shenns - Tumblr blog

shenns · 5 days

Text

0 notes

shenns · 8 days

Text

0 notes

shenns · 11 days

Text

0 notes

shenns · 22 days

Text

0 notes

shenns · 1 month

Text

0 notes

shenns · 2 months

Photo

Stars Who Listen is a jcink premium roleplay, set in an alternative universe of acotar with entirely original characters. Characters have unique abilities according to their court ( spring, summer, autumn, winter, dawn, day, night & now the continent, with rask, montesere & vallahan ) with different species & sub-species purchasable in the shop. Inner circle roles are very encouraged & wanted! We’re active, with plenty of events planned & have been open for over a year! We use a profile app, have lax activity requirements for general members & are exclusively 18+. Stop by our discord for character help, other wanteds or simply to find out more!

✧˖° home - guidebook - discord - wanted ads

2 notes · View notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

GENESIS

When he was 14, he thought he killed his father.

He is still not sure who did it, but he remembers vivid glimpses of that night. The flickering bulb that had gone out when the electric bills were not paid in time, his mother’s scream in the hallway, his father’s drunken shouts, and the slapping sound of flesh hitting flesh. He remembers picking up the bottle of whiskey still peeking out of its brown paper bag on the living room couch. And he remembers the sound of glass shattering, of walls being smeared with blood and bits of brain, of a choked scream and then silence.

For years his mother would insist that she was the one who had taken the bottle from his hands. But the truth came to him in dreams. His muscles would remember the sordid pleasure that ran through his nerves at the precise moment when his father’s skull shattered, like tasting communion wafers for the first time. Body and blood mingling together in a beautiful mess.

EXODUS

After his father’s barebones funeral, they left the small Irish fishing village where he was born and left for London, where his mother’s brother worked as a plumber. The transition was not smooth. His mother, a devout Catholic, often suffered violent fits and spent sleepless nights praying with her rosary. He knew she felt she was damned to hell and it was slowly eating her up inside bit by bit. If only, he thought, if only it was him instead who had dealt that last final blow. In his mind, he replayed the memory of that night over and over again, relishing the sick pleasure that passed through him each time.

This is when Cian first started creating the very beginnings of the mask that he would later master. He had to hide every bit of Irishness about him in order to seem respectable, to be able to survive in school without suffering blows to the face or return home without a black eye. Slowly, his vocabulary changed. And then his accent. Suddenly, he was bitterly aware of his position in this new society. The only option left was to claw his way out of poverty and reach the state of respectable middle-class. No, as a poor Irish transplant, he would have to push through twice as hard, expend twice the effort, and expect only half the reward. The world was heavily skewed against him.

His second kill was unceremonious. Artless. Amateurish. He simply held down his bully’s head under water till the life was slowly sucked out of him. Cian closed his eyes and plunged his face into the water and sipped it in, tasting death on his tongue and on his cheeks and through his nostrils.

This was also the time when the Supernatural first came out of their closet. It felt as though the world had erupted into chaos. Cian hardly had time to process the implications of this life-altering news as his mother’s fits and seizures increased in frequency and intensity. She would fervently read out passages from the Bible and insist that God had damned the world entirely. If creatures of the night and sinful beings like vampires were allowed to feed on human blood and walk the earth along with God’s chosen, it meant there was no salvation at all.

Then one night, she crawled into Cian’s room and begged him to take her life, for she was too afraid of committing the cardinal sin of suicide. Cian looked at her and realized that she was long gone, or perhaps she was never there to begin with.

He felt no pleasure, but neither did he feel any pain.

LEVITICUS:

There were two surefire roads to respectability that the poor or the middle class had access to: becoming a doctor or a lawyer. Cian chose the latter. He had predicted, correctly, that the field of law would go through massive changes with the advent of supernatural crimes. Besides, he had made a name for himself in debate competitions in school, and he relied on his oratory skills and natural charisma. Being a barrister would put his particular skills to good use.

When he received a coveted scholarship to study law at Cambridge, he found himself an outcast in the elite university. The student body mainly comprised of rich, upper-class people; people suited to lavish, carefree life styles who maintained connections with the upper echelons of the society. Cian realized that in order to blend in seamlessly with the crowd and take advantage of the connections, he would have to fake a completely different identity. He ditched his accent for a clipped version of RP English, he rented a few suits and bought a couple of neutral cardigans, and he invented a backstory of being raised in Southern Ireland by British businessmen. Not quite old money, but presentable.

It did not take long for his roommate to notice. Cian was always suspiciously running out of money, in spite of his assurances that he wanted to live an independent life free of his parents’ interference. He cycled through three outfits at all times and repeated the same suit at social settings. Worst of all, his roommate caught wind of the fact that he was, in fact, a scholarship student. A scandal was imminent.

To quell the rumours, Cian forged his roommate’s handwriting and wrote a carefully constructed suicide note. Then, he injected his drunk roommate with copious amounts of heroin. A tragic death by overdose.

When the grieving family of his roommate turned up at campus, Cian made sure to lend them a shoulder to cry on. He was at the family’s beck and call at all times, helping them through their grief, consoling them, taking care of paperwork and funeral duties. The father, impressed, agreed to provide Cian with a hefty monthly allowance as well as gave him recommendation letters to various law firms for internships.

REVELATIONS:

As Cian grew more and more successful as a Barrister, representing high-profile cases of corruption and wire-fraud, the more disillusioned he grew regarding the farce of the justice system. He knew the law inside and out, knew every loophole, and tragically, he knew every possible way to make even the worst criminals walk free.

The world was a stage, after all. And the courtroom was one of the greatest and fakest stages. He grew obsessed with staging the perfect crime, a series of homicide that would boggle law enforcement’s minds but would also expose the large gaping holes of the justice system. It was a far greater use of his knowledge of law than to argue for most corrupt of society.

He sought out rich, powerful closeted men on dating apps. He would arrange clandestine rendezvous, and after a night of passion, begin work on his masterpiece. Each murder referenced a famous play, either from Shakespeare or Molliere, sometimes even Chekov. On his way home, he would mail a distinct letter written in the hand of each victim to the tabloid, often quoting a few significant lines from the play in question.

The press dubbed him the Theater Killer. With every fearmongering news piece about him, he would laugh and egg on the law enforcement using the press.

He posed one question to society. If England boasted of one of the most advanced justice systems in the world, how could one murderer go unnoticed again and again?

0 notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

0 notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

MEDEA’S ESCAPE PLAN

Step 1: Baby steps.

It’s a tiny, gray world, was the first conscious thought Medea ever had, a three-year-old left alone within the claustrophobic confines of a matchbox apartment. Mama and Papa were always at work, even when they were home. The nanny would leave after feeding her dinner and tucking her to bed, and it is only around midnight that she’d hear the sounds of the tiny apartment livening up. Papa and Mama would come home together and talk, laugh, dance in circles around the cramped dining space, eat ice-cream, and watch bad action movies on the television. The one thing they wouldn’t do, however, was come in to her room for a goodnight kiss.

She learned early on that she was something to be cast aside, something shameful, something secret, something hidden and inexplicable. A gray little ghost haunting a gray little world.

And when the living room grows dark and silent, she opens her door and tiptoes across the silent apartment to the corner balcony. The world sits there in all its sprawling glory, right beyond the edge of the horizon of the fortieth-floor balcony. In the cold wind of dawn, she realizes that it isn’t the world that’s devoid of color, just this tiny shoebox of a home.

Ghosts had one thing going for them. They were sneaky.

Step 2: Know your enemy.

When she was five, the nanny let her know that she was going to have a little baby brother. Nanny set her down to sleep early that evening, even though Medea knew deep down that she’s being hidden away. She had seen the balloons and colored streamers out in the hall, decorations that have never been brought out for as long as Medea could remember.

Not that they were ever brought out for her birthdays. Those tended to be a drab affair. A little white cake in the morning after mama and papa were already at work, and then the nanny would give her a birthday kiss and send her down to the kindergarten. Mama and Papa would inevitably be late, and no matter how hard she’d eavesdrop at night, all she would catch were casual comments about the flavor of the leftover cake.

Except, this night, the mood was actually festive. Bits and pieces of music in a language she didn’t understand floated in from the hallway, along with a chorus of excited voices. She could count - one, two, three, maybe four - four distinct voices that weren’t Mama and Papa. When she tried to push the door open, she realized she had been locked in – cast away from the fun balloons, the strange music, the smell of roasted duck, and the people. Oh, the people.

She grew very still when she heard a voice move closer to her door.

“You sure about having the baby when that thing is just a door away? Forgive me for asking, but that just seems like such an incredible risk. “

Mama’s voice tinkled with a laugh. “Oh, come now. It - Subject B – is only five years old. What would a little girl do? Especially with that bracelet of hers.”

That was the moment when her world started to shatter.

Step 3: Subterfuge

It stood to reason that if she were Subject B, there had to have been a Subject A. And the only way she had any chance of getting closer to the truth was to get that damned bracelet off her wrist.

By the time she was ten, she had already tried about a million ways to take that thing off. She wondered if the contraption was an electronic device and had plunged her wrist – bracelet and all – into cold water. She had grabbed a screwdriver and poked and fidgeted around to find non-existent nuts and bolts. On one occasion, she had grabbed a discarded cigarette butt and held the burning end hard against the bracelet until she could feel the fine hairs on her arm start to burn. No matter what she did, the bracelet remained, unharmed and snug against her wrist.

And then, it occurred to her. The key to taking the bracelet off was perhaps the only two people who knew about it: Mama and Papa. And in order to get them to trust her, to listen to her, she would have to make herself as small and obsequious and harmless as possible.

So it began: the long strenuous task of winning the pity of people who would otherwise never give her the time of day. She learned to cook and left meals for her parents with saccharine little notes, she ran errands for Papa, offered to babysit and take care of her little brother who was already so much better than her, and she even managed to get her grades up to a B+.

When her parents finally took note, she made only one request. Very tentatively, she asked if the bracelet could be taken off as she had started to outgrow it.

It was a gamble.

Step 4: Patience was a virtue

She lurked.

When things got tedious, she imagined herself as a predator lying in wait, crouching among the foliage and underbrush, fang gnashing against fang, claws digging into the sweet earth. Rage churned like lava deep in her veins, spreading like a disease through her organs. She felt manic and feverish, waiting at the edge of a grand revelation that spread itself thin.

And then, one day, Papa took the bracelet off. Only for a week or so, she was told. The thing was old and she was outgrowing it by the minute, and they were only going to make some updates, like you update an old computer.

At first, nothing happened. Nothing, except -

the world parting itself like the red sea, turning inside out, as though reality was an eldritch reptile shedding its skin. The moon hung low and cold on the sky, and the air teemed with electricity – no, not quite electricity, but a current of some strange energy that hummed deep within her arteries. She breathed in the magic in the air, head full of an empty sky, and while every cell in her body thrummed in unison with the universe.

It was like that butterfly story she’d heard in basic debate and logic class. Are you a human dreaming of a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming of a human?

Step 5: Plan, plan, plan

She made a list of things she had observed.

The bracelet being compared to a computer meant that the thing had a particular and intrinsic function that only it could perform.

Mama and Papa don’t immediately notice when she reaches out and touches the strange thrumming energy in the air. She can sometimes manipulate it to make slow little changes – like making their voices just a touch louder or making her footsteps inaudible.

Sometimes she can catch sudden glimpses of mama and papa’s thoughts, but only if she times it exactly right and only if they are distracted by something else. (Like when Mrs. Guo from next door casually asked which pregnancy was harder on Mama, the word ” adopted” flashed in Mama’s mind like a red-hot button.)

Around her twelfth birthday, Papa received a suspicious call that he rushed out of the apartment to take. Medea had followed surreptitiously, only to hear the word “twin” swimming all over his consciousness. The call went something like this:

“Subject A? Blood magic? Oh lord, that’s… gnarly,”, Papa whispered urgently on the phone. “No, don’t tell me, I can well imagine. Well, things here are fine, you can rest assured. More than fine, in fact. Just focus on finding him.”

Magic exists and it’s real.

Reality, however, is not real. It’s all a construct woven together by large groups of people. The key is to find the gaps in the simulation and rend it apart.

Do not use magic. It’s easier to detect.

Step 6: ESCAPE

She looked down at the little white birthday cake and realized this would be the very last one she’d ever have to eat in this wretched house. It was delicious.

Later tonight, she would gather up her favorite guitar and pick out her favorite book - The Count of Monte Cristo - and take the train to music festival in Shanghai with her bandmates. Half an hour after she leaves, the apartment complex will suffer through a series of short circuits until a fire catches in one of the apartments in the fortieth floor. By the time people notice the smoke, the damage would be done.

Medea would officially be an orphan.

0 notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

41K notes · View notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

Not expalining WHY bookburning is bad and WHAT books were targeted has left us with Bookworm uwu girlies treating any art project or act involving destorying/modifying any random ass mass printed novel as if it was a crime against humanity

34K notes · View notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

I think it's unfair that dressing boys in maid outfits is more popular than dressing girls in butler outfits. There should be solidarity and equality.

55K notes · View notes

shenns · 2 months

Text

Person: What's your book about?

Writers: