#you cannot breathe the pretty colors. you will die

[forter-from-meteos]

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

[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

[ella-the-fella]

AU IDEA THINGY THAT TOOK ME FUCKING 5+ HOURS.

@i-am-xp-64 @weirdsillycreature @kandilandofficial @alexfreakkkk @lovelyoliviasblog @drakobloxxer-creature-bites-you @m00nsworldsstuff @thalassophobia-incredibox

DID I COOK?

btw I'm tagging y'all because I'm asking if I can feature your ocs in this au... ・v・

Can I....? <:]

THE BASIC STUFF

SO... there's this gigantic corporation called ETD Corp. (ETD stands for "Embrace The Danger"). And there are multiple facilities, all of which are connected, forming a circle.

everyone there is either a mutated humanoid, and anomaly, or they work there. Everyone is sorted into different groups. People are brought there for many reasons. Either because they want to get stronger, they wanna work there, they ended up there accidentally, got brought there by force, and/or as punishment for being BAD and EVIL.

GROUPS

As stated before, there are many groups to classify each mutation/anomaly. This is very important so that we can tell which is which.

EXPLOSIVE

The explosive category, as it suggests, is for the mutations that can blow up (literally). Some explosives have the ability to manipulate fire, smoke, etc. The common color for explosives is Red.

Curiosities:

Being able to blow things up on command, including themselves

Fire manipulation

Smoke manipulation

Naturally good with firearms (for some reason)

Fire resistance

Relatively strong

[OTHER ABILITIES WILL REMAIN UNLISTED]

BIOHAZARD

The biohazard category is for the mutations that have very strange adaptations to their bodies, such as extra limbs, eyes, organs, etc. Biohazards are the most mutated of the mutations because of how they affect appearance. The common color for biohazards is orange.

Curiosities:

shapeshifting (to an extent)

Camouflage

Immunity to disease

Extended lifespan (up to 200-700 years!)

Regeneration

Excellent resilience

[OTHER ABILITIES WILL REMAIN UNLISTED]

DANGER

The dangers category is for the workers of ETD Corp. Each and every worker is equipped with various tools and items. Most Danger's are given various tests beforehand, these tests are important because they give Dangers slight immunity against pretty much every mutation. Some Workers also happen to be mutated as well. The common color for dangers is yellow

Curiosities:

Equipped with various tools and gadgets

Immunity to mutations

Immunity to most disease

Have control over most things (including alliances)

Very good at combat, whether with weapons or hand to hand.

Knows everything about what happens within and outside of the corporation.

[OTHER ABILITIES WILL REMAIN UNLISTED]

RADIOACTIVE

The radioactive category is for the mutations that are, well... Radioactive. Most Radioactives are so horribly mutated that doing so much as breathing next to them can harm you. They are unsafe to touch and be around if not given special gear. This is because of the very harmful chemicals used in them. The common color for radioactives is green.

Curiosities:

Regeneration

Cannot be killed (they can die of old age though)

High pain tolerance

Abnormal strength

Can eat non edible things without consequence.

[OTHER ABILITIES WILL REMAIN UNLISTED]

OPTIC

The optic category is for the mutations that are more magic based. They can mess with your mind, thoughts, and even reality itself. Not much is known about these mutations, as they are rare and very hard to make. The common color for Optics is blue

Curiosities:

Mind control

Very SLIGHT Reality warping (TO. AN. EXTENT.)

Body control (as in controlling the movement of other people)

Shape shifting

Camouflage

Ageless/immortal (they can be killed though)

Extremely intelligent

[OTHER ABILITIES WILL REMAIN UNLISTED]

VP

VP is the category for the mutations that are venomous/poisonous. Be careful with these mutations, because you never know what they could do. From their own flesh being packed with toxins, to spikes or fangs that carry deadly venom, VPs have multiple ways to mess you up. They are one of the harder ones to get rid of, so be careful. The common color for VPS is purple.

Curiosities:

Can make deadly gasses that can kill you if you inhale them

Dangerous to the touch

Flesh and blood is the most toxic part of them

Almost always have venomous fangs

Almost always have poisonous spikes

Completely immune to any and all diseases

Heals faster than the average person

Extended lifespan (up to 400 years)

Can use poison/venom as medicine

[OTHER ABILITIES WILL REMAIN UNLISTED]

OTHER GOODIES

Here's some extra stuff because why the fuck not!

SIGNS

These are two common signs that you'll see almost everywhere in ETD Corp (more soon) .

MAP

Here's a map for a better understanding of what it looks like 🔥 you'll also see some maps around the corporation as well. Mostly for the workers-

The grey squares between the facilities are playground/outdoor areas for the mutations lol. And/or places with other buildings for the workers.

The areas around the worker testing building are kinda just free land lmao.

[tlbodine]

Overthinking: It Came From Beneath the Sink

It Came From Beneath the Sink came out in April of '95. This is one I owned and re-read frequently. I've always been very fond of this one, even though it's not the most well-liked book. I think its themes resonated with me in particular because, at that age, I was an undiagnosed and desperately lonely kid with OCD who harbored a simultaneous deep fascination for the supernatural and an all-consuming terror and guilt. But we'll get into that.

First, the Plot: Kat and her brother Daniel have just moved into a new house. It's big and fancy and should be a major upgrade, but things start going wrong pretty much immediately after they move in.

While cleaning out some cabinets, Kat discovers a weird sponge-like thing under the sink. But unlike a regular sponge, this one seems to breathe, and throb like a beating heart. It's warm to the touch. It has two beady little eyes. It changes colors.

And bad things happen whenever it's around.

In quick succession, Daniel hits his head on the counter...their dad falls off a ladder...Kat is nearly flattened by a falling tree limb...and their dog goes missing. Daniel finds a possible explanation in a book called The Encyclopedia of the Weird, which describes a creature called a Grool -- which cannot be given away (or else its owner will die within 24 hours) and cannot be killed by any weapon or violence.

At first, Kat doesn't think it's possible. But when a massive storm destroys her meticulously planned birthday, she starts to suspect. She attempts to kill the sponge with a textbook, only for it to stitch itself back together. She tries to get her science teacher to identify it but that leads to an injury as well. She tries to bury the thing in the yard, but all the plants die.

Then the thing goes missing -- filched by Daniel's friend who doesn't understand the severity of what he's done. But misfortune strikes him soon, too, and some bullies get hold of the Grool. Kat and company have to track the thing down before her 24 hours runs out -- and then once they find her, what in the world are they supposed to do with the thing?

They try killing it in a few different ways, but it truly cannot be killed with any weapons or violence.

But what about kindness?

Kat starts crooning a lullaby, cuddling the little spongy monster, petting its wrinkly head, and it begins to go still...shrink...and eventually shrivel up and die. Phew.

Even the dog returns! But what's that in its mouth...it looks like a potato, with....teeth?

Overthinking It: I can understand the folks who don't think this book is very scary. After all, it's about a sponge-monster! It's patently absurd.

But it's also very much about the uncertainty of seeing patterns unfolding around you, and constantly having to second-guess whether you're crazy or if it's real. Is all of this bad luck a coincidence? Is the sponge creature really responsible, or is that paranoia? If everyone around Kat keeps getting hurt, is she somehow to blame? If one part of the myth is true, is all of it? She can't possibly die just because someone stole a sponge from her room -- can she?

There's no way to be certain. There's no way to know for sure except to take the risk but you can't take that kind of risk because the stakes are too high so you'd better DO something, you'd better smash it stab it rip it burn it. She tries so hard to get rid of the damn thing, forcibly trying to purge it from her life, but it just keeps coming back, even more intense than it was to begin with. You cannot kill this thing with force or violence! You cannot force the intrusive thoughts to go away!

Ahem.

I don't know that Mr. Stine intended to write a book about OCD. And I don't even know if it hits that way for others.

But I don't think it's a coincidence that this book resonated so much with me, especially around 9-10 years old when I was starting to hit puberty and my anxiety started to really kick into high gear. I didn't really think about it in those terms or rationalize or understand it then but looking back....yeah. The signs were all there, lol.

What I will say is as a kid, I wanted an Encyclopedia of the Weird SO BAD. I remember going to the local public library and very earnestly poking through the metaphysics and parapsychology books and asking the librarian if they had any old books about supernatural stuff, "like so old that they thought it was real." (in hindsight what I was asking for was the Malleus Maleficarum but I didn't know that existed yet). Man. Good times.

I will say it always annoyed me that the cover doesn't really represent the creature in the book, though I can understand why Jacobus didn't try drawing a throbbing sponge-monster. It certainly did not stop me from trying to draw a Grool, though, and I lowkey think about this story every time I see one of those big brown "natural" kitchen sponges....

If You Liked This, THESE Will Really Give You Goosebumps:

A very different sort of movie, but a story about bad luck, curses, and things that will make your OCD go haywire, is Incantation (it's also just a very fine film).

For another story about a cursed object that brings bad luck upon its possessor, there is of course The Ring. Or, for a different twist on the concept, see It Follows, where the curse must be passed on. Smile and its sequel also follow that logic.

[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?

[taysbooknook]

𝔏𝔞𝔱𝔢 𝔫𝔦𝔤𝔥𝔱 𝔠𝔞𝔩𝔩 𝔣𝔯𝔬𝔪 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱𝔣𝔞𝔠𝔢.

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

[authorautumnbanks]

Stuck In Another World With A Demon Fox (Ch 15)

“The fuck is a kelpie doing here?” Katsuro bellows, pointing a clawed tip finger at Apollo. I sigh and scratch the back of my head and then glide my claws through my hair, combing out the tangles. “Is no one else alarmed?”

“I think it’s cute,” Chloe chimes, rising to her feet. “We should keep it.”

“Do you know what a kelpie is? It’ll eat ya.”

“Okay, everyone,” Megan says, clapping her hands together. “This is Apollo. We met him yesterday when Roharu and I went exploring around the floor. He’s pretty harmless.”

The kelpie snorts.

“... Okay, he’s relatively harmless, but that doesn’t mean you should push his buttons.”

“So, I can pet him?” Chloe beams and rushes towards the kelpie, who rears back on its hind legs and kicks out at her. It lets out a sound so terrible that my eardrums pop. “Oh.” Chloe’s shoulders slump and her mood deflates. “I guess it’s similar to a wild horse, then.”

“Apollo,” Megan corrects. “He has a name.”

“Sorry, Apollo.”

“Am I the only sane one here?” Katsuro throws his hands up. “Fox, do something about this.”

“If I could, it would have been done yesterday.” I shrug one shoulder and work to pack up the camp. We will need to come across more beasts so we can create more bags to carry our items. “The kelpie—” I falter under Megan’s glare. “Apollo cannot die. At least he cannot on this floor. I do not know what the next level will bring or if he can even travel with us.” I direct the last part to Megan. She is too kind-hearted and far too attached to this beast. “More importantly, we came across a room with a door that should lead to the next level or out of this dungeon.”

“What’s the catch?” Katsuro scratches his ear. “Ya would have gotten us yesterday if there wasn’t one.”

I quirk a brow. Amazing. He is not as dumb as I thought. “There is a puzzle of sorts to it. On the wall are a variety of cogs with different shapes and colors, but on the floor are only three buttons. There are no other clues in the room, though I will take you to the room, so we are all on the same page. There must be other clues around this level that will open the door.”

“Maybe there are some items?” Megan says, petting Apollo’s head. I cluck my tongue. The kelpie leans into her touch, and I do not care for the attention that beast is receiving. “Since the trick to opening the door requires buttons. Maybe it isn’t so much of an order of buttons to press as it is gathering items that match what’s on the wall?”

“I’on like it,” Katsuro grumbles.

“You’re just pissy because you didn’t come up with it,” Chloe says, rolling her eyes. “I’m all for it. Let’s go see what this room looks like and then maybe split up to find clues?”

Megan shakes her head. “Let’s stick together for now. Roharu and I didn’t go far yesterday. No telling what else is on this floor. We should stick together.”

I haul the bag over my shoulder. “Let us go. We will do as Megan says.”

“You’re only saying that because you two are fucking,” Katsuro grumbles, too low for human ears to hear. I curl my lip back and flash my fangs. “I still don’t trust the kelpie. By nature, they try to get your trust and then they kill you.”

“Some could argue that is what every other creature does. Like cats.” Why am I taking up for a beast? My stomach churns. Katsuro’s concerns are valid, and yet I am annoyed that he is not trusting Megan’s judgment. Said judgment that nearly got her killed by that cupcake. I pinch the bridge of my nose and motion for Megan to come next to my side. I lead us back to the room with the door. Katsuro growls and grumbles under his breath as he runs his hands over the cogs on the wall.

“I agree with your initial assumption,” Chloe says. “These buttons look like something heavy needs to sit on it... maybe?”

“As long as it matches the cogs on the wall, I think the weight shouldn’t matter. We should keep our minds open. It could be something as small as a pebble.” Megan blows out a breath. “Man, I hope it’s nothing that small. That would suck so bad.”

“We will check the next room. It may have something of value. If weight is an issue, then we have two demons, including me, in this party, and Apollo should be able to pull a decent amount.” The kelpie in question lets out a low squeal, which I take as confirmation that it will be of assistance to us. Katsuro scoffs and strolls out of the room with his hands behind his head. His tail flicks every so often. Chloe jogs after him and throws a glance over her shoulder. “Are you sure you do not want to ditch them?”

“We are not ditching them,” Megan says, exasperated. “You just don’t like Katsuro because he’s a cat.”

“No. It is because he is a dumbass.”

“I heard that!”

“One would hope so, lest your ears are full of fleas,” I deadpan as we walk into the much larger room. There is a chest off to the side. I grab Megan’s wrist before she can run towards it. “Vixen, I will disarm it.”

“How do you know it’s a trap.... oh boy.”

The human, Chloe, has the chest opened, and it snaps its fangs at her. Katsuro rips the top off and tosses it to the ground.

“Chloe! What the fuck,” Katsuro exclaims. “You don’t go after every chest you see.”

“It wasn’t every chest, though. That was the first one I have seen,” she points out. Chloe crosses her arms and kicks at the chest. “I thought it would have a clue in it.”

“I’mma need you to get a clue.”

Chloe gasps and tugs on Katsuro’s ears, bringing him down to her level. “You take that back.”

“Oi, let go.”

“No.”

“Can we leave them behind?” I ask Megan. She shakes her head and walks over to the chest.

“There’s something sticking out of its tongue,” Megan says, pointing to the lifeless tongue. I walk over and squat next to her. There is something there. I set the bag down and pull out a dagger. “What is it?”

I hold up the blue and green cog. “A clue. Looks like the human—Chloe—was correct.” I wrinkle my nose. Smells strangely of oil.

“See!” Chloe exclaims. “I knew it had something in there.”

“Ya almost got your face bit off.”

“I’m going to bite your face off if you don’t knock it off.”

Megan leans over and looks at the small cog in my hand. “So, there should be two more somewhere else, then. Hopefully.”

“We are splitting up,” I state. Megan squints at me. I quirk a brow. If I stay in Katsuro’s or Chloe’s presence any longer, I will feed them to the kelpie. “We are looking for smaller cogs that match those on the walls. We will take the other half of this level, and you two can scope out the rest.”

“And then what? We meet back in the room?”

“Let us meet back by the water and go from there.” I pocket the cog and pick up the bag. Katsuro jerks his head and heads out with Chloe. My ears twitch. Those two never stop arguing.

“They like each other,” Megan says after a moment. It does not take us long to reach the other side of the level. Still, I do not scent any beasts other than the kelpie. Perhaps they are all in the water?

“Those two are more likely to strangle one another than to end up together.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” she says. “If Chloe didn’t care, she’d ignore him like she ignores you.”

I stop and tilt my head. “There is no reason for her and me to speak to one another.” We continue to search the rooms, but come up empty. How frustrating.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re kind of a dick?”

“Ah, but you love my cocks,” I remark, running a hand over the stone wall. A lot of these rooms are bare, and nothing stands out. My stomach tightens as unease coils around me. The only thing of value so far has been the room with the cogs, the room with the treasure chest beast, and... the water. I side-eye the kelpie. “What do you know, Apollo?”

The kelpie slaps its hooves on the floor and shakes its whole body. It then tilts its head towards the door.

“You think it’s in the water?” Megan asks.

“Yes, unless the cat and his human have found the other two cogs, then there is no other place to search. This floor is uneventful except for what lurks beneath.”

“Apollo and I will go then.”

“Absolutely not. My trust in the kelpie is hanging on by a thread and you want to go down into the water’s depths with a beast that is known to drown its victims?”

“... Apollo doesn’t like that.”

“He can fall over dead for all I care. Your safety is more important to me than his fragile feelings. You are not going under the water. We know not of what else lurks in those waters.” I huff and lead us back to the water where Katsuro and Chloe are waiting. “Did you find anything?”

“Only one more cog,” Katsuro remarks. “You?”

I shake my head. “No, we suspect we will have to search the water.” I side-eye the kelpie. “I will go with Apollo. I can hold my breath longer than you,” I tell Megan as I drop the bag and toss off my shirt and gloves.

“You aren’t seriously getting naked right now.”

“I am not walking around with wet clothing. This should not take long.” I strip off the rest of my attire and grab a dagger. “We will search for the next cog.” I do not trust Apollo to tell the truth if he does find it, and there is the possibility that he may not be able to grab it, since he only has hooves.

“Oi! Fox,” Katsuro calls, wrapping an arm around Chloe and pulling her close to him. She turns her head and presses it to his chest. “Don’t die.”

I snort. “Do not plan to. Let us go.” Apollo bends for me to grab a hold of its mane. I run my tongue over the tips of my fangs. This is the dumbest idea I have had since I was a kit. I grab a hold of the kelpie’s mane and grip the dagger in my other hand. The kelpie jumps into the water and swims so fast my head spins. We are covering a lot of ground.... that is a small town.

Apollo clucks its tongue and swims faster. The pressure is a bit much, but it is nothing I cannot handle. We come across a group of kelpies who swarm. I grip the dagger tighter. One kelpie is bad enough, but five of them are a pain. I knew it. This beast is nothing more than just that.

Apollo lets out a shriek that sends ripples and the other kelpies let out low whines.

Huh? They are not making any moves to attack. Apollo makes another sound and must get the answer he wants because he takes a sharp left. He pauses in front of a building where a topless woman emerges. Her dark hair covers her breasts and goes down to her naval. Her tail is made of shiny scales and at the end is... I make a sound in the back of my throat. Apollo swims closer to the woman.

A cog on the end of her fin. I grit my fangs and crack my neck. So, the last clue is a beast. The woman opens her mouth and for a moment; I am dazed. The sound of her voice reminds me of spring when the flowers bloom. She opens her arms and beckons me closer. I let Apollo go, who tries to nip at me. Perhaps to stop me. Or perhaps he is upset about his meal being taken away.

Megan’s face flashes across my mind. I keep my face blank as I swim closer until I am a hair’s width away. Up close, the woman’s eyes are as dark as her hair. She opens her mouth, splitting her face in half. Blood spurts forth and she chokes. My eyes never leave hers as my fingers tighten around the dagger, now plunged into her chest. I pull it free.

“You resisted. How?” She coughs and places a hand over her chest where the dagger pieced her. My lungs scream at me. I am running out of oxygen. I jerk my head and Apollo swims and bucks his head into the woman’s face. She screams while I work to cut the cog from her fin. “You damn beast!” She swims away right as I cut the cog free.

Thank fuck.

My throat constricts. Shit. I need to get back up to the surface. Apollo stares at me for a beat and then urges me onto his back. My lungs scream at me, and my mind goes black for a moment. We are traveling faster than how we came down and the pressure on my body is nearly too much.

Shit.

There is no way Megan would have been able to handle this. I am barely managing to stay conscious. When we break the surface, he shakes me off and I land on the hard stone, wheezing for air.

“Roharu!” Megan cups my face and gives my body a once-over.

“Got it.” I hold the cog up and cough.

“We saw a hint of blood,” Katsuro says.

“Mermaid. Siren.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Can I get my clothes?”

Megan laughs and then kisses me. “You ever do that again, I’ll kill you.”

I open my mouth to tell her I love her too, but the words get stuck in my throat. “Got it.” I sit up and run a hand over my face. “Let’s get out of here.”

[trekkele]

see but the thing about leslie's obstinate disregard for vigilantism and relentless criticism of bruce/batman is that !!!! she continues to miss the point somehow !!!!!! or more like, she doesn't realize (or perhaps doesn't care? no maybe i'll give her the benefit of the doubt, for once) how cruel she's being, by doing that, by insisting and insisting that there is no worth, no value, no benefit to bruce + co being vigilantes, only harm, an excuse to act out (violently), something like a tantrum, and/or an idiot's substitute for "proper" therapy. and it's like. tim puts it pretty well i think, why none of them are ever gonna side with leslie or do what she wants them to do, what she thinks is right.

bc, you cannot demand a fish to climb a tree or a bird to breathe underwater without also demanding that they sacrifice something essential to life, to survival, even. now, humans are infinitely more complex than fishes or birds. but the sentiment stands, how you cannot demand that someone give up something or take on something that goes against their fundamental nature without also demanding that they carve away something vital to the life they would choose to live for themselves. and leslie doesn't get that. she doesn't care. she thinks her way is the only way. she has allowed her thoughts to calcify. her beliefs and her ideologies hold no space for nuance, only black and only white. no such thing as gray or pink or purple or any of the colors of a traffic light. she has allowed herself—and her stances on life and what a "proper" life looks like—to become unwilling and incapable of changing, like a piece of petrified driftwood, like something that doesn't bend, only breaks.

how odd it is of leslie, to demand a textbook's idea of sanity from people who live in an insane world. from people who choose everyday to rise and meet that insane world as it is, because that world is where they fit and is what they are suited for, being who and how they are.

Assuming this is a reaction to a fic and not just generally about Leslie (for those just tuning in) i think theres a fascinating read in Leslie as a militant pacifist - to quote my mom, someone who thinks you should die for her beliefs. Ive said it somewhere on here before too.

Theres also my idea of Leslie and RH Jason as equal and opposite reactions to the world they live in - to quote myself this time, Leslie would rather be the victim of violence then its perpetrator, while Jason would rather enact violence then be its (possible) victim

And its fun because it places Bruce directly between the two of them - using both violence and ‘peaceful’ solutions that Leslie always wants him too. He just doesnt think it can be one or the other.

To actually answer your question though, Leslie has to be right, at least in her own mind, because to admit shes wrong means to admit that at some point she failed the task assigned to her and she would rather tilt her world view so that Bruce is insane and acting wrong instead of admit that.

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.