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springsylph · 3 months

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MAGNOLIA, CHAPTER ONE: “THE ROOT”

ghost x f! reader | read on ao3 | playlist

summary: your return to your coastal hometown is punctured by the sudden disappearance and subsequent death of your father. with all proof of his physical presence effaced, you resign yourself to a life of solitude. how fitting, then, that you should find God amidst your perils.

this story is 18+. minors/ageless blogs, do not interact. mind the tags!

warnings: 3.8k. dark!simon “ghost” riley. description of injuries. religious imagery/symbolism. blasphemy at some point in the near future (oops?). paranoia. mentions of suicide. familial grief is WEIRD, but simon is weirder so don't worry. 1 (one) slap. 1 (one) bug is consumed. just the one.

el·e·gy

/ˈeləjē/

noun

a poem of serious reflection, typically a lament for the dead.

You happen across a snarling dog in an alleyway.

The rain is a whip, and the darkness is a yawn stretched long enough to be cause for concern; muscles are pulled thin, vertebrae begin to collapse. Appraisal will only be possible if morning comes.

Moonlight cannot reach you here—will not reach you here. The only proof of life spills out from the window of a flat overlooking the alley, yellow glow a monitory push away as your soul unknowingly pleads for scraps. It warns you of danger. A weakened liver.

Yours recalls, with a sardonic twist, that it is far beyond help. So you approach.

The instinctual flinching stops after the first three barks, but spittle and rain continue to wet your face with each snap of his maw, nerves crackling the closer you get.

At seven paces away, he stands at odds with gravity. It’s not quite sure what to make of him.

At four, the beginnings of what might be fear breach the surface of your psyche. You’ve not seen your ribs, but you think that if he were to pry you open they might look a bit like his teeth.

It’s when you’re at arm's length that you realize he’s large enough to look you in the eye.

His breath, hot against the chill, reeks of an unfamiliar intensity.

(Liar.)

You stand transfixed until the wetness on your cheek splits, and you press a hand to the divide.

Tears.

You draw in a generous breath—your first sin. It’s all rusted iron and scorched muscle tissue, adhering to your lungs like the seductive intonation of a cigarette, and you’re addicted before you can swat at the hand stuffing it down your gullet.

You’re brought back to the dog as your hand lowers, now silent beneath the spray.

The blood matting his coat isn’t his, but how could you have known?

How could you have known?

(Blood is blood.)

Blood is blood. So you kneel on the cobblestone—-though there is no need to. The rain continues to shout, and he is ever so tall, but you kneel. Bend the rain to do your bidding with the twist of a limb. Strip down that Red luster to a blank slate, vestiges of watered-down violence running down your fingertips in a wet stream. It collects under your nails like damp earth the harder you scrub, replaced and replaced and replaced again until you concede the empty space.

(Well done, well done, well done—)

His fur is wild briar when you finally pull back; ready to burst into flames if you aren’t careful, and so stiff that your hands begin to prickle at the loss. His teeth are still bared, mouth still parted. But he is silent. Frozen in time. And you can’t help but wonder if that softness the blood had alluded to was a ruse—the slick lip of a pitcher plant punishing you for your altruism.

(Altruism. Tumbling right into the belly of the beast, unarmed. Acid burning through your credulity.)

But there’s a spot of Red, just between his incisors.

(Is it yours?)

Globbing at the tip of your ring finger.

(His?

Is it his?)

You reach forward. Wipe.

(Again. And again. And again. And again.)

And it is a strange thing, Devotion. If not for the slip of the blood against your fingertips, the rain blurring where one wound ends and the other begins, you might notice that Desperation and Destruction wait just outside the downpour. Patient, but still lingering, for there are things far worse than the Red that bleeds onto the cobblestone to fear.

(Dog is made man. Man is made God. Abomination.)

You reach forward. Wipe again.

And begin anew.

The symphonies composed by the houses of the deceased ought to be a case study.

No matter how softly you tread, how carefully you press the weight of your body against the wall, the stairs let out a fetid belch. An old lover—now free of all pretense and releasing the pungent smell of mildew and wood rot while you creep to the bottom of the staircase.

But the smell is hardly noticeable when set beside the rest of the orchestra’s musicians. Dissonance was a given; their only valued patrons had been the insects crawling amongst the dust until you’d discovered that you’d been named your father’s beneficiary—hardly a qualified audience. At the behest of the rocking handrail, you turn the corner. Amble into the cramped kitchen, yank apart the yellowing curtains above the sink till they grind against their rusty rods to permit the sun entry.

Only, there’s no sun today. Just as there was no sun yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Nearly a week spent cohabitating with empty threats of war. You’re trapped in the jaws of a waterlogged trench with nothing to show for it but waning patience and a stiff neck.

Outside the small window, the houses just down the shallow hill are still that same shade of diluted molasses, dulled by the awning stitched together from heavy rain clouds. The cottage isn’t quite elevated enough to see the full stretch of the ocean that lies just beyond—only small underscores between clusters of buildings and trees. The waves you can see are cleaved into wedges, crowned with white foam and kneaded into themselves by the wind. If you close your eyes, you can almost hear them collapsing against the rocky shore.

(You’re eavesdropping on your own consciousness. You were weak, then—scraped your shin after the fishing line nearly dragged you out to sea. He’d cupped the salty water to your leg as you’d wailed, thrashed, clawed at his forearms. Everything not absorbed into the exposed flesh was returned to its source, and the meaning of the word “fester” was spelled out in the days that followed: pus bulging out of what could not scab, an agonizing itch that you were not permitted to scratch. A bad omen.)

You shut the curtains.

Looking down, you manage to scrounge up a little regret over the lack of appropriate attire. Someone would nag. A funeral in a ratty sweatshirt and jeans was in bad taste, yes, but you could hardly be blamed: yesterday’s laundry still swims in the wet breeze. You make a mental note to bite the bullet and call in that favor from Mr. Davies while you pull an empty glass from the countertop and shove it under the faucet.

The pitch of the water drowning out last night’s wine lacks the hubris of its competitors. It’s a difficult admission to make, but it rings true nonetheless. Each atom that exists in this foreign plane is an affront to them—an insult. It’d likely remain that way even after the last brick sunk into the wretched earth.

But, it’s still a house.

The house is all you have left.

Your thoughts continue to perspire, pilling up the cheap fabric of time until you feel the water curling over your hands and hitting the bottom of the sink with a splat.

“Shit, shit, shit—” You slap the lever down, dump the excess liquid down the drain. The pipes give a weak gurgle and you shut your eyes with a sigh.

Just for today. Just for today, and you were free. Absolved of all faults.

You wet your throat with the little bit of water still left in the glass. Set it down gently into the sink. Peer down the corroded pipe and into the hells below as your fingers dig into the countertop.

It’s much easier, you find, to regret and correct when there is silence that needs to be filled. Silence to shame.

So you keep your mouth shut, and quietly consider the water amidst the noise.

Your steps down the winding dirt road are hurried, but careful.

The trees are no less curious today than they were the last time you’d taken this trek to the church; trunks held back by the dry stone walls, dark branches suspended overhead like lightning. A swampy gust of air passes through their fingertips, tangling them together in an achromatic flash of black and grey before they settle their grievances and separate. They share a common interest.

Air on the coast is a permanent brine. The very essence of it settles on your soft palate, tenderizing your tongue till you’re on a sharp enough edge to spit a glob of accumulated saliva into a patch of grass. The mosquitoes have grown tired of you by this point. They hover over the sweat on your neck, the skin of your ankles, discomfiture evident in the irregular beat of their wings. You’ve not made a move to swat at them in the twenty-seven minutes you’ve spent tripping over your shoelaces, and it seems your tacit assent has disturbed the natural order of things.

You can't help that your mind is elsewhere. Timing your arrival and your exit requires a considerable amount of effort.

When the steeple begins to poke out in the distance, you pull your phone from your pocket. 11:43 am. Good. At the pace you were walking it’d likely be another ten minutes till you reached the main yard, leaving you with just enough time to say your “hellos” without having to linger. But just as you begin to slide your phone back into your pocket, it pings.

>> Sounds like an issue with the ventilation. Earliest I can do for you is tomorrow afternoon.

You squint. Right. You’d contacted Mr. Davies about the issue with your dryer just before you’d left the house this morning. How he’d managed to suss out the issue with your stairs from a single phone call was beyond you, but the persistence of your wet clothes had backed you into a tight corner.

But…tomorrow. Tomorrow, Tomorrow. You’re off early tomorrow—though not of your own volition. You’re halfway through typing a message of confirmation when your phone pings again, and your gut punches into your spine.

>> Can send my guy over to have a look at the cellar.

Another text comes in.

>> Emergency with the missus, won’t be back till late next week. Best to have it looked at ASAP if we’re dealing with mold.

The trees looming overhead are suddenly sharp in your peripherals. Pikes for your beheading. As you rack your mind for memories of other employees, your hands begin to feel clammy. You didn’t want someone else. You wanted Mr. Davies. And the cellar. What did the cellar have to do with the mold in the staircase—

A shout just down the road startles you. Your head snaps up and you’re shoving your phone back into your pocket when you hear your name called again.

The figure that approaches waves a hand, and you feel your body instinctively mirror her in an attempt to shelve your panic for later. Community connections are important, after all. Even when they’re breathing sour coffee into your nostrils, and their cheap red press-ons dig into the meat of your cheeks while they pinch, and coo, and squawk.

Distant cousin, aunt, family friend—you’re not quite sure yet. But she has your father’s nose and the same crow’s feet, so you suspect she’s somehow related to you by blood. And, judging by the smoldering cigarette hanging from the corner of her dry lips, she’s already well into her exit route.

“Christ, haven’t seen you since you were still running around in nappies!” She takes the fat of your right cheek into one hand and gives it another tug, using the otherwise unoccupied hand to tap her cigarette ashes into the air. “Shot up like a bean sprout, you did. I told them—told everyone, really—you’d catch up. Knew you would, eventually. They didn’t believe me, but I knew.”

Unaccustomed to the familiarity of the gesture, you stiffen in her grasp while your mouth twists between a smile and a grimace. There’s a dig nestled in there somewhere. But there’s not much time to process it; your equilibrium is tipped the moment the woman loops a leathery arm through your elbow to pull you forward, and you stumble after her as she turns to walk back toward the church. Her pace only evens out once you’ve settled in close enough to brush shoulders.

Not knowing her name is a disadvantage. The conclusion is drawn in greater detail the longer she speaks, twisting around your lungs with enough force to burst the blood vessels that reside there. You don’t know enough. Either that, or she knows too much. It should be easy enough to ask what exactly she is to you, and yet, you can’t. You’re not sure you know how. You chalk it up to her unbroken ramblings and settle for the polite choice: nodding in place of a response.

She doesn’t ask you much about yourself—small mercies. It’s balanced out by the curious glances she shoots you as the minutes slog by. But something etched into the ground must remind her of your sentience, because her face suddenly lights up as she breaks off in the middle of an anecdote to look at you.

“I hate that we had to meet under these circumstances,” she begins, voice rife with something you now can categorize as pity. The coffee still renders it rotten. “Terrible thing, what happened to your father. Can’t imagine what you must be feeling.”

“Mm.”

You curse inwardly. Too clipped—you’ve let your frustration get the better of you. But the woman doesn’t seem to mind; she finally pulls her arm from your elbow, and you’re almost able to relax until she begins to rub her hand up and down your back. The sensation is peculiar, as is the sound of her hand passing over your sweatshirt.

“Still living in that old shack?” She prods.

Old shack, house, same thing. “I…still am, yeah.” You pause. “Why do you ask?”

“Just reminiscing, is all. It’s a good thing you’ve got there.” And her voice trails off, lost to another round of tapped ashes and shifting dirt.

You manage a nod. You didn’t have much choice in the matter, anyhow.

The churchyard comes into view soon enough. Despite how often you haunt its grounds, you’ve never had much to say about it. It’s old, you suppose. Made from stone, but more of an imprint than a structured thing now that the dense fog has settled over the cliffs behind it.

(At the foot of the cliffs is the sea, still churning in time with the wind.)

“I’m here, if you need anything.”

It’s your turn to look. She’s finally stopped touching you, both hands empty and swinging lazily at her sides.

If you…need anything.

“Of course,” you mumble.

You’re distracted by the hesitant timbre of an organ. Its handler is unpracticed.

“I appreciate it.”

It’s over.

You’re sitting in the very first pew. Hands folded neatly in your lap, eyes glazed.

It’s over.

You remember a few faces, more unfamiliar than familiar. Pupils had narrowed as you’d trailed in behind “Bethie.” A family friend, not a relative. The nose had meant nothing.

They’d smelled the tobacco clinging to her and laughed, sucking out the humidity that’d crept indoors like venom from a snake bite. Proximity had allowed you to reap the benefits, but not for very long. Their eyes had turned to you with the same curiosity Bethie hadn’t the wherewithal to fully disclose, but they were quick with their heavy-handed condolences in the interest of time. Another blessing.

You can remember more things than faces. Light filtering through the stained glass windows. The sound of tongues unsticking themselves from the roofs of mouths before every speech, every discordant hymn. That air of indecisiveness in knowing that the urn was hollow, that there was not enough left of the body to constitute a casket.

They express their joys, their sorrows, though you identify with none of them. There’s disbelief, too. That such a man would take his own life. You find yourself nodding along with the chorus of sniffles and sobs. Impossible. Unbelievable.

But one voice—you cannot, for the life of you, remember the face it belonged to—relied upon the poeticism of it all. The ocean had been harsh in its taking, he’d said. But your father, more than anything, had loved it. Those gathered could be hopeful in that regard. He had died at the hands of something he loved.

Everything after that was a blur. Whatever words you’d uttered during your speech were a blur. But it was enough for claps, and a few chuckles. Nothing like the laughs Bethie had prompted, but a response was a response.

Invitations to convene afterward at the local pub are declined. You’re tired. You need time to think. You miss him.

They leave.

The nave has been emptied.

It’s over. Long gone. Downstream. Discarded.

And you’re still sitting in the pew.

You look down, after hours have passed, to find your shoelaces still untied. The growling of your stomach and the weight of your head on your shoulders fold you over, and you will your fingers to refasten them. It’s time to leave.

When you stand, it’s with a wince. You’ve tied your strings too tight. You can feel your arches pulsing in time with your heartbeat, but you can only hope that the sensation will keep you sane long enough to make it home.

As you turn to finally walk down the aisle, you’re struck by a sudden chill. Anxiety blossoms in the confines of your throat, tearing through muscle and vocal cords that are ill-equipped to handle such pressure.

It should be over.

But something has been unearthed.

Your eyes flit from one thing to the next in the cavernous space, searching for the disturbance until your eyes lock with a divot in the shadows.

The moment you meet his stare is like flint to steel. The darkness disperses, leaving behind—

This.

(There is a dull horror here. The crepuscular noises of your residence, appearing only at night when the chill has set in and the foundations have shifted. A tree felled by a violent storm. Sinking its teeth into a house occupied by unsuspecting bodies. Time has remedied what it can, righting nature’s wrongs with roots and vegetation to soften the edges of all that has split open. Pieces of the outside world have been braided into the vines. But the more you look, the more you begin to see that it is not a braid, but a sickening tangle. Hair shorn with rusted clippers and impatient hands. A bent nose pushing out from beneath a mask. Bones, wrapped in hulking muscle. Eyes. The hint of a mouth. Was there a victor? The tree? The house? You’re unsure. But you do know that all who set eyes upon this mass have lost.)

You’re sure that he is many things. But he appears to you as a human, so you greet him as such.

“...Hello?”

You think his eyes have withdrawn under the heavy cliff of his brow bone until it dawns on you that he’s blinked. A slow sort of thing, yet once it’s over it’s as though it never happened.

“‘Ello,” he responds. An echo tinged with mockery. Flint to steel. Flint to steel. Flint to steel until there is nothing left to strike with but your bare hands.

In the back of your mind sits a flinching clock. Growing more and more anxious as the seconds stretch on. The man sits in the rear of the church, closest to the exit. The pews reject him.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you reach for it almost immediately. Some robocaller looking to scam you out of your meager savings. You set it to your ear like a shield as you walk, measuring your steps so it isn’t obvious that you’re attempting to flee.

One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Over and over until his voice spears your chest in one quick thrust once you’re standing just beside where he lurks.

“You’ve been sitting there a while.” You think you can hear the wood screaming under his weight. It chokes out into a whimper when he opens a heavy thigh out into the aisle. “Believe in God, do you?”

He thinks you were praying.

“I’m just here for my dad,” you supply. You keep your eyes trained on the heavy wooden door. You don’t look, but you hear the pop of a single knuckle.

“Tha’s not wha’ I asked.”

Cheek still pressed to your phone, you gulp. You should answer, and answer only. Par for the course. But you overshoot:

“No,” you confess. Then, after a pause, “not really.”

The man hums as the rest of his knuckles pop. “Why.”

He sounds young enough not to judge you for your lack of faith. Old enough for you to recognize that he’s probably toying with you. So you throw him a bone: a saccharine pursing of lips while you “contemplate” your response. You’ve been plagued by thoughts of this omniscient stranger longer than most.

“It’s a little easier to believe all the shit luck I’ve had happened by chance.” You slide your phone into your back pocket, seeing as the poorly put together excuse isn’t working. “Someone else trying to pull my strings sounds a little too human for my tastes.”

Nerves are shoved into a cramped corner, and you shift your focus from the doors to the man’s face. Interestingly enough, he turns his gaze back toward the altar.

“Made in his image, ain’t we?”

“I hope not.”

He barks out one laugh, then another, and your body seizes up. It rattles up your spine, metal rod clanging against the bars of a cage.

You’ve met your fair share of strange men, but something tells you that you’ve bitten off more than your mouth can chew. More than your stomach can digest. More than your body can entertain.

A glance at the crack in the door tells you that the sun has been cut from the sky. It’s nighttime.

Go.

“I’ll…be off then,” you say. His shoulders are still shaking when you finally wrap your fingers around the cold door handle, prepared to walk out into the nothingness.

Only to stumble sideways when a calloused hand slams into your neck, shoulder crashing into the wall next to you and sending a spark of pain through your collarbone. One blink, and he’s towering over you. Previously dispersed shadows form a curtain around the two of you as he hauls you upright with one hand.

“Mosquito,” he says. “Nasty little buggers, hm?” He flashes you his palm as proof.

You, still winded, still lightheaded, force yourself to nod. There is no apology.

Any sense of composure you’d prided yourself on is torn to shreds when you burst out of the front door, neck still throbbing. You must be imagining things. Another bad dream, come to haunt you.

It must be.

(You’re sure of it, for no other reason than the fact that when you chance a look over your shoulder, you think you see him drag a palm over the flat of his tongue.)

CHAPTER TWO: “ROOT ROT” ->

#magnolia #if there are any spelling errors you’re wrong and i’m right #this thing has been yelling at me from my drafts so i had to let her loose 😞#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #ghost x reader #call of duty #cod #dark fic

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mlm-writer · 1 year

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Jericho (Conner Kent x FtM!Reader)

Pairing: Top!Conner Kent (YJ ver.) x Bottom!FtM!Alien!King!Reader Rating: Explicit (or Mature if you skip the last part) Words: 1565 POV: Second Summary: You fight the final battle to free your people from alien invaders (and then have sex with your bf after) Note: Gayden wanting to write plot vs y’all wanting smut. Inspired by Jericho by Iniko. Reader’s body is described as ‘his true form’, so you get to pick whatever that means for you. Tags: action, murder, alien reader, your nemesis misgenders you but they also murdered your people so idk what you feel like is worse, established relationship, epic fight scene, fluffy sex, Conner low key a service dom, oral (reader receiving), fingering, anal/vaginal sex and cockwarming

The light of your photon-sword was blinding as it tore through your enemies one by one. The purple blood of the invader species coated almost every inch of your armour. The call of your name behind you made you turn around, just in time to see another intruder trying to lunge at you. It screeched as you sliced its torso clean off its hips. Your eyes were glowing with the rage of battle, but even in this enraged state, you could smile at the man who had warned you. Conner was not from your world, but he had fought by your side nonetheless. As long as you were here, it was his home too and he would defend it until his dying breath.

“I will hold them off, do what you have to,” Conner called from where he was fighting off six pawns at once. Were the lives of your people not endangered, you might have marvelled at his strength and prowess in battle, but time was running out.

“I will come back,” you assured him. When your eyes met briefly, you could see he was as sure as you were of that promise. You lifted your arm to access the control panel of your armour. “I love you,” you added, just in case, before activating the anti-gravity matrix. Your feet floated off the ground and soon after, the thrusters were taking you up the tower.

Heavy grey clouds circled the tower, lighting and acid rain protecting the general of the invaders. Your armour was maintaining its integrity through it. It seemed an eternity ago that the structure descended from the sky, bringing trouble with it, but today would be the day you’d make it fall.

The structure rumbled as you landed on the platform on the rooftop. “Your trespassing ends today!” You roared as you came face to face with the alien that had been in your nightmares for the past years. You were not the same since the first time you were face-to-face with all those eight eyes. You could feel the changes in your body, the power granted by your ancestors rushed through your veins and vibrated through your bones.

A demonic laugh made the air tremble around you. As the brute hollered in your face, you got a clear view of their three rows of sharp teeth. “It seems the princess has learned how to hold a sword. You really think pretending to be a boy is enough to stop me?” You clenched your teeth, your rage fuelling your sword. Blue flames engulfed the hard-light, illuminating the space between the grey clouds in a cyan glow.

“The ancestors have granted me my true form and I am about to give you your final one!” You bellowed, before lunging at them. Your sword was like lighting between the clouds. The grief of war and desire for it all to be over burned in your heart. Your foe had underestimated you, but after you cut one of their many limbs off, they were sure to not make that mistake again. Even as your blood mixed with the rain, your energy never faded.

The battle seemed to drag on forever. You thought you had them cornered, when a limb you had not accounted for seemingly came out of nowhere and knocked your sword out of your hands. The temporary confusion was enough for your nemesis to fling you across the rooftop. You ended up on your back, sliding across the wet roof to the edge. You dug your gloved hand into the floor, slowing yourself down just in time, head already hanging off the edge.

The heavily wounded beast closed the distance between you, a heavy foot ending up on your torso. You clawed at their ankle, trying to free yourself as they loomed over you. They lowered their monstrous face, a smug look taunting you. “Your ancestors have failed you, little princess,” they snickered as they slowly shoved you more and more off the edge.

“Fortunately, the king still has a boyfriend!” Instant relief washed over you as you heard the voice, before Conner dashed from below, punching the monster right in their face. They stumbled backwards, giving you the window of opportunity that you needed to get back up your feet. Conner called your name, before tossing you your sword. He was wrestling with the general right after. You caught your weapon mid-air, waiting for Conner to make the beast’s back face you. As soon as it did, you dashed forward, delivering the final blow. There were no last words, just a rumbling scream and then the dark clouds thinned out. The light of your two suns broke through the sky, signalling your people that it was done; it was over; they were free.

You sighed and collapsed onto the wet roof, the glow in your eyes dying out as exhaustion took over. Conner flew you down to a healer. The people celebrated that night, but you were quick to retreat to your chambers. It smelled weird after not having been used for years, but it was all still intact. You had gotten rid of half your clothes and collapsed on your bed.

“Can I come in?” You heard Conner through the door. You shouted for him to come in. His warm laugh filled your ears, when he saw you. “After today, I don’t blame you for resting, but you’re missing a great party,” he spoke with amusement in his voice. You groaned and rolled over, now lying face down on the soft sheets. You felt a weight dip the mattress beside you. “Allow me to help,” Conner whispered, before his warm fingers helped you out of the rest of your clothes.

You used to dread being naked, but in this new body your ancestors gave you to fight the invaders, you looked forward to being naked around your lover. His hands were still on you, pressing in the knots in your back. It was not that good of a massage with dry hands, but you relaxed anyway.

His touch lingered at your waist and you spread your legs a little in reply. His lips gently kissed your back as his hand travelled between your legs. You lifted your hips a little so he had all the access he needed. Conner rubbed you in all the right places, turning you into a dripping mess. “On all fours,” he whispered against your shoulder. After you complied, a free hand started toying with your nipples. He used your juices to lube up your ass and his cock.

You moaned as his fingers entered your hole. You hadn’t realised you were leaking so much that it could be such a smooth slide. With hooded eyes, you stared over your shoulder, watching his concentrated face. Then you saw that Conner was leaking as well. He had stopped playing with your nipples and was stroking himself instead. His gorgeous cock spilled precum all over your hole that his fingers pushed inside. "I'm ready," you sighed between small whimpers of pleasure.

Conner pulled you up to your knees. He was behind you, holding his cock in place as you sunk your down on him. You moaned in relief as you finally felt him inside you. When you got too eager and tried to sink down faster, Conner held you in place. It was maddingly slow, but eventually you found your ass resting on his thighs. Conner's fingers rubbed you again, making sure you felt pleasure everywhere. "Come on, start moving," he encouraged you. You couldn't move much in this position, but Conner helped you with gentle thrusts. Your bare back connected to his chest. His moans were audible right next to your ear.

"Please, Conner, I'm so sore from today," you whimpered as your legs started to hurt. Conner pushed you off and manhandled you onto your back. You reached out for him and he immediately returned to your arms, kissing you deeply, while lifting your legs and wrapping them around his waist. Your lips stayed close to each other as he re-entered you. Your moans mixed between your mouths, his every thrust drawing another sound from your body. "Don't draw this out. I just want to cum," you huffed. Conner chuckled against your lips. You would never get tired of that sound.

"Of course, my king," he joked, before pulling out. You groaned and tried to coax him back inside, but instead his head dipped down and before you knew it, he was licking and sucking you as if he needed you to cum just as badly as you needed it. You almost screamed. Your hand flew to his head and your fingers tangled into his hair. Conner hummed as if a deep need had been fulfilled. Two fingers entered you and with the right curl of his fingers, you could feel your orgasm crash through your whole body.

Conner made sure you got the pleasure you sought and then laid you down on your side. He spooned you, putting his cock back inside as he did so. "Now rest, my king," he whispered into your ear, before pulling the covers over you. You smiled, enjoying having him still hard inside you. You drifted off into peaceful sleep, knowing that when you would wake, your people would be safe and you'd get the dicking of your life.

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themerrywhumpofmay · 1 year

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Merry Whump of May

Spring 2023 Prompt List!

It's May, everyone!! Due to personal and technical difficulties, we're getting the list to you DAY ONE. WOW!

So sorry for the delay, but we have every confidence that despite this short notice, you'll all be able to put out some amazing work this year!

Without further ado, welcome to The Merry Whump of May!

Text ID:

Merry Whump of May

Spring 2023

A month-long whump writing event by @wormwriting and @painsandconfusion.

Extemporaneous style this year-!!

Write, draw, or otherwise create content based on the daily prompts! Participants and completionists will receive badges of honor for their work at the end of the month.

Create original content or fanfiction, all is welcome!

Rules

Tag each day's post with #themerrywhumpofmay, any necessary content warning (eg: #knife), and the day in the following format: #mwmday1)

Adult topics are allowed, but must be well tagged. Send a message to @themerrywhumpofmay if you'd like a second opinion.

Be kind, have fun!

Prompts:

Day One - “No pain, no gain.”

Compass

Haphephobia

Kitchen

Day Two - “Need a ride?

Wrench

Paranoia

Club

Day Three - “You're not looking so hot.”

Lightbulb

Tension

Alleyway

Day Four - “Two birds, one bullet.”

Chess Pieces

Stubborn

Tower

Day Five - “Do unto others as you would bla bla bla...”

Bow and Arrow

Stalking

Cavern

Day Six - “It's a long story.”

Knife Handle

Gagged

Under the table

Day Seven - “Write what you know.”

Box

Magic

Cell

Day Eight - “Did you read the fine print?”

Circle

Blinded

Field

Day Nine - “We'll burn that bridge when we get there.”

Collar

Lost

Roof

Day Ten - “Hit the hay.”

Key

Forgetting

Warehouse

Day Eleven - “Ready set go!”

Plastic bag

Overheating

Restaurant

Day Twelve - “Tabled for Later.”

Thumbtack

Panic attack

Ballroom

Day Thirteen - “You've made your bed, now bleed in it.”

Sander

Found

Safe Place

Day Fourteen - “Well, well, well...”

Barbed Wire

Starvation

Drain

Day Fifteen - “The power of god and anime”

Hammer

Over-Exhaustion

Hammer

Day Sixteen - “Take a break.”

Branding Iron

Moonlight

Cemetery

Day Seventeen - “Going down in flames.”

Pole

Regret

Fireplace

Day Eighteen - “No use crying over spilled blood.”

Cage

Claustrophobia

Ship

Day Nineteen - “Apples and oranges.”

Chainsaw

Surprise

Home Base

Day Twenty - “A taste of your own medicine.”

Zip ties

Bleeding out

Office

Day Twenty-one - “Devil's advocate.”

Tome

Desperation

Hiking trail.

Day Twenty-two - “You can lead a bitch to water, but you can't make them drink.”

Origami

Amnesia

Attic

Day Twenty-three - “Good things come to those who wait.”

Nine-inch-nails

Isolation

Creepy basement

Day Twenty-four - “Bent out of shape.”

Tent Spike

Dragged

Wrong place, wrong time

Day Twenty-five - “It takes two to tango.”

Hot coffee

Doubt

In line

Day Twenty-six - “Hammer time.”

Pocket watch

Itchy

Waiting room

Day Twenty-seven - “Second mouse get the cheese.”

Knife

Rug burn

Skyscraper

Day Twenty-eight - “A picture's worth a thousand words.”

Chair

Paranoia

Backseat

Day Twenty-nine - “Lost and Found

Blowtortch

Frostbite

Lake

Day Thirty - “Rain check.”

High heels

Strained

The backroom

Day Thirty-one - “Thin ice.”

Lighter

Chronic pain

Dead end

Alternative Prompt List

Titles

“Questions? Comments? Concerns? Complaints?”

“Time dies when you're having fun.”

“A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.”

“Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.”

“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.”

Items

Wine Glass

Hydrochloric acid

Magnet

Teacup

Wire

Conditions

Sensory deprivation

Blindfolded

Acrophobia

Failed escape

Distress

Locations

The Middle of Nowhere

Forest

Void

Sidewalk

Shortcut

#themerrywhumpofmay #mwm2023 #long post

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omegaremix · 12 days

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Omega Radio for September 9, 2023; #358.

Husker Du: “Gravity”

Replacements: “Unsatisfied”

Scratch Acid: “Owner’s Lament”

Cult, The: “Rain”

Love And Rockets: “Ball Of Confusion”

Jesus And Mary Chain, The: “April Skies”

Big Audio Dynamite: “Just Play Music”

R.E.M.: “Stand”

Smithereens, The: “Drown In My Own Tears”

XTC: “King For A Day”

Flaming Lips: “Shine On Sweet Jesus (Jesus Song No. 5)”

New Fast Automatic Daffodils: “Fishes Eyes”

Pulp: “Countdown”

Frank Black: “Hang On To Your Ego”

Suede: “Still Life”

Elastica: “Waking Up”

Guided By Voices: “Jane Of The Waking Universe”

Death Cab for Cutie: “Information Travels Faster”

Radiohead: “How To Disappear Completely”

Interpol: “Take You On A Cruise”

Sneaker Pimps: “The Chauffeur”

IAMX: “Sailor”

Fischerspooner: “The 15th”

Cansei De Ser Sexy: “Bezzi”

LCD Soundsystem: “Someone Great”

Cut Copy: “Cold Youth”

Small Black: “Bad Lover”

Juan MacLean, The: “Tonight”

Minks: “Ophelia”

Yeasayer: “O.N.E.”

Neon Indian: “Should’ve Taken Acid With You”

Hot Chip: “Flutes”

Franz Ferdinand: “Stand On The Horizon” (Todd Terje RMX)

Prince Rama: “Bahia”

Caribou: “Silver”

Classixx: “A Mountain With No Ending”

Toro Y Moi: “A Girl Like You”

Washed Out: “Olivia”

Brian Jonestown Massacre: “Pish”

Mark Lanegan: “Flatlands”

Pixies: “All I Think About Now”

Beach House: “Drunk In L.A.”

Nothing: “Eaten By Worms”

Porcupine Tree: “Chimera’s Wreck”

Florence & The Machine: “What Kind Of Man”

Shannon & The Clams: “King Of The Sea”

King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard: “Head On / Pill”

Double-deluxe updated rainbow marquee broadcast; majority of contributions courtesy of @tewz.

#omega #music #playlists #mixtapes #pop #alternative #chillwave #hipster #noise rock #synthpop #shoegaze #thank you!

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waitingforlostsouls · 18 days

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Carry On, Fair Fighter 🌷

Set fire to the acid rain Watch it burn, burn down See the sweet flames burn in the light Finally, I feel something Like the time I almost set a lighter to my own carpet We all lose yourselves sometimes Plug the holes with poetry Your leaky eyes with holy water Watch the flowers melt away It gonna-It's gonna be okay We pick yourselves up Journey on another day It's gonna- It's gonna be okay Lick the paint off your fingers Oil pastels all over your clothes You just murdered an emotion That's just how life goes In the words of my kindergarten teacher"Sometimes you just gotta go with the flow" If you were a salmon meant to fight it You would've been born with gills Now carry on, fair fighter We must get over this hump We must crest this hill

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jadeleechsupportgroup · 2 months

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How Not to Fall

malleus as therapy round two.

cw: suicidal ideation/attempts/methods, mental breakdown, severe depression, grief/implied death. discretion advised.

Flying is just learning how to throw yourself at the ground and miss.

I would be lying to tell you I haven’t imagined this moment a hundred different ways.

Some versions are more involved than others. Sometimes the scene drags on for several pages. Other times it’s over in half a paragraph.

This time, I’m standing on top of a wall. It’s dark out, a combination of night and storm clouds, because it’s more dramatic that way. The wall is stone, black or dark gray, covered in moss and lichen that makes it look older and darker. Thorns crowd my feet. Also dark, maybe purple for a little color contrast, though.

“Why did you save me?”

My voice is as unstable as I am. In between blinks, my view of the wall changes. Sometimes it’s dozens of feet thick and I’m safely-ish enough in the middle of it. Sometimes it’s the width of a balance beam beneath the toes of my tired sneakers. Cold rain makes the vines and mosses grow thicker and the flat, grimy surface of the stone turn slick and dangerous. It also makes me shiver. I never was one for the cold.

“Are you asking me to save you again?”

Malleus. As usual. And, as he says, again.

“I don’t know,” I tell him, and it’s the truth.

“I would not be here otherwise.”

I squeeze my eyes shut against the rain. Tears burn their way out instead. Acid rain. Ha ha. “Maybe, then. I’m not sure.”

“I will leave,” he says slowly, “if that is what you wish.”

“No.” Panic takes hold and makes me shake, but I can’t move. If I move, I’ll fall, with nothing but an abyss to catch me. “Don’t go. Don’t leave.”

“Do you want me to-”

“No,” I say again, less sharply. “Just. Just stay there for a minute. And talk to me.”

“Alright.”

I listen to the rain and keep my eyes closed. I feel around for the limits of the wall with my toes, inch by centimeter. It turns out to be wide enough for me to sit on, so I do. I’m too scared to move more than that. I open my eyes after a bit and stare into the distance where the horizon would be if this were real.

Malleus walks close enough that I can hear the creaking leather of his boots and the heavy, hand-woven fabric of his cloak brushing against him. The wall must be wide enough for him to walk comfortably, then. I’m not that well-practiced at looking away from the dark, but thinking about little shit things like that keeps my head above the water.

(Water. Drowning. Fighting for air, swallowed by the sea. Monstrous things grasping at me and tugging me into the deep. Another time, another place.)

“Is there something you would like for me to say?”

His question snaps me back to the present again. For a second, it’s not cold, not raining. But a second doesn’t last long.

“Tell me anything.” I sniffle. “Anything to make me change my mind.”

“Do I need to change your mind?” he asks instead. He crouches next to me and brushes my shoulder with the lightest touch, as if afraid I will burst into flame at the end of his fingers. Maybe I will. That would be a way to go.

(Would the car have caught fire in the crash? Probably not. Modern cars are too fucking safe. Probably wouldn’t even let me crash it.)

I frown without turning to look at him. “I don’t know, do you?”

He laughs, the fucker. “You are still here,” he replies.

“Yeah, I can’t commit to anything. Thanks for reminding me.”

Malleus chances a firmer hold on my shoulder. “This is not a personality flaw.”

I scowl. “Are you seriously telling me ‘it’s not a bug, it’s a feature?’”

“Is it not a truth of being human? The will to survive the night, if only for the chance of a brighter tomorrow?” He sits down next to me, bumping my leg with his. “I think you agree, else you would not have suggested it.”

I don’t have an answer for that, even a snarky one. It’s quiet for a long time, except for the rain and the occasional growl of thunder in the purple distance. I can’t think about much besides the staggering pain in my chest, the stupid nerve behind my heart, stabbing, burning, aching, strangling pain, pain that hurts over and over again. I grind one hand into my sternum relentlessly, as if it will help, because it’s the only thing I can do. Well, not the only thing.

(I shut that idea down pretty fast. I can’t handle pain that well.)

“I hate being human,” I choke out.

Malleus looks at the horizon with me. “Do you really? Truthfully?”

“Yes!” I snap. “I- fuck’s sake, Mal, everyone around me is dying. Do you have any idea how many friends I’ve lost in the past couple years? My family? I’m not- this isn’t supposed to happen at my age.” I break off and start sobbing again. “Shouldn’t happen to anyone, but…you know what I mean. It’s not fair.”

He makes a sound of curiosity. “We have broached this topic before,” he says patiently. “About things being unfair.”

I can’t respond.

“I know you think I am unfair, as well.” This he says with profound sadness, a depth of guilt that shatters me all over again. “Rather, it is unfair that I cannot understand your suffering.”

“N-no, that’s not-”

“Shhh.” He wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Many things are unfair, my friend, but you can be assured that this, at least, is a feeling I know personally.”

“Fuck. You’re right. I’m sorry.” How could I forget? It has to be bad enough to watch centuries of friends die around you. Worse still when it’s someone closer.

“You need not apologize,” he says softly. “Grief can be a wretched beast. And I am aware that I am not saying anything you do not already know.”

I hiccup in a sad attempt to get my shit together. “I know.”

The clouds look thinner. I can see a few stars poking through. The pain loosens its grip, and even though I know it will squeeze me harder again soon, for now, it doesn’t.

I lean my head on his shoulder. “This armor is the worst pillow ever, man.”

He chuckles. “Sometimes one must choose between preparing for battle and hiding safely within a fortress.” He takes a slow, deep breath that moves his shoulder beneath my head. “Sometimes one does not have a choice.”

“Well.” I sniffle, probably getting unnameable goo on his fancy uniform. “I hope you get to choose for yourself soon.”

“I wish the same for you.”

“I think, um. I think I want to get down now.”

Mal snaps his fingers, and we are standing on the forest floor. The wall stretches high overhead now, past the trees’ canopies, up toward the clouds and the stars. I could imagine it still, hanging off the edge, clinging to his hand, the only thing keeping me from falling.

This wasn’t sleep. This was deeper, darker, solid. For once in my life, everything was silent.

Then someone else’s hand grasped my own.

Dark fog clouded my sight. I was afraid to move, because I knew I would fall. Down to the bottom of the abyss.

“Fear not,” said a voice, deep and dark and slow, like tree roots pushing through dirt.

I looked up to see a tiny glow of rich, spring green.

“I will not let you fall.”

“You asked me why I saved you,” says Malleus, “but perhaps the better question is why did you appear to me.” He tilts his head, horns and all, plucking the thought out of my stream of memories. “You needed help,” he says simply. “I needed to…connect with someone. And I suppose…I saw much of myself in you.”

He hugs me. Lets me bury my miserable face into his chest and doesn’t care how much I cry. Which is a lot. Endlessly, it seems.

“I know it feels as though this will never change,” he murmurs, “but it will. Everything does. And as Lilia said, you are not fighting alone.” He pulls away and looks at me. “I will go to war for you every time.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst fic #rexii writes #rexii writes twst #malleus x reader #friendship as therapy

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oumaheroes · 1 year

Note

Hi so I’ve seen you answering some asks and I thought I’d send one myself. I know you don’t do much of soft Arthur and Alfred but if you could that would make my day. Maybe something with a delirious!Al and comforting!dad!Artie? I just need like a tender moment between those two, where they’re not fighting.

Thank you so much 😘😘

ALRIGHT.

You've all been asking for long enough- here's the start of a multipart mini story that has taken me longer than I'd care to admit to get going (three almost full attempts, to be exact)

Characters: England, America

-------

Wreckage: Part 1

The smoke was metallic: sharpened acid and modern warfare.

‘Hello!’

England pulled at the wreckage, bare hands flinching at the searing pain of handling too-hot metal. He wished he’d worn his leather gloves, wished he had thought to put them on a mere few minutes ago when the crunching whirr of broken engines and crashing trees had woken him, but they lay useless and forgotten back at his campsite.

‘Can you hear me! Allô! Pouvez-vous m’entendre!’

The plane wore allied colours. It was a British make but that didn’t mean anything these days- the pilot could belong to any of the allied official or resistance groups. All England knew was that there was to be a drop coming, they were in the middle of nowhere, and that it all had apparently gone horribly, horribly wrong.

‘English! French! Polish! Czy ktoś mnie słyszy- is anyone alive in there!’

The door to the craft was stuck shut, parts of the top hinges warped and buckled from impact. He gave up on opening it to try for the window, pounding at the thick glass with the butt of his gun in fool’s panic (that, at least, he had been sensible enough to bring). He could see someone inside through the thick black smoke, an outline of shoulders and head that seemed to be moving slightly whenever the flames behind them near the engine choked.

This was occupied French territory; the nearest village was a while away but not that far. This crash would be noticed and investigated all too soon. The least England could do was to get in there and end the pilot’s misery before whoever shot them down came looking, there was no help for them out here.

That, and to be sure that there was nothing incriminating to be found.

‘Hang on! Almost there.’ Stepping back, he scanned the forest floor wildly for something better to use and caught sight of a large stone, half buried in the ground by the roots of a tree. It had rained recently, the ground was soft, and England tore into the dirt impatiently to work it free.

‘If you can hear me, sit back!’ Raising the rock above his head, he brought it down with a crash in the lower centre part of the windshield, hopefully far enough away from the pilot’s face. A hairline crack appeared, nothing more, but it was enough. England raised the rock again, choking as the smoke whirled about him, and kept going until the glass had splintered into delicate, cobweb-like lines.

One last hit made a hole. Smoke billowed out immediately and England worked quickly before the flames grew too intense on the new oxygen supply, hacking away until the hole was big enough to push an arm through. His fingers found material, sticky with something England didn’t want to think about, and a weak hand that gripped him back.

Taking a last breath of mostly fresh air, England pushed his upper half through to get to the cockpit, groping about blind until he felt the pilot’s seat straps. The heat was ferocious already, fire just behind where the poor man was trapped, and England fought not to take a breath or retreat to the safety of the cool night air. He couldn’t keep his eyes open, couldn’t see, and the glass bit into his stomach and arms when he leant more of his weight on the frame. It was a struggle but he pushed through, fingers groping by muscle memory to where he knew the clasps were, where he’d need to unhook an arm from the straps to pull the man free.

It would have been far easier to shoot the poor bastard.

It would have been quicker, kinder, than this certainly. No matter what happened, England wouldn’t leave him to die naturally. To die that way- encased in smoke, lungs desperately straining for clean air that wouldn’t come, flames against your feet- was one he knew all too well. It was a horrible way to go, one that he wouldn’t wish on anyone, but cruel though it was to make this child suffer needlessly, the engines hadn’t exploded yet and he couldn’t risk it.

Get him out first. See what message he had to give, if he could give it. Then let him go quickly and cleanly, the knife against England’s thigh waiting and patient.

It took three return trips for air, each one making his lungs burn more and more until he felt light headed and dizzy, but eventually they were free. Pilot cleared from his seat and legs thankfully clear, England hooked his arms under the man’s armpits and heaved them backwards out of the cockpit. There wasn’t far to go, the plane had nosedived onto its side in its final crash from the now broken trees, and they rolled backwards easily onto the forest floor.

The pilot screamed shrilly as they came free and gripped tight on England’s clothes to then sob piteously in his arms.

‘It’s alright.’ England sat up as carefully as he could and gently rolled the man off him to lay on his back. ‘You’re alright, I’ve got you.’

The pilot was a mess, aviator goggles and hair under his cap blackened by soot or oil or both. There was blood all over him, smeared across his neck and front that likely came from his head- England couldn’t tell. There wasn’t the time for it, and it wouldn’t matter soon anyway.

‘Give me your name.’ he asked urgently, struggling onto weak knees to sit over him, ‘Your ID and nationality, I’m-‘

He stopped.

Later, England couldn’t quite say what it was. He hadn’t noticed in the rush what he could feel now- the itch of someone like himself close by. But there was more, perhaps something about the pilot’s body that was familiar, or something deeper than that which ran through them both like the unbroken lines of history. An indescribable connection of family that mortal language couldn’t quite explain.

Fingers clumsy with sudden, familiar, terror, England tugged at the goggles which covered the pilot’s eyes and pitched forwards breathless and horrified at what he found.

‘Oh Jesus- Alfred.’

-------

AN:

The historical research that has gone into this is minimal, so please be kind to any inaccuracies that you see.

#hws england #hws america #aph england #aph america #hetalia #historical hetalia #hws #aph #arthur kirkland #alfred jones #alfred f jones #heroes writes #arthur parenting

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stingynugget · 5 months

Text

Lost Kingdom Bowuigi Prompt

An idea I had for Bowuigi, though I'm not sure how to flesh it out (so any ideas are welcome lol):

Luigi is in the Lost Kingdom from Mario Odyssey, looking for a balloon his brother hid. He gets caught in an acid rain storm, so he goes to a cave to hide... only to find Bowser already there. However, Bowser is acting strange. He won't open his eyes, and he doesn't get up when he hears Luigi enter the cave. (Maybe somehow a poison film covered his eyes, and one of his legs got dipped in a poison pool and got eaten down to the bone.) Cue injured Bowser x Luigi story, but one where Bowser doesn't recognize Luigi for either a while or until he's healed and is at the Mushroom Kingdom for a party. Could have some Cinderella/Little Mermaid elements as Bowser looks for the man who saved his life, but he has no idea what he looks like.

I started this idea off, but I lost motivation haha:

Luigi pushed aside a particularly dense area of vegetation and breathed in the earthy scent of the Lost Kingdom. Tropical trees and plants surrounded him, along with stretchy wigglers and klepto birds. He was looking for a hidden balloon, as part of a hide-and-seek game between him and his older brother Mario.

His compass, which told him what direction the balloon was, pointed down into a nearby pool of poison. He’d been trying to figure out if Mario actually hid the balloon in the poison or some nearby location for the past hour, but he still couldn’t find it.

To make matters worse, clouds were starting to form overhead. The Lost Kingdom was notorious for its horrifying poisonous rain.

Luigi sighed. Did he just give up and try again tomorrow? But Mario was already at Blue Balloon rank, and Luigi was still stuck at Yellow Balloon. He needed to catch up soon, before he lost the month-long game altogether.

He felt a sizzling pain on his arm. Crying out, Luigi looked up to see the rain had already started to fall. Luigi frantically looked around, until he spotted a path that he knew led to a large, dry cave. He made a dash for it.

As he rounded the corner, the cave came into view. However, the last being he expected to see was sleeping there: the King of the Koopas himself.

Bowser deeply snored, his head resting on his arms as he curled up in the cave. His spiky shell nearly touched the top of the cave, though the cave was deep enough for the rest of his body. He wore his usual spiked armbands and choker.

Luigi froze. He glanced behind him, at the sprinkle of acid rain that was now a downpour, and back at Bowser. Maybe… he could just sneak in quietly, and Bowser wouldn’t even know he was there. Just until the rain stopped.

Luigi took a small step forward and immediately tripped on a protruding rock. The sound of his shoe scuffling and his body thumping on the ground resounded throughout the cave.

Bowser stirred and sniffed the air. “Who’s there?” he growled.

Luigi’s heart hammered in his chest. He tried taking a small step backwards, but he didn’t get far without nearly getting poison on him. Right. The whole reason he was in this cave was to get out of the rain. But now he was stuck with Bowser. Which option was worse?

Bowser chuckled lowly. “I know you’re there. I can smell the sweat on you.” His eyes remained closed, which Luigi thought was strange.

Luigi squeezed his hands and desperately tried not to panic. But he was panicking. What should he do? Say “hello” to the Mushroom Kingdom’s biggest problem? Or just wait it out? More sweat dripped from under his hat and onto the tip of his round nose.

“You have three seconds to say something before I fry you.”

Luigi gulped. “Um!” His mouth chattered. “S-sorry to bother you. I was trying to g-get out of the r-rain.” He waited for the inevitable plume of flame that would be headed his way.

Bowser smiled. “There. Was that so hard?”

Luigi blinked in surprise. What was Bowser playing at? And why was he keeping his eyes shut? Did he just want to go back to sleep? Because Luigi would really like that.

“I w-won’t be a b-bother,” Luigi said. “Once the rain stops, I’ll be out of your hair.” Red hair, to be specific.

Bowser hummed. “Or… I throw you into the rain right now.”

“W-what!?”

Bowser chuckled darkly. He didn’t move from his spot, though. “In exchange for letting you stay here, you will become my servant. Being an underling of the King of the Koopas is quite the honor.”

“B-but—”

“Just until I’m out of this awful kingdom. Though, if you do well, I’m actually recruiting right now. Lost a lot of minions from my last escapade. That's why I’m here in the first place.”

Luigi had a feeling that by “last escapade,” Bowser meant the last time he tried to kidnap Princess Peach. Mario and Bowser had a huge battle in the Moon Kingdom, with Mario winning of course. Luigi was just glad Mario hadn’t dragged him on this adventure. Flying in The Odyssey sounded like a nightmare, especially since he had acrophobia.

And wait, Luigi thought about the other thing Bowser said. “You… want me to join your team?”

“Were you even listening? That’s if you serve me well.”

Luigi frowned. He studied Bowser, who was still curled up on the floor of the cave. Bowser’s eyes, now that he looked at them closer, seemed to have a thin purple film covering them.

Luigi tiptoed to the other end of the cave, but Bowser’s head didn’t follow the movement. He waved his hand, and Bowser just continued to “stare” at the rain falling outside.

“The pay’s good. Same with paid time off,” Bowser continued, when Luigi didn’t say anything.

Luigi shivered at the thought of working for Bowser. “I’ll, uh, consider it.”

“Now, servant, what is your name?”

Luigi flinched. “Uh…” Shoot. He definitely shouldn’t give Bowser his real name. “L… Luis.” This was never going to work. He was so bad at lying.

“Luis… Sounds kind of familiar…”

“Er, it’s a common name.”

“Hmm… I see. Well, servant, your first action will be seeing what you can do about my leg.”

Why did Bowser even bother asking for his name? “Your leg?”

Bowser growled. “You think I’d be in this cave if I could help it?” He gestured behind him with his chin. “Get to it. And if you cause me any pain, I’ll fry you.”

“B-but—” He wasn’t a doctor! How was he supposed to know what would or wouldn’t cause pain?

“Stop dilly-dallying and get to work!” Bowser roared.

Luigi straightened his back and cried, “R-right!” As he crept around Bowser, he considered just running as far down into the cave as he could. Though… while Bowser couldn’t move, he still had his fire breath—and Luigi had plenty of experience to know that stuff had a wickedly long range.

#bowser #bowuigi #bowser x luigi #luigi #luigi x bowser #fanfic prompt #fic prompt #bowuigi prompt

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lance-thunder-reporting-live · 1 year

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Good morning Amity Park, I'm your weatherman, Lance Thunder. Today's Sunday, May 21, and there’s a 0% chance of rain. Highs are in the high seventies and lows are in the mid fifties.

A giant ghost appearing like a mix of a salamander and a viperfish attacked the library yesterday and attempted to eat several people. Luckily, the Red Huntress was able to slice open the ghost before any of its victims were digested, suffocated, or drowned in stomach acid. The ghost melted into a pile of goo shortly after and the library was quickly closed to all visitors so the ectoplasm could be safely cleaned and disposed of.

A red 1993 Honda Civic with black flames on the sides and “MILF Magnet” painted on the hood has been stolen. Please contact APPD if you have any information on the whereabouts of the car, or identity of the thief.

The Fentons will likely be driving today so be careful on the roads.

#danny phantom #lance thunder #unreality #daily report #05/21/06

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89words · 9 months

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Lonely is January; he is never quite there until he leaves. He is hanging limbo over your head and begging you not to let him fall. He is tying ropes to your fingers and waiting for you to move, to drop him into you. He is never quite there until he leaves, until he cuts your fingers off and slips down your walls. Longing is February; she is dipping herself into open fire and waiting for her eyes to light up. She is spitting stardust down your throat and telling you love tastes like sores and stomach acid. She wraps chains around your ankles and drags you after her, waits for you to run at her. You never do. Angry is March; he bruises you while trying to love you. He doesn’t know much about self love and he takes that out on you. He turns you stringed-puppet and makes you run for him, drags you around to take his falls. He doesn’t leave until you are skin and bones, he doesn’t leave until he takes too much of you to ever feel whole again. Shy is April; she smiles from across the room and never meets your eye. Sometimes you see her in improbable places, hiding in someone else’s eyes. She is soft and timid and she loves you this way. She is making space in her own skin for you, but you leave before you get a chance to love her back. She hangs around you like a ghost now. Seduction is May; she is dancing around you in a little black dress and daring you to touch her. You almost do. She is rose thighs and a waist that grows only thorns. She is spring flowers threatening to turn summer weeds. You hold her but she is never really yours. She drops her leaves into your hair and convinces you that a mess is beautiful. Lust is June; she kisses you like she’s trying to breathe right out of your lungs. She is summer sweat and high tops and she presses against you like trying to find a place under your skin. She teaches you that your hands can make fire out of human bodies, she teaches you about gunpowder blood. Heartache is July; he tells you he loves you when he needs to hear it back. He wants you to save him but he’s holding your head under water and wondering why you stopped breathing. He tastes like forest fires and the longest day of the year. He sticks to you for months and you can’t scratch him off your skin. Uncertainty is August; she shifts back and forth into your life like summer rain. She is open fires and waiting for you to burn yourself trying to hold her down. She meets you at a point in her life where she cannot love you, where she can only love herself. You understand this later, you understand that summer flames only take and never give anything back. Vanity is September, he turns your eyes in looking glasses that only point to him. He stands over your head and makes you beg for him, puts you on your knees for him. You believe you are nothing in his absence and so you drown yourself in him until you forget what its like to breathe in open air. Greedy is October; he is bones that never stop breaking. He dips his fingers into your heart and says he wants more. You crack open your spine for him and he finds a makeshift home in the debris you left behind. You carry him around inside you and he grabs onto anything that shows him love. Regret is November; she has her head in her hands and never stops screaming. She carries her ghosts at the back of her throat and finds lips to spit them into. Everything she sees is in black and white and she teaches you this way. She teaches you that nothing ever goes forgotten. She hides you like her biggest mistake, her only wrong turn somewhere along the way. Closure is December; she is soft and warm and holds you when you need it. She tells you she is going to leave eventually and you understand because you’ve loved her and lost her too many times to let it break you anymore. You’ve loved her and lost her until you stopped losing pieces of you every time she turned away. Her hands find their way around the back of your neck, and you let her. The next morning she packs her clothes and leaves without a sound, and you let her.

Reena B. | Twelve months and how they lived inside my body.

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selfdiagnosedeyemotif · 1 year

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little thing i've been thinking about as of late:

How could one make the Octopath Travelers II in Dungeons and Dragons?

the rules i've set for myself are as follows:

no variant human. that is boring.

we're going for flavour over optimization but my stupid optimizer brain will nonetheless be the architect behind this all so Watch Out

Unearthed Arcana and things of that sort ARE allowed. UA is my dear wife and to leave her out of my house would be a crime most unforgivable

stats will be calculated using the point buy method, simply because that is much easier than working with the other methods

in a similar vein to the previous, pre-Mordenkainen's Monsters of the Multiverse stat increases and abilities for races will be used (my best friend the Air Genasi gets burnt by this but sacrifices must be made)

characters will range from level 10 (agnea) to level 14 (osvald)

this is what the characters would look like at the END of their journeys, so abilities like the One True Magic would be taken into account

i'll link pages describing all of the things i use, all of which will be from my dnd site of choice, the DND 5th Edition Wikidot Site

that being said...

Ochette, the Hunter

Race:

Tabaxi (+2 DEX, +1 CHA)

Class(es):

Revised Ranger - Beastmaster Conclave - Level 8 Paladin - Oath of the Ancients - Level 3

Feats (if any):

N/A

Stats:

STR - 14 (+2) DEX - 19 (+4) CON - 15 (+2) INT - 10 (0) WIS - 8 (-1) CHA - 13 (+1)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Tabaxi - Race: Ochette, while more of a fox than a cat, notably has many animal features similar to cats (namely her claws and ears), so the cat race fits her quite well

Cat's Claws - Tabaxi: ability most akin to Ochette's latent power ability Beastly Claws

Animal Companion - Beastmaster Conclave: this is the space for Akala or Mahina, since the BM is the only class/subclass that lets you have an animal companion in any way, not counting the wizard spell Find Familiar (which just doesn't fit Ochette. she aint a wizard)

Oath of the Ancients Paladin - Class/Subclass: at the end of Ochette's story she is touched by the Flame itself, bestowing upon her the power necessary to continue her immediate mission of Stop That Shadow Beast and ongoing mission of protecting the wilds of Solistia. serving something greater than oneself for a specific purpose (divine or not) is how 5e paladins have been flavoured, and the OotA subclass is explicitly based around being the light for the world, and has a general nature theme (see: green knights)

Castti, the Apothecary

Race:

Water Genasi (+2 CON, +1 WIS)

Class(es):

Artificer - Alchemist Speciality - Level 9 Paladin - Oath of Redemption - Level 4

Feats (if any):

Resilient (Wisdom)

Stats:

STR - 12 (+1) DEX - 9 (-1) CON - 14 (+2) INT - 13 (+1) WIS - 20 (+5) CHA - 12 (+1)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Water Genasi - Race: first off, Castti obviously has a water motif. that's a guarantee. however, i also think that Water Genasi has some good flavour to it because before MMotM, it gave resistance to Acid damage. you know, like trosseau's poison rain. Castti was INSANELY resilient against that shit, and i think it could be fun if that was like. just a thing she did.

Class/Subclass - Alchemist Speciality Artificer: this is the place to go when it comes to apothecaries. i really wanted to make her a warlock of Malaya as well but the best fitting subclasses (Fathomless, Celestial, and Undead) didn't have abilities that fit her very well. regardless, you've gotta be an Alchemist if you wanna be an apothecary

Class/Subclass - Oath of Redemption Paladin: PLEASE go read the tenets of the Oath of Redemption. like yeah its about redeeming yourself but more importantly its about pacifism (that's castti), patience (that's castti), and protecting the weak (that's castti). shes SO Oath of Redemption that it isn't even funny

Experimental Elixir/Restorative Reagent - Alchemist: this is Concoct, to a T. Experimental Elixir allows you to bestow a variety of different effects onto an ally, ranging from healing to haste to defense. just. like. Concoct. also the Restorative Reagent feature that castti would get at level 9 just adds to the healing aspect of EE so like. yeap that tracks.

Lay On Hands - Paladin: Sounds an awful lot like a mix between castti's Healing Hands and Rehabilitate abilities, with a mix of healing damage and disease specifically via touch.

Resilient - Feat: you'll notice that i made Castti's highest stat her Wisdom, which a keen-eyed D&D player might mark as strange, since Artificers are an Intelligence-based class, and Paladins are Charisma-based. well, this in conjunction with Resilient giving her proficiency in Wisdom Saving Throws (basically making her very good at holding on against fear, mind control, and things that affect sanity), are all because of one of my personal favourite Castti moments: she has canonically read the Book of Night and it couldn't do jack SHIT to her. her mind is made of IRON.

Throné, the Thief

Race:

Shadar-Kai (+2 DEX, +1 CON)

Class(es):

Rogue - Assassin Archetype - Level 11 Fighter - No Subclass - Level 2

Feats (if any):

Shadow Touched (spells gained: Invisibility, Silent Image)

Stats:

STR - 11 (0) DEX - 20 (+5) CON - 10 (0) INT - 14 (+2) WIS - 12 (+1) CHA - 14 (+2)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Shadar-Kai - Race: grabbed simply because i think that being a Dark Elf™ fits Throné really well. technically it also gives her teleportation which would be a cool in-universe explanation for Aeber's Reckoning but honestly this one's for the funsies

Inflitration Expert - Assassin Archetype: she straight-up does this in the first chapter. like full stop. that is the thing that this ability does. also i know it's very much not one-to-one but i also think this is how she would use Disguise but that ventures into headcanon territory

Action Surge - Fighter: the SPECIFIC reason that i gave Throné fighter levels. Action Surge allows the user to, once per short rest, USE TWO ACTIONS IN ONE TURN. THAT IS LEAVE NO TRACE. EXACTLY.

Shadow Touched - Feat: flavour for infiltration stuff but also sort of works as an expy for Veil of Darkness. Silent Image can be used to create a fairly large illusion, including but not limited to a quick and easy way to throw enemies off their game in terms of their attacks. Disguise Self was also considered as an option for the spell to take (Invisibility is always given) but i passed on it because she was already getting Infiltration Expert from her subclass.

Osvald, the Scholar

Race:

Goliath (+2 STR, +1 CON)

Class(es):

Wizard - School of Evocation - Level 14

Feats (if any):

N/A

Stats:

STR - 12 (+1) DEX - 10 (0) CON - 16 (+3) INT - 20 (+5) WIS - 14 (+2) CHA - 8 (-1)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Goliath - Race: Professor Osvald V. Vanstein is, amoungst other descriptors, fucking MASSIVE. that man is canonically like 6'7" or something. goliaths, the Biggest race in D&D 5e, are absolutely the best fit for him. as a bonus, they give him resistance to Cold damage, a fun reference to that teeny little stay on Frigit Isle

School of Evocation - Subclass: Osvald is canonically very much an offensive caster. that's clear. the School of Evocation, in D&D, is the one with the easiest access to Spells like Fireball, Lightning Bolt, and Cone of Cold, meaning that Osvald "Fire-Ice-Lightning" V. Vanstein simply MUST be one

Overchannel/Sculpt Spells - School of Evocation: neither of these two abilities, on their own, would equate to anything Osvald-y. Overchannel allows the user to make one damaging spell do max damage (and do it more at an HP cost), and Scupt Spells allows them to exempt certain targets from AoE spells. together, however, they form a decent expy for Concentrate Spells, Osvald's latent power

Prismatic Spray - Spell: this spell is a seventh level evocation spell. level 14 is the first time wizards have access to seventh level spells, and Osvald is an evoker. this spell is also a MASSIVE FUCK-YOU RAINBOW BLAST. i won't go through its actual abilities because they dont line up to the One True Magic very well, but aesthetically they're damn-near identical

Partitio, the Merchant

Race:

Human (+1 to all stats)

Class(es):

Paladin - Oath of Devotion - Level 6 Bard - College of Eloquence - Level 5

Feats (if any):

Inspiring Leader

Stats:

STR - 15 (+2) DEX - 11 (0) CON - 14 (+2) INT - 12 (+1) WIS - 10 (0) CHA - 18 (+4)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Oath of Devotion Paladin - Class/Subclass: mostly based around how Partitio is just. endlessly all about that helping people. you dont need to worship a god to be a paladin, folks, you just need to have a cause that you stand insanely firmly by. that's why they're Charisma-based. anyways Devotion fits Parti best so he gets it

Silver Tongue - College of Eloquence: half of this ability (bonus to Deception) is positively worthless to Partitio because he really doesnt lie much, but the other half (bonus to Persuasion) is DEATHLY important to this build. Partitio is a man built on being extremely good at talking to people, and it really shows in this. also, SILVER Tongue. Oresrush silver. get it? huh? huh?

Inspiring Leader - Feat: genuinely the most Partitio feat ever. it literally has the user make an inspiring speech for a mechanical benefit and if that ain't Partitio i dont know what is

Agnea, the Dancer

Race:

Spring Eladrin (+2 DEX, +1 CHA)

Class(es):

Bard - College of Glamour - Level 10

Feats (if any):

Mobile

Stats:

STR - 8 (-1) DEX - 16 (+3) CON - 12 (+1) INT - 11 (0) WIS - 12 (+1) CHA - 18 (+4)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Eladrin - Race: this is the most whimsical and fun race ever and i love it. spring Eladrin are the joyous and celebratory version of this race, so it fits Agnie pretty damn well. it also offers a teleportation option in the form of Fey Step (the season-themed version of Throné's teleport), which i feel like she would incorporate into her shows

College of Glamour Bard - Class/Subclass: this is the main performer bard for performers that dont use musical instruments, so it simply had to be Agnea

Enthralling Performance - College of Eloquence: this ability is effectively a make-your-performances-better card, which is exactly the kind of thing that Agnea would pull out if she needed to really bedazzle a crowd (see: Agnea chapter five)

Magical Secrets - Bard: this allows the user to gain two spells from any spell list. Agnea's would be Control Winds (Windy Refrain) and Beacon of Hope (Song of Hope). the latter is a much rougher expy than the former, but it's got hope in the name and i am nothing if not predictable. see the links below for what those spells do

Mobile - Feat: this is meant as an expy of the Dancer ability Ever Evasive, and to a degree Agnea's high base Speed and Evasion, since the Mobile feat both makes it more difficult for enemies to land hits on you, and improves your movement speed

Temenos, the Cleric

Race:

Changeling (+2 CHA, +1 WIS), pretends to be Half-Elf

Class(es):

Rogue - Inquisitive Archetype - Level 4 Cleric - Knowledge Domain - Level 9

Feats (if any):

Keen Mind (+1 INT)

Stats:

STR - 8 (-1) DEX - 10 (0) CON - 8 (-1) INT - 18 (+4) WIS - 18 (+4) CHA - 16 (+3)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Changeling - Race: i think it would be really cool because Temenos is such a goddamn liar. im so normal about it. sososo normal about it. i just feel that he would lie persistently about his identity lie that because just. i am hopelessly in love with the aspect of Temenos that he does not let anyone know anything ever

Inquisitive Archetype Rogue - Class/Subclass: one will note that this is the first class listed rather than his actual in-game class of Cleric. this is because i think that before he was a cleric, before he was found by the church, Rogue was a deeply fitting class for him. i think it was his base class, and grew into the Inquisitive subclass AFTER taking Cleric levels

Channel Divinity: Read Thoughts - Knowledge Domain: this is the equivalent of Temenos's Coerce path action; both are obviously magical in nature and involve to a certain (albeit different) degree looking into the target's mind. not a lot to say it's just a very good stand-in for Coerce

Legend Lore - Spell: this is the expy for Temenos's doubt-is-what-i-do mystery solving sections (like when he's in the cathedral with Crick investigating the death of the pontiff). it's not exact since Legend Lore targets an object and Temenos's thing targets a location, but i think it's close enough to be good enough. also it's a free spell you get for being a Knowledge Cleric so i think it's a good fit

Expertise - Rogue: this ability allows you to take two skills and become SUPER good at them. this would be Deception and Insight for Temenos, and i think it was important that i bring it up

Hikari, the Warrior

Race:

High Elf (+2 DEX, +1 INT)

Class(es):

Fighter - Samurai Archetype - Level 11 Sorcerer - Shadow Origin - Level 1

Feats (if any):

N/A

Stats:

STR - 18 (+4) DEX - 16 (+3) CON - 16 (+3) INT - 10 (0) WIS - 10 (0) CHA - 10 (0)

Key Abilities/Explanations:

Shadow Origin Sorcerer - Class/Subclass: homeboy's got the blood of D'arqest in him, so he simply MUST have some kind of spooky class. the other class in the running was Hexblade Warlock, but Shadow Sorcerer ultimately won out mostly for mechanical reasons (SO's Strength of the Grave was considered more flavourful than HB's Hexblade's Curse)

Fighting Spirit/Tireless Spirit - Samurai Archetype: these abilities are about the user powering up by sheer force of will and that's literally the most Hikari thing i have ever heard in my life

Fighting Style: Superior Technique - Fighter: this fighting style allows the user to gain one Battlemaster Fighter maneuver. the one selected for Hikari is Riposte, which serves as an equivalent to Hikari's Vengeful Blade ability (both of them are counterattack options)

Extra Attack 2x - Fighter: fighters are the only class that gain access to more than two attacks per turn, similarly to Hikari's Aggressive Slash ability giving him access to the greatest number of hits out of any class in-game

Links:

Ochette, the Hunter

Tabaxi

Ranger, Revised

Beastmaster Conclave

Paladin

Oath of the Ancients

Castti, the Apothecary

Water Genasi

Artificer

Alchemist Speciality

Paladin

Oath of Redemption

Resilient

Throné, the Thief

Shadar-Kai

Rogue

Assassin Archetype

Fighter

Shadow Touched

Silent Image

Osvald, the Scholar

Goliath

Wizard

School of Evocation

Prismatic Spray

Partitio, the Merchant

Human (yeah im linking that)

Paladin

Oath of Devotion

Bard

College of Eloquence

Inspiring Leader

Agnea, the Dancer

Eladrin

Bard

College of Glamour

Mobile

Control Winds

Beacon of Hope

Temenos, the Cleric

Changeling

Rogue

Inquisitive Archetype

Cleric

Knowledge Domain

Keen Mind

Legend Lore

Hikari, the Warrior

High Elf

Fighter

Samurai Archetype

Sorcerer

Shadow Origin

Riposte Maneuver

#octopath traveler 2 #octopath traveler 2 spoilers #d&d #ochette #castti florenz #throné anguis #throne anguis #osvald v. vanstein #osvald v vanstein #partitio yellowil #agnea bristarni #temenos mistral #hikari ku #iris originals

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