Shitty memes, shittier opinions, fanfictions, metal music, and fictional characters. Mostly Regina Mills, Icy, Azula, and Bellatrix. We love and want to hug fictional villains in this house. My aim is to keep this blog discourse free to the best of my ability; I will make mini metas, part take in discussion, and answer asks regarding fandom hot topics every now and again but I will probably call it off if I feel like it's getting to heated or deep for my blog. I'm here to write fics, shitpost, and just be enthusiastic about my favorie charactes and bands. No longer 110% depressed on main or in general. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*✲ﾟ*｡ I sometimes reblog horror movie content and creepy/horror aesthetic pics. Will also sometimes reblog artistic nudes--follow at your own discretion.
Anons are off again because of an influx of spam.
Current projects are: ON HIATUS (until I finish my CNA training. I hope to add a chapter here and there.)
Deertracks:
Bloom gets separated from the Winx in a frozen forest. She runs into what very well could be the planet's sole inhabitant.
Drawn From Her Pool Of Darkness:
Darkar needs to darken Bloom's heart but he cannot pull that darkness from nowhere. Luckily he has three witches to draw it out of and transfer it from.
Dance Dance Over Glittering Clouds:
Regina takes the easy way out of casting her curse. In this new world, just as unaware of who she had been in the Enchanted forest, she has no idea why her son has become so distant with and afraid of her.
I can't promise regular updates anymore but I do hope to finish all of these fics and maybe update stuff like Honey Lemon now and then.
If anyone wants to read my fics but can’t find all of the parts, here are links to all of my ongoing project(s);
N/A
Recently Finished: Meteor Shower
Also I’m no longer on fanfic.net. I don’t have time to delete 100+ fics manually so the account is still up but it will be inactive from here on out.
I’m trying to (very slowly) move all of them (yes even the super cringy old ones) to Ao3 but it is a pretty massive and daunting undertaking. It done! It accomplished!
Summary: Something happened. Azula can no longer look out the window at night.
There’s a storm.
It hasn’t quite reached Ember Island yet.
But Azula can see it stewing in the distance over the waters. Sparsely and sporadically the undersides of thickened clouds flash. First in patches to the left and then to the right. They are too far off yet for her to hear a growl of thunder.
She supposes that maybe she should get inside.
All along the beach the palm trees sense the storm’s approach and rustle their fronds accordingly.
This, Azula has come to observe, is the most quintessential hallmark of an approaching storm. From that first burst of wind, she has maybe fifteen minutes to seek shelter. Thirty at most and ten at the least.
She has been lingering for at least ten already. She isn’t in any particular hurry.
The sun is low in the horizon, Azula wagers that the storm will be here by nightfall.
She waits for one last peel of thunder and that dull tickling feeling in her stomach to turn away from the beach and its endless stretch of black sand. She shudders slightly as a particularly large wave slams into the shore. The wind picks up some and she hastens her pace just a little, lest she start hearing a voice on it. That soft, sweet, familiar voice…
She closes the bungalow's door just as the rain breaks. A gust of wind rushes through the open window, snapping the curtains and rattling the shells and windchimes that hang from the ceiling, the ones that she hasn’t yet found the heart to take down. She as swiftly as the wind entered, Azula rushes to the window and forces it shut.
She pauses and takes a moment to breathe.
An abrupt flutter in her tummy reminds her that a moment is too long to linger by the window.
At least on a night like this.
She takes a step back, draws the curtains closed, and shudders.
To think that this cottage had once been so warm and cozy. A quaint and charming little seaside retreat, turned into a permeate residence.
To think that she and Seicho used to sit on the porch and watch the storms roll in and then sit longer even after the rain had them thoroughly soaked.
It is still so early in the night, even still Azula finds herself crawling into be, onto a cold mattress that could and should fit two. She rests her hands on her torso and closes her eyes. Sometimes she ponders. Sometimes she dwells. Sometimes she thinks about when they were both seventeen and taking regular evening hikes.
They would always arrive home after dark under clouds of fireflies, smelling of moss and mud. And then they would go down to the ocean to wash the jungle off. And then into the house to wash the sand from their feet.
Sometimes she thinks about when they were eighteen and Seicho teaching her how to weave baskets from palm fronds and make seashell bracelets. On the dresser there is a handmade basket full of seashell jewelry and foraged pearls.
Sometimes she thinks about foot prints in the sand and how easily they wash away…
Lightning flashes behind the curtains and she imagines that the ocean is churning quite violently now—slapping itself against rocks that have long learned to live with the abuse. She imagines the palm trees bent near sideways with their fronds flailing. Azula doesn’t look out the window on these nights. Not anymore. Rain pounds upon the thatched roof. A relentless onslaught that makes her stomach squirm. It pounds and pounds but not quite enough to mask the wrapping that she swears that she can hear on her door. She holds her breath, strains her ears. But the sound is always gone by then leaving her with only a dull sense of wrongness, a subtle sense that something is amiss. She rolls onto her side and tries to force herself to sleep. She remembers when she was nineteen and a good thunderstorm always did the trick, coupled with Seicho rubbing her back. Back then the room had been lit by sandalwood scented candles. Tonight her room is dark. Tonight and almost every night since their trip to Sulfur Sand Cliffs seems vast and open…expansive.
To think that she used to complain that the space was cramped and overcrowded with useless clutter from their excursions.
The pounding comes again, through the battering of the rain. It comes from the outside and then, after minutes of focusing, from within. Her head throbs with a morbid curiosity, a desire that she has been resisting for months now, since her first glimpse a week or so after the Sulfur Sand Cliffs.
Azula bunches in on herself and squeezes her head.
And then she can bear it no more.
She is out of bed and padding across the hardwood, crossing carpets until she is standing at the window pane, fingers on the cloth above the glass. Her breathing slightly rugged. The pounding at the door comes to an abrupt halt.
Her breathing comes to an abrupt halt.
Her hand grips the curtains, slightly shaking.
She closes her eyes. Releases her breath.
She yanks the curtain aside.
Nothing.
Nothing at all.
But of course not.
She laughs.
Sometimes she gets these foolish thoughts.
Folktales, she reminds herself, are for the rural folk, the locals who still believe that there are pearls that grant wishes, coconuts with water that grant youth, and a golden palm frond to be found somewhere in the jungle. She has more sense than that.
Had more sense than that.
She was raised on urban truths and sound city logic.
But the hairs on the back of her neck are still standing.
Between lightning strikes, Azula scans the length of the storm battered beach.
Empty.
Vacant.
Forlorn.
Why wouldn’t it be?
What else would it be?
Who would go to the beach on a night like this?
Who had she expected to see?
She, belly fluttering, shifts her gaze slightly to the left. Towards the Sulfur Sand Cliffs. They tower jaggedly over the raging water with malice of their own. Imposing in the daylight, they instill a most potent, palpable dread when backlit occasionally by lightning.
Sometimes she thinks about when she was twenty years old and Seicho had asked her if she wanted to try something new. Something truly exciting and daring. She and Seicho had never been strangers to bold feats. They’ve scaled temple ruins and repealed down the backsides of waterfalls. She can’t imagine that there’s anything more exciting and daring that descending a waterfall. Perhaps the woman had finally gotten an itch to explore the lava tubes of a not exactly dormant volcano.
Sometimes Azula thinks about when she was twenty years old and said yes.
Sometimes Azula thinks about when she was twenty years old, when she’d arranged a picnic at the top of the cliff to replenish their energy after a particularly grueling ascent. The view had been extraordinary. Rewarding. It had been just a little after sunrise.
Sometimes Azula thinks about when she was twenty years old glancing at Seicho’s cocky, beautiful smile.
Sometimes Azula still hears the crunch of bones against rock.
She hadn’t looked over the cliff’s edge, didn’t want to see.
She wishes that Seicho had.
Maybe then she would have seen the ledge…
The rain slams against the windowpane and a fog begins to crawl out of the ocean and creep over the sand. Azula shivers—invoulentarily, from her head to her toes, Azula shivers. She lets the curtains fall back into place and rushes back into bed.
For the first time since she was a child, Azula pulls the covers over her head.
you have to forgive the printer because it's one of the most machine-ass machines we interact with on a day to day basis. that thing says kerchunk. hardly anything says kerchunk these days. you can't get mad at her when she kerchunks up a little.
