#i wrote this at like 1 in the morning

[hercarisntyours]

I hope you know your hadestown au has ruined me

“what does he care for the logic of kings, the laws of your underworld / it is only for love that he sings” has ALWAYS been Orion Pax coded to me

it's ruined me aswell dw, if I have to suffer with this so does everyone else /hj

UGHHH THAT'S SO ORION because what DOES he care 😭 I could go on and ONNNN about how orion coded orpheus and just how, hadestown and tf go hand in hand; ESPECIALLY NOW THEY'RE ALL PRETTY MUCH CANNONICALLY MINERS. Genuinely. This au has been living in my head rent free since about the time rotb came out I can't lie, when ever I would hear for example doubt comes in I couldn't help but imagine orion with that, that's how much I connect orion and orpheus LIKE HE WOULD GO TO THE WELL OF ALLSPARKS TO GET ARIEL BACK. HE WOULD MOVE WALLS AND GODS TO DO SO. all while inspiring the opressed to stand up to they're opressors, and now those thoughts are just hightened x100 with tfone orion. Even when I went to see hadestown, I came out thinking about how, tragically Orion and Ariel it is. "Have I made myself their lord, just to fall upon the sword; of some paupers minor chord" is another that just screams Orion to me, especially if gladiator megatronus is hades, because he did make him self the lord of the arena; just to fall when orion sang his song to the primes in the aligned universe (the one which this au started out as, not that megatron is hades i don't think idk I haven't decided)

tbh I've actually been meaning to post new hadestown au stuff but I've been stuck. trying to figure logistics out with other characters but I think I'm going to focus purely on arion/oplita for it rn, especially ariel and the fates (the seekers) because eurydice and the fates is one of my favourite arcs in the show (im lowkey in a writing rut/block 😔 i need help with this au I cannot lie)

I also think Eurydice is so, very Ariel/Elita. Especially an Elita who is feeling the distraught and dystopia of an opressed and climatic world. I think 'a gathering storm', "when the chips are down" and 'nothing changes' shows how I think of her in this au, the realist to orion's delusions. She's fighting for survival, but she has to give in because the hope so had got lost. She did what she had to.

Also, I think Elita is persephone coded, yeah this au is arion but the pain and estranged-ness of persades in this just reminds me of optimus being so far away, physically AND emotionally and Elita having to keep up cybertron; more specifically wfc netflix (I think a universe where Optimus falls down a path just like hades did would be so very good. He's so focused on making cybertron so full of love, he destroys it which pushes away his love)

"It's you"

"It's me"

🫦🫦🫦🫦 fUCKKKKKKKKK this au hurts my heart why did I let the brain rot procreate with the others brain rot

[keeps-ache]

i think i'm starting to really like writing again :D this will have consequences

[averlym]

some very very quick costume shorthands!

[otterlyotterott]

A cat sits alone in the cemetery

Inspired by @circuscountdowns's bishop death comic.

cw: grief, slow mental deterioration by way of immortality

Mortal minds were not meant to live forever. Not alone. 

It’s the middle of the night and they kneel before the grave. In one of their hands they grip a shovel that had been gifted to them a long time ago. At the base of the handle is an engraving that matches the stone crown on the gravestone.

There is a pendant on their chest, and it gleams gold in the moonlight.

They close their eyes, and breathe. Out slow, in slow.  

Camellias smell like sugar and dirt, like three thousand years of longing. The flowers on this grave are always fresh. always redder than blood, even in the winter, when every other plant on cult grounds wilts and turns bare and hibernates. The camellias on his grave are always there, always beautiful. One might call them blessed.

They are not afraid of dying—they are devoted to Death. They simply cannot die yet. Their Gods and leaders need them. The rest of the flock needs their wisdom. Someone who can speak to them as an equal, but who knows more and has seen more than the rest. 

Mortal minds were not meant to live forever, but they’re still doing pretty well. They lose days or weeks sometimes, but it’s not a problem yet. They suspect it’ll take another five thousand or so before their mind becomes a problem, assuming something else doesn’t kill them first.

So, they cannot leave. Not of their own accord. They have no need to.

They want to stay, to be content with the impossible life they live, but something is missing. They’ve been missing the sandpaper edges of his voice for the last few centuries. They’ve been yearning for the feel of his fur on their own—green and yellow, a sunbeam shining over a bed of moss.

He left them. They agreed to it. He was tired. They understood, or thought they did. They were with him for the rest of his life, and they loved him, and he died, in the end, like a mortal, but his heart was full, and when he was gone for good, they realized that their heart had gone with him. Stolen in a final prank.

At first they figured the pain would lie in the loss itself, but true moments of pain were every time they would forget that he was gone. It was every time they would look beside them, to whisper to him something that he would yell aloud to embarrass them both, only to find no one was there. It was every odd hole in the ground that they would feel the urge to crouch down beside, to talk to him, coax him out, before someone would ask what they were doing and they would remember that he wasn't there. It was every time they remembered that holes in the ground were for plants, and not Gods.

He would be severely annoyed to see them do anything but smile, but it was getting hard to smile without him.

And, and he would want this, wouldn’t he? Even if getting woken back up annoyed him at first.

His After was probably boring without them.

He'd think it was funny.

He’d grin impossibly wide and say, “ABOUT TIME YOU DID SOMETHING SELFISH.”

They stare at the old stone. The crown of the God of Chaos stares back. It's only another life. He won't even have to put on a necklace this time around.

Mortal minds were not meant to live forever. Not alone.

So, they stand and lurch forward. They take the shovel into both their hands, and they drive it like a spear into the dirt, into Leshy's grave. 

They don’t know how the ritual works, but they know they’ll need his bones for it. They'll figure the rest out later.

[trentcrimminallybeautiful]

ted and trent get drunk as hell and have some great, drunken gay sex. ft the author was also drunk for writing this. but i swear it's like, coherent and shit

[stabbyfoxandrew]

also hi. me and jess ended up binge watching iwtv s2 yesterday.

[snaggletoothedbastard]

Meat and Bones

“I wish I didn’t have bones,” he says.  “I wish I could just be meat.”

“That’s funny,” I say, “because I wish I could just be bones.  I could play my ribcage like a xylophone.”

Meat’s what you eat.  Or don’t eat. Depends.  Where does meat begin And where does gore end?  What if they’re the exact same thing? 

Bones can be bitten But can they be eaten?  Bones are picked out and thrown away For the dogs to chew Or taken by the tooth fairy Or left to stand as a makeshift monument To the dead flesh that once kept them hidden. 

Meat makes you strong.  You make muscles out of muscles Out of muscles. 

Bone broth Sounds like an insult Or something a creepy child would talk about In a horror movie.  "Bone broth. Red rum." It’s good for you, Apparently, But to get someone to eat it Might take some convincing.

Meat bleeds. If it’s fresh enough.  The freshest of flesh will leave evidence of its wounds,  Blood will stain mud.  Meat is soft, meat can be cut,  But if meat is allowed to heal The scars can be forgiven,  They can be hidden.  Meat can be pulled And squashed And twisted,  Meat can be carved,  Meat can be shaped. 

Bones can only take so much distortion Before they snap.  Bones clatter and crack And they click when you bend your knees And when you flex your fingers. 

When meat can be seen through the skin You get, “Well done! I’m impressed!  How long have you been working out?  Can you give me some tips?” It’s admired,  It’s desired. 

When bones can be seen through the skin You get, “Are you eating enough?  What diet are you on?  Can you give me some tips?” It’s met with equal parts Disgust and delight. 

Meat will decay But bones will stay,  Watching the consumption of their companion Until nothing is left.  Bones will leave their impression in the ground,  A shadow of what once was,  An epitaph for the body that once held it,  Now left alone.  A curse and a blessing it is to remain  A natural tombstone. 

“Well then, I’ll be meat and you’ll be bones,” he says.  “Meat and bones. That’s our new stage name.”

Meat and bones.  Opposites really, aren’t they?  But together they make a full body.  United as one.

[gallifreyanwriter]

Desolation

They were the ones that picked up their arms and their legs and carried on. And it’s a good job they did, because there was no one else left.

The oldest living human in the universe, and the oldest dead human in the universe, stranded together on an orange cliffside, overlooking a magenta ocean.

It wasn’t their first choice of real estate, but being the only survivors of the crash meant they didn’t have much of a choice. They could only drag their salvaged materials so far, after all. So they settled in for the long haul, and used their scraps and some white wood from a distant forest to build their home atop the great orange cliff. 

There wasn’t anything they could really...do, about the wreckage of the Red Dwarf. Neither of them could swim to it, obviously, and there was something about the local ocean water that made Lister kind of itchy, anyway. So they left it alone, as a great, big reminder of everything, and everyone, they’d lost.

Sometimes pieces would break off, sometimes other pieces would wash ashore, and sometimes, those pieces would even be useful. Sometimes Lister, bleeding heart that he was, would just walk outside of their house, stare into the horizon, and weep.

Bloody tosser, Rimmer would think, with tears in his hologramatic eyes.

There’s a special kind of loneliness, being the only life you know of on a planet. It’s not the kind of loneliness when you’re in the corner of a party and no one will speak with you, oh no. It’s more like when you’re in the corner of a party and no one is speaking to you but all the people who aren’t speaking to you are at least a million light years away, and your only way to even have a hope of a drink thrown in your face is half-submerged in this strange pink ocean, hazy in the distance.

Ah well. They were probably a bunch of smegheads anyway.

But they carried on, with the slow acceptance that they were well and truly lost. No enemies, sure, but also no friends—except each other.

And then, erm. Perhaps a bit more than friends, actually. Not sure when that happened, honestly, but who was left to judge? That’s right, no one, so mind your business, please.

They would often look to the sky. The sky, color of fresh mango juice. The rings that surrounded the planet always bisecting the vast expanse, creating some truly interesting sunsets that Dave was always LOOKING THE OTHER WAY FOR, COME ON-

Oh, they had their moments. But neither of them would ever be the same. They walked slower, lived slower, sat quieter. They had both existed since three million years in the past, and something deep in their cellular DNA seemed to know it. Imagine if you were three million years old and got launched into a new planet that seemed to only have plants on it, and see how you fare, eh? You’d have to become a vegetarian.

And when they succumbed to the cold orange earth, and their house fell into disrepair, and every broken and rusted piece of the Red Dwarf had succumbed to the sands of time...the microbes that had set up shop in Lister’s dead bones had evolved to the point of arguing with each other over whether there was a God or not.

Wish I could tell you, dear reader, that their conception of religion was based on dear old Arnie and Davey, but it wasn’t. They lived on this planet, and died on this planet, without anything of sentience to even know their names. Both of them were well and truly forgotten, and there’s no coming back from that.

But hey. They had still mattered.

[maka-moved]

thinking about about postal 1 and what may have driven dude to go to such lengths.

at first, i believe he would've been acting out in self defense (or, at the very least, what he considers self defense). after all, in his mind, he was simply defending himself from a world full of people out to get him. however, i also think that at one point or another, dude just totally loses the plot. at some point, it's no longer about self defense or trying to get help, but rather cleansing the earth.

the change of "diary" to "war journal" reflects this shift in dude's mindset, revealing that he believes whatever is going on to be a war that he must win by any means necessary, regardless of the causalities. the lives of others, and even his own life to an extent, take second priority to exterminating the "infection" as he calls it. he likely realizes what he is doing is wrong as the events of the game continue, but he marches onward because seeing his mission through to the end is the only thing that matters to him anymore.

postal 1, to me, is about a man's journey into the depths of despair. however, i don't think his downward spiral began at the start of the game.

his eviction is what motivated him to finally take matters into his own hands, but the actual start of his descent into desperation began far before that point. his outlook on the world around him and his eviction tell the story of someone who's lost control, who's retreating further and further into isolation. it wouldn't be unreasonable to assume that he had stopped showing up to his job, stopped talking to people, stopped going outside all together in the weeks or even months before the events of the first game.

postal dude's actions are not spontaneous. they are what happens when someone is left with no other perceived option than violence, the gruesome yet predictable outcome of cornering a starved and beaten hound. he had to have known what was coming. maybe he didn't quite know just how far he'd have to take things, but he knew that he'd have to kill, and he planned accordingly.

the tragedy of postal 1 stems from the simple fact that, from the very first second of the game, it was already too late.

[gnaga37]

dealer: I got this new thing its called indeed. com you'll be zoinked out asap 😜💯

me: whatever

me 5 minutes later: I swear I've seen this listing 5 times already

my buddy the owl that now lives on my shoulder pacing across my back: they're not answering to our emails

[potatobugz]

??!?! HOW DO YOU WRITE BRITISH PEOPLE

[flufallo]

DID NEIL GAYMEN WRITE DBD

He wrote the comics yes

[siyratiin]

starting a tfone onyx prime fan club. open to anyone. anyone can join. we can even make it an every prime fan club. if you want.

[vulpinesaint]

i’m secretly in love with you

wow... beautiful world... that's crazy cause you are ma chèrie mon ange mon cœur ma vie. t'es la plus jolie femme du monde et c'est simplement la verité...

[circa-specturgia]

“Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.”

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Behind you, a half pace behind, you can hear your work shoes. Their heels hits the pavement in their own distinct sound. Your fingers still remember the way you’d tie their black laces and tighten their black leather.

You walk still, trying to pay them little mind. It’s not the first time you’d heard them behind you. It likely won’t be the last.

Each step adds a gram of weight to the ring on your finger.

Each step a reminder of the long night hours. The office. The silence. The empty nightstand. The hospital waiting room.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Somewhere behind them, pair of socks over bare feet shuffle over the freshly-set floorboards. Maple, like you’d always talked about.

The wind blows through your hair, whistling in your ears the first notes of a melody you once remembered. A melody you’d danced to on that floor, in the middle of the night.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

A pair of hiking boots, a bit further behind you, break a twig that you’d stepped over a moment ago. Their step has more life to it, more vigor, as it joins the march down the empty road.

The breeze carries the hint of a scent, despite the boots being behind you. Sap. fresh green-pine air. The frigid bubbling stream, the blue clouds and white sky. The rain. Sweat and laughter.

The moon shines through the clouds and for a moment the way it’s rays pierce them is the exact same as the suns atop that mountain from the magazines you’d only talked about until that summer.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Your old sneakers plod against asphalt, dripping rainwater in the windy night, somewhere far, far behind you.

The balls of your feel and heels ache at the sound, brought back a moment to a long-ago night.

To the wind in your hair, the tears mixing with the sky’s downpour, glasses fogged up. Heart filled with adrenaline and excitement and fear and love.

Knuckles against a bright green door, sore shaky voice against red ears, lips against lips, relieved and bare laughter against laughter.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

It’s barely in reach of your ears, and over the other pairs, you hear the proud marching of a grade schooler.

Walking with pride and head held high in defiance of the worries that may come ahead with blissful, simple, wonder, for every day.

Distracted by any bug or stick or rock on the way home.

Yours is not the only set of footsteps you’re hearing, even though you’re walking alone.

Of disjointed steps and strides a heartbeat sounds out, walking down an empty night road.

You sit, on the bench, at the end of the road.

Afraid to look back. Afraid of their faces looking forward. Afraid of what you’d think of yourself.

Instead, they sit beside you. One, by one. A slightly younger person grasps your hand and squeezes it, a bit too tights their hand is less bony than yours. The ring fits better, not slipping down to their knuckle. It’s all they need to do.

You sit there. Beside you, your life, your memories. Their steps, leading you to this bench, under the moon and clouds and stars.

Yours was not the only set of footsteps you’d heard, even though you’d thought you’d been walking alone.

All you’d need have done had been listened for a moment, to have heard them behind you, always. In empathy do your struggles, in awe of your successes.

Now, their echoing footsteps have gone still, and silent, leaving just the breath, and the view.

This time, the footsteps come from ahead.

You know who they belong to in a heartbeat, as their fingers lace through yours at your side.

You sigh, the sound lost on the wind. Your eyes look to them, as a weary, long-thought-out smile comes to rest in your crows feet.

You’d heard footsteps whenever you were alone, all your life.

As you stand, and begin to walk with them, the rest stay under that moonlit bench, letting the two of you walk home in the quiet.

- Written between 1-2 AM, from the middle of a quiet field

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

Seth is the universe’s pincushion.

Literally everything that could go wrong in his life went wrong, for no apparent reason. He knows that most people think it’s insane to believe the entire universe is out to get you, but he’s starting to believe that’s what’s happening to him. As if everything aligns to make his life as miserable as possible. As if the universe needs to take out it’s anger on something, and chooses a random man to test the mental and physical limits of.

He sees people like Gabriel. Someone who had everything handed to them on a silver platter. A person who had everything align in their favor. Someone so lucky that despite getting in life or death situations constantly due to their ignorant search for knowledge they shouldn’t have, they’re able to get out of them without injury. Seth sees them and can’t help but feel immense jealousy deep inside. Wishing he had a loving family. Wishing he had the luck they have. Wishing he wasn’t the laughing stock of whatever power is making his life hell.

Yet he still manages to care.

He manages, despite everything, to keep going. He learns from his mistakes, he grows from them. He sees people in need, and instead of leaving them in the dust like he had been, he helps them. He manages to stay caring after everything that’s happened to him. Despite his fear of commitment, and his instinctual want to push people away. He still can’t help but care. He has every right to lash out after all he’s been through. But he won’t. Cause he finally has people he can call a family. And he wants to keep them.

When they’re gone too however, he decides to fight back. He’s done being the butt of the sick joke he’s being played for. He’s not going to let the same thing that killed that family to hurt anyone else. He’s not letting anyone else be hurt the same way he did, even if it kills him. Even if he’s tired of everything being taken from him.