#there’s an entropy there I think he would enjoy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

caligvlasaqvarivm · 4 months ago

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do you think Eridan would listen to kpop ? (either the human or Troll variant)

if not...then which troll would be the most likely to :3c

LOL no way, he's a hipster. KPop is mainstream as hell; if anything, he'd have disdain for it (and for pop as a whole). One of the less emotionally perturbed trolls would probably enjoy that stuff, though I don't know that I'd call any of the Alternian crew the kind who'd consider it to be their favorite, since nearly all of them are at least a little alt in some way, and kpop (and idol culture as a whole) is heavily tied up in politics, propaganda, capitalism, and consumption - so the troll version of it would be that times a thousand.

I'd say Feferi, Gamzee, and Kanaya probably quite like it because they're most at ease with their society, but it's not their favorite. Equius probably sees it as being aimed at the lower castes, and therefore crass and beneath him. Everyone else would probably get the propaganda vibes and dislike it on principle, even if some of them might secretly find some songs catchy (cough Karkat cough).

If you want to get into Beforan trolls, haha, oh man. I think more of them would like it than not.

Normally, I'd say that Eridan would at least make a show of liking it, given how much he makes a show of being a Sea Dweller(TM), but his hipster tastes, like his interest in magic, don't appear to be things he can shake. Karkat even calls him a hipster, so you KNOW he's out here dissing Trollor Swift and making disdainful faces when people bring up Troll Marvel.

I have as a selection of bands for Eridan Have a Nice Life (post-rock/post-punk/shoegaze), Sprain (noise rock/experimental rock), and Tool (alternative metal/art rock/progressive rock). Generally, I find he vibes with stuff on the darker side of post/prog rock, or the more lyrical side of heavy metal - both in terms of themes (lots of darker topics, like death, murder, suicide, child abuse, etc.) and in terms of sound. It also fulfills the requirement of being "hipster" by nature. Eridan is a very troubled, angry, violent guy, and I personally like to call the linked bands "angry man music". Just a smattering of lyrics for those who don't want to listen:

I've been doing a lot of damned things without you And all the damned things I do confound you Yeah, Satan and his devils try to take my hand And the angels on my shoulders try to tell me that they understand Oh well, oh well

Imagine this: I'm the guest on some obscene talk show In a cell of moral compromise The audience is made up of everyone that I have ever met in my entire life Every sin I've ever committed is put up on display by screens hung around the stage And we watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch, watch The host says "I now present to you an elaborate choreography of failure!" The audience erupts with seemingly coordinated jets of jargon laughter "Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Shame on you!"

I'm broken, looking up to see the enemy And I have swallowed the poison you feed me But I survive on the poison you feed me, leaving me Guilt-fed, hatred-fed, weakness-fed It makes me feel ugly

I think even when his tastes do venture lighter, they still never really cross the threshold into pure pop. There's always going to be a hipster, indie, punk-y, shoegaze/post-rock bent to his tastes. I also list for him Dirt Poor Robins, Family Crest, Johnny Hollow...

Wisdom unearned is Intrepid and proud Till we’re dragged by the tide and nearly have drowned Entropy thrives In conditions enclosed Innovations arise When humanity chokes

Cast your heart to the floor, love Feel the sting, feel the weight Of a love, of a love not strong enough Your head's on fire Your hands and feet come off the ground Oh, sweet desire, when your mind, when your mind When your mind's not strong enough It's not that your head is gone It's just that your heart is on fire, fire It's not that the beat is off It's just that your heart is on fire, fire

Once when I was all alone I called you, and you weren't at home My heart fell like a stone, to the ground To the ground, to the ground Why, when morn had dawned on me And anger grew like ecstasy And Leda threw the swan on me and I fell to the ground To the ground, to the ground

Hilariously, this alt/hipster taste means that he runs up against stuff that's ridiculously anti-government; I personally like to believe he does actually listen to outright anti-fascist songs, but if you point it out, he's just like. No it isn't. So SWMRS, Silver Mt. Zion, Vansire.

Well, you gotta keep it up But it will never be enough No sonrisa teenage shit pop Well, you gotta keep it up But it will never be enough No sonrisa teenage shit pop Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic Death to the motherfucking fascist insect This shit makes me so sadistic

There's fresh meat in the club tonight God bless our dead marines Someone had an accident Above the burning trees While somewhere distant peacefully Our vulgar princes sleep Dead kids don't get photographed God bless our dead marines

So I convalesced in the middle west And fell for Ohio's roads I'm standing still by the windowsill Where I once watched the world explode So when it's looking dark in your narrative arc I'm here and you can talk with me A hackneyed fool under fascist rule Wasting days singing about his dreams

It's a pretentious-ass taste, but one that fits in with the vocabulary he likes to use:

CA: all of her FRAUDULENT MAGICS cannot come close to posin threat to my mastery ovver the TRUEST SCIENCES CA: an wwith my empiricists wwand i servve as the righteous hope that wwill incinerate delusion and the deluded alike CA: my holy fire is the wwhite fury bled from the wwrath-wweary eyes of fifty thousand nonfictional angels CA: and wwhen theyre finished wweepin they wwill boww before their prince GG: wow what are you talking about

I miss the days when stars were saintly They sang to me in ways innately Before we enslaved the symphony To playing anthems for selling things I used to wonder, wander farther Into awe, but those days were squandered My ghost was lost to the grownup gallows So I find my spirit in the bottle

Those modal masterworks Atonal oeuvres it seems When I ask afterwards All message lost in between The shifting aperture Depicting sun-soaked scenes I guess they resonate That's Universal Consciousness

Fate’s a funny thing It makes a victim of the will and brings a suit of broken bands A snake so full of tail That it can barely breathe to say it “doesn’t understand.” So, what am I to think? What am I to think? I’m doing it now At least I know I am At least I caught myself before I sent this out Into a stupid world that doesn’t give a damn Oh, what kind of fool do you think I am?

Like, I really can't stress enough, but Eridan is abjectly fucking miserable, angry and violent, anxious and unhappy. And his taste in music should reflect that, his feelings of impotence, his angry and anxious energy, his desperation. Have a Nice Life is probably the band I pick for him, because their discography reflects so greatly these emotions of anger, impotence, self-loathing and self-destruction.

The thing about being a hipster is that there's, the way I see it, three main reasons people wind up falling into it - the first is that they want to feel special, feel better than other people (not really Eridan's deal); the second is that they're just generally a music liker and their taste is indiscriminate enough to include indie stuff, too (and this is also not really Eridan's deal); and the last is because there is something in their soul that cries out for validation that they can't receive in the mainstream - for example, emotions, impulses, thoughts, and urges too dark for radio play (such as an obsession with genocide and murder). It's actually really important to me that Eridan IS a hipster, and specifically the type of hipster who's super pretentious and looks down on stuff that's "popular."

He has a massive fixation on being understood - complaining constantly that people don't "get it," that "nobody understands." This would extend to his taste in music. He would seek out genuine-ness, something grungy, something real, and unfortunately, stuff that's made for mass-market consumption must have the edges sanded off by nature. Given he actually gets upset when people don't "get" him, I'd wager that he doesn't treat media that he feels doesn't "get" him pretty poorly, too.

To be clear, I'm not trying to diss KPop in any way. It's not really my thing, but I get why people like it, and I'm not saying you shouldn't. Just feel like I have to toss that in there. I just really don't think Eridan would like it. And also he would probably be mean about it if you told him you liked it.

#not tagging this because i feel like im swinging at a hornet's nest with this one lol #also to be clear i don't like kpop; do NOT send me recs #and also im chinese so i promise you this isnt some weird xenophobia thing i just don't like it because I TOO AM A HIPSTER...

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queenmuzz · 29 days ago

Text

Five Stages of Grief: Chapter IV

Depression

Read it HERE on Ao3

It feels a bit strange, Emmrich thinks, to have so many people in his quarters. Even before Tearstone, when there was light and hope and love in his life, very few people entered his study, save for when they needed his services.

He was fine with that, after all, he was used to solitude. He was perfectly happy living his own life by himself with only Manfred as company

…And then Rook came along and changed everything. It wasn’t just that she was a fellow Mourn Watcher, well versed in the ways of the dead. It wasn’t just that she was kind, thoughtful, selfless, willing to befriend and aid anyone. She held no judgments on the possessed assassin, she enjoyed listening to Bellara’s conversation on ancient elven artifacts despite not understanding any of it. She somehow managed to endear herself to Taash, even with the latter’s obvious dislike of necromancy. She was brave… oh so brave. At Weisshaupt, when she had willingly placed herself in the line of danger to take down the archdemon. At the Blackthorne Manor, where she shielded him from the monstrosity’s deadly aura. She could have had her pick of any of her companions, but she had chosen him. Even now, he still does not know why she chose him. But now… he would make himself worthy of her.

Manfred places the bar of pure raw lyrium upon the desk, the only being able to touch it without suffering from ill effect (He forbade even Harding to touch it, he couldn’t risk anyone else getting hurt).

“Do you need help?” Neve asks, but he shakes his head. He cannot afford to have any distractions.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and begins to channel the mana at his fingertips.

Begin the infusion.

It’s like making a cake, measuring the magic in precise amounts, layering it as he folds the bar a specific number of times. Creation Magic first, allowing it to shape the blade into its rough shape. Entropy Magic, to modify its magical absorption. A hint of Primal Magic to provide the ‘spark’. And lots of Spirit Magic. He’s thankful that his training had him specialize in it, as many other countries’ Circles shy away from it, confusing it with blood magic. He sandwiches each type of magic between layers of lyrium, cross hatching so that every surface of the blade is equally suffused. His focus must not waver, any mistake could render the blade useless, or even worse, cause a backlash that could kill him. He feels drops of sweat drip down his brow as channels more Spirit Magic, infusing the blade with the fade itself.

She would love to have seen this, she always loved the way his hands moved as he did a corpse whispering. Focus…

His mouth is dry, and he can hear Harding whisper, “Can you hear that?”

“Nope.” Taash’s voice. “Hear what?”

“It sounds like a song… but a sad song”

“Perhaps it's the lyrium you hear,” Neve’s voice is soft, “you’re more sensitive to it than the rest of us.”

The blade needs more Entropy magic, to balance it out, and his fingers flick.

Her eyes full of wonder and admiration as he showed her the depths of the Fade.

“Emmrich… that was… amazing! I wish I could see the world of magic as you do all the time”

FOCUS!

“Emmrich, are you alright?” Lucanis’s voice is concerned, and he senses his approach.

“I’m-I’m fine.” He insists, as he begins the final infusions, a large amount of Spirit Magic flows from him. His entire body is trembling from the exertion. This is taking more out of him than anything he’s ever done. He keeps his eyes closed, but he can picture the green twinkling lights that always occur during these rituals.

He sees her delight as she reaches for one light, holding it in the palm of her hand like it’s a snowflake.

Emmrich Volkarin, FOCUS!

The blade is almost finished, but is missing something. He can’t put his finger on it. There’s a presence the original blade had that he can’t replicate. Still, he presses on, mixing a touch more Primal magic to help keep the lyrium malleable for the last adjustments. No, that’s not it. “Something’s wrong, the song is changing… it’s getting angry”

He can feel a strong pushback now, something that he attempts to ignore, pushing himself to his utter limits to channel every last bit of magic he has into the blade. He cannot fail. He MUST not fail.

“Emmrich!”

A blow of energy blasts him back, and he blacks out.

He comes to, as something is poured into his mouth, tasteless yet chalky. He feels the grit settles between his teeth and he tries not to cough it up as it irritates his throat.

“Easy Emmrich…easy…” Lucanis’s voice is calm, yet tinged with worry. “Get me another Lyrium potion.” He blinks as Manfred hands the assassin a flask, who uses his teeth to remove the cork, spitting it to the side, before bringing it to his lips. “Drink.”

He resists. He’s not a child. He won’t be treated like one, but even the act of trying to push it away takes energy he realizes he doesn’t have. SMELLS LIKE ROCK AND BLOOD! He hears Spite with his ever so helpful commentary as he reluctantly allows the liquid to flow down his throat. He blinks, trying to figure out how he ended up in this state. It’s been decades since he’s drained his mana reserves to the point of exhaustion. It takes a few moments to remember what he was doing that would take so much energy…

“The Blade!”

He tries to sit up, but that takes up so much of his energy, that if it wasn’t for Neve on his other side, supporting his shoulder, he’d probably collapse on the floor. But his own condition doesn’t matter, what he needs to know is if the ritual was a success.

“It’s here…” Harding kneels down by his side, holding it reverently, like it’s being presented to an Orlesian Chevalier at his induction. It looks exactly the same as the original, bright azure that contrasts with the lingering green sparks that linger in the air. He takes it, feeling its weight. To an untrained eye, it’s like he’s holding the very same blade Solas created untold ages ago. The same shape, same weight, same texture.. But holding in his hands, using his dwindling reserves of magical energy, he peers deep within it, trying to sense if that amalgamation of magical energies has combined to create a sustaining deep well of power.

He senses…

“Shit. Is he gonna be okay?”

“Professor, are you alright?”

“Breathe, Emmrich…breathe”

“Mierda. Don’t scare us like that, Emmrich.”

There’s something there, small, barely detectable. The ritual was a success…but a failure all the same. The dagger will never be able to kill a God. At best, it may be able to rip open the veil, once… and for only a brief moment.

All his work… all those sleepless days and nights. The research. the note taking. The mathematical calculations. The countless cups of coffee. The depletion of almost every scrap of magical energy in his body has resulted in…

A fancy Lyrium paperweight.

Where had he gone wrong? Had he mixed the Lyrium too quickly? Too much Entropy magic suppressing the flow? Not enough Spirit energy? Had the original included some ancient ingredient that was unknown to mages nowadays?

Had his momentary loss of concentration been the deciding factor?

That last thought is what almost breaks him. That he caused this all to fail. He holds it against his chest, embracing it as if it was her as he takes shaky breaths. He’s falling apart at the seams, that carefully maintained facade is beginning to show its cracks. But even now, in front of the rest of the companions, he must remain strong. So he shoves the self hatred, the anger, the sorrow down, its glass like shards ripping down his throat, before settling down into his stomach, along with the blood of an ancient wronged people.

“I- we… still have work to do.” is all he can say. He can’t bear to tell them that he’s failed them, that he’s failed her.

--------

The next week and a half is a blur to him. He tries to start from scratch, to look for other ways to break the impenetrable prison she seems to be held in, but the books Manfred retrieves for him about pocket areas of the Fade are nearly unreadable. He can’t seem to focus on anything, save for his failures. The only straw he can grasp is that if he can find out where she is located, a place where the veil is very thin, he may be able to cut through to her with the almost worthless knife. But only once. So he must be certain that it’s the correct place.

Lucanis brings him food that he makes a show of eating, if only to satisfy the man that he’s not wasting away. Neve checks up on his progress, but as it's all under a guise of checking up on him specifically, so he resists the urge to snap at her. Not that he has the energy to feel much emotion anymore. Taash and Harding drag him out of his room for a walk, every other day, the latter asking about the nature of dreams, the former remaining silent, solid, and supportive as a tombstone. It helps, a little, the way they care for him, even though he knows he doesn’t deserve it.

He thinks back to the words the Dread Wolf said, although he never wants to hear that voice again

“The Rook had to be sacrificed so that the King would not be captive in a prison of regrets”

Perhaps he wasn’t speaking in metaphors. Perhaps that prison, the one capable of containing a GOD, needed chains that were stronger than even the veil itself. He knows how hard it is to escape regret, as he’s struggling against it right now… The only way Solas was able to slip past its impenetrable walls was a bait and switch maneuver. But Zea is not just some chess piece that can easily be taken off the board. She must be fighting with all her might to find a way to get out. So for her, he keeps researching, keeps studying, keeps himself running, both mentally and physically, as he searches for the way to reach her.

-----

He must have drifted off, he thinks. Because he’s not in the Lighthouse anymore. In fact, he’s never seen a place in the Fade like this. The Fade is a strange place, with some areas covered in rapidly growing trees and flowers, others a cacophony of horns and trumpets as eternal wars are waged. He’s seen libraries that contain every thought ever conceived, even a slimy bog where the world's fears congregate (He hates that one in particular, that’s where there is constantly falling masonry, and a tombstone with his name carved on it).

This place is bare rock, no vegetation, no spirits. It may have once been a thriving city, he thinks, as there are remnants of paved walkways and columns, but there’s a constant wind that howls like a wolf that has worn down most of the features. He’s been told that the Necropolis was dreary and dark, but compared to this place, his home is a verdant flower garden. He’s never felt a place so lifeless, and never has he felt alone…

That’s probably what makes the figure in the distance stand out crisply against the grey horizon. His pace picks up as he approaches it. He’s still far off, and her back is turned to him but there’s no mistaking who it is. He can see her greathammer slung on her back, her shield on her arm when she’s not fighting, but not certain that she’s safe. There’s the way she stands, favouring her left leg just like she was at the end of the battle. He’s now running towards her, but the ground is treacherous, and he stumbles over the rocky terrain more than once. And now he can see that she’s not alone. There’s a figure with her, shorter and stockier, at first he thinks it's a child, before realizing it’s a…. Dwarf? That confuses him, as aside from Harding, he hasn’t heard of any dwarves entering the Fade.

“ZEA!” He screams, but the wind takes his words and blows them back in his face. Still, he keeps running until he skids to a stop. In front of him is a crevasse so deep, and so wide that there’s no way he can cross it. Countless stone hands reach out on both sides, as if they are trying to make the crevasse wider.

She’s so close, and yet so far. If he yells her name out louder, she’ll hear him, she’ll turn around and see him, he can tell her how much he loves her, that he will stop at nothing to bring her back. But the howling gales rip the words out of his throat and cast them into the abyss. He hears a creak, and the once stable rock he’s standing on shifts, then slides into the darkness, leaving him to plummet along with it.

She never turns around.

----

He blinks his bleary eyes, and the side of his face feels cool. There’s another creak, and then an embarrassed gasp.

“Oh professor, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up!” He sits up, realizing he’s passed out at his desk, a stack of scrawled notes, the last trailing off into an illegible line. There’s something on his shoulders, and he realizes Manfred must have placed his coat on him like a blanket. It's small little things like this that keep him going.

“It’s fine,” he admits truthfully, not wanting to go back into that hellish landscape of his dreams. He forces a polite smile on his face, “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to go into Rook’s room…” she hesitates as she studies his face for any reaction. He doesn’t really have the energy to do anything but remain passive. “See if there was something in her room that could help us. But…” she kicks her feet, “I didn’t feel comfortable walking in someone else’s room uninvited, and since you were the one closest to her…”

He slowly gets up, feeling his joints protest, and nods his head. He’s been dreading this moment, but with Harding at his side, the pain might not feel so bad.

The room still smells like her. There’s hints of her perfume that lingers in the air, of jasmine and tuberose that she only wore when she wasn’t intending to go out to battle. Her blue cloak that shielded her from the bright sun lay hung over the chaise lounge, as if she had thrown it off after a long day of shopping in the market. Even her pack, where she carried all of her necessities when they travel, is still here, leaning against that nonfunctional eluvian they found while out in Alathan and had stored in her room. He can’t help but look at his reflection and notice how haggard he looks. He’s lost weight, and if he felt he was too old for Rook on the night before the battle, he certainly looked twice as old now, with the bags under his eyes, and the sunken cheeks now covered by an ill maintained beard. He looks closer to death than the corpses he’s attended all these years, or like one of those evil necromancers that play the villain in those ridiculous tales in the south.

“Oh… I found something!” Harding picks up a carefully folded series of pages, set beside a stack of journals and romantic literature, sealed with red wax, along with an envelope. He can’t make out the words, but he can see at a glance it’s Zea’s distinctive Nevveran writing, highly formalized with strict angles, no doubt from learning to read and write by studying tombstone engravings. “It’s addressed to us, and this…” she holds out the envelope to him, “has your name on it.” He doesn’t want to take it, doesn’t want to know it exists, because he knows exactly what the letter contains. Hadn’t he been writing a letter that night before their argument? Where he had prepared for things in case he did not return? Of course, he had burnt that letter as soon as he had gotten back to the Lighthouse, as he did any of those types of letters. But to have hers in his hand… that meant accepting something he could not bring himself to do. Still, he forces himself to reach out and take it with trembling hands and study her handwriting, the wax seal whose impression looks so familiar… it takes him a few moments to realise its the impression of a skull, specifically of the brooch she once wore.

“Oh…” she gasps, and he can hear the grief in her voice as she comes to a realization at what she has om hands, “It’s a… will. She looks up at him, and even in the dim light of the aquarium, he can see her eyes are glassy with unshed tears. “Should I open it? I mean… she’s not dead… but she’s gone…oh, I don’t know what to do.”

“Open it, share it with the others,” he gently advises her, placing a hand of support on her shoulder, “when we get her back you can laugh at whatever confessions she made.”

She looks at the letter he holds, “Are...you going to read yours?”

No is what he wants to say. He does not want to break that seal, to go down the first step of healing from the wound he has taken. He’s afraid of what words she wrote down. Perhaps she wrote them right after their argument, and she scribbled them out in anger, that the last words he had from her were words of hatred.

But instead, as he makes it back to his study, he slips a finger under the edge of the envelope, trying his best to damage the seal as little as possible. He will accept whatever words she has given him, spoken in anger, or sadness, or love.

My Dearest Emmrich:

I’m so sorry about that argu

Of course I would open my big fat mouth and

I know nothing I will say will take the pain away. No apology, no self-deprecatory joke will bring relief. I know this, I’ve seen it happen many times as loved ones interred their dead. It is a wound that only time may close, and even then, there will be scars.

So instead of dwelling on how and why I am no longer with you, let me bequeath you this: Who I was and what you mean to me. You know the basics, of me being an infant foundling left on top of a pile of bones. It was the bedrock of who I was. That from the very start, I was unwanted. Unneeded. To be discarded when inconvenient. When the magic talent I was certain would manifest eventually never came, I fell deeper into despair. I would never be a proper necromancer. At best I could be a weapon, a bulwark to protect the living and the dead. And Maker, how I tried to find my place in the Mourn Watch, tried to earn the respect of my peers. Only to be cast out when I could not even do that. Yes, Varric and the others helped in their own ways, but I still felt like I was not worthy of anything.

And then, I met you. You, a man of exquisite talents and grace. A man who saw the world of the living and dead as I did, a man of incredible empathy and intelligence. You did not look down upon me, nor did you even pity. Instead, your words were of admiration and respect. You were like a mirror being shown to one who had never encountered one before. You saw me as I could not even see myself. That I was worthy of your love and affection. And slowly, you chipped away at the self loathing that had accumulated, and made me realize the truth. That I was not only worthy in your eyes, but in the eyes of everyone else. The only regret is that I had not met you sooner. Perhaps if I had gone to the memorial gardens to enjoy the ambience more often instead of viewing it as another chore to tend the graves, we may have encountered each other, and had more precious moments to spend together.

When you stated your desire to become a lich, I would never stand in your way, as who was I to tell you otherwise? But secretly, in my deepest thoughts, I desired you to remain mortal, not because I preferred flesh to bone, but because I knew that you would lose something essential to you. When you gave up your dream to bring Manfred back, and I saw the delight and joy in your eyes, I loved you even more. There, I said it. I love you.

I love you.

Like I said, I cannot take the pain away, nor your fear of death, but I say one thing now: That no matter how long it takes, I will remain on the threshold, waiting for your arrival. I can only pray that it gives you peace to know that we will find each other again.

Yours in eternity, Zea Ingellvar

He reads it. Then he reads it again. And again. And again. He reads it until a splash of water drips on it, and he quickly pushes the letter away, lest he damage her precious handwriting any more. He’s secretly thankful he’s at his desk because had he been standing, he would have collapsed to his knees. There’s a sound in his throat that’s been begging to be released for the past few weeks, and he can’t hold back any longer, he lets the pain, the anguish, the fear, the torment of the better part of a month to be poured out in a torrent of sobs and tears.

His shoulders shake uncontrollably as cries, holding himself. He has not felt like this since he was a child, curled up in a ball to protect his mother’s prized teapot from breakage. But this time, he can't stop what he holds, his heart, from breaking. She had every right to be angry, to be furious with how stupid he sounded that night, with his damn stupid fears. Here he had been so concerned about what his eventual death would do to her, that he never even contemplated what would happen if their positions were switched.

And yet, instead of being upset, her last words to him were of love, compassion, and hope. The only hatred she reserved was for herself. That she had borne these undeserving thoughts of self-loathing under a mantle of gentle smiles, humour, and empathy had never crossed his mind until this moment. She had deserved better than the man that had attempted to push her away because of his petty fears of his mortality.

He sobs dejectedly, letting every emotion drain out of him. It’s a lance to a boil, draining the infection so the healing can attempt to begin. It oddly gives him energy, now that he releases everything that has been damming up inside him. And after what feels like a good hour, he sits there, still weak, but oddly refreshed. Like a sick man whose fever is broken and who is attempting to get out of bed. His mind is clearer. His Zea would not want him like this, he knows. It would break her heart to know that he’s been wallowing in self hatred for all this time.

He picks up the letter and reads it one last time. He’s already beginning to memorize some of the lines as his finger traces the geometric script.

One word sticks out to him. Regret.

‘The only regret is that I had not met you sooner’

Followed by:

‘Perhaps if I had gone to the memorial gardens to enjoy the ambience more often…’

He thinks back to the gardens, on how they were the source of his greatest sorrow, his parents gravesite, and his greatest joy, his first kiss with her. The veil is naturally very thin there, allowing spirits to pass to and from the fade as they please, and yet is peaceful enough that demons rarely show up. His heartbeat races at the realization as he pulls out the dagger from the locked drawer where he placed it, safe, yet unable to mock him for his failure.

Perhaps…

No, not perhaps. He knows where to go now, what to do. First thing tomorrow, when everyone else is asleep, he’ll go. Alone. He only has one shot at this, and there is also the possibility that the prison will require an exchange. He cannot afford to have any other distractions. He cannot afford to fail.

He folds the letter and places and the daggert in the drawer as his mind whirs at top speed. After weeks of setbacks, dead ends, and more bad news from the outside world, a ray of light and hope shines. He, and only he is the one who can shine it into the darkness. Whatever it takes.

#dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers #emmrich volkarin #emmrich x rook #emmrook #my writing

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privatecyberstalker · 28 days ago

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Okay, so now I want to think only about einjoyce that are living happily together in some alternative universe. No matter in which one, I just need some fluff with them.

Especially I need to see how Anti-Entropy crew would celebrate Ein's 18th birthday and try not to joke around Welt because - I bet - he was one of who organised party, so boy would be already stressed out, hoping that everyone will enjoy it. Especially Ein.

And I need to see Welt witnessing the real summer. See how Ein and Welt going to the countryside to collect flowers, yapping about plants from «critically endangered» list, about the symbolical meaning of each type of them, and ended up being covered in grass, but at least with flower crowns (Tesla wouldn't appreciate their look, but fully understand it)

And how Tesla will deal with denying that Ein and Welt are dating, because gosh even Planck would be more condescendant toward them. Imagine Nancy saying Tesla to chill out, because «you're worrying about their relationships more than about ours» (Finn and Nancy being first einjoyce supporters wasn't in your bingo, right?)

...I will leave it here for now till I didn't went too far into alternative universes🩵

#I love them so much my honor #one day I'll write about einjoyce being a parents #yes I already have an ideas about einjoyce's kid #editesla's too actually #ANYWAY back to einjoyce being two young dorks experiencing the first love #first and last and everlasting in their case🥺#welt joyce #lieserl albert einstein #einjoyce #anti entropy

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karalynlovescake · 10 months ago

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THE CENTENNIAL HUSBANDS 2024 BIG BANG IS LIVE!

You can read my fic on Ao3 - Entropy and Optimism, rated T, 56k words, complete at 13 chapters.

Hob Gadling is offered immortality by Death in 1389 and he meets with her every 100 years. In his dreams, he befriends and grows close with a man who he knows is Death's brother, but who never gave Hob his name. After a disaster in the late 1700's ties him even closer to Death, Hob sees his Stranger less and less, and believes his choices are to blame. Meanwhile, exhausted by seeing Death everywhere he goes and heartsick over losing his relationship with her brother, in 1889 he tells her that while he still wishes to live, he does not want to see her again.

Hob goes over a hundred years with no word from either of them, until one day two women with two talking ravens show up and tell him that his friend desperately needs his help. He embarks on the quest, hoping to once again see his mysterious Stranger, who he learns must be the King of Dreams. But when he arrives in the Dreaming he finds two people he has never met ruling, his friend asleep as if under a spell, and the kingdom falling apart around them, with the legions of Hell trying to invade.

And check out the art from my amazing artist Koresephone !!!

@koresephone66

The plot for this story started out as the plot of the novel Paladin of Souls by Lois McMaster Bujold, which is one of my favorite novels ever written. I consider it to be an absolute masterpiece of writing and plot weaving. It won a Hugo, a Nebula AND a Locus award for a REASON, and Ms Bujold is a far better writer than I am.

I had to change a lot of stuff to make the plot fit the setting and characters. So much stuff that I debated is it really even the same story anymore? Apparently very few people in the active fandom are familiar with the Bujold novel, which meant no one would see exactly what I was trying to do.

But it also meant that there was no one out there who was going to write this story if I didn't write it! This is the first novel-length story I've ever completed, and my first big bang, and honestly if you're going to borrow, borrow from the best of the best, right? I was already using Neil's characters, and I think I did a pretty good job!

I'd love to hear if you enjoy it!

#sandman fanfic #Centennial husbands big bang #CHBB 2024 #my fanfic #dreamling fanfic #novel length !#dreamling #Paladin of Souls

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anjelicawrites · 5 months ago

Note

I’m back! Thank you for your earlier thoughts; I greatly enjoyed them!

What if someone (perhaps a really drunk Felix) offhandedly suggests that to make it up to this girl that he’s been mean to, Michael should give her head? He’s probably totally appalled by the prospect and dismisses the thought immediately, but then part of him can’t stop thinking about getting on his knees and showing her that he’s sorry. He can’t talk about emotions, but he could be taught to use his tongue a different way to properly apologize!

-🪴

Hi 🪴 nonnie!!! Can you imagine how annoyed he'd be that vapid cunt Felix Catton, who has tried to get into her pants forever, notices that there are troubles? And he's suggesting that, because his drunken mind doesn't believe Michael will ever succeed? And now it's all Michael can think about, even after the rift had been mended? He's been having dreams about that! He imagines what she tastes like, as he peruses the library! He can't stop his mind from wandering and wondering!

And has no idea how to make this fantasy a reality.

Michael knows all the porn he watches is not truthful, if that were the case, it would be so much easier to achieve his goal: usually girls come over to study and sex happens, instead! A cup of tea for the guy involved! What about one Michael Gavey, who is so amazingly good at solving any mathematical problem, but can't find the key to this one?

For once in his life, though, destiny seems to be on his side, on a rainy day after class, in his college room, where him and her had ran to beat the hailstorm raging outside.

They're studying, truly concentrating on the syllabus, crammed around the small table, when Michael's pen falls from his hand.

He doesn't even think about the logistics of his actions, he dives under the ancient wood the very second she uncrosses her legs to cross them again. He's kneeling there, getting a good look at her cute, pink panties, and he has never planned this! He's enslaved to entropy like anyone else is!

"Michael?" She asks, unsure, when his big hands land on her knees.

Michael knows this is the pivotal moment: either he jumps, or he will regret his inaction for the rest of his life.

"Let me show you how sorry I am, about everything." He answers, trying to hide the insecurity he feels.

He's seen enough porn to understand the logistics of it but has no idea of what he's doing. And she, as beautiful and radiant as a goddess on Earth, lifts her hips to remove her panties and throws them away.

"Do it." She moans, hand going into his blond hair. "Show me how sorry you still feel."

Suffice to say, the syllabus was forgotten for the afternoon, Michael had so much to be absolved for, and many ways to obtain her forgiveness.

#michael gavey #michael gavey x reader #michael gavey x y/n

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weirdly-specific-but-ok · 1 year ago

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pt XII good omens sEAsOn 2 (the non-traumatic part) episode 1

Alright yes I know, I know, it's been two days since the livestream. I was reading fanfiction. Don't blame me, love made me crazy, and all that. I'm enjoying myself as much as I can before we get to the season 2 finale. But here we go, season 2, episode one, maggots:

[on reading this back after finishing, a lot of text is my being in love with Crowley. mainly, points 3, 4, 9, 14, 17, 18, yes I have issues, feel free to skip that for an absolutely concise and precise summary]

Before the livestream starts, everyone decides that there will be no spoilers whatsoever on the chat, even hidden with the black, because I have a tendency to keep clicking and revealing them. I'm sorry, temptation and all. I have emotional support fruit, an apple, two kiwis, two sapotes and two bananas.

When the livestream starts, it has to be restarted, because I am an incompetent nincompoop and have somehow managed to muck up my settings. And it is absolutely imperative that I watch the opening scene.

So then I do. And immediately have to consume my emotional support apple because I am so fucking in love with Crowley. Already? someone asks. Yes bloody already, I need that apple.

Thanks, guys. I'm broken. Crowley. Just. She looks so peaceful and untraumatised, so delighted with the plans, so full of wonder at what she's creating. Let there be light, she says, and rather than seeing Crowley turn off a streetlight with a flick of his fingers, we get to see her create nebulas. Aziraphale looks at her and he's just instantly so spellbound, and who would bloody blame him? His wings just do a slight dip of realisation that he's fucked when Crowley says the gorgeous line. Look at Crowley. Worried about the apocalypse. Smiling at Aziraphale, and we can see Azi's concern because something as pure as that has to be protected and Aziraphale knows what Heaven will do to Crowley if she dares to ask questions. Crowley is angelic and filled with light and Aziraphale sees that and tries to keep her safe with his words.

Hey spoiler alert, it doesn't work, Crowley's wings are greying even as she protects Azi and Crowley falls and I hate everything and I am filled with unbridled rage.

UNDERSTAND? RAGE.

I am speculating how much pain and torture Crowley went through when she fell into Hell that first time. I am told to not ask questions I don't want answers to.

Maggie sells records, Aziraphale is a cutiepie, and Maggie is very gay for Nina.

Crowley is lounging on a park bench, suit and skinny tie, just being all sexy and demonic and probably contemplating nihilism.

Crowley spreads awareness about duck health. No bread, guys. Frozen peas. He also angsts a lot to Shax (whom I keep mixing up with Michael) about the meaning of life. Someone points out that this is very Barbie of him. "do you ever think about death". Ah, Crowley.

More lesbians gaying. I would kill for Nina's hair.

JIMBRIEL IN THE HOUSE. I WON'T SAY ANYMORE ABOUT HIS ENTRANCE BECAUSE THIS IS NOW A TOPIC OF CONTROVERSY. BUT JIMBRIEL IN THE HOUSE.

Aziraphale, ah I love him, absolutely fucking panics and has the loading symbol over his angelic little head at all times. FINALLY, THIS SHOW IS A COMEDY.

Crowley is leaning on his Bentley and mmmmhm his arms and his lounging and his personality I am back to crunching on my temptation emotional support apple.

Sorry back to the summary. Jim finds Aziraphale funny and says he loves him. Someone points out that this was the fandom upon encountering my dumbass self. "You're funny Asmi we love you."

Aziraphale is a little bitchy babygirl, really just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. Just absolutely slaying through every Jimbriel scene. 100000/10.

Six shots of fucking espresso in a big cup. Crowley, I love you. Can I love Crowley any more than this? Yes I can. My love for Crowley is like the universe, infinite and yet ever-expanding, explosive with entropy.

Crowley holds the door open for Aziraphale and holds his plate and honestly what absolute husband (gn) behaviour.

CROWLEY MEETS JIMBRIEL WHO IS FUCKING DUSTING AND LEAPS BACKWARD AND JUST RELIVES TRAUMA WHILE JIM IS CHILLING AND AZIRAPHALE IS STILL GAY PANICKING. I LOVE THIS SHOW.

MARRIAGE QUARRELS ABOUT ADOPTING JIM, JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE FELL-CROWLEY HOUSEHOLD.

Coffeeshop AU lesbians time.

Heaven is horrible.

MURIEL IS BABY I LOVE THEM HELLO CUTIEPATOOTIE.

There is an ethereal paper file.

Beezlebub beezles their way into Crowley's car and is very concerned in Hell about finding Jimbriel.

Nina's partner is a toxic ass don't worry about it.

Sulky Crowley says he's back and apology dance time mmmhm.

Miracle hide Jimbriel time, but they've got to be subtle. They do the miracle. Jim is glad to have friends.

They are very proud of themselves for their subtle miracle.

THEY ARE SO FUCKING USELESS. FUCKING USELESS LITTLE GAYASS DISASTERS JESUS LORD IN HEAVEN. LITERALLY IN HEAVEN ALARM BELLS ARE EVERYWHERE.

GREAT JOB, GAYS. GREAT JOB.

End of episode one. Take this screenshot.

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theamityelf · 9 months ago

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I’m not sure if your still writing stuff abt you danganronpa zombies au but if you are can we get more on junko??? I’m just wondering how her personality and plans translate to her zombie self

Im also wondering about Mukuro??? I’m not sure if you’ve mentioned her yet but her being a zombie interacting w her strange obsessive behavior w junko would be interesting

Sorry if this is incoherent but I’ve been thinking abt it for the last couple days lol

First of all, I am open to asks for every AU always! Lol.

For Junko, I'd say that her ability to plot things out is largely intact. Her ability to reason through the consequences of different actions in advance is not as sophisticated as it was before, but it's still really impressive for being undead. She's a lot more lucid than the others, but that said, I don't currently think she has an overarching ambition in this AU.

For one thing, just being undead is such an acute taste of entropy that she no longer feels so bored and dissatisfied all the time. So much about her body and mind are new, she subsists on murdering people, and just so much is wrong that, like Nagito, I think this might lowkey be kind of the best timeline for her.

Hope's Peak created this virus. Hope's Peak created this despair. Her point about despair is pretty much already vindicated, and she knows this won't stay contained. Her need to self-aggrandize is subsumed (at least for now) by her fascination with her new self; her need to spread despair is satiated by just the absolutely miserable situation of the Reserve Course and the pretty much guaranteed upcoming escalation when the undead breach containment; any urge she feels to be destructive and contrarian can easily be expressed by leaving the classroom and trying to eat someone before Makoto finds her; and all the while, she's experiencing the friendship and comradery with her classmates that she enjoys.

Makoto is taking care of her, and she genuinely likes that a lot. She loves getting her hair brushed, and the strained look on his face when he wipes blood from her mouth, and the quick reflexes he's developed to avoid her attempts to bite him. Between that and the occasional video calls from Yasuke, she's feeling pretty great.

I'm not saying Junko will never act mastermind-y in this AU; just that, for some length of time, she is satiated by the status quo. I think, if she does manifest a deeper goal than just enjoying herself, the first new goal she might pursue is that of making Makoto realize how Hope's Peak is using him and what Nagito has been up to. She would want Makoto to know what the Reserve Course's real role here is, and that it's not really accidental.

Now, Mukuro! I mentioned her briefly in this post and some others, but you're right that she hasn't really had focus. Mukuro's dexterity and fine motor skills are among the highest, of the undead, in that she can still hold and wield weapons.

She's still fiercely protective whenever Junko is under threat, but other than that she operates as a normal social presence in the class, just because my own headcanons (anime notwithstanding, lol) have her and Junko act like their relationship is normal, at school. Unlike Junko, Mukuro's grasp of consequences and general human behavior is greatly decreased. Her combat intelligence, as in fighting and battle strategy, remains, but her human intelligence is severely impacted.

Like in the hyperlinked post, she complies when Makoto takes her weapons away, but she doesn't understand that he doesn't want her to have weapons. When he tries to tell her, she just stares uncomprehendingly. She likes his face and his smell and how gently he handles them.

I'm picturing Mukuro curling up with Junko to sleep and Junko continually pushing or kicking her away, with groggy little movements, and Mukuro just casually crawls back, until they both fall asleep about a yard away from each other with Junko's foot against Mukuro's stomach.

#danganronpa #undead au #junko enoshima #mukuro ikusaba #naekusaba #naejunko

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midnightluck · 8 months ago

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WELCOME TO HSR BRAIN ROT CLUB! HAPPY TO HAVE YOU HERE.

I do want to hear your thoughts about Aventurine, his connection to the Mask Fools and what it means to turn down an invite to the Tarven. >:3c

So the thing about the Masked Fools is, and I'm taking this verbatim, is that "the Fools believe that the truth of the world is a joke, and that the ultimate meaning of all things lies in mere laughter," which taken from the in-game database. The Masked Fools, as followers of Elation, think that nothing matters because it's all inevitable, or, to quote Monty Python, "Life is just a show so keep 'em laughing as you go," etc, etc. There's no point in it, there's no greater meaning, and not in the Nihility way of nothing mattering, but in the entropy way? Nihility is about irrelevance, not irreverence, and about futility. Elation is knowing that and laughing in the face of it because if nothing matters, then neither does despair.

Aventurine does not believe the world is a joke or he wouldn't be taking it so seriously. He may treat it that way, and he may think he believes that, but compare him to, say, Sparkle, and the difference is pretty clear. Sparkle, the most manipulative and scheming of all the fools we've seen, also has a tendency towards wagers that play with fire (Russian Roulette, much?) so she's a great example. However, we also see that she's more opportunistic than scheming, like with her offer to Sunday, and is in it for the entertainment, not the potential benefits.

The difference I'm really seeing here is stakes. We don't know what Sparkle stands to lose but I'm gonna go with nothing, or very little. Contrarywise, Aventurine lives by "go big or home," except he can't go home so he has to go big. I'm honestly not even convinced he enjoys gambling (and I have proof but that's for a different essay). He wagers because is audacious, it's unignorable, and it's the fastest and easiest way to get what he wants, and it's also something that once he wins, he can wave off as not something to do with him. It's all down to luck, after all, and his is better than yours, but maybe yours will be better next time; care to try again? And, as we've seen in the most recent text message convo he sends you, he can use a loss offensively. It's about the presentation!!!

All this to say, I think the Fools respect Aventurine because he's out here being visibly chaotic and audacious and they appreciate anyone laughing in the face of fate and deciding they can do it better. I think Aventurine does not respect the Fools because they're literally playing a game and he's not. He has a goal, he has stakes, and he has lost once before; he knows what it is to lose and that it hurts. They're not taking his art seriously because they literally cannot, and the fact that he has something to lose means he could never be a proper Fool.

All that said, I don't think there's any consequences to turning down the Tavern, if he was ever even invited--and that's an if because he went straight from genocide to slavery to the IPC and has been a model employee since. Though, like, imagine you're a giant company and this one high-ranking manager keeps getting public invites to join your local fatalistic anarchy group; just--just imagine that performance review, that would be hilarious to explain.

#aventurine honkai star rail #i will keep talking about this as long as you let me really i will #i need a better asks tag #honkai star rail #all in #seitosokusha #let's discuss the inherent trauma of luck builds: why Aventurine isn't one

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bcbdrums · 3 months ago

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Royalty

A Soul Eater fanfic. Read on: AO3 | FFn

A/N: Originally just a few sentences exchanged with @cannibal-nightmares, but it demanded to be in story form. In an alternate universe where they were kids together. Next to the ocean because my brain says so. And that is all. Enjoy my self-indulgence, perhaps.

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Royalty

The evening had gone gray, both due to the sun's descent and the thick overcast that stretched in a heavy blanket to every corner of the horizon. A chill breeze caught one of the children's attention, and he halted the movement of his fingers in wet sand to glance up and around, startled by how much time had passed.

Distantly to his left, he could hear the tide coming in beyond the small dunes that sheltered him in his playground. Farther, to his right, the beach houses that had brought he and his family to this place for vacation. A small weather-beaten tree at his back coupled with another dune shielded him from the wind, and before him the dampened shore of the small cove that had been a place of daily exploration and discovery.

And building friendships.

His new, younger friend of the week was still meticulously stacking rocks and layering salt-smoothed sticks one on top of the other in the flat, moist area they had dug out of the sand.

Spirit frowned. If they didn't go in soon, their parents would be calling them. And this kid hadn't made any progress.

Not that Spirit had himself.

He resumed scooping the damp sand into his plastic bucket with his hands, pressing down to pack it tight in hopes it would keep its shape this time. When he picked the bucket up at last, it was so heavy he needed to stand to gain leverage.

His shifting alerted his companion, who looked up at him and broke what could have been hours of silence between them as they worked on their respective creations.

"I told you, it won't work that way."

Spirit ignored the quiet admonition, and after a few breaths to ready himself, he rapidly flipped the heavy bucket over and pressed it into the sand. He took even more calming breaths as he knelt back down, hoping, certain that this time would be successful. He had already determined that the slow-lifting method was better than the fast.

He wiggled his stinging fingers under the plastic rim and held his breath. As the bucket came away, grains of sand began falling gently and taking companions with them further down the tower as it was revealed. Spirit slowed the bucket's ascent and grit his teeth. He realized suddenly, that next to him his younger friend had paused in his construction to watch with bated breath as well.

The bucket came away, revealing gently shaped ridges and dimples in the very top formed by the plastic of the bucket's bottom. Spirit took a moment to marvel at the seeming perfection – how thousands if not millions of the rough grains of sand could come together so smoothly with such simple manipulation.

And then it collapsed.

A loud sigh of frustration left Spirit's lips even as he marveled at the beauty in his failed creation's entropy, the perfection still present in jagged edges and seemingly sifted piles of sand that now sloped away from a slightly more solid center.

"You have to find the correct ratio of sand to water," his companion said. "And—"

"What do you think I've been trying to do all day?" Spirit replied in protest, tossing his bucket aside as he stood again and stepped over the tiny pile of failure.

"Where are you going?" the other boy said. Spirit paused, almost turning back as he heard alarm in the young voice.

"I'm tired of this, I wanna play something else," he replied, walking away toward the shore of the cove. He thought he could feel green eyes staring at him as he went, and he self consciously began brushing the sand off of his hands and onto his nearly-dry swim trunks.

The breeze was somehow nonexistent at the cove's edge—something his new friend would probably be able to explain, with his near-constant prattling about every science under the sun all that week except for when he went silent for hours—and Spirit squished his toes into the damp sand next to the other-worldly plants that somehow grew up out of the beach. He paused to look past a cluster of purple flowers into the still waters beyond, hoping to perhaps catch a glimpse of an octopus or sea star before the light left entirely.

Before he could make out any shapes among the rock and sand, a tiny dart of yellow-green light flashed out of focus in front of him, and then was gone. He blinked and held still, glancing left and right and listening for any sign of something out of place. But there was only the tide, receding now as the cycle concluded and would without pause begin anew.

A flickering to his left caused his head to snap that direction, and he held utterly still lest the thing, real or imagined, should frighten from his presence. And then a moment later, another tiny point of light appeared near the gnarled trunk of a tree, moved leisurely through the air, and vanished again, so quick that if he had blinked he'd have missed it. Spirit stared as another appeared further out over the cove, so small its light didn't cast a reflection on the water.

Fireflies.

Spirit smiled. He had seen them before, but given the infrequency of his family's vacations to the beach, they were still a thing at which to marvel.

He suddenly wondered if his new friend had ever seen them.

He waited for several minutes, watching as more and more points of ethereal light appeared as the gray of the twilight under the clouds grew darker. They had no pattern, which was part of their wonder, but as he stood utterly still and waited, he finally saw one alight on one of the purple blossoms right next to him.

He took care as he moved his hands as slowly as possible to surround the bloom, his heart beating faster as he knew at any moment the tiny insect could flee before he was even close to containing it. The sky was growing dark, and the firefly was not illuminated. As his fingers curled nearer he second-guessed himself—was it in fact a firefly he'd seen land? Would it even light up again if he caught it?

The tiny creature unfolded its wings, and Spirit moved. He snatched the bug, flower and all, and carefully tugged with the heels of his hands pressed tightly together until the delicate flower's stem snapped. He dared not peek, lest the firefly escape, and he turned and ran through cool sands back toward the dunes.

He stopped short after cresting a hill, not minding the shells and sticks scraping his soles as he gaped down into the shallow pit they had dug. His plastic bucket, shovel, and failed construction were still there, alongside the sticks and stones his companion had been erecting. But the younger boy was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey..." he said, peering around anxiously in the fading light. And then, relief, as the boy in the white swim trunks and t-shirt re-appeared over the opposite hill, toting his own plastic bucket. "Where'd you go?"

"To get more wet sand," he replied, setting his bucket down next to his unorthodox construction. Then he eyed Spirit's hands clasped near to his chest. "Did you finally catch an octopus?"

Spirit grinned. "Come here!"

The younger boy crossed the sand toward him, eyeing his hands with a slightly narrowed gaze. He only came up to Spirit's chest in height, and he tilted his head upward once stopping in front of him, his brow rising in question as Spirit hesitated.

"Not an octopus... It will probably get away."

Spirit wondered suddenly if the bug had even survived being held close with the flower in his hands, and anxiety swept him again. But still... As his friend leaned in close, his expression curious, Spirit slowly and carefully unfolded his fingers from around his precious prize.

At first he couldn't even see it. And then, within the blossom, a yellow-green light faintly illuminated purple petals.

An awed inhale was the boy's response, and Spirit kept his hands cupped in hopes the insect would continue its show.

"It's a firefly."

"I know," his friend said, staring wide-eyed as the creature alternated flickering away to seeming non-existence, and then back into magical presence. By his friend's expression, Spirit imagined he had never seen a firefly before.

And then, suddenly, the boy had stepped back and was looking around.

"Do you have anything we could keep it in?"

Spirit hadn't considered keeping it for a pet. How did one feed a firefly?

"Ah... My mom might have jars back at the house?"

The boy stopped his search and looked up at him.

"Can you keep it while I go look for one?"

"Sure, ah... You know we don't need to—"

"I'll go see if there are any with lids we can poke holes in."

"That...should work. But we don't need to keep—"

"You sure you've got it?"

Spirit pursed his lips. "I've got it!"

"'Cause if you don't I could hold it while you get the jar."

"If you'd just listen! I'm trying to say there's a lot more next to the cove. We don't need to keep this one, we can catch others."

This information had clearly started an entirely new process running in his younger friend's mind, and Spirit could almost see the gears shifting as the boy stared up at him, excitement building so rapidly in his eyes he thought he might burst.

"Okay!" he finally replied. "I'll get the jars, and then we—"

Their plotting was interrupted then by the sudden sound of a mature feminine voice carried on the breeze. Both children looked toward the distant row of houses, and then back, surveying one another as if for the first time.

Spirit realized just how difficult it was getting to see his new friend's face and silver hair in the fading evening light. He took a breath and called back, assured his mother he would be coming in while never taking his eyes from his friend.

"Maybe...we can catch them tomorrow night?"

The boy hung his head.

"...What?"

"We're leaving tomorrow."

Spirit inhaled sharply in surprise. For some reason...he had never considered the possibility of an ending. His heart began to thud heavily as an undefined fear raced through him.

Suddenly, the breeze felt very cold.

He licked his chapped lips and called back to his mother, asking to stay out a bit longer. But the reply of course was no, and an insistence to hurry inside. The boy hadn't lifted his head.

Spirit licked his lips again, pressing his tongue over the salt collected at the corners of his mouth. All at once he had everything in the world to say, but not a single sentence would form in his mind.

"Here..." he said uncertainly, lowering his hands.

The boy startled slightly, but opened his hands to receive the blossom and its glowing treasure. They made the exchange carefully, and once Spirit’s hands were free he gathered up his beach toys.

"What...what time do you leave tomorrow?"

"I don’t know. Morning."

Spirit fought past the sinking feeling in his chest and smiled. "Maybe it won’t be right away. Maybe we can play pirates again."

"Maybe," his companion said glumly.

Spirit felt there was more to say, but his friend was as blank-faced now as when they'd met at week's beginning, peering through his fingers at the intermittent glow of the firefly.

"Oh, hey..." Spirit said, and the boy finally lifted his chin just enough to make eye contact. The red-head blushed as he realized how ridiculous his question was after a week of play. "I...never got your name."

Something else entered the boy's eyes then. Fear? He was definitely hesitant.

"My name's Franken."

Spirit smiled as he pieced the name over each memory of the week, attached it to every quirk and fascination of his new friend's personality.

"You coming?" he asked as he started toward the beach houses.

"I want to look at it a little longer," the boy replied, looking down at his hands.

"Oh... Will you get in trouble?"

Franken smirked. "Probably."

Spirit hesitated, but then thought of the trouble he would be in if he didn't make it inside before dark.

"Okay... Ah. Good night, Franken," he said, not willing yet to say goodbye when there was even the slightest hope for the following day.

Franken didn't reply, but simply stared at the faint glow between his fingers. After a long moment Spirit sighed and finally turned to go back to the house. If his friend were to catch him wiping tears from his eyes, he would blame it on the sting of the salt air.

------------

That night, Spirit's dreams were awash with the fun memories of the week. Meeting another boy all alone on the beach, captive to a vacation neither had chosen, and proceeding to share in each other's imagination for every waking moment they were permitted. They had been sharks and swashbucklers, giant squid and submarines. They had been explorers, discovering hidden lands and treasures up and down the beach. They had traversed volcanic mountains and dove to the deepest depths of the ocean, all from the shores of the little cove where they met each morning and played until sundown.

It was the most fun Spirit could remember ever having in his life.

He woke before dawn the next day and rushed through his cereal and banana, nearly forgetting to change into his swim trunks before hurrying back out to the beach.

The sky was just as gray that morning, but the light behind the clouds was as fresh as the air. The atmosphere spoke of hope and lifted Spirit's soul, giving faster flight to his feet as he ran down the grass-covered slopes and across the open sands toward their playground.

With each step he painted fanciful scenes in his mind in defiance of what he had been told of the day, imagining new adventures he and his companion could have and sending his thoughts far away and around the dread of arriving to find himself alone. He crested the hill by the tree that should reveal silver hair, and...

What he saw brought him to a sudden halt, heart in his throat as there was no sign of his friend. Except...he had most certainly been there.

In the small pit they had dug earlier that week, where he had failed repeatedly despite detailed explanations of ratios of water to sand, there stood inexplicably, at last, a sandcastle.

Spirit gawked from atop the hill at the large construct with its tall, straight walls and bucket-shaped towers at the four corners. Windows had been carved into the turrets, sticks pressed into the center of the front wall to form a portcullis, and atop each wall were perfectly symmetrical merlons. There was a small moat dug around the entire structure, but notably in the very center was a castle keep with a wilting, purple flower at its top.

He shivered in the cool of the morning and hugged himself tight, looking left and right as he rubbed his arms, but there was no sign of the architect anywhere. He stumbled down the hill, sand slipping into his shoes as he hurried to kneel alongside the fantastic creation.

His jaw dropped as now up close, he could see the base of the outer wall was lined in sea-glass and shells, all that they had collected throughout the week and hidden away near their tree. The base of the keep was lined in delicate strands of seaweed, and tucked within the fluttering petals of the purple flower he'd picked the night before was a tiny, folded piece of paper.

He reached forward and pinched it between his fingers, its folds damp from the sea air. He turned it over and his breath caught when he saw what had been written in wobbly scrawl:

'King Spirit'

With fingers shaking, he unfolded the small piece of notebook paper and read the message that had been left.

"I know I probably won't see you again, but we come here on vacation every August. Thank you for being nice to me, and not making fun of my name."

The heat of tears sharply contrasted the chill of the breeze on Spirit's cheeks, and he held the paper up and away from him so he wouldn't get it more moist than it was already.

Nice to him?

As he blinked rapidly to banish the tears and slowly read over the note again, a vision of purple at his periphery caught his eye and he gasped.

Atop the opposite hill in the direction of the cove stood Franken, eyes wide and his arms loaded with purple flowers.

They each stared for a long moment, Franken's gaze finally dipping to the paper in Spirit's hands. His pale cheeks gained a faint, rosy hue.

"You've never been out this early before."

Spirit swallowed down the lump in his throat and stretched his trembling lips into a smile to will away a sob.

"Did...did you get in trouble?"

"I went back for a couple hours and then snuck out. I don't think they've missed me..."

Spirit considered all that building the sandcastle through the night must have cost his friend, what it could still cost him. And just how difficult it must have all been in the dark. He stared at his friend in wonder, and the younger boy's expression grew nervous.

"I...reinforced the walls with rocks and sticks, so they wouldn't collapse. I don't think this sand is fine enough to...hold on its own..."

Spirit looked down at the note, and then up to the flowers in Franken's arms. The silver-haired boy's anxious expression fell to sadness.

"The firefly got away."

Spirit sniffled as his throat tightened again.

"I think you should be king," he spoke slowly, his voice just above a whisper.

Franken looked up, questioning.

"You're the smart one. And...you've already got a royal robe," Spirit continued, nodding to the flowers.

Franken looked down in surprise, but then slowly, shyly, the corners of his mouth turned up.

"And I'll be your esquire. And...I'll protect the castle. Until your triumphant return."

When Franken looked up again his smile had faded. In its place...awe. Spirit carefully folded the note and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his grin broadening.

"If they haven't missed you yet, then...you must have a little more time?"

Sand was kicked up into the breeze as Franken took a step forward, and then another. Spirit hurriedly rose to his feet as Franken ran the rest of the short distance down the hill, and a moment later purple blossoms were crushed between them, petals falling into the sandcastle's moat and scattering over their feet.

Spirit blinked in surprise, but it was hardly a second before he was returning the fierce embrace. He lowered his face, his hair offering minor shielding from the breeze as moisture stung his eyes anew.

"And then, when you get back... We can fight the dragons together," Spirit said quietly as tears slipped down his cheeks.

Franken held on tighter, and purple petals drifted across the sand in the morning breeze.

#soul eater #soul eater fanfiction #franken stein #spirit albarn #CrossStitch

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yodomi-nikki · 3 months ago

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From the story of Nurgle Fucker to the definition of love

The Great Unclean One and a human witch had a child that was half demon and half human. The preface to Nurgle Fucker Passport begins with this unforgettable legend told in the End Times. Every Wiki says, "For the sake of your sanity, don't think too deeply about it," but do you think mortals can stop thinking about how to somehow leave proof of their existence and connect? This rare case is a gift of possibility that Nurgle gave to a girl who dreams of fucking a supernatural being.

The unclean semen of the god kept the future mother healthy, regardless of her impure constitution, and designed a strong child that would at least repel weak diseases. Even if the witches were constantly using magic and medicine to nurture living things, this is an unthinkable result for the Nurgle family, who have the image that everything is made of pathogens.

The Father is happy to display the proud tapestry of decay and filth that is the result of his followers turning the cycle of life and death like a pedal sewing machine. In other words, he gives them bodies that do not die easily, worn-out sensitivity, and a warm euphoria, and lets them wander his garden and the world, standing on the cusp of all end times, treading blindfolded. That is the end of entropy.

Rather than destroying people, Chaos mutates them, giving birth to mutants who live in suffering or have no previous sentience. The most simple origin of Nurgle's hobby must be from here. The sperm of the Great Unclean One, which is modeled after him, functions normally so that such pleasure lasts longer.

Rather than giving the Maggot King Tamurkan strong limbs, he cursed him to be able to assert himself only in a rotting corpse. Just like how Kayzk, who offered his soul and body before accepting the disease, was given a deformed rotten flesh without any blessing, with no maggots or pus coming out of the scars (see the Total War model). Kayzk "the Befouled" can be interpreted as either a celebrity-like meaning or a truly hopeless meaning, so when I think about it, my thoughts rot before my brain does.

As expected, the lively half-breed Orghotts Daemonspew was not recognized by his grandfather, and for a long time he wandered around the garden, hating even the plague-bearers who worked in the garden, and cultivating mortals in order to be recognized as a demon. In the end, it seems that Nurgle is experimenting with how much the mind can endure a robust body, or a body that no longer has anything to fear. Just as we give a small amount of food to prolong hunger, is love made in the same way, or is it love that moves the rotten flesh after the body is offered?

I haven't been able to read the novel yet because I can't buy e-books in my country. It would be dishonest to talk about it from what I've heard, so I'll have to carefully read the two codexes I have for the Death Guard, but for now I'm going to enjoy my favorite Tamurkhan: The Throne of Chaos. There's a book version of Pile of Shame in it.

I really love those servants of the god Nurgle. I was going to talk about nsfw /reader stuff, but I ended up talking about my serious thoughts on Nurgle. I'd like to talk about that later, or rather, I'd like to delve deeper into the emo of Tamurkhan and Kayzk. Before I get bored.

#nurgle #kayzk the befouled #Tamurkhan #orghotts daemonspew #warhammer fantasy #I am now alive because of them

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waywardstation · 1 year ago

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Happy WIP Wednesday! My poll said the next one would be Entropy Syndrome, but looking at everything I could share that wasn't too spoiler-y felt a little heavier than what I would want to put into a WIP Wednesday post, so I picked from Rain Check instead. Akari rants to Ingo, and Ingo lets her because he Understands.

Enjoy! Wording is apt to change. —————

“She never checks in on her, you know.”

“She informed me that she does.” Ingo’s tone hardened somewhat, but Akari knew it wasn’t intended for her.

“Well she doesn’t.” The teen leaned forward to wrap her arms around her knees. “She just comes around and stands by the fence for a few minutes to look like she cares about watching Whiskers. Then she wastes like half an hour talking to Belamy, and leaves.”

“I’m disappointed, but not surprised.” Ingo shook his head. Perhaps he had been too trusting to believe her when she told him she was actually checking on her temperamental whiscash.

“Oh, and guess who gave her the nickname ‘Whiskers’?”

“Recent information leads me to suspect that perhaps it was you.”

“Yes!” Akari stood up with the resounding confirmation. “I gave her a nickname ‘cause Kana never did anything like that, even though it was super obvious Whiskers felt neglected! And I know she loves the nickname, cause it's all she’ll respond to now! That’s the only reason why Kana uses it! She also doesn’t know that Whiskers loves plump beans and grain cakes, or that she likes to watch the starly in the sky, or that she will go after rocks if you skip them over the water! Look- watch this!”

Leaning down to pick up a small stone, Akari pulled her arm back to throw it-

“Wrist!”

-before quickly switching hands at Ingo’s reminder. Recalculating, she flicked her wrist and sent the stone bouncing twice against the pond’s surface, which stirred a moment later as a blue dorsal fin followed after it.

“Well, I believe you’ve spent more time with Whiskers than I’d previously thought.” Ingo concluded as he watched Whiskers casually circle back around to drift by the shore near Akari. She had casually slipped into a comfortable mood of ranting to him about small annoyances, which she was sometimes apt to do with him. But he didn’t mind them; in a way, it was nice to know she trusted him with these thoughts. “Though unfortunately Miss Akari, not all people are as privy to a pokemon’s preferences as you are.”

“It’s just that I remember Kana used to brag about her all the time when she was a barboach, saying she was going to be such a strong partner. Like, a lot. And Whiskers heard her say all of that.” Akari crouched down to stroke along the whiscash’s slick back. “But then she evolved, and Kana just dropped her off here when she realized it would take more work to train her like this. I just think it’s sad, getting her hopes up like that just to leave her behind.”

“I hold the same sentiments.”

#wip wednesday

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revserrayyu · 7 months ago

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2.3 Penacony thoughts [part 2]

***SPOILER WARNING*** for the 2.3 story update right before the Charmony Festival cutscenes begin. At this moment in time I’ve already finished the whole story, so be wary that I may reference later scenes as I ramble on.

Ah, what bittersweet feelings this gives me. I would’ve loved to see Aventurine actually work alongside Topaz with how indifferent she feels about him but I’m also glad we got to finally see Jade. I really enjoyed her so far.

I can only assume she’s referring Robin here, correct? I wish I remembered the context for this line, but I’m writing all this out days later.

I honestly thought hearing “miss Samuel” in the 2.3 trailer was an error, but after learning it was a fake name Firefly agreed to use from her conversation with Silver Wolf, I suppose not.

Sweetie, nooo! I want you to live as much as you do, but not for such a price! Although, I’m not even sure you have that much to begin with..? Aside from your huge bounty maybe..

On the lighter side of things, it was hilarious to see the trailblazer be a complete nuisance to our traveling companions. It’s always a joy to hear Rachael and I heard clips of Caleb as well and both did wonderful:

“Which one should I pop? One, two, three, four, five… Dan Heng and Voidranger jive…”

Nicholas also nailed Dan Heng losing his patience with his “Don’t change the words.”

Just when I thought we couldn’t get anymore silly and stupid, we’re seen at the very end of the ship just moments from potentially falling off, all for the sake of a bird.. Why? I have no clue.

“Chirp, chirp… Origami bird.. Hey, little birdie…”

What’s hilarious about this scene is that Skyler’s first “Come on…” sounds like she’s trying to encourage the birds to come to us too, but her tone changes and we find out she’s actually talking to us: “Come on down already. Everyone’s staring at you!”

Talk about always staying in business. Jade mentions how “when people see other’s desires get fulfilled, they develop their own desires,” so it would truly be an endless cycle of people coming to her for their wishes to be granted.

For some reason, I’m not entirely surprised Jade knew Firefly’s exact SAM number of AR-26710, or whatever that number represented when she was part of Glamoth’s Iron Cavalry, but that the Entropy Loss Syndrome was actually a result of her creation as a soldier instead of a random disease that Firefly alone had to deal with? How cruel. This girl was doomed from the very beginning of her life.

As strongly as Firefly wants to live, I doubt she would turn against the other Stellaron Hunters to achieve such a dream with how oddly close each of them are.

Madam, what do you mean and why must it be in yellow text? I know the color has come up a couple times already during this patch and while it’s not as intimidating as red, it still puts me on edge a little bit.

Firefly looks so darn smug here and confident in Silver Wolf’s abilities that it’s adorable. Our favorite hacker would surely have a blast in trashing the IPC like this if prompted.

I know everyone has gripes about the IPC, but I can’t help but be fascinated by them? A group of strangers just like the Stellaron Hunters or Astral Express, only coming together to get what they want. I’m also nervous for the day whenever the other Stonehearts get revealed. I mean, the three we know of already are downright gorgeous and if everyone in this darn group is just as pretty then I fear my wallet may be in danger.

Speaking of pretty, I’m sad Aventurine can’t actually join the festivities. I know he was teetering on the edge of life and death thanks to Acheron, but he seemed relatively fine in the last cutscene of 2.2.

We didn’t even get much more information about that Oswaldo guy Boothill was looking for either. To end the last patch with him cornering “this flamboyant fella” to look for the guy, you’d think we would learn the cowboy’s motives a bit more during the actual story.

Mhhmm, and here’s the little moment I brought up last time about the Stoneheart’s abilities. Topaz claims hers isn’t as “visual” as Aventurine’s so I’m still curious as to what her cornerstone is capable of.

Bronya and Belobog mention, huzzah!

I dunno what I was expecting as our first interaction with Jade as the trailblazer, but it was very amusing. I don’t remember the other options the game gave us as a wish, but happy I chose this because the conversation is honestly hilarious to me, from us saying “endgame” to assuming that Jade has no sense of humor..

Only to realize that she does indeed have a twisted sense of humor because the lady wanted us to cut off our adorable train conductor’s tail and gift it to her?? Amazing. I’m shocked she could joke about such a thing and that the trailblazer is even impressed by her.

Lastly, I’m once again so annoyed that Argenti didn’t get to speak! The game said they were already aware of the issue last patch but still didn’t get it fixed?? Aaah, it’s such a shame because Adam truly has such a fabulous voice and I haven’t a clue on when Argenti will make another story appearance for us to actually hear him again.

Alright, that’s enough for here. Big cutscenes next.

#honkai star rail #jade #firefly #stelle #aventurine #boothill #topaz and numby #gameplay #revs rambles

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