OHHH So When You Eat The Skin In Your Lips It's Fine BUT When I Eat Your First Born It's A Problem???

i saw a giant billboard for a plumber that was basically just this

my OCs are sooo cool you guys don't know what you're missing. if you could see the show i'm watching in my head rn you'd go so crazy i'm telling u

huge as fuck claims court. im suing you for one william dollars asshole

It all starts rather abruptly.

She’s going about her day - well, her night - doing all of her usual jobs. She’s found and served a meal for her boss. She’s told the others she works with the tasks they have to do, then she’s gone to do her fair share of those tasks.

As things stand, she’s in the hallway, about an hour before sunrise, checking over all the decorations and improvements and fixes she’s made to the house.

In her time here, she’s turned a building on the edge of collapse into one that is not only structurally sound, but one that is beautiful and that she can be proud of.

Not to mention, her methods mean that all the waste from her and her boss’ meals gets put to use. She’s tidy and efficient like that, never wasting something that can be put to use.

She spent decades working on this place. She painted and repainted the door. She fixed the knocker on the front of it. She found and installed the locks that keep it closed. She has lavished that same amount of love and attention and care on every little detail of the place.

This is why it’s so upsetting when the door caves in.

A sharp tearing of metal rings out as the door flies off its hinges and backwards into the hallway.

She’s angry, but she isn’t stupid. She’s also quite quick, dashing upstairs before she can be seen.

Four people stride into the house, looking rather pleased with the damage they’ve caused.

What other details of these people matter? Neither their appearance nor their clothes nor their gear change a single thing about their fate.

The door she’s cared for for decades lies splintered and broken across a floor she’s cared for for decades, in a room she’s maintained and cared for for decades, in a building she’s cared for for decades.

She made that floor herself, taking out rotten planks of wood and replacing them with her usual materials. She made those flowers lining the hall. She made those books on the shelves. She made these walls.

The floor under the hunters erupts, sharp slivers of bone and teeth appearing from it as though out of thin air.

One hunter is caught in their leg. They stumble. They fall.

The floor yawns open to let them fall through. They’re in the void between the floor and the foundations now. She can deal with them later.

One hunter stands, leaning against the wall, recovering from their sudden exertion.

This one is fast.

A long, thin, and sharpened bone - maybe a femur, she thinks - slides swiftly out of the wall and impales them through their heart. Their life drains from them as they struggle powerlessly to lift themselves off the spike that rests in their torso.

One hunter is brave. They climb the stairs, taking the steps two or three at a time, intending doubtlessly to kill her.

Claws grow from the fingers of her right hand. She dashes forwards with a swift, controlled movement.

Their face a bloody, pulped ruin, she discards their corpse over the banister.

She has made rather a mess of herself. It is not proper for her to have so much blood in her hair, or on her hands, or on her dress. It will take hours of scrubbing for her to clean herself and her clothes.

The last one stands, frozen still, eyes fixed on hers. They can do nothing but uselessly open and close their mouth as she descends, and rests her hands on their arms.

Their eyes beg for mercy.

Their form distends and stretches. Muscles and bones snap and reform. She needs more material for this, so she fetches the corpses of their comrades. The three are joined and remade.

At the end of this, she has something to replace the door they so rudely destroyed.

The first hunter to fall is kept a while longer. She has exerted herself oh so much, and is rather in need of a drink before she goes to clean herself and lay herself to bed.

one of my buddies is occupying a fortified position on high ground. i'm going to kick his ass with ease

Collecting these like pokemons

She never was able to sleep very easily.

No matter how hard she tried, her mind always dredged up some embarrassing memory, or started imagining hypothetical scenarios, or decided to overthink every last detail of the day she’d had.

Now she stands - well not quite.

She’s suspended in the air by an assortment of chains, wires, tethers, ropes, and more. Her arms are held above her and pulled apart. Her legs do not hang limply beneath her. They too are embraced and held.

In particular, the tightness around her ribs, the back of her neck, and her waist paradoxically seems to relax her.

If she were able to move in any significant manner, she would notice how none of the things keeping her in the air dig into her, or restrict circulation, or otherwise hurt her or cause discomfort.

She is held.

Nothing more, nothing less.

That is, until something else is brought down by a set of ropes.

Is positioned in front of her.

Is moved slowly backwards to cover her face, hold her lips closed, ensure that all she can see is a deep shadow.

Her restraints seem to tighten. Only ever so slightly, but it’s enough.

As she hangs there silently, she drifts off to sleep faster than she ever has before.

For once, she dreams.

And when she does, she dreams of beautiful things.

She loved The Factory. It certainly helped that she knew little else. Every day, she rose and set about her work. She assembled weapons and machines and more. She did her part, taking care of the children being raised in their little outpost. She ate and drank and worked and did very nearly nothing else.

But in this case, ‘nothing else’ is far from inconsequential.

She told the children about the stories that had been passed down from her parents. She dreamt about those stories. These stories had endured from a time where, quite unthinkably to her, The Factory had not yet expanded to assimilate their home. They talked about dragons and fools and vagabonds and knights and - her favorite - princesses. They held messages of defiance, of truth, of nobility.

She took these stories, and held them close to get through the day.

As time went on, she grew tired. These stories seemed to become more and more distant. She made things for people to use to kill each other in faraway lands. There was no meaning to her existence, no message, nothing coming to save her.

She became dull.

{And there is nothing I detest more than dullness.}

But she was rewarded. It seems as though fate {Nobility.} had taken a shine to her.

An accident happened.

Something went horribly wrong. Maybe some munitions assembly went wrong. Maybe a load-bearing beam had been built cheaply or incorrectly. The method doesn’t matter, only the results.

For the first time in her life, she steps outside.

The stories come rushing back to her. She breathes fresh air and stares at a clear sky.

She sees trees, and plants, and animals. She is entranced, and she steps into the forest.

In the stories, how often does an errant heroine wander through the woods?

Well, not too often. Usually they are relegated to the role of witless maidens to be saved.

This story is different, for it has truth to it.

She wanders, and time loses all meaning.

Roots and leaves and branches all blur into one. She could have been in there for seconds or centuries.

She steps out of the forest.

In front of her is a castle, looking as though it had been carefully copied from the ones in her dreams. Spires and towers and moats and crenellations and yet more features fill her vision.

She steps into the castle. {And I am waiting for her.}

She greets the person within in the manner she remembers from the old tales.

{I look within her, and I see her as she ought to be. She is full of lovely tales, and I am in need of some entertainment. It seems our goals align, though she is unaware of what she actually wants. I suppose I must give it to her.}

The Princess on her throne smiles at her, and opens her mouth.

She offers her a place in her domain, where she will never have to worry about dullness and boredom. Where she would never need to abandon her stories.

She accepts, of course.

{So I took her and made her suited to her purpose. It has led to such fun results.}

And she lived happily ever after.

The End.

getting murdered but i can’t even afford the name brand stuff so im getting snawed in half and scrabbed to death and shit