❛ the first time i met you, i had no idea you'd mean this much. ❜ ( and of course litho )
❝ ... ❞
FOR ONCE, THERE IS NO QUIP TO DEFLECT LITHO'S confession. persephone is silent. from the windowsill where she sits, her pale face is stark against the black sheet of her hair. from the pallor in her cheeks blooms a faint rush of pink. as they feel their face heat, they quickly turn it toward the glass and pretend to be very interested in something outside.
dangerous. this is dangerous. and yet —
❝ yeah, well. who could blame you. i accosted you on the street and demanded that you work for me. ❞ finally, seph collects herself enough to tilt her head back against the windowframe and glance over at lionel. candlelight bathes his face in a soft glow, and her eyes find each of the little marks on his skin that she has noticed throughout her visits; they find his eyelashes, the edges of his hair where they absorb and reflect a halo of gold.
❝ yeah, look, it — th — ❞ her throat closes up before she can form any vulnerable words. it has been like this for a long time. so persephone waits, takes several deep breaths, lets the knot in her chest unravel before trying again. ❝ likewise. ❞
it is a horrible thing, because speaking it feels like willing it into existence. it feels like damning them both. and yet. ❝ you — changed things. you make this situation complicated. ❞
Christmas as a cultural icon is starting to get really dystopian in a climate sense, december has historically been a time of year in which there would be snow in a significant portion of europe and north america, and the fact that its not even icy this time of year and all the christmas songs and decorations reference a time of year that will likely never exist in the same way again in my life time is so strange.
its actually very silly that if ur any type of art kid as a teenager everyone is like oh have u thought abt graphic design or advertising. yeah the little emo dude who fills sketchbooks with anime gore all day would be great at making customers buy product.
Ice king is a really good character because they intoduce him and you're like "haha what a freak what's wrong with him" and then the show goes "oh! You want to know? Let me show you :)" and you end up just sitting there like
Surprised I hadn't seen this cross posted over here
Liquid Death is renaming their Armless Palmer iced tea and lemonade to Dead Billionaire because Arnold Palmer's estate threatened to sue for the use of the word Palmer. What a brand
HELLHOUND TAKES NO PRISONERS WHEN LIONEL DIES. when his light blinks out and he crumples to the ground, a chrysanthemum of dark red seeping through his chest where his heart is, they're too late to do anything but watch it happen.
lionel is dead, and she takes no prisoners. the hound's howl itself from her throat. it is as mournful as it is enraged, a banshee-wail that reverberates into the bricks and the wood and the glass of the city around her. hellhound isn't sure where her hands begin and the monster ends anymore, where flesh blends into blood and where blood blends into bone. she tears into cartilage. she crushes arteries under her fingers and sinks into vessels with her teeth. by the end of it, it's impossible to tell how many people once surrounded her, because none of the littered, sinuous piles of dead flesh can constitute a full person any longer.
when the sirens sound, they sink to their knees beside lionel's body and pull him into their arms. they gather his dangling arms close and snare him tight to their body, like she could somehow siphon some life into him by tightly squeezing the shell that once held her friend.
❝ i'm sorry, ❞ they whisper, pressing their temple to his, then giving up and burying their face in the crook of his neck. a shuddering sob fills their chest; they try, and fail, to choke it back. ❝ i'm sorry. i'm sorry i never told you about my brother. i'm sorry i never asked about your life. god — damn it, lionel, you can't be the one who fucking dies! i'm already dead, it was supposed to be me! ❞ her voice cracks, loud and desperate, the break audible like a car crash even over the wail of the distant sirens. after another sob chokes her next words, she tries them again, dropping to a whisper against his ear. ❝ please. don't go. ❞
it's only when something flutters against hellhound's knee that she pulls herself from the distant, numbed state she has found herself in after killing them all. it's a delusion. it has to be. fingers, shaking and bloody, ghosting over the torn fabric just above her kneecap where an ugly gash seeps lazy, half-coagulated blood into the already-black pants around it. they look up from where they've buried their head and lean back to assess the source of the illusion. she expects feathers, a pale face, another spectre of aya to haunt another evil deed. but it's lionel. fuck, it's lionel, his eyes open barely a sliver. he's blearily reaching out with a trembling, bloodsoaked hand to brush over the cut on her side. the cut. he's worried about a cut when his own chest is bleeding like he's been impaled on a serrated dagger? when his other arm resembles a totaled fucking car?
❝ lionel, ❞ she breathes, and with a jolt, everything that was dead comes alive again. persephone grips his upper arms and holds him back, eyes flung wide, heart electric. ❝ fuck. oh my god. h—holy shit. stay — hey. hey. stay here. don't you dare close your eyes. ❞
I would like all Americans (and everyone else) who are excited for the Superbowl to know: Before the actual Superbowl there's a live tournament on TV, here in Germany, called "American Ice Football".
It is exactly what it sounds like: American Football but played on Ice, in shoes with entirely smooth soles.
It's a tournament with 4 teams and they are called Eastside Ossis, Westside Wessis, Northcoast Naughties and Southside Smoothies and it's just hilariously entertaining.