#nihil writes

[nihils-trolls]

Test Run

Mayara Khepar, Allaik Tentau | Present Night

"Remind me why the hell you dragged me out here so close to dawn?"

"Because, Allie- I want you to help me test something. What you're carrying in that box there, actually. Doing this back in town limits is a bit risky." 

"So out in the 'murder woods' is the next best option?" 

Mayara stops in her tracks on the faded path, turning to face Allaik who'd done the same. She doesn't answer his question, and instead gives him an unamused look. She then hefts the odd-looking briefcase she carries to get a better grip before facing forward again to continue.

“... What? You heard about that, didn’t you?” Allaik starts again, moving as well to match pace with Maya. “Ghost sightings, trolls goin’ missing- it’s been all over the internet ‘round the city. Hell, I even saw a video of something really wei-”

“-Al pleeeeaaaase.” Maya interrupts him. “Stop, I mean- come on. Do you really believe all the shit you see on, fuckin’... Instagrub or Chittr? It’s made up. Those fuckers lie about everything for attention. Rumors and bullshit, compadre.”

“Are you saying the ghosts aren’t real, or that they aren’t here specifically. And how the fuck would you know, anyway?” Allaik says doubtfully.

“Dude, come on. You know, that I know ghosts are real. I’m just saying- we’re not in the murder woods.” Mayara mocks. “And I’m sure even if we were, we could probably handle some.. Serial killer or somethin’ with what we’re packin’ here.”

Mayara then stops, setting down her case and motioning for Allaik to do the same. They’ve stopped at some sort of improvised range out in the middle of the woods, using fallen logs as stands. Dotted around the small clearing are hand-made targets- some hanging from trees, others propped up in various positions and ranging cover.

Allaik does as bidden, then leans against a nearby tree behind Maya. “And what, if you’ll indulge me, would that be?” 

“Guns.”

“No shit. It’s always guns.”

Mayara grins. “You’ll see. Don’t get your panties in a knot, bub.”

…

Over the next few minutes, Mayara opens the cases and begins setting up some sort of contraption. It holds a fairly large handgun, clearly custom made. Seemingly tense enough that neither she nor Allaik could fire it properly- which is what the device seems to be for.

Allaik merely watches, not caring to comment on the point of having a weapon you can’t really fire. He knows better than to ask, as he knows Maya will start talking anyway.

And sure enough, she does.

“This fucker’s taken me too long to make. But I suppose you can’t rush perfection…” Maya croons. “Tonight- its final test. And before you ask, yes. It’s a custom- don’t worry about its practicality for you or me.”

“You just brought me along as a mule,” Al interrupts.

“Yeah.” Maya admits.

Allaik rolls his eyes, and Mayara aims the firearm. It’s attached to a lever that depresses the trigger instead of her own fingers, as it’s supposed to be in the hands of some bot with freak strength. Any weaker, and it’d break the damn thing.

Three shots at one target hanging from a branch, two more at one behind some cover. She continues clearing the range until the clip empties- eight rounds total. After the short show, she turns to gauge Al’s opinion.

“Seems unnecessary,” he says. “I see why you have the fuckin’ stand for it. The hell’d you have in there, 44s?”

“Nah, 50s. It can take 44s, though.”

“Your client trying to hunt bears or something?”

“No, but that’s not your problem.”

“You right.” Allaik looks down, piecing together his words in his mind. “It certainly works. Looks like it has a hell of a recoil, n’ll certainly kill whatever it hits. Clearly doesn’t hold much, but I guess you don’t need it with that kind of firepower. Don’t suppose you made it easy to reload?”

Maya scoffs at him. “Who do you think I am? Of course I did.”

“Alright, alright. Just asking.” Allaik raises his hands in mock defense, but then gestures to the other two cases he was carrying. “What’s in those, then?”

“Prototypes of the rest of the order.” Maya grins. “Technically, I was only asked to start with the one. But I couldn’t help myself.”

“Of course you couldn’t.”

Mayara ignores his remark, and moves to unpack the rest. At the flick of a switch on one case, it pops open- a rifle of some kind beginning to assemble itself. Though, it fails to fully secure, and the barrel falls off to Maya’s dismay.

“Still… working out the kinks, as you can see.” She assembles the rest herself, and offers it to Allaik to hold. 

“Why don’t you take it for a spin?”

[kroas-adtam]

Kinktober 2024

Here it is my ghoulfriends! Now remember, you can chose one, both or none! Do one every day, one a week or just one! They’re great writing warmups in my experience, and don’t stress yourself out too much with them. Kinktober is supposed to be fun, so have the wildest, wettest fun this month, and tag me in it all!

if you have any questions, dont hesitate to ask!

List compiled with help by @forlorn-crows, @coffeeghoulie, @jimothybarnes, and others whom I can’t find buried in my inboxes!

Be sure to share over and over again so we can get all our depraved ghoulfriends to see this!

[urmomswifesworld]

[thecountess]

"When your birthday is around the corner, multiple people congratulate you for being alive. I just can't shake the feeling that another year has gone by and I haven't done anything meaningful with my life."

[cowboyemeritus]

“I don’t think I can do this.”

You look up from your phone. Perpetua is staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, inspecting his new purple, sequined jacket with a frown. His mask and pots of paint sit off to the side, waiting to be put on, but for now, he's bare-faced. You share his displeasure; the article reminds you far too much of his shithead brother, who needed three of them, for some reason. Marika had insisted that some continuity, something familiar for the fans, was necessary for the new tour cycle to affirm his role as the new Papa. He may not bear the Emeritus name, but Perpetua is still a member of the Bloodline, still one of the sons of Nihil, even if he didn’t know it until very recently.

You sigh, meeting his eyes in the mirror and giving him a sympathetic look.

“It’s okay to be nervous.”

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “This is more than nervous. This is…” The look of utter despair in his eyes makes your gut twist. Perpetua shakes his head. His breathing is starting to come faster, heavier. “I- I can’t do this. I can’t.” He’s trembling.

You rise from your seat on the edge of the bathtub. In an instant, your arms are around him, your chest flush with his back.

“You can’t back out now, babe.” The show is sold out, the buses already parked outside of the area and ready to unload for tomorrow’s ritual. Maybe it’s not the best thing to say, but you’ve come to learn that sometimes, all he needs is a little tough love. “But you’ve been rehearsing this thing for months. You’ve already done it.”

He swallows hard. “This is different. All those people-”

“Are going to love you. They already love you.” You plant a kiss between his shoulder blades, delighting in the way it makes him shudder. “Not more than me, though.” He lets out a little laugh through his nose, and you’re so relieved you could cry. It’s working; you just need to push a little harder.

“No, definitely not.”

You rest your chin on his shoulder, gazing at him in the mirror. Despite your dislike of the jacket, you can’t deny that he looks fucking amazing in it. With the paints and the mask, it’s a deadly combination. His heart is still hammering beneath your palm, and so you drag your fingertips up and down his chest, trying to soothe him.

“A year ago, you were a high school band teacher.” He gives you a pointed look. You know he loved that job. “Nothing wrong with that, but look at you now. You’re a rockstar. You’re Papa.” You lock eyes with him in the mirror. His cheeks are already flushed a beautiful pink. “You’re Him, babe. You’ve made it.”

Perpetua watches the movement of your hand closely. “They’ll be expecting someone like Copia,” he mumbles. “Someone loud. That’s just not who I am.” You glower, tasting the bile of your hatred for Frater Imperator, whose downfall has become a sort of maladaptive daydream of yours. He’s the only man alive to whom Perpetua could turn to for advice, for some reassurance about his new job, but he’s chosen to act like a spoiled child, rebuffing him every chance he gets. Your beloved doesn’t show it, but you know the incident with the Twitter banner, as ridiculous a stunt it was, shook him pretty badly. It hurts him, knowing his long-lost twin hates his guts for no good reason, for simply daring to exist in the same space as him. For that, you’ll make the old bastard suffer… one of these days.

“If you ask me, that guy is a little too loud.” Your hand starts to trail lower, dancing across the planes of his stomach. The muscles twitch, and you delight in it, always having loved how ticklish he is. “You, though? Very mindful. Very demure.” Perpetua rolls his eyes at this, but the corners of his mouth turn upwards a little. When your fingertips brush against the button of his pants, you glance back up in a silent petition to allow you to continue. He gives you the most minute nod of his head, something sparking in his eyes, and that’s all you need. “You’re you. And you’re going to be amazing.”

Finally, he gives you a sheepish smile, head tilting to the side to rest against yours. “I appreciate your confidence in me, dearest, but-” In a swift motion, you pop the button open, and he sucks in a harsh breath. You’re pleased to find him hardening up as you pull down the zipper and reach in, palming at him through his underwear. He groans, the sound rumbling against your chest.

“No buts.” You give him a little squeeze, reveling in the way his entire body tenses up. Sparing a look upwards, you see he has his eyes shut. “You need to see this,” you purr. “Open those pretty eyes for me.” Hesitantly, Perpetua complies. If it weren’t for all the blood rushing downstairs, you’re certain his face would be beet red by now; he gets so adorably shy sometimes. You smile devilishly, stroking him a few times before your fingers hook under the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down just enough to free him from their confines. Taking him in hand, you start jacking him at a leisurely pace, pulling back the foreskin to reveal the tip, glistening with precum and nearing purple already. Your mouth waters, yearning for a taste, but you have an agenda to fulfill.

“Look at this perfect cock,” you command. Biting his lip, he complies. “You have no idea how many people want it already. A few photos and music videos, and they’re gagging for you, babe.”

“I wouldn’t-” Your other hand comes down to cradle his balls, and through gritted teeth, he moans. “You’re the only one I want.” In spite of the circumstances, it makes your heart flutter, keeping you steady in your resolve. He’s far too sweet, far too good to you; it would be criminal to just let him wallow in his anxiety for the rest of the evening.

“Oh, baby. What did I ever do to deserve you?” You fondle his sac as you continue to stroke him, feeling its weight and the way it’s already tightening up for you. He must be really keyed up — it’s further proof that he needed this. “My perfect man.” Turning your head, you plant a kiss on his neck, then lean in to whisper in his ear. “Papa V Perpetua. First of his name. A frontman unlike any before him.” You nip at his earlobe playfully, snickering, and he jolts. “You’re gonna take the Project to new heights, your Unholiness.” Upping the ante, you pick up the pace of your strokes, twisting your wrist while your other hand gently squeezes him, just how you know he likes. “It’s going to be fucking incredible.”

“Okay, okay, okay.” Perpetua hisses, head falling back against his shoulder, and you know from experience that means he’s close. “Whatever you say. Just-” He has to bite down on his fist to stifle a moan. “Fuck, it’s going to get everywhere.” You just chuckle.

“You’re Papa now. Make a mess. It’s your birthright.”

He lets out a shaky breath, hips jerking with a few abortive thrusts. Encouraging him, you tighten your grip around his shaft until he’s fully fucking your fist, chest heaving and moaning softly, like he’s being touched for the first time. He’s beautiful like this, cheeks all rosy and his face contorted with pleasure. He is a vision, the spirit of Lilith incarnate. It makes your own neglected arousal pound between your legs, but this isn’t about you. This is about hyping him up.

With a final flick of your wrist, Perpetua comes undone, cock throbbing as it shoots a few ropes of spend across the counter and into the sink. He moans, groans, shakes like a leaf in the wind, and all the while you hold him close, keeping him steady through it. When his climax finally ebbs away you don’t let go, basking in the glory of the moment. Though you’re not still working him, overstimulation quickly sets in, and he begins to squirm uncomfortably, snapping you out of your reverie. With an apologetic look, you release him, and he steps aside, awkwardly maneuvering around you so that you can get to the sink and rinse your sticky hands.

“Feeling better?” Perpetua nods, tucking his softening cock away. There’s the smallest splotch of cum on his pants, and he stares at it with a worried expression. He reaches for a towel, but you stop him, gently grasping at his wrist. “I’ll take care of it.” Grabbing the waistband, you tug the garment down, prompting him to step out of them. He looks rather silly, in just his dress shirt, sparkly jacket, and undies, and you can’t help but huff out a little laugh. Then, you rise up on your tiptoes, planting a kiss on his forehead. “Go get ready for bed. You need to rest.”

“But-”

“No buts,” you exclaim, “except that sweet ass of yours wobbling on stage tomorrow!” You give him another kiss, this time on the lips. “I’ll join you soon, okay?” He nods again, and though there’s still a faraway look in his eyes, he smiles. Your heart swells, knowing he means it. 

“Okay, babe.” Then he shuffles past you, out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom. Before he’s completely out of sight, though, he pops back into the doorway. “I wouldn’t have made it this far without you, you know.” You wave him off, scoffing.

“Oh, please. I’d be dead in a ditch by now if it weren’t for you.” He just laughs, and then disappears.

He can do this. And if he won’t believe in himself, then you will. You always will.

[http-tempted]

I will never feel bad about where i am in life because we are doing all of this stuff just to die

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[eaissilyy]

Trust me I know what the formless mother is thinking. It revealed to me in a dream. The outer god has reached me. Anyways the lands of shadow’s formless mother franchise is not looking good. (Sorry bloodfiend. why do you have a weapon that is just called… fork?)

I used to draw FM as in Miquella’s egg with a arm, but now had to change to a bloody flesh of armless meat. Don’t know if this is a downgrade or not but girl your range of appearance is WIDE.

[ficandkaboodle]

Now for everybody’s favorite opinion-based game they might not admit to playing but absolutely do play in nearly every fandom they’re in:

✨🫦Does That Man Moan in Bed?!👄✨

(Sponsored by Monster Energy: We lied, we are Satanic)

Papa Nihil: Yes. Just. Yes. This man moans like a little bitch even when he’s topping. And growls. And whimpers. Even if it’s someone he’s not really into all that much. Honestly, it seems very exaggerated on his part like he’s trying to be a porn star but no, those are very real sounds he’s letting into the air like that, He just takes every ounce of pleasure he can get from the stimuli and that’s enough to make him drown out every single noise that isn’t him and maybe a bit of the bed putting up a fight.

Papa Primo: No. Lack of interest in foreplay aside, I think even a saner, more pleasant-in-bed Primo isn’t particularly noisy in bed. He comes off more as a heavy breathing, occasional panting or grunting type of guy to me. Maybe a sigh here or there. If anything, the most noise I can see him making an effort in making is either dirty talk or reciting the text for the sexual magick ritual you’re performing. You might even think he’s not into it but rest assured, he absolutely is. He’s just not a particularly bombastic person by nature, and this carries over into the bedroom. He’ll show other signs he’s into it if you think his regular sounds aren’t enough, though.

Papa Secondo: Yes but unless you two have been together a good while and he trusts you, you’d likely never know. Secondo, for as flamboyant as he can actually be outside of his robes, probably sees moaning as a sign of weakness. That, or he’s embarrassed of how he sounds. (And has probably accidentally overheard his gross old man a few times. Frankly it’s a miracle he didn’t wind up completely disgusted by sex.) He tries to make “strong manly noises”: He’s taught himself how to contort those sounds into tooth-clenching grunts and forcing himself through words unbroken. They’re sexy for sure, but when you’ve finally reached a point where he lets you hear his real sounds, you can’t help but notice an extra layer of warmth to his voice. Simultaneously, it’s lighter; more floating. Even if he trusts you now, though, he’s still going to be embarrassed about it so make sure you make it clear to him that you adore his noises and would certainly love to hear more.

Papa Terzo: Yes. Kind of. Terzo does moan, but it’s actually naturally quieter than what sounds he winds up giving in bed. He’s so used to playing everything up and bolstering peoples’ expectations of him as this flamboyant slut of a man that most of what noises he makes in bed are just exaggerations of what he actually does. He tends to make much softer moans and sighs compared to the absolutely pornographic noises most lovers wind up hearing. He tries to justify it internally as helping to arouse his partner, bringing them to that cherished orgasm, of course, the thing is that because he’s so focused on how he thinks he should sound, he doesn’t always feel every inch of his own release. Much like Secondo, I think the real sounds come through when he knows you can be trusted and isn’t afraid of you seeing the real him, warts and all. He feels much more relaxed and you can feel the depth of adoration he has for you now that he’s not so focused on putting on a show.

Papa Copia: He does but honestly? He’s more of a gasper and whimperer. Higher-pitched noises. It’s an awful thing to have inherited from Nihil, all things considered, but it makes the most sense at least to me. He’s always been a bit shy in one-on-one interactions with people. Add in a splash of possible humiliation when his peers might’ve overheard him and started calling him a Rat Boy and he might’ve just developed a means of being quieter. Well, as quiet as he can get. He’s such a sensitive topino after all. However, you absolutely can work those bigger moans and pleas out of him. Simply pin him down, praise him, ride him like he’s a sex toy that won’t break no matter how rough you ride him, and watch him unravel into a begging, crying mess beneath you that can barely string together a coherent sentence. All in all, though, for as fun as that can be, you still quite adore Copia’s usual little noises. Oh, your sweet little Satanic Church Mouse…

[love-ardour-anarchism]

“All right," said Susan. "I'm not stupid. You're saying humans need... fantasies to make life bearable." REALLY? AS IF IT WAS SOME KIND OF PINK PILL? NO. HUMANS NEED FANTASY TO BE HUMAN. TO BE THE PLACE WHERE THE FALLING ANGEL MEETS THE RISING APE. "Tooth fairies? Hogfathers? Little—" YES. AS PRACTICE. YOU HAVE TO START OUT LEARNING TO BELIEVE THE LITTLE LIES. "So we can believe the big ones?" YES. JUSTICE. MERCY. DUTY. THAT SORT OF THING. "They're not the same at all!" YOU THINK SO? THEN TAKE THE UNIVERSE AND GRIND IT DOWN TO THE FINEST POWDER AND SIEVE IT THROUGH THE FINEST SIEVE AND THEN SHOW ME ONE ATOM OF JUSTICE, ONE MOLECULE OF MERCY. AND YET —Death waved a hand. AND YET YOU ACT AS IF THERE IS SOME IDEAL ORDER IN THE WORLD, AS IF THERE IS SOME...SOME RIGHTNESS IN THE UNIVERSE BY WHICH IT MAY BE JUDGED. "Yes, but people have got to believe that, or what's the point—" MY POINT EXACTLY.” ― Terry Pratchett, Hogfather

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Hello! I am writing a character who has existential nihilism, and it is quite hard to write them. Do you have any notes on how to?

Writing Notes: Existential Nihilism

Nihilism - a continental philosophy (a philosophical ideal that originated in Europe in the 19th and 20th centuries) that posits that everything is meaningless.

While there are multiple positions and variations on nihilism, they all work around this premise of pervasive pointlessness and no purpose to life.

The word “nihilism” comes from the Latin word “nihil,” which means “the absence of anything” or “nothing.”

The current version of the term nihilism comes from the German word “nihilismus,” which dates back to the 18th century.

Existential Nihilism

This form of nihilism upholds the position that life has no meaning.

Everyone everywhere, at every point, has no value to the universe.

It overlaps with the branch of philosophy called existentialism.

French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre wrote about existential nihilism.

Tenets of Nihilism

Although there is more than one form of nihilism, all of them discuss the human condition and its existence. Here are a few underlying principles of nihilism:

Existence is useless. A nihilist believes there is no purpose to having values or beliefs because everything in existence is unfounded.

There is no truth. Everything is unfounded and useless, including the truth, so there are no reasons to uphold moral principles for your own sake or the sake of anyone else.

Everything is meaningless. Active nihilism says that since there is nothing and nothing we do matters, all things are therefore meaningless, including the meaning of life.

As its name implies (from Latin nihil, ‘nothing’), philosophical nihilism is a philosophy of:

negation,

rejection, or

denial of some or all aspects of thought or life.

Existential nihilism negates the meaning of human life, judging it to be:

irremediably pointless,

futile and

absurd. 

Karen L. Carr defines existential nihilism as “the feeling of emptiness and pointlessness that follows from the judgment, ‘Life has no meaning.’”

This understanding of nihilism has become so prevalent that Gertz, in his recent book on the subject, barely discusses it in any other sense.

Although he recognizes nihilism's complexity and diversity, all definitions, in his analysis, ultimately revolve around the absence of meaning: “Nihilism is not merely the denial that life is inherently meaningful, as nihilism can instead be seen as a particular way of responding to the anxiety caused by the discovery of life's inherent meaninglessness.”

The predominance of existential nihilism over all other types of nihilism has been attested to by numerous modern commentators.

Donald A. Crosby attributes its primacy to its widespread use, its ability to subsume other forms, such as moral, epistemological, and cosmic nihilism, and its broad relevance to life in general rather than to a specific discipline.

Thus, he concludes that “existential nihilism is the most basic and inclusive, and therefore the most important, form of nihilism.”

Carr likewise recognizes existential nihilism as “probably the most commonplace sense of the word,” noting its significance in modern literature (citing Dostoevsky and Camus) and observing that Nietzsche was “preoccupied with this form,” although it might be more accurate to say he invented it.

Existential nihilism can be considered not just the heir to, but also the fulfillment of Nietzsche's infamous prophecy: “What I relate is the history of the next two centuries. I describe what is coming, what is inevitable: the rise of nihilism.”

The "Straw Nihilist" Trope

This trope mostly applies to a negative portrayal of existential nihilism.

Also known as the Straw Pessimist.

An extreme version of The Cynic and a specific type of The Philosopher who delivers Despair Speeches and Breaks People by Talking about Life, The Universe, and Everything (or at least how meaningless it is to fight for any of them).

Often Chewing the Scenery about how the hero/audience lives on an Insignificant Little Blue Planet and morality never existed in the first place.

Often Above Good and Evil, due to the Straw Nihilist's Armor Piercing Questions about "What Is Evil?".

The basis for the Straw Nihilist is usually extreme scientific empirical materialism:

We're all nothing but matter and energy and eventually the universe is going to die as if we never existed, so what's the point in trying to hope and fantasize in a world full of suffering and destruction where morality is dictated by force?

Your consciousness is merely an electrochemical reaction inside a dying chemical reactor called the brain which, out of animalistic instincts to protect itself from pain, creates the illusion of meaning and significance in a reality that has none.

Good, evil, morality, and thought are nothing but illusions, with no absolute standard in the universe by which to prove their absolute existence as immutable physical laws?

Examples

Everything Everywhere All at Once: Jobu Tupaki is one of these, having been overwhelmed by experiencing of all of her alternate universe selves at once. She took away from this that everything is arbitrary and nothing matters, and she is seemingly jumping from universe to universe, causing chaos and bloodshed for the fun of it. Really, she's just scared and hurt from her experience, and is seeking a version of Evelyn that will either give her an alternate viewpoint or join her in suicide. The climax of the film is Evelyn and Waymond convincing her that, sure, everything is arbitrary and nothing matters, but we can't let that stop us from loving each other and living our lives.

The "Satan" sequence in The Adventures of Mark Twain (adapted from Twain's novella The Mysterious Stranger) is one of the most frightening and disturbing examples, where an "angel" with a White Mask of Doom for a face tells Tom Sawyer and his friends that their lives are as meaningless as those of the civilization of clay figurines he created and destroyed on a whim. [Satan: Life itself is only a vision, a dream. Nothing exists, save empty space and you. And you… are but a thought.]

In Fight Club, Tyler Durden likes to use a lot of nihilist-sounding rhetoric. [Tyler Durden: Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.]

Fyodor Dostoevsky loved this type of character; in fact, Dostoevsky was a major influence on Nietzsche himself, and the Nietzschean Übermensch has strong similarities to Raskolnikov. His famous novella Notes from Underground features a protagonist who rants against the Nihilists, the Straw Nihilists of the time, yet fits the trope pretty well himself.

The Iliad: Achilles predates Nietzsche by millennia, but he resembles this form of Straw Nihilist. He gets an absolutely epic rant about how life and the heroic code are meaningless, and they're all going to die and be forgotten anyway. He goes so far as to wish everyone but himself and Patroclus dead in the hope that then, their glory might actually endure. It's incredibly bitter, incredibly powerful, and is this trope all over.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

Hi, here are some references and a literary trope related to existential nihilism. You can also find more examples in the sources linked. Hope this helps with your writing!

[nihils-trolls]

Water and ink, dotted with fine mica and silver.

An offering of the self mixed in.

Under a clear, open sky, Nyxtra sat on the ground and laid out a small ritual and prayed to the stars above. Her guardians watching over her. She had always gone to them for guidance before, and she most certainly needed it now.

She thought about the initial incident that brought her here, to this time. All the work spent regathering her belongings since then. Reviving her aides, revitalizing the Eidwyn manor.

After being targeted not once, but twice by seemingly the same organization- she'd lost it all again. Vavaad and Milira were dead once more. Her manor, destroyed as it was no longer safe. Those... whoever they were, fleet or otherwise, had managed to invade the space it was wrapped in.

Nyxtra was without a hive, and without anyone she could call close. So she turned to the few beings out there she knew were watching, and prayed.

Begged, asking what she should do about all of this.

"I'm just... I don't know what to do." Nyxtra whispered. "Who to talk to, where to go, how to... start all this again a third time. First was the village mob, then the plane slip-up-"

The witch pursed her lips together, cutting herself off. She swallowed hard, trying not to cry.

"... Now this."

A heavy silence falls around Nyxtra. There wasn't even wind to make a sound.

She starts up again, unable to hold the tears back. "... Anything? Tell me something, please?"

...

It wasn't often the stars said nothing at all. From experience though, she knew that it was possible she was being told to stay still, to wait.

But she didn't want to wait.

Nyxtra was angry. She was desolate.

She was tired, and lonely.

She slammed her fist against the ground, and wailed over the injustice of it all- of the cruelty of the situation. How could they ignore her? She'd lost so much already, and their silence was deafening. Not a single condolence offered.

Nyxtra continued to cry, flopping to her side.

Where would anything go from here?

[notthatblackgirl]

I only care about things that matter. Shulammite

[speedyphilosopherpanda]

Good grief. Where have all of my desire, volition, and purpose gone? This point in my life, which I initially deemed to be a phase, seems never-ending.

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

“no one gets this female character like i do” and the female character is the 2016 film swiss army man directed by the daniels and produced by a24 starring paul dano and daniel radcliffe

[vietbluecoeur]

Avenhill concept where Boothill doesn’t think twice when Aventurine snorts and responds to something he says one day with a snarky, “Sure, whatever. Love you,” because Aventurine addresses everyone in that passive-aggressive kind of endearing manner. See: the most handsome man in Penacony, his friends of the Astral Express, etc. So Boothill just takes it in stride and continues to bicker and badger the Stoneheart without batting an eye.

Meanwhile, Aventurine will take what he can get. He comes close every so often to saying the words sincerely… But each time, a deep terror grips him, and keeps his tone curled into a joking lilt, and his smile wide and laughing like he doesn’t really mean it. The thing is: Aventurine doesn’t actually believe Boothill will reject him if he knew that Aventurine means what he says — and maybe that’s the worst part. Maybe even more than how he aches to say it with sincerity and have Boothill understand that he isn’t kidding, Aventurine is afraid of having Boothill say it back, because then Aventurine will know he doesn’t deserve it at all.