floweycidal

[floweycidal]

before we know light, or words, or even the geometry of our own hands, we know a face.

the arc of a cheek. the space where eyes should be.

ahead of sense, there is seeking.

we find eyes in wall sockets, smiles in slivers of moon.

we pull faces from drifting clouds, from the knots in weathered wood, from the staticky hiss of dead television screens.

because where there’s a face, there’s someone on the other end.

and where there’s someone, there’s the chance - a stubborn little hope - that we’re not alone in the open, distant expanse.

the loops, you understand, could eat away at everything. siffrin’s time, his agency, his compass of what mattered.

they could redraw him without end, peel him back to nerve and habit until he was as clear as glass and twice as empty.

everything, all of it, except the face.

this, siffrin keeps. this, siffrin owns.

a smile drawn just right to keep the questions down. a look that passed for calm when his hands couldn’t.

siffrin's oldest sleight and best-kept art. the one part of them that hadn’t started forgetting back.

...but a spotlight only burns for as long as the scene does.

by act 5, the bulbs have blinked their last. the chairs sit cold. the wings cradle no entrances. props packed, marquee blank.

whatever that face once offered, there’s no one left to take it.

and the game doesn’t mourn its passing...why should it?

that face was always a transaction anyway, a bargain struck with whoever was watching, an agreement that seeing meant believing.

audience gone, performance ends, contract void - off it comes.

like his memories had, like the rest of him has been doing all this time, it fades. bleached to nothing, the way photographs surrender to sun.

a face is proof. it is history. memory.

it holds everything you are. the way you existed, the way you were known.

it bears your mother’s toothy grin, your father’s way of squinting at the sun.

it's made of every way the world changed you, every way you changed it back.

lose that, and what remains that you can claim?

when nothing of siffrin survives to remember - what bitter joke calls itself a return?

[floweycidal]

ralsei saying "SELFISH" as if overcome with a decadently gluttonous hunger that razes empires and swallows entire worlds

a festering MORAL ROT!!!!!!

but then it's literally just him wanting to play with his Touys and Draw and Maaaaybe blow bubbles with his friends

[floweycidal]

wyd if the Roaring Knight pulls out their iPhone X and your best friend's device instantly starts chirping

[floweycidal]

deltarune chapter 3 + 4 spoilers under the cut!!

if susie wants to be a box, she will.

the universe can scribble down all the tragic endings it likes. destiny can draft all the plans it pleases.

but if there's a spot next to susie where you belong, that's where you're going to be. prophecy be damned.

susie's never been one to confine herself to prescribed roles.

you really think she’s gonna start now?

doesn't matter who’s doing the talking - teacher, tyrant, time itself. if the call is for unquestioned submission, she’s already halfway out the door.

she can’t burn the pages, can’t erase the words or scrub out the subtext.

but she can drag her heels across every sacred line. love so fiercely the glass begins to fog. care so loudly the plot forgets its course.

the ending may be scheduled. might already be rounding the corner, actually. 

still, i believe susie can stall it. trip it up. make it stutter. doubt.

susie is resistance, knuckles white.

susie is hope, everything bright.

watch her grab hold of someone's despair and shake it until it rattles apart. 

watch her look at inevitability and laugh until it gets nervous. 

watch her plant her feet on ground that was supposed to give way and discover that some things are more stubborn than gravity.

the prophecy longed for order. dutifulness. clean lines. it wanted "heroes" who stuck to the script, who saved the world quietly, who knew their role and stayed in it.

and for the most part… that was ralsei.

the one who guides, who heals, who smiles no matter how much it hurts.

he's never asked for more than what the prophecy offered. never reached beyond his lines.

ralsei's lived his whole life like a beautifully penned footnote - important, but never central.

he believes being good means being useful.

he doesn’t ask. doesn’t want. doesn’t dream.

his room is empty... because no one ever told him he was allowed to want something just for himself.

his desire has always been to be needed, never to need.

he bakes for us. sings for us. sews for us.

keeps giving and giving and giving,

believing that is what earns him a place to stay.

but... susie doesn’t keep him around for what he offers. she does so simply because he is ralsei.

because conversations are more fun when he's in them, because someone's got to groan at his terrible attempts at sarcasm, because someone has to look him dead in the eyes and tell him he is real and can't be cast aside.

susie is hope. blinding, blistering hope.

every time she batters her way through the destined writ, her friends get another moment to exist and be by her side.

every bone she picks with fate is one more heartbeat they get to feel.

and that. that is all she needs. 

you don’t have to be chosen to choose. frankly, susie doesn’t give a single, solitary, shining blue fuck about what’s been foretold and decided for us. the second destiny tries to threaten those she loves - she’s already standing in its way.

this world seems hellbent on racing toward a single ending.

but if that’s where it ends up, it’ll only be because susie isn't letting it go anywhere else.

and if you spend enough time beside someone who refuses to stay in their lane.... you start wondering why you ever stayed in yours.

if susie wants to be a box, she will.

and soon... ralsei will too.

[floweycidal]

siffrin just throttled them 16 times in his head

[floweycidal]

my runes....

they've been thoroughly delta'd

MY RUNES

[floweycidal]

Day 59 | Mothers Day

[floweycidal]

dedicated to every time autocorrect insisted their name was actually that

[floweycidal]

not siffrin day by any stretch, but it is mine!!! and if anyone’s going to cry over stationery, it’s both of us.

[floweycidal]

it begins long before he calls himself flowey.

right when it clicks that kindness is not proof against endings.

that love won’t keep your lungs full, and survival never cared how much you deserved it.

when the world lays its cards on the table and shows him, plain as daylight, exactly what’s stacked against him… flowey doesn’t fight it.

he folds, quick and unceremonious, whittling himself down to the parts that don’t scream when touched and leaving the rest for dead.

first the name, because names get called.

then the face, because faces are trails, and he can’t leave one behind.

then the “soul," because souls get spared, and he knows mercy for the ransom it truly is.

he cleaves himself into something too mangled to invite sympathy.

disfigures himself so completely, there’s nothing left to follow home.

he becomes flowey, because flowey is all that survives the culling.

and the game, indulgent, lets him pretend.

allows him to contort the world into something that almost resembles refuge.

lets him believe there yawns a gulf between the carcass he animates and the boy interred beneath it.

colludes in the fiction that he’s sequestered the past far enough from reach.

but... the lie was thin from the start. thinner still, as the endings circle back for him. ALWAYS.

however much he distorts, however fiercely he pares away what came before, there is no script for becoming someone else.

only for returning to what he was.

in every ending, what is dredged up isn’t the villain he plays at, nor the deity he impersonates.

it is the verdict older than his name.

the child who died afraid, and keeps waking.

a child, still dying, in a garden where nothing grows.

[floweycidal]

it begins long before he calls himself flowey.

right when it clicks that kindness is not proof against endings.

that love won’t keep your lungs full, and survival never cared how much you deserved it.

when the world lays its cards on the table and shows him, plain as daylight, exactly what’s stacked against him… flowey doesn’t fight it.

he folds, quick and unceremonious, whittling himself down to the parts that don’t scream when touched and leaving the rest for dead.

first the name, because names get called.

then the face, because faces are trails, and he can’t leave one behind.

then the “soul," because souls get spared, and he knows mercy for the ransom it truly is.

he cleaves himself into something too mangled to invite sympathy.

disfigures himself so completely, there’s nothing left to follow home.

he becomes flowey, because flowey is all that survives the culling.

and the game, indulgent, lets him pretend.

allows him to contort the world into something that almost resembles refuge.

lets him believe there yawns a gulf between the carcass he animates and the boy interred beneath it.

colludes in the fiction that he’s sequestered the past far enough from reach.

but... the lie was thin from the start. thinner still, as the endings circle back for him. ALWAYS.

however much he distorts, however fiercely he pares away what came before, there is no script for becoming someone else.

only for returning to what he was.

in every ending, what is dredged up isn’t the villain he plays at, nor the deity he impersonates.

it is the verdict older than his name.

the child who died afraid, and keeps waking.

a child, still dying, in a garden where nothing grows.

[floweycidal]

deltarune news on Autism Awareness day, i said OH i'm sure!!!

[floweycidal]

autism fun, autism stun

[floweycidal]

i fear when deltarune at long last sees the light of day, i won't believe it and it'll be months worth of tomorrows until i realize

[floweycidal]

yeehaw, luckypatch be upon ye

[floweycidal]

oh siffrin

[floweycidal]

i can think deeply about one dreemurr. i can even do pairs, easy. but all four at once, and i am scrabbling for my smelling salts like a frail victorian lady with an unspecified wasting illness whose one last hope rests in being whisked away to the seaside to convalesce and balance her humors posthaste