Claire Keane
we're not kids anymore.
ojovivo
Jules of Nature
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
taylor price
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸

Origami Around
hello vonnie
Misplaced Lens Cap
sheepfilms

roma★

★
h
One Nice Bug Per Day

Kaledo Art

oozey mess

pixel skylines

ellievsbear

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@tetobrain

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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ATTENTION GRABBER!!
FIRST DRAFT OF ALTERNATE UNIVERSE ODYSSEY FANFIC/MYTH ITERATIVE
INCLUDING A TRAGIC PENELOPE AND TELEMACHUS BEING FORCED TO MATURE INTO BRUTAL PRAGMATISM TO SURVIVE
OKAY PLEASE ENJOT:
The Telemechiad
Book One;
Across an endless canvas of stars, beyond life and light, primordial night wanders:
Reality as her muse, Nyx cries in divine boredom, “O, infinite cosmos, answer to my call, and with the threads of your being weave me a tale. A tale of destiny defied! Inspire in me a story of a time where fate fails and mortals fall!.”
Servant to her primordial demand, the stars shift, the world bends, as time itself bows before her, split in two; and so she would peer into the cracks between, where a song would grace her ears.
And in this song, she heard the musings of the gods who bicker so meaninglessly below her-
Athena’s voice would pierce firstly, a cry of simmering rage and sorrow, “Father! Do not tell me you cannot see the injustice of his fate! Would you have a simple man on his way home suffer so excessively?”
Zeus gave an indignant nigh indifferent look, his eyes bored as he gazed upon his fiery daughter, “I do not have this man do anything! It was not I who cast him into the underworld, and it was not I who had him disrespect Persephone.”
The goddess of war, though not as enflamed as her brother, was not quick to surrender her stance;
“And what of Xenia? Have you no care for the suitors or their blatant disrespect? Tame for now yes, but their anger is bubbling, their rage imminent. Have you no concern for your own domain?”
Upon these poison tipped words, the sky rumbled and shook with a deep, grey, fury. Zeus’ voice boomed as he reprimanded insolent war, “Do you mean to call me a hypocrite? Or perhaps a coward? My daughter you may be but your words from here should be chosen with caution. Know that my judgement is ultimate and fate inevitable; if my divine law is disrespected then of course punishment shall follow suit!- that said, when and how is not of concern. If, still, you are so concerned with my xenia or this mans nostos, then I may allow you to deal with it yourself!”
Thunder cracked and rumbled as he waved his hand, “Go then! Descend for this foolish man! Or is your word fiercer than your conviction?”
Athena bit her lip in restrained rage and deep concern; colorless ichor flowing from her bite as she weighed her options. She knew she didn’t have much choice, The King Of The Skies would not tolerate much more, and to stop here would be to abandon her pride.
So, with a powerful step that boomed against the rumbling heavens- a final resounding of her authority and pride- she would stride off toward the underworld, “Then it is so, I will hold the mantle of the one to honor nostos and xenia then if that is what you wish.” Her words were sharp, like a unexpected arrow to the gut- and so too was it cunning, as Zeus did not wish to chase her down for such inconsequential sentiments.
And so with burning conviction, of pride as the cunning of war, as authority as a goddess, and as her stakes in this man, she descends.
And silently, like a murmur, something escapes her lips in an exasperated breath,
“Telemachus… I will not be able to watch you during this, I may only have faith in your safety”
Thunder rumbles and booms over the rowdy ithaca; the halls of the kingdom loud with drunken rage and reckless frustration, it had been a week or maybe more, and still no man could string the kings bow.
As if in rhythm to the suitors rage, rain beats relentlessly against the castle, chilling its halls with the premonition of tragedy. The fates whispered between the taps of water tonight.
The rain would however find entrance through the open window within penelopes chambers, flooding her stone floor and soaking her carpet; and like a siren upon a rock, Constant Penelope in all her fatigued majesty sits upon her olive-carved wedding bed; barely out of range.
In her hands she weaves, her eyes flicker and shudder, the shroud shall be finished.
Within this same room sat Thoughtful Telemachus, seemingly the only one bothered by the cold that washes over not only his body but mind and soul. Within his heart is a deep darkness, a feeling he cannot shake, as if the fates itself are warning him.
“Mother, shall I go fetch something to cover the window? Do not worry, I do notfear the suitors; Rather, I could likely quell them-”
“That will not be necessary.” Her voice was sweet and soothing as she cut through his sentence- but her eyes seemed lost, glazed over. There was something bittersweet about the way she gazed weakly at the shroud, now finished, in her hands.
Something was not right, and telemachus knew it; she did not look him in the eyes when she spoke,
“I am sure you know, but I am a spartan. I can not claim the title of warrior, but I’ve been close to those who are, I’ve grown up in that world.” Her words were slow, deliberate, as if every breath required a year of thought;
telemachus’ heart grew heavier with dread,
“Every warrior is expected to meet impossible circumstances, and in these circumstances they must make impossible decisions. As an example: If the gods have left you, would you wait in vain at risk of your own family?”
Telemachus’ voice falters, “What do you mean mother?”
The wise penelope gazes distantly past her son’s eyes “What I mean to say is, something happened. I do not know what, I do not know how, but something happened. I have spent now over 20 years waiting for your father, because I love him.” The wife of odysseus still would not meet his gaze as she reached over to a table, her gently calloused fingers wrapped slowly around a chalice of unkown liquid,
“That said, I also must consider that for 20 years, I’ve grown to love you as my son. I cannot easily put one of you above the other, so I must approach this pragmatically…”
Flawless penelope would close her eyes as her icy silky hands shook- bringing the chalice intimate to her lips; and hero telemachus, pushed by a deep instinct, would try to run forward; but the mother of ithaca was swift as she brought it to her lips, and that rancid bitter fluid ran down her throat, gulped greedily as if she were drinking ambrosia itself,
“I say this to tell you this, my actions today are not a betrayal of faith, they are not me giving up on your father or renouncing him, so i ask you to do the same. Have faith in wise odysseus, and however you two may meet ensure it is not at Styx, not with me.”
“... Then why?”
“Because I love you as much as I love your father. But i know not when your father will get back, or how. You however are right infront of me, I cannot save him, I can save you.” With shaky hands, weak from the poison which ravages her, she hands him the shroud, “take this, and run. As far and fast as you can. I will not survive, so you must. If you must burn this to keep yourself alive then do so. Just, please don’t die.”
But prudent telemachus, strong as his love and understanding may be, was for those very same reasons not so swiftly dismissed,
“Mother! Are you mad? What is this? Quick, I shall fetch euryclea to find someone who can cure you- of the poison and this madness!”
But her eyes only softened at the son of ithaca’s exasperated loving fury, “Telemachus, I raised you well, and you inherit the wisdom of your father. I do not believe you don’t understand.”
“I understand very well that grief has broken your mind!” Wily telemachus snapped back with quickness- yet in this haste he had failed to hide the crack in his voice, and the despair that filled it.
“Perhaps it has.” Her voice was slow, solemn, but with a sharp conviction she stood.
The queen of ithaca stood fiercely before young telemachus, though shorter her stature felt taller, and her shaking weakened hands thrusted upon the boy the shroud she has crafted, “If so then it is such that no mad woman shall rule over what the old king Odysseus once cherished and crafted with rugged and torn hands. And so this mad woman shall give one final address, and by her own hand and no others will she die.”
“Mother i say once more I can handle them!”
“If that’s so, perhaps you are no less mad than me. I cannot stop you Telemachus. I do not have your strength, your youth, your energy. All I have now is my name. So with that I will do what i can.”
The boy was short of breath as Penelope of ithaca trodded purposefully down the water soaked floor toward the door, “If you believe trying to battle a hundred angry men in fair battle is all you can do with the gifts you are given- I cannot stop you. But this mad woman- your mother- is not so inclined to agree.”
Left in silence, chilled by rain and winds, the gods spared no mercy to the boy sat on the edge of a revelation- Young telemachus never gave much mind to fate, more concerned with the here and now, yet as he stepped steadily to the door penelope had just strutted out he stopped and began to consider something new- inevitability.
“Oh, mentor, where are you now? If i had the time, or if i perhaps knew sooner, I would consult Old Nestor’s wisdom, or spear-famed menelaus’ will while i could.
Alas, time wasted in regret is worse than passivity. But what am i to do? To simply accept the death of my own mother? Of her kingdom?
Yet her logic was profound, and i must face the truth that it is by now far past late to cure whatever poison she digested.
And I know it true that if she were to die- even if i were to topple those ravenous guests it is likely my injuries would not last my life much longer- Ithaca would be left with no more than dead vengeance, and a broken kingdom for my father.”
His conclusion had been reached, though he still didn’t want to accept the idea of just running; his concentration is broken, however, by a hardly recognized squawk from behind.
Alarmed and on-gaurd telemachus spun around, his eyes locked upon the open window- and rain continued to pitter patter through, singing a different song now however, as it landed too upon not just the room but the bold-eyed hawk that perched upon it’s windowsill.
Telemachus would calm ever so slightly, but his suspicion wasn’t at full rest, “A hawk? Could it be, athena?”
There’s a beat of silence, their eyes remain locked,
“No, athena i don’t believe you would appear before me like this, would you? Or have I truly gone mad finally?”
Telemachus interrogated the blank-faced bird of prey before him, his reservations and already fraught state leaking into his every doubt; yet his guard was quickly thrown off as the bird seemed to move as if… it were laughing?
And as it’s body moved with the silent laugh he noticed the dangling sandals held by the hawks mouth- small feathers on either side adorning the gold-coated footwear.
“Hermes! It must be…” steadily and carefully telemachus walked toward the brown-feathered messenger god; however as soon as he got close the laughing bird would drop those gilded sandals upon the windowsill and take off into the storming sky- unbothered by the perilous divine with it’s strong-feathered quick-footed flight.
Telemachus sprinted to the window sill and nearly slipped out as he barely caught sight as the hawk escaped out of view at shocking but fitting speeds.
Left alone once again telemachus gazed down upon the sandals, no mind paid to the rain beating upon his face as if begging for acknowledgement while he weighed the reality,
“I see then- even Hermes knows it true then. To disobey now would be to draw the ire of both mother and god- if that is so I can no longer allow my childish aspirations blind me.”
With a bit lip, telemachus would grab hold of the cold golden sandals, slipping them steadily upon his stone-calloused feet; it was a miraculous perfect fit- yet no less would be expected of a god’s blessing-
“Yes, this wasn’t just a sign, it was a blessing.”
Yet even as the son of ithaca finally begun to reconcile with the paradoxical duty of abandoning duty- a fire still burnt like a wildfire inside his wide pupils.
“Know this, ithaca,”
Nimble-footed telemachus would perch himself above the windowsill, staring distantly at the storming kingdom,
“This is not abandonment, this is a temporary retreat, and i promise i will return. With men, with power, with the king- and you will either accept and repent, or witness the son of the wisest hero’s full wrath.”
His words were a spiting poison threatening to infect the very rainfall upon this land as with one more preparatory breath- he leaped high through the air.
His feather feet hit the ground and flew with a pitter patter against muddied earth- as wily Telemachus ran past the boundaries of home- leaving nothing but a vow to return.
I forgot to fix capitalization oops
ATTENTION GRABBER!!
FIRST DRAFT OF ALTERNATE UNIVERSE ODYSSEY FANFIC/MYTH ITERATIVE
INCLUDING A TRAGIC PENELOPE AND TELEMACHUS BEING FORCED TO MATURE INTO BRUTAL PRAGMATISM TO SURVIVE
OKAY PLEASE ENJOT:
The Telemechiad
Book One;
Across an endless canvas of stars, beyond life and light, primordial night wanders:
Reality as her muse, Nyx cries in divine boredom, “O, infinite cosmos, answer to my call, and with the threads of your being weave me a tale. A tale of destiny defied! Inspire in me a story of a time where fate fails and mortals fall!.”
Servant to her primordial demand, the stars shift, the world bends, as time itself bows before her, split in two; and so she would peer into the cracks between, where a song would grace her ears.
And in this song, she heard the musings of the gods who bicker so meaninglessly below her-
Athena’s voice would pierce firstly, a cry of simmering rage and sorrow, “Father! Do not tell me you cannot see the injustice of his fate! Would you have a simple man on his way home suffer so excessively?”
Zeus gave an indignant nigh indifferent look, his eyes bored as he gazed upon his fiery daughter, “I do not have this man do anything! It was not I who cast him into the underworld, and it was not I who had him disrespect Persephone.”
The goddess of war, though not as enflamed as her brother, was not quick to surrender her stance;
“And what of Xenia? Have you no care for the suitors or their blatant disrespect? Tame for now yes, but their anger is bubbling, their rage imminent. Have you no concern for your own domain?”
Upon these poison tipped words, the sky rumbled and shook with a deep, grey, fury. Zeus’ voice boomed as he reprimanded insolent war, “Do you mean to call me a hypocrite? Or perhaps a coward? My daughter you may be but your words from here should be chosen with caution. Know that my judgement is ultimate and fate inevitable; if my divine law is disrespected then of course punishment shall follow suit!- that said, when and how is not of concern. If, still, you are so concerned with my xenia or this mans nostos, then I may allow you to deal with it yourself!”
Thunder cracked and rumbled as he waved his hand, “Go then! Descend for this foolish man! Or is your word fiercer than your conviction?”
Athena bit her lip in restrained rage and deep concern; colorless ichor flowing from her bite as she weighed her options. She knew she didn’t have much choice, The King Of The Skies would not tolerate much more, and to stop here would be to abandon her pride.
So, with a powerful step that boomed against the rumbling heavens- a final resounding of her authority and pride- she would stride off toward the underworld, “Then it is so, I will hold the mantle of the one to honor nostos and xenia then if that is what you wish.” Her words were sharp, like a unexpected arrow to the gut- and so too was it cunning, as Zeus did not wish to chase her down for such inconsequential sentiments.
And so with burning conviction, of pride as the cunning of war, as authority as a goddess, and as her stakes in this man, she descends.
And silently, like a murmur, something escapes her lips in an exasperated breath,
“Telemachus… I will not be able to watch you during this, I may only have faith in your safety”
Thunder rumbles and booms over the rowdy ithaca; the halls of the kingdom loud with drunken rage and reckless frustration, it had been a week or maybe more, and still no man could string the kings bow.
As if in rhythm to the suitors rage, rain beats relentlessly against the castle, chilling its halls with the premonition of tragedy. The fates whispered between the taps of water tonight.
The rain would however find entrance through the open window within penelopes chambers, flooding her stone floor and soaking her carpet; and like a siren upon a rock, Constant Penelope in all her fatigued majesty sits upon her olive-carved wedding bed; barely out of range.
In her hands she weaves, her eyes flicker and shudder, the shroud shall be finished.
Within this same room sat Thoughtful Telemachus, seemingly the only one bothered by the cold that washes over not only his body but mind and soul. Within his heart is a deep darkness, a feeling he cannot shake, as if the fates itself are warning him.
“Mother, shall I go fetch something to cover the window? Do not worry, I do notfear the suitors; Rather, I could likely quell them-”
“That will not be necessary.” Her voice was sweet and soothing as she cut through his sentence- but her eyes seemed lost, glazed over. There was something bittersweet about the way she gazed weakly at the shroud, now finished, in her hands.
Something was not right, and telemachus knew it; she did not look him in the eyes when she spoke,
“I am sure you know, but I am a spartan. I can not claim the title of warrior, but I’ve been close to those who are, I’ve grown up in that world.” Her words were slow, deliberate, as if every breath required a year of thought;
telemachus’ heart grew heavier with dread,
“Every warrior is expected to meet impossible circumstances, and in these circumstances they must make impossible decisions. As an example: If the gods have left you, would you wait in vain at risk of your own family?”
Telemachus’ voice falters, “What do you mean mother?”
The wise penelope gazes distantly past her son’s eyes “What I mean to say is, something happened. I do not know what, I do not know how, but something happened. I have spent now over 20 years waiting for your father, because I love him.” The wife of odysseus still would not meet his gaze as she reached over to a table, her gently calloused fingers wrapped slowly around a chalice of unkown liquid,
“That said, I also must consider that for 20 years, I’ve grown to love you as my son. I cannot easily put one of you above the other, so I must approach this pragmatically…”
Flawless penelope would close her eyes as her icy silky hands shook- bringing the chalice intimate to her lips; and hero telemachus, pushed by a deep instinct, would try to run forward; but the mother of ithaca was swift as she brought it to her lips, and that rancid bitter fluid ran down her throat, gulped greedily as if she were drinking ambrosia itself,
“I say this to tell you this, my actions today are not a betrayal of faith, they are not me giving up on your father or renouncing him, so i ask you to do the same. Have faith in wise odysseus, and however you two may meet ensure it is not at Styx, not with me.”
“... Then why?”
“Because I love you as much as I love your father. But i know not when your father will get back, or how. You however are right infront of me, I cannot save him, I can save you.” With shaky hands, weak from the poison which ravages her, she hands him the shroud, “take this, and run. As far and fast as you can. I will not survive, so you must. If you must burn this to keep yourself alive then do so. Just, please don’t die.”
But prudent telemachus, strong as his love and understanding may be, was for those very same reasons not so swiftly dismissed,
“Mother! Are you mad? What is this? Quick, I shall fetch euryclea to find someone who can cure you- of the poison and this madness!”
But her eyes only softened at the son of ithaca’s exasperated loving fury, “Telemachus, I raised you well, and you inherit the wisdom of your father. I do not believe you don’t understand.”
“I understand very well that grief has broken your mind!” Wily telemachus snapped back with quickness- yet in this haste he had failed to hide the crack in his voice, and the despair that filled it.
“Perhaps it has.” Her voice was slow, solemn, but with a sharp conviction she stood.
The queen of ithaca stood fiercely before young telemachus, though shorter her stature felt taller, and her shaking weakened hands thrusted upon the boy the shroud she has crafted, “If so then it is such that no mad woman shall rule over what the old king Odysseus once cherished and crafted with rugged and torn hands. And so this mad woman shall give one final address, and by her own hand and no others will she die.”
“Mother i say once more I can handle them!”
“If that’s so, perhaps you are no less mad than me. I cannot stop you Telemachus. I do not have your strength, your youth, your energy. All I have now is my name. So with that I will do what i can.”
The boy was short of breath as Penelope of ithaca trodded purposefully down the water soaked floor toward the door, “If you believe trying to battle a hundred angry men in fair battle is all you can do with the gifts you are given- I cannot stop you. But this mad woman- your mother- is not so inclined to agree.”
Left in silence, chilled by rain and winds, the gods spared no mercy to the boy sat on the edge of a revelation- Young telemachus never gave much mind to fate, more concerned with the here and now, yet as he stepped steadily to the door penelope had just strutted out he stopped and began to consider something new- inevitability.
“Oh, mentor, where are you now? If i had the time, or if i perhaps knew sooner, I would consult Old Nestor’s wisdom, or spear-famed menelaus’ will while i could.
Alas, time wasted in regret is worse than passivity. But what am i to do? To simply accept the death of my own mother? Of her kingdom?
Yet her logic was profound, and i must face the truth that it is by now far past late to cure whatever poison she digested.
And I know it true that if she were to die- even if i were to topple those ravenous guests it is likely my injuries would not last my life much longer- Ithaca would be left with no more than dead vengeance, and a broken kingdom for my father.”
His conclusion had been reached, though he still didn’t want to accept the idea of just running; his concentration is broken, however, by a hardly recognized squawk from behind.
Alarmed and on-gaurd telemachus spun around, his eyes locked upon the open window- and rain continued to pitter patter through, singing a different song now however, as it landed too upon not just the room but the bold-eyed hawk that perched upon it’s windowsill.
Telemachus would calm ever so slightly, but his suspicion wasn’t at full rest, “A hawk? Could it be, athena?”
There’s a beat of silence, their eyes remain locked,
“No, athena i don’t believe you would appear before me like this, would you? Or have I truly gone mad finally?”
Telemachus interrogated the blank-faced bird of prey before him, his reservations and already fraught state leaking into his every doubt; yet his guard was quickly thrown off as the bird seemed to move as if… it were laughing?
And as it’s body moved with the silent laugh he noticed the dangling sandals held by the hawks mouth- small feathers on either side adorning the gold-coated footwear.
“Hermes! It must be…” steadily and carefully telemachus walked toward the brown-feathered messenger god; however as soon as he got close the laughing bird would drop those gilded sandals upon the windowsill and take off into the storming sky- unbothered by the perilous divine with it’s strong-feathered quick-footed flight.
Telemachus sprinted to the window sill and nearly slipped out as he barely caught sight as the hawk escaped out of view at shocking but fitting speeds.
Left alone once again telemachus gazed down upon the sandals, no mind paid to the rain beating upon his face as if begging for acknowledgement while he weighed the reality,
“I see then- even Hermes knows it true then. To disobey now would be to draw the ire of both mother and god- if that is so I can no longer allow my childish aspirations blind me.”
With a bit lip, telemachus would grab hold of the cold golden sandals, slipping them steadily upon his stone-calloused feet; it was a miraculous perfect fit- yet no less would be expected of a god’s blessing-
“Yes, this wasn’t just a sign, it was a blessing.”
Yet even as the son of ithaca finally begun to reconcile with the paradoxical duty of abandoning duty- a fire still burnt like a wildfire inside his wide pupils.
“Know this, ithaca,”
Nimble-footed telemachus would perch himself above the windowsill, staring distantly at the storming kingdom,
“This is not abandonment, this is a temporary retreat, and i promise i will return. With men, with power, with the king- and you will either accept and repent, or witness the son of the wisest hero’s full wrath.”
His words were a spiting poison threatening to infect the very rainfall upon this land as with one more preparatory breath- he leaped high through the air.
His feather feet hit the ground and flew with a pitter patter against muddied earth- as wily Telemachus ran past the boundaries of home- leaving nothing but a vow to return.
>go on tumblr to post writings and interact with fandom space
>no interaction
>post one meme
>it blows up
>dissappesr

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
The Princess For Me
“Our wills and fates do so contrary run / That our devices still are overthrown” -Hamlet
For the red hat plumber, another kidnapping was just another day- at this point if it weren’t for his pure heart he’d probably stop to have some coffee or hang out with friends along the way the princess wouldn’t be any more in danger. Alas that plumber wouldn’t even be willing to cut infront of someone to save his life. In secret some call him naive and a pushover- but after saving the world a few times it’s hard for people to think of names for you, not like he’d care.
So as he would any other day, any other time, he rushed through those rolling green hills, stormed through the towers and airships; treacherously wahoo’d across the desolate desert and yahoo’d through the whirling waters. Not sky nor lava could stop that man in overalls as he wowie-zowied his way from castle to castle till he reached it once again;
Bowsers Castle.
Though, for a second he had to admit- this was quite an odd adventure. It felt like there were less actual enemies, the koopalings didn’t show up either, just some bigger or special enemies; and there was next to no sign of kamek.
Even at the castle itself while there was sure a goomba here and a podoboo there- it didn’t feel as heavily guarded as usual.
“Mamma mia- any less-a desolate and I’d be more worried for-a bowser!” Mario exclaimed jumping and yippee-ing through the halls and obstacles.
It’s official I’m making transfem bowser x Mario and it’s going to be a heart wrenching fluff about identity and what “bowsette” is to bowser and if it’s even real if it’s just locked to a transformation or if “bowsette” and the way it makes him feel is something deeper than just a temporary appearance.
“But why-a me?”
“Because, Mario, as much as I hate you for it, as much as we fight and clash and spite- it’s also because of that that I know- you are undoubtedly the kindest man in this whole world.”
Might just write a fluff Mario x transfem bowsette fanfic
The first ever vampire story is toxic Yuri

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Who needs to post writing when I can shitpost a joke and get so much more interaction :pain;
Bleeding Tears;
TW; implied SH
The creak of a door
The rattle of the pill bottle as it crashed upon the ground
The sharpness of her gasp,
The way in which her eyes peeled open- an infinite shock across her face as she gazed upon that bleeding lamb, eyes and blood wet upon the sheets
That miserable pity across his face, the pathetic hollow smile against his twisting and contorting expression,
The way in which she runs, as if to fall forward upon him,
And the way he flinches back, the poor lamb, as if bared upon by predator,
Helpless prey.
“I’m sorry” the lamb bleated
“Do you hate me?” The lamb cried
“I’m sorry I’m sorry” the lamb bleated, loudly in her ear
And so she crushed the poor lamb in her embrace, as she often did,
“No”
“Not at all”
She sobbed to the lamb, suffocated in her loving grasp,
“I’m sorry
“Don’t be”
“I’m sorry”
“It’s okay”
“Im sorry”
“…”
“Im sorry”
“Please… sleep”
“… okay, I’m sorry.”
Foolish lamb
So safe within her jaws,
And his blood tasted of tears,
And his flesh of pain,
And so the wolf would let go,
And so the lamb would cry,
And sob,
And writhe,
For the pain now, was far worse than her teeth in his neck,
And so badly did the lamb pray for her to tear in,
And so badly did he cry.
And so badly did she cry,
Knowing her love was death, and her absence sorrow.
I’ve always had this idea of a suitor during hold them down being like “okayyy and I’m out of here I do not fuck with this- however there’s a hundred of you and I’m not Odysseus so I’ll be leaving, good luck to him though.”
Random beggar he passed by who overheard just mumbles: “thanks.”
And the suitor pauses, before just fucking booking it.
Happy Silksong Announcement Anniversary to the best girl and one of my favorite characters to draw and design :3
The Descent (inanna/ishtar inspired thing I wrote)
And so here, upon this first gate, i relinquish my heavenly robes, silk of which has ordained my being since time immemorial, of which has represented my blanket over the heavens and dominion of love, gentle as it may be, so i may descend to maintain it,
And as i step through this gate, down to the mortal realm i can feel the heat of mortality, and the weight of life bare down upon my being
Thus
I journey deeper,
And so here, upon this second gate, I divest myself of the veil of the cosmos, the stars that had guided me as i guided them, the lights of life of which i cherish so much, so i may descend to protect them,
And as i step through this gate, to the chasms of this world, i can feel the darkness of isolation, poking and prodding at my form, pleading at any crack to wriggle its way into so it may make me as it is now- cold, alone, lost.
Thus
I journey deeper,
And so here, upon this third gate, i leave behind my gilded necklace, divine jewelry carrying the eye of heaven, the physical remnant of my infinite gaze, one so gentle and tender to coddle the earth, now blighted by darkness, so i may descend to cleanse it,
And as i step through this gate, to the entrance of the underworld, i can feel the temptation of sin, the infernal desire that permeates all mortal soul, yet now is twisted into something much darker, much more primal, and it claws at my skin, wishing to break me,
Thus
I journey deeper,
And so here, upon this fourth gate, I strip myself of my golden rings, symbols of my marriage to life, to love, to beauty, to war, and to the glory it protects, but still i hold these in my heart, as now i become love, and now i become life, and now i become war, and now i move to protect it, so i may descend to enact it,
And as i step through this gate, to the river of styx, i can feel the stream of a thousand dying wills; humanities and hopes crying for help, their elongated formless limbs reaching for me, and so do i wish i may save them, but they are no more than formless whispers of what used to be a mans desire,
Thus
I journey deeper,
And so here, upon this fifth gate, I bare my feet, my sandals discarded as my naked soles are left to scrape the jagged stone of this hellish realm, and upon it do i feel the sorrow of a thousand men past digging into my feet as i lay my spirit naked to mortal vulnerability, so i may descend to guide it,
And as i step through this gate, passing through tartarus itself, the weight of divine darkness now bears upon my ever weakening soul, closer and closer to mortality i am, as my feeble blood leaks from my nude feet and traces my path across these jagged stones, and i can feel his corruptive gaze upon me,
Thus
I journey deeper
And so here, upon this sixth gate, I abandon my final garments, and so my body is exposed, naked against the oppressive infinity of darkness, soft against the violent stone and gentle against the harsh gust, no longer am i protected, no longer am i safe, but as i am bare against the abyss, so too, is it bare against the flame of my warrior heart, and the heat of my love, so i may descend, to wield it,
And as i step through this gate, passing into the deepest layers of the abyss, where existence itself pulls my bare form from west to east and north to south, desperate in its attempt to rip me apart and feast upon the divinity left in my form, on my feeble, frail, skin can i feel the claws of darkness, the gaze of the night born, and before me i know what i must do,
Thus
I journey deeper
And so finally, upon this finale gate, my divinity shall fade from my very soul, and i can feel infinity- fleeting from my now mortal soul, and i feel the heavy burden of life, and i now understand what it means to love in finite time, and fight for time beyond you, as is now my mission, so i’ve descended, to complete it,
And in his wicked chambers i step, his guards parting way, for mortal i may be, but weak i am not, and from my gaze they know the fury of my war and the blaze of my love and that even in the underworld they may burn shall they dare to stand before my way,
Thus
I stand before him
God of night, in his boundless arrogance, he stares with wicked contempt as his voice- infested with sin and filth- booms across the realm,
“Inanna, how foolish may you be? I’ve heard that love is blind but are you yourself aswell? Do you believe, naked, bare, before me, you can stand? Or is it a show youve come to give me, if offered, I’ll gladly dig in” His foul expression contorts into a terrible smile,
“Speak not with such filthy sin of me, or are you too foolish to understand anything more than your gluttony and lust? You gouge upon power you do not earn, you abuse mortals weak to your divinity, you are a mockery of a god, and a mockery of a man.”

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yall, should I make a story with my OCs??
HELL YEAH >:))
naaaaahhh I'm good :/
a secret third thing
I think maybe Wildstyle would be the main character?
If you disagree with me, feel free to give me a better candidate! (If you pick yes)
Or you can just give some random ideas
Either way is fine by me! :))
Update:
This is Wildstyle
ALRIGHTY THEN
Almost all of yall wanted a story with my characters, sooooooo
I'm going to write a story!!
(When I mean write, I mean COMICS BECAUSE IM CRAVING ART!) >:))
Till Death Do Us Part
And so, frigid air waltzed sharply into my lungs, and as it escaped just as deeply, I knew I was alive; Why would I not be? One of many questions that toiled within my awakening mind, yet, my concern was more attentively upon the cool air which danced along my soft skin. Though, I needn’t worry as the wool blanket whose touch was no less gentle than mother mary’s kept my soft, yet generously built, form warm.
A question twirled mischeviously in my mind, had I always been so shapely? But, the boundlessly gentle embrace of my feathered pillow was quick to ensure me it was of no matter, thus I did not resist its comforting allure.
…
No, why would I go back to slumber? My eyes fluttered open with haste and at last It felt as if I may finally grasp consciousness. Where precisely was I, and why do I speak so regally as if a language I am fluent in? It was not long before the confounded confusion of these queries had overcome the comfort of my silk lined bedding.
Eventually a caterpillar must emerge from it’s cocoon,it must bare its wings upon the world and behold the light; I may not stay still in comfort any longer. I too must answer my own questions and witness the light of day.
And so, I rose.
My pale, thin fingertips glided gently across the wool-threaded blanket that held me as I pushed myself to sit with a shallow huff. It felt as if I had not moved in a thousand years and I could not help but groan softly as I meticulously stretched and relaxed my weary muscles.
Now, finally, my eyes could properly flick around the dawn-lit room, unimpeded by other extraneous sensations. And what I saw was somehow dreadfully alien, yet enchantingly gorgeous; The way in which the sun, stirring from it’s slumber, filtered through the intricately designed curtains that adorn the window by my bed, and how that golden light ever-so precariously seems to caress all within the room- warming my soft pale skin, dancing across my velvety blanket, leaping and jumping from the fluffy carpet to the hand-carved wardrobe.
As my eyes wandered, sparkling and lost as a young boy in a chocolate factory, I came quickly upon an extravagant dressing table- placed mindfully on top were many items for self-grooming, arranged carefully and beautifully. Nestled next to these was a decorated jewelry box of black and gold, and a small handheld ivory mirror.
Carefully and steadily I shift within my bed, unable not to cringe as I watch the sheets crinkle. Soon my feet are left to dangle off the bed and as I look down I realize only now that adorning my body is a silky purple nightrobe, and upon my feet are long silk socks which hug my soles warmly. For a moment I’m swiftly entranced, overwhelmed with the sensation I may be staring upon a body I am undeserving of. Regardless, I have deliberated far too long; I cannot allow myself constant distractions. With another sharp heave I drop myself off my lifted bed with a soft plop onto the wolf-fur throw laid upon the ground.
I’d watch my own hand glide toward the mirror with intrigue. It still felt that I did not quite recognize my own flesh and bone, however gradually I was becoming more aware. So my thin pale fingers would curl around the ornate hand mirror, gripping its intricate wooden handle as I brought it to my face; Just as I did, breathe left me. Medusa herself had locked eyes with me, and she was beautiful. The way in which her otherworldly purple eyes sparkled froze me within stone. So wide, as if viewing my entire soul at once and piercing it through.
Yet as otherworldly as they felt, something about their beauty was more human than anything else in this world. I hardly even find it necessary to highlight her ethereal raven locks. Of which spill down her porcelain face like the finishing touch of a painting to bring it all together- so perfectly was its contrast upon her pale skin; tying beautifully together to highlight her plump rose-colored lips.
No… For as I stare deeper into this boundless beauty, I recall it is my own hand who holds this mirror. Medusa is not within this room, that woman can be only me. I can only reflect my own gaze as my hand moves almost subconsciously across my own skin, it’s true.
With a deep sigh I lower the mirror back upon the dressing table delicately; gently I trace my fingers across the wood before bringing it to rest by my side. With another breath I turn to the fireplace positioned opposite of my bed. Staring into the crackling flame- licking around wildly as if searching for purchase to escape- the heat brings immense comfort into this chilling room.
It is more than just temperature, the room is beautiful, it is comfortable, but it is not one I know. So with one cold, careful step after the other, I approach the burning fireplace. I lower myself to my knees, so I may feel its warmth upon my soft skin; I feel baptised in its primal heat. It is as if my own gaze’s heat is resonating with that of the fire, finding home in it’s familiar blaze.
So finally, as I grip my small, delicate fist, and as I feel my methodically groomed nails graze my silver skin, I finally recognize the sensation.
And so I rise, and with my ascent I carry a new dignity. I know not where I obtained it, but like blood flowing through a previously numb leg, I feel a familiar pride course my veins. Yes, of course, I am a duchess; Of the house of Empusaine.
But my first name, my real name, it is Mary.
Am I truly a duchess?
I am now, I am here. That is what matters.
Echoes of a world I once belonged too… calls of a life I lived, In vast forests of stone and communities of infinite diversity; they ring in my memory. Yet in my soul is a deep sensation, indistinguishable between dread and comforting certainty, and it warns me of the futility of remembrance.
Bittersweet memories bring no more than toothache.