#I'm a puppet on a string

[ghcstwired]

☆      𝐆𝐇𝐂𝐒𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐃      ( .  .  . )      an   indie,   multiship-friendly   &   selective   portrayal   of   original   character   RYUJIN   CHOI   with   different   verses   available.   dead   dove   do   not   eat!   est.   march   2024.   tortured   by   wynter,   25+,   (CET)

once   the   celebrated   vocalist   of   𝗘𝗖𝗟𝗜𝗣𝗦𝗘,   a   rising   k-pop  group,   his   life   was   irrevocably   altered   by   a   tragic  accident   that   claimed   the   lives   of   his   bandmates   and  seemingly   his   own.   yet,   against   all   odds,   he   has  returned,   reborn   from   tragedy   and   cloaked   in   a   veil   of  mystery.   he   finds   himself   inextricably   bound   to   an  enigmatic   entity,   a   mysterious   presence   whose   motives  remain   shrouded   in   secrecy,   leaving   him   to   navigate   a  world   forever   changed.

✧   𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐃.  ✧   𝐑𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐒.  ✧   𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.  ✧   𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒.

𝐓𝐇𝐄   𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓   𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐍   𝐇𝐄   𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐒   𝐁𝐄𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐃   𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐔𝐒𝐓   𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒       :   what   makes   you   you   when   your   mind   no   longer   belongs   only   to   you ?   /   art   as   a   mask   and   a   scream   /   grief   as   a   monster   that   rewrites   the   past   /   second   chances   aren’t   always   blessings   —   they   can   be   traps   /   being   surrounded   by   people   but   completely   alone   &   the   cost   of   resurrection.

[maryymaruu]

Drawing digitally is not going very well, it's been rough the past few days, so back to pencil and paper we go-

Take an out of context SOTU being sad-

[gemscales-and-tea]

"Do you think Geppetto underestimates how much he can control murder!son (revived 'Carlo')--"

Bro, Geppetto underestimates how much he can control the puppet he literally DID NOT PUT THE GRAND COVENANT INTO.

Literally P displays a willingness to kill humans if he wants to (the BRB, 'Alidoro', The White Lady, etc etc) and often he never hesitates to do so.

Forget revived Carlo, at least Geppetto was smart enough to put the Covenant into him.

P doesn't have that restriction. Literally if pushed enough, he could GUT the old man and nothing could stop him.

[false-anachronism]

im so miserable over kite. im literally so miserable. every time kite has fought thus far he's been quick and efficient and the fight has ended in like ten seconds. this kite that pitou has "fixed" is flopping around like a ragdoll. like he's still efficient but in a sloppy and unclean way like he doesn't know how to move himself. i'm going to curl up and die on my carpet

[d3adbr3inc3lls]

I can take him to Therapy I swear- as long as it's in Galar.

Ngl I'm a firm believer in Toxic Chain Kieran... I refuse to believe that he hates me... </3

[missionlameturtle]

I don't think it's a secret that I'm not the hugest fan of the WOT tv adaptation - but I would consider giving it another shot if somebody, somehow, used it to make the viva la vida fanvid I've been dreaming of since I was 13

[californianedgeworth]

the amount of people who point out Steven as some kind of money hungry villain manipulating Shane and Ryan in the whole Watcher debacle is so annoying. clearly they just liked Shane and Ryan a lot better and want to take culpability away from them. but all 3 of them made this decision, as far as we know they're all equally accountable. stop making conspiracies based off people's lives you don't know so you can continue to justify your parasocial relationship jfc

[practically-an-x-man]

Did some more puppet limbs tests and I am realizing that the puppet limbs may work in the opposite way I pictured in my head (i.e. they will EXTEND when the filament is pulled rather than folding, which logically makes sense bc the string is shortening to the path of least resistance, but just didn't hit me when I was visualizing it)

[lightnersdream-archive]

i should sort out/practice how i want to write Tass and Queen before i really get into it bc its about Swatch but obviously theyre both going to be involved. unfortunately Spamton has to be there to an extent due to canon but im keeping it to a minimum of whats required to make the story make sense because i wouldnt do that to what little of Swatch exists without him in it as the main character also i just dont want to write him that much

im working on nailing down exactly what i want to do with it but aside from Swatchs whole deal with NEO/the crystal and so on im saying some shit like with darkners and lighters and Hey isnt that fucked up bc i lioe to thinj Swatch is aware of how its fucjed but just plays into their role really hard but also more ill get to later. themes ect. Also Palette is going to be there for fun

[traumereiii]

i don't remember if I ever posted my sona here but here's a few pics of him for your consideration

[frightmeister]

td

v : until dawn / pregame / washington rising. v : until dawn / ingame / i know what you did last winter. v : until dawn / postgame / washington 3: dream warriors. v : until dawn / dark au / the house that josh built.

v : au / remedyverse / star patient at the ocean view hospital. v : au / john wick / washington pictures incorporated. v : fandomless / f. v : tbd / yeah i dunno either buddy. v : au / dead by daylight / puppet on a string. v : au / iwtv / joshua b demented.

ship: w / y.

p / w / t.

[sunni-stuff]

fwb!Simon, who grunts out, I love you mid thrust, leaving you rightfully lost for words and unable to question him, not while he was hitting a spot that had your toes curling and stars dancing in your eyes.

It's only afterward that you confront him, sheets pulled up to your chest, trying to assemble some semblance of decency while he gets dressed with deliberate purpose, his back to you as if eager to escape your presence. Scars crisscross his back like a road map of past battles, mingling with the fresh evidence of your fruitless moment of passion—angry red streaks left by your nails, which had clung to him in desperation and abandon.

"Did you mean it?" The meek whisper escapes you as you watch him tug on his shirt, concealing the marks of your shared tryst as though they were nothing more than another wound to bear.

He doesn’t face you, his head slightly turned but unreadable, the balaclava masking any trace of vulnerability or regret. Simon sits on the edge of the bed to put on his boots, the silence stretching between you like a chasm. The weight of your question hangs heavy in the air, rendering him unable—or perhaps unwilling—to answer, though his stoic demeanor betrays nothing.

"Simon, I'm talking to you." Your voice trembles, frustration spilling into your tone.

"I heard you," He mutters, his voice low and clipped, refusing to meet your gaze as he tightens the laces of his boots.

Simon always does this. He always does this—offering you fragments of affection, fleeting and fragile, leaving you grasping at it like sand slipping through your fingers. No matter how tightly you hold on, it escapes, grainy and rough, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake. How much more could you take? How much longer could he toy with your heart before it finally broke?

"Then say something!" You finally scream, the words sharp and raw, slicing through the oppressive silence like a blade, desperate to shatter the wall he always hides behind.

He stills, shoulders stiffening, and for a moment, you think he might ignore you. But then, he snaps—his voice booming in the small room, rougher than you’ve ever heard it.

"What am I supposed to say?" The words come out like a growl, his frustration spilling over in a way that’s uncharacteristic of his usual control. His head whips around, and though his face is hidden by the balaclava, the intensity in his eyes burns through you.

You flinch, never having seen him angry before, let alone enough to yell at you. The sharpness of his outburst leaves you unnerved—just for a moment. But then your own anger surges forward, overwhelming the tremor of fear. He’s been toying with your heart, leading you along like a puppet, pulling the strings, the conductor of a train you never asked to board.

"Did you mean it?" You ask again, your voice steady now, even as your chest tightens. You meet his brown eyes head-on, the fire in them slowly dimming your own, leaving you to wonder if there’s anything real beneath the cold facade he so carefully constructs.

Again, he doesn’t answer. Typical Simon. Instead, he reaches out, roughened hands cupping your cheeks, his thumb gently rubbing your soft skin. There it was again, that flicker of affection, brief and fleeting, poured into your palms like a delicate offering, expecting you to cherish it, to hold onto the scraps he gives.

But much to his surprise, you pull away, your gaze hardening. For once, you let the sand slip through your fingers, choosing not to cling to something so unreliable, something that always fades just when you think you’ve grasped it.

Simon stares at you in utter shock, his gaze frozen as you move away, laying back down, refusing to face him. He watches in silence as you refuse to look at him anymore with those eyes—those eyes that always regarded him as your guiding sun, the one constant in a world full of uncertainty.

Now, your back is turned to him, the sheets pulled up to your shoulders, leaving him in the dark, unable to see your eyes, the eyes that once held all the softness, the trust, the devotion he’d never truly earned.

There was nothing else that needed or could be said. No oasis in this desert, no water to quench the sand he's suffocated you with. Simon rises, grabbing his jacket and keys from your dresser, his movements mechanical. He wants to look back, wants to see if you're watching him leave, wondering if you’ll be crying like all the times before. The sullen look in your eyes, the one that always made his heart strain, that soft ache whenever he walked away.

But this time, he doesn't look. Not this time. Because he knows there will be no hopeful eyes waiting for him, no quiet plea left in your gaze. Instead, he sees only the remnants of what he’s broken, the red thread that once held you together now frayed beyond repair. He’s a coward, unable to face what he’s done, unwilling to see the damage he’s caused.

[promoxie]

The "1960s James and Bobby radio tune" that Ford couldn't remember the name of was quite possibly "I'm your Puppet"

"Pull a little string and I'll kiss your lips, I'm your puppet...

Snap your finger and I'll turn you some flips, I'm your puppet..."