♥ liked by @tresTrace
STANDING AROUND WITH A CROWBAR. JUST OUTSIDE THE #CRONUSBABEOFF POLLING PLACE. SWINGING IT INTO MY AWAITING PALM. #VOTEMARA.
(=^･⩊･^=) < @CANS IS A CUTIE! IF ANYPAWDY DID ANYTHING WRONG TO THEM I'D FURRCKING KILL THEM.
https://i.p⧃stimg.cc/6q52ZTFG/image-2⧃26-⧃7-⧃4-19⧃5⧃1195.png IT IS D⧃NE HASHTAG VI⧃LENCE #VI⧃LENCE
I keep finding random stashes of snacks hidden behind paintings and wall fixtures. Not disturbing them, obviously. But it really puts into perspective how.. prepared? People are around here.
CHITTR HANDLE: @tresTrace YOUR MESSAGE: hey did you unbake Biscuits' cake? if so thanks cos I'm pretty sure there was asbestos in it. EMPLOYED?: YES. DO YOU WANT ME CARNALLY: kinda don't feel that way about you, miss; no offense intended I AM ALWAYS BEING DISAPPOINTED BY A GAY GUY. I SHOULD BE USED TO IT BY NOW. SIGH. YES. IT'S TRUE. I DID GO BACK TO THE PAST. DURING A DIVA TANTRUM MOMENT. AND PUT MY FOOT THROUGH THE GLASS OF THE OVEN DOOR. RESULTING IN THE ABORTION OF CERTAIN FUTURE BAKED GOODS. WE CAN PRETEND THIS WAS ALL ACCORDING TO KEIKAKU. AND I CARE ABOUT ANY OF US NOT GETTING POISONED.
shame about sootnose, she could hawve a real cute rosiee the riwvetickler thing going on. thatd be thematic, right? but yeah, fef vwins this match of #cronusbabeoff. surprise surprise. next up! an interesting match. assigned femme fatale by sgrub, or evweryones fawvorite jerk-88 #nsfvw, vwevwe got snovwman, also knowvn as the black queen, and probably some other dumb bq title, going up against wvriska serket! wvriskas a pretty high seed, but i think theres a chance for snovwman if she gets enough (hired) goons behind her. <3 or <> for snovwman <3< or c3< for wvriska serket
You're gonna make me smile, talking like that. You know I like you too. You're a great friend to have around!
nobody wants to be on biscuits duty except eggs. I will contain my rage. I must. Thank you for helping me, Trace! I do really appreciate it.
imagine the longest and most exasperated groan ever. Awesome. Cool. Glad it was Biscuits. I was really hoping it was someone who hasn't had more concussions than they had braincells in the first place. I CAN'T EVEN GET MAD AT HIM BECAUSE HE ABSOLUTELY WOULD NOT KNOW WHAT HE DID WRONG. I've taken notes, You can expect the bounty within.. I think the next day or so.
Hell9. I am already aware that this is a pr9f9undly l9aded w9rd with innumera6le s9cial, hist9rical, paras9cial, and p9tentially semi-invasive implicati9ns, s9 6ef9re any9ne decides t9 pr9ject intent 9nt9 my greeting, I w9uld like t9 clarify that this “hell9” is 6eing 9ffered in the m9st neutral, n9n-c9ercive, n9n-quadrant-seeking, and generally n9n-threatening sense availa6le t9 a pers9n in my p9siti9n. #Hell9 #Intr9duct9ryP9st #N9nThreateningHell9 #PleaseReadResp9nsi6ly My name is Kankri Vantas. Please d9 n9t call me Kanny unless we have previ9usly neg9tiated that particular intimacy, which, t9 6e clear, we alm9st certainly have n9t. I am aware that s9me pe9ple c9nsider diminutives charming, friendly, 9r s9cially lu6ricative, 6ut I pers9nally find them infantilizing in a way that ev9kes a num6er 9f very real wigglerh99d-6ased p9wer dynamics that I w9uld rather n9t have dragged unwillingly int9 my n9tificati9n tray. Keep 9ther c9ntemp9rary alternatives t9 Kankri 9r Kankri Vantas t9 an a6s9lute minimum. #NamesMatter #69undaryStatement #Wigglerh99dMenti9n #TechnicallyN9tATrigger6utPlease6eMindful I have j9ined Chittr f9r several reas9ns, the f9rem9st 9f which is t9 enc9urage a healthier, m9re critically aware, and less disastr9usly unexamined c9nversati9nal envir9nment am9ng th9se wh9 may n9t yet understand that every casual p9st exists within a vast and 9ften invisi6le structure 9f harm, privilege, caste implicati9n, hist9rical recursi9n, s9cial pressure, latent r9mantic expectati9n, and frankly alarming linguistic carelessness. #Disc9urse #CriticalAwareness #CasteTalk #LanguageMatters #L9ngP9stWarning That said, I want t9 make it a6s9lutely clear that I am n9t here t9 “lecture,” despite the inevita6ility that certain 6ad-faith parties will frame my c9ntri6uti9ns in that reductive manner. I am here t9 pr9vide c9ntext. Extensive c9ntext. P9ssi6ly c9ntext which arrives in installments. #N9tALecture #C9ntextualFramew9rk #Educati9nalP9st #PleaseD9N9tMisrepresentMe I am als9 celi6ate, 6ef9re any9ne asks. N9t 6ecause any9ne asked. 6ut 6ecause s9me9ne was statistically g9ing t9 ask eventually, and I w9uld rather preempt that entire 6ranch 9f c9nversati9n 6ef9re it germinates int9 9ne 9f th9se extremely unc9mf9rta6le pu6lic exchanges where every9ne pretends n9t t9 6e watching while very much watching. #Celi6acy #QuadrantNeutral #R9manceMenti9n #SexMenti9n #PreemptiveClarificati9n My interests include s9cial ref9rm, ethical dial9gue, the resp9nsi6le use 9f c9ntent warnings, ancest9r-descendant relati9ns as a c9nversati9nal hazard, the dismantling 9f 9ppressive hem9spectral assumpti9ns, and 6eing addressed 6y my actual name in gr9up settings. #Hem9spectrum #Ref9rm #C9ntentWarnings #PleaseUseKankri I l99k f9rward t9 meeting every9ne here in a manner that is respectful, mutually inf9rmed, and ideally less h9stile than m9st c9mment secti9ns 6ec9me 9nce s9me9ne says s9mething careless a69ut 6l99d, gender, quadrants, lusii, cl9wns, ancest9rs, f99d metaph9rs, 9r the w9rd “pr96lematic,” which, f9r the rec9rd, remains a useful term when depl9yed with precisi9n and n9t simply thr9wn ar9und like a rhet9rical 6rick thr9ugh the wind9w 9f nuance. #Nuance #Pr96lematicUsage #Rhet9rical6rick #Wind9wMenti9n #GlassMenti9n #P9ssi6leInjuryMenti9n Anyway. Hell9 again. #Intr9P9st #Ask69x9pen #6utPleaseThinkFirst https://d9cs.g99gle.c9m/f9rms/d/e/1FAIpQLSdC93JRPs19Xm9lW_jU7VM-hIRNvE818R9imENm-SmFL6-CiQ/viewf9rm?usp=pu6lish-edit9r
if there's anyone from my neck of the woods on this site, consider this a mild threat; Stop taking my leftovers from the viridian fridge. It HAS my name on it. I know it's not being "cleaned out" because i dont let food Go Bad. Someone is taking MY later food and turning it into their now food. And if they keep it up, I'm either going to give them a black eye or get creative with superglue. That depends on whether or not I can actually hit the culprit.
I arrived in a dress. It was the first time in a very long time that I had worn one. The last time was my Sieteñera. I still remember Dillodad coming up from his resting hole to celebrate. I was a measly seven sweeps old then. That was the last time I wore a dress. So, really, it was about time I put one on again. It made me feel young. Beautiful, even. Or close enough to beautiful that I could pretend without feeling too foolish. I was there to see her. See, I was something of an underground sort by then. Officially speaking, I had been shuffled out of the game of life by the Empress’s drones. Removed from the paperwork. Removed from the count. Removed from the kind of future a troll is supposed to have. Then, in my second life, I got a second chance. I went by a few names. My title was the Contract Hiveseer. I provided maintenance drones and instructed construction on larger-scale projects in the Ash Warrens of the Rust Districts. But the name that stuck was Anikah Cikuto. Dillodad gave me that one. I know. I am an ancient troll in her final molts. I am old enough to know better than to be precious about names, dresses, and little ceremonies from a life that technically ended a long time ago. But I am still a girl. And I am still vain. Latching onto the younger name made me feel younger. Prettier. Like the dress did. Anyway. I was there to see her. You would have loved her. She was a limeblood, yes, and a hectic sort. Her primary job at the time was being a communications line. A living telegram machine, effectively. Except the machine was sapient. The machine understood. The machine remembered who sent what, who lied, who begged, who sent orders with trembling hands, and who quietly changed three words in a transmission because three words were enough to save a life. Or end one. So she was always on edge. Always listening. Always a thousand steps ahead of me, especially that night. She led our dance. She whispered under her breath. I suppose I should explain the event. It was called the Limelight. A grand showcase of limeblood societal and cultural impact across Alternia. Art, music, engineering, theater, medicine, historical contributions, all polished up and placed beneath expensive glass. Excessively bankrolled, too. Especially by the Empire. It was supposed to ease tensions between the Empire and the Limebloods. A ruse, naturally. But a good ruse. It got some butts in seats. It got cameras pointed at limebloods without rifles attached to them. It got highbloods smiling at exhibits they would have ordered burned a perigee earlier. It got officials to say words like preservation and unity and heritage while standing close enough to the truth that it could have bitten them. And oh, she hated it. Not loudly. Loud hatred gets catalogued. Loud hatred gets vanished. She hated it with her teeth together. She hated it while smiling. She hated it while taking my hand and turning me beneath light so bright I could see every seam in the lie. “You look pretty,” she told me. I told her she looked dangerous. She laughed like I had given her the better compliment. There was music playing. Some old lime arrangement dressed up with imperial strings, made respectable for the people who needed beauty to wear a collar before they could admire it. I remember the floor. White stone, polished badly. I remember the banners. Green, gold, and enough purple to remind everyone who had paid for the evening. I remember the smell of hot lights and incense and old fear hiding underneath perfume. Mostly, I remember her hand on my waist. She leaned close and said, “Do not react.” So I did not. That was how I knew something was wrong. She kept smiling. She kept leading. She kept murmuring numbers under the music. Not words. Numbers. Frequencies. Gate timings. Drone rotations. Evacuation intervals. I was old enough, even then, to understand when a dance was not a dance. The Limelight was not a celebration. It was a map. Every exhibit hall was a checkpoint. Every performance was timed to cover movement. Every speech drew attention away from an exit. Every server, musician, courier, technician, and underpaid little usher with lime eyes was part of something larger than the Empire had paid for. And there I was. In my dress. Feeling young and beautiful and terribly, terribly late to the point. She squeezed my hand once. That meant listen. She squeezed twice. That meant remember. Then she smiled at some imperial attaché over my shoulder and said, soft as silk, “When the lights go out, Anikah, you go left.” I asked her what would happen if I went right. Her smile did not change. “Then I will have to forgive you posthumously.” Funny girl. Awful girl. Wonderful girl. The lights did go out. Not all at once. They dimmed in sections, like eyelids closing around the room. First the western gallery. Then the mezzanine. Then the main hall, where the great imperial sponsor plaque stood shining above a display of limeblood innovations the Empire had spent generations pretending did not exist. For one breath, everyone was beautiful in the dark. Then the screaming started. Not from the limebloods. That is what I remember most. They moved with such calm. Such practice. Such bitter, rehearsed grace. While the guests panicked, they slipped between them like messages through wire. I went left. Of course I went left. I was vain, not stupid. Still, I looked back. She was standing in the middle of the floor, her hand raised to her ear, listening to something only she could hear. Then she looked at me. Even through the dark, I knew she was smiling. That was the last time I saw her alive. Or, well. Alive in the simple way. You learn, after long enough, that life has categories. Official life. Practical life. Remembered life. Life as a name on a document. Life as a voice in a wire. Life as a girl in a dress, being told where to run by another girl who already knows she is not going to. I survived that night. A lot of us did. More than the Empire intended. Fewer than she wanted. That is usually how heroism works, I think. Nobody gets what they want. A few people get what they need. The dead get turned into symbols, and the survivors get very tired. I kept the dress. Not because it was pretty, though it was. I kept it because there was a tiny burn along the hem from where a drone bolt struck the floor beside me. I kept it because one sleeve was torn where someone grabbed me and I pulled away. I kept it because, for a few minutes, I had been young again. And because she saw me that way. Not as a relic. Not as a contract. Not as a useful dead woman with paperwork problems. A girl. Anikah Cikuto. Pretty in a dress. Running left when told. #cw-death #cw-political-violence #cw-imperial-violence #cw-limeblood-persecution #cw-massacre-implied #cw-grief #cw-trauma #cw-survivor-guilt #cw-violence-mention
1/3 file cabinets. Took longer than expected. Can't say it wasn't appreciated, and won't say it wasn't a slog. May as well not say a damn thing, actually. 4/5 corners. Wallpaper's peeling in the forth corner. 1/3 tables. Moved my radio. Should be in a better position for the jazz hour. #clickhunt
CANS WAS JUST THINKING THAT. RIGHT AFTER CANS READ IT FROM YOU. THANK.
𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘴𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘥𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘮𝘶𝘴𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘩𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘊𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘧𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘱 𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘴. 𝘎𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘰. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴. 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘉𝘪𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘚𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴. 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 "𝘋𝘌𝘝𝘐𝘓𝘐𝘚𝘏𝘓𝘠" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘋𝘌𝘓𝘐𝘎𝘏𝘛𝘌𝘋" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 "𝘚𝘗𝘐𝘕𝘌 𝘚𝘗𝘓𝘐𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘐𝘕𝘎" 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘥 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘊𝘈𝘕𝘚 𝘊𝘈𝘕𝘚 𝘊𝘈𝘕𝘚 𝘊𝘈𝘕𝘚. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵. 𝘓𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘉𝘖𝘚𝘚. YOU GOT IT. BOSS. :)
WELCOME TO MY QUAINT LITTLE SHACK WE HAVE ALL THE BEST STUFF HERE! SHARDS OF BROKEN GLASS! RUSTY NAILS! OLD LAWNMOWER! OLD LAWNMOWER JUICE! ALL THE CLASSICS!
see there 7ou go. (on(ept brought to life
(on(ept: two mobsters. one of them wears a shirt that sa7s "i'm sleeping with the fishes", and the other one wears one that sa7s "i'm the fishes"
time eats all these children in the end {j} https://i.postimg.cc/zfkbsfj8/screenshot-20260625-150406-3.jpg {j}
that DOESN'T make it any better yall are too fucking feisty man i'm not make a steel
Beautiful women are always shooting me. It's their favorite pastime.