Chara had walked through these ruins a countless time before, they used to know them like the back of their hand.
Until that damn child fell and took away their power.
The Caretaker gasped as they felt the ground beneath them crack and quickly stepped back. Chara looked around, at loss. Where to go now? They were lost. They could not find their way back home anymore.
The ruins had become a maze to them.
But how was that even possible? Did that little demon use and abuse RESETs so much that Chara was now confused? They could not even clearly remember the previous timelines, when they had been chasing that human.
And of course, they had left their cell phone in their house. Chara wanted to slap themselves for doing such a mistake. But how could they have known?
They should have been more on their guards the moment they realized the child had the control of that power. Since it was just a child, a trusting and naive one moreover, Chara had been over-confident.
That loathsome child!
How Chara despised them!
The moment they would found them…!
A giggle echoed.
“Do you need guidance?”
“I hate you.” Chara hissed as they carefully walked besides Frisk.
“For now.” Frisk answered cheerfully. “Who knows? You might come to adore me someday!”
“I highly doubt that!”
Chara’s eyes shot daggers at the child who sipped at his hot cocoa.
That little demon dared to use my kitchen and helped themselves while I was trying to find my way!
How Chara missed their dagger, they felt powerless without it. But leaving it behind had been part of the deal.
They wanted to wipe that smug off that brat’s face so bad!
“Come on!” Frisk grinned. “We’re almost there!”
Chara hissed like a cat when Frisk grabbed their hand and started pulling them forwards.
DEAR FRIEND Read by Sophie Hunter and Louise Brealey Letters Live, 13 March 2016
Recently I received the following letter:
Unless something is done at once about your disgusting exhibition in the filthy play you appear in every night, I and several of my friends will do something very unpleasant about it.
What you do nightly in public is a slur on English womanhood. “Fallen Angels” is disgusting as a play, but your performance in it makes it loathsome. How the powers that be could permit such an exhibition is past the understanding of a God-fearing woman who supports the present Government—and thanks God for them.
I give you fair warning to leave the play, or it will be the worse for you. Our wrath will strike at you in your home, or maybe during a performance at the theatre.
To which I replied:
Huntington Hartford Theatre Hollywood, California
How clever and capricious you are, cloaking yourself in anonymity, and I must confess I cannot for the life of me guess which of my many friends you can be. You have sent my head spinning and my imagination whirling. Could you be found among my dear friends, intimate friends, close friends, childhood friends, pen friends, family friends, friends of a friend, friends in distress, friends who are closer than a brother, friends in need, or school friends. Your letter shows quite clearly that you are not illiterate, and therefore we can rule out my school friends. Your masterly command of the language banishes the thought that you could be found among my friends from overseas. Your witty criticism of my performance makes me think that I might find you among my nearest and dearest “bosom friends,” that is, if you did not choose to address me as “Dear Madam"—a clever move this, and one that reduces my last thought to mere stupidity and you to a "casual acquaintance.”
An awful thought has dawned—it is all a joke—and you aren’t really my friend at all. I must try to dismiss this thought. It depresses me. To lose a friend like you in a few words, oh no.
So, dear anonymous friend, if this should chance to meet your eye, please keep your promise and come around one night—yes, and bring your friends, too, for I know intuitively that your friends will be my friends.
Cordially yours, Hermione Gingold
P.S. If you wish to strike at me with your wrath in my home, I am always in between ten-thirty and twelve in the morning, excluding Tuesday, which is a had day, as a lot of tiresome tradespeople call for the same reason. You will easily recognize my apartment from the letter A marked on the door, over the knocker there is a notice, “Bell out of order, strike twice and wait.”
Lavender Brown gets her heart broken by Ron Weasley in the
She spends an entire weekend re-watching all the depressing
parts of Love, Actually and crying
into Parvati’s mint green Kate Spade pillowcase and it’s cathartic, mostly,
because by Monday morning she’s back to using her own bronze-blonde bobby pins
and spot-blending her under-eye concealer and bickering with Daphne Greengrass
about leaving slimy salon-grade conditioner residue on their tiled shower
floor—and if Lavender still feels a little like the world is ending when she
thinks about how many of her Firsts she hadn’t even hesitated to give to Ron Weasley—
Two days before prom, the world actually ends.
It’s like The Walking
Dead without rednecks.
The two hundred year-old graveyard out by the lacrosse field
turns into a warzone—mostly-rotted corpses punch through the summer-softened
earth and storm the locker rooms and it’s so horrifying and so utterly ludicrous that Lavender can’t help but unleash
a torrent of hysterical giggles when Daphne’s little sister makes a Hocus Pocus joke by asking when Bette
Midler is going to be by to collect her boyfriends.
Parents who ostracize, isolate and punish thier children for the simple fact that they are trans are among the Earth’s most loathsome creatures. How does a human being get to a point where they are completely incapable of empathy towards THEIR OWN CHILDREN?
Right now I’m thinking about the tragic death of Leelah Alcorn, and I’m trying to fathom how ANY parent could treat their child as her parents treated her. I can’t. I’m just blinded by rage.
My children know that my love for them is unconditional. Leelah Alcorn didn’t get that from her parents, and now she’s gone.
Damn them. And damn every parent who decides in their twisted, bigoted minds to bully their trans children. I am an atheist. I don’t believe in Hell. But if such a place exists, these abusive, small-minded cowards deserve prime real estate near the Lake of Fire.
For a prompt! Hartwin - Eggsy gave Harry a supersized shirt with the words SEX MACHINE as a joke. Harry uses it one time as a sleepshirt. Naturally that is that one time that someone tries to kill the Queen and Kingsman needs his Arthur ASAP in the HQ. Merlin and the other knights see him in his shirt and so Harry gets his new nickname. (This could also totally be Percilot or Roxlin or maybe it includes everything but please no Merhartwin.)
I had seen that ‘imagine your otp’ trope floating around tumblr, and I must say it was pretty funny to write it :D
I hope you like it dear anon!
Also, I’ve received 7 prompts in total, including that one, three more of them being from lovely anons. I will be working on them in the order I’ve received them and should be done with all of them sometime in the following two weeks! Stay tuned :D
Quick note before I let you read, this is unbeta’d so I’m sorry for any mistakes there’s bound to be in this.
Warning: While it is merely mentioned, there is some ‘off screen’ consensual spanking in this. I prefer giving you a fair warning in case it really isn’t someone’s cup of tea!
“Eggsy, what is this?” Harry’s distaste
at the item he was currently looking at was clear in his voice.
Synopsis:The sweetest people can have the darkest hearts. Aggressive arrogance is linked to inferiority. Sexually promiscuous people often feel the most loathsome. So, how does someone like that keep getting wrapped up in your bed sheets?
Word Count: ???
Genre: Smut, Angst, fuckboy!jungkook
Disclaimer: THIS IS A TEASER POST. IT’S A WIP. HOWEVER, you know me. BACK AT IT AGAIN WITH THOSE MOODBOARDS SON. I’m a hoe for a good moodboard.
Idol. Dancer. Singer. Sexy.
Jeon Jungkook is certainly all of those things.
But, how many times do we need to be told? Never judge a book by it’s cover.
Fans flock from east to west for high touches, meet and greets, and concerts all to graze the fingers of a boy who’s been brutally trained in the art of charisma. Average isn’t even allowed in his vocabulary. Best of the best is the only thing he’s programed to do now. He was raised for the stage, so even when he’s not on one… he can’t stop the show. His image may be the ideal identity, but what secrets lie beneath the “golden boy?”
One spiral notebook filled with words that divulge his inner demons mysteriously lands in the palm of your hands. Suddenly you can see through the enigma, and what you find trapped behind the eyeliner and charming smirks shocks you. Not to mention makes you a little hesitant to work alongside him. Jungkook seems to have this immense fixation on control, and can’t stand things not being as “perfect” as they should be.
How strange, how sad, and how loathsome.
Like trashy children playing in a tangled concrete jungle.
With our paste and paint and falsies.
Painting over chipped nail polish and pretending that we’re on top of it all.
Strung out and spun into the thinnest thread imaginable.
There is no quick fix long-lasting enough, no safe escape.
There is only finding joy where you can, with whom you can.
Learning to live for the moments, which come to mean everything in the world.
We’re all the same brilliantly flawed creatures at times stumbling…
…but finding our way through the endless lonely night.
The few pages in sequence I could rip from the clutches of Amazon, since there’s no proper digital version of How Loathsome and it’s not a superhero comic so there’s no fan made scans available (That I can find, anyway).
How Loathsome is so fantastic and just saedgfvsdxfv
Everyone needs to read this. It’s cheap, especially for a hardcover. Pick it up, I guarantee you’ll love it.
Ashley’s Favorite Comics Series (In No Particular Order)
03 - How Loathsome
Co-created by Tristan Crane and Ted Naifeh (4 issues, 2003-2004)
This one kind of my token early LGBT comics. I really related to it at the time of reading it, and I liked the pen-and-ink, sort of grungy style of artwork and the use of photo in the covers.
How Loathsome tells the story of Catherine, an androgynous writer who falls in love with a transwoman, who falls in love with a trans man, who are all friends with various drug dealers, low-life people, club kids, a wonderfully genderfuck, incestuous set of twins and a whole lot of other colorful folks, all of whom just really want to be loved and beautiful for who they are. It’s not a really deep story, in retrospect, but it meant a lot to me to read it when I did, early on in the whole realizing-I’m-gay process, and coming from a comic that sort of thing means a lot for me.