#skeleton psalms

[mysticmermaid108]

Cool little idea I had, I made characters based on Disciple Album Covers!

Here’s the originals:

(Will reblog with the rest)

[moineauz]

may i request a ticket for mosaic the memento with boothill?

𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ THE HOUSE OF MUSICA PRESENTS... 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆ノ𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐂 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 — boothill !

synopsis: lovers that collect each other, piece by piece and display it in peculiar ways.

side comments: tysm for requesting!! I definitely had fun with this and boothill in general. I took the concept quite literally hehe.

extra: gn reader, angst & fluff, mentions of marriage, established relationship word count: 1, 184

When eyesight failed, you turned to the wind's caress, the hum of incessant chatter, and the mechanical click of Boothill's shoes like a heartbeat made of flesh and bone.

Penacony thrived and bounced with promise and prose that night, as it has every night; brimming with the convivial spirit of a cocktail. While morphing desire into the tangible.

Nevertheless, Penacony is a pest: a jewel sowing songs of seduction, Time spent in Penacony rots the living flesh.

"You're thinkin' too much again."

Languidly, you turn your head towards the man leaning against the door frame. His limbs slacken as a tender grin pressed onto his face. It was as beckoning as a blast of dust and powder. A soothing grace found in jagged cliffs.

"It's Penacony," you begin scrupulously, "It's difficult not to think of-"

A small nail bolt hits the ground, a ring reverberating throughout your hotel room: a sour psalm. Your eyes observe the nail as it spins toward the tip of your boot; halting it in its path.

Boothill scrutinizes your eyebrows and how they crease, your placid countenance replaced by blunt displeasure. You cast a faint sigh, rolling your wrists until you discerned a click. A practice Boothill has inscribed into your skin it seemed. To Boothill, your faint, pervasive sighs are like wisps of smoke billowing in feeble puffs. It is the kind that Boothill could keep within the biting palms of his hands like a cloud of mist rolling over a slumbering horizon.

"Boothill," you chide askance, the nail now tightly wrapped under the guileful length of your fingers, "You're falling apart, again."

Boothill emits a delicate laugh; carrying through the thick atmosphere of your hotel room like fog being pushed to the side. "Oh? It's Nothin' to worry bout'," he exclaims, his grin acute and unrelenting like a child.

You scoff, your face solemn. "You're a fool then."

Boohill raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms. "A fool?" he begins with a tone of toying inquisition, "And what kind of fool would I be then?"

"The kind that never listens," you seethed as you turned your back and rummaged through your satchel. The click and ring of colliding components rebound from the disquieting walls. "Tell me, is it that difficult to keep your gun down?"

Instead, Boothill's legs carry him to the side of your bed; hoisting himself up before lying down on his back, his right hand gingerly tapping against the plating of his chest. One beat after another, one rise of your chest like sundown, one click before the drop.

The room grows reticent as does Boothill's incessant chatter. You considered him like a fly; one swat never ceased his lingering. His buzz and wagers compelled you to an ineffable cusp of undoing. He tugged at your hair, sauntered over your plans and tenderly pressed his treasured gun against your skull like a prayer of undying fidelity: the kind that reaches from the mounds of soil, dust and dirt. A skeleton crawling on the face of the Earth.

However, you kept the bones of that same serrated skeleton in your coat pockets. When the night yielded its youth, you traced your glided hands over its ridges like one recites verses in a destitute, ceaseless pursuit for solace. You hauled the bones of your dead on your back, straggling through sand dunes and sun. Thus, you ensured the bones would never corrode or break. For safekeeping, you thought.

"It always surprises me," professed Boothill, his body still limp on your bed, "That you carry every part of me in that damn satchel of yours."

He then scoffs, amused, "It's ridiculous."

A subtle, witty smile unwinds on your lips before you exasperate, "Well, I find it more ridiculous that a full-grown man needs his spouse to cover his boo-boos."

"Ha!" exclaims Boothill, a smirk unveiling itself, "And what's so wrong bout' that?"

You simply hum at this question, still absorbed by the sensations of various metal pieces grazing against your skin. "Boothill," you betokened "Which wire is thinner? The one on the right or the one on the left?"

Boothill promptly glances at the side table, "The one on the right."

You reach for the wire on the right, no inkling of doubt smearing the page of your chest.

Boothill never pressed his knee down or slipped a circular piece of metal on your finger.

On the contrary, you professed your devotion while uncoiling the vast forests of his wires found in his spinal cord and replacing the plating of his shins. Like a doll being unwinded: its button eyes stitched concurrently to become whole.

Boothill pondered the concept of marriage and discerned it to be ludicrous. However, there was a peculiar charm found in the title "My spouse" like windchimes that crash and sway, casting their dreams into an afternoon breeze.

He reminisced how you ripped his chest open and raised his metal heart in the plane of your hands like an offering. He entrusted you.

You dismantled him with each screw and wire; rerouting and disconnecting nerve after nerve, daring not to draw a breath in fear of failure. His entire being rested upon the pull and press of your fingers and the thrust of your arms. Boothill observed beads of sweat trickling down your forehead and the tentative purses of your lips. He could recount the strands of hair that brushed against your cheek and the bitter pit of envy and spite that grew in him like a weed. The wind could stroke your cheek and the Earth could wrap you fold upon fold until you became the foundations of life itself. Nevertheless, Boothill comprehended how insatiable he was. He envied how the folds of death seemed to embrace you closer than he could ever offer you.

The vibrations of your proposal still ring in his head and run up his spine with the zeal of electricity and the parting words of tenderness. Thus, how could he ever say no?

"I'm almost done with your leg," you muse, your eyes bouncing from Boothill's reposed face and the length of his leg.

"Why'd you ask to become my spouse, ( Name )?"

You blink, the movements of your hands paused while the clock continues to cast its familiar tick-tok. "Don't call me that," you remarked indifferently, your hands promptly resuming their work.

"Then what do I call you?" drawls Boothill, his eyes fixated on the tenacious shifts of your expression.

You emit a half-amused scoff before avowing, "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to."

"Alright then," teases Boothill, "We can play it that way." He pauses, then prompts, "Why'd you ask to become my spouse, doll?"

With that simple phrase, you gingerly place your tools down and lean forward. The poignant warmth of your breath skimming over Boothill's smooth cheek. A blinding smile tugs at the corners of your lips and the placid facade carved in your face broke with brilliance like the yolk of an egg. The corners of Boothill's eyes pooled with awe.

"Because I was tired of carrying pieces of you in my pockets."

general masterlist. request page for event.

[sweetbillwriting]

The Blackened Branches

ONE

Description: Hayden and Eric have a long history together but also secrets, hidden under blackened branches.

Characters: AU Eric from The Crow played by Bill Skarsgård. The story is completely its own thing.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, heavy themes.

Notes: A new Eric story! I missed him at once. 🖤 Once again, thank you @b-afterhours!

We had a big oak next to our house when I was little. It stood alone on a field by our street before the forest spread out behind it. When I was really young, it had been healthy, big, and green, but through the years, it had dried up and stood like a skeleton left behind. There was an oak I had collected acorns by, and given to my mother, but when it died, so did my childlike interests for the tree, until I met Eric.

I was eleven when we met; he was thirteen, but he had a way about him that made him seem younger. I was on my way from school when I saw a boy sitting on a branch at the top of the dead oak. He wore just shorts and a big shirt, and his feet were bare. It was way too cold at the end of October to be dressed like that, so I stared at him a bit too long. When he looked at me, I lowered my eyes and took longer strides to my house. I could feel his eyes on me, but more than that didn't happen. I worried he would say something right then and there, but later, while sitting by the TV with my parents and older brother, I felt disappointed. Nothing exciting ever happened to me, and seeing a weird boy barefoot in a dead tree was the most exciting thing that had happened to me. I wish he had said something, just something that I could have answered cool and relaxed on, but something like that didn't happen to me; I just continued life like someone had perfected it to a predictable psalm.

“Did you see that boy running through the neighborhood today?” asked my mom to my dad which made him tear away his eyes from the TV. My brother, Illowa, and I did the same, but he was annoyed that they spoke over the TV, while I wanted to hear if it was the same boy I've seen.

“Yeah, I tried to catch up with him with the car to see if everything was alright, but he was too fast! Just ran through The Gray’s yard!”

My mom nodded with big eyes.

“Ida thinks he's a burglar. They just get younger and younger, you know.” My mom looked worried for our sake, but my dad had another sort of worried expression.

“Poor kid. The next time we see him, we should see if he's hungry or something. He ran out in his underwear in this weather!”

I looked out through the window; the sky cried big tears, but slowly, like it was sorrowing something in silence.

My mom looked unsure but then sighed. They had a silent agreement they would be good to people and teach us kids to treat people in need with respect.

“You're right. We should.”

I sat confused because I didn't really understand why Ida believed a small boy was a thief, and I couldn't understand why a kid would be running outside in his underwear. I was too privileged and too ignorant to have learned that.

“Hayden, have you seen the boy? He seems to be your age?” asked my dad.

I didn't know why, but I shook my head and looked towards the TV. It wasn't anything private, and what I've seen wasn't worth much; still, something stopped me from talking about him.

×××

For a couple weeks I thought about the boy, looking for him without results. My dad had seen him one more time, dressed in a similar way. He had run away from him again much to my dad’s frustration. He said he wanted to help the boy, but I think he was also just as curious about his story as I was.

“Have you heard anything about a homeless boy at school? Maybe overheard some teachers talking?" Asked our dad, me, and my brother again when we sat together to eat dinner on a Friday night. I shook my head because I hadn't, but Illowa played with two pieces of cucumber on his plate. My dad looked at him intensely, and after a while, Illowa gave in.

“These are not my words, but I heard Frankie's mom talking with another woman, and they said, 'A white trash family had parked their trailer in the woods'. It's not my words!”

My brother could say some bad things when he was with his friends, but he would never do it in front of our parents; he would be grounded, so it was obvious he told the truth. My parents looked at each other a bit uncomfortably, especially when I asked what “white trash” meant.

“It's a bad word; don't say that,” said my mom and stood up, starting to put away the dinner without asking us if we were done. My dad scratched his beard while looking out from the window.

“What people say about a family in need says more about them than the family... If you see that boy again, I want you to invite him to our home. He's a child; he should be taken care of by all grownups surrounding him.”

That was how Eric suddenly stood in our hallway. Illowa had seen him by the tree and invited him into our home, even if he thought the boy was just dirty and weirdly silent. He stood in just orange plaid boxers and a big gray t-shirt, his dark blonde hair messy, and he had dirt from his feet up to his knees. My dad looked at the poor boy with a genuine smile and scratched his beard. He, on the other hand, just gazed down at the ground. Illowa had taken some steps away from him, and his facial expression told me the boy probably smelled.

“What's your name?” My dad tried, but the boy still didn't even look at him. Instead, he looked towards the kitchen, maybe as a hint to why he was there. My dad tried again to ask for his name, but it made him just back away towards the door. I could see in my dad's face that he felt panic, and instead of pressuring for a name, he made a nod towards the kitchen.

“Are you hungry?”

The boy looked at him with big eyes. I think we all inhaled deeply in that moment. His eyes were big like a doll’s and his lips were full like a cherub's. He was beautiful and it made his ragged clothes and smell even more like a punch in the face. The contrast was too big. When I took a deep breath I could smell the sour odor from him. He smelled like old trash but also cheap tobacco smoke that had stuck on his skin and been there for ages.

“Are you hungry?” Asked my dad again and moved to the kitchen doorway. Finally, the boy nodded and slowly approached my dad, like a frightened animal. Both me and Illowa swallowed hard. He might be much smaller than our father, but we didn't know what he could do.

Our kitchen must have made him nervous because he backed out when he met the bright white walls and the colorful art. My parents saw themselves as bohemians, but it was obvious they had a bit too much money to really be bohemians, and my mom seemed to have lost a bit of the interest with age. She wanted a secure life.

“Come in, it's okay,” said my dad to the boy, and carefully he walked in again while playing with his t-shirt. Dad opened the fridge and looked around.

“I can make you a sandwich? We have some left overs from the chicken yester-”

“Oh man..!” Scoffed, my brother disappointed. My dad shot him an angry look, and he quieted down, but I could see his disappointment in his face.

My dad coaxed the boy to one of our turquoise chairs and fixed him a meaty sandwich. All of us watched the boy eat, but he didn't seem to care; he took big chunks of the sandwich but chewed slowly and well. My dad sat down opposite of him by the table, but me and Illowa continued to look at him from afar.

“You live in the forest?” Asked my dad, gaining the boy's attention. The food in his stomach and the hospitality had probably made him trust us a bit more, and he nodded a bit.

“What's your name?”

The boy turned uncomfortably on the chair but then looked up at my dad's kind eyes.

“Eric.”

My dad smiled at him and then sat silent until the boy had finished his sandwich.

“Do you want to take a shower?”

Eric looked down at his dirty fingernails and then concealed them in his fists. He looked embarrassed. He gave Illowa a fast look. He had, like many other boys in their early teens, overstyled hair, a crystal earring, and a pricy hoodie. Eric stood up awkwardly.

“Thank you,” he said with a broken voice, in the same instance he ran towards the door. It was obvious he was afraid my dad would catch him, and he ran for his life. My dad looked really upset, and both me and Illowa looked at him worriedly. I knew Illowa wanted to comment on Eric's smell—that he just wore boxers or that he had legs like sticks—but my dad would have been angry then.

“I hope you see how privileged we are to live like this. There’s many children out there living like Eric.” My dad looked at us seriously, and for a moment I had guilt towards Eric. It was also then that I decided to do everything in my power to take care of him.

×××

The forest by our street was small and didn't stretch out more than a half mile to another street on the opposite side. It was a middle class area where the kids could play in the forest in safety, but it changed that day when two older teens had heard gunshots from the forest. What it was about was never solved, but from that day on, the forest became a place the parents of the neighborhood warned the kids about.

I was five when it happened, so my whole childhood I saw the forest as frightening. In my imagination, there were murderers and thieves living there, and the trees stood so close together it would feel like walls going by them.

I was in the forest with my dad a few times, but I pretended to be uninterested because, in reality, I felt anxious being in there. My father believed me and didn't try many more times to take me there after. The oak was enough for me. It felt like it was the entrance to the woods but was still standing on safe ground. There I could daydream about adventures in the woods without needing to visit it. When I was eleven, those childish thoughts started to die, but instead Eric came out from the woods, just as mysterious as my daydreams had been.

I had decided to find him again, this time without my intrusive dad or my judgmental brother. It felt like I could handle Eric better than they could, especially because we were probably the same age too. After a week with no luck in finding him, I started to think about actually visiting the forest. A Saturday morning, before my parents had gone up, I walked towards the tree. The crows lifted from the branches when I came close and made black silhouettes against the white sky. It looked dramatic and sad, and when I lowered my gaze, I could see Eric standing by the tree looking at the same image as me. He looked just as sad and pale as the sky did, and even if he wasn’t crying, I got the urge to comfort him.

“Hey,” I said carefully. I still was quite far from him, but it felt like he would run if I just walked up to him with determined steps. Eric looked at me, his green eyes standing out in the gray weather.

“Hey,” he said with an exhalation, like he had given up. Maybe he knew I had been looking for him. I looked at him up and down. His legs and left arm were badly bruised, and his knees had dirty, bloody wounds.

“Have you fallen?” I asked, gazing at his knees. Eric peered down at them too and nodded. He looked embarrassed, maybe because I was a girl.

“In the woods?”

Eric nodded again and leaned down, trying to wipe away some of the dirt, but it just smeared in the thick blood.

“I can help you clean it if you want to?”

He looked up at me but didn't say anything. I would probably need to be the one out of us to talk, but it didn't faze me; he was probably just shy.

“I can get some stuff? Like things I can clean the wounds with?” I pointed to my house, and Eric looked towards my house too but then lowered his eyes again. I stood a moment hesitating if I should go back or if I should stay but realized I wouldn't be able to stop him from running either way.

“I’ll get some stuff!” I said and started to run home, leaving him by the tree.

I ignored that it smelled like coffee in the house; I ignored that the morning news was on in the living room; I even ignored my dad when he called after me. I grabbed everything I could imagine you’d need to have to take care of his wounds from the bathroom, and I even filled up my water bottle from soccer practice with water, then I was out of the door. It took me maybe three minutes all of it, but still I expected Eric to have left, but he sat under the tree looking at his wounds like he just realized they were there. I sat down next to him even if I could smell smoke and dirt from his skin. I couldn't imagine what could make a person smell like that but did everything in my power to not react to it.

“Ehm… We must start with cleaning it with water first…” I said carefully. It was hard to find the words I wanted to say because Eric looked at me with such big puppy eyes I had to focus on not drowning in them.

“Okay,” he answered and stretched out his legs. I cleaned his wounds with water and then a wound cleanser. I prepared him for pain, but I didn't get a reaction; Eric just looked at the wounds with the same empty gaze. I looked at him with warm cheeks when he finally smiled a little. From the things I've carried, he pulled out two bandaids with My Little Pony. My cheeks that had been pink turned beef red when I saw what he held up. I had bought them because I thought they were cute but then never used them because it felt too childish.

“They're old. I would never use them now. I'm too old for that!” I tried to laugh even if I felt panic in my chest.

“I want them,” he said with a sweet little smile. For a second I thought he was messing with me, but when I met his kind eyes, I knew he was serious.

“Yeah okay…” I said with a giggle and helped him put them on along with two other bandaids. I looked at my creation with mixed feelings. It looked like I'd tried to fix a crystal vase with tape. It was obvious Eric still was broken. He was dirty, bruised, and probably had even bigger wounds on the inside of his chest. We sat in silence for a longer time than it felt like while I looked at his knees; they looked too big for his skinny legs and stood out weirdly on the sides.

“What's your name?” He timidly asked and cleared his throat like it was the longest sentence he had spoken for a while.

“Hayden,” I said with a giggle and looked up at him with innocent fascination.

“How old are you?” I continued, my curiosity taking over.

“Thirteen,” he said and looked down. He looked a bit ashamed, and maybe he knew he was older than me and that boys like Illowa would make fun of him spending time with a younger girl, but I didn't really know; something also told me he wasn't the type to care what others thought.

“I'm eleven. I'm twelve in March. So soon, twelve!” I said and tried to sound confident. Eric gave me a strange look but nodded a little.

“So like, I'm not that young!” I laughed uncertainly and shrugged my shoulders embarrassed. The more I looked at Eric, the more I felt my cheeks heat. He was painfully cute but also had a blank look that made it feel like everything I said was silly.

I took a deep breath and sat up a bit. I had forgotten about the smell from Eric's skin, but when he also fixed his position, I could sense the sour smell again.

“Do you live in the forest?” I asked after being reminded of the last time I had seen him. Eric waited to talk until he had found his words and licked his lips over and over.

“For now.”

“In a trailer?”

He nodded again and looked at the high trees stretching out opposite my street.

“For now,” he said again and nodded to himself.

“What school do you go to? Is it here close by? Maybe we-”

He interrupted me with a clearing of his throat.

“I work.”

I looked at him with furrowed brows in disbelief, and it must have made him upset in some way because he suddenly stood up on his gangly legs. I stood up too, mostly to be able to look at him. We were the same height even if he was two years older than me, the same age as Illowa.

“Thank you,” he said shortly and looked towards the forest. The fear of never seeing him again took over my body, and I stretched out my hand after his. He looked down at our hands with an unreadable expression but then up to my eyes with furrowed brows, like he didn't understand the act.

“Please don't leave. Ehm… My parents will go to work soon. Can't you come home with me? Please, I will not tell anyone. We can just hang out?”

“Hang out?” He asked, confused.

“Yeah. Maybe you're hungry?”

Eric looked down at his filthy feet. It was obvious it had affected him. He was hungry, and because of that, he had a hard time saying no. I knew that, and I used that to have him close.

×××

Illowa had taken the right as a teen and slept in that Saturday when my dad went to his job, a small music store in the city, and my mom as a healer, went to a bachelorette party. It was easy getting Eric into the house. I thought it would be a struggle to make him take a shower, but instead of me proposing it, he was the one to ask. I gave him a big white towel, steered him to my parents’ bathroom, and pointed out my dad's products so he didn't need to use my mom’s that smelled like lavender. I sat on my parents bed, watching cartoons and waiting for him. It was easier to let him shower there than in our family bathroom because that was just next to Illowa’s bedroom, and I didn't need the drama.

I thought about everything Eric had told me. He said he was working, but it didn't sound right that a thirteen-year-old worked, especially not looking like he did. What kind of work could he do dressed like that? I wondered if he had ever been to school. I had learned so much in school I wouldn't have known without it, and I felt a stomach ache when I thought about if he had learned those things. Did he know how to read? Could he do math? Did he know that earth spins around the sun?

I thought about what my dad had said—that me and Illowa were lucky for not having a life like Eric. He talked like he knew what kind of life Eric had, but I felt I knew nothing; I didn't understand a thing. Who even lived in a trailer?

While I sat in deep thoughts, Eric came out from the bathroom, dressed in my dad's big blue robe. It looked heavy on Eric's short, skinny frame, and he looked smaller when his wet hair hung around his face. I had given the robe to him to spare myself the awkwardness of seeing too much skin, but it was still an awkward moment, especially because I had recently started to see boys as interesting, especially in the ways they were different from me.

“You can stay here and watch TV while I fix some food? Then you don't need to meet Illowa. He can be a bit of a jerk.”

Eric nodded a little and sat down carefully, like he expected me to say no. He stretched out his skinny legs and gave me a small smile. It looked strained, like he wasn't used to moving those muscles, but I still smiled back and went to fix us some sandwiches and hot chocolate. I loved that hot chocolate could always make me feel better, so I hoped it would have the same effect on him.

I already felt I liked Eric, even if he had said so little. It was easy in that age for me to see people as friends, and he was now my friend without questions and friends you took care of. I would protect him now, even if I didn't know anything about him.

That's why the situation with my mom became so hard. I really thought I would be able to hide Eric, protect him from my nosy family, but I knew I had failed with that as soon as I heard my mom open the front door. I could hear in her movement that she was irritated; she stomped her feet, threw her bag to the side, while taking off her outerwear. I ran out to the hallway in panic and looked at her irritated face.

“They had given me the wrong day! I hope they don't do the same thing with the wedding to the priest! Christ!” She said, irritated, and pulled off her knitted cardigan. I looked towards the stairs, thinking of a way to make her move towards the living room instead of her bedroom, but I knew there wasn't a chance. She always walked to the bedroom to take off her jewelry—the first thing she did when she came home. With the years, her braided bracelets and crystals switched to diamonds and pearls, and because of that, they were also more important to take off in a secure place. 

“Are you okay, Hayden?” She asked and played a bit with my hair. I smiled and nodded even if it wasn't at all what I felt. I should have said something or done something, but I couldn't come up with anything other than pretending everything was fine. 

It felt like my mom walked in slow motion up the stairs, but after that everything went so fast. I followed her close behind, unable to stop what would happen, especially because I didn't know what could happen. She stopped in the doorway to the bedroom and didn't say anything; she just looked towards a point in the room. I sneaked up next to her, and even if I knew who I would see, I didn't know what I would see because there was Eric, back in his clothes, making a pocket of his shirt and stuffing it full of my mom's jewelry. Big green eyes looked at me in horror and shame.

××× 

Same green eyes looked at me, but without some of the boy's innocence. There was a darker color under them, small crow's feet in the corners, and a diamond tattoo under the left one. I could drown in those eyes forever. 

Eric laughed, and the crow's feet became deeper and his eyes closed. 

“Eriiic…!” I whined with a laugh. “I really thought you would win this!” 

He laid back against the white pillow, his long, tattooed body stretched out in the hotel bed with me half on top of him. 

“I'm serious, not angry! You're more angry than me!”

I looked at him with a smirk and shrugged my shoulders because it was true. Eric laughed again, then took a grip around my neck with one hand and pressed his lips against mine.

×

[grape-eating-vampire]

things that happened so far in my first bg3 playthrough ever that i found so funny that i put them in my notes (slight spoilers below)

forgot that i put nonbinary as my tavs gender and continously got confused whether people meant me or my whole party when using the they/them pronouns

rejected lae'zel and got passive aggression for many dialogues after

spent about 2 hours re-playing the harpy fight (because i suck) and getting down to the hide-out only to be immediately told off by a child

also got mugged by a different child and threatened them

got called bitchless by a skeleton

let some woman and her zombie husband loose and got disapproval from half the party for it

killed a mushroom and got other mushrooms dancing because of it

killed someone else's husband, felt terrible, found out he was a bitch anyway and immediately felt better

got stuck in walls A Lot

repaired karlach's heart twice and got to hug her (yippie)

accidentally romanced wyll bc i didn't realise the dancing was supposed to be romantic

but honestly i couldn't reject him bc when you ask him what he thinks of you he goes "if you were a song, i'd never stop singing. if you were a psalm, i'd never stop praying" or some similar bs

anyway

had a partayy with lots of tieflings and went to speak with halsin, only for everything to glitch out and be confronted with t-posing volo instead

licked a dead spider and got immediately slutshamed by astarion for it

made shadowheart lose her religion (oops)

argued with gale about please not killing himself for his terrible ex and got what i learned was supposed to be a romance scene. i just told him he's cool and left, though

i'm now about to look for a tragic but butchy grandpa in his tentacle basement (what a sentence to write..)

wish me luck ♡

[knighthawkpoet]

Angel at the Corner Store

I Don’t know where my faith stands, but I’ve been praying more. 

Oh God, oh God, I don’t need a miracle, just company.

God of Rainbows let me survive.

See, my parents are visiting today for a whole weekend, I’m supposed to be cleaning or something but frankly I think I'll faint if I try. I see them in an hour. Maybe less. It’s been nearly a year and it’ll be like seeing strangers.

Their daughter left them last October, moved across the country with her best friend.

And I'm… 

Well. I’m their child, not their daughter (I am this weekend), who moved across the country with their spouse.

See the difference?

My stomach was killing me but I braved the heat and the potholes to take my wheelchair (that they don’t know about) out on an outing. 2 stores and the library. Loaded my bag up with books like it's armor as I watched the time tick down. One hour and they’ll check in with me. (the hour’s since passed and I’m checking my texts obsessively)

My stomach twists, my palms are sweaty, I think I'm praying without even realizing it. 

I turned on my old mp3 player (my brother’s old one, I destroyed most of mine from cranking up the volume as a teenager) where I’ve added whatever music was on my computer to it. 

A lot, as it turns out. 

Stuff I’ve never even listened to before. As it turns out. 

(Ah shit they’ll be here in like 30 minutes.)

I learn about said stuff after I hit a pothole. I can't find the song now but it's from an album my dad gave me pre-pandemic that he doesn't remember. The artists are gay married women. He definitely didn't know that. 

She sings about the bitterness of the closet. I hold the creaking mp3 player like a hymnal and hum along like it's a dirge or a psalm.

Next stop, corner store. I look for a couple things. My spouse sent me to get a thumb drive but the back to school rush is over, Halloween stuff is here now, and a garland of glow in the dark skeletons is probably not a good substitute. Like using applesauce for an omelette. 

Anyway, I just grab a pie instead and hope my mom doesn't get upset about the soybean oil in it. She'll eat miso but not Soy. I don't get it either. 

God’s been giving me signs all day (Good night's sleep. Friendly librarians. No unseen hazards on the road) that I've been brushing past and I think they just got sick of it. I think they decided to just fucking hit me over the head with a good omen. 

The angel in the corner store doesn't see me for a bit, frowning at the two salad options in their hand. 

They look like my spouse.  

They look like my spouse 30 years from now. Magenta mohawk, ring of keys on their belt, docs- for fucks sake this middle aged butch is wearing a pride shirt. They let me go in front of them in line. 

My favorite cashier asks me how I'm doing. I tell her- family is visiting. I'm stressed. 

The middle aged butch helps me with my groceries. As I turn, they nod at me. “You got this sweetheart." 

I Don’t know where my faith stands, but I think I was sent what I needed. A miracle. Hope. A little bit of company.  A rainbow declaring I will not be destroyed.

[ghost-popcorn-bucket]

In honor of a week's passing since the release of RITE HERE RITE NOW, here are my... unadulterated notes from the theater.

🚨WARNING🚨 Contains spoilers for RHRN!

what day is it???? FRIDAY BITCH

kaisarion -> trailer scene

rats

"never to return" sobbing

faith!!

spillways. seestor in wheelchair. psalms????? cctv screen warped

cirice. kicks rain out of the way. bat suit. eye to eye -- emeritus eye ooh

fog??? reddi whip???

absolution --literal fireworks

sodo stealing his thunder like a dickhead

ritual -- sodo continues but rain stops him / flashes yousuck at him

call me little sunshine in full gear

con clavi with tha thurible

bullfighting bro??

watcher in the sky

jumps into a box

nihil marital problems with seestor in tha box

third 7 inches song???????? holy shit???

ghost farts

if you have ghost -- 3 ghoulettes on strings, 1 vocal

vocal ghoulette has nihil face paint on?????

boxing time

twenties

skeleton dancers with weird feet shoes

thongs and nipple pasties

year zero in even more getup, intercut with old movies// pyrotechnics

he is // mortality moment, nostril shot

"so the people know you have given everything, and that you have nothing left to give"

nihil resurrection

SCOOBY DOO ASS NIHIL/SEESTOR MUSIC VID FOR MARY ON A CROSS

mummy dust

...where did you feel it

KEVIN JESUS

shoe change -- ashley also sock reveal

RESPITE ON THE SPITALFIELDS AUGH

rain doesnt get water

encore - kiss tha gogoat, danca macabre -- skellies get pants, ghost says happy pride fr, they have an orgy

SQUARE HAMMER RAAHAAAAA

one last one up the poop chute???? does split kick midair

the moon landing??? hot air balloon??

HE GOES TO SPACE WHAT THE FUCK

COPIA HAS A TWIN

SEEESTOR FUCKING DIES I CALLED IT

FATHER IMPERATOR

when it all burns down -- check if its a new track -- feels very 70s

[w-o-a]

Humans Are Odd

Humans sure are odd, moving like shadows in the fog,

One minute they’re light, the next, they’re a smog,

Smiling faces with knives tucked under their breath,

Friendships feel rented, expired like debt.

How you call me cool, then flip a coin? You're no saint

Cut me off clean, like my essence was noise,

All I gave was calm, no blades in my palms,

But now I’m the villain in your chaos and psalms.

Validation? Please, I don’t chase crumbs,

You’re a maze of rumors, I don’t run dumb.

Your issues? Yeah, those bricks ain’t mine,

Build your own house of lies, I’m fine.

You heard something? Cool, believe what you must,

Let the whispers be your gospel, I’ll break no trust,

’Cause real ones don’t fold when the story gets tense,

But you threw away truth for a counterfeit flob.

Ever stop to think? Maybe you’re the crack,

Projecting your insecurities, pushing shadows back to the abyss,

Blaming me’s easy, no mirror in your skeleton,

But ghosts of your choices keep calling my name.

Humans sure are odd, but I’m built for this road,

Friendly, kind? Yeah, I was all that and more,

But don’t mistake my peace for a weakness to explore.

So stay where you’re at; I wish you no harm,

Your world is your storm, I’m dry in my calm.

~ Z

[viktorgf]

𝐔𝐑𝐋 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

tagged by @timdownie 💜 @thedeadthree ❤️ and @lavampira 💛 to post my url in songs thank u all so much actually i love inflicting my music on people 🩷

☆ﾟ. R— RED ROCK RIVIERA // SEA POWER

☆ﾟ. O— OUTLAW HEART // TIGER ARMY

☆ﾟ. L— LILLY // TORO Y MOI

☆ﾟ. A— ALAKAZAM ! // JUSTICE

☆ﾟ. N— NADJA // UNKNOWN MORTAL ORCHESTRA

☆ﾟ. G— GENESIS // GRIMES

☆ﾟ. F— FLOATING CATHEDRAL // TIMBER TIMBRE

—bonus -> (cs i was tagged while i was still perpetuagf 🫶🏻)

☆ﾟ. P— PSALM // DANIEL OLSÉN

☆ﾟ. E— EVENING // TOPS

☆ﾟ. R— REVOLUTION 909 // DAFT PUNK

☆ﾟ. P— PEGASUS // GEMS

☆ﾟ. E— EL MUCHACHO DE LOS OJOS TRISTES // JEANETTE

☆ﾟ. T— TARO // ALT-J

☆ﾟ. U— UNTITLED DEMO 1997 // PANCHIKO

☆ﾟ. A— AFRICAN VELVET // AIR

☆ﾟ. G— GOTH // SIDEWALKS AND SKELETONS

☆ﾟ. F— FOG // NOSAJ THING

TAGGING— @teamhawkeye 💎 @bhaalcest 💎 @kirkwall 💎 @scalpelsister 💎 @simply-jason 💎 @sikoi 💎 @oc-musings 💎 @red-nightskies 💎 @druidgroves 💎 @rosayoro 💎 @florbelles 💎 @killerspinal 💎 @rvchelking 💎 @gwynbleidd 💎 @corvosattano 💎 @jackiesarch 💎 @leviiackrman 💎 @ravensgard 💎 @yrlietlanaevyss 💎 @ansburg 💎 @unholymilf 💎 @paddingtongirl 💎 and you! 🫶🏻

[kernalphage]

Trick or treat?

-From Steve The Skeleton

Here you go! A book that helped kickstart me out of a burnout spiral - A Psalm for the Wild-Built

[artofkhaos404]

Couldn't have said it better myself. Those who face the darkness in themselves will better be able to understand and appreciate the light that is coming. Christian rock is sick as hell and I don't care what anyone says🤘

Going to see Disciple for the first time, can't wait for the experience!

“Why do you like Christian Rock? Christian Music is supposed to be joyous, that sounds so painful!”

Well, sometimes not all music is joyous. Yes, it’s wonderful to celebrate Jesus, of course, but sometimes people need him in pain too. If a non-religious person comes to a concert and hears “Jesus is wonderful!” They might not be convinced. But if they hear “Listen, I know life’s hard, and you are upset and you feel like a monster and you’re in the panic room, but there’s hope.” That might be enough to change their eternity.

When I went to see Disciple in Murphy, there were about 60-70 people there, and 12 accepted Jesus. While that might not seem like much, that’s 12 people who had their lives saved and the place they go when they die is looking up. While acts like TobyMac and For King and Country are absolutely incredible, they celebrate Jesus in every way. But at Skillet and Disciple shows, they have several teens come up to them saying “Your music saved my life.” While Toby and Joel and Luke are incredible, they can’t reach people the way Christian Rock can. The fact that these singers use a genre filled with agony and songs about death to talk about Jesus is truly something amazing.

I pray and hope that I get to be apart of this industry one day. I’m fired up about Jesus, and it’s such a beautiful and powerful thing that not only does music bring people together, and does music bring people to God, but it saves people’s lives and changes their eternity.

Plus, these performers are CRAZY talented. They have energy, amazing voices with crazy ranges, and can shred guitars and rock the drums like nothing I’ve ever seen.

So that’s why I like Christian Rock. Not just because it’s good. But because it’s freaking powerful.

[grisailledreams]

Never Enough

Astarion stews in a little jealousy while Brynne sings at a Gortash-sponsored party. (AKA Astarynne fluff is back deal with it)

EDIT: Lmao songfic bitches! Never Enough from The Greatest Showman

Title: Never Enough Word count: ~3108 words Pairing: Astarynne (Astarion/Brynne // Astarion/OC // Astarion/Tav -- can you tell idk how we're supposed to be tagging this?) Content Warnings: Light swearing

For a moment, there, Astarion thought he and Brynne had something special. He was the first person she spoke to in the morning. The last touch she sought before bedding down. The one she embraced hardest when that desiccated skeleton man in their camp brought him back from the brink of death, or when it was Brynne being ressurected instead. And yet, every bloody time she sang a duet, it was always with someone else!

Whenever the group came short on coin or supplies, a bard could magically make gold appear with a wiggle of the fingers and a pretty tune – even in a refugee camp. More collected in the hat if she had a partner and upped the performance value, so occasionally Brynne dragged one of their companions onstage and… well, sparks flew. Every time.

She and Wyll sang a romantic duet about defying fate, complete with wizard-made miniature fireworks.

Shadowheart begrudgingly became the other half of a musical business deal.

Karlach had a fantastic time bellowing out a dramatic, pining vow with her.

Gale often got roped into a windy, free-spirited call to adventure.

It was the Wyll number that stuck in Astarion’s craw the most. His ability to provide special effects made him an attractive partner, as did his surprising ability to carry a tune while doing so. That may have had a little to do with Brynne. There was something about her playing that seemed to draw music out of people if she wanted it to; unlikely that Shadowheart knew any music that wasn’t a psalm to Shar. But Brynne and Wyll fell into their show, casting doubts and aspersions aside to promise that they could be together in spite of the world telling them that they couldn’t. They danced in one another’s arms. If Brynne hung a length of silk from a high ceiling – a trick she pulled in the Last Light – she and Wyll performed simple aerial feats to add to the music. And, at the end of the song, Wyll always moved in for a kiss. Astarion always held his breath. Brynne always stepped away and again reiterated that they couldn’t be together. In song.

Afterwards, her duet partners might have said something friendly about how fun it was, or ask with bright eyes how much they managed to rake in, but the romance of it all never brought them closer.

Did it? The jealous fire in Astarion’s belly only made him believe that Wyll looked at her a little too long for the rest of the night, a little too dreamy-eyed, juxtaposing a little too much of a fairytale damsel’s aura over Brynne’s face–

Not once did the bard ever, ever ask Astarion if he’d like to sing with her.

He didn’t. Why embarrass himself in front of so many people the way their associates did? But an invitation might have been nice.

It took last place in the list of his concerns when Gortash invited – “Read,” said Astarion as they looked at the notice, “insists.” – Brynne to play at a dinner honoring the officials of the Flaming Fists and, in the interest of not having anyone throw them all into Wyrm’s Rock, Brynne agreed. She’d been playing coy with the new Archduke every time he suggested they work together. “Avoiding a fight” without making promises she didn’t intend to keep. Gods. Yes, he understood the intention of it and yes, he would have done the same thing for slightly different reasons, but now she was forcing him to go along with her idiot plans because he knew — he knew, gods damn her! — that if he didn't, she'd wind up in Wyrm's Rock with Gortash waving his hand for a servant to dispose of her corpse and mop the blood from his shiny, marble floor. And then what was Astarion supposed to do? Go to Withers? What lesson would Brynne learn, then, about doing stupid things?

When the night arrived, Karlach, Astarion, and Jaheira dressed up as much as any of them cared to – Loudly, Nicely, and “Fuck It” in that order – and concealed the weapons they were banned from bringing on their persons. Brynne didn’t seem worried. Her creepy lyre strung with spider silk, she insisted, was all the weapon she needed when Astarion asked her about whether she wanted her bow or her rapier and where she planned to put either.

“Where could I possibly hide those in this dress?” she asked, with far too much laughter in her voice for comfort.

In fairness, she was right. The fabric, a fetchingly deep shade of green that made her pink skin glow, had been clipped, stitched, and draped in a style reminiscent of Antiquity – one that exposed most of her back, especially with her green-and-brown hair teased into a careless updo laced with gold chains. Matching metallic flowers and insects cast in a modern style pinned the fabric into fanciful sleeves that fell away at the elbow so as not to get in the way of her playing. She’d even abandoned her daywear boots – leather and scruffy and certainly not a pair to go with this ensemble – for soft, thick-soled sandals with jeweled clasps and straps that ran up to the thigh. Decidedly unsuitable for a fight if one broke out.

Astarion’s judgmental eye only went over her once before he took a knee at her feet, took his dagger sheath entirely from his belt, and strapped the sussur blade just above the topmost strap of Brynne’s sandal where she could easily reach it.

When she began to protest, Astarion dramatically sighed and cut her off. “I’ll have to make do with my rapier. Do take care not to lose that. We went through so much to have it forged.”

He kissed her and called her beautiful so she’d forget to keep arguing.

Their party walked through streets that used to be so lively at this time of day, when the sun had just gone down and lanterns lit the way. Taverns and burlesque houses that typically stayed loud and merry into the first rays of dawn largely closed their doors before midnight. Anyone who still dared be out by nightfall cast suspicious glances at the adventurers, not knowing whether they were saviours or oncoming damnation. Thank gods Astarion need not hunt nowadays. Breaking down those psychological walls would have been exhausting. As he and the rest of the group approached Wyrm’s Rock, they found one of the few places with open doors, bright lights, chatter, and the smell of food wafting from the windows: the Flaming Fist officers’ barracks.

Even at a party – especially at a party, maybe – there were guards. A tall, muscular woman in full steel plate stopped them at the door to mean-mug them into giving up whatever anti-Gortashian plot they might think to hatch. In that sickeningly sweet, gorgeously manipulative way of hers, Brynne batted her eyelashes and flashed the letter bearing the Archduke’s signature.

Once the manip decided it wasn’t a forgery, the glare softened into boredom and she flatly said, “No weapons past this point.”

“We know!” Brynne chirped. “We came prepared!” She turned around to face her team, raising her brows. “Right?”

Karlach, Jaheira, and Astarion exchanged glances amongst themselves. With a shrug, Jaheira said, “Don’t look at me. What, you think I’m senile and forgot we weren’t allowed to bring blades? And this one,” she said, jabbing her thumb to Karlach, “wouldn’t be able to hide a weapon in a smith’s forge.”

“Hey!”

And then they all whirled on Astarion.

He groaned, hung his head back, and drew his fingers through his freshly-washed and touseled hair. “I’m hurt. I’m offended. You all really think so little of me?!”

“I could pick you up by the ankle and shake it out of you,” Karlach offered.

“Ugh, fine, fine…” Astarion opened his doublet, pulled out a cheap, tiny dagger from a hidden pocket, and waved it in front of their faces before he deposited it in the manip’s waiting hand. “There. Happy?”

“Astarion!”

The disappointment in Brynne’s voice might have broken his heart if it hadn’t been all one massive pantomime.

In Brynne’s flurry of impassioned apologies to the manip and offers to leave Astarion behind, not to mention Jaheira and Karlach muttering criticisms of him under their breath, the Flaming Fist never once thought to check the rest of them to see if they were also carrying concealed blades. Clearly, they cared deeply about being present for this Gortash-sponsored event. The other option likely involved a trip to Wyrm’s Rock for defiance. Who would think that sweet, freckled, spring blossom face could lie so perfectly? Clearly, not the manip waving them through the gate.

Officers enjoyed higher pay and more authority, but it seemed their buildings were still just too small to host gatherings anywhere other than their courtyard. Wait, there were hay mannequins crushed below the stairs. Training yard. Out-of-place tablecloths decorated shabby trestle tables, set with gleaming silver tableware for the officers and attending patriars. No one too fancy. High-ranking merchants, lower nobility, people who might have been invited to Gortash’s ascension ceremony but also would have been surprised and eager by it. Dinner smelled expensive; a far cry from even the fare at the Elfsong. Serving staff made rounds through the party with trays of hors d’ouevres and crystal flutes full of sparkling wine, but a bar had been set up opposite the stage. A few invitees spared the party a glance, but once they saw Brynne and her lyre, they lost interest. The band had to set up. They wouldn’t be interesting until later. Then again, they didn’t know that Astarion was about to go mingle.

He hung back for a moment, though, so he could fix her hair. One of the curls she left loose didn’t look as nice as the one next to it. “Singing with Karlach again?” he asked, trying to sound conversational; he failed to keep out the grumble. “Or are you forcing poor old Jaheira on stage with you for once?”

“Neither.” Astarion glanced up. “No duets.” And glanced down to fix the drape of one of her sleeves. “Gortash sent an incredibly specific set list for me.”

“Dictatorial even in party music. I should be less surprised.”

“Maybe if I do a decent job for his underlings, I’ll get to play for the man, himself!” They both laughed. Neither of them wanted to be in the same room as Gortash again unless it was to slit his throat. “Alright. Don’t pickpocket anyone, okay?”

“But darling,” he purred, briefly drawing his foreknuckle over her cheekbone and the elven knots tattooed over it, “you know how your pretty music makes my fingers itch.”

Again, she giggled, rolling her eyes, but her face glowed in that odd, warm way that eladrins seemed to do when they were happy. Absolutely blinding, sometimes, like the morning after that first night they’d spent together, or the one after their little celebration with the tieflings. Luckily, she’d been sunny in his direction often enough that he could stand its light. He liked that she saw their dynamic burglary duo status as something favorable. Even cherished.

Astarion kissed the back of her hand, demure enough in his gesture so as not to cheapen her presence in front of her audience, but also to enough eyes to make sure they all knew she was taken. “Break a leg, my love,” he murmured, right before he melted into the crowd. The strings sang to him before he reached the open bar.

The wine did nothing to relax the tension in Astarion’s legs and he’d sooner chop his own foot off before he jiggled a leg the way Brynne did whenever she felt restless. He wasn’t used to a task so full of nothing. They were always trying to infiltrate, steal, expose, kill, or save someone or something, typically with mixed results, and while they could have spent half that time doing something more worthwhile, at least it felt productive when they inevitably found gold, treasure, or new equipment. None of that, here. She’d told him so. But with all those eyes glued to her, easing into the music, Astarion spied no fewer than three purses he could cut and several pieces of jewelry easily liberated. On toetips, he could probably sneak into the officer’s chambers and rummage through their things before Brynne even finished the song. He’d done beautiful work with her in the counting house like this. She could play for hours. He hadn’t met a lock he couldn’t pick.

Instead, Astarion tried to listen to the music. War songs, mostly, an anthem to Bane, and multiple numbers clearly written by Gortash, himself, praising his new elevation in status… all ridiculous. The attendees listened politely and applauded with extra strength when Gortash’s name was mentioned, but for the most part, they spoke amongst themselves. Karlach and Jaheira managed to elbow their way into a table with a wealthy old married couple who were dressed far too formally and too old-fashioned to be anything other than family or donors. By the sounds of it, they were too deaf to be offended by Karlach’s occasional loud outburst. The wife in blue velvet patted Karlach on the shoulder while her partner, Wife in Green, launched into a rambling tale that Jaheira patiently listened to… or, at least, she seemed to nod periodically.

Servants served dinner and Karlach tried to wave Astarion over to join them, but he held up a hand. Being a vampire made his already limited elven diet that much more restrictive. The only hunger he’d felt lately was for… well. He didn’t need to say it, did he?

As Brynne wrapped up another song about Gortash – Jannath’s Ecstasy – one of the Archduke’s representatives, sent to the event as his stand-in, tapped a spoon to his glass and stood up. A thin little human man with a whisker-thin mustache and a curly-tailed coat. He cleared his voice and said in a reedy voice, “A few words, from His Grace, Archduke Enver Gortash…”

Oh, the droning. Blah blah blah, dawn of a new age, blah blah blah, thin steel line. The myriads pamphlets regarding Gortash’s policy plans were bad enough. Each syllable of this speech made Astarion want to dismantle his ears piece by piece from the inside out. He caught Brynne’s eye. She grinned at him, lips pressed tightly together so she could rearrange her expression if one of the Fists realized she wasn’t drinking in every word. Jaheira and Karlach did that. One, desiring to learn more about their enemy through the words he spoke through a puppet. The other, glowing red and barely containing her fury; the patriars at their table soon fanned themselves from the heat.

 Finally, the human stepped down, bid the attendees to enjoy their meal, and flashed Brynne a signal to continue playing her set. She dipped her head with a sweet smile and dropped an inch as some kind of respectful curtsy that managed to not put her playing stance off-balance. Nothing more than background noise, no one could say that Brynne didn’t do her very best when it came to music. Even when she only had a true audience of one. Her eyes found Astarion again. That smile widened and warmed.

He couldn’t look away, not when her fingers danced over the strings and made the lyre twinkle like a starry music box.Her expression softened and Astarion knew this song was his.

“I’m trying to hold my breath. Let it stay this way. Can’t let this moment end.”

No one noticed that this wasn’t part of the preapproved set list for quite a while. Perhaps they were too invested in complimenting the food and wine selection and the Fists had long tuned her out by then. Fine. They didn’t need to. Astarion’s stomach squirmed in a more pleasant way than to which he was accustomed, letting the music caress him in the way Brynne clearly wanted to do herself. A clandestine little love note in the middle of a crowded room. A shame that it couldn’t last.

“All the shine of a thousand spotlights, all the stars we steal from the night sky will never be enough. Never be enough. Towers of gold are still too little. These hands could hold the world, but it’ll never be enough. Never be enough for me.”

 Faces began to turn to stone. Laughs throttled and broke mid-throat. The attendees who weren’t entirely pro-Gortashian rule shifted uncomfortably where they sat. The rest glared. Brynne sang, her lyrics full of greed and reaching farther beyond what was reasonable, all packaged up in the sound of a gentle ballad that grew in strength with each iteration. Karlach groaned a little and when Astarion glanced over to their table, the tiefling was rubbing her temple with a single finger and Jaheira looked ready to garrote Brynne. Astarion shook his head, smirking. They were going to get run out of town if she didn’t stop soon.

Every person in that courtyard aside from Brynne and Astarion had missed the parts that solidified her song as one of love, and Astarion greedily hoarded them for himself.

You set off a dream in me, getting louder now. Can you hear it echoing? Take my hand. Will you share this with me? ‘Cause darling, without you…

No matter how many bank vaults they flawlessly emptied, no matter how fine the wines they stole, no matter how heavy their gold purses grew, it would never be enough without Brynne at his side, hand in hand.

Who else could be his partner in crime as well as in life?

The song ended as gently as it started and through the polite, if stilted, smatter of applause, Brynne blew Astarion a kiss. A pair of Fist gauntlets escorted her off stage. She laughed, waved off their worry, tried to assure them that it wasn’t any criticism of the Archduke or his loyal patriars, but to the gate she went all the same. Astarion gestured with his head for Jaheira and Karlach to follow, pocketing his secret smile.

He grabbed Brynne’s hand before she saw him exit the courtyard. Karlach and Jaheira launched into complaints about barely being able to eat anything or get properly drunk, or how they were having such a nice conversation with those sweet old Grans. Astarion and Brynne tuned them out. She squeezed his fingers. Heat bloomed in his chest.

Brynne never sang songs to any of the others the way she did for him. And he’d never get enough of it.

[omegaremix]

Omega Radio for February 12, 2022; #298.

Alan Vega: “Fist”

Paul Barker: “All The Pretty Swindles” (Puscifer RMX)

Trent Reznor & Jeordie White & Peter Murphy: “Warm Leatherette”

Aurat: “Shame”

Cold Cave: “Psalm 23” + “Prayer From Nowhere”

Prayers feat. Robert Harvey: “Black Dove”

Kanga: “Eternity”

Boy Harsher: “Give Me A Reason” + “R.O.V.” (new beat edit) 

Annunziata: “Intro”

Bootblacks: “Nostalgia” (Kanga RMX)

Ghxst: “Shimmer” + “Come Home”

White Ring: “Got U”

Sidewalks And Skeletons: “Exorcism” 

Maelstrom & Louisahhh: “Ascender”

Ciarra Black: “Retrograde”

Debby Friday: “Stay Up” + “Fatal”

Youth Code & King Yosef: “Looking Down”

Andy Morin & BackXwash: “Dig Yourself A Grave”

Hardcorebae: “No Indictment” + “Hang Yourself”

JK Flesh: “Gullibility” 

Moor Mother: “Zami”

Octonomy: “Robespierre”

Rosa Damask: “Memorials”

Merzbow & Prurient: “Cylinders Raven”

Uniform: “Youth Of America” (live)

Annual Winter-only deluxe darkness broadcast.

[postmodernprophet]

The secret white mind whispers

And it had this to say: And the hippopotamuses were boiled in their tanks, and the tanks won't stop until they've drank at the water hole, and the waterhole is made of wheat, oil, and tar, and Jesus abiding in those fields of wheat was refused food & board for looking a little too effeminate, and who would risk such a thing in our economy? The economy is about disposable income, in come the cash and out comes the cravings for more, out comes the cash out of jean pockets bubbling and bursting forth like improper dew, giving out their due, out and into the world and into the mouths of cash registers and into the pockets of skeletons in parliament and insurance company boards, and god finds no tithe for Him in there, and at the church they also take your money and say that God "can make the money fit through the camel's eye", this is the religion of accountants & sales clerks & egotistical entrepreneur, receiving into their empty dog-like paws, receiving into their palms, the psalms of some obviously secret revelation, and into my palms there is nothing but the insalubrious psalms of my own salvation, and wrapped around my fingers the serpentine phallus that serves me as a pen, and this black notebook much like a void, a ravine into which visions are dispensed with, like corpses thrown from the bridge down below, and a the body of a dog follows after them.

And I had a dream about this ravine and aren't the mountains high? but don't the vultures soar even higher above the peaks? And although they gorge themselves on filth and gore don't they reach heaven before us? And the dream that I had was that we were all stuck down here in the ravine, and in flowed the filth and shit from the world above, all the disgusting juices of humanity, and a series of vultures with human faces and human hands and human teeth forcing our heads down into the muck, slowly turning us into more & more disgusting vultures ourselves, until the transformation was achieved and we'd fly into lone dirty empty kitchen rooms and take our pleasure with each other in the slime with long slimy penises that wrapped around our perches, but at the moment of orgasm me myself that had become a vulture realizes that we weren't down in a ravine, but up on a mountain ridge, and the filth and muck was nothing but the clearest, purest, rainbow filled water possible, and the vultures and their awful penises were purefaced angels with their swords,

And the world of vultures and the world of angels weren't separated but always already there, and through the world of vultures you could see in negative, like the imprint of the sun on the retina, heaven reflected, and in the world of angels you could see in negative, like the footprint that suggests the foot that was there but which is not anymore, hell reflected, and they were one and the same, and we are already in heaven, otherwise the vultures would be there before us.

[gosorsomething]

The Book of Josephine - Chapter 10

Hi everyone, I've published the next chapter of my Warrior Nun spin off. I was honestly overwhelmed with the response from the last chapter! thank you for hearing me out on this one haha

Here's an excerpt! From Chapter 10:

Job 12:12, "Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?" [Genesis, Part X]

Correspondence File – I.3.2014-11/SHJ/NE

Dear Father Vincent,

A true miracle has occurred in New Jersey. But first—I must confess something to you.

Our reseArch into demonic possession has continueD beyond what I had previously communicated. The miRacle, however, is as follows. I tasked the Codex (and the Novice, keep in mind) with finding a solution to the increased casualties of our sIsters in recent outbreaks. Scouring our history, they discovered the use of divinium tattoos by sistErs in the time of Wn. Marthe to evade possession by wraith demons (Codex CdA 1798 for reference). This method has been tested using both organic divinium sources and divinium from the armor of AdrieL, and it is effective indeed. This conclusion also requires you to learn of other information I have kept from you—my sincerest apologIes for the deceit, but you will find it justified. LaSt year, we recovered the skeleton of a Tarask—yes, that Tarask—from the site of an outbreak in CoLorado. We have cOnfirmed the skeleton to be composed of divinium, vindicating the old records that speculated the metal comes from an oRganic source. The sisters useD the Tarask fossil for their tAttoos, while I chose to use diviniuM from Adriel’s armor for my own—I dislikEd the risk of demonic contamiNation. I suggest you do the same—use the angel’s armor for your own protection. We have enough of the Tarask’s remains left to send for other sisters, should you find this development useful. Results so far have been incredibly promising, as we have tested the tattoos using a demon in our care. Sisters will continue to report on the effectivity of tattoos on field missions. East Outreach leaves for North Carolina tomorrow morning.

Do this as soon as possible, Vincent—The Lord speaks to me in new ways.

Psalm 85:8

Blessings,

Father Isaac, NE-OCS

  In this life or the Next.

Catalogue note - Sister H. Josephine:

Language ambiguous. Flagged for clarity. Neglected to mention discovery and use of the Sclera. Flagged for missing information. Atypical use of script. Flagged for clarity (2).

Response Thread (See):

V.2.2014-12/SHJ/CC

[REDACTED]

I.3.2014-12/SHJ/NE

[REDACTED]

V.2.2015-1/SHJ/CC

[REDACTED]

I.3.2015-2/SHJ/NE

[REDACTED]

-----

Correspondence File – SHJ.17.2014-11/SHJ/NE

Dear Mother Superion,

Suzanne, I hope you are well. I can only imagine how difficult it is to settle into your new responsibilities after the events of last few months. I sympathize with your grief, as I share in my own with the passing of Mother Superion. She was my third Superion, and the most personable I have served. We met many times during her life and wrote to each other several times a year. I want to reassure you that my line is always open—while I cannot speak over the phone, let my voice in writing bring you some comfort should you allow or ask for my guidance or friendship, personally, or if you seek information from the Codex.

Father Isaac has written to Father Vincent of our discoveries. The use of divinium tattoos will be effective in our fight, I believe. May this bring you some security and personal reassurance that you no longer need to feel responsible for putting your sisters in danger—at least that they will be at less risk on field missions. I am confident in the training that you provide them; without the danger of possession, they can rely on your ample guidance to find and defeat Satan in all his hiding places.

I must also inform you that information has been omitted from Isaac’s report, for a reason I cannot determine. When our chapter recovered the Tarask’s skeleton, the Novice discovered that a ring of bone in the eye socket of the demon provides one with the ability to see wraith demons and reveals the presence of Divinium without proximity to the Halo. We have named the ring “Sclera” due to its anatomical position in the Tarask. If you would like to read the reports of our exorcisms using this tool, I would be more than willing to send them to the Cat’s Cradle. If you would like us to send the Sclera itself for examination, I am sure it can be arranged, although Father Isaac was opposed to this idea.

Father Isaac has opened a request thread to all other chapters to send any possible extant uncatalogued records in regard to the death of the Angel Adriel, early OCS history, Areala, and Warrior Nun Cora. As you are aware, the Codex does not contain any of Cora’s records, and it is my belief these records were possibly destroyed by her adversaries. Did this request come from Cat’s Cradle? I can’t find any records of recent correspondence that might require this information. I would be willing to supply what knowledge I can on this subject should Shannon need it. 2 Corinzi 2:11 - ... affinché non siamo raggirati da Satana; infatti non ignoriamo le sue macchinazioni.

Pax tecum,

Codex Sr. Josephine

SHJ.17.2014-12/SHJ/NE

Catalogue Note – Sister H. Josephine: Above letter returned to sender. Sent with new postage 2015-1/CC.

SJY.1.2017-7/SJY/NE

Catalogue Note - Sister J.Y.: Above letter returned to sender. Previous postage opened and resealed with partial text redaction by apparent reader (Unk.). Redacted text (p.2) illegible. No apparent response from Mother Superion 2017-7.

read more on Ao3

or start at chapter 1!

[mad2jokes]

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