#these are the vibes for this writing session

[a-very-fond-farewell]

it’s bloodwork day so I cannot eat until my appointment later into the morning (close to lunch, so I can eat smth afterwards), but boi if it isn’t stressful looking at crackers ang go 👀. and they aren’t even good crackers to begin with! time to write the hunger away.

[theminecraftbee]

Joel turns around. Martyn is standing there. His eyes are a burning red that gives Joel the heebie-jeebies. If anyone would know to be scared, it's Joel! He would! He'd recognize a mad dog if he saw one anywhere!

Anyway, all of that is to say that his high-pitched scream had been totally justified. "Oh my word Martyn what are you doing here?" he says, clutching his hand over his heart, several feet further back than he'd been thirty seconds ago.

Martyn snorts. "Is the sign not for me? Figured there was no one else it could be for."

"The what?"

"The sign."

Joel turns around. Outside his base, the other Mounders have hung a helpful banner: "SORRY EVERYONE YOU LOVE IS DEAD <3".

He'd told them it was kind of rude, hanging that up. Sort of made light of the whole thing, really. His wife and Mumbo and Jimmy had died, guys, don't be idiots about it. Bdubs had loudly told him that he was TRYING to be helpful, Joel, geez, why don't you appreciate his efforts? Pearl had shrugged and said they don't exactly make cards for this kind of thing. Joel's pretty sure they do, actually but...

Sorry everyone you love is dead. Hah.

"My wife is dead, Martyn," Joel says.

"Who, Lizzie or Jimmy?" Martyn says, weirdly dark. "Anyway, my husband's dead, so--"

"Your what?"

"Mumbo and I got married one time. Everyone forgets that for some reason."

Joel has to think about it a while. "Huh."

"Yeah. Anyway, you've still got the other Mounders, huh? Don't know what you're crying about. Thought the sign had to be for me. Thought I'd show up. Get cake. Kill some people. You know how it is."

"If there's a TNT minecart in my base, the first thing I do after I turn red is kill you," Joel says.

"That's not really how it works this time," Martyn says.

"Yeah, well, screw you," Joel says. "Also, they didn't make me any cake. I should ask them for that next. Hah. A cake."

"You know, maybe don't ask for that? Parties tend to go wrong in this game."

"And who's fault is that, huh?"

"Hey, don't look at me! Or, do. Since I'm going to kill everyone, on account of everyone I love being dead and all. Really convenient excuse for murder, that. I should use it more often, if it didn't involve the crippling grief," Martyn says.

"Oh, please. At least you tend to have people to love in the first place," Joel snaps.

"Oh, right, that is your curse, isn't it?" Martyn says. "Sorta broke it last time, but you do tend to get isolated and a bit crazy. Hey, I wonder if we're the ones who traded, actually what with the whole wolf thing."

Joel blinks. "What?"

"Oh, we're all cursed," Martyn says. "After all, They like it better that way. Hey, do you think Jimmy's curse transferred to Lizzie, got cancelled out by the fact Lizzie tends to die stupidly, or got broken? Personally, I'm thinking random fluke, when it comes to canary nonsense."

Joel stares at Martyn. His throat is dry. "What?"

Martyn stares back. "Hey, I'm the mad dog this time," Martyn says. "You probably shouldn't be the one growling."

"Well then, you should stop saying stupid shit," Joel says.

"Stupid? Please. It's obvious everyone is cursed. Nothing to be done about it but to play into the--"

"NO ONE IS BLUMIN' CURSED," Joel shouts, his vision suddenly red and blurry in a way it shouldn't be when he's still on yellow. "NO ONE IS BLUMIN' CURSED. THERE'S NO SUCH THING! YOU'RE JUST, JUST MAKIN' UP REASONS IT ISN'T ALL A TRAGEDY THAT EVERYONE I LOVE IS FUCKING DEAD, MAKING UP REASONS THAT IT--NO ONE IS CURSED! IT JUST HAPPENS! IT JUST HAPPENS! IT JUST FUCKING HAPPENS! AND WOULDN'T IT BE BLUMIN' NICE IF THERE WERE A HIGHER POWER BUT THERE ISN'T SO SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT CURSES!"

He's panting. Martyn is staring at him. He stares back, a snarl on his teeth, the echoes of wolves and of grief, grief, grief, grief playing at the back of his throat.

"Joel?" Martyn says, hesitant.

"My wife is fucking dead. My best friend is fucking dead. One of my new possible best friends is fucking dead. Sorry about your husband, I guess? Get out."

"Bold thing to say to the guy who can kill--"

"I SAID GET OUT!"

Martyn stares at Joel a moment longer, and Joel finds he's not scared of the madness in his eyes at all.

Martyn leaves.

Joel realizes he's crying. The tears turn into giant, ugly sobs. Sorry everyone you love is dead. Sorry everyone you love is dead. Sorry everyone you love is dead.

"I blumin' hate caring about people," he says to no one at all through choked breaths, and he kicks a rock at the banner for good measure. It pokes a little hole through it and bounces off the dick-shaped tower behind it.

"Someone really should have made both of us a blumin' cake, they should," he says next, and he sits down until Pearl runs over, having heard the shouting. His face is red and his vision is still swimming. She stares at him, gathers him in her arms, and cries with him, and for the life of him, he doesn't know if that's any better.

[wonderlandhour]

TWST AU except General Lilia finds this random like, 8 year old human kid in the woods being raised by a bear and moves into the nearby cottage to help raise him because the bear is doing a decent job but he is human and should wear clothes and know how to speak.

This leads to everything else being mostly the same but Silver is mostly nonverbal, using sign more often than not, and is absolutely fucking feral sometimes. Jack thoroughly enjoys wrestling with Silver and Silver takes a fierce liking to him because of it. Sebek also grew up wrestling with Silver and sometimes to burn some energy, Malleus will also do so with his brother- I mean Silver. Bonus is that Silver likes Malleus's partial dragon form and enjoys grooming him. The purring happy puddle of Dragon is a very good thing.

[landfilloftrash]

It Begins

***

****

Summer days tended to be her least favorite of the seasons. It was a bright day, brighter than her eyes liked as the sun glared through the sea’s waves back up into its eyes, and she’d pulled up her hood, contracted her pupils, and closed its third eyelid to combat that, but even so, she sunk deeper into the folds of her robe like a petulant child at the audacity the waves had to be reflecting like knives into its eyes today.

When someone needed out of the country, or simply out of Ӕngelӕnd, they usually left in the night; the cover of darkness shielding the fleeing subjects and the owlin's eyes easily cutting through the shadows to discern what was actually there. At least the moon was always kinder to her eyes on the waters than the sun had ever been. But it wasn’t so stupid as going as far to nag the sun for something about the ocean, and she wasn’t going to hiss at the sea for a feature that made it beautiful; she just felt like complaining about a hurt within the sanctity of her mind as it waited for the ship to be off.

She had been sitting in the crow’s nest as she waited. And wait she did— Both to stay out of the crew’s way (they had more than enough people to set the riggings right, that rations and spare sails were stocked up, that everything was running as a tight ship should) simply due to her size, reputation, status. And staying up here was to have a, hah, bird’s eye view of the situation.

Ӕngelӕnd had a very specific set of superstitions— she wasn’t 100% sure if it extended past this place or if it was simply the Ӕnglish, however. 

A Priest on a ship was one thing, to get tongues wagging about religion and how badly it mixed with the sea, nevermind the gods of the sea and how temperamental they could be on their own. A woman on a ship was said to bring bad luck; everyone else on the spectrum was fine, but when a woman got on board it simply spelled doom. That had always made her laugh. A Priestess of the Blood Clerics set all the wagging tongues to silence, and pure fear in her presence. Eno was well aware of what blood clerics' reputations were. She herself had been one for more than a few years at this point, and the change from having outsiders of the church approaching her every day for everything and nothing at all, to them out right avoiding her was a stark contrast.

Not that it could blame them to be honest; the idea of someone being able to puppeteer your body into doing whatever they wanted you to do simply because you have blood was a horrifying concept— and the main reason she had stayed under counseling of the teachers and Saints for half a decade longer than her peers.

Quite honestly, it was rather eye-opening to see the shift of severity, if still open-minded teaching, that the Blood sect of the Church had. She knew going in, that it was going to be a little bit more firm in its guidance, opposed to something like Tempest or Life— but watching her Father eye each and every one of them with a fierce fire in his eyes as he talked calmly about what would happen should they have decided it would be funny to try their powers on an unsuspecting civilian was quite… the memory.

The snapping of the staff he had been holding in demonstration like a simple twig had also been quite expressive of his feelings on the matter.

(It had been after leading an afternoon sermon that a man approached her– the strong smell of medicine, along with the strict air suddenly surrounding her, giving away who it was as she turned to anticipate him.

“Father Dolmayan,” it greeted with what humanoids treated as a smile and a bow of the head, “what can I do for you? I hope you do not need me to be a test subject for your students again, I don’t have any injuries at the present moment.”

“Priestess Folook,” he gave a small bow from the shoulders in return, “Thankfully, no. I come bearing official business at the moment.”

More official than what he practiced? She let the ‘smile’ drop in favor of her curiosity— tilting its head in an offer to continue.

“You are not busy I take it?”

“Not anymore– is there somewhere you’d rather discuss this?”

He seemed to consider this for a moment. “Why don’t we take a walk in the forest? It would do me some good to walk and talk.”

Eno would be the first to admit one of its favorite pastimes was to simply exist in the forest and hear the sounds surrounding her, quiet any thought she might have had, but the idea of taking a walk and discussing official business had her on guard already. They should’ve sent Rollo with this news, it internally joked. He’s much better at all this.

They went together out into the woods and discussed smaller things first; how their respective jobs were going, small concerns or gripes, little victories and achievements, but nothing unusual until they were halfway through the woodland hike near the church.

“We have received word from the King that they request a cleric to be on a voyage to Nassau, and myself with a few others deemed that it should be you.”

“To Nassau?” she questioned, thinking of the People’s Republic. The enemies of the crown, a fierce and protective people, and often collated with a cult, which was incorrect if she had her sources straight. None of this was said aloud in the seconds that passed. “Whatever for?”

He side-eyed her, seemingly waiting for her to catch up, but it genuinely could not connect why they would want a cleric on this voyage. Priests already were frowned upon by sailors; she could quite literally only try to imagine why the King would want her kind of presence on board. And who had even decided it’d be her? She was no good with laws when they went against what it believed in, but then again, she wasn’t completely vocal with that particular opinion; and for good reason.

“It seems to be an attempt at taking the rebels back ‘into the fold’ as it were;” he finally explained at her continued confused look— perhaps she needed to work on conveying that expression. Only the Saints and the other beast-people seemed to understand that one; “finally re-become a part of the King’s nation.”

Ah. That explained a part of the puzzle, including an explosive argument between the King and her Saint, but didn’t explain her part in it all. “I can think of several better candidates for this than myself,” it mused, thinking of Eamon and Alvaro in particular with their more zealous determination; Order domain as they were, they’d be perfect for enacting the law and duty to the King. “It would be a couple days to summon them, but they would no doubt be up for the task. Far more invested in this sort of thing, you know?”

Dolmayan had started shaking his head about half way through its suggestion, and before she could try and convince the man that she was not the one to be tasked with this— he continued.

“The King seeks a Blood Cleric to attend on this mission.”

And suddenly things made a lot more sense; dread made itself at home, curling in a looping spiral around her heart and guts.)

But none of that was important at the moment, because she was keeping an eye out for a very specific someone.

This someone should theoretically be easy to spot. Especially considering the man was— Well. A triton. There was nothing intentionally racist about the thought, it was simply, tritons kind of stuck out in a place of land-faring people. Not to mention he was an entire admiral. Both these visual cues combined should make spotting him fairly easy. He just. Hadn’t arrived yet. At least not under her watchful eyes. Maybe he’d shown up days beforehand? Simply lurking in the Captain’s cabin? She’dve assumed it would have heard something from him at this point, especially considering the frazzled look of the one who greeted her when it had arrived, so it had to assume he wasn’t here. So perhaps, was he going to be one of those people that showed up at the very last second? She wasn’t sure, but it was certainly reaching that point in time amongst the ship’s crew.

And just as she was wondering about all of that– she spotted him. A little hard not to; he was the shade of something dark in a sea of pale, wearing a mother of pearl armor set and wielding a trident— presumably befitting of his station.

She couldn’t, and wouldn’t, lie. He was absolutely stunning.

Eno watched him strut— because, that’s what the man was doing, he was very clearly strutting— onto the deck of the ship and watched with a sharp eye what everyone was doing. Clearly, he was in his element.

His aura… well, whatever she’d been expecting, and had previously experienced from similar ranks of army men, was not at all what this man exuded. Underneath some face paint, or simply a creative use of makeup, it couldn't tell, to boot. Confidence, arrogance, sure those were standard, and were detectable, but the main thing that caught its attention at the moment was the fact it nearly wasn’t, under the.. nigh almost stabilizing facade he seemed to bear in the face of his underlings. Not the best word to use but it was the only one she had. He was sharp, but not a cold presence as he walked beside the gesticulating man. Cutting through chaos with aplomb, but with a slide to his step so as not to disrupt anything. 

So this was Chief Admiral Sir Gaura Arzorath. 

Definitely not what she’d expected, but that, in of itself, was to be expected, she thought. Can’t judge a book by its reputation, and definitely not just because of its fancy cover.

Eno watched him for a little longer, trying to see if he was perhaps abominably rude from up here, but it was simply too loud for her to hear any conversation not yelled at 60 decibels louder than a normal conversational tone. But luckily– and just as unluckily for her sensitive hearing— it didn’t have to strain too hard to be able to hear something after the man talking to Admiral Arzorath disappeared from her current viewpoint. There was a specific sound approaching her– the creaks of the ropes and wood getting louder as someone climbed up to the crow’s nest.

The apprehensive face of a human peeked over the sides of the nest, and she eyed the man with unconcealed curiosity; the expression tended to look very, very creepy to non-avians, and that was exactly what she was aiming to stir.

“Ah– Madame Priestess?” he stuttered, his eyes darting across her face, and she could almost hear the wood give a creak from how tight he was holding it.

“That is I,” she rumbled out, ignoring his fear politely, “what do you need?”

“A-ah, begging your pardon, ma’am, but Admiral Gaura Arzorath is formally asking for your presence.”

“I will be down in a moment,” it hummed. “Run along.”

The human didn’t need to be told twice. He nodded earnestly and startled hustling his way back down from the crow’s nest, giving her a moment to ponder her options.

She didn’t know quite how to approach this. Clever woman she was not, but it was at the very least an imaginative one. Everything she’d heard on the streets about this Admiral pointed towards him being a very bad person to approach with the idea of perhaps not binding the Nassauean people’s will to her own, and forcing them upon the ships as prisoners— or killing them should they be able to resist her hold; but from how the people surrounded him, he was not all the stories spoke of him to be; but that proved absolutely nothing about how he felt about this particular mission.

As the blood cleric tasked with this duty, she would very much like to protest this course of action— possibly directly to the King himself, if it didn’t think it might get immediately arrested and possibly hanged for it. She doubted the second part, but hey, her imaginative anxiety was allowed a little free reign; Eno wasn’t quite sure of the King’s policy of a sole someone protesting about a given order right in his face, especially in regards to what amounted to conquest.

For now, she thought, climbing onto the railing of the nest; perching, I’ll keep this facade. Best to have people not questioning my secrecy if that’s what they expect from me, rather than them know me as I actually am.

She leapt down from the top of the crow’s nest, feeling the air rushing past but not hearing a sound, and with an easy swoop of its widened wings to catch the air and slow the fall just enough as she landed with a crouch– perhaps a bit hard on her knees— before rising to its full height and tucking her partially extended wings back behind her. 

It made for an entrance, and one that will keep people from bothering her. 

“Admiral Gaura Arzorath,” she intoned with a bow of the head.

“Ah,” he exhaled, eyeing her in wary curiosity, but keeping polite. Smart. “You’re our blood cleric then?”

“That would indeed be I.”

“Well then, Priestess… ehm,” he blanked, until the human from earlier whispered ‘Folook!’ to him, “Folook, my apologies, busy morning– welcome aboard my vessel. I assume you’ve been informed of the task you’ve been assigned?”

“Yes, sir.” She hummed, pulling the letter from the King from with the folds of her sleeves.

“Good!” he nodded, clapping his hands together with a little flick of his tail, and eyed her letter’s seal with a careful eye before ignoring it entirely. “Good, good, good. Arthur!” 

“Aye, sir?” the human next to him startled to attention. So his name was Arthur. That was nice to know.

“Can you bring some buckets to my cabin? Don’t need to be filled or anything, I can do that, but it did just occur to me. It would be wonderful if that could happen.”

“A-aye, sir? Filled with..?” 

“Seawater,” he responded with aplomb. “But again, I can do that.”

“Also,” he pointed a finger up in sudden remembrance, “Would you mind gathering the men once we’re about to make way? I’d like to say a few words before we shove off.”

“Aye, Admiral,” he nodded, and hustled off to start shouting something to the helmsman, lost within the general cacophony.

Sir Admiral Gaura Arzorath was a tad… goofy. 

She refrained from giving a smile at the thought. Just because he’s goofy does not mean he hasn’t earned the title of ‘The King’s Favorite Murderer’, just means there’s a person behind it, like there always is.

So instead she watched Arthur run off, slightly amused. It was always interesting to watch someone go about their job, and seeing the person-to-person interaction, even briefly, where the only reason why Arthur seemed to be so on edge was due to her and the ship about to set off?; she enjoyed that it was only that and not the Admiral himself.

“Now, ehm,” it turned its attention back to the aforementioned Admiral, who’s smile turned slightly rueful as she turned back to him, “Madame Folook. If you wouldn’t mind, I have a couple of questions for you?”

Questions? This could very well be interesting. “Ask away, Admiral.”

He pursed his lips as he lifted his hands in a steepled position for a moment, debating something, before pointing at her with the hands’ positioning continued. “What does a Blood Cleric… do?”

..Huh?

“I beg your pardon..?”

“I mean no offense–!” he quickly waved his hands in a gesture so fast they blurred, “I just! Don’t know what Blood Clerics do! Or why you’re specifically on my ship!”

His hands stopped moving so fast so that he could apparently cross his arms across his chest in a bit of a defensive maneuver. “I like knowing these things, y’know? Good for an Admiral to know the role of everyone on his vessel.”

Oh. Heavens.

She fought the simultaneous urges to start giggling uncontrollably and to stare at him in incredulous shock. It was getting whiplash here. He had no clue what she was. He had no idea what its purpose on this voyage was. It settled for a weird in-between where it gave him a strange, if a bit ominous, smile.

“Let’s start simply. Do you know what Clerics are capable of?”

“Of course, of course,” he waved a hand in dismissal before crossing it back across his chest. “I’m not that unknowledgable on the subject, just specifically your sect.”

“Then you’re aware that us spellcasters have different domains that help us in a range of different ways, and those domains are usually titled after what they are related to, or have major control over.”

He nodded diplomatically with curiosity in his eye as his tail flicked in her direction. ‘Go on.’

“Clerics of the blood, control that.”

Arzorath stared at her blankly for a few moments as his tail continued gently swishing side to side, gears clearly turning within his head. And then– 

“Oh!” He exclaimed, his eyes going bright with realization, before a slight pause caused his brow to become ever so slightly furrowed in continued realization. “Oooh. I see. Hm. Yes.”

The admiral raised a curled finger to his lips as Arzorath looked down in thought, muttering loud enough for her to hear as the swishing of his tail became sharper. “Hm. Alright, yes, now I see. Well. Your services won’t have any need of use, hopefully, once we approach them with our ships. Three Galleons against a small group of pirates? They’ll bend a knee quickly.”

Before she could think of trying to disagree with it being a ‘small group’ or agree with his hope of not using her abilities, he clapped his hands together with a fierce final slice of his tail through the air. “Alright! I understand perfectly now. It is truly rather unfortunate that your abilities are even possibly needed. Barbaric, you know? Glad to have you on our side— and once again; Welcome aboard ‘The Queen Eliza’.”

She blinked as he twisted on his heel and marched towards the helm with a determined air.

Quick and thoughtful; the tactician he was rumored to be shining through with a threatening gleaming blade, but just a bit oblivious to situations at hand, dulling that shadowy shine.

It truly had no idea what to think about this strange triton.

All it could truly do was eye him as he got to the top of the galleon’s stairs, to the railing peering over the rest of the deck, and called for the rest of the people’s attentions with a sharp whistle that sliced through the general noise like a guillotine.

The noise didn’t silence instantly, lingering briefly like a consciousness, before eyes were dragged to the man himself. He quietly cleared his throat, for none but those nearest and the sharpest ears to hear. “Men, some of you know what we are gathered on board for, what our next task is. Some of you may not. Regardless of whether or not either of these facts are true, I am here to inform you exactly what that quest is.”

“You all have, no doubt, heard of the pirates that plague our waters. Their leader, the pirate lord Lockwell. May have even encountered them yourself on the seas for one reason or another— you may have also heard that our King has been attempting peace treaties with those scallywags, and you may have heard that they have been failing.” His eyes swept across the deck with ice steeled there. “Today marks the day that those rumors come to fruition; they have rejected our words of peace and stand staunchly against us.”

There was a ripple amongst the crew; the beginning of a complete understanding of their undergoing. Arzorath only continued cementing their realization as his voice raised amongst the murmurs; “We are to storm the heart of their power, their rebellion, and to show them our might. In three days, we will arrive on the shores of these rebels, and finally take them into custody. By force if we must, willing if at all possible, but by all means necessary. We fight for our country, for honor, and for duty. For this is our duty to the King, it is our duty for God. Remember above all else; God is true, under Him we are permitted. Give what you must, take it all back.”

The brief silence that took hold of the ship was backed by the calls of the docks, the rush of the sea. She peered at him from the bow. Small on this monster of a ship, yet commanding the area with little effort.

“We make way immediately; for Nassau,” he ordered sharply. “Godspeed to us all.” 

“You heard him, men!” called Arthur with a bellow, “Unfurl the sails, raise the anchor! To Nassau!”

As the admiral swept away into the depths of the ship, a flurry of activity seized the crew once again with a fierce rejuvenation, putting the activity from earlier to shame. Calling to one another up in the riggings and masts, swinging to and fro with pure confidence, and down below, an echo from the boards underneath as they were pulling the anchors in triplicate.

An admiral indeed.

As it felt the ship begin to groan and move, echoed like a howl from a pack from the following two vessels of 'The Queen Eliza', it turned her head westward.

Upon the high seas it was to be.

***

Prologue; One - Two - Three - Four

High Seas; It Begins (here you are!) - Something's Wrong

[dangopango00]

Writing fics when u have a complicated relationship with affection is crazy bc u’ll write something, be like “ew” and then people will like it

[foxmulderautism]

wrote out a whole thing about imagining as part of my writing process and how much of my first drafting is actually done internally but it sounded kind of obnoxious accidentally like “ummm guys well everything in my head is so vivid 👍” which i don’t think me experiencing writing in my head vividly is special it’s just what my brain does 👍 but anyway how much of a first draft is a first draft when i will write a passage in word but that passage has lived in my head for weeks sometimes months mostly written out because i will write out scenes in my head and just let them marinate up there and somehow I don’t forget it

[itsgrimeytime]

I don't know if y'all know how extensive my GIF searches are for my fanfics.

I will comb through different phrases for hours-

(I've found 'rick grimes beard' and 'rick grimes grin' have some QUALITY works. For my fellow rick girlies.)

[essektheylyss]

Also, I gotta say, because I did draft the results post in advance obviously, I DO fully understand how Sam's ad bits end up so absurd, like, the moment you commit to a bit you really just have to keep escalating, jesus christ.

[spanishinfluenza]

Chapter 8 - Undue Influence

Chapter 8 of Rope is out! Esme is in her head as always, and this time we get to see more of Carlisle's take on the mysteries unfolding :)

[kimbapisnotsushi]

@ k-pop loving mutuals: I’M HELPING ONE OF MY SIXTH-GOING-INTO-SEVENTH KIDS WRITE AN ESSAY ABOUT THE HISTORY OF K-POP!!!!

[mydemonsdrivealimo]

RAHHH JENSEN AND LIAYH COVERING STEVE LACY

[a-very-fond-farewell]

it’s 5am, today I get to do something that happens only once every two years in my household, I am currently craving poke but haven’t had one in 8 months, never had boba in my life, I’m eating crackers wishing it was something else, and I look like this:

seems like the perfect time to write 💅🏻

[floral-hex]

drove my mom to the ER.

[fictionallyinparadise]

For the 70s/80s music ask game, ‘Let’s Dance’ for anyone, for no reason other than my favorite musician wrote that song (is that the correct way to say that??? I’m new to music small talk. And music that isn’t just video game OSTs in general. And will that opinion have me judged? Sorry if I’m being awkward,)

~stars-n-freckles45

OOOO David Bowie goes BRRR <33 Dw about being awkward, music small talk (for me at least) either goes "this song made me cry you should listen to it", "this reminds me of you/your OC(s)", or "you just unlocked a memory about music and I'm gonna go down a rabbithole about it" so shghsg- Also!! Video game OSTs are so fucking good dude like.....omge. ANYWHO ANYWHO, I answered this with Iceberg bc I'm melting from brainrot to the point of no return <3

David Bowie - Let’s Dance: Are there any songs you’ve picked up from your F/O or their media, or because they remind you of them?

One song that reminds me of him for no reason is "Touch-Tone Telephone" by Lemon Demon. There's no reason, I just think it fits :]

Onto the songs that I can go and ramble about-

"Cold Cold Cold" by Cage The Elephant reminds me of him. Considering that he is literally Cold™️. I feel like he'd scream this song in his car before going into work....... "Some Rotten Man" by The Taxpayers but it's in an angst way,,,like. Hang on I need a specific lyric-

"Some rotten man. Nobody's savior. Your oldest friend" LIKE I can literally picture him saying those to me. "Some rotten man" in passing conversation. "Nobody's savior" after something Goes Wrong At Work™️. "Your oldest friend" whispered in the dark when he thinks I'm asleep.

"Mary On A Cross" by Ghost because like.......he's got some Abnormal Thing about him (his body temp is like....19.4° F) and my self insert has some Abnormal Thing about them (their eyes are glitchy! Like when they're confused their eyes show a literal bluescreen)!! SO THE "your beauty never ever scared me" HITS SO HARD............

"Hayloft II (Burning Barn Acoustic)" by Mother Mother is another and it's specifically the Acoustic bc that one itches my brain so hard. There's something about it that carries his Unhinged yet Contained energy so perfectly.

There's so many more but at the rate I'm going I'll never end this MSGHSHGHH..........

[catman-draws]

The major one besides the cueball-headed guy, or the major one IS the cueball-headed guy? Fr, tho, I doubt Beta Trolls would've done anywhere near as good if they weren't raised on murder paradise Alternia, where knowing how to fight and adapt to the situation was very much life or death matter. Given how much personal drama they've had? Without that world setting their priorities straight, things would've likely ended up differently ✨️

Ngl I completely forgot about him again \/\/\/

[stopdrinkingitdown]

Quick Dema/Clancy inspired sketch and mini fic.

This is a lot of how imagine the torture in Dema, by Keons and the less physically violent Bishops especially.

The first time Clancy is taken to the Tower of Silence he doesn’t know what to expect. He is chained to the wall in a room with the only source of light as the vials. He spends his first day in terror of what may be coming. He cannot sleep with the vials searing into his mind, even when his eyes are closed.

He doesn’t know how many days pass. He doesn’t feel hungry, he doesn’t remember how to feel. Why did he make such a stupid mistake as to end up here? What did he think he was accomplishing? Who did he think he was helping?

He pulls against the chains to break the vials, to get out, and only succeeds in bruising his wrists.

Tyler tells him his letters failed to help anyone, and put the Banditos in more danger. Josh comes with the Banditos to rescue him, but turns away from releasing him. “You’re just not worth the effort,” he says, “We only have so much time and we have to prioritize”. Josh leaves and Keons is there, slamming him against the wall.

Clancy slams his head against the wall, trying to make the voices stop. He screams to no one, begging for forgiveness. He pulls against the chains until his wrist shatters, blood running down his arms in parallel to his tears.

The door opens to a silhouetted red figure, and all Clancy can do is kneel to the ground as far as the chains allow, and numbly recite the tenets of Dema. Every time he blinks the room shifts, people enter and people leave. There are hands on him, and then nothing. The room shifts into a hallway, then into a door, then into the outside.

The outside.

Clancy is heedless of the polluted air of Dema, the oppressive smog and lack of stars. He breaths for the first time in two weeks. His hands are shaking but it’s the only thing he can be sure is real. Is truly happening.

He barely stumbles back to his apartment. His hand on the door, and it takes everything he has to open it and step back into the dark.

Tyler would tell him he needs to eat, then provided bland food he could keep down. Josh would’ve guided him to a chair, then cleaned and bandaged his wrists. Clancy braces himself not to flinch from the echo of his friend’s voices in his head. Their voices used to comfort him.

He makes it as far as the bathroom before he collapses against the sink, staring at his own shattered reflection, too exhausted and numb to cry.

Assured in the realization that Keons had fundamentally broken something in him.