#14 sentence poetry

[theminisonproject]

The theme for our next issue of the minison zine is a good one: Minigames! We want your minisons, sonnets, and related visual art, ALL ABOUT VIDEO GAMES! We are so excited about this one folks!!! 

Submit: https://theminisonproject.com/theminisonzine/zinesubmissions/ 

#videogames #video games #video game literature #writing community #subs open #slam poetry #sonnets #poetry #14 word poetry #14 letter poetry #14 sentence poetry #14 line poetry

[phtalogreenpoison]

Poetry for my oc

Er hope you like?

#poetry #my oc #my poetry #my poem #original poem #poems on tumblr #poem #poems and poetry #words words words #ok so i wrote this about my oc dorian green #in case anyone was wondering #but it's also thinly veiled projection of my 14 year old self saying this intended to be a comfort #and me later realizing how messed up the whole conversation was #god oof #don't mind me exposing myself on the internet #bsd oc #oh also this is for the last three sentences you wrote challenge thing i posted!

[deeisace]

There is rain outside. But I am inside with pizza ^^

#this is the closest i will ever get to poetry lol #except a sentence from age 14 - #all semblance of sadness gone‚ eating pasties in the rain #- i guess im passionate about food and weather huh #lmao #i am but a simple man

[h-goldenmoon]

A blue sky falls upon me. It showers me with stars and clouds, then crush me with overwhelming pain.

#i dunno just a little thought #i just realised this very much sounds like im 14 #poetry #poems #sentence #quote #my words

[starvedofdreams]

i think being really into poetry when i was 8-10 had a massive impact on my writing style

#personal #i’ve been reading a lot of chuuya’s poems #and his turns of phrase. his lyricisms #scratches my brain just right #there’s an intentionality in how he writes and how he crafts his sentences #that’s just a feature of poetry in general #there’s a Flow there’s a Structure #i found some stuff i wrote when i was 14 and yeah it’s the same

[lonelyroommp3]

the thing is that every single one of us with remotely creative inclinations who falls under what i might hesitantly, shuddering a little with the humiliating weight of bringing out such a phrase in the year 2024, call the "former gifted kid umbrella" has gone through a phase where we think overwrought purple prose sponsored by thesaurus.com that is very very self consciously aware of our own artistry and self proclaimed uniqueness for being able to string a sentence together is like, the absolute peak of all writing skill and that we are literally the smartest person on earth for reading classics or knowing a vocab word above our grade level or being able to pick up on metaphors in poetry. and it inevitably results in creating art that is not very good because we are focusing less and less on actually saying something and more and more on just sounding very very smart when we say it. and yes, it's deeply cringe to look back on it and a lot of the art made will, in hindsight, be at best a bit naff and at worst completely unsalvageable, but it's a massively important stage of creative development that ultimately teaches you a lot about moderation & what is really important in the art you create (ie. actually saying something from the heart as opposed to saying something that will make everyone gawp at how clever you are). the issue is that most of us who went through this did so when we were like 14 and taylor swift appears to be having that phase while being well into her thirties

#it's just embarrassing to be perfectly honest and i'm saying that as someone who loves her songwriting so much it formed my MA thesis

[merakiui]

crow & goat in courtship.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, dub-con, coercion, religious symbolism/imagery, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, obsession, alcohol/intoxication, slight codependency, non-consensual touching/groping, au in which you attend classes at nbc instead of nrc under rollo's supervision note - the crow is always on call.

i. “but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (james 1:14-15).

Rollo answers on the third ring.

He always does—claims it’s polite to answer after three chimes just as it’s right to knock thrice before entering a residence. He’s stubborn in his ways, a crow bound by routine, only ever doing things in threes. Habitual to a fault, strictly so. You are similar in that regard; you find solace in the familiarity of predictable patterns. The relief that stems from knowing what will come next—in being prepared for all manner of events even if you haven’t yet reached the first.

But then you also like fun, and the best sort of fun is often had with a disregard for habit. Disorder and spontaneity. Throwing all caution to the wind. Trusting in the arms of the crow who will catch you, the carefree goat, when you fall.

“Good evening,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding so close despite the distance between you and him. “It’s rather late. Is there a specific reason you’re calling?”

“Rollo! Hey! Hiii,” you drawl, grinning like a fool. You stagger through the door into the chilly, starless night, your heels slipping on cracked, frozen pavement. “Whoa!” You stumble against the railing with a carefree giggle. “Almost lost my footing!”

There’s a stalling silence on his end. And then, with a deep inhale, he asks evenly, “Have you gone out?”

“Mm. Yeah. Went out to celebrate with some friends.”

“Some friends?”

“Like one or two…or a whole house full of ’em.”

“(Name).”

“What?” When he doesn’t reply, you laugh. Not because it’s humorous or embarrassing, but to merely fill the silent gap. “What? Roro, you’re sho stern. Don’t lecture me!”

“So you’ve been drinking.”

“What?! No!” With an offended scoff, you shake your head even though he’s not here to witness it. “You know NBC’s no-booze rule. I’m not gonna get caught—won’t get caught.”

“You slurred your speech and called me ‘Roro’—both in the same sentence, mind you.”

“So what? Rollo, Roro. Tomato, potato.”

“It’s to-may-to, to-mah-to. And—” he exhales an exhausted breath— “Never mind. That’s besides the point. Why, pray tell, have you called me at midnight?”

“Why’re you up at midnight?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not fair! I asked first!”

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks next. “If I were to visit your room right now—knock on the door and wait there—would you let me in?”

“Yeaaah,” you start to say, only to catch yourself halfway in the trap. “No!”

“No?”

“No…thank you. No visitors tonight. S’late and I gotta study for tomorrow’s exam.”

“And a party will somehow aid in that endeavor? (Name), you do realize you’ve spun one too many lies and now you’re woefully entangled.”

“Less poetry and more picking me up.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.”  

“Rollo, please be nice,” you whine, your lips twisting into a pout. “S’cold and I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m kinda-maybe-sorta a little…”

“A little…?” he encourages, and you can just envision that self-satisfied smirk of his.

“A little-drunk-but-also-not-really-drunk-but-also-totally-drunk,” you hastily admit in a string of syllables. Snowfall swirls around you, and you grasp the bannister to prevent yourself from falling over. “Oh, it’s snowing.”

“I can see perfectly clear from my window. Beautiful, is it not?”

“So stop being an obtuse dick and come get me before I freeze!”

“Should that come to pass, you may just rival the Righteous Judge at the entrance. I’ll be sure to polish you every month.”

“I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna poison your coffee and watch you drink it, and then we’ll see who’s stiffer than a statue. It’ll be you—in death, y’know!”

“Will you now?”

“If you don’t pick me up, yeah!”

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling. You hear crisp pages turning and then a book closing before the rustling of fabrics invades your keen ears. You picture your responsible friend pacing around his room as he dresses himself for the weather.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, ever the composed gentleman. “Send me the address.”

“You’re the best. Love you lots. Thank you! Thank you!” You press your lips together to mimic obnoxious kissing sounds, which elicits a huff of amusement from him. “It’s not a far walk. Promise.”

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there shortly. And don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You do realize sneaking out is against the rules, yes?”

“Aaand here comes the lecture. Gimme a break. Can’t a girl celebrate her birthday in peace?”

You drag your hand over your mouth and wipe sticky wine residue away. In the process, you smear black lipstick. Dark like night, like a crow’s inky feathers, it leaves your once-flawless appearance in disarray.

“There are much better ways to celebrate. Did I not say I’d take you into town this weekend and we could celebrate then?”

“That’s so far from now.”

“It’s three days away, (Name).”

“Still too far.”

“Don’t expect me to provide cover if you get caught.”

“And you can just leave campus whenever you please?”

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” You giggle into the speaker, warm and fuzzy and endlessly entertained. It’s enough of a distraction to keep winter from seeping into your marrow. “How so?”

“This is official Student Council business.”

“Really?” you ask with an impressed whistle. 

“Indeed. On account of my being President, it’s only natural I punish students who conduct themselves poorly. Shall we review your list of infractions and decide on a suitable penalty together?”

“I’d rather we not.”

“Oh, but I insist. Perhaps our discussion and the cold will sober you and teach you a valuable lesson about integrity.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lower onto the step to await his arrival. The icy stone digs harshly into your rear, which is hardly covered by your too-short dress. It’s definitely not fingertip length or weather-appropriate. You shiver and stuff your hand into the pocket of your cropped sweater. You should take shelter inside, where it’s plenty cozy and inviting, but your inflated pride disagrees. Retreating to the warmth after you’ve already bid farewell would be foolish. At least, that’s what the alcohol in your system is telling you.

So the goat endures the cold, for it knows that that is all that awaits it as the crow closes in.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an academic criminal. Get on with it, President Flamme.”

“Let’s see. You’ve disobeyed campus curfew, snuck out on a school night, attended a party when your grades could use improvement, neglected your studies, drank carelessly, called the one person who can and will punish you for this and the aforementioned…”

The sound of crunching snow pierces the air then, and you look up in time to see Rollo approaching. He’s dressed in a long woolen overcoat with a scarf twined around his throat and a hat pulled down over his ears. He smirks at you from where he stands on the pavement, cutting the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. Tilting his head at you, he pulls another coat from under his arm and offers it to you.

“And you’re dressed for your death.”

“Okay, that one’s personal.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise on unsteady legs. He meets you at the stairs, climbing two of them to help you into the coat. It’s an embrace more welcoming than that of a lover’s, so soft and comfortable that it immediately rejuvenates your weary skeleton. It smells like Rollo, too—like coffee and weathered pages in an old book. You hum your approval, snuggling into the fluffy fabric. He’s plopping his hat on your head next, tugging it so far down that you almost slip on the slick stoop. Like he always has, ever since he first met you, he catches you. 

“Hello to you, too.”

You blink back at him. “Yeah, thanks. I owe you.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He takes them in his, runs his thumbs over the tops, and then procures mittens from his pockets. You watch him slide both over your hands, rubbing them together briefly to generate heat at a faster rate. Your body sways, gaze unfocused. He’s just about to unwind his scarf from his shoulders when you reach out to stop him.

“I’m good. This is enough.”

“You’ll catch your death—”

“And you won’t in just a coat and scarf? At least let me give you your hat back.”

He shakes his head, holding his hand up in objection. “You’ve been out in this weather longer. It’s only fair. But, really, did you have to wait out here? Couldn’t you have gone inside?”

“My pride’s on the line.”

Rollo’s unamused stare cuts through you. “You won’t have much pride left if you’re encased in ice.”

“Then we’d best get moving. Campus awaits!”

You wrap your arm around him, clinging out of instinct. Rollo peers at the proximity, his lips upturned in a covert half-smile, and his arm snakes slowly around your waist in return. You don’t notice this, for you’re too busy dragging your feet through the snow while he acts as a helpful crutch, stable in a way you just aren’t. Not right now, at least.

But then the goat is never stable enough to survive the inevitable—the swift, sacrificial blade that befalls and beheads, leaving gory spatters to run red and visceral in the wake of the end.

You’ve never known, and you never will. How could you when he’s been nothing but cordial? A clean slate. Admirable guidance. A helpful friend. Your only friend.

The crow descends in three knocks. He lets himself in regardless of whether you wish to have him as a guest. He is unwanted and feared, the very foundation of death and destruction, and he has set his beady eyes on you—the goat.

It’s common knowledge that you cannot pray away the crow. He persists, as always, quiet even when his wings beat against his sleek, feathered body like the loudest war drums. And the caw—the dreadful caw! It’s a most disturbing cry, one that pierces through the dark like jarring slivers of light in shadow. Or a butcher’s blade through flesh, sawing through sinew to get to brilliant bone beneath. The hoarse call of Death’s crows—they circle in a murder, swooping down to meet you as harbingers of malevolence.

Rollo has always strived to lead a virtuous existence defined by a rigidly righteous moral compass. In the gloomy pits of misery and hatred, where he festers in a bundle of tar-colored feathers, he does not hope for sunshine. He no longer knows the uplifting ebullience of life’s greatest miracles. Because there is no miracle in death or tragedy. Because there is no happiness to be found in a doomed hand, every card showcasing Death and its many forms. Not for him. Never for him.

But then, amidst the despair and despondency, each all-consuming, a goat fell into his lap.

A divine offering to the crow, who is so far from divinity himself, can only mean one thing. It is neither conciliatory nor a reward.

It is a sacrifice.

But then the City of Flowers adores its goats—reveres them for all that they are. Goats are cherished, not sacrificed. But to drag a nameless, magicless goat from the grounds of its far-off, inconceivable pasture—is that not the cruelest form of sacrifice? To drop this goat into the equitable embrace of the crow—is that not the sweetest gift? Generous yet unfair. Plucked right from the folds of another heaven.

The mortal coil can be callous, which is precisely why the crow is permitted to exist in impartiality. Death does not care for who you were in life and who you will be in the next, and the crow only ever oversees finales. Never beginnings. Much like a deity does not care for what good you can do if you do not first adore them in copious adequacy.

The crow carries with him a most fearsome knell—the chime of judgment, to be delivered right on time like an execution staged for noon.

All throughout life, you can plan for the crow and all that he shall deliver, and still you will never be fully prepared to greet him. He brings misfortune bundled in baskets woven from the bones of sacrifices past. In holy scripture, it is the goat who is punished most often—who is slaughtered at the altar, who is arranged as peace to quell the torrential fury of the deity, who is made to suffer at the hands of those hoping to avoid damnation or godly wrath, who is meant to shoulder the blame when no one else wants to. Favors have been bought with the blood of the goat, its head nestled amidst verdant grasses, pure forevermore even when it is dyed carmine. It appeases and pleases.

So it’s just—religiously so—that the crow takes the goat for himself, strips it bare, and proves to the prying eyes in heaven that the greatest sin is more than lustful temptation.

For the crow—for Rollo—the heaviest sin, a vile, cursed burden from his very first breath—it is existence itself.

And only the blood of a pure goat can wash away such filth—can cleanse what has been rotting within. The goat can make a garden out of the crow—bring life and love to its barren insides regardless of however fleeting its presence may be. It is within this garden—within the softest, fertile soil—where the crow shall sow the most special seeds.

You cross the bridge with Rollo, your laughter filling the cloudy sky as you recall all manner of amusing stories from the past few hours. Drinking games paired with drunken gossip. Delicious wines and snacks. A party with an energy so lively it could rival the city’s annual festivals. Even though he doesn’t seem outwardly pleased to hear any of it, he listens well and occasionally stops to steady you before you can topple over the railing into the water below. Your heels clack against smooth, frosted stone, and the wind whips at your face, each snowflake biting and vicious. Noble Bell’s vast campus waits just beyond the wrought iron gate, standing proud and backdropped by the night.

“You think anyone’s up?” you ask, curling your fingers into his arm as he guides you through.

Rollo eases the gate shut. “They might if they hear you. It would be best to keep quiet.”

You pantomime zipping your lips and discarding a nonexistent key. He quirks a small smile at that and then hurries you along. Nights are always peaceful at Noble Bell. The halls are desolate and quiet, devoid of all signs of student life. Your and Rollo’s shoes click in unison as you walk through the hall and past the courtyard. You gaze at the arched openings, counting each one as they become fainter with the growing distance.

Your breath materializes in front of you when you sigh. “I’m so sleepy. I wanna go to bed for a thousand years.”

“You’ll miss your exam if you do that,” he chides, tutting. “And every other exam that will follow.”

“That’s the point!” Your voice bounces off the walls, returning to you in a reverberating echo. Cringing under Rollo’s disapproving glower, you speak softer. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Just how much have you had to drink? You can hardly walk straight without leaning on me for support.” He narrows his eyes, his lecherous gaze crawling down to your bare legs. “Not that I mind…”

His words don’t reach you, for they’re swallowed in a howling gale as it sweeps across the courtyard. You spy the dormitories then, each one looking more like gingerbread covered in confectioners’ sugar instead of buildings dusted with snow. Your eyelids droop while you cross the distance to reach your designated building, your every movement feeling slower than molten molasses, and by the time you’re actually inside the dorm—Rollo’s shushed you more than once—you’re yearning for the warmth of your bed.

So it’s bewildering when, rather than your own room, you stop at Rollo’s instead.

He opens the door and steps inside with you in tow. You keep your mouth shut, too tipsy to think coherently. After he clicks the lamp on, which leaves the room awash in soft shades of amber, he shrugs his coat off, draping it over a nearby chair. You drag yourself over to his bed and flop down, squeezing your eyes shut to block out both the light and your spinning surroundings. Rollo doesn’t say anything, but you hear him shuffling about his room, crossing to close and lock the door before walking back towards you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel nimble fingers working to undo the buttons on your coat.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask, cracking your eyes open just as he’s pulling the coat from your person.

Rollo folds it neatly and sets it aside. “You’re practically melting into my bed already. It would be quite the undertaking to make the walk back to your room at this hour.”

“So considerate,” you tease, grinning up at him. Sleep stretches your expression into something dazed, and you yawn loudly. “Then I’m gonna sleep here. Wake me up before class.”

You almost drift off, but those frigid fingers are moving to tug you out of your sweater next. They crawl across your bare shoulders like a spider on a web.

“You really are something,” he marvels, glancing at your body sprawled beneath him. “To brave the cold in such thin material…”

“Stupid choice. I know.”

“It appears we’re in agreement.”

“Shut up,” you snap back with a weak laugh. “You’re no better, showing up so cozy and then giving everything to me.”

Rollo memorizes the way the form-fitting dress hugs your figure. He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands back to his sides. Your chest is right here. So close. So frustratingly close.

He can’t indulge. He really shouldn’t. It’s unbecoming to show such unfair favorability when he’s meant to remain impartial. Death should not lust for the beauty of life because it only knows endings—or the beginnings of ghostly eternity. The crow should not allow himself to be swept up in tumultuous temptation.

And the goat is the only friend he’s known—the only one who understands the crow, if only by a few meager slivers. But someday the goat will know.

Rollo swallows his inhibitions, beating his urges away with a stick. He’s not one for rash decisions; he’s meticulous and thoughtful. He would never take such a risk—would never nosedive into a crude confession. He’s plotted it in his diary, but it’s never come to fruition. He restrains himself because he must. Because it’s the polite and proper thing to do when caught up in courtship. Because if he opens his torso and allows you to poke around inside, you’ll find that he is not the friend you’ve known for all these months.

He is a fiend, devilishly so, wearing the hide of a goat to put the real one at ease.

Warring with rationality, he slides away from you and intends to recover at his desk. He’ll scrawl all of the things he wishes to do to you in there and that will be enough. That will help clear his head of the intoxicating fog that settles whenever he’s with you in private. But then he’s reaching to untie the canopy draped over his bed, each corner undone within seconds. The sheer curtains fall in thin layers, confining the both of you to this island in the middle of a barren sea. It’s darker in here, dimly lit by the faint glow of the lamp outside.

You blink up at him, owlish.

“You…” He stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away. Hastily, he fishes his handkerchief from his pocket. With this enclosed propinquity, he can smell your perfume. It’s spiced and flowery—alluring and adorable all at once—and it assaults both his nose and mind. “You should sleep. It’s late.”

This is for the best. The crow is only meant to look after the goat, remain unaffected even in the face of lustful, fateful sacrifice.

But you’re here. You’re splayed like a spill, perfectly imperfect, and your shoulders are a canvas coveting kisses. He clutches his handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist.

“Mm, okay. Night…”

“Yes… Yes, good night,” he mumbles, lowering his handkerchief. He swallows thickly.

This is for the best.

But even though he thinks this, his arm is stretching out. Closer. Closer. So close, until his hand is hovering just above your chest. He’s so close.

When will he ever have another chance as fortuitous as this?

His hand closes around your breast and he squeezes it experimentally. It’s soft when his fingers dig in gently, depressing with the pressure of his digits. Rollo’s green hues flick to your face. Your eyes are shut, and soft snores slip from your parted lips. He glimpses your chest again and, with the utmost care, slides your dress down to free your breasts. They’re mostly bare, save for the heart-shaped pasties covering your nipples. Rollo heaves a disbelieving sigh.

“Promiscuous,” he mutters, plucking the edge of the first adhesive and peeling it away to reveal the perky nipple beneath. You look so soft, so clean, so pure… What was he even worried about? No one’s had you before. He’s sure of it.

He’s about to remove the other heart when your voice freezes him.

“What…are you doing?”

He holds your gaze. It’s tense for a moment, unspoken accusations brewing between the both of you.

“A massage,” he blurts, but there isn’t a hint of haste in his tone. He suspected this outcome when he chose to traverse the line of right and wrong—and ultimately sided with the former. Because to him it’s right, even if it’s wrong. He knows what will soon follow: disgust and detestation.

Instead, you giggle. It’s sleepy and silly-sounding, but it’s also light and lively.

You catch his hand in yours and drag it back to your chest. “If you wanted to touch, just ask,” you murmur, your words slurring. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

You’re not just perfect and pure. You’re everything.

Yes, it’s the alcohol blurring your brain and the intimacy of being trapped in a quiet, comfortable space such as this one that allows you to desire him. Would it be the same if you were sober? He can’t quite say, but he doesn’t wish to know. This is enough. This is paradise.

He kneads slow, steady motions into your breast, and you watch from where you’re lying on the bed. His other hand slithers between your legs to search for your clothed clit. Your breath hitches just as his fingers brush it, and he presses in, rubbing with his index. Your arm falls over your face, and your chest rises with every breath.

“How does it feel?” he asks, rolling your nipple between chilly digits.

“Not enough,” you bemoan, curling your fingers into a fist. “S’not enough…”

“How fascinating. I suppose cheap wine truly does turn you into a pute.”

“No… Was definitely expensive. The fancy kind.”

“Was it now?” He circles your clit, predatory and shark-like, his eyes alight with glee. “You say that, but look at the state it’s left you in. Utterly disheveled.”

“That’s because of—” you gasp, your voice rising in pitch— “because of you…”

His heart hammers in his chest, a resounding, pounding melody.

The City of Flowers treasures its goats, and the crow loves his fiercely even though he shouldn’t.

“Did you enjoy drinking yourself foolish and indulging in debauchery?” His fingers dance along your inner thigh, hooking around the hem of your underwear. “Was it a fun celebration?”

You lower your arm to glare halfheartedly at him. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“More so disappointed, mon chou chou,” he coos, sugary, sickeningly sweet. “Someone could have taken advantage of you. Someone could have tainted you with magic.” His lip curls up into a nasty sneer. It lingers for a moment before fading into something calm. He gazes at you, oddly tender. “That didn’t happen, though, yes?”

You shake your head and flinch when he drags your panties down. Dewy strings of your slick come away with it, and you shudder at your newfound nudity. He hums approvingly and drags his finger through the wet patch staining your panties. Driven by libertine compulsion, he stretches viscous strands of your essence between two fingers.

Your eyes find his deceitful greens once more. Silence sparks between the both of you, quickly broken by your exhalation. Rollo kneels before you, taking in the sight of you as your face wavers through the stages of consideration. Upon arriving at your conclusion, you sit up slightly and shuck your dress over your head. And then you’re lying back, shaking your panties from off your ankle, and wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him in closer. 

You grin, coquettish. “Why not search for yourself if you’re so worried, Mr. Student Council President?”

There’s no turning back. Not that he ever would. Not when the goat’s given him the signal. The blade doesn’t fall, but he does.

And this is better than dreams and erotica. This is real.

He surges forward to fit his lips against yours. Sloppy and inexperienced, he molds himself to your body. You tug him against you, your hands working to undress him. Clothes and shoes are cast aside between open-mouthed kisses, torn off half-buttoned and ripped away from soles. You breathe him in, gasping into his mouth. Translucent strings of saliva connect your mouths when you part, soon broken when you lean in for a chaste peck.

“You’re okay,” he says, the words practically bleeding onto your own tongue with how close he is. “Still as pure as the day I first met you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best thing.”

His third and fourth fingers prod at the depths of your pussy, pressing inwards. Shallow at first. He watches your face unblinkingly, burning every pleasured contortion into his brain, and slides his thumb along your clit. Your breathing staggers, coming in quick huffs, and you grab at the bedsheets to steady yourself. Rollo works you open on those fingers, curling and scissoring in equal measure. The slick squelches join in the salacious symphony you’re currently producing. Every sigh and groan come together in perfect harmony. You’re a heavenly harp, and he’s plucking your strings like an expert musician.

“Tonight is unforgivable,” he adds, and you blink through blissful tears to view him. “Folly is the worst distraction.”

“Then be stupid with me,” you joke, running your hands over his shoulders. He’s so cold. “Warm yourself with me.”

And he will because he’s always wanted to. He’s desired it. Craved it. Coveted it. Thought of nothing else for days and days, each delusion so cyclical it often felt tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his other hand up your hip and towards your rib. He traces the path of where it lies beneath layers of flesh before pressing down to feel it. “So beautiful…”

Your hand glides into his, fingers twining like silken thread around a spool. A lopsided smile lifts your lips, and you preen under him. “Yeah? Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about the obvious…” Your walls hug his fingers tighter then, and a shiver electrifies your nerves. He hums again, quite pleased. “Oh, did you like that?”

“I did. Very much.”

Lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, your head thrown back in ecstasy ever-mounting, you render him ensorcelled. Like a prized Renaissance nude, a goat laid to sacrifice in the crow’s nest, you are beatific. Divinely so.

“Allow me to reiterate then.” He hastens his pace, pumping his fingers relentlessly. You tamp down a shameless moan. “You’re exquisitely beddable. A work of art. Enchanting. Une belle femme.”

You’re nearing the edge—very gradually, but not quite—and so it’s devastating when he slips his fingers out, each one thoroughly coated in you. They shimmer in the dim light, reminding you of where they had previously been.

“Put it back in,” you beg with wide, glossy eyes. “C’mon… Please don’t stop now. Was so close. So close and—”

Your complaints are curbed when you follow his hand as it moves to wrap around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself thrice, using your slick as lube, until his cock is curving up against his stomach. You stare at him; he stares right back.

And then you realize he intends to go all the way.

“Wait, Rol…lo… S’not my safe day,” you say, shifting away. Whether impatiently or anxiously, he can’t tell, but he can certainly guess. Your world spins once, a dizzying blur, before it promptly clears. In the very center of your vision, as he’s always been, Rollo remains. “S’not safe…”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with levity. “I know.”

He’s kept track, dutiful like always.

You attempt to crawl out from under him, but he stops you. Your stomach churns.

“I’ll pull out in time,” he promises, rubbing soothing circles into your plush hips.

Even with the alcohol still buzzing through your system, you aren’t convinced. “N-No, really, we should stop here…”

“You’ll feel so good. Come now, aren’t we nearly there already?”

Rollo lifts your legs onto his shoulders. You squirm with more determination this time, but his fingers dig into your thighs. With a startled squeak, you sink into the mattress, cowed into submission.

“We… We can’t.”

“Why not?” The smooth, soft head of his cock prods curiously at your pussy.

You chew your lip, admitting in a meek tone, “I… I could get p-pregnant…”

“Pregnant,” he parrots, tasting the word as if it’s a delicacy he has yet to sample. His cock twitches. “Pregnant…”

“So… So that’s why…”

“Do you not want children?”

“I… Well… Now is kinda…”

He presses onwards, sinking in slowly. Your breath hitches; your heart stumbles. The intrusion is not entirely unwanted, for your slick, snug walls cling to his shape, and you almost give in to bodily inclination. But it doesn’t feel right. You’re scared. No matter how naturally your body reacts, you don’t want this.

“Rollo, wait—”

“It would be a wonderful thing—to see you rounded with my children.” Rollo props himself on either side of you, his body pinned to yours in sinful, sweaty connection. He exhales a deep breath, restraining himself as he pushes deeper. Patience is a virtue, after all. Your expression tightens with discomfort, and so he peppers your face with placatory kisses. “To see you grow in and—mmh—out of the most flattering maternity wear. To behold every change that blesses this beautiful body of yours… To see you swell with my love, filthy as it may be. Ah, but pregnancy is just as messy… Nevertheless, it shall be a special bond for us—a sacred vow, if you will. We are connected here—” he punctuates this point by slotting the rest of his length inside, and your legs involuntarily close around him to keep him there— “and soon here when life develops within.”

One hand splays across your stomach to pat it with fondness. You choke on your helpless whimper when he rocks his hips once, experimenting with the movement. It’s awkward, but it reminds you that he’s inside. So close to your womb that in just a few more thrusts he might—

“No… No, please… Rollo, you have to—oh—have to pull out. Please pull out. Don’t wanna get pregnant…”

“Oh, but you would be so beautiful.” He breathes you in, savoring sex and floral fragrance. “If I’m allowed one miracle—just one for all the anguish I’ve endured—let it be this.”

You know not of what anguish he speaks, for he’s never verbalized it, but even so it can’t possibly be so agonizing that it would warrant such invasion.

The vise-like hold your velvety walls have on his cock is deliciously addictive. He groans while he ruts into you, his eyelids fluttering. He could be animalistic and cruel in his movements—ravish you as if the world is faced with annihilation and this is his final hour—but instead he settles for exploratory leisure. His hand fits into yours and he squeezes it gently. A feeble protest builds in your throat and so he swallows it with a hungry kiss, his mouth molding against yours.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when he draws back and slides in again, filling you deeper than before. You breathe between kisses, panting and licking into his mouth in even intervals. He does much the same, anchored to you in a way that is both temporary and yet so permanent.

The world narrows down to this single sliver of space, enclosed in a canopy. And in it, laid bare and fertile, the goat is sacrificed to the crow. Death cannot reach either one here. There is only the promise of new life, thrust upon the goat all at once.

You don’t have the willpower to object, for you’ve already found yourself entrapped, so instead you cry. Tears track down your cheeks; your mascara runs with it. Ruined. So, too, is your pitch-black lipstick, smeared along the edges of your lips and printed onto Rollo’s porcelain skin.

Rollo’s hips stutter to a halt and he holds you against him when he spills thick and hot inside. Nothing is wasted; it’s all emptied deep within. If you’re lucky, it won’t take. But if some mischievous fertility goddess has cursed you, you’ll wake nauseous in the coming weeks.

If you have anything worth praying for, it’s the former.

The both of you are panting in the aftermath, but only one is coming down from his glorious high. You remain unsatisfied, your peak not yet breached. Rollo rolls his hips once more for good measure before easing out. You crumple into the wrinkled sheets, frigid and still as a statue. Carved empty and hollow, yet stuffed with sin.

The crow has come. Though this time the gift of tragedy is something between boon and curse.

— — —

The curtains are drawn to let in sunlight. It filters in through frosted glass, each pane stamped with snow, and it blinds you the moment you try to open your eyes. You twist and turn in bed, feeling heavy with hangover. A splitting ache cracks your head in half, and you groan loudly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hiss, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. “This sucks…”

You force yourself to wake after two more minutes of rolling around. Groaning once more, you sit up in bed. The canopy has been tied back in place, and when you glance sidelong at Rollo’s desk you notice something. A glass of water and a plate are waiting for you, seeming more enticing by the second. You throw the covers off, realize you’re nude seconds later, and promptly snatch them back. They’re wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. You stagger out of bed to check the contents. Two croissants, a single orange, a dollop of strawberry marmalade, and two tablets are arranged on the plate.

Hangover medicine, you realize, lifting one up to scrutinize it.

You peer around the room. It’s empty. And then you see the clock. It’s a little past noon.

“Oh,” you mumble, lowering into the chair. You clutch the blanket closer. “Rollo must be in class.”

Amidst the piercing migraine, which you quickly resolve by throwing your head back to swallow both tablets in a single gulp of water, two things occur to you. You’re in Rollo’s room. Naked. In Rollo’s room. Surely you must have spent the night after you returned from the party. Why are you naked?

But more importantly…

“Shit! My exam!” The excitement doesn’t help your current state, and you slouch in your seat, even more exhausted than before. “I completely missed it… Rollo’s gonna kill me.”

You scrub the sleep from your eyes and reach for a croissant, content with giving up. You don’t want to endure the walk of shame from Rollo’s room to yours. If anyone were to catch you, they’d certainly be left wondering.

As you nibble on the croissant, admiring the way Rollo’s arranged the contents of his room, you spot the edge of something beneath the plate. Perplexed, you push it aside to reveal a note. Penned in Rollo’s effortlessly pretty script, it reads:

I’ll forgive your transgression just this once if you’ll forgive mine. For now, get some rest. I’ve left breakfast here. Stay for however long you’d like.

You scowl at his attempt of ‘breakfast,’ and your stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction.

“Right?” you say to your stomach, clicking your tongue. “If anything, this is hardly a snack.”

But you’re grateful for his efforts. He cares. He always has. From the very first day you found yourself in this world, he cared.

While you peel the orange, pondering foggy recollections of last night, you begin to realize just how sticky you feel. As if someone’s slobbered all over you and left it to dry. The feeling persists between your thighs.

You pause momentarily, overcome with an uncanny sense of panic as you piece the puzzle together. The still-forming picture does not look good.

“Shit…” you whisper, haunted with a fragmented timeline. “What the hell did we do last night?”

You know. The deep, dark part of your brain knows, but you don’t want to confront it. Because Rollo wouldn’t, right? He couldn’t. He’s always done what’s best for you, so he wouldn’t.

Right?

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere rollo flamme #yandere rollo flamm #yandere rollo flamme x reader #yandere rollo flamm x reader #yandere rollo #yandere rollo x reader #n/sfw #tw: dubcon

[gideonisms]

top 20 characters in tlt who might agree to officiate my wedding ranked by how likely I am to let them:

20. Ortus. it's not a wedding it's a poetry reading now

19. Ianthe. I don't know how this wedding would go or whether it would end up with a marriage or even with all of the guests still intact. Would be interested to find out

18. Mercymorn. She hates you, the concept of marriage, the idea that someone somewhere might be in love, and ceremonies longer than 5 minutes. She Will let you know.

17. cytherea. She shows up in a gown fancier than yours and faints dramatically halfway through

16. Augustine. It could not be more apparent he doesn't give a fuck and he's judging you

15. Wake. your wedding is an excuse to get all your friends in one room so she can destroy them. That said, the speech is pretty good

14. G1deon. he has some interesting ideas about love but he doesn't mention any of them. He gives a brief clearly rehearsed speech you can tell he's put together from a google search

13. Pash. Her speech is mostly swearing and at one point she gets out her knife to gesture

12. Judith. The vows are perfectly correct. It is the stiffest wedding you have ever attended

11. John. Listen the wedding ITSELF would be fine if a bit casual. it's the reception you don't want him to attend.

10. Gideon. She cannot help putting on the gideon nav show on your big day. She puts her own distinct spin on the traditional vows but you're not repeating any of that

9. Pyrrha. she definitely will throw multiple inappropriate jokes in there and/or say something wildly bleak in a cheerful tone. But the rest is so heartfelt you can't be mad at her

8. Camilla. The speech is three sentences long but somehow we are all crying

7. Magnus. He's going to cry. It's going to be lovely but he will cry

6. Alecto. I don't think she'd do a good job but I think the ceremony would be memorable for years to come

5. Coronabeth. she'll pull out all the stops to make it a special event but she may or may not flirt with everyone involved

4. Harrow. The upside is she's so used to holding ceremonies that she can do it in her sleep. She will say the correct thing at the correct time and the wedding WILL happen, but the overtone of impending doom in her speech might kill the vibes

3. Marta, I think she'd show up looking very professional, give it her best shot, and add a bit of humor at the end

2. Palamedes. His enthusiasm is apparent and he's probably officiated a lot of things, only downside is he may or may not ramble a bit

1. Abigail Pent. Assuming she agrees with the wedding I think she'd do a lovely job but if she thinks we're not good for each other we may be back to square one

#everyone else wouldn't agree to it or is too young or too annoying #i did forget aiglamene. listen it wouldn't be a cheerful wedding. but it would be a wedding #this post inspired by kris & i discussing the benefits and downsides of mercymorn officiating the griddlehark wedding vs pyrrha doing it.

[hedgehog-moss]

i absolutely loved your recent explanation of french to english and english to french translations! sometimes, i read a book translated into english and you can just tell with the way sentences are traslated that they were written in another language first e.g. 'praising the portentous architecture of the sky with trite formulas' from elena ferrante's book (trans from italian).

not diminishing native english writers but that sentence stood out to me as like "oh okay, i dont know if a native english writer would have written that but, from my understanding of italian, that's been directly translated", it was very interesting if you understand what i'm trying to say. thank you.

You my friend are a sourceist ! :) As we call people who enjoy “feeling” another language right underneath the surface of a translation.

There’s a whole rivalry between translators who favour “sourcières” vs. “ciblistes” translations (as we say in French). Literally it’s sourceist vs. targetist, but English prefers verbs so I think you’d call it foreignising vs. domesticating translations. Basically it’s whether you prioritise the source language (preserving as much of its specificities as possible, even if it means “foreignising” your own language a little, writing in a way that will feel a bit unnatural to your reader) or prioritise the target language (“domesticating” the original text to make it more familiar to your reader, like when American publishing houses re-publish British books and change “Mum” to “Mom”). It’s often simplified as, are you more loyal to the author you’re translating, or to the reader you’re translating for. Most translators will say you need to find the right balance between the two extremes (but most translators are secretly targetists) (that’s my impression anyway.)

Both methods can lead to awful translations when you go too far in one direction—I remember making a post a couple of years ago about a translated book I was reading that was set in Kazakhstan, in which a character (who was supposed to be speaking Kazakh in the context of the story) said “We can’t invite every Tom, Dick and Harry.” That’s domestication gone too far—it was so jarring and nonsensical in a setting where all the characters had names like Kazangap and Sabitzhan!

But foreignising can also go too far—it’s difficult to do it well because you need to make sure the foreign phrases, concepts or connotations you preserve don’t clash with your own language’s concepts or connotations (or writing style preferences). It happens infuriatingly often in French books translated from US English that the translator keeps the word “college” to mean “university”. I don’t know why this stupid mistake is so common, they’ve got to be doing it on purpose, do they think it makes the book feel more American? But it just confuses the reader because collège in France is middle school. The word already exists!!! and it brings to mind 11-14 year-old kids so it’s really jarring and takes you out of the story when you need to remember every time that the “collège” students here are older teenagers. There are times when calquing foreign words or phrases in your translation is a bold, interesting choice—but not when it removes something (meaning, clarity, connotations) from your language.

It does work when it adds something—novelty or poetry or a connotation that tells you something about another culture without clashing with your own. Like in your example, if you calque an interesting turn of phrase that feels natural in one language and less so in another (but more poetic, intriguing, etc), then your language gains something. I like when translators do this with terms of endearment, like preserving “my little lizard” or w/e instead of replacing it with kitten or your cultural equivalent—if I’m reading a book set in another culture, I’m delighted to learn what silly things people in that culture call their kids or SOs. But it doesn’t work if it removes something from your language—for example if a character in a French novel calls a boy a term of endearment that’s masculine in French but feminine in Spanish, better change it to something else so you don’t confuse the Spanish reader / make them wonder if the boy is being teased or what—you’re asking them to remove meaning / connotations from their language to replace them with something else and the clash just takes you out of the story.

So it’s always a balancing act between your love and respect for the original language / culture / author’s writing style, and your duty to the reader, who needs something familiar enough to be intelligible and pleasant to read. (But at a certain point domesticating your translation too much suggests a lack of respect for your reader’s ability to handle unfamiliar concepts and their curiosity about other cultures.)

I remember reading an article by a translator of, I think, Uyghur, who wanted to keep the phrase “like a third-day moon” to describe a finely curved eyebrow. That's a foreignising translation if your culture isn’t familiar with the lunar calendar and the typical reader is clueless about what the moon looks like on the third day of the lunar month—but if they can guess from context that it’s a delicate eyebrow, it’s not the jarring sort of foreignising that takes you out of the story because you can’t figure out the connotation or it makes no sense in your language; it’s the kind that makes you go “oh, interesting phrasing” and might teach you something (but in a subtle way!) about the kind of culture that would use it. It’s one of the joys of reading translated literature, to discover details of another culture almost without noticing, without having them explained to you in so many words. You’re just absorbing them by osmosis by being immersed in a story in which the translator managed to preserve the right kind & the right amount of surprising little turns of phrase.

#ask #language tag #i loved your ask; it gave me food for thought! #ou de la nourriture pour mes pensées comme qui dirait

[catinasink]

introduction teehee

most recent edit: 2/03/24

hi!

general questions

who am i?

i'm cat (dont capitalize, as in Cat) and tentatively eli or nico. i'm a minor, as well as in middle school (ages 11-14). i go by it/its (if you're calling me cat) or they/he (if you're calling me eli or nico) or no pronouns. i am transmasc agender, aroacespec (aroflux and aegosexual), and pan.

what do i post about/reblog about?

marauders

genshin impact

other random fandoms

dreamscape nexus (...)

life things! (vents, random events, etc)

things about my friends :D

classes outside school (ballroom dance, art, aikido, russian, math)

writing (i am a writer)

music (i post lyrics from music, is fun)

gay (i am gay)

my friends

family, pets, friends?

one older sister

two cats - kim and shego (or floorshitter)

irl friends:

pissboy (my husband. he/they) (pissboy origin story)

lee (my wife. not a permanent nickname. she/her)

preppy (my wife, not a permanent nickname, she/her)

miss eighth* grader (she/they, talks abt sui a lot)

ashes (she/her, my bbg)

may mention some other ppl as well lol

can you tag me, ask me questions, tag me in chain asks or tag games?

sure, i might not participate in tag games or chain asks tho :>

timezone?

PST, inside a sink

dni?

if over 25, bigots in general, the usual

what can you call me?

no: bro, guy, gal, sis, girl, man, boy, dude, etc. (gendered terms in general)

yes: pet names (sarcastically and/or platonically, ofc) such as sweetheart, honey, bbg (please dont fully type out babygirl); lil guy is fine

i might call myself a girl or a boy, dont take this as permission please x

--

*used to be miss seventh grader

other info

i would appreciate tone tags if you feel you are speaking too vaguely, but otherwise it's fine

am either a slytherin or ravenclaw. slytherin most-likely

am INTP-T

scorpio sun, sagittarius moon, scorpio rising (i think)

pandora sun, lily moon, regulus rising

i speak english and russian, am learning german and hebrew (long story)

one sideblog, @catinasink-writes, this is only for my fanfiction

i also have another sideblog. kudos to you if you find it

I might ask you to explain a sentence or a phrase for me, it's bc words tend to not be understandable for me sometimes

i. might be neurodivergent

please alert me if you're going to leave, it scares me sometimes

am matching banners with @shrimpysstuff!! go check her out, her blog is wonderful :3

tags!

ramblies, vents, anything thats not a reblog and doesnt fall into another category: #cat's rambles

posts mentioning my cat, or with my cat: #cat's cat

writing (in general): #cat's writing

writing (actually writing: #poetry maybe

my art: #cat's art

my asks: #cat's asks

posts made during school (tend to be queued): #cat's schoolposting

music-related posts: #cat's lyricposting

my own music: #cat's lyrics

my beloved friend @this-is-me-lolol: #basil my beloved <3

pissboy, my friend: #my lovely pissboy

my friend @o-kye: #tumblr user o-kye

cali cult: #calicos

sink lore: #happenings of the sink

blender anon: #cat's blender anon

dear anon (dreamscape nexus thing): #cat's dear anon

dreamscape nexus (...): #Dreamscape Nexus

ao3 details

my account (catinasink)

i've got a good feeling that we could be something

rated T

the Selection but rosestarkillerchaser

features the Blacks as the Schreaves

the Order as the rebellion

rosestarkillerchaser, emmarlily, wolfstar

unfinished, 8/30 (estimate)

watching pixar on a school night

rated T

a texting fic for the marauders 5th year and skittles 4th year

modern au w magic

rosestarkillerchaser, emmarpanlily/sunkeeperflowerseer, wolfstar

background benjy/peter + nobleflower + frank

slowburn

unfinished, 25/?

they're so pretty it hurts (i'm not talking about boys, i'm talking about girls)

rated T

oneshot about marlene

in the universe of wpoasn

features slavic marlene!! bc that is my love >>

also ace marlene!

2.7k words

finished, 1/1

dear angel lacy, eyes white as daisies

rated T

in the universe of wpoasn

noblesea (molly and alice) focused

has noblesea, nobleflower, and fralice (polyam alice)

slowburn

unfinished, 2/8 (estimate)

fic summaries (definitely accurate)

tumblr writing masterlist (chronological order, first most recent)

song-resembling thing (aka big mistake) (with voice ;-;)

maybe one day

to old friend once again

jolly ranchers

to v

my love

piano

fuck periods

more vent (green)

to my old friend (again)

to my old friend

more poetry/rambling/vent whatever :>

more poetry

poem thing that blender anon said i should share

have a nice day!

#cat's rambles #cat's writing #intro post! #<- previous intro post can be found in that tag

[cator99]

When I was 13/14 I used to use the doll maker that these exact ones came from on thedollpalace to make a little avatar based on my girlfriend and then in the character description I'd write stories about her transforming into a rabbit during the day and living in a graveyard and then turning into a person at night so she could go to parties and drink blood and then one day an emo girl detective (me)(wanted to be L death note) is trying to solve this string of really gruesome murders and it leads her to a goth rave where she sees the vampire girl kill someone in a weird supernatural way so she starts following her so as to uncover the mystery but then she sees the girl go back to the graveyard and transform into a rabbit at dawn and is like... sooo mind blown but also curious so she takes the bunny home and takes care of her but then when she is about to transform back into a girl she just puts her in a giant cage that she like for whatever reason just had in her house but vampires are obviously strong when they're not bunny moded so she's just like um are you stupid I could kill you. I don't really remember the rest because all I wanted to do was write about them having sex but was doing this on my family computer in the livingroom so I had to start writing in a really stupid coded format where I would tell the actual story in the first letter of every sentence while writing totally Giving Nothing gothy poetry just to otherwise fill the page and distract from it being like:

Vampire stalking prey at night

Among the strobes and flashing light

Graveyard tombstones beckon me

I take your blood and then I flee

Never will you see the day

And in the sun I turn bunnay

[1moreff-creator]

Is anyone still trying to figure out the final code on the MV? The one with (the world of abnormal sentiment dances)? No judgement, I have no idea what's going on with it either, but I'm surprised there's so little discussion of it. I’m making this post to share some observations, and some of the things I’ve tried as I go insane over this MV. Warning, don’t expect anything too revolutionary.

+First, the code doesn't have a direct parallel in the original LGI MV, so no clues there.

+But I did find something possibly peculiar. You know the "find the 'n'" bit that shows up right after it? Well, it's lifted straight from the original LGI video, but the symbol you're supposed to find there is somewhere else.

That's the equivalent from the og LGI.

And there's the n. It's in a completely different spot, which makes me wonder if it's somehow related to the code. The n does pretty much coincide with a number of the images. Here's a transcription of the numbers, with the numbers related to the n in blue (you should still check I didn't fuck anything up though). Italics and bold means I'm not completely sure about the number.

1 4 6 3 1 4 8 4 2 6 8

1 7 3 7 4 1 0 2 0 1 4

3 0 3 6 4 5 1 1 7 5 9

2 3 3 6 8 6 3 6 2 7 8

9 3 0 4 0 4 9 2 3 7 4

3 0 8 2 4 3 6 7 7 2 0

6 9 7 0 5 2 1 7 3 2 6

&

4 3 6 0 7 8 8 6 5 0 3

7 1 8 8 1 1 5 2 5 7 9

8 7 6 4 3 2 1 6 8 6 4

9 5 6 2 8 0 7 1 3 5 3

0 8 5 9 5 6 3 3 0 7 1

7 5 8 1 4 9 8 3 7 5 2

9 1 4 4 4 1 0 0 5 2 6

Does it mean anything? Hell if I know! I have no idea how any of this works!

+Perhaps a more out there possibility is the changed alphabet. I've mentioned it before, but there's a point in the David MV where a modified alphabet shows up.

In case you can't tell, not only are letters listed in both capital and non-capital form, the alphabet ends W-U-X instead of W-X-Y-Z. This changed alphabet is not in the original LGI.

This is the equivalent scene. You can see it's perfectly fine, and as far as I can tell (aka: zero Japanese, just the translation and vibes) the letters aren't listed twice. And this is the video the David MV is based on, there are a lot of similarities.

This would imply, in my mind at least, that the alphabet was changed for a reason. I've seen it interpreted as another sign David doesn't see himself as human, as he doesn't even use the same alphabet, but it feels like a weird way to go about showing that to me.

So, uh, if you're trying something, and some words don't look right, maybe this can help?

+I have no idea what footnote 14 is supposed to be. "Hint: word length of 256". I've seen it suggested that it relates back to Hamlet's "To be or not to be" thing, but... while I think I did see one source with 256 words once, the word count is highly inconsistent throughout the internet, and almost none of them have it as 256 words. I checked with wordcounter.net.

-Wikipedia: 275 words.

-Poetry Foundation: 259 words.

-Poets.org: 276 words.

-Nosweatshakespeare: 275 words.

-Representative Poetry Online: 265 words

-Shakespeare Resource Center: 261 words.

-Litcharts: 273 words.

See the issue here? And now I don't have any idea what footnote 14 is. Here's some other things that it isn't.

+Literature Girl Insane: >256 words.

+Colored lyrics in the MV: ~190 words

+Lemon: Way more than 256 words

+The part of lemon in the MV: 113 words.

+The defense of Socrates: Way more than 256 words.

+The defense of Socrates, but only the part in the MV, and extended to the next end of sentence: I want to cry. 257 words. 257. One off. Why? Why are you like this? Please, someone check the fucking text and tell me I accidentally pasted in a word I shouldn't have. PLEASE-

+That part of the Little Prince in that one part before the tally 5 code: 198 words.

+Undefeated by the Rain poem: 139 words (in English Wikipedia, or 180, in the English translation found in Spanish Wikipedia, because my life can't just be easy so apparently the English version of the poem is different in different languages of Wikipedia what-)

+Just the correct/incorrect code: The most is 247 characters, if you include "correct13" and "incorrect".

+Yamanashi, the story "kapukapu" comes from: Thousands of words.

I didn't check anything else, but I can't for the life of me find what this is referring to. And it feels important, seeing as it's on the goddamn equal sign. Maybe it’s one of those excerpts from that part of the MV right before the “correct/incorrect” code? I don’t know.

If it helps, I’m pretty sure the code’s going to translate to something related to Xander, seeing as his numeral flashes on screen right before that. And because of that, it’s possible this 256 word thing refers to some kind of revolutionary speech or text or something the like.

How would the footnote matter? Well, you know the ampersand symbol (&) that shows up between the numbers?

Maybe, if we put the numbers on both rows together:

14 43 66 30 17 48 88 46 25 60 83

17 71 38 78 41 11 05 22 05 17 49

38 07 36 64 43 52 11 16 78 56 94

29 35 36 62 88 60 37 61 23 75 83

90 38 05 49 05 46 93 23 30 77 41

37 05 88 21 44 39 68 73 77 25 02

69 91 74 04 54 21 10 70 35 22 66

Then reference whatever text is 256 words long, we can assign each number a word. Possibly, we would only start where the n appears, just to give that some meaning.

Like, here's what you get if you do that with the Wikipedia version of "To be or not to be", starting with the 05 the n represents (starting from the beginning gives you a completely nonsensical message, I didn't even go all the way).

to - sleep - to - and - dream - of - against - to - die - opposing - to - that - and - no - them - consummation - to - to - fortune - be - devoutly - death - die - not - the - and - question - to - and - arrows - ‘tis

Like, that almost sounds like it works, but obviously we would need to find the actual text of 256 words, which isn’t the Wikipedia version of the Hamlet speech. I also tried with the Socrates text, but I don't think it works (from the n you get, like, "O - but - O - word - ashamed", and that's going to be in there even if you start from the beginning).

I also tried some kind of alphabet cypher thing, both with the regular alphabet and with the modified alphabet, and while I would like second opinions on account of my skill issues, I didn’t get anything.

If that’s not what the ampersand is for, here's what you get if you add the numbers together instead of just putting them next to each other:

5 7 12 3 8 12 16 10 7 6 11

8 8 11 15 5 2 5 4 5 8 13

11 7 9 10 7 7 2 7 15 11 13

11 8 9 8 16 6 10 7 5 12 11

9 11 5 13 5 10 12 5 3 14 5

10 5 16 3 8 12 14 10 14 7 2

15 10 11 4 9 3 1 7 8 4 12

It looks like it could be translated to hex almost perfectly, with the 16s possibly just translated to 10s, but I don't know what to do with it. I tried converting to hex and just putting it in as a Tumblr image URL, but nothing. Though there’s a chance I just didn’t do it right, I guess. I even took the first part up to the "n" and put it in th goddamn tally 5 page just in case it did something, but no. I tried the "word association" thing with the Hamlet thing as well, but nothing. Also tried alphabet cypher, even with the modified alphabet, and nothing. But again, any cypher cracking I tried to do should be taken with a grain of salt, since I’m a bit of an idiot at it.

One thing I didn’t do, simply because I don’t know how to, is try to use column cyphers. You can look them up and try them yourself, but I sorta doubt that’s the answer.

Finally, it’s a possibility “world length of 256” is actually some kind of cypher key. Like, not whatever it’s referencing, just “word length of 256” as a key. I severely doubt it, but if anyone wants to try it, be my guest.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, I kinda just wanted to tell someone, I guess. I’m going insane over most of the MV anyways, might as well share a bit of the madness. Also because of the content drought caused by me working on the MV video which is coming I promise but it’s going to take a while-

Anyways, thanks for reading my inane ramblings for so long! Take care!

#drdt #danganronpa despair time #drdt mv #can you even call this a theory? #it’s just a series of failures #like my life #/j

[denimbex1986]

'Writer and poet Benjamin Zephaniah has died aged 65, after being diagnosed with a brain tumour eight weeks ago.

A statement posted on his Instagram account confirmed he died in the early hours of Thursday.

The statement said Zephaniah's wife "was with him throughout and was by his side when he passed".

"We shared him with the world and we know many will be shocked and saddened by this news," it added.

Zephaniah was born and raised in Handsworth, Birmingham, the son of a Barbadian postman and a Jamaican nurse. He was dyslexic and left school aged 13, unable to read or write.

He moved to London aged 22 and published his first book, Pen Rhythm.

His early work used dub poetry, a Jamaican style of work that has evolved into the music genre of the same name, and he would also perform with the group The Benjamin Zephaniah Band.

As Zephaniah's profile grew, he became a familiar face on television and was credited with bringing Dub Poetry into British living rooms.

He also wrote five novels as well as poetry for children, and his first book for younger readers, Talking Turkeys, was a huge success upon its publication in 1994.

On top of his writing work, Zephaniah was an actor and appeared in the BBC drama series Peaky Blinders between 2013 and 2022.

He played Jeremiah "Jimmy" Jesus, appearing in 14 episodes across the six series.

Zephaniah famously rejected an OBE in 2003 due to the association of such an honour with the British Empire and its history of slavery.

"I've been fighting against empire all my life, fighting against slavery and colonialism all my life," he told The Big Narstie Show in 2020.

"I've been writing to connect with people, not to impress governments and monarchy. So I could I then accept an honour that puts the word Empire on to my name? That would be hypocritical.

He often spoke out about issues such as racial abuse and education.

When he was younger, Zephaniah served a prison sentence for burglary and received a criminal record.

In 1982, Zephaniah released an album called Rasta, which featured the Wailers' first recording since the death of Bob Marley.

It also included a tribute to the then-political prisoner Nelson Mandela, who would later become South African president.

In an interview in 2005, Zephaniah said growing up in a violent household led to him assuming that was the norm.

He recalled: "I once asked a friend of mine, 'What do you do when your dad beats your mum?' And he went: 'He doesn't.'

"I said, 'Ah, you come from one of those, like, feminist houses. So, what do you do when your mum beats your dad?'"

In 2012, he was chosen to guest edit an edition of BBC Radio 4's Today programme.

Zephaniah was nominated for autobiography of the year at the National Book Awards for his work, The Life And Rhymes Of Benjamin Zephaniah, which was also shortlisted for the Costa Book Award in 2018.

During a Covid-19 lockdown, Zephaniah recited one of his poems in a video for the Hay Festival.

"Benjamin was a true pioneer and innovator. He gave the world so much," the statement announcing his death said.

"Through an amazing career including a huge body of poems, literature, music, television and radio, Benjamin leaves us with a joyful and fantastic legacy."

A statement from the Black Writers' guild, which Zephaniah helped establish, said: "Our family of writers is in mourning at the loss of a deeply valued friend and a titan of British literature. Benjamin was a man of integrity and an example of how to live your values."

Others paying tribute included author Michael Rosen, who said: "I'm devastated. I admired him, respected him, learnt from him, loved him. Love and condolences to the family and to all who loved him too."

Actress Adjoa Andoh posted: "We have lost a Titan today. Benjamin Zephaniah. Beautiful Poet, Professor, Advocate for love and humanity in all things. Heartbroken. Rest In Your Power - our brother."

Peaky Blinders actor Cillian Murphy said in a statement: "Benjamin was a truly gifted and beautiful human being.

"A generational poet, writer, musician and activist. A proud Brummie and a Peaky Blinder. I'm so saddened by this news."

Broadcaster Trevor Nelson said: "So sad to hear about the passing of Benjamin Zephaniah. Too young, too soon, he had a lot more to give. He was a unique talent."

Singer-songwriter and musician Billy Bragg added: "Very sorry to hear this news. Benjamin Zephaniah was our radical poet laureate. Rest in power, my friend."

Comedian, actor and writer Lenny Henry said: "I was saddened to learn of the passing of my friend Benjamin Zephaniah. His passion for poetry, his advocacy for education for all was tireless."

Writer Nels Abbey said: "To call this crushing news is a massive understatement. He was far too young, far too brilliant and still had so much to offer. A loss we'll never recover from."

The X/Twitter account for Premier League football club Aston Villa, whom Zephaniah supported said everyone at the club was "deeply saddened" by the news.

"Named as one of Britain's top 50 post-war writers in 2008, Benjamin was a lifelong Aston Villa fan and had served as an ambassador for the AVFCFoundation. Our thoughts are with his family and friends at this time."'

#Benjamin Zephaniah #The Benjamin Zephaniah Band #Peaky Blinders #Cillian Murphy #Adjoa Andoh #Michael Rosen #Black Writers Guild #Hay Festival #The Life And Rhymes Of Benjamin Zephaniah #Jeremiah “Jimmy” Jesus #Rasta #Pen Rhythm #Aston Villa #Nels Abbey #Lenny Henry #Billy Bragg #Trevor Nelson

[waltwhitmansbeard]

"Do you know that your eyes actually have three different colours?" "You're very close." just screams Empire Siblings to me

14. "Do you know that your eyes actually have three different colours?" "You're very close."

Caleb is going to kill Veth. What was supposed to be a relaxing Mighty Nein vacation on the shores of Rumblecusp has turned into Fjord and Caleb babysitting the rest of their friends, who are, in Jester's parlance, tripping balls. Fjord keeps apologizing—it was his crew, namely Jester and Kingsley, who brought the strange powder ashore—but Caleb can't blame him when Veth was the one who stole it and dumped half the bag of unknown narcotics into the group punch. She even had to slip it into Caduceus's iced tea.

Caduceus, at least, is easy to take care of. He's been sitting with his back to a palm tree for two hours now, murmuring gently to the giant beetle in his hand—or, rather, murmuring to where the giant beetle was, because Caleb watched it fly away over an hour and a half ago. Caleb just reminds him to drink water every once in a while, to which Caduceus drawls, "Yes sir, Mr. Cat Man."

Jester and Yasha seem convinced that tonight is the night they're going to write the greatest erotic thriller Exandria has ever known. Caleb already surrendered all of the parchment in his possession to quell their incessant begging, and now they're sliding through the sand in pursuit of a terrified Fjord. "Let me see your ABS!" Jester shouts, lunging for the hem of her boyfriend's shirt. "I have to describe them perfectly!"

Caleb's just glad Fjord's handling those two. He peers at their manic scribbles and wonders if Yasha even knows that Jester has been writing everything in Infernal.

He gave up on getting Veth down from the tree she's in. Every attempt to do so was met with some variation of "The OCEAN can HEAR YOU, you ginger BASTARD!" followed by a wobbly crossbow bolt being fired into the gently lapping waves. Caleb just hopes she doesn't fall from the branches in her sleep. Well, if she does, he supposes that would be just desserts for all the chaos she's wrought.

Kingsley keeps getting booed off of the stage originally erected for Travelercon, but he keeps sneaking back on, each time with a new talent. Singing, sword-juggling, tap dancing, poetry, shadow puppets—from what Caleb's been able to catch from the Nein's slice of the beach, he might not be half-bad if he were sober. Tonight, though, he's an absolute mess, but he's not the absolute mess Caleb is concerned with.

Beau will not shut up. She has been talking non-stop for nearly an hour and forty-five minutes, her sentences long and her syllables unintelligible. She's been following Caleb around as he checks on Caduceus and Veth, mouth moving a mile a minute. Caleb cannot believe she hasn't lost her voice. From what he's been able to gather, her topics of obsession are:

the moons

ghosts on the moons

building an airship to deliver a payload of anti-ghost gas to the moons

Yasha's tits

Caleb and Fjord moving in slow motion

proof that the Cerberus Assembly has a secret volcano lair

the beetle that Caduceus was talking to being a spy for King Dwendal

Exhausted, Caleb splays out on the beach, staring up at the stars. Beau keeps rambling beside him about the firmness of her wife's breasts until she cuts herself off mid-word, and for a moment, Caleb knows peace. Then a face appears upside-down above his. "Do you know that your eyes actually have three different colors?"

He sighs. "You're very close."

"Why are you so slow? Did you cast a spell on yourself? The rest of us are so fast, even Caduceus. I'm watching him fly around the tree but he's going so fast even he can't see it."

"I told you, Fjord and I didn't drink the punch. That's why we're stuck keeping the rest of you chucklefucks alive."

"Caleb?"

"Ja?"

"Do you think the stars are alive?"

"No."

"Caleb?"

"Ja."

"What if they are, though?"

"Then each and every one of them would be telling you to shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

"Okay." The face disappears, and a moment later, much to Caleb's surprise and awe, he hears snoring. He turns his head to see Beau curled up like a cat in the sand, passed out cold. Relieved, Caleb lets his own eyes drift shut.

Only for them to snap open a minute later when a familiar voice echoes across the beach. "CALEB! WHAT IS THE ZEMNIAN WORD FOR 'THROBBING PENIS'?"

Caleb is going to kill Veth.

#ask #Anonymous #critical role #critical role fic #cr fic #my fic #mighty nein #mighty nein fic #empire kids #empire kids fic

[spntoxicfemslashevent]

full prompt list

hey everyone! this is the full february prompt list for this event. we're going to have six prompts every day, so it's big! smaller versions containing only some of the prompts are forthcoming. ideally a piece submitted for a certain day should be inspired by at least one of the prompts for that day.

[conceptual prompts only] [pairing prompts only] [format/style prompts only] [prompts by date] [submission guidelines] [intro post]

conceptual prompts:

feb 1: manipulation || rot || political play

feb 2: tied up || burning flesh || jealousy

feb 3: suburbia || betrayal/judas kiss || doll

feb 4: blackmail || cannibalism || age gap

feb 5: blasphemy || executioner || genderless

feb 6: “...and it felt like a kiss” || on the rack || handmaiden-feudal lord

feb 7: sainthood || blood || isolation

feb 8: poison/drugging || barefoot and pregnant || murder suicide

feb 9: scars || heaven and/or hell || voyeurism

feb 10: shallow grave/midnight gardening || exes || serial killer(s)

feb 11: crossdressing || corpse || brat

feb 12: war/opposite sides || soulmates || guts/gore

feb 13: demonization || immortality || "forgive me father"

feb 14: unrequited || butch || imprisonment

feb 15: high school sweethearts || justifications || resurrection

feb 16: stabbing || masturbation || somnophilia

feb 17: turn the straight girl || kidnapping || ritual sacrifice

feb 18: stalking || substance use/abuse || comp het

feb 19: amnesia/mindwipe/lobotomy || flogging || forcefem

feb 20: vessel || make each other worse || gothic

feb 21: mistress || forced marriage || petplay

feb 22: demon deal || power imbalance || state of mind/dreams/confusion

feb 23: experiment || bastard child || what happened to her first husband/wife?

feb 24: curses || possession || infidelity

feb 25: controlling || temptation || "i ran into a door"

feb 26: victim || right hand || true crime

feb 27: humiliation || dubious consent || brainwashing

feb 28: family || true form || obsession

feb 29: closeted || sins of the father || not passing the bechdel test

pairing prompts:

feb 1: rowena mcleod/billie

feb 2: linda tran/ofc

feb 3: hannah/naomi

feb 4: rowena mcleod/alicia banes

feb 5: raphael/billie

feb 6: amelia novak/naomi

feb 7: abaddon/colette mullen

feb 8: ruby/astaroth

feb 9: cassie robinson/fem!dean winchester

feb 10: linda tran/mary winchester

feb 11: cassie robinson/meg masters

feb 12: linda tran/abaddon

feb 13: risa (endverse)/meg masters

feb 14: kelly kline/dagon

feb 15: linda tran/tasha banes

feb 16: billie/amara/the empty (meg)

feb 17: meg masters/jo harvelle

feb 18: patience turner/claire novak

feb 19: mary winchester/antonia bevell

feb 20: lily sunder/claire novak

feb 21: bela talbot/ruby

feb 22: patience turner/magda peterson

feb 23: fem!castiel/fem!crowley

feb 24: missouri moseley/ellen harvelle

feb 25: jody mills/donna hanscum

feb 26: lily baker/lilith

feb 27: hannah/caroline johnson

feb 28: raphael/naomi

feb 29: eileen leahy/mary winchester

format/style prompts:

day 1: canon divergent || drabble (exactly 100 words)

day 2: canon character/oc || traditional art

day 3: scifi au || non-traditional art medium

day 4: post-canon || gifset

day 5: canon compliant || metered poetry

day 6: reverse!verse/roleswap || sketch

day 7: epistolary || flash fiction

day 8: episode rewrite || fanmix

day 9: gender changes - het to femslash || script format

day 10: canon a little to the left || headcanon

day 11: outsider pov || fancam

day 12: 5 + 1 || exquisite corpse/round robin

day 13: for want of a nail || sequel

day 14: dark fluff || webweave

day 15: vignettes/fragments || fansong

day 16: polyamory || abstract

day 17: unreliable narrator || screencap edit

day 18: meta plot/metafandom/carver edlund novels || non-song based fanvid

day 19: crossover/fusion || multimedia

day 20: trans headcanon || podfic

day 21: humor || amv

day 22: au || fiber arts

day 23: gender changes - slash to femslash || comic

day 24: pre-canon || digital art

day 25: omegaverse || sentence fics

day 26: mundane au || photography

day 27: selfcest || freeverse poetry

feb 28: character study || fanwork-of-a-fanwork

feb 29: rashomon style || fic rec list

#housekeeping #spntoxicfemslash #prompt #long post

[a-strange-server]

Strange Tales Of Halloween 2023

Hi everyone! In honor of the spookiest, weirdest, and dare we say, strangest month, we have created a prompt list for Doctor Stephen Strange for every day in October! Last year saw a hord of spooky, ghostly works created for the occasion. We are hoping this year will be as much fun!

This list is open to all forms of creativity. Fill as few or as many prompts as you would like in October and tag it with #strangehalloween2023 so we can reblog! You can also submit your work in the Strange Tales Of Halloween 2023 ao3 collection.

Full written list and the FAQ under the cut.

Strange Tales of Halloween 2023 Prompt List

1. “What was that? Is somebody there?” | Scales

2. “Wait, kids can trick o'treat here?” | Trapped

3. “Sometimes the world tries to end.” | Spirit

4. “Dormammu, I've come to bargain—“ | Alone

5. “There aren't many of us left.” | Cauldron

6. “I thought you were dead!” | Witch

7. “So what do you do for Halloween?” | Cursed

8. “Is that supposed to be a costume, or what?” | Cat

9. “Well, that's strange...” | Moon

10. “They’re not the traitor. I am.” | Mythological creature

11. “No, don’t tell me that.” | Dimensional breach

12. “Something’s happened to you.” | Shroud

13. “Stay with me.” | Nightmare

14. “Huh… that’s new.” | Future

15. “You what?!” | Celebration

16. “Crap. Imps!” “Imps? Crap.” | Ancient

17. “I know everything. That’s my curse.” | Fire & Ice

18. “I have seen a horror movie before.” | Tradition

19. “I know you!” | Cave

20. “Is that a bloody butterfly?” | Fever dream

21. “Strange... what have you done?!” | Scars

22. “The Cauldron of Cosmos is not a bowl for Halloween treats!” | Supernatural entities

23. “You’re a bad demon.” | Candy

24. “Oh, a meeting with the devil? Just when I thought I have a free afternoon... Fine.” | Baking

25. “No. Tell them to get Ghostbusters, or something.” | Pumpkin carving

26. “There was no other way.” | Horror movies

27. “You messed up the ritual.” | Trick or treat

28. “Nightmare has him.” | Will-o’-the-wisp

29. “Don’t be so superstitious.” | Bog

30. “Are you really afraid of a little black cat?” | Crown of thorns

31. “Donna... Is that really you?” | Tam Lin

◇◇◇◇◇

FAQ:

What must be included in the content of a filled prompt? Stephen Strange (any version of him: film, TV, or comics) must be either the main or co-main character. Otherwise, anything goes!

What must be included in the tags of Tumblr and Twitter posts? Please use the hashtag #strangehalloween2023 and the # of the prompt you're filling (i.e. #no6 and/or #witch). On Tumblr, please include additional tags for NSFW and common triggers (see AO3 for examples).

When can I post my prompt fill? In the spirit of the theme, these should be posted in October! We'd prefer if you post prompts the day of or after the day has passed. For example, prompt 10 fills can be posted on or after Oct 10, and preferably not before.

What medium can I use? Anything! Written prose, poetry, gifsets, mood boards, artwork, all is acceptable as a prompt fill. It's all about Stephen Strange in any form he comes in.

Can I combine Strange Tales of Halloween prompts into one submission (i.e. #1 "What was that? Is somebody there?" and #6 witch)? Sure! If you post it on social media, you can use both prompt tags to help us identify it as such.

There are two prompts per day. Do I have to do both? You can use the sentence prompts, the words prompt, or do a mix of them!

Can I use this prompt list with other prompt lists/bingo cards? Absolutely! Combine it with any other event you'd like to use it with.

Are there any limits to how many prompts I can use/have to use? Nope! Participate with one piece or 31 pieces! Do as much as you'd like--we'll love to see it!

Any other questions? Send an ask to @a-strange-server and we'll get back to you soon. We can't wait to start seeing what you come up with come October!

#doctor strange #stephan strange #marvel #dr strange #mcu #monthly challenge #strangehalloween2023 #prompt list #fandom event #writers on tumblr #writing prompt #promptlist2023 #prompt list 2023 #event info 2023 #marvel cinematic universe #doctor strange fanart #marvel fanart #marvel fanfiction #artist on tumblr #ao3 collection #a strange server #october #halloween #mcu prompt #fanfics #art #long post #stephen strange centric