#storyfate

[blerghie]

bihyung was the one who carried the child but kdj breastfed her,

[olreid]

hey, wanted to ask because I’ve seen your neverafter opinions around and though i disagree yet understand your points, and am disappointed a bit in the lack of horror or like, rational thought from the pcs in terms of some stuff — with just a few episodes left, how’d you end neverafter? realistically or/and i guess, your way, in both the pcs, players, and audience perspectives. sorry if this is a long question, your opinions are interesting.

lolol i love the way this is worded. "i think youre wrong but go on."

in terms of endings that would be satisfying to me, i dont think there's really anything that fully could make up for the poor execution of the season as a whole but some things i would prefer to the ending i think we're going to get include:

the party do become authors but horror edition, wherein they are forced to face the fullness of what they have chosen to become. they have to grapple with what it means to be an author both in the sense of power over others and in the sense of having become canonical objects of cosmic horror. how do other characters react to them now that they have this power? do they get the same sensation as timothy looking through the keyhole? how does that make the party feel?

full fourth wall break, the characters realize they're in a dnd game and start talking to the audience david ward style, brennan is acknowledged as an author in his own right. the party having to fight brennan as himself is a concept i am interested in

the party is allowed to get what they want (still unclear what this is lol) but they all or almost all have to die to do it. i just love when theres only one survivor #ishmaelnation especially if it's gerard since he already has a whole complex about being useless and not as competent as the children in the party and seeing as he's already overlived like 3 times.

the party does achieve a "happy ending" and an end to the times of shadow only to discover (since they have apparently forgotten) that hegemonic notions of happiness are prisons in their own right and that they've only succeeded in transporting themselves from one horror story to another. the ending is like. "happy" in the sense that the last shot of the graduate is happy, and we close on the party wondering whether what they wanted was worth wanting after all.

there is maybe something to be done with the auroratory and oral storytelling as alternative or intervention into the problems of written narrative posed by this season, especially given that that's the medium the cast are using to tell the story of neverafter itself. idk what that would look like but we have seen in the preview for this week that brennan has directed the party back towards the auroratory so we'll see if that turns out to be anything interesting

true delusional wish fulfillment ending: the princesses trap the party in scheherazade's book so they can learn the true meaning of death via storyfication since apparently it didn't register the first two times; then scheherazade and the princesses make out on top of the closed book. roll credits

[weirderscience]

what if there was a fanfic website that let you categorize by type of fic/writing rather than what ships are in it. tags being like. storyfic, analysis, shipfic, pwp, that shit. plus genre, like a library or bookstore is sorted. i think it would make our lives a lot easier

[snyan25]

✯𝔏𝔲𝔩𝔩✯

Lull, su nombre proviene del verbo calma o calmado, el primer humano caído, junto con su hermana Shine con quien comparte rasgos albinos similares. Portador del alma de la Oscuridad u Odio, la cuál siempre ah existido desde tiempos inmemoriales, según, desde la Creación, en dónde existían más de cien tipos de almas pero fueron extintas y reduciéndose a 9. Fue el alma que más abundó sobre la tierra, la más temida por su naturaleza destructora, fría y demoníaca. El único rasgo humano con relación directa con Hades, el dios del Inframundo, ya que de por sí los humanos son (o en su parte eran) seres de luz.

Es hermano de Shine, portadora del alma extinta de la Pureza color dorado, que fue la única de las 9 que quedaban casi nula.

Lull de por sí tiene apariencia de un preadolescente de 11 años, cabello blanco desordenado e inclinado hacia su derecha, piel igual de albina, ojos rojos (antes azules), un suéter negro totalmente, mitad de un collar de corazón color negro el cual la otra mitad la tiene su hermana y es dorado, pantalones anchos marrones y botas negras con detalles blancos.

Su semblante es de seriedad, casi siempre con los brazos cruzados o las manos dentro de los bolsillos de su pantalón o suéter.

Lull adora a su hermana, inclusive cuando ya tuvo ese "cambio" el cuál el rasgo de su alma debía manifestarse y sus ojos y actitud cambiaron, en silencio su hermanita era todo para él. Ambos se llamaban a juego "Copo de nieve". Se sintió tan dolido luego de haberla asesinado que con la misma arma manchada en carmín se suicidó, y su cuerpo y el de Shine fueron tomados como una advertencia a los reyes.

¿Lull es un genocida? Lo es, sin embargo, él no pidió haber nacido con un alma Oscura. Igual sus pecados ya están escritos en piedra.

✪𝗣𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗱✪

Anteriormente Lull era de personalidad similar a la de su hermana, pero al alcanzar cierta madurez fue cambiando a una sarcástica, a veces cruel o distante. La propia naturaleza de su alma era el detonante.

✪𝗠𝘂𝗲𝗿𝘁𝗲✪

Suicidado con el mismo cuchillo con el que mató a su hermana.

✪𝗖𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗱𝗲𝘀✪

☆No puede sentir esperanza ni algún sentimiento que le induzca fé o creencia.

☆Ama el helado igual que a su hermana. Sobretodo el de Toriel.

☆Es muy fácil de enojar.

☆Aún siente un gran remordimiento por haber asesinado a su unica familia.

☆Durante la Ruta Genocida, al salir de Pétra ese remordimiento y cualquier sentimiento de culpabilidad había sido eliminado al afectarle el LOVE acumulado, ya importandole poco asesinar a su hermana en el cuerpo de Frisk. En la primera Ruta Genocida es cuando descubre que Shine y Frisk son la misma persona compartiendo un alma.

✫Necesita mínimo un LV 4 para tomar el control de un cuerpo por totalidad.

☆Su frase sería: "Creen que estoy loco, pero los locos son ellos que ven con los ojos vendados su encierro en el manicomio del mundo, y mis ansias de liberar sus almas."

☆El humor negro es el pan de cada día, sobretodo en las Rutas Pacifistas y neutrales.

☆Al ver a Asriel por primera vez en su forma Dolófonos, Chara afirma no sentir la presencia de Lull con ella.

☆No sabe que el alma de su hermana resuena con la de Frisk. Y viceversa. Al menos hasta la primera Ruta Genocida.

☆Adora leer, y es fríamente calculador a la hora de ganar LOVE.

☆Su alma es el alma del odio, negra total, y fue lo que más abundó desde la Caída de la Creación hasta la actualidad.

☆Al inicio Chara se había asustado por la aparición de Lull, ya que sentía el mal aura que emanaba su propia alma.

☆Frisk a veces teme sobre las veces en las que presencia a su hermana actuando demasiado extraño cuando sus ojos están de un color rojo oscuro. Sus rabietas son... interesantes.

☆Odia los insectos.

☆En varias ocasiones su hermana lo atormentaba colocándole uno que otro insecto en la cabeza de su hermano mientras dormía. Paró de hacerlo cuando un ciempiés se adentró a su oído y ni él ni nadie más se dió cuenta al día siguiente...

☆Cuando duerme es DIFÍCIL hacerle despertar.

☆Una de las pocas cosas que ama sería la nieve. Jamás ni nunca se cansaría de ello.

♡𝗘𝗹 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗷𝗲 𝗟𝘂𝗹𝗹 𝗲𝘀 𝗱𝗲 𝗺𝗶 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗽𝗶𝗲𝗱𝗮𝗱 𝗮𝗹 𝗶𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗾𝘂𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆𝗳𝗮𝘁𝗲♡

[zombiewaffless]

Read now on Wattpad...

Y/N felt cold tears streaming down her cheek as she gripped the ring around her neck.

The words "Forget him." echoed around in her head. 

 She looked down at the silver snake ring twisting between her fingers before stopping her movements to view the inscription on the underside. 

 'D.M'

 ──── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ･ ──── 

Features: Angst, Fluff, Romance, Female protagonist, and more. 

Warnings: AU - doesn't follow the books/movies to a T. 

Updating: Striving for once-a-week updates every Sunday. 

AN: I love the Harry Potter Universe, but I do not support the same views of its creator.

Read only on Wattpad

[nbaoracle]

[wweoracle]

[5bi5]

Cemetery Drive

The frosty leaves crunch under my feet as I make my way down the familiar path. The sun is low in the sky, and the air is cold enough to raise goosebumps on my arms through the jacket of my suit. I draw a pocket flask full of bourbon out of, unsurprisingly, my pocket, and the glass sparkles and glitters in the dying light. I raise the flask to my lips and take a long sip. The alcohol burns my throat, but it dulls the throbbing in my head.

We were here two weeks ago, you and me, in this spot. In my mind, I can see the black fabric of your dress, the strands of hair falling into your face, the tears streaming down your cheeks that convinced any passerby that we belonged here. I was wearing a suit, not the same one I am now, but practically identical to it. We walked arm in arm down this path, trying desperately not to draw attention until we got where we were going.

Way down at the end of the path, all covered with moss, I make out the shape of a mausoleum so old the name has worn off and the pieces of the cement have cracked and crumbled away. Behind this mausoleum is a stretch of grass, and then all the graves that nobody ever visits. You can tell just to look at them– most of the graves here have fresh flowers every once in a while, and headstones that look bright and shiny, or at the very least clean and legible. The grass around those graves is kept nice and neat, and paths cross between them, making them easily accessible to any mourners. These graves are marked by pieces of broken crosses, or aged headstones that just peer out of the unkempt grass and leaves. The groundskeeper doesn’t bother with the area around graves, because there’s never anyone here anyway.

We faced these graves as we sat two weeks ago with our backs against the mausoleum door, probably ruining our formalwear, but not really caring much. The first hadn’t set in yet, but it was nighttime, and nearly as cold, and raining, so I wrapped my suit jacket around your shaking shoulders and you huddled against me. You stopped crying long enough to tell me that you’d had another argument with your husband, and raised one hand to touch a welt on your cheekbone that had previously been obscured by your hair.

Presently, I walk in our footsteps, stepping off the path towards the mausoleum and making my way around it, stopping in the grass maybe ten feet away. I face away from the mausoleum, towards the sun, which is now properly setting, turning the sky pink and orange and yellow, making the skeletal trees into nothing more than silhouettes. It occurs to me that my pocket flask is still clutched in my hand, and when I look down I see that my knuckles have turned white. I take another sip of bourbon and tuck the flask back in my pocket.

I say it’s my pocket flask, but it’s really yours. You had it with you as you murmured the words that your husband had said to you. You drew it from your purse and lifted it to the sky as you gave me a wry half-smile that didn’t spread to the side of your face with the welt on it. You took a long sip before you handed it over to me, and then you dropped your gaze to the ground as I took a swig, and you told me you thought maybe he was right.

So really, I tuck your flask back in my pocket and walk forward, away from the mausoleum, into the run down area where the grass grows higher than my ankles and I have to watch my step to make sure I don’t trip over a piece of someone’s gravestone, because there’s no path to follow and everything is falling apart. On the other side of these graves, I can see a high metal fence. Beyond that is a forest, full of bare trees that reach out of the ground like hands, like something inhuman crawling out of a grave in a zombie movie, breaking through the earth to the air that it doesn’t need to breathe.

A fortnight ago, I lowered your pocket flask and told you, he wasn’t right. You weren’t any of the things he said you were. You made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh, and motioned for me to hand you the flask back. We passed it back and forth for a while, and you told me how your husband had never hit you before, how he was drunk and angry and done with putting up with you. I turned to look at you and told you that it wasn’t your fault, that it was you who shouldn’t have to put up with him. You jerked your head forward and kissed me like a punch to the mouth, hard enough to push my lip into the edge of my tooth and slice it open, but I put one hand on your shoulder and gently pushed you away from me.

Now, I reach the fence that stretches up into the sky, too tall and too sharp to climb. I brush one hand along the cold metal, and turn to walk the perimeter of the fence. It’s almost completely dark now, and being alone among all the ruined gravestones should be scary, but the feeling doesn’t register. I slide my hands into my pockets to stave off the cold, and keep walking. I’m not supposed to be here this late, but it’ll be another hour or two before the groundskeeper does his sweep of the grounds, and longer still before he gets back here. I’ll have time to make it to the gate without him noticing.

This wasn’t information that I knew, as I was gently pushing you away and you were closing your eyes and grimacing and spluttering that you were sorry and you were drunk and see, he was right, he was. All I knew was that I was hugging you and telling you that it was okay, that it wasn’t going to happen again, and it didn’t mean he was right, and I was still here to be your friend. Then we sat back the same way as before, side by side leaning against the door of the mausoleum, and I took a sip of alcohol, and a flashlight beam was reflecting off your flask and we were getting up and we were running.

Before I get to the gate, I pause for a moment. I’m away from the older graves now, standing next to a bright, shiny new headstone, which stands over over dirt that looks to have been turned not four hours ago but has already begun to grow hard with the frost. A lone bouquet of roses lies at the head of the grave, garishly crimson even in the darkness, a colour that will be darkened by frost by the time the sun comes up tomorrow morning. I pull your flask out of my pocket

The reason I still have your flask is because I didn’t have a chance to give it back to you before we both took off at top speed. I held onto it as I ran through the rain, through the gates back to my car. I should have offered you a ride, maybe; I’d only been sipping alcohol, and less than half the amount of what’s in a pocket flask isn’t much for me, but I had no idea whether you’d been drinking before you found me. It didn’t matter. You got home alright, as I would find out later.

I kneel next to the grave with the roses, removing a few stray petals that have fallen off the flowers. The ground is cold. I take a drink. Your flask is cold. I take a drink. Even the whiskey itself is cold, but the aftertaste is warm, so I take another drink. I don’t have that long now before the groundskeeper finds me, but I can’t get up. The alcohol has made me drowsy and lightheaded, like I could fall asleep right here, right now, on my knees. The thought crosses my mind that maybe I will.

One week ago, I was having a pretty normal day when my phone rang. I picked it up, said hello. You replied, said that that was the wrong word, that you had called to say goodbye, that you didn’t have much time. It took me maybe two minutes to realize what was happening. I should have figured it out sooner. Maybe someone else would have. Two minutes after you called me, I realized what was happening, and five minutes after that I was calling the police and the paramedics as I put on my jacket and grabbed my keys.

I close my eyes as I kneel in the frosty grass, and a timer in my head counts down how much time I have before he finds me, like a timer on a bomb that I can’t defuse. I tell myself, I’ll get up in two minutes, then two minutes more, then two minutes more. I can’t feel the cold anymore, and I’m not sure if it’s from the booze or if I’ve been kneeling here so long that now I’m just numb. It doesn’t really matter to me either way. Everything feels far away. I am aware of bile rising in my throat, and of the fact that I am shaking violently.

I was shaking just about this violently a week ago, so much so that I was worried I would go veer off the road as I drove to your house and hoped that your husband was home to find you, and sober enough to be clearheaded. When I got there, however, it was just the police and the paramedics. One of them pulled me aside before I could get to you, and filled me in. Told me, they found you on the bathroom floor. Blood streaming. No signs of life.

His words, the mental image of you lying on the floor, come back to me now, and my eyes snap open as the bile forces its way out of my throat, onto the grass at the edge of your grave. The sight of it brings me back to my senses, and I push myself up off the ground and start running towards the gate. By the time I get there, the numbness has gone from my legs and I’m not shaking so badly. I can’t drive, so I just keep on running through the silvery moonlight, all the way home. When I reach home, I pull your pocket flask out of my pocket and set it on the table.

Two weeks ago, you called me up and I got out of bed and drove out to a cemetery to meet you.

Now, you’re just a memory, so I collapse into bed and pass out.

[marzipanandminutiae]

Hey, I know you live in MA and are into history. Do you have any strong opinions about the salem witch trials + the romanticization/horror storyfication of the trials?

Yes. But I have different thoughts about the romanticization and/or horror-ifying of the events and the town of Salem as it is today.

For the first, strongly against. 20 innocent people were executed, and more suffered mental and physical trauma during imprisonment. It’s not a case of ~creepy evil demonic magic~ or even #girlpower with witches as we now understand them victimized by the Christo-patriarchy. A bunch of Puritans judicially murdered a bunch of other Puritans. The least respect the victims deserve is to be represented accurately.

(My favorite fantasy representation of the Salem panic is the Physick World series by Katherine Howe. The tired old “real witches in Salem!” trope made new by a historian author with clear understanding of her subject, who manages to handle it gracefully and in its proper context.)

The city of Salem gets a lot of flak for the way it capitalizes on a tragedy, mostly by people who’ve never been there or only visited once. And yeah, if you’re going as a tourist, all you’re going to see is the very tacky surface: the crappy tourist trap “museums,” the “Good Witch/Bad Witch” shirts, the poster that looks like a contract selling your soul to Satan in exchange for Hot Demon Sex(TM).

,..okay, I only saw that poster in one store. But still.

However, I can’t hate modern Salem, no matter how tasteless some of its cash grabs may be. Because I spend a lot of time there when the world is as it should be. And I unabashedly love it.

Tourism from the Panic has allowed a place that might have sunk into obscurity when it lost the shipping trade to flourish, becoming one of the weirdest and most wonderful cities in the USA. Salem has so many fun, unusual shops and restaurants; so many events that wouldn’t be sustainable anywhere else. So much emphasis on historical preservation, from stunning houses and public buildings to actual legit museums like the Peabody-Essex Museum and the Phillips House. And, yes, good tributes to the Panic victims, like the official memorial and an interactive show called “Cry Innocent” (based on the trial of Bridget BIshop).

Plus, you’d be hard-pressed- with apologies to Giles Corey -to find many communities with such open celebration of individuality. Alternative types, vintage and historical fashion enthusiasts, LGBT folks, pagans and witches, and combinations of the above all get to feel normal and accepted. Sure, there’s inter-community drama and the usual biases can still rear their ugly heads. But overall, the general atmosphere is very “anything goes.”

The tacky tourist stuff makes me cringe, but I can’t really regret what Salem has become. So little of the weirdness I love is even consciously linked back to the Panic that Salem’s witchy vibe has kind of become its own thing. I love Salem. I hate the fictionalizing/commodification of historical tragedies. I don’t think these feelings are mutually exclusive.

But cheesy, inaccurate horror movies about the Salem Panic can kiss my ass.

[save-the-data]

LAST TWILIGHT IN PHUKET  | Side Story

F@ck just beautiful and incredible even just these 15 minutes, I love everyone involved in this production. GIF

[waitimcomingtoo]

hii! so i am planning something for your series!(not Plagiarism lol) so can you describe y/n and toms personality in summer storyfics? please, thank you!

Hi! I think Y/n is sure of herself but guarded bc she’s not telling Tom her whole story. Her job comes before everything else. And I characterized Tom as someone pretends to be cocky bc he doesn’t like being vulnerable. He’s confident but would never put his self image ahead of taking care of someone he loves. Can I ask what this is for? 💛

[hellafa]

since the fears are possibly going to canonically listen to the tapes, i propose we bring back the fanfic trope of people reading their own storyf ghgfdsdjfsgfgdhtsrht

[weirderscience]

ok actually. stuff abt my au fic under the cut bc im braindead

i do NOT follow matpat theories on anything. his theories are dumb and do not have much thought provoking material within

shrignold and larry are “secretly” a thing in the way that everyone knows about it but nobody says anything because the thought of them together is fucking rancid (i have several scrapped chapters that i cannot for the life of me salvage with this exact fucking subject being the focus. theyre all terrible)

tony went to school in london and met paige there while in arts classes

paige has a degree in literature

anthonys put a hit out on larry before. larry should have died by drowning or getting poisoned or something and they definitely were sure he was dead when they did it but then he shows up unauthorized the next day like nothing happened

anthony would cut tony off from his uncle if larry wasnt the type of guy who breaks into your house at 2 am to eat your leftovers for you and then drunkenly vacuum the living room. also the above statement

duck and rg knew each other before their disappearance, duck was a grammar teacher at the local primary school and rg was a janitor

this fic’s main inspiration is house of leaves but also the game anatomy by kitty horrorshow. and the haunted cities 4 pack by kitty horrorshow. a lot of kitty horrorshow ig

part of the reason i started posting this fic was bc i hate the lack of storyfic on ao3. there are a lot of stories to be told and themes to be explored but for the most part all i ever see is ship-centric fic and oneshots :(

[snyan25]

F por Fate-

Drabble dibujado por mí-

[wweoracle]