#here is this thing

[figurative-falsehood]

[infinibeep]

i am CELEBRATING !!

[aglaecan]

@shieldarmed from X

THE SMELL OF THE SEA INVADES HER SENSES.  She has never seen the surf but it lives in her mind’s eye, now, and his description has been so visceral that the cool spray touches her cheeks  —  transfigured from the faint wind of the new spring. When Éowyn opens her sharp grey eyes, he is watching her  ;  and the last, lingering lines of an unnamed pain that she reads about his brow disturb her. She has never seen her suffering written on another’s face. She had believed the language to be dead or dying. She had believed herself to be its last native speaker. How expressive he is ; how ripe with feeling. Somehow, this exposes a new nakedness in herself that she has yet to develope an instinct to cover.

 ‘  I did not feel it passing, yet a moment came  …  when I ceased to dream of my life  —–  and death became my only hope,  ’  she looks away with an angry shyness, the pinkeness of that honesty rising in her face. A bitterness breaks inside of her. She has guarded the truth behind her teeth now for so long and yet it is not the act of speaking it aloud that disturbs her, but the ease with which it washes from her. In place of fear she feels a paralyzing lightness  ;  fresh and foreign. The wind stirs her golden hair that runs like wheat down her back, long and loose in the cool morning.

 She can look inward only for so long  ;  images of her forgotten self passing like flashes of light bright enough to burn. The sight of him beside her is an enduring reminder that pulls her from the selfish trap of her isolating grief.  So strange a thing it is, not to be alone.  Éowyn lays a white hand lightly on his arm. The touch is gentle and yet her voice carries a note of command that will likely never leave it. A naural curiosity brightens in her eyes.

 ‘  If it will not pain you, tell me what you once imagined. I wish to see it, too.  ’

He had heard her called a lily, this lady of Rohan, pale and upright as she was. He knew why one might look at her and say such a thing and mean well by it, indeed. But he thought it was a disservice to her. Lilies were so cold, so heavy and cloying with a scent like the scent of the incense burned in the Houses of the Dead to cover the smells of mouldering death and decay.

She was nothing if not alive, this pale and sharp-boned woman. For all she stood beside him now and spoke of a hope and wish for death, he saw a flame in her which burned with the very opposite. He thought, for a moment, of certain old text which he had read, of Finrod speaking with wise Andreth, the lady who had claimed that in their beginnings Men had not been made for death. In pale Éowyn’s pale fire, he saw a glimmer which made that feel truth.

She was not a lily. He watched as her hair, stirred by the winds, moved about her like foam upon the moving face of the water. Perhaps she was like the sea, which she had never seen. Or perhaps she was like the bright blade which a man -- or a maiden -- might raise defiant into the teeth of darkness to cast back light. Or she was the golden stalks of moving wheat which gave life to hungry folk; and yea, also she was the sharp-edged sickle which reaped them.

She was all of those things and she was none of them; for no image could hold the entirety of her, and he thought perhaps even a lifetime of knowing her would not be enough to see all that she was.

Her hand upon his arm burned him with her heat; it was a pleasure to burn.

“It was a boy’s dream,” he said quietly; but it had been a dream he’d secretly cherished long after it had become clear it would not come true. “The shadow of my father’s grief would pass from him; for all shadows pass, with the coming of new light. He would be again the man I can just remember, from the days before my mother’s passing, the man my brother remembered more well than I. Not demonstrative in his ways, never that; but warmer and more prone to smiles. And when in the fullness of time he went to his natural ending, Boromir would be Steward after him, and I would be my brother’s aid in all things. With great Boromir upon the Steward’s seat, perhaps we would push back the forces of Mordor a little more, reclaim Minas Ithil that was and cleanse it!”

He fell silent, thinking about the rest of what he had once dreamed. “A boy’s dream,” he said again, “and full of a boy’s romance. My father perhaps would have said my head was stuffed too full of the old tales.”

[valorcorrupt]

« There are a lot of ways to die, but not many quite as stylish. »

     “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” 

The former Warden-Commander could only hope that the look she shot King Mage aptly portrayed just how little the words did not, in any way, offer her any comfort at all. The Archon was harder to read than the shitty smut they wrote about Grey Wardens in Orlais, and, joking or not, he was currently her only backup against the freaking dragon the small army of Tevinter... defectors, if they could be called as much, had managed to unleashed on the pair and their small party. Though she hoped that his demeanor denoted confidence, she didn’t like their odds -- even if the dragon fell, there was still a gaggle of angry maleficar to handle (but she was not afraid of mages, no sir!). 

She couldn’t deny the truth in the words, of course. Killing a dragon to save the Archon of Tevinter certainly would be the talk of Thedas, but it probably wouldn’t end in praise for her (in the parts of the world she cared about). Still, she was making ready to act on his signal, trusting him -- and that might have been the most frustrating thing of all. (No. On second thought, it was definitely the dragon.)

     “I take it there’s going to be some kind of reward for this if we survive?” And it was her turn to be on the receiving end of a look, which, she figured, would just have to be her last satisfaction if she were about to be burned alive. It wasn’t the greatest.

[angryspacegirl]

Tagged by: I stole it from @madeofthunder

NAME: Bryn GENDER: Female EYE COLOUR: Brown HAIR COLOUR: Brown RELATIONSHIP STATUS: Single ZODIAC: Shit... uh... Pieces I think?  FAVOURITE COLOUR: Purple FAVOURITE SEASON: Winter FAVOURITE PLACE: I don’t really like the beach, but I do like the ocean, if that makes sense. FAVOURITE HOLIDAY: All of the Japanese holidays that give me days off of work, but also Halloween and Christmas FAVOURITE VIDEO GAME: Shin Megami Tensei, Zelda (esp. Majora’s Mask), Life Is Strange LAST SHOW YOU WATCHED: Little Witch Academia, I think WHAT’S YOUR HONEST OPINION ABOUT YOUR MUSE?: I love this bitch and will continue to do so even if I’m the only person in the universe who does. WOULD YOU DATE YOUR MUSE?: I could not handle her tbh. WHAT ARE YOUR FAVOURITE KINDS OF THREADS?: Anything with a lot of meat to it is good. I like plots, angst, fluff, fights, whatever, so long as it’s advancing the characters and their relationships. That’s even the way I approach the very, very rare 18+ scene. I don’t have any interest in doing them just to do them, but I am signed on (assuming we’ve talked about it, obviously) for 18+ interactions that are directly influencing characterization and development. Threads that feel insignificant or like I’m spinning my wheels, unfortunately, seldom hold my interest for long. ARE YOU A SELECTIVE ROLEPLAYER?: Ish? Fandoms that I don’t know anything about intimidate me, even if I can swing them with one of my AUs. I also am generally not interested in blogs that are mostly crack or 18+ based. Nothing really against them, just that that content doesn’t appeal very much to me. DO YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE MUSE?: I’ve roleplayed 12 different characters on Tumblr, I think? Two Dynasty Warriors characters, Jason Todd from DC comics, three OCs I made for a couple closed RPs, Simon from Castlevania, Serori, Suika, Android 16, D.Va from Overwatch, and You Watanabe from Love Live Sunshine, and Serori is by far the most active one and the one that I’ve played longest (it’ll be two years later this month), so definitely her. WHAT MADE YOU DECIDE TO JOIN THE FANDOM?: It was not too long after I’d moved to Japan for the first time, and I was finding that I had a lot of free time and was a little bored. That was right when Xenoverse had come out, and once I moved over here, there was a lot of promotion for the Resurrection of F movie. That kind of revitalized my interest in the show and the fandom, and I impulsively made a blog to see what would happen. DO YOU SEE YOURSELF STAYING WITH THE FANDOM FOR A LONG TIME?: I feel like it’s getting a little clique-y again, which is frustrating for me, but I’ve been here two years and I don’t see myself quitting anytime soon. At the very least, I always have my modern, anime, and magical girl AUs to keep myself occupied with if the main fandom isn’t to my tastes at the moment.

Tagging: tag urself kids i’m not the boss of you

[movedtocomiicsaans-blog]

@thegreatestestpapyrus

                    ❝Bro, do you ever think about where the                     King keeps his ARMIES? I mean, we                     never see them, so..❞

Though his expression SEEMS thoughtful, he's barely suppressing a smirk at the upcoming joke, knowing that Papyrus isn't going to like it AT ALL but that's all part of the fun.

                    ❝Y' ever thought about it?❞

[firstnameagent]

*whispers* have some midnight raywood from a brand new WWII AU. M for graphic description of injuries (mostly burns, some gore-y stuff, blood)

Ray hears it from someone else in the cafeteria—an overheard conversation initiated by walkie-talkie. Yeah, they say. Heard things went to shit out in Alsace. Couple people got caught in a blast, they’re bringing ‘em back in pieces right now. Rodgers, I think? That Jones kid—

And Ray knows that Jones is not an uncommon last name but he also knows that his stomach drops out from under him and he pushes away from the table, on his feet and heading towards the infirmary before his brain has allowed him to process any of it.

As he walks, jogs, runs down the corridor towards the hospital where he can already hear shouting, can smell metal in the air, he hears the echoes in his head. That Jones kid. Caught in a blast. Pieces. Jones, Jones, Jones—

He slips through the hospital double-doors, past the nurses that clog the hallway, and into the room. His eyes scan the rows and rows of cots, people squirming, burns covering half their body, blood pooling in the sheets, and he almost misses Michael and then his stomach turns over.

He almost misses Michael because he barely recognizes him: his hair is almost gone, seared off, and the right side of his face is badly burned. His chest looks worse; covered in blisters and burns that stretch up his arm, down his leg, trying to consume him.

Ray takes a step towards him and he can see Michael’s shaking, teeth gritted so tight it looks like they’ll crack. There’s a nurse trying desperately to bandage him and another fitting an IV into the crook of his arm and Ray’s glad for it; some part of his brain remembers that if he were far gone enough, they wouldn’t even be trying.

“Michael,” he says, and when it barely comes out, “Michael!”

Michael picks his head up, wills his eyes to focus, and Ray steps towards him again. “Ray,” Michael says, like it’s a joke. “Fuck, man. Fuck.”

“You’ll be okay,” Ray says, and he wants to reach out and touch but he doesn’t want to hurt him and he doesn’t want to get in the way and he thinks he might vomit. “You’re going to be okay.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” Michael bites, back arcing with pain. “Ray, fuck. You—don’t panic, okay? Don’t—” He cuts off with a strangled shout as the nurse lifts his arm.

“I’m not panicking,” Ray says, resting a hand as lightly as he can on Michael’s foot. “I’m okay and you’ll be okay.”

And then the hospital doors open again.

Ryan—

Ryan, sheet-white, eyes rolled back in his head—

Ryan drenched waist-down in blood, his blood, and Ray can see fucking bone—

Ray feels the world drop out from underneath him.

“Ray,” he hears Michael say distantly, and then he’s lunging towards Ryan so fast that the nurse that tries to grab him nearly trips.

“Let me—“ Ray hears his own voice saying, and someone’s holding his arms. “Let me, please, is he dead? Is he fucking dead?”

“Sir, you have to leave,” and Ray doesn’t know who it is but he swings at them anyway.

“He can’t, come on, please—let me see him, just let me see him.”

“You have to leave the infirmary,” one of the nurses says, grabbing Ray by the shoulders. Ray cranes his neck to see around her towards Ryan but there’s a flock of nurses around him and he can’t fucking see him. “We’ll call you up when your friend is in better shape.”

“Friend,” Ray spits back, and he thinks he hears Michael say  his name again but he’s gone blind to it. “I fucking love him.”

She, to her credit, barely reacts. Other people do—he can feel the stares on him and he can feel himself just not fucking caring, because if Ryan dies—if he dies—

“You need to leave,” she repeats.

“Please,” Ray repeats, quiet this time, and then he’s being pushed out the door.

When the doors close in front of him he stumbles back until he hits the wall and then he lets himself fall down it; he lets the panic spread through his chest until he can barely breathe and all he can think is Ryan.