#all of this was stream of consciousness

[potato-lord-but-not]

in my wtnv era 10 years too late but uhhhh trying to figure out how to draw the guy nonetheless

[heartorbit]

revstar emu save me

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

*tries to organize my thoughts*

*remembers i'm not in school and therefore beholden to neither heaven nor hell nor any man's grading system*

*joyously shredding & tossing all my carefully arranged 3x5 mental notecards into the air like so much beige confetti. raising my arms in victory, cheering raucously until i accidentally inhale bits of homemade confetti*

(*coughing up itty bits of paper like a cat evicting a hairball with a firm understanding of tenants' rights*) wait wat happens next

[djemsostylist]

The thing I love most about the Warhammer 40k Space Marine game, starring one Captain Titus of the Ultramarines, is that it explains NOTHING. AT ALL. This game goes "well you wouldn't be playing me if you didn't know what Warhammer was, right?" and they would probably be mostly correct except that no, actually, I didn't even know what a space marine was when I first played, way way back in the early 20teens.

The game dumps you into a world where you play as a Captain of the Ultramarines. What is an Ultramarine, you ask? Why it's Captain Titus of course! and Leandros and Sergeant Sidonus. Are there more of them? Maybe, who knows! What's a Blood Raven? It looks like you, but different colors, and there are also only 4 of them. Are all of the space marines just squads of 4? Did you used to have a fourth and he died? Are you an army or a strike force? Who knows! The game for sure isn't gonna tell you!

What's an "inquisitor?" Well, it's Drogan of course! The one you have you save! And he's a psyker see. (What's a psyker, you ask? Well, it's what the Inquisitor is! Is it the same thing? NO IDEA! Just keep killing!) Now, is he also a space marine? Hard to say! Are space marines big, or just people in like, really big armor? WHO KNOWS! Not you, now kill some orks! Why are we killing orks? Because that's your mission of course!

And oh, hey, you're on a Forge World, fighting through the factories of the mechnanicum. What are these things? Well, you're on them and in them, what else do you NEED to know?

My favorite bit is when the Forces of Chaos show up, and a demon rips his way out of the fabric of reality, and it's just like "oh yeah, did we forget to mention you might have to fight demons? OOPS! Well, they pop as delightfully as an ork, so hop to it!" and then they just give you a different sort of Really Big Gun you can use to get on with the killing. Leandros seems concerned, the Inquisitor and Sidonus don't (and who outranks who? The regular men and women call you "Lord" but you call the Inquisitor "Lord" and all of you seem beholden to a "God-Emperor" (and is he an emperor or a God, or something of both?) but the only thing that matters is whether you chose a Plasma Rifle or a Lascanon to get through this next round, so who are you to question anything?

When the Inquisitor tells you to "meet at the monument" you just do, even though the monument is a nondescript hooded figure that says nothing and means little (except that these people do have monuments to something, and is it a saint? a martyr?) and so you go there anyway because there are more greenskins coming and you are about to get a thunderhammer (and maybe a jumppack, though those never last long.)

There are skulls sort of everywhere and everything looks like some sort of outsized Gothic cathedral and the voice that drones on and on sounds British and clipped and the words she says are dystopian and strange but there are always more orks to kill (and demons and men who look like you but aren't you, and are they really men behind those masks anymore, spilling from yawning purple clouds and splattering the walls with blood before vanishing i a lingering miasma) so you just keep going.

At one point a man who is not a man offers you the chance to become a god, to become a creature of whatever form you wish, and you still aren't entirely sure what the ultramarines are (and who is Lord Guilliman and his tenants your battle brother holds so dear) but there is a certainty in your refusal, a rigid belief that you won't fall because you can't fall (and did the man who is not a man who offers you a godhood fall? or has he always been like this?) but you deny him anyway (because you can, because you must, because you are an Ultramarine or because you believe in something more?) and you fight and fight and fight and kill and kill and kill and kill and kill and bleed until perhaps there is no blood left (your armor is huge and cumbersome and the floor shakes when you land but you move with grace and speed and roll and dodge and kill and live and what are you even, really?) and in the end you have saved a world and when you say "More than you know" you mean it with your whole heart because you are human, you are, you bleed, and you tire, and you grieve and you mourn (but are you human, really? if you can touch the darkness and not give in, not turn aside, if men call you angels and demons speak of gods) and it all means nothing because men you are you but not you show up, men in black and white (they look like Holy Orders, Hospitallers or something close) and a man who is an Inquisitor who is not Drogan, who speaks softly but firmly and they take you away and Leandros looks on with fear and maybe regret (and you do it to save Mira, you think, her and all the others you died a thousand times to save except you lived, and she lived, and they call you Angels and if you can't die maybe it's true, or perhaps you love them, all of them, the men and women who look at you with awe and fear and love, and isn't that being an Angel, in the end?)

Anyway, I've played this game thrice through (easy, medium, hard) and read all the codex and I still, to this day, do not know what happens at the Siege of Terra and what happens to make 30k 40k, and I think that's really sort of beautiful, in the end.

[madbard]

Thinking about how the Stan twins were both taught from a young age that life is a matter of transactions. How they were valued only for the money they could bring their family, and how this shaped their lives in such different ways.

Ford was the intelligent one, and this made him valuable. He knew what he had to offer. He knew he was important. (He had to be. Experience had shown him that love was conditional. He had to earn it. He had to be enough.) When Bill Cipher approached him, he confirmed everything Ford wanted so desperately to believe about himself. Imagine that sense of excitement, of accomplishment, of pride and power and relief. Imagine having that final, unshakeable source of external validation - that this being that knew everything and could have chosen anyone, chose you. Imagine knowing exactly what you could do to please this being and, with the understanding that love is conditional, knowing that you could fulfill the requirements for that love. Imagine knowing exactly how to ensure you would be loved, not just by that being but by the family you uplifted and the future you created. All you had to do was satisfy your own curiosity… all you had to do was build a portal. Is it any wonder that Ford fell for Bill’s tricks?

Then we have Stan, the failure. If love was transactional, he could never pay the fee. He knew people only helped you if you had something to offer. And he had nothing to offer, so why would anyone ever help him? Why would anyone care? Of course he didn’t fall for Bill. He couldn’t. When Bill promised gifts and power and happiness, how could Stan believe a word he said? In a world without altruism, such promises could never be trusted. There was always a price to be paid - and Stan had never been able to pay it.

And so the end of the world was triggered and then averted, all because one brother thought he could earn the world’s love, while the other knew he would never earn anything good.

A+ parenting, Filbrick. Truly.

[vaguely-concerned]

just had the thought 'in the end the most important thing varric taught rook was how to make a home for, with, and in other people' and then I had to go lie down on the floor and clutch at my head in unceasing agony for a few hours, as you may well imagine. hawke and the kirkwall crew........ in the end you kind of saved the world a bit in the most characteristically indirect and chaotic of ways. not by anything in particular that you did or achieved or accomplished (lmao imagine!), but just by -- having existed, and by the love that was always there, despite it all, in all its imperfections, even when no one was saved by it in the end. you're not here right now and you're not quite haunting the narrative but I hear your voices bickering and arguing and laughing from the other room. (and so, I think, does varric. all the time.)

'did you think you mattered, hawke? did you think anything you ever did mattered?' yeah actually, varric says with da2 and keeps saying through the series. you were here. and I loved you. and as it turns out that mattered more than almost anything in the world, no matter how long it lasted or how fucked up it was at the time or what else happens, because varric manages to pass that feeling, that intangible... home, that echo of you all as you were together, that love, hopefully the best parts of it, on to someone else for them to bring with them on their journey, with their family. and maybe the world will be kinder this time. you never know. merrill's line of 'Everything affects everything. We were born, a bunch of things happened, and now we're in a mess with our friends.' varric's greatest fear of becoming his parents. even through the wreck and the ruin of the world, ghosts upon ghosts upon ghosts of love -- malcolm hawke, who we never even see, but his life touched hawke's and hawke's touched varric's and varric's touched rook's and rook is passing it on to the family they're creating. the unbroken legacy of love shines through in ways that are stronger and stranger than any magic. help

[graciegrumps]

15 dazai's camera roll but it's just like......

Like that.... at that specific angle.......... just big, black eyes far too big for his skull and an overall off-putting vibe.

Oh! And there's also Chuuya 'cause when is there not Chuuya (affextionate)

....and Akutagawa

Ango...

Oda's in there too...

[shalom-iamcominghome]

I think now, my opinion about "jews by choice choose judaism!" has changed; not because I don't choose judaism fully, I choose it every day, but as time goes on, it doesn't feel as much of a choice. It feels like a choice in the same way that needing to breathe, to eat, to sleep feels like a choice. To me, judaism is as important a function of my day as my mortal, bodily functions, and I never chose to do them. It happened to me, it continually happens to me

I definitely started my journey needing to consciously choose judaism, but as time goes on and it enriches my life more, is it as much of a choice, or is it just... what happened?

I guess it might be apt to say my conversion is like eating: I have to do it. In that way, it isn't a choice, I have no choice in my need for it. However, I can choose what I eat, when I eat, and how often I eat (to an extent). In the same way, I have made choices about my observance, about the way I think about g-d, and how much I participate in my (offline) community. But I don't think I have chosen my desire to be a jew, just like you don't really choose to fall in love.

[mediumgayitalian]

“Can I come over tomorrow?”

Nico’s hands still on the stubborn pillowcase. “To…my cabin?”

“Yes.”

“Um.” He resumes, sliding slowly away from Will’s wide round eyes, stuffing the puffy square of feathers into its fabric prison. The ghost of geese past are not happy with him. He is their prince. They will submit. “Yeah? You could all those other times, too.”

“Yeah, but I want to come over.”

“Yes,” Nico agrees, wondering if this is perhaps one of those moments Kayla warned him about. Has it reached day five of Will not sleeping? He doesn’t think so. He was napping when Nico came into the infirmary this morning to help with the tidying he promised to do. At least he was drooling enough that Nico hopes he was sleeping. “You mentioned.”

“So I can?”

“Yes, Will.”

Maybe it’s just an American thing. Nico has been noticing some Moments lately. He’s not sure if all teenagers have unanimously decided on some code they’d like to speak in during the few months he was busy defeating his great grandmother, or if maybe he’s finally stuck around long enough to notice, but nobody says what they mean, nowadays.

(He has gathered, thus far, that ‘on fleek’ is a synonym for ‘aflame’, although ‘yeet’ continues to evade him. Perhaps because Cecil and Lou appear to have indulged in the sick delight of replacing their every word with the term with the sole purpose to Confuse. Or perhaps, as Will has so indicated, they have each endured one concussion to many and are beyond any hope.)

“Sick!” That one Nico knows, at least. “I’ll come by after my morning shift? Connor got cursed by the Hypnos, Hecate, and Aphrodite cabins this morning so I have to do brain surgery before he forgets how to feel genuine human connection again, but I’ll be done by noon. Probably. I mean, Connor has a thick skull, genuinely I mean, which is why his lobotomy has been delayed so many times, but so long as I —”

It has been under Nico’s notice lately that Will eyes, genuinely, sparkle. He has read the cliche time and time again and rolled his eyes almost every time: diamonds sparkle. Water sparkles. Snow sparkles. Eyes reflect, and sometimes glow with reflection. They do not sparkle. To claim a set of eyes are sparkling is to profess to the world and all capable of registering your words that you are a brainless idiot who cannot dredge up from the depths of your mind, the most barren and bereft back corners, a single unique or clever comparison; a minutely original way to describe excitement or animation.

And yet.

Will is indeed very animated, and very excited about very many things, and it shows on his face; in the wideness of his grins, the springing mass of his curls, the stilted and flailing gilt of his languid limbs. It also shows, perhaps most obviously, in his genuinely magnificent eyes — Nico has seen the Logan Sapphire. He has touched the precious thing with reverent hands, stared in awe as it thrust out the light shine upon it like the golden ichor of Ouranous swirling with the sweet saltwater to birth Love Incarnate. He knows glittering, he knows gleaming, shimmering and shining and twinkling.

Will’s eyes sparkle, like the very tip of a mountaintop, like the crackling ends of a flame, like dewdrops on spider silk. It is transfixing. It is alluring.

“—ico. Nico! Hello-o?”

It is also a trap.

“Sounds great,” Nico says loudly, voice like cold soda over vanilla ice cream. He clears his throat, twice, to no avail. His vision begins to blur as the heat pouring off of his face warps the air. “Um. See you then?”

Will nods, or at least Nico hopes he does. His curls bounce, anyway. They are hard to miss. They remind Nico tangentially of how laughter sounds, unimpeded by shame; how the shimmering satin of a ribbon would curl and bend under the smooth slide of the scissor’s blade.

(His father’s circuit of jesters often included poets playwrights. They also doubled as Nico’s babysitters. Surely no lasting consequences, that.)

“Yes!” He flashes a smile, then, and it becomes imperative to note that his eyes squint at the force of it, and his slightly-too-big teeth brush his bottom lip, and he has, in fact, on each cheek, a dimple.

Now, Will is often and even frequently called Apollo Junior by just about every living soul in camp, up to and including Immortal Camp Director And Horse, Chiron; and uproariously once even Mr D, God of Wine. Allegedly, as taunted by Kayla, even by Will’s own mother. The golden hair and unfortunate habit of winking and legs for days do most definitely create an image.

Nico, however, contrarian he be, must deny: he has seen Apollo. Apollo is beautiful and golden and charming, but Will is not quite his spitting image. Will, more aptly, is the son of the Sun. He glows; the glare of his smile leaves impressions behind in the cells one’s eyes, the glide of his limbs is almost dragging, languid. To look at him is to commit yourself to blinding. To seek so desperately the solace of the light as to ignore the unsettling sting of the burn.

“I can’t wait!”

As a blissful cloud moving in front of the solar system’s brightest star saves your eyes the eternal fate of darkness, Will’s duty so saves Nico from an eternity of shadow. He returns, humming softly and horribly, to his work, sifting through folders and updating patient files, and Nico exhales the breath setting foundations in his lungs, slumping forward in fervent relief. A melancholic reprieve from the summer rays, if only for a moment.

He waves goodbye, or at least he hopes that he does, rushing out the infirmary doors and tripping down the rickety porch steps.

“Hurrying somewhere, Nicholas Claus?” drawls Mr. D, throwing darts a perilously balanced apple atop the horns of a satyr bleating in morse code.

“That was not even an attempt,” responds Nico, and hurries away before he can be dolphinized. Dolphinified? Made into a bottle-nosed beast. (Why bottle? Of all comparisons to make, who decided bottles were the utmost separate object to which the snout of the slippery beasts should be named? Oh, wait, drunk people. Bottles. Okay. Mystery solved.)

He manages, in his heroic retreat across the common, not to destroy entire swathes of grass and plants, a feat for which the Muses could perhaps write epics about. Truly he is capable of the utmost restraint and self-control. He does raise several full sized wolf skeletons, but they seem primarily preoccupied with hunting down the the Stolls, so a win-win as far as Nico is concerned. Probably not for Connor, who is apparently cursed or concussed, he doesn’t remember exactly, but he has managed thus far with his startling amount of daily braincell loss so by statistic and happenstance he is bound to survive another incident.

“There has to be away to shut myself off,” Nico says, out loud to himself, proceeding the slam of his cabin door and the heavy breathing upon it. He turns to his altar. “You mentioned an off button, Father. I don’t suppose it has been successfully implemented.”

No answer comes forth. He indulges in a brief moment of self pity, wherein the Nico who lives in his brain clears his throat, digs around the messy confines of his mind to find an imaginary black hoodie, slips it on, digs around again for a dagger, and stabs himself, choking and twitching pitifully. Real Nico then walks with great purpose to the exact geological centre of the stone cabin.

“Okay,” he says again. He nods, once, narrowing his eyes in determination. The Nico in his brain opens one curious eyelid. (Does Will do psychiatric assessments?) “Okay, this is. Hm.”

It is not the first time they have been alone together, after all.

In the weeks following Gaea’s defeat and Will Solace’s nonstop, irritating persistence, Nico has been thrust in his proximity an incredible number of times. From his three day stay, during which he was simply so unconscious for so long his father was concerned enough to manifest onto the mortal plane and poke at his soul until he responded, to his unofficial indoctrination (ha) as a nurse, to camp clean-up efforts, to cabin renovation, to general life — they have become friends. Coworkers, at least. Together they make the camp a little more bearable for everyone in it, including Nico. It is rewarding work. It is illuminating work; Will is a good teacher, and he is funny, and he is good company (and he happens to have very long legs that he does not bother to cover up very often and Nico has eyes that do what they please). They have been in Nico’s cabin together several times over the last few weeks.

Never before has Will come over without some kind of stated purpose.

At least, not and absence he has made so obvious. True, the renovations took longer than expected, and the paint on the east wall is smudged from where Nico shoved Will, shrieking, off the stepstool, and they have perhaps, on occasion, used Nico’s illegal Wii when they were meant to be helping Annabeth make plans for Capture the Flag, but —

But.

Intent.

Is important.

It has been made abundantly clear to Nico over the summer that he has friends upon which he can rely. Reyna has made a point to Iris Message him at whatever Roman tryhard time she believes he should be awake, prompting an attempted murderous shadow travel that left him unconcious in Missouri and at the unfortunate end of many people’s shouting. And Will’s friends, who can perhaps at this point be called his friends also, have created a game entitled “How Many Grapes Can We Flick At Nico During Lunch Before He Goes Ballistic And Sends Us To Purgatory For A Little While” (four), which they are inclined and inspired to play every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Piper enjoys dragging him around to do Things. Jason is just around constantly. (Does he sleep? Nico should check on that properly.)

He had a point, somewhere. He’s sure he did.

It was maybe the impending anxiety attack, helpfully informs Brain Nico.

“Ah,” regular Nico replies, then grapples around for his least favourite pillow, slams it into his face, and screams at the top of his lungs for several minutes.

Brain Nico decides once again that commentary is the way.

I think we are an all powerful demigod of something, he muses. Dirt, maybe? Bad vibes? I can’t quite remember.

“The dead?” inquires regular Nico.

Do you think those years isolated in the Labyrinth perhaps situated us firmly on the shores of mentally unwell? responds he, blissfully unhelpful.

“I think that was Tartarus, actually,” says regular Nico, and promptly banishes his brain self to the deepest recesses of his mind, among memories of the taste of liquid fire and Calculus.

With the remaining, functioning (well.) part of his brain, he places both palms on the cool floor and attempts to focus.

Juicy Fruit It gets right to ya Juicy salt Hmmm Juicy Fruit, The taste the taste that’s —

For the love of all holy things, Nico begs his brain. It doesn’t work, but what ever really goes right in his life, so he pushes past the increasingly louder replays of eighties commercial jingles and maps out the ground below the cabin floor, pushes through the layers of underground.

Ah. Perfect.

He pulls up the very aptly placed skeleton of a cat, letting it scratch and sniff about his cabin before cautiously approaching him.

“You will be sure to tell it to me straight,” Nico says solemnly, holding out his hand. The cat bobs its nasal cavities in and out of Nico’s fingers and, apparently deciding him to be worthy of its attention, rams its skull against his knuckles. Nico snorts, running a fingernail along its cranial sutures and grinning as its purring echoes in his mind. “You seem very wise.”

The cat’s caudal vertebrae rattle in indignation, miffed at the mere idea that it could be anything other than wise. Nico is honestly quite impressed by its ability to glare without actual eyeballs, eyelids, or thought power.

“I am going to name you after my sister and pray that’s not weird,” Nico says. “I mean, I don’t think she would mind. You’re pretty cool, actually, and Hazel’s cool, kind of, so. Win win.”

Hazel the Cat seems unbothered by her christening, curling up in Nico’s lap. He runs his hand from cranial base to coccyx, finger dipping and bumping along the ridges of her spines, and settles against the cool floor, attempting to breathe evenly.

“It’s just.” He swallows. It takes a try or two, to work around the massive stone borrowed in his throat, and Hazel the Cat nips playfully at his fingers until his lungs settle again. “Before we had something to do, you know? We’d be cutting bandages, and he’d be all, hey, did you know bandages are mentioned in one of the first ever medical manuscripts and definitely predate it by many hundreds of years, and I would say I did, actually, I talked to the guy who made that clay tablet, and his eyes would get all wide and he’d be like no way, tell me everything, and then I would just talk forever.” Nico huffs. “We had something to talk about, you understand. Something to do.”

Nico tries to imagine what Hazel his Sister would say. Probably something along the lines of you are an impossible person, which is code for I have about as much luck as you do in this century, pal, the best I’ve got is hope for the best and remember adults no longer smack you for standing wrong. Which. Fair.

Hazel the Cat just purrs in his head again. It’s as encouraging as anything, he supposes.

“Am I supposed to have…conversation starters? He likes twizzlers and intentionally bad poetry. Maybe I could do something with that?”

Hazel the Cat shrugs at him.

“It’s not even — okay, it’s not just that, though. What is — how close is close enough in a casual setting? Or too close? How am I meant to greet him? Am I supposed to offer something? Make something? What do I do if there’s a lull in conversation? Or if it’s all lulls? Oh, gods, how much silence is socially appropriate —”

Hazel the Cat twists in his hold, meeting his eyes as if to say well I don’t think you’ll be struggling with that last one.

“Shush,” he tells her, but his mouth is twitching. “I’m just — I don’t want him to finally realize I’m weird. Or boring, gods. He’s such a hyper person, you know? He never stops. And I am supposed to entertain him! I think!”

This time he can actually hear his sister’s voice, in the back of his mind — you’re such a dummy. Ringed with fondness from the many times she’s said it to him, shoulders nudged carefully together, head knocked gently against his. You are weird and boring. Most people are.

“Ugh,” he sighs, tipping his head back until it rests against the mattress. “Friendship is hard work.”

Hazel the Cat swishes her tail, rattling the discs of bone like a rattlesnake. It’s a surprisingly soothing sound, like rain pinging softly against his window, or the flutter of the poplar trees outside of his father’s palace. Unconsciously he matches his breathing to it, slowing until it’s even, gentle, deep. His eyes, without any direction from his brain, drift until they blanket his hazy eyes, heavy as stone..

“S’not that serious,” he murmurs to himself, soothed under the weight of his feline friend. “S’just Will, I guess.” A beat. He smiles, slightly, a small, curling thing, mimicking the coiled heat in his belly. “It’s just Will.”

———

part two

[charaznablespeteevee]

When thinking about genderswapped Char and Amuro, as us lesbians often do, I usually default to "megahot femme Char, and butch Amuro who looks exactly the same but has boobs now. and is also covered in grease and dirt from fucking around with mobile suits all day, which megahot femme Quattro with her bright red lipstick finds irresistible. #yuri"

but ngl butch Quattro is now rotating in my head a bit. he's already gorgeous he just has to grow some tits. bam done. and she's still hot for Amuro but it's butch4butch now.

[prettybbychim]

[this became much longer than i intended whoops]

u know i think it would’ve been much better if the ode of resurrection was not shown to us immediately, and wasn’t a main part of their culture. have people die throughout the archon quest, make us believe that there’s no saving them. kill off kachina at the start and convince us that she’s the first playable character in genshin thats not alive.

build up these bonds, forge these friendships, make us care.

just to take it all away

that’s war.

but there’s a tiny flame, that glimmer of hope. maybe it’s something the pyro archons have been working on, passing it down to their successors. something mavuika has been working on. yeah u heard that right she’s actually doing something wow get citlali in there to help out. get the whole goddamn tribe involved idc

there’s a scramble to find the last of the heroes. they don’t want to force it or fuck something up but they’re running out of time. the abyss is coming. it will consume the nation. they need to fucking buckle up and get down to it.

they could probably still go into the night kingdom to search for kachina, so that mualani can get her ancient name. or it can occur under entirely different circumstances. haven’t given that much thought yet. do they find her?

do they find her and can’t actually bring her back to the surface?

for the next part, we’re gonna have to shake things up because we need the captain on our team sooner rather than later. how that happens is up in the air but regardless, we put aside our differences to save natlan.

so, we help the captain find old dragon tech. maybe we enlist the help of kinich and ajaw, maybe we go into ochkanatlan, tie some of that shit in. we can take iansan along too, who is super duper strong and can carry all our fancy dragon tech or smth idk the three of them need more involvement !!! ajaw would drive me up the wall but it’s a necessary evil

in ochkanatlan, we see how the abyss can mimic lifeforms. the twin is in irminsul right? maybe it’s steals the twin’s image, but the traveler knows it’s not them because their twin would never say things like this. we learn that they abyss manifestations are (always?) twisted and mutilated.

we see the dragon. we don’t defeat it, that’s for the world quest lol but we get the image of the dragon in our minds so that when it shows up later down the line, we know what the fuck is happening lol

on our trip, we learn bits and pieces about the captain. it’s all disconnected, nothing makes sense. and since we’re nosey little fuckers, we find correspondence with the tsaritsa in his belongings.

capitano is gentle with his body. maybe a little too gentle. it catches the traveler’s eye but they don’t know what it means, they have no grounds for suspicion. it’s blown off as recovering from his duel with mavuika. (little do we know that he was hit directly in the heart and he’s worried, goddamnit)

ororon lets it slip that something feels off with the captain’s soul. (could the captain be using ororon’s sensitivities to monitor the souls housed inside him? would he eventually tell ororon what’s going on? or would that be too risky?)

ororon receives ancient name same as before, nothing really needs to change there i suppose. more suspicion is thrown on the captain because of the identity of the soul trying to possess ororon. maybe the captain didn’t share his plan in its entirety, he has a lot riding on this, he can’t afford to fuck it up, and keeps his cards close to his chest. he and mavuika can still argue in front of ororon like mom and dad lol

chuychu dies. she doesn’t get to give a long goodbye. she bleeds out in her sister’s arms. (they actually try to stop the bleeding and give her medical care) chasca goes berserk hell yeah, there’s a struggle. she manages to rein herself in, the love between sisters reigns supreme. chasca gets her ancient name

boom u got all ur heroes. they supercharge mavuika to beat back the abyss core thing. what was its name? gilgamesh? i don’t fucking know

the losses are extreme

fast forward a bit bc i’m losing steam and attention span here

we dive back into the night kingdom to track down the “brain” of the abyss corruption. the people we’ve met and lost in natlan help us out. kachina can be added to the mix. the gay lovers, chuychu and her pokémon team, boba and coconut — the whole gang’s here yooo i actually loved this part. favorite section by far

and after our trip in ochkanatlan, we know that the dragon we’re fighting is an abyssal manifestation. the voices of the previous pyro archons are their own but the words are all wrong, designed to discourage and distress us.

we defeat it using the power of friendship (i’m gonna kms)

also mavuika’s kit is completely different. i’m giving her a redesign fuck it. but that’s a post for another time.

traveler seems pretty good ngl i just wish the cons aren’t limited to fighting the dragon. i really liked what i was seeing and then they pooped all over my party (what’s the point!!!)

instead of a big parade, we gather around together at the stadium to finally try the thing all the pyro archons have been cooking. the heroes are a necessary component.

the incandescent ode of resurrection

among the many, kachina comes out of the flames. mualani sobs her heart out and vows to never let her out of her sight ever again

chuychu perhaps? 👀 pls pls she’s the only one besides cap and ororon that i give a shit about pllssssss playable chuychu when? her design is fantastic as is u dont need to touch it PLEASE—

now we can have a party!! after everything is all said and done, we can have One party instead of the five or so we’ve had since we came to natlan. (nation of war? more like nation of fiestas)

ororon, though, feels uneasy, and not because of the atmosphere. he says he’s going to find the captain, but he can’t explain why. concerned, the traveler and paimon try to follow him but are intercepted by citlali, who is for once not freaking out about ororon’s whereabouts, instead…

oh but wait. where’s mavuika gone? oh nooo

plays out relatively the same i suppose. could use some tweaking but not anything significant enough to mention right now.

except now we have somewhat of an understanding of the captain already, all the little bits and pieces we noticed, and the clues we (so rudely) discovered, it’s all starting to make sense now. we’ve also spent more time w him, the emotional attachment runs deeper, and it’s much more painful to experience.

bittersweet

mavuika is confused, especially in the days coming after. she had planned to die then. she said her goodbyes in a roundabout way. she finished the painting of her family, so they’ll never be forgotten. she saved her nation from the oppression of the abyss, resurrected so, so many. there was only one thing left to do… she was supposed to be the one to do it.

what does she do now?

what does she do with herself now, when she hadn’t planned for her own future? it was supposed to end, she was supposed to die. could she have reunited with her family? could she have seen them once again? she’s sad over what could have been, she’s confused because how did it end up like this, she’s mad because the captain stole it from her, she’s guilty because he was ultimately the better choice

what do you do when you’ve spent hundreds of years waiting for your destined day? when you’re only ambition has been this.

it’s time to learn how to live.

the end~

[petulant-plants]

I feel like a see a lot of speculation about ‘the Sun King and The Lady are the real bad guys of the story’ and ‘maybe Sarcean wasn’t so bad after all’ kind of stuff…

And I think there is definitely more going on between them that makes the story less light vs dark, black vs white. But I also think that the overall story kind of plays with nature vs. nurture (or circumstance) and that in one context someone can do “evil” and in another do “good”. I don’t think it’s bad thing if Sarcean was a bad guy who did bad things, like making and using the collar, like killing all those people. Of course I believe it’s more nuanced than a black and white, light and dark, good and bad. But just because there’s nuance doesn’t mean the rolls flip and that secretly the whole time the light were the real bad guys and the dark was fighting the good fight.

I feel like if that is the case then it might neglect all the inner turmoil the characters have had to go through to try and understand their rolls in this new old world. If Sarcean maybe actually had a point and was doing the right thing, then Will’s battle with himself and his desires doesn’t mean as much because he’s not actually fighting any dark impulses

[crookedfivefingers]

3.13 | ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ʟᴏʀᴅꜱ

link to the post I accidentally wound up prattling endlessly about in the tags 💀

[ispyspookymansion]

i really liked this post so i made a one page september newsletter diary zine thing. do any mutuals want me to mail them a copy? its not professional or nice looking its just like. talking about my month and stuff. condensed blog that you can hold in your hands

[doveboycreature]

I wanna get to the point where I like don’t really get horny much in a physical way but I enjoy sex anyway for like the physical sensation but primarily like as a way to please my partner. Sort of in a free use kind of way, but not really in an any time any place sort of way. I want it to simply to not be a factor whether I want it or not. If they want to give me an orgasm, it’s only because they want to see how i react. Maybe some days they‘re angry or annoyed about something else, overwhelmed and wanting quiet, coming home and throwing me on the bed without a word, hitting me when I whimper or cry out. Maybe some days they don’t want sex, they just want to beat me and leave me bloody on the floor. Whatever it is, I‘ll take it. I like the attention, I need their approval. I live for the crumbs of affection in between all the pain, they days where they actually do want to touch me gently. It gives me something to work for, learning the game of predicting their moods and anticipating their needs so I can stay useful. And im not afraid, im really not, because i know despite everything, they still love me. I think.

[tears-of-taelia]

How many times have we done this, Interceptor? You betrayed me at one point.

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