The Ice War On Europa...

They had lived their life rather interestingly. Other people took the Laws of this world for granted. Those people saw no interest in making a change, they simply existed, making no impact on the world around them. They hated that.

They looked at the beliefs of the people, and they saw so many holes and flaws and problems.

They did not endeavour to fix these things. They took advantage of them, and made a good living. They turned lead into gold, water into wine, death into life.

It was the last, they reflect, that caused this to occur.

Their body shifts and twist beneath them. They broke the Laws, and now they face the consequences. They remember how this is meant to go. They will die, or they will be found innocent and emptied out, left to wander the world as a hollow shell of themselves.

A single word rings out in their mind.

‘No.’

Things are wrong. Things are broken and denied and unfulfilled. They continue to twist and shift. It hurts now, the fire of agony racing through their mind. This is unnatural, and it should not be.

Yet, in defiance of the Laws, it is.

They are torn apart and put back together. Claws and chitin and shell and bone and meat are grown and crushed, their flesh buckling and shaping in the same way as clay is worked by a potter.

They lose their mind halfway through this. All that is left is bestial aggression and animal instincts and emotion. They are so full of sadness and anger and regret and they do not know why.

They know only one thing - they have been found guilty.

Voices permeate the trees around them. They think as best they can.

These people are not guilty and yet they are.

This is unfair. They grow angrier and angrier.

They decide.

Claws extended, flesh warping, eyes wide, and mouth agape, they lurch towards the voices.

if i was an elder in vtm i wouldnt even know wtf is going on in sects. “did you hear about what happened in prague?” no i was in torpor. or i was playing mahjong with my ghoul.

I love it when dogs try to help but the task at hand requires zero dogs so they just kinda stand in front of you and look serious.

She never wanted anything before.

She lived her life for other people, always doing what they wanted her to. They told her to do things, maybe to get a job done, or go somewhere, or to say something - and she would.

She was good at taking care of herself.

She met all of her medical needs. She ate to remain living, never taking any enjoyment in the act. She was alive, but even she could see that there was a difference between being alive and actually having a life.

She kept it up for a while.

Some people - those with common sense and yet no understanding - would disparage her for this:

‘How terrible must it be to live without living? How could she do this to herself? Did she not see what it was doing to her?’

But other people exist, and some of those people have care, and empathy, and understanding, and a capacity for love.

Her miss is one of those people. She took one look at her, and knew exactly what she had to do.

She did not demand that she fix herself, that she take the fractured parts of the person she could have been and form a facsimile of enjoyment and emotion. She did not ask her to magic away her flaws and change her personality and act as if nothing was ever wrong with her.

Instead, she took all of her broken mechanisms and functions and twisted them towards her own self-serving altruism.

She made her wear the clothes she loved but was too scared and indecisive to wear.

She made her go to the places she wanted to experience but wouldn’t dare go otherwise.

She made her accept her own desires and made her realise other people could love her, things she knew before but would never act on for fear of pushing people away.

At the end, she lay on her miss’ bed, looking all pretty in her new dress, tired from night after night of new things, and with a smile on her face.

And her miss made her do one more thing. One last step. She made her step out of this body of meat and bone which she had always hated but had never been able to leave, and step into a better one.

One made of ceramic and metal. One with lovely joints and perfect mechanisms. One which doesn’t need so much taking care of.

One which she can, finally, admit that she wants and loves.

"My son turned out fine"

sir your daughter writes microfiction about being dismembered and turned into an object by a pretty woman.

grab them by the hair

grabbing a fistful of their hair to hold them in place for the next punch or slap

grabbing their hair to force them to look at you

grabbing their hair to make them bow

grabbing their hair to slam their head back into the wall

grabbing their hair to smash their face on the floor

grabbing their hair to make them bare their throat to you

grabbing their hair to stop them moving away from the blade or syringe at their neck

grabbing their hair to dunk their head under water

grabbing their hair to rub their face in a mess

grabbing their hair to pull them across the room before throwing them down where they belong

grabbing their hair to hold them up when they’re about to slump over

grabbing their hair to drag them up to their knees from where they lay on the floor

placing your hand in their hair when they’re already kneeling just to remind them what you could do with it

stroking their hair as a half-hearted apology after pulling a little too much

comment more please :)

awesome beach near me

‘May I have your name?’ I enquire.

‘                 '

It rings hollow. It disgusts me. It is a lie, and there is nothing we detest more than lies.

But it proves that he is a fool. So I demand more.

‘May I have your assistance?’

‘Of course. Anything you want me to do.’

So his fate is sealed.

I ask him back to mine. To tidy up and arrange the place. To help in my work. Of course, he is inept at first. He was not raised to place flowers in vases, or use a broom, or organise a library.

So I make him adept. For each of his failures - each mote of dust out of place, every fallen petal in the garden, all the slight imperfections - I change him. He is the first thing to go. The mind follows shortly after, with the body trailing behind.

She is now hollower than ever, yet no longer hollow at all. She is adept, her porcelain fingers better at the housework than ever, her new shiny joints no longer complaining from long hours working in the garden, her unblinking eyes finding every little detail to correct and make proper.

Her new voice, light and musical, no longer elicits such disgust in me, for it cannot tell the same lies that the old voice, so coarse and grating, could.

After a certain amount of time, which I do not care to describe for time means little to us, she tells me this:

‘I’m happy, miss.’

I called a boy in my class a 'fucking twink version of dracula' and I feel fulfilled

being sad and trying to think about ur favorite characters to make yourself feel better is always kinda funny when every character u like is an abominable piece of shit. try to think "[X] would comfort me" no they would fucking Noooootttttt. Lol