update & links;

ooc: okk— I’m at work right now but just thought I’d leave a note that I have a few multi-para/novella stuff still in my drafts and I’ve been going around plotting with some folk and still have starters to write. For those who may have just followed, I work 45hrs a week, which means I’m very slow during the weekdays now //shot. Be sure to check out my guidelines, my about, my threads page (for those concerned about a thread) & if you want, my personal blog is stalkable too!

tagged as #ooc; #queue








turpium replied to your post:reply log;

;;ooc i owe you a giant reply. i’ll get to that this weekend.

ooc: Deeply apologizes for writing a long starter but one wanted to set the scene. You don’t have to match the length either woops. Will be looking forward to it though!

tagged as #ooc; #turpium

reply log;

ooc: Haven’t posted one of these in a while but, this is what I’ve got festering in my drafts at the moment. Most of them are multi-para/novella length. My motivation has been all over the place recently so, please bear with me.

  • petitevictorique
  • edrord
  • svikinnar
  • masochisticsadist (x2)
  • sollertis
  • featheryskyhero
  • withwingedboots
  • thunderstonereject
  • eidolonsurvivor
  • sakabatoux
  • ribbonsofred
  • thecybersoldier
  • + starters
  • + various headcanon prompts
  • + drabbles/fics
  • + asks

My thread list shows what I have replied to, but if your name is not on this list and you have replied to me, please let me know!

tagged as #ooc; #reply log;
maybe you can set up a lemonade stand for a profession. i think it'd suit you.


      “I do not remember giving you permission to talk.”

tagged as #shh #felinisms
"No offense, but your summer release kinda' sucked ass. But here's hoping you got something good for the winter. 'Jūnigatsu no Love Song' is still my favorite, lemme' tell you--"


     "You are on the wrong planet, you foul-breathing wretch. If you compare me one more time to that prancing wannabeI will have your head dangling from the rusted spires of Midgar for the vultures to peck at.”

tagged as #WHY ME--
talk dirty to me


     "You rotten mucous-eating display of indecency.

kisses tho. im thirsty. love me.


    I already love you. Only you.
    Everything else can burn.

    He’d thieve away all the stars for his sweetheart so that she may bear the riches of galaxies in the rooted depths of her avarice. Hoping that, within some impending chapter of their forming fable, she would smile in triumph with a lustre far greater than the halo of the moon. Aye— he’d wish. He’d wish that his hands could stretch beyond the vault of heaven, through the final layer of life, until he could grab handfuls of all those things that folk would stare longingly to, towing them into fuller pockets until their lives were fulfilled— until his love was returned.

    Alas, they were human and monster.
    Plain and Sin.
    Only Gods gave stars as gifts.

    So, he can only offer her flowers. A beast whose hellish claws, so laughably human in shape, would deliver Asters, Brooms and Jasmines in crafted coils; the sweet mists of summer’s pall having permeated their bracts with accompanying helpers of dew and rose-water; appurtenant structures of folded paper maintaining the boon’s shape. Autumn is still, peaceful yet spirited in hue along the noble banks of his shoulders, like late maples that courageously fought through the last days of Fall. And their leaves tumble; fire upon the shingles, seas of the red that coat the muscular design of his arms, splitting into quintuple creeks of dragon-slaying hands as he warms the entirety of her existence with the florid colours of his creation. Mayhap one would find this so uncharacteristic of him. Giving and giving, until his hands stung far too much under the forcible strain of geniality, as if it were a crime for him to be kind when the burden of all sin had him spiraling deeper into chasms she could not follow.

    His benevolence, lenient and merciful, was only for her to see.
    In their hearts, they know they will meet again.


update & links;

ooc: okk— I’m at work right now but just thought I’d leave a note that I have a few multi-para/novella stuff still in my drafts and I’ve been going around plotting with some folk and still have starters to write. For those who may have just followed, I work 45hrs a week, which means I’m very slow during the weekdays now //shot. Be sure to check out my guidelines, my about, my threads page (for those concerned about a thread) & if you want, my personal blog is stalkable too!

tagged as #ooc; #queue

Jonathan Coe, The Rotters’ Club


Jonathan Coe, The Rotters’ Club

great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed. it is all part of the fairy tale.

                                 but i am not great.
                                 and i am not a hero

tagged as #musings #*a poet's sin

30 Uncommon Character Development Questions ( send me a number )


  1. What position does your character sleep in? ( i.e; stomach, side, back, etc. ) Describe why they do this — optional.
  2. Does your character have any noteworthy features? Freckles? Dimples? A scar somewhere unusual? etc.
  3. Does your character have an accent? What does it sound like?
  4. Do they have any verbal tics? Do they have trouble pronouncing certain words or getting their thoughts across clearly?
  5. What are their chief tension areas? 
  6. If you were to pick one song — and only one song — to describe your character, what would it be and why?
  7. How does your character perceive themselves? Positive? Negative? Neutral?
  8. Are they a quick thinker or do they need time to sort through their thoughts?
  9. Does your character dream or are their nights filled with an empty blackness? Describe a dream they’ve had or a night they couldn’t sleep and what they did to preoccupy their time.
  10. If they had a choice, would they prefer a subway or a bus for public transportation?
  11. What do they think of creation? Do they believe in evolution or do they believe in God? What is their religion like?
  12. Describe 5 unusual characteristics your muse has.
  13. Have they ever been so overwhelmed they had to stop and take a break from something? 
  14. Are they a team player or do they prefer to be solo?
  15. Can they multi-task or must they focus on one subject at a time?
  16. What are their best school subjects? What are their worst? List five of each.
  17. Is your character an introvert or an extrovert? How do they handle big crowds of people?
  18. Are they a leader, do they prefer to follow, or would they rather just stay on the sidelines altogether?
  19. If your character was suddenly challenged, would they rather run away or stay and fight?
  20. If your character was allowed to murder one person without any consequences, who would that person be and why?
  21. Your character has been granted 3 wishes; what would they wish for and why?
  22. Does your character trust people right off the bat or does it take them some time to warm up to someone?
  23. Do they prefer romance or affection? What is the quickest way to your character’s heart?
  24. Does your character have any enemies? If so, who and why?
  25. Do they have any weird bedroom habits? Any unusual kinks?
  26. How does your character prepare for bed? Do they sleep at all or can they stay awake for days on end without trouble?
  27. If your character had one thing to say to their parents before they died, what would it be?
  28. Are they afraid of death? Do they have any regrets?
  29. Does your character get restless when things are too quiet or do they favour solitude and silence? Why?
  30. Finally; if your character was forced to eat one thing for the rest of their life, what would they choose and why?



There’s a long stare, a slow blink, and then an easily summoned frown.

       ❝Not interested.

What sorta guy did he think he was, huh?
His uniform was absolutely fine as is.


     ”Tch— a bore as usual.”

     What is wrong with today’s youth? Sensitive, all to keen to stick to their dreary vogue, lacking adventure— it almost has him scowling.

    "Is your name Angeal?"



So passionate; can I but envy you? Soldier seemed doubly apt to describe this man, this Genesis. Xerxes could not imagine bearing the weight of all the horrors that had ravaged this generation of Gaians without distance, without anesthetizing his mind beyond all hope of arousal. Depression resulted from apathy resulted from numbness, but depression was the easiest of all agonies to bear. Xerxes had done so for most his life, save for those long and tormented stretches in which the chaos of his irrhythmic neurons and imbalanced humours reached a frenzy nothing but time could quell. Quell, though never heal. Every episode, every breakdown left him scarred.

What strength, then, must harbor itself in this Genesis, for all his folly? And what strange breed of compassion possessed the soldier to look with admiration upon a cadaverous old storyteller on the lip of despair? It was almost too much. Xerxes drank off the last of his saccharine liquor like a man pumping his lungs underwater just to end the cruelty of his drowning. Too much… In spite of that, some impulse, one that Xerxes had never quite understood, moved his crooked lips into a humane smile when he met his friend’s upturned gaze. He let his gratification show.


"Another drink, indeed. As to the fact that your fantastical thoughts niggle you more than dourness or cynicism could," (Xerxes would speak no more of his origins— that was tempting pain and worse, tempting fainthearted suicides and the urge to drain away his aching humanity sluice by bloody sluice.) "—that is not so unusual. There is no easier way of coping with despair than to accept it, to make your mind one with the empty truths of the physical world. All the hardship and suffering lies in holding out for more. The bitter sting of hope is too keen to ignore; it demands an answer. Submission or conquest… and submission is the only solution with permanence. The conqueror can always be conquered. The man with a dream can always have it prised from him. Hence the world’s proclivity to absolute submission, to entropy, to the void…"

Having finished, Xerxes gestured the bar’s tender, and in so doing he found it was his turn to survey the patrons cloistered about the room. For a moment his expression shifted to something like tenderness. The world was disenchanted, and this was no fault of their own, and they couldn’t dream of fixing it. Yet they were living earnestly, each in his own small corner of this sordid world, each clinging to whatever it took to get by. No matter their degradation, no matter the hollowness of their existence, there wasn’t a one of them who would so much as consider on giving up their lives. Their families. It was the meanest, most base of virtues. But it was also the hardiest. Survival.

The storyteller’s grin stretched into a grimace that seemed to carve a bleeding swathe into his face. Penance for the envy smoldering in his breast. Penance, his addiction. Sitting there in repose, he considered pausing until the drinks arrived, but he was not certain he could hold Genesis in abeyance so long. Instead, he let his fevered red eye rove over the ceiling and inquired, in a low voice:

"So tell me, my indomitable self-appointed friend. Tell me what it is that ‘nitpicks’ you, what miraculous fuel has kept your heart straining so long to churn out those passions of yours? A desiccated old thing like me might learn a thing or two, if my paucity of spirit can comprehend your reply at all. If not, well, I never keep my doubts to myself. You’ll have the challenge you seek to your lofty thoughts."


    There is no need to feel envious.

    A phantom would say; divided by the natural borders of a more spectral world, as if some super-transcendent thing had rushed in to answer the unspoken thoughts of one whom should remain oblivious. Aye— the conjurer, the soothsayer, the original sinner— he is seated with darkness forever festering within the bowels of his core, and like some obsolete thing, had fallen into disuse when the written orders of his olden company had done away with his existence, hell-bent on erasing him, until he was found once again by the hallowed fathers of kingdoms no man had the pleasure of knowing. Perchance one would envy, aye. Envy the connection, the dreams that mankind had dreamt fervently to possess as if they were the pulsating gems of sweethearts contracting rhythmically in fantasies far too elaborate— their own ignorance cruelly blinding them from the truest fates of the seemingly blessed. These chimerical realms, those of faint wefts that creep across sage and melt into mauve, were lonely ones. The murmurs that a touched one may hear were of those long gone. Of those whose voices would grow thin in the milliseconds before more would, as if to substitute the silence that could potentially ruin, come to scream. The laughter, the songs, the despair— crowds of unknowns along the full-fringed tracks that only he could trace, filling his days with further questions that his lips were far too mortal to utter openly.

   This were the Lifestream.
   The thing of all things.
   His Holy Concierge.
   His Giving Guardian.

   He was trapped.

   The places he had known no longer belonged solely to him. The nights of his despair, upon the healing earths of continents that he had conquered in time immemorial, now conjoined with the sorrows of thousands, as if to form some melancholic symphony of the entire world’s affliction that left him little room to heed to his own. For many eves, beneath the mountain oaks whom grouched of their own regret, did he wonder if he was still an individual. A soul of one, whose mind and body was his own, or if his duty tethered him into paves of some ineluctable destiny wherein he became a vessel, an otherworldly bridge, some extramundane creature, for the damned to freely flow through whenever their own fates entwined. It is for that very reason he finds himself returning to the metallurgic warrens of a society he was once vividly part of. The normality still a far-off thing, but still close enough to adhere to some ounce of humanity that still pumped gaily within his system whenever he would situate himself in the view of those whom could see him as something human. Aye— he indulged in the commonality of receiving a draught of fine brew, of the remarkable uniformity of life wherein the simple nod of appreciation, whether it be from an elder or from a child eyeing whatever boons one may have stuffed in the confines of leather, was enough to remind him that his monstrosity was still just some odious thing that squirmed within the cages of its own self-torment. 

    It were still there,
    but his heart was saved.

    Xerxes’ cynical talk of submission and some refined sense of misery— for what did it invoke? It appealed to opinions of his that were far too pretentious to ever bear ‘pon a tongue crafted only to sing of his own victories. The aloneness of the most insignificant details of his deepest thoughts roused by the uncanny similarity of their latent verse; ruminating and judging of philosophical things that could only have his smile return.

    You continue to impress.

   ”It all sounds awfully dull, but I cannot help but adhere to the beauty of your words. However, if I may be so bold, I believe true strength lies in a sort of submission wherein a man can devote himself entirely to something far beyond himself, to which he has attained something no other has had the courage to seek. Dreams are perishable things, yes, but what is a man if he manages to accomplish such?”

    He already knew the answer, but the thirst for another was all too delectable. The man is nothing in its purest definition. The man is sacrificial, inglorious, some unfettered charlatan who has most likely stamped on all the other early pleasantries that he had willingly abused to raise him unto auric platforms closer to the dream he rebelliously strove for. It is a disturbingly dramatic farce that plays out before him. Drowning out the idle chatter of common folk, their ordinariness bleeding into snuff-coloured walls that morphed themselves into planes of spotted-gold, until Xerxes’ own lust bursts through and dooms a daydream— saving him from retrospect.

   Saving him from himself.

   ”The Lifestream.” It’s almost a whisper; some incomprehensible gathering of sounds that settles the moment he plants his elbows upon the table, eyeing the next round of saccharine liquor that coruscates across the planks within the blanched hands of a maiden. His lips purse then, rouge and gilded with sweetened vows that no ear has yet heard, devoid of hollowed music as he elaborates once more. "Its truest purpose, its most ultimate aim— I want to go to the place where all things dwell. To where grandeur lives in temples and palaces made of conch and sea-blue stone. To where She spreads her wings in beauty sleep; bathed in pale lunar lights of worlds far below.”

I want to go where we are all to go.
    I want to go and be allowed to go.