#banshee snippet

[starry-bi-sky]

my body's aching like a knock-down drag-out

and my poor heart is an open wound A Childhood Friends Au snippet that very briefly delves into Danny's life post-accident. CW: Mild Mentions of Blood, Violence, VERY mild gore ig. Danny briefly recalls getting impaled during a fight.

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What they don't tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it can hurt. That it can hurt more than when you were alive. That when you die, the emotions you die with stick with you like a leech that just won't let go. That emotions are ugly little thorns that stick their barbs into you and grow beneath your skin; or, at least, whatever’s left of it. 

Danny is familiar with anger. It kept him warm in Gotham, when his parents weren't home from work and he and Jason were crowding Crime Alley with their presence. It kept him warm in Amity, when the fresh sting of moving was still needling into his heart and he wanted nothing more than to rip and tear into the closest person next to him.

He's familiar with violence. With fights. With death. He's seen people die in Crime Alley probably every day. From overdose, from gunshots, from stab wounds; anything that can kill, rest assured he's seen it. He's familiar with getting his own knuckles rough and bloody when other kids turn and bare their teeth at him and Jason; they're all just starving dogs stuck in a fighting pit, primed and ready to rip out each other's throats. 

Black eyes, stomped hands, bloody noses. You name it; he’s had it. Gotham is paved with the blood of her children, and Danny likes to imagine that when he was born, the doctors handed his mother a file and told her; “Take it. He’s going to need it for his teeth.” 

Danny’s mom (and dad, for that matter) was too busy trying to keep him and Jazz fed, so Danny stole the file from her drawer with Jazz’s help, and did it himself.  

He’s familiar with anger, he thought he was getting better at it these days. It doesn’t come to him as easily as it did before. Of course, that was before Jason died. 

Danny is less familiar with grief. Caring kills and Gotham kills the caring, so Danny cares very little about other people. Or he tries to. But grief hurts. His grief hurts. It hurts too much. It hurts like a bug trying to crawl out of his chest; like a rat chewing a hole through his heart. Some days he wants to dig his hands into his hair and split himself down the middle. Some days he just wants to scream. 

He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. 

He wants the whole city to hear him wailing, some days. It sticks itself in the back of his throat like bile, and Danny is one wrong retch away from letting it loose. It sticks in his lungs like all the tar he’s smoked in since he was nine. It pushes and aches at his temples, in his head, like his brain is trying to swell out of his skull. His thoughts becoming so loud they threaten to commandeer his tongue.  

He has no mouth, but he must scream. 

Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it hurts. That it hurts more than when you were alive. Something they don’t tell you about being dead is that it’s violent. That it’s bloody. Or as bloody as it can be when everyone has no blood. 

Another thing they don’t tell you about being dead, is that it’s a lot like Gotham that way.

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies forget death itself. Blood comes easy, like water, and teeth are encouraged. Bring your own fangs to the fight. Dying is something you can just walk off. 

Danny’s been dead for three months. He can’t say he’s been walking it off easy. He’s perfected the art of turning his nails into claws since his heart was still beating, but he can’t say he’s perfected fighting other ghosts. 

Scrappy is just not enough. 

He feels like he’s back in Gotham again. Back in her death-shroud alleyways, fighting someone bigger than him. But there’s no Jason to watch his back, and Danny has to get himself out of there alone. Or he might just not get up at all. 

Black eyes, busted lips. It’s familiar to him like an old scent, Danny isn’t quite sure that he’s missed it. It’s more familiar than his fights with Dash. 

But there’s no one else who can do it but him. Not Sam, not Tucker. He can’t lose them too. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t. His heart can’t take another break, he already feels like he’s going insane. 

With no threat of death, Danny’s enemies fight like death themself. He learns why when Technus puts a street sign through his stomach one day. It pins him to the asphalt like a moth pinned by its wings. 

Danny claws at the metal like how an animal caught in a trap chews off its leg, and every move is blinding pain. He thinks he was howling, but it’s hard to tell. He couldn’t recognize the sound of his voice. 

He bleeds green. It mixes in black with the pitch blackhole in his heart, which throbs and twists and cries in time with his reckless panic. The finger-choking terror of dying again strangles out the air he doesn’t need. His blood evaporates, only to reabsorb into him. It just bleeds out again, cycling like a snake eating its own tail. 

Danny breaks his nails clawing at the metal, and eventually gets it in his mind to pull it out. So he does, and the end drips ectoplasm green as he gets to his feet. In red-vision, Danny sends the sign back with snarling, vicious fervor. The pain is irrelevant in his rage.

Only after the fight does the hole the pole left start to close. Danny doesn’t shift human until it’s gone. Unlike other injuries, a scar stays behind. Ugly; mottled, it aches for a week with every twist and stretch his body makes. He hates it. 

Being dead is agony. 

Every part of him is in pain. Every step, every word he speaks, everything he does, it is prerequisite with pain. The body is temporary, but the soul is forever, and death has carved into it with its freezing green hands and left him with never-ending heartache. It has torn from him and stolen what of him it could, and in return it’s left him with sorrow. 

His pain is his grief, and he’s sobbed in the safety of his room more times than he can count. It’s still as fresh as the day he heard the news of Jason’s death. He knows, instinctively, that it will stay fresh forever. 

In his room, Danny shoves his hands over his mouth and shrieks in whatever, muffled way he can into his pillow. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. He needs to be louder. He needs to be heard. He refuses to be. 

Being dead hurts. 

[frost-queen]

Witches road// part 2 (Fem!reader x Agatha Harkness)

Forever tag:@missmelodramatic,@alex--awesome--22, @ellie-does-the-posts, @floatlosers, @merlieve , @queen-of-books , @glimmering-darling-dolly , @denkisclown , @wildieflower , @meyocoko , @justanothercoco, @subjecta13-thefangirl , @m-rae23 , @harleyquinnswifeyfrfr , @swampything07, @melsunshine , @panhoeofmanyfandoms , @venomsvl , @the-uncoordinated-house-cat , @rosecentury , @imagines-by-her, @evilcr0ne , @vviolynn , @niktwazny303 , @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 , @erikasurfer, @slythetic , @p0nycurtis , @quailbagutte , @fantasticcroissantpandagarden, @lanfear-is-my-darkmistress

Summary: Summoning the witches road, you are met up with the first trial. Being close around Agatha once more breaks unfamiliar things out of you. Can you overcome your fears and get a sense of what is becoming of you. [Witches road series]

Gather sisters fire

Water, earth and air

You quirked your eyebrow intriguingly up when you entered the house. Hand sliding on the doorframe whilst entering. Making a loud hum sound, looking around. – “What?” – Agatha asked entering behind you. – “Nothing.” – you responded looking over your shoulder to her. – “It’s just not you.” – you gestured at the clean suburban lifestyle, something unlike her.

“Well I didn’t have it to the picking Y/n.” – Agatha responded annoyed. Chuckling amused, you walked to the living room. Seeing another witch already present. With wide eyes, she looked at you. – “Are my eyes deceiving me?” – she questioned. – “They are not.” – Agatha responded walking past her. Your familiar jumped on the sofa making Agatha hurry over.

“Uh-uh no pets on the couch.” – she started clapping her hands to scare him away. Your familiar hissed back in defence, making her pull her hands back. – “Fine then sit.” – she replied bothered. Jennifer’s gaze went from you to Agatha, keeping a close eye on it. Trying to find something subtle in her behaviour.

She got quickly disrupted when the other witches walked in. – “Let’s summon the road.” – Agatha said happily, clasping in her hands. You started humming the tune of the hymn, going towards her basement. – “Is… is she alright?” – Alice asked with a point at you.

Agatha waved it away, going after you. Down her basement you all came to stand in a circle. Agatha came standing beside you. You glanced down at her offering hand, humming in disagreement as you went around taking Jennifer’s hand. Agatha narrowed her eyes with a soft glare.

Your familiar meowed near her feet, startling her. Looking down at the black cat, she showed him her clawed hand. It made your familiar hiss back at her, hairs up straight. Agatha straightened her posture. A sudden thundering made her freak out. – “Let’s get a move on.”

She grabbed their hands, readying themselves to sing the witches ballad.

Seekest thou the road

To all that's foul and fair

Gather sisters fire

Water, earth and air

Darkest hour, wake thy power

Earthly and divine

Burn and brew with coven true

And glory shall be thine

Your gaze went upwards sensing the hauntingly arrival. Their presence carried by the screeching wind. Like a banshee’s cry sending a wave of crumbled leaves with them. The pressing hour of the witches road nearing. Only one chance to succeed for else the seven would devour her.

Your familiar jumped on your shoulder, laying his tail around your neck. Squeezing your newly sister’s hands, you sang along. The words you had carved in your head for centuries. Down, down, down the road. Down the witches road. A pulsating force made you move your chest a bit back. Taken back by it’s intensity. The seven had entered the house. Having stepped over the boundaries.

Your gaze went to Agatha in front of you. Seeing her sing with fear in her eyes. Very well aware of the troubles waiting upstairs. Down, down, down the road. Down the witches road.

The chanting became louder and louder. Overpowering the rumbling from upstairs. The ceiling shuddering with snippets of dust fluttering down. Squeezing their hands tight, you felt the primal force of a coven brewing down deep. Gaze fixating at Agatha with a hard stare. Maiden, mother, crone. An ominous sound seeped through the house.

Thundering with an ominous omen. A path one should not take. Down, down, down the road. Down the witches road. Roared through the basement. Chanting loudly with every might from your lungs. Elevating with the brewing hymn. Looking up, you let the chanting fully consume you. To glory at the end.

Hands were released as all looked breathless at each other. For an eerie moment, everyone wondered if it worked. Emptiness. Whilst Agatha and the others were bickering. Knowing what was at her doorstep, you lowered yourself. Kneeling down to touch the cold ground. Your familiar jumped off your back, meowing soft.

You started to hum the hymn once more, brushing your hand over the ground. Closing your eyes briefly. When your hands felt roughness, you opened your eyes once more. Thundering rushed down the stairs as the teen appeared out of breath. – “Is that the door?” – he asked breathless. All looked at him before looking down at the ground. You were smiling wickedly at the door. Agatha immediately knelt down to pull the slots open.

“Help me!” – she yelled out with urgency. All came to her help. Revealing a set of steps. Stone and cold. You whistled brief as your familiar jumped on your shoulder. – “Down, down, down.” – you whispered taking the first step. Others quickly followed, going down. Letting the road consume them. Agatha closed the doors before the seven could claim her.

Following the glowing bouncing off the walls, you lead them down. A smile curling up when you met with the woods. Taking a deep breath, you let it consume your lungs. Letting it take over every breath of you. The teen came standing beside you, smiling excitingly at you. You smiled back at him as your black cat stuck his head out to him. The teen looked wonderous over to you.

With a simple nod of yours, you accepted. The teen reached out to scratch your cat behind the ear. – “May I ask you something Y/n?” – he dared to ask, lowering his hand. You hummed softly with a nod. – “How… why… why… were… you?” – he started, stumbling a bit over his words. Unsure how to phrase it. – “Buried?” – you responded knowing where he was going with it.

Staring off into the distance, your mind got pulled back a memory. Standing frozen as the teen tried to get a reaction out of you by waving his hand before you. – “Crawling all the way…” – you said numbly. Your cat meowed in your ear, making you shake your head awake.

Plastering on a smile, you looked back at the teen. Tapping his nose with a playful shrug. You then hummed loudly to hop after the others. – “Is… is she alright?” – Alice asked Jennifer lowly. Jennifer moved her gaze onto you. – “I’ve only heard rumours, but she was betrayed…” – Jennifer responded. – “By whom?” – Alice wanted to know. Jennifer only looked in Agatha’s direction as it said enough.

Alice nodded nervously as it made a bit more sense. Agatha came to a stop, turning round to everyone. – “We will be tested at every possible given.” – she explained. There were some uncertainties amongst the sisters. Unsure how they would be tested to find glory at the end. – “Shall we?” – Agatha exclaimed, clasping her hands together. She noticed your gaze was fixated on the ground. 

Staring lost at it, almost like in trance. Agatha chuckled nervously coming over to you. She came standing behind you, taking you by the shoulders. – “Y/n, let’s go.” – she whispered to you, her lips close to your cheek. You numbly rocked your body wobbly on your heel. – “Let’s go…” – she repeated tugging on your shoulder to follow her.

When Agatha turned around she noticed Mrs. Hart… uhum Sharon had taken off. It made her groan loud needing to search for her. All of you started to run, hearing screams. Screams filling the witches road like an embrace. Familiar and known. Your eyes widened seeing Mrs. Hart trying to pull her purse out of a puddle of mud. Slowly devouring her purse. Making it one with the earth.

You rushed over to her, grabbing her by the ankles, ready to pull along with Jennifer as your eyes fell on the mud puddle. Seeing how it was swallowing the purse whole. It made your whole heart empty, waiting for the beat to come out. – “Y/n! Y/n!” – Jennifer called out as you weren’t helping.

Agatha noticed the trauma reflecting deep in your eyes as it made her come to assist. Grabbing the ankle with your hands around it to assist in tugging. Mrs. Hart got pulled back, making you fall down. Blinking rapidly, you crawled on top of Agatha. A distant look in your eyes, as you held a stick against her throat. Pushing it slightly into her skin.

Cheeks trembling with fury as a part of you wanted to jab it through her throat. Agatha had moved her hands up, seeing you were miles away. A darkness deep in your eyes. – “Y/n.” – the teen spoke approaching you. – “Lower the stick…it’s alright…” – he said calmly, reassuring you. – “Y/n… it’s alright…” – he came kneeling beside you.

“Let Agatha go Y/n.” – he spoke softly reaching for your hand. Panting loud, your hand trembled. Once the teen moved his hand over yours, it seemed to steady. He slowly moved the stick away from Agatha’s throat. Taking your other hand to help you off Agatha and up your feet. Agatha touched her throat for a pinch.

“I’m…I’m sorry…” – you told the teen, not sure what overcame you. – “It’s alright.” – he responded with a soft smile. Your familiar came brushing against your leg, making you look down at him. Kneeling down, you picked him up, letting him snuggle against your chest.

The comfort of him brought you back to reality. Not sure what had overcome you. – “Has that always been there?” – Jennifer asked after some silence. Making you all look at the house in the distance. Agatha smirked coming nearer. All of you followed her towards the house. You remained in the back, feeling out of yourself. Like you had no idea who this person was.

This person that seemed to keep trying to crawl her way out. Been in the darkness for a very long time. Chained and shackled. The house was warningly welcoming.  Looking at the others, you saw there had been a change in appearances. It made you rub your hands nervously together. By the diner table, you stood holding the glass of wine up.

Mrs. Hart drank the wine in one breath, making you raise your brow at her. – “Shall we take the girl talk to the sofa?” – she said tipsy making you all return to the living room. You took a deep breath, feeling a shiver up your spine when Agatha stroke her finger up your arm.

“Do not drink it.” – she whispered to you with a witchy smile. It made you stare down your glass. Seeing the wine swirl around like blood. Glaring at her, you moved the glass up. – “I stray not from the path, I hold death’s hand in mine.” – you told her before emptying your glass down your throat. Down, down, down it went. Agatha’s gaze widened. With a beckoning look, you threw your glass against the ground.

Shattering into a dozen pieces. It made her jump back to avoid the shatters. The first symptoms appeared with Mrs. Hart. Her face all swollen, you could barely recognize her. Then it consumed the others. Taking each and one witch. Poison. The wine was poisoned. Your cat meowed soft at the first trial. Counting down till the hour of death. Waiting patiently at the door for unsuccess.

For the only wakening to keep death at bay was an antidote. Jennifer send everyone off. You went with Lilia and Agatha. Haunted by the hour of death and it’s testing. For a witch would be tested greatly.

The chime of a bell made you stop in your tracks. Lilia and Agatha continuing. Another bell chimed as it send a shiver down your spine. Feeling the room turn, you slowly turned around. An ominous sound grasping you when you stared down at an empty grave. A bell chiming twice.

A banshee’s cry carried by the wind as crumbled leaves fluttered over your feet. Down. Down. Down. The empty hole in the grave seemingly enlarging till the very crust of the earth. A gaping mouth ready to swallow you whole. Your body started to shock a bit. Feeling a cough come up. The bell chimed for a third time. Trying to hold in the coughs. A thickness in your throat.

Coughing loud, you coughed up earth. Dry earth, coughed out like powder. Seeping out of your mouth as it made you sink to your knees. Kneeling at the bed of the grave, the bellowing emptiness below. Down. Down. Down. Coughing more, the earth from your mouth fell in the empty grave.  

Feeling yourself choke on the earth and sand in your mouth. There seemed to be no end. Thy breathing woven to earth. Trying to grasp for air, you grasped your fingers down your throat. Body wobbling as you felt yourself nearly tip down the gaping mouth of your boundness. All that gravel. Chained and shackled.

Body releasing gravity as you felt weightless. Tipping forwards, ready to meet your earthy bed. A sudden grip on your shoulder made you gasp awake. Blinking rapidly at the vast ground. No more cemetery. No more grave. Touching your mouth, it was clean of any earth. – “Y/n?” – Agatha asked concerned.

She came kneeling beside you as you teared up. Letting yourself fall against her chest, you cried soft. Agatha shushing you soothingly. She placed a sorrowful kiss at the top of your head.

Gaining your senses, you pushed yourself off her. Returning to Jennifer to assist her. She noticed the spooked expression on your face. – “You too?” – she asked, making you nod. One of the side-effects of the poison you weren’t keen on. Your black cat jumped on the counter, purring loudly as you stroke his back. – “Is it true?” -Jennifer asked making you look up at her. – “Did you truly get betrayed?” – she wanted to know.

“It's my whole heart. Weighed and measured inside.” – you responded as it sounded like a riddle to her. – “Deemed and delivered a crime.” – you went on, staring into the distance, still petting your familiar. Not wanting to engage in it further, you picked up your cat, moving away from Jennifer. Jennifer nodded respectfully. The others returned all with their ingredients for the antidote.

You held on close to your familiar, watching Jennifer brew the potion. Your cat jumped onto your shoulder when you held hands to change the potions colour. Needing it to be teal. With the teens blood it reached teal. Letting a fallen hair drop in. The hour of death at your shoulder, breathing down. Trying to outrun it. To escape the hour of death, you drank the potion.

“Hurry!” – Agatha shouted as the glass had broken. Sending a flood of water inside. Your cat jumped into your arms as you ran with it to the open oven. Jennifer crawled through it first. You followed with your cat as the others were behind you. Jennifer’s scream was loud when she went down the slide. Followed by laughter. Cackling with pleasure down the slide till your body bumped against hers. One by one, they went down the slide. All getting up but one. For Sharon was dead.

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Read more of my fics on my Masterlists!

[romavoid]

Nullity can’t remember when she started humming the tune. It was small snippets of a bigger song, that she did know. But what song is also lost to her. Was it before the sky kingdom, with her biological parents? Or was it after that, during her unsteady days adapting to the higher, less nocturnal climate? She was too young to really remember either way.

Still, it's a nice melody to sing to, especially when baking.

“What’re you trying out this time, Nul?”

The nightwing squeaked loudly, whipping her whole body around in surprise. In the doorway to the kitchen loomed a large, redwood-coloured skywing, clearly trying to hide his mirth.

“Dad!!! You can’t do that to me!” Nullity yelled past his now booming laughter. She felt blood rush to her face, flush with embarrassment.

“Aw darl, that was an amazing reaction!” Her father replied, wiping a stray tear from his eye.

“Yeah well, I'm making banana bread, and it’s gonna be way better than yours, so ha!”

Despite his frankly annoying tallness, Nullity’s adoptive father was a baker, and a good one at that. Hired among the higher circles of the sky kingdom - both in altitude and class - he would prepare pastries, breads, cakes, and other sweet and savoury foods for other dragons to snack on. But for a long, long while, his family and creations were a one dragon job, until he found Nullity.

“Oh banana bread? That’s a good one, what’s your flour to banana ratio, though?”

“Oh 1 to 2, obviously, but I’m adding some walnuts to it as well.”

Nullity’s father smiled fondly. “Attagirl.”

Yeah, he was a great dad. Silly and often times oblivious, but great. But of course it wasn't just him that found Nullity in the woods…

“Morning Nully, morning Finch!” a voice boomed through the entrance of the house.

It was her mother too.

Their story goes a little like this:

It was one of those restless nights for Finch, when his mind was too loud to get any decent sleep, that he found his little garden. Nestled in between some brambles of the kingdom’s outer wood, Finch had started growing his own food. It was embarrassing, honestly, not trusting his own kingdom's community gardens, but wild fruits and vegetables had always tasted better! Plus, it was a good reprieve from work, too.

On a completely unordinary night, Finch felt like digging up some carrots. “They should be grown by now,” he had thought, “Just in time for carrot-cake season.” So he flew over to his super secret spot, to dig up his super secret carrots, for his super amazing deserts when-

“What are you doing here, citizen?”

A skywing guard found him… with his claws about 1 foot in the ground, and mud splattered all over his scales. The shriek that left his mouth bordered on banshee.

To say he overreacted would be a lie, he had been coming to the garden for almost a year, and no one had found it, or him. He was scared okay? But the way the pink-red guard yelled back in surprise, meant he wasn't the only one.

“Whoa, hey, hey! Calm down!” She squawked at him. “What on earth are you crying about!?”

“You!-” She then whacked him in the face. With her whole wing. OW-

“What is your problem!” he muffled, trying to shove the wing back.

But he stopped, and saw what the guard saw.

The brambles were rustling, he noticed, different from any animal Finch had heard before. Then, out of the thorny bush, slung a black-grey and bleeding tail. A dragonet tail.

The two skywings were frozen with shock.

It was only when a small, scared squeak, left the toddler’s mouth did they finally move.

“Oh gods” The guard breathed. Finch shoved her wing away and rushed over.

He peeled back the branches as delicately as he could, both him, the child, and the guard flinching at every snap of twig. His heart hung heavy in his chest.

“Did you know of this?” The guard - who Finch still didn't know the name of - whispered loudly.

“N-no… nobody comes here.” Finch replied, just as startled. “Why a kid? Why a kid?”

Finch’s hands were shaking, his mind reeling. There’s a child, abandoned, stuck in the thorns in the middle of the night, scared, hurt, and alone. It kept squeaking as well, too young to form words yet. Something needed to be done.

“You…” He hesitated towards the guard.

“Xantus”

“Xantus, thank you, could you search around the area? T-They must have parents, right?”

The guard nodded gravely, taking off into the upper trees.

Finch turned back to the bramble, picking thorns off the child's delicate scales. Their legs were now free, but that was about it. Finch cooed at them, whispering small reassurances, as he painstakingly untied vines and thorns around them. It took a long time, long enough for the guard, Xantus, to come back with no news. The legs were free, then the wings, the chest, the arms and then finally the neck, then face.

Finch noted that, when the sunrise shone through the branches, and the child’s light-burgundy eyes locked on to his, he wanted to be a father.

—

Of course, Nullity wasn't adopted by them until about 10 months after she was found. In that time, Finch and X had to go back to work, giving the child over to the sky-mud joint orphanage. But during that time, both skywings couldn't stop thinking about her. The situation was strange, but above all else, heartbreaking. Her description, age, or location, wasn’t on any census. No kingdom could vouch for her birth, not even the nightwings. Legally speaking, she was a nullity. (ha)

So call it impulsive or parental, but Finch needed to give that child a home. After some consideration, he flew over to X’s, and explained the situation. He knew that, on that completely unordinary day, his whole life had changed. It was to Finch’s surprise, however, that Xantus felt the same. “I couldn’t think, I couldn't eat, I couldn’t sleep, without knowing if she was alright.” She had stated at the time, offering to help the new dad any way that she could.

So they adopted her together, and raised her together.

—

Back in the present, Nullity noted she was still humming that unknown tune, her claws mindlessly stirring her banana bread mixture. Through the doorway, she could hear Finch and X bicker, their loud skywing laughs ringing in her ears.

She loves her parents so much.

[progressivepower]

A+

Just when you think you couldn’t love Tommy Lee anymore he delivers this bit of solid Gold. 😂

"An Open Letter to the president"

From the Drummer of Mötley Crüe, Tommy Lee

Dear Fucking Lunatic,

At your recent press conference - more a word salad that had a stroke and fell down stairs, you were CLEARLY so out of your depth you needed scuba gear. Within minutes of going off air your minions were backpedaling faster than Cirque De Soliel acrobats... In India a week ago, i couldn’t get past the bit about your being the most popular visitor in the history of fucking india — a country of a BILLION human souls that’s only 3000 years old, give or take.!!! Trust me - Gandhi pulled CROWDS.. You pulled a cricket stadium and half WALKED out...

Do you know how fucking insane you sound, you off-brand butt plug? That's like the geopolitical equivalent of “that stripper really likes me” — only 10,000 times crazier and less self aware.

You are fucking exhausting. Every day is a natural experiment in determining how long 300 million people can resist coring out their own assholes with an ice auger. Every time I hear a snippet of your Queens-tinged banshee larynx farts, I want to scream!

We are fucking tired. As bad as we all thought your presidency would be when Putin got you elected, it’s been inestimably worse.

You called a hostile, nuclear-armed head of state “short and fat.” How the fuck does that help?

You accused a woman — a former friend, no less — of showing up at your resort bleeding from the face and begging to get in. You, you, YOU — the guy who looks like a Christmas haggis inexplicably brought to life by Frosty’s magic hat — yes, you of all people said that.

You attempted — with evident fucking glee — to get 24 million people thrown off their health insurance.

You gave billions away to corporations and the already wealthy while simultaneously telling struggling poor people that you were doing exactly the opposite.

You endorsed a pedophile, praised brutal dictators, and defended LITERAL FUCKING NAZIS!

Ninety-nine percent of everything you say is either false, crazy, incoherent, just plain cruel, or a rancid paella of all four.

Oh, by the way, Puerto Rico is still FUBAR. You got yourself and your family billions in tax breaks for Christmas. What do they get? More paper towels?

Enough, enough, enough, enough! For the love of God and all that is holy, good, and pure, would you please, finally and forever, shut your feculent KFC-hole until you have something valuable — or even marginally civil — to say?

You are a fried dick sandwich with a side of schlongs. If chlamydia and gonorrhea had a son, you’d appoint him HHS secretary. You are a disgraceful, pustulant hot stew full of casuistry, godawful ideas, unintelligible non sequiturs, and malignant rage.

You are the perfect circus orangutan diaper from Plato’s World of Forms.

So fuck you Mr. President. And fuck you forever.

Oh, and Vance, you oleaginous house ferret. Fuck you, too. You'll be as useful as a chocolate teapot against a medical crisis you Bible thumping cock socket loser!!!!

[xtarmanderx]

fucking please 👻👻👻👻👻👻👻

Sorry this took so long! But I wrote you 2100 words and feel like you deserve a big snippet from Chapter 2!

-

“Chim,” Buck says, “she doesn’t like you redecorating.”

“Sorry!” Chimney quickly fixes the rug and shuffles a few feet away. He sweeps away a pile of clothes on the floor instead. “How’s that?” He asks, glancing toward the banshee.

“What are you doing?” She asks, hunching her shoulders. The wailing continues while Buck crouches down next to his friend.

“Trying to help you.” Buck answers, grimacing as she jumps.

“You-you can hear me?!” Her eyes fill with hope and she drops to her knees, dragging herself closer until they’re almost nose to nose. “Can he?”

“Uh, kind of.” Buck offers a stilted smile. This is the worst part of dealing with a banshee. He can handle the oncoming headache, but what he hates is having to give the news. It’s heartbreaking. “What’s your name?”

“Riley. My sister, Heather, why isn’t she with you? She’s been acting weird the last few days-“

“She’s outside.” Buck says, swallowing. “Riley…she can’t see you.”

“What?” Riley’s eyes widen and she shakes her head. Chimney reaches for Buck’s satchel and pulls out a piece of chalk, bending over the floor. “But…but the two of you can see me! You can talk to me!”

“Actually, only I can do those things. My friend here can hear you, but it’s complicated.” He tries to explain.

“He waved at me!” She points accusingly at Chimney and Buck nods.

“Yeah, he-he does that. Can’t see ghosts, but he knows where they are.”

“Ghosts?” Riley’s voice falters and hitches. “You…but…no.” The wailing intensifies and Buck flinches, but he doesn’t stop looking at her. “No. No, I was fine. It was just…I was…”

“It’s okay if you don’t remember,” Buck says gently.

“Almost done.” Chimney says, reaching back into the satchel. “What kind of object do you think she’d like?”

“What’s your favorite color, Riley?” Buck asks, his heart clenching as she sinks back to rest on her heels. “Riley?”

“Uh…pink.”

“Good choice.” He smiles and reaches into the satchel, pulling out a small piece of pink quartz that he hands to Chimney. “Riley, I’m so sorry. I-I don’t know what happened to you-“

“It was…an accident.” Riley says slowly, the wailing beginning to quiet. “I was…it was raining? There was an accident…”

“And you didn’t make it.” Buck finishes for her. She nods and looks down, folding her hands in her lap. The wailing ceases.

“I thought Heather was mad at me for wrecking the car. She was ignoring me.” Riley whispers.

“Your sister wants you to move on and be happy,” Buck tells her. “I’m sure she loves you so much. But staying here…you’re going to be miserable.”

“But you said she can kind of hear me.” Riley says, her eyes widening as she quickly shuffles forward on her knees again. “I-I can tell her-“

“It doesn’t work like that.” Buck sighs. “Believe me, I wish it did. She can’t hear you anymore, Riley. She can’t see you either.”

“Bullshit!” She screams in his face. “You-you’re lying!” There’s a short, piercing wail and Chimney covers his ears. Buck’s nails press down into the wood but he doesn’t flinch.

[spacedace]

another bit from the "Constantine adopts Elle au" idea I posted a snippet of yesterday:

The days immediately after the…loss of Elle’s brothers weren’t the hardest. It would, they’d all learn soon enough, only get worse as their friend’s mental state continued to deteroriate. At the time though, it had certainly felt like it couldn’t have gotten any worse.

Elle had always been, for as long as Lian had known the other girl, been a bright, energetic person. Even when being drug from bed in those ungodly hours that so easily could be labeled as late night and early morning equally to go fight some asshole who couldn’t wait for decent crime-spree hours. Elle had never been so cruel to the rest of them as to be chipper during those awful exhausted - and exhausting - incidents, but she’d always been upbeat. Rousing them into feeling more alive with a carefully currated playlist blasting over the comms and promises of delicious, greasy breakfasts at their favorite twenty-four hour diner that she always delivered on.

She was always vibrant, always excited for whatever came at her next, always dancing ahead of them all in search of a new hobby, a new special interest, a new once-in-a-lifetime experience. Her eternally burning hope that the horizon would have something better, something brighter not a foolish security blanket to hide behind but a weapon she weilded against the world. A spine of steal, a heart of a stellar nursery, a hand equally capable of being stretched out in friendship or clenched into a fist ready to deliver the nastiest left hook that side of Metropolis.

Elle Constantine was a lot of things - a good number of them questionable - but in every single one of them, she was full of life.

So seeing her so completely empty…

The Justice League had gotten roped in on their mission before they even realized the scope of it all. Grand-Bat looming and scowling and digging his grubby fingers into things, the rest of the League not much better as they wormed their way in on the case. For all the good it had done, when they’d been too late actually on the scene to be of any actual use. Only able to show up hours after their initial call for backup when the shit show was finally over and the world saved.

She and the team were all still reeling by the time the got there. Elle still crumpled on the ground, coverd in soot and blood in a writhing heap of pain no one else could even begin to understand. The still air rent by her ragged, broken voice wailing and keening like a banshee from the stories of old.

Screaming until she coughed up blood. Hands dripping red and green ripping at the dirt, at her clothes, at her hair, her skin. Shreiking in mindless, all consuming greif as they tried to calm her down, the only words anyone could make out the broken shapes of her brothers’ name.

Jon had to pin her arms to her side in the end, face pained as he tried hard not to hurt her while keeping her thrashing frame in place. Connor crouched before her cradling her tattered hands in his as he tried desperately to get her to follow his breathing, his own voice thick with barely contained tears. Damian, soft hearted beneath all his bluster and bristling, dropped to his knees beside her in the blood soaked ground and simply wrapped his arms around her in a hug.

There had been nothing Lian wanted more than to be with them in that moment. To join her team in trying to help their friend through the initial horror and agony of having a part of herself so cruelly ripped out and crushed before her very eyes. She wanted to wipe at the endless tears falling down Elle’s face and hold her hands and wrap her in a hug and weep with her over what had happend.

Wanted to get them all out of there, get them back to the Tower, get them all washed up and bundled in a protected, quiet corner where they could all cling to each other in the dark in a mess of blankets and pillows like the children they were. Wanted to shield Elle from the watching eyes of the Justice League members, the clean up crew, the gawking civilians and hungry press. To protect her while she was so horribly vulnerable, her friend ripped open and bleeding out in front of the world like a sideshow and not a girl who had just lost the only people in the world that had known and loved her since the very beggining of her fucked up life.

But Lian was the leader of the Titans. She was the one they trusted to make the hard calls. To look after them. To be their champion against not just their enemies but their allies too when it was called for.

So that’s what she did.

She stood with her feet planted firm on the slick, broken ground. Spine straight, shoulders back, head high and gaze full of hellfire. A sentry between her confused, greiving friends and the good intentioned but ultimately distructive attempts of the Justice League members before her to help.

Lian’s arm was broken in at least two places, hanging limply at her side from a dislocated shoulder. Her weapons buried in the flesh of one monster or other that they had faced that night. Her poison tipped nails split and torn, fingernails missing entirely on three fingers of her left hand. Her mask was cracked and broken somewhere in the debris, leaving her only with a domino that had nearly been clawed off with the rest of her face. Blood going cool and tacky where it had poured down her ragged cheeks, settling in the hollows and lines around her mouth. Pinking her teeth whenever she spoke and the gruesome evidence of the brutal fight found its way to curl insideious in her mouth, down her throat, into the cold pit in her chest.

When she met her grandfather’s grim, obscured face it was with her mother’s strength and her father’s stubbornness and her Pops’ willingness to shoot any motherfucker who dared to try.

Clark’s gaze was on the hunched crowd behind her, tight lines on his face as he stared at his son making it all to clear that he wanted to move past her and insert himself into the situation. To use his everything will be okay voice to command them like confused civilians or lost ducklings in need of a minder. He wanted to play the part he always played in times of disaster: shining beacon, untarnished champion. The last thing her team wanted, the last thing that Elle needed on top of everything else.

Lian’s good hand flexed by the pistol strapped to her thigh in a small warning. The Man of Steel knew well enough that there was glowing green waiting for him in the clip. Her gramps’ obsessive paranoia, her Pops’ good advice about big blue boyscouts who couldn’t keep their noses out of of other people’s business.

They stood in tense silence for long moments, the stillness only broken by Elle’s broken voice rising up in a keening wail for those she lost.

A stand-off that Lian knew that she’d win, one way or another.

Her gramps’ shoulders lowered, so minutely as to be inperceptible to anyone not in their family.

“Wonder Woman will be here shortly.” He said in his low rumbling voice. Beside him Clark finally drifted to the ground, a concession from both of them. “Justice League Dark went radio silent seven hours ago. Last transmission from Zantanna indicated they were dealing with an interdimensional issue and would be unreachable for at least three days.”

Elle’s dad - her family - were unreachable. John Constantine didn’t know that he’d lost his three sons in the span of a handful of minutes, that his daughter was being crushed beneath the weight of greif and trauma to the point of madness. Wouldn’t know for days what tragedy had struck his family, had destroyed the strange but happy life he and his adopted children had carved out for themselves.

John Constantine. Zantanna Zatara. Detective Bobo. Boston Brand. Asa the Nightmare Nurse. Elle’s family, out of reach while she writhed and wailed in agony. The only people who might come close to understand just how deep, how awful, the pain of her brothers’ loss truly was.

Diana was something, was someone, but the Amazon’s time being split between JL Light and Dark meant that she wasn’t a touchstone to Elle in the way the rest of the core members of the magical team were. Elle commented once that Diana was more like a fun aunt she barely saw growing up. Someone she was always excited to see and hang out with, someone she wanted to make proud, but not someone she felt especially close to in comparison to the rest of her family.

Lian did not give in to the pained urge to close her eyes and swear.

She was keenly aware that all it would take was a single crack, as narrow and insignificant as a strand of hair. The smallest hint that the crushing weight of everything that had happened - that was still happening - was effecting her and they’d be back at the attempts to push past her and take over. A desire to help, the restless urge to jump in and save the day, to ease the pain of those so clearly suffering, blinding them to how much worse they would make things in the process.

The intentions were good, but the ultimate results blistering and painful and too often overlooked as the next disaster pulled thier attentions away. Stubborn insistence that their experience overruled her and her team’s instincts. The hands of the older heroes always reaching, unaware that they were too sharp as they dug into the soft flesh of the Titans’ fresh wounds. Picking apart their flaws and failures in the name of bettering them, never stopping to consider the wounds they pressed hard against as part of their lecturing might still be open and raw. That while the men before her had hands in raising most of them, that did not mean they had perfect comprehension to who the Titans were or always knew what the members of her team really needed.

“Have Wonder Woman go to the Tower.” Lian said, knowing that her grandfather heard Selina’s cadence in her voice. A habit, a gamble. Catwoman had been her mentor for a time, had helped her sharpen her claws and her instincts and that budding part of her that would make her a leader one day. Sometimes it pushed Bruce into listening to her, sometimes it just led to him pushing back.

He’d find that latter option unwise at the moment, though.

Her beloved Grand-Bat or no, she knew where his armor was weakest. Knew how to make the single shot she’d manage to get off on him count. Knew just how far she’d go to make sure that Elle and the rest of her friends were sheilded from any and all harm when they were so vulnerable.

She was their champion, their sentry, their knight.

Batman, of all people, knew the lengths a knight was willing to go in the name of the oaths they took.

She watched him shift back. A silent, unseen signal between him and Clark having Superman step back too. Lian wasn’t sure if her grandfather had found the wall she presented him too strong to conted with, or if Elle’s heart wrenching screams of greif and agony made him decide against testing the wall at all. Whatever it was, Lian would take the small victory where she could. It was the only real one she might be able to claim that day.

[zoemillinwrites]

sunday thursday?? snippet

thanks v much for the tag @etherealashworks! i have been very very bad at checking my notifications on here so this almost passed me by. but, anyway, here I am now with a little snippet from the next brave face update (it's a remus pov)

There’s the sound of someone vomiting noisily in the dormitory loo. A flush. A groan. The splash of a faucet.  Remus stirs and opens his tear-puffy, aching eyes. He must have drifted off only for a little. It’s still dark out. Still not yet dawn. And his leg still hurts something awful. The bathroom door creaks open, followed by the sound of someone stubbing their toe. A thump. A jagged, hushed swear word. A hop forward on one foot. Remus’ hand fumbles and finds an edge of the Marauder's Map. When he opens it, his eyes don’t have to rove far to find out who’s awake in the dormitory. According to the map, Sirius Black is standing there, hovering like a banshee or a death omen at the foot of Remus’ bed.  Remus raises his eyes from the map and thinks that he can almost see the outline of Sirius’ body through the hangings. Broad, rangy shoulders. Knot of well-bred hair. Narrow, tapering waist.  There’s a lurching sensation in Remus’ stomach.  Oh god, Remus thinks. Don’t knock. Don’t come in. You’ll see I’ve been crying and you’ll know it’s because of the weird kiss-lick-mistake, and I’m not ready to argue with you. We’ll argue, you’ll call me names— “I can tell by your breathing that you’re awake, dickhead,” comes a worn-out, worse for wear whisper. “I can always tell.”

i am gonna go ahead and tag: @cordeliacordate ✨

[mckitterick]

Open letter to trump

originally appeared in The Daily Kos in 2017, now here: X

Dear Fucking Lunatic,

I read with interest your interview with The New York Times. I couldn’t get past the bit about your being the most popular visitor in the history of fucking China — a country that’s only 2,238 years old, give or take.

Do you know how fucking insane you sound, you off-brand butt plug? That's like the geopolitical equivalent of “that stripper really likes me” — only 10,000 times crazier and less self aware.

You are fucking exhausting. Every day is a natural experiment in determining how long 300 million people can resist coring out their own assholes with an ice auger. Every time I hear a snippet of your Queens-tinged banshee larynx farts, I want to crawl up my own ass with a Union Jack and claim my sigmoid colon for HRH Queen Elizabeth II.

We are fucking tired. As bad as we all thought your presidency would be when Putin (and Musk this time) got you elected, it’s been inestimably worse.

You called a hostile, nuclear-armed head of state “short and fat”? How the fuck does that help?

You accused a woman — a former friend, no less — of showing up at your resort bleeding from the face and begging to get in. You, you, YOU — the guy who looks like a Christmas haggis inexplicably brought to life by Frosty’s magic hat — yes, you of all people said that.

You attempted — with evident fucking glee — to get 24 million people thrown off their health insurance.

You gave billions away to corporations and the already wealthy while simultaneously telling struggling poor people that you were doing exactly the opposite.

You endorsed a pedophile, praised brutal dictators, and defended LITERAL FUCKING NAZIS!

Ninety-nine percent of everything you say is either false, crazy, incoherent, just plain cruel, or a rancid paella of all four.

Oh, by the way, Puerto Rico is still FUBAR. You got yourself and your family billions in tax breaks for Christmas. What do they get? More paper towels?

Enough, enough, enough, enough! For the love of God and all that is holy, good, and pure, would you please, finally and forever, shut your feculent KFC-hole until you have something valuable — or even marginally civil — to say?

You are a fried dick sandwich with a side of schlongs. If chlamydia and gonorrhea had a son, you’d appoint him HHS secretary. You are a disgraceful, pustulant hot stew full of casuistry, godawful ideas, unintelligible non sequiturs, and malignant rage.

You are the perfect circus orangutan diaper from Plato’s World of Forms.

So happy Easter, Mr. Pr*sident. And fuck off forever.

Oh, and Vance, you oleaginous house ferret. Fuck you, too.

Sincerely, Everyone

PS: slightly revised from the 2017 letter, so just imagine how much more scathing it would be today

[scaly-freaks]

Snippet of Rhaena/Aemond from my AO3 fic which I probably won't be able to fit into the work itself because...plot issues. Might write bits here, I don't know. We'll see.

tw // implication of dubcon

"WHERE IS SHE?"

For such a petite woman, his wife screams like a banshee. But to her little dragon - that raw, pink, ugly creature - she coos like a siren, all trills and undulations.

Rhaena's arm sweeps across the table, sending his books scattering. Half of them belonged to her grandfather, along with a few scrolls from Yi Ti scribed in a language Aemond has yet to decipher. He pores over them in the evenings, following along with Corlys's annotations - he never had much opinion on the man beyond helping to kill his wife. But Aemond must admit that he had a sharp mind for linguistics.

"Your dragon - " he pauses to finish reading a line of script, thumb pressed to the ink-stained paper. " - is safe. Don't fret."

Rhaena's voice dips low, trembling with rage. "Give her back. She needs me to feed her. She won't feed unless I prepare the bottle - "

"That's funny. She was feeding just fine when I left her with the dragonkeeper." Aemond flings the scroll on the table, and tosses one leg over the other, hands folded across his stomach.

He smiles at her - that cold, cruel, curl of a smile - and waits for it to sink in.

For months now, he has been patient, allowing his wife to come to terms with the reality of their marriage. Granted, he had forced his sister to give her stepdaughter over in marriage as the only elder left in that wretched household, but there was no mistreatment beyond that. Rhaena had her own chambers, her own separate life. All he asked was that eventually, she turn her mind to the reality of ruling a great house.

Heirs.

"Give her back," she repeats, and he almost feels sorry for her. It is clear she is struggling to draw air into her lungs, the absence of her dragon has her so distraught. "Please."

"Give me what I want and you can have your dragon."

"Sire a bastard and have your brother legitimise it. Isn't that what you fought the war for? So that you could both do as you wished? Now this realm is yours. Go! I give you permission. Find a whore and sire a whelp, but first return my dragon to me."

Aemond rises from his chair, slowly, so as not to alarm her.

Ever since the incident in the riverlands, Rhaena has treated him like a caged tiger, giving him a wide berth where and when she can. When he is reminded whose daughter she is, her fear strokes his nerves like silk on velvet, satisfies that deep, sadistic pit in his stomach he has nursed since the first time he watched Vhagar's flames swallow a man whole.

He won't hurt her - the girl is too precious for that sort of bad behaviour - but her fear keeps her in line, prevents her from choosing treason in her bid to escape. Besides, her mother's dragon now keeps watch, turning her childhood home into a prison, one which she has tried and failed to run from. The irony is steeped in poetry.

Rhaena takes a step back, and then another, glassy eyes searching his face for any indication he will accede.

"I want heirs off you." Half the battle is won through physical stature, and Aemond towers over his wife in her delicate rose-pink dress and gold-braided hair. She is a petal, easily plucked and viciously torn, unlike her sister who is all thorns and ice. "A boy, another boy, and then maybe a girl. Little fishes to populate Corlys Velaryon's grand, old Driftmark."

She is staring at him as if her mind has left her body and walked a hundred miles into the sea, deep under the white foam, to a place where he cannot reach her. Except a single trace of his finger down one of her braids brings her twitching back to him.

Only one question remains.

"So...do you want your dragon back, Rhaena?" Aemond asks, sugary sweet.

[diaphanous-anchor]

Sunday Snippet⚰️

TW: mildly graphic depictions of death, major character death

“Theo.” Scott says.

Theo doesn’t think he’s ever seen Scott scared. Not before, when Theo tried to kill him; not the whole time they’ve been captured here either. But now Scott’s scent is sour, acrid with the stench of fear. In fact, he’s terrified.

Theo is falling. He only realizes as his world tilts on its axis. His vision is clouding, darkness flooding the edges of it. He coughs wetly. There’s blood pooling on the back of his tongue.

“Theo!”

Scott catches him as he goes, in warm, steady arms. Even weakened, Scott is still strong. He is an alpha after all. Theo chuckles bitterly, coughs around the blood in his throat. He’s always wanted to die. After everything, he felt it’s all he deserved. But now, like this, with bile and blood burning his throat and mercury flooding his lash line, he wants nothing more than to live.

He wants to live.

It’s unfortunate, really. But he isn’t surprised. The gods have never been on his side.

Scott is saying his name. Over and over. Desperate, terrified. Like sheer willpower will be enough to hold him together.

“Look at me. Look at me.” Scott is saying.

He has Theo’s head in his lap. A warm palm pressed against his chin, the other cradling his face.

Theo can’t breathe. His chest feels like it’s on fire, lungs alight with matches. He feels like he’s being torn in two. Split at the seams. He stares up at Scott, desperate and afraid. He doesn’t want to die. Not like this.

“Scott—” He mumbles out, choking around the blood.

“Don’t talk, don’t talk.” Scott says. His hands are trembling.

“Theo, you have to live.” Scott is saying. “Please, you have to live.”

He’s crying, Theo realizes with a sudden soberness. He’s dying, and Scott McCall is crying. Over him.

“Don’t cry.” He slurs, reaching a hand up to weakly paw at Scott's cheeks.

Don’t cry. Not over me.

“Shut up, shut up.” Scott says desperately.

He’s reaching for Theo’s hand now, holds it as black veins begin to crawl up his arm.

Theo shudders a sigh of relief. He hadn’t even remembered he was in pain. Too familiar with the aches that come with his existence. It’s like a second skin for him.

Don’t take my pain. Let me suffer the way I should. I don’t deserve to die in peace.

Distantly he thinks of Gabe. Of the way he looked when Theo knelt to take his pain. To ease his suffering.

“Does it still hurt?” “No.”

He’d cried. Later when he’d gone back to his truck. Cried for the boy who had died a cruel death. All because he thought he was doing a good thing. All because someone had lied and told him that it would all be worth it. That the people he was trying to kill deserved it. They had turned a boy into a killer. Theo had cried for Gabe, and he’d cried for himself. Because he’d seen himself in Gabe. Just a boy. Just a child.

“Theo, Theo. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me, Theo. Look at me.”

He’s tired. So tired.

Scott’s veins aren’t running black anymore. There’s nothing left for him to take.

“S’okay.” He slurs, hand slipping from the alpha’s face. “M’okay.”

He closes his eyes then. Sleep is pulling at him. Tugging him into the void. Inescapable. Heavy like a blanket. There’s a warmth beginning to travel down his spine and to his toes. He smiles then, content. Slips further and further into unconsciousness.

“Theo. Theo!”

Scott sounds far away.

It’s okay. I’m where I’m supposed to be.

The darkness takes him.

He’ll never know the way Scott sobbed as he slipped away. Never hear the ensuing roar that followed. Thundering, booming for miles. Desperate and angry and broken.

Somewhere, several thousand miles away, a banshee screams.

Song references: Lungs- Vancouver Sleep Clinic; Grave-George Ogilvie

[never-was-has-been]

~posted on Facebook by Shalom Kane April 2nd 2020 "An Open Letter to the president" From the Drummer of Mötley Crüe, Tommy Lee

Dear Fucking Lunatic, At your recent press conference - more a word salad that had a stroke and fell down stairs, you were CLEARLY so out of your depth you needed scuba gear. Within minutes of going off air your minions were backpedaling faster than Cirque De Soliel acrobats… In India a week ago, i couldn’t get past the bit about your being the most popular visitor in the history of fucking India — a country of a BILLION human souls that’s only 3000 years old, give or take.!!! Trust me - Gandhi pulled CROWDS.. You pulled a cricket stadium and half WALKED out… Do you know how fucking insane you sound, you off-brand butt plug? That's like the geopolitical equivalent of “that stripper really likes me” — only 10,000 times crazier and less self aware. You are fucking exhausting. Every day is a natural experiment in determining how long 300 million people can resist coring out their own assholes with an ice auger. Every time I hear a snippet of your Queens-tinged banshee larynx farts, I want to scream! We are fucking tired. As bad as we all thought your presidency would be when Putin got you elected, it’s been inestimably worse. You called a hostile, nuclear-armed head of state “short and fat.” How the fuck does that help? You accused a woman — a former friend, no less — of showing up at your resort bleeding from the face and begging to get in. You, you, YOU — the guy who looks like a Christmas haggis inexplicably brought to life by Frosty’s magic hat — yes, you of all people said that. You attempted — with evident fucking glee — to get 24 million people thrown off their health insurance. You gave billions away to corporations and the already wealthy while simultaneously telling struggling poor people that you were doing exactly the opposite. You endorsed a pedophile, praised brutal dictators, and defended LITERAL FUCKING NAZIS! Ninety-nine percent of everything you say is either false, crazy, incoherent, just plain cruel, or a rancid paella of all four. Oh, by the way, Puerto Rico is still FUBAR. You got yourself and your family billions in tax breaks for Christmas. What do they get? More paper towels? Enough, enough, enough, enough! For the love of God and all that is holy, good, and pure, would you please, finally and forever, shut your feculent KFC-hole until you have something valuable — or even marginally civil — to say? You are a fried dick sandwich with a side of schlongs. If chlamydia and gonorrhea had a son, you’d appoint him HHS secretary. You are a disgraceful, pustular hot stew full of casuistry, godawful ideas, unintelligible non sequiturs, and malignant rage. You are the perfect circus orangutan diaper from Plato’s World of Forms. So fuck you Mr. President. And fuck you forever. Oh, and Pence, you oleaginous house ferret. Fuck you, too. You'll be as useful as a chocolate teapot against a medical crisis you Bible thumping cock socket." Anyone interested in what Tommy Lee would add this time? I sure am!

[chevroletdean]

Pregnant Soldier Boy you say? Lol. I can't not wait!! But I wanna hear more about The Passenger 👀👀

Lmaoaoao, don't act like this wasn't your doing 🤣🤣🩷 I have the receipts!! My notes on Pregnant!Soldier Boy still just look like this btw

As for The Passenger; it's the second chapter of Idle Interrupted - a Tom Hanniger x Fem!Reader story for the JacklesVerseBingo! (You can find Chapter 1 here or on Ao3)

I named the second chapter after the Siouxsie and the Banshees song, which is part of the playlist! The Passenger will definitely be a lot grittier and darker than the first. We'll (literally) get into the meat of things. 😌

Here's a little snippet:

Distracted by your own thoughts, you don’t listen to him as he mentions something about a quick body-search. You let him pat down your form, allowing him to inspect the pockets of your jacket. There’s not much in there, an old parking ticket, a couple of loose coins. “Couple o’sizes too big on you, wouldn’t you say?” Even during high school, Axel has always been known for poking fun at others. Somehow you know it’s to lighten the mood. That he doesn’t mean to insult you, but is simply attempting a playful jab. However, he misses the mark completely. “It’s Tom’s,” you grumble, rather defensively. Like Axel has just insulted Tom, not you.

[starrieisdelusional]

snippet of arthur snapping to banished!merlin in s4 of my fix it au

Arthur has really been an idiot hasn’t he?

He’s not one to overthink things. Arthur has always rely on efficiency. Running a kingdom needs to be orderly. He doesn’t have time to think unnecessary things. Mundane tasks such as ironing his clothes and preparing his food are left to the servants. Kings does not have time to think of such things, let alone dispensable things.

Now he’s cursing himself for being so negligent. It should be obvious from the very beginning. Branches does not fall from the sky at proper timings, nor do fire blows up indoors, dancing up the ceilings. Arthur thought it was merely coincidence, but after running a kingdom for a year he sees now that coincidences usually happens for a reason.

Arthur felt the blowing of the wind too often on his expeditions. He knows how unidentifiable creatures shows up in the morning, in the forests of Camelot. Or how assassins made a fool of themselves, dying before they even had the chance to take Arthur’s life. And each time it happens, he always saw a blur of a figure, so quick Arthur thought he is hallucinating.

He knows Merlin is there. Hiding in the shadows, watching Arthur from every corner. He was enraged at first. How dare he? Did he really think that Arthur was that stupid not to notice his little stunts? But every time he tries to catch him, it always ended up in concerns

Guard: (in a flashback) Is everything alright my lord? Arthur: …fine

The castle staff never question his disappearance, oddly quiet of Merlin’s banishment. Guinevere didn’t talk to him for a month. He didn’t miss the glare that came from his army. Lancelot and Gwaine have always been fond of the manservant. They stopped after a few months.

Arthur thinks that the camelot notice him. And they pretend not to. But he can’t really do anything can he? Not without sounding like a lunatic. So he never addresses it. Even when it’s so blatantly obvious.

Arthur is sick of it truthfully. It reminds him of him in a way. Is it too much for them to trust him? Morgana and his father too…and now Camelot. Is it because he’s such a fool for a king?

So one night when they were on an expedition, when Arthur is sick of all the lies, and the hypocrisy and everything. Arthur sneaks out of the camp, to where the banshee is last spotted.

Arthur waits for it to come. He waited and waited, until he heard a scream, when it almost got him, it dissolves into dust, hit by a spell so powerful Arthur still feels the intensity.

Voice: It is not safe out here, go back to your camp Arthur Pendragon

Arthur: Stop taking me for a fool Merlin, I know it’s you

When there’s no reaction, he groans, drawing his sword

Arthur: COME OUT MERLIN STOP BEING SUCH A COWARD!

It was quiet for a while and Arthur screams. He thrust his sword into the ground.

Arthur: I’LL LET YOU KNOW MERLIN- THAT’S RIGHT I KNOW IT’S YOU -THAT I HATE YOU! YOU LIAR! I TOLD YOU TO NEVER APPEAR IN FRONT OF MY SIGHT EVER AGAIN! AND WHAT DID YOU DO? YOU STALK ME LIKE A CREEP! HAVE IT EVER CONCURRED TO YOU THAT THE THINGS YOU DID AREN’T NORMAL? WELL YOU ARE! DO YOU REALLY THINK I WON’T NOTICE THAT YOU’RE IN CAMELOT THIS WHOLE TIME?? YOU’RE AN IDIOT AND A INEPT INCOMPETENT RUDE BUMBLING OF A FOOL!! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!!

Arthur wipes the tears that starts to fall out of his eyelashes

Arthur: I hate that you won’t go away, I hate everything about you, I hate that stupid grin of yours, I hate your attitude, I hate your stupid face, I hate that stupid haircut, I hate your tears, I hate that I think of you each night

Arthur grips the hilt of his sword, struggling to speak

Arthur: I won’t forgive you Merlin of Ealdor. For as long as I breathe I will make sure you can never go back to Camelot nor will I ever allow magic to roam free in the land. I will follow my legacy as Uther Pendragon’s son

Arthur went back to the camp. He feels warm despite the cool winter air and his heart feeling like lead.

When morning came, there are no more banshees. Arthur saw a cloaked figure behind the trees, watching.

season 4:

main post:

To find my other ramblings about this AU, filter with the hashtag #must we really rely on fate?

[cosmiischillin]

Twilight Town AU: The Ragdoll Monster

In the original Ruby Gloom, Ruby was essentially the lone “human” of the group. She does live with a cyclops, a skeleton, a banshee, conjoined twins, ghosts, a bat, and three crows/ravens. In addition to Twilight Town, there’s also a witch and a fallen angel. Now I do say “human” with quotes since she’s described a lot as ragdoll-like if not straight up a ragdoll.

So I’m gonna describe and sorta layout what type of monster, my process in creating her, and what I have planned for her for y’all to read below.

The Ragdoll Monster

So in the AU, she is explicitly a living ragdoll. I think it’s a general agreed thing in the fanon that she is a ragdoll in the likeness of Raggedy Ann. To be honest she reminds me of Strawberry Shortcake a lot more.

With that in mind, I gave her all those little stitches on her body and even alongside her clothes since I think she looks adorable with the patchworks and wearing a lot of textile knits. I even made it a special ability that she can sew her body parts if she ever ends up injured though you’re better off not letting her bleed

The Dark Side

So it is planned already that Ruby is more than just a sweet looking face. This part of her design was based on the earlier versions of her character. The darker and very much goth version before the show. I was inspired by these snippets from an interview about her and some artwork of her

She also has a lot of inspiration from Coraline, in fact her eyes were gonna have little white spots to look like buttons but I couldn’t get them to look right hence her big eyes now.

Now for her really dark side and Lore. Her monstrous side is based on two things. One is the creep factor of dolls and puppets and the other is vampires.

I didn’t put him in her mood board but Ruby got some inspiration from Wally Darling such as his creepy little stare which gave me more ideas alongside the early ruby works.

Now the vampire part was added when I began concepting classic monsters into the AU. Out of nowhere I began to draw Dracula with a regular doll version of Ruby. I love the concept so I expanded it.

Lore and Backstory

Dracula and other vampires can turn humans by having them taste vampiric blood so, to test it out, Dracula got a baby ragdoll then injected his blood into the doll’s insides. Miraculously the ragdoll was brought to life though she appeared to be like a normal infant with an overly cheerful disposition. It was only then she showed abilities that not even vampires could possess. Dracula decided to name her Ruby and sewn up the rest of her appearance, calling her his daughter. At some point, Dracula hired the Raven brothers to leave his castle with Ruby to a place she could be safe from humans and to record anything new powers she develops.

Ruby has lived in the Twilight Town Mansion for now 17 years. She is upset that humans see monsters as nothing but evil and dangerous creatures that should be destroyed hence why she creates her new Blog, the Good n Gloom where she will be able to show that monsters are just like them If not a little creepy and kooky. But that doesn’t mean that when push comes to shove, she’ll do what she has to do in order to help her friends.

I hope you like this slightly longer post talking about Twilight Town! This is the first time I got to go in full about the lore and what has been done for these characters! I guess the vampires are kinda different from the classic movie version ^^:

Next Character: The Banshee

[hirukochan]

I know you are busy right now with your fics and I really admire how brilliant they turn out to be with you working on multiple projects. I really appreciate all your hardwork and dedication and ugh, I just love your work so much.

But can I just say that I saw your comment in one of your fics about a potential forbidden Malfoy OC/Reader x Voldemort and I am really looking forward to that? I'm a huge Harriet x Voldy fan but i really love the Malfoy idea and the whole corruption concept. I have this weird imagery of them like Voldy being the snake from the apple tree in Eden and Malfoy Reader being naive, trusting, and too curious for her own good Eve.

Thank you so much!!! It means the world to hear that! I am thrilled to know so many people enjoy these silly little stories I come up with :D!

I am very much looking forward to writing that story! And I will. First I need to finish some published stories but this one is at the top of the list! I hope I'll get to it some time next year and I will be certain to post about it here too!

I don't know from what perspective I will be writing it yet.

Corruption is a main theme for the fic as I've been planning it right now. The youngest child of Narcissa and Lucius is a very sickly girl who had little influence outside her family and who has never even left her family's estate! Voldemort shamelessly preys on that and revels in the slow but steady destruction of her innocence and purity - something he never got to have.

I have a little snippet/teaser here of that fic for anyone who is interested! I have yet to find a name for the fic - because love coming up with names for stuff!!!! (not.)

Malfoy daughter X Voldemort Snippet

words: 1200

warnings: none that I can think off :D

Astrea Lucretia Malfoy knows there are certain expectations that come with being a member of the ancient and most honourable house of Malfoy. Astrea knew these expectations before she could as much as crawl. They were handed down to her from the very first beat her heart took inside her mother’s womb and Astrea would sooner throw herself off the roof of her family home than do anything that would bring shame to her house and her parents.

Astrea loves her parents.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy are proud people and Astrea would never want to embarrass them. Astrea knows how to behave. She knows how to greet people and how to make pleasant conversation. Astrea can play the piano and dance and yet despite having devoted her life to trying and be the perfect heiress to her proud parents - she is not.

She is a smudge on her family’s proud family tree and there is nothing she can do.

Astrea looks down at the crimson spots on the snowy white handkerchief in her trembling hands. Steps sounding from the hallway have her hastily fold it and stuff it in her dress. The corset her governess put her into for today’s special occasion.

Time has run out. Astrea can’t escape him any longer. She knows it was an endeavour doomed from the beginning but she had to try.

Her governess opens the door, looking like a banshee coming to announce Astrea’s death, dressed in her stern black uniform. Astrea hates the sight of that uniform. Hates the black dress that makes her think of death every time she sees it because death is the last thing Astrea wants to think about it and yet it’s the first thought on her mind when she wakes up and the last when she falls asleep. Death hunts her in her dreams and she knows death is approaching steadily in reality as well. The handkerchief stuffed between her breasts and the corset bears the proof of that.

Astrea has been sick for as long as she can remember. Despite hiring the most renowned healers and researchers and even shamans nobody has been able to give the proud Malfoys and their inexhaustible vaults at Gringotts an answer as to why their only daughter is a sickly, weak child. She just is. Getting infected with the Dragonpox that would later take her severe, powerful and feared grandfather Abraxas Malfoy did little to improve her condition.

Nowadays Astrea can at least leave her bed and walk freely about the Manor but she knows that little and treasured freedom will be snatched from her the second her overprotective father learns of her relapse.

Astrea pushes her governess' hands from her hair and gets up. She ignores the lightheaded dizziness rushing through her at the swift movement. She does not let it show either.

She can wait no longer.

He is expecting to be introduced to her after all.

The Dark Lord. The most powerful wizard of all times, once believed to have vanished and now returned, reborn. Of course, Astrea knows all about him. She has been taught about him alongside her older brother Draco all her life. Taught of his greatness, his might, his goal to save wizardingkind and she has been taught of her duty to serve him.

And yet she stole from him.

The precious dress made of fairy-spun silk slides over the carpeted stairs. Astrea’s chest strains against the corset. Her governess tied it tighter today against Astrea’s protest.

Nobody here listens to her.

Nobody cares.

Oh, they all ‘care’ - they bend over backwards to delay the inevitable, forcing her to go through heinous treatments to expand her life and yet nobody cares.

Expect for her Uncle Sev perhaps. Her godfather, her father’s best friend and also on the few occasions she is allowed to practise magic, her tutor. He always has an open ear for her and a shoulder to cry on when she needs it.

But there are a few secrets she keeps even from him. The handkerchief and her impertinence. Both she carries on her person tonight. Perhaps a mistake though she seriously doubts the greatest Legilimens to ever live would need her to carry her sin with her to detect it. He’ll know the second he sees her, therefore her avoiding him. In the days before the Dark Lord’s arrival to take up residency in her family home she strategically scattered gasps and moments of pause into her demeanour and speech, then on the morning of his arrival Astrea dipped the thermometer her governess forces past her lips every morning in her teacup for a few seconds as the old hag was preparing her bath.

She spent the past week in her bed but she can’t keep this charade up for long without risking her feeble sham-freedom.

Astrea treasures her freedom above all else.

She enters the sitting room. Her parents are sitting on a sofa with Draco in between them. Uncle Sev sits on their opposite, his face as expressionless as always, swirling whiskey in his glass lazily. There, right across from Astrea is he.

The dark one.

The most powerful and dangerous man to ever walk the earth.

And Astrea not only gets to walk on the same earth at the same time, she gets to be in a room with him, to breathe the same air as him, share dinner with him.

Her chest is bursting with pride, her heart flutters in its cage of fragile bones like the many exotic birds in their cages in her room. Her father keeps bringing them home in hopes of making her smile but Astrea finds no joy in dooming others to share her fate and yet what can she do? These birds, much like her, have no chance of surviving outside their cages and yet she can’t help the occasional thought of just letting them all go, letting them try their luck and run after them, with bare feet and no shawl and wouldn’t that be worth the impending death following them? Living and if only for one second?

Astrea has never felt so alive as she does right now. Her trembling fingers grasp the edge of her dress and lift it slightly as she sinks to her knees, bowing her head at the same time. She struggles to keep her back straight and her body stiff, to not fall over and to make it all seem effortless too. Her long pale blond hair falls over her shoulder. She doesn’t even pause to remember she has never curtseyed in a dress cut like this one, doesn’t remember the corset, doesn’t realise her hair is shielding the sight from her parents and Uncles and doesn’t notice how crimson eyes darken as they skim over her, lingering on the neckline of her dress.

Astrea has grown up well-protected and so she does not realise the different ways men look at quickly coming-of-age girls like her. Merely a year away from being presented to society, something Astrea has never had to worry about as her poor health will hardly allow for such a thing her mother has neglected to prepare her, to warn her of the more unsavoury desires of some men. And still - Astrea knows more than her parents think. She is no idiot and has read nearly every book in the Manor, even those her father keeps away from her in his own library and especially his study and what she can’t find in books her friend tells her about. Her only friend.

“Rise.” The high-pitched voice caresses her skin like morning dew, the leaves of her flowers in front of her windows. Like the wings of her feathered companions, her bare arms. Astrea shudders and - against all her formidable education - she stares.

Amusement twinkles in the crimson eyes of her lord and master, dark red like the drops on her handkerchief. They assess her, gliding over her body, her dress and eventually coming to a halt on her eyes. The corner of his lipsless mouth twitches and for a second Astrea has forgotten everything. The blood, the fatigue, the guilt at lying to her parents, the weight of her sin pressed against her naked thigh beneath her dress.

Lord Voldemort looks different than she could have ever been able to picture him. Pale skin that’s scattered here and there with a bundle of scales that shimmer in the flickering light of the gas lamps on the walls, shimmering like the expensive opal jewellery her parents brought back for her from one of their trips to France once. His pupils are long, shaped like those of a snake and where there is supposed to be a nose, only slit nostrils stretch across his skin.

He is tapping his nails on the armrest of his armchair, one with a regal, high back and luxurious tropical wood, stained dark to fit the room’s aesthetic.

“It is an honour to meet you, my lord.” Astrea says, though her voice sounds strange even to her own ears. “I am saddened to have missed your arrival.”

“I am as well.” Voldemort says, his voice silky smooth, sounding so familiar and yet so strange. Though the fluttery feeling it ignites in her belly is very familiar. She has only ever felt it around her only friend…

Voldemort rises from his seat, abandoning his untouched drink on the table beside his armchair. He towers over her, taller even than her father and uncle. Astrea feels minuscule next to him, not only due to the size. She doesn’t even reach his shoulder.

“Join me? I am curious to learn more about the youngest Malfoy offspring.”

“I am an open book for my lord.” She says with a chaste incline of her head, hiding both from the intense gaze of her master and the redness spreading across her cheeks. “My lord merely needs to ask.”

The stolen leatherbound diary pressed against her thigh she accepts Voldemort’s arm and follows him into the dining room where he even pulls out her chair. No man who does not also share blood with her or is made of ink and magic has ever treated her like this. Astrea sits down and is glad for the rest, ignoring the sweat drenching her back beneath her dress and corset. She doesn’t notice the eyes wandering to her décolletage once more.

“I hope my family’s home becomes my lord well?”

“Yes.” He says, red eyes blazing. “Alas I was uncertain for a bit but it could convince me after all.”

“I am relieved.” Astrea looks up and smiles, finding it contains the same amount of joy it has when addressing it to her ink friend and all the joy it lacks when looking at her family.

“So am I.” His upper lip twitched into a crooked grin, revealing a single, sharp, long fang. The grin looks so familiar-

Astrea shakes the thought off.

Perhaps she should not have brought the diary but she can’t leave Tom in her room alone! He is her only friend and she has to keep him safe! Perhaps Voldemort does not know she has stolen it from her father’s study all those years ago in a fit of infantine anger and desire to hurt her father back for all that he is keeping her from. All she wanted was to join Draco’s birthday celebration and he forbade it. Tom said she did no wrong and that she should believe him but Astrea finds it difficult at times.

She has considered putting the diary back many times but Tom has told her how lonely he was before she saved him and one does not abandon friends! At least that’s what Tom says. Astrea has never had a friend but she trusts Tom. He would never want to harm her.

***

What a curious little creature, Voldemort thinks as he slips into the girl’s room unnoticed. She is lying in a huge bed framed by flimsy, delicate curtains, as delicate as the girl they give fleeting shelter to.

She is asleep, her lids closed, hiding the bright blue of her big eyes. Her luscious lips are slightly parted. Beneath her hand, curled into a feeble fist on top of her pillow, beside her head sits it.

The impertinence. The utter impudence to bring the stolen object to her first encounter with its rightful owner. It’s almost charming. Like an ant that believes itself so powerful it can revolt against the boot.

He will take pleasure in crushing her. In ripping her chaste innocence from her to savour it, to claim it for himself. He’ll punish her for her crime and Lucius for being so careless he has not even realised it’s missing. The object Voldemort entrusted to him. A piece of his master’s soul - though that part he is obviously unaware of. Voldemort is not so stupid as to hand over crucial information to a mere henchman like Lucius. Though his daughter will make a lovely addition to Voldemort’s bed.

He reaches out a pale hand with skeletal fingers to take the diary, reclaim his stolen Horcrux-

Voldemort is pulled away, something tugs on his mind and he falls forward, like dragged into a pensieve and he finds himself in the Slytherin common room, standing by the fireplace he once tossed the annoying cat of a classmate into. In front of him on the leather sofa lies the girl, the same girl, in the same flimsy, nearly see-through nightgown and she is asleep in his arms. In his arms.

Within the blink of an eye his younger self, looking the role of the proper Prefect he had been at the time, stands in front of him. Voldemort had never been short but his adolescent self can’t match the height of his new body and yet he doesn’t seem impressed or like he even remotely cares.

“She is mine!” He hisses in angry parseltongue, his eyes flashing red and Voldemort is forcibly expelled from the diary, such force he stumbles a step backwards, staring at the girl sleeping on his diary as peacefully as humanly possible.

Read it here

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

CYOA Chapter 39 Snippet

James Potter: alright columbo you got me how was your first night in the house?

Lily Evans: To be honest, I was a bit out of it too. I'd stayed up all night packing my stuff and dealing with Wendy and Paul who wanted to know WHY I was packing my stuff and being generally very pissy with me because I was taking all of the fancy kitchen things that I got from your mum and they don't use anyway. So I don't think I was fully lucid at all, like to the extent that for a second I honestly thought that cardboard cutout was you.

James Potter: so your reaction to seeing me unexpectedly would be to scream like a banshee, run face-first into a wall and start laughing hysterically?

Lily Evans: I didn't run into the wall, I ran TO the wall. For safety.

James Potter: you need a wall to protect you from me?

Lily Evans: In my defence, my reaction to flicking on a light and seeing ANYONE standing dead still in the middle of a room would be immediate terror.

James Potter: what a sexy experience for you

Lily Evans: That wasn't the kind of fear that gets me going though.

James Potter: but surely andrew garfield does

Lily Evans: Considering I thought he was YOU for a fraction of a second it was actually quite disappointing.