#almost his entire leave

[wi1dshxpe]

gortash sets up a lending library at his estate after seeing durge’s in the bhaal temple. they both know they’re the only people who use them so it turns into a sort of game. durge loves music, so after enver’s last visit a book about viola has appeared in the temple library. enver fancy’s himself a jeweler so it’s only natural a scroll about gem welding would end up in his library. books relating to their schemes, hobbies, pasts, futures, inside jokes and aspirations get passed back in forth. the only extended pause is when a novel about star crossed lovers gets dropped in the bhaal library. it’s weeks before the favor is returned and enver receives a scroll about bhaalist marriage ceremonies. he doesn’t know whether to take it as an advance or a threat, so he accepts it as both.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

I'm sorry I let down my guard.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[midnight-moth]

I’m sorry for what I said in the tags of the ocean post. I’ll throw myself in the garbage. You can dm me your therapy bills.

But come on. That song.

Won't you fall for me, from reality? To the rhythm of eternity. But then the I am yours to the end, so won't you fall for me?

But then! The oh god I wish you were here. It’s like his timeline is all messed up and he’s thinking of the before and the during and the after all at once.

[carefulfears]

the scully of fight the future who doesn’t want a career in the bureau at all if she can’t do it with him. who debated even telling him that she’s quitting in person, and feels like her loss won’t even make a difference: he doesn’t need her, she only holds him back. the scully who doesn’t even make it to the elevator. the way that as soon as he starts speaking, she goes silent. she can’t even respond. this is not a debate. tears just pour down her face, as he tells her that she owes nothing. that she has made her favorite person, a “whole” person. that she has saved him “a thousand times over.” and she stays completely silent. all she can do is cry, and hold him, and kiss his forehead. how small she must feel sometimes…being dragged from one spot to the next, following along. the way her face just collapses as she moves from holding onto his shoulder to pull him down to her. he breaks her open sometimes.

[definitelynotshouting]

Okay, so, question I've had for a while but never got around to asking, what the FUCK is up with Grian's wings?

If all physical differences in players (like those particularly ascribed to 'Hybrids' in mcyt fanon) in Hunger AU are a result of conscious altering of your own code for the express purpose of achieving YOUR IDEAL BODY(tm) then what does that mean for Grian and his wings? No one seems to regard Grian's wings as "What The Fuck, You Can DO That?!?" so presumably wings aren't so big of a change from normal biology that players can't do that. If so, why is it not more common? Man, if I could have wings I'd jump on that in seconds. Especially with the sheer utility the ability to fucking FLY gives players. Are wings (and maybe other larger alterations) just like, REALLY HARD to code in? If so, that might add a really cool layer of "Oh wow! They must be a really good coder!" to players who meet people like that.

On a related note, Grian seems to have a positive regard for his wings, which is interesting because I would be willing to bet he didn't have that before *insert sounds of worm-bursting and non-consensual body modification*. I imagine seeing his wings would likely feel like a reminder of the Watchers and what they did to him. BUT, Watchers manipulate their own code when they change like Grian did to, y'know, not be a worm anymore so Grian probably specifically chose how he looked, right? So, unless he did so really rushed and somehow made a mistake while doing so (which he might not be able to risk the structural damage of correcting), keeping the wings was a conscious decision. Does Grian just not associate his wings with the Watchers or is it something else? Does he just really enjoy having wings?

HELLO I AM SO GLAD YOU'VE ASKED THIS BECAUSE I HAVE ‼️‼️‼️‼️ MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT IT ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

Okay okay so these are all SUCH valid questions, lemme go through them one by one. Wings are indeed something anyone could have if they wanted to code them in-- and in fact, i do believe many other Players have wings throughout the universe!!! As far as body mods go, i like to think of them as decently popular, so its definitely not anything too weird to see. In chapter 5, i even make a mention to Pearl having moth wings she occasionally codes in due to preference!!! So wings of many different types are definitely available-- but the catch is that they're real fiddly to code. You cant just give yourself wings, you have to code in the bone structure, the muscles, the tendons, etc etc, and then you have to change your entire body structure as well to work with and fully support them. They can be awkward and unwieldy, as ive tried to show in the fic itself, and i think that alone can be a big discouragement for Players considering coding in wings, along with the sheer coding effort needed to obtain them and make them functional

And the thing is, elytra already exist-- they're far more compact, they dont take up as much space, you can take them on and off super easily without having to mess with your coding, and they basically do the same thing. Sure, its a pain to get one, but a lot of Players really enjoy the sense of accomplishment, and i think theres a bit of cultural prestige too in that regard. Server milestones are a huge thing in Player culture, and getting your first pair of elytra is a big one!!! So it makes sense to me that people who just dont want to go through the effort of coding in wings (which can then in turn complicate how they code other future modifications) primarily stick to elytra.

And everybody is different-- some people prefer attributes that arent wings. I like to think everyone in hermitcraft generally is a mix of "jeez thats effort, i could be building my base instead of doing that" and "eh im fine how i am, i like it" and "well we have elytra shops everywhere so why bother".

So in short, yeah!! Wings are a bit complex to code in. They're still pretty popular, i think plenty of Players do choose to incorporate them, but it takes a lot of hard and thorough work to make sure they function right and wont bug you out when you use them. There are billions of Players scattered across the universe, so what you're seeing in the fic right now is truly just a drop in the ocean when it comes to Player body diversity :] and then, elytra basically already help Players achieve a form of flight without the hassle of recoding their entire body structure, so i think the majority of Players just prefer to use them instead.

AS FOR GRIAN'S WINGS IN PARTICULAR......

Well..... its complicated. Particularly his feelings about them-- in the fic, i referenced them as the only good thing the Watchers ever gave him, and thats how he sees it, i think: a thin silver lining. He's had many, many years to get used to them, and i think he goes through periods where he hates them and the memories attached, too. Ultimately, he's kinda stuck with them, so i think he hit a form of acceptance (as bitter-tinged as it may be) out of sheer necessity for his own sanity.

As for why he has them, and hasnt coded them out: i think of it as a particular quirk of biology/structural coding. Watchers have a more instinctive way of coding than Players, but a Player-minded Watcher is still going to think like a Player, and thats going to muddle things a lot. Grian essentially had to relearn how to code, in a way that satisfied both Player and Watcher-style coding, and the results at first were.... a little rough around the edges. Once he managed to finally take on his original former appearance, the wings from his true form just kind of.... stuck. I like to think it took a few increasingly desperate tries before he realized he just could not figure out how to get rid of them (bc of how different his new code was), and had to accept that this was just how he was gonna have to live for a while until he finally figured it out. And then, well.... you can get used to anything, if you're stuck with it long enough. I think after a while it just stopped being a huge priority, and then he reached a point where it would be more awkward to live without them than with them, and he eventually dropped the idea altogether. And i think sometimes, they function almost like a scar, to him-- a reminder of what he went through, yes, but a reminder that he did manage to escape. And, ofc, he also just really, really likes flying skdjskdjdj

So yeah, loads of complicated feelings there about his wings, and its stuff i do plan on exploring later in the fic!!! This got a little rambly, but i hope this makes sense and answers your questions!!!! :D its a fun little complicated knot that im glad someone has gotten curious enough to ask about!!!!

[fidgetspringer-art]

✧ The Ardal stars ✧

[storm-driver]

trollhunters s3 spoilers below

it's my 5th time rewatching it now, with friends this time. and just... the entire ending of s3 enamors me so heavily. it's just this ultimate culmination of the death of innocence.

and it's not bad AT ALL.

the moment Merlin tells Jim "you get the choice to become stronger and be the foe that your villain fears, or you can take your chances as you are. if you stay like this, it's entirely like you'll be killed. and if you change... a part of you is going to die forever."

you just. you immediately know the stakes. i understand that it's quite literally Jim losing his humanity, he becomes a troll, yes. but i equate it so heavily to the loss of his innocence, of his literal human-nature to love and care. because he becomes so animalistic afterwards, it's like watching someone spiral. it's a walking tragedy, especially after you watch the whole show and you can't help but UNDERSTAND WHY he's spiraled so hard.

not to mention, just... the mastercraft of the bathtub scene. it's a sensory overload of every single reason Jim wants to stay human, but at the same time, it's the EXACT reason needs to turn in order to protect all of those he holds dear.

and not just that, the fucking... the deliberate framing. he's alone, locked himself in a room. there's a phone ringing on the counter, but he can't hear it and he refuses to look. he's just sitting there, quietly, going back and forth constantly to decide what to do. his whole family and friends are beating on the door, trying to get to him, but he just won't listen.

the fact that they bleed Anton Yelchin's lines into Emile Hirsch's at times, as if it's a moment of saying goodbye to the previous voice actor. like a passing of the torch. it's almost symbolic of everything he's going to do going forward: letting his humanity, his entire self, die.

i swear, barely any shows i know these days can evoke emotions like that. where the visual metaphor of someone committing suicide is so powerful that you have to just reach out constantly and beg and hope and pray that he will turn around and open the door instead.

it's hopeless incarnate. it's the death of innocence. it's watching the quiet death of someone who just wants to better for the people around him.

it's so fucking painful, but it's god-tier story-telling and animation. i can't even imagine how they managed to write that all down.

[tswwwit]

Bill being forced to say the truth is such a fun concept though. I imagine Ford's the most likely candidate to hit Bill with a truth spell. Now he can expose Bill's nature once and for all! And find out what secret evil plans the demon has involving his nephew. 😠

Only it completely backfires because Bill acts the exact same as he usually does? After all, Bill usually doesn't have a reason to lie to the Pines family. Will he omit the truth? Totally! But rarely does he outright lie.

(But anyway, the plan backfires and Stan and Mabel are not convinced. "Yeah Bill's a jerk but he's not actually harmful", they say, with no knowledge of the countless atrocities he's committed.)

So Bill continues to act like his usual asshole self, completely unaware that he's under the influence of a truth spell. Until he sees his husband do something smart/cute/whatever. Before Bill even realizes, he's saying the sappiest, most gooey sedimental shit any demon has ever heard. Like "You're perfect, I love you so much". Completely unfiltered thoughts. The stuff he even lies to himself about. "You make me so happy. I'm so glad I met you".

The best part is that the situation is even worse (for Bill) the angrier he gets. "I hate you" comes out as "I love you". "You're the worst thing that ever happened to me" comes out as "The best thing". At one point, he accidentally says you're lucky I love you when he meant to be threatening. Everything is terrible. Dippers trying to figure out a cure and Bill can't help because he's to busy throwing up his organs. All the sedimental bullshit is making him sick.

[dairyfreenugget]

(Going insane boinkinh one AU in my head)

Hey hey hey

May I interest you in

(Slowly slides my FaaF AU towards you but void just Disappears without a trace one day before the accolade)

Teehee

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

sat down to think about the Light's Out au and actually. yk. plan it out since i have Affection for it and Interest in it. and then my brain went "what about the aftermath though. why don't we meticulously plan that out" I'VE BEEN TYPING IN THIS DOCUMENT FOR FIVE HOURS straight GAY

[jjkyaoi]

if i see one more god damn take about how blitzo doesn't feel anything for stolas romantically and is just using him for the book i'm actually gonna shoot myself in the head fr 😭 yes he was using him in the BEGINNING. they both were. (blitzo more than stolas) but if you would watch... the show... with your eyes open... you would see that he clearly does feel something for him 🙁 why would he get so upset in episode 7 if he was just using him. why would he have a PICTURE on his phone of him smiling privately with stolas in an intimate moment if he didn't ?? care ??

[dark-elf-writes]

Sounds like A/B/O Cloud just internalized a lot of stuff with how people ignored his problems until it caused them problems and "I'd know if you were x" type of dismissive talk from others.

It’s a mix of truly god awful small town sex ed, him being That Strife Boy™️ to Nibelheim at large, and the poor pay for Shinra’s grunts all topped with a fine sprinkle of self esteem issues that have him convinced that he is already a burden to everyone around him and can’t possibly be even more so (despite the fact that A) he is not and B) the soldiers would all lay the world at his feet if he asked them to even before he presented as an omega.) all of it combines into the kind of weaponized obliviousness that is truly only a weapon against himself at the end of the day.

[cinna-bunnie]

so like..

is the idea that as a compromise to only having to toggle off tumblr live once a month, you now have this permanent tumblr live icon regardless of ur setting choice stuck to the bottom in the middle of everything in the hopes that i click on it accidentally anyways even though it's clear i don't want it or? where is the NO 100% STOP GIVING ME THIS SHIT I DON'T ACCEPT YOUR POLICIES AND LITERALLY COULD NOT CARE LESS ABOUT TUMBLR LIVE AND WILL NEVER BE INTERESTED IN THIS TYPE OF FEATURE OR FORMAT.

@zingring @photomatt @humans idk how many feedback requests people have to cut tumblr for "no" to just be a valid response here. ppl aren't dumb and see u inching over the line trying to force this on them despite the snooze choice.

what, are there so many ppl snoozing and such a low adoption rate that you know you need to trick users into using it so you can "make number go up" or? 🙄

[yaoianime]

Soon im rly gonna do it

[orbdotexe]

well, while Cryptid is trolling the Content Box with Traitors and Legacies, I'll throw out some of the page I wrote for Impromptu Arsenal Check--

The Guardian sets a fast pace, throwing him off balance with every other swing, and he’s certain he’s only alive because of the egregore obscuring their full focus. Despite their drive, they’re unfocused—and when the two lock swords he can clearly see the heavy movements of their chest, the gloss over their remaining eye, and the writhing of– He forces himself to breathe instead of recoiling, and instead searches them for something he can use. Eyeing the sword still sheathed on their back, versus the jagged barb in their hands, his confidence is… not rekindled. Disarming them will do nothing… Locked in place, the Void mist sets in and starts sapping his warmth and Light again, and he slides the kindling of a blade under the Guardian’s in a wide swing, forcing them to stagger back. The breath they let out is almost a growl. Looking at them now, it’s hard to imagine how anyone fashioned a hero out of them.

[canarydarity]

Hard to tell how indicative the bones on the floor are of anything about the catacombs themselves being how, every few minutes, Pix kills another skeleton adding to the collection. He swipes his sword through the one before him, and it collapses so readily into a pile of bone—like it was made to, like it was just waiting on his sword—that he has to wonder, not for the first time, what was holding it together to begin with. The bones rattle and clatter against those already littered around, and Pix sighs at the further disturbance to the scene as it was when he had entered; accounting for the damage likely done by mobs was going to make this hell to study. 

He grabs another torch and sets it inside one of the empty sconces that still adorn the walls, readjusts his grip on his sword—he can hear more lingering around the next corner; the low hiss that means a spider is near, the groan or two of a zombie. 

Pix picks up a chunk of cobble from the ground and tosses it down the hall, waits. Sure enough, out scuttles a spider. He disposes of it quickly enough, but it seems he’ll have to venture down the dark hall to goad the zombies. He glances at the clock he placed in his hotbar before embarking on this mission (it’s hard to tell how much time passes underground—something he learned quickly in his line of work). There’s still a good amount of daylight left, and he wants the catacombs cleared; he has other projects he has to move on to, things he needs to finish; he’ll just get through a few more halls—it won’t be an issue, surely. 

But the new corner he rounds remains dark even as he places a torch behind him to mark the way back. The groans can still be heard, but a zombie is yet to lumber his way, and so he has to wonder what's beyond his admittedly limited sight. Pix shuffles another foot or so forward, a torch in his non-dominant hand now as well, hoping for light, for vision. The research part of him—the logical academic—knows that it shouldn't still be this dark with the torches placed behind him nor the one in his hand, and that part is so much louder and more important than the one that knows this means something is wrong, the part that says turn around. 

The torch is lit, he can feel the heat of the flame as he observes it flicker in and out but cast no shadow on the wall behind—a wall Pix can’t even see but knows is there all the same. The circle of light provided extends no further than an inch or two out from the flame itself—comparable more to that of a birthday candle than a lit hand torch. If he hadn’t been staring directly at it, he would’ve assumed the fire snuffed out. 

He feels his eye twitch and his brows furrow. Academia liked concrete answers, things that could be explained and reasoned away—unequivocal proof. But Pix had always had a soft spot for the inexplicable, the ineffable. It was nice when he studied something and found an answer, it was riveting when he didn’t. How much more exciting to study it again and again, a riddle that begged not to be solved. (How much sweeter the prize if he were the one to figure it out in the end). 

His interest was piqued. He could feel it, the way his attention focused and his surroundings blurred and left him; his body on standby, his sword hand lowered almost subconsciously.  

In other words, it was entirely his own fault when the zombie grabbed him. Panic is never a good thing to welcome into a fight, but it likes to show up uninvited anyway. Pix's entire career revolves around studying human behavior, about how human nature cannot be fought against though it oft leads us to our own downfall and ruin. He finds it uncanny when he's reminded that this is a phenomenon from which he is not exempt. 

In haste, he elbows the zombie behind him and turns, back now to the darkness—the one not even his torch could dent. It’s an ugly bugger, eyes soft and misshapen from decay and skin so leathery it’s as if it's been treated and is ready for use as a saddle or armor. Logic replaced by horror, before he can run it through it advances, arms out, and Pix drops his sword to reach back, holding it at arm's length itself; their arms interlocked, pose not unlike meeting an old friend again for the first time in a while. His hands grip the woven fabric of what's left of its shirt, too old and worn to be from any time close to recent, and, despite the very real danger, his mind takes the time to process the period-accurate fabric, the hand-stitched design. He blanches again as he looks into its horrible milky eyes—this zombie was from the capital. 

Not sentient enough to know why it’s not actually getting any closer to Pixlriffs, the zombie makes a noise that sounds frighteningly human in its frustration and steps forward, and in his distraction, Pix lets it. The push seems to make his brain function yet again, and he shoves the zombie backward a good few paces away, but the momentum sends him stepping back himself, and his foot finds not purchase but, instead, the disturbing lack of solid ground, and with nothing left to do, he falls. 

He hits the ground with a thump and a crack and a lot of other sounds he would rather not describe as he feels they were likely very undignified. Winded but, it appears, still in one piece, he grabs another torch and strikes it against the wall, holding it up above him when it lights and shines this time as torches normally do. He buries the part of himself that is disappointed at this—the part that wants to panic and complain finally louder, now, than the part that says hmm. 

He didn’t fall too far, it seems. Now that the torch is lit he can see the gap he’d fallen through, just under a dozen feet or so above where he lays. It's obvious even looking from below how the stone floor had crumbled away, taking maybe one or two hits too many over time from overcrowded mobs or shifts in terrain or pressure aboveground. He tilts his head back but sees only another dead end behind him, and ahead looks like a further, deeper hall of the tomb he hadn’t uncovered yet, though the path is obstructed by debris from above; a net of spiderweb blankets the pile of stone and dirt, but no spider seems to be left guarding the web. 

His friend above seems to have lost interest now that he’s fallen out of sight, and its moans and groans get further away by the second. 

No immediate threat, Pix lets his head fall back onto the ground and takes a breath. He knew the crypt would be full of mobs, he knew it’d be hard, but still…

No, it’s worth it. It will be worth it. He has a job to do.

At least he isn’t defenseless—it’s more than he can say for the dungeons. Not a weapon to his name, fists wrapped in tape so red you’d never believe it’d been white to begin with; knuckles so raw and scraped and beaten by the time he’d made it out that they’d scarred that way—permanent marks of the fighter he was, of the fighter he’d proved to be. 

There was a fear there, too, at that very real and physical understanding of permanence. His studies proved expert in providing examples of what was permanent and what wasn’t, and where people weren’t, things were. He’d spent enough time studying what could be learned about a person by the things they left behind to begin to wonder if anyone at all would’ve remembered him if he’d died in those dungeons—not a singular weapon or item for him to leave behind and tell his story.

Pix stops wallowing. He sits up and reaches over his shoulder for his pick; he isn’t shocked to find that the shaft had snapped in two from the fall, it having been strapped to his back. He sighs, tossing it aside as useless. He’ll make another. 

He takes the time to remind himself again that he knew it was going to be difficult, and that difficulty was no reason to not continue. But it didn’t just feel difficult it felt…inhibiting. Dissuading, deterring, impeding. It felt deliberate. It felt like, stay out; like, we don’t want you here; like, leave us to our rest. 

(it wasn’t, it was something far more sinister. An idea he’d never thought to consider; like a torch was giving off too-little light in the hallway of a dark, long-forgotten crypt, he couldn’t see any farther than what was right in front of his own face. How cliche it’d be, in the end, when it came to pass—the academic too invested in their own research, too dismissive of the present danger posed until it consumed them. He’d have a moment to laugh about it later, when the dread had settled in and all options—or lack thereof—exhausted. While on the topic of permanence…

It was not go away that the tomb was saying, not a driving force out that was being enacted upon the archeologist, but a more frightening call of stay. A threatening but desperate find…become…join…

No, if it were trying to keep him out, why would it keep pushing him deeper? Add this to the list of things he’d realize too late.)

He stands and dusts himself off. The wall is thick and overgrown with glow lichen, and he grabs the nearest vines and tugs one, twice, three times before deciding it won't give and hoisting up. It takes a few minutes and a fair amount of huffing and puffing to get himself to the top and over the edge but he does it, collapsing on higher ground once again and taking a minute to slow his pulse. When he left the dungeons, he dove back into the studies he’d been missing and decided he’d had enough fighting to last a lifetime—this was not without consequence, he’s not nearly as in shape as he used to be. 

His sword is still on the ground where he’d dropped it, so he reequips and readies himself to push his way back out; he’d have to make time to come back and clear the rest another day. He would be back, and he hoped he would be welcomed. 

“I don’t mean to disturb you,” he says into the quiet blackness of the catacombs. He doesn't dare speak above a whisper, for there were still mobs around and his voice carried enough as it was, bouncing along the empty stone and quiet graves. “I'd like to tell your story.” 

There's nothing to hear but for the scuttling of various creatures far off in the dark, the shrill whistle of stray wind through small openings and holes. He raises his voice only slightly, a bit bolder. “Don’t you want me to do that? Will—would you allow me to do that?” 

Silence, and then—the rattle and clatter of a skeleton. It sounds like only one; he lit everything up pretty well on his way in, getting out should be easier. Striking another torch against the wall, Pix prepares to go. For a second, the light is brighter than it should be, its circle of light illuminating the hall completely, the hole he’d fallen into, the distance to the other side. He leans back to avoid the heat of the flame, and he sees it. 

The other side of the cave-in leads not to another tunnel but to an alcove, and empty it is not. His torch, though many feet away, sheds light on the scene; the heavily wax-encrusted stone above a pile of used candles and burnt wicks, the coin and other offerings of gold overflowing from bowls and chalices and any other orifice they could be piled upon, and her. 

He recognizes her immediately. The tapestry covers the majority of the wall, and though it's faded for certain, the lack of direct sunlight has done wonders at preserving what it could. The colors are familiar to his research, the subtle and light greens under warm oranges and yellows. He’s too far, he cannot see any detail; the background, what she's holding, her face—but he knows her. She’s their patron. 

The skeleton wanders closer, its bones clicking and clacking down the hall. Pix swallows. 

“I’ll return for you, I will.” It’s a promise. She’s holding a secret, he knows she is—he’s going to figure out what. Pix turns just in time to face the skeleton as it rounds the corner, and soon its bones join those on the floor, new and old alike. 

His words still echo off the caverns and crevices of the catacombs after he's left and gone, and though not possible to have been heard by human ears, the crypt whispers back good. 

~-~-~-~

Far below even the hole the archeologist had fallen in, leagues underneath the surface of the earth, buried perhaps the furthest underground of anything left behind from the ancient capital—so deeply you’d have to wonder if maybe it was done on purpose—the crown sits in a chest, waiting patiently to be discovered. It’s not a matter of if, but a nice decisive and quiet when. Eventually, the echo of the archeologists' words falls upon it where it sits, and slowly it begins to emit a soft glow. It says stay, it says find, it says become, it says join.

It says soon.