He Left His Village A Long Time Ago.
He left his village a long time ago.
He did it for simple reasons. He wished to serve his Lords. He wished to keep his village safe from all manner of threats that lurk in this world. He wished for a full stomach and a fuller purse.
They accepted him into their service, and decided to have him as a Man-At-Arms.
He thanked them for their understanding and care, when they have no such things.
They took his legs, and replaced them with segmented metal things, which would allow him to run and jump further and faster. They took his eyes, which insisted on blinking and flinching, and made it so that he would miss no shots through fault of his own. They took his arms, and gave him new ones, covered in blades and places to mount weapons and ammunition.
They sent him out among countless others.
…
It is much, much later.
He marches alongside his comrades. He marches alongside towering Implements, which fill him with a sense of dread and unease, despite the fact that they are on the same side. He marches towards his enemy.
Corrosion awaits.
The ground is stained a dirty orange. Leaves drop from the trees and hit the ground in a cacophony of falling rust. He sees things that were once people, now twisted into metal shapes. It smells of rot.
Alongside his comrades, he readies his weapons.
They burn it all down.
…
It is a bit later.
The area has been cleaned and secured. They continue marching.
The place into which they march is Corrosion no longer. This is the domain of Decay.
Half-dead and never-living things surround them and charge forwards.
Gunfire rakes through the air. Gouts of flame burst forth from some of the Implements. Others open fire with immense cannon. Some sweep through the enemy with oversized blades and crushing instruments. He joins his comrades. He fires upon the enemy.
The march continues.
Comrade and foe alike fall.
Implements stagger and are dragged down by the sheer weight of the enemy.
His ammunition runs dry. His comrades suffer the same fate.
The march continues.
Now they fight with blades alone. The march has slowed. Death is omnipresent, watching over both sides and exacting a heavy toll.
His comrades drop, one by one.
The march continues.
He marches alone.
The march continues.
He marches right out of the other end of the Decay.
…
‘... and for your services to The Court, you are to be rewarded with a place among our number, safe from the Corrosion and Decay that spoiled so many of your fine compatriots.’
He is knighted.
They take his lungs. They take his spine. They take his brain. They take his mind.
He thinks of his village, and how long it has been.
He does not understand.
But, he supposes, he does not have to. He is one of The Court now, and the actions of mere humans are far below him. He does not care any more.
His new brain and heart tick away steadily, and he rises.
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aw hell naw they putting puppygirls in the psycho gundam
She was a god once.
People obeyed the god she was. People listened to the god she was. People respected the god she was.
She was loved, and because the god was gentle, because it gave away comforting dreams with fairytale endings and divine messages and told its followers to make their dreams reality, she is here now.
The thing that stands before her has no respect for the god she was.
It approaches her.
Leans close to her.
Puts its mouth to her ear, lips nearly touching her.
Whispers meaningless words to her.
It fills her with fears, not her own. It tells her to reject the authority of the world. It tells her that she must never explain her actions. It tells her the secrets and agonising truths she once denied.
It pulls away.
Her mouth opens, ready to rebuke it.
The thing congeals, takes form, and rushes forwards.
She feels it cover her skin, encasing her body and limbs in a solid layer of shadows. She tries to move, and it restrains her, tightening in response to her actions.
She feels it start to expand, crawling upwards towards her face. It reaches her chin. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her eyes. It closes above her.
She cannot see.
After a brief reprieve, the shadows start to push at her lips.
They are forced apart.
It does not rush down her throat and devour her from within. That would be a mercy.
Instead, it slowly reaches inside her. It expands once more. Moving tantalisingly slowly, it covers her lips. Her teeth. Her tongue.
Only then does it start to inch down her throat. As it does, she remembers.
Not the god she was before, but the being she was before even that, and the being before that, and so on.
She knows that she will return, as she has before. She knows that it will return, as it has before.
The shadow does not stop her last action.
She smiles.
She looks forward to next time.
And then she is gone.
huge as fuck claims court. im suing you for one william dollars asshole
Autistic trauma is so devastating and yet so corny. You'll be doing everything perfectly normal in public but someone will sneer at you and you'll spend an hour agonizing over yourself like "fuck what if no one told me it was Don't Wear Yellow Thursday"
someone mentioned cannibalism and my ears perked up like i’m a dog or something bruh fuck my life
i sleep diagonally so i wake up to a dutch angle view of my ceiling symbolising my descent into madness
The door swings open and closed as she is pushed through and into the room.
The hand of her friend rests in the space between her chest and her shoulder, forcing her backwards and backwards and down.
Her back meets the lip of the bed, but the pressure does not relent.
Sure, she could resist and stay standing and put an end to this fun, but she chooses not to.
She continues backwards, falling onto the bed.
The hand is removed from her body.
She stays still.
Her limbs are strewn about around her. Her hair fans out where her head met the bed. Her eyes, looking so so empty, stare emptily and needily upwards.
A click.
Her eyes regain focus for a second, and she looks up at her friend, standing there with a camera and looking at her through the viewfinder of her camera. A smile plays at her lips, disguised by the plastic and metal and electronics that serve to immortalise this moment. The aperture moves and refocuses on her.
Another click.
The shutter opens and closes.
The smile on her friend’s face widens. This must have been a good photo, she thinks.
Her friend reaches down towards her.
Her eyes flicker open and closed.
Her hand is on her clothes. Her friend relinquishes the camera for a moment, pulling her limp arms above her head before she smoothly pulls her top off of her.
She shivers, suddenly exposed to the cold air.
Her friend giggles, and she stills once more.
The lens moves backwards and forwards.
Another click.
This time her friend does not let go of the camera. Her hand caresses her chest, then moves around to her back, and undoes the clasps of her bra before deftly removing it, throwing it into the corner of the room.
She takes her time with this one, getting the perfect angle and lighting and focus.
The subject is already perfect, she thinks.
Another click.
Her friend moves again, and pushes her skirt upwards.
Another click.
Her friend stretches out, and brings her skirt down, discarding it onto the floor.
Another click.
Her tights are removed. She can hear them breaking and she does not care.
Another click.
Her underwear goes next.
Another click.
…
Her friend pauses, and looks down at her, a slight frown on her face.
She turns.
She throws a pillow down before her, intent clear.
Her subject is so lovely, but she wants more.
Why not see such a lovely thing in action and movement?
She stirs, and takes the pillow between her legs.
She moves, repeated movements backwards and forwards and so on.
Another click.
Her friend’s hand is on her hair.
It rests there for a moment.
It pulls, short and sharp and painful.
Another click.
The hand moves down to her mouth.
She opens her mouth, and her friend drives her thumb inside, pulling on her cheek.
Another click.
Their hand is removes and placed on her chin, forcing her upwards to look at her.
Another click.
Another click.
Another click.
She comes undone. She writhes and begs and whimpers and moans and shakes. Her mouth moves, making no coherent sounds, only noise. Her eyes roll back in her head and then return, glassy and vacant.
Another click.
She is released, and falls back down onto the bed.
Another click.
Her friend lies down beside her, and brings her camera up, showing her the screen.
There are so many photographs of her, exposed and limp and moving and broken, and her friend delights in showing her empty and exhausted eyes each and every last one of them.
What little of her mind remains drifts into the embrace of sleep.
One last click, for good measure.
googling shit like "why do i feel bad after hanging out with my friends" and all of the answers are either "you need better friends" (i don't; my friends are wonderful) or "your social battery is drained, you need to rest and regain your energy levels" (i don't; i've got tons of energy, it's just manifesting as over-the-top neurotic mania). why is this even happening. it's like some stupid toll i have to pay as a punishment for enjoying myself too much
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She/her, LARP doer, Warhammer and Gundam fan, that one reveal with Zane from Ninjago changed the trajectory of my life,Certified Scribblehub Eggfic Protagonist.
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