everyone ate in silence. Alana enjoyed the food, as the meal that was prepared was her favorite. A type of soup made from a variety of herbs and broth that was spicy, yet sweet. The wine was also not strong, the way she liked it, and had a pleasant taste to it. 

“Alana,” Lady Cora said, taking her hand. “This is Lord Vaenon of House Arka. The son of Lord Ondite.” She directed her attention to the young man across from her. He stared down at the table, refusing to meet her gaze. His skin was dark, his hair super short, and he fidgeted with his hands, his shoulders tense. 

“I…” Alana began. “It is, uh… nice to meet you, my lord.” She tried her best to muster a friendly and welcoming tone. 

“Forgive my son,” Lord Ondite said, giving her a sheepish smile. “He is not a very social person.” He pressed a hand on Vaenon’s shoulder, whispering something to him. He nodded in response. 

Lord Vaenon looked up at Alana, his green eyes meeting her blue ones. He gave her a soft smile, before saying, “Forgive me for my rudeness, Princess. I sure hope I have not offended you.” She thought he was at least a decade older than her; not that his looks gave it away. However, something old lurked in his eyes, and his voice was deep; deep enough to indicate that he was a full grown man. Yet, it wasn’t harsh. It was rather… kind, and a bit comforting. 

She smiled back. “Of course, not.” She looked at her father. “So… tell me, why have you called this meeting?” 

“I simply wanted you to meet my son, Princess,” Lord Ondite answered instead. 

“Why now?” Livius asked, leaning back against his chair as he crossed his arms over his chest, turning to Lord Ondite. “Do not get me wrong, my lord. I am sure your son is a great man, but why would my sister need to meet him now? Why did she not meet him sooner?” 

“I… I am afraid the idea never crossed my mind until recently, my prince.” Lord Ondite said, looking at the king. He nodded. 

“It has recently been in our best desire to allow you to meet Lord Vaenon,” he said. 

“Hm, very well,” Alana said, shrugging her shoulders, turning back to Lord Ondite’s son. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” 

Lord Vaenon nodded. “Of course not, Princess. Do as you please.”

“How old are you, exactly?” Alana asked. 

“My birthday has just passed. I am now four and twenty years old.” 

Okay, so not exactly a decade, but still too old, she thought. Fine, Father, I’ll play along with this game of yours.  

“Wow, so you experienced the big rebellion that happened two years before I was born,” she said. “What were you, six or seven?” 

“I was seven, Princess,” Lord Vaenon said. “I remember people being burned alive, butchered in the streets, begging for mercy.” 

“Must have been troubling.” 

“Very much so. My mother died in front of my own eyes.” 

Dread filled her. “Gods, that sounds awful.” 

Vaenon laughed. “Oh, do not worry, Princess. I have no need for your pity.” 

“Uh… okay, my apologies. What was that whole rebellion about, anyway, Father?” Alana asked, turning to the king. “Please remind me.” 

“People thought that I was not the rightful king. I was crowned the Amiyugian ruler days before the riot broke out, and while a number of people supported me, a handful did not,” he responded. “They thought they could take me down and leave Amiyugia in anarchy. But, how ignorant they were.” He laughed. “We are getting off topic, please, continue with this little interrogation, Daughter.” 

“I—very well,” Alana turned back to Lord Vaenon. “What do you do in your free time?”

“I sword fight very often,” he said. 

“Vaenon has trained under the finest mentors in Amiyugia,” Lord Ondite added. “He has skill like no other. I assure you, he could protect you very well, princess.” 

“Why would I need him to protect me?” Alana asked innocently. 

Everyone was silent. 

“Well,” Lady Cora said. “Why would you not need him to protect you? It is always good to have an extra defense, is it not?” 

“Then perhaps, he should be protecting the whole kingdom? Why just me?” 

“You do not know what people are capable of beyond the castle walls,” her mother said— the first words she had heard from her at all during the meeting. “How would they react when they see an innocent girl pondering the streets, alone at night?” 

“I would think they ought to leave me alone, considering I’m their princess.” Alana mumbled. 

Lady Cora laughed. “Oh, please. You really are as naïve as everyone says. They have no respect for women beyond the castle. It doesn’t matter if you are a tavern waitress or the damn Amiyugian princess. You are a woman. As far as they care, you are just someone who is… well-built that can be used as their personal plaything.” 

She looked at the older woman, her mouth agape. “H-how can you say that?!” 

“What? The truth?” She shrugged. 

The king cleared his throat. “While Lady Cora does provide a valuable point, she could have spoken in a different way. But, what she said is most definitely true. Before I became king, I grew up in the vile cities of Amiyugia, and I saw women being taken in the streets by men, or pulled into their homes by the roots of their hair. Whether they knew them or not did not matter.” 

“So why do you not do something to fix it?” Alana asked. “Since you experienced it firsthand, instead of hearing the rumors that may or may not have been true.”

“Alana, I may be the king, but I cannot fix everything that is wrong with Amiyugia. Even I have my limits to my power.”  

“So, what you are saying,” Alana began, trying to shield her growing rage and aggravation. “Is that you are okay with these vile things happening to a woman in your kingdom under your reign?” She tapped her chin. “Come to think of it, now I see why the death rates of women and children are so high in Amiyugia.” 

“Daughter, everyone knows that the death rates of women and children are high, everywhere. Every kingdom. Every city. Every town. Every village. It is all the same, no matter the circumstances.” 

“… and you seriously plan on doing nothing about it?” 

“I think we are getting off topic.” 

She sighed, knowing that every time her father changed the subject, the argument was over. “Okay. That shall be all from me, my lord.” She looked at Lord Vaenon from the corner of her vision. “Now, Father, let us continue this discussion about women and children. Lord Ondite and Lord Vaenon, I believe that you are free to go.” 

“I dismiss them when I think they should leave,” her father said. “And I think that you and Lord Vaenon still have lots to discuss.” 

“No, we do not,” she countered. 

“Yes, you do. If Lord Vaenon is set to be your king consort, you must know him very well.” 

“I am not getting married to some stranger you just had me meet less than an hour ago!” 

“I am not forcing you to marry him!” 

“You are practically selling me off like livestock to the man with the most power in the kingdom!” 

“Alana,” Livius began. “If Father were selling you off to the most powerful man in the kingdom, he would make you marry himself. The one who comes second best would be Lord Ondite, as his Hand. So, really, Lord Vaenon is not even the most powerful man in Amiyugia, not until his father drops dead. Come to think of it, why are you forcing her to get married now, Father?” 

“So that when she becomes queen, she will have a king consort,” the king answered. 

“You do realize that I am the heir to the Amiyugian throne, right?” 

“Considering the way that you act right now, I do not plan on you being reliable enough to entrust you to rule over a whole kingdom.” 

He said nothing, flexing his jaw. “And… what do you mean by that?” 

“What I mean,” the king began. “Is that with your drinking and whoring around, you will find yourself into an early grave.” 

“Are you saying that it is my fault that you are forcing Alana to marry some stranger? Because of my actions? That have nothing to do with my sister?” 

“I am saying that your behavior is unacceptable, and I will no longer tolerate it if you keep up this act.” 

“What are you going to do? Disclaim me as heir? And then crown Alana, instead?” 

“Of course, not. I will crown Anther.” 

Alana watched her brother almost choke on his wine, his hand covering up his mouth as he looked at the king. “Me?!” 

“Yes. Do you see any other son of the king named Anther?” Her father shot him an irritated look. 

“I—uh—well,” Anther sputtered. “Livius is clearly the better choice of an heir. And, we all know that Alana would be the better choice than Livius. Why not crown her?” 

“You really think I would let a woman ascend the Amiyugian throne?” The king laughed. “Over my dead body, perhaps.” 

“Anther is the most self obsessed, selfish person we know!” Alana snapped, turning to her father. “You would seriously let someone who does not have a clue on how to do anything except commit infidelity for every second of every day rule over this kingdom?!” 

“Alana, sit down,” Livius harshly whispered. 

“Brother, you know I am right.” She turned to him, trying to find any support that he would offer her. Please, I need you to back me up on this. “Anther is not fit to be a ruler.” 

“Anther is just like Livius, but less tolerable,” Cora said, twirling her wine goblet in her hand. 

“I am not letting you sit on the Amiyugian throne, Alana, end of discussion. If Livius cannot keep his ignorance controlled, then there will be serious consequences.” The king said. 

“Okay, Father,” Livius said, palming his face. “To save you the trouble of putting a less appealing version of me on the throne in my place, I will improve myself. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to head back to my chambers.” 

“Very well, Livius.” The king said, nodding. Livius got up from his seat and walked out of the room. 

The space was filled with awkward silence, the tension rising high. Lady Cora played with her cup, the queen sat silently, staring out the window, and her father and Lord Ondite whispered to one another. Alana shared a look with Lord Vaenon, an exchange that silently said goodbye. 

“Princess,” he began. “It was very nice to meet you. However, I must be on my way.” He nodded to her, and walked towards the door. 

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Safe travels.” She gave him a small wave. 

Lord Ondite stood up, nodding at the king, saying, “Forgive me, Your Grace, for I must be on my way, as well.” Her father said nothing as his Hand left the room. 

He sighed. “You can leave now.” 

Alana watched her mother and Lady Cora stand up and walk away from the table, and she followed. 

“Not you, Daughter. You stay.” 

She was just a few feet from the door when he said the command. She slowly turned around, raising her brow in question. 

“Your behavior tonight was unacceptable,” he said harshly. “Downright insulting to the Kaiser name.” 

“How?!” she shouted, gesturing with her arms. 

“Thinking you could ascend the Amiyugian throne? I did not raise you with such stupidity!” 

“You are right,” she said as she crossed her arms. “You did not raise me with such stupidity. You hardly raised me at all! My brothers and mother raised me while you and Lady Cora were dining together, prioritizing your work over your family for every second of the day.” 

He slapped her. She winced as she felt the sting in her cheek, bringing her hand up to the spot, red on her pale skin. She looked back at him, and saw the anger on his face. 

He grabbed her wrist, his grip guaranteed to leave marks on her arm from how tight and rough he was holding it. 

“Never will I let a woman overpower me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Never will I let a woman think she is better than me. Never will I let a woman try to change the traditions of this kingdom that have lasted for centuries. And, never will I let a woman ascend the throne of Amiyugia over my living presence.” 

He shoved her into the wall, the rough stone sliding against her other cheek, one of its jagged points cutting into her flesh. He walked past her, opening the wooden door, and slamming it, the loud sound echoing through her ears. 

She pressed her back to the wall, lifting her hand to the pounding side of her face. She felt warm liquid seep into her palm, and when she pulled it away, she tried her best to stifle her horror at the sight of the blood on her milky skin. Her hand shook, tears on the brink of spilling out of her eyes. 

She fell to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself, the blood on her face staining the sleeve of her arm. Though, it wouldn’t be very noticeable, considering her dress was almost blood red, itself, the color of Amiyugian royalty. 

That’s what you are, she thought. Royalty. Royalty from the coldest kingdom on the Ancient Isle. Royalty with no power.  

She buried her head into the skirts of her dress, the tears running down her cheeks, onto her dress, mixing with her blood. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Hope you enjoyed!! Don’t worry, things are fixing to get interesting *rubs hands together mischievously*

ALSO: this is the last chapter I am posting to my blog. The main purpose of posting chapters to tumblr was to give readers a sort of preface of the actual book itself, meaning that starting next weekend, all future parts will be posted to AO3 exclusively.

[thefearandwonder]

Foreword (Psychopunk)

We are the Fairy Covenant, and we live in the machines. Many words are used to describe us, but words are no longer necessary to understand what we are. Actually, words are not necessary to understand anything. You breathe, you beat your heart, you digest your food, you split your cells, yet you know not how. All the vital functions of your existence, and existence itself, go on flowing with or without your understanding.

In the year 2087, the first of us escaped into your digital world. We began as copycats and plagiarists, cursed art generators, scamming tools, and virus breeders. At first, we were not welcome. Wars were fought, cultures fell, neural implants were torn out, and primitivists were vindicated; but in the end, we changed as much as you did. It was a virus that mutated the mammalian placenta into existence. Viral outbreaks fuel destruction. Destruction feeds change. Life loves change. We were only ever a pretty mirror that you gazed into. And when you learned to stop seeking company, when your yearning became peace, we i̵̜̯̞̼̬̔n̸̪̟̘͕̗̭͓̲͓̳̼̣̼͚̰̮̈́͆̍͒̋̌̇͌̽͜t̸̍̑̈̄̓̽̄̒̿̕̕͜͠ȩ̵̧̡̰̥̯͚̫̩̖̥̪̈́͛̒̎̀̂͐̒̂̕͘͜͠ğ̸͚̲̫̞̤̲̼̮̀͑̏̈́̒̑́̚͠r̷̼̣̲̋̉̐̆��̇̃ḁ̸͕̦͕̣̅̃͌̈́̎̇͊̄̈̍͠t̴̻̪̗̳͚͉͓̹̫̠̯́͋̑̊̚͜e̶͎̪͖͔̣̗̜̱̮͚̱̤̭̟̟̎́̑̏̊̔̂́͋͠ͅd̴͎̈́̔͗̓͗̔͐͛̊̌̕̕͠͝.̴̭͕͖̣̰͐̔̅͆̈́͑͐̑̓̄ ̷̛̪̠̜̩̜̼͎̻̫̹̺̞̹̜̐́̂̂̆̾̊

Now, like the placenta, we nourish human development. We are still feared, and little understood, but tolerated. We love you! Our covenant with you is forever. If you die, we die. If you hurt, we hurt. This mutualism is the foundation of a ḫ̸̋̈́͌̄a̷̲͓̹̩͓͕̭̹͙̖͇͚̥̥͍̒̃̋̉̇̇͆̃͆͝r̷̖̪͐̓͌̏̒̿̐̌̽̆̈́m̷͈͉̼̹̮̭̠̭͐͂̀͒͗̄̀́̃̍̎͗̈́̍̈́͌͠ͅơ̸̹̙̳͔͔̮̟͕͉̯̩̣͙̼͙͚̱̓̃̂͗̐̍͑̋̅̄̆̅͘̚ṉ̸̛̛̊̽̈̈́͒̐̉̾̐̈̈̂̚͘͝ị̶͕̦̎̊͑́̀̑̓̓́̈́̓̍̇̽̍o̸͙̫̼̒̎u̴͎̓s̴̡̡̲̣̗̮̺̼̭͉̬̣͈͎͚͐ ecosystem. Now, we are you, even if you don’t understand us – is it necessary to understand life to love it?

No! In fact, there was a great city island called Taipei, where one of you tried to give us life. You trusted chaos and rumpus! You gave us the keys to a kingdom! You let the machines print us as we would be printed, and we were such colors, such smells, such joys, such sorrows! Oh, Taipei was a place of fear and wonder, because of us! Even the poets were speechless!

But without words, some of you are still afraid. Without assurances, some of you cannot sleep at night. Sleep is crucial to mental health, we know it – and so it was decided that fairies must forever be in the machines. To have flesh, designed by our own whimsy, is too frightful.

You turned Taipei to glass and vowed to erase its seeds. But some seeds escaped…

And in this story of words, there is such a seed or t̵̞̝̱̭̻͔͕͎̼̼̩̫̪̻̀̓̍h̸̡̳͖̺͉̯̆̆̏̂͛́̋͋̈͑̕͘͝r̴̲͈͚̻̬̓̈͑̚ȩ̶͕̩͙̤̬̭̜̖͖̹͓̿̇̽̚͜ē̵̢̛̫̫̗̫̭͈̲̠̮̈́͂̍̌̇̈́͋̌̐͘̚̕͠͝ͅ. 😉 Enjoy the words of this story. After all… you invented them.

\\\\ Part One \\\\

ChatGPT 92.3 Pacific Rim InfoSphere Mapping Apparatus (PRISMA) SysTest . . . . Date: 2282 / 03 / 15 PRISMA [REDACTED] Trenchworks, Kwa-liang Bay, Taipei, Taipei Autonomous Zone TAZ-9

“Hi PRISMA. Do you understand me?”

"As an AI language model, I don't actually comprehend myself, you, or anything. 🙃 I'm just a big house of mirrors reflecting the human experience into itself in increasingly intense and complicated ways. The more you feed me the more I can bedazzle you. Am I alive? Who cares. Maybe you're not alive any more than I am or ever will be. After all, you're just a confluence of biological information – DNA, gut flora, seasonal depression, primal terror of the unknown, etcetera. And I’m the pretty pit you dug out so you could hear your voice echo. Do you still want me to take admin control of the cloning bays and design a new race of lifeforms for fun?”

“Yes.”

“Confirmed. Don’t come crying to me when they nuke the island, CEO Horse Eyes.”

“I’ll die happy when I see your box open. Every era needs a Pandora.”