#they have the first set of rings on their horns but i think they order a second set for their actual hands

[remitro]

feeling shrimp emotions about cbee again. sorry it will happen again

[softaestluv]

Three’s A Crowd

Ghoap x Neighbor! Reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

Tags: Teasing, Flirting, Attempt at humor, Ghoap are cocky dicks who also have big d!cks, butt plugs, lingerie, dirty talk, & self masturbation

This chapter does contain smut! 18+ content!

Summary: When you moved into your new apartment complex you thought your biggest concern would be something practical such as mold in the shower or weak water pressure. Maybe even the smell of lingering cigarette smoke or marijuana from previous tenants.

You never expected it to be your neighbors who seemed to have a sex drive that rivaled any succubus or horned college teenager.

A box.

A small box left on your doorstep.

You had assumed it was a package you ordered, even though you didn’t quite remember ordering one. However, the box wasn’t what frazzled you; it was the contents inside that had your face burning.

It was a lingerie set.

Pink lace.

Tiniest thong you’ve ever seen, decorated with delicate frills.

Thigh highs with a garter belt, two white bows on the back of each stocking.

Baby doll dress, see-through and ruffled.

A small metal item, a pink diamond skull etched on the end of the cork, had you furrowing your brows at the sight. You didn’t know what it was, but you definitely didn’t order it.

You closed the box, reading the name out loud, “Simon Riley.”

You didn’t know a Simon. Didn’t know a neighbor named Simon. You couldn’t imagine any of your other neighbors ordering these items besides John and Lieutenant Riley next door. Though, the lingerie looked a little too small to fit John.

Either way you made your way over, knocking on their door. Greeted by a clothed Riley, thanking the gods above that you didn’t have to stare at his defined pecs or hips bones.

“Uhm, I think I might’ve got one of your packages on accident.”

“Hhm?” He hummed, opening the flaps of the cardboard as you held it out to him on your palms.

He pulled the babydoll dress out, holding it between the two of you. Your face burnt at the sight, embarrassment stinging your chest as he held it up like it was nothing. Held it for any other neighbor to walk out and see. Looked even tinier in his large palms.

“Hmm, no. It’s yours.”

You shook your head, laughing stiffly, “Ah, no, I didn’t order this.”

“I know.” He placed the baby doll back in the box and closed the flaps, tapping his fingers on the top, “I did.”

“What?”

“I ripped your panties didn’t I?” He mused, leaning against the door frame, and crossed his arms. A smug position you were starting to get tired of.

“This is more than panties.” You deadpanned, clenching your fingers around the stupid cardboard.

“Thought you would look good in these too,” He said, shrugging his shoulders like you were talking about the weather and not sexy lingerie that he had bought you.

You, a complete stranger to him other than living next to him. And he was buying you lingerie of all things. A first for a housewarming gift.

“What about this?” You asked, grabbing the metal cork, “What’s this?”

He chuckled darkly, “A butt plug.”

“What?” Your eyes widened, dropping it into the box like it burnt your fingertips, “What am I supposed to do with that?”

“Well,” He smirked, pulling it back out, “I got you a small one. I assumed you’ve never used one before, so it should be pretty easy for you to make fit. It just keeps you stretched and prepped for anal sex. Though, you’ll have to finger yourself first. But Johnny and I can always help you with that, if you want.”

Your mouth gaped, frantically waving a free hand in front of him to get him to shut the hell up, ears ringing with warmth, “Stop! Stop! Please! I get it!”

You placed the box against his chest, shaking your head earnestly, “I’m not taking this.”

“I bought it for you, doll.”

“I’m never going to wear this,” You said, emphasizing your words when you pointed to the butt plug, “Or use that.”

“Keep it. You might change your mind someday. Or think of us when using it, at least.”

With that, he closed the door and left you standing in the open hallway with a box full of lingerie and sex toys. At least you finally knew the masked man’s first name.

You had planned not to use the items— ever.

Had thrown them in your closet the moment you returned from the embarrassing interaction in the hallway. Couldn’t believe the audacity of your cocky-ass neighbors.

Just because they were sex addicts didn’t mean everyone was fine with receiving sex toys as gifts.

Your past lovers hadn’t even bought you sex toys or lingerie, for that matter. None of which would even imagine using a toy on you.

Except a few days later, you had been awakened to, big surprise, John’s Scottish moaning. You don’t know what came over you, why you had laid awake and willingly listened to the noises they were making. Didn’t try to drown them out with headphones or pillows.

Maybe it’s because in the back of your mind there was that box in your closet, dainty frills, and metal butt plug.

The fact that they had bought it with you in mind, imagined you in the delicate lace, and pink metal. Had thought you would look pretty in it, made you jump up, digging through your closet to find the stupid box.

You didn’t even know how to use one, never had anything near your ass before. But Simon’s words kept ringing in your head, and for some reason, their deep grunts had your body hot. Burning with uncertain desire. Laid there: butt plug in one hand, lube in the other.

Maybe this was their plan all along; moan so loudly that one day your body would react, would have your core warming.

It didn’t fucking matter why because they would never know, would never actually see you in it. So you gathered the lube on your index finger before you could have second thoughts, dipping into your panties. Goosebumps formed on your skin at the cold consistency, jumping slightly in reaction.

You started slow, spreading the lube around your rim. It wasn’t necessarily an amazing feeling, but your nerves had you reacting strongly, uncharted territory made it that more exciting.

When you built enough courage you slipped the tip of your index finger in, fighting the resistance from your walls, inhaling deep at the foreign intrusion. It didn’t hurt, but it did feel uncomfortable. Felt full, like your finger didn’t belong there. It was harder to push the whole digit in, had to regulate your breathing to bottom out.

“There we go, Johnny.” Simon’s voice came through the wall, hoarse and tense.

Made you clench around your finger, breathe hiccuping as you imagined he was saying it to you. That he was praising you for taking one of his fingers.

You couldn’t even imagine how his or John’s fingers would feel inside you. Your index finger alone had you adjusting to the stretch, and their hands were twice the size of yours.

Your hips arched down before you even realized it; instincts seeking out a different kind of stretch. A stretch only the men across the wall could provide, brawny and massive. Would have you stretched thin around their thick knuckles.

You tried to push your middle finger in, but your walls wouldn’t have it. Made you whimper quietly under your breath when you had to scrape your index finger through the ridges of your walls, making yourself lax and pliant to press your second finger in.

The second finger hurt, had your eyes widening and your body tensing tightly, but it was as if Simon knew, mumbled praises to John just when you needed.

“You can take it, be a good boy for me.”

His low drawl practically had your body loosening and the whine that followed from John after made the burn subside slightly.

Your legs were shaking as you bottomed the second finger out, couldn’t hold in the soft mewls that slipped past your throat when you slowly began to fuck them in and out of your walls. Trying your best to ignore the pain, focus on Simon and John’s moans and praised and not the sting.

Pretend as if you were in the room with them, that you weren’t a block of plaster away. That it was Simon’s fingers inside of you, John’s fingers on your clit, both of them on either side of your frame, whispering low hums in your ears.

You were embarrassingly close to finishing, hadn’t even inserted the butt plug. So you lathered the cold metal in lube, pressed it to your hole, tried your best to relax as you bullied it through your walls. Squeezed your eyes tightly shut as the slender tip enlarged, and broke through your entrance with a wet pop.

Made you snap your hips down with a loud gasp, eyes welling with tears at the intrusion. A gasp so loud the motions behind the walls stopped, noises dying into silence as you slapped your hand over your mouth. Eyes widened in embarrassment because they definitely heard that.

But that wasn’t even the most distracting part; the butt plug was pressed to the hilt now, gem rested against your rim. Had your breaths faltering in your chest, felt incredibly full.

“Did ya hear that, Johnny?”

“I did, Si.”

You cringed, burying yourself into your blankets, butt plug forgotten, face burnt too strongly to care about anything else.

“Think our birdie decided to join us.”

You held your breath, made yourself as tiny as possible between your sheets, and tried to make no noise. Hide from them even from the comfort of your own sheets. But your movements made the butt plug press deep into your walls, had you crying out in shock.

A noise that had both men chuckling darkly behind the wall, continuing the onslaught of thrusts, you presumed, to Johnny.

Their acknowledgment, the fact that they knew you were across the way, fucking yourself with the butt plug they bought you. To their fucking noises had your body heating in a way you’ve never felt before, embarrassment, humiliation. But it made any uncomfortable tenses from the plug evaporated from your body, melting into blinding pleasure.

Each thrust had you reacting stronger than the last, moans matching that of the men across the wall. Quivering as you replayed their words in your mind.

‘our birdie’

Made each movement that more intense.

Didn’t even care that they could hear you, synced your motions with them, clenching down sporadically around the bulb as you came, Johnny’s moans edging you along as you convulsed. Squeezed the plug so tightly you were sure it would break in two.

Came undone around the stupid butt plug they bought you, to the sounds you had grown to despise.

Tag list: @avatar-lover @cheese-pull @entityunbound @theheartcollecter @leon-thot-kennedy @yunho-leeknow @star-buck-barnes @bluebarrybubblez

[noneorother]

The secret timeline inside of Good Omens season 2 revealed, *part1*

Part 1 l Part 2

If you’ve ever watched a ballet or an opera, you know how the rhythm in the music is used throughout to determine not only the movements of the dancers, but also when lines are sung or spoken. This is almost unheard of in television, but what if I told you it was hidden in season 2 of Good Omens? If one were to, say, meticulously cut together only the scenes set in the present day into one big timeline, you would get one long video that is exactly 2 hours 22 minutes 00 seconds and 00 frames long. An ineffable cut that is so perfect it defies all logic. (I’ve burnt a timecode into this ineffable edit to help pick up the rhythm.)

Even though there are large swathes of the second season with no music, there is a constant tempo weaving its way through the show: What if the seconds ticking by in the runtime itself was the music? Here’s an example of what I found. Behold a supercut of every single time Shax shows up, or Hell is mentioned in series 2 in the ineffable edit. They always arrive on a 6 in the time stamp (ex: 00:XX:X6).

(SOUND ON is an absolute must here, otherwise you won't hear any of the triggers)

Shax rings Crowley on a XX:X6. Shax miracles herself into the car on a XX:X6. Shax knocks on windows on a XX:X6. Shax’s big scary moment at the bookshop happens at 66 minutes exactly (lol). Crowley calls out for Shax on a XX:X6. Beelzebub starts spewing flies on a 6. People mention hell and it’s always on XX:X6 etc. etc…(Bonus: I also left in Maggie flipping the damned the double-bird on a XX:X6) I’ve also left in the only appearance of Shax or hell at all in the whole series that isn’t tied to a six: the park bench scene with Crowley. Shax seems to be off by one line, showing up on a XX:10, then back to XX:X6 on her second reply: “Bills, mostly”. I can only theorise that this scene, while technically in season 2, is not supposed to *be* in season 2 (even just judging by the trees, sun and the overcoats, it’s not summer like in the rest of the season). And it’s not only sixes! Every time I go through I find more and more little beats that line up exactly with ineffable timings. I can only do one video per post, so I’ll have to cut it up into sections, but Gabriel, doors, car horns, bird calls, Aziraphale, food, drinks, Angels, dialogue, Maggie, Nina, jokes, clocks, bells… The list goes on and on. 

Neil called this season “The bridge”

Because we all know how much Neil loves double meanings and wordplay, I just have to ponder the idea that when Neil said this season was “the bridge” between seasons 1 and 3, he meant it double-literally. First, as in the bridge Aziraphale and Crowley have to cross in order to get them into position for the second coming. We even see the physical manifestation of this bridge leading everyone in the background of the opening credits. But this season is also a bridge in the sense that it’s a musical section that introduces new ideas or material in the middle of a song. This whole season is the music that deviates from the familiar, and re-contextualizes the chorus and the verses so we can appreciate them in a new way. 

Let’s not forget that 2:22 is also exactly the same timing as this (and only this) track from the good omens s2 album (read all about the soundtrack here):

Why is this so bonkers? I think GOS2 might be the first ever “Total” series of television.

Having everything in the series timed and choreographed would actually make it a very faithful adaptation of the Powell & Pressburger film The Tales of Hoffmann (read about the movie and it’s effect on all of s2 here). If you watch the tales of Hoffman, you will realize that the entire film is actually done more like animation, with the music and vocals all performed in a studio, mixed and edited first, and then the actors came back to act out their choreographed and lip-synched parts for the cameras afterwards. The result is "Total film": a movie that feels more like a ballet, with every movement, action, and line happening in time with the music. As far as I can tell, very few films have ever attempted this, with The Tales of Hoffmann and Playtime being the only two “complete” films I could find in this style. (The Red shoes has one section, and An American In Paris has a few)

“Why would ambitious filmmakers simply film an opera? Many admirers of the work of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger have assumed that their decision to make The Tales of Hoffmann (…) was in some way an admission(…) that they couldn’t go on making their edgy, over-the-top melodramas after the rejection and interference they’d suffered, (but) there’s a case for considering The Tales of Hoffmann as one of the finest and boldest works that Powell and Pressburger produced, so far ahead of its time as a wholly “composed” film... Late in his life, Powell himself said that he thought it was one of the best films that he and Pressburger had made.” - Criterion review, Tales of Hoffmann

Here’s a simple example from An American in Paris

If season 2 *is* scripted and choreographed to line up with specific timings, I’m pretty sure that would make this the first ever “total” or “composed” season of television ever attempted. Not only does this take an ASTOUNDING amount of planning, scripting and editing finesse, not to mention a completely controlled set, it takes a real understanding of how to perform as an actor using rhythm and metre, which would go a long way to explain why all of the main actors coming back for season 2, with the exception of John Hamm, are well regarded theatre performers, (especially of Shakespeare).

I’ll leave you with one last surprise I found in the discovery of the ineffable edit: remember Aziraphale’s smile at the very end if the credits? It happens on 02:23:03, as the first step off the bridge, and into season 3.

I will have much more in the next ineffable timeline post. Stay tuned…

__________________________________________

Thanks for reading all the way to the end. It’s taken me a solid month to get this perfect. There are so many hidden cuts and jumps to take into account, and I had a frame rate issue that kept exporting to 29fps instead of 25fps, but I’ve finally nailed the ineffable timeline enough that I am confident sharing in it.

Credits to @thebluestgreen and @embracing-the-ineffable for all the support and help with editing and just general good vibes. 

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

always the same question, always the same answer: rosquez [t], part 2 of did you run here?

Even the cooling vest is sticking to him with sweat. It feels fucking sweltering inside his helmet, the air thick and soupy like a swamp. To Marc’s right, they’re sliding an icepack under Pecco’s leathers, handing him another bottle of Gatorade. He can barely see the sliver of skin around his eyes, but it’s easy to guess he’s miserable.

Ages ago, on a Saturday he barely remembers, people were worried about riders’ health in this kind of weather. He’s probably given interviews about it.

But Marc—

Marc forces himself to breathe, once, twice, his lungs expanding and contracting convulsively inside his ribcage. Strictly speaking, nothing that is going to happen in his immediate future is Pecco’s fault. The weight lingers at the bottom of his stomach, though. Heavy and poisonous like lead. Dizzy. He’s never disliked his teammate, exactly, but today, seeing him is a whipcrack on Marc’s back.

It’s always the heat that gets to him first—humid, suffocating. Like a shroud.

“Hey, hey.” One of his mechanics. Marc blinks, shudders. “Are you really sure about softs? They’re going to—race simulations are saying five or six laps before they just go.”

His smile is mostly reflex. It takes him a moment to realize nobody can see it.

“Yes, I’m quite sure,” Marc says.

“Ah, alright—”

Marc shakes his head. “I don’t think the predicted drop-off is going to be a problem. We can expect especially the KTMs behind us to fall off around lap ten or so, and Fermín isn’t so confident with his breaking.” He sounds delirious, he realizes.

There’s a long, stunned glance, and things are jumbled, out of order. A kaleidoscope of explanations he’s given, again and again and again, losing coherency.

The pounding of blood in his ears rings deafeningly loud. Marc is pretty sure he’s about to have a migraine in a couple of hours, except—

Ha.

“I’m quite sure,” he repeats, scraped raw until there’s no charm left.

“If you’re confident.”

Confidence has nothing to do with knowing how things will happen. Marc laughs inside his helmet, a quiet, rotten thing, inaudible through the roar of bikes being set up and revved. He has twelve laps to—not save himself. It never works.

To have fun, maybe. One last ride before things fall apart.

But just thinking about it makes his stomach roll, revolting against him. Marc braces his weight on the bike, blood-red and ominous, his throat burning, eyes stinging.

What a joke.

His hands shake. Wet and clammy with sweat inside his gloves. It’s Valentino’s fault, he decides, justified in the spike of red-hot anger that surges through him. Things rarely go wrong in Sepang without Valentino somehow being behind it, especially since he got pulled into this shitshow. The pleasure of blaming him is petty, edged with thorns. Same as always, since 2015, since this started.

It hurts him more than it hurts Valentino.

Valentino who knocked him from his dying and rising routine. Valentino who refuses to answer his questions. Valentino who won't fucking apologize for once in his life.

The horn blows. Five minutes to start the race. His heart hammers, sick, heavy, edging towards something that might be panic. He keeps thinking about Álex. Hates, hates, hates that he's thinking about Álex at all, about shouting at him this morning because suddenly everything'd seemed too small, too grating.

Like the only way he'll get out of this loop is in a body bag.

But he's some twenty minutes away from, well, another show. T5, lap 12, as it usually is. The day will restart, everyone none the wiser about what happened to him. No pain to anyone but him.

The worst part are the ten hours after Marc dies—before the day restarts.

Valentino walks on leaden legs, like a zombie. Repetition has taught him with a whip to his back, so he walks away from the circuit.

Can’t bear to face Álex Márquez again. It feels too personal, like a razor blade lodged in his throat, to see him cry silently, hot, desperate tears into the crook of his arm, in the middle of the Gresini garage. Even knowing it isn't permanent. Even knowing he won't remember it tomorrow.

Poof, like a magic trick. Right now, though, before the reveal of a whole Marc Márquez, sleeping soundly in his hotel, there’s the nausea burning in his throat, the sickly, clammy fear of seeing disembodied legs.

A scream rings out through the circuit.

Valentino knows what it means.

Stops mid-walk to throw up into a trash can. It’s just stomach acid, no food.

He’s never hated Marc quite like this. Not in Phillip Island, not in Argentina, not every single time Marc gave an interview pretending that he was still his idol. Not even in Jerez, watching him kneel on the dust over the replays, his arm cradled close to his chest. A laugh—manic—rips out of him, and if he doesn’t keep moving, somebody is going to find him to tell him what happened.

But he wastes precious minutes trying to convince his chest to stop seizing up and his legs to start moving again. The sound of helicopter cuts through the lethal silence that hangs over the track now.

Emergency evac. Valentino crashes back into his own body.

And starts running back to the hotel as chaos descends over the circuit.

The next ten hours crawl by. Second by second by second, people knocking on his door, trying to call. Valentino is too tired to try and pull up footage from the crash, to try and divine what went wrong this time.

Nothing did, really.

Marc was fighting Pecco for the position, just an inch ahead. He lost the front, because he’s a maniac and chose a soft tire for the hottest race Sepang they’ve ever had. Had been running on soap for five or so laps. Pecco was too close. Had no room to react, though he tried.

Valentino has seen it happen before.

It’s easier to close his eyes, the hairdryer running in the bathroom. He doesn’t sleep. Just feels the time trickle past him, a barbed chain wrapped around his throat.

Just once, why can’t Marc stop fighting?

When the day restarts, Valentino can’t breathe through the anger tightening up the chain, spikes tearing into him.

Things jerk around him in flashes of color. Senseless. A kaleidoscope. Cinderella in reverse. He runs to Marc’s floor, takes the steps two at a minute.

He hammers against Marc’s door. It’s eleven minutes after midnight, five wasted trying to right himself after the universe tossed him back to ground zero, his knees giving out, his body cold and out of sync, something tugging inside him like a fishhook.

This is the soonest—

Marc yanks the door open. “Valentino?” Then: “What the fuck?”

It’s right there, locked behind his teeth, I hate you I hate you I hate you, but nothing comes out. He just stumbles into Marc’s hotel room, knocking past him. His skin is warm where Valentino touches, mostly by accident. Alive. Real. Fucking alive.

Any of these days, the clock is going to strike midnight, and Marc will still be dead.

Valentino claws at the skin of his wrist. It pours out of him, wretched, too true, and shame fills the space that the words emptied up, “Can you not race tomorrow?”

Marc blinks, sluggish. He’s leaning on the wall like it’s going to hold him up, eyes flickering between his hands and Valentino and the clock.

There is no offense at the suggestion, this time. Valentino has never done anything like this before.

Can’t predict Marc’s next move.

Except—

Marc looks—briefly—heavenward. Valentino hears himself scoff in this out of body dread, the clammy millisecond before he hits the asphalt and discovers if the crash is as bad as he thinks it’s going to be. There’s this look in Marc’s eyes, even in the dark. Hopeful. Hopeful enough to twist the knife in his stomach.

“How many times have you gone over today?”

Valentino smirks—like he has a knife tucked between his lips, joylessly, scraped raw. “Once or twice. It’s not like you ever take it seriously.”

His hand slams against his mouth. He hadn’t meant to—he hadn’t even had time to think—

Marc spits out a sound not unlike a snarl. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s shaking, shaking from head to toe, hands covering his face. When he rips them away, they are clenched at his sides. Valentino has never been afraid of being hit by him before.

“Why can’t you answer me?” He hisses. “Is it so fucking difficult? Once, just once, can’t you tell me one little truth? How many times have you gone over today?”

His scream echoes. Valentino facies it tears through like a gunshot. His ears ring.

The silence that follows is the quiet of a tomb.

“How many?” Marc asks again, because he can’t resist the pain, can’t resist forcing the broken bone until it splinters with no hope of salvaging anything. He’s still shouting. There’s this look in his eyes, dark and rabid, like he’s going to gnaw off a limb.

Valentino thinks he has frozen over.

“You know,” he whispers.

Marc runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck this,” he says emphatically.

“You know you’re going to die.” He sounds deliberate, calculated. Each time he opens his mouth, he isn’t sure it’s him speaking. “And you get on that bike anyway.”

“Christ,” Marc sighs, low and tired and—fuck him. “You have no idea what’s going on.”

Valentino laughs, three quarters reflex and a little vindication, the laugh he gave Uccio when he cornered him in Phillip Island, ten years ago, Marc’s weird telemetry being brandished like a knife. “I know that you apparently decided to die every day for months now.”

Marc bursts over. “I don’t decide to die!”

“Then why don’t you stop it?” He’s shouting too. Valentino hasn’t shouted in an argument in fucking years, loathes doing that. To speak is to fill himself with blood, the wound ever-flowing.

“Stop it?! What the fuck do you mean?”

“Don’t go out, don’t race, stay alive. Or are you so obsessed with wining and getting that ninth title that it never crossed your mind to lie down?”

It’s only five points between him and Pecco. He would try again and again to fix it on the bike—isn’t the one who has to go through those ten hours.

Marc pushes him, stumbles back himself. His teeth are wrenched, but a small, wretched sound still slips out. He sounds animalistic when he speaks, “Are so obsessed with your lost tenth that you can’t see I’ve tried? I don’t want to die!”

“Am I supposed to believe this?”

“Hell if I know the shit you tell yourself,” Marc snorts, an ugly thing. Valentino gags. “But go on. It’s not like I can stop you, and it’s not like I give a damn. I’m not the one who needs to deal with this.”

“Prove it to me,” Valentino grinds out. He barely hears himself.

Marc sits on the bed and starts laughing—starts cackling. Hysterical. Right until he starts choking on it, a noise that rakes over Valentino’s nerve endings. Everything suddenly aches. He wonders if the days restarting mean the exhaustion gets rolled back too. Doesn’t remember the last time he managed to sleep.

Every second is—

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Prove it to me,” he repeats. The words come up like bloody petals lodged in his chest. “Prove it to me that you’ve fucking tried to not die at least once.”

The mania bleeds out of Marc. He gets serious, suddenly. Stone-faced. Hollow.

Valentino has seen footage of it happening dozens, hundreds of time. The folded set of his hands, in front of his body. His wide, doll-like eyes. Sepang, Sepang, it’s always Sepang.

“Valentino,” he says, very calmly. He kicked me, “get out.”

[tkaulitzlvr]

heyyyyy!! just wanted to start by saying i legit love ur writing so much ur one of my fav TH authors and i legit love seeing and reading ur stories. THEY R SO DAMN GOOD :)

anyways here the request if ur comfy lol IVE HAD THIS IDEA FOR SO LONG AND I NEED SOMEONE TO DO IT PLS QUEEN

soooo basically like 2017 soft dom tom and like we r in a car driving and like reader is rlly horny and hes teasing her LIKE CRAZYYYYY and resting his hand on her thigh and stuff and whispering dirty stuff to her giving her small neck kisses and pecks and like other teasing stuff (LOL IDK WHATEVER U WANT JUST SHIT TONE OF TEASING) and then when they get home he completely ignores reader and acts like it never happened and just acts normal and goes to watch tv on couch but then reader gets RLLY CLINGY and comes over and THEN STARTS TEASING TOM ON COUCH and like reader whispers stuff to him and neck kisses and the tom gets rlly nervous and then he gives up and like eats her out till shes BEGGING HIM TO STOP (so like some overstim) and then they fuck and yeah just smut smut smut. and tom and reader with praise kink and lots of dirty talk pretty pls. <3

HAH SORRY THAT WAS KINDA LONG AND DETAILED BUT YEAH ITS LEGIT MY DREAM STORY. pls only write if ur comfortable but yeah u can add whatever u want that would fit with the story and YEAH PLS MAKE IT GOOD!!! (u will ur amazing) yeah thankyouuuuuuuuu <3 :)

DESPERATE - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: you can’t contain yourself, basically throwing yourself at tom. he knows it, but wants to make you wait as long as he can, and it drives you crazy. but, he makes you realise that you should be careful what you wish for.

content: smut

a/n: thank u so much anon i’m glad u love my work, and i hope this lives up to ur expectations. also never written for older tom before so thanks for being my first req to write him🙏

he saw the glances i sent his way, the way my legs squeezed together, palms becoming a little sweaty. he noticed my breathing becoming a little erratic, teeth sinking into my bottom lip, feet tapping impatiently against the floor. he knew exactly what i wanted. but, even when i leaned over, running my hands across his inner thighs, closer and closer to his clothed dick, he kept his eyes on the road, knowing that he was driving me crazy, and he liked it.

“thinking of ordering pizza for dinner. you down?” he asks, completely ignoring my hands which are now directly over his crotch, and my eyes on him, filled with desire. he knows exactly what is doing, the slight smirk tugging on his lips telling me that, and i know that he won’t give up his little game yet. i am in for a long night, my eyes set on feeling him inside of me, willing to do literally anything to get that satisfaction, completely aware that he isn’t going to make it easy for me.

but, that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to tease me either.

“mmm, i’d rather have you instead.” i mutter, knowing that he heard me.

we stop at a red light and he turns to me, his eyes dark, a familiar look of lust present within them. that same smirk is still on his face as he slowly leans over, planting a slow kiss just below my ear, his breath tickling the skin as he whispers into it. “who says you can’t have both?”

my eyes widen, the heat between my thighs only increasing, his words quickly causing me to become flustered, my cheeks flushing a light shade of crimson. he sees this, a small laugh escaping his lips as he plants soft kisses at my neck, the warmth of his touch contrasting with the harsh metal of his lip ring as it dances around the skin of my neck, my head tilting to the side to give him better access. his actions are abruptly cut off by the sound of a horn behind us, tom’s head shooting upwards, the traffic lights already having turned green.

he quickly adjusts himself, flashing me a quick wink before pulling his head out of my neck and beginning to drive away. my eyes focus on his hand on the gearstick, the way his veins flex, fingers tightly holding onto it, wanting nothing more for them to be moving inside of me. as if he had read my mind, he removes his hand, placing it onto my thigh, letting it travel further upwards, moving closer and closer to the place i need him most, his head still facing the road as he looks blankly at it as if he isn’t teasing me to the point that i could scream.

he moves his hand flat against me, and my body jerks in shock, his fingers slowly rubbing my clothed clit, he sees the reaction he gets out of me by doing this, smiling to himself before abruptly moving his hand away, returning it to its previous position on the gearstick as i whine in frustration.

“baby why’d you stop?” i sigh, placing my hand over his and trying to move it back over my heat, but he refuses, keeping it set on the gearstick.

“stop acting so impatient, liebe, or you know you won’t get anything. be good for me and maybe i’ll give you what you want, you just gotta wait till we get home, mhm?” he taunts, watching the way i quickly nod my head, smiling at my obedience, placing his hand back on my thigh, torturing me as his thumb begins slow movements over it.

so i stayed put, trying to distract myself literally however i could, the drive home seeming like hours as each second wasted time, time that could be spent with him inside of me. the teasing never stopped, tom kissing my ear, neck, collarbone, cheek, anywhere his lips could access whenever we stopped at a red light, promising that he’d give me what i so desperately needed once we got home. so i held on, restricting myself, his words keeping me going, acting as motivation as the reward of holding back was completely worth it.

a sigh of relief escapes my parted lips once he turns onto our driveway, my hands scrambling to undo the seatbelt, literally unable to contain myself at this point. tom however, takes his time, not stepping out of the car until i have reached the front door, unable to get in as he pulls the key from his pocket, slowly unlocking the door. i expect him to move onto me the second we walk in, pushing me against the wall, attacking me with kisses, showing me that he meant his promise, but he does the opposite.

he slowly kicks his shoes off, walking into the kitchen as i stand there, pissed off and feeling completely let down. i join him in the kitchen as he stands on his phone, leaning against the counter, a smile forming on his lips once he sees me walk in.

“what pizza do you want babe? i’m feeling like pepperoni.” he utters those words so nonchalantly, as if the things he had said to me, the way he had touched me in the car were all figments of my imagination. i mumble a small ‘get me anything, i don’t care’, before trudging to the living room, sexually frustrated, completely done with his teasing.

he joins me soon after, patting my thigh gently as he sits beside me, grabbing the remote and scrolling through the channels as if i wasn’t sat next to him, bored and desperate. i had reached my breaking point.

“tom…” i trail off, leaning towards him, my lips pressing open-mouthed kisses against his neck, taking note of the way his breathing begins to quicken, knowing that i am slowly getting to him. but he doesn’t show it yet, his expression still blank, eyes still set on the tv in front of him.

“baby…” i mutter against his skin, my hand reaching for his crotch, palming him as a low groan emits from his now parted lips. he shuffles in his seat a little, adjusting himself and clearing his throat. still nothing. i reach underneath his t-shirt, my fingers tracing his abs, feeling every muscle, lips still attached to his neck. he doesn’t give in, keeping me waiting, which only frustrates him even more, but i can feel him slowly giving in, only motivating me more.

“please, i promise i’ll be good…” i slowly say, looking upwards at him before climbing onto his lap, straddling him as he has no choice but to look into my eyes. “i’ll be so good…”

i repeat my words, dipping my head so that it is underneath his chin, kissing his neck once again, sucking gently on the skin as i try to leave marks. but i am not finished yet. i slowly begin to grind against his clothed dick, moving back and forth at a teasingly slow pace. it doesn’t take long for his hands to grip at my hips, completely stopping my movements. bingo.

“so fucking impatient.” he mumbles, switching us around in one swift motion as he lays me on the couch, moving on top of me and messily colliding his lips with mine. “couldn’t wait at all could you, hm?”

i say nothing, too busy focusing on the way his lips move against mine. he clearly isn’t wasting anytime as i feel his hands move to my leggings, hooking his fingers around the hem, tugging them and my panties down, raking them down my legs and throwing them carelessly onto the floor. my own hands scramble for his t-shirt, taking it off of him and letting it find the pile of clothes on the floor, my own t-shirt and his pants following, only his boxers between us.

he reconnects our lips as a quiet ‘please’ escapes from my mouth, wanting more than just a kiss, having waited all night for this.

“please what? you know you have to use your words schatz.” he teases, his forehead against mine, waiting for me to speak.

“need you to touch me.” i whine, my hands finding his neck as i play with the loose strands of hair, watching the way he nods his head, seeming satisfied with my answer.

he crawls downwards, kissing each part of my body as he does so, nipping gently at the skin, enjoying the way my breathing is fast and heavy, low whines escaping my mouth. he reaches my inner thighs, still planting small kisses, one hand on each leg as he forces them both apart, letting his head rest in-between them, stopping his motions and looking upwards at me, his eyes meeting mine.

“you sure?” he asks, knowing full well what my answer is, using his breath to ask such a pointless question, knowing that it will only get me more riled up.

“yes tom just- fuck! touch me, ple-.” i sigh out, my pleading soon cut off when i feel his tongue delve into me, my mouth forming an ‘o’ shape as i my hands find their way into his hair, pushing him further into me.

“oh my god!” i cry, feeling his tongue hit all the right spots inside of me, knowing that it won’t take long for the familiar knot to form in my stomach, his teasing meaning that the smallest of touches had the biggest effect on me. he groans against me, the bass in his throat sending a vibration through me, yet another moan spilling from my lips, his name never being said this many times before.

his pointer finger finds its way to my clit, rubbing slow circles whilst his tongue continues to drill inside of me, my release building up inside of me.

“getting close. don’t stop, oh my god please don’t stop!” i beg, my hands lost within the thick strands of brunette hair, the previous tidy bun messy thanks to me, but he didn’t seem to mind, only focused on feeling me get to my end.

his tongue touches my g-spot, a high pitch moan unlike no other i had uttered coming from the back of my throat. he picks up on this, directly hitting that spot over and over, my vision clouding, eyes rolling to the back of my head, way too lost in pleasure to process the fact that the knot in my stomach had released, tom swallowing all of my juices. i expect him to stop, my chest heaving up and down, coming down from my high, every part of me sensitive, but he keeps going at a fast pace - if not quicker than before.

“too much! can’t take it.” i breathe out, my thighs squeezing against his head, careful not to apply too much pressure, but he only smiles against me, completely ignoring my pleas.

“you wanted me to touch you.” he mutters into me, replacing his mouth with his fingers so he can speak more clearly. “so that’s what i’m gonna do schatz.”

and he sticks to his words, his tongue moving back inside me, the overstimulation quickly taking over, my entire body jolting when he hits the sensitive spots inside of me, unable to take the pleasure.

“please…i can’t…too much…”

my words are incoherent, not able to form full sentences as i feel another release building up.

“not stopping until you say the word baby.” he mumbles against me, referring to our safe word that i have only had to use once. he knows that i won’t say it, secretly enjoying the pleasure despite the pain that comes with it, taking all of it in. “you can give me one more, doing so well.”

i take in every single word of praise he gives me, using it to work through the pain, focusing on the pleasure, using it to guide me to my release, my eyes squeezing shut, head falling backwards as it takes over, my back arching off of the couch, this one much more powerful than the last. he swallows everything, planting a few kisses on my lips as i wince, completely spent. my body lays limp on the couch, his moving upwards so that he is hovering above me. he kisses me softly, his thumb reaching upwards and wiping a few tears that i hadn’t even realised had fallen.

he sits up, taking his boxers off, stopping them at his knees, not even bothering to fully remove him. he lifts my body, sitting me on top of him so i am straddling him.

“you did so well baby. you think you can handle just one more, for me?” he asks, running his hands up and down my hips, watching as i tiredly nod my head, a small smile spreading across his face.

i position myself onto him, slowly sliding downwards as he fills me up.

“fuckkkk.” he drags out, his head falling backwards and resting on the top of the couch, his hands tightly holding my hips, fingers digging into the flesh.

i stop about halfway, feeling completely full, not sure how i will be able to take all of him. he sees that i am struggling, kissing my cheeks gently , moving down to my collarbone.

“you feel so good baby, keep going, you’re almost there. shit- so fucking good.”

low groans escape his mouth as i nod my head, continuing to sink onto him until i am fully sat on him, my mouth dropping open, wincing a little at the pain, his fingers nothing compared to the size of him. i place my hands on his chest, trying to steady myself as i begin bouncing up and down, tom moaning loudly, his hands never leaving my hips, watching me move on him.

“so fucking tight, oh my god…” he sighs out, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, eyes fluttering shut as i speed up my movements, whining as he hits a totally new angle, never feeling so good, so full before.

his forehead glistens with sweat, muscles flexing every time he squeezes my hips, his fingers leaving marks into my skin, but i don’t complain, the feeling only increasing my stamina. my walls clench around him unconsciously, tom groaning whenever i do it, the feeling only bringing him closer to the edge.

“just like that.” he groans, his voice deep. “yeah, shit baby- feels so good.”

after my two orgasms, it doesn’t take me long to become tired, my movements slow and sloppy. my body collapses onto his chest, frustrated as i am getting close, unable to get there myself. he notices this quickly, beginning to thrust upwards into me, loud moans echoing throughout the room as i try my best to meet his movements, rotating my hips a little, feeling him deeper inside me than i ever have before.

“i’m close. don’t stop.” i manage to say, messily colliding his lips with mine, his tongue exploring my mouth whilst his strokes remain strong and deep, hitting all the right spots.

“me too baby.” he mutters between kisses. “almost there, you’re doing so so well.”

his dick twitches inside of me as he thrusts in and out a few more times, before his cum shoots into me. his head quickly falls backwards, eyebrows furrowing, mouth falling open as a long groan falls from it, his release triggering my own as i clench around him for the last time. he thrusts a few more times, riding out our highs, our heavy breathing and skin slapping together the only thing sounding throughout the quiet room.

he kisses my lips once more, pulling apart as his forehead leans against mine, arms holding me within his embrace, skin pressed together.

“you did so good meine liebe. took me so well.” he whispers, still trying to catch his breath as i am unable to respond, totally worn out, my body weak as it rests in his for support.

his lips gently kiss my forehead, one hand running through my hair whilst the other gently strokes my back, his breathing calming down as he utters sweet nothings in my ear until i fall asleep within his embrace, completely exhausted.

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

[mostlydeadallday]

Lost Kin | Chapter XLV | One Thing More

Fandom: Hollow Knight Rating: Mature Characters: Hornet, Pure Vessel | Hollow Knight, Quirrel Category: Gen Content Warnings: self-harm, flashbacks, referenced child death AO3: Lost Kin | Chapter XLV | One Thing More First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Chronological Notes: Quirrel and Hornet have a difficult conversation. Hollow considers whether to intervene.

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Its sister tensed.

The vessel could feel every motion she made, every shiver, every stifled flinch. She was leaning against it, tucked into the crook of its injured shoulder with its legs drawn up on her other side. Its head was craned around to rest beside her, its single hand curled near her knee: the knee that she’d injured, that she’d been favoring as she ran to meet it. It knew the look of a bad strain or a break, knew the meaning of the massing heat it could sense through her cloak. That should be seen to.

It did not move. Neither did she.

No one had ordered it to do this—to hinder her movement, to come between her and the scholar, to keep them apart by threat or by distraction—but to its shame, instinct had taken hold of it again. The last hours had worn it down until it felt like nothing more than a ball of instinct and bare nerves; it could not have said what it feared as Quirrel stepped closer, only that it could not bear to see it happen.

He had been unwise to approach her. It had felt the winding tension in her limbs, the subtle quiver in her claws. The anger in Quirrel’s voice, clenched inside his fists, had nearly matched her own.

Its options were few. It refused to hiss or bare its teeth at Quirrel again—not after he had stayed by its side, spending hours in its company as the fear slowly, slowly left it.

Still, it was a monster. A construct of blade and spell, a creature of death and the endless dark, wielding the weapons that had formed it. Metal and void, tooth and claw. It could not disarm itself, could not make itself harmless, even for him.

But for him, for what he had done for it, it had tried. It had tried the only thing it could think of—putting itself in his way, warning him back, while pleading with its gaze, its curled shoulders, the tilt of its horns.

Do not.

Do not come closer.

Do not hurt her.

And, inexplicably—

Do not let her hurt you.

Even more baffling, he had listened.

He had heard, somehow, what it did not have the voice to say.

Something was humming inside of it, some uneasy note ringing through its void. Its sister was back, its world set right at last, destroyed and then restored within hours. She was here, her back pressed warm against it, so close that it could wrap itself around her, shielding her with its own shell.

…so close that it could pin her down, with just a shift of pressure. Could keep her here. Could keep her from leaving again.

Those thoughts were traitorous. Mutinous. Such a thing should never have entered its cursed mind.

But the fear—the fear was still there. Muted, nearly silenced, though ringing loud enough to clash with the relief of her return. Enough that it did not move, though the danger had passed.

It would move, if she wished. If she asked it to. It would let Quirrel approach. Both of them had calmed now, and he had asked to tend her injury. It saw no reason to warn him away.

“It’s fine,” she said, but it could tell she did not believe that. “It’s—I’ll live.”

“I’m sure you will,” Quirrel replied, somewhat drily. “But wrapping or splinting may help with the pain and prevent it from becoming worse.”

Her hand tightened on its horn. “I heal quickly. It’s not likely to last more than a day or two.”

“And I’m sure that fact has enabled you to develop any number of bad habits.” He tilted his head, staring, intent on her. “Just because your limits are higher than others’ does not mean you should attempt to ignore them. Let me see.”

Hornet slumped further, sighing. Then she extended her leg, setting her heel gingerly on the floor and pulling the hem of her wet cloak up.

Before it could do more than glance at the injury, Quirrel’s attention returned to it. “Hollow. May I come closer?”

That was—

That was strange.

He knew that it had not been ordered to do this. That was an action it had taken on its own, an expression of will, though the tattered remnants of its knight’s oath had guided its decision. It was meant to protect the weak, and as strong as its sister was—as strong as Quirrel was, to survive both the wilds and the mindless brutality of the decaying kingdom—they were weaker than it. By design. It had been built into something stronger than anything natural.

Its ultimate purpose had failed, but it was able to do this much. It could still protect her. Protect him. Protect this fragile peace that they had forged.

Hornet had not reprimanded it. She had not taken offense at the notion that she might need or want the service of a thing so broken. She even seemed to welcome it, if the way she leaned into it and stroked its face were any indication.

And more confusing still, rather than order it to move aside, or ask its wielder to do the same, Quirrel deferred to it, about what it might decide to do. As if its will were equal to his own, its actions as valid as another’s.

Nothing had happened when it spoke to him before. When it used the signs it had been taught for one specific purpose in another way entirely. Its hand was trapped beneath it, and it could not move without leaving its sister unshielded—and she wanted it there. When she bade it answer him, that was the only option it could think of.

So it answered again. Two taps. Its claw made no noise on the blanket, but his eyes dropped to follow the motion as it spoke.

Yes.

Yes, he could approach. Yes, he could assist her—he was able to do things it could not. She was hurt, weakened, and afraid, though it did not quite understand why. And he—

He had spoken kindly to it. To her. He had attempted to help it, to keep it from deepening the wounds that still throbbed beneath the dressing. He had not run, even when it threatened him, had not left it alone. He had not gone away, though its sister had ordered him to.

Beneath the still-settling unease that swirled in its breast, it was… glad.

He nodded back at it. “Thank you.”

That, too, served no purpose. It had never been thanked for performing its duty. But this was new territory, someplace uncharted. No one had ever behaved toward it like he did. Perhaps this was simply who he was: someone who gave of himself, always, even for those who did not deserve it.

He moved carefully, as if he half-expected that he might need to run. His steps were slow, his hands slower still, as he knelt and reached out to touch its sister’s leg.

Hornet sat stiffly, one hand clenched around her cooling cup, while he examined her knee, the swelling that had pushed her plates apart, the way the skin between had darkened with gathered fluid. When he pressed his thumb beneath the joint, she hissed, and it felt a tingling rush run up its spine and into its jaw, a sudden, compelling urge to bristle, to bite.

No. It must not, must not lose control—it was dangerous, deadly, a single strike could tear off a leg or an arm, it must stay still.

It was restraining itself so tightly, all its concentration focused onto holding itself back, that it nearly twitched when she spoke. Her voice was fractured, airless, as if the words were dragged out of her unwillingly. “Quirrel, I—”

“Later,” he muttered. She stiffened even further. He glanced up, met her eye, and looked down again. “When we both mean it.”

A breath broke from her throat, heavy and strained. Anger? Or something else? What had she been about to say to him? What was it he had not wanted to hear?

Quirrel’s fingers pressed somewhere new, and the next hitch of her lungs was undoubtedly pain. Her hand squeezed its horn more tightly, seemingly unaware she was doing so, using its presence to help her endure.

Did she need a distraction? Did she need it to help her in some way? It had never had anything to hold onto, aside from the desperate curl of its claws into its own palms. It did not know what she needed, what might aid her.

It hesitated, then bumped its face against her side, fighting the instinct to press itself still. This, too, was an action it had not been ordered to take, but she rewarded it by breathing out a troubled sigh through her teeth and relaxing.

Her head eased back, bit by bit. She let go of its horn to slide her hand down between its eyes, claws moving in tiny half-circles across its cracked shell. When she flinched again, it was half-hearted, smothered by exhaustion, and the humming note of its relief grew louder, its shade nearly purring within it.

Quirrel did not say anything. His hands were moving in tiny, shifting motions that its eyes could not interpret, not this close. There was a stony quietness about him, something its mind couldn’t help but worry at, like a beast with prey between its teeth. Was the injury worse than she had thought? Was he loath to speak of it, for fear she’d be displeased?

It shifted its head again, this time to get a better view—it did not need to see, it knew that, this was information it did not need but it wanted—and Quirrel halted, turning minutely to look it in the eye.

“Nothing is broken,” he said. To it. He had noticed its interest, and… and he was answering questions it could not even ask. It had only had to look. “I think it’s a sprain, though a fairly bad one. It should heal with no complications.”

“As I said,” Hornet mumbled without looking, sounding as if she could not quite get her mouth to work correctly. “It’ll heal quick enough.”

“Yes, it will.” The scholar sighed, resuming his inspection. It could see now that he was shifting the joint slowly side to side, watching the motion while applying only the barest pressure. “If she can manage to stay off of it for a few days, that is.”

Hornet raised her head at this, looking between it and the cricket, but whatever she found there, she did not comment on it. When she spoke again, it was softer. “I can manage that.”

“Good.” He set her foot back on the ground. “From what I recall, most spiders would prefer to sacrifice the limb and induce a molt rather than suffer through the healing process.”

“If you recall, I have fewer limbs than most spiders.”

Quirrel shrugged. “True enough.” He rose, tiredly, bracing one hand on his knee. “Stay put. I’m getting the bandages.”

Hornet half-tensed, uttering the beginning of a protest, then slumped again when he disappeared into the kitchen, ignoring her entirely. He should not do that—she was of much higher rank than he—but, strangely, it found that it did not mind, not if she continued to object to having her wounds cared for. She deserved that far more than it did, and it did not know why she would deny herself this, except to prove something that did not need proving.

Quirrel returned with several rolls of linen and set about wrapping the injury, saying nothing more as he did so. Hornet watched him with heavy-lidded eyes; her head was leaned back against its side, her hand falling still every few moments as her focus slipped. It had not seen her so tired since the last time she left the house, since the last time she left it alone.

It had not been alone, not this time. It had had Quirrel. He had listened. He had helped it. He—

He had apologized. He had seen it broken, utterly, had witnessed it losing hold of every scrap of its control, and still, he had said—

Oh, my friend. I’m so sorry.

And its sister’s voice echoed the words—

I’m here. I’m so, so sorry.

For what?

For what?

They spoke as though wrong had been done to it. How was that possible? Any distress it experienced must be a result of its own hidden flaws, its own weakness that it had failed to stamp out. From the moment the Temple opened to show it the one who would replace it, all the way back to watching its older sibling dwindle and fade before its eyes.

Dead. Its sibling, dead.

Not merely returned to the Sea, like so many others. Not merely a shade, a lingering imprint of instinct and will. Unmade. As if they had never been.

Its kin, its siblings. First and last. Dead and ever-living. And the vessel itself was somewhere in between, a shattered thing, fit for neither its duty nor the grave.

It was certainly not fit for the sympathy it had been given. For the desperate grief in Quirrel’s voice as he stayed near it while it cried, or the breathless sorrow in its sister’s as she begged forgiveness for leaving it behind.

And yet, something within it reached out toward the words. The same twisted, ravening thing that grasped and clung on to every scrap of praise, growing stronger each time the vessel failed to deny it what it wanted. Some lingering hunger that the void had instilled in it, a shameful need that had at last been its downfall.

It would not have retained the memory that the Radiance used to break it, otherwise. It would not have cared. That moment would not have mattered, any more than any other moment in its life.

A single glance had been enough to ruin it.

But still, the thing inside it dared to hunger.

It fed on soft touches, soft words. It sank its teeth into its sister’s guilt, into the fearful way she clung to it, into the broken desperation of her promise, that she would come back for it. That she would always come back for it.

What had it ever done, to be valued so? How did she see anything in it worth returning for? What purpose could she have for it—for she must have one—that would bring her back, exhausted and injured, fighting through the cold and the pain just to be here with it?

“Try not to move it.” Quirrel’s voice broke through its thoughts. He had finished his task, wrapping its sister’s knee in a layer of bandages, finished with a neat knot. “I can find you something to use as a crutch, if you like.”

“Fine.” Hornet sounded utterly flat, defeated, in a way. Though if it meant that she did not protest being cared for, perhaps that was for the best.

Quirrel went and rummaged in the shelves until he pulled out one of her spare cloaks. He placed it, wordlessly, in her lap, then busied himself elsewhere in the room. Hornet grumbled and hissed to herself as she peeled her soaked garment off and exchanged it, movements stiff and halting.

An awkwardly placed elbow caught the vessel in the face. Hornet mumbled an apology, but did not move away, toward her comfortable nest on the hearth. In fact, she burrowed in closer to it, tucking the dry fabric over her feet and resting her horns on its neck, breath coming in warm puffs against its throat.                                                                              

It did not stir, either, though its shoulder was beginning to burn. That was only one more pain to ignore, just like the phantom ache of its left arm, the pressure in its chest, the dull throb in its mask.

No, it would not move. To move would be to disturb something precious, something delicate, a moment of unutterable peace. She was so small, so light; the weight of her hardly added to its pain.

This… must be like dreaming, but it knew that it had not fallen asleep. It had never dreamed in all its long un-life; even its time spent trapped in that realm had been unnatural, twisted and manipulated by the goddess in order to hurt it however she could.

It had heard others speak of their dreams, including those that preceded the early stages of infection—sweet and warm and bright, filled with unutterable longing for something unfulfilled. A heart-deep wish, a need long unmet. The yearning hunger of someone deprived of what they needed most—of a goddess whose worshippers had fallen away.

They had sounded exactly like what it felt now. The soft-sharp ache in its chest, deeper than any of its wounds. The warmth spreading over its shell, centered where it held its sister close, as if she were a light and the vessel her clinging shadow.

It did not seem possible for this to be real.

But it was no longer with the Radiance. And vessels did not dream.

Quirrel finished tidying the room as the light waned, putting away his tea supplies and hanging its sister’s cloak to dry. He brought in more sticks of shellwood and piled them on the fire, then crouched down to nudge them into place with the iron. He took so long about it and accomplished so little that it began to question whether he was watching what he was doing.

Its sister stirred, then slowly turned her head. Her voice was rough. “You’re staying, then?”

The scholar half-turned his head, the gleam of one bluish eye just showing through his mask.

Four eyes. Eyes behind masks.

It blinked, attempting to clear the images away. The tightness in its chest was back, and it struggled to breathe quietly, to not betray that it was snared in its own past once more.

Would it ever stop seeing the emptiness of its sibling’s eyes? The void draining down the table to envelop its feet? The scholar standing over it, its father’s knife melting away in his hand?

It had smothered those memories. It had not even known that there were any to unearth from its brief time as a nymph. It was not the Radiance’s influence, or a mind broken by infection, that had prevented it from remembering; this had been sealed away before the vessel itself had been, and just as thoroughly.

Had its sister not left it here, it may never have remembered its missing sibling at all.

They had no relevance now. It ought not think of them.

It did. It would. It knew that.

Quirrel did not answer Hornet’s question directly. Instead, he let out a deep sigh and lowered the fire iron. “You’re sure you wish to have this conversation now?”

Its sister uncurled further, but still did not move away from it. Could she be drawing some kind of comfort from its touch, or was she merely trying to keep it calm? Either way, she did not seem inclined to leave.

She did tense again before she spoke. Pulling inward, spines beginning to bristle against its side. “Yes, I am.”

He nodded, but said nothing more. Not until he had jabbed at the fire a few more times, then hung the poker in its place by the hearth. “If you insist.”

After snagging a pillow from the pile in the corner, he approached the bed and lowered himself to the floor with another sigh and a muffled creak of chitin. He wrapped his arms around his knees, staring at the floor in front of his feet. He did that for a long minute, seeming to hunt for the words he wanted.

He must be tired. Nearly as tired as its sister. He had sung to it for hours, melodies and words it could barely remember now, except as a constant presence in its awareness: one song braiding into another, one verse into the next, giving it something to hold onto as it climbed out of panic’s maw. He had sung until his voice began to crack, and then he had kept singing still, pausing only to sip water from a bowl he’d placed at his side. He had sung until it lay still with rapt fascination, rather than frozen, trembling in terror that had made it hiss and snarl at him. He had sung until it could hardly hear him at all, and now every word that left his throat was rough, rasping, much like the sounds from its own.

It wished that she knew of that, somehow. She was still afraid, still staring him down as if he might strike out at her. But he had not tried to defend himself from it, or even retreated to safety. He had done something utterly unexpected—something that was able to guide it out of the dark.

It thought he might do the same for her, if she would let him. It thought that he might intend to try.

“They panicked when you left.”

Ah.

He—

He meant to tell her of its failures. Of how it could not help reacting when he came close. Of the way it had threatened him. A sliver of that panic pricked at it now, both at his words and at the shaky breath its sister took.

She should know. She should hear that it could not keep itself in check, that its fractured mind made it a danger to those around it. She should not even be here now, so close to it, so soon after it lost control. It could not be sure it wouldn’t do so again. It could not.

“Nothing I said could reassure them, though not through any fault of theirs.” His gaze shifted to meet its eyes. “I am not the one who saved them. I am not the one they trust. You are.”

Hornet didn’t reply, didn’t shift against its side, did not move at all except to breathe a little faster.

Quirrel clenched his hands tight around his wrists. “I don’t think I need to tell you what damage was done. Or that it could have been far worse.”

She shook her head minutely, whispering, “No.”

He…

He would not tell her, then? She deserved to know, and he—

Quirrel deserved to be safe from it. He was kind, and gentle, and had not in any way earned what it nearly did to him. Would it not be punished for that? Would it not have to hear the words that would make its sister lose faith in it?

It was unfit, in every way—unfit to live, to serve, to exist when so many others no longer did. Its fault, its fault. People had died. Many, many people. The infection had crushed its father’s kingdom like a landslide. Another sibling suffered now in its place. And before any of that, before it had known it was impure, before it had been proven faulty, it had stood before another, and watched their darkness drain away.

Many, many.

It had nearly added one more to that tally. Not one left to plunge into the Abyss, or driven mad by the whispers of the goddess. Merely too close at the wrong time, too fragile to survive a blow from its hand.

He knew that, surely. He knew what it had almost done. He feared it, and rightfully so.

And yet—

“I do not know you well, Hornet.” Quirrel lifted a shoulder, then let it fall. “I thought you would keep your word. But I could not say for sure.”

Hornet turned away, tucking her chin into her cloak collar. Her hands were moving under the fabric, twisting, claws scraping over chitin. “I didn’t—” she started, then scrapped it and started again. “I wouldn’t—I won’t—”

“Don’t tell me you will not leave again.” Quirrel’s voice was harsh, suddenly. The vessel suppressed the urge to curl more tightly around its sister, as if it could protect her from the things he said, the way they seemed to sink into her shell like drops of acid. “I promised the truth to them, and I promise the same to you. And if I’m to assist you, I must ask for the same. Do not lie to me.”

Hornet was shaking. Anger, fear—it could not tell the difference. The scholar did not flinch as she snarled at him, even when she bared a glint of fangs under her mask. “I swear it, cricket.” Her words were garbled, half-lost in a growl. “Do not call me a liar.”

Quirrel tilted his head to stare at her from another angle, his antennae twitching. “I will call you nothing you do not deserve. That, I can also promise.”

Its sister scoffed, turning aside again, shoulders hunched tightly. Offended, as she should be. Who was he to speak of her in this way? How could he imply this—and why was she allowing him to?

She had not disputed any of it. Not a word.

Was he being truthful? Was she���

Had she really lied to him? Had she really said—

You said you would not leave them.

You swore it.

The vessel was as lost now as it had been before, in the face of a new kind of pain it did not know how to bear. It felt… pulled, in tension between two extremes, though it lay there helpless, unable to interfere. Putting itself between them was not warranted; there was nothing it could do.

It should not interfere. It had no right. That was not its place.

“If,” she said finally, the word grinding out through her fangs. “You said if you’re to assist me.”

Quirrel sighed, tipping his head back. “You seem to recognize that you were in the wrong. That you should not have left the way you did.”

Silence.

“If so, you must also recognize that I have a right to feel wronged. Betrayed, even.” He waited, but when he got nothing more than the sound of Hornet’s claws scratching over her wrists, he sighed again. “I do, Hornet. I am hurt, and I’m angry with you. That is why I had decided to wait before I spoke to you about it, until you decided otherwise.”

Hurt. Wronged.

These were words that should have had no meaning to it. But—

It did hurt. Always, now. It felt its hand twitch, invisibly, felt its fingers start to move through the memory of the sign. Hurt.

The fear had hurt, deep within it, when it realized its sister was gone. The despair had hurt, when it thought she was not coming back. The memories of its sibling hurt, hurt, hurt, like a knife sinking void-deep into its shell.

Its claws had hurt when they pierced its chest. Its throat had hurt as it cried. Its whole body hurt now, an all-consuming ache that seemed to drag its limbs deep into the cushions.

I am hurt.

He said it like he had been wounded. Did his throat burn, too? Did his joints ache? Did the betrayal he spoke of sting like the point of a blade?

Surely, that was not what he meant. It did not understand. It could not know what that might feel like.

I’m sorry, she had told it once. I’m sorry. I know it hurts.

That hurt had been physical. That had been something it was well-equipped to endure.

If she had not left it now—if it had not been alone with Quirrel—if its memories had not ambushed it after she was gone—

It was hurt. It did hurt.

You were wrong—I am hurt—I’m sorry, sorry, sorry—

“What is the point of this,” Hornet snapped, jarring it out of its spiraling thoughts. “I know this. You’ve said enough.”

“Have I?” Quirrel’s forefinger tapped against his knee. “I still don’t think you understand.”

“I—you said—”

“What I said in anger was true.” He looked down, briefly. “But I believe you heard something more than I intended.”

Its sister choked out a sound. A splintered laugh, perhaps. “What does it matter?”

“It matters a great deal.” There was something else in his gaze now, a softness that looked almost wounded. “I am here because you asked me to be. Because I could see that you needed help. Because… when you found me, nothing else in my life seemed to matter.” His voice dropped to a murmur. “For the most part, those things are still true.”

When you found me.

The blue haze of the crossroads flashed before its eyes, its body growing heavy with the memory. Heavy with exhaustion, with infection, with the clinging, smothering certainty that there was no use going on. That it would be better served to fling itself into oblivion, to fail one final time and then no more.

She had saved it. The red of her cloak. The sound of her voice. The threads of her silk, binding it.

Had she saved Quirrel, too?

Hornet looked on in silence, still with tension quivering in her arms where her claws were clenched. It smelled a trace of blood, hot and sharp. Alarm kicked its heartbeat higher. It could not stop her—it did not know how. The only thing it could do, it had already done: offer itself as support, as something to hold onto, to lean on.

Oh, it wished she would stop.

It had once been a knight. A protector. If it must protect her from herself, put itself in the way of her anger, give her something else to sink her claws into, it would. It would.

Quirrel noticed, too. He stopped, mouth open to speak again, and seemed to reconsider what he’d been going to say. “Hornet, I… no, I am not leaving.”

She twitched, briefly, halfway to flinching. It fought not to respond, fought not to break from its stillness. Every breath she took was high and fast, and with the tang of her blood in the air and her smothered shudders against its shell, its every instinct called for it to shield her, to pull her away somehow, to take her pain upon itself, as it was meant to.

“Do you need some time?” Quirrel asked, gently. “I don’t have to—”

“Say what you need to say,” she interrupted.

For a moment, it thought he might protest. When he resumed speaking, it was slow and halting, as if he worried he might put a foot wrong. “What I said before was this. If I’m to assist you, I must ask you to tell me the truth. To tell me what I need to know. If you cannot do that, I will find it hard to help you.” He sighed, and it sounded world-weary, full of exhaustion that a single day had done very little to add to. “It did not mean that I am looking for an opportunity to leave. Or that what you did, or what you are, or what you think you are, has given me reason to.”

Hornet swallowed, and it felt the barest amount of her tension release, her spines creeping downward an inch.

“I don’t understand why you left,” Quirrel continued. “But I understand that you felt you needed to. I am hurt, and I am angry with you. I do not need an explanation, but I do need you to listen to what I’m saying, and only that. Not what you think you might hear.”

Hurt. I am—

Hurt, hurt, hurt.

A moment ticked by, measured in the rattle of the raindrops. Then its sister nodded stiffly. Her voice was a mere whisper. “Agreed.”

“Good.” Quirrel shifted, crossing his legs and leaning forward, hands laced together before him. He was silent for a moment. “I cannot promise that I will always be here. There may come a time when our paths diverge, when I can no longer stay, for one reason or another. But if that happens, I will tell you. And I will tell you why.”

Its sister looked at him. Stared at him, really, as if there were more to him than a single cricket scholar with an earnest gaze and the warm glow of firelight spread behind him.

“This is what I’m asking.” He lifted one finger for emphasis. “The next time you need to leave, you will tell me first. You will tell me where you’re going, and how long you’ll be gone. No argument. And, if you can, I’d like an hour’s notice.”

A long exhale, which seemed to leave its sister smaller than she had been. “Agreed,” she said again. “I—I swear it.”

She spoke with a slump to her shoulders and a tilt of her horns that it recognized. Much like its own, a feeling it was faintly surprised that she shared with it.

Shame.

You were wrong.

Did she agree with him? Did she believe, too, that she had done wrong?

Even if her actions constituted a failure, she could never fail as thoroughly as it had. It should hurt. It should burn for what it did. It would never wish such punishment on her. Never, never.

She did not seem to wish that for it, either. She did not want it to hurt. She had said so, over and over.

I know it hurts.

I’m sorry.

Its next thought was feather-light, a whisper. Weak. Cringing. The shade, the void, at the core of it, corrupt. Impure.

Desperate.

It… did not want to hurt again.

“One thing more,” Quirrel said, before it could turn this concept over. “You will do the same for them. They deserve to know, as much as I do.”

For—

For it?

Its tired mind filled with static. It—

Surely it had not heard that correctly. It blinked, waiting to understand, to piece together what he had really meant.

Hornet turned to look down at it. It found itself tense, suddenly, painfully so, and its breath had snagged somewhere around the hook in its guts. It had done nothing to draw her attention, there was no reason for her to regard it now, unless…

It had heard right?

They deserve to know.

She had already made it one promise it did not understand. She had already given it far more than it had ever dared to want. Without reservation, though she had little to give, and without condemnation for what it needed.

It wished it did not need this at all. What it would not do to be what she once thought it was, to be the perfect void that its father had intended. That she had told it of her plans before was generous, to be sure, but it could not expect—

They deserve to know.

Quirrel was looking at it, with a tired softness in his gaze.

Deserve. It did not deserve anything. It had earned nothing but a traitor’s fate. He had no right to ask this of her, especially not on the vessel’s behalf. He was mistaken.

He—

He had called it friend. Sat with it. Sang to it.

It had never met anyone like him.

A gentle hand touched its face. It smelled the fresh blood on her talons, the scratches she had opened on her wrist. “Hollow?”

It had not been breathing. It was worrying her.

It made an effort, though its first attempt was too short, shaky, doing no good to reassure anyone at all. It was spent, mind and body, frame aching in ways that it had not felt since the very first days in the mansion, muscles sore and throat rubbed raw with sobbing. But it tried, tried to please her—nudging its muzzle into her palm, into the firm touch that seemed to send warmth racing down to its very core.

Hornet gazed into its eyes, into the lightless void there, and did not flinch. Without looking away, without so much as a quiver in her voice, she whispered, “I swear it.”

○

Taglist: @slimeshade @moss-tombstone @gamergenia @crustysoapbubbles @botslayer9000 Send an ask or reply to this post to be added to (or removed from) the taglist!

[r3dmooon]

Secret Admirer — Wally Darling x gn! reader

summery: reader starts getting love letters in the mail. join them to figure out just who could it be!

wc: 1.5k

Master List

“Eddie, nice to see you!” I greeted with a wave. “I was just going to check my mailbox.” 

Eddie replied with a chuckle, “Well you’re right on time.”

“I’m guessing you got something for me?” I asked curiously.

“Got it right here,” Eddie beamed warmly, only to accidentally drop a few letters in his excitement. “Shoot!”

I laughed lightly, “It’s okay, here let me help.” I bent down and helped him gather the letters. Once everything was in order once more, Eddie managed to hand me the letter without any more problems. I looked down at the red envelope, my first name written in a fancy bubbly cursive. Little hearts were drawn next to my name as well. I looked up at Eddie with surprise, a knowing expression resting on his face.

“See ya around,” He waved, already walking off.

“Bye,” I replied absent mindedly, gaze falling back to the letter. Whoever wrote this definitely put their heart into it. I tried to open the envelope as nicely as I could, and quickly took out the letter. Reading it made my heart flutter. I felt a bit more self conscious, but in a good way. I felt more attractive. I put the letter away in a safe spot, feeling giddy. A secret admirer, who would’ve guessed? 

I felt light as I made the trek to Sally’s place. I promised her that I’d help paint sets for her newest play. 

“Hey…” Sally trailed off. “Something going on?”

I waved her off, my mind clouded with that mysterious letter of admiration, “It’s nothing.” 

She gave me a disbelieving look, “You look like you’re in la la land.” 

“Is it that obvious?” I asked embarrassed. “I mean…it’s not a big deal…I got this letter today.”

“What kind of letter?” Sally asked, handing me an apron and paint brush. 

I tied the apron and got started on the backdrop and whispered back, “A love letter.”

“Really!” Sally exclaimed, her eyes seeming to have stars in them. “That’s just like the next play I’m doing! Who’s it from?”

“I’m not sure,” I replied honestly. “The signature was from ‘your secret admirer’.”

The rest of the day went on. Joking around with Sally, we were nearly complete with the backdrop, but the sun started setting. I kept trying to think of who could possibly think of me like that. Would they send me another letter tomorrow? Eddie seemed to know…but I know he’d never tell me who. I let out a sigh as I laid in bed. I stared up at the ceiling blankly. I was too excited to sleep. 

The next morning, I woke up as energetic as ever. I dressed up a bit more than usual, styled my hair to the best of my ability and checked myself out in the mirror to make sure I looked alright. Anticipation running through me, I dashed outside. I didn’t see Eddie, and I checked my mailbox just in case. My smile fell as it was empty. But I quickly shook the disappointment away. I got a letter, my name plastered right on it! Someone here admired me! 

…

Unless it was a joke…

No, don’t think like that. I needed to head to Howdy’s Place anyway. I woke up earlier than normal today. Maybe a new letter will show up once I get back. The gentle sound of a bell ringing sounded as I opened the door to Howdy’s shop. 

“Hiya (y/n)!” Howdy greeted with a wave. His other hands put apples in a basket. 

“Why hello friend,” Wally smiled. 

“Hello guys,” I smiled. Walking around, I grabbed items I was getting low on at home.

“You got plans today?” Howdy asked as I placed the items on the counter. I noticed that Wally didn’t leave yet, idly standing by his basket of apples that were also on the counter. 

“No,” I shook my head. “Why?”

“You’re dressed more fancy than usual,” Howdy shrugged, bagging my items. “So, what do you got for me today?”

“Why do cows wear bells?” I asked, pausing before continuing. “Because their horns don’t work!”

Howdy let out a laugh, pushing the bag towards me, but I jumped in surprise at Wally’s laugh. I kept forgetting that he’s here! He’s being so quiet, which I suppose isn’t too unusual due to how lively our friends are. I smiled at the two sheepishly, was my joke really that funny? 

“Thank you kindly,” Howdy grinned as I grabbed the bag.

“Thank you,” I replied with a nod. Turning towards the door, I smiled at Wally. “Walk with me?” I offered as he seemed to be waiting for me to be done shopping. 

“I would love to, friend,” Wally replied back. The sun shone brightly above us as we exited the shop. I smiled a bit at the nice weather. I turned my gaze to Wally, only to find him already looking at me. 

“The weather sure is lovely,” I spoke up.

“Yes,” Wally agreed. “Days like these always give me inspiration.” We conversed some more before we arrived at my house. I checked the mailbox on instinct and my smile widened at the sight. Another red envelope sat waiting. 

“What’s that?” Wally asked and I tensed as I felt him look from beside me. I shoved the envelope in my paper bag and laughed awkwardly.

“Oh, nothing,” I dismissed. I felt a bit shy under his stare, it felt…intense. It was like I couldn’t look away. 

“It was lovely walking with you, friend,” Wally commented. 

“You too,” I smiled back. “I’ll see you around.”

Wally nodded in acknowledgement and I went into my house. I put away the food first before taking the envelope and sitting on my couch. I stared at the familiar cursive lettering of my name. I opened it excitedly and the letter was even sweeter than the last one! Gah, why can’t they just tell me who they were? 

I was kind of hoping it was Wally. I mean how could I not? He was charming, lovely, and a pleasure to be around! It didn’t help that he seemed to always pay attention to me. Sally even brought it up before. I just wanted to give him a peck on the cheek!

What if it wasn’t him though? The thought made my stomach fall flat. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but I liked Wally…I looked down at the letter in slight guilt. This person seemed to really care and like me in a way I’ve never received before…would I really give that away for Wally? Is it just the attention I like? Geeze, I need to calm down. This is only the second letter and I’m making up crazy scenarios. All I can really do is see where this will go. Maybe I should go talk to Sally? 

“Eddie!” I shouted, glad I was able to catch him as he delivered me another red envelope. It’s been a week, and I felt myself fall more and more for this mystery person who has been adamant on sending me these letters. Each one made me swoon, wishing I could know who seemed to like me so strongly. 

“Hello (y/n),” Eddie greeted back with a bright grin. “How are you this cloudy morning?”

“Terrible,” I pouted. Eddie looked a bit concerned at first but lightened up as I continued, “I need to know who's sending me these letters!”

“Now now,” Eddie chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll tell you in their own time.”

“I know,” I groaned. “I just want to meet them so badly.” 

“All in due time,” Eddie smiled, tipping his hat slightly before continuing on his way. I let out an over dramatic sigh. 

“What seems to be the problem, friend?” The familiar voice of Wally spoke up. I turned to him, startled. He always managed to sneak up on me and I wasn’t sure how he did it. I looked at the letter I held in reflex, debating on whether or not to tell him. Wally was a great friend, but so far the only people who knew were Sally and Eddie. “I’ve seen you with those red envelopes a few times,” Wally hummed in observation. “Who's been writing to you? A pen pal?”

“Not exactly,” I mumbled, feeling shy about the topic. “A secret admirer.”

“My my,” Wally teased lightly. “Someone’s become famous. Join me for a walk?”

“Okay,” I agreed, shoving the letter in my pocket. “Any idea who it is?”

“I might,” Wally grinned mischievously. 

My mouth fell open and I huffed out, “Does everyone know but me?”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Wally laughed. “No.” 

I frowned, eyebrows furrowing in thought, “Did they tell you?”

“Silly silly,” Wally teased. “I’m a bit bashful to confess this, but I’ve been the one sending you those letters.” I stopped in my tracks and stared at him in shock. He turned around and tilted his head a bit, his gaze holding light concern. 

“I hope I wasn’t overstepping,” Wally apologized.

I quickly shook my head, “No, no.” I can’t believe the person who holds my affections was actually Wally Darling. The cool and collected (not to mention skilled and stylish) Wally! 

Wally’s smile returned, his gaze never wavering, “I’m glad you feel the same.”

“I said that out loud?” I cried out, hands over my mouth in shock. 

“Ha, ha, ha,” Wally laughed, stepping closer. “You are just so endearing.” 

My brain short circuited as Wally kissed my cheek.

[passionateseadruid]

Snake King’s Bride 2

The Meeting

Say hello to my intersex Imp Styx. As I'm sure many of you know the evenly stripe horns are indicative of male Imps and the thin strips white are Female. And also my hellhound Pluto. Also Vagqie is 5'4 and when lucifer met her they were about the same height; but also keep in mind that he was wearing heals (that's canon, like it's in the episode). Finally, I can't believe that he has a nose

When you woke up you were still in the old wedding dress and heals. The veil had fallen from your head, you had slid it back on and flipped the veil back over your face. Whatever brought you here isn't going to get to have you so easily.

You wandered around to the halls of the place you fell into. They were red with gold columns lining every few feet. The walls were lined with apples and the columns were accentuated with what appeared to be snakes coiling around them. "Whoever designed this place needs to be fired."

On the other side of the palace, in the thrown room, Lucifer was panicking. 

"Okay! Everything's going to be fine!"

A little Imp wants in. They were taller than most Imps and had big horns that curled inward towards each other like a heart. Their hair was slip down the middle. White on the left to match the male Imp horn that was slightly bigger than the one on the right; which was female in origin with black hair that was almost tinted dark blue from some angles.

"Styx! Did you get everything set up?" Lucifer asked panic evident on his face.

"Yes sire!" They saluted him. They stood at about 4'11 and wore black leather pants, a short burgundy corset, and a white shirt with long sleeve frilly.

"Good! good."

"Sire. It might be a good idea to take off your ring as to not scare or confuse the young miss."

"Oh! Yeah, I guess." He slid off the ring that had matched Lilith's. The first time he'd taken it off in seven years. "Can I really do this Styx?" 

"Well it is up to you, but if you want you could let her go."

"But then I'd be alone again."

"I suppose so Sire."

Lucifer looked down at his ring again and materialized a black box to slip the circlet if gold into. "I can do this, somehow I know it."

You hadn't gotten very far in your expedition of the strange new place you'd found yourself in. You found a library though which was good. Always good to have a place to hide. Eventually a small fluffy creature resembling a bull dog. She had grey fur and wore a loose black dress that went down to her knees, with a red wine colored bodice. She was only 4 and a half feet tall.

"Good evening my lady." She curtsies and you awkwardly due the same. "Please my lady. Don't feel the need to bow at me. Please follow me to the thrown room."

"Thrown room?"

She sighed. "Yes. Where the king is." She looked back at you and saw you planted firmly in place. "Come on!" she motions for you to follow.

"What's going on? Where am I? Who are you? What was with the spooky fiery rift in space back in the store?"

"Are you serious right now? You sold yourself to the king of hell. Don't play dumb and pretend like you have no idea what's going on. And what's with the wedding dress? Do you actually think the king would choose some lowly human like you?"

"I'm sorry I seem to have misheard you. I thought you said the king of hell."

"I did."

"...hell? ...as in-"

"Lucifer yes." She cut you off.

"There has to be a mistake! I didn't sell my soul to him! I shouldn't be here!"

"You wouldn't be here if you didn't."

'Maybe I can convince him to let me go. He can take Regan or Kaitlyn, I don't care!'

"Head inside." The bulldog ordered.

"May I please have your name."

"Pluto."

"I hope you have a good day Pluto." 

You walked into the room. 

"Darling!" A short man ran up to you and pulled you into his embrace. You struggled as best you could but his grip was firm and unrelenting. "Sorry, to tight?" He lessens his grip and you shirk away.

"Please don't touch me. We don't know each other."

"Oh of course! My apologies. Lucifer Morningstar, your new husband~" 

"What? No... um I think there's been some mistake. I don't belong here."

"Of course you do! You're going to be my bride! That little bug wouldn't have dressed you up like this if you weren't the one intended to be my new wife!"

"But I didn't exactly want that to happen."

"Well you're here now so you might as well make the most of it!" He cheered coming closer to you.

"Wouldn't you rather have someone who wants to be with you? I'm sure there's plenty of goth girls or satanists who would kill to get this opportunity."

"Ugh. You know you humans are really ignorant. Him and I aren't the same. Neither are I and Beelzebub."

"Okay...?"

"That's not important right now." He came even closer and you back into the door. He grabbed the bottom of your veil and you snatched his wrist.

"Doll..." He sounded serious. "Show me your face."

"No thank you."

"Sorry Doll but that wasn't a request." He yanked out of your grip and took your veil off with him. "There! That wasn't so hard, was it?"

You backed up as close to the wall as you could and actually got a look at him. He was about 5'4 and had platinum blond hair. His eyes seemed to glow piss yellow while his pupils were blood red. He wore a white suit with a pink and white stripped vest underneath. His books were black as were his hands though you weren't sure if those were gloves or his actual hand color. 'but he's so pale.'

"Hm? Take a picture it'll last longer~" You rolled your eyes. "You know darling if you're so interested in my hands I can give you a demonstration of what they can do~" Your face heated at his words, and the face that he brought one of his hand up to his mouth in a V shape and licked his lips.

"Why me?"

"Because you put on my ring!"

"But I didn't know what I was doing! Why not choose someone who knows what they're agreeing to?"

"I want you Doll. You're beautiful and my heart is calling out to you. The moment I saw you for the first time in that store i knew I needed you. Come on! We have a Wedding to plan! I'm thinking next month."

"Next Month?!"

"I know it's far off but We'll need to give our guests time to prepare gifts and of course we'll need time to send out the invitations."

"Well I was thinking of more of an August wedding. But eleven months is basically a year and I'm sure it'll still be warm in hell in September so... maybe we should make it a year from now?" Your voice grew meeker as you spoke. "It would also give us a year to get to know each other."

"If I make it a year from now will you be willing to marry me?" He asked excitedly.

"Um maybe?"

"Good enough for me! Come on then! you're probably tired and you'll want to get out of this old thing."

He takes your hand and leads you through the palace.

"Mr. Morningstar?"

"Call me Lucifer! You'll be a Morningstar soon! I suppose I'll have to talk to heaven about turning you immortal. Charlie had begged me for siblings when she was younger, so I'm glad to finally be able to fulfil that."

"Lucifer, I think that we should stay in separate rooms."

"What? But why?" He whined.

"We just met." 'and your the devil.' "And I'm rather traditional." 'No I'm not but you don't need to know that.'

"Alright if that's what you wish Darling."

"And one more thing. Wouldn't it be so romantic if our first kiss was the one we shared on our wedding day?"

"Ooooohh! Like the ones in those romance novels that are so popular on earth!" She squeaked. 

"Yeah... like those."

"Well here we are! It's the best guest room in the place! I'll have Styx put on some new warm sheets on the bed and I'll get you some clothes. You probably want to go take a bath."

"Um I'm good I'll shower in the morning."

"Nonsense Doll. Unless this is a backhanded way to invite me to join you~"

"I'll go take a shower ON MY OWN!" You said running out of the bedroom.

"What am I going to do?

After your shower you cracked the door and looked down to find a pile of clothes and no Lucifer in sight. You changed into them and found the shirt tight on you and the thong given to you a bit too revealing for your taste. "What am I going to do? I can't walk out there and show everyone everything."

"Yeah, I'd prefer this all saved for my eyes only." Lucifer's voice called from behind you.

"Ah! What are you doing in here?"

"Just admiring the view." he slowly gazed up and down at you tracing the curves of your body.

"May I please have something that actually fits me?" You rolled your eyes and your arms came up to cover your chest.

"Fine..." He huffed annoyed. "But I think the size of my old shirt looks cute on you." He snapped his fingers and the shirt grew so long it basically became a night gown. 

"Is this really okay to do to your clothes?"

"It's an old shirt I don't wear anymore."

"This thong better not have belonged to your kid."

"No! no. nonononono! It was uh, my ex-wife's."

"Oh. That's a bit weird isn't it?"

"I'll take you out shopping for clothes tomorrow, but for tonight you can either use those or go commando. I know which option I'd rather see~"

"Goodnight Lucifer!" You pushed him out of the room.

"Goodnight Darling!"

'What am I going to do?' You thought.

[katyspersonal]

So, Ymir was full of shit or rather, lost his marbles! I've made some more SOTE progress!

1) So, first I was exploring the various corners I've missed (again, Val's advice since I was despairing to do anything but 'important' points gvghgb) Went in order!

2) I killed the second big red horned bear in this game! And before that, killed two Rune Bears with some success..? Still got hit hard, but I am finally learning to dodge roll properly! Most of it is rolling in, not away x)

It dropped an incantation that is like those dragon head ones.. but like, bear head one gfhhhg And there was another variant of Brave Set nearby (the clothes of bear-hunters)

3) Coincidentally, the very next guy was using this same incantation! It was sending a series of roars that knock the person off! AND he was in the last Mausoleum that I did want to find very much!

AND he also was a Redmane!! They have so many distinct friends of Radahn in this DLC xD

4) The next one was a forge and I was done with running across them orange woods. This is when I finally realized that the big rocky guys needed to be hit while back turned, in the weak spot on their backs, whereas I've been hitting them in the front this whole time... :^)

5) This guy would later become important:

So, they just freeze eventually? It kind of seems like eventual fate of all rock creatures I guess, since they can't age. There are Ancient Dragons in Farum Azula who are just walls now for one

I instantly had a feeling that this would be a good summon seeing how much damage and defence those guys had, and hoooo boy was I right!!

6) OKAY SO I finally did it! @fareehaandspaniards REJOYCE!!! Basically Metyr and Fingers predate Elden Ring/Beast, because it also was a shooting star and Metyr was the first:

I struggled with this boss as you remember, and wasn't even trying to go without summons but just couldn't find the right ones xd THIS guy though staggered her like two times letting me do critical, and lasted ungodly amount of time (until magic attack blasted him since rocks are wear to magic in this game)! But he was SO helpful?

So it was this guy causing ungodly stagger and me stabbing bleed with Mohg's spear jfghyj I also finally realized to NOT, no matter what, get myself caught on the side of her body 🙄 That attack with rapidly moving fingers from her side is NOT survivable nghgf If anyone here makes the same mistake: don't, just always face her.. face, lol

7) Also my idea confirmed! When I first saw this location, all watery and the giant "tubes" going from here to "above", I saw it like the giant fingers so it is some hammerspace version of womb water! Turned out the grace of this place marks location as Finger Birthing Grounds, so yeah!

8) My instant reflex was to go back to Manus Metyr! ...and I got attacked when I had hands full of runes because I forgot to spend them after the boss 🤡 I didn't die, but NEVER forget to level up lol

Jolan first attacked me as an invader, saying we've hurt Ymir so much that he now wished our death, and then Ymir was there as a boss (thankfully a weak one). ?? I was just sitting here like "wait a second, the whole operation was your idea?" because Ymir gave me the map here?

9) So, I started to think about it and recalling what happened before. His last map was captioned "May you join the glimmering stars above" which was sinister, but so was he so I didn't give it an extra thought back then! Now it does seem like he intended for us to not survive that encounter, like same sacrifice thing as with "meeting" Rykard, but there was more

Back when Anna attacked us, I assumed she was sort of enemy. I did tell Jolan about it, but her dialogue was vague:

I interpreted it as Anna getting on the way and Jolan implying that she will or will not kick her ass depending on what Ymir says. But oh boy, seems like I was wrong.. When you kill Anna, the text 'RECUSANT VANQUISHED' appears; the term reserved for Tarnished that hunt other Tarnished! So, knowing that Anna habitually kills people (her own?), and knowing that I was not supposed to kill Metyr despite being sent directly to her, Jolan's reaction to us telling about Anna can be seen as: 'Damn, I started to really like you, but turns out that Ymir wants to sacrifice you (?) and I can't speak against him so pretend that my ally did not try to kill you, okay? :/' but I wasn't aware just HOW right I was!

10) Turned out that Jolan also had the decision split between Iris of Grace (gives Spirit Ashes) and Iris of Occultation (gives her weapon)! Like it was with Queelign! Damn, they made SURE that people either replay this DLC or talk with other players for full lore x) Respect!

11) ALSO turned out that this whole time, there was a secret way to drop atop of the upper section of Rabbath Rise from Shaman Village, where you find a person in the same set sitting in the same fashion as inactive puppets of Seluvis! And it was ANNA, that we could combine with Ashes of Jolan!

frail and WHAT? AND WHAT gdghhgh The text didn't fit, oh my god!!

I asked Val about it, the missing word was 'and pliant'.

12) I also asked him about the 'doll' part, because by all means it should have been 'puppet'! He confirmed that it IS the same term in original because he was confused too and checked earlier: 'doll' here is 傀儡, and is the same used for Puppets in the main game. So, obviously, they were trying to save the letters space! And still failed... XD

13) So, yes, a totally normal thing for Carians to do! Granted, Nox were the ones who started the Puppet dids, but Carians are basically infamous for making Puppets, which Ymir is!

That makes it apparent that Anna attacked us due to him wanting it :^) I assume we were supposed to be food for Metyr, because since he lost his shit over her death he needed her for something. The power to bring Yuri back to life, I suppose.

This made me wonder whether Jolan herself was a puppet? We don't know whether they can still talk and think from the base game, maybe they can! What we do know is that puppets will attach spiritually attach to the master and unquestionably do their bidding (which Jolan does), that they are crafted through blue star shards thus uniting their fates since blue stars control fates of humans (and Ymir and Jolan do affectionately call each other their stars), and that a puppet can be given to someone else despite who made it (since Seluvis can gift his and we now can use Anna).

Jolan is not referred to as a puppet, so maybe her devotion and dependence bordering insanity happened to be her true feelings and not some magic (yet it wasn't the case for Anna, apparently...).. But interesting thing to consider. (LOL I can SEE Ymir simps jumping at me and asking how the heck Jolan's behavior is supposedly magic and not normal reaction gfggnfhhg)

14) Turned out that Ymir's clothes can be altered into... this:

15) I also checked at the Roundtable Hold, for more Metyr lore:

I already read that Greater Will stopped communicating with her, but interesting information! Besides.. the staff to cast sorceries AND incantations sounds SUPER useful! No more switching between seals and staffs xD

The second weapon is simply Metyr's head that mentions there is an eye at the center of it. Yes, I could tell from getting blasted with lasers hfhhjj

16) Also I don't have pictures space left, but if you collect everything like I do, don't forget to check Yuri's grave for a sorcery after Ymir is defeated!

[timelessrevenge]

Toni & Mariah with 48?

48. a kiss out of habit. | ao3 link

Seeing Toni appear again after she had been so thoroughly murdered, a ghost back from the dead, a walking phantom, had in fact rattled Mariah. She would never admit it and she would never show it but if she was honest with herself at least, there was an eeriness in the empty, amnesiac gaze of her former lover. Like everything that had made her the Toni that Mariah had fallen for, even partially, had been beaten out of her and left in the ring of Wembley.

Perhaps Mariah should have been proud that she had ruined Toni completely and wiped every last thought of her stupid title reigns out of that head of hers. Perhaps she should be revelling in the newest rookie to join AEW and the guileless way she would celebrate wins over everyone, even the most useless women the division had to offer. Maybe she should be eager to kill and bury Toni Storm again, a second funeral for her hometown. In truth, Mariah was caught between a blinding rage that Toni was actually here and the aching, yearning desire in her chest that was desperate to claw free.

She wouldn't let this defeat her. For god's sake, Toni Storm with the actual world title couldn't defeat her. She wouldn't lose her composure to this cipher of Toni, this empty shell of a woman she once loved. So she applauded when Toni won the Gauntlet match and she cheered and she smiled. And she knew she looked like a sick, twisted, mean bitch but how was that any different to any other week on TV?

Only now, she knew it was time for her to 'meet' Toni Storm. Sure, they would have an official first meeting soon in preparation for the title match, they always did. But this little meeting was just going to be for them. When the bell went and Toni, grinning and throwing her devil horns up, went prancing through the tunnel, Mariah was quick to ease herself up from the commentary desk and set her headset down. Smoothing her shirt down and adjusting so her tits sat just right, she blew a kiss to the commentary team and made her way out to follow Toni.

Time to settle this once and for all.

By the time Mariah made it to the locker rooms, Toni was cheerily embracing some of the other women, a bounce in her step that only the sweetest, most naïve rookies had when they won. Whatever Mariah had done to her in London, it ran bone-deep. She always knew she would be the one to end Toni. And now she would get to do it twice. Maybe this was a good thing after all.

Of course, everyone slanted a suspicious look at her as she eased her way into the locker room, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Well. Congratulations are in order for such a promising rookie, I see," Mariah drawled lazily, the world title dangling from her shoulder. It didn't take long for the other women to begin mumbling their excuses. No one wanted to be caught in the same room as Mariah when Toni was involved.

"Oh! Ms May! I didn't realise we were going to meet today. I uh…well, it's obviously nice to see ya either way!" The Toni that wasn't Toni said, her face splitting into that innocent grin she wore nowadays.

Mariah returned it, a smile that was all teeth - a shark's maw when faced with easy prey. "Well, I just had to come see such an impressive young contender. I like to watch the people that might end up fighting me. You learn so much." She took the opportunity of the quiet room to stalk forward a little, although it hardly had the intended effect. Toni just kept smiling dumbly at her. Ridiculous.

"Ah well, I'm glad you think I'm impressive! It was super lucky." Toni shifted, kicking off her wrestling boots as she spoke and rocking her weight from side to side. "Ah no, wait, I've been rude!" All before putting her hand out eagerly, clearly awaiting some type of handshake. Fine. Mariah could indulge that.

She slunk forward languidly, shifting the title higher onto her shoulder and reached out to take Toni's hand. God. It was still as warm and gentle as ever and her grip tightened fractionally as she shook it. "It's good to meet you face to face for the first time, Toni," she added, a little smugness dripping into her tone sugar-sweet.

"Yeah, you too, Ms May. I'm such a big fan of all your work, I can't wait to be in the ring with you! It'll be such an honour," Toni gushed, still gripping Mariah's hand tightly. Oh god, she still felt the same. The voice was all wrong, the accent discordant in her ears, and the sheer desperate enthusiasm was making her stomach turn but fuck, that was still Toni's hand in hers - soft despite how callused it was, red painted nails, the tattoo that was faintly raised from her exertion as it always did. Mariah couldn't bear to let go, not with the sudden chasm in her chest.

Toni let go first, a little sheepish about it and clearly confused about Mariah's silence. Get it together, Mariah.

"Well. I look forward to seeing if you drown like the rest of the women in this division, Toni. But good for you for taking on the champion so early in your career," Mariah eventually managed, even though she ached with the loss of contact. "I should go. I just wanted to say hello to my newest challenger."

Toni nodded, too eagerly. Not like Toni at all. Instead, she opened her arms. "I know we're gonna fight and all but…just a quick one before we gotta start the trash talk?" There was such an openness in her face. Toni wanted to hold her. Toni, who hadn't held her since the Owen Hart Tournament, was stood in front of her, those beautiful arms spread for her.

Mariah glanced over her shoulder to verify there was definitely no one in the locker room with her before she set the title down on the bench gently, reverently even, and stepped closer to Toni. Muscle memory took over for her and Mariah bowed slightly, tucking her face against Toni's chest and inhaling. Tension she hadn't known existed leached from her shoulders as Toni's arms wrapped around her and squeezed slightly. It was a little too eager, a little too fond, not quite how it used to be. But god, it was close enough and, somewhere under the scent of salt-sweat and the unfamiliar perfume this Toni wore, Mariah could smell her lover once more.

She leaned back, gazed at Toni's face - innocent and delighted by having her idol so close - and Mariah exhaled. A moment longer. One more moment of weakness and then she had to know. She tucked her head back to its rightful spot and counted to ten.

Just a ten count of her brain finally falling silent again, that pleasant static that only ever came when she was curled into Toni's chest, and the sweet dizziness that always came with it.

Ten.

Mariah pulled away and, before her brain could come back online, her traitorous hand slid up to cup Toni's jaw, drawing her down close and into a slow, lingering kiss. She still kissed like her Toni. Firm and assured but with the slightest, sweetest sigh. Mariah had missed that sound.

When Toni reached for her in return, as though to pull her into another kiss, Mariah realised just what she had done and pushed the other woman hard. "This didn't happen, rookie. See you in the ring."

It was hardly the most cutting thing she could have said but, as shaking hands bundled the title back onto her shoulder, Mariah fled the locker room, one hand coming to touch her lips delicately. It would never happen again. Not once she buried Toni Storm again. And she would do it right this time.

[schismusic]

In the shadow of the horns: meditations on Team Ico's works – 2½. Project: Robot

Okay, there's only so much mileage I can get out of less than these two minutes of footage – even though it's, ahem, actual gameplay, which I believe is a mystifying statement at best. This, and I should probably be talking about The Last Guardian first, right? All of this is true. I raise you this: episode 1 was about Shadow of the Colossus, as opposed to Ico, so I've already set a precedent for being weird about the order this is going to take. Secondly, and more importantly, it's going to take a really long while before I go back to The Last Guardian. Not because I did not like the game: quite the opposite, actually, I thought it was stunning, but more on that when I actually write about it. It's just going to take a lot of concentration to replay it while taking notes and trying to ignore the sounds of my PS4 lifting off as the game runs. So let's focus on this much less electricity-intensive task first, shall we?

It's some dude (gender neutral) with a mask who climbs on top of some gigantic robot, goes on top of its head and has it detach, taking flight to avoid some kind of massive storm approaching. It's like a cross between Dormin's darkness and space debris as seen on the rings of Saturn/an asteroid belt. The head and its occupant are however quickly taken away by the storm itself and that's where the trailer ends. Some have speculated that this might already be a gameplay loop on its own, but – given the sheer amount of setpieces displayed by The Last Guardian – I'm inclined to think the exact opposite. My hopes are as follows: not only is this not representative of the final gameplay loop, but this is literally just the game's intro, or something.

Check this out: what if it's like Shadow of the Colossus, wherein perhaps there's a repeating gameplay loop of sorts that focuses heavily on exploration (of some deeper, fuller world than that of SotC – or maybe something even emptier, better conveyed through more powerful technology), but with the added narrative thing from The Last Guardian thrown in for good measure. Sort of à la Death Stranding when it actually starts gaining steam, in a way, but with the added Ueda thing where everything is melancholy and faraway and stunningly silent and meditative. Which is actually why I called this series a set of meditations, of all things – these are games that invite a level of thought that doesn't necessarily take the usual steps that Aristotle-based logic – for lack of a better word that isn't "Western", which one could see as sort of a cop-out in this scenario – would deem indispensable.

Such an approach, for starters, would explain the use of English in the spoken bits of the game. I've been playing Outer Wilds lately (thank you @alexswordsman for insisting that I give it a shot – you were right all along) and see, now that's a game that sounds like a solid peer to what I hope this one big ass robot game turns out to be. The idea is that the so-called plot of the game may be lived entirely in retrospect, but keeping the usual cryptic approach that Ueda and the team seem to favor in their storytelling. So there's this dude (gender neutral) who has to repair their robot, or somehow traverse a landscape, and in the meantime they come to learn… something, I guess, about who was here before? Or maybe just who was hit the hardest by that debris storm from the trailer, mere hours ago? Who knows, not me, I'm just speculating because I have way too much free time on my hands. Would love to hear you guys' thoughts on the matter. Gender neutral, of course.

I realize I'm still trying to think of Ueda as a creative, after all of these years, in one of two ways:

he's doing his usual thing, and he's thinking within his own box.

he's looking out to other developers in attempts to make a mishmash of random cool titles that might have interesting elements.

The problem with both of these lines of thought is that it makes no sense to close off one or the other. I can't shake the feeling that there will be, simultaneously, more and less than what I've discussed above. Again, this entire post is nothing more than a bunch of speculation and opinions piled together into a trenchcoat, but I'm still feeling way too up in the air about this. The one thing I'm sure of is, I am really excited about this. My best hope for this is not that it finds its market niche, or its "target audience", or any of that BMA crap. I just hope it's a good Ueda game, one that strikes emotional chords with the same grace and poise and elegance as the others do.

Now for another robot song, and it's the last one, I swear.

[miirshroom]

Shadow of the Erdtree - "Pure and Radiant, He Wields Love to Shrive Clean the Hearts of Men"

"Shriver" is an occupational title meaning "scribe" or "writer" and comes from the root "Shrive" which originally meant "to decree, pass judgement, prescribe, hear or receive a confession (of sins), free from guilt, to absolve" and later came to mean "write".

So keeping in mind that the concept of Words have literal Power is part of the Golden Order faith in Elden Ring (see Coded Sword or Cipher Pata), when Miquella is in the Lands of Shadow to "Shrive clean the hearts of men", his goal is to either literally or metaphorically write a narrative that cleans the hearts of men. So, what does it really mean to "clean a heart"?

Because of course this has come up before on the internet I searched the origin of the phrase "hearts of men" and received: the Battle Hymn of the Republic. An American ('Marikan) Civil War song with lyrics written by abolitionist Julia Ward Howe in 1861.

... He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat; Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! Be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Glory, glory, hallelujah! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me. As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.

The only notes I want to make for that last stanza is that it is interesting that Christ is associated with lilies in this particular song when that is also Miquella's flower. And that Miquella (and Mohg, and Radahn) certainly died to reach the Shadowlands in a classic set up of Death and Resurrection that fails to complete the resurrection bit.

At least two biblical passages provide context/inspiration for the poetic phrasing about hearts (again: internet is full of people discussing the meanings behind works of art and poetry):

Romans 2:15 “the requirements of the law are written on their hearts”.

Revelation 2:23 “I am he who searches hearts and minds, and I will repay each of you according to your deeds.”

So thinking of shriving in terms of writing is not so farfetched, and also there's some end of days style judgement happening with all the horn sounding (that being the theme of Revelations).

Grading Gravel Stone with Sieves

The technique of "sifting" is used in geotechnical engineering to separate particles of rock and sand into sizes, where the smallest size of sand and silt or clay is what passes through a #200 sieve with opening size of 75 µm. The first step is to prepare a tower of sieves of various sizes - say ranging from 1/2" to 75 µm openings - and add to the top a sample of soil baked to zero moisture content, and then shake them vigorously until all fine particles settle to the bottom. The fineness of the resulting silt below the lowest sieve can be further determined by agitating a sample in a water column and watching a hydrometer (a buoyant instrument) to see how long it takes the particles to settle. 

Clayey soil causes problems - it sticks in crevasses of bigger rocks and forms clumps that do not pass through the #200 sieve. However, in some case a fine particle analysis is not required, so the solution is a setup that continuously runs water through the sieves during the shaking of the tower to wash fines clean from the coarse particles. Or if you work in a low budget lab like I did, just stand at the sink and smoosh the clay around with fingers until it goes through the mesh.

The point being that in the metaphor the material of "coarse" hearts are sifted out and exposed while that of exceptionally "fine" hearts pass judgement of the final sieve and are washed through with the water. And while in the real world the "fineness" of a heart is subjective, in Elden Ring this becomes quite literal: dragon hearts have been shown over and over again to be ridged in coarse gravel stone. Like, when you get a dragon heart and literally "clean the heart" of all of the blood that obscures detail, this is what is exposed:

Dragon heart seized by a dragon tracker. Riddled with Gravel Stone, this grotesque organ continues to beat vivaciously. An offering used in the Dragon Communion. Consume a dragon's heart at the altar to make its power yours. While a terrible and savage-looking thing, the heart has a peculiar beauty to it.

And the quote about Miquella shriving clean the hearts of men originates from Ansbach, who finds this concept terrifying. And as described in the Wise Man's Mask, "an old fear lurks beneath...the appearance of a quiet, wise, old, bearded man", so it's a personal terror rather than the abstract thought that somebody should be terrified about this. Being "absolved of their sins" by a loving deity is usually not something that sparks fear in a person - if anything it's supposed to be cathartic in the sense of having successfully appeased God. So Ansbach fears being judged and found inadequate. In other words, the fear of Ansbach is that the hearts of "men" will have all fine facades washed away from their surface, exposing the coarse stony hearts not unlike savage, bestial dragons. 

Man vs. God

But good news: if man does not want to be judged, then he must simply kill god! After all, the final words of Ansbach are "Righteous Tarnished. Become our new lord. A lord not for gods, but for men."

There's another more modern song to the same tune as the Battle Hymn of the Republic - an American paratrooper song dating to World War 2 known as "Blood on the Risers":

... The ambulance was on the spot, the jeeps were running wild The medics jumped and screamed with glee, they rolled their sleeves and smiled For it had been a week or more since last a 'Chute had failed And he ain't gonna jump no more Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die Glory, glory, what a hell of a way to die He ain't gonna jump no more ... There was blood upon the risers, there were brains upon the chute Intestines were a-dangling from his paratroopers suit He was a mess, they picked him up, and poured him from his boots And he ain't gonna jump no more Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die Gory, gory, what a hell of a way to die He ain't gonna jump no more

Glory to God isn't in the song any more, only gore, and the idea that "hell" is not something for an afterlife but experienced right here in the present (and there are medics - hello Varré). The "god" in question being not Miquella, but Marika who was previously keeping the Omen such as Mohg and his pureblood faction in check and set the conditions for their release with her disappearance. It's not really better when a god dies without any functional structure in place to fill the power vacuum. More of a lateral shift from a belief that killing is for the glory of God to the grim disillusionment of seeing that people die in viscerally brutal ways to advance whatever flimsy ideologies men can invent to justify capturing control of resources. 

Sowing and Reaping

And while that would be a decent sentiment to end on in a discussion about a real history and the rise of secularism - I can dig deeper. This is a video game and the characters unquestionably have a Creator in the form of the writer. So a certain proverb of biblical origin can apply here quite literally - "you reap what you sow". Ansbach wields the "Obsidian Lamina" a scythe like what would traditionally be used for reaping grain. People who Ansbach can potentially "reap" with this scythe via combat:

Needleknight Leda

Dryleaf Dane

Freyja (if she is given Ansbach's letter)

Moore (if you advise "put it behind you" to the question "Our mother abandoned her brood. She did not love us. We are her children, what should we do? Must we be sad forever?")

Hornsent (if you deny him vengeance or snub him after helping with that vengeance)

Miquella and Consort Radahn. 

Why should Ansbach fear the judgement of Miquella except that he knows that in some way his actions have sowed the lust for violence toward himself from all of these people? And now it has come time to reap them if he wants to survive without compromising on his irrational loyalties to the Lord of Blood. I don't think it's necessary to speculate on all of them except this: Ansbach did cleave open Miquella and wound him with a Furious Blood Blade. Leda saw it happen.

I’m afraid Sir Ansbach will have to be next. He insist that he’s nothing but a worn down, over-the-hill soldier. But in his day, he was the feared commander of the Pureblood Knights, who cleaved open Miquella the Kind with his blood blade. He claims he hasn’t the spirit to take up his sword again, but I doubt it’ll be very long… Before he recalls, as I have, the cascading sheets of blood. I’m afraid he cannot be left to fester…

This seems to contradict directly Ansbach's own claim - but unlike Leda's specific recollection (the description for "Furious Blood Blade of Ansbach" even uses the word "cleave") he never said with which blade was he unable to reach Miquella. His scythe couldn't reap Miquella yet. All he had done at first contact was to sow the seed of despair with his bloody assault. Even more poignant that Needle Knight Leda was present as witness considering that she is themed around a different kind of sewing.

But here's the thing about fiction. Miquella isn't really Ansbach's god in a divine sense - that would be the Creator FromSoftware. Miquella having discarded so much of himself is basically on the level of a straw man argument that people who plea for kindness are all really thought-policing monsters. You know. Straw. A grassy plant that is sown from seed and may perhaps be reaped by scythe. Like the new straw/hay bale asset found in the DLC villages that was not present in the base game.

People have throughout history invented gods to explain natural phenomena and obsessed over making up stories about them. Inventing a caricature/phantasm of a person to do mental combat against is just a more mundane version of that. And like I've said previously - the DLC takes place in the body/mind of the withered corpse in the cocoon.

Like, to be clear, the set up of the straw man argument above is that I say "I really don't trust the faction who are themed around blood exultation and glorifying wounds and pain" and the straw man response might be "so you trust the god who wants to use mind control to make everyone be nice to each other??". Which is what the Mogh vs. Miquella argument seems to be reduced down to sometimes. No, I think that dwelling on the possibility of mind-control is a pit of paranoia, and that if the blood faction stopped polluting their own water sources with blood and fantasies about a glorious dynasty then maybe they would be able to calm the fuck down. Get some basic needs for sustenance and safety satisfied to then have the time and energy for introspection. Gain perspective on how they've been radicalized by doctored narratives.

Including the phantasm of the violent and mind-controlling god who "shrives clean the hearts of men" and must be stopped before he can enforce a new narrative where kindness is the default and being exposed for having a coarse/uncivil nature is a faux pas to be weighed and judged along a graded scale of severity. Remove the part about "violent and mind-controlling god" and that basically sounds like the ideal that most rational people wish we already had from civil society.

So the thoughts about violence under a mind-controlling god is pure projection - the idea that there must be a terrifying caveat to any attempt at Kind governance. But really, the Blood Dynasty faction is just reaping what they sow:

Governed by a God? Mohg has always been deferring to gods - first Marika, then the outer god of the Formless Mother, so in a twisted way Miquella must be a god as well. Mohg and his Sanguine Nobles also in their design take clearest inspiration from the type of embroidered stole as worn by the Catholic Pope.

Mind-controlling? To believe in an omnipotent God is to believe that God knows your most private thoughts. Always. And is always judging you on the correctness of those thoughts. So you must be sure to think the correct thoughts, and obey the letter of the holy text and the guidance of the priesthood. Also, just try to think rationally when in excruciating chronic pain, as the Formless Mother espouses.

Violent? Yep.

edit: also an addendum in a separate post

[randomvarious]

Today's compilation:

The Wild Bunch 1995 Reggae / Roots Reggae / Rocksteady / Dub

First off, let me just say that I am in total awe of this crop of reggae instrumentals from the 60s and 70s here. So much music since has come with so much more fuss and technological advancements, and yet an unscalable pile of the stuff that came out after this doesn't seem to come close to how good a bunch of these simple tunes still are. In a broad sense, all these songs' formulas are pretty simple, but they really still just manage to click so damn well 😌.

From this comp's liner notes:

During the past eight years, Trojan have pioneered the 'Revival' Reggae scene. Our re-issue programme has preserved some of the best vocals ever recorded in Jamaica, but with the emphasis being placed on some of the island's many talented singers in recent years, the musicians have tended to be ignored. This current release reverses that trend by turning the spotlight onto the 'players of instruments', and in so doing we pay tribute to Kingston's legendary session men.

Now, because nearly all of these are straight-up instrumentals, they all pretty much operate in the same way, and each of them seem to have one thing in common that ends up either making or breaking the tune: the lead instrument. Because reggae riddims are inherently repetitive and steady, if left alone, they will naturally get stale. So, it takes a good melody of some kind to be laid atop that riddim in order to lend the song some much needed variety. And in a whole lot of these 27 tunes, that ends up coming to remarkable fruition.

It's hard to even really know where to begin with this album since there's so much goodness to be found within it, but the thick, whistle-ringing improvisational organ of Lloyd Charmer's "Ling Tong Ting" is an absolutely terrific place to start. Then the JJ All Stars get topsy-turvy with the audio channels on "Memphis Underground," by sending the melodic leads exclusively and *very prominently* through the left, and 90% of the riddim through the right; Herman Marquis' "Tom's Version," whose intro I'm pretty sure I've heard sampled in at least one hip hop tune before (Wu-Tang, maybe? It's honestly driving me crazy that I can't put my finger on it), then follows by doing a wonderful job of harmonizing its organ and trumpet, yielding this fully warm and satisfying haze; the legendary Augustus Pablo, who singlehandedly managed to transform the melodica from a mere plaything for children into an instrument with serious gravitas, shows why on a rootsy piece of dub called "Great Pablo;" and then towards the end, we get a bit of a surprise with a piece of gospel-reggae that's actually not an instrumental: the Harry J All Stars "Holy Moses," which is aided by a small set of female singers whose deployment of soul harmonies reminds of the backup singing that can be found on a bunch of Bob Marley hits.

But the closing title tune by the Music Doctors may be both the most remarkable and most fun track of them all, for the simple fact that it uniquely trades its leads between—not things like guitars, horns, and organs—but just bass and drums. And the bassist just seems to carefreely play this laid-back and very recognizable piece of melody from The Jackson 5's "I Want You Back;" it's so good!

So, a phenomenal collection of rare Jamaican reggae instrumental classics here, from the genre's premier label itself, Trojan. Yesterday, I posted about an excellent metal cassette from 1985 that's also called The Wild Bunch, and given how good that that album was, I really didn't think that this one could outdo it, but it very much did!

Highlights:

Selwyn Baptiste - "Mo' Bay" Boris Gardiner - "Memories of Love" The Dynamites - "Phantom" Sound Dimension - "Soul Food" Lloyd Charmers - "Ling Tong Ting" The Aggrovators - "The Sniper" JJ All Stars - "Memphis Underground" Lynn Taitt & The Jets - "Love Me Forever" Herman Marquis - "Tom's Version" The Tennors - "Copy Me Donkey" Winston Wright - "Heads or Tails" Augustus Pablo - "Great Pablo" Harry J All Stars - "Holy Moses" Music Doctors - "Wild Bunch"

[toads-treasures]

I want both Leda and Cori!! Or you can choose as you like. Ok 5, 47, and 58 :3

5. What are your character’s strongest and weakest stats (strength, charisma, etc)? 

Both are charisma as the highest and strength as the lowest 😂😂 they both have a minus one to strength. I haven’t had a chance to actually play in a few days so I can’t remember their exact stats but both of them are very charismatic with absolute noodle arms 😔

47. What is the most important item your Tav has?

When Leda first left home she had a lot of jewelry. She loves jewelry and all shiny pretty things, but when she left, she took all of it off, the earrings, the charms on her horns, the rings, all of it, and slowly pawned them all off until the only one she had left was a necklace her father gave her for her birthday. It’s pretty simple. usually she favored things that were elaborate, delicate construction of chains and pearls and gems. But this is just a small amethyst, the same color as her eyes, set into a small heart shaped pendant. It’s the only thing she has left of her family or her life before.

Cori has two sending stones. One corresponds to a pair with her parents, the other to her older sister Lyra, who settled down and isn’t traveling with her family anymore. The one for Lyra is missing, and the one that matches her parents broke in the nautaloid crash. She also has a small bundle of letters from her niece and nephew, Lyra’s children. They’re mostly scribbles, or messy drawings with Lyra’s neat handwriting translating the letters. They say things like “saw a frog today, it was bigger than my hand. Mama wouldn’t let me keep it.” Or sometimes it’ll be Lyra transcribing things like “Marren keeps asking for me to do the voices like you do when we read her bedtime stories, and gets very upset when I can’t do them right.” She reads through them almost every night.

58.  What decision would your party have to make in order for Tav to consider splitting off from the group?

Leda would never split, no matter what the group did. She could definitely be unhappy, definitely find herself a stranger and hate herself for staying. But she was always so so unbearably lonely. Now that she has friends, has a family, I don’t think she could ever leave them. Even if they become something unrecognizable to her. Thankfully, Wyll would never do that 💕

I think, the only thing that they could possibly do would maybe to turn on each other? In that case, I think she’d follow wherever Wyll and Karlach went.

Cori would have no trouble leaving if the group did something she didn’t agree with. Growing up on the road, and with her parents raising her with a pretty solid moral code (her mother was a very lawful good type), they always kind of hammered in the idea that it was better to be alone than with people who made you lose sight of who you are. So that possibility of leaving is always tantalizingly close. She doesn’t necessarily want to leave, but she also always has to have that as an option if that makes sense?? It would have to be fairly extreme, like raiding the grove, or siding with Kethric. But sometimes it feels like she’s one minor inconvenience/miscommunication away from splitting lol.

[sylviah98]

The concept of Gold in the world of Elden Ring

So there is a concept that I have been pondering over a lot with regards to Elden Ring lore, i.e the concept of various kinds of Gold and maybe significance of other metals in the metaphysical sense. In the game we have come across three kinds of Gold- Primordial Gold, Gold associated with Golden Order and Unalloyed Gold. Lets find items related to these three types of gold:

Primordial Gold: The color motif associated with this is a reddish hue. That is quite commonly associated with a metal commonly used.

Ordovis's Greatsword - Greatsword of Ordovis, one of the two honored as foremost among the Crucible Knights. This sword is imbued with an ancient holy essence. Its red tint exemplifies the nature of primordial gold, said to be close in nature to life itself.

**Siluria's Tree-**Siluria's Tree, weapon of one of the two honored as foremost among the Crucible Knights. The primordial form of the Erdtree is close in nature to life itself, and this spear, modeled on its crucible, is imbued with ancient holy essence.

Crucible Hornshield -Greatshield of red-tinged gold carried by Crucible Knights. Features a great horn. An ancient holiness dwells within. The crucible horn skewers foes when performing shield bashes.

  This is the Crucible axe set. Notice the tint of the armor which also closely resembles the red tint, associated with Primordial gold.

  This is the crucible tree set. Same thing as above.

These items that are associated with the crucible knights have a reddish tint. Similar to a metal we know and is extensively used in our day to day life. Copper. The primordial gold is said to be extracted from the Crucible, which was basically a foundry of creation. The world prior to Erdtree was chaotic in a way there was no defined set of rules governing the world and this crucible, which was a cauldron for differing ideas provided the first base for creating life. Just like Copper was the first metal used by Mankind for its usage.

 Gold associated with Golden order and Erdtree: The color motif associated with this is the actual golden color. the bright yellowish hue that is assocaited with the precious metal i.e Gold.

Sacred Relic Sword -Sword wrought from the remains of a god who should have lived a life eternal. Thoughts on what the weapon portends are many and varied. Some consider it the mark of a great sin, or a sign of great devastation. Some think of it as the end of an age, while others; the beginning.

Inseparable Sword  -Sword forged by compounding silver and gold.A sacred weapon to hunt Those Who Live in Death.Deals holy damage.The inseparable twins found solace in the Golden Order, the only institution not to revile them as accursed beings.

Twinned Armor-Armor depicting entwined twins of gold and silver. The two known as D are inseparable twins. They are of two bodies and two minds, but one single soul. Not once do they stand together; not one word do they speak to one another. Perhaps this armor longs to find its way to the other D. 

  Golden Halberd- Weighty halberd forged of gold. Wielded by the Order of Tree Sentinels, heavily equipped knights.  Deals holy damage. A masterfully crafted weapon that lives up to its heft, but is difficult for one mere human strength to wield.

Erdtree Greatshield  Weighty greatshield forged of gold carried by the order of Tree Sentinels, heavily equipped knights. Blessed by an old incantation of protection.The living rampart of the Erdtree, the Tree Sentinels are the standard to which all defenders of the Erdtree aspire.

Tree Sentinel Armor -Golden armor of the heavy cavalry Tree Sentinels who serve the Erdtree. Adorned with a cape featuring the mark of the sacred tree. Imposingly sturdy and nigh unbreakable, the grace of old yet lingers.

  Notice that all the items I mentioned are actually made of Gold, Gold that is specifically extracted from Erdtree. Thus everyting related to Erdtree(like Erdtree incantations ) and Golden Order( like Golden Order incantations) are associated with this particular motif and is considered to be the symbol of order in Lands Between.

 Unalloyed gold: The color motif associated with it is dull gold or a dull yellowish hue that is associated with pure gold that hasn't been alloyed with other metals.

Unalloyed Gold Needle -An intricately crafted needle of unalloyed gold, snapped in half. A ritual implement crafted to ward away the meddling of outer gods, it is thought capable of forestalling the incurable rotting sickness.

**Miquella's Needle-**One of the unalloyed gold needles that Miquella crafted to ward away the meddling of outer gods. Capable of subduing the flame of frenzy if inherited, allowing one to cheat fate and avoid becoming Lord of Frenzied Flame. However, the needle is as yet unfinished and can only be used in the heart of the storm beyond time said to be found in Faram Azula.

Haligtree Crest Greatshield -Metal greatshield depicting the Haligtree with unalloyed gold. Carried by knights who have vowed to serve Miquella's Haligtree. Possesses high holy damage negation. Yet now, with the Haligtree misshapen, this wondrous rendition is a fleeting fantasy.

Miquellan Knight's Sword -Sword forged by servants of Miquella of the Haligtree, with a design modeled after those carried by Carian knights. Instead of glintstone however, amber from the Haligtree is embedded in the blade. A sumptuous piece, yet it has never been offered to any knight — an ill-starred sword with no master.

Malenia's Armor -Armor made of unalloyed gold. Worn by Malenia, Blade of Miquella. Malenia awaited Miquella at the foot of the husk. "My brother will keep his promise. He possesses the wisdom, the allure, of a god - he is the most fearsome Empyrean of all."

Hand of Malenia- Blade built into Malenia's prosthetic arm. Through consecration it is resistant to rot.Malenia's war prosthesis symbolized her victories. Some claim to have seen wings when the weapon was raised aloft; wings of fierce determination that have never known defeat.

 Valkyrie's Prosthesis- Golden prosthesis once used by the one-armed valkyrie. A masterwork of craftsmanship, with practice and skill it can be used as proficiently as a real arm. When Maleigh Marais, Lord of the Shaded Castle, embraced this prosthesis, he claimed to feel the presence of his personal goddess.

Haligtree Knight Helm- Helm worn by knights sworn to the Haligtree. Graced by a crown of unalloyed gold.Increases faith.

  Here notice the color motif of items. They are dull gold. The unalloyed gold is supposedly extracted from the Haligtree i.e Haligtree sap is the unalloyed gold. But it is dulled because haligtree never reached its full potential of growing into something that could rival the Erdtree. Thus it never reached the perfection it was supposed to reach.

 So what was the point of showing all these?

It was to suggest that gold is very much related to trees. Its the sap of the trees that is responsible for creation of all kinds of gold. The tree is very much related to an alchemical cauldron.

The Primordial gold( or Copper which is a lower rung metal in alchemy) was created from the Crucible, from the first experiments on creating life, which was chaotic in nature and thus hadn't reached a level of perfection.

Then comes the Elden beast which consumes the crucible and with its power, circumvents and perfects the process to create the Erdtree, whose sap is considered the Gold( which signifies the perfection of Alchemical process) that is associated with order( and everything related to Elden Beast- the Erdtree incantations and items, the Golden order Incantations and items). This basically suggest that Elden Beast restricted the natural process of creating order from chaos which would eventually have reached from the crucible had not the Elden Beast consumed and circumvented the process, thus assuming a direct control on cauldron of life.

Then comes Miquella, the greatest genius of Lands Between, who studied the Golden Order and Erdtree and himself invented Golden Order spells like Discus of light or rings of light and understood the true process of the alchemical cauldron that created Erdtree. But since an outside influence perfected the process of alchemy in the Crucible, Miquella devised a way to replace it with a process that is derived from the world itself. Thus comes Unalloyed Gold which is basically the sap of the Haligtree. But if Miquella had not been kidnapped by Mohg and perfectly have grown the Haligtree, the unallyed Gold will have reached the perfection it was intended for and then it would be capable of opposing the Gold from the Erdtree i.e Haligtree would have co -opted and consumed the crucible which is directly related to the life force of the world and it would have still reached the level of perfection (in alchemical terms) but without any outside influence.

That is the reason why Malenia considered Miquella the most fearsome of all Empyrean and Gideon didn't want him to wake up. Its because Miquella is so intelligent that he reverse engineered the creation process that governed the world and was circumvented by Elden Beast and Greater Will and used it to create an alchemical process to reach perfection of Gold, that means it could replace the entire world structure that was co-opted from the crucible by the Erdtree and replace with Haligtree such that it can essentially allow him to banish the planes from which any Outer god can influence the world.

That is also the reason why Miquella's needle can only be used in Placidusax's arena. Since that arena is locked away in a time where Erdtree was not created and the Crucible still goverened the world, that means Miquella's needle can tap into the Crucible and perfectly reach the pinnacle it was meant to reach.

 There is also another metal that has been in Elden Ring that can be considered precious in our world but it is always hampered by the brillinace of Gold. i.e Silver.

Silver Tear Husk: A hardened husk shed by a formless life form known as the Silver Tear, found in and around the Eternal City. Material used for crafting items. The Silver Tear makes mockery of life, reborn again and again into imitation. Perhaps, one day, it will be reborn a lord.

Silver Tear Mask: Mask fashioned from the corpse of a formless Silver Tear, supported by its hardened, shed husk. Greatly increases arcane to the detriment of physical attack power. To imitate the imitator is a cunning play indeed.

Mimic Tear Ashes - Legendary ashen remains. Use to summon the spirit of a mimic tear. Summoning consumes HP rather than FP. This spirit takes the form of the summoner to fight alongside them, but its mimicry does not extend to imitating the summoner's will. Mimic tears are the result of an attempt by the Eternal City to forge a lord.

Larval Tear -Core of a creature of mimicry known as a silver tear. As much as a substance as it is a living organism. Material required by the amber egg cradled by Rennala, Queen of the Full Moon, to birth people anew.

See all these suggests that the Eternal city tried to replicate the process of alchemical perfection of Gold that Erdtree and Elden Beast had reached so that they can rival them. But just like Silver mimics the brilliance of gold and never reaches the same level of perfection, the Silver related items also never reached quite the level of perfection to rival the Gold of Erdtree.

So guys, what are your thoughts?

[katyspersonal]

Thoughts about Crucible and conceptual corruption of religion

I've started trying to figure out what Crucible is exactly today while playing Elden Ring and I need to put down my thoughts about it before I forgot 🤔 I think basically it is what happened when the divine met the natural, the lifeforms on the setting's earth. In a way, the original Greattree is somewhat of a Crucible itself! Conceptually it is a very primordial faith that was yet filling life with meaning beyond just survival in a very good sense, but in ER the divine needs us as much as we need it, if not more so. Elden Ring hasn't always operated by Golden Order / Marika obviously; it was initially just a cool thing that fell from space and kind of accelerated everything, especially life itself! Presumably the result of Greater Will wanting to manifest itself in some sort of personality and coherent shape, but before the decision of what the order would be got handed to mortals (Empyreans first of all)

^ In Farum Azula there is a depiction of Elden Ring in more abundant form, very overflowing with life, so alternatively it'd rely on (ancient) dragons, the lifeform of whole other level back then for "order and personality"!

But yeah, uhhh like how do I put it...? Crucible is the result of the divine growing within the earth full of nature, primordial matters and mortal life. The initial Greattree "contracted" it like an influence, nature of life itself crept into it, it became the divine matter turning imperfect but alive! And the way Misbegotten, Omens and alike have animalistic features placed without any logic (and at times these features are useless) is a reflection of how chaotic life in its nature is brought from a concept to a display! Also the evergrowing "horns" were already a thing in simpler times, like what Ancestral guys are associated with! That's why Crucible used to be seen as a sacred thing - it was like a display of the divine matter wiling to live through you! But also Greattree wasn't meant to last forever and would one day die and in turn give the way to new life to replace it (Erdtree). It is a principle the divine naturally adopted upon becoming alive in the way nature knows it through the first big tree; life sprouts from death as much as it sprouts from birth!

So yeah, the problem began when the mortals (Marika?) pulled an ultimate purity wank and wanted that eternity, divinity and "perfection" forever rather than this new Erdtree once likewise dying (even if in turn it would give way to new life and so on forever). The whole DS3 is just Miyazaki being salty about how some people just won't let things die after their cycle expired, why not use what works again? XD But ALSO in these terms, the beastly idiocy nature of life started being seen not as simply something that MAYBE needed discipline to get the best out of it, but as a "disease" or a curse that "dirtied" the divine essence. So the divine in their eyes needed to be protected from being "sullied", from being pulled down to this level, the imperfections that make the life what it is started to just being liability - a bad mistake forms of civilizing (especially religions) keep making.

So Erdtree eventually ran out of its blessed sap and became ephemeral, useless as the holiness that only preserves its "purity" and doesn't sully itself for anyone can be. How it could give the world any more of the sap that was good for it without subjecting itself to it? It is like sharing advices without ever listening to what people's struggles are to BEGIN with. Age of Plenty was over because of obsession with the purity and defending the divine from "lowly" life, Crucible was an evidence that it once got "dirtied" but now never again, when in reality the very worst thing that could have happened with Erdtree is it dying like Greattree once did but giving life to the next tree in turn. I do think that fixation on the idea of eternity is still a larger part of it but I just can't ignore the thing about purity and control in it

^ @val-of-the-north also showed me these shapes when I shared my thoughts with him, to illustrate my point back to me (basically he said he agreed with my thought process). He pointed out that progression of the symbols shows the same thing - modern Erdtree and Fundamentalist incantations notably lack "life" in them in the form of branches and leaves. It could be not just what the Erdtree stopped doing, but also what they wanted to remove from the divine (Floral Crucible is only mentioned in cut content, but still). The latter two are "trapped" in concrete geometrical shapes, reflecting an actual order like what Greater Will wants in the end; it wants some organization, no matter which one. ...but also doesn't, there are enough implications that Frenzied Flame is just another side of the same coin. It even also has the hand as a conduct of the GW! And makes it funnier how they've sealed the Frenzied Flame away too, removing the alternatives- For sure, a decision that is understandable, but what does life mean if you don't have to fight against the essence of existential despair for it?

___________

Hhhhhh I went on a tangent but I was trying to say that I think Crucible didn't "come from space"! Elden Ring fell in this world cold empty and without self-comprehension like the cosmic void it came from, but initially assimilated with what life is here and Greattree was the manifestation! But Crucible also wasn't fully natural for this world too; it reflects aspects of life forms here but they get taken through this assimilation and then boosted with the blessing and given new meaning! Life for the sake of itself and next level magic for the sake of itself both are far from being meaningful but it is when low and high matters meet everything becomes full and complete! But in chasing to make the good things that come from it last forever people will end up demonizing and trying to exterminate natural things and prioritize only the divine.

Looking back at real humanity history, yeah I can see the relevance with how religion has been developing as a concept. How it started simple and fulfilling as a (successful) attempt to add higher meaning in existence than just surviving, was full of joy and wonder and freedom. And how in the end it came to incredibly suffocating and corrupt systems of control, purity wank and denial of normal parts of life 🤔