#bloody-trowel

[spotaus]

Random fun post :) ((New Age))

So, I think that a thing with me is that I mention Dream is afraid of storms, I have a fear of storms, and then I procceeded not to elaborate. So I am going to type out a drabble on here with no editing and see how far I get before my roommate gets back or I get sick of it. (Honestly this is just an exercise in seeing how I plan these thangs out-)

-> Dream and Blue have established themselves in the old cottage, but are just settling in, so their group and supporters have yet to establish the camp around the clearing. For the time being, it's just Dream and Blue working out plans and deciding what their next move should be. (Notes: The cabin has two twin-sized beds. They dont stay seperate for long.)

It'd been a good week so far. Dream was glad to see the cottage when they'd first arrived, and Blue had been a deft hand at clearing out any critters, patching holes in the roof and slats between the logs of the wall, and seeing what furniture inside was still salvagable. His father's friend was a carpenter, he claimed. He'd taken an apprenticeship with them as a child and learned a thing or two. Dream had largely watched in awe, or disppeared outside to to some cleaning of the large garden space. Their first week out, Blue had taught him how to uproot plants, and since everything in the garden planted by its old owners was long dead, Dream decided he'd do some fixing up of it while Blue did repairs.

Their tings were stached safely inside the building in the bedroom, the first room they secured and repaired. It had a pair of beds inside which reminded Dream vaguely of his childhood room he shared with his twin, only now fallen into disrepair. They'd had to discard the old blankets, torn to shreds by various wild guests, but they weren't so far away from town that they couldn't get replacements and new sets of quilts to lay beneath them for comfort.

Dream got the bed closer to the door, if only because Blue admantly believed the ground-floor window to be more of a threat, even though at night they would close the heavy wooden shutters left over from the last owner, blocking views of the outside. Right now, his supplies, changes of clothes, and everything else sat safe in a trunk they'd found and emptied, only his bow laid out on his bed in an easy-to-grab location. Meanwhile Blue had his supplies tucked underneath the other bed, his spare armor and bedroll hiding in the dark. it felt good to share a room with someone again. Even if Blue's breathing was much louder and erratic than Night's used to be.

Right now, Dream sat at the edge of the stream which ran through the property. Another thing Blue had taught him to do was wash things. Clothes, weapons, blankets. Currently he was washing off the old, rusty trowel he'd found half-buried in the yard. The rust was stubborn, but Dream swore the more he scrubbed, circles as he'd been taught, that it seemed to give way. And, honestly, he was so enamored by the gross, reddish, bloody color which occassionally chipped away and seeped onto his fingertips, he hadn't noticed the sky growing dark, nor the wind picking up.

Only when raindrops finally graced his skull did he think to look up at the sky above him. Cloudy. Grey. Twisting.

His stomach did an impossible flip at the sight, and he found himself dropping the trowel there on the grassy bed beside the stream, before high-tailing it across the lawn and back to where the cottage stood. He'd have been ashamed for fleeing so quickly, but when his boot collided with the little porch outfront and his hand connected with the handle, the sky split with a crack of lightning. It lit the rain-speckled stone beneath his feet and momentarily cast his shadow tall on the door before him. His soul seized as he tugged open the door and shut it behind him, just before the entire structure shook with a loud crash of thunder.

The storms in the kingdom had been horrible, he wasn't sure what caused it, but he had to imagine nature itself was troubled by his twin's corrupted rule. By the imbalance. That's what he told himself, at least. Why else would his hands be trembling against the doorknob like a newborn fown's spindly legs? Why else would he be holding the door shut, as though that would somehow keep the storm from flooding his soul with terror?

It felt like ages as he stood there, stiffly. Too afraid to back away from the door, and too startled by each shaking rumble of the sky from outside. Through the glass he could hear the shrill whistle of the rain whipping violently between the trees.

He refused to look out the windows, lest-

"Dream?" that voice, familiar, snapped him out of his trance, for just a moment. Long enough to snap his hands to his chest, like the knob had been boiling hit under his palms, "Are you alright? What's wrong?"

His knight rushed into his view as he stood there, still feeling stunned by a bolt of lightning which hadn't even hit him. Blue's eyelights were wide and bright, big orbs of mana sitting proudly in his skull, examining Dream's face, then his arms, then his chest, his legs, no doubt scanning for an injury. Dream didn't answer his question, and Blue settled on an answer himself when his eyelights settled back to look at Dream's trembling hands.

"The storm, right." Blue supplied to himself, before his expression moved from worried into something brighter. Dream could taste nothing but fondness rolling from Blue as he extended his own gloved hands and pulled Dream's away from where they clutched at his tunic. He held them out in the air between the two of them, his hands were strong, "Have no fear! The Magnificent Blue apologizes for being tardy, but now he is here, and reayd to rpotect you from any big bad storm!"

Dream saw the determined, silly grin on his face, and let himself smile just a bit. Nodding along to Blue's declaration. Blue always made him feel better.

Though, the storm was equally good at unsettling him. Just as Blue seemed to believe he'd won, there was another bright flash of lightning and an immediate rumble which made Dream flinch before he could control himself. Staring at the space where Blue held his hands like a life-line. The thunder was too loud, the rain pounded the windows now, and the wind still whistled, high and insistant.

"Hmm, it's a heavy one. Let's go get comfy, wait it out! How does that sound?" Blue glanced at the windows, before making his suggestion. He waited for Dream to nod along in vehement agreement before Blue walked backwards to lead him into the branch-off room from the main entrance.

The room they'd just been in was larger, with a space to cook, couches and chairs, and old rickety bookshelves devoid of any decor. it was a large space they planned on filling with life by the time they were done here. The room they entered, moving past a single door, was that room with the two beds, the big desk, Dream's trunk, and some old rugs that were still good enough to use. it was smaller, and cozy, in comparison. It also helped that the one window to the outside had already been shuttered, never opened from the night before.

Blue guided him inside, ignoring the shaking of another bought of thunder, before gently shoving Dream to sit on his bed. He managed to slip his hands out of Dream's grip, just long enough to pull the Prince's blanket up and around his shoulders, and excuse himself for just a second.

Dream was distressed to let Blue leave his arm's length for even a moment, but found he was much more intrigued when Blue rushed over to his cot and... with little effort, he shoved his bed over, leaving the objects which had been neatly stacked beneath discarded on the gorund. The wood of his frame clattered against the edge of Dream's, and he watched in befuddlement as Blue shifted around his own sheets. Then he tugged his blanket off his cot and pulled it over himself and his dirty day-clothes with a grin.

"There we go!" He announced, clearly unaware, or ignoring, Dream's confused face. "We're not on the bedrolls anymore, so I figure this will just be easier to allow you you to feel secure without worrying about our comfort. Proximity is key!" Blue was an angle.

Dream actually smiled at that, unable to focus on the next rumble of thunder as he pulled himself onto the center of his bed, and then closer to where Blue had planted himself upright towards the center. It was a lot like their first night Dream had seen the storms. Blue had let Dream curl around him like some frightened snake, unbothered by the proximity, claiming it was just his duty. A friend helping a friend. A knight helping his prince. Dream had been mortified after, but Blue truly only felt pride at being able to watch over Dream in a moment of weakness. Dream appreciated him, and tried to channel a burst os positive aura as he settle in to lay against Blue's side.

The knight just pulled the blanket up tighter around Dream's shoulders and reassured him that he wouldn't move an inch, and that his patch-work was wonderful. Unrivaled. No water would get in.

[leupagus]

Would Hardy say "breasts" or "tits" in his narrative voice, I can't decide

His mobile goes off at half-four on a Sunday; the whole drive up to Kingsgrove Wood he has his mum's voice echoing in his ears that it's God's day, for rest and prayer and not mucking about in the woods. The voice gets louder as he's lead further in by a pair of constables, their torches flailing through the darkness for nearly twenty minutes before they arrive at the scene. 

Miller's there already in a full noddy suit, talking in low tones with Brian as she juggles her phone, her notebook and a thermos just outside the forensics tent. "Go away," she says cheerfully as Hardy finally stumbles into the clearing.

Brian glances over his shoulder, makes a face, and disappears back into the tent. Hardy's about to follow him inside when Miller gets in his way. "Miller," he warns.

"Listen, we're all overjoyed at the prospect of seeing your smiling face at… five oh seven in the morning," she says, glancing at her phone, "But this is why you've got a DS. I can brief you later."

"Brief me now," he says. She sighs and thrusts the thermos into his hands. "This for me?"

"No, lesson learned there, you'll just leave it on your desk until it gets mouldy." She waves her hands a bit — noddy suits don't have pockets — before unzipping just enough to slip her phone into her bra. She then flips her notebook open and peers at her handwriting, nudging him out of the floodlight positioned above the tent. "All right, a pair of adventurous young people were out here 'for a walk' at just past eleven, saw 'something weird' sticking out of the ground, poked around and found a jawbone, which I'm fairly sure wasn't how they wanted their evening to go. They've been statemented and released; Katie's running them home under protest."

"Under protest? Why?" Harford's got better in the past six months or so — Miller's oddly fond of her now, Hardy will never understand people — but if she's whinging again about basic aspects of the job, he's not above giving her a bollocking. He's cut back on caffeine, but shouting makes for a passable substitute.

"The lad was sick all over his own trousers." Miller grins. "And he had vindaloo last night."

Hardy uncaps the thermos and takes a whiff — burnt coffee, which seems to be the only kind Miller drinks. "What about the jawbone?"

"'Human' is about as far as they've got; they're digging up the rest now. We did take pictures of what the area looked like before they got their trowels in — looked completely undisturbed. This area doesn't have much in the way of footpaths; it's part of one of those preserves that's been popping up all over this area the past twenty-odd years. Makes me wonder a bit about how our outdoorsy friends just happened to trip over it, to be honest."

"Seems a bit out of the way, aye." He wouldn't be surprised if this was the most people who'd stood on this ground in the past few centuries.

"Mm. Something else odd. From what SOCO's got so far, the body was definitely buried — about three feet deep — but with the angle of the hill here and all the rain we've been getting—" She makes a complicated gesture; her phone lights up her breasts in a very distracting way. He frowns down at the thermos. "And there's another thing," she adds. "We haven't found the actual… head part. Yet."

Hardy forgets about her bioluminescent chest for long enough to glare at her. "You lost the skull?"

She glares right back. "It's probably rolled down the hill! It's pitch dark! We'll find it, it's just—"

"For God's sake—"

"Oh, don't 'for God's sake' me at this hour, we're doing the best we can!"

"Minus the skull!"

"Which might not have even been buried with the rest of the body!"

He hands her back the thermos, keeping his eyes off her glowing tits. "Find it, all right?"

"Dawn's still an hour off," she shouts after him. "We don't even know how old the body is! It could be from the bloody Bronze Age for all we know!"

[see-arcane]

Hi I just wanted to say I loved your Hellsing Jonathan rambling and if you ever want to ramble again I will slurp it up like soup. Thick, delicious blood soup. Your brain is amazing!

--comments that come either from a friendly Anon, a hungry ghoul zombie, or both

Regardless of which it is, thank you! Some questionable soup for you:

-Jonathan and Integra are mistaken for relatives more than once. Dark skin, platinum hair, piercing eyes, big on vampire hunting. Is he a secret cousin or something?? (For extra weirdness, since Hirano never bothered to give him and Mina real designs in the manga, it'd be trippy if Hellsing'verse Abraham van Helsing had a strong resemblance to Original Jonathan Harker. Just for the ?!?!?! meta of it all.)

-Because of the whole technical time travel angle, Jonathan gets called 'Doctor Who' a number of times before the Hellsing soldiers warm up to him. The latter happens quick--as per Jonathan's general friend-magnet vibes--but is especially helped when everyone, Seras in particular (who is delighted to be considered a Normal Human(ish) Expert on Modern Happenings), introduce him to all the contemporary things he's clueless on, being from the 1890s.

When the Valentine brothers attack, Jonathan takes it almost as hard as the original crew when the soldiers are ghoulified...though perhaps in much smaller numbers, what with Jonathan the Surprise Cryptid as backup. Even so. Tears are shed.

-Speaking of the Surprise Cryptid factor. No one knows what to make of him. Not a vampire, not a werewolf. Yet he's crawling the walls, deadlifting impossible weights, seeing in the dark, and carving through the undead with what should be an ordinary kukri knife. They examine the blade and Jonathan assures him it hasn't been blessed in any way. Alucard hands him, of all things, a trowel. And politely invites Jonathan to stab him with it.

Jonathan hesitates. Alucard slips into Count Dracula pitch and starts making Comments and Remarks about Mina.

Jonathan cracks Alucard upside the head. The mark is hidden under his hair...but it stays there. A real scar. From a garden tool. Whatever Jonathan is, he's playing the divine battery source with any weapon put in his hands. Interesting.*

*Alucard is about to vibrate out of existence with or without Schrodinger's poison.

-Pip is Pip. Heroic final moments or not, he is...a very particular case of Classically Manful/Boorish at times, and several steps shy of Quincey Morris-brand gallantry. Jonathan is still Jonathan. It takes a While+ for either of them to not grate against each other. Especially with regards to how less-than-gentlemanly Pip initially is to Seras.

Some of that is soothed a bit when, being the newcomer and still some form of professional in a grisly business, he's spared the worst of Jonathan's ire following the bloody business in Brazil. He likely has his own flashback to boyhood, his first tears over senseless aggression, his shocked horror at his father's violent suggestion of retaliation--but even that was only against an enemy. Nothing like the horror show at the hotel.

He and Seras (who has admittedly already started packing this latest trauma away for later) are most likely the only ones Jonathan can stand to listen to under that roof. Probably the only reasons he doesn't try to up and leave right then.

[itsviankagaunt]

Sebastian Lingering Little Secret

Hi, I try to write story about Sebastian "secrets he kept since he was in the first year", do let me know whether this can turn into something hot... ha ha ha

-------------

The Herbology (plus) Class

The next few days passed in a blur for the Slytherin trio. Their usual lively banter had been replaced by hurried footsteps between classes, hastily scribbled notes, and barely enough time to breathe. By Thursday, exhaustion clung to them like a persistent fog.

The greenhouse was unusually peaceful that afternoon, a rare occurrence considering Sebastian Sallow was present.

For once, he wasn’t picking fights with Leander Prewett. He wasn’t goading Imelda Reyes into another heated argument. He wasn’t even pulling pranks with his usual smirk.

He was… behaving himself.

Vianka narrowed her eyes. Highly suspicious.

The class was tasked with repotting Venomous Tentacula, a notoriously feisty plant requiring both focus and quick reflexes. Vianka barely dodged a snapping vine that lunged at her, stumbling back as it tore a small hole in her sleeve.

"Bloody thing," she muttered, shaking dirt off her gloves.

“Keep your wands handy!” Professor Garlick called over the commotion, unfazed by the chaos.

Vianka, however, wasn’t focused on the plants anymore.

Her attention drifted to Sebastian, who was blushing when Professor Garlick greeted the class.

Huh. Strange.

Sebastian, the menace of Hogwarts, was suddenly the most diligent Herbology student to exist.

“Now, dears,” Professor Garlick said warmly, demonstrating how to prune a particularly aggressive Tentacula. “It’s important to handle them with care—if you cut too deep, they’ll spray a rather unpleasant toxin.”

Sebastian took notes.

Vianka nearly dropped her trowel when Sebastian actually took notes.

Sebastian. Taking notes. In Herbology.

Not even in Defense Against the Dark Arts—where he could duel people for actual grades—had he ever been this focused.

Next to her, Ominis worked with his usual unshakable calm, deftly avoiding the plant’s snapping vines.

“This is practically therapeutic compared to everything else this week,” he murmured.

Imelda, on the other hand, was less composed.

“Therapeutic?!” she yelped, wrestling with a particularly aggressive Tentacula that had wrapped itself around her sleeve.

“Are you seeing the same plant I am? This thing’s trying to eat me!”

Professor Garlick hurried over to assist, but in doing so, accidentally knocked over a small pot.

Before it could hit the ground—

Sebastian lunged.

With lightning reflexes, he caught the pot mid-air, his toned arms flexing as he set it carefully back on the table.

“Professor,” he said, flashing his most dazzling grin—the one that made half the school swoon.

 “You really shouldn’t be handling all of this alone. You work too hard.”

Vianka stifled a laugh; she noticed something that even Ominis did not. 

Professor Garlick chuckled, wiping her hands on her apron. 

“Oh, you flatter me, Sallow.”

Sebastian leaned against the table, exuding casual confidence. 

“I mean it. You need someone strong, reliable—someone who can handle the plants and the chaos of this class.”

Vianka squinted.

Where was he going with this?

Then he did it.

Sebastian rested his chin on his hand, lowered his voice ever so slightly, and said, 

“You should let me be your class assistant.”

Leander Prewett, who had been trimming a Mandrake nearby, snapped his head up so fast he nearly broke his neck.

“I’m sorry, what?” Leander’s voice cracked.

“Oh, did you not hear me?”

Sebastian turned his smug gaze toward him.

“I said—Professor Garlick needs a more capable assistant.”

Leander turned red.

Professor Garlick, however, only gave a gentle laugh.

“Oh, Sebastian, I appreciate the enthusiasm, truly, but Leander is already my class assistant.”

Sebastian—the most stubborn person in existence—was unfazed.

“Well,” he said smoothly, leaning in just a bit closer,

“surely you could use a second one? I wouldn’t even ask for pay.”

Vianka nearly choked on air.

Sebastian. Offering to work. For free.

As the session continued, Professor Garlick assigned Vianka an extra task to help her catch up on missed coursework.

“And this weekend,”

Profesor Garlick added,

“Leander Prewett and Sebastian will show you how to handle enemies using Mandrakes, Chinese Chomping Cabbage, and Venomous Tentacula. It’ll be a valuable exercise!”

Vianka nodded, though her heart sank at the thought of more chaos.

As class ended and students dispersed, Ominis quietly stepped forward. His usual composed demeanor softened by concern as he murmured,

“Hold still.”

He pulled out his wand, murmured “Scourgify,” and cleaned the dirt and small scratches from Vianka’s arms. Then, reaching into his robes, he produced a small vial of Wiggenweld Potion.

“This should help,” he said, pressing it into her hand.

“You’ve had quite the day.”

Vianka took the potion, her face lighting up despite her exhaustion. “Thank you, Ominis,” she said softly.

Feeling uneasy at how much she owed Ominis, she quickly returned the favor.

“Hey, Ominis… I got this marshmallow-tasting Butterbeer for you. My instinct told me you’d like it.”

Though he couldn’t see, his entire face lit up at the gesture.

Sebastian, who had been watching the exchange, crossed his arms with an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, I see how it is,” he huffed.

“Ominis gets special treatment now? Where’s my Wiggenweld Potion? I nearly lost an arm to that blasted Tentacula, and I didn’t even get a pat on the back!”

Ominis smirked, his tone dry.

“You’re still standing, aren’t you, Sebastian? I rather suspect you’d survive.”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, though the hint of a grin betrayed his mock indignation.

“Unbelievable. Next time, I’m taking Vianka’s place in the special treatment queue.”

Vianka chuckled. “Sebastian, I traded my potion for sweets. That’s called an economy.”

Sebastian, always eager to argue, grinned. “Oh? Economy principle, you say? Alright then, let’s talk business—”

The trio left the greenhouse with dirt-streaked robes and the lingering scent of damp earth, rushing to their next class.

Vianka grinned widely,

"So my dear friend Sebastian, so you love Herbology very much", show a clear indication that she knew so much so well.

Sebastian blushed.

[christinescupofcoffee]

Roots Bloody Roots

Prompt: "It's a time-bomb." "A time bomb, then where is the clock?" "No, it's a bomb that blows up time." "All of time?" "Don't know haven't tried it."

*************

They had finally busted through the ground of the mesa with the drill, much to Dr. Travis’ jubilation. Erik and Dragon stayed up on the mesa with their lights pointed at the void being made. The cold desert wind at their backs, and Eric stayed crouched to the ground as if saying a prayer to the southern cross up in the sky, but this breakthrough was utterly gigantic for the team.

The drill stopped, and Dragon extended a hand down to Erik for a hearty handshake and a high five. Clods of mud and soil fell from the end of the drill bit, and in the sterile glow of the halogen light, the two men could make out the sight of something off about the earth itself. There seemed to be stringy roots dangling from the bit, as if they had drilled through a network of tree roots.

“Erik, are my eyes fooling me or is that soil of a strange color?” Dragon asked aloud.

“Yeah, it is,” Erik remarked with a nod. “It’s pink and red and seems to be attached to something.” He glanced to his left. “And yet this drill bit is a ways away from this bush over here. There are no trees and there are no other bushes around.” Cautiously, he stood up and then crouched back down before the bit; Dragon lingered right next to him with his halogen flashlight up next to his head.

The roots seemed to be attached to the earth as well. Clods of dirt containing roots would maintain their clod quality. Granted, the entire team there had been all the more acquainted with oddities on the ranch, but this was something else. And as Dragon took out a trowel from his tool belt, the two men picked up a rather metallic smell from the earth before them.

“Be careful,” Erik advised him, to which Dragon nodded. He dug the trowel into the unearthed soil next to the drill bit.

“Awful quiet up there, what’s going on, guys?” Dr. Travis’ Alabama accent crackled on over Erik’s radio right then, but the two men were more focused on the matter at bay. Two digs in and Dragon unearthed what looked like wires spilling out from the earth before them. Erik shone the flashlight into the hole before them. Through the dim light, and even through the small tunnel that had just been drilled out, they could see that the wires were connecting back to something big and covered in flashing lights down below the surface of the mesa.

“The hell is that?” A common sentiment on the ranch as is, but this time, Dragon said it with much more fear in his voice. Erik knelt down for a better look with the flashlight held up next to his head. It was only a small sliver of a view down into the mesa, but it was enough to see for himself.

“Guys, do you copy?” Dr. Travis crackled on again.

“It’s time-bomb,” Erik declared.

“A time bomb, then where is the clock?” Dragon demanded.

“No,” Erik stopped him with a shake of the head. “No, no, I mean… it’s a bomb that blows up time.”

“All of time?” Dragon was beside himself.

“Don’t really know for certain,” Erik elaborated. “I haven’t tried it. But I have heard about this, and I’m sure Travis has especially. It’s just one of many questions here, Bryant.”

“Guys?” Dr. Travis demanded again. “Erik? Dragon? You there?”

“Yeah, we’re here, Travis,” Erik assured him over his radio. “You and Caleb better get up here. I’m not sure how to put this into words.”

[amoebaforce]

Hi! How about some headcanons of the scions with a WoL who’s been scared of using their reaper class due to its garlean background until it was necessary to saving their life? Sorry if that doesn’t make sense 😭 love your writing btw❤️

thank you so much for the compliment!

this was a thought-provoking request! i like the idea of a WoL who has some ethical reservations about using this particular job.

so, here's some bullet-pointed headcanons for you, sweet anon! these are set during a nondescript conflict during Endwalker. i couldn't get to every Scion in one go, else this would be a very long reply, so let me know if you guys would like a part two with the rest :)

characters featured: Y'shtola Rhul, Thancred Waters, Urianger Augurelt, Alphinaud Leveilleur, Alisaie Leveilleur tags: canon-typical blood/violence, gn!WoL

Y’shtola

None of the Scions would ever force the WoL to use their Reaper job stone, but Y’shtola is the most enthusiastic about the possibility.

She listens and nods as the WoL explains their hesitancy, and she does understand, but she can’t deny that the possibility of studying a bound voidsent excites and intrigues her.

Reads every book, scroll, and treatise about voidsent and Reaping she can get her hands on, which is no small task given the clandestine nature of the job. She tries to pepper light-hearted suggestions and reassuring facts into conversations on the subject.

“Scholars say the likelihood of voidsent breaking free is infinitesimal, especially when they are bound to such a fearsome warrior as you. Plus, we’re all here for you, too. What’s one little voidsent compared to the might of the Scions?” 

Her heart skips a beat when she finally witnesses the WoL switch jobs in the midst of a fight — that vicious burst of black and red magic, that glittering scythe flashing through air! Y’shtola can’t help but grin as she watches the WoL cleave an enemy in two, making a series of mental notes on the voidsent’s functionality. It was worth the wait.

Thancred

Completely supportive, no matter what. To be honest, he’d be a little freaked out, too, if he was the one wielding forbidden Garlean magic in the midst of a bloody war with the Empire. Plus, the WoL has plenty of other options in a fight, so there’s no real need to use it if they don’t want to.

“You could fight with a garden trowel and win. No need to whip out the demons.”

But then, a fight threatens to go sour. Their enemy is charging something big, and the Scions can’t beat their grunts off fast enough to get to the leader. They need more firepower, more fury. 

Thancred fires off a charge from his gunblade and looks to the WoL. They’re already changing.

His eyes widen at the sight. It’s beautiful and terrifying at the same time, to see his friend’s eyes turn cruel as they’re enshrouded by the voidsent. He rushes to defend their flanks, casting worried glances over his shoulder as they shred through the opposition like paper.

Urianger

He doesn’t blame the WoL for their feelings on Reaping. Garlemald is directly responsible for a great many tragedies, and such an association is not to be taken lightly.

Yet, ever the pragmatist, Urianger sees the use in Reaping. Soul magic is potent and powerful, and he knows the WoL will have to rely upon it sooner or later, given their enemy’s ever-growing hunger for destruction.

So, Urianger prepares. He watches and waits, casting those knowing eyes upon his beleaguered friend every time their hand twitches toward their job stones.

Finally, the time comes: the WoL is cornered, taking hits faster than Urianger can heal them. “Let fly your scythe!” Urianger calls, pulling a card from his deck. The WoL’s hand dips into their pocket, and a flash of light sweeps past. 

Urianger looks at the card in his hand. The Arrow. Navigator, guide my hero true, he prays silently, infusing the WoL with his magic as their transformation ends. A ringing warcry is the answer to his prayer.

Alphinaud

The young Master Leveilleur would rather swim from Limsa to Doma than see his best friend so conflicted. He feels their conundrum viscerally and tries his best to help the WoL come to a decision.

Makes a pros and cons list of all the reasons to use the Reaper stone and all the reasons not to. It comes out as an exactly even split, much to his chagrin. He rips it up instead of showing it to the WoL.

He’s busy healing his twin and blasting a Garlean soldier with his nouliths when he hears the distinct noise of a stone being switched behind him. He glances up and his mouth falls open.

The WoL is enveloped by blackened aether, laughing and howling as they tear through a pack of war-dogs. Blood splashes crimson against the Garlean snow. He fumbles to cast a shield on his friend, not sure what else they need from him now.

The shroud falls back, revealing the WoL’s bloodlusted eyes and curved grin. It seems the decision has been made. Alphinaud nods silently and casts a Haima over his friend.

Alisaie 

Like her brother, Alisaie hates when the WoL is mulling something over. They’re even quieter than usual, somehow, which sets her on edge. She takes it upon herself to raise their spirits.

“Hey, just because they invented it, doesn’t mean you can’t use it, too! That’d be like the Sharlayans gatekeeping their Sage stones! Well, I mean, they kind of do… But that’s not the point!”

The WoL appreciates her efforts nonetheless. They just can’t seem to shake the feeling of wrongness that accompanies the act of summoning their bound voidsent…

Until they watch an Imperial legion mech knock Alisaie off her feet, sending the slight Elezen teen flying into a rocky outcropping. Suddenly, none of their reservations matter anymore. Their scythe materializes faster than they can think, and then they’re aiming their blade across the mech driver’s neck.

Alisaie coughs and laughs from her divot in the ground. She lifts her rapier triumphantly and cries, “Hells yeah! Give them a taste of their own medicine!”

[sharlayandropout]

Mount

Some weeks after the Vault

Snip from a fic:

It was a long time before she was able to do much of anything again, except weep, and rage, and stare dully into nothingness. The cold fury which had carried her from the steps of the Vault to Azys Lla and beyond had melted away, and she with it. She had collapsed, knew nothing of her return to the Manor. When she awoke, hours or days later, in her room - her room, not his - something within her had snapped, decisive as a killing blow, severing her self from her self. Zefiris Winterheart watched herself contorted in a silent, screaming agony of loss with the same detached gaze she turned out to the vacuum of the world. It was all the same, now; there was nothing to be done.

Nothing in Fortemps Manor was as it had been. Familiar faces were replaced with strangers, households servants having been given leave to attend to their grief. Strange, really, how someone kept so firmly ostracised on the margins of the House should turn out to be such a fundamental part of it.  The heart of it, perhaps.

When Zefiris finally emerged from her room and wound her way back to the stables, she was unsurprised to find her old companion gone, too. The world was empty, now, after all.

Like the household servants, the stable hands had also been given leave. In their place was a big man, burly, gruff.  He was carrying an old trowel, a bucket and scrubbing brush as he came towards her. He looked vaguely familiar.

'Excuse me.' Zefiris’ voice was hollow, cracked from disuse. 'Where's the bird that was stabled here?'

The man turned to her, contempt in his eyes.  If he recognised her, he gave no sign. 'The big meanie greenie?’ he growled. ‘He yours?'

His pointless hostility rolled off her; she wasn’t interested, wouldn’t engage. It was all so distant, now. 'I’m not sure what you mean. My bird was in here, yes, but he's a standard palfrey.'

The man snorted, muttering: ‘Not any more, he ain't. Who’s idea was it to stuff a riding palfrey full o’ Mamook mix for a month straight? That’s feed for battle-birds, that is - you’ll be lucky if you get your arse up on that one ever again.’ Recalling himself, he added an insincere, ‘Begging your pardon, o’ course.’ Uncaring, she simply stared at him; she heard his words well enough, but they weren’t relevant to her question. When she didn’t react, he went on with his rant. ‘Bloody nobles and their hirelelings, no idea about the proper care of chocobos, none of ‘em.  Now, Lord Haurchefant, on the other hand…’ 

At the sound of his name she winced as if struck; that, at least, still penetrated. The man saw as much, and frowned. He nodded towards the empty stall. 'Anyway, that one’s been kicking the doors all morning, making a right racket, just as he has every morning for the last two weeks, so we’ve taken him down to the big paddock the Temple Knights use so he can run himself ragged, and give us all peace.’

The ringing in her ears subsided a little.  Camp Dragonhead, she realised. That’s where she knew the man from - he was stablemaster there. She’d seen him from a distance, but never spoken with him. Haurche had…Lord Haurchefant had thought highly of him, too.

 ‘I warn you, feed like that changes a bird, and now he’s got a taste for it, you’ll never get him off the stuff.  Best accept it.’

 ‘The Temple Knights paddock.’ she repeated the only part that had any relevance for her. ‘I thank you.’ Turning, she hefted the heavy Ul’dahn-barded saddle and bridle from the tack stand at the end of the room. It seemed a relic from another age.

Struck by sudden pity, the burly man called out to her as she passed through the gates, out into the city streets. ‘Careful, lass. Your bird’s not as he was.’ Zefiris gave no indication that she heard him, and disappeared down the stairs, out of sight. With a sigh, he opened the door of the vacant stall, and went about the grim task he’d been about to commence when the lady had arrived. Six dead rats to clean up, maybe seven - it was hard to tell, eviscerated as they were, entrails smeared on the floor, bloody splashes where they’d been dashed against the walls. 

—

Zefiris found Kokapetl just where the wrangler had said; pacing the fence of the large training paddock used by the Temple Knights, out behind the proving Grounds. The yard was quiet, the arena empty of other birds.

At her call, he turned, crest raised in greeting. It tugged the barest of smiles to her lips, as he trotted over to her. Before he reached the fence, though, he cut sharply sideways, charging off to the left and arcing around the arena at a heavy lope, talons pounding the earth. Less a greeting, she realised, than a challenge.

 ‘Fair enough,’ she said colourlessly. ‘I’d be angry with me too.’

As he looped back towards her, his posture was low, predatory; for a moment she strongly considered jumping back over the fence.  But there was no way he would harm her.  This was justified chastisement for her neglect, no more. He stopped about three yalms clear of her, and dropped low on his haunches, shrugging his wings, feathers ruffled. A low gurgling growl resonated in his throat, and he bobbed his head at her with manic fury. The display would have alarmed her, were it not entirely deserved.  As if anything could alarm her, anymore.

The wrangler from Dragonhead had spoken true; there were unmistakable patches of dark green slashed through his sandy plumage, lending him a scruffy, feral look. ‘Oi.’ she said firmly, palm up. ‘Calm’. Snaking his neck once more before subsiding, he lowered his crest, settled his feathers. Zefiris had never had to take such a tone with him before. ‘That’s better. Good boy.’ Reaching up to stroke his head, she remained tensed to pull her hand away, but he submitted to the touch, and dipped lower to allow her access to the accustomed spot. ‘There now, it’s all right.’

As if anything was alright, anymore.

[hollowsswritingcorner]

To Lizzy

I hope when you think of that home—

you think of me and not them;

I hope when you see shapes on your arms—

you remember how I drew colors over the scars;

I hope when you finally part with the clothes I mended—

you remember my gentle whispers not their harsh hatred;

I hope when you think of broken vows—

you think of your promise not bloody garden trowels;

I hope when you remember your insecurities—

you think about how I cherished every one of these;

And lastly I hope this reaches you—

so you finally know forever and always;

I love you.

[insilverrolled]

Damson

By Seamus Heaney

Gules and cement dust. A matte tacky blood On the bricklayer’s knuckles, like the damson stain That seeped through his packed lunch. A full hod stood Against the mortared wall, his big bright trowel In his left hand (for once) was pointing down As he marvelled at his right, held high and raw; King of the castle, scaffold-stepper, shown Bleeding to the world. Wound that I saw In glutinous colour fifty years ago— Damson as omen, weird, a dream to read— Is weeping with the held-at-arm’s-length dead From everywhere and nowhere, here and now.

.

Over and over, the slur, the scrape and mix As he trowelled and retrowelled and laid down Courses of glum mortar. Then the bricks Jiggled and settled, tocked and tapped in line. I loved especially the trowel’s shine, Its edge and apex always coming clean And brightening itself by mucking in. It looked light but felt heavy as a weapon, Yet when he lifted it there was no strain. It was all point and skim and float and glisten Until he washed and lapped it tight in sacking Like a cult blade that had to be kept hidden.

.

Ghosts with their tongues out for a lick of blood Are crowding up the ladder, all unhealed, And some of them still rigged in bloody gear. Drive them back to the doorstep or the road Where they lay in their own blood once, in the hot Nausea and last gasp of dear life. Trowel-wielder, woundie, drive them off Like Odysseus in Hades lashing out With his sword that dug the trench and cut the throat Of the sacrificial lamb. But not like him— Builder, not sacker, your shield the mortar board— Drive them back to the wine-dark taste of home, The smell of damsons simmering in a pot. Jam ladled thick and steaming down the sunlight.

[originalkingdomwombat]

Cinity

Scrabble

Uh yo my climax game goes through the brain and ignites the flame pulling back on lethal warriors God Mary Jane miracle weed and eyes don't lie heros sigh watch out below because it's time to fry Little boe peep lost her sheep to a creep and that creep wasn't me running from hounds with any luck from tips whom is guilty of such will be found BB gun when its time to throw down sixteen in the chamber what now fuck your cows eating kales and turnips Amish pal turning on me some how hat tippin Scottie pippen og southern comfort sipping straight from whippings and it's fire 80 something THC uh vape im hitting swish is a gift given Diamond hunting on the town dirt water creek where Snakes & Spiders and fish are on the prowl silence Pharaoh speaks hand me a trowel Deliver us somehow Indian Chief pow wow how smoke rises to the sky won't take off my mask like a butterfly in the Jesus cut and what I am a bloody guy extremely high enemy live or die mortal Kombat soldier guy you'll get hit because I am going drag you out into the of the middle of the streets a beat the be Jesus out of you until you quit silence Forever throne speaks number one hit now get street rat I didn't know they were ill like that when I forever put Eternals Globals Nationals Federal States and Locals Bobby pin into double locked hand cuffs without keys equalling escapes

just Like that while people say hold up freeze wait Hero Pennsylvania State

[brown-forking-weed]

an armored personnel carrier rolls up to a strategically important mountain pass. the door swings open, and out steps a soldier in a floppy straw hat, armed with a trowel and a landmine. he digs a shallow hole in the dark alpine soil and places the mine at the bottom, filling the hole back in, patting it down gently with his hands. he returns to his vehicle and drives away. within a weeks time, the mine has propagated itself extensively via underground rhizomes, turning the entire area into a virulent no man's land where metallic shoots push up through the earth like weeds, twining themselves around pine trees with their tripwire tendrils, climbing up cliff-faces and choking even the brambles with their vicious proliferation. the strangling stems are covered in metallic buds that swell like blisters and burst into shrapnel-petaled blossoms, perfuming the ever-expanding killzone with the heady scent of high explosives. in the night, swarms of unmanned drones buzz around the slopes, flitting from flower to flower, dusting themselves black powder pollen as a bumper crop of anti-personnel fruits already ripens upon the vine. all is silent in the mountain pass now, save for the occasional bleating of a legless goat as it lies, forlorn, upon its bier of bloody talus

lets picture a war together shall we? Ok I am imagining bombs so large they encase the plane that drops them. I am imagining guns that fire so many bullets so quickly they seem to form a continuous stream of metal. I am imagining soldiers who eat nothing but other soldiers and whose helmets are part of their heads. Your turn.

[princeofdoomrps-archive]

My Tumblr Crushes:

stephverh

vaporwave-trolls

mechadragon

bloody-trowel

flexciel

grimshawsghost

screamingshark

raitrolling

toomuchdickfort

forgot to post these yesterday so happy munday

[catboy-syrup]

I recently discovered an object show called Object Terror (which I fucking love for some reason) and like,,,,,

I like how the two reactions to this show are basically either “omg this show is fucking awful how could anybody enjoy this” or “haha, problematic object show go brrr :)”. And like, There is no inbetween for these two reactions, and I absolutely love it.

[glazelilyy]

green thumb

request from anon - "requests for dendro!reader and scara? aaaa maybe a small scenario/set of hcs or something, where the reader teaches scara how to be patient with plants n stuff? gardening? maybe they guide his hands with theirs when he’s being a little… aggressive? something to do with the nurture of plants, maybe?"

a/n - gugughgh this is the cutest thing ever oh my godhggbfk i'm MELTING /pos !!! you got it nonnie, one gardening post coming right up! :D

S/O IS THE DENDRO ARCHON VOL 2 (KAEYA, SCARAMOUCHE, AND DAINSLEIF) (would help for context if you’ve read scaramouche's part in this before reading this drabble!)

pairing - scaramouche x DENDRO ARCHON!gender neutral reader

word count - 2014

genre - fluff

format - headcanons + drabble

warnings - skinship, established relationships, spoilers for scaramouche's identity (found in the 2.1 archon quest), not beta read! (might be some editing errors)

summary - in an attempt to further his bond with you, scaramouche takes it upon himself to learn the art of caring for flowers

"gentle" isn't exactly a word that scaramouche would describe himself with

he didn't concern himself with keeping up appearances that didn't paint him as a terrifying force to be reckoned with

after all: he's the sixth harbinger, and a harbinger who appears weak loses their authority and power

but there's a slight exception: you

all he really had to do was let his lithe fingers brush against the cool crystal of the gem that clung to his earlobe and he'd be red in the face and soft in the eyes

not even factoring in that your touch drove him to the brink of insanity and back

and though you've shown him nothing but beautiful blue skies and lingering morning touches bathed in sweet honey, he can't help but feel like he hasn't done very much for you

it's always him who stumbles in at precarious hours, all bloodied and bruised and asks you to heal him with you vision

and it's you who takes initiative to touch and hold him; to form beautiful flowers from your hands and weave them through his locks

compared to him you were softer than the delicate petals of a rose and somehow seemed to read him like an open book

though he'd never admit to the insecurities that ate him up alive at night when he's tangled up in your arms, he still resolves himself to try and do something for you

because though he struggles to show it: he really does love you more than anything else in this wretched world

continued utc!

you adored your flowers; adored the sweet smell of roses in their brightest bloom and little daffodils that begun to sprout from the green grass of the estate's land. on days that he was able to return home to your arms, he'd usually watch from afar as you tended to your ever-growing field of flowers and timbering trees that you had sprouted from the ground with careful hands and attentive eyes shrouded in a mossy hue.

scaramouche had never truly known what beauty and mysticality were until he laid eyes upon you in your craft; threads and spools of vines crawling up from the ground to weave around your arms and nestle at your shoulders where fluffy, snow-white birds sat chirping cheerfully away at your ears. divinity was scorned and scorched in his eyes; the picture of malice yet you were no gentler than the roll of ocean waves at the crack of dawn.

and it was that picture—your stunning visage bathed in the glow of nature that made his heart pound and throb against his chest.

if only being close to nature made him feel the same way that you do.

"these cursed," he scowled as he threw the cloth satchel of seeds to the ground, "wretched-" this time, the gardening trowel was flung to the earth, "ridiculous plants!"

the small bed of dirt he had dug up in the backyard was perfect in every sense except for the practical sense—practical being that the grown tulips he'd bought were accidentally ripped by the stem from their roots and now useless (since no one had informed him that yes, the roots are crucial). the soil he'd bought from a wandering merchant seemed rancid and unusable, the ferns delivered from natlan had wilted by the time they reached inazuma, and the rose seeds he bought had troublesome caring instructions that would put even a fontanian engineer to shame.

despite wanting to produce something of note for you, who could grow an entire field of flowers with a wave of your hand, it seems he failed in his task and that fact alone made his blood boil.

"darling? what are you doing?"

he whipped his head around to find you standing with a curious look on your face, arms crossed over the span of your chest as you tried to peer at the work he had done in the yard with a smile on your face.

"nothing, i am doing absolutely nothing." he grumbled and rose from the ground to face you with a scowl, "shouldn't you be out right now? or did you finally get tired of that puny, little town?"

"now, now," your hand rose to tenderly smooth back the frazzled strands of hair that fell in his face, "don't talk so rudely about the people, my love. i simply got what i needed in town and returned home early. though, this is quite the surprise. haven't you said before that gardening is a task far below a harbinger?"

"i've said many things before." he mumbled as he drew you close and pressed a kiss to the gem that hung from your ear, letting his fingers skim just over the shell of your ear.

"that you have. well, are you going to explain to me what you're doing, or will you continue glaring at my poor trowel?" you giggled and pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek.

he chewed the inside of his cheek and cast his eyes to the side, unable to meet your gaze. how low he's sunken—one of the most feared harbingers now a bumbling fool in love who couldn't admit to his defeated feat before you.

"love? what's happened?" your thumb brushed airily beneath his eye and quelled the nervous jumping of his stomach.

he muttered lowly, "i wanted to plant flowers for you," before planting his head into the juncture where your shoulder and neck met.

"oh my, is that all?" he felt you heave a sigh breathily—most likely out of relief—and sank further into his arms, "why didn't you ask me? you know that's an area i'm proficient in."

"i...i wanted...i-," he sucked in a harsh breath through gritted teeth before pulling his face from your neck and gripping your shoulders within his hands. there was no doubt that his face was burning bright red but he'd always push aside his pride for you.

"i wanted to show you that i love you!"

a beat passed, then two, and suddenly he was regretting his honesty and the silence was far too loud for his ears. the noon sun beat down on his skin and made him want to crawl underground and burrow.

"scaramouche, my love, look at me. let me see your eyes." you called for him just under your breath, hands moving to cup his cheeks and tilt his head towards you.

a tender expression blanketed your face, eyes swimming with an unshed gloss of tears and a warbled smile on your face,

"you always, always show me you love me," he nearly hummed beneath your touch; your hands felt so warm and smooth as they caressed his face and brushed aside the sweaty bangs that stuck to his forehead.

"and if i've ever given you reason to doubt that you do then i'm truly so sorry-"

"no! nothing like that." scaramouche scowled, tongue desperately trying to find the words to convey to you what he meant.

"you're so unlike me—so kind and warm, and i am...i..."

"you worry that i don't receive the same affection from you just because of our different displays of it?"

curse you for reading his mind—he'd have to hound you later on whether or not all the archons (or former archons, in this case) held the divine power to read minds.

"don't forget—wisdom is not only academic, it's also personal." you giggled and placed the palm of your hand onto his chest. he scowled but he hoped you knew that he wasn't mad or irritated, not with the way the tips of his ears glowed.

"you little minx," he jeered and pinched the soft of your cheek with a malicious grin on his face, "you could've spared me the formalities if you knew what i was saying and i would've made you squirm instead."

he bit back a laugh when you squealed and gently hit his knuckles to yield his pinches of doom.

"well i am your minx after all." you mumbled with a smile as you rubbed your cheek to soothe the dull ache.

"that you are, never forget it."

he took your hand within his despite the dirt that dusted them and ran his thumbs along your knuckles.

"scaramouche, do you know how loved i feel when i'm with you?" you hummed and squeezed his hands.

before he could reply, you urged him to stoop down to his poor, sorry excuse of a flower bed and picked up a rose seed from the discarded cloth bag with your free hand.

"you may not tell me you love me verbally, but i can feel it in how you hold me and all that you do for me—like that time you demanded that poor fontanian painter redo my painting because apparently she got my eyes wrong." you giggled at the snarl that spread across his face.

"what, you think i would let her depict you in any other way than you are? ridiculous, the nerve of that painter. i should've had her blacklisted from the industry." he grumbled and squeezed your hand.

"see?" you bumped your shoulder with his and smiled, "that is how you show me love. and that is how i feel your love. you may consider yourself no more than a puppet but i know that your heart is tender and kind and so full of love. i only wish that you have more faith in yourself as well, my love."

the rose seed in your hand began to glow a gentle green—it suddenly shot up, a spark of green from the seed, and blossomed so quickly into a beautiful, healthy, purple rose.

"this," you peered at him with hearts engraved in your eyes as you gestured to the rose, "is how you make me feel. forever and always."

it was uncharacteristic of him to get shy, and surely if he had his hat he'd use it to cover the blush that spread across his face as you tucked the thornless rose behind his ear. a "thank you" was on the tip of his tongue and yet he couldn't muster enough strength to say two little words that most likely would've meant so much to you.

but somehow you seemed to know either way, and he'd take a guess that you'd managed to study all his body and the language it speaks well enough to know what his mind speaks.

you tossed the bag of seeds to him and squeezed his hand, "would you like to help me plant the rest of these, darling?"

"if you insist i must." grumbled as his response might be, his heart was overjoyed and there was no denying the small smile that embedded itself onto his lips.

any time he felt the doubt of his worth crawl back up to bite and tingle at the nape of his neck, he remembered this moment: the moment where, as he flung the tulip with no roots to the ground in the heat of frustration, you stood beside him, moved behind him, placed your hands over his to guide him to plant the tulip with much more gentle hands than he would've ever done so as you breathed life back into the tulip and regrew its roots.

similarly, you breathed life back into him and allowed him to grow new roots within your arms.

from that moment on, scaramouche often accompanies you when you delve into your craft and return outside to garden

sure, he's not the handiest of men with flowers and your poor, poor cecilias are sometimes squashed unknowingly between his hands (because what harbinger can really control their strength?)

but he learns and he's quick to learn when your hands take his and guide him to be gentle with fresh daisies and soft ferns

and just like the spring that comes and brings new winds on the horizon, he finds himself falling more and more in love with the god who smiles among their flowers and sings songs to both him and the turtle doves that sit just outside his window

date published: april 7th, 2022

[ginger-snappe-420]

Fr tho it does come off as a parody! I think the thing with Cactus and the mlg jokes were the creator's attempt at humor. Which tbh isn't that funny but to each their own y'know? (My humor sucks anyhow so I can't talk 😭) But yeah the whiplash between V3 episode one and five is so bad.

Like if I watched the first episode and then the fifth episode without watching the other ones, I would think they're two different shows. Episode one was more funny (or at least trying to be) than it was serious. Like you said it had ear rape and fucking mlg air horns for god's sake! But then episode five is just a bloodbath that tries to have character development in it.

I haven't watched episode 5 in a long time, so sorry if I get anything wrong, but the scene with Plug and Flashdrive just felt so... Off? Like it felt out of place for a show like OT. And same for whatever the fuck was going on between Arch and Mint. Like to go from two characters discussing how one feels ignored because of the other's busy schedule (which tbh I never got that vibe before that scene), to two characters making out while two other characters acting surprised and shocked, to someone getting their fucking face bit off is like... HUH?? I'm sorry but it feels like this show was trying to be many different things at once. (At least I think so, let me know if I sound dumb rn.) But to have two characters having a serious chat about their relationship to two characters having a makeout session as a joke (btw it wasn't even funny. It made me really uncomfortable like. THE SOUNDS???) is like. Bro come on. Idk I'm sorry I'm tired.

But anyways my main point is that the show started off more comedic and silly and then turned into an edgy bloodbath with a fucking demon trying to impress SATAN (I'm sorry I can't get over that what the hell 😭). I'm not saying that you can't start off a show being lighthearted and then it turning into something darker later on, because that does happen. But this isn't the case. Like this happens over the span of five episodes, four is when it really started getting bloody. And mind you episode one had fucking MEMES in it. Which by the way have NOT aged well.

I do like your idea about how Smore could work tho! I really like the idea of like the contestants being like "punished" for being pieces of shit. But in the show it just comes out of nowhere! The creator didn't have any ideas for Smore and just added him for the show to be edgy and for him to add drama to Mint and Arch's relationship.

Oh yeah and TV 14 is definitely NOT the right rating for the show. Here's a quick description of what R rated films have: "An R-rated motion picture, in the view of the board, contains some adult material. The film may include adult themes, adult activity, hard language, intense or persistent violence, sexually oriented nudity, drug abuse or other elements, so that parents are counseled to take this rating very seriously. Generally, it is not considered appropriate for parents to bring their young children with them." Sound familiar? (I highlighted what applied to OT and the fact that young children should not be watching this show. Which. Y'know is mostly what the osc is. Also wtf is adult activity? Idk at this point I really don't care)

Also something else I want to talk about: What the fuck is Beer and Trowel's relationship? Are they friends? Boyfriends? Friends with benefits?? Because like they never shown any signs of dating and then they just start making out. WHY?? There was no reason for that happening either they just did it. Was it a joke?? I didn't laugh. Like I said it made me hella uncomfortable because the SOUNDS. And it lasted way longer than it needed to. Oh yeah and it was never brought up again either. Maybe if the show has more episodes it would've explored that but how are you gonna make out with your best friend for no reason and then just act like nothing happened. And the fact that Stapler and Carpet were so surprised that Carpet LITERALLY passed out from pure shock is really telling of how Beer and Trowel's relationship is portrayed.

And another thing (I'm so sorry): But the whole thing with the Minotaur felt weird. Like they had the two cohosts go into a public area, bomb the area (or something like that I forgot) and then kidnap someone?? And then inject them with a solution to make them murderous?? DO YOU SEE HOW INSANE THIS SOUNDS?? And at the end of the episode it was revealed that the Minotaur was just some guy living his life. So they made Minotaurs out to be monsters but in their universe they're just people?? Sounds like racism ngl. (Again I haven't watched this show in ages so let me know if I'm getting anything wrong.)

In the end though, the creator is just an idiot loser who thought he made something that was good. But it wasn't. And he acted like a man child too. Like how tf are you gonna joke about self harm and suicide if you censor words like shit and you're afraid of your PARENTS cancelling your show for a joke about Harambe 💀

so uh, object terror..?

I think I'm just on the road to dragging myself deeper into osc hell, but whatever, I'm doing this to myself.

But what is Object Terror..?

I know what it is, I just watched the eps that are up right now, but like why is (was?) it so controversial? I feel like it could've just easily been brushed off as a parody object show or something at the end of the day. It's not really good, but it's by no means how bad some of you have been talking about it.

I could kinda get being freaked out if you clicked on it without warning but they say the r-slur within the first 30 seconds. You'd know that it wasn't a normal object show before you'd even get to any of the gore.

Actually no- can I talk about that? They say the r-slur not even 30 seconds into the first episode but still have the audacity to censor fuck, shit, and bitch? That's actually insane to me.

And sure, I guess you could dismiss it because it was 2016, and god certain sectors of the internet had that word in their normal vocab, but that doesn't make it ok, or even make sense for the show??? Idk the development hell it went through, but like, if they were going for like edgy object show why censor swears? It just feels strange?

Again, I'm so out of the loop for this show. It's entirely possible that they like reuploaded it with censors and deleted the originals or something, but still.

I just can't wrap my head around why someone would make a show with sex jokes, murder, gore, and the like but draw the line at objects saying fuck? Like what morality was there to uphold? Of course, a lot of kids were (are?) watching, it's the osc for fuck's sake, but again, it just doesn't fit with what the show was?? Idk why that gets under my skin so badly.

I don't think anyone's even really talking about this show anymore but if you've seen it, you know what I'm talking about. I'm done here.

[rotworld]

15: Roses and Thorns

your friend in the woods often asks for help cleaning up his scraps...and sometimes, for more.

->explicit. contains gore, murder, graphic descriptions of corpses, hard vore, D/s dynamic, sadism and masochism, painplay, self-inflicted injury, bondage, size difference, terato.

.

.

.

“Thistle would like to see you,” says the fox. She’s sitting patiently outside your door, blinking up at you with big, amber eyes and pricked ears. She’s cute, dog-sized with an orange coat and a white belly, black paws like little socks. She also has blood smeared across her muzzle. Like all of Thistle’s animals, she smells like the meadow, a rosy musk wafting from her fur. 

“Now?” you ask. 

“Now,” she says, licking her maw.

There’s no point in arguing. You throw on a cloak and start your journey deeper into the forest. The fox trots alongside you, hopping over fallen logs and weaving through the underbrush. You live on the outskirts, an ordinary woodland with chirping birds dappled sunlight filtering through dense foliage. But it isn’t far until you reach the end of the normal, gentle woods and the start of the Creeping Briars. It seems to get closer every day. 

Birdsong grows distant. Light chokes and fades. The shadows are thick and shifting. The sky is gray in the Creeping Briars, the trees gnarled and twisted. This place is in the grip of neverending twilight gloom without fire, without the gold of the setting sun. It’s remarkable to you that anyone would find themselves at that boundary, the place where the light dies and the prickling silhouettes of the Briars loom dark and foreboding ahead, and keep walking, but people do it all the time. Wagon wheel scars dig into the ashy dirt, all careening down the same beaten path, never returning. The first few bloodied scraps of clothing start to appear, hooked on the ends of pointed branches and clusters of thorns. 

“It’s strange that he keeps asking for you,” the fox says, leering. “It’s even stranger that he keeps letting you leave.”

She wouldn’t hurt you. Not if Thistle asked you to come. Still, you keep an eye on her. “I’m not causing any trouble, as far as I can tell,” you say. The Briars thicken. Your cloak tears in all the spots it’s been mended before, loose stitches and mismatched patches ripped out by outstretched, thorny vines. They sway without wind to move them. When they prick your skin, they shiver in delight. 

The fox says, “Everything causes trouble. Every rabbit I chase troubles me because it makes me run after it.” 

“Isn’t that the point, though?” you ask. “Wouldn’t it trouble you even more if the rabbit jumped right into your jaws and you never got to chase it at all?” 

The fox narrows her eyes at you. She looks angry, and a little impressed. 

Your boot sinks into the mud. Red mud—a bloody puddle. The garden must be up ahead, because everything he doesn’t want has been stripped away and abandoned here. A broken wagon, tipped over on its side and infested with writhing, bloodied roots and vines. A chipped breastplate. Shoes and burlap and swords and trowels. They were after the roses, it seems.

The fox pokes her snout curiously through the heap of discarded things. You go on alone. There’s a wall of trees, a brambly thicket that writhes and closes in around you. It scrapes and pricks at you playfully but it lets you pass. Wet, dripping chunks of those who weren’t as fortunate remain trapped in the tangled mass. 

The garden is just on the other side. The wall opens, the thorns falling away. You come upon a meadow, a moonlit glade carpeted in roses. Their brilliant colors range from scarlet to lustrous gold and deep, lapis blue. Thorny stems slither up your legs and leave sharp, biting kisses beneath your cloak. A human jawbone crunches beneath your boot. A man or something shaped like one kneels in the center of the garden, a handful of viscera clutched in his fist. Sharp, carnivore teeth dig into the fleshy mass with a burst of blood and he tears a chunk free to swallow. 

“I think your fox wants to eat me,” you say. A thorned branch caresses your shoulder, ripping open your sleeve. You step over a severed hand, a half-buried ribcage. Skin and muscle tissue shred between the man’s teeth and blood drips down his chest. Thistle’s skin is rough and ridged like bark, his hair spilling down his back in veined, leafy clumps. He’s all earth tones, browns and greens and the stony gray of the Briars, flecked with moss and mushroom growths.

“She was only trying to scare you,” he murmurs. “She knows you are prey for a much larger beast.” Wood creaks and snaps when he moves. You hear a sick squelch when he finishes the offal in his hand, stringy tissue sticking between his teeth. 

You meander through the roses, grazing your fingertips across their velvety petals. “People tell some really fantastic stories about these, you know,” you say, kneeling to smell one. “In the capital, they’re saying you can crush the roots and make a panacea. Or an aphrodisiac, depending on who you ask.” 

Thistle stands, as solid and looming as any tree in the Briars. His steps shake the garden. “Humans say the most peculiar things about what they cannot have.” His shadow falls across your back. A large, gnarled hand reaches past you, plucking a red rose from the stem. He threads the thorned branch through your hair, tucking it behind your ear. “Did you see anything you wanted? I have no need for things from the human lands. I will dispose of whatever you do not take.” 

“Some of the food, maybe,” you say. His thick fingers stroke your scalp and you lean into the touch like an animal, letting your eyes fall shut. “I could try to start telling people they’re just flowers. Maybe there wouldn’t be so many bothering you then.” 

“Humans are a bother no matter what they do or do not do.” 

“Your fox said something like that earlier.” 

“Did she?” Thistle chuckles. Your cloak catches and drags against his rough palm as he plucks one corner of the fabric, toying with it. “She is right. You bother me more than anyone.” 

He seats himself among the flowers and tugs you into his lap. Your cloak comes off with a tug and a swarm of brambles, twining rose bush stems tangled together like a ball of snakes, comes slithering across your body. Nothing is simple with Thistle. No pleasure without pain. No excitement without fear.

He doesn’t touch you himself, allowing his roses to shred through your clothing and loop around your wrists and ankles, sharp and prickling bondage. The slightest twitch drives razor points into your skin but it’s a struggle to stay still. The air of the Briars is cold and Thistle’s gaze alone has you squirming, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable. 

His gaze is frightening. Vivid, glowing green swims in black sclera. His large fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your head higher, forcing you to meet his eyes. “It is bold of you to return here, time and again,” he says. 

A fern unrolls along the curve of your spine, lined with sharp barbs, punishing you every time you try to shrink away from him. It nudges forward, pushing you further against Thistle’s broad chest. “You keep inviting me,” you tell him. “No, not even inviting. Ordering me, really.” 

“And you keep obeying.”

You wiggle your hips teasingly and that earns you a lash on the thigh. It stings, the thorns rolling across your skin in a fast, tearing motion that leaves a line of bloodied dots across your leg. You hold in a startled yelp but it’s harder to bite back a whimper when it starts to throb and ooze. “I thought you liked that,” you stammer.

“I like it very much,” Thistle purrs. “It makes me want to push you even more. To see what will make you tell me to stop.” He cups his hand between your legs and you let out a shuddered gasp. His palm is hard and solid, the friction satisfying, but the dryness and uneven texture makes it uncomfortable. You grind on him anyway, entranced by the heat in his eyes and the long, black tongue that darts out to lick the blood from his lips. 

Another spiny length of rosebush wraps around your waist. Every time you move your hips, pushing against Thistle’s hand, it digs into your stomach. Thistle encourages you, cooing soft praise. “Harder, little one,” he murmurs. “If you want pleasure, you will have to chase it. There you go…as lovely as my roses.” Your arms are restrained, brought together behind your back. Your other leg is encircled and painfully stretched taut, spreading you wide open on Thistle’s lap. It’s hard to find a rhythm. You get carried away, start to lose yourself, and the soft prickle turns sharp and biting. There’s no way to move that doesn’t sting. 

But Thistle’s voice is a constant purr, a litany of heated adulation and lust pouring over you. “So wonderfully, perfectly obedient. So soft, so tender. It pleases me to feel you writhe like this, wanting everything I have to give. Harder. Give yourself to me. Surrender to my bite.” 

It takes a lot of trust to do this. Thistle’s thorns are his weapons, the maw of the Briars that chews up anything he deems unwelcome. You’ve seen people turned to mincemeat in a sea of brambles. You’ve seen bodies flayed, butchered, reduced to pulp and gristle, swallowed by the forest. You could die painfully here, in his grasp. He could make it last a long time if he wanted to.

There are tears in your eyes as you desperately rub against Thistle’s hand. You’re rewarded for your persistence, his palm pushed firmly against your sex. You scrape yourself raw and bloody chasing an orgasm that’s always a few steps ahead, just on the other side of every sharp, thorny kiss. Your thighs are a canvas of punctures, your chest heaving with quick, shuddering breaths. Blood rolls down your back, heavy droplets inching along your spine. 

The thorns around your legs tighten and you wail as you’re torn from the edge again, those little knife points lodging in your skin. “Hush,” Thistle soothes you. “You are so, so close, I can feel it. Harder. Show me how badly you want this.” He makes you an animal, strips away all human pretension with his aloofness, the only tenderness afforded in his words. The thorns around your body constrict and not even stillness protects you from the pain. Thistle’s hand doesn’t move. You have no choice but to lean into the thorns, to wound yourself further for pleasure. 

You forget how to speak. All you have left is noise, whining and keening, staring blearily into Thistle’s eyes in search of mercy and finding only cool, calm dominance. You want to cum. You don’t want to disappoint him. There’s absolutely nothing else on your mind but the sensations you’re feeling and the sound of his voice.

“You want to do as I say, do you not?” Thistle murmurs.

You make a wounded sound and nod desperately. 

“Then you will cum, just like this. You will find pleasure in the pain. I know you will, my precious rose.” 

His certainty is all you need to push forward. Half-mindless with lust and frustration, you strain against the thorns and hump Thistle’s hand like your life depends on it. A pleased growl rumbles in his chest and you shriek when he suddenly starts to work you with his fingers, hard, fast strokes that have you trembling in his lap.

You couldn’t hold yourself back if you tried. Thistle’s voice washes over you, telling you how beautiful you are like this, how perfect, how divine, and you cum on his fingers with a sob. He pushes you through it, his fingers coated in your pleasure. The thorns loosen and slither away, still wet with your blood, leaving only the sharpness and heat of overstimulation. 

It’s hard to tell when it stops. You drift, hips bucking involuntarily, your whole body shivering. You come back to yourself once limp in his lap, the bark of his chest scratching up your cheek and one of his thick fingers pumping slowly in and out of you. The time after that, you’re on your back in the garden, rose petals tickling your cheeks. Eventually, you open your eyes and Thistle is gone. Only his thorns remain. They stay out of your way when you leave. A relief, since all you have left to wear is a thin, ragged cloak. 

The fox watches you go, her little head tilted in confusion. She still doesn’t get it. Why hasn’t Thistle eaten you yet? You smile and give her a little wave. The jagged limbs of the Briars fall together in your wake, sealing the path back to the garden. It would be easy for them to catch you and never let go. 

But they don’t. You doubt they ever will. There are hungers the fox can’t understand, ones that can never be sated by devouring.