Lyricist's Regret

The ones left behind because they were loved too much. Mixed media RP blog

[lyricistsregret]

Fate has led us to depart in such an unfortunate manner, but we shall meet again, shall we not?

Muses + Other Fandoms/Mun + Rules/Credits

Ultrakill muses here!/Cookie Run muses here!

Ask/RP memes

Personal AO3 (for other writings)

Check out my buddies @askthekirbysquad, @distrxst, and @hymns-across-the-stars

[lyricistsregret]

v1 is being ousted and sent to hell blog (@duelogue) and cookie runners are being sent to paradise blog (@batttered) yay

[lyricistsregret]

if you want to interact with my oc, v1, or shrimpo you can do that now

[lyricistsregret]

man i really should have a muse in a fandom my mutuals have muses in 😭 maybe i should get like. a dandy's world character or something

[lyricistsregret]

This blog has started feeling awfully robophobic today.........

robophobic? You would accuse me of such a thing? How meannnn~

not my fault that a certain robot sees all my words as an attack against him (´ﾛ｀ﾉ)ﾉ

Maybe his next upgrade should be something to make him less sensitive, hm?

[lyricistsregret]

Because of some letters I received in the mail, I no longer can run this blog with these characters

Introducing the first of the next set of muses!

[lyricistsregret]

Doodle reference for my version of Micha (takes into account all the winged headcanons of Micha that I saw and liked)

[abyssalmusician]

(random original creative writing thing i did inspired by You Are Infected and hanahaki as a trope)

(contains a somewhat graphic description of someone's body falling apart)

Your suit fails one day, and a small prick is enough to start your downfall. You don’t register the slight stinging feeling, so you only notice when you get back to the base and peel off the layers to reveal the purple spot on your skin, your heart sinks.

The stalks take hold first.

You muffle your coughs, ignore how every time you breath it feels like sticks are jabbing into your lungs.

You wave off the concerns of others, because you can’t display weakness. They have been through too much, you can’t let them know. Don’t let them know.

You shouldn’t stress out your fellow survivors if you can help it. Besides, no one has gotten sick in months. Maybe you’re just overthinking things.

🪻🪻🪻

The infection progresses. The multicolored petals fly out of your mouth if you don’t pay enough attention. You lock yourself in your room, praying to anyone, anything above.

Please don’t let me die, you whisper over and over. I’m scared.

You finally recognize the flowers as hyacinths, which you vaguely remember can irritate skin. It burns coming up, and when you hastily clean up after yourself, any skin exposed to the petals begin to blister.

It hurts so much.

🪻🪻🪻

When a particularly bloody lump of phlegm and hyacinth petals leave your lungs, you begin drafting some letters. Your hands tremble, but you manage to piece together the words somehow.

Your visor is becoming blurry—or, at the very least, you think its your visor. You aren’t able to focus your eyes for very long anymore.

You’ve gotten worse. You can’t keep anything down. Your breathing is ragged, and each time you swallow your saliva it shoots a jagged pain through your throat.

The survivors are whispering to each other, turning their gazes away when you meet their eyes. You’re scared they know. Will they kick you out for your selfishness? Of course they will.

You barely finish your last letter, bequeathing your minimal possessions to whomever cares to collect them. Your handwriting has terribly deteriorated since the first letter, marking how far you have fallen.

You’re honestly shocked you held onto sanity for this long. Usually the sick would have decayed by now.

You pulls yourself away from the desk with difficulty, and survey your room for the last time. You’ll miss it.

🪻🪻🪻

When you are trying to make it out of the camp, someone grabs your stick-thin arm. “What is wrong with you?” they ask bluntly. “Are you sick?”

You deny it vehemently, citing bronchitis or the like. “There’s no reason for you to worry about me. It’ll be over soon.”

They squint at your visor, so badly fogged up from all your ragged breathing. “...we’re worried about you,” they say as they let go of your arm. “It’s been several days since you last went outside the camp. If you need anything, please, reach out. We want to help you.”

Lies, all lies. It has to be lies. You stifle the cry welling up in your chest. If they worried so much, why did they only reach out now? When you are saying goodbye?

You don’t acknowledge them, just pushing past. You sway, and you can barely make out them reach out a hand to you, but you continue to toddle away.

As soon as you make it far enough away from camp, you collapse to your feet in a massive coughing fit. Blood completely soils your visor, so you toss your helmet aside and pull yourself back up.

You venture far into the forest, to a cliff face you remember visiting a long time ago. It doesn’t look as you remember, but that’s to be expected.

You peel off your suit, letting your decaying flesh catch a couple rays of sunshine directly. It’s been so long since you got to be outside without the suit, you think.

You take a step closer to the edge, and imagine your father there holding out his arms like he did when you were a little baby learning to walk. “Come on, champ,” he says. “I’m right here. Everything’s going to be okay.”

You toddle, your gait unsteady as you move one step after another towards your father’s embrace, then right through him, and down, down, down.

When you land on the ground, you split open at the seams. Your rib cage sprouts open, the connective tissue finally giving way. Hyacinths pour out of your organs, spilling forth to form a puddle that is half blood and flesh and half flora. It’s abhorrent.

You’re not dead yet. You’re still conscious, still in such immense pain that you’re barely able to string together words in your mind.

Perhaps the others

will find the letters

you left them

and accept that

you ran away.

Maybe

they will realize

that you’re full of shit—

no one runs away

with no equipment.

They’ll know

you killed yourself.

You won’t know for certain.

You only lie there,

now fearful that death is not

the end for you,

but nigh eternal torment

until you have fully become

one with the flowers.

[lyricistsregret]

(hurgle. thoughts of writing a "micha can sometimes possess ze" fic. let regect go through the thought of "getting micha back.... does that mean losing ze?" and the whole week this is occurring irl ze's just having a blackout or a cold or something else that prevents him from gaming)

(micha can't stick around for long but it does allow for regect to have final moments with him. and ze's having a weird ass week)

[lyricistsregret]

(teasing bits and bobs for my new potential character and/or inciting incident for clown duck! the sentences do not connect directly but it's okay. moss duck)

It all started when Moss Duck has white spots appear on its fluff.

“It’s very odd. Do you think it’s a sign of something?”

"I can feel it growing inside of me. It dullens my senses, calling for me to become part of it." The older plastic duck quivers. "Oh, Clown Duck, do you truly believe it to be the Great Beyond's beckoning...?"

"Of course! You are the pool's brightest soul, it would be a bundle of fluff if it didn't call for you!"

"Is something the matter with Moss Duck? It seems a little... off as of late."

“Clown Duck, I do not believe this to be the Beyond,” Moss Duck confesses. “I scarcely have moments where it feels like I’m in control, and it’s… it’s scaring me.”

“Moss? No, silly, I’m Mold Duck!” Moss—no, Mold—Duck chitters. “I have attained true enlightenment!”

“The Beyond…? Don’t be daft. The true almighty is in the spores of Mold!” Mold Duck quacks gleefully.

"Moss Duck...?" Clown Duck hesitantly calls out.

"It's.... I... I do not know how much longer I have left." The other duck slowly turns to its friend. "Clown Duck... do you truly believe in the Beyond? In its goodness?"

Clown Duck remains silent. Its friend smiles weakly. "Perhaps it does exist, and I was just... not fit for it. This could be my punishment for not listening to its decrees."

"Clown Duck.... can you promise me something?"

"Anything for you, Moss Duck."

Clown Duck can only watch as its dear friend bobs aimlessly. “Moss Duck?”

The once-joyful duck is unmoving, its once lush green form now completely blue-tinged white and with an unnatural aura that makes Clown Duck cower. “Moss Duck, please speak to me! I’m sorry, I’ll never toss you aside—”

[lyricistsregret]

(If anyone wants me to roleplay someone really badly pretending to be a character from Your Hit Media, I'm here! I don't even need to know your media, just feed me a vague gist of what the character should be and i'll roll with it)

(I cannot guarantee quality because. I might not know the character. But I can make a punching bag for your muse! A la fake Ze getting kicked by Moe and Regect. Or like. Roleplay them a bit more successfully so your muse goes into a crisis on whether the person in front of them is real or not. A la. Ze with fake Regect. This is a regect moment)

[lyricistsregret]

How is your gay Situationship going with Wreck, Nice? 🤭

"I—what?" Nice jerks away from you, eyes wide with horror. "How—"

He then catches himself, recomposing his expression. "Is this one of those.... 'real person fiction' situations? I assure you, I have no such relationship with my nemesis. I was merely startled that I would be asked so.... directly." He laughs, but his expression still looks very troubled.

"Who... who, may I ask, gave you the idea to ask of this? Is it... common to think of heroes and villains together?" Before you can respond, he raises his hand. "Actually, don't tell me. Just... please do not bring up a topic like this to a hero again."

[lyricistsregret]

two new friends have entered the fray!

[lyricistsregret]

What do you think of Fake!Ze over there, "Nice"?

The man freezes, trying to hide his immediate look of fear. "Why... why ask me this? I don't have much of a basis in this kind of thing..." he chuckles nervously.

His hand reaches up to fiddle with his other gauntlet, only for "Nice" to drop his wrists to his sides abruptly. "...he didn't seem to know anything about the real person, did he? The real man's friends immediately recognized him as a fake. I guess.... if you've lived with someone for a while they would easily pick out the discrepancies, even if you kind of... hated each other."

"Anyway, perhaps he had a reason to fake being Ze. I don't know either of them particularly well, so. I can't really comment." He meets your eyes, a contemplative look passing over his features. "I'm not sure if this answers your question to your desires, but that's all I got."

[lyricistsregret]

hi guys

regect took my lunch money and says hell pay me back but i think im not seeing it agaiin

hti like and subscribe. thats what he says right

[passingeternity]

ze YOU should punch regect for no reason

now you're speaking his language !

[passingeternity]

... did this loser even try ?