Master Of The Secret Stone.

Master of the Secret Stone.

it’s horrific. awful way to die. either you’re trapped with no chance of being found, air running out, everyone around you suffocating, or the hull is broken and you get turned to jelly by the crushing ocean depths. ik they’re billionaires so it’s very contentious for me. generally i prefer no one dies horrifically. like just as a fellow human being on earth. but i dont think the ultra rich ever extend that mindset to others. climate refugees. and just everything. it feels like something a greek god would do to punish them. it has a certain swagful je ne sais quoi if removed from the human suffering which billionaires have to do philosophically to maintain their positions. very haunting. the hubris of it all. old jalopy metal tube steered by a mad catz controller. to go look at the titanic. which is nothing but a rusted out metal wreck full of fish and silt. btw. the grandiosity of it is completely unrecognizable. one has to wonder what compels ppl to even look at it in the first place. like the prestige of seeing some filthy grown over shell? crazy thing to die for. very textually rich… bad way to die as a human being. great way to die as a narrative about human greed and folly i guess. good job. mission accomplished?

The other day I dreamed that he killed me and I woke up terrified… Can’t wait for him to do that in-game

Ya truly love to see it!

love, if your wings are broken (please take mine so yours can open, too)

vash x reader drabble, hurt/comfort (rated g, 514 words)

Vash dreams of wings—erupting from his skin and thrumming with terrible power, fanning out from his shoulders; harbingers of death. They’ve called him angel, and they’ve called him devil, but at this point, he isn’t sure which is worse. In his dreams, the power is pulled from deep inside him, and it hurts—it hurts and he can’t stop it. It’s happening again—and it’s not just the dreams anymore but the memories, the guilt, all of it crashing down on him; Atlas faltering, the weight of the sky too much to bear. Vash breaks down and hugs himself tight and feels the prickle of feathers at his shoulder, feels the tug of a destructive power that he doesn’t want to be his, feels the crush of it all, tears cascading down his face—

And suddenly there are arms around him, like assistance holding up the sky. His first, panicked instinct is to yell—get away, please, get away before it’s too late—but the arms only tighten their hold, smoothing up and down his back, and with a hiccuping sob, a little bit of reality seeps in. These are arms he knows better than he knows his own, arms that have offered him comfort a thousand times over, arms he doesn’t deserve but that you’ve chosen, over and over, to give. Love that you choose to give.

He gasps out a sob that sounds a little bit like your name.

Soft words begin to filter into his consciousness—it’s okay and I’m here and I’ve got you—and the prickle beneath his skin starts to fade: not gone entirely but more manageable, more like he can control his own body again. That horrible bright light is dimming. His breath shudders.

He stays like this for a long time—sobbing on his knees with your arms wrapped around him—but although the weight (of his guilt, of his fear) is suffocating, it doesn’t crush him, because when he falters, you’re there to bear the burden with him. And he wants to tell you not to—wants you away from the mess of it all, the danger he poses—but he can’t find the strength to (and you’d say that accepting help is the strength, which he can’t believe yet, but he’s trying). When he finally opens his eyes, red-rimmed and puffy, you’re there, gently wiping his tears, smoothing your hand over his shoulder and arm, calming that awful tingling feeling, replacing it with your love.

He feels it’s his greatest weakness, the way he caves to you, allows you to soothe his heart, even just a little. He’s unforgivable, but here you are, with your endless mercy. He would hate to call you an angel—to associate you with that—but you’re something more, something beatific as you instruct him to follow your breath, to count the seconds that tick by. He knows you don’t see it as weakness. He knows what’s in your eyes when you look at him—this impossible love and compassion—knows you believe him deserving.

It isn’t enough to change how he feels about himself… but it’s a step in the right direction.

*tips claw* m'dragon