#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.

[redvexillum]

A/N: Big Smoll Sad.

SUMMARY: You are a once-celebrated painter, your glory long faded and your passion for art extinguished. That is, until you meet an enigmatic man named Luci, who sparks something inside you that you thought was lost forever.

TAGS/WARNINGS: f!reader, human reader, devil!lucifer, lucifer is still hung up on lilith, lucifer in the human world, emotional smut, p in v, implied suicide, reader is an artist, this is still smutmas cuz the banner says so uwu

These days, the world blurs into an indistinct haze, a cacophony of shapes and sounds dissolving into the murky canvas of your mind. Faces, once vivid and meaningful, bleed away like rain washing over a forgotten oil painting—its vibrant hues smeared into lifeless swirls of muddy browns and bruised blacks, spiralling endlessly until only the void remains. The warmth and colour of life have long fled, leaving you adrift in a landscape of shadows, a ghost wandering streets that no longer seem to belong to you. You search, desperate, for that elusive spark—the incandescent flame that once ignited your soul and commanded the awe of countless spectators. 

But the spark never comes. It’s as though some divine hand had once granted you a finite wellspring of brilliance, only to cruelly empty it when you needed it most. You are hollow now, an artist reduced to a shell of their former self, withering under the weight of your own irrelevance. Your fingers tremble as they trace lines meant to evoke wonder, but every stroke feels misplaced, every attempt an abomination. The canvas mocks you with its lifelessness, each brushstroke a reminder of what you once were and can never be again. You clutch at fragments of your past triumphs, their glow dimmed by time, yet even their memory cuts deeper than any blade. A prodigy no longer; you are forgotten, decaying in the shadow of the glory that has long since turned to ash. 

The familiar bell jingled as you stumbled into the card shop once again, your movements robotic, rehearsed. The shopkeeper glanced up briefly, his expression blank before he returned to sorting inventory, dismissing you as just another nuisance. He didn’t need to say it aloud—you were the unpaying regular, an unremarkable ghost haunting his space. Without fail, you gravitated to the same display rack: rows of garish cards depicting ducks in absurd costumes. 

There they were—pirate ducks, wizard ducks, detective ducks—all locked in cartoonish battles for supremacy. Duck Battle. The game that bore your fingerprints, your long nights, your fleeting dreams. It was a runaway success, a pop-culture juggernaut that earned you enough royalties to live comfortably. 

And yet, the thought of it felt like swallowing acid. 

Your gaze settled on one card, the cheerful caricature of a duck in a jester’s hat. Its painted eyes stared back, unblinking, its crooked smile warped into cruel mockery. A sudden tightness seized your throat, invisible hands wrapping around your neck with the weight of unspoken expectations. Your parents’ faces surfaced in your mind, their quiet disappointment etched into every wrinkle, their smiles brittle under the strain of politeness. 

Breathe. You reminded yourself. 

But the air felt paper-thin, each inhalation shallow, scraping against the walls of your lungs. Tears prickled at the edges of your vision, hot and traitorous, threatening to spill over. You blinked them back, swallowing the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to stand still. No one could see this weakness—not here, not anywhere. 

Your fingernails dug into your forearms, the sting sharp and grounding, a desperate tether to the present. Slowly, the world sharpened, the dull haze retreating just enough to let you see. But the ache remained, burrowing deep. 

Masahiro Yokotani’s words drifted through your mind like an unwelcome whisper: “When you’re ten, they call you a prodigy. When you’re fifteen, they call you a genius. But once you hit twenty, you’re just a normal person.” 

A normal person. 

Being ordinary wasn’t inherently wrong. It wasn’t a curse, not for most. But for you, it was a sentence, a punishment for daring to matter once, for daring to believe you were special. Your success was the only currency you had ever known—the only thing that earned you love, admiration, or even the illusion of belonging. 

Without it, who were you?

Your fists clenched, trembling with suppressed anger as the jester duck continued to grin, mocking you. For a fleeting moment, you wanted to rip the cards from the rack, scatter them across the floor, destroy them one by one until they were nothing but shreds of paper and ink. You wanted to scream, to rage against the machine that had turned your passion into a product. 

But what good would it do? 

Somewhere along the way, the success you’d once celebrated had become a cage. The art you’d poured your soul into was no longer yours. It was a commodity, stripped of meaning, stripped of you. People didn’t see the blood, the sleepless nights, the fleeting moments of joy. 

All they saw was a game. 

A product to consume. 

To discard. 

To forget. 

If you couldn’t amaze them, if you couldn’t create the next masterpiece, you were nothing. 

And if you couldn’t meet their expectations, fulfill their demands... 

You were less than nothing. 

The thought wrapped around your mind like frost, numbing, relentless. 

You weren’t talented. 

You were just lucky. 

You weren’t creative. 

You had connections. 

You weren’t special. 

You were nothing worth keeping. Nothing worth loving. 

Your breath came slower now, shallow and cold. A shiver coursed through you, though you weren’t sure if it was from the temperature or the weight pressing down on your chest.  

Like clockwork, you turned to leave, your movements mechanical, resigned. But just as your hand brushed the door, a figure caught your eye—a man stepping past you with an air of quiet purpose. His hair was a cascade of gold, catching the pale shop light like threads of sunlight, and his eyes were startlingly blue, the kind of vivid sapphire that seemed to hold secrets of oceans untold. 

He moved straight to the duck cards. 

It was almost comical, the way he held a cloth basket with casual confidence, scooping up deck after deck as though stocking for an army of duck enthusiasts. He plucked every box of booster packs from the display, piling them into his basket without a second thought. You blinked, stunned, your lips parting as you struggled to process the absurdity of the scene before you. 

“Hey, leave some for the others,” the shopkeeper grumbled, his voice gruff with annoyance. 

The interruption jolted you into noticing the man behind the counter for the first time in months. His wiry frame and sallow complexion struck you in their starkness, his dark, greasy hair hanging limp around his face. It was strange—how had you been coming here for years without ever truly seeing him? 

“Oh, r-right,” the blonde man stammered, a sheepish smile curving his lips. His attire was... peculiar. He wore a pristine white three-piece suit, his vest adorned with red and white stripes that ended in a dramatic two-tailed flourish. He stood out like a figure from a different world, but it was his eyes that mesmerized you most—jewel-like and shimmering, their hues shifting like sunlight on rippling water. 

Your fingers twitched. That long-dead ember inside you flickered, faint but undeniable. 

The man’s lips pursed as if in thought, and with exaggerated care, he removed a single booster pack from his basket and placed it back on the counter. Not a box, but one lone pack. The absurdity of the gesture bubbled up in your chest, breaking free as a soft, unguarded laugh. 

The sound startled you—it felt foreign, like it didn’t belong to you anymore. But it also startled him. His head snapped in your direction, his cheeks flushing as his eyes dropped, uncharacteristically shy. 

Something shifted in you then, fragile yet profound, like the crack of ice revealing the flowing river beneath. 

Summoning a hesitant smile, you stepped forward, reaching for the lone booster pack. Your hand brushed the tin foil wrapper, and for the first time in months, you held it without bitterness. “I’d like to buy this,” you said, your voice rasping from disuse. 

The shopkeeper raised a brow but said nothing, punching the numbers into the register. 

“$6.21,” he said flatly. 

You handed him the money, feeling the booster pack’s weight in your hands—and for once, the bitter feeling of wanting to rip it to shred was absent within you.

As you stepped outside, the winter air nipped at your skin, sharp and biting. You lingered near the door, the booster pack clutched tightly in your hands, its glossy surface catching the faint sunlight. The art you had poured countless agonizing hours began to surface in your mind, the colours dulling as memories of your efforts melted away like candle wax under flame. 

Then, the sharp chime of the shop’s bell rang out, pulling you from your spiral. The man stepped out, his bag stuffed to the brim with his purchases. 

“Uhm,” you called, the word catching in your throat. 

He turned, his expression open and curious. When his gaze met yours, his lips curved into a gentle smile. “What’s up,kiddo?” 

You faltered, your brows furrowing. He didn’t look much older than you, so the greeting felt oddly misplaced. Still, you thrust the booster pack toward him, your fingers trembling slightly. “H-here,” you stammered, your gaze skittering from his eyes to the scuffed tips of his black boots, then down to the icy ground. “Y-you’d probably enjoy this m-more than me.” 

His expression softened, surprise flickering across his features. “A-are you sure?” he asked, hesitant. 

You could only nod, your throat too tight for words. Your eyes stayed fixed on the ground, unwilling to meet his. 

“Thank you,” he said quietly, taking the pack with a reverence that made your chest ache in a way that wasn’t entirely painful. 

You felt it—the fleeting warmth of his fingers brushing yours as he took the pack. It was barely a second, but it left an impression, highlighting the chill that seeped into your bones on this cold winter day. “W-well, I-I hope you enjoy,” you murmured, your voice faltering as you prepared to turn away, to retreat as you always did. 

But his voice stopped you. 

“W-wait.” 

Your body stiffened, your breath catching. Slowly, you turned back, your gaze lifting cautiously. His smile was gentle, inviting, radiating a warmth you hadn’t felt in what seemed like lifetimes. “D-do you want to open them together?” he asked, his grin broadening, something so bright in his expression that it reminded you of the sun breaking through storm clouds. 

It had been so long since anyone had asked to spend time with you. 

And your time—your energy—always felt so fleeting. 

Still, with a shaky smile and a flutter of nerves in your chest, you nodded. Heat crept up your cheeks, embarrassing in its intensity. You worried—panicked, even. Would he find you dull? Would he regret inviting someone like you, someone who had nothing to offer except the remnants of a fading career? 

You hoped, desperately, that he wouldn’t. 

You walked side by side with the stranger, whose name you now knew as Luci. His voice was light, brimming with enthusiasm as he shared bits of himself—his love for ducks, his daughter, his wife. You listened, half-focused, half-distracted by the echo of warnings ingrained in your mind: don’t follow strangers; it’s dangerous.

Yet, you wondered. If he were to hurt you, would it even matter? 

You brushed the thought aside as his warmth began to melt your trepidation, his words weaving a strange sense of comfort around you. His anecdotes were simple, endearing, and as he spoke about his family, an ache blossomed deep in your chest. 

Jealousy, sharp and bitter, coiled through you. What would it feel like to be loved like that? To be cherished so completely, so unconditionally? 

Your thoughts strayed to your own parents, and you felt it again—the invisible noose tightening around your throat. You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat refusing to yield. You forced a bright smile onto your face, desperate to focus on him, on his words, his expressive gestures, the way his eyes gleamed like cut gemstones catching the light. 

Then he laughed, a sound so rich with joy that it seemed to chase away the cold clinging to you. He launched into a story about a duck-shaped toy that blew bath bubbles, one he had designed with his daughter. His animated retelling painted the chaotic scene vividly: bubbles everywhere, a floor turned slick, his wife caught between frustration and uncontrollable laughter as they all slipped and slid around like fools. 

The genuine delight in his voice made something inside you stir, fragile but real. You clung to it, that warmth. It spread, tentative, but enough to pull a soft giggle from your lips. 

Luci stopped mid-step, his eyes widening slightly before a wide, toothy grin overtook his face. “You have a beautiful laugh,” he said simply, with honesty that caught you off guard. 

The compliment was unexpected, and you coughed, your cheeks igniting with heat. Your mind raced, urging you to say thank you, or anything at all to fill the awkward silence. But your lips refused to cooperate, frozen in uncertainty. 

Before you could stumble over a response, Luci stopped in front of a small building—a café, its soft glow spilling out onto the street like a promise of warmth. Luci’s voice broke through your thoughts. “Ah, we’re here! I’ve heard they make the best banana nut muffin, so I wanted to try it before I go back!” He held the door open, the light catching his golden hair and the shimmer of his grin. 

As he pushed open the door, the soft chime of a bell rang out—a gentle, almost musical sound, like wind chimes caught in a summer breeze. The scent of freshly brewed coffee wrapped around you, rich and warm, inviting you to linger. The walls were painted a soft pastel yellow, their brightness tempered by dim, cozy lighting that gave the café a feeling of safety, of comfort. 

The space was intimate, and aside from you and Luci, it was empty. From the back emerged a stout woman with a radiant smile, her long black curls bouncing slightly as she walked. Her green apron was worn but clean, a testament to her work here. “Welcome!” she greeted warmly, her voice carrying the cheer of someone genuinely glad to see you. “What can I get ya folks?” 

Luci turned to you, and with a grin, he asked, “Want a banana nut muffin?” 

Your throat constricted slightly as you struggled to respond. A simple yes or no would have been enough, but your isolation had left you fumbling for basic social graces. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you could hear the sharp voice of your mother, her criticisms cutting deep. How unbecoming, her voice whispered in a memory you couldn’t quite escape. 

You reached into your pocket for your wallet, your fingers clumsy with nerves. “L-let me p-pay,” you stammered, your voice cracking into something embarrassingly high-pitched. 

Luci chuckled, a soft, disarming sound that somehow made the tension in your chest ease. He patted your shoulder, his touch brief but grounding. “It’ll be my treat, sport,” he said with a playful grin. “For the pack,” he added, waggling his brows in exaggerated humour. 

Before you could protest further, he ordered two muffins and herded you to a table with two chairs in the corner. The space felt smaller as you followed, the warmth of the café suddenly claustrophobic under the weight of your thoughts. 

Sitting across from him, you watched as he rummaged through his bag, his energy infectious. He pulled out a small stack of booster packs, his expression bright with unfiltered glee. 

“These are my favourites,” he said as he held up a pack, his excitement as radiant as a child opening a long-awaited gift on Christmas morning. “I have all the cards from the first wave of Duck Battle releases!” His voice was filled with pride, his fingers already tearing into the foil wrapping. “I just had to come up here when I heard they released the second wave after two years!” 

His words swirled in your mind, dissonant against the memories rising like a tide. Your hands, hidden under the table, clenched into fists. Your fingers dug into your palms, grounding you against the maelstrom of emotions. 

You had drawn those silly ducks in their costumes, poured hours into creating gadgets, props, and absurd scenarios. Two hundred and fifty illustrations, each more uninspired than the last. You remembered the exhaustion, the growing sense of emptiness that swallowed you whole. 

“What do you like about them?” you asked softly, your voice fragile. You cleared your throat, trying to sound steady as you felt an unwelcome wave of bitterness threatening to rise. 

Luci’s blue eyes lit up as he looked up from the cards, his smile unguarded. “Oh, where do I even start!” he exclaimed, holding up a card to show you. “Aside from the fact that they’re ducks, just look at them! The costumes, the gadgets—they’re so clever, so fun!” 

He turned the card in his hand, his admiration genuine, his joy untainted. And as he spoke, your chest tightened, caught between envy and a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of pride. 

Luci held up a card, its surface shimmering with the golden foil that marked it as rare. Your eyes fell on the image—a duck in swimming trunks and sunglasses, wielding a sword alive with swirling water. The memory of creating it surged forward, unwelcome and sharp. 

You remembered the day you drew that card. The day everything inside you cracked open. You had screamed into the hollow silence of your room, pages of drafts torn apart and scattered around you like confetti from some cruel, mocking parade. Your voice had grown raw as you told yourself, over and over, that you were done. 

That you’d quit. 

But quitting was a lie you couldn’t tell yourself for long. 

The words of self-loathing had been relentless: 

Everything you create is garbage. 

This opportunity only exists because of your parents. 

You’re a shadow, fading and inconsequential compared to their brilliance. 

And yet, like some twisted masochist, you’d dragged yourself back to your desk the next morning. 

There had been no joy in it—only pain. The siren call to create, once your solace, had become a piercing scream you couldn’t silence. The pencil in your hand had felt like a blade, its grip carving into you as you pushed yourself to the brink. Your fingers had cramped, the skin blistering until it split and bled. 

You hadn’t stopped. 

You couldn't.

Because drawing wasn’t just something you did—it was a part of you. An integral piece of your existence, impossible to sever, no matter how much you might have wanted to. 

Now, that duck—a creation born from your anguish—stared back at you in Luci’s hands, a mirror of a piece of yourself you hated. His voice broke through the haze, brimming with enthusiasm as he babbled about the card, his words high with praise. 

You should have felt pride. Gratitude. Joy, even. But you didn’t. 

Instead, his praise slid over you, leaving nothing behind but the familiar ache of inadequacy. Why can’t I accept this?you thought bitterly. It was as if his words belonged to someone else, someone who deserved them. 

Someone you were not. 

So you smiled. Nodded. Pretended.

When the plate of banana nut muffin arrived, the scent of warm cinnamon wafting up, you glanced down at it. A dollop of whipped cream sat artfully on the side, dusted with cinnamon. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial all day, yet the hunger that should have gnawed at you was absent, swallowed by a numbness you couldn’t quite shake. 

Luci took a bite and moaned in delight, rolling his eyes dramatically. “This is absolutely delicious! Charlie would love this!” he said with a grin, taking another hearty bite. His joy was infectious, yet it stayed just out of reach for you. 

He paused mid-bite, his expression sheepish as he pushed a booster pack across the table toward you. “Oh, golly! I should’ve had you open some with me,” he said with a laugh, gesturing to the small pile of torn foil and neatly stacked cards already in front of him. 

You ran your thumb along the seam of the unopened pack, the texture sharp against your skin. “I don’t mind you opening them all,” you murmured softly, your gaze fixed on the faint silver glint of the packaging. 

“Nonsense!” Luci declared, his grin bright and unwavering. “You might pull the ultra-rare Count Duckula! Come on, it’s all in the fun.” 

He dragged his chair closer, the legs scraping lightly against the tiled floor. His knees bounced with childlike anticipation, a rhythm of barely contained excitement. 

You forced a small smile, though your hands betrayed you, trembling as they fumbled with the pack’s edge. The foil tore with a soft rip, the sound somehow louder in the quiet café. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d opened one of these. The promotional box they’d sent you months ago sat untouched in some forgotten corner of your home, buried under stacks of other projects. 

Carefully, you drew out the stack of six cards and flipped through them, revealing each one in turn. 

All common - trash - cards. 

How painfully typical. 

“S-sorry,” you murmured, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. “It looks like I don’t have good luck. Maybe you should open the rest?” 

“Nonsense,” Luci said again, his voice gentler this time. He reached out and took the cards from your hand with surprising care, as if each one were a delicate treasure. His expression softened as he studied them, pausing on a trio of ducks huddled together. 

“I like this one the best,” he said, turning the card so you could see it more clearly. 

The illustration stared back at you, the familiar design almost mocking in its simplicity. The card was called Duck Gang, but when you’d drawn it… you thought of...

“It’s like a family,” Luci murmured, his tone thoughtful as he turned the card back toward himself. “I already have forty-five of these, but I can’t help collecting them. They’re one of my favourites.” 

Your chest tightened. The smile on your lips sharpened into something brittle, edged with bitterness. “T-that’s a lot,” you said, your voice cold, a contrast to the warmth in his. “You should consider selling them. They’re common, after all. Trash cards, really. Probably won’t get much for them.” 

You picked up your fork and poked at the muffin on your plate, the sweetness of it utterly unappealing. The bitterness inside you, however, only grew, swelling like a tide threatening to pull you under. Your eyes flicked back to the card, the garish trio of ducks resembling parents and a child more than any sort of gang. 

“I-I could get you all the rares,” you added, the words spilling out with a sharp edge. “If you'd like.” 

Luci paused, his expression unchanging as he looked up at you. His ever-enigmatic demeanour shifted, and then, unexpectedly, he laughed—a warm, easy sound. A few golden strands slipped loose from his carefully styled hair, brushing against his cheek. 

“The fun of it is in opening the packs and seeing what you get!” he said, reaching for another booster pack. He tore it open with practised ease, glancing through the cards until his face lit up like the sun breaking through a heavy storm. 

“No way!” he gasped, holding up a foil-covered card with both hands. His blue eyes shimmered with delight, his toothy grin nearly splitting his face as he revealed the ultra-rare Count Duckula. 

His reaction was so dramatic, so comically over-the-top, you couldn’t help but feel a pang of something unexpected. In the small space of that quiet café, amidst the warmth of yellow walls and the scent of coffee, you felt something stir inside you. 

Something warm. 

Something… meaningful.

It wasn’t like the cold, impersonal emails you received from your agency, filled with spreadsheets and data points. Those soulless reports quantified your work with meticulous precision—what cards sold best, which ones fetched high prices, which ones were deemed worthless. 

None of it ever reflected the time, the effort, or the pieces of yourself you poured into every illustration. 

At some point, you’d begun to wonder: if you couldn’t draw, if you couldn’t find joy in creation, had you already reached your expiration date? 

It was a morbid thought—one that clung to you like a shadow. But now, hilariously, pathetically, sitting across from Luci, a stranger you’d known for less than an hour, a flicker of something stirred. For the first time in a long time, you wanted to draw. Not for a paycheck, not for numbers on a spreadsheet, but simply because it might make someone else happy. 

Because it might make him happy. 

You almost laughed as you reached into your purse, finding the small drawing notepad you still carried. Half its pages were filled with scribbles—angry, chaotic lines etched so deeply they scarred the next page. Proof of countless attempts to destroy your own work, to obliterate the things you hated about yourself. 

Flipping to the back, you grabbed a pen and hesitated. 

“I, uh… if y-you don’t mind,” you stammered, your heart racing in your chest, “I-I could draw that trio of ducks for you?” 

The words were out before you could stop them, and regret hit you like a wave. Why had you offered to draw something so… mundane? Why not Count Duckula, the ultra-rare? Why would a stranger even want your scribbles? Heat rose in your cheeks, and you forced a trembling smile as you flipped the notepad shut, shrinking into yourself. 

You should take the muffin to go, you thought bitterly. Make your excuses and return to the solitude of your home where no one could see your failures. 

Before you could muster the courage to leave, Luci slapped his hands to his cheeks, his eyes widening with delight. “Oh, are you an artist?” he asked, his voice brimming with wonder. He leaned forward, and for a fleeting moment, something flickered in his expression—a shadow of pain, perhaps, or maybe it was just the light. 

“I… guess I’m somewhat of an artist,” you mumbled, the words faltering as they left your lips. 

He squealed like a delighted child, his feet tapping against the floor. Clasping his hands together, he grinned. “Can you draw a trio of ducks, but it’s Lucifer, Lilith, and their daughter?” 

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

“That’s… an interesting request,” you murmured, tilting your head. Was he serious? Perhaps he was a Satanist? Would drawing demons as ducks count as blasphemy? And did Lucifer and Lilith even have a daughter? 

“Uhm…” you hesitated, glancing up at his expectant face. His excitement was so genuine, so infectious, that you couldn’t bring yourself to say no. “Do you, uh, have a specific idea for how they should look, or…?” 

“Oh no,” Luci waved a hand dismissively. “I’m more interested in how you envision them!” 

Drawing from the dry well of your creativity felt like squeezing water from a stone. You started with the horns—predictable—and then added wings and a smattering of devilish details. The lines felt shaky, the proportions wrong, the designs uninspired. 

The pen trembled in your hand as doubt crept in. This isn’t good enough, the voice in your head hissed. The shapes are off. The lines are wonky. The urge to scribble over the drawing, to obliterate it into oblivion, burned in your chest. You needed to start over. 

Again and again. 

Again. Until it was perfect. 

Again. Until it was worthy. 

You simply had to get better, do better, be better. 

But Luci’s voice broke through the storm in your mind. “I love it!” he exclaimed, leaning so close you thought he might fall into the table. His eyes sparkled as he admired the doodle. “Oh, gosh, this is wonderful!” 

Your throat tightened as you fought back tears. Why? Why did he like it? Couldn’t he see the flaws, the imperfections? 

“Can I keep it?” he asked, his voice soft with a childlike eagerness. 

You couldn’t speak. The words refused to come, so you gave him a faint nod, you tore the sheet of paper from your notepad, the sound sharp and final, and handed it to him with trembling fingers. Luci accepted it like it was the most precious thing in the world, holding it gently as if it might crumble in his hands. He studied your drawing with a small, wistful smile that tugged at the corners of his lips. 

“I really do… love it when humans create,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. The words seemed to carry more weight than they should, as though they held the remnants of a truth too fragile to speak aloud. 

“Truly,” he added, his lower lip quivering. He cleared his throat quickly, blinking rapidly before replacing the moment of vulnerability with a wide, goofy grin. 

Luci was an enigma. There was something off about him—an air, a presence—that felt out of place in your ordinary, grey world. It was as if he didn’t belong here, as if he were a splash of colour painted into a monochrome existence. 

Perhaps...

...that was why you were drawn to him. 

To the warmth he seemed to radiate so effortlessly. It was gentle, inviting, and for the first time in a long time, the relentless voices in your mind—the ones that berated you for every perceived failure—began to dim. Their harsh accusations softened to murmurs, then to silence. 

Time blurred. The two of you sat there in the café, opening booster packs side by side. Cups of coffee were ordered and refilled, their rich aroma mingling with the sweet, spicy scent of cinnamon. The banana nut muffin you’d shared lingered on your tongue, a surprising comfort. The bell above the door tinkled softly as customers came and went, yet the world beyond your table felt distant, unimportant. 

It was... odd. 

But it wasn’t unpleasant. 

Luci’s laughter, clear and joyful, broke through your defences. Each genuine compliment he gave, each silly comment, seemed to chip away at the invisible weight pressing down on you. By the time you reached the last booster pack, you felt lighter—like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t as broken as you believed. 

“You should open it,” Luci said, handing you the final pack. His grin was as bright as ever. 

“I… don’t think I should,” you hesitated, glancing at the disappointing stack of cards you’d already opened. Your luck had been abysmal—nearly all duplicates, with the best being a single uncommon card. 

“Oh, don't be a silly goose!” Luci declared, snapping his fingers with dramatic flair before pointing at the foil-wrapped pack in your hand. “I have a feeling you’re going to pull the ultra-super-rare card!” He nodded to himself, then added a playful wink that made you giggle despite yourself. 

“Really?” you asked, your voice coloured with disbelief but softened by his contagious enthusiasm. 

“Really,” he said with the conviction of someone who had already seen the future. 

His persistence left you with little choice. “Alright,” you sighed, shaking your head with a small smile. You opened the pack, shuffling through the cards one by one until you froze. 

Your breath caught in your throat. 

There, in your hands, was the card. 

The Angelic Duck. 

Its pastel sky shimmered under the café’s light, the holographic wings moving as you tilted the card back and forth. You remembered the company mentioning this card—a one-in-a-million rarity, with only two released in the entire wave. It was surreal, almost impossible. 

“See!” Luci beamed, his eyes sparkling with triumph. “You’re not unlucky, sweetie.” His voice softened, and his gaze lingered on you for just a moment too long. “Trust me.” 

For a second, you felt his words meant something more than they seemed. That he wasn’t just talking about the card but about you. About the parts of yourself you couldn’t see, the worth you struggled to believe in. 

But the feeling slipped away, ephemeral as sand through your fingers. It was wishful thinking. 

Nothing more. 

You wet your lips, hesitating, the words caught in your throat. Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat deafening in your ears. Finally, you managed to whisper, “W-Will... could I see you again?” 

His eyes flickered with surprise, and heat flooded your cheeks. You pressed on, stumbling over your words. “I-I could sh-show you around. If… if you’re not leaving right away.” 

Your voice wavered, trembling under the weight of your certainty that he would say no. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? To ask something so personal of a stranger? Your body tensed, bracing for rejection, for the polite but distant smile, for the inevitable goodbye that would leave you sitting alone with nothing but your thoughts. 

Luci paused, his brows knitting together, the cheerful light in his expression dimming ever so slightly. For the first time, his bright, untroubled smile faltered, casting a shadow on the radiance you had marvelled at moments ago. 

You panicked, stumbling over your words. “I-it’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice trembling with embarrassment. “I-if you’re busy, it’s...” You laughed softly, awkwardly, trying to ease the tension you felt growing between you. “It’s alright, really.” 

But he shook his head almost immediately, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “N-no, no,” he said, his tone hesitant but earnest. “I… I’m sure I can extend my stay a little bit.” 

You blinked, the breath catching in your throat as his words sank in. Then, slowly, you smiled. Not the kind of smile you had grown so accustomed to—a mask to hide the tumult of insecurities and self-loathing inside—but a real, unguarded smile. 

It was a smile born from something tender and fragile, a memory of warmth long buried beneath years of disappointment. 

It reminded you of the joy you felt when your parents had first framed one of your paintings, proudly displaying it for all to see. 

It reminded you of painting freely as a child, the way you used to let your imagination spill onto the canvas without fear or doubt. 

It reminded you of the times when creating wasn’t a burden but a blessing, a purpose you held close to your heart. 

It was a smile you thought you had lost forever. 

When you returned home after bidding Luci farewell at the café—his phone number now scrawled in your notepad—you immediately shivered. The icy chill of the wooden floors seeped into your bare feet, the house as unwelcoming as ever. 

The space was barren, devoid of life or personality. Discarded papers littered the floor, mingling with pencil shavings and eraser bits. It wasn’t a home. It was a prison—a hollow shell where the bare necessities existed, but nothing more. 

Your eyes caught the calendar hanging crookedly on the wall. A bold red X marked a date two days away, stark against the empty squares around it. 

You stared at it, your stomach twisting. That day had been carefully planned. It was supposed to be the day. 

But then you thought of Luci. Of his warmth, his light, and the promise you made to show him around. The thought of breaking that promise filled you with an unfamiliar pang of guilt. 

Surely, a week longer would be fine… right? 

Your fingers closed around a red marker that had laid lifelessly on the floor. Emotionlessly, mechanically, your hand hovered over December 26, a week from now, then moved with deliberate finality, slashing a thick red X over the date. 

The pen clattered back to the floor as you dropped it, its sound echoing in the silence. 

You turned to the cluttered table in the corner, the surface buried under half-finished sketches of ducks and crumpled ideas. With a heavy sigh, you sank into the chair, your head bowing as you stared at the blank page in front of you. 

The company had asked for designs for their third wave of cards—450 different ones. An impossible task, but one you had taken on regardless. 

Your hand hovered over the paper, but the creative well inside you was dry. Empty. Still, you pushed forward, forcing your pencil to move, if only to keep the ghosts at bay. 

Because if you stopped—if you allowed yourself to pause—the memories would come rushing back. Memories of your parents and their loss. 

Every stroke of the pencil felt like punishment, every failed attempt a reminder of the guilt you carried. 

You weren’t creating. You were clawing at the past, trying to hold on to something that had long since slipped through your fingers. 

It was torture. 

It was hell. 

But it was atonement. 

Wasn't it?

The pencil felt heavier in your hand than it should have, its faded, rusted-red stains—a macabre memory of past desperation—serving as a quiet reminder of the nights you'd forced yourself, body and soul, into the art that held no meaning. You dragged its lead across the paper, each stroke tightening the invisible noose around your neck, suffocating and relentless, as though you were walking the gallows with your head bowed low, awaiting the final drop. 

But then, something shifted. A tiny ember deep inside you flickered to life. It wasn’t much—just a faint warmth, a whisper of desire that whispered of blank canvases and fingers slick with the lush texture of oil paint. 

That ember refused to extinguish, no matter how much you tried to snuff it out. Instead, it smouldered and grew, stubborn and unrelenting. With each passing moment, it began to consume you, stealing the breath from your lungs and leaving in its place a yearning you couldn’t fully understand, a desire to create again—not for the world, but for yourself.

The next day, you met Luci at the café, your tentative hope hidden beneath layers of polite conversation and practised smiles. You found yourself embellishing the truth as you spoke of your life, weaving together a tapestry of glamour and artistic success. He listened, nodding and laughing in all the right places, but his openness soon made you feel small for your half-truths. 

Luci, in contrast, spoke of his family with a palpable fondness. He described his daughter Charlie - or Char Char - with a wry chuckle and a hint of exasperation, as only a loving father could. 

But then your eyes caught the glint of his wedding ring, and the question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “How come your daughter and wife aren’t here with you?” 

Luci froze, the piece of fruit crêpe halfway to his mouth. His cheeks flushed, and his gaze dropped, suddenly unable to meet yours. 

“S-sorry,” you stammered, shrinking into yourself. “Forget I asked.” 

“No, no, it’s okay.” He cleared his throat, forcing a shaky smile. “Char Char and I are… going through a rough patch. Teenagers, you know?” He nudged your shoulder lightly with his elbow, attempting a laugh that fell flat. 

You gave him a weak smile in return, unsure how to respond. 

“And Lili…” His voice faltered, his forced smile fading as his gaze fixed on some distant point on the ground. “Lili and I… we’re in a complicated situation, I guess.” 

His shoulders slumped, and the crêpe in his hand tilted, sending a dollop of whipped cream tumbling to the pavement. 

The sight of his sadness twisted something inside you. Acting on instinct, you reached out, placing your hand over his. “T-there’s a Duck Battle tournament today,” you blurted, your voice trembling. “Sh-shall we go see that?” 

You didn’t know how to comfort someone. No one had ever taught you how. Love and admiration in your life had always been conditional, tied to your ability to produce something extraordinary. You had learned early on that when the art stopped, so too did the affection. 

But as Luci blinked back unshed tears and gave you a small, grateful smile, nodding in agreement, you hoped—desperately—that this gesture, clumsy as it was, might bring him some solace. 

The days passed, bringing you ever closer to December 26, the ominous red X on your calendar looming larger with each tick of the clock. In that time, you learned more about Luci. 

Like you, he was an artist, his creativity moulded by the same soil of yearning and expression. But while you painted, he built—strange contraptions and devices, all themed around ducks. When he discovered you were the artist behind Duck Battle, his praise came in a flood, each word more sincere than any compliment you had ever received. 

For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, his admiration felt different. 

It felt… real. 

You spent hours talking, sharing sweets, laughing over shared struggles. His presence warmed you in ways you hadn’t felt in years, filling an emptiness you hadn’t even realized was there. Perhaps it was loneliness that made every smile and fleeting touch so precious to you, but whatever the reason, you treasured those moments fiercely. 

Three days before December 26, you did something you never imagined you would do. 

You went to an art supply store. 

You purchased a blank canvas, crisp and new. You unearthed your old easel from the depths of your supply closet, wiping away years of dust with trembling hands. And then, you bought a fresh set of oil paints, their vivid colours gleaming like precious jewels in their pristine tubes. 

As you carried the supplies home, the ember within you flared, its warmth spreading through your chest. You weren’t sure what had changed, or why. 

But for the first time in years, you felt… alive.

Every night, as if driven by some unseen force, you painted. Your hands moved with a desperate urgency, scraping vibrant colours across the canvas, colours that seemed so alive, so full of life—colours that you had once believed were lost to you. But now, as if the very act of creation had summoned them back, they flowed freely once again. You painted him—Luci—the way his golden silk hair had caught the light the first time you saw him, the way his sapphire eyes gleamed with kindness and warmth, the way his smile had made everything else fade into insignificance. 

A smile tugged at your lips, mimicking his. The sound of the metal brush on canvas filled the room, a steady rhythm that echoed in the silence. You painted him not just as he appeared, but as the warmth he had ignited within you. Every stroke, every layer of colour, felt like a piece of your soul reawakening, a fragment of the person you thought you had lost forever. You wanted to give this to him—before he had to leave, before the days ran out. 

As the colours blended and blossomed on the canvas, joy bubbled up within you, filling you with a warmth so sweet and intoxicating that it seemed to take over your very being. You wondered if he would be shocked, if he would be surprised by the depth of feeling you poured into the painting. 

Would he cry? 

Would he understand? 

But you didn’t care. All you wanted, above all else, was for him to be happy with what you had created, for him to cherish it as something that came from the deepest part of you. You poured your heart, shattered and broken as it was, into each stroke, creating something beautiful out of the pieces that had once felt irreparably lost. 

Perhaps it was inevitable, this warmth that had bloomed between you—this connection that had grown from the simplest of beginnings. Christmas day seemed to be the turning point, when you walked with Luci through the park, the air crisp and cold around you. The Christmas lights twinkled in all their colours, casting a soft glow across the snow-covered landscape, and the world felt like a dream. The snowflakes drifted down gently, catching the light like tiny stars, and everything seemed perfect—peaceful. You laughed at his silly stories, your voice mingling with the soft rustle of the falling snow. 

But when the laughter subsided, when you found yourselves walking side by side, fingers brushing in the cold, something shifted. Something deep within you, something you hadn’t expected, bloomed like a flower in the quiet night. It was a palpable change, a feeling that went beyond friendship, beyond the strange bond that had formed over Duck Battle cards. 

His hand brushed yours, and without thinking, you curled your fingers around his, tightening your grip, clinging to the warmth he offered. His hand squeezed back.

You didn’t realize how desperately you had needed this connection until it was there, alive and pulsing between the two of you. 

Even when you reached your door, when the moment to say goodbye loomed, neither of you let go. Your fingers remained intertwined, stubbornly, as if neither of you was ready to let the moment end. 

“It’s cold outside,” you murmured shyly, your voice soft, almost timid, as you tugged him closer to you, stepping back until your back was pressed against the door. 

“Yea, i-it is,” Luci whispered, his breath visible in the frigid air. His presence seemed to fill the space between you, his warmth a contrast to the chill that surrounded you both. 

Despite the coldness of his wedding ring pressing against your skin, despite the knowledge that this was wrong, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. You didn’t want to. There was something undeniable between you, something that drew you both together, like the pull of gravity itself. 

And then, as the door creaked open, Luci’s fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you down to him. His kiss was firm, urgent, and it burned with a fierce need, a desire that neither of you could ignore. It was quick, instinctual, the rush of bodies and breath as you both succumbed to the moment, letting go of everything—of doubts, of fears, of the consequences that would come after. 

In that kiss, in the way his body pressed against yours, there was no more space for regret, for hesitation. You both indulged, fully and without restraint. 

And in that moment, you...

...and him... 

His lips, warm and insistent, traced the curve of your jaw, the soft, heated pressure sending shivers down your spine. The world felt suspended in time as he moved lower, his mouth gliding over the delicate skin of your neck, his breath a soft, intoxicating warmth. The surrounding space was filled with discarded clothes, the remnants of passion now tainted with the weight of guilt—of something that could never be, yet you both gravitated toward it nonetheless. Your back pressed against the cold wooden floor, contrasting the heat building between your legs. Your hands lay helplessly on your chest, not knowing where to place them, unsure how to ground yourself in a moment that felt so wrong and yet, so deeply, desperately right. 

His lips continued their descent, a slow, deliberate path toward the apex of your thighs, each touch igniting a fire deep within you. There were no words—none spoken, none needed—because any utterance would break the fragile illusion between you, the delicate balance of a sin too dangerous to acknowledge. 

He has a daughter.The thought was distant, almost unreal, a fleeting notion as his tongue traced a slow, agonizing path between your folds. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, the sound of it muffled by the overwhelming sensation of him, of the way his mouth and tongue moved against your skin. 

Your chest rose and fell with each breath, heavy, desperate, as the cold moonlight spilled through the half-circle window above the door, casting an ethereal glow on the scene below. Dust motes danced in the beams, swirling lazily, like snowflakes drifting in the still air. They mocked you, a silent reminder of the falsity of this moment, a moment so desperately wrong—and yet... 

He has a wife, you thought in sudden dismay, as the reality of the situation crashed in once more. His head lifted, eyes half-lidded, the remnants of your taste lingering on his lips. His wedding ring gleamed, cold and out of place, as he slipped two fingers inside you, the fourth finger encased in the cool metal pressing against your heated skin. The dichotomy of it all—of this stolen moment and the life he had outside this room, outside of you—twisted something inside you. His fingers moved slowly, deeply, each thrust deliberate, drawing lewd, wet noises that mingled with your breath, filling the room with the unmistakable sounds of desire. 

You gasped again, your hand instinctively covering your lips, the pressure of it barely able to contain the sounds of pleasure that slipped through. The way his fingers found the perfect rhythm, the way his touch coaxed you closer and closer to the edge, your eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open. Every touch, every press, felt like it was drawing you to a peak too quickly, too easily. 

"A-ah..." The sound was barely a whisper, your breath catching as his lips descended again, his mouth on your clit now, ravaging, relentless. His tongue flicked and teased, making your body tremble, your breath quickened with a desperation you couldn't control. His moan was low, guttural, and it only spurred you on, the pressure building to an unbearable crescendo. 

One last, powerful suck before he withdrew. Your vision blurred as you were dangerously on the precipice of falling. He stood over you, his cock hard and gleaming with pre-cum, the moonlight catching it just so, marking it as the final sin in this forbidden encounter. 

You hadn’t even made it past the foyer—the door still unlocked, the peephole an unblinking eye, silently condemning you. It was too much to bear, too much to reconcile with the reality of it all, yet you couldn’t pull away, couldn’t stop yourself from tracing his bare chest with your eyes. His skin, smooth and flawless, seemed almost sculpted from marble, a perfection that should never have been so close to you. The thought flitted through your mind, If I were to paint this..., how would I capture the colour of him? 

But then, in the depths of your gaze, his blue eyes flashed—just for a moment—blurring into two crimson rubies, gleaming with something darker, something possessive. It was gone before you could make sense of it, just an illusion, a trick of the light, or maybe of your own spiralling mind. 

Luci hovered over you, his body trembling with restraint as the tip of his cock, weeping with need, pressed against the raw, desperate part of you. His lips brushed against yours, gentle, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the storm building between you. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him closer, as your legs curled around his waist, aching for the connection that only this moment of raw vulnerability could offer. 

You needed him—needed this closeness that was both comforting and terrifying, the warmth of his skin against yours, the desperate push for something deeper, something more than just physical. 

Your eyes met his, and for a moment, time seemed to stretch, thick with hesitation. His gaze was distant, clouded with something you couldn't quite read. But then, with a quiet breath, you pressed your heels into his lower back, urging him forward, urging him to bridge the gap between you. To finally give in. His eyes fluttered shut, and in that instant, he took the plunge. 

The feeling of him filling you—filling you completely—was overwhelming, a rush of sensation so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. A sharp gasp escaped you, and tears sprang to your eyes, the sting of both pleasure and the emptiness that came with it. You searched for him, for his eyes, for the depth of connection that had drawn you to him in the first place. His blue eyes, vast and endless like the sky and sea, should have been there to anchor you, but they were gone, hidden behind the veil of his closed lids. 

His face dropped to the crook of your neck, his breath uneven, his body moving against yours in a rhythm that bordered on frantic. His hips rocked into you with a steady, punishing pace. The feeling of his skin against yours, the heat building between you, sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, each one more intense than the last. But it wasn't enough—not enough to fill the emptiness that gnawed inside you, not enough to keep the bond you thought you'd found from slipping away. 

The front of his hips slapped against your sensitive clit, pulling strangled cries from your throat, but as each thrust drove deeper, the warmth you had so desperately craved began to cool. The connection you thought you'd felt—the intimacy, the closeness—seemed to flicker and fade, slipping between your fingers like sand. You grit your teeth, your chest tight with the panic of losing something so fragile, and you willed it to stay, to drown you, to anchor you in this moment, in this feeling. 

With everything you had, you opened yourself up, all of it—the vulnerability, the insecurities, the need for more, for him, for this. Open, open, open... 

"L-Luci," you whispered, your voice thick and hoarse, a near sob caught in your throat. "Luci..." The words, laced with want, with desperate need, tangled in your chest, lodged there like barbed wire. All you could do was cry out his name, over and over, until it became a broken prayer. 

His hips moved faster, harder, each thrust sending you sliding across the floor beneath him, your hair a tangled mess as his fingers wrapped around your strands, pulling you closer, deeper into the frenzied heat. But even then, his eyes never opened. He never responded to your cries, never acknowledged the way your body trembled beneath him, the way you shattered, piece by piece, beneath the weight of your desire and disappointment. 

He never looked at you when you broke. 

And when he finally shattered above you, his body collapsing against yours, it was as though the connection you had so desperately wanted, the bond you had yearned for, never existed beyond your mind. It was never real. Just a fleeting moment, a whisper in the dark. A hope unfulfilled, a dream never meant to be. 

Like the countless paintings you had created, destroyed, and burned. 

Your breath and his were sharp, uneven, a discordant rhythm echoing in the silence between you. Your hands, once gripping him with desperate need, slipped away, falling limply to your sides as though they no longer knew their place. Luci pulled away from you slowly, his body trembling, his seed spilling from you, staining the space between you both. He knelt in the mess of discarded clothes, panting, his eyes distant and hollow, as if he had lost something vital in the moment. His lips quivered, but no words came. 

There was nothing but the heavy silence, thick and suffocating. 

You stared at him, eyes wide, searching for something—anything—in his expression, but all you found was an emptiness, a vastness that seemed to stretch endlessly. He stared upward, his gaze unfocused, as though trying to see beyond you, beyond this moment, beyond everything that had just transpired. 

“Lu—” Your voice cracked on his name, raw and trembling. You could barely speak, the words suffocated by the weight of everything you felt. Your body, exposed and bare, felt fragile, as if the barest breath would shatter you. Your heart felt like it was lying open before him, brittle and vulnerable, delicate as glass. 

“Oh God.” Luci’s voice was broken, strained with something you couldn’t name. His hands dropped to his face, the yellow band on his wedding finger blinking erratically—mocking the turmoil in his mind. “Oh God,” he whispered again, his voice trembling, thick with pain. It was a pain that mirrored your own, something raw, something impossible to put into words. 

You couldn’t look away. You glanced around the room, eyes falling to the discarded clothing that lay strewn about, evidence of what had happened, the evidence of what you had done. His seed pooled beneath you, mixing with your own body, your own shame. The sight burned in your chest, a raw, aching grief that gnawed at you from the inside. Slowly, you pulled yourself upright, curling your knees to your chest, your arms wrapping around your body as though you could protect yourself from the brokenness of it all. 

You had slept with a married man. 

A father. 

A man who had a life—who had a family. 

That bond you thought you felt? 

It wasn’t real, was it? 

It was a lie. Empty. Hollow. Just like his praises. Just like the smiles that never reached his eyes. 

Your vision blurred with tears, and the weight of everything—the regret, the loss, the crushing shame—became too much. You blinked, trying to push the pain back, but it was impossible. With shaky hands, you began to collect his clothes, each article a weight added to the burden of your guilt. The silence in the room was oppressive, heavy with the unspoken truth. Regret hung in the air like a cloud, suffocating you both. 

“L-Luci,” your voice was barely more than a whisper, hoarse from unshed tears. You looked at the pile of his discarded clothes, waiting in the silence between you. “I—I’m s-sorry.” The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but they were all you had. “I... I still want to...” Your lips parted, but the words caught, tangled in the emotion that flooded you. You searched his face, your eyes desperate for any sign that he was still there, that you hadn’t lost him completely. You didn’t want him to leave you. 

Loneliness crushed you in a way you had never known. It was suffocating, cold, all-encompassing. And the warmth of another, even one that was so fleeting, only made the emptiness in your chest worse. 

"I... I should go," Luci muttered, his voice strained, almost detached. He rushed to pull on his clothes, fumbling with the buttons, his usually pristine attire now a wrinkled mess. His hair, once neatly styled, now fell haphazardly across his face, a chaotic reflection of the scene that had just unfolded. He looked so different from the man who had once seemed so certain, so confident. 

"Wi... Will I see you again?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper, fragile, unsure. 

He stopped for a moment, his body tense, the air between you thick with unspoken words. Then, with a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he answered, "I... maybe, kiddo." The nickname he used when you were nothing more than strangers, back when you hadn’t known the depths of each other. 

Or maybe, you thought, we were always just strangers.

You had never reached his heart. 

"Okay," you murmured, your voice thick with emotion, still raw, still exposed, your bare body aching in the emptiness he left behind. 

Without another word, without a second glance, he left you there. The door clicked shut softly, the sound echoing in the hollow space between you, sealing the finality of it all. 

A suffocating silence filled the room. You sat there, numb, your mind a whirlwind of confusion and hurt, unsure of what to do next. The isolation crept in, slowly at first, then all at once. It filled you with disgust, with shame, and worst of all, with self-hatred. 

It grew. 

It grew, like a poisonous vine wrapping around your chest, tightening with each breath, until it felt like you couldn’t breathe. 

The weight of it became unbearable. Your heart pounded, each beat louder, more frantic than the last. Your hands gripped your hair, yanking at the strands, pulling, anything to escape the suffocating feelings. You pressed your lips together tightly, stifling the screams, the sobs that fought to escape. 

"A-ah..." your voice cracked, trembling as the floodgates finally opened, hot tears spilling down your face, mingling with the remnants of what had happened. 

You ruined it. 

You ruined everything. 

Once again. 

You ruined it. 

Everything you touched, everything you let yourself believe in, it was worthless. Everything you were... it was all for nothing. 

Do better. 

Get better. 

Be better. 

And if you couldn’t? 

You weren’t sure how long you sat there, the passage of time lost in the haze of your broken thoughts. Long enough for the evidence of your mistake, of your sin, to cool against your skin, to harden like the guilt inside you. Slowly, numbly, you stood, your body heavy with shame, and began to dress yourself. Each piece of clothing felt like another layer of self-loathing being added, an attempt to cover up the truth that had been laid bare. 

But no matter how many layers you put on, you couldn’t hide the emptiness inside. 

You wandered aimlessly through your house, your feet carrying you without purpose until your gaze landed on the painting of him. His blue eyes stared back at you, gleaming with an intensity that seemed to hold you captive. The clothes he wore when you first met—the ones from that day at the café—were captured so perfectly, so vividly. His smile was gentle, warm, as though it could melt away every bit of the coldness inside you. But as you stared, the painting felt like nothing more than a pale imitation of him, a sad mockery of the person you thought you knew. 

Hot tears welled in your eyes, then spilled over, trickling down your face like a silent confession. You could almost hear it, distant and fading—his voice praising you, his words of encouragement when you drew the silly ducks for him. The memory was a soft echo, a reminder of something you thought was real. 

A part of you, a pathetic, desperate part, still clung to the hope that maybe—just maybe—you could make things right. You grabbed the portrait, cradling it like a fragile lifeline, and dashed toward your car. You didn’t know what you were hoping for, what you thought you could fix, but you were sure, naive in your belief, that there was still a chance. 

Once inside the car, your hands gripped the steering wheel, and the engine hummed to life, the vibration beneath you a stark contrast to the numbness that had settled in your chest. But as you shifted in the seat, you paused. 

You hadn’t even asked where he was staying. Every time you met, it was somewhere public, somewhere neutral—a park, a café, a random point of interest. Your gaze drifted to the passenger seat, where the painting sat.

It was incomplete. 

It was imperfect. 

It was worthless. 

Would he even want it? 

Would he even want you? 

No. You had to believe he did. He told you he liked your work. He said it with that genuine smile, that warmth in his voice. Before he knew your name, before he knew you were the artist behind the silly card game—he liked you. He was kind to you. You clung to that truth like a lifeline, like it could save you from the crushing weight of the doubt beginning to swallow you whole. 

You fumbled for your phone, hands shaking as you dialed his number, hoping for something—anything—that would make sense of this mess. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow, as the phone rang. 

But then, the words came. The voice on the other end was cold, indifferent, and robotic. "I’m sorry, the number you are trying to dial is not available..." 

Confusion bloomed in your chest. Maybe you’d dialed it wrong. So you tried again. And again. Each time, the same dispassionate voice greeted you, the same unfeeling message cutting through your fragile hope. 

It couldn’t be real. 

It couldn’t. 

Your fingers trembled as you stared at the screen, hearing the repetitive, cold message before it faded into the silence of your car. The hum of the engine, the quiet drip of your tears, it all felt distant—unnerving. 

You didn’t turn off the ignition. The weight of everything felt too heavy to move, to even breathe. 

And then you saw it—the clock on your phone, a cruel reminder that it was December 26th. Midnight had passed. 

Your hand hovered near the keys for a moment, but it fell limp, back into your lap, like your body was too exhausted to hold on. The air in the car grew thick, suffocating, as you opened the window, and the smell of gasoline filled your nostrils. 

You didn’t look away. Your eyes never left the phone, not even as it dimmed, not even as it reflected the face of a girl—broken, bruised by her own thoughts, who had given up too much. 

“Did you really think he would like your painting?” The voice echoed in your mind, louder now, sharper than before. It wasn’t a thought—it was a command, a judgment. 

You closed your eyes, tears slipping from beneath your lids as the air grew heavier, thicker with every breath you took. 

“Did you really think any of this was real?” the voice asked again, a question, an accusation. 

“No…” you whispered, your voice breaking, your hands covering your ears in a futile attempt to shut out the truth. But it didn’t work. The voice was clearer than ever, its presence suffocating you from all sides. 

Tears flowed freely now, your body wracked with silent sobs as you clung to the empty hope that you could somehow make things right. But you knew, deep down, that you were only fooling yourself. 

“You’re nothing without your parents,” the voice whispered cruelly, slicing through the silence like a blade. 

“They shouldn’t have ever given birth to you,” it continued, each word dripping with venom. 

“A worthless investment,” it droned on, the words echoing, growing louder, more suffocating. 

The voice, harsh and mocking, grated against your ears, each syllable sharp and jagged. Your body trembled, your breath shallow and erratic as tears spilled down your face, your chest heaving in desperate gasps. The pain was raw, like a wound that would never heal, and still, the voice mocked you, relentless. 

When you finally opened your eyes, the sight that greeted you was more than you could bear. The shadows of your parents stood before your car, looming figures bathed in the dim light, their forms indistinct, yet painfully familiar. 

Your father’s voice rang out, his laughter echoing in the hollow air. “Look at my girl, look how talented she is!” The words were coated with a false warmth, but the undertone was sharp, a mocking cruelty that only deepened the ache inside you. 

Your mother joined in, her voice a saccharine hum that made your insides twist. “I knew her artistic talent ran in the family. We’re so proud of you, winning first prize again!” Her praise, once a balm, now felt like a blade, each word a reminder of everything you couldn’t be. 

“M-mom… d-dad,” you croaked, your voice weak, barely a whisper. Another cough wracked your lungs, the pain seizing them as the car’s engine continued to rumble beneath you, as if it, too, was trapped in the crushing weight of this moment. 

Your father’s tone shifted, turning cold and distant. “What happened? Why aren’t you working harder?” His disappointment was palpable, the sharp edge of his words digging into you. “It’s like you don’t care.” He turned away from you, his back a final, unforgiving gesture. 

“N-no, d-dad,” you pleaded, your voice breaking, raw and desperate. “I’ll try harder. I’ll be first always, always. Just… just don’t leave me.” Tears streamed down your face, an unstoppable flood of regret and shame. “I’m sorry, I’m so-sorry…” The words spilled from your lips, but they felt hollow, like they could never be enough. 

“Where did I go wrong?” Your mother’s voice cracked, her sorrow sharp, cutting through you like a jagged edge. “I gave you the best tutors, the best supplies, and you lost—lost to that… that no-name kid?” Her voice shook with guilt, her sobs breaking the air. “It was my fault, my fault.” 

Your own voice climbed, a shrill, desperate scream that tore at your throat. “It’s not—" you gasped, choking on the words, "It’s not your fault! I’ll do better, I’ll get better, I’ll be better,” you begged, your body convulsing with the force of your sobs. “Just don’t—don’t leave me!” Your voice cracked as the tears continued to pour, your breath ragged, your heart screaming for salvation, for release. 

Your memories, each one a fractured shard of your past, flashed before your eyes like ruined paintings—each one marred by angry, black streaks, defiled, violated. Your art, your passion, each one shattered beyond repair. One by one, they fell apart, until… 

Until Luci’s face appeared, burned into your mind with a cruel, unrelenting clarity. His eyes were wide, filled with pure agony, regret, disappointment, and sadness—emotions that mirrored your parents’ gazes, emotions that haunted you endlessly. 

You saw it.  

You felt it.  

Over and over again, the repetition of regret, of loss, of failure. It all crashed down on you like a tidal wave, drowning you in its weight. 

“Ah… ah…” you gasped, your words strangled in your throat, each breath a labour, each sob a crude edge of a dagger. The overwhelming wave of emotions consumed you, suffocated you, until… 

The void you had poured over your art, the darkness that had swallowed every ounce of your soul, finally consumed you. It was an endless abyss, engulfing everything whole—your thoughts, your dreams, your very existence. 

Ah... 

There was beauty in darkness, wasn’t there? A beauty so pure, so suffocating, that it consumes every breath, every thought, every ounce of life you had once clung to. 

You had been told it over and over again, like a cruel promise whispered into your soul. And now, here you are, standing at the edge of it all. You have finally reached the pinnacle of your existence. 

The word settles over you like a heavy shroud, cold and unforgiving, a final verdict on everything you have ever been. All that you were, all you had hoped to become, is swallowed by the abyss. There is no turning back now. There is no room left for redemption, no space for regret, no lingering chance for salvation. 

It is over. 

The truth cuts deeper than you ever imagined. The ache in your chest is not just sorrow—it is the emptiness of everything finally falling away, leaving you hollow, unimportant. A fleeting, insignificant speck in a universe that does not care, that will not remember. 

You feel the last of your strength slipping away, the slow, inevitable pull of nothingness dragging you under.  

No more struggles. No more cries for help. No more hopes.  

Just... nothing. 

And in that stillness, you are gone, as if you had never existed at all. 

[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?”

[themareverine]

Until We Fall | Always Sinners, Rarely Saints | worst!Logan Howlett

summary: memories hurt, almost as much as fractures.

warnings: mutant fem!OC that shares Logan's powers, angst, brief mentions of gore, horses panicking in a trailer

series masterlist | nav | previous | next

Northern Alberta, Canada

"Did that say we're in Laughlin?"

"I'm not sure what's more impressive—you being able to read that in all of this, or you actually not knowin', Cal."

In all honesty, she wasn't sure which odds were more likely to outweigh the other—rain pounded the windshield in a blanket that would make that old adage of raining cats and dogs blush like something awful. Wipers flung rainwater at such a speed it was nearly hypnotic, but was hardly fast enough, married to the perfect cocktail of hazy and just-the-right-time-to-not-see-anything-o'clock. Slowing the pickup to what could be assumed was faster than going backwards, it took every ounce of multiple-decades-alive willpower not to just pull over and wait the storm out on the shoulder.

The cab's glass filmed with body heat and occasional conversation, exaggerated by her assistant's seemingly endless need to light cigarettes and drag smoke into his lungs like it was a good idea. Stale Marlboros and the heavy musk of animal seemed ingrained into the leather seats, smacking her sense of smell in heady waves that could've–would've—made a lesser person's eyes cross. Reaching for the cup of water parked in the cupholder, she tossed back the lukewarm liquid quickly, fingers tightening around the steering wheel to a milky, almost ghost-white grip.

"'fulla surprises, you know that—wait. Should you be driving if you can't see, boss?"

She would've chuckled if it wouldn't have given Cal the satisfaction. Fingers flicking to life flame from his Zippo, he smacked the cap closed before spinning it through his fingers, back into the abyss of his leather jacket pockets. Sharp nicotine, smoky and warm, filled the car again, stinging her senses as he pulled a low breath of it, cracking the window. Even from the driver's seat, the smack of fresh air was divine—it whistled into the cab at such a right that it poured ice into her veins, settling the splash of acid in her stomach as she checked the rearview.

Her assistant didn't need an answer to the question, so she skirted the question. Like she did countless others, hundreds of others. "We'll stop in Laughlin," it was decisive. Final. "Give the horses a rest, we'll wait out heaven's floodgates there." Eyeing him from the corner of her eye, she settled back into the seat, eyes casting to the highway's shoulder for familiar white lines.

Feeling the weight of the trailer behind her, she sighed. They should've stopped an hour ago, when her headache was minimal and her muscles weren't wrought with tension. A simmering, hot knot had formed between her shoulder blades—first bearable, she'd dismissed it away with just the excuse of bad posture. Correction had only resulted in more effort diverted into maintaining that posture, exaggerating her headache farther. Souring her attitude. Coupled with clawing hunger in the base of her gut, she worked her neck side to side. Clenched and unclenched her jaw, curled and uncurled her toes in her boots. Worked her jaw, tried everything a lifetime of knowing one's body could possibly draw from to dismiss the pain.

In the end, nothing worked. She'd decided to just shut up and focus on driving. The ever-so-occasional sway of the trailer behind her reminded her that the more she endured, the sooner they'd make Laughlin. And the sooner they made Laughlin, the sooner the animals could rest. She, and the rest of the livestock—because, even being animals, they all needed to kick back. Get off the road, away from countless miles and the troublesome fight to stay upright and stable, fight the odds of perpetual motion and living.

They needed to stop surviving, just for a few hours.

If that ain't truth—

Her grip tightened a little more on the wheel. Familiar pain ricocheted off the bone of her knuckles. Into her wrist, jarring and abrupt. It took brainpower to keep things under control—release would only complicate an already overcomplicated, overtaxed situation. Rain and wind and a day on the road were one thing—an explosive outburst of mutation, entirely another.

But, that didn't really matter—flesh between her knuckles still burned, ached. Kicked like a mule, permanent reminders of who she was. Is. Where she had come from, where this all started—whom she had lost. Suffocating, she could feel her skin taut, could feel the tip of adamantium kissing at her skin, waiting to strike the air with blood and pain and white-hot fury. Steel starving for air, clawing desperately to be seen. Felt. Used. It had been…..heck, it had been what? Four days?

Six. Six days since she'd sent that cougar through the barbed fence on the back fifty.

Six days since her new hire promptly rendered his notice, eyeballing her with an expression two parts horror, two parts awe. As if staring into the face of a god. A sweet cocktail of pain and pleasure had skyrocketed her adrenaline, pulse little more than an off-the-rails locomotive, unable to be stopped. Heart rattling behind her ribs in a way only the alive knew. She'd eyeballed the carcass of the predator for all of a few seconds, bones gliding back into her body with a guttural squelch before turning to her crew—they knew, of course. Well, most of them knew.

Nobody had briefed—what was his name. Vince, maybe. Yeah, Vince.

Maybe it was his first encounter with mutation. Maybe he'd only ever heard the stories—no, rumors. Because that's all that they were, rumors. She couldn't credit them with stories, because stories were found in comic strips and published pieces. Shakespeare and Poe. They were the lightbulb of the well-intended. Stories implied ethos, and ethos implied the world would actually give a damn and do as God intended—care, grow beyond themselves.

Ghosted to a white she didn't think possible while still functional, the boy had all but sprouted wings to fly back to the main house—that she could've believed, seeing the things she'd survived. He would've run back to the house had she not convinced him to ride with Cal and the others. Tossed the keys over from her pocket like they were nothing, because in situations like this, they were.

Promised to catch them at dinner, she'd stuffed her hands into her pockets before the slits could heal, could feel her skin stitching back together in the dark damp of her denim jacket—cells converging, anatomy correcting at a cellular level. Told the kid that if after the ride, following Cal's explanation, he still wanted to go, she'd gladly pay him his wages and drive him to town.

With a hesitant nod and a shaking hand, he'd backed away from her slowly. Looking agog and unlike anything she'd never not seen. His gaze never once broke contact with hands heavy in her pockets, the blood of the animal on her clothes like something from the Exorcist merely an afterthought after what he'd just witnessed.

She'd made the hike back to the house in the fading colors of night alone, aching and tired.

Six days ago had been nine weeks too long, and her body knew it.

Pearls before swine.

Shaking her shoulders a little to null the numb ache in her muscles, her tongue skated across the top of her back molars. She flexed her fingers once, switched hands on the wheel. Shook out the one low beside the left side of her seat, hoping Cal wouldn't notice—but Cal always noticed. Even from across the bench seat she could see him side-eyeing, calculating. Watching her. After so many years together, he still marveled at her with a childlike look of wonder.

The words may as well have been marbles rattling against his teeth— loud, clear.

"You sure you're—" Always putting himself in her personal business, where he didn't belong.

"I'm fine, Alejandro," she hissed, addressing him by first name. Alejandro Caliente, her longest—well, still living—friend. A Godsend in the dead of winter with ranch expertise unlike anything she'd ever seen—sometimes she joked that his mutation was reading animals and stacking hay. "Sometimes the weather irritates things." Things. Because that's all she was—a thing.

A thing existing among other things. Barely human, barely mutant. A fine specimen of what not to be.

"Oh." Oh. He sounded like a surprised toddler. Taking a drag on his cigarette, he waved it over the space between them, inferno end blazing with heat. "Just makin' sure," he dared to smile at her, almost suavely. Even though there wasn't a single thing in any universe suave about Alejandro Caliente, "wanna make it to payday, you know?"

She appreciated the attempt at levity, the change of pace. He didn't have to explain—it was written in the quicksilver of his tipped lips. He'd only been keening over that redheaded tart in Laughlin for months.

She snorted. "Tomorrow isn't promised, Cal,"

"Better odds with you around, I figure."

His look to her hand on the wheel sent a stone slingshotting the length of her spine.

Choosing not to weigh the observation with notice, Mare Howlett leaned forward over the steering wheel to swipe fingers through the haze. Back and forth, until a barely visible patch allowed her little to no improved vantage of the road. Beams from the headlights did little to cut through the torrential rain, but she edged the truck a little harder. Needling bobbing up a few ticks on the dash, she adjusted cruise control and checked her side mirror. Slight swaying of the trailer told her the horses noticed, driving rain smacking the glass in fat, thick drops.

Laughlin's exit was haloed in city lights as they roared up the off-ramp, transmission gears dropping to compensate for the weight on the incline with such a throaty growl that it made her heart skip. Edging to make a right, her foot fed diesel to the rig—-a tidal wave of water roared up to smash over the front of the pickup, the blaring horn of an oncoming car screaming at her in alarm. Jerking the wheel, her tires kissed wake-ups on the shoulder. Sudden correction jostled the trailer behind them, making her jump.

Foot slapping hard against the brake, her belt caught her around the shoulders and snapped her back against the seat. Pounding blood in her ears did little to cancel the hiss of the trailer's brakes, the rock of scared livestock rattling against a fiberglass trailer. Two wheels of the shoulder, the trailer careened under the weight of horses, their cries ringing like hot brass in her ears as the world stabilized, wipers thudding hard on the windshield as they fought rain. Back forth back forth back forth back—

Cal was stomping his dropped cigarette out on the floor with the heel of his boot when her hands flew to her belt, popped it, and snapped at the latch of the door. Barreling out, no sooner did her boots hit pavement and she was drenched in rain, all the way to the skin. Fingers white as they curled against the open door, she batted it closed as Cal slipped out the passenger's side.

"Check the horses—now!"

Surprised she was able to see his return nod through the rain pouring off the brim of his stetson, she hustled to the back of the pickup and squatted low beneath the gooseneck's arm, to check the ball. A peek over the tailgate revealed the bed of the truck filling with rain, ball and chains still securely in place. Navigating to the tire, she hoisted herself into the bed, checked the chain and security latch. Wiping rain from her upper lip, she stood to jump out of the bed.

Swinging over the box, she jumped back when a shrill call erupted from inside the trailer—she knew it instantly. Fear. Deep, instinct-churning terror that chilled her blood. Spun her around on her heel, all but launched her at the trailer. Thunderous bucking against the fiberglass of the unit, the trailer rocked back and forth enough to rattle the rig. Mare's heart galloped in the base of her chest—for a second she half expected it to rip her spine out from between her shoulders.

She trailed her fingers along the rivets of the trailer, cold and slick with rain as she hopped up on the step to begin dropping windows for a look inside. Her fingers were chilled, flaming red with the driving spring rain, breeze biting at her skin like wolves beneath her completely saturated shirt and coat. Only imagining what Cal must've been experiencing, she poked her inside the first drop window, willing back the tears of concern brimming behind her lashes.

Pulling hard at the strap steadying his head in place over a now-empty bag of hay, the stallion was all but sat back on the separating wall. Eyes wide with horrified, age-old fear, if he wasn't strapped, his nose would be brushing the ceiling of the trailer. Trembling with rage, terror, uncertainty, his flesh was completely raised in a thin foam, sweat riveting down his legs like small rivers seeking absolution. Trembling violently, rage was tangible in the small space, already overwrought with heat and sweat and the stench of fear. Separated from the mare trailing with him was a small mercy—he surely would've trampled her had he the room to negotiate.

"No, no," she hushed into the trailer, ignoring the snap of chill that kissed beneath her collar, stinging her flesh which, ironically, felt like it was on fire. "Easy there, sweetheart—you're ok. We're almost home," Slipping a steadying hand through the drop window to press against the stallion's hot flesh, he flinched instantly—eyes snapped to her like his life depended on it. And in a way, it did—in this moment, and the next. "We'll get you some rest and some sweet feed, yeah? Tide you over 'til we make home, darlin'?" Snorting out a sharp breath of relief, his hoof knocked against the padded floor, triggered by her dulcet tones.

She chuckled. "Yeah, don't you worry, sweet boy—I got ya. Mama will make sure you're safe, don't you worry about a thing." Because that's what she does—what she'd always done, since…since her mutation. Since she'd stepped into this world. This new name, this new purpose. A grandiose purpose far bigger than any of them, wider than the stars. Higher than the sun. And she'd continued to do it, just in different ways, since—

—Logan. You taught me to fight for the good in people, even if you didn't always see it—

"Boss!"

Cal flung around the back of the trailer, body illuminated in ruby tail lights for all of a few seconds as he rushed up to her right side. Dripping wet, his cheeks were raised with scarlet, lips almost blue from the dropping evening temperature. Even an arm's length away, Mare could see he was freezing—she could've heard his teeth chattering if she'd been graced with heightened hearing abilities.

Sucking in air rapidly, he glanced from her to the stallion as she stepped off the ramp and swung the drop door back into place, checking the latch with a sharp fist to the lock. "Everything's ok on the other side," he looked from her hands to her, thumb over his shoulder. "Don't think we're stuck, none—should be able to make it at least to a rest stop."

Nodding, she signaled him back to the cab. "We'll stop at Riz's, get us out of this mess and get some feed in those bellies," rapping her knuckles against the trailer, "They need a few hours off the road, and I could use a drink," Cal jogged around the front of the pickup, slipped up into the cab, and tipped off his stetson—water fell to the floorboards at his feet in almost hurricane levels of volume.

She shook her head, pulling the diesel back into drive. "If we're lucky, we'll miss the rush," Cal checked the clock on the dash. "Fuckin' hell—can't believe it's still comin' down this hard." Shaking his head, he snapped his belt back into place before reaching into his breast pocket for a smoke—paused only when the saturated packing folded beneath his fingers.

"Those things'll kill ya, you know," her nose scrunched up into a small grin. Leaning over the seat, she plucked them from his hand and tossed them to the dash, against the warm defrost. "Always frickin' hated cigarettes. If you're gonna smoke, smoke a cigar—at least that's dignified."

"Dignified?" He snorted. "Didn't take you for the type to think any kind of sin was dignified, Mrs. H,"

Flicking the turn signal, "Sin never is dignified, Cal—wouldn't have a need for God otherwise. But there's something to be said for a moment of weakness," shifting in her seat to check over her shoulder for traffic, her fingers drummed the steering wheel, bones absolutely raging just beneath the surface.

"We can't help what we do in our weakest moments, Alejandro—we are, after all, only human."

[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

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.

[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

[utterimmolation]

SPOP WINTER SOLDIER (kind of) AU

Trying to inspire myself to finish this one by sharing:

She gasps for breath, staring wide-eyed up at the equally exhausted looking foe. One minute she'd been on top of a tank, staring out as the Rebellion "barracks" were engulfed in flame, trying to place the uncomfortable feeling in her gut as soft-looking cadets(?) fled the area with their equally soft-looking commanders.

The next, she'd had a name for that feeling: vertigo. The sound of something not unlike acid rain on a shingle, accompanied by the smell of flowers and something like the rare sugar cubes Shadow Weaver rewarded her tea with on an especially good day was the only warning she got before pudgy hands seized her tail and world shifted in a haze of pink. Her organs lurched and she didn't even try to lash out at what had to be a princess as she collapsed to the ground, more focused on trying not to hurl her guts out.

"Call off your attack Horde Scum!" The princess shrieked, hands glowing with ominous fluorescent power. She didn't look too steady herself, her glittering, nauseous-looking pink curls matted with ash and sweat.

Still, she had the advantage, given that she had hands full of some kind of shimmering magic and the ability to seemingly pop in and out of existence at will and Catra had…well claws were all well and good but she had a feeling that it wouldn't be enough. Maybe if she could distract them, she could get in a swipe, as soon as it stopped feeling like her tongue was too big for her—

A dark blur on her peripheral is all the warning she gets before something dark and tall and strong slams into the stout princess looming over her and seemingly body-checks the pinkette halfway across the battlefield.

Feline eyes widen as they absorb the sight looming of them: a humanoid, armored in the black and grey of the Horde, sickly green wings menacingly emblazoned upon their chestplate. Steel plates clink and shift over thick armor weave as straining, muscular shoulders and arms ripple and strain against their confines. Muscled thighs that look capable of crushing stone between them flex in armored combat pants. Steel-toed boots crush smouldering grass and ash under this powerful frame. The lower half of their face is sealed beneath a toughened plasteel vented mask. Blond hair cut short at the top nestles upon a military undercut. And between the two…

"You," Catra breathes and she swears the steel-blue orbs peering back at her flicker with recognition. For a moment, all sound stops. For a moment, the world seems to pause. For a moment, all Catra can do is gaze into the very, very pleasing eyes (and arms and legs and neck and—) of this warrior and think: beautiful.

[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.

[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.