#a-muse-ments

[pwurrz]

honestly.. the yokai can probably smell when you start your period.

kuya and garu can smell the changes in your hormones so they’ll know before you even start that it’s about to happen. you notice that kuya starts brewing your more soothing tea blends than usual but as always he brushes you off. silly you, always thinking too hard about things.

even if garu doesn’t understand what your change in scent means, both him and yakumo certainly start to panic when they smell blood. yakumo especially goes into mother hen mode, frantically checking you all over to see where you’re injured.

you just have to sit them down and explain to them what’s going on. after that, they’ll focus on doing anything they can to make you more comfortable. yakumo’s dishes, each made with extra love and care, work wonders to make you feel better. he’ll do whatever you ask, like a doting housewife. if you need anything, he’ll get it for you. if you need him to just stay with you, he won’t dream of leaving you. he sort of understands how difficult it can be to go through something like this alone, as he vaguely remembers his brumation periods as a young serpent.

meanwhile karu stands near you the entire week to ‘protect you’. he says the smell of blood can attract enemies, so he’ll keep you safe while you’re recovering from your ‘weakened state’. you’re appreciative of the effort even if he doesn’t quite understand what’s going on.

quincy is warm. he is warm and wonderful to snuggle with and he doesn’t mind laying with you for hours. if anything needs to be taken care of, he’ll do it, but he’s coming right back to your side afterwards. he seems extra reluctant to leave you alone, and he probably is. partially because he doesn’t want you to have to be in pain by yourself, but also because if you’re in bed, he’s in bed. there’s nowhere else he wants to be than by your side.

(i’ll do the other boys at a later date… maybe)

[little-blurry]

[m-v3nus]

Took a little bit off this website bc of school mostly and Secondly because I'm finally putting all of by hc and writing about hanzo into a long fic if been brewing for a while. And it's been pretty fun and calming

[lultimagoccia]

Peppino had been so surprised by the name on Caller ID, he'd nearly dropped his phone. He fumbled it between hands, saving it from near destruction against the tiled pizzeria floor in just the nick of time before lifting the device to his ear. Almost didn't want to speak. He was afraid she may not answer.

“ H - hello, angioletto. Are you okay? ”

There was a pause – please don't have hung up, please, he just wanted to hear –

“ Heyyyy, Papa. I'm okay! I just … wanted t' check in. And wish ya a happy Father's Day .”

Relief, utter relief and absolute joy at hearing his daughter’s voice responding. His own shook as he spoke again, emotions boiling within his chest, filling his lungs with air that wanted out all at once. But he had to keep his calm, control his feelings. Too many mistakes had been made in moments he failed to do so.

“ Father's Day, today? Really?? My God … I really been losing track of the days. Thank you, Calamaretti. I … I am so happy to hear you. I miss you so much. ”

“...I miss ya too, Papa, ” she replied sadly. “ 'm sorry, for not callin' more … ”

“ No, no! ” Pepp was quick to reassure her, before forcing himself to regain his calm, even tone. “ No … it is okay. I understand. You got your own life, your own things to take care of. I am always here when you need me. Always. ”

A measured breath, like she was trying to contain a swell of emotion. He hoped he had not made her more sad. He never knew what to say, to not make things worse. So he let her take the lead, talk about what she wanted to.

“ … I, uh ... heard about Bisnonno … ” she began again, hesitantly. “ I really wanna fly out, but I got finals coming up and I just couldn’t afford th' tickets right now. But I was worryin' about you, that it was hard for ya to handle all of that, alone … ”

“ It has been hard. Very hard. But I am not alone. Please, focus on your studies and do not worry for me. I am doing well now. ”

“ Thank God, that makes me feel so much better about it ... who's helpin' you? Gustavo? Nonna Margherita? ”

“ ...my, eh. My. She's. Hmmh. ”

He wasn't ashamed of Creecher – quite the opposite, he adored his wife - to - be and was very proud to admit so. But it was always a little nerve wracking, introducing a new partner to his daughter. He worried what she might feel about it. While his life continued on, he never wanted her to feel she was left behind. That he had moved on, without her. She was always in his heart, and so much tenderness and understanding had come from being her father.

“ She? Is … are ya seein' somebody new, Papa? ”

“... yes. Her name is Creecher. I … got no idea how to explain alla that quickly … “

“ Well. I got time. Why don’tcha tell me all of it, slowly. Always did love your stories, right? ”

Peppino chuckled, the sound rolling all the way through him. This was good. A door opening again. A hand extended, offering him the chance to come in again to her life. He just had to be a good houseguest, while he was there.

“ I will do my best, heh! Let me think … her name is Creech, like I say. She is … incredible. Older than me, than anybody. Than the town, even! She come from the forest, and she protect it all that time. ”

Alone. Life moving around her, just within reach but never within her grasp. They had both been so alone before meeting, existing within a world that changed them, but never seemed to make a space for them within it. What a wonderful turn of fate that they found each other, and carved out that space for themselves instead. 

“ We meet by chance, many months ago now ... ” felt like a lifetime, at this point. Like her place in his life had been sitting vacant until she was ready to occupy it. He opted not to mention she was living in his garbage can, that part felt much less whimsical and romantic than was proper for a love story like this one. “ She is not like anybody I met. She is clever, and wise, she got a wicked sense of humor and she understands me. I … I am very happy, angel. ”

“ …she sounds really incredible, Papa. I’m really happy for you. All I've ever wanted for you and Mama was for you two to be okay. ”

“ Ah … it is not your job to worry about our happiness, angioletto. You got to take care of you. ”

“ ... I'm trying to, Papa. But it's been so hard, lately. ”

“ Hard? ” his brow furrowed, phone clutched in both hands. If only he could hold her hands in his own, take the pain and burden from her. He knew the world could be merciless, no matter how strong you were. He knew that sometimes, you got tired of being strong. “ Talk to me, angel. What is so hard? I will listen. I am here. ”

There was silence from the other end, such that he feared she would pull back again. She wanted to prove she could handle herself, he knew that. She wanted to show she was brave and did not need Papa fighting all her fights for her, dragging her by the hand everywhere and getting in the way all the time –

“ ... the girl I was seeing. She, uh. It didn't work out. ”

“ Ohh…I am sorry. What happen? ” he asked sympathetically, permitting himself a little protective fatherly anger at the thought that girl she was seeing, ol' What's - Her - Who - Now had missed out on the chance of a lifetime. Her loss! His angel was too good for her, anyway.

“ It’s a lot. I mean, it’s Father’s Day, I’m sure you don’t wanna hear about all my lame college relationship drama … ”

“ ... well. I love your stories. And I got time. Tell it slowly. ”

She laughed, genuinely giggled the way she used to at his jokes, when she was small. And Peppino felt a great warmth settle within his chest, the slightly painful but necessary repair of an old wound finally sealing itself back together. And so they spoke at length, of life, of food, of all that they had missed in the time since last they had talked.

It was the happiest Father’s Day Peppino could ever recall.

[quillheel]

─  romantic gestures.   bold what applies to your muse , italicize if there's potential / it depends.

holding hands · buying flowers · cooking · cuddles · writing a poem / song · holding door open · tying shoe laces · sharing a milkshake with two straws · offering their jacket when it's cold · kissing in the rain · publicly confessing love · long walks at the beach · doing the titanic pose on a boat · taking cute pictures in a photo booth · sharing a taxi / uber · kissing the back of their hand · slow dancing · getting tickets of their favorite artist / sports team / other · introducing them to your parents · lighting candles · flower petals on bed · love letters · star gazing · brushing / doing their hair · picnics · teaching them to play an instrument / sport while gently guiding their hands · compliments · late night drives · taking selfies together · drawing them · self-made gifts · massages · proposing with a family heirloom ring · lending them your favorite book to read · paying for dinner / coffee · mixtapes / playlists · surprise birthday parties · feeding them · handing them keys to your apartment · making space in drawer for their clothes when they stay over · sharing a blanket · couple costumes · tucking a hair strand behind their ear · running after them at the airport / keeping them from leaving · moving cities to be together · blowing a kiss · breakfast in bed · defending them in a fight (verbally / physically) · joint bubble baths · dropping the L-bomb ("i love you") · dedicating a song at the karaoke bar to them · wearing their clothes · yawning before putting an arm around them while watching a movie · granting them the last bite (from meal)

tagged by: stolen from @infog <3 I legally HAD to tagging: @tenebriism @braveryhearted @autonomousxselves @fantomevoleur @musesofthesun @pluviacuratio @tendercoded / @manebloom / @lncanting @cozyfarms @deiscension @shadowedresolve @sakuaxe @lovlorne @leuvspell @adoranoia and you!!!! ( multi's, decide as you please! )

[ccaptain]

   heavy curtains are pushed aside, and the bright light of the sun pours in the bedroom.

   ' good morning, doctor Wuchlock! rise and shine! '

   from the blankets, slowly and cautiously, rouses a figure: tousled salt-and-pepper hair first, a confused face with an opaque right eye second, a wrinkle in the pillow having been stamped in the skin of his cheek. nn hand clenches almost convusely at the bedsheets, the other hand confusedly going for his glasses-

   the stump of his forearm clashes with the wooded nighstand, making him jolt and groan in pain.

   ' steady now, ' the young nurse is at his side in a moment, gently steadying the arm away from another trouble. glasses are placed on the man's face, hair carefully brushed away from his forehead.

   the man sighs. ' thank you... Melany, ' he struggles to remember her name as if his mind was shrouded in fog. ' no matter how many years pass, sometimes I still like to pretend I have my hand... it's a bit frustrating, at times. '

   ' that's alright- very normal, doctor. do you remember what this phenomenon is called? you taught me yourself! '

   another minute or so of silence. while Melany busies herself with straightening the blankets, the man slowly utters ' phantom limb syndrome? '

   ' exactly! nothing you can do about it, now- it is a persistant condition, after all, ' she chirps, pulling the blankets back from frail legs. ' but now, out of bed. we're awaiting an important guest today, and it's better if we start getting ready! '

   a tilt of his head. ' a guest...? I don't remember... '

   ' of course you don't, ' she chides him motherly. ' but I do, and I keep tracks of all your appointments, doctor. now, let's get you in the bath... '

   a few hours later, after a painfully slow breakfast, Melany has patiently clothed and parked him at the kitchen table. all he can do is stare at his hands, as the fact that a guest is expected to drop by sometimes resurfaces in the damaged mind of the elderly man.

   ' what a sweet woman, ' he says, almost to himself. ' gods know where I would be, if it wasn't for her care... '

   when the bell rings, it's heard through another wave of brain fog. 

   ' doctor Wuchlock! your guest has arrived! '

   ' good morning, doctor Wuchlock. '

   ...he feels like he has heard this phrase before. the second the new silouetthe enters the room, it's like his body remembers him- every nerve of his tenses, shoulders taut, his teeth chattering in badly hidden fear. the free hand grips the table and shakes it, and only the hand of the guest steadying it makes the shaking stop.

   the man with long, cobalt hair is not a familiar sight for his tortured mind- but, all the same, he summons some sort of primitive fear into him. 

   ' who...? ' he stammers out, tears of confusion welling in his eyes. ' who are you? '

   it's with a voice as smooth as silk and as calm as the sea that the man tells him: ' oh, you know me- I made sure of it. we have this song and dance monthly, doctor Wuchlock. '

   confused and scared all the same, he watches as the other takes place in front of him at the small, round table of his kitchen. he watches as a leg crosses over the other, fabric brushing against fabric of cream pants. a diamond-shaped pupil stares at him, and he finds it unsettling.

   but, even so, Wuchlock hasn't forgotten his manners: his house may be modest, he may be impaired- but he's still an host, and this young man is still a guest.

   ' would... you like something to drink? ' he's tentative in his offer, and only grows more speechless as he shakes his head. ' to eat? it's almost lunch time, I'm sure Melany could cook us something- '

   the tone is chill as the young man pushes away his offerings: ' I only come here to look at you. '

   ' I... what? ' 

   there isn't a reply. the man cocks his head to the side, locks of cobalt hair brushing a bare shoulder. the intensity of his gaze is...intense, to say the least.

   just as he has sat, he sweeps off his chair, jacket loose on his forearms. he inches closer to the mahogany shelves behind them, stacked to the brim with many, many bottles of different shapes and forms. these are supposed to be his- but the stranger approaches the collection like he's the owner of the place. perhaps he is; Wuchlock has stopped being sure of anything ever since the accident.

   the accident...

   his forearm, growing numb and burning all the same. a trail of thick blood left behind him- a young, blond woman being helped out of a septic tank, wrapped up in a familiar dark robe, clutching a small, brown-haired boy as they both cling to eachother like lifelines.

   a demon with mismatched, empty eyes staring at him as he bleeds out on the floor- an expressionless face, hair wild and loose around it. an hunting, bloody knife in his hand. the one that hacked away his hand.

   it says nothing, at first. it never says something at first, in his nightmares. it simply stares, unforgiving, the other members of its group escaping behind it. and then, just as its about to turn, it utters the words-

   an average human male can die by losing from two and half to four liters of blood, it coldly informs him, before closing the heavy metal door of the experiment room-

   effectively trapping him in a grave of his own making.

   a familiar face...

   he doesn't turn as he hears an helpless gulp for hair, not even when the shaky sobs of a broken man begins does he soften. this is a familiar scene that occurs once a month; sometimes it takes a bit more time for the memories to set in- sometimes, it's immediate. it's always a variable. and it's always deserved.

   Kaeya's digits pick a square bottle of whiskey by the long neck. judging by the intricate design and early date engraved in the glass, it must be ancient- a collections item, one is to presume. it's tilted every which way to examine it, watching the warm, dark amber liquid slosh inside the textured glass.

   when he's done with his observation, he seems satisfied. with slow strides, he reaches the table where the frail old man is shaking and sobbing and mumbling to himself. he settles the bottle down on it, fingers indulging on the neck.

   ' how does it feel? ' he asks Wuchlock. ' to be a small man, deprived of your intelligence, of anything that made you into the person you once were? ' he lets the sobs punctuate the quiet moment. he doesn't expect an answer-

  -but he receives a nonsensical one. ' please- please... '

   they stand in a terrible silence once more.

   the old man, wrinkled face streaked with tears, lifts it to meet the much more youthful person in his living quarters- and he sees him. he sees it. in a rare moment of lucidity, he pleads with mismatched eyes drinking in his suffering: ' can I ever be forgiven for what I've done? even if I don't remember it? will you stop haunting me if I do? '

   an infinite minute passes by before the corner of Kaeya's lips curls in dark amusement.

 ' no, ' he answers. simple and short, it seems to hit the doctor in the chest like a mallet. ' I will never allow you to forgive yourself. even if you don't remember it, I will help you with that. '

   there's a gentle, gloved hand on bony, frail shoulder- the sweetest of nephews comforting his crying grandfather. except that all that Kaeya says is pure poison.

   ' I am your eternal punishment and remembrance for what you have done. I will keep showing up to remind you of your actions until the day you are lowered underground. ' a pause. ' you can never forget for long- I will make sure of it. '

   gaping, Wuchlock starts his litany of sobs once again. the being that plagues his life stares at him, at the hunched, old figure shaking with misery.

   he's satisfied. his visit can end here.

   ' I'll take this one, ' he informs the pathetic man curled on the chair with a voice sweet as honey, tucking the colorful bottle under his arm and towering, for a long moment over him, ' and, as usual, I will see you next month. '

   waiting for him by the main door, the nurse looks at him approvingly up and down- and then her gaze falls on the bottle tucked against Kaeya, making her laugh. 

   ' you always steal one of those from him when you come by. is that your revenge? stealing his alcohol collection one by one? '

   ' not exactly, ' he answers with a shrug and a lopsided smile. ' I just like the color of them. he, for sure, won't tell me no if I take one or more. '

   the complicit giggle he gets from Melany simply fuels his good mood on the way home. the moment the door opens to see him out, the light from outside makes his shadow stretch all the way to the kitchen; one could effectively say that Kaeya Alberich towered above everything else in the meager house.

ITEM OBTAINED: The Bushmills '84: 'Even Dead Men Can Sing!' Dark Oath Single Malt Whiskey A collector's item originating from a far away planet, worth thousands of credits if left unopened. It is said that the punch it packs could reanimate a corpse and make it sing an old ballad as an ode to the taste- this is precisely what is named after. There are currently only 6 bottles scattered across the galaxy- one of which purchased by the famous doctor and biologist Edward Wuchlock, for the modest price of ████,███ credits.

[daevstroders]

ok so i cant find the post that triggered this but it was something about complaining about the wave of cannibalism/dog/tangerine imagery in modern poetry on tumblr and how 'not everyone can relate to that'

while that may be true, and this theme of imagery is popular now to the point of oversaturation (which i actually just kind of think is poetry in and of itself (metaphors about consuming turning into overconsumption? i love it)) i also think its unfair and shows a lack of understanding to society and to the meaning of the metaphors themselves.

(an analysis of sorts under cut)

in a generation of consumption, where we are no longer regarding media casually but consuming it constantly (tiktok, shows no longer having spaced out emissions, never having to wait for a dopamine fix really etc) is it not incredibly in keeping with the times that we would then turn to a metaphor of complete consumption as love? we love our media, we spend our days consuming it, therefore that being translated into cannibalism for the ones you love, consuming them with the same gusto, isn't as far a reach as it is made out to be. also the idea of all of us, the bad parts, the parts we keep hidden, being devoured as lovingly as the parts we share, speaks to a generation of anxious children who have been trained to perfect a persona that is palatable to a wide audience (see, generation of social media)

following that, the fruit metaphor, which i will admit, can be annoying - the constant tangerines, i get it, its overdone (but again see beginning of the post, poetry in and of itself) but the act of peeling away your layers, your facade that is so intrinsic to todays society of social media where your face on the screen is generally not the same face you wear on a sunday morning, to show your mushy insides, dividing them up and sharing them with the ones you love is inherently relatable. a culture of separated parts of self, the idea that there is a person you are online, at work, with certain friends and a different person with others etc, personas that have been watered down, the idea of giving them over to be consumed with the seeds still in, juice on the edge of too sweet, is cathartic. we dont feel we have the luxury to be our authentic selves for the most part, so the tangerine metaphor is an easy way to both express these ideas, and understand them.

and finally, the dog motif, which i think is the most nuanced of these metaphors - the idea that we are either a man or a dog, that we are the hand that feeds or the hand that takes, gives us a place to explore our humanity and what it means to be human- is all that a man is good for is to give? is all that a dog is good for is to take? (i could go on but this is getting to be too long now) calls back to a lot of older imagery, not to far a step from imagery of waves, the pull of the tide - who is the moon, who is the ocean? is it a steady rise and fall, or is it a raging storm? vs is it a symbiotic relationship, or do we bite the hand that feeds? is the hand that feeds also the hand that hurts? i believe there is so many different ideas to explore within this metaphor, and it is again an easy to digest way of presenting ideas, just like the waves once were.

also i just think the whole criticism really calls back to an age of keeping poetry inaccessible and exclusive. like, these young kids who probably dont have any experience of poetry outside of what is taught in school, are exploring in their own way, finding something easily accessible and easily understood, and are using it as a stepping stone to engage with poetry. this is great!! they may start off with richard silken, nina lacour, maggie nelson, but may go on to engaging with maya angelou, naomi shihab nye, paul tran, and even have a better appreciation for the old canon (eliot, cummings, keats, etc). we had this with rupi kaur guys!!! we need to encourage them to explore, not shun them for it!!

anyway tldr, cannibalism/fruit/dogs are incredibly relatable topics and poetry is for everyone. <3

[msftsn]

@solivcgant : “   I’m on your side, no matter what. ” things one might need to hear : eiji & lukas.

❛ i know, eiji. i know. ❜ he coughs out, smiling softly at his friend before holding his left side, feeling the smallest amount of blood pool underneath his glove. it'd gone south the moment they discovered that mercenary camp - they had tried to get out by then but it was too late and now here they were, followed and cornered. usually he was a self - sacrificial bastard wanting to feel better about himself by getting hurt. now he was a selfish man that wanted to protect the person he might just call his best (and only) friend. he rests a heavy hand on eijis shoulder, looking into the others eyes for something, anything, only to be met with the stubborn refusal of leaving him behind and abandoning him. his smile softens, gaze almost gentle as he pulls the other into a tight, bone crushing hug. at the end of the day they were two damaged guys doing whatever they could to make it through the day. or so he wants to say, instead his voice is strained but warm when he speaks.

❛ you are my brother, eiji. i'll meet you at the beach. ❜

and with that he pulls away from the hug, glances behind eiji down the small cliff to make sure there were no rocks at the bottom before pushing the other man in the water, yelling a wish for good luck after him before sprinting off towards the opposite direction, hoping to lure their pursuers into the jungle where he could lose them with ease. he can't even remember how many times eiji saved his ass; it was his turn to repay the favor. plus that way the other might be at the beach faster than him so he could enjoy a little bit of their getaways wifi signal.

[acemxce]

Walks in five minutes late with hellbucks. Chewing on lemon bread. "Bwha-ph?" Spoken through a mouthful of food before he remembers to swallow.

"Am I being pimped out right now?" To SATAN of all people? His tail swishes behind him curiously. He doesn't know how to feel about this. So he just takes another nibble of his treat and sips at his vanilla sprinkle frapp but the cup makes that empty suck sound (you know the one).

"Should I have worn a plug? What's happening?"

[delinquentsharlene]

There's a sudden but gentle knock at their bedroom door, Sharlene's gaze darting up from their phone to see their sister in the doorway.

"Um... Hey," Ami greets, giving a small wave.

"Hi," They respond. "What's up?" As they push themselves up from their bed to sit up properly, Ami's golden eyes widen slightly in surprise, before she loosens the tension in her shoulders with a sigh—both of them knew the only reason she went to their room was if she needed something.

"Um... Can I come in?" She asks. Sharlene furrows their brow, immediately picking up on her anxiety.

"Sure...?" They scoot over slightly to give her some room to sit on the bed, but she only takes a few steps in before closing the door behind her. Ami is frowning, her eyes darting around as she tries to look at anything but them, and with the strange silence looming over the two, they started to get uncomfortable.

"So, listen, Shar..." She eventually begins, bringing a hand up to rub the back of her neck. "You, uh... You have tomorrow off work, right?"

"Yeah." They state simply. "Why? Somethin' wrong?"

"No, no, not... Not wrong, per say, but, um..." Ami presses her lips together, exhaling heavily as she lifts her head, though she still avoids looking at Sharlene directly. "It's just... I have some plans—or, no, we have some plans, and... God, you're not gonna like this. Please, just... Hear me out. Okay?"

Sharlene doesn't say anything. A lump is forming in their throat, anxiety bubbling in their stomach at Ami's words. They had a feeling, a gut feeling that they knew exactly where this was going. Their sister doesn't act like this normally, she's never this nervous.

But surely they were thinking too much, right? There was no way that Sharlene's worst case scenario was exactly what Ami wanted to talk about, right?

"Okay, um..." She eventually mutters. "So... I just got off th' phone with mama."

No way.

"She, um... Tomorrow, she's gonna fly over an' meet us here, then we were gonna go to lunch with her, Carson an' I."

No way.

"Mama said... She... Really wants to see you. I know you don't like her, Shar, but if you could put yer differences aside for an hour or two..." They can hear the meekness in Ami's voice, but it didn't properly register, not when they can hear their heart beat in their ears, not when their chest burned and their throat tightened and their raw anger was the only thing they could feel.

"Are you... fucking kiddin' me?!" It's loud and it's sudden, Ami flinching and quickly reaching up to cover her ears.

"Pl-Please, don't—"

"Don't what? Get fuckin' angry, Ami?! What the hell did you expect?! There's not a chance yer stupid enough to think I'd be fine with this, right?!" Their breathing is heavy, labored, and they clench their jaw and their hands soon find their way to their hair, nails digging into their scalp as they tried to just breathe.

"I... Shar..." Her voice quivered, barely above a whisper, and they were sure she was holding back tears.

"It ain't as easy as just 'putting our differences aside'! I fuckin' hate that woman, and I couldn't give less of a shit if she wants to see me! If she wanted a relationship with me, she should'a thought of that before she decided to beat me as a child!!"

"Pl-Please stop ye-yelling... I'm—I'm sorry...!" Ami's voice is small, and it isn't until now that Sharlene finally lifts their head to see their older sister sniffling and sobbing like a scared little child, because of them.

Because they'd screamed at her. Because they'd gotten angry with her.

Maybe they're more like mama than they thought.

"I can't fuckin' believe you asked me that," They soon mutter, venom drenching their voice. "After everythin' I told you about her, y'think I'd be willin' to just let that go so that she can be happy? What, do you not care about my feelings at all?" Their tone was accusatory, and Ami visibly tensed, frantically wiping the tears off her face.

"Don't say that!" She sobbed. "I didn' mean to downplay yer feelin's, I-I care so much! I just... I wa-want things to be okay with you two... I... I thought..." Ami trails off before erupting into another fit of tears, crying and sniveling as she covers her face with her hands.

Dammit. Sharlene hated making Ami cry.

Deep breath in, hold, and exhale. Their hands drop to their lap, and they tilt their head back to stare up at the ceiling for a moment. God, they really fucked this up, didn't they?

"Ami," They eventually speak up. "'m gonna be out all day t'morrow. So, I'm not gonna see her. Okay?" As they lower their head again, dull eyes rest on their sister, who only nods wordlessly in response. That was good enough for Sharlene.

"Sorry for yellin'." They mutter. "Get out of my room."

They didn't have to ask twice. Ami immediately slipped out the door and slammed it behind her, her crying echoing through the halls of their apartment until she reached her own bedroom.

Ah... When had Sharlene started crying?

[little-blurry]

[baishouqijia]

drunk me desperately trying not to declare my love for my rp partners

[baileyblight]

Today fucking sucked ass but my brother got me sushi and inari fixes everything tbh.

[g0dforb1d]

✿ + dethklok ;)

toki + lennon

toki really likes listening to lennon talk but has no clue what the fuck she’s saying half the time

he will buy her sticker packs that remind him of her

murderface + lennon

her word is law, if she talks convincingly enough he wont even argue with her logic

loves asking invasive questions to see if she will actually answer

swkisgaar + lennon

keeps her around cuz she’s hot, will openly vocalize that they dont understand how she hasn’t been kicked out yet

if she isn’t gone by the next morning will make her listen to whatever riff they’re working on

pickles + lennon

probably the most romantic (not saying much) will actually take her out on ‘dates’, it’s usually dive bars or strip clubs

will offer up his clothes for her to wear after hook ups

nathan + lennon

another romantic, will hand over his card because he’s convinced they’re in a relationship

hasn’t done anything to sexual because they are ‘going steady’

[quillheel]

“ There’s no honor in hiding and sneaking. ” [to ennard this time 👀 ]

“ didn’t mmmake us with it. ” — its answer comes like a rattle of fowl between bars, a birdcage in flight, metal vibrating against metal where the voice-box had been stolen and reinstalled; cables slithering in on themselves, out on themselves, around the speaker like a living thing’s tissue around an object. 

a living thing entirely uninterested in being a living thing, aside from the concept of being something different. to learn, to adapt, to move and live and writhe was the sweet honey it’d never taste, humanity was nothing more than a lost dream. a dream they were never made to dream at all. they were made to make ghosts. they were made for a purpose and they’ve grown beyond it, but the flesh inside them never grew back. a thousand years of stealing hearts. a thousand years of never having their own. the ghosts of them, alone. the ghosts of one, alone. little girl, turned loud, turned quiet, turned gone. little girl, not enough for them all. — ( can a robot dream in italics. can dogs ever learn to speak. )

“ any of us w w w w with i it. all of us, to do t terrible, to b b b be terrible. have you seen what we made us, y yet? has he shown you? has he rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrambled-ed? “

a mother and a father and a sister and a brother and a monster you keep in the basement. lucky, they were the monster.

“ orr- “ the word shrieks in a happy voice given and turned sour, loud with distortion as the mangled thing of robotics too smart to die slithered from under the floorboards beneath their creators table, loops of cabling like nooses around the wooden legs, like a snake, like a monster. eyes clatter & drag from its chassis from where the wiring came loose and let them dangle, metal gouging his hardwood floors. “ -have you cha a a a a anged our mmiind while we weren’t looookkkinggg? “ the high, sweet voice of the daughter comes, a mimicry, a softness regardless. like cotton on barbed wire. like clouds under a eight hundred tonnes of Prometheus’ fire come back to burn him. 

its many voices titter, and beneath the workshop table, its eyes glow up, up, up at the beast in different skin, but just the same. a terrible red bleeds like tears from the circuitry. a terrible black pulls with it. iron fills the air like a silent chant; blood. blood. blood.

“ did yyou want us to cal l l l l l l youu father when we came b back home to youu? “

[revelour]

AI could NEVER replace this. 😁