#Feart

[adelle-ein]

forever looking fondly back

[detournementsmineurs]

"Diadème" réalisé par Joseph Porphyre Pinchon et les ateliers de l'Opéra de Paris pour la cantatrice Rose Féart dans "Lohengrin" en métal et perles (1911) sur le modèle de la couronne créée par René Lalique et Alfons Mucha pour Sarah Bernhardt pour "La Princesse Lointaine" d'Edmond Rostand (1895) présenté à l'exposition "Sarah Bernhardt. Et la Femme Créa la Star" au Petit Palais, Musée des Beaux-Arts de la Ville de Paris, juillet 2023.

[satellitespinner]

july 12th 1996.

“yeah, some freak went crazy and killed a bunch of kids at camp in like ‘78” dina states, her lollipop twirling about in her fingers.

“no they fuckin’ didnt dina, quit it.” ellie laughs as she presses the bottle of vodka to her lips.

you and a few of the other camp councilors were sat around a fire, passing around a bottle and telling stories before the first day of camp.

“if you tell the kids that i swear i’ll be the one to kill you.” you joke as ellie pulls you closer into her chest. she hands you the bottle and you take a long sip. “i do not need a bunch of freaked out kids who refuse to leave the cabin.”

abby laughs as she contradicts dina’s statement. “i’m pretty sure if some freak really did kill a bunch of kids here, we wouldn’t be here.”

dina crosses her legs and rolls her eyes. “you guys are really no fun.”

jesse leans in beside her sneakily trying to get a taste of her very sanitary sucker. too bad she notices before he can get his hands, lips on it.

“hey! knock it off.” she looks at him with disgust.

“see we’re lots of fun, D” abby laughs as dina shifts uncomfortably away from her boyfriend.

“as if you guys haven’t swapped spit a thousand times. so dramatic” you comment on dina’s reaction when you hear a twig snap in the distance. you gasp and sit up at the sound.

“hah! so you do believe it!” dina points.

“bitch, just because i jumped at a sound doesn’t mean i believe in some fake horror story about kids getting murdered here. plus, it’s not like we’re supposed to be doing this.” you defend yourself as your cheeks burn out of embarrassment.

“aw it’s okay that you’re scared, i’ll be here to protect you, baby” ellie gives you a sloppy kiss on your already hot cheek.

“yeah right, ellie, your lanky ass couldn’t take down a killer if you tried.” jesse buts in. out of spite ellie replies quickly.

“shut it, dweeb. can’t you see i’m tryna get some?” she jokes. everyone laughs.

“oh fuck off. you’re not getting shit!” you plaster a fake offended look on your face and sit up. she places a hand over her heart.

she reaches forward with grabby hands “nooo baby im soo sorry” you laugh as abby scoffs.

“you two need to get a room! seriously” she fake gags while sticking two fingers in her mouth.

“oh we will” you send a wink abby’s way and ellie laughs as she pulls you back into her lap. she starts stroking your hair as the rest of the group start imitating you two.

“oh ellie!”

“fuck me ugh”

“ellieeeeeuhhhhh”

ellie’s face heats up bright red at the sounds, that where somehow extremely accurate. “okay. this shits whack.” she states, looking away from the group to hide her now pink freckles.

another branch snap.

“what the fuck was that?” ellie jokes as she slightly shakes you. you look around frantically before you shut ur eyes.

“you guys are so fucked.” you say before peeling your blanket off of your legs and getting up.

“i need to piss.” you roll your eyes and zip up your sweater before walking away. “do you want me to come with?” ellie shouts, you wave your wand as you look back.

“i’ll be fine!”

you zip up your jean shorts and leave the outhouse as quick as possible. the dark making it impossible for you to see where you were going.

should’ve brought a flashlight.

as you’re walking through the woods you hear footsteps in the leaves. your head darts in all directions.

“ellie?” you call out. for some reason you follow the sound, fully convinced it’s one of your friends pranking you.

“i swear to god, you guys.” you say as you carefully maneuver through the forest. the deeper you go the more sounds you hear.

“you guys aren’t fucking funny.” you nervous laugh as you step over a branch. you follow the sounds until the come to an abrupt halt. the fuck?

“hello? who’s out there?” your voice going up an octave. now you were fucking scared. you turn around to look when you feel a cold hand on your shoulder. you scream at the sudden presence. quickly turning back around and shoving whoever it was.

“you’re not fucking funny!” you say blindly. before realizing it was infact, not one of your friends. the figure didn’t say anything, but the space between you and them gave you time to book it. or so you thought.

as soon as your first foot left the ground they slipped their own underneath it, tripping you.

“fuck!” you yell from the ground. the masked person flipped you over and raised their knife clad arm, quickly bringing it down. they were quick but luckily you were quicker. you rolled left and the knife only grazed your stomach. it left a wound but you could manage.

you lifted yourself into your knee, the only thoughts going through your head were to fucking

RUN.

“help!” you screamed as you stumbled through the woods. you ran for enough time that you could eventually see all of your friends, their eyes all looking your way, puzzled expressions adorned their faces.

“there’s someone!” you scream, as you stumble again. your stomach blood now dripping down your shorts and onto your bare legs.

as you came into sight ellie was the first to stand up. the blood now very evident. “holy fuck.” she whispered as you got closer.

“he’s there! i fucking- i saw him!” you pant as you reach the group, ellie immediately taking you into her arms. you turn around and realize that the masked perp was now gone.

“i fucking swear.” ellie looks you up and down, your shaken and frankly bloody form. everyone’s eyes widen.

“this shit is fucking real.” abby’s says, looking around at everyone else.

“dina was fucking right.”

[astro-b-o-y-d]

When you go talk to Sephiroth in KH2, thinking it’s just going to be a regular chat, and then suddenly he says “I wonder if it won’t change it’s mind, once I defeat you.” as One-Winged Angel starts playing

[syunkiss]

everytime I start watching something new and see a character I like "oh look!! This is now my favorite blorbus" and then they are EXTREMELY FUCKED UP like someone hug this person

[hippolotamus]

IT IS HIPPO FRIEND’S BIRTHDAY???!?!???

HAPPIEST BIRTHDAY HIPPO FRIEND! DUCKY FRIEND LOVES YOU SOOOOOO SO MUCH!!! 🎉🥳🎁🎂🎉🥳🎂💕🩷💚💜🩵💙💚💕

This me coming to hugsquish you!! 🤗💕💚🤗💚💕💚

HIPPO FRIEND LOVES DUCKY FRIEND SO MUCH!!!!!!! ALL THE HUGS AND SQUISHES FOR DUCKY FRIEND

🦛💞🐥

[embraceyourdestiny]

i Need. to make love with a TGirl. and be her boy that treats her oh so good

[deadboyfriendd]

Cochise IIl: Tango

Summary: An Old Christmas tune brings Eddie face-to-face with what he has been running from. Turns out, you aren't as different as you think you are.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, drug use, drug overdose (apparent suicide), death of minor character, period-appropriate death, angst, fluff, piano smut, oral (fem receiving)

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 2.6k

Author's Note: I've been creatively and emotionally constipated for weeks now, so the fact that I even got this out when I did was a feart on it's own and I'm very proud of myself for it.

As always, thank you to @dr-aculaaa for being my BTS on this project, love you <3

Find the series masterlist here!

Edward was a man of repose, though, in your sadness, you’d figured you’d been, too. Maybe it wasn't repose at all. Stoicism, maybe, but there was one thing you knew for certain: He was much prettier than you. His skin of alabaster, freckles across flesh kisses of vulnerability and dusted across his worn body as a reminder of the naivety of the youth he once possessed. 

You supposed this is what it was now, slender fingers plucking at strings in the dead of night. Be it the stoicism or the naivety of youth, the moon cast a glow across his cheeks and carved rivers through the valleys of his face. You listen to the inflection of strings scraping loosely across frets. F, A, B, A, in a smooth stacking rhythm. 

There is a twang to his strumming, like there was a string loose somewhere– but not entirely like your piano. The piano had a resounding twang, it echoed within itself like the ghosts of internal hammers and keys before throwing its brashness out against the walls of your bar. You did not know how to tune it, and it would not be tuned again. 

This sound was much softer, much less brash than your own, the hum resounded within the walls of the instrument itself before dissipating the sound into the open night air like an inkwell in water. It spread, filled the space and lingered until there was another sound to see it out. A choreography of sorts, yet the song was all too familiar in the way it filled the space in your head and the hole in your heart. 

Its tiny, needle-pointed feet danced across your brain in flashes of sheer white fabric and the song of the oak floors of The Grand Hotel. Their piano did not sing the same far-east folk song as yours, no, instead it hummed an autumnal hymn of reverence and elegance. It was not as perverse as your piano, but your piano was more gentle with your heart. Your piano didn’t remind you of that worn spot on the floor, or the cracking scabs forming on your hardened knuckles. 

The corner of the door jamb dug a divot into your shoulder, but you didn’t have the grace to move without making the entire balcony creak, so you didn’t. A singular step forward pulls a groan from the floor of the porch where the wood expands with the heat of the impending monsoon, and, regretfully, his fingers pull themselves from the frets like the nails holding the plants to the rafters of the porch. 

“Hello, Edward.”

“Ma’am.”

You leaned back against the post, arms folded and unable to will away the beginning semblances of a grin from your lips. You couldn’t help the roll of your eyes in his direction. 

“I think we’re past ma’am now, Edward.” 

“Well, in that case, I also think we’re past Edward, now.” A grin that resembled your own pulled at the corners of his mouth. He had asked you to call him Eddie earlier, it felt less formal than this. The formality kept you upright, kept this whole thing from crumbling.  

You folded your arms in front of yourself, hip dropping heavy across the solid singing of your piano. Kind-of-but-not-really attempting to conceal the smile spreading across your face like a disease, “That’s a pretty song you were playing.”

“Learned it from a woman.” Eddie had said to you, arms folded, starting a stride with heavy, hollow footing towards you. Slow and in a metronomy rhythm. 

You cocked a brow at him, smile spackled heavy across your face, “Oh really?” 

“Yes, really.” He insisted, “She owned a bar out west. Played it at night on an old piano.” 

“Well I’ve got an old piano here.” You said to him, arms staying folded as you kicked your boot out in a heavy, choreographed stride, “Maybe I can teach you to play it sometime.” 

It was always this song and dance. Always this beautiful waltz of back-and-forth quips, lines wonderfully blurred by the haze of smoke from a cigar and sweet as the kiss of sasparilla, though, that bitter aftertaste would still rear it’s ugly head like the snake from the hole. Rattles thick in the stagnant air like a warning. 

“Y’know,” Eddie had said to you through a puff of smoke, “You should really stop giving me all of these free things.” 

You’d never take that into account. One cigar from the humidor, in the grander scheme of things, would never be enough repayment for anything he had done for this town. Anything he had done for you, 

“Well,” You’d quipped back, sitting back down at the polished bench of your old piano, “ – maybe you should stop saving my life, then.” 

That bitter aftertaste, a sting of smoke stilled in the in-between hung heavy in the air– shattered by the opening arpeggio shrill enough to shatter it like glass. 

“I’ll always save your life.” 

You couldn’t decipher if the pause in your song had been intentional, though, you’d hoped it seemed intentional enough to be a plausible excuse for your silence in return. The bass notes rang heavy under the shifting mechanisms in the hollow underside of the piano as you placed a foot, too-heavy, against pedals in a desperate effort to drown out the harshness of noise, the heaviness of your hands– the weight of this place. 

He filled his space on the opposite half of the thin piano bench, his legs bracing against the floor to press his back against yours. He leaned his head backwards, a welcome weight against your shoulder, and tried to feel the muscles in your hands turn over each other and vibrate in time to the bass crescendos and tinny melodic trebles. 

“Where’d you learn to play something as pretty as this, anyhow?” He kept his voice soft, turning his head to attempt to look at what you were doing. You could feel the heavy breath from his nose cool against your neck. 

“It’s an old German worship song. My husband’s mother would sing it at Christmas.”

He looked at the handwriting along the ledger lines and felt sorrow for the woman that wrote it. 

He can see their Christmas, a mother’s voice a warm river across the rocks of a piano melody, a distraction from the war waging just outside of their front doors. A fire and a meal, though, he remembered the wartime– remembered a time where his own mother had rationed enough of their weekly collection to have a real, fresh meal. He thought of that warmth and then thought of you. 

He tips his head back and blows a plume of smoke in an effort to stifle the memory. Instead, he wishes to replace that warmth with you. 

He stared at the hole in the floor, the discolored groove where you had scrubbed your knuckles bloody and raw. He thought about the him-shaped divot he had scrubbed into the frozen planes of Montana. 

He thought of her, the eldest daughter of two Roman Catholic missionaries following the fur trade to an unholy promised land. 

He thought about God, and just how cruel He could be. 

Did Eddie sit where your husband once sat? Did he lean against the expanse of your back and feel the vibration of the keys travel through the wiry expanses of your arms and settle back against him, just as Eddie had? 

Would he leave a him-shaped hole in you the same way your husband had? Would you wear down the wood the same way he wore down himself? 

“I was married, too.” he admitted to you, voice shattering the turning of sheet music and the resonant patriarchal basso that echoed out against these glass windows. 

“What was her name?”

“Christine.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Yes.” 

You sound like his mother, he thinks, authoritative but not coddling in the way you question him. He wonders if you feel a discomfort in this statement. He hopes you feel a solidarity in your grieving enough to overlook it. You do not ask him how she died, though, if you were to, he would tell you:

Christine dies at the hand of laudanum, too beautiful to not have a devastating fault. The red-haired daughter of southwest Arksansas– far across that deep blue water she lived, and it was across that water where he had loved and left her. He thought of her skin, like ivory though cold as porcelain even long before her death. Her body, as it was laid to rest, had remained the same even in death as it had during her life. No amount of insurmountable beauty could cover the sullenness under her eyes or the frailness of her wrists. The red halo of hair surrounding her head could not guarantee a peaceful end. No amount of love was enough to save her from herself. 

He thinks of her eyes, long before the hollowness had clouded them over like a storm. He remembered a time where there was a soft glow there, a gas lamp that only he could ignite. He wondered if your eyes held that same glow. 

He thinks of a time where she stood outside of her father’s river home, barefoot in the mess of cattails and thick grass to encase him in a loving embrace. He had insisted that she put some shoes on. He wondered if you did the same, letting your feet burn in the sun-warm sand. He wondered if your husband insisted that you do the same.

Their marriage had died long before she had. The kiss of opium tincture still bitter against his own lips as he pressed them to hers for a last time. 

Your hands were not as tender as hers, yet the tenderness was not what he craved. He thought about this now, as you held his arm in a grounding grip. Tight enough to know that you were still there but not enough to hurt. He wondered if you needed that, too. 

This kiss was all-encompassing, starving in nature, though awkward on the deliverance. 

He knew you would forgive him if he was being too forward, but he figured you were a little past apologies now. Your back is laid across his lap, twisting and contorting to meet his own lips from your side of the piano bench. He uses this leverage to pull you forward, more over him than against him. 

There are hot tears that run down his cheeks, though, he’d figured you were past those now, too. 

His embrace around your back is not hungry– it is desperate, as if he is clinging to anything to keep him tethered to this plane. 

The piano bench scrapes loud against the knotted wooden floors of the bar as he pushes your back against the keys. They sounded with an off-key crash and lingered for moments too long. You do not feel the way the keys and beveled finish of the piano press into your back, in the same way he does not feel the knotted pine dig into his knees when he kneels at your feet. 

“Please,” He whines, tears no longer streaming down his ruddy face, though the sticky tracks remain, “Please jus’ let me taste.” 

It is not possible for you to deny him when crystalline tears budding up against a pink lashline– when a heavy hand drags itself against your leg in anticipation– no– pleading. 

You lean further back, balancing on the slippery edge of the piano bench, and you swear you can hear a soft, “Thank you.” whispered against your thigh between soft, wet kisses. 

His grip is bruising. In the same way you had tethered him to this earth, he binds you to him. One hand lies on the pool where the outer fat of your thigh presses flat against the wood, the other a vice, at your knee in order to keep your legs open. 

The edges of teeth graze against tender skin, affixing themselves along garter belts as hungry hands find purchase on your hips beneath chemise underdresses. Hot, humid breath dampens your skin as it escapes from his teeth– clamped along the garter now sliding down your leg and off your foot. A strong hand pushes back upwards, feeling along the silken hair there. 

Edward was a man of repose. In your sadness, you’d figured you’d been, too. Though, you wouldn’t have guessed it by the way he pressed a hot, flat tongue against your core and traveled upwards slowly in an experimental taste. 

“Like fuckin’ sugar,” He wines into you, his hair a splayed mess against your thighs, his tongue finding purchase against your core. 

Thick fingers prod within you, the slow in and out a tether to focus on as you shook. He wanted you to shake. He wanted you to tremble and shiver all of the worries that had plagued you to the bone. 

Eddie could not be your husband, but he could make you forget– even if it was just for the night. 

He reaches upwards from beneath your dresses, a hand intertwining itself with yours and feeling across the ridges of your cut and calloused knuckles. 

You could not be Christine, but you could be here– even if it was never in your bed. 

At the precipice of your climax, you cry out, and he likes to think that it is for him. He squeezes your hand, emerging from beneath your clothes with hair askew and a dewey sheen across reddened cheeks. When he kisses you, it is softer and you taste yourself on his lips. He does not think of the bitter taste of opium residual on the lips of Christine. Instead, he only thinks of you. 

He does not waste time when he hikes your skirtings above your waist, hands like a vice against the fat of your hips. He is quick when he unclasps his belt and unbuttons his trousers, and smooth when he slides himself into you. 

You are quieter than other women, soft staccato breaths escaping with whispers of moans punctuate his thrusts– slowly and then with more rigor. 

He keeps a furrowed brow as a bead of sweat drips down his nose and onto the bare skin on your chest where his lips now find purchase, staccatos of his own dotting your skin like galaxies in the vastness. 

He sees the way the soft glow of the lamp light heats your skin, the pink ruddiness that graces your cheeks or the glitter that flashes over your eyelids when the light catches the oil there. He sees the way your soft lashes kiss the apples of your cheeks or the soft folds of your neck as your head lolls to the side in satisfaction. He sees the way your hair curls with sweat around your ears in soft coils or the way his saliva has settled in a gloss along your lips. 

And by the stars above you, he swears that he could love you.

A thumb is heavy against you, in circles and figure eights as it wills you towards the edge that you closely teeter upon. 

“It’s okay,” He whispers to you, by soft pianissimo whispers, “You can have this. I want you to have this.” 

A barely-there sigh escapes your lips, deeper-winded than the rest and you allow your body to fall slack as he continues to pump in a rhythm, finishing quickly and lowering your underskirts as he sinks to his knees. 

Tonight, you would hold his head against your stomach as hot tears would once again roll down his face. Tonight, you would card fingers through the tangles in his hair as he lays his upper body limp and racks with soft sobs across your lap. 

Tonight, you think you will unmake the left side of the bed. 

[mamiaztec]

6 year old me was up all night feart because the sun is gonna explode in 6 billion years or something. Now, 26 year old me is snorting coke.

[nolshru]

phrases that I genuinely did not realise were Scottish things until recently:

outwith, it's like, within, but for outside :D

juice, meaning any drink, as opposed to strictly juice from a fruit

squint, meaning at some angle

feart, meaning afraid, this one's especially interesting, since similar -ed/-t pairs exist in other places, but not feart, apparently

and I think that's about it, sorry, I'd be interested to know if anyone else knew of similar things from their dialect of English, or just more Scottish shit tho

[adelle-ein]

heavy lies the crown

[whovianwatchingstartrek]

A Whovian Watches Star Trek for the First Time: Part 110 - Under the Command of Evil Georgiou

Star Trek: Discovery - Season 1 Episode 15 - Will You Take My Hand?

Okay, We're now onto the Season 1 Finale of Discovery! I'm excited to see how we end this season out!

We open aboard Discovery with making quoting something about the nature of feart, and unfortunately I don't recognise it, so I'm just left with the Foreboding nature of the passage.

This Georgiou's command style is immediately noticeably Terran. I loved how tense the Bridge was during the opening sequence. Her absolute disdain for the Klingons, Saru, and later in the episode Ash Tyler, pushes all of the right buttons in my head, and I can't wait for her to get her comeuppance. She makes a few veiled references to how she eats Kelpians towards Saru, and it just made my skin crawl, and so did her calling Ash an "it" later on. Unfortunately however, there is not much the crew can do for now, as she's the only one who fully knows the plan.

After the intro Georgiou and Michael interrogate L'Rell about which landing site would be best for discovery. Of Course L'Rell doesn't talk, which launches Georgiou into a much more brutal method of getting the information out of her. That doesn't work either, and Michael calls that to a stop. I'm really glad that Michael is starting to realise that maybe this isn't the way to go. Michael then takes Georgiou to Ash, and since he has Voq's memories, he willingly gives over the information they want. We also get a bit of worldbuilding about Klingon history, just a bit about Kahless and how he defeated someone called Molor, who the Klingons seemed to have worshipped in a similar way to how they worship Kahless now. I really want to know more this, and I'm trying to piece together their culture from the little scraps I'm being given.

This episode from the get go is clearly about the clear difference between Imperial tactics and Federation Tactics, and whether or not the ends justify the means when it comes to Georgiou's brutality.

This episode is putting in a lot of work to undo the mistakes of the last few episodes surrounding Georgiou, and I am 100% here for it. The last couple episodes tried to make her too sympathetic, when she is a fascist dictator, but here she is written and portrayed in such a creepy slimey way, and it's definetly what they should have been doing from the get go. I've already mentioned her racism, but also in the way she interacts with the human crew. Her various threats towards Michael, and just general attitude towards Sylvia Tilly gives me shivers, and in this episode alone I think she's earned a spot among my favourite villains so far.

Discovery Makes it's jump into the caves of Kronos, and the ground crew, made up of Michael, Ash Sylvia and Georgiou exit into an Orion market to try and get the location of this shrine.

On a side note, the more even split among male and female Orion slaves makes the whole idea feel a lot less behind-the-scenes slimy than the Orions did in Enterprise, thankfully. Here it feels slimy in a way where it feels like it's supposed to feel slimy, and not just... whatever Enterprise was doing in it's Orion focus episode. Also I'm not going to pretend like the eye-candy isn't appreciated in my bisexual brain, it feels a lot less uncomfortable when it doesn't feel like exploitation.

Amongst the chaos of the market, we get a few good downtime scenes, particularly of Sylvia being an absolute fish out of water, and a really well written heart to heart between Ash and Michael, where we finally get the full details of what happened to Michael's Bio-parents. Her survivor's guilt over this trauma is an interesting angle, and the detail of her memory over her trauma is something I really want to see explored in the future, and it really adds a interesting layer with her relationship with Ash.

Tilly finds out that the Drone she's guarding isn't a drone, but a planet cracking bomb designed to make the planet uninhabitable, and unfortunately Georgiou has moved too fast for Discovery to do anything.

Thankfully, Discovery manages to talk Starfleet out of the plan, and fromt here it's just a matter of sending in Michael to convince Georgiou to stop, which turned out easier than expected. Discovery hands the Detonator over to L'Rell, and convinces her to step up as the Klingons leader, and end the war. Ash choses to go with him, meaning we'll need a new chief of Security again. His goodbye to Michael . Georgiou is then let free, and I'm hoping we'll see her again sooner rather than later, because she still has a lot fascisty stuff to answer for.

Michael's speech at the end as she obtains her official pardon, and the crew get their official commendations, was also a fantastic way to cap off the season. We're also given an absolute shocker of a cliffhanger, as Discovery picks up a distress call from the Enterprise, so I can't wait to see what that's about!

I really liked this finale. I was shaky going into it with how the previous episodes were treating Georgiou, but this more than made up for it. It really capped of the whole methods vs results theme the season was going for, and it was just generally fun. I enjoyed myself here.

I have a couple Short Treks which I'll cover in one post tomorrow, and then immediately onto Season 2!

[the-hearth-and-the-wild]

Of Muthadh / Mutability

This book is for the taken: for all those feart of the glamour, the skaith of the evil eye - weird-set, ill-minted or only wildering - their bodies in motion, flowing or full-flown, rapt with heart-hunger.

Grass twists up through my hair now and my mouth is full of stones. Tell my mother and father I am coming, tell them I have not grown old.

Robin Robertson, from Grimoire

[origins-ducktales-story]

Ickis had three ancestors with the same name.

Ickis I was a king from the acient age or prehistoric period who took his responsabilities and royal duties seriously.

Ickis II is from Mesopotamia period he is the first one who made a kind o clock that kind guide monsters on the underground

Ickis III was from the acient Greek he was a capitain from the monster army and taught Monsters to scsre and make feart the humans off

Ickis IV the actual as we know in the present time

[auspicioustidings]

*gently gives you a single flower* here you go! flower so u be nice!

I will take this flower and be the nicest ever 🥹 I'm actually feart as fuck rn because I've woke up with no hangover which seems incorrect, fully expecting it to sneak up on me.