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#soulbeats
resolbeats · 1 year
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need any free type beats Check out
My YouTube : resol
My IG : resol_beats
For business : [email protected]
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omanxl1 · 11 months
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Deep House Mix 2023 | Refresh Yourself #03 | Carlos Grau
Digital Crate Digging Continues on a Terrible / Terrific Tuesday where things can go either way! we claimed the terrific outcome the situation is critical,  they had a dude enhancing techniques chilling out in the lab /  muster stations. What it do? the hatred? I’m not digging it, even though it goes back!! The situation is pitiful!!  spotted dude acting like  George Santos showing bluster…
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djrecords · 1 year
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ソウルフィリップは使いやすいぞ #bigstuff #hiphopbeats #breakbeat #reragroove #breakbeats #sampling #undergroundhiphop #funk #funkysoul #hiphopdj #funkytech #breakbeat #soulbeats #supersoul #jazzyhiphop #hiphopinstrumentals #drumbreak #funkytech #funkydrummer #djtechtools #hiphouse #bassmusic #undergroundhiphop #hiphopinstrumental #raregroove #funkybreaks #brokenbeat #beats https://www.instagram.com/p/Coky-CqBUwa/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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bumpytheproducer · 2 years
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Todays Cookup 🔥🔥🔥
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fictionalshippingbean · 4 months
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Dream to Cinna: you can hear peoples ‘soulbeats’? Come on that’s a little far fetched.
Cinna, staying silent for a bit before smirking slightly: *being flirty* I can hear yours too *gently grabbing Dream’s chin with a hand* your souls beating pretty fast
*Dream goes completely silent, blushing brightly*
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organicdeep · 9 months
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oldie
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am-reggae · 11 months
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DJ Vadim – Dubcatcher 3 Flames Up // Sello: Soulbeats Records – SBR111 // 2 X LP Vinilo // Europa / 2019 // ======== ESTADO: ========== 2 X LP Nuevo / Precintado // ====== 28€ ======
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wave-beats · 2 years
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MaMa By WaveBeats 🌟❤️🌟 #wavebeats #soulbeat #music #mama Mouma Habibty :) You are my light in the darkness and without you, I would've definitely lost my soul not my eyesight only, may Allah bless your soul and keep you always healthy, wealthy, and safe my guardian angel. Hey Lady, you are the real gift, For all mankind, I am sure that will not be human beings if you did not exist, So, If there was no Eve: Adam won't exist, Mary went exist, prophets won't exist, messengers won't exist, Nothing would be here now, No world, No universe, That's why we simply believe that Paradise is under my feet. Now on YouTube 🌟 ⁣ .⁣ .⁣ .⁣ .⁣ .⁣ #wavebeatsofficial #newmusic #wavebeatscollaborations #wavebeatsproduction #love #loveyoumom #children #dad #familytime #father #grandmother #mama #mom #momlife #mommy #momsofinstagram #mother #motherandson #mothercare #motherday #motherhood #motherhoodunplugged #motherlove #mothers #motherslove #son (at WAVE BEATS) https://www.instagram.com/p/CcJJKWWMQrD/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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zu-is-here · 1 year
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Could you maybe draw wholesome pregnant Cross?(only if you want to, this is a joke-) But in all seriousness, what was Nightmare's first reaction to ever finding out about Aim? 🤔
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Soulbeat
As for Nightmare, bet he was quite shocked after hearing the news (since he didn't know about the pregnancy), but that's another story ;D
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fairy-verse · 6 months
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So, sort of random questions about the fairy’s as a species:
1) Do seasonal fairy’s get sick with like, the common cold or the flu? Do they have allergies to certain plants that bloom during their off seasons?
2) Are clothes especially important to fairy’s?
3) (sort of weird) But are fairy’s live birthed or do they hatch from eggs?
Have a nice day/night!
Fairies are lucky in the sense that they do not suffer the common diseases of the Big Folk, and yet, a fairy can succumb to other ails. Rare illnesses can befall them should they grow weak and frail. They might find themselves dwindling, their natural light flickering, and their wings weakened to the point where they cannot fly. This is a common illness that might fall on those struck with grief from a lost mate or faerling, though a fairy that finds themselves facing dangers and too much stress on the regular can also find themselves falling into this illness. Only rest and a lifting of their spirit might cure them, if not, then they will die, and crumble to stardust.
Clothes are of no real importance to the fairies. Most enjoy them simply because silks and velvets are soft and pleasant to touch, and they like the way the material strokes over their bones and summoned ecto when they fly. Still, clothes are not a necessity, nor is it frowned upon should any of them choose to not wear any.
The season fairies give live births, and the faerling in question is required to stay by their mother’s chest for the first five days or so. They are weak, grow easily cold, and need to hear and feel their mother’s soulbeat, or else they may become frail as they grow. After those five days have passed, their wings will begin to grow a light and soft fluff; replacing the sticky, leathery protection that keeps them safe right after their birth. This fluff will persist for the first year of their life, after which they will then begin to gain the shape and colour that will follow them for the rest of their lives.
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psycho-chair · 10 months
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Can U Get Pregante - 4
GUESS WHO BITCHES!!!!!!!
[3641 words]
----------------
The infirmary floor was cold against his bones, an icy chill that had him shaking. There were other reasons why he was shaking, but he was trying not to think about it. He was trying.
His back ached, protesting his curled posture against the unforgiving wall, but he didn’t dare move away. He pressed himself into the corner harder, clinging to the blanket he’d dragged along. [It was distressing, the lack of clothes. He felt naked.] He held a fistful of it in one shaking hand, keeping it in place against his chest to hide as much as he could.
In his other hand, against the floor at his feet, a long needle from one of the IV drips stuck out between his clenched fingers. Cross shut his eyes against the images in his mind, chest constricting as he tried to breathe through it.
Maybe he could use the needle. He’d already tried.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave the room, to run. His legs would buckle, his body would ache, when he tried to stand. Would it be cowardly if he did? He already felt like a coward, huddled and trembling in the corner like a child an idiot afraid of a storm.
Where would he even run to? The Stars? The Omega Timeline? Hotland. There was nowhere to go where he’d be safe. Even if he did, the growing strain on his magic told him that he’d have a hard time getting there without help.
He didn’t have help. He had no one.
No one?
His bones rattled the slightest bit louder, the cold seeping into his body, leeching away his energy faster than he could think to fight it. He was so tired. So stars damned tired of everything. Gritting his teeth, he shifted a little closer to the wall, trembling. Any second now, the shadows would betray him. His emotions would out him, give away his state.
Any second now, Nightmare would come and it would all be over.
Stars, please let it all be over.
His ecto twinged, his abdomen aching. He shut his eyes, squeezing them shut against the incessant call of the thing that had burrowed into the empty space of his stomach. The pulses were pleading. A cry for help.
Opening his eyes, Cross let go of the blanket, pushing his fist against the softening surface of his stomach through his medical gown. Maybe if he just.. He pressed harder, a new pain blooming. Nausea washed over him as he felt the souling begin to squirm almost frantically. Get it out, get it out-
He choked, something in his mind snapping like a whip, a freezing shock crackling down his spine. Gasping, he pulled his hand away and covered his mouth, muffling his heavy breathing. Tears trickled down his face, dripping around and through his fingers and seeping into his mouth, leaving a salty taste. He couldn’t.
It stopped squirming, its pleading soulbeat slowing to a calm pace, and Cross sobbed into his hand. He let go of the IV needle to flatten his hand against his stomach, a tender ache making him wince. “I..” He could feel it move, the souling responding to his touch and drifting just the slightest bit closer to his hand. The same hand he tried to crush it with. The corners of his mouth twitched down, his grimace twisting into a pained line. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thin.
The souling simply answered with a warm humming, the silent vibration flooding his eyes with fresh tears. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t do a single thing to it.
Cross chuckled weakly, the sound watery. Epic was right. He was a big softy.
Epic?
He blinked, eyes widening. Epic-
The temperature in the room dipped, the cold burning against the wet tracks left by his tears. He stiffened, ripping his hands away from his stomach and mouth and fumbling to pick up the IV needle. He whipped it up as Nightmare came speeding out of the shadows, the usually graceful and cold king stumbling into an unused cot.
The bed clattered under the sudden movements, springs creaking under Nightmare’s hands as he pushed himself away and looked directly at Cross. Nightmare’s eyelight was feverishly bright with concern anger. His thrashing tentacles tightly coiled into a ball at his back, his voice unsteadily calm. “Cross?”
Cross’s watery eyelights grew thin and sharp and he bared his teeth, his hand shakily wielding the only weapon he had. “Get away f-from me.” Nightmare took a slow step around the cot. Inhaling sharply, Cross hoarsely snapped at him, “Stay the fuck away from me!”
Nightmare stopped short, holding his hands up, his expression twisting into something Cross couldn’t understand. His eyes fluttered as he tried, tried, to summon anything. His soul throbbed in response. Nightmare took a small step closer, and Cross’s breath hitched, panic welling up in his throat. “Cross-“
“Leave! I don’t want you in here, get--“ Cross rubbed at his face aggressively, breathing heavily, “Get out, just get out.” Nightmare’s hands lowered slightly, a faint grimace on his face. “I can’t do that, Cross.” Panting openly, Cross yanked at his magic and gasped at the responding wave of exhaustion. His eyelights flickered and his hand went limp, the needle clicking against the tile as his hand dropped, and he slumped like a puppet with cut strings, his body heavy.
His eyelights stayed dimly lit, eyes lidded as he clung to consciousness. He wanted to be awake when it happened. He wanted to be there. He wanted to see what they did to him. The blackness rushed forward, eager to rip into him, to tear him apart and kill and destroy-
To cradle him and gently lift him off the floor. The hateful black was overly forgiving, plush coolness easing him into the nearest cot, Nightmare’s voice like white noise. Soft cloth covered his body, thick and warm. His soul was coaxed into forming, caring hands cupping it. The intent was like a balm on his aching soul, the want to help and to save overpowering.
A faint chill brushed against his soul, and magic came flooding in. It was like a shockwave of energy, power rushing through his useless body. Warmth came with it, his cold bones heating with the new abundance of magic. Over and over, the intent to care for hit a chord in his soul, potent in its strength. Cross wasn’t sure he’d ever felt anything like that from anyone before.
---
Nightmare hissed, his corruption rippling as he pushed a little more magic into Cross’s soul. It drank it down almost greedily, taking anything Nightmare would give it. The weak positivity, fragile yet still there, stung against Nightmare’s own soul. Echoes of Cross’s emotions flitted through his soul, a complicated knot of so much negativity and little positivity, full of fear and desperate hope alike. He wasn’t sure that was something he could fix.
He lessened the flow of magic slowly, the stream turning into a trickle, then drops, before finally stopping altogether. Cross’s soul was no longer alarmingly pale or dry, the organ full of powerful magic that would hopefully last a while. Nightmare gentled their souls apart, shutting out the odd flash of longing that flickered briefly, and nudged Cross’s soul back to his body.
It winked out in a flash. Cross sighed a soft noise, watery and weak from the undoubtedly exhausting turmoil thundering in his aura. Nightmare caught a faint sparkle of light in Cross’s half-shut eyes.
Cross’s dim eyelights stared at him, their edges fuzzed and blurry, unfocused, yet the confusion was strong despite how diluted it started to be. Nightmare could taste Cross’s fear fading into tamer emotions, a grey fogginess muting them after several long seconds. The tension lingered in his stiff shoulders, a fine tremble in his slightly curled fingers.
Nightmare had no doubt that if Cross could, he’d be making fists and spitting venom. But he was incapacitated. Because of their negligence. Nightmare’s tentacles squirmed in their ball, his repressed anger finally coming in full force now that the immediate concern had passed. Where the hell were the others?
Which of them had the bright idea of leaving Cross unsupervised? He’d told them, explicitly, to stay and keep an eye on him. He had given them an order, and it had been outright ignored.
Nightmare spared Cross a quick glance over, frowning at the pinched expression on his face. A peak into his emotions revealed that he was warring with that bleak grey, clinging to anger over his confusion, to rage over his exhaustion. It was a dangerous cliff he was dancing along, and Nightmare itched to drain him of his emotions, if only to prevent it.
He rubbed his neck, turning away with a half-bitten-off hiss to step halfway into the shadows. He kept tabs on Cross’s emotional state as he tracked down the others’ signatures, his eye narrowing at the tight swirling ball of negativity that always marked Killer’s presence.
He hadn’t seen it like that before. The writhing of that negativity was far more aggressive than normal. It was an unusual type of squirming. He’d never seen this kind of negativity from Killer. He honed in on the source, dragging the space between shadows to a tight sliver, standing halfway in the infirmary and halfway in the kitchen. 
The darkness fell away, like rising from the murky depths of a swamp into clearer water. He broke the surface silently, and immediately was struck with the smell of Horror’s work. He could taste Horror’s contentment faintly, the bitterness of it settling in the back of Nightmare’s throat.
He didn’t know, nor did he care, what Horror had made, his attention diverting to the cook and his assistant. Killer’s head was bowed, the skeleton’s undivided attention focused on some menial book, one hand keeping pace on the page and the other scribbling away furiously on a notepad. It was most certainly an usual sight, especially considering that it was Killer.
Nightmare was transfixed with the image of such an unmoving, intensely focused Killer, just for a moment. It was a short moment, however, as Horror paused his stirring and turned around to blink at Nightmare, his eye blinking and curious.
“boss… y’need somethin?” Killer’s head jerked up, the tip of his tongue retreating into his mouth as his focus was broken. Nightmare stared at him a moment longer before scoffing and addressing the two of them shortly. “Fetch Dust and come to the infirmary immediately. Cross is awake.”
The odd warmth in the room, nevermind the strange negativity from Killer, winked out in the face of Nightmare’s blunt news. Horror gave a burst of something mildly positive, a crooked grin stretching on his face; Killer did too, but his turned sour sharply, his permagrin twitching downwards. Self-reproach wafted from him, as well as some disappointment, which was.
Interesting.
Horror fiddled with the stove, clicking and twisting things before stooping to dig out a pot lid. Killer shut his notebook and jammed his hands in his coat pockets, shortcutting away with a grumble. Assured that they’d follow through, Nightmare gave Horror one last look before stepping back into the infirmary.
He pulled himself out of the shadows, turning around to assess Cross’s state. He found him sitting up, his expression thin and shoulders hunched. The complicated knot of warring emotions was everclear in the crease of his brow, his mouth twisted with something bitter and unhappy.
But he was no longer on the verge of going unconscious, nor was he in hysterics. Though, judging from the fine trembling of his shoulders and the way he fisted the bedsheets, he was close to it. Fear, pain, anger, stress, confusion, worry; the mess of emotions was overwhelming even to Nightmare. He couldn't imagine how it must’ve felt to Cross, who was drowning in those swirling emotions.
Nightmare wordlessly siphoned off some of the excess negativity, frowning at the spiking of anger that followed the wave of realization. Even more alarming was how quickly it snowballed into hot rage, and Cross opened his mouth, teeth flashing in an ugly snarl as he began to spit venom.
The door opened, however, and his words died as Horror stumbled in, a small box in his hand. Horror spared Nightmare a look, simply acknowledging him before looking at Cross with an unreadable expression. [He looked hopeful.]
He seemed oblivious to the tension in the room, his words as slow and careful as his steps were, the box in his hands held out in offering. Cross’s breath hitched the closer Horror got, but he didn’t lash out, only eyeing him warily.
Horror stopped about a foot away from too close, his shaking hands cracking the box open. The smell folded out in a cloud of hot steam, carrying spices and the scent of carefully cooked meat. 
Nightmare took that moment to slowly step closer as well, curious to see what Horror had made. He could see some tacos, positively overflowing with meat and cheese. [Cross’s favorite.]
Cross’s expression crumbled into dismay at the sight of it, a sharp, painful sadness flooding his aura. He inhaled shakily, a weak noise escaping him. His hands gripped the cot blankets, his arms trembling as he stared at the steaming food in mounting upset. Horror encouraged him to take the box, “i…. made ya sum’ food… fer strength..”
Cross miserably took the box, whispering his thanks in a choked voice. No one made any mention of it, nor did they acknowledge the way Cross teared up at the first bite. He pressed his wrist to his teeth, chewing at a snail's pace before swallowing harshly, as if it pained him to eat it.
Horror looked pleased that his offering was accepted, and for a moment, Nightmare wished he could sense the positive spectrum more clearly. He wanted to get a read on Horror’s strangely positive aura. Perhaps if he knew what the emotions were, he’d be able to figure out why he felt them.
The room was silent as Cross ate, which was no doubt the reason for Cross’s rising anxiety. Nightmare found his way into one of the seats, and Horror sat on the bed adjacent to Cross’s, watching him eat with rapt attention. [With pride.]
Cross felt like he’d been punched in the throat by the sheer amount of positive intent packed into the fucking tacos. He almost burst into tears the instant he took that first bite, and he wanted to vomit because where the fuck did Horror scrounge up the will to generate this much… care. They were delicious. The meat was cooked and steamed to perfection, the shells were soft and easy on his teeth, the tomatoes were somehow still cold, and the seasoning was heavenly. It was the best thing he could remember eating.
How long did Horror spend cooking this damn meal for it to have become so saturated in his good intentions? How long did he slave away, squeezing every bit of his will and desire to heal and soothe into them?
Cross ate every last bit of it, ignoring the way it made his magic roil in ravenous hunger and nausea alike.
Horror happily– and why is he so happy?– took the dish once Cross finished, tucking it away into his inventory and keeping his bloated red eyelight focused on Cross. As if he were important, something precious. Cross had seen Horror look at food like that before. He wasn’t sure how to feel about it, but he didn’t have the energy to despise him for it.
Not right now, not when Nightmare was eyeing him so strangely. His expression was unreadable, the emotion behind that sharp eyelight intangible and out of Cross’s realm of understanding. He turned away from Nightmare, staring down at his lap, a creeping burning crawling up his neck as he waited for something to happen.
They just stared at him. He could practically hear Nightmare thinking, the debate clear in the tense air. Cross didn’t dare open his mouth, despite how much he wanted to keep Nightmare from spewing any earth-shattering truths.
He heard them before he saw them, the approaching drone of voices, and Cross’s soul sank in his chest, dropping like a lead weight as he realized how very little he wanted to see anyone else right now.
The universe ignored his wishes yet again, and the infirmary door creaked open. Dust stepped in first, his eyelights immediately focusing on Cross with a keen interest that made Cross cringe into himself. His arms crossed over his stomach, a defensive action that made him want to vomit because since when did he care for the little fucking—
Killer stepped in and Cross choked on the rising anger in his soul. His expression contorted in fury, the sight of Killer like the cherry on the cake, and it was like reality sank in with the vengeance of a rabid fox.
The door had barely even shut before Cross spat at Killer, “I’m not having this conversation.”
Nightmare’s tentacles dropped in surprise at the twist in Cross’s behavior. “What?”
Killer hurried in, stepping up to Horror’s left, entirely too close and looking stupidly concerned. In a blur, Cross snatched his pillow and hurled it at Killer. It was the only projectile he had, but Killer recoiled like he’d been shot as the pillow struck him in the chest and landed with a puff on the cot.
Killer looked taken aback at the action, blinking down at the pillow in confusion. Every other feeling, mainly distress, was washed out and replaced with a massive wave of rage. And really, with how he treated Cross before he passed out, he deserved whatever the fuck he got.
“I’m not having this conversation. I’m not fucking talking to any of you,” Cross snarled, but his voice wavered with undeniable hurt. Horror made a noise of dismay, the sound entirely lost as Dust responded with equal anger, “We’re going to have to fuckin’ talk about it, you know that, right?”
Cross shot him a glare, his mouth twisted in a hateful expression that darkened as Killer tried again to speak. “I’m not talking to any of you. I don’t even want to see you!”
“Cross, you-” Nightmare tried.
“No,” Cross hissed back.
“Cross-”
“No.”
Killer butted in, his soul spinning like a sawblade, “Cross, calm the fuck down. We’re not tryina-”
Cross kicked at him, a weak tap more than anything, but Killer stepped away nonetheless, looking bitter and sour.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Cross hissed again, but it was less aimed at the group and more at Killer this time. He didn’t want to speak to any of them, much less about the parasite they put in his soul.
Nightmare cut into Cross’s spitting, firmly and harshly, “We are going to talk about this, Cross. We have a choice to make, and I refuse to let you cower from it.”
Cross knew what they were going to ask. He knew it, but his soul shriveled with dread because he didn’t want to make that choice. He didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to ponder what he could and couldn’t do. Cross just wanted to fucking get out of there, away from the source of his problems. [He’d never fully get away.]
Cross didn’t want to talk to them about this.
------
“Cross.”
“No.”
“Cross, if you will not speak, at least allow us to take you to Sci.”
“Fuck off.”
“You are behaving-”
“FUCK OFF!” Cross kicked at his door, biting back a snarl of pain as he stubbed his toe in the process. He didn’t want to. He didn’t care to, didn’t need to, would never want to.
He’d locked himself in his room after neatly avoiding the conversation. [He simply said no over and over until they let him leave the infirmary and retreat to his own bedroom.]
Dutifully, Horror brought him his dinner, and Cross found it a little harder to turn him away when he asked to come in. [It honestly felt like he was trying. Like he wanted things to be okay.]
Begrudgingly– because he didn’t want him to come in, but he sounded so honest about his intentions, and in the end, he’d been truthful– Cross let Horror in to eat dinner on the floor.
It was nice that Horror was capable of being nonverbal for a while, because Cross absolutely didn’t want to speak. He didn’t care for words. They ate in silence, and Horror left easily when they finished, nodding at Cross respectfully before vanishing through the door.
[Cross hated that he didn’t want him to go.]
It was a long night. Cross tried to muster the courage to take a shower, but he was wary of the mirrors. Of himself. It was hard to avoid looking at the soulling when he didn’t have a shirt covering it up.
Cross crawled into bed without showering, feeling gross and exhausted. At least the soulling wasn’t in his soul anymore. A part of him had been terrified that he’d have to carry the baby in his soul, but knowing that he’d carry it elsewhere was even worse in a way.
He found himself staring at the murky translucent purple of his ecto, at the small underdeveloped soul within. He felt like an idiot, crying over something so incredibly small, but there he was, bawling like a babybones over…
His phone buzzed loudly, singing that familiar tune that made his own soul pound with unfounded relief, and he picked it up, answering in a soft, “Hey.”
“Bruh! I’ve been tryina reach ya for three days, where ya been?”
“...Can I come stay with you a few days, dude?”
--------------
WOOOOOOOO HE'S FINALLY FUCKIN IN, I TOLD YOU GUYS THAT THIS UPDATE WOULD BE EPIC CACKLES
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charaofthedead · 10 months
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READ THIS FOR MORE INFO
harmony: the combination of notes that form a chord or a chord progression (several notes that sound good one after the other, its like a scale) (durability)
timbre: the ability of a note to sound different in a different voice or instrument (potential)
melody: the blend of several notes stacked. aka, different notes sound at the same time (range)
rhythm: strong, repeated pattern of sounds or music. (Precision)
BPM: beats per minute (speed) soulbeats:[REDACTED]
(you may not use the idea of soulbeats without my PERMISSIOn)
(the music in this has melodies from jojos bizarre adventure part 3 and from a song called love love nightmare)
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plasma-studios · 6 months
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why can't we ever burn the right way?
@angstober Day 05: Dried and Cracked.
TW/CW: Hurt no comfort, physical hurt, emotional hurt, soul science (non-sexual), mind rewiring (when Nightmare eats the apple), injury, fire and ice imagery, coma(? or something like that). Fandom: UTMV/Undertale Word count: 1.5k
Summary:
Nightmare and Dream have peculiar souls, but it hardly matters. Then the Apple Incident happens, and ah. Nightmare's soul becomes a ghost of its former self and Dream's soul burns itself (and Dream) alive. Maybe it would be better if they just died. But that's the one thing they cannot do.
ao3: (x)
Nightmare had been thinking of dying souls for the past hour. Perhaps it was morbid. Perhaps it was mere curiosity. He had never seen a dying soul before. The sketch in the book had been his first time seeing anything like it. it had been grayed (his eyes flew to his own purple glow, faint beneath his clothes but unmistakably there) and shrivelled up. The folds resembled raisins quite a lot.
He felt guilty for that comparison for some reason, but it was true. The soul-skin was all shrivelled and dried up. It was what dying— not dead— souls looked like. What souls looked like before Falling Down.
Yet even in their prime, the soul in the book looked completely different compared to his own.
So Nightmare thought his soul was very strange. For one, it weighed. Souls were usually light and weightless, floaty and delicate. Instead, his soul weighed like a rock in his ribs.
For another, souls usually took the form of hearts. He’d read it in books. Yet his soul was, to put it bluntly, a ball of purple light. 
One final thing. Souls were usually warm with life. His soul was— well, perhaps not ice, but like cold water forever icy but not quite ice. Oh, and his soul was so quiet. His soulbeat was almost silent, and the pulsing light was easier to notice than the quiet, quiet thumps.
He pondered it till nightfall. Was it different for Dream?
Was it better for Dream?
-------
Dream thought the stars were beautiful. 
They always were, but perhaps less so tonight. The throbbing in his chest took away what beauty he could find in their glitter. 
A bead of sweat fell from his forehead to the grass. He swallowed thickly. The soul in his chest weighed against his ribs. His breath hitched as the warmth, no, fire in it pulsed for a second longer. The red-hot heat was left there, searing his ribs into rock and his breath into stone. 
The warmth faltered, and he let out a breath. The throbbing loosened ever so slightly and he released his fistful of grass.
Beside him, Nightmare’s soul pulsed in time with the quiet breaths.
Dream untensed and let out another breath. His soul thrummed soundlessly in his chest. The quiet thumps were relentless against the bone. 
He smiled. It felt like a crack. 
His soul went on thrumming, erratic and alive. The fire burned painlessly. Well, more painlessly than before. The fire tended to spike at odd moments. One moment he was counting the stars and the next he could hardly breathe with the weight in his chest searing the underside of his ribs. 
It was easy to ignore the fire in his chest in the daytime, where he couldn’t tell the warmth and the sunshine apart. It made it easier, though the fire never truly went out.
Which wasn’t all that bad, either. It kept him warm through the colder nights, and even simmered down it felt like love, liquidy and honeyed warmth in his stomach, like a roaring hearth.
Dream closed his eyes. He fell asleep with the soul in his chest thrumming like a tired butterfly fluttering its wings to flick off mud.
-------
The bite was tasteless. 
Nightmare couldn’t tell what was breath and what was the apple’s flesh; both were sinking into his tongue and then his teeth and then it was bitten through so easily—
The wind picked up around him. He could feel the bite as it went down, rigid and unyielding but a part of him. His other hand forced another bite from his mouth out of the apple and this time he recognised the welt of blood in his throat, mixing with the tasteless flesh and—
He couldn’t feel his soul.
Something cracked his face upon. A cruel sound bubbled up in his throat, waiting for the crack to shift and the chance to slip right out but his back hurt and then he was arched, something breaking his bones and shifting his ribs—
Why couldn’t he feel any pain?
The sun was out. 
His back was torn upon and the thing spilling out wasn’t his blood.
Why was—
“Nightmare?”
Dream was frozen. 
Nightmare wasn’t cold. Nightmare was nothing. He felt nothing. 
Except—
Why was the pain— 
(Dream.)
“Dream?” The word was choked out on croak. “You—” leave, don’t look back, something is wrong, I am not me—
Why was the pain different?
“Nightmare?”
Why did the pain feel good?
Why did the pain feel free?
The sun was out. 
It was noon and the sun was out.
“Nightmare!” 
Dream reached for him but he stilled midway, eyelights the size of pinpricks, a pained gasp escaping him—
(Dream.)
Nightmare reached forward,  hand touching his fingertips and agony (true agony, not the tasteless bite, not the tear in his back or bone) bloomed from the touch.
Why did his brother’s touch hurt?
Why did everything else— not?
He reached for his brother—
Something reached back.
He blinked and—
Who am I, right now?
-------
“Nightmare!” 
Dream fell to his knees. 
The waves wouldn’t stop, thrumming through the ground and gripping him through the air— 
Waves of negative energy, he realised vaguely. Nightmare.
Dream couldn’t move his legs. In the absence of sunlight his his soul was heating up, festering and hungry.
Dream was burning up.
He looked to the sky, throat parched and dry. Why was there an eclipse?
“Dream.” The voice came as crackling, as if dusting upon its words being spoken. 
Something in Dream made him stop struggling, stop breathing, it isn’t safe to stay leave leave—
That isn’t my brother. (Is it? Isn’t it?)
“Dream.” The wind slowed down around him. He was choking on his breath and his soul was burning him alive.
Dream looked up, and he didn’t recognise the person before him.
Oh, he thought dimly. Nightmare ate an apple.
Dream was accustomed to his soul burning up. 
He would not wake up for the next six hundred years.
This time, it burnt out.
-------
Dream’s soul was not shrivelled or dried. Dream’s soul wasn’t dead yet, it was still dying. 
It would never truly die. It had turned to stone, and stone has no life. It simply is.
Nightmare could destroy it, though. Break the stone into crumbling pieces of dust.
(Did he even want Dream to die?)
The world was different. The world felt warped. Pain felt sweet and hope tasted bitter. Guilt tasted honeyed and regret even sweeter. 
His blood ran free and his soul felt like nothing.
If he’d looked a little closer, he would’ve seen the slightest crack in the dim gold.
He looked up to the eclipse. He wasn’t smiling; it was as if he had forgotten how to.
In time, he would forget the cold too. He would not feel his soul for centuries. He would forget the still serenity of a quiet soulbeat. He would forget the languidness of his old soul. Nightmare was no longer himself.
But the soul would still weigh in his chest, like nothing at all.
He would summon his own soul later and see the dry soul-skin at the edges, as if starved of life and falling apart at the edges. 
And he would feel the sunkissed revolt in his throat.
-------
“Do you ever wonder what’d it be like without it?” Dream asked a lifetime ago.Nightmare paused, a finger hooked and ready for the page turn. “Without it?” 
“Our souls. As in, you know.” Dream yawned. “What if we had normal souls? Lighter souls, less ball and more heart-shaped.”
“Like,” His eyebrows scrunched up. “Weightless?”
“Maybe not that much,” He amended. “Just less heavy. Less hot. Less cold for you, too.”“Ah.” Nightmare hummed. “I wouldn’t mind that. If only just for curiosity’s sake.”
Dream nodded, “A soul. A normal soul. Just like everyone else’s.”
“Sounds different.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Eh. Maybe.” And he went back to his book, and that was the end of it, a lifetime ago.
-------
Dream woke up with dust in his mouth. 
The sun wasn’t shining, but the eclipse had long ended. It seemed there was simply no sun left to sun for him.
He felt nothing but hollow. His brother wasn’t here. How long had it been?
Perhaps it would be better if he was already dead. Dried soulskin, sunken soul, dimmed light. He already had a crack in his soul. It wouldn’t be difficult to split it wide upon, for a normal soul. 
But his soul was different. His soul wasn’t normal. His soul wasn’t mortal.
He didn’t know how to feel when the trickles of heat started up again, flowing through the gaps and veins somewhere in the golden mass of light. 
-------
Dream would meet Nightmare in another place, another time, and think, my brother died before me that day, didn’t he?
-------
Normal, no, mortal souls dry up and crack with even just age. Their souls were different. If put under pressure and still youthful, maybe they would shrivel up a little or crack here and there. But they would never perish. 
So Dream would have to keep on burning.
And Nightmare, Nightmare—
Nightmare was already dead. He was long dead, with his dry soul-skin and soul starved of life and falling apart at the edges. 
Not a single part of him was alive that wasn’t decaying.
-------
Dream learnt to burn silently, just like how Nightmare used to ponder silently under that tree. 
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Uh ErrInk bc I was in a slight mood
The Anti-Void never made noise. It never hummed, it never stirred. Things echoed without walls, if one is quiet enough they could hear the thrumming beat of their soul, soothing like the sound of a fan late at night. Never terrifying to him, the sound of him breathing, shifting, just him and him alone out in such an expanse. No random, intruding sounds that came from living in an AU, no surprises. He controlled what he heard and what he didn't even without his headphones, he only needed such helpful items when someone else was nearby or when he was out and about. The endless clicking of his needles or off-thought rambling, sometimes saved videos on his phone or a portal to Undernovella.
He liked how simple that was. Absolute silence. All the time. He loved the beat of his own soul, repetitive and constant, never-changing. Just like every other sound he allowed in there. Most things that were too extra and assaulting to the ears were barred. But sometimes unexpected and changing sounds were welcome, because even they have a certain level of consistency he could follow and even lull to.
Some sounds, like the irregular tune of an aimless hum, were more soothing than a soulbeat. Distracted tune-deaf singer voicing colorful thoughts, swinging his feet back and forth underneath the in-the-works of a sweater. Small enough to lay comfortably over his companion's chest with very little crowding or irritation. Blanketed in gentle fabric that pulled and shifted as it was worked on.
Some sounds were welcome, they gave good hugs when they were needed.
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phantomstarss · 24 days
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Umbra And The Gangs Relationship.
Just sorta wanted to ramble about Umbra and the gangs relationship with him. Idk if this will interest anyone but I thought I might as well post it.
Imma put a cut here because it's a little long.
HATI:
Even though the sheer… obsession has dimmed over the years, Hati is honestly still quite possessive over Umbra. Umbra is his God. Umbra is his Savior. Umbra is his father Boss. Umbra. is. his. Everything. And Hati doesn't give a single shit that Umbra only 'hired' him first because he was the simplest and easiest opinion. Hati was the first. Hati is his Second in Charge. And that's all that matters.
He values Umbra's life far more than his own. Random jackasses at The Market annoying Umbra? He'll tear them to shreds. Sol and his followers? Not even a second thought. The embodiment of Destruction himself? He'll do it in a soulbeat. Hati would throw himself in any danger if it meant keeping Umbra safe.
Though this doesn't mean he certainly doesn't have… fun with this on occasion. Throwing himself off rather high places to either A: prove a point or. B: for his own amusement. To see how long it takes Umbra to catch him, has become somewhat regular. 'oh? Boss has been doing paperwork all day and has ignored me? Time to yeet myself off one of the castle walls!'.
the rest of the boys were confident Hati was just straight up suicidal. Though Umbra was quick to ensure them this was just a thing Hati did for attention. At this point Umbra is very familiar with the taste of his AU's dirt, when he's just a little too late on the whole melding into shadows.
Umbra realized this to an extent when he first acquired Hati. Though he thought this was more because he left Hati to his own devices (after he could walk that is) in a giant pitch black castle, and the only real socialization he got was Umbra himself and the literal God of Death. for months, nearly a whole year. And maybe the rare visit to The Market once and a while.
Umbra only realized the sheer level of obsession Hati had with him when he brought Fenrir on the scene. He was expecting some backlash from it, he assumed they would probably fight, gripe, maybe even fully dislike each other at first. But never, in a million years, did Umbra expect that Hati would be outright jealous of Fenrir. And he certainly didn't think this was going to turn into bloody physical fights for affection. Or well, praise on Hati's side and fighting for his life for Fenrir.
Umbra, of course, gets rather frustrated with this behavior. He's weaned Hati off of this behavior, to a extent. Though he'll never be able to fully wean him off.
FENRIR:
The two have a very symbiotic relationship with each other. Dare I say a pack like relationship
Umbra provides food, Fenrir feeds everyone. Even though Umbra doesn't need to eat. Umbra protects him, Fenrir protects Umbra. Despite not needing any protection from a mere mortal. Umbra cleans him, Fenrir cleans Umbra. Though it never does much. Umbra comforts him, Fenrir comforts Umbra.
It's pretty common for the two to make cuddle piles.(that they usually drag the other's into). Be it because one - or both - of them is upset. Or one Umbra's light scoldings turns into cuddles. Or simply Fenrir looking for a snuggle partner, and the God is a perfect candidate.
Despite all this Fenrir never feels like he's enough for Umbra, or even the rest of the Gang. Umbra comes at any sigh of stress, no matter the day or time, perhaps before they even realize it. Umbra has battled God's for them. Umbra has taken them from their darkest moments and rebuilt them. Umbra takes care of the all, doing anything within reason for them. And what does Fenrir do? He makes sandwiches and fights Umbra's lesser half.
Umbra always says it's more than enough, Umbra lets him have pretty much everything he wants. Even to this day it still surprises Fenrir to an extent. Especially considering how he used to treat Umbra.
Biting, clawing, kicking, screaming, acting like a caged feral animal. Umbra used to not be able to leave Fenrir's room without a new hole in his shoulder or one of his tentacles. Yet he put up with it (mostly). Dealt with all the wounds. Dealt with all the outrageous accusations, every. Single. Accusation. In. The. Book. 90% of them made zero sense. Even Fenrir, in his confused state, knew it. But he still threw them, in any desperate attempt to get Umbra just to leave him alone. But he didn't. He stayed and helped Fenrir through his mental knot.
He owes countless things to Umbra. And he plans to make it back.
SKÓROS/WISP:
Why Him? Of all the creatures in the Multiverse, Why Him? Hati, Fenrir, hell even Xolo makes more sense than him.
Hati was the first. Seemingly perfect for this 'job'. Despite his clinginess and need for attention he was perfect. He listened without a second thought, he'd lay down his life for the God. He'd kill with a smile on his face, and be complacent if ordered otherwise.
Fenrir cooked, cleaned, provided where the others couldn't or simply refused. He protected those he knew and loved. Unlike Skóros who slaughtered mindlessly. Fenrir was large, he could hold his own in a fight even without magic or weapons.
Xolo was the cast away lover of Sol. A strong enemy and even stronger ally. He has strong magic, he knows basic medicine, he was in the royal guard. He. Knew. Things. He even started his own rebellion.
And Skóros himself? Absolutely. Nothing.
Yet Umbra still keeps him. Keeps him safe. Make sure he eats - and gets rather mad if he doesn't. Cleans him- Cares for him.
Skóros can't count the times he's just layed in Umbra's lap while said God rambles on about something. Just… having a casual conversation with him, even if it is mostly one sided.
Skóros can't count the times Umbra comes to his aid with Nightmares. Slowly coaxing out of those horrific memories.
Skóros can't count the times he's been praised over the smallest and strangest things.
Skóros can't count the times Umbra has put up with his childish outbursts. Physical or verbal.
Skóros can't count the times Umbra has healed him, be it from Sol, the others, or himself.
...
Skóros. Can. Count. The. Times. Umbra has smiled at him.
And it's too many.
He just doesn't understand.
XOLO:
Happy. Confused. But happy. Sol had painted a very specific picture in his head. And Umbra was nothing like that picture.
Or, well, mostly. Xolo expected the table throwing. Perhaps not throwing a table about 15 feet long, made of pure stone and slightly crystal, that probably weighed about 20 tons, being thrown halfway across a room the size of a football field, and hitting the wall and shattering like glass. But he did expect table throwing.
Xolo trusts Umbra to an extent he never thought he could. Umbra understood things, he doesn't blow up or sweep it under the rug like Sol would. He didn't have to walk on eggshells.. mostly. Talking about Sol or trees typically ended in future throwing or Umbra disappearing for a month.(leaving them to be babysat by Extinction who was a little too excited to play 'dad') but mostly harmless.
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axewchao · 8 months
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In This World, There's Only Monsters
Ended up thinking of this either shortly before or shortly after I posted the pic of Rockruff!Dal and Sawk. Basically it's a weird mesh of Undertale and PMD. Less of a crossover and more Undertale borrowing various elements from PMD. No Pocket Monsters anywhere, only UT Monsters.
...So at that point it's more of a basic dungeon-crawler RPG than anything else =w="
Dal is a human that was somehow sent to this world, and is found by Toriel in the Ancient Ruins, a place that was once a normal area before one day transforming into a Mystery Dungeon, or as they're called in this world, a Labyrinth. Labyrinths are dangerous, packed with all kinds of puzzles, traps, Monsters that are sliiightly more feral, and folks are known to get lost/stuck in them if they're not careful. Or if they're just adventure-hungry/treasure hunting idiots.
Dal follows the usual PMD protag formula of having amnesia this time around, unlike Rockruff!Dal. Can't remember anything other than his name, his age, general facts/knowledge and that he's a human. But while his personal memories are gone, the emotions linked to those memories still remain, and he eventually starts recalling things if current events mimic them well enough. Toriel's motherly behavior towards him is a good example; one bite of her cooking, clearly done with love and care, is enough to trigger Dal's memories of his own mother, albeit faintly. He doesn't remember Celeste's face, voice, or even her name, but what little he does recall is enough to drive him to silent tears.
And while Toriel isn't going to stop him from finding other ways to jog his memory, she is quick to warn him of one very important thing: Never let anyone find out he's a human. His very SOUL could give him away, as it's still the right side-up heart shape and instead of being pure white, it's a deep blue, shining strong with Integrity. And unlike normal Monsters who are made of magic and dust, Moomore is still made of flesh and bone, has a heartbeat alongside his SOULbeat, and bleeds when injured.
And speaking of magic... monsters can't seem to use theirs lately. Huh. No time to wonder why, since Dal can evidently use magic himself. Maybe he's got a surplus since he doesn't need any magic to... y'know. Make up his body n' stuff...
Why keep his humanity hidden? Because the humans that appeared in the Monster world before Dal were seen as bad omens, and all of them were killed before too long. It has been a long time since a human last arrived in the Monster world, so most people wouldn't notice a thing, but Moomore isn't the type to take such a risk, especially if his life would literally be on the line. Which it is.
But the questions remain... Why is Dalex here? Why'd he lose his memory? How much has he really forgotten? Why do Monsters see humans as "bad omens?" Why are humans even appearing in this world at all, when it's clear that Monsters don't want them around? Can Dal really trust anyone in this world? Will Dal be able to hide in plain sight, or will he be caught and inevitably killed?
And most importantly... if we're throwing PMD aspects into this adventure, that means Dal's the Hero... so who's the Partner? :3c
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