#i’m mortally wounded
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et-in-arkadia · 1 year ago
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this is such incredible advice for creating any kind of art i have to put it over here to remind myself
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buckychristwrites · 1 year ago
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BE AFRAID MWAHAHAHAHA
- Jamie spending hours and hours learning how to do your daughter’s hair because he wants to spend as much time with her as possible and that shouldn’t be your responsibility just because you’re woman (he gets really good at it and is able to do literally any hairstyle she desires)
- as soon as you both decide she’s old enough, Jamie takes her to Nelson road at least once a week and all the guys try to become her favorites with little gifts and playing peak-a-boo but Roy is her favorite, she thinks it’s hilarious when he scowls at her or Jamie and he’d never tell anyone but Jamie’s over the moon that she loves being around Roy
- he spends hours and hours redecorating her room whenever the fancy strikes her or you. Like if you mention she’s starting to get a little big for her nursery and crib, you’re coming home from running errands to a whole new room
- he absolutely cries the first time you guys drop her off at day care/pre-school and the best part of his day is always listening to her recount her day
- obviously he plays football with her in the backyard by the time she can walk, he loves chasing her as she tries to dribble the ball with her chunky little legs and clumsy feet
- definitely has those dad reflexes where he can sense if she’s starting to fall or is about to run into something and he just scoops her up and smiles while she giggles even though he’s always terrified
- he absolutely wants more than one kid, not only because he just loves them so much and loves you but because he was an only child and he’s always actively trying to make his children’s lives so much better than his own childhood
GOD SOMEONE GIVE THIS MAN ALL THE BABIES (I still have more thoughts… get ready…)
Of course we had to involve Roy and babies in this, as if i could HANDLE IT
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jinkiesmariz · 10 months ago
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Thinking about round 6 like… they hit the yaoi pentagon ..
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courtofparrots · 11 months ago
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I can’t relate to Leon because if Luis looked at me and said “it’s game time” like that I wouldn’t even be fighting Ganados we’d be kissing on the mouth
But also if I had just been hit in the head with an axe and he told me to stay focused I’d probably shoot him so I can relate to Leon a little on that one
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littler3d · 6 months ago
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Alrighty friends, what we have learned:
Men (especially Valyrian) ain’t shit
Daemon in particular sucks
Always listen to your wife when she says it’s time to get the fuck out of dodge
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silverhalla · 7 months ago
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people are always hating on the hinterlands but I am here with a hot take: the storm coast sucks SO much worse
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tsscat · 8 days ago
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“Ooooh day of diamond is so sad ooooh BBC Merlin is a tragedy” I think we fail to discuss enough how fucking hilarious it is to watch Arthur die
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nocentis · 8 months ago
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Black Arum ┆ Siegrain
Content warning: main character death, cannibalism, gore, toxic/unreliable narrator, highly canon divergent character portrayal. Read at your own risk. You will probably take psychic damage from this.
╳┆A lure was stuck in the soot between his lungs. Many times he'd felt the tug — enough that the wire fray had worn a rut where his ribs met — and many times he'd found her on the other end, reeling for remnants of him that no longer existed. She would aim to break him open, sift around in the cinders for those specks of him she wanted to confiscate, keep for herself, so that she could finally be rid of him. Once those flecks were washed and panned, the remains would reek like plough mud closure. For that reason he would come to her whole, every whit of ash accounted for.
A cherry little game they'd play. Her with flint and steel, eager to reignite that paltry spark of "good" that flickered freely for a lapse before he remembered himself. Him with tinder and kindling, letting it light only to call on the rain again. Her with just enough hope. Him with just enough time.
That resolve was so very compelling. More than her beauty, her candor, and even that glow he so loved to bask in — that luster he wanted to hold between his teeth and bury under his nails — more than that, her tenacity was a toothsome temptation, and he wasn't keen to deny himself anything.
So when he felt the pull, he caved to the beck and spooled the lisle. That day, the line seemed lighter, thinner, than it ever had. It should've been strong. Tensile. Instead it felt gossamer fine and just as frail, poised to tear at an ill touch, and he wasn’t exactly renowned for his gentle hands. Still, he gathered it with both palms and wrapped it proudly around himself like a ceremonial sash, grin scrawled across his face something devilish.
╳┆He found her lying in the shade beneath a long-lived magnolia, still and silent as she never was, with the color of her namesake spread around her head in halo streaks. Battle-torn, as she so often was, and yet uncannily... passive.
Anything he'd planned to say went out the airlock. Instead, he stood there with an anchor in his stomach, reaping the benefit of doubt.
Not a frown nor a sigh when he darkened her sanctum, only heavenward eyes tearless and unblinking and a resigned breath just short of peaceful. That worn tether waned phantom thin, light as helium, and the tension in his chest went slack.
There was no definite snap. No dramatic severing or ear-popping moment of clarity. Only the vague sense of loss so fresh a wound that denial was a numbing salve.
“Get up,” his voice a command, sandgrit against whetstone, thickened by an unnamed antigen.
The silence felt like mockery. A placid scene void of chittering fauna, clouds' drum, or even the most timid breeze. It wanted him to hear the absence of her breath and the stillness of her chest. It wanted him to hear the hollow. The empty. The nothing. Wanted it to resonate; to find the furthest reaches of his mind and clean them out until all that was left was this icy, clarifying silence.
He knew the end when he saw it. This was something much worse. It was robbery.
Her life wasn’t for the world to take. It was for him to hold in his hands. 
Something wet and pathetic slicked his tongue — some whiny, pleading thing — and it was stubborn as oil. The authority slid to the back of his throat and left him choking, “You are the indomitable Titania. You’ve laced fingers with Death time and again only to rise and slay and conquer, so get up.”
Her warmth was set to a slow drip, spilling from her in tired beads and seeping soundlessly into her chosen ground. Little whispers of her lost to greedy loam, sullied, never to be returned.
A waste of precious love. The sod won’t drink of her as he will. It will take of her and give back what? New “life” so fragile and fleeting? A feeble weed will take root, bloom its days few, and curl itself inside out? Pathetic. An insult to her legacy. An insult to the diamond-split sharp of her bladesoul.
His heart boiled over — popping, sticking, simmering sicksweet saccharine. It colored him cloying, flooded his mouth, and forced him to kneel at her altar.
"Please," he keened, hollow and morose, and his own pleading sickened him, “Say something.”
The sun trickled through the leaves like ichor, lighting up her black-blown eyes and the thin ring of honey surrounding them. Dim, distant, and dead as the moon.
His hand carved a path to her face, fingers featherlight against her fading flush. He brushed her bangs from her eyes and forced an unbroken breath through his quavering mouth. He traced each scar too faint to see and the parts of her skin their star kissed. Memorized the map of her face — each curve and crease, each fine hair, and every eyelash. He would carve out a space in his mind in her shape and fill it with the thousand sweet nothings he kept in his pockets.
He gathered her hand and threaded it with his own. When he opened his mouth, a rickety twine escaped from the deepest point of his chest, so he forced his jaws shut to keep the grief corked. He uncurled her fingers and pressed his cheek into her palm, trapping her there against his own scarred skin. His eyes fell shut as he breathed in this borrowed touch — this moment fated, stolen from him by this world's insatiable avarice.
He kissed her palm directly in the center; held it against his mouth and felt his own ruined breath echo back to him from the deepest grooves of her skin. Again, he begged, “Please, Erza.”
Of the armors innumerable now haunting this hallowed ground, this one least befit her. 
He revered Death. If there was a god, surely it was Death, he thought, for Death asks for nothing but life. The dead don’t know that they’re dead. They know a split second of euphoria and then a sharp, definite end. Isn’t that the work of a gracious god? One last stroke of color whether in peace or peril, and then eternal rest. Back to the dust you sprouted from.
But now he couldn’t see any of that beauty he often waxed poetic about. All he could see was change yet to come. All he could see was her, and he wanted her back.
He wanted her back, yet he knew better than anyone that there was no such thing as resurrection. While Death might be gracious, it was not generous, and it was not to be reasoned with.
The thought of her buried deep, bathed by the dark and abandoned to rot — it washed his mouth acid sour. It ate straight through his tongue and lingered in the roots of his teeth, burning, raging redhot in his jaws’ marrow.  A grave didn't suit her anymore than a pyre.
Soon she would be cold. Stiff. A feast for flies and their insatiable young. In the days to come, she would bubble and bloat and sallow. Her skin would loosen and slough off. The sun would bleach her bones. The meat of her would melt into oil and fat and bogspit. She would mix in with the soil, the groundwater, and this thankless magnolia would thrive.
It was tall, thick, with branches spread in all directions. The lowest of its limbs showed off the varied deep greens of its large waxy leaves, their undersides a chalky brown. A few white flowers bloomed, palm-shaped petals open in praise like they'd come to witness and worship. There was no question why she'd chosen to crawl here. It must've reminded her of home.
Despite its beauty, it was hardly worthy of her. Nothing in this ravenous world was. Her grave should be carved within his chest. There, he could keep her warm. He could host her in his veins. One day, they would wade the waters of woe together. Until then she could live under his skin.
He wouldn’t allow her to spoil. Wouldn’t place her gently into time’s whittlesome hands only to lose her peel by peel by rotting peel.
This world has taken much from you. Do not allow it to take her too.
A carnal ache etched itself into bone, a depth of passion he hadn't felt since he wrought for a false Heaven.
She is a fruit, ripe as a plum and twice the taste. Peel her open. There is a seed at her core. Plant it in your soot-field chest and watch her bloom anew.
What are these hands for if not this?
Flesh like sheets of silk. Muscle like rope. Blood like honey. Bone like an ivory trove. The splitting, the squelching, the straining, ripping, snapping; it burrowed marrow-deep and lingered there. Her chest peeled apart like jagged teeth, jaws croaking their rusted tune, and inside that redslick maw was the center of the universe.
The heart upon its throne, still as she, shielded by her precious lungs. It slid into his palm like it was always meant to be there. Raw, rich, and so very scarlet. Its sinews strained against his pull — those hollow vines that fed even the furthest parts of her — so he wrenched them free and draped himself in them like matchless finery.
Eat. Eat ‘til you’re sick. There’s a hole the size of her in the pit of your stomach. Eat until you fill it. 
What are these teeth for if not this?
Tough as leather; smooth as rubber. His teeth slid right off the rind and clicked together with nothing but metallic sheen between them. He gnashed at that ink-dripping muscle until he found a spot weak enough to tear apart. It tasted of rare meat and iron; a heady gore thick enough to drown in. He swallowed, gasped, and that first new breath felt like a blade.
The child inside him saw her split-open ribs as his cradle. He wanted to crawl inside, curl up, and die. He wanted to paint himself her color.
He lost his vision to the hot, angry wash. His own sobs were a distant sound, muffled by meat and blood and his own desperate fingers. He was numb in the mouth and in the shake of his hands, but he forced himself to eat, eat despite the choking, the gagging, the wet, weeping remorse.
Don’t you dare throw her up. Be grateful. Swallow and say thank you and finish what you’ve started.
He bit into his own palm, indistinguishable from her core, and he cried out in sour relief. His hands spread raw grief over his face, through his hair, and down his neck.
You’re no better than this starving world.
He curled into himself, hands clutching his own aching chest, and despite the cloudless sky, he called upon the rain.
#v: ✗ ┆ siegrain ┆ ◜ canon divergent ◞#⚶ ┆ ◜ drabbles ◞#I was in a silly goofy mood#reader beware#this one was an exorcism.#needed to purge this depravity.#hey guys what if I bare my soul and it's a festering wound.#did I provide context? no. am I sorry? also no.#this only works in darkverse.#this is very obviously not inline with canon Jellal's personality but with a mutated version of him I created to balance ->#the healing arc I'm putting him through in mainverse.#not love but a secret other thing (obsession. possession.)(...take my money... I don't need that shit...)#& now she haunts the narrative. in my mind. and his too.#In my defense I've never claimed not to be a degenerate#yeah actually I am kind of embarrassed about this thank you for asking#never thought I’d have to say this but I do not endorse or condone cannibalism.#hey Sieg have you ever thought about chilling. calming down perhaps. I say as if I did not put him in this situation.#I fear this is one of those things I’m going to look back on in a few months & say: that should've stayed in the drafts.#me personally I love posting cringe. it's what I deserve.#if god exists I will have to answer for this. catch me in the river Acheron sipping on straight up anguish.#can you tell I have been confronted by the fleeting nature of mortality more often than usual lately. be honest.#actually I decided to not to go too into depth with the gore this time. I feel like keeping it vague lends more to the fugue state#also because it was giving me REALLY weird dreams. so like. yeah. I could've made this worse. but should I have?#tags bout damn long as the drabble. sorry gang.#cannibalism tw#gore tw#main character death tw#body horror tw#dayne’s depravity#daynedepravity
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stardial · 4 days ago
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i do hope i have a lux dream again though i’ve just been having horrible stress dreams recently on account on the *gestures to my whole life*
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coldhands-sunkeneyes · 2 years ago
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Category 5 fall out boy moment
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pippin-pippout · 6 months ago
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Marco can heal? Ok ok “the flames of restoration only have a limited effect on others.” Yes I get it. But dude they even called a doctor over during you-know-what to see if he could do something to save you-know-who! You coulda tried your healing flames! Ace is made of flames too! Maybe it would work!
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pinkfey · 1 year ago
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evil sex with my evil wife
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nullians · 2 years ago
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Bird hell is going through the “Wolfwood was rejected by Vash on his deathcouch” arc and I’m here like… was it really?? Was it really a rejection?? Isn’t it a testament to how much Vash cares about him that he cannot, just cannot force himself to smile and to act through it??? It’s painful, of course, but I think that they both knew each other so well at that point that Wolfwood understood his reactions too… He goes out smiling. And I think he goes out knowing that he has Vash’s love
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Finally got around to watching one of those "all Mass effect squadmate deaths" videos and Mordin genuinely yelling at Shepard if you take the renegade route??? OUGH
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aldieb · 2 years ago
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hate when fanfic gives u unrealistic fantasies* (*believing that your unusual ways of approaching physical intimacy due to neurodivergence could be not even just grudgingly accommodated but happily accepted)
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danvssomethingorother · 7 months ago
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I hate Endeavor with my entire heart for what he did to Shoto and his wife and will never feel sorry for him.
But me not liking him and hoping canon kills him doesn’t stop me from thinking him and Hawk have sex behind dumpsters together.
Hawk is my new boy and I think he is into garbage men and is fine with being the other partner.
He just really seems like the type to see the worst most vile man and say “I’d hit that” and then does.
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