#but it also included a snippet of

[oh-no-its-bird]

Here Before and After Me,,, chapter 5 ,,, in progress,,,,,,, [throws up blood]

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

part 1 of a little comic / art sequence that i've been working on! :D it's part tribute, part experimenting with brushes n colors and trying new thingz :]

| 1 | 2 | 3 | ... |

and thus continues my endless quest of spreading the carrot fics like a plague! if you've seen my art floating around you probs already figured that this au holds a very special place in my heart, forever and always!!

if you haven't heard of it, it's a fic series by @crowned-ladybug called carrot soup!! it made me wish i could speak colors and i need more people to share my struggle xd

go check it out if you're into sweet voice lore and qpr level gayness and just wanna feel warm and soft and warm (hurt/comfort my beloved) <333 there are some heavier themes cos everyone's traumatized but they're working through it! be sure to check the tags and stay safe! <3

[timefall-if]

i fear my hungry ass needs a snippet... preferably of M... or of black market medic MC... or both... pls and ty 🙇🏾‍♀️ (btw ur if is looking great and i cant wait to see where the story goes!)

M spits out blood, leaving a dark and wet spot on the floor. With one hand, they hold a can of cold beer at the back of their head, hissing at the feel of it and shutting their eyes tight.

The party had just finished when you walked in through the metal doors, and the mess still hadn't been taken care of yet. The walls are smeared with makeup and piss, unintelligible words written in bright lipstick and circled with smelly sprays of yellow. Ugly confetti lays sprinkled around chipped chairs, and there are a few strings of neon lights still flickering against the ceiling.

You're sitting next to M at the bar, pouring cheap vodka onto a napkin. You turn to them, holding your hand open, waiting for them to give you their other arm. M does so without so much as a glance in your direction, their eyes still closed and head thrown back.

“This will sting a bit,” you say, focusing on the deep scratches on their skin.

As soon as the alcohol touches their arm, M grunts. “Fuck …"

Their body tightens and limbs flex. You look up at them slightly, your stare fixed on their muscles. M's arms are greenly bruised, surely ugly and brutish to someone else's eye.

Not to you, though. Never to you.

"Like what you see?"

You wince at being caught eyeing your best friend. Were you so obvious?

Your back straightens and you meet M's bright green eyes for a moment. Their eyebrows are slightly raised, an insufferably teasing smirk playing on their lips.

"Shut up," you mumble, turning back to the vodka bottle and napkins on the bar counter.

The sound of M's raspy laugh makes the corners of your own mouth turn upward, your head shaking in both affection and exasperation at once. You grab your scissors and cut some white, soft gauze.

M closes their eyes again. "How'd you get all this stuff so quick, anyway?" they ask.

You snort. "Eh. Marek knows someone."

There is a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable or awkward, but there is something you have been meaning to ask, something that just keeps bugging you, and you know M could smell your curiosity from miles away.

You hesitate before moving your body in front of M again and starting to gently dress their wound. "So, wanna tell me what happened earlier?"

They sigh, "Besides getting my ass beat?"

Your mind drifts back to tonight's fight. The lights of the underground pit were bright in the centre, leaving the rest of the room almost dark. The crowd was loud and wild, crushing you, spit coming out their mouths as they yelled the name of the fighter they bet on, willing them to not let their audience lose their money.

M put up a good fight, they always do. They've fought against this opponent before too. Even though the guy was bigger and meaner, M had won every single time. Until tonight.

You don't know how it happened. One moment, M was pushing him into a corner, their fists coming up at the guy's head and hitting hard. Then their gaze slipped to the crowd and saw you, something in their eyes changing from wild and animalistic to vulnerable, then ambitious. Next second, you see M thrown on the floor, the impact knocking the air out of them. Their opponent started to blindly punch wherever his hands would land, though M kept fighting back, using their legs to hit the guy in the stomach.

But it wasn't enough. M kept sneaking glances at you, almost as if to check if you were still there. They were exhausted, bleeding from their nose, and definitely couldn't take any more hits. Marek stopped the fight and got the guy off M, but they couldn't meet your eyes anymore, not even once.

You keep your head down as you pull the gauze on M's arm tighter. "You were doing good, M. I saw you."

They shift in their chair, the metal screeching against the floor. Your hands work deftly at patching M's scratches, and your fingers linger on their skin just for a second too long. Then you let go.

But M's hand catches yours before you get a chance to turn around again, yet their eyes are still closed, head almost bowed.

"I was distracted."

"By what?"

M's eyes snap to you, finally holding your gaze for longer than ever tonight. Their brows furrow as they look at you, a scrunch between them that you move to slowly rub away with your thumb. Their stare is still trained on you—on your face, your eyes, your lips. They follow your every move, their breath hot on your skin. And you think you might know now what they were distracted by. Or more precisely, who.

They plop back into their seat, still holding your hand. "I just ... I don't know. You're right, I was doing good. And then I saw you in the crowd and I-"

M stops themselves, tongue scraping the inside of their cheek, trying to swallow back the words that are threatening to spill out of them without their permission.

"Doing good wasn't enough anymore. I wanted-fuck, I don't know what I wanted. To show you that I could do even better, I guess. And instead, I just fucking embarrassed myself."

This is what that was about? M wanting to prove themselves to you?

You tie a knot with the ends of the gauze strip, securing it on M's arm as you finish the job. They let go of your hand, allowing you to put your utensils back on the counter. You clean the scissors with agonisingly slow movements, feeling the sharp blades beneath the napkin. If you pressed slightly harder, they would cut you.

Once you're done, you sigh. The silence between the two of you stretches, heavy like a blanket. You pause before you turn to them, trying to catch their eye again, but they pointedly avoid your gaze.

Tsk. Frustrated, you grab M's face with both hands so they wouldn't be able to look anywhere else but at you. Their eyebrows raise as if they would've expected you to just let it go. They should know you better by now.

"You don't have to worry about that stuff with me, M. You're always the best. And I'll root for you ... even if you take a punch or two. Okay?"

They try to move their head from between your fingers, but you don't let them. You keep your hold firm, not breaking eye contact. "Okay?"

M looks at you and grabs your arms gently, their skin harsh but their touch as soft as a breeze. For a moment, you think they will push you away, whatever you said surely being the wrong thing.

But M keeps holding your arms instead, keeping them in place, your hands still on their face.

"... Okay."

[larkwinged]

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒 𝐅. 、𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

PROFILE. a self-righteous knight who is too willing to throw their life away, and too eager to charge into battle. underneath their stubborn exterior, they are riddled with the pressure of upholding a family title that has long been lost to time.

FULL NAME. artemis elise fröhlich

PRONOUNS. they / them

GENDER. fem-presenting non-binary

AGE. early twenties

HEIGHT. 5”1

BIRTHDAY. november 12th

OCCUPATION. knight

AFFILIATION. knights of favonius

ELEMENT. pyro

CONSTELLATION. columba bellicosi

WEAPON TYPE. sword — “herald of the dawn”

Now stripped of its original purpose as a vessel to store all the memories of an ancient god king, this sword has been passed down in the Fröhlich family since the dawn of time.

Once wielded by the god of memories herself, this sword was blessed by the winds and presented as a gift to her youngest child upon the morn of their knighting ceremony.

“You, who represent the grace and bravery of humanity,” said the Queen, “take this and go. Become a pillar of hope to those wallowing in the darkness, and guide the lost onto a chivalrous path. You, the Dovewing Knight.”

And so, the first Dovewing Knight set out, protecting the people of Cairnfelle and standing tall as a beacon of hope, just as they were requested.

At the edge of the world, when the brilliance of Cairnfelle collapsed and the mountains crumbled, the sword found its way tumbling back into the hands of its previous owner to defend her honor, and upkeep her legacy until the final trumpet sang … announcing her defeat.

With no definite home, the sword lay in the ruins of its kin, preserved well by the Anemo Archon and his will — until the day it found its way into the waiting hands of the inheritor of an ancient title.

• demo music concepts. one two three

• ENG voice claim : keath ósk as cole seymour from yaelokre’s “meadowlark” project

• JP voice claim : marina inoue as armin arlert from attack on titan

CHARACTER STORY 1: eastward of eden

It is true that Artemis has long held resentment towards their older sister and past caretaker, Lilith. As a child, Artemis was refused of many things — including choosing their own clothes, partaking in certain activities, and having their own privacy. There wasn’t much they were allowed to do, and even the hobbies they enjoyed ended up ruined by Lilith’s excitement and pushy nature.

To this day, Lilith is unaware of the mental anguish she caused her siblings over the course of their entire childhood. However, in her own eyes, she has done no such thing, and has succeeded at being a “mother.”

Many citizens have told her, “My, you exercise much control over them,” and yet, she has failed to see the error in her ways. It is not entirely her fault, as she was forced into the role of a mother when she wasn’t ready for such a task. Even though she failed in many aspects of her parenting skills, there was one thing she has always truly succeeded at: caring deeply for her family.

However, no amount of love could undo the years of fighting and hurtful words thrown around between the siblings.

CHARACTER STORY 2: legacy

Long ago, in the days of yore, the archaic land of Mondstadt had been ruled by a monarch older than Decarabian. Her rule was rumored to last longer than his, and her birth is now nothing but scattered fragments along the wind.

When the Queen of the North Wind descended and claimed Mondstadt as her home, a mighty kingdom formed under her feet. Small huts grew to larger, firmer homes, and gargantuan cathedrals made of marble were erected in her honor. Trumpets blew, the wind howled, snow fell, and mountains as high as the heavens towered above humanity.

In later years, the prospering kingdom of Cairnfelle was officially born. Serving as a haven for travelers and poets alike, the kingdom sang with energy as it thrived under Queen Catalina’s guiding hand. The god of memories was exceptionally gentle, with a kind and compassionate heart that moved even the most stoic-faced men to tears. Her words were wise, her complexion glowing, and her promises true.

Cairnfelle, as much as it prospered, gained an enemy from a distant land. With no choice but to face the beast she prodded, the Queen set out to befriend the raging phoenix that had enough of her games. Ever the charming soul, the Queen did not have to do much to make the phoenix bow to her every whim, and before the citizens of Cairnfelle had the chance to acclimate to the visitor, the two were to be wed.

There is not much to say for the years in between the joining of two god kings and the fall of Cairnfelle, but this: Four inexplicably brave and virtuous souls were born from the two gods — four demigod knights who carved the way for the future of Mondstadt: The Four Archangels.

The Blair Family — the origin of the Fröhlichs, is no longer the raging flame of life it had once been, but a snuffed out ember of its former glory.

Only in passing on the titles of the Four Archangel Knights can the present day Fröhlich family hold tight to what was once a name feared and adored by all.

CHARACTER STORY 3: composition

Many questions have arisen over the years; all pertaining to a certain facet of Artemis’ composition.

“Is it a curse?” They’ve inquired, only to wind up receiving a simple, “I’m not even sure myself!”

However, that it is a small white lie they’ve grown to tell. In fact, Artemis is very much aware of the reason why they consistently find themselves on the brink of death and luckily make it out alive. It is because of the unique composition their ancestor, Lowen, was made of: pure and unbridled wrath.

The story goes as such: In the days of yore, when gods and monsters still yet walked the earth, a beast born of flame and rage took flight. They seared their enemies and allies alike, and roused the hearts of warriors all across Natlan. They utterly refused to lay their past life to rest. In doing so, they made a promise to their newfound family. The wrath that lived inside them was nothing but a blessing, and deserved to be passed on through their children, and future generations. And so, the endless wrath that boiled in their veins was passed on — consuming the lives of their children, and overtaking the brilliant flames that became their descendants.

To be a god’s descendant has always been an honor in the Fröhlich family line… Yet, Artemis — like the direct children of the god of wrath — see it as naught but a curse; For what blessing could bring about destruction and the devastation of any living being in one’s wake.

VISION STORY:

The blistering pyro vision attached to Artemis’ belt was said to be a gift from the gods, and maybe even a gift from the long gone god of wrath themselves.

What else are visions besides gifts from the gods? A tool to wield, and yet another curse Artemis must deal with.

At the young age of eleven, Artemis was sent out on their first escorting mission. It was their first mission given to them by Grand Master Varka, who was elated to test their strength and endurance. Not many were willing to accept an escort from a child — as was the case with the Fontainian aristocrat Artemis was talking their ear off to. However, the man said nothing, as the child’s directional skills were second to none. It was only when they hit a bump in the road that the man questioned Artemis’ capabilities as a knight.

“I should’ve known better than to trust a child!” He yelled, waving his fist in the air as he pushed them aside and ran off ahead by himself in the rain, leaving the young Artemis to fend for themselves amidst a hoard of abyssal monsters.

Although panic was steadily rising throughout their body, they forced themself forward — slashing at every monster with a shaky grip on their sword. The rain poured, sagging their clothes, and dragging their arms down to the dirt. The grip on their sword slipped, as did their footing, and they tumbled to the hard ground with a rough clash.

Their shoulder-piece scratched the bridge of their nose on the way down, and a thick line of blood began to spill from the open wound. A rifthound drew closer, baring its teeth and snapping its jaw as its claws outstretched, striking Artemis across the head. A clap of thunder sounded, and amidst the ringing in their ears, Artemis felt the weight of ten large wooden planks collapse on their back.

Even so, they shakily grabbed their sword, their nails digging into the wet earth, and began to stand. Their blood boiled as a wrath they were only warned about once crept up to the surface, prickling along their skin until it caved inwards, tugging at their ribcage and burning against their racing heart.

In a flash of white and gold, the hoard of rifthounds lay motionless on the grass, their bodies turning to dust as Artemis panted heavily. The wrath inside their veins bubbled, and their vision turned red. It was all consuming. It was destructive, and it was total annihilation. They struck down every monster seeping from an abyssal pylon until finally, they tore the pylon in half with nothing but their blade and their bare hands.

The rain continued to fall as they dropped their sword and collapsed to the ground in a heap of sore limbs and bloodied grass. Their eyes fell close for a moment — at least, what felt like a moment — and when they opened, a shining vision sat amongst the pool of blood left behind by their foes.

Indeed. The god of wrath, whose curse ran rampant in their veins, rewarded them with yet another “gift.”

𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀

• hobbies: When they are home in Dornman Port enjoying their days off, they like to wind down by practicing the art of crochet. Not only is it soothing to sit by a windowsill while the afternoon breeze filters into their bedroom, it is also a hobby their late mother held dear. By partaking in this hobby, they feel closer to their mother, and can preserve her memory longer. Another hobby is sports. Artemis can often be found playing with the kids in the port during vacations.

• beliefs: The Fröhlich family have always dedicated their lives to the protection of Mondstadt, and hold a firm worship to a god king who has long been dead. Although they have accepted Barbatos as their new savior, they still hold their original god close to their hearts. Artemis has naturally followed this belief and considers their worship of the god of memories their religion. During rough times, they find solace in a temple far north and meditate there for as long as they deem necessary. Once a month, they offer up a few of their most important memories— a ritual that has been passed down in the Fröhlich family for over 3000 years.

(This act of offering up memories is akin to the way some worshippers will offer animal sacrifices to the god they serve.)

• about — fate: Artemis is a firm believer that fate will guide the worthy and ultimately lead everyone onto the path they are destined to walk. However, they do not include the meddling of gods and higher beings into this equation. They believe that fate is its own entity and not dictated by the Archons nor Celestia. It acts of its own accord, and the gods are mere victims of fate, as well. Not even Celestia will be spared.

• about — death: Artemis believes that death is a stepping stone to a greater afterlife. Akin to their many family members, they believe that life is temporary, and death is eternal. When one dies, they are not truly dead; for they are shedding their mortal shell and accepting their true form, which is the soul. The soul will live on forever in the afterlife, while the physical body is nothing more than a temporary shell to house said soul. With this belief, the Fröhlich family does not fear death, but welcomes it with open arms— greeting it like an old friend.

[thevirginslvt]

snippet of a Pickle fic i’m trying to write. if i don’t finish it for some reason but it gets enough attention i’ll share the unfinished version anyway. reminder that between drawing and writing i’m way worse at writing, so suggestions are welcome and patience is appreciated :]

tags: established relationship (sort of), pickle/reader, pickle/you, more like pickle/me fr, scent kink?, ooc pickle probably, author isn’t updated with the manga

…

“again?”

thick fangs smile back at you, eyes bright with mischievous intent and messy hair following the movement of his enthusiastic nod.

Yes, to see you.

you let out a sigh as you feel your cheeks heat up, already anticipating with both dread and excitement the kind of mood he seems to be in. moving aside and letting him in not only grants you the sight of his hunched form bending even more to pass through your door but also a whiff of his unwashed scent. good, if only you didn’t feel embarrassed about how much you are into it. into him.

the beginning of your relationship with him was… something. It all started with an interest in martial arts that somehow lead to having the resuscitated caveman visiting your home every other day or so. a few crossed glances, some careless approaches… it all steered Pickle into feeling bold enough to follow you home and take claim of you, in a way. you think that, in his head, it was all courtship and he had won you over, granting him a free pass to you and whatever surrounded you. you dropped the handkerchief when you held his gaze and got close, and he reciprocated by going after you and everything you entailed.

You were grateful he seemed to somewhat understand your discomfort when he first tried to mount you in what you had thought was the safety of your home that night. who would’ve thought that all you needed to do was get physical for him to understand? After ripping off part of your clothes he was met with a harsh slap that left your own hand hot and shaky from the impact. wide eyed, it was only then that he seemed to stop thinking with his manhood and looked up to see you and finally take notice of your tears and shaken appearance. He sniffed you once again, confused as he could clearly catch on the scent of your excitement mirroring his own, but the slap was undoubtedly an indicator of you rejecting him. weird, he thought — or at least you thought he did by his confused expression.

tentatively he leaned in to lick a tear, just as quickly pulling back to give you a glance over. back then you thought he would just run off and find someone else, but instead he just hunched even more, as if to say look, i’m safe. I won't hurt you. you could only scoff and hold back an unamused laugh, finding humor in his attempt of playing nice when both of you knew he could just go for it and you wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.

but while his intensity and desperation had scared you at first, seeing him kneel before you with an obvious tent between his thick thighs moved something inside you. maybe you had always been a weirdo, or maybe you had a really bad case of celibacy begging to be taken care of. or maybe the puppy eyes he was giving you, pleading for a taste of you, made you look at the oversized primitive man in front of you as… cute. cute enough to give him a try. cute enough to fuck.

…

[lgbtlunaverse]

You know, in a way, Jiang Fengmian and Yu Ziyuan are a lot like qijiu.

[playingplayer2]

Just for kicks, assigning Batfam members bands/songs from my own music tastes

Alfred - ASIA (Never Again, Days Like These, and Without You, Listen Children, Bury Me In Willow, and Nyctophobia)

Bruce - MCR (Welcome to the Black Parade and Helena) and It's Alright by Mother Mother, Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious by The Amazing Devil, and It Hurts Too Much To Speak by Lina Cooper

Babs - Paris Paloma (Bones on the Beach, Hunter, and Notre Dame)

Dick - The Crane Wives (Take Me to War, Never Love an Anchor, Canary in a Coal Mine, and How to Rest)

Cass - Little Dancer by Leroy Sanchez, Shallows by Daughter, and Luna by Iniko

Jason - Sleep Token or Autoheart (Dark Signs and Take Me Back To Eden // Wretch and Hungover in the City of Dust) AND Concrete Jungle by Bad Omens, King by Lauren Aquilina, Immortal by MARINA, Artificial Nocturne by Metric, and Finger on the Trigger by ASIA.

Steph - MARINA (Seventeen, Family Jewels, and Soft to be Strong)

Tim - Far Too Young To Die by P!atD, 100 Million Years by Taylor John Williams, and Detective Detective by Static-P

Duke - Come and Get It from Me by Sun Heat, Sunflower by Post Malone & Swae Lee, and Pompeii by Bastille

Damian - Heirloom by Sleeping At Last, Will I Find My Home by Juniper Vale & Vian Izak, and Language of the Lost by Riproducer

[m0e-ru]

soejima should sign up for a stand up

[schoolchaos]

Mythology and history based musicals are my true love.

[wundrousarts]

Was suddenly reminded about this moment from a November 2020 interview where Jessica Townsend briefly talks about Ages.

Based on the timing of the interview I am unsure if the “not in the next one” bit refers to Hollowpox (which had just recently released) or Silverborn. Regardless, the idea that we might be learning more about Chronologists and Ages in future books intrigues me!

Between the clock emojis (especially the 🕰️🌌 ) and the “… before the clock strikes midnight?” part of the blurb, I think the Silverborn theories floating around regarding Eventide or just moving into a new part of the Age might be on the right track…..

[read-write-thrive]

Charles Rowland Week Day Four - Alive/headcanon

I ended up having to skip Day 3 bc my health is shit rn but I’m back for day four of @charles-rowland-week !!!! (definitely on the later side but shhhh let me have this) With everything going on I don’t have much time for fic writing and it felt like a cop out to just list my Charles headcanons (not to mention I have zero capacity for creativity rn so it would just be regurgitating from elsewhere on my blog). Ultimately I was inspired by the WIP games going around and decided to give y’all a sneak peak into my “Best Friend’s Brother” fic!!! I’ve also talked about this fic here if it sounds familiar lol. The whole fic is one big exploration of a headcanon I have for when Charles was alive so it felt fitting. It’s short but hope y’all enjoy ❤️

~~~

Charles didn’t have a lot of fond memories from when he was alive. I mean, feels a bit dark and depressing to put it like that, but it was true. His life hadn’t been a walk in the park. His dad was shit, his mom looked the other way, and pretty much anything potentially good was tainted by that. Friends in primary school? Not allowed to come over to his house, which meant he stopped getting invited to others’, which meant said friendships didn’t last. Cricket games? Even when they won it was bittersweet to see that neither of his parents had bothered to show up. Dating as he got a bit older? Couldn’t exactly bring a girl home, now could he? So he made sure it never got that far. It wasn’t hard, in the end. Relationships prior to age seventeen rarely last long enough to go home and meet the parents anyway. He assumed that sort of thing came as you got older, but he wouldn’t ever find out in the end.

Anyway, all that to say he didn’t have a lot of happy memories. But there were a few, and he’d come to cherish them more and more over the years. Meeting Edwin was always top of the list (yeah, he’d died, whatever) but there were a few outside of that too. The only time he got to meet his maternal grandmother, for example. She’d flown into London for Charles’s sixth birthday (which coincided with the wedding preparations for one of his mom’s cousins, if he remembered rightly, which made it a more worthwhile trip) and stayed for a whole week. The entire time she was around, Charles latched onto her side and refused to leave, as she gave him sweets and prevented his father from hitting him. Those punishments came back around once she left, of course, but it was still one of his favourite memories. He always reminisces about it around his birthday, or when around sweets, or when he runs into people speaking Hindi or Punjabi. All of which happened somewhat frequently in London—for better or worse for Charles’s mental health.

[transsongtaewon]

The Colour of the Soul | Gen | 1.3k

When Yoojin meets his little brother for the first time, he learns to see warm colours. When Yoohyun leaves, they fade away.

[Link]

[whitepeachrum]

Nighttime Scaries

Fandom: Hetalia (personified) Pairing: Alfred x Nat (BelaAme/AmeBela) Content Length: Short (~700 words)

“N-Nat?” Alfred asks, swallowing a lump in his throat as he shifts his eyes from the dim corridor.

“What?” She asks as she walks up to him, putting lotion on her hands.

“Dude, I think there's a little girl in the hallway.”

“Sure,” Natalia rolls her eyes at his absurdity and continues with her nighttime routine.

“I swear!! Didn't you hear her giggling!? It's just like from the scary movies!! It's so freaky, oh my god!!” Alfred hides his face behind the blanket, hoping it'll protect him from the ghost.

“Hey, you're on my side,” Natalia pouts, displeased that his who-knows-where-they’ve-been clothes were touching her freshly washed sheets. She yanks the blanket from him.

“AHH!! NAT!! Give that back. I'm so scared, holy shit. She's like right there. What if she possesses me?!”

Nat angrily turns around to look at the corridor to inspect it's presumed inhabitants and finds it void of anything or anyone.

“You should really stop watching those movies, Al. They're just messing with your brain. You need to- Hey! Let me go!”

Alfred had wrapped his arms around her legs and looked at her pleadingly.

“Naaaat,” he whines.

“You're being a baby again. Why can't you just be a man,” she says with a fist on her hip, looking down at his pathetic whimpering.

“I saw it, Nat. She had like these bloody eyes and a little stuffed toy and it was FREAKYYY.”

“Well, what do you want me to do about it?”

“Something!! Perform an exorcism! Send her back to hell! Kill her, oh my god, I don't know!!! She's too scary for me, man.”

“I can't do any of that. I can't even see her!”

Alfred shrieks suddenly and makes a bolt for the bathroom, hiding behind the door and peeking over to see if she's still there.

“What now?” Natalia turns sharply to see what the hell he did that for and he points with a shaky finger beside Natalia.

"S-She's..."

Natalia looks around and even walks around, showing the scaredy cat that there's nothing there.

“Al. There. Is. No. Ghost. Now, would you stop being like that and get ready for bed already? My god, when will we ever have a normal night?” She gets under the covers on the clean side of the bed and fluffs her pillows as she relaxes.

“Nat?” Alfred’s voice cracks. “S-She disappeared..”

“Good.”

Feeling something cold beside him, Alfred's body fills with dread. He slowly turns and sees the phantom’s curls from the corner of his eye and immediately makes a run for it, slamming into the door before opening it again, and running out of the room completely.

“Al!”

“NOPE! Screw this!! I’m not staying here, Nat!! I’m sleeping in the truck!!”

Natalia sighs, shakes her head, and gets out from under covers to investigate what scared him. She puts on her slippers and walks over to the bathroom, hearing Alfred slam the front door on his way out.

Confirming that he was gone, Natalia squats down to the little ghost girl to meet at her eye level.

“You did a good job scaring him,” Natalia says.

“My first haunt!!” The little ghoul giggles, hugging her torn bunny.

“It was really good for a first time.” Nat holds up her hand for the girl to high-five her back. She happily returns the gesture.

“Can I do it again?”

Natalia tilts her head in thought, then smiles a bit. “Sure, why not?”

With another giggle, the girl disappeared momentarily. Nat returned to the bed with a chuckle on her breath and an estimate of 10 seconds before Alfred would discover his passenger princess.

A series of shrill and desperate screams coming nine seconds later confirmed it for her that the second haunting was undoubtedly a success.

Finally, she could enjoy a peaceful night, knowing Alfred was not going to be anywhere near her tonight.

[yujeong]

Time was at a standstill. Vegas was holding his breath without noticing, and continued to hold it when he did - he was afraid of what would happen if he exhaled loudly enough to draw attention to himself. His gaze was shifting between Pete and the man who was standing before them in the doorway, blocking their entrance. Vegas had never seen him before, but even so, he recognized Pete in him enough to know who he was. A dangerous aura surrounded him. There was an edge to his presence that Vegas would only come across people of certain circles. He was a fighter. A muay khao. Pete's father. Shame coursed through Vegas' body, smearing his skin, settling in his lungs, rendering him speechless. I thought he was dead, he wanted to tell Pete if he could. He wanted to scream at him, I thought you killed him. Pete was the one who broke the stillness. As if awakened by something, he took a half-step back and made a motion with his arms, almost raising them to his chest, but not quite. In an instant, Pete reverted into the pet Vegas had been keeping at the safehouse, bound by handcuffs and afraid of his belt hitting flesh and drawing blood. A lump formed in Vegas' throat. "Have you stopped practicing? Your form is off." The uncanny similarities between Pete and his father appearance-wise didn't mean a thing when it came to their voices. Vegas shivered. Was this what Pete would sound like in a few decades? (Were these the condescending words he'd choose to spew? Was Pete going to embody his father? Was Vegas embodying his?) "What are you doing here?" Pete whispered. "They let me out for a few days, so I came here to collect some money. Imagine my surprise when I found out my offspring left the job someone found him worthy enough of doing to... do what exactly? Yaai didn't want to tell me." He crossed his arms, waiting for an answer. Vegas didn't know what he was allowed to say. If he was allowed to say anything at all. "It's none of your business." "I'd say it very much is my business, as well as yaai's business who was dependent on the money you were making being some rich asshole's human shield." A choked sound scratched Vegas' throat. He didn't like getting reminded of Pete being the main family's bodyguard, even though he stopped being one mere months ago. Especially like this. That was the first time Pete's father stopped looking at his son and turned his head to look at Vegas. For a moment, there seemed to be recognition in his eyes. Did he know who Vegas was? Did he care? A snort came out of his mouth. He leaned on the door. "Oh, I see how it is." He laughed, scratched his neck. "I never expected you to whore yourself out for money. Tell me, is it preferable to the path I carved out for you?" Vegas could sense the disgust in his voice. He could also see it on Pete's face. He was too astonished to share it, but not enough to be unable to speak. "Khun, there has been some misunderstanding-" "Don't bother. I can recognize a faggot when I see one." Pete's movements were too fast for Vegas to stop him. A direct jab to the nose; his father fell like a pack of cards, groaning like a wounded animal. Surprisingly, no blood - Pete held back. Vegas didn't know what to think about that. "That was a pathetic attack, even for you." "Get up." "We're not in the ring, son." Pete growled. Vegas could see his hands trembling as he was keeping them in the air, maintaining an offensive stance. "That never stopped you before." "You were too young to understand what I was doing back then. What I was preparing you for." Pete was silent. "The world isn't kind. It'll fuck you over one way or another." He got up, spat on the ground. "You still haven't learned a thing. You're too old to afford being naive." He turned around, and without sparing a look at Pete again, said: "Now get the fuck out of my house." (For @musictooth, whose posts about Pete's father have reignited my passion for this specific concept and for @wretchedamaranth, whose comments on my writing are always lovely and precious ❤️)

[memento-morri-writes]

random snippet - birthday duels

aka Terrible Time Tuesday (yes, I posted parts of this yesterday. But the new parts, which is most of it, are fun! I promise!!)

Rook was not having a good time on Sunday, and this was before he died from a plethora of stab wounds. Would you believe me if I said this was one of the "best" times he's dealt with bad feelings? pov: Rook wordcount: 1.1k character(s): Rook (D&D), Tyra (NPC), Aki (Other PC) canon status: canon session rewrite trigger warnings: death mention, grief, guilt, self-hatred, very unhealthy coping mechanisms summary: on the birthday of his recently deceased friend, Rook struggles to deal with his emotions and winds up taking them out on his first mate, Tyra.

As the day wore on, the black cloud of grief that had settled over the ship grew thicker and more oppressive. Rook paced the deck, nearly vibrating with tension. It was almost suffocating, pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand regrets. 

Thoughts clawed at the back of his mind, bringing unwelcome reminders of the part he had played in Warren’s death. If things had gone differently, if he had been a little faster, a little smarter, would his friend still be here?

He shook his head rapidly, trying to shake off the guilt that clung to him with barbed claws. The others didn’t blame him. They’d made that point very clear. And yet, he still couldn’t help but blame himself. 

Wrenching his thoughts away from the dark pit they were circling, he marched up the stairs leading to the quarterdeck. Tyra stood at the helm, talking to Tempest. When she saw Rook, she trailed off. 

She opened her mouth in greeting, but before she could say a word, Rook spoke. “I know you’re more than capable of handling the crew, but how do I know you can hold your own in a fight?”

Tyra’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I can handle myself. I’m best with my pistol,” she tapped the beautifully carved handle emerging from the holster at her hip, “but I’m not too bad with a rapier.”

Rook made a contemplative sound. There was a long pause as he looked her up and down. “Show me.”

Drawing his rapier, he turned on his heel and descended to the deck, stepping onto the cargo hatch. The crew moved out of the way, clearing a space around him. Looking back up at Tyra, he beckoned her with his sword. 

Tyra exchanged an unreadable glance with Tempest, who stepped forwards to take the wheel as she slowly made her way down to the main deck. She positioned herself across from Rook. Hesitantly, she drew her sword, a curved cutlass that was shorter and thicker than his rapier, with a wide, flat blade.

Around them, the crew had started murmuring, hurriedly placing bets. Rook let their voices fade away, trying his best to clear his racing mind. He and Tyra stared at each other, time stretching out between them.

Then, in the blink of an eye, Rook lunged, sending his blade towards Tyra’s chest. She stepped back, parrying his strike with the flat of her blade. She tried to keep the momentum going, but he disengaged, dancing out of her reach. Now it was her turn to bridge the gap, lunging towards him. He knocked her blade aside with ease. 

Their blades clashed again and again as he effortlessly parried her every blow. She redoubled her efforts, deflecting his next strike. Drawing her arm back, she prepared to attack, leaving her torso unguarded. Rook struck. In a flash, he had his blade hovering over her chest. She froze.

In the background the crew exchanged money as the two stood there, gazes locked. Rook stepped back, raising his sword into a ready position. His heart pounded in his ears as he said, “Again.”

Tyra’s eyes widened, but she raised her sword. This time, she struck first, trying to gain the upper hand early. But it wasn’t long before he had her on the defensive, trying her best to hold him back.

She blocked him again, and this time, instead of pulling back for another strike, he stepped forwards, pushing his sword down her blade. With a flick of his wrist, he knocked the cutlass from her hand.

She stepped back, breathing heavily. 

Rook crossed to where her sword lay, and with one quick motion from his foot, sent it flying into his hand. He held it out to her, hilt first. Reluctantly, she took it. 

“Again.”

This time, he didn’t even give her a second to gather her bearings before he struck, targeting her with several blows in quick succession. Immediately she fell onto her back foot, desperately trying to match his furious pace.

He kept pushing her back, off of the cargo hatch that had been their arena until her foot caught and she stumbled. He pressed on and she fell, back hitting the wood of the deck with an audible thud as her sword clattered from her hand. Rook stood over her, blade hovering inches above her throat. He stared down at her, heart pounding. 

A gentle tap on his shoulder caused him to whirl around, striking at the source of the gesture. The tip of his blade pierced a translucent blue hand, causing it to dissolve into the air. Behind it, Aki stared at him, eyes wide.

“Rook, stop this.” He frowned. “It isn’t healthy.”

“I don’t care.”

Aki’s brow furrowed. “It isn’t helping you.” When Rook said nothing, he added, “Look at her, she’s exhausted.” He gestured towards Tyra.

Rook turned to look at his first mate, who was slowly getting to her feet. She was disheveled, her clothes rumpled and her locs in disarray. Her chest rose and fell as she panted for breath. Aki was right, she was tired. 

“Let her go,” Aki said gently.

Whatever he had been trying to do by challenging her, it wasn’t working. He was breathing more heavily than normal, but it was more due to the tightness in his chest than a difficult fight. His muscles trembled, not from effort or exhaustion, but from tension.

Rook squared his shoulders. “Fine.” He sheathed his sword and turned away. He could feel the crew’s eyes on him as he headed towards the ratlines leading up to the crow’s nest. Ignoring them, he grabbed the rope and began to climb.

Though it had been years since he’d climbed the rigging, it came back to him easily, his body’s memory of six years of sailing guiding him up to the small basket-like platform near the top of the mast. A member of the crew sat inside. As Rook’s head came into view, she started, eyes wide.

“Get out.”

She nodded and hurriedly clambered over the edge, scurrying down the rigging towards the deck.

Rook sank onto the floor of the crow’s nest, tipping his head back until it touched the low wooden wall surrounding the platform. Closing his eyes, he breathed in, then out, forcing himself to slow down.

He wasn’t sure if it was the gentle rocking of the ship, or the wind on his face, or the sun on his skin, or simply the distance from the deck and all the gloom that hung over it, but slowly the tension faded from his body. 

[lizhly-writes]

trying to read my writing on this blog in chronological tag order will not save you from me, a writer who writes wildly out-of-order.