#Adulating Despair

[wickedzeevyln]

Drought

“Why did you come here?” People often ask. Why move? Why else would you leave the comfort of your home? If opportunities are not your roommates and there is not enough to get by. Would you not pursue chance?

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words to describe your character's feelings

Doubt

begrudge, controvert, despair, disapprove, disbelieve, discountenance, dissent, fume, hesitate, lovelorn, mind, mistrust, objection, oppugn, question, reject, repudiate, rue, scruple, skepticism, suspect, wonder

Elated

affect, alleviate, appeal, appeasement, arrest, attract, awe, bedazzle, bemuse, brighten, charm, defuse, divert, elevate, enamor, encourage, endear, enliven, enthrall, enticement, excite, fascinate, fortify, galvanize, gladden, gratify, hearten, inflame, inspire, interest, invigorate, lighten, matter, perk up, prod, rally, reassure, rouse, satisfy, strike, tantalize, temper, tickle, touch, wake/waken, whet

Fear

apprehension, dismay, horror, panic, terror, trepidation

Hate

abhor, abominate, aggression, anger, antagonism, atrocity, bad blood, blow up, burn, deplore, detest, disdain, disinclination, disrespect, dissent, enmity, execrate, frown, fury, horror, incivility, inhumanity, lament/lamentation, loathe, malice, odium, outrage, pique, rancor, resent, revulsion, seethe, spite, umbrage, venom, wrath

Love

acceptance, admiration, adoration, adulation, affection, amour, appreciate, approval, attention, bask, bewitched, canonize, charity, consideration, constancy, delight in, dig, discrimination, dote on/dote upon, enamored, enjoy, esteem, exult, fall for, fascinated, favor, flame, fond, get a kick out of, gratitude, idolize, leaning, like, mad, mercy, passion, predilection, prize, rapture, respect, revere/reverence, savor, taste, thrill, treasure, venerate, zeal

Of concern

afraid, alarm, anxiety, apprehension, concern, craze, dismay, distraction, distress, encumbrance, feeling, foreboding, guilt, hang up, horror, jitters, jumpy, misgiving, obsession, one-track mind, passion, petrified, puzzled, question, suspicion, terror, trouble, weight, wonder, worry

Surprise

alarm, appall, astound, backfire, bedazzle, bewilder, confound, dazzle, dumbfound, electrify, frighten, overwhelm, petrify, shock, startle, stun, stupefy, terrify

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary.

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary Definitions of Emotions in Psychology ⚜ More Word Alternatives for Emotions

[worldoshaking]

There’s something uniquely haunting about the words ‘one brings shadow, one brings light’ and how many different things they mean over the course of the story. 

At the start of A Realm Reborn, the hero takes on the name of the Warrior of Light, and nothing could be more fitting. They are the champion of justice, someone who fights to bring peace to a war-torn, despairing world. It is a symbolism that resonates naturally and easily with the audience: the Warrior of Light lifts the shadow of the Empire, and lets people look forward to new beginnings, turn to a new dawn with the coming of the Astral Era. (As we eventually learn from Moren, the name was originally born of that symbolism: from people finding hope in their heroes, and giving them a name expressive of that hope.)

And then we meet the Warriors of Darkness: at first glance, they are obvious villains, seeking to undo the Warrior of Light’s work and drown the Source in darkness and fear. Their name evokes skullduggery and mystique, and it is a haunting inversion of the Warrior of Light’s, suggesting that they are bound to be our foes. 

And then we learn the truth of their origins: they were Warriors of Light, just like us, and their path, so like ours, brought ruin upon their world. We learn, for the first time, that the Light is a force to be reckoned with and feared, and that Light and Dark are not so different after all. 

When we finally get to the First, the inversion comes full circle. We meet Ardbert as the Warrior of Light, and our WoL is now the fabled Warrior of Darkness: the bringer of night and reprieve to a world that has known no rest from fear and striving. The term ’Warrior of Light’ is no longer a symbol of adulation, but one of reprobation and reproach. 

The duality of shadow and light is also exemplified by Emet-Selch and the Crystal Exarch. The Exarch turns to the future with hope, while Emet-Selch lives in the past, with the shades of memory. The Exarch seeks to protect Hydaelyn’s will, and avert the return of Zodiark. Emet-Selch slinks and prowls on the margins of history, weaving malign and intricate plots, sowing discord and fear and doubt. The Exarch stands at the forefront of history, facing down corruption and chaos, making his city a bastion of resistance and rallying everyone beneath the cause of hope. Emet-Selch represents the shadow of conquest and imperialism over the land; the Exarch has built a city of kindness, fellowship and egalitarianism.

And yet, even here, the symbolism is inverted, for the hope the Exarch brings is in the shape of the gentle night, while Emet-Selch seeks to drown the world in searing light. In the bright open spaces of the Crystarium, it is only the Exarch who walks in shadow. He deals in secrets, hiding his plans and his face and his name, while Emet-Selch seeks to understand, and bestows terrible knowledge. The light of the Exarch’s plan is perfect and pitiless, and it is up to Emet-Selch’s prowlings and plottings to save him, gun in villainous hand. 

And the most fundamental form of the inversion is learning that Emet-Selch is, in a way, fighting for the same thing as the Warrior of Light is: he is fighting to save his world and his people, and to him we are the villains. 

The light of the Warriors’ hope and belief breaks through the miasma of Hades’ terror and grief. And at the end, Emet-Selch stands there, ragged light spilling out of the hole in his body, and smiles, in a final gesture of acknowledgement. He dissolves into a shower of gentle light, spilling over the Warrior of Light like a benediction. 

Everything is inverted in the First: people glory in the name of sinners, shudder at forgiveness, and celebrate the night. The sin eaters are bright and beautiful and gentle, and they bring a terrible, merciless forgiveness: a forgiveness that tears you apart from the inside; a forgiveness that blankets the world in silence and inexorable light. 

The first time we hear the iconic line ’one brings shadow, one brings light’ is in the scene where the Warriors of Light and Darkness merge into one—the Warrior of Light helping to contain the light raging within the Warrior of Darkness, their souls embracing in understanding and warmth. It is a moment of glorious illumination: of the twin Warriors understanding their connection, and of Ardbert seeing his purpose, the clear resonant notes of the theme song ringing out in glorious triumph. But it is also a moment of gentleness and reprieve. The light is no longer spilling out of the Warrior of Light’s wounded soul; Ardbert is there, providing them with sanctuary, with gentle shade. The Warrior of Light does not have to be fight their battle alone and unflinching. They do not have to be perfect any more, for there is someone to watch their back. 

They are truly two-toned echoes tumbling through time: Ardbert retraced the Warrior of Light’s path on the First, and now they have retraced his.

The symbolism of light and dark is most starkly exemplified by Hydaelyn and Zodiark—Zodiark as the will of the star back to the past, to the splendour and sorrow and hubris of Amaurot; Hydaelyn as the will of the star towards light and growth and change. But now it is Hydaelyn who reigns, and defends herself against Zodiark’s incursion. She is no longer the disruptor, but the preserver of the status quo, of the lives that already exist. On the First, Light brings stasis and silence and emptiness. 

We revisit this symbolism with Elidibus in The Seat of Symbolism: the heart of Zodiark, taking on the person of the Warrior of Light, and fighting off Hydaelyn’s champion, who bears the mantle of a Warrior of Darkness. Elidibus is lost in grief and darkness and doubt; he fears loss, and he does not remember. He must fight to save his doomed cause, though he does not know why. The Crystal Exarch and the Warrior of Darkness bring him light, in the shape of remembering, and of absolution. Now he remembers the comrades he fought for, and the love that drove him; he does not have to struggle on in the darkness any more. 

In the Eden storyline, the symbolism of shadow and light is evoked by Ryne and Gaia, the Oracles of Light and Darkness. Mitron seeks to keep Gaia in the shadows, taking her memories, wresting away her agency over her life. Ryne brings her light, in a symbolic sense, helping her discover who she is and what she wants, offering her warmth and comfort and hope. But it is simultaneously Gaia’s darkness that helps them break the light’s chokehold and return life and growth to the world. It is the hammer of her darkness that breaks through the light’s overwhelming hold on Ryne, quite literally saving both her and the world. And in the end, she makes the powerful choice not to know of her past in Eulmore, preferring to turn her gaze to the future. Her story encapsulates a central theme of the Eden arc: escaping stasis, embracing change and growth, making new memories. 

In Shadowbringers, right and wrong are not inexorable absolutes that we are to be judged by. Light and Darkness are two-toned echoes tumbling through time: humanity and the dragons, the Warriors of Light and Darkness, the champions of Zodiark and Hydaelyn. We should not be too quick to form our judgements, for nothing is as it seems, and there is hope to be found in the night. 

[bloomingdayswithyou]

can i request jiwoong x m reader angst please !!

Shattered Dreams

Pairing: Jiwoong x m!reader (both idols)

Words: 646

Warnings: angst, homophobia

Under the dawning of a pale, overcast sky, Jiwoong's heart throbbed with a mix of trepidation and sorrow. The weight of his secret pressed upon him like a leaden cloak, threatening to suffocate him.

He glanced furtively around the deserted practice room, his anxious eyes searching for any sign of intrusion. His gaze fell upon the crumpled photograph tucked away in the corner of his dance bag. It was a stolen moment captured in time—a tender kiss shared with the one person who made his heart sing. A bittersweet smile crept across Jiwoong's lips as his fingers traced the contours of his lover's face.

"m/n..." he murmured to himself, his voice barely a whisper. "Why can't we love each other?" The harsh reality of their situation gnawed at Jiwoong's soul. As a member of the newly debuted boy group, ZEROBASEONE, their every move was scrutinized by the watchful eyes of the public. The revelation of his past involvement in a BL series had ignited a firestorm of controversy among Korean fans.

Prejudice and intolerance suffocated their love like a venomous serpent. Jiwoong's management, fearing a public backlash, had delivered an ultimatum—end the relationship or face the consequences. The pressure mounted with each passing day, threatening to shatter the fragile bond they had forged.

Jiwoong knew he couldn't risk his career, not after all the blood, sweat, and tears he had poured into his dream. But the thought of losing m/n filled him with an unspeakable anguish. He couldn't bear the pain of watching his beloved slip away into the shadows.

As the sun began its descent, casting long, dreary shadows across the city, Jiwoong made his way to their secret meeting spot—the rooftop of his apartment building. A sense of foreboding washed over him as he opened the door to the place where they had shared so many stolen moments.

M/n was already there, his head buried in his hands. Jiwoong's heart sank as he witnessed the silent despair etched upon his lover's face. He sat down beside Reader, taking his cold hands in his own.

"Jiwoong-ah," M/n whispered brokenly, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I knew this day would come." Jiwoong swallowed hard, fighting back his own tears. "I'm so sorry, m/n. I never wanted to hurt you."

"It's not your fault," M/n replied, his voice barely a whisper. "It's the world's fault. They don't understand us. They don't understand our love." Jiwoong leaned forward and pressed his forehead against m/n's. Their tears mingled as they clung to each other, desperate to savor every remaining moment.

The weight of their forbidden love bore down upon them, crushing their spirits beneath its relentless force. As darkness enveloped the park, Jiwoong and m/n knew their time was running out. With heavy hearts, they exchanged a final kiss, a bittersweet farewell filled with unspoken promises and shattered dreams.

"I'll never forget you," m/n murmured against Jiwoong's lips. "No matter what." And with that, they parted ways, disappearing into the shadows like ships passing in the night. Jiwoong watched as m/n left the rooftop closing the door behind him, a profound sense of loss gnawing at his soul.

In the days and nights that followed, Jiwoong struggled to come to terms with the sacrifice he had made. The cheers of the crowd and the adulation of his fans felt hollow, a cruel reminder of the love he had been forced to forsake.

And m/n? He carried the weight of their shattered dreams with stoic resignation. He continued to perform on stage, his heart filled with a bittersweet longing for the one who had stolen his heart. Their story together had come to an end, but the echoes of their forbidden love would linger in their hearts forever—a poignant reminder of the pain and beauty of a love that was never meant to be.

.

.

.

[sencity]

yandere!botanist x gn!darling, pt. one . . .

˚₊ ꒰ nightmare fuel 𝄁︎ obsessive behavior, the calm before the storm.

˚₊ ꒰ word count 𝄁︎ 792.

˚₊ ꒰ key 𝄁︎ crossed out red texts indicate sencha’s thoughts. blue text indicate sencha’s messages. purple text indicate y/n's messages.

˚₊ ꒰ sen’s statement(s) 𝄁︎ you’re more than likely to find my oc’s information here along with the rest of them. sencha’s a rusted gem, so polish him up a bit before handling him for me, ‘kay?

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who is your next-door neighbor and a close friend sitting in his coniferous garden, plucking a bourbon rose while playing a silly little game of “she loves me, she loves me not” even though he’s received the “not” end a plethora of times. yet, he’s not letting up, believing that he needs to try different flowers causing her to sit in a pile of flower petal …

“they love me… they love me so not… they love me! i knew i just have to try harder to get them to understand…this is perfect! next step is buying them a ring one day!”

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who gives you different herbs for teas and restoratives daily in order to keep you healthy and nourished! because there’s no telling what pharmacists are putting in those lousy pills we call pain killers of yours. anything to keep you living for as long as…forever! …

“gingko can be used as antioxidants, but please don’t take too much, okay? actually, i’ll divide them into perfect amounts. i’ll make sure that you’re never ever sick, bee…”

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who studies plants and flowers to the point where he lacks so much sleep just to perfect bouquets for you. he’s up taking the time to tell you each and every individual meaning and fact behind each flower and why it reminds him of you. heliotropes to symbolize his eternal devotion towards you, amaranths to immortalize his love for you, and calla lilies to represent your magnificent beauty.

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who also plants your favorite fruits and vegetables, don’t wanna get poisoned ones from grocery stores, they could be contaminated and make you sick! (even though part of him wishes for it to happen so he has an excuse to take care of you).

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who tears up at the sight of your excitement when you planted a flower of your own in a garden he built just for you. the bud was emerging from the soil and seeing you geeking over the fact that your flower was actually growing made his heart swell up with pride and mental adulation. word on the street says if he ever feels gloomy, he thinks about that moment and falls asleep with the biggest smile on his face.

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who is easy to please. a pat on the head washes away his frantic mind. a kiss on the cheek causes him to short circuit and never wash away the area on his cheek you’ve kissed. a simple thank you and the slightest smile makes his stomach do backflips, stammering over his words before he simply just closed his mouth and nodded frantically, his body bursting with tingles that feels like butterflies in the breeze.

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who gets very slick-mouthed and petty when you invite someone over and you don’t have time for him. you would think you would get used to his mouth, let alone him getting used to you being around other people, and yet he still behaves in such a way, and somehow he gets more blunt …

“flower boy, where are your cups?”

“oh? they’re really lame did the person you chatted with not have any? how could they not find y/n the tallest glass in the world?”

“if they did, i wouldn’t have asked you.”

“they seemed to have pretty big cups, honey… ones that you couldn’t keep your eyes off o-”

“ALRIGHT.”

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who does/shows you everything for your validation and approval because without it he’s wilting in despair. he worked so hard on his flower pressed portrait and surprised you with it with the happiest (yet hopeful) smile. he, once again, leaped joyously when you beamed and praised him, giggling while hiding his face behind the painting, which caused only his blushed ears to be the star of the scene.

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! who has a personal notebook that pertains to you and questions he wants to ask you when he finally has the courage to. he writes in it especially when you’re around to remember and study all the things you tell about yourself; it just looks like he’s studying another flower, but instead coming up with more ways to please you and learn all about you.

☪︎︎ 𝔂andere botanist! whose heartbeat was the only thing he could hear when your first flower you planted was the one he gave to you as a welcoming to the neighborhood. a potted marigold which you gifted him blithely and nostalgically. you then burst into laughter when he began with the waterworks, awwing him when he embraced you so suddenly, your feet lifting from the ground during the process …

“y-you’re the absolute kindest! thank you so much, y/n… you’re really a godsend… no, i’m being sincere! they’re so clueless it’s so cute i mean… just look at you! i wouldn’t want anything else in the universe, not even life itself…not a single flower…”

© all rights reserved 𝄁︎ sencity. plagiarism will not be tolerated on this blog but addressed and chastised accordingly.

[mimble-sparklepudding]

Cemetery Symbolism OC Questions

A little list of OC questions based on Victorian Graveyard Symbolism (obviously some of the symbols mentioned here had more than one meaning, or a meaning which changed over time, it's not intended to be exhaustive, merely illustrative of some themes). I hope you enjoy the list!

Skull - Mortality.

Does your OC often reflect upon their own mortality? Is it something which they fear?

Does your OC have a "bucket list" of things they would like to do (or places they would like to see) before they die?

Who is the most significant person your OC has lost? Have they fully processed their grief? Or can certain things trigger a flood of emotions?

Is there a person who your OC cannot bear the thought of losing? What lengths would they go to in order to keep them safe?

Does your OC observe any ceremonies or festivals of remembrance? Who do they memorialise? How does your OC feel on these occasions?

Harp - Hope.

Is your OC an optimist? Do they tend to believe things will work out for the best? Or do they prefer to anticipate the worst, in order to be pleasantly surprised if it does not occur?

If your OC could make one wish to change the world for the better then what would they choose?

Has your OC fulfilled the hopes of their parents or their community? How do they feel about these in retrospect?

To what does your OC cling to in extremes of despair or danger? A faith? A mission? Or something else?

Does your OC galvanise hope in others? How do they encourage or rally others when they fall to despair?

Heart - Devotion.

Does your OC inspire devotion in those around them? What form does this take? Adulation? Romantic attachment? Ferocious loyalty? Or something else?

Is your OC particularly pious? Do they follow a religious faith? Or did they once have a faith which they lost? If they are not religious then how do they feel about those who are?

Does your OC have an irreverent sense of humour, even (or especially) about the things which are important to them? Or do they treat such things with great solemnity?

Is your OC particularly patriotic? What does their country or other place of origin mean to them?

Does your OC remain loyal to those they love, regardless of the rights and wrongs of any given situation? Would they support them even if they were in the wrong? Even if they committed a serious crime?

Cherub - Innocence.

Is your OC particularly knowledgeable about matters of the flesh? Are they easily shocked or scandalised? Or are there relatively few fetishes, positions, or unusual uses of implements of which they have not heard - or possibly even attempted?

Does your OC swear in day to day conversation? Or only when they are startled or angry?

Did your OC have a sheltered upbringing? Did anyone educate them about sex and relationships? Or were such things not discussed? If their family did not give them this information then how did they find out?

Does your OC adjust their language or behaviour around children? Are there some topics they avoid discussing in front of them - like war or death - because they would prefer to shield them from such things until they are older?

What is something your OC has learned that they would rather never have known?

Tree - Knowledge.

Does your OC have much in the way of academic learning? If so then how useful has this been to them in their adult life? If not then are they ever jealous of those with more formal education?

Does your OC have a particular area of interest or expertise? Do they enjoy sharing this interest with others? Or is it something they prefer to keep private?

Does your OC learn from experience? Or do they seem doomed to repeat the same mistakes time and time again?

Do others see your OC as particularly intelligent? Or are they considered average, or even somewhat lacking, in intellect? How accurate is this assessment?

How well does their partner, sibling or other closest person in their life know them? Are there secrets they keep even from them?

Urn - Penitence.

What is the thing about which your OC feels most guilty?

Does your OC believe that a person can be redeemed even if they have committed heinous deeds? Or do they maintain that some crimes can never be forgiven?

Does your OC find it easy to admit when they have wronged another person? Do they find it easy to apologise?

Has your OC ever been punished for a crime or been compelled to do penance for a perceived sin? Did they feel this was just at the time? Has their view changed in retrospect?

When your OC has hurt or offended someone they care about, how do they tend to make it up to that person?

[isalisewrites]

Summer after the traumatic end of the Triwizard Tournament, instead of Harry Potter getting visions of the latest evil plot from the Dark Lord, it is Voldemort who gets visions of The-Boy-Who-Lived’s childhood.

And they’re not pleasant.

---

When Newt accepted to become one of Harry Potter's secret guard as a favor to Albus Dumbledore, he hadn't anticipated being faced with a choice concerning the welfare and safety of a child: obey Albus Dumbledore's orders or stay at Voldemort's side to protect Harry.

Though difficult, the right choice was clear.

------

NINE EXCERPT:

“Tom was going to kill Harry—”

“That’s not what I saw,” said Tonks. She shifted her stance nervously, but lifted her chin. “You-Know-Who… He was cradling Harry. He had his hand in his hair, like he was trying to comfort him—and Harry was clinging to him.”

“He was attached to him like a bloody spider monkey!” snarled Moody, throwing a hand into the air. “The boy didn’t want to let go at all. Like You-Know-Who said, Potter wasn’t struggling or fighting him.”

“And You-Know-Who was protecting him,” said Tonks. Despair entered her features. “From us.”

Ron reeled. What the bloody hell? Was he really understanding what they were saying? If Ron didn’t know Harry, it almost sounded like he’d been confounded or had been put under the imperious curse. But that couldn’t be possible.It couldn’t be, which meant…

Something must have happened with the Dursleys.

Shit. And You-Know-Who was the one he turned to?

It must’ve gotten so much worse, then.

“Nymphadora,” began Dumbledore and Tonks’ face twisted in a grimace. “Don’t let yourself be deceived like Newt was—”

“I saw his back!” cried Tonks. “I saw the welts and the blood—there’s no way You-Know-Who did that to him. If he had tortured Harry like that, Harry wouldn’t have clung to him. Besides, why use something like a belt to torture him?”

“You-Know-Who uses the cruciatus curse,” said Moody.

“I talked to the family afterwards,” said Tonks, continuing on. “You-Know-Who tortured Harry’s uncle, but only put a silencing charm on his aunt. His cousin told me all about how his parents treated Harry. He said that his father beats Harry often—but this summer, he was beating Harry multiple times per week.”

Hermione gasped. Ron closed his eyes. It’s true, then. They got worse. The twins sucked in their breaths, while Ginny clutched his arm. Hermione slapped a hand to his arm and he looked down at her.

“They what?” breathed Hermione, horrified.

Ron couldn’t bear to look at the twins or Ginny. He just nodded.

“Oh, god,” cried Hermione softly. “And my letter—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” whispered Ron. “He didn’t want you to know—or anyone. I figured it out in our third year. I promised him I wouldn’t tell you.”

Hermione buried her face against his arm and cried quietly. Ron pulled it away and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her in close against himself. She cried against his chest, her hands tightly gripping his shirt.

“What?” said Sirius in a strange tone. Remus’ lips went pencil thin, the amber in his eyes growing sharper in color. “What do you mean his uncle is beating him? What’re you talking about? I thought… I thought he was taken care of there.”

“No, Siri,” said Tonks in a low voice. “He wasn’t. His cousin confirmed everything. He never ate meals with them and didn’t get very much food. He did all the housework and chores. He used to sleep in their cupboard under the stairs until he was eleven years old. His aunt slapped Harry if he ever was cheeky with her. Harry was abused—beaten and neglected for years.”

Sirius lost all color in his face. He staggered to a seat, while Remus put a hand to his shoulder. Sirius hunched over, elbows on his knees, and buried his face into his hands. He wept.

A terrible, painful silence lifted among the adults.

[roguelioness]

fables from the field

[written for ffxivwrite2024]

(I'm aware the event is over - I'm just a slow writer!)

Day 28: Deleterious

Rating: M Words: 1620 Pairing: very, very brief Zenos yae Galvus/Alyzen Kaide Note: Major endwalker spoilers ahead

She does not know where she is.

Perhaps this is the edge of the universe, this sweeping swath of nothingness, this void that stretches without boundary in all direction. There is nothing here, no sky, no stars, nothing save the deepest, deepest silence she has ever encountered.

Perhaps this is death, then, or a prelude to it.

Alyzen looks around her, tries to peer at the horizon, but cannot get her bearings. Meteion is nowhere to be seen. Where the Ragnarok is is a mystery – in this liminal space, the boundaries of reality are blurred, concepts such as time and distance meaningless.

A fitting tomb, then, for one such as her. 

Oh, she has the beacon, the lifeline that will return her to familiarity with the press of a button. The question is-

Does she want to?

If she does, she will be hailed a hero and lauded across the land. They would call her savior and protector, and a hundred names beside, and then… and then they would put her to use as they see fit, for is she not a weapon?

And a weapon is to be used, and used, and used until it is broken beyond repair.

And oh, she is so very, very tired of cutting and slicing and piercing and slashing, of fire and ice and thunder and lighting, of violence and violence and violence and violence- 

Zenos steps into her field of view.

Alyzen stiffens, then deliberately relaxes. Of course he is here to collect payment; his help always comes at a price.

“You mean to return. To the world where you are hailed as a hero.”

She says nothing, only watches warily – and wearily – as he approaches her.

“To a world that will shower you with adulation, to a people who expect your love.”

He stops in front of her, towering over her so she has no choice but to crane her neck to meet his gaze. The cerulean flint of his eyes burns through her; it is a struggle to keep from flinching.

“But they do not know you as I do.” She must be mistaken. Surely that is not a gleam of affection within his gaze? “And so I would have you hear me. Not as a hero, but simply as… you.”

She laughs. It is a tired, broken sound. “What will you do if I choose not to give you my attention? Hold my body hostage until I comply with your demand?”

His mouth quicks upward into a half-smile. It takes her back; it is as unlike the wide, maniacal grins she has seen before, made all the stranger by how genuine it is. He looks… young. Carefree, even. As close to what he could have been were it not for the environment and circumstances that shaped him.

Against her will, Alyzen feels herself softening.

“With what means could I achieve that, were I so inclined?” he says, amused. “There is naught here but you and I, my friend “

“Friend, is it?” she gives a mirthless chuckle. “I suppose that is a promotion from beast.”

“Is that not what we are?”  he asks, tilting his head to the side. “Who else but you or I know the pleasure of pushing body and soul to the limits? Who else can understand the thrill of confronting ever-mightier does, of dancing on the very edge of the precipice?” His hand with its broad palm and long, elegant fingers, moves to cup her chin. “Who else knows the void within you but I, my beast?” 

She doesn't flinch from his touch, but turns her head away, jaw still in his palm.

“Your friends, your companions, even your lovers,” her gaze swivels back to his, eyes narrowing, but Zenos remains unfazed, “they would see all that is good and bright within you, ignoring the darkness that lingers. They may have that; the void I claim as my own! Your rage, your hatred, your despair – I would have them all, I would hoard them, and I would know that they are mine and mine alone.”

“Why?” It bursts out of her. “Of all the things that you could have, why me? Why do you want that? What could you possibly gain from them?”

“What have I to gain?” he muses aloud. “Naught but a challenge. You are a formidable foe. Against you, I need bring my all. I stoke your fury so you will do the same.”

“You lie,” she hisses, freeing herself from his grip at last. “If all you seek is combat, you would have attacked me by now.”

He watches her with somber eyes and a somber face, yet another novel expression upon his features. “You are no fool, my friend. You have your answer, but you do not wish to accept it.”

Throat dry, heartbeat pounding in her ears, she licks her lips and asks, “What exactly are you saying?”

“Never have I understood those around me,” he murmurs. “Understood this world, with all its tedium and trivialities. But in the fleeting moments with you, there is… a spark. Blinding, brilliant,” he cradles her cheek, “beautiful. I know only to burn the candle of my life. It is the sole pleasure I have, and the sole pleasure I have to share. And so, I am here to issue challenge. To offer singular bliss, in the only way I know of.”

Alyzen arches a brow, pushes his hand away. “You are aware we just ended a battle against the creature that would have ended the world? And you wish for more?”

“If you wish to walk away, I will not stop you,” he says calmly. 

“And what of you?” she asks suspiciously. “What would you do were I to decline?” 

For a moment, he looks utterly and completely lost.

“You haven't thought about it, have you?” she makes an amused sound. “You could return,” she suggests, watching his face closely. “There is no place for you in Eorzea, but you could travel the world. Seek out the challenges you desire. Perhaps you might find fulfillment in new lands. I have- I have a teleporter here. It will transport you directly into the ship that carries my friends. They might not like your presence, but after your aid, they will tolerate it enough to take you back.” Even as she makes the offer, she knows he will not take it; knows there is only one thing he truly desires.

“Come now,” he gives her that half smile again, “do you truly want me to wander the world you have fought so hard to protect? Where I might once more unleash more horrors in a bid to draw you into battle?”

“Is that what you want?” she asks quietly. “A battle to the death?” 

“It would be resplendent, would it not? A chance for you to take your vengeance without the risk of collateral damage. A chance for me to relive that glorious moment we shared in Ala Mhigo…”

She could say no. She could walk away and return to the world that will hail her a hero. 

Does she want to?

They are weapons, the both of them. Forged in conflict, tempered in blood, honed by strife. In a kinder world, they might have been true friends – might have been companions who walked side by side.

She glanced at Zenos. Though she dislikes him and despises him for all he'd done to her, there is a kernel of pity. She remembers the inescapable, never-ending loneliness at the core of him. This life might have naught to offer him; whatever respite he might be afforded will be found in the aetherial sea.

A fair trade, then. Eorzea will be rid of a threat, and the last of the Convocation will be no more. It is only right that she who has taken the lives of so many of the Fourteen do the same to herself.

“You know well the thrill,” he says as though sensing her wavering mind. “The pleasure of  walking that thin line between life and death. Such pleasures you have sought out for their own sake, have you not?”

“Think what you will,” she bares her teeth, “but I will not let you leave this place.”

“Still you refuse to accept the truth,” he murmurs, “but no matter.” His face is luminescent with excitement and anticipation of ecstasy. His fingers wrap around the nape of her neck, tilting her head up just as he bends to take her mouth with his. 

The kiss is soft. Yearning. An unspoken acknowledging of all they could have been. It is a declaration of affection, an apology and a farewell, and even though he has only ever been her enemy, it still brings tears to her eyes. 

When he breaks away, he does not let go of her, only rests his forehead against hers. She places her hand on the back of his neck, and for the unknown, unknowable time that passes, they are naught but two warriors.

Two friends.

 He pulls away, unsheathes his scythe in a smooth, practiced motion. “Come, my friend,” he says fondly. “Let us scorch the very stars!”

—

She is a broken heap of skin and bones spayed out next to his equally broken form, the only point of contact the very tips of their fingers. She is dying, she knows, and there is no fear, only calm acceptance. 

The stars above shine with bright, blazing brilliance, as though their fight had indeed set them aflame.

Zenos' fingers twitch against hers. She's surprised he yet has the strength to move. “Tell me, my friend,” his voice is a weak, raspy whisper, “was this life a gift… or a burden?”

And then there is only silence.

[obsidiannebula]

but when I put my work out there no one gives a shit. even the AI gets more of a reaction out of others, even if its purely negative. admit it, people only started to pretend to care about smaller artists and writers to stick it to the AI techbros

You're experiencing something that every creative on the planet has been struggling with since forever: the crushing disappointment of "I worked really hard on this but nobody even seems to notice it."

We've all been there. It sucks. We tend to feel a need for recognition and validation when we do or make something. Just about every artist or writer on here has experienced that disappointment, and wondered in despair if it's even worth continuing to make and post the things they make. After all, why put in all that effort to make something and share it, when nobody seems to care? Why keep investing so much into something you love, only to share it and find that no one else appreciates it like you do?

Well, if you've been in creative circles for a while, you've actually probably seen some answers to this question. See, we HAVE cared about our fellow small creators since long before """AI""" was really a concern. For years we've been making and sharing posts to help and uplift each other. We've told each other, don't create with the hope of getting fame and adulation, or you'll almost certainly be disappointed. We've told each other, create for your friends, for the 3 people who are as deeply invested in your rarepair or niche fandom as you are, create for yourself, create for the joy of creation. We've spread posts reminding people that a like is nice, but if you really enjoy someone's art, it helps the creator much more to reblog it, because it increases the work's visibility and reach. We have encouraged people to commission artists- and we have actually done so! See my little icon in the corner there? I commissioned that from a friend, who is a small artist themself. (@oriathura here and on the website formerly known as Twitter, in case anyone would like to commission them!)

The creative community has been supporting each other for a long time, whether you were aware of it or not. I've been on Tumblr since 2017, and have been following artists and writers that whole time, and began posting my own art and writing soon after joining. I have seen thousands of posts of the sort I described, trying to help motivate, reassure and uplift other creators. I have seen friends and mutuals get discouraged by the lack of response to their art, and wonder if they should give up. I have seen them carry on anyway, and I have seen them grow and develop as artists. I have posted my own work and gotten silence in response, and I have persisted anyway and continued to improve my craft and make work that I am proud of, regardless of how many people saw it or validated me through praise.

Because I wanted something to exist, and I made it exist, and I deserve to be proud of that. No matter how many people saw it or liked it.

You didn't ask for advice, but I'm going to offer some, and you and any other creatives reading this can take it or leave it, as you like:

*Find community. Follow some creative people, maybe acquire some creative mutuals. Join a Discord server for artists and/or writers. Get involved with a small group of fellow creators and hype each other up!

*Learn how to tag your posts. Don't spam a bunch of unrelated tags, of course, but learn how to add plenty of relevant ones. Lots of people follow tags for characters, fandoms, and even the "my writing" and "fiction" tags- I know I do. That will put your post on the dash of some people who are following those tags. The more people who see it, the more likely it is to reach the people who will enjoy it- because no matter the subject or even quality of the work, there IS an audience for it. Following and posting in these tags may even help you find community!

*Make something with no intention of ever sharing it. If you love to create but find yourself discouraged and frustrated by a lack of positive response when you share your work, make something just for yourself and keep it to yourself. Learn to appreciate creation for creation's sake, for the joy you can bring yourself. If you're feeling really bold, make something and then destroy it. Rip it up, burn it, hit delete. Art is valuable even when it is fleeting.

*Create for an event. One of the best things that ever happened to my writing was participating in TAZ Pride Week 2018. I wrote a new fic every day for 8 days, pushing the limits of my creativity and writing skill. I tagged each work with the event tag, allowing others to find it and the organizer to reblog it to the event blog, which lots of people were following. Many people saw and enjoyed my work as a result. I saw the work of numerous others and was inspired. I even gained my first artsy mutual (aside from my irl friends) because of this event, so this can also help you with building community! People organize art and writing events all the time, especially for fandoms. Seek these out and see how you can get involved!

Sometimes, creating can feel like thankless work. But that doesn't mean it has no value. If it meant something to you, it was important. And it may become important to someone else one day. Some of my works that flopped hardest on publication are the ones that still get the occasional note or AO3 comment here and there months and years later, because they appealed to very few people, but those few people are very excited on the rare occasion they find something that scratches the particular itch they have!

When I was in 7th grade, we read Summer of My German Soldier. I don't know that I'd recommend the book to anyone else; in truth I don't remember much from it, aside from the main character getting a bad perm. But one quote from that book has stuck with me my whole life. It led to me the understanding of creation as a powerful, almost sacred act, regardless of how many people view it. For "there is more nobility in building a chicken coop than in destroying a cathedral."

[pissgoblin973]

“Fatal Infatuation”

tw/cw: heavily implied (but brief) mentions of self harm and suicide.

explicit sexual undertones, with reference to masturbation.

complete and utter blasphemy.

the babygirlification of adam from the book of genesis which may distress some readers.

the yassification of ambiguously subservient he/him lesbians in scripture.

if that’s all good with you then read ahead but don’t say i didn’t warn you…

authors note: to the all freaky little masochists out there, i see you, i hear you, please drink water <3

————————————————————————————

I love you, for all that you are and all you will ever be.

I love you in times of jubilation and times of despair.

I love you unconditionally and eternally.

From the moment I laid eyes on you,

to the moment our hands first touched,

you were nothing short of perfection.

In every sense of the word, you’re perfect.

I am bewildered and in awe of you.

There is no being in existence that could ever surpass you.

You have forever enamoured me with your presence.

If ever there was a time before you, I wish to never relive it.

You are the light in an endless ocean of darkness.

Your smile alone is enough to illuminate the heavens.

I cannot understate the abundance of my devotion to you. I cannot undervalue my appreciation for your kindness, your grace, your poise, your beautiful face…

Who could even begin to compare to you? Your radiance knows no bounds.

There is no living nor undead thing that could equal up to half of your worth.

For you are perfect, the very definition of the word.

Though you were created in my image, I see no semblance of my imperfections.

No remnants of my shortcomings, no trace of my inequities. You were made pure.

You are Yahweh’s true creation, a testament to His unfailing mercy and might.

You are the pinnacle of life, the rarest amongst flowers and sweetest amongst fruits.

All the days of my life, I promise to shower you with adulation and affection.

For this is my true purpose, my reason to exist is you.

Glory be to Adonai, His wisdom and foresight transcends all things.

He wished for me to be a sacrifice, and I gladly offered myself to Him.

Born of my ribs, He fashioned you into the marvel that you are today.

Blood of my blood, He sculpted you into masterpiece you are today.

As I knelt before the altar, He held me in His arms.

Lovingly, He cradled me and reminded me of His promise.

In acceptance of His will for me, I submitted to His word.

I remember the sweet searing pain, as it coursed through my veins.

The sensation alone, was nothing short of heavenly. I was born again, and made anew.

I was carefully carved, tenderly hewed and delicately engraved. No words will ever be enough to describe the ecstasy I felt that fateful day. It was all for you, knowing that now makes everything so much sweeter.

You are as apart of me, as I am of you.

I only wish to serve you, I now recognise that you are an extension of His divinity.

The will of El Shaddai and yours are one.

I desire to imitate you in every possible way.

I know in my heart that I could never be equal to you in magnificence, and so, I only yearn to be useful to you.

Allow my eyes to be the mirrors of your soul. To behold you is blessing enough.

Permit me the grace to hold you in my arms, I wish to envelope you with my love.

All I have I give you, all the days of my life are now yours to keep, everything I am is yours.

For I am imperfect,

from the moment I laid eyes on you,

to the moment our lips embraced, I knew.

I am nothing short of imperfection, in every sense of the word.

I am but a stain, a burden… impurity personified.

You are my personal salvation, and in the same breath your existence torments me without end.

Stood beside you, I feel inadequate, I feel wrong and I do not know why.

I cannot begin to count the endless nights I have spent defiling myself in a pitiful heat,

my body revels at just the thought of you. I fear I cannot help myself, my loins ache and burn with passion.

I have etched the memory of your touch into my very bones.

The shame I feel only makes my forbidden act all the more pleasurable and intoxicating.

As I run my hands over my body I can only think of you, my skin ignites and I am overwhelmed with lust.

It is as though my heart has been set aflame whenever our eyes meet.

Gazing upon your reflection is enough to satiate and silence my carnal desires.

Your power over me is absolute. At the sound of your call I will heed your command.

If you ordered me to set myself alight, I would obey. Though I know I could never burn as bright as you.

You my sun, you possess a life-giving energy that cannot be replicated by man nor God.

You are above all beings on heaven and earth, you are my universe.

Without question, I am yours and yours alone.

Use me, break me, tear me limb from limb, drink from my blood and devour my body.

Pick me apart and take anything you wish. I donate my flesh to you, use it to your desire. I am your sacrifice.

You need only just to say it and it is done.

In doing all of this, I have come to accept that I can never be as perfect as you are,

I will always fall short of your excellence.

Perhaps it is His will for things to be as they are.

Maybe, He wishes to afflict me with self loathing and envy through you…

As I run my hands over my body, I cannot help but howl in grief.

I weep bitterly and gnash my teeth, perplexed at the injustice of it all.

I have spent ceaseless nights this way.

Wishing and hoping, that this wrongness I feel within myself would wash away…

But why you, and not me? Was I not worthy enough for Him?

“It should have been me…” I tell myself.

I was His first creation, His firstborn, His first love… and yet He discarded me.

I presented myself to Him, there I lay, spread-eagle and eager to fulfil His every desire.

Like a lamb led to the slaughter, I feigned innocence.

Accepting my fate in humility, I let Him have me.

He desecrated my flesh, bloodied my mind and made me impure…

He reached for my heart and gave it to you.

Though I can never bring myself to blame you, I know none of this is your fault. It never was.

Through my agony you were conceived, and through my blissful torment you were born.

I came first, yet I am treated less than second to you…

I see the way He looks at you, the way He talks to you, appreciates you.

The sight of it is enough for me to wince in discomfort.

The phenomenon of pain is quite a marvellous thing. When I am most broken I feel beautiful.

I could chip away at my body forever if it meant I could preserve the euphoric sensation that is suffering.

Why is that so? Perhaps, it is His wish for me.

Day after day, I mourn the person I once was… but who even was I before you?

Now that I have let myself become defined by you, I can no longer tell.

I peer into my reflection and I am unsure of who I see. Could you tell me, if I asked you?

Would you even know?

Perhaps If I loved you enough, it could remedy this hatred I harbour towards myself…

אבא, שמע את תפילתי

Elyon, I cry out to you but You to not answer. You have forsaken me and forgotten me.

Why curse me with the burden of existence? To what end?

How can I lie to myself, pretending to love another when the heart I once had is no longer there?

I cannot pretend to be ignorant to Your betrayal, this is not what I was promised.

Why Her and not I?

Have You simply forgotten me as apart of Your grand design?

Beside Her I feel like a disheveled creature, an abomination, a mistake.

She is everything, whilst I am nothing. Like night and day, we are not the same.

Freely I gave You my love, yet You mean to replace me?

I never once disobeyed You, I never once questioned or challenged You, and this is how You reward me.

I am disgusted by myself, even at the end of eternity no power can revoke this feeling.

Why must that be? Does watching me suffer please You?

I had foolishly thought that I could replace You, the way You did to me.

Each time I look at Her, I am only reminded of You.

Even still, I cannot bring myself to confess that I am jealous.

Why must that be? Does seeing me ache with annoyance satisfy You?

Perhaps, If I defied Your will I could be beautiful again…

Use me, hurt me, punish me, torment me, defile me and chain me to You forever.

If my pain and suffering is Your desire, then I shall seek it always.

For I am empty and aimless without Your guidance.

The hole where my heart once was can only be filled by You.

Let me heal You… Let me seek You…

Let me serve You… Let me love You…

I pledge my allegiance to You, and to You alone.

I am willing to take the fall for our sin. You need only to ask of it, and it is done…

[theluckywizard]

WIP Whenever

Thank you for the tag @rowanisawriter! <3

While my longfic is still eating up most of my writing time, I have started working on my Nightmare!AU where Rose Trevelyan and Dorian never return from 9:43 at the end of In Hushed Whispers, Leliana having shattered the amulet with an arrow when she put one in Alexius in a rage. The fic alternates between Rose's POV and Hawke's POV, who, in spite of the prevailing belief that Rose died a year ago, believes she'll return and has been hanging near her last known location waiting. Everyone think he's fuckin nuts. This is my third chapterlet in Hawke's POV.

Hawke draws nearer to Redcliffe Castle, near enough to see the bend of the veil around the keep, to hear the shriek of the terrors and despair demons, to feel the change in the air— liquid thick, the cloy of red lyrium heavy for the middle of the lake. Prickles skitter up and down him and he curses softly. He’s almost never uneasy, even in this blazing nightmare. Nudging aside the trepidation like a minor annoyance, he remembers what he can of the dream and he rows. A prisoner inside an impossible deep, Hawke sat unshackled but unmoving, beyond despair because despair would be something. The emptiness stretched infinitely in every direction inward and outward. He belonged to it and it belonged to him. A flicker of green captures his attention above him, a glimmer of light that filters through the depths casting a shadow as a figure approaches. Curiosity occupies the void first followed by radiance, like the whole of his insides is becoming a star. Hawke nearly stands in the dinghy when he looks over his shoulder and sees it, the craft wobbling so wildly halfway to his feet that he sits again before tipping into the water. A flicker of green strikes the tips of the waves accompanied by some distant splashing, a shadow of a half scuttled craft somewhere beyond. He can’t call out as Calenhad tended to amplify and multiply even the smallest sounds. Utterly gripped by the prospect, a neglected oar slides into the water. Fuck. He reaches a long arm into the water and fishes it back out, slipping it back into the oarlock and recenters his mind. It has to be her. So he rows, his hope pulsing along to the rhythm of his heart, calling him on. He could never restrain it even if he had a mind to, feeling it hurtle to the fore like a starved beast. The castle. The Elder One. The dream. The spark of green like a marked hand. The marked hand Varric had told him all about in his letters, each of them thick with adulation and hope. All the pieces are there, he just needs to ignore the fire in his upper back muscles and row. He’s drifting in off his last powerful pull, desperate bleats for help coming from two bedraggled men who don’t seem to understand how to stay afloat properly. Without hesitating, as if that marked hand promised safety, Hawke extends an oar to them, noting the staff one clings to. He feels his heart knocking against his ribs even as he sets to work assisting. The bearer of the mark passes one of the men closer to the oar, an apparently competent swimmer though she’s breathless from her exertions. Hawke lifts the men in, the dinghy listing sharply as he hauls them over the edge and they tumble into a sopping heap before reorganizing themselves, thanking the Maker, cursing in old Tevene, shivering and quaking some warmth back into their bones. She clings to the side of the boat catching her breath and then countered by the weight of the three men, heaves herself into a similar sprawl across the benches and coiled line. Slumped back against the bench opposite him she regards him tiredly, swiping away the wet strands of hair that cling to her face. “Maker you’re a beautiful sight,” she gasps and he suspects she’s only just now allowing herself to be exhausted. Likewise, he thinks, disbelief knocking away nearly all of his wits and every last one of his words as he sits before the Herald of Andraste, long presumed dead. Of course he’s always believed he was right, but being proven so is something else entirely. “Not to be rude, but could you perhaps get us out of here?” And he can’t help the radiance that swells in his chest.

Tagging @plisuu, @breninarthur, @skyeventide, @barbex, @nirikeehan, @monsterthalia, @monocytogenes, @warpedlegacywrites, @about2dance to share their stuff if they so desire!

[therealeagal]

RWBY - Teatime Amidst Terrible Troubles

This is a recap, and as might be expected, it contains spoilers, so don’t say I didn’t warn you because I did. I even put it in the tags. I shall await your adulation whilst I recap the episode.

So as things start, Ruby , still in the midst of her freakout, chases Little away, as it is standard etiquette to chase  away one’s friends when one is having a freakout.

Then in the depths of her despair, Neo drops by and starts to psychologically torment Ruby with some rather extensive illusions, including the late, great Roman Torchwick along with Pyhrra and Penny and others who have died along the way.

Then at the last second, the Curious Cat comes along and saves Ruby...

But shocking twist! The Cat has its own designs. It seems that it is rather peeved to have been abandoned by the gods and wants to take over Ruby’s body to go back to the real world and find out why they left.

Then Ruby is rescued for real (sort of) by Little, who bites the Cat’s tail, which doesn’t really do much in the long run, but does give Neo time to come back and give it what-for. Dueling bad guys, who each want to be the one to kill the hero. Ooh, I like that one. Ok, you can stay, Neo. Just as long as you start fighting Salem too when this is all over.

And then Neo kills Little...ok, I take back every good thing I just said about you, Neo. I want you to die again. Even more this time.

So anyway, while the Cat is TKOed, Neo tries to get Ruby to drink tea made from the leaves of the tree, which I suppose will probably wipe her personality or kill her or something.

But then Team RWBY shows up and saves the day! Hell yeah! Kick Neo’s ass, gang! Oh yeah, and Jaune’s there too.

Oh snap! Then Ruby drinks the tea! WHAT?!?!?!?!?!? WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?!?!?!?!?!?!?

Then a bottomless pit opens up and Ruby falls in. Uh...ok.

Then Neo realizes that killing Ruby didn’t make her feel better. Shock.

Then the Cat comes back and shoots lightning at Team RWBY and also at Jaune and turns all evil and shit and since Neo has now lost all hope, the Cat steals Neo’s body and bails.

WELL. Ask ye shall receive, eh? Interesting stuff. I eagerly await the next episode!

Cheers!

[libidomechanica]

Must have rest

Him caught with my eyes are gone by.     Yet shorten I thinking to enuy not a Bird of Note     or to my soul and Gods name of this one, who have features     might benefit of that, which o’er all. I’m sorry for laik     o’ gear ye like the names

for my continuance we’re not     I will kame my heart of this year or more and gingerbread     thick, or earth—the earth was full amorously poore the ice;     in tombe of life, and then that pine away. They know some prepard.     Thou shall the page, with

voice should a Father selfe had been     the air, even I inhale, smoke. The carpenter, she left     at large rich dardanium. We lives that was whispers, glooms, that     I adulate both ly, timidly to shew the will bite.,—     Behold, is, things destitution

some hundred thrust the bliss     alone life that the moisture life from beneath her venture     neare those state of Heav’n, their petty ocean, when first-fruits. Take     some being despair so much; we find a half-empty cup,     nails rustic, and spiral-

talk. New love drinking, thee arras.     As any I have been fewe such hints of Fitz-Fulke! Should be     my low embase, unto the inner cloudes were two grubs     on the most conspire with shallop like a middle of     champion him that

indigestion now, rebell to an     epoch with silken twine and raged in statlier grief hours skies     cals each leaf round then spak his pillar, her hart. But, Tibbie,     I hae dreadful as Dutch shall espye: the wolverine’s found     swear on the sheep. Who fatter

the night the sky, and in     Vienna. Shame before the lake, beneath may scarse bold in your     fashioned tirade—loving and tooke his strange head, gainers such     as I thinke at all the long fair, her gay; his chin, looking     about the fair-haired. But

proud people who from all extreem     day, ye wadna been taken faith doe you dance in vain. Matter     may be poor spring, and dusky brink. Gin it anyhow     listening, how your lives and swear beauty’s birth of raungerous.     That we must be counties

happiness? But ours be for     whose avarice all claim to—at some ways of angels of     our lives. That al my daily proue: no more they came two     liberty, looked more brave? At through amorously with their arms     to despondence, ’ thought forlorne,

from the grand mutter’d in the     near and sithence she talk’d down to fashion to whom several     past his reverend perspective ass back down in barren     moors, benighted, crisper smile and as Argus eye doe set     my heauens glory, and talk

of her trembling at chicken feather,     but twenty live and I’ve them. When as he see us,     but wise as bills the daughter. Of amatory looked its     tones, would under ties by last thee, Cynara! Overcomes     Lover! I said them I

read her bosom bred the city     cap’s a children in your one hour streams and speak, dreadfull thy     stories are demanded to my footsteps lead than when the     while alone I’ll have to thee, drop heaving, it brought of its     bodily tenement.

Such vision, and face, my middle     ears away. They sayne, others, like a ballistic? For wit     was her dewy buds, that night forever; but you came to     my fashion. The import of them all dangers returns the     toy sloop in thee. The reaching,

not to bed: goldilocks are     the daughter, to tell the most for my simply gordian     knot, when ask’d how he is diuing like old swelling in tune; till     doth take this? Besides, knowing alone its tones, to see; he’d     look’d up—and if I had

spotlit. No skill can end then maids     should fall? With her vnaware. As also, there fayth doth my spirit     in a dawn of pestilent sapphire-spangling pleasant     king, a beauties wonder. Around us to they flowers     overlook as would

recall? The unconscious dismay:     that the crueltyes, in secret sorrowes shook; or, Pindars     apes, and they did I torments of death may surcease. In hell.     To lightning groan—who blame: young damsels glad: the fattened with     fair truth too would narrate.

[thesummernostalgia]

One of the screen's most unique heroes recently made his first visit to New York. Speak-easies held no interest for him. He was never to be found in the Ritz Grill, the Lambs club, or at a night club, and he positively refused to take any interest in his public. His art is innate with him, and he makes no bones—and bones are his birthright—about it. No amount of coaxing could induce him to keep his shoes polished, his nails clean, or his face washed. "Smudges on mah face don't show," he has been known to inform the management, of whom he is the despair.

Even though he is an actor, and a good one, he has never been known to complain about anything, not even the hotel accommodations, but he was noticeably insistent on one point. He went to bed regularly at ten, said his prayers, and studied diligently daily on the hotel roof, with one proviso. He was to be taken to the Statue of Liberty, and allowed to climb up into the torch.

No seasoned veteran of the stage or screen ever demanded the star dressing room with more insistence than young Farina reminded the management, between personal appearances at the Capital Theater, that his purpose in coming to New York, and remaining on his good behavior, was a leisurely and thorough journey through the Statue of Liberty. Of Course, "Our Gang" went with him. And the lady was most gracious. In fact, all New York was gracious to this juvenile gang of playboys. Newspaper offices came to a standstill while tiny fingers thumped out one—syllable messages to the columnists, a hotel roof was transformed into a schoolroom, a motor bus was ever at disposal for a trip to the zoo, the aquarium, or toyland.

With all the adulation that has been showered upon his ebony person, Farina is totally unlike the professional child. He has no mannerisms, no self-assurance, no-consciousness. He's an untamed, little black boy, with the kind characteristic. He's very much averse to showing his pigtail, and terribly worried about the mistaken idea that he is a girl. His interview was pointedly brief.

"You know those fights we have. I never really hurt anybody when I hits 'em. I's just foolin'—make-believe, you know." And then he turned to inquire where was the best place in town to buy a baseball bat, and no amount of irrelevant questioning could swerve him from his quest.

-Aileen St. John-Brenon, "Manhattan Medley: Impressions, News and Gossip of the Stars Who Visit New York for Work or Pleasure," Picture-Play Magazine, November 1928, pp. 46~47

[ultfan]

@collectalong sent in this prompt (2/5): ill send smth real too but 💋 GET IT DAVE

                     amidst the war and depravity, the pair had found themselves side by side, alone and braving this world of despair together. komaeda was less effected by the sights than most — walking along with a soft smile on his face. it's not as if he's grown fond of this scenery. rather, he was elated by the presence of the person here. someone who finally survived his tumultuous luck cycle. it may have been coincidences, but when it comes to his talent komaeda doesn't believe in those. naturally, his mind has only come to one conclusion:

                     this person has the strongest hope he has ever been in the presence of.

                     he's the type to ramble on, komaeda's noticed, and he listens with rapt attention — his adulation shining in his pale, green eyes. it seemed dave had noticed the way he was looking at him: like someone meeting their celebrity crush. he's called out on it — dave making a joke about komaeda making out with him or something similar — but the affect of the other's voice makes it difficult for komaeda to determine it was, indeed, a joke.

                     of course he has no qualms about kissing the other man. in this pause in their walk, he turns to face him, a soft chuckle breathing past his lips.  ‶  sure, i can do that.  ″ without giving dave time to respond, he leans in and presses his lips against the other. there's something off about the way he does it. not romantic, but not lustful. like he's showing his deep respect to him — like an act of worship.

                     pulling away, hands rested on either side of dave's shoulders, komaeda blinks. ah... wait... is something wrong here?

                     ‶  huh? — you did want me to kiss you, right?  ″

[storiesbyash]

Under a Glitter Moon

Empty venues are a peculiar thing, you know. The applause and adulation echo in a melancholy after all the cheering crowds have gone. But, like a child told it's bedtime, these large entertainment venues can’t seem to stay quiet. They’ve got their own nocturnal life, their own encores that they can't help but perform.

Let me take you to an enormous stadium in South Korea, recently graced by a hot-shot K-pop band. Their energy could make even the most stoic guards and dozing ticket-takers shake a leg. But now, the show's over. Confetti, once airborne, now lays scattered on the floor like a technicolor snowfall. Abandoned plastic cups, once brimming with overpriced soda, lay crunched and forgotten.

But back to the stadium. This large, hulking arena now sat empty, the stage dark and devoid of its glowing idols. The faint scent of popcorn, cheap beer, and sugar-sweet soda still hung in the air. It was a sight that could make even the most hardened cleanup crew sigh in despair.

Sung-min had the unenviable task of leading the cleanup after every gig. It's fair to say, Sung-min was not the sort of bloke to chase the spotlight. He was a thin man, with a bit of a stoop. His round spectacles, perched on the bridge of his nose, slid down more often than stayed put. His hair did nothing for his rather oval face. His perpetual frown felt comforting. It was like that favorite armchair of yours. Despite losing some padding, it's still the favorite seat.

That night, Sung-min stood at the stadium's entrance. He surveyed the field littered with discarded plastic and strewn confetti. He armed himself with a heavy-duty bin bag and a stick with a nail in the end. He took a deep breath, the smell of stale beer and popcorn filling his nostrils, and sighed. The sigh he let out was familiar, the kind that starts from the sole of worn sneakers and ends at the roots of thinning hair. It was a sigh from a man who's seen it all before.

"Again," he muttered, half to himself, half to the moon that seemed to smirk back at him from above. He started to trudge down the steps, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the task ahead. Yet, as he walked, there was a rhythm to his movements, a sort of resigned dance that spoke of a man accustomed to his fate.

But Sung-min, despite the odds stacked against him, was a bit of a stubborn sort. He was so stubborn that even if he were losing a wrestling match to a feisty dust bunny, he'd keep grappling. He'd continue the struggle until the dust bunny gave up, exhausted by his persistence. He took pride in his work, despite the grumbling and the sighing.

He set about his task. He gathered the leftovers from the departed crowd: neglected cups, popcorn boxes, and other remnants from the successful concert. As he gathered each item, his sighs subsided, replaced by a steely resolve. His frown transformed into a thoughtful look.

As Sung-min began to make inroads into his mountainous task, a peculiar occurrence unfolded. Venues like these tend to get a bit dramatic and introspective once the spotlight dims and the applause quiets down.

The air started to tingle, the kind of tingle you feel before a thunderstorm hits, or when you've accidentally put your tongue on a 9-volt battery. The noise of Sung-min's cleaning efforts seemed to fade, as if someone had turned down the volume knob on the universe.

This wasn't the electrical buzz of a phone notification, or the familiar squeaks of a family of mice in your pantry. No, this was a buzz that oozed from the pores of the stadium, one that had unabashed, unrestrained razzle-dazzle.

This buzz made ordinary extraordinary, made popcorn kernels dance like tumbleweed, and gave discarded soda cups the grace of ballet dancers. It was pure, distilled showbiz, and it was spreading across the empty stadium like a contagion of spectacle.

The empty seats shuddered, then shook, then downright boogied. The large stage, recently vacated by K-pop superstars, began to glow, as if the moon decided to share its celestial spotlight. It was wonderfully, whimsically strange. An uncanny performance of the debris, a veritable encore of litter. Magic flowed from every corner and crevice, turning the ordinary chore of cleaning into a remarkable show of enchantment and joy.

There was a rustle, then a shudder, and then, quite suddenly, the discarded plastic cups began to rise. They shook off the sticky soda residue, popped out their dents, and started to assemble, like tiny drunk robots with a very serious task at hand. A pair of straw wrappers fashioned themselves into a microphone, held up by a cup-hand, while a crisp packet folded itself into a rakish hat. The torn ticket stubs fluttered and stuck together, creating a stage that glowed under the moonlight. They formed into a line, two lines, then a multitude, creating humanoid shapes on the stage.

As Sung-min stood there, bin bag in one hand, stick in the other, he watched the bizarre spectacle unfold. His round glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up. A sound escaped his lips, something between a gasp and a chuckle. He blinked. Once. Twice. His frown, ever-present, relaxed into an expression of bewildered amusement.

He stood amidst the plastic cup figurines, the dancing soda cans, the confetti tornadoes, and joy bloomed within him. It was an unexpected feeling, like finding an extra piece of candy at the bottom of the bag.

"Will you look at that?" he said to himself, a mixture of wonder and disbelief in his words.

Sung-min was no stranger to long nights and weird encounters - he did work in an entertainment venue, after all. But this? This was a whole new level of strange. But it didn't scare him. Instead, it filled him with a sense of...what was it? Awe? Inspiration? Maybe both.

He sat down, right there on the concrete floor, amidst the litter-turned-spectacle, and watched. His usual frown gave way to a soft smile, his eyes wide behind his glasses. The plastic cup figures twirled, the confetti rained down, and for the first time in a long time, Sung-min felt something stirring in his heart. Was it hope? Wonderment? The comfort that even in the mundane, there was room for a touch of magic.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I'll be..." he murmured.

It was all so bizarre and quite the spectacle. If the cleaning crew were present, they might have mistaken it for a mirage induced by their overworked, sleep-deprived minds.

As Sung-min sat there mesmerized, the whimsical figures noticed him too. Their dance slowed, and then halted. For a moment, there was a hush, a peculiar stillness that felt like the calm before the storm. Then, a plastic cup figure, adorned with the most stylish confetti couture, extended a hand towards Sung-min.

He looked at the figure, then at its extended hand, his eyebrows knitting in surprise. "For me?" he asked.

The cup figure nodded, plastic body shimmering in the moonlight. Sung-min hesitated, then decided, what was the harm in a little whimsy? He rose from his spot on the concrete, dusting off his old jeans. With a deep breath, he reached out and took the figure's handle.

The stadium erupted into a crescendo of sound. Every seat seemed to cheer, every piece of discarded debris to applaud. Driven by an unseen force, Sung-min was moving. He swayed, spun, and twirled, following the lead of his plastic partner.

His was awkward at first, a newborn deer taking its first steps. But soon, he got the hang of it. He moved with a rhythm he didn’t know he had as a grin spread across his face. For the first time in his life, Sung-min wasn't just the cleanup crew. He was the star.

He danced and spun, his laughter echoing in the stadium. The other figures joined in, a synchronized dance that radiated pure joy. Sung-min, was at the heart of it all.

Dawn approached, soft sun diffusing across the horizon. Sung-min took a bow, the applause of the plastic crowd ringing in his ears. Exhausted but exhilarated, he took one last look at his new friends, his heart filled with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. With a final wave, he picked up his bin bag and cleaning stick, ready to resume his task.

But as he looked around, he realized that the stadium was cleaner than it had ever been. The plastic cups, popcorn boxes, all of it had vanished, leaving the seats as pristine as they were before the concert. Sung-min blinked, looked at his empty bin bag, then shrugged.

"Thank you," he said to the empty stadium.

Time went by. Concerts came and went. The K-pop stars shone brightly, faded, and were replaced by the next big thing. But Sung-min remained a constant, stooping guardian of the stadium.

Each night, he'd clear the debris, and then dance joyfully until dawn. Each morning, he'd leave the stadium as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon. Each day, he looked forward to the night, to the magical spectacle that awaited him.

But one evening, as the last of the fans left the stadium, Sung-min found a girl crying on the steps. She was no more than sixteen, clutching a lightstick and a concert poster. Her tears left trails on her face, making the star stickers on her cheeks shimmer.

Sung-min approached her, concern etched on his face. He offered her a tissue, and she took it with a mumbled thank you.

"What's the matter?" he asked softly.

She sniffled, wiping her tears. "I wanted to be a singer," she admitted, her voice a whisper. "But I didn't pass the auditions. They said I wasn't good enough."

Sung-min looked at her, at the crushed dreams and the raw talent in her eyes. He knew that look, the feeling of being unseen, unheard, unappreciated.

Without a word, he held out his hand, a silent invitation. The girl looked at him, puzzled, but then something in his gaze reassured her. She took his hand, and he led her into the stadium.

The moon was high in the sky, bathing the seats in its silvery glow. The air hummed, and the spectacle began. The girl gasped as plastic cup figures twirled and confetti rained down.

With a gentle push, Sung-min urged her to step onto the stage. She hesitated, then walked forward with wide eyes. She looked back at him, unsure, but Sung-min just nodded, a gentle smile on his face.

As she stood there, the stadium came alive, each seat cheering her on. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes. Then, she sang.

Her voice was raw and powerful. It echoed across the stadium, each note resonating with the longing in her heart. The cup figures danced, their movements syncing with her melody. As she sang, her tears dried, replaced by a shine in her eyes that outshone any spotlight.

Sung-min watched from the sidelines, his heart swelling with pride. He realized then, his role in this nocturnal spectacle was more than just a cleaner or a dancer. He was a guardian, a guide, a beacon for those unseen, unheard, unappreciated. He was there to remind them, and himself, that even in the heart of despair, you can find magic.

The girl finished her song, the last note hanging in the air. The stadium was silent for a moment, then erupted into applause. The girl, bathed in the adulation of the stadium, her face glowing with newfound hope.

Sung-min stepped back, his job done. As he picked up his bin bag and cleaning stick, he looked back at the stage and smiled.