#the undying myriads

[serpentineroses]

Originally a Fae male with

Maize|Peacock|Teal

Now he's an Undertide and I need

Speckle|Blend|Veined

Final product will be awesome!

[the-travelling-witch]

CUTE THINGS WITH HIM

summary: just some cute things they do in a relationship

pairings: atsumu :: osamu :: suna :: kita :: oikawa :: iwaizumi :: matsukawa:: semi :: akaashi :: kenma :: kuroo :: daichi :: suga :: sakusa :: komori :: futakuchi :: keishin x gn! reader (these characters just started adding themselves, i swear)

warnings: only my undying love for these characters

haikyuu masterlist || tokyo revengers version

Letting you stick your cold feet under his legs (with only minimal complaints) x Miya Atsumu

Atsumu is a whiny complainer at heart, so whenever you creep your frigid feet underneath his thighs while watching a movie, he’s doing exactly that: whine and complain. But he never pushes you away or moves his legs. Instead he drapes the blanket higher over you and tugs it in, his warm palms running up and down your calves caringly. He’s also bought you numerous pairs of fuzzy socks and cosy blankets, worrying aloud about your health and blood flow, especially in winter. Then again, it is a good excuse to pull you in closer and bundle you up in his comfy clothes, so who is he to complain, really?

Offering you his food x Miya Osamu

Osamu takes his food very seriously, still, he offers you the first bite without fail. You’re also his most important critic, always getting to taste test his creations, whether it’s for his shop or just for the two of you. He might roll his eyes playfully when you eye his food after saying you’re not hungry but he’ll still share. After all, seeing the content expression on your face as you chew your (or his) food is one of his favourite things.

Sending you stupid memes x Suna Rintarō

The fact that Suna has a near infinite amount of unflattering candids and other blackmail material of his friends on his phone is something you’re well aware of. So it shouldn’t be surprising either that he is digging up the most cursed reaction pics or posts to send them to you with nothing but ‘u’ following it. But, among all the weird stuff, he sends you cute animals cuddling and tags them with ‘us’. Every time you respond with ‘that could be us but you’re at practice’, his teammates come up to ask what he’s smiling about.

Buying flowers without occasion x Kita Shinsuke

Kita doesn’t believe in letting societally accepted commercial holidays dictate when he buys you flowers or chocolates or takes you out on a date. No, he prefers showing his love for you equally all year round. Oftentimes, that means you coming home to a bouquet of flowers or being told to keep your calendar clear for the weekend. To him, grand shows of affection once a year pale in comparison to a steady stream of adoration. After all, your relationship is built on the small acts of love you share each day.

Taking weird photos with his phone x Oikawa Tōru

There’s no room to argue that Oikawa and you trust each other blindly. Considering the circumstances of his career and the vigour of his adoring fans, you kinda have to. But Oikawa has always been very open and honest with you, even going so far as to outright tell you his phone’s passcode. And you use that knowledge wisely. No, not to go through his texts or social media. Instead you open his camera when he’s not around, taking a myriad of selfies or pictures of random objects near you for him to find later. After a night out with his highschool friends, Tōru might wake up to a pretty set of new wallpapers too.

“Helping” him work out x Iwaizumi Hajime

You’re not sure if you’re really all that helpful as you shuffle around your living room, handing Iwa water or a towel as he powers through his at home workout. Maybe ogling his biceps or the way his tank top clings to the defined pecs and abs underneath is what you contribute to this training session. Well, you’re good at that, anyway. But your time to shine comes as Iwa asks you to hold onto his legs as he does sit-ups, giving you an even better view. All your hard work is rewarded with the kiss he presses to your lips each time he leans up. 

“Is this guy bothering you” x Matsukawa Issei

Whenever you stub your toe on the edge of a drawer or bump your hip into the edge of a table, hissing at the shock and/or pain, Matsukawa is right beside you in seconds. Then, after assessing you’re not actually hurt, he turns towards the offending object with a glare. With his voice lowered by an octave or two, he’ll ask “Is this guy bothering you” before pretending to get ready for a fight with the big bad. It’s corny but you’d lie if you said it didn’t make you laugh.

Shared headphones and playlists x Semi Eita

Music is Semi’s passion, naturally he wants to share that part of his life with you. Not only does he play his own songs for you, he also shares his headphones with you, adding all the songs you like to your shared playlist. You’ve also started making recommendation playlists or playlists with songs that remind you of the other and swap them regularly. Driving with Semi is also the most fun, especially on late summer nights with the windows down, going nowhere in particular.

Understanding each other without words x Kozume Kenma

To outsiders, conversations between Kenma and you might seem a little court or even incomprehensible. He just happens to be the type that lets his actions speak rather than his words, unless he gets really fired up about something. Still, your communication seems to work perfectly - or maybe both of you just share a brain cell. Questions like “Have you seen my…” can just be left hanging like this as you’re already pointing out that his old Nekoma sweatpants are in the wash. But no conversations are clearer than the ones you can hold through eye contact alone. Sometimes rolling your eyes conveys more than a thousand words… or however that saying goes.

Letting you win x Kuroo Tetsurō

Despite his suit and tie career, Kuroo is still a playful guy at heart and he’s carrying that energy into your relationship. He also grew up around Kenma, so making a game out of ordinary stuff is normal to him. That said, even if he challenges you in a board or video game, he’ll let you win on purpose every now and then. Not enough to give himself away, but often enough to see your beaming grin. However, if it’s a physical contest like an arm wrestling match, he will let you win (or rather he won’t let you lose immediately) just to tease you over it. Aw c’mon, he knows you’re stronger than this, sweetheart.

Good morning/ good night texts x Sawamura Daichi

Daichi is a busy guy, often out of the house before you wake up or back in after you go to sleep. Depending on which shift he has to work and how your schedules line up, you might not see much of each other for some time. But that won’t stop him from being the sweetest partner, instead sending you good morning and good night texts as well as updates on his day/night, if he has the time. It’s something that came with the territory of not living together before, but the practice never really retired. Equally, it puts him in a good mood to see you update him on your day as well.

Bragging about you x Sugawara Kōshi

Suga is your number one fan, no doubt about it. Not only is he vocal about that to you but also everybody else, whether you’re there or not. Daichi and Asahi are kind of used to it already, but there is always some new unfortunate soul who gets to experience just how smitten he is with you. He never makes it uncomfortable but weaves his praise for you naturally into a conversation. And if it flusters you, that’s just all the better. Although, lately, the classes he’s teaching have picked up on it and are trying to stall for time by asking questions about you.

Writing notes x Sakusa Kiyoomi

This probably started out as something entirely practical. After moving in together, Sakusa just started labelling stuff, writing grocery shopping lists and sticking them to the fridge, especially on days where he left early for practice. By the time you pointed out he could just text you at any given time, he’d already gotten used to this little habit of his. But his messages had slowly turned from chore-related to reminding you to take care of yourself or informing you he prepped lunch for you to just telling you he loves you. The first time he wrote that last one, he blinked down at the note for a few moments before sticking it to the mug cabinet.

Midnight snack run x Komori Motoya

Obviously, Komori wishes his job wouldn’t pull him away from you as often as it does. Though that being said, it also makes coming home after an away game all that sweeter and he feels like the constant change of pace makes him cherish the moments you do get to spend together more than he already does. And he appreciates that you can indulge him, both in his lifestyle and whenever he gets a sudden burst of energy. So yeah, now you’re bundled up in one of his hoodies as you go on a late night snack run, your hand in his as you walk along the calm streets.

Remembering little things about you x Futakuchi Kenji

Futakuchi comes pre-installed with an attitude, no matter who you are to him, it’s his factory setting. And while he’s a lot softer on you as his partner, he’ll still give you a sarcastic quip or poke some fun at you when you complain about something to him. But he always listens carefully and commits it to memory. You offhandedly mentioned you’re running out of something? He adds it to his shopping list. You rant to him about a coworker who’s giving you trouble? Oh, he remembers everything you told him about that guy before (and he’s ready to drag him to hell and back if it makes you feel better). Whenever your birthday or an anniversary rolls around, he never has trouble picking out a gift for you; Kenji could list so many things you’re into or that you could have use for in your everyday life, it’s not even a challenge.

Getting into your hobbies x Ukai Keishin

Keishin has got to be one of the most supportive partners ever. Whatever you set your mind to or whichever hobby you dive into, he’s there to root for you. But he doesn’t stop there; he reads up on your interests, so he can actively participate in the conversation when you talk about them. Similarly, he also adapts to your lifestyle and tries to show up for you in all walks of life. You, on the other hand, also get involved in his life too; his parents were keen to meet you, considering they hounded Keishin to get married in his 20s already. He’d also be over the moon if you showed interest in his work as a coach and met the Karasuno Volleyball Club.

© the-travelling-witch 2024 - do not repost, translate, copy or edit

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated ♡

➺ send in an ask to be added to or removed from my tag list

haikyuu!!: @mccnstruck

[incorrect-house-of-nine]

Can I just say?? The brass neck on Tamsyn Muir for doing this: IN THE MYRIADIC YEAR OF OUR LORD—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!—Gideon Nav packed her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and she escaped from the House of the Ninth. How does Tamsyn manage to walk, carrying the weight those brass balls!

[hackfurs]

Raising funds to help pay freelance taxes!

Turns out I owe a lot more than I expected this year, and unfortunately that means I need to open up some emergency commission slots to cover the costs (and also the taxes I owe on the commissions I take to pay for this, so I don't have to do this again next year).

I'm opening 10 total slots to do this! I'm open for full color, full body pieces for $80.00 USD each. This includes my undie commissions, outfit design commissions, and illustrations. If you need more examples of my work, you can use the #hackfarts tag on my blog!

You're welcome to claim multiple slots, too! Each additional character you add to a piece (+$80) and each additional background (also +$80, might be more based on complexity) will claim another slot from my 10 total goal. So if you'd like a bigger commission, I'd be more than happy to do that. Less things for me to keep track of, and that also means less people in the queue with you. :P

DM to claim if you're interested! References are required for each character in the commission. Feel free to ask any questions about ETA's, my terms of service, my do/don't draw limitations, and/or if I can do your commission idea justice.

If you'd like to "claim a slot" or contribute to claiming a slot without needing to get art, you can also support me on Ko-Fi (same username as here)! I'll count one slot toward the goal for every $80 donated cumulatively. Thank you so much for all the help you all have given me thus far, as well as the patience while I work through the myriad of problems in my personal life. But this year is looking up, largely due to the support I've gotten from the community. I appreciate everything you all have done for me. <3

[snuggiemouse-blog]

Mercymorn the First, the Saint of Joy, Second Saint to serve the King Undying, and she's tired of your sh*t already. My version of the myriad-old Melon-colored Mom of the Mithraeum. I’m over the moon at how well my photographer (and friend) made the cosplay look, he’s magic! @photosnxs on insta

[thatfreshi]

"Undeserving"

Hi! This was an expedited request by @mosshugs who asked that I go more into my headcanon of Astarion having ED behaviors. I want to preface this by saying I have limited experience with ED behaviors, and most of my experience and knowledge is from people I know with eating disorders, and I apologize if something I've written here doesn't feel correct for the experience.

So, BIG TW for eating disorder talk on this one.

If you'd like to have an expedited request, please check out the pinned post on my blog! (The masterlist can now be found under the tag freshimasterlist.)

When it comes to survival, it is difficult to foster nurturement, to find the strength to nourish even the smallest part of yourself. It is especially difficult for those who never had a nurturer, those who grew up without the protection of a mama bear, those who were ripped away from safety and forced into survival primarily, to find the strength to care, even if it's for themselves. While it seems like common sense, some part of you couldn’t ever fully understand the phenomena of nourishment and survival. That is, until you were faced with the conundrum head-on.

Astarion had somewhat perfected survival at this point, despite the fact that it was mostly not his choice. A more proper word choice might be endurance, the ability to persevere through torture despite your undying presence. Even now, he had endured all the way to the city, all the way to the legendary ‘Baldur’s Gate’ that you had been fighting towards for weeks. The two of you understood each other quickly, smoothly, reading each other like tea leaves. But, just like premonitions, not all of the details unfold as quickly as others. 

Your vampiric lover had been feeding on you almost every evening since you found out about his little ‘secret,’ that he didn’t quite hide as well as he thought he did. Of course, it started when you were merely aquaintances, continued on when you were friends, and then turned into something more. Now, feeding on you is a romantic ritual of sorts, a sign of trust, a moment of recluse and safety. Safety is a word that Astarion is unfamiliar with, the feeling at least. But those moments he has drank from you, he has finally started to understand what exactly it means to be safe. That is, until he suddenly stopped. 

You were waiting to face Cazador, a being who had now become one of multiple banes of your existence. Sadly, things on a wild adventure don’t necessarily schedule themselves neatly, which was making both you and Astarion jittery, anxious.

“We should rest soon you know. Plenty more villains to get around to.”

He isn’t fully listening, something you’re quite used to dealing with. 

“I know.”

He’s more exhausted these days, moreso than usual. Everyone is tired obviously, but you’re more tuned into his energy than the others.

“Have you fed recently? It’s been a while since you’ve asked me.”

“Of course. How many people have I killed just today? Plenty of blood has been going around.”

He stands in the opening of the tent, staring off into nothing while you sit on the ground.

“You and I both know you don’t stop for long enough to get enough out of any of those fools.”

“And you take me for a liar?”

Astarion’s tongue is sharp, and he finally turns to face you.

“I take you for a liar, but not usually a liar to me. Now, come, drink some.”

You’ve had plenty of banters like this, where he has been difficult with you, but the night air doesn’t sit peacefully like on those nights. He’s not staring at nothing, but at the past, the future. He doesn’t bend to your whim. 

“Really, my darling Tav, I am alright. Perhaps you should go to bed without me, I might be up for a while.”

Distant. He’s only distant when something is truly bothering him, just like he was in the beginning, just like he was when you met him on the beach.

“Astarion, why don’t you want to feed on me?”

Out of the myriad of things he doesn’t like, he doesn’t like direct confrontation from you. When it comes to safety, survival, nourishment, he likes to be elusive. He likes to hide from you, because sometimes you let him. He wasn’t allowed to hide before, when he was still living at the palace. Sometimes though, you can’t let him hide.

“Who said I don’t want to feed on you? Why, your blood is delightful! Delectable even.”

And there he goes, that slight seduction in his tone, a distraction.

“Then why haven’t you drank from me in days? Over a week at this point?”

Now comes the moment when he realizes there is no way out, that you’re onto him, that he can’t dance around it with his words any longer. He makes his way to be next to you.

“I… I’m not really sure Tav.”

A very rare occurrence, where Astarion sounds entirely clueless.

“What do you mean?”

“I, I mean I do want to. I’ve told you so many times before how much I delight at our feedings, I just-”

You give him a moment.

“I feel, wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Wrong. Like it wouldn’t be right to feed from you.”

“Aster, I’ve told you how many times that I’m okay with you feeding on me. It’s even enjoyable at times! And besides, it’s good for you, and it strengthens our bond-”

“I don’t think any of that is what this is. And I do hear you, but this… this is different. Maybe it’s because we’re so close to confronting, him.”

Both of your faces change slightly at the thought of Cazador.

“Are you nervous? Because that seems entirely natural.”

“Well, yes. Of course I’m nervous, not that I would tell anyone else that. I think this though, is perhaps a feeling of being undeserving of something.”

“Like what?”

“Freedom, love, more than rats. I have wanted to feed on you numerous times, but I find myself being held back by this feeling of being… undeserving.”

“My dear, you are entirely deserving of feeding, especially on me.”

You move to comfort him, a light touching arm.

“I suppose it doesn’t feel that way right now. You know what I was forced to drink from before: flies, rats, other vermin. And of course, when you first offered for me to feed from you, I was so incredibly taken away by a luxury I was never given. Now though, I simply wonder if I should’ve ever had that luxury at all, or if I should have that luxury even now.”

“You are deserving though.”

“I don’t think that will fix it my love. I don’t know if anything that you say can fix this.”

One of the hardest truths of love, that your words cannot always fix their wounds. That sometimes, there are things you will never be able to heal by yourself. 

“Then… how do we fix it? How do we make you feel deserving of feeding?”

He fumbles with his hands.

“Time? Patience? I don’t honestly know darling.”

You move a hand over to his wandering ones, hoping to ground him a little.

“Maybe, now that I know, we could at least try? Even just a little?”

There’s a hint of optimism in his demeanor, something you’ve seen more of over time.

“Alright then, we can try. But that’s all I can promise, an attempt.”

And so, he moves to prepare as you lie down, a much easier way to get your life’s essence taken. It’s a little more tense than usual, which makes sense following a conversation like that. There’s a moment where his teeth pierce your skin, and a piece of time where he does feed, and then there’s a sharp pull away. He seems almost nauseous when you sit back up. You cover the rip he just made on your neck with a nearby piece of cloth.

“I’m sorry, I just… I can’t tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, you tried. That’s all I said right, that we should try?”

You move back over to him and wipe at a tear, one made from an apology he never should’ve had to give. 

“Right. And maybe we can try again tomorrow?”

“Of course my love, of course.”

When the two of you lie down finally, there isn’t much said for the rest of the evening. You’ll never quite know exactly what he felt in that moment, what tasting your blood was like, how it made him ill and scared. One thing you do know is that you’ll be there again the next evening, and the evenings later, even if it takes a lifetime to repair that relationship with feeding from you. And maybe eventually, there won’t be that feeling of being undeserving anymore. Maybe one day, there will be nourishment instead of survival, but for now, you can try and make survival as nurturing as you can.

[playthingonastring]

Nothing seems to be going right. If you’re honest, you don’t even feel like you’re in the mood to see him; you resist your heart, a siren of love who sings only at the thought of him, thereby luring you from the maelstrom of your burdens as it entangles you in myriad phantom sensation. (Your hands are cold, numb with longing; you miss his gloves.)

If this frustration could be translated to a sound, a scream would be apt.

He’ll notice. It’s not a sixth sense that guides Sunday back to you, but you could pretend when he finds you, clawing at the past for glories you’re unsure of because you’re scraping at your present abilities until you bleed. Why can’t you do this right, I was able to do this before, how come you can’t do it anymore?

(You try something and you’re met with failure; you feel indignant when you remember it’s in your control, yet you’re writhing under the idea of responsibility. And so you let impatience fester and erode your perceptions. In the end, you’re enclasped in futility’s vice.)

You’re drowning, really, but at the sight of Sunday, you cling to pretense like water against the shore. Well, look at that. Saving face? Unlucky for you, it’s something he recognizes. He knows you so well his eyes verge on intrusion; it messes with you, getting the better of you from time-to-time because even when he’s away, his gaze lurks. If he wanted to talk, then it’d have to wait. But he knows. (You feel so powerless that words are beyond your reach.)

His hands come upon you like a gentle tide instead. Your worries don’t necessarily melt, but they’re placated by his warmth for an instant. He’s capable. So capable in fact that you’re questioning, classic fuel to the flame. The destruction in you thrums as if repelled by the harmony in those fingers. You feel like you’re on fire, furling into your own demise. Yet tears don’t come, cinders at best.

Oh Sunday, entrusted with that hell inside of you.

It’s an endeavor to uproot doubt from your body. It’s become reflexive, hence why you can never rest. When he holds you, you feel something lacking. How come? Ah, the bitterness that you can be given to in your desperation for power, seething, undying. Despite all of this, you don’t want to be so awful that you’ll chase him away.

As if he would ever run.

His kisses put you out, one at a time. Flinching at first before you inevitably dwindle in his touch, growing apologetic as you die down. All you want to do is say sorry.

“Hold me.” A voice that’s still yours despite not sounding anything like the you that greeted him this morning. You can be so easily given to sorrow, like a flower that no longer knows what it is to bloom.

It’s a whimper he won’t refuse. You cling, breathe him in. Lavender, vanilla, cedarwood…

[maculategiraffe]

ok now I'm on chapter 11 of gideon the ninth and here's what I am appreciating right now:

the way the very first sentence of the book tells us so much:

IN THE MYRIADIC YEAR OF OUR LORD—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!—Gideon Nav packed her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and she escaped from the House of the Ninth.

and specifically the "dirty magazines" bit. because that tells us SO MUCH.

-just the very phrase "dirty magazines" hints at a world, and artifacts of a world, that doesn't jibe with anything else we learn until gideon and harrow arrive on the first. the very existence of porn mags implies a civilization so far beyond the ninth and its scarcity and darkness and hyperreligiosity and engineered archaism

-it tells us gideon treasures these artifacts as much as her shoes and her sword, which are both about survival. that her sexuality and the possibility of a life beyond the ninth are both core to her identity and her will to live.

-it strongly implies that gideon is a lesbian, which is hugely significant to her eventual interactions with dulcinea and coronabeth, not to even mention everything going on with her and harrowhark. my god I've never seen as textbook a shy flustered butch lesbian jock as gideon being expertly flirted upon by dulcinea and coronabeth in rapid succession. somebody come save her

-(nobody is going to come save her. are they 💀)

-just the dry wit of it. this book is so goddamn funny

-💀💀💀

[bookfirstlinetourney]

Round 1

Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler's pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die.

-Fight Club, Chuck Palahniuk

At the beginning of July, during an extremely hot spell, towards evening, a young man left the closet he rented from tenants in S----y Lane, walked out to the street, and slowly, as if indecisively, headed for the K----n Bridge.

-Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky

In the myriadic year of our Lord—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!— Gideon Nav packed her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and she escaped from the House of the Ninth.

-Gideon the Ninth, Tamsyn Muir

[theriverbeyond]

In the myriadic year of our Lord—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!— Gideon Nav packed her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and she escaped from the House of the Ninth.

bonus: POV you are Harrowhark Nonagesimus

[serpentineroses]

Meet Arrix

She represents a Black Hole.

Which is fitting because She's Solari and Celestes adopted ball of chaos lol

[shiroikabocha]

I’m doing my First Re-Read of Harrow the Ninth, and here’s a thing I noticed in the first sentences of Parodos:

“IN THE MYRIADIC YEAR OF OUR LORD—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, our Resurrector, the full-pitying Prime!—the Reverend Daughter Harrowhark Nonagesimus sat on her sofa and watched her cavalier read. She idly fretted her thumbnail into a decaying brocade skull on the cover, carelessly destroying in a second long years of labor by some devoted anchorite.”

Most readers can probably recognize the intentional similarity between this passage and the opening sentences of Gideon the Ninth, but those of us cursed with Homestuck Fandom (like me) may remember that Tamsyn used to write fic under the screen name urbanAnchorite—so, the novel Gideon the Ninth, and all the events and characters within, could be considered the result of “long years of labor by some devoted anchorite.”

And we’re about to learn that Harrow lobotomized it all out of existence.

[incorrect-house-of-nine]

Doing a Harrow the Ninth relisten and God. I'm so dumb! I've read n listened to this book multiple times, and it only just occurred to me, what's going on when we first meet Marta in HTN. She said, with uncharacteristic frenzy: “Why am I here?” Pent said, “Just to answer questions, Lieutenant Dyas.” The lieutenant said, “I want to know—I just want to know—”

I thought she was freaking out over Judith's death. She wasn't! She was demanding to know why her ghost/spirit had been dragged to the bubble AND if Judith had survived!!!

This god damn series, and Tamsyn Muir. She's so sneaky!! Its like when she tells us in the first few lines exactly who Gideon is:

IN THE MYRIADIC YEAR OF OUR LORD—the ten thousandth year of the King Undying, the kindly Prince of Death!—Gideon Nav packed her sword, her shoes, and her dirty magazines, and she escaped from the House of the Ninth.

There's so many ways things can be taken, and at the time, they never look out of place.

[tristikov]

My dad passed away recently after a nearly year-long battle with cancer. He was 65. His wife took this photo a number of years back, and it sublimely captures so much about who he was, while instilling a mystique that I think is also fitting. I wrote the following to read at his funeral:

---

If you’ve ever seen my father in a crowd, you’d know he wasn’t hard to spot… Though his clothing tended to be modest, and his manner gentle, his 6’6” stature meant he usually stood head—and often shoulders—above those around him. That isn’t to suggest he wasn’t a down-to-earth individual, and I’m sure most anyone who knew him could attest to his kindness and can-do desire to help others.

Physical height runs in his side of the family, but even as a full-grown adult I’ve continued to look up to him in more ways than one (…an appreciation of wordplay also seems to be in our genes, but I shouldn’t jump the pun). As a kid I remember riding with him in “the Chev,” a woods vehicle he built himself, collecting, splitting, and stacking firewood for the winter. Through him I learned to appreciate the simple pleasure of working outdoors, roaming the quiet woods, and being considerate of the land.

As I grew older, I also worked with him on his cranberry bogs for a number of years. I learned much in that time, and though I chose to pursue a different career path, I have always looked back fondly on the time I spent working with my dad… Installing sprinkler heads in the busy thaw of Spring, battling weeds and fixing irrigation lines in the blazing Summer sun, setting up the berry pump, corralling the cranberries, and harvesting the crop under the brilliant skies of Autumn, then driving his hand-built ice sanders over the frozen bogs in the chill of Winter. Thanks to him I also have an undying appreciation for the local pizzeria, iced coffee in every season, and taking a nap after lunch (at least when time permits).

A farmer’s life is a demanding one, and each morning, fueled only by a cup of Lipton tea, my father rose to the thorny challenges of every season: Watching over the crop on little sleep through Spring and Fall frosts, maintaining our vehicles and the myriad of farm equipment, or building whatever was needed with the resources at hand—often sawing a few 2-by-4s, welding some angle iron, and bolting on an old motor… Sometimes all three.

Though my father designed and built the house I grew up in, the shop barn we relaxed and did projects in, the shed he kept his dirt bike and later ATV in, the horse barn, the camp in Maine, and at least half a dozen other sheds and outdoor constructions, his most recent endeavor—a new cedar log house--was his masterpiece… Thanks in no small part to the hard work and dedication of his dear wife, the two of them built a lovely home together overlooking the very bogs he had spent so many years tending to.

She also helped him to complete the camp in Maine which he had begun all the way back when I was a child. I took many winter trips there with my father over the years, to relax, ride the snowmobile trails, and to break fresh snow searching for elusive moose antlers. My dad loved the north woods, moose, and a day of both hard work and leisurely puttering… Maine’s state slogan is “the way life should be,” and I think my dad agreed.

I’ll miss greatly those trips with my father, more so even than working with him on the bogs. I treasured the time to connect and learn from him. I’m probably not the only guy to think highly of their dad, but with the wide breadth of skills, depth of knowledge, and social presence he possessed, it was, and still is hard to not be in awe of him. I am a father myself now, and as I remember the impressive size of the trusty old snow boots my dad wore every winter, I feel that his shoes are going to be very large ones to fill.

While my dad no doubt lived a full life, it was far too short, and I weep for the time he cannot spend with his loving wife, his young grandson, and all of his family and friends, with joy and warmth in his newly built home. He was a great father, role model, and mentor. He was one-of-a-kind, and made an indelible impression on those who met him. He will be missed by all, but when the warm late-summer nights give way to cool early-autumn evenings and the cranberries ripen scarlet under a clear blue sky, that is when I will miss him most.

[aledanshi]

Photographers AU Lore (+ Character Headcanons)

You know, when I originally started developing this AU it was during the beginning of my obsession with Archivists, I wanted to write a sort of love story about them and also make them part of a polycule with Roier because yes, while guapoduo isn't my otp anymore, I still do very much enjoy their relationship and a big part of Cellbit's character development is due to Roier being a major influence in it.

And so, a major reason why their polycule relationship works is also because of Roier.

Even though the polycule is centered around Cellbit, he's the most level headed between the three of them and is the one that keeps the relationship under control, lest he lets those two old men get way over their heads and end up lost in their passion for each other.

Because really, all three of them have their own issues and red flags, but at least Roier has experience with understanding and working on his own issues, even though he is the youngest in the relationship. He doesn't have a psychology degree just for it to serve as a wall decoration for his office after all.

Cellbit has too many issues, we all know the more obvious and problematic ones like the murderous past and the cannibalism, but red is Roier's favorite color anyway so whatever. Thing is, he also has a myriad of problems that indirectly affects his relationships with others, which wouldn't be perceptiple to people who don't have the knowledge about the less obvious signs of trauma. He's also very obviously neurodivergent, which complicates things even more.

He has a lot of accumulated trauma, deeply rooted trust issues, has problems with understanding and dealing with his emotions and is quite frankly very depressed. Roier has already helped him with a lot of those issues before, but for some of them there's not much that he can do besides offering his undying support for him.

But Philza, fortunately, can fill in the gaps in his heart that have been carved out by his own grief and insecurities, those that Roier doesn't quite fit in.

When someone goes through a traumatic experience, especially during the early stages of life, their brain can sometimes erase parts of their memory that contain those painful moments, while also erasing a good chunk of the good things in the process. So really, even if the federation hadn't erased most of the memories of his childhood, Cellbit probably wouldn't have remembered much of it anyway.

From his perspective, he never actually had anyone before coming to the island, he grew up not having any sort of safety net and not knowing the love and support that can be given by a family. He'd managed to raise Richarlyson with all the love and care that he could, but he never got to experience something similar for himself.

Philza's love for him gives him that sensation of truly being part of a family and much, much more. He is loved, supported, cherished and cared for, like a father would do so for a son. It's true that he also has romantic feelings for the man, but that doesn't mean that those and their familial feelings for each other can't coexist.

And Roier just can't bring himself to feel insecure about their relationship, because Philza simply fulfils a different role in Cellbit's life. He is not being replaced, he can't be replaced in Cellbit's heart, but he also can't give him what Philza provides for him.

His initial idea was to maintain their relationships separate, Cellbit can date the both of them, but Roier and Philza would not meddle in the other's business in any way, shape or form. However, fate does work in mysterious ways, so Roier and Philza actually end up being really close friends due to their shared love for Cellbit.

He still gets a little bit annoyed when he has to separate those two old geezers from their passionate make out sessions before they devour each other, but it's a very small price to pay for all the happiness that he has experienced by having them as his family.

[inbabylontheywept]

Ars Longa, Vita Brevis

Magic did not make beautiful things. How could it? Raw chaos was not known for its subtlety, and that’s all magic was: Madness and energy. A corruption that ran deep along the soul of the world. Entropy itself.  

But tools don’t need to be beautiful to be useful. A mage would always break under the strain of such power, but they could move mountains before the final crack. Elves could trade their eons for centuries, and dwarves, their centuries for decades. And humans, very rarely, could trade their decades for years. But such trades were rare indeed, for it took a genius to compress the great work into such a short period. There had been a few over the centuries. But most were still learning the simplest of tricks when the bitter end came for them. 

And it was, always, a bitter end. Magic poisoning trickled into everything, dosing out a toxic melange of maladies. Cancers commingled with infections as metabolic errors mixed with the ravages of time. Froth filled lungs choking out desparate gasps were as common as great fungating tumors, tearing their way out of the body in a twisted facsimile of birth. 

It would be too generous to say that many mages died screaming. The truth was, most did. Nearly all. They died terrible deaths, and they lived terrible lives, rotting from within as they channeled the end of all things through their bodies. Their spines bent into arched curves, and their skin greyed, and their eyes turned bloodshot as the blood leaked from every capillary. Just before the end their whole body would stain the way their eyes did, like spiderwebs etched in blood. 

Sylas had been stained that way for the last century of his life. It was a mystery how he lingered on, eking out misery and power in equal fortunes. To sit there in the moment of his death, at the apex of his power, without teetering one way or the other…

It was certainly a way to be among the most powerful magi in a myriad. It was a testament to the depth of his suffering, that even in a cohort as envious as the scholars of rot, there were none that dared follow in his footsteps. A better object lesson about the cost of power could not be found. His veins leaked half empty, his skin sagged and tore in some places, stretching hideously in others. He festered, undying, undead, twisted and knotted with disease and madness alike. 

But a better man for holding the line would not be found. 

He’d been standing in the center of the bridge, watching his cloaked opponent draw closer for almost ten minutes now. He was patient for a dying man, but he’d been dying for almost a century now. He knew he had time to wait. More time than he had patience for walking, at least. His body was twisted from misuse, better at acting as a conduit for raw power than it was for movement. Walking hurt. Standing…hurt less. 

His vision had spent the centuries fading away with the rest of him. The shape was familiar, even when it was at the far end of the bridge but it wasn’t until the man had moved within forty steps that features could be made out. 

Healthy skin. Pale, but in way that suggested scholarship instead of sickness. Hair that grew in a shining golden crown thick and unruly. Sylas had only met one acolyte that had kept their hair past the harrowing. A human from four centuries before…  

And suddenly, impossibly, Sylas recognized the man in front of him. 

“Holloway,” he said in lieu of greeting. This had been a ritual between them once - a dumb joke that they’d kicked back and forth in all those years ago. 

“No,” the man replied warmly, hands already gesturing to the space around them. “Not a hallway. A bridge.”

He’d made that joke the first time they met, in this very place. The lone bridge from the twilight aisles. It was also the last place he’d seen him - Back fading into the mists are he journeyed home to join the fight against the necromancer of Mithrain. In a kingdom two-hundred thousand strong, only a few dozen had survived. 

He’d barely been an acolyte when he left. The stupid fool had never stood a chance. How had he - 

Sylas’s thoughts were interrupted by a dawning awareness that something had gone wrong. He could feel the ambient levels of magic drop. He’d feel this before, watching teams of war-mages work in tandem. Even he couldn’t manage it alone - his mastery could come from doing more with less. One man doing this was like - like drinking away the rising tide. Eating a cow without spitting out bones. Madness. 

And there was only one person in sight that could be the cause. 

He dodged instinctually. There was no telling what hit the spot where he stood before - it wasn’t comprehensible to the mortal mind. Mana bolts were seen by the gaps they left in the world around them. By the places that one’s mind slid away from, no matter how hard one tried. 

Even Sylas had never managed to form one by himself. 

Flames roared to life along both sides of the bridge. The old elf’s back heaved under the strain of the channel, even as he curled the flames into each other, forming a quarter league long arch of fire. 

Then, he compressed it. 

The threat of it was enough to interrupt the second bolt from forming. The elf had been expecting a counterattack, but his old friend seemed to be a little more cautious than that. He felt a wall of mana clash against his own, probing for the artery that connected him to the inferno. 

He pushed back, drove his mind like a sharpened spike into the consciousness probing against him. Memories bled back, strange ones - theorems on the nature of magic, on the nature of death. Gradients directing the flow of soul towards something deep and dark. 

Holloway winced. The move would’ve broken a lesser man, but his mind was as incorruptible as his flesh. Sylas felt something clamp around him, and he realized that the weak spot he’d found was intentional. A ruse. 

The link he held in the physical world, the thing that connected him to the fire, tore without breaking. The spell flared out silently. 

He was dead. He stared defiantly, and was confused to see something gentle looking back. 

“If I wanted you dead, I would’ve turned back and waited,” Holloway said, not unkindly. “I have time. More time than anyone.” 

Mana flowed up the still trapped conduit, burning and bright. Sylas was used to feeling it corrode him, feed into the cancers and sores that had taken root in his body over centuries of abuse. 

But this was different. 

It burned, but in the way that fire did.The rot drank it, and instead of corrupting him, it corrupted itself. Sylas could feel the horrible beauty of it, of cancers blossoming within cancers, of amoebas blighting his infections. It was like witnessing death fall upon its own scythe. 

It was so obvious now that he could feel it. The decay of his body wasn’t truly death, but an extant form of life. From the minute forms that swam in his pus, to the rootlike cancer nodules that grew under his skin - he wasn’t a fallow field. He was teeming with life. Drowning in it. If absorbing magic is what spawned this in him, it would feel the same once it drank deep of the same cup. 

It was beautiful. The cure was in the poison! Of course it was. Life flowed in the gradient of death, and magic flowed with the gradient of life. He’d just needed to stop fighting it. 

He looked in wonder at his friend. Struggled not to writhe with the venom burning itself out of his body. Holloway walked carefully up to him, laying a hand across his burning brow. 

“We shared memories through the link you made. I think you saw the steps I took, learning how to live long enough to become the new necromancer of Mithrain. But I saw you vowing to save the world from the end of all life - and from preventing another Iithin from happening. You remembered me.”

Sylas couldn’t answer. It had been so long since living felt harder than dying. 

“I am the new necromancer of Mithrain - but I am not here to be the end of life. I am here to kill death itself, to set the serpent upon its tail. Ten years it took to learn how to save myself. Four hundred more to learn how to save the living. And now, at last, I can save the dead.” 

He looked across the bridge, towards his homeland of Ilithin. The tomb state of stone and bone and ancient loss. He was imagining something, and for the first time since he’d gone through his harrowing, for the first time since the seed of rot had been planted in his heart, Sylas imagined a world where magic could make something beautiful.