#just trying out a fun writing style

[ames-writes]

Bare Hands - a character exploration oneshot

There wasn’t so much as a breath between them, the chain from the cuffs making it so they couldn’t be more than a few feet away from each other as they laid, faces to the night sky, side by side. 

Jack fiddled with the chain that laid across his belly connecting his right hand to the Marshall’s left, the cold from the ground crept into his skin with nothing more than his shirt as a blanket since his jacket was relegated to being his pillow. They couldn’t even have a fire to stave off the cold for fear of being spotted, or so the Marshall said. For an honest-to-god minute Jack wondered if the Marshall simply didn’t mind freezing his balls off, given the fact that clearly didn’t have any. 

The day’s events replaying in his mind like a fancy stage play he saw once. Him the handsome main character, the Marshall his grizzled nemesis, the Kelly-Green man the villain who was having a hard time breathing on account of Jack’s hands around his throat. The stage set on top of a moving train heading for the next town; backdrop of the rolling prairie hills of the middle west rolling by as the train speeds up. 

The scene plays out how its intended. Jack dodges a bullet and tackles the man to the roof of the train, trying and succeeding to smack the gun out of his hands. Jack’s slim fingers find their way around the man’s throat and pushes what little weight he has down as hard as he can. He can see in the man’s eyes that if Jack even lets up for a second the man is going to kill him. The audience sits on the edge of their seats, the band quiet for this intense moment.

A shot rings out. The audience gasps and a hollow violin sings alone. Jack sees the bullet hole in the train beside his hand. One inch to left and there would be a hole in his right hand. The train shook beneath them with every new track. An expert shot. A shot only one person on this whole train could make. Jack looks up to see the Marshall’s hard eyes boring into him. His gun aimed down at Jack’s hand, steady regardless of the shaking. The band starts to pick up as Jack and the Marshall stare at each other. 

The man stabs his boot knife into Jack’s bicep and pulls it out again to aim better. Jack rears back to grab it and another shot rings out. The man slumps backwards and slides off the side of the train. The cello plays a false chord as the curtain closes on the scene.

With the light of the moon Jack stares at the unmarred back of his right hand. One inch to the left. A warning, Jack had thought at the time. To not kill the man. But then the Marshall had done away with the man himself. So if not a warning then what? It was driving Jack mad. So much so he was now just outright jangling the chain that laid across him, his left arm aching from the knife wound. 

“Would you knock it off?” Marshall Creed yanked on the chain pulling it out of Jack’s hands. His voice gruffer than usual as if he was actually almost asleep. 

“You ever killed anyone with your bare hands Marshall?” That wasn’t what Jack had meant to ask but now that the question was out of him he wanted to know.

The man was silent for a moment, Jack could practically see his shoulders push back with tension. The chain jingled softly as he set his hand back onto the ground. “Why you askin’?” 

Jack frowned at the question to his question but answered anyway. “Guess I’m curious as to why you’d bother to stop me from killing that guy if you was just gonna do it yourself.” He waited a beat to see if the Marshall had anything to say to that. “Look in your eye told me you know exactly what that kinda thing does to a man.” Again, silence met him. He turned his head and stared at the back of the Marshall’s head. “And seemed to me like you were hoping to spare me that horror.”

At that the Marshall turned his head all the way to look at Jack. Jack would have to be more of a blind idiot than he already was to not be taken by Marshall Creed’s handsome face. The man should’ve been making beautiful kids with a pretty little woman and running for mayor, not rolling around in the dirt with Jack and all his demons.

“And why would I do that?” Marshall Creed spoke softly like he was asking himself that question more than he was Jack. 

Unable to take Marshall Creed staring at him any longer Jack turned his face back toward the speckled sky. He took a deep breath before he started, “There’s something… different when you kill someone with your hands.” His hands hang over his face as he stares at his palms for a moment. “With a gun you can look through the scope and pretend it’s just another animal. Even with a handgun,” he makes a gun with his fingers and points it at the sky, “you can even put it down to bad luck on their part. The bullet could’ve gone any which way, they could’ve dodged, the wind pushed it, whatever you want to say to get yourself out of it.” 

His hands fell back down to his chest. “But when you’re face to face, smelling what they had for breakfast, feeling the warmth on their skin,” he flexed his fingers unconsciously, “seeing the life leave their eyes as you get to keep yours. It changes a man.” He takes a deep breath, “Staring death in the face always changes men.”

Crickets filled the silence between them and Jack didn’t dare look at the Marshall as he said, “And if that’s why you’d try to stop me from killing like that I’d tell you not to bother. That kid died a long time ago.” He hopes he hid the waiver in his voice. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time and he hadn’t expected to tonight.

The Marshall was quiet for a while, no doubt chewing on all this new information. Jack skin itched with the continuous feeling of being stared at. His fingers twitched and he quickly found the chain once again to finger like he was a damn nervous old woman. After another minute the nerves left and now he was just annoyed. Why the fuck wasn’t he saying anything? Did the bastard fall asleep while he was spilling his guts over here? “Alright you son-of-a-” he turned to face the Marshall and cuss him out.

“When?” The Marshall spoke as soon as Jack’s eyes locked onto his as if he was waiting this whole for him to look at the Marshall.

Jack sputtered, insult lost to the shock of the question. “When? When what? You ain’t say shit for the last five minutes and you-”

“When did ‘that kid’ die?” The look in Creed’s eyes stopped Jack’s tirade instantly. There was anger but it wasn’t the normal kind he had shown Jack over the last week. No this was some kind of righteous anger, the kind of anger revenge comes from. 

Even though he didn’t look away Jack still felt cowed under that righteous fury. No one had ever felt angry for him before. Hell he didn’t even feel angry about what happened anymore. It was simply what it was. He’d do the same again every time.

Jack felt that kid from 13 years ago force himself into Jack’s throat to whisper, “He was 15.” Creed held his gaze and Jack watched that fury soften with the shock of knowledge. There was a pressure building behind Jack’s eyes, his one already blurry eye becoming almost completely useless. 

“I’d fucking do it again.” He snarled when he felt a tear run across his cheek, body half turned to face the Marshall. He didn’t know which of them he was trying to convince.

He quickly flopped again onto his back, not bothering to hide him wiping off the evidence on his face and then rolled onto his side, his back facing the Marshall. He had to lay with his hip and shoulder digging into the ground and his hand gripping his waist to keep the chain from pulling the cuff on his wrist. It was the worst way possible position to lay on the ground but he’d rather fuck up his shoulder than look Marshall Creed in the face again tonight.

There was a shuffling across the dirt behind him and he felt chain go a little more slack against his side. Then the silence of the plains once again. Jack felt his body getting heavier as sleep called to him, a coyote screamed far off in the distance.

“I was 23.” Jack felt his awareness come back a little but wasn’t sure if he actually heard that until Creed said, “I’d do it again if I had to. But we shouldn’t have had to.” A breath heaved from Creed’s nose and it seemed like that was that.

Jack closed his eyes to the cricket filled silence. The memory of watching his father’s life drain from his body as Jack struggled to breath from the noose still tight around his neck followed him into the darkness.

[lazylittledragon]

right now i'm very torn between "taking critique is important as an artist and it's not an attack on me personally" and "people commenting about my same face syndrome under my posts upsets me an unreasonable amount and i wish they would stop doing it"

[fishyartist]

Ui idea tests, thrown together bc im eepy. Was planning on doing more but I spent all my days energy on the second one oops

[zorionbbq]

"The morning lit his bedroom with tepid lilacs. Wherever light could reach, there were bulging cabinet handles, sallow sheets, flattened carpets; where it couldn’t, there was nothing at all. The pale spots of life, surrounded by pitch-black pits and corners, looked like a poorly printed photograph."

fanart for @cleveradjacent's fic "This Weapon Wants"! :^]

[lollytea]

I really love hope is a thing with feathers and I also really LOVE the hope as a sewer rat poem too but I wish it was not explicity written as "well actually" against Dickinson asgvsjnk. The imagery is SO GOOD but this whole vibe of "my metaphor is better than your metaphor" kinda sours it for me

[justanotherjaydrawing]

A moment from my latest fic. Chronic pain + hurt/comfort makes me emotional.

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I woke up with a realization. One reason I struggle to write longer works is impatience. I don't want to write, I want to have written something. So the secret is learning to enjoy the journey instead of always rushing toward the destination.

For context, I just watched a Youtube video about training yourself to read longer works by learning contentment--enjoy living in the world of the book instead of rushing through a reading list, because constantly watching how many pages you have until the end makes it more stressful so you're likely to abandon it halfway. I'm guilty of reading lots of short books because there are too many books I want to read for me to have patience for longer books.

This morning it hit me that I have the same problem with writing. I can't sink in to longer works because when I start one, I stress out about how long it takes to finish one scene, so imagine how long it'll take to finish the whole thing, and it's much easier to write only short works. But if I learn to luxuriate in the writing process and don't worry about reaching the ending, I'll enjoy writing a lot more and I'll be more likely to eventually finish.

[writing-intheundercroft]

WIP: Garreth Weasley

A handsome potioneer (who is a baker in an alternative universe)

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Just finished reading Pez Dispenser Debris (I don’t even go there but I am fueled by Wiki articles and a love for your storytelling) and first of all—amazing!!! 10/10, I think I need to watch this series now. 

Second, I  noticed that (while very much distinct) Yuuta & Izuku have a lot of similarities in the voice you gave them—maybe it’s the constant panic attacks or perhaps both of  them placing blame for everything squarely on their own shoulders, but ough it makes for the perfect blend of gut-punching angst. I’d love to hear any ramblings you currently have about either of them. I am currently obsessed with both of them now and am placing the blame on you <3

I’m gonna pretty heavily discuss some spoilers for my hero academia in this. I figured that was okay since you’d already read my fanfic and the wiki so the cat is out of the metaphorical bag. That being said, maybe wait to read this answer if you want to not be spoiled for more details in my hero.

Yuuta and Izuku absolutely have the most similar voices out of all of my narrators and it is 90% because they are both completely insane and in violent need of a Xanax and a nice soothing cup of chamomile tea. God I love them both so much. They should each be heavily medicated.

My hero academia is a pretty great watch through the Shie Hassaikai arc. The concept is entertaining, the characters are GREAT, and the world building is really cool.

Then the story sort of. Went to shit.

I tried for a while after that, but eventually had to stop watching. My friends and I have a group chat named “horikoshi just call us” because we got so despondent at the writing decisions after that arc.

Horikoshi. If you’re out there. If you’re reading this. Just call us. We just want to help.

That being said, my love for the characters maintains its death grip on me. I simply adore them. They’re delights.

Yuuta and Izuku, on their face, have a lot of similarities as protagonists. The aforementioned insanity and need of Xanax, of course, but the skeleton of the stories has a lot of common touchstones and themes, like:

Both characters have some kind of history with suicidal ideation or tendencies. In the second scene of JJK0, it’s established that Yuuta canonically tried to kill himself. In the first episode of BNHA, Izuku is told to kill himself by his bullies, in an act which appears to be common to izuku’s life, and the only reason Izuku comes up with to not do it is “then you’d get in trouble for telling me to do it.”

Both characters have severe self worth issues. Yuuta’s looking for a reason to be alive at the start of JJK0. He’s looking for a right to be alive. In a way, Izuku is too at the start of BNHA. At the open of action, he is told by everyone in his life that he is useless. His nickname is “Deku,” which uses some of the same kanji as “Dekunobo,” meaning blockhead. The most direct translation were given is that this is a way of calling him useless. He’s the powerless member of a society choked with superpower, and he’s been told his entire life that he can do nothing, that his dreams are pointless, and that he’s a burden who would be better off dead.

They’re both saddled with power they can’t fully control. Yuuta with Rika, and Izuku with One for All, a transferable power that’s too strong to be contained in his body.

They both have a close relationship with an impossibly strong mentor that they are implied to be the successor of. Yuuta with Gojo, as he’s second only to Gojo in the modern age, and Izuku with All Might (aka Toshinori Yaga), who he is more literally taking on the mantle of One for All from.

They both are chugging that Loving Their Friends Juice and have tried to kill grown men with their bare hands as a result

That all being said, they could not be more different characters and honestly aren’t all that similar.

I have this sort of lasting grievance with literary analysis when people take a list of common plot points or events and use them to make the argument that characters are similar or parallel one another. Like, that’s all facial. The real question is how do they substantively handle those events. How do their story arcs treat those things? How does their character react to them?

Yuuta and Izuku’s actual substantive characters don’t really react to those events in the same way at all. The analysis could go on all day in this respect, really, but the biggest difference is how their respective story arcs treat the cornerstone of their original conflicts.

Yuuta opens action with Rika as the cornerstone of his conflict. She’s who he wants to free, she’s who he’s chained to, and it’s her protection of him that makes him think he deserves to die. Izuku’s cornerstone, meanwhile, is his own Quirklessness. He desperately wants to be a hero, and everyone in his life tells him he can’t be because he is Quirkless. He’s useless because he’s Quirkless. He should kill himself because he’s Quirkless. He’s a burden and always will be because he’s Quirkless.

And while Yuuta’s arc reconciles him with his cornerstone, Izuku’s forgoes it entirely.

The story just. Forgets. That he’s Quirkless. They stop talking about it. It never comes up again. It doesn’t make any real big impact on his character or decisions. It’s one of my biggest axes to grind with how the story developed, and it’s actually one of the biggest reasons why I wrote pez dispenser debris.

Pez dispenser debris was actually inspired by this one piece of my hero academia art where Izuku is hugging his younger self. I don’t know if it was official art or fan art, and I have no idea where it is or where to find it because by god have I tried so I can find it and link it for credit/to boost it. I saw it literally years ago, thought “oh that’s cool,” wrote the original first scene of the fic (where Midoriya stops the bus and is hit by the Quirk), wasn’t feeling it, got distracted by other projects, went to law school, graduated law school, signed up to take the bar exam, and was suddenly electrified in the last fucking month of studying with this fugue state of feverish artistic inspiration. I have never written so easily or so compulsively in my life. I’d write for eight unbroken hours and it would be fucking magic every time. It was like an addiction. I was writhing with a need to create and had so much fucking anxiety about the test I was not studying for instead. The words could not be restrained.

Anyway I taught myself three subjects on the plane ride to the state I was taking it in and passed anyway so it’s fine we’re fine

The moral of the story is that this story has been cooking long enough for me to get two more diplomas than I had when I started it and I have no idea where to find that fucking piece of art that inspired it, but if I find it, I’ll reblog it so y’all can see it too.

The thing is, the narrative sort of forcibly excluding Izuku’s past as Quirkless would make total sense to me if it was used as something Izuku himself was doing.

Izuku necessarily had to hide the truth of his former Quirkless status at the start of action—he needed to keep the secret of One for All. Like, he could not let people find out that a Quirk was transferrable, but you know, just the most powerful one, and also he had it, please come torture it out of him.

But as the narrative goes on, that rationale becomes less important. He has people he can trust with it. And yeah, eventually One for All becomes more known, but the discussion is all about him being all might’s successor. Him being Quirkless and how that affected him and still affects him isn’t really discussed or treated as important. And Izuku doesn’t act like it’s important to him either. He never really thinks about it.

And I just hated that. Like. He spent almost his entire life as a member of society who was spit on. He’s had a Quirk for less than a year. How are his experiences with Quirklessness not important to how he interacts with the world?

The other point of contention I had was Mirio.

Mirio is this superstar of a senpai who takes Izuku under his wing. He has an extremely powerful quirk that’s only as effective as it is because he put in the work and learned how to handle it. He’s a perfect, eternally smiling paragon of heroism. He’s flagged early as the one out of everyone, including heroes with established careers, who is most likely to replace All Might.

He’s also the one who was supposed to get One for All.

His mentor had found him and trained him to be All Might’s successor. Before All Might could meet him, however, he found this feral raccoon child in a sewer and said “oh my god I can’t not offer him incomprehensible power within the first three hours of meeting him” and tripped face first into fatherhood.

During a rescue mission, Mirio loses his Quirk in a way that’s borderline irreversible. There’s no known cure, and the only possible one is dependent on a little girl learning how to control an extremely volatile and dangerous quirk and using it in a way she never has before.

So surely, they’re going to commit to that writing decision, right? He’s Quirkless. We’re bringing back having Quirkless characters. It’s going to be this sick as hell juxtaposition between Izuku and Mirio. We are at least going to force Izuku to reflect on his own times as Quirkless or have some kind of discussion about how Mirio is treated differently now that he is Quirkless.

But no. He gets his Quirk back by the next season. We don’t talk about it much. It’s more of a minor inconvenience than anything.

It’s almost as if the show accepted as an actual rule that you couldn’t be a hero without a Quirk. And then just. Forgot. Everything it had to do with its literal protagonist.

Anyway, I hated it.

In contrast, I fucking loved how yuuta’s storyline with Rika ends. That scene where Yuuta’s turning back to Rika, thanking her for loving him, telling him they can die together? I’m obsessed with it. I recently moved across the country and listened to that theme song on loop during the drive.

Yuuta and Rika’s love was unhealthy. They hurt each other. But it wasn’t malicious.

They just didn’t know how to love each other in a way that didn’t hurt.

They were in shit circumstances. But the love was there.

Yuuta felt guilty for Rika’s love for him and his for her almost the entire narrative. He thought he cursed her with his love. He wanted to kill himself because of how she hurt people out of love for him. It’s why I have moments in sea glass gardens where Yuuta talks about begging Rika to stop loving him—he didn’t know why love had to hurt so goddamn bad, and he’s sorry for that, he really is. He wishes he was better at it than he was.

At the end of JJK0, Yuuta truly is the last person who remembers Rika as she was and still loves her for who she is. He’s faced with Geto, who wants to use her as a weapon. Everyone treats her as a threat or a tool, except for Yuuta.

Like. Just that moment. Of loving someone so genuinely, and being the last one who does, and knowing that everyone else will just use them. I’m obsessed with it.

Yuuta reconciles with his love for Rika and her love for him, and they’re both finally freed. It’s this perfect moment of acceptance that I adore. He comes to terms with his past. It doesn’t hurt him so much anymore.

I wrote pez dispenser debris to sort of force Izuku to have that kind of reconciliation. As it is, he hasn’t reconciled with his own Quirklessness and how that affected him. I wanted to give him something he couldn’t physically escape and had to face.

[puppppppppy]

[kakusu-shipping]

I can't decide if I should be funny and write Cap as a leering Perv possessive kind of guy or stick closer to his personality and have him be a gentleman/chivalrous kind of guy.

[kandicon]

I am so so brave (<- actively dying)

[lvminisciel]

kiss me goodnight

Father, me and big brother are home! We bought something for dinner! A carp by the lake, and potatoes from the land! A cut on the back, and fleshes of the dead!

pt.1 | pt. 2

pairing: mallesilmal. wc 2,5k

pls read!! warning: suicidal ideation, angst, mcd, gore. woundfucking, double d mal, deepthroat but instead of d it's malmal's slitted tongue

Their private liturgy continued for weeks, and many moons of crops seems to have passed. Silver will come to the castle every single day without fail, like a devoted loyal servant to its master. Everytime he entered the chamber, may forms of torment ensues, sometimes with different motions, sometimes different organs. His Lord would disassemble his body parts and arrange it back in one piece, of the exact strand and order, all without a miss. Yet none of that seemed to kill him, whether inside nor outside, as his soul seemed to resonate with his Lord as it all felt was only grief, grief, and grief. 

Even as the time goes, all was fleeting. Time went in a blink of an eye, and the longer he stride by the riverbanks of time, the more his life feels less ‘living’. Everyday life felt so dull, and deep down he knows he could never go back to how he once were. Of sunshine in the woods, waiting for his father’s arrival. Of those days they went hunting and foraging the forest for herbs and, much to Silver’s dismay, ‘strange ingredients’ his father likes to pick along the way home. Of evenings after sparring with Sebek by the backyard, hopefully wishing for his Lord’s arrival to join them for dinner so they could tuck his father’s cooking somewhere else or gave it to the forest animals.

Those times of much simpler life,

When his father was around. 

Now, he’s left with nothing but a gaping wound in his heart

Unattended, lacerated and disfigured; those who see the way it is now could even hardly believe it was once a full, beating heart- as the state of it now much resembles a lump of blood clot rather than a formerly functioning organ

Yet, even after all those agony it went through, it still beats

It still beats. 

Oh, how he hated the sound of it

The pounding in his veins. Steady rhythm of blood circulating throughout his bloodstream, intact, splattering only when his Lord’s claws are inside of him. Everytime his Lord disassembles his insides, he would always hoped, prayed that maybe his heart will forget a beat amidst all these bodily pain that envelops him. Perhaps his lung would be oh so kind to stop functioning altogether, or the insides of his skull would self-destruct itself. 

But his heart keeps pounding on and on

A sick reminder that he’s still alive, unable to be reunited with his father

He’s been so, so close to the edge, why can’t he just die already?

Is his Lord’s healing magic too powerful? Why isn’t the reaper here yet? Can’t he just go, all these are making his patience running thin. 

He wonders how many times should he play this twisted tug-of-war game with death, to which he always dreams of losing. 

So when another being sarted being present during their private sessions, it sparked hope inside Silver. 

He knew his time was creeping in closer, because not even His Lord’s omnipotent magic could ever prolong something as sacred as defying mortality. He smiled genuinely for the first time in years, leaving each of their meetings with a content feeling instead of the usual despair. His Lord would question about it someyimes, to which Silver would reply with his signature sincere half-smile

…to which Silver began to think

….what would His Lord became of, once that he is gone? 

Would His Lord be abe to cope with the grief that follows? After such a huge loss he experienced already? 

Silver might not be the brightest in terms of social cues or delving into people’s hearts and peering into their feelings, but one thing he does know: His Lord wouldn’t be able to handle it well

After all, if he did so, then their classified rites wouldn’t happen in the first place. Or turning into a daily basis, for that matter. To top it all, the kingdom would be brought into an even major calamity, lest his Lord were faced for another grief in his sight. That narrows the questions in his head down to a singular one: 

How do he drag his Lord down with him? 

tic-toc, the clock is ticking. As the figure that overshadows their chamber turned clearer each passing day, Silver is vigilant that he doesn’t have much time left. Bearing only one solution in mind, he enters their solemn chamber, preparing for a gamble of life and death. A russian roulette he invented on his own. 

And he finally came down with his own plan. 

Yes, this would surely suffice

The night was cleared of its clouds, moon shining softly amongst the starry skies. The walk to the castle was not long, but Silver decided to slow down for a bit. 

It is his last day after all, as the reaper had been clearly visible to the touch

This night would be the final one, and as dawn rolls he would be graced by his one true love

His took his steps thoughtfully, absorbing the sceneries before him mindfully. The walk from his tiny little cottage in the woods that will soon be abandoned. The owls and crows and other animals cooing him along the way, as if muttering mournful goodbyes. How the castle gates lowered at the sight of him, without him needing to announce his presence. The castle staff & maids that bowed down respectfully, seeing as how they might’ve perceived him as some sort of hero for diverting their Lord’s grief, not knowing the very same person would bring an end to the exact Lord they worshiped

Mustering his resolve, he entered the chamber, where his Lord awaits patiently. A soft breath of flame welcomes him, as both candles and chandeliers alike lit up. Lavish banquet upon the table, grand as always. Everything’s the usual, except for- 

Except for the the eagerness pulsating his chest, as from today onward he would no longer be within despair’s grasp

It ends today

All the pain and anguish, he shall bring it all down with him

Feeling the blade brushed against his thighs, he returned the warm welcome with a smile. That his Lord was taken aback no longer matters, this is the requiem after all! It should be enjoyed to its finest, doesn’t it?

And so their usual liturgy began. Although Silver would prefer calling this one their ‘Rite of Parting’. It had a nicer ring into it, or so he thought. He locked his gaze upon those pair of emerald locket that adorns his Lord’s face, oh such grace it was for being able to witness this lustrous sight before one departs. His Lord, having the time of his life- obliterating all grief and sorrow as his fangs bared upon his chest, talons ripping apart skin to skin. 

Starting off with his undeformed obsidian claws slitting the upper part of his body, as the other slips itself into Silver’s underneath. The moment Silver’s heart laid bare, his Lord proceeds to kiss them gently, lengthy tongue tending every single row of his ribs, slipping beneath to savor the delish taste of iron from its splitting ends. His Lord was always a man of patience, and so he goes, moving supple palms ever so gracefully,

But Silver was not.

Not this time, at least. 

He’s so eager– eager to the touch, to the taste, to the end. His patience is growing thinner by each passing moment, and for the first time in Seven knows how long; he refused to relent. Instead, his hands grazed to his Lord, tracing him all ever so softly and at the same time greedily– as if those touches would suffice his hunger. And his Lord, the ever-so-thoughtful of his people, complies

‘Eager today, aren’t we?’ 

He mutters under his breath, as consciousness gradually grew adrift; drunk by the touch. As much as he enjoyed the delectable taste of his cherished subject, he constantly tasted this mournful flavor from him. Something he probably didn’t realize had been consuming him progressively over the course of time, something he understood so well. He never minded this notion though, as Silver’s mere form was more than sufficient to scrape off  the remaining grief  sadness of his beloved spouse’s parting

However, that is alright

They would surely come back someday, right? They are merely sleeping for a little while. One day they will arise hearty and buoyant like how they always been, thus announcing their presence with the warmest smile as they jumped into his arms, fondling their hands upon his towering form lovingly. And he would lower down, reciprocate their lush affection and pepper them with the gentlest of kisses he’d been saving up these whole decades, centuries even, and—

The gentle caress on his neck, sliding down his throat onto his chest dragged him back to what’s laid in front of him. Just like a prey offering himself to the hunter, although the fondness betwixt them begs to differ.

Observing the alluring blend of colors beneath him that stares straight into his eyes– into his heart, the dragon fae decides to give in. He would take his loyal knight’s offerings of course, as it would be heartless for a master to refuse such sincere. And so concede he did, unrestraining the constraint of his dual cock. Going slow at first, he enters the first into Silver’s hole, pushing its full length in one single thrust. A slight moan slips his ashen lips as he positioned his next one, eyes interlocking with the remnants of saliva dangling between ribs beneath him. Those translucent silk, paving the path into the other’s heart was clearly his invitation to attend; and so as a profound noble that he is, proceeds to fulfill that lustrous invite. 

Gently, he made way between the limbs; and as his first was already spasming between Silver’s tight walls, his second was getting harder by each passing cartilage. They only seemed to grow in size as he goes on, and the more it gets tighter down there; what’s his jostling with Silver’s liver, lungs, and pancreas as he slowly but surely making his way into his heart, Silver giggles

Silver giggles. 

Dear Sevens and the Great Thorn Fairy above, how many decades has it been since he heard those sweet giggles? Was it when Lilia first discovered that humans are ticklish and tried it on his own son, which he later joined during, laughing heartily as the three of them enjoyed Silver’s playtime just as much as him? Or was it oh his birthday, when he got a whole pie thrown at him for the sake of good luck? Perhaps it was when both he and Sebek welcomes them home after their trip into some faraway land, and offers them homemade cookies that was slightly burnt; where Lilia said his cookies are more exceptional and much better, to which Silver only replied with a stifle laugh, giggly smile adoring his petite form

Which one was it?

Does it even matter? 

As his second finally reached its final destination, he let out a hearty laugh, as if reciprocating those once long-lost giggles. But that matters not now, what’s important is how to satisfy the proprietor of those alluring sound. Thus, he picks up the pace, brimming even more enthusiastically with two pairs of fangs procuring first row seat of the show, as moonlit strands gradually grew flushed in span of seconds. The delicate touch of callused hands began to pepper his back, crystal nails flourishing in crimson as they dug deeper and deeper. Those luscious voices only got sweeter the more he progresses, constantly moaning as the other succumbs into the bliss of his holy cock. They both inches closer and closer, both the ones inside & below the ribs, and so does Silver’s which he enveloped in his palms. Shiny black claws fondled with the tip, smothering delicately to the strings leaked from its source, before it finally bursts. and so does his own, outflowing the tight walls that of Silver’s, as the realms between his organs turned into a colorful mixture of sweat, blood, tears and other salty liquids. Both delve into the pleasure of release once more, and they would both be lying if they said that it wasn’t the most passionate one they’ve ever had all these time. 

Their most passionate one

Which would also be the first and the last.  

Silver glance onto his side, and there was them.  The reaper, in all his mightiness and sorrow and glory and whatever hopes it brings for Silver to devour. It’s now or never, so he put up his sweetest smile, one that his father would always sings praises and adore whenever he did

‘My Lord, would you be so kind as to give me one last kiss before we depart? 

A single good night kiss would suffice’

‘Why of course, cherished one. As a gift, I would be glad to fulfill your desire’

So their tongue intertwined, his Lord’s split tongue peered slowly as he opened the gates into throat. He pulled as to lower him and holds him closer, and two tips of dragon tongue dances around. Twirling, enveloping his little one if compared to that of his Lord’s. It goes deeper as the length fulfill every room of his mouth, down into his throat, and needless to say he was satisfied. He towered above him, and so does the reaper: now hanging behind his Lord, creeping in- this is it. This is the time, as he unseath the blade he’d been keeping, and he thrust

Deep. Red. Black. Dripping, waltzing and oozing together ever so beautifully

His Lord was about to laugh of humor, did his loyal subject, all knowing of how robust he was, really think that this mere mutiny could end him? If it did, he would’ve did it himself ages ago

But there was something else

As Silver thrusts deeper, he feel it seeps into his streams, light magic overflowing and tainting his fae blood. There’s no mistaking it- it’s the same magic that emanates from Silver’s passed down ring, one that Lilia stashed along with the greatest gift in the whole world— according to him. The very same that ended his mother. 

To end with the exact same way of his beloved mother he never got the chance to meet

This is beautiful

And so he gave in. Letting go as his magic that cloaks their surroundings dissipates, including the ones veiled Silver’s form. The taller frame finally succumbs and sank. Glints of effulgent hangs upon his head, and in those final moments, pressed a smile onto his Lord’s lips; as warmth slips and bodies deteriorates.

This time, surely, his father would be overjoyed

Father, me and big brother are home! We bought something for dinner!

A carp by the lake, and potatoes from the land!

A cut on the back, and fleshes of the dead!

[court-of-constellations]

Hello everyone!! I'm back with another post about my original universe, this time about nymphs!

This is even longer than the vampire one so the rambling is under the cut, and I was so tempted to include information about my inspiration for certain things and why I made the creative decisions I did, but I refrained because I wanted to keep this focused and not go off on tangents (however, if you do want to hear about that stuff, feel free to send me an ask at any time! I'm always happy to ramble about this universe!)

So. Nymphs. They're typically defined (by humans) as nature spirits, but what does that mean?

Well, the literal dictionary definition is "a spirit born from the earth or water; a being connected to the earth." Nymphs are, in short, personifications of nature. That's not to say that every little aspect of nature has a corresponding nymph- but there are several kinds of nymphs for several different types of nature.

Nymphs, as a whole, can be divided into two categories: land and water. There are a couple types of nymph that could fit into both categories, and one specific type of nymph that doesn't fit into either, but most nymphs can be clearly defined as one or the other.

Nymphs frequently spawn in areas with high magical concentration; why this is, nobody knows, and most other scholars have put it down to those areas being sacred in some way. These scholars are the same ones that hail nymphs as creations of the divine, made to safeguard the lands that are rightfully ours, so any conclusion of theirs must be taken with several grains of salt. I find that many scholars who subscribe to this field of thinking have never even seen a nymph in their lives, and assume that they are all perfectly like us humans (despite their appearances). This is a lie, one that continues to be retold despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

To understand nymphs, one must first understand that they are not human. They are sentient, intelligent, and quite interesting, but no matter how humanoid their shape might be, they are not and never will be even close to human beings. The exceptions to this rule will be covered later, but true nymphs are nature in its purest form: wild, unpredictable, and untameable. Like fairies, they operate on an entirely separate morality than humans, but unlike fairies, there are no clever tricks you can use to escape them, no set rules you may follow. If fairies are order, nymphs are chaos. If you should encounter a nymph, then by all means converse with them and befriend them if you like, but never forget that they are not the same as you, and no matter how benevolent they may seem, they could turn on you in an instant.

With all of this out of the way, let's finally get to the types of nymphs and their origins.

Land Nymphs

This category of nymph, as the name suggests, are tied to the land. There are several kinds of nymphs who fall under this category, and those nymphs have so many subspecies among them that if I listed them all, this text would be thicker than my torso.

Still, I shall endeavor to at least impress upon you the general idea of which nymphs come from where, so that you might know to use the correct terminology when describing to a friend and encounter you may have had in the woods or fields. Any further study into the subspecies can be found in other, more involved texts, ones whose authors were compensated enough to care about listing every type of nymph that could possibly be found in our lovely lands.

The first to be aware of are dryads, nymphs who have spawned from trees. It is unknown how long a tree must live before becoming a dryad, but this author suspects it to be somewhere in the hundreds, if only for the fact that cutting down younger trees has not as of yet brought a furious dryad out for my blood into my path. Should this change, this text will naturally be updated should I survive long enough to do so.

There are as many types of dryads as there are types of trees, and though there are certainly scientific names for each and every one, I personally have found that simply using the name of whichever tree they spawned from is quite sufficient. A dryad who spawned from an ash tree is an ash dryad, from an oak tree is an oak dryad and so on and so forth; I am quite sure I need not recount the name of every tree for the reader to understand my point.

True dryads, once born from whichever tree they are, are from then on about as attached to the tree as a human might be their parents; their personal feelings vary from nymph to nymph, but in terms of life force, they can and will live even if their tree has been cut down. Unlike humans, the only thing that can kill a true dryad is when the last trace of their tree has disappeared from this world; be it by decay or fire or a misplaced disintegration spell, once the tree is well and truly gone, so too is the dryad.

In terms of a dryad's appearance, their skin will be made out of the same bark as their tree, their hair the same leaves, their innards the same wood. Their eyes may have fruits or flowers in them depending on the tree and time of year, but they may simply be empty sockets. In any case, you should know a dryad at first sight, for unless walking trees are quite common in your place of residence, there's really nothing you can mistake them for.

I would give a description of a dryad's typical personality, as so many others have in their own texts, but my experiences with them have made me aware that they differ in personality as much as humans do; this holds true for all nymphs and I will not repeat such trite and blatantly untrue statements as "all dryads are nurturing, all naiads are mischievous," etc. That is my final statement on this matter and if I receive one more letter from my editor asking where the personality descriptions are, I swear I will-

(Editor's Note: The rest of this tirade had to be cut for its vulgarity and surprisingly creative threats towards me, my place of work, the scholars that continue to perpetuate these stereotypes, their families, and oddly enough, any cows they may have in their possession. Rest assured it was very much unsuited for such a text, but I preserved as much as I was morally able to.)

The florae, nymphs born from flowers, differ from dryads in appearance and origin, and that is where the differences end. They are comparatively rarer as flowers are quite fragile and much more likely to be destroyed, but so long as the vine or shrub or roots survive, so too will the flora. Oddly enough, trees that produce a dryad may also produce a flora from its flowers.

Florae are typically made out of whatever their flower bloomed on, be it vines or stems or branches. Whatever their flower was, replicas of it will be blooming all over their body, including in their eyes, and their hair will be made out of its petals. I have encountered florae many times, and I have yet to figure out just how some of the hairstyles they have are physically possible. One of the many mysteries of life, I suppose.

I suppose now that we have discussed dryads and florae, we must now discuss the dragon in the room: the dryads and florae that were once human beings.

There are many, many different theories of why and how this phenomenon occurs, but there are three facts we know: one, that if a human being is turned into a plant, they will inevitably become a nymph, two, that these humans are visually indistinguishable from true nymphs, and three, they are much more fragile- if their tree is cut down or their flower dies, they will die too and there is nothing that can be done about it.

It is for this reason that turning people into plants is so harshly punished, for you have condemned them to either an early death or a painfully prolonged life that could easily be cut short by anyone unaware of their plant"s true nature. But this is not a book about ethics or law, and if you wish to know more, than you must look elsewhere, for I have shared everything that is relevant.

With that out of the way, let's talk about (gods save me) the other land nymphs.

There are nymphs far older than human civilization, and indeed, humanity as a whole. These nymphs are known to the particularly religious as "The Elder Ones" and to the rest of us as simply the land nymphs.

The best way to explain these nymphs is to take a quick look at history. All throughout time, the earth has been shifting and changing, and as it changes, so too do the nymphs who personify it. These nymphs are fluid and ever changing, their types only vague classifications that serve to describe just what they represent at the moment. They are old, wise, and frustratingly reclusive, and the only reason we know they exist is because of what other nymphs have told us.

Thus far, the classifications are:

Oreads (mountain nymphs)

Valleaeae (valley/pasture/glen nymphs)

Pratae (meadow nymphs (Editor's Note: I personally don't understand the point of this distinction))

Napaeae (dell nymphs)

Haliae (seashore nymphs)

Umidae (wetland nymphs)

This is all we really know about them, and though other nymphs claim that it was them who created all other nymphs, that sounds far too religious for this book.

Water Nymphs

Water nymphs are far less varied than land nymphs (thank the gods, this chapter is getting long enough as it is) and they are all, in terms of origin and appearance, functionally the same.

Naiads (the term for water nymphs in general) spawn from a water source that isn't the open sea (why, this is still unknown.) They are made out of water and may adorn themselves with objects found in their water source, such as colorful rocks or flowers and things of that nature.

The subspecies of naiads are:

Lacuae (lake nymphs)

Pegaeae (spring nymphs

Fluminae (river nymphs)

Naiads are a curious case. Unlike land nymphs, they cannot be killed by any means. Instead, they will spawn, live as long as they like, and then once they're done they will dissolve into the water from whence they came, and another naiad will spawn and the cycle will start anew.

There will never be more than one naiad at a time from one water source, and we have yet to discover any nymphs born from the ocean.

Underworld Nymphs

Underworld nymphs have only been said to exist by the precious few undead who are willing to discuss such matters. They are not proven to be anything more than the dreams of a dying mind, and thus I will not be including them in this text no matter how much my editor begs me to.

If you wish to research them, there are a number of scholarly texts that hotly debate their existence, role in the Underworld, origin, and quite literally every little thing about them.

Vagari

Whatever Vagari may be, they almost certainly aren't nymphs. Some say that they are the children stolen away by fairies, others say that they are the tormented souls of lost travelers. All that can concretely be proven about them is that they can be seen wandering the woods, wearing clothes made out of animal skins and leaves, and wearing a mask in the shape of an animal's head.

I write about them in this text solely because we are just uncertain enough of their true nature that they could, possibly, be some form of nymph.

And with that, this text comes to a close. I hope this will serve you well wherever you may be, and always remember: if you should meet a nymph, treat them and their source with respect, never forget that they are as wild as the earth that formed them, and don't get too attached to any objects they may see in your possession. Or just run. That would work as well.

[hana-bobo-finch]

JUST FINISHED MY STUPID LITTLE PDBC COMIC 🦅🦅🔥🔥🔥 it’ll be scheduled to post on the 13th because the comic is about the briar zome and if you remember The Lore™️, the briar zome can only be accessed on Friday the 13ths so I figured it’d be fitting to post it then been if it means delaying it a bit (wasn’t actually planned that way, it just so happened that the week I finished it was the same week as a Friday the 13th, lucky coincidence)

[dangerliesbeforeyou]

ok soim gonna ramble about the wedding in the tags cos this is my diary lol kitty dont read this (she's not been on tumblr in ages it should b fine pfft)