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[fee-phy-fo-fum]

A primrose. A four-petaled flower said to symbolise youth and young love. Giving it to someone sends a message saying "I cannot live without you".

replaying isat to appreciate some conversations id previously overlooked because theres so many little things here and there to appreciate. this was one of them.

(made minor edits to make euphrasie glitchy + clean up mira's hair)

on four petaled flowers:

[wildflowercryptid]

black cat bitches, we've finally won.

[littleghostblogs]

WX-78 being the funniest character in the game to me, a compilation.

[moeblob]

It's like wishing for a second genie and the second genie gives you three more wishes. Should be illegal! But now I'm the proud owner of a Mystery Shirt so.

[paradimeart]

feel really eh abt this pic but it was just to see if the timelapse would work (slight flashing at the end)

[lunaticalis]

finally happy with my evbo design eidt: fuck my stupid baka life i forgot to put watrmark on it!!!!!!!!

[ra-vio]

I had this doodle in my notebook for a couple of years(?)

but its automata’s 8th anniversary

[veeveepower]

SEEK A WAY OUT!

[celestriix]

finished ai the somnium files last week and I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT

anyway i also can't stop thinking about pewter i love him actually

[aurosoulart]

honestly if I ever sell merch again I think I’m just gonna like…. do it local. not online.

you can still buy my INPRNT prints (pls buy my prints lol) but otherwise if you want physical variety goods you gotta download my hi-res files from my website and print em somewhere local yourself

[eristheboinky]

old master study based of a painting of Hans Baldung's St John piece

[chronologiical]

I FINISHED THE LN

[moeblob]

New farmer (for 1.6 update reasons).

His name is Death and he's really death. He's pretty quiet and just wants to live in peace with his chickens. Tries to interact with the town as little as possible but is really curious about them and how they live and is super satisfied to simply watch them - but as the new person it seems no one wants to let that happen.

[mothsandmoths]

quick kris bc i started the new chapters recently!!

[slippinmickeys]

More Funfetti please! I'm loving the fluff, but how about something with a little more edge? Love your writing thx

Scully gravid and full. William next to her in the passenger seat. 

It is only when all is said and done that she turns to her son. She should thank him, but she will not thank him for this. For his sake, not this.  

At first, it only comes back to her in flashes. The road worker in his orange vest, the Slow/Stop sign that flips just as their car approaches the sleepy country intersection. 

Three men approach, just as her Volvo rolls to a stop. They are on a road out by William’s school and there are no other cars around. 

One of the men approaches her window and she’s about to roll it down to talk to him when William gives a sharp “Don’t!”

She looks at him and he’s wearing Mulder’s panic face. A dump of adrenaline and the baby inside her surges in response. 

“Ma’am?” says the man at her door, his voice muffled through the closed window. “Ma’am?” 

“Don’t open it,” William says, low. 

“We’ll need you to turn off your engine, ma’am,” the guy goes on. “There’s a gas leak up ahead.” 

“He’s lying,” says Will. 

When the guy reaches for her door handle, she reacts on instinct, slamming the gear into reverse and stepping hard on the gas. 

The tires screech–but behind them, a spike strip unfurls from the side of the road. The car jerks to a halt as the back tires blow out in a deafening pop pop.

“Out of the car!” someone barks. 

She vaguely wonders how many times she’s been ordered to get out of the car. Not once has it ever ended gladly. 

“Who are they?” Scully asks. “Can you tell?” 

William is watching them warily and shakes his head. 

Scully catches movement in the rearview–more men approaching–probably the ones who threw the spike strip. It’s always men, she thinks. It’s always men and never women.

“I have a gun in the glovebox,” she says, feeling sweat begin to bead on her upper lip. 

Her son’s head is doing a slow swivel, cataloguing each threat outside the car. 

“We don’t need it,” he says levelly. 

Something about his quiet certitude in this situation sends a shiver up her spine.

“What’s the plan?” she swallows thickly, feeling impotent and helpless. He’s still a kid. She’s supposed to be the one leading in a crisis. 

“Still working on that,” he says, his eyes following a man who’s crossing in front of the car, a hardhat on his head, silver Oakley’s wrapped around his face. 

A crowbar in his hands. 

Two things happen simultaneously. 

The first: William blinks and the man in front of the car goes flying backward through the air as if he’d had a rope tied around his waist that was suddenly yanked back powerfully and from a distance. 

The second: The driver’s side rear window shatters into the car, and a hand reaches in and grabs for Scully, who tries to duck forward and away, but is restrained by the seat belt. 

A moment later, the hand, which has by now grabbed some of her hair, goes limp. Scully does not look back to see what happened to the man who grabbed her. She does not want to know. 

More men come out of the woods, though they are now more wary as they approach the vehicle, the sun reflecting off of the oiled surfaces of their fully automatic weapons, which are raised. 

“Mom,” William says, eyes scanning, scanning, scanning. 

Then the air in the car shifts. 

“William?” she says, her voice tremulous. 

“Close your eyes,” he says, finally turning to meet her gaze. “Don’t look at me.”

“Will?”

The car begins to shake, some kind of invisible pressure building up. The windshield warps, like a heatwave rippling across it. 

She slams her eyes closed. 

Light bleeds through her closed lids–not natural light–something blue-white and pulsing like a heartbeat. 

Outside, someone screams. 

Then, a crack like thunder. 

Scully flinches, arms wrapped protectively around her belly. 

Silence. 

When she opens her eyes, she turns to find William sitting perfectly still. Hands folded in his lap. Face pale, but calm.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She wants to reach out and touch him, but something in her is afraid to. She does not allow herself to think about this for more than half a second.

He nods. 

Her next question is less parental, more pragmatic.

“Are they dead?” she says, her voice very quiet. 

He turns slowly to look at her. If they are dead, the weight of what he did will be a heavy burden to carry for a person as young as he is. Unlike his parents, he has never taken a life. 

“Yes,” he says, and for the first time, in just that one word, he sounds exactly like his father.