#flames and acid rain to you

[thanatoseyes]

I just found a really sick ass exorcist shirt and it only comes in girls and the larger sizes are out of stock. Cursed with tits. A thousand plagues upon the industry.

[touyas-multi-purpose-saline]

DAY VI. — WORSHIP

cw: Fluff, Body Worship, Worship, Romantic Dirty Talk, Fondling, Dark Shadow Being a Sly and Teasing Little Brother (tm), Aged-Up / Pro-Hero Time Skip, Fem! Reader. 18+ Only!

author's note: Dark Shadow is so funny to me and I don't think he's given too many chances to have his full potential. Anyhow! Tokoyami is so romantic, we love him.

word count: Approximately 1.4k words.

A soft gasp fills Fumikage’s head. 

Red eyes immediately dart up, sharp and piercing. Your head rolls a little against the pillow before another little breathy sound spills from your lips. Fingertips twitch a little before their pads begin a soothing trek south, further and further, and Fumikage watches intently as your back starts to arch, desperate to lean into his touch. The length of his fingers bend forward, and the balls of his hand follow until he’s pressing his palm flat against your belly. He slides it side to side only slightly, lingering before it falls to one side and slowly settles against your hip. 

“Is this too much?” 

You’re shaking your head before Fumikage can even finish his question. He blinks, tilting his head to the side. Your hand stretches forward, cupping his face. Now it’s his turn to lean into your touch, and your thumb began rubbing crescent moons into his lores. 

“Hell no. Don’t stop—I want it.” 

There’s a strange shudder that flares out from Fumikage’s heart before it ripples down his body, but all he does is dip his head a little and oblige you. He tries not to tense, but his nerves make him hold his breath whenever he begins caressing your belly again. Even though you’ve done this for what feels like a billion times, you always somehow manage to blow Fumikage away, dusting into a rifting fade that swallows him and blinds him with your pretty light. 

“If I could, I would never stop. Your beauty always enchants me.” 

Fumikage continues to fall into your touch, finding the gentle swish of your thumb so comforting and tender, and he tries to copy your magic but he finds that he can’t quite compare. You softly chuckle, and a fire crackles and ignites, blossoming all across Fumikage’s cheeks as a molten warmth. His eyes are wide now, which makes another little bubble slip out, and suddenly there’s a strange pull at the center of his chest before another voice speaks. 

“You’ve gotta be careful making sounds like that, Fumikage gets a little nervous when you do~” 

Dark Shadow’s scratchy chords making Fumikage wince a little. His eyes narrow before they cut to the side, a low rumble already prepped in the back of his throat to dismiss Dark Shadow, but you just giggle and coo. 

“I know, I know. I just think it’s so cute whenever he talks like sugar to me.” 

Fumikage nearly falls into himself again, stricken with an angst that isn’t quite whole. He bashfully looks away whenever Dark Shadow chirps, swooping forward with a gust of wind before he rests rounded elbows against your pillow and nuzzles into the side of your head. 

“I mean you’re so pretty, no wonder!! Come on, say it, Fumikage!!” 

“Dark Shadow—I…” 

The words fizzle out like a dying flame, quenched in a heavy and acidic rain whenever he meets your lovely gaze. Those galaxies blazing on your face make Fumikage’s head spin, so he instead clears his throat and hums. He closes his eyes, slowly lowering his head and turning slightly until his cheek rests against the underside of your belly, heavy air filling his lungs before he sighs deeply. 

“My Dark Queen, it’s the truth. Every time I look at you, I fall deeper in love. Your eyes captivate me in ways I never thought possible.” 

The hand against your hip finds rigor anew, and it begins to trace nonsensical patterns up your side and down your thigh, gentle and careful, and Fumikage squeezes his eyes tighter to listen to every little shift in your breathing. He loses himself in it, finding it nearly impossible to think with each hitch of your breath. With the way you gasp whenever he brushes against one of your sweet, sensitive spots, or the way you suck in a whimper whenever he moves away from those spots. You respond to his touches so positively, so wholeheartedly, and Fumikage feels his heart swell with pride, and a dedicated smile crosses his beak. 

“Everything about you is admirable. I strive to be like you, to hold up to your flame.” 

“He just thinks you’re really, like, super amazing. He has so many things he wants to say to you at all times~” 

Fumikage pauses at Dark Shadow’s whispers, especially whenever you giggle and respond in a hush, 

“Shush, he’s so romantic, let me listen to him!!” 

Your words encourage him. His head is back into the sky, but his brain is in space. Fumikage feels so full and airy whenever he’s able to stare down at your nude body, at the way the moonlight reflects off of your body, the shading, the pores, the glimmer of flesh, it all twinkles live a crystal and his own breath falters. Swallowing is hard, but he chews down childish words that he just wants to gush into your mouth, through delicate and passionate kisses that intertwine your voices. Fumikage shifts a little before he’s fully rested between your legs, relaxed against his knees and partially against his haunches. 

“I want to devote myself to you, truly, and all I can ever hope for is that I satisfy you.” 

Both of his hands are on your body now, trailing down until they find the center of your thighs. They rest on top before his hands tremble and he dips them in between. You part for him so easily, and Fumikage’s body freezes whenever he sees the smoldering emotion in your eyes and the ginger look melting against your features. Dark Shadow tilts his head far enough to stare at him, too, those glowing suns thawing him and spurring him to continue. You’re intoxicating, but Fumikage fights through his shivering fingers and inches towards your sex. One of his index fingers cautiously arches and presses against the meat of your lips, and you croon his name out with those smoky and suffocating blues. 

“Every sound you make fills me with more and more desire. I want you to sing for me, I want to hear everything you have to offer me.” 

Another moan follows after his name, your body wriggling and shifting to draw Fumikage closer. He lets you, and his knuckles strum down your sex, teasingly wavering his fingers until those blues change their tempo into precious kitten mewls. 

“You’re breathtaking. I need to make love to you. Can you comprehend what you put me through, you temptress?” 

Something akin to a giggle intermingles with another moan, and your hands are darting forward and linking against Fumikage’s wrists. Dark Shadow quickly buries his face into the crook of your neck, and your head easily crests against his. You’re all giggly, flushed out of excitement and boiling Fumikage alive—inside and out, from his core all the way to the smiles of his nails. Every part of him grows more and more alive, an insatiable monster that wants to hear the prayers of his name on your tongue and the feeling of your blood and flesh on his hands. 

“Ohhh, Fumikage. You’re driving me insane. I need you, too, my perfect darling.” 

A jolt tickles against the base of Fumikage’s spine, so he straightens and stares down at you, eyes wider than the sky, red depths that have no end, and he gulps. He gets a little shifty, but his body moves on autopilot while he’s lost in the oceans of your visage. Thumbs swerve forth, tips melded together before they both begin to feather your slit. The words burst out before he could capture them. 

“How could I ever live without you in my life?” 

Fumikage gasps softly, so quietly that it was soundless, but it was deafening in his head. The thought to stitch his beak together for the rest of eternity crosses his mind, but your expression just softens into honey and velvet, and you squeeze his wrists. 

“I’m always dreaming about you, Fumikage. I don’t know how I ever survived before you either.” 

His heart is beating a billion miles per second, electricity shooting through his stomach and down his groin. A groan reverberates in him, loud and echoing, and Fumikage jerks and imploringly fall into your hands, clay and blood. And then he’s rubbing your sex again, harder, and he groans again. 

“Anything, I’ll do anything. Let me offer myself bare, let me fulfill your dreams.”

Your moan is his oxygen, and you whimper his name before your hands leave his wrists and a husky sound flutters in your throat, 

“Yes, yes, Gods, yes, please.” 

And Fumikage crumbles completely into you. 

[hanafubukki]

How did everything turn against us

Lilia trudged in rain, clutching the egg close to him.

How did suffering become so endless

Levan…Meleanor…loss after loss.

I’m surrounded by souls of those I’ve lost

The blood of all those he slain tainted his hands and weapon. Those he could not save, dragged his feet, every step he took.

What if I’m the monster

What if I’m the one who killed you

How could he hatch this egg within his arms? Did he have what it takes? What if his inability to love killed Malleus?

What if I became the monster.

To everyone but us.

And made sure everything became dust but us

I’ll become the monster!

Let them all fall.

Let their blood splatter.

It didn’t matter anymore.

He didn’t care.

The most precious bundle in his arms is all that mattered now.

Nothing else.

Then I’ll make it home!

He’ll bring Malleus home.

He’ll make sure Malleus lives.

He’ll do whatever it takes.

I’ll become the monster…

If he became the monster?

Then so be it.

Magearm blazed acid green, identical to a dragon’s flame.

Crimson eyes glowed.

He will be become the monster for his loved ones.

“Screeeee”

Lilia blinked…the world hazy.

Was something…nuzzling him?

“Kyuuuu?”

The baby dragonling stared at him, worried green eyes coming into focus.

He must have fallen asleep while reading. The day of play must have caught up to him.

A slight headbutt under his chin had Lilia laughing.

“I’m okay, Malleus,” Lilia stretched, “Why don’t we take a nap together hm? You can breathe fire at any bad guys.”

The dragonling swirled around him in joy, tiny flames escaping in his excitement to help his father.

Yes, a nap would be good right now.

With the warmth of his dragonling by his side, all of Lilia’s dreams were filled with comfort and joy.

Song: “Monster” by Jorge Rivera-Herrans

Hope you enjoyed 🫶💞

This drabble changed from what I orignally planned but I like how I went about it ☺️🥰 That fluffy end wasn’t there initially but I wanted to give some comfort and I saw a cute Lilia and Malleus art that had me adding in that section after. Baby Mal my beloved 💞💞

[aatifameer]

Sweet?

I am not sweet, I am bittersweet.

Even my tears are acid, eating away at what's left of me.

I yearn, I yearn, like a rabid beast clawing at its own flesh.

My hands are skeleton claws, grasping at air,

But you are the gentle flame, warming my cold bones.

My eyes are useless, empty orbs,

But in your gaze, they catch the glint of dawn, soft and tender.

My mouth is a cesspool, a ruin of bitter words and bile,

Yet you turn it into velvet, smooth like aged whiskey.

My lips are a desert, cracked, bleeding, sun-scorched,

You are the rain, falling softly, turning dust into bloom.

My body is a carcass, mangled, torn by time,

But you paint over my wounds, turning scars into quiet art.

My heart is red, a piece of rotting meat caged in bone.

Drain it,

Bleed it white.

~Aatif Ameer

[winged-void]

Here's the story yall asked me to post

Hello! I am posting this short little story, which is the first of a number of short stories I have written about these two characters, a delusional noblewoman and her deranged maid. By clicking the readmore you agree that both characters contained within, regardless of what the text says, are girls.

In some forgotten corner of some forgotten city, a forgotten noble of a forgotten family sits in petty agony. 

Protected from the onslaught of acidic rain only by a hastily constructed sheet metal roof, he imagines Mother's pain at the tears in his coat, and the scion of the Branche family considers weeping. 

What would it cost? 

Too much. 

Elan Branche pushes it down. At twelve, one puts such childishness behind them. 

Back straight. Assess the damage. Find the solution. 

The coat was heavy. Too large, and far too decorated with old and meaningless signifiers of unearned and forgotten glory, weighed down further still by the damp of rain and blood (hidden at least by the deep red color of the fabric), he takes it off and hangs it on a bit of exposed rebar. 

It was old and beautiful; burgundy and torn to shreds. The sleeves and the tail had cuts and rips that Elan knew he could never fix. He thought of a picture he'd found of the family's old staff, and the dedicated tailor among them. All gone now, gone since before his birth. This burden, like all before it, must be borne alone. 

Put it out of mind for now. 

He turned away from the coat to inspect his blade. Sharpening the noble edge sharpens the noble mind, he thought, and began to clean. His adventures to these parts were proving more expensive than he thought, but the rabble must know the Branche Family. Their petty vassals and pettier commoners had forgotten and darkness had come to them. 

By sword and torch and pistol he would bring light and flame back. He would polish the old blazonry with the blood of those foolish and cruel enough to have taken advantage of the weakness of his family. No longer would commoner merchant thugs an-

Hold. A sound. 

Elan jumped and turned, blade pointed at his empty coat, hanged and swinging in the breeze. 

Foolish. Too easily startled. Undignified. Waving your sword around at an empty coat. 

But then another sound, like the whimper of a kicked dog. 

“N-Nothing gets by you, milord….”

A hunched and crouching pathetic figure emerged from behind the rebar, raising its hands, but holding onto what seemed to be an especially short thin piece of scrap metal, bent at the end such that a thread could pass through it. 

Elan's mind raced. First, relief, then recognition. Figure was a boy. No older than thirteen or fourteen. Thin, so thin, tall and dressed in rags. 

“You. You're that kid from the other day. The mugging victim, yes?”

Wasn't that mugging four towns over? 

He left it unsaid. He continued. 

“What are you doing with my coat?”

The figure squirmed, and tried to stand up straight. 

“I-I-I saw. The state of your coat. And I thought I might be useful, milord…” It paused, and jumped as though shocked, “My lord.”

It gestured towards the left sleeve, and Elan's eyes traced the crimson thread from the needle in its scarred hand to the sleeve of the coat, partially sewed with baffling skill. 

Elan considered the boy. His hair gray (common in these chemically stained regions), his form clearly starved, his body shaking but his hands so very steady. 

Potential and possibility, all of it. Solutions to problems named and those he refused to name. 

“How useful,” Elan lowered his sword and allowed himself to smile, “would you like to be?”

[springsylph]

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” ->

[storges-oranges]

Feeling insane about the hound origin again

Warnings: LI death mentioned, "Hound" title is treated rather literally as in; very doglike devotion, mentions of blood and injury. Please tell me if i should add anything else.

Title: by Leah Horlick

Image description: A black and white line drawing of a dog on a pink background. The dog is facing to the left. The quote "YOU'LL NEVER RECOVER FROM THAT KIND OF DEVOTION" by Leah Horlick is written across the dog's body.

There is something to be said about Vere and the hound. Something about being collared or abandoned on a road after playing fetch. Something about looking at everyone distrustfully, despite knowing that absolute loyalty is the only thing you were made to feel. Something about remembering where that loyalty got you. Something about wanting help, needing help, but the only thing you can do now is bite.

The hand that seeks to harm, the hand that seeks to help, the hand that seeks to comfort, they all feel the same against your teeth don't they?

How does a fight dog love another fight dog anyway?

Ais loves you the way a nature reserve worker loves the beasts under his care. You bite him and look up, his hand still in your jaw, expecting anger. Expecting him to strike you for daring to betray him like this.

He smiles and pats you on the head. When you release his hand, he offers you tea. He keeps you around. He is so patient with you. Others would've left you. You can feel yourself getting attached. Again. You hate yourself for it but you stay.

Because you never leave first. That's not allowed for you.

You spend your days visiting him and joking around, wrestling his attention away from the soulless or Vere. When Vere pisses you off, you make a show of holding Ais's injured hand, with your teeth marks still visible on his skin. Ais chucles at your possessiveness.

The first kiss you shared started off as a bite, too.

Before he dies, you drop to your knees and hold his hand. He's looking up at you with an unbearable gentleness, and his body is getting colder.

Without thinking, you bite. 'How stupid' you think. 'He is bleeding to death already' But he understands you better than you do yourself, so he pats you on the head, and tells you it's going to be okay.

You clamp down on his hand harder, because the only things that stay are the ones caught between your teeth. Because that's the only thing you know how to do.

You never told him you loved him. You never showed him in the tender way you dreamed of. You wail into his open wound.

But it's ok. Ais understands. You know it by the way he tenderly holds the back of your head, by the way he smiles at you. By the ways he tells you to be good and take care of yourself after he's gone.

Kuras got used to seeing you sitting front of the back-door to his clinic. You're there in the acidic rain of Eridia, you're there in the suffocating sandstorms, you're there in freezing winter storms too.

You're there when he comes back from another harrowing experience that chipped away at his faith in humanity. He sees you right as his guilt and hopelessness threaten to swallow him whole.

You rise to your feet upon seeing him. You ask to open the door to escape the apocalyptic weather.

He is taken aback by... your continued presence? Your optimism? He doesn't know. But you are there, like you always are. You both get in, like you always do.

He offers you food, real food instead of the atrocities you got from...where did you get that exactly? Why can't you buy normal food? "The wet wick doesn't have anything edible" And that is better? You shrug. Doesn't Leander pay you for your services? "Its late this week".

You follow him around. As always. Until you both sit by the fire, plate in hand. Kuras watches the flames dance absent-mindedly until he feels you shift closer to him.

"Long day, huh?" You say, mouth full.

Your eyes are so pretty, illuminated by the fire as they are. He knows you went through alot , but they are still so pure, so full adoration. You look at him with so much adoration. He is an old being, he knows what adoration looks like in humans. He is unsure if he deserves it.

The day left him feeling like it was all for naught again. That really, he should just step back into the shroud and let history take its course. But he looks at you, at your worried face. He thinks of you sitting on the porch of his backdoor, waiting. Waiting in the rain , waiting in the sandstorm, waiting in the cold. For him to come back. To let you in. To come in with you.

He knows you would stay there for an unreasonable amount of time. Alone. Faithful.

He cannot bear the thought.

His hand finds your cheek before he knows what he is doing. Before he can take it back, you nuzzle against it, grinning.

Its like a weight is lifted off of his shoulders. If its for you, he can make it another day. If you're waiting, he will always come back.

[cuubism]

It's October 1 post Leaves by Lloyd Schwartz

1

Every October it becomes important, no, necessary to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded by leaves turning; it's not just the symbolism, to confront in the death of the year your death, one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony isn't lost on you that nature is most seductive when it's about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its incipient exit, an ending that at least so far the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain) have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception because of course nature is always renewing itself— the trees don't die, they just pretend, go out in style, and return in style: a new style.

2

Is it deliberate how far they make you go especially if you live in the city to get far enough away from home to see not just trees but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves: so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks like rain, or snow, but it's probably just clouds (too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder, given the poverty of your memory, which road had the most color last year, but it doesn't matter since you're probably too late anyway, or too early— whichever road you take will be the wrong one and you've probably come all this way for nothing.

3

You'll be driving along depressed when suddenly a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably won't last. But for a moment the whole world comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives— red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion, gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire. It won't last, you don't want it to last. You can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop. It's what you've come for. It's what you'll come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt or something you've felt that also didn't last.

[mlm-writer]

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. 

[themerrywhumpofmay]

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

[lilyvalerieorchard]

As much as I hate Lily Orchard, white favoritism is a thing in pretty much every fandom. One example I can think off the top of my head in the toh fandom, was back when Thanks to Them aired, and many people mocked Luz's scene in the classroom (despite being literally a display of suicidal ideation) while writing thinkpieces about Hunter's mental health and abuse, basically ignoring the Black main character's mental health issues to focus on the white boy (hopefully this doesn't come off as me hating Hunter, I like him a lot, it's just an example)

Speaking of season 3, there was quite a group of people who hated on Luz due to her mental health issues, calling her selfish and ungrateful while she was struggling with self-destructive behavior while, once again, Hunter didn't get as much backlash for his ""selfish"" behavior in For the Future, as people mostly understood he was struggling with his mental health and grief. It's a sadly common thing in fandoms to narrow Black characters down as one dimensional and "bad", while white characters get a pass and sympathy from fans

Another example of racism in the fandom, is whitewashed art of Black and brown-skinned characters, mainly Luz, and how many artists don't take this topic seriously - that was more common in the early fandom, though, thankfully becoming less frequent as time went one

There's some other examples: in 2021, there was a Skara/Edric comic that spiraled huge controversy on Twitter due to Odalia objectifying Skara and referring to her as an "it", which has very clear racist undertones. Also, art on Twitter of Luz saying she's gonna "ruin" Amity's bloodline by joining her family, also having clear racist undertones (There's likely more, but these two are the first ones to come to my mind, as they received tons of deserved backlash)

So yeah, once again, I dislike Lily Orchard, but denying racism in the fandom is just... wrong. It may be a minority of fans, especially nowadays, but it's there and it harms people of color in the fandom, who tend to get mass harassment for calling it out. I also hope this doesn't come off as rude, the post just brought back some memories of my personal experiences in the fandom, and I thought I should share

Oh my...I never knew it was that bad. The large majority of the fandom loves Luz but to hear some truly nasty people treat her and the other BIPOC characters like this is just wrong. Speaking as comic and video game fan: I know how most of the Batfam fandom will erase Cass, Duke and Steph all while propping up white/white-passing male characters like Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian (nothing against either of them); how Marvel comic fans will downplay characters like Kamala and Miles or slut-shame MJ; how lead female characters of color in games like Forspoken, Dustborn and Mirror's Edge are lambasted as "too angry", "too vulgar", "too snarky", "too unlikeable" by gamers AND critics alike while angsty white male leads in certain popular games are given free passes. I feel you, There is rampant cishet white male favouritism in ALL of nerd culture and I absolutely hate it. For the record, I have nothing against cishet white male characters in general, I just cannot stand double standards that force female and minority characters to jump through multiple flaming hoops to prove their "authenticity". I looked up the whitewashing "fanart" people were drawing of Luz, Gus, Willow, and-

Disgusting.

*To those so-called "fans"*

If you think Luz, Guz, Willow, Darius, Camilia and others would be better if they were white, if you so happen to be inbred, racist piece of crap.

Get the Hell out and NEVER set foot in this fandom (or any fandoms) EVER AGAIN. Dana didn't create a beautiful whimsical masterwork of animation just so you could hijack it for portraying your own twisted Hapsburg utopia. In fact, she hates everything filth like you stand for. So once again, get out and get drenched by acid rain.

*sighs* That felt good.

Just remember: Plasma Lily stands with marginalized voices.

[waitingforlostsouls]

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

[jadeleechsupportgroup]

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.”

[omegaremix]

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.

[oumaheroes]

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.

[stingynugget]

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.