#minor gore mention

[residents-of-the-darkforest]

Dark Forest Resident: Cherrytail 

Aliases / Nicknames: N/A

Gender: she-cat

Sexuality: heterosexual

Family: Myrtleeyes (mother), Icewing (”mother”), Gloomface (father), Hollykit, Foxkit (sisters), Flakekit, Thistlekit, Featherkit (brothers), Deadpaw, Firepaw (cousins), Splotchshade (mate), Rustlingpaw, Vanquitawhistle (daughters)

Other Relations: Plumstep (mentor), Duskpaw (apprentice)

Clan: Skyclan, Thunderclan

Rank: medicine cat

Characteristics: raised by Icewing, who stirred the belief that Twolegs were evil

Number of Victims: 2 (cats, indirectly), 300 (humans)

Number of Murders: 2 (cats, indirectly), 1-300 (humans)

Murder Method: poisoning, neglecting to heal

Known Victims: Vanquitawhistle, Frondpaw

Victim Profile: deformed cats, Twolegs

Cause of Death: shot by hunter

Cautionary Tale: ??

Story:

A warm, New-leaf wind had blown through the nursery of Skyclan, welcoming the six new kits into the world. 

There, one of the most distinct victims of Icewing's kidnapping schemes were born, a deaf white kit. For now, as she opened her eyes for the first time, her biological mother was there.

For the first two moons of her life, Cherrykit lived with Skyclan and was with her real family. That was until one day when it was storming. A strange cat that smelled of evergreen leaves broke into the heart of camp and snatched the six kits away. 

She was taken into Thunderclan, them blissfully unaware of what deed Icewing had done. Raised by the she-cat who kidnapped her, Cherrykit was taught that Twolegs were a menace to the Clans--the exact personification of the Dark Forest. For the next moon, Cherrykit and her siblings lived in a quite, peaceful, but emotionally toxic environment. 

Within a week, a pack of foxes rampaged through Thunderclan’s camp. Within a blink of an eye, they barged into the nursery one day and attacked the kits, mauling four of them to death. Featherkit barely survived the attack, and was limping when a fox couple expecting kits saw him and mistook him for a fox kit, thus taking him in. 

Cherrykit, however, survived with some scratches on the ears, and when she turned five moons, supressed the whole ordeal to the point of forgetting it entirely. 

Icewing still kept the tiny kit, more obsessive over the her now that the others were gone. She learned from a young age that she wanted to become a medicine cat, so she became one at six moons. 

While looking for herbs, Cherrypaw encountered Bodyless Umberpaw, who was nearing her warrior ceremony. She had hissed and told her that Icewing wasn't even her mother, and that Icewing loved Cherrypaw more. This enraged Umberpaw, who knew that Icewing was in fact, her mother. 

The two stormed away. Later, Cherrypaw aced her apprenticeship and became a medicine cat very quickly, but some cats saw this quick rise to power as a bad omen that Cherrytail would cause pain and grief to her Clan, others shrugging this idea off. 

When Icewing was promoted to deputy, she told Cherrytail the whole ordeal with the Twolegs who took her and spayed her. Cherrytail agreed and promised to help Icewing with her revenge on Twolegs. She started by crushing deathberries and throwing the crushed seeds into the sewers, where many were poisoned. Many Twolegs were killed, most of them elderly patients and people who relied on tap water, and many had been harmed by the poisoning. It had gotten so bad that the issue was brought up by the governor of the town via T.V, who explained that scientists would be working to find the cause.

Cherrytail had relished in delight as she heard of the elderly dropping like flies and bathed in petty revenge served as their families mourned for them. She reported her success towards Icewing, who congratulated her for the vile murders. Soon the scientists found out that deathberries--or what they call yew berries--were used to poison the water. 

Before this discovery, Icewing took the two twoleg kits and left them for dead, but was attacked by Rowdy the pitbull. Cherrytail and Plumstep saved the she-cat's life. 

While the water was still contaminated, Plumstep was getting a tap water from one of the victims who was killed, who was a father to one. When she got home, Plumstep met her demise from its affects. Cherrytail had tried to save her, but to no avail. 

Cherrytail mourned her mentor's passing by holding a vigil for her. But tragedy wasn't over for her yet. Maybe as a form of justice on her, Icewing was killed by Umberfrost in a simple border skirmish. She mourned for the only mother she knew and was raised by. 

But through her grief, when Buzzardfoot became deputy, she stood by his side, even when he declared unnecessary wars on Bloodclan as a leader, or when he appointed Duskpaw as her apprentice.

During the battles, Cherrytail tried her best to save Moonpaw and Spottedpaw, but she didn't even dare to work on Frondpaw, seeing no hope for the she-cat with a broken jaw. But Duskpaw saved the she-cat's life, seeing something better in her wounds. 

Cherrytail mourned for Moonpaw and Spottedpaw, who succummed to their wounds, and ignored Frondpaw even to the point where she didn't even attend her warrior ceremony. 

Splotchshade became her mate soon after, and she had two kits with him, Rustlingkit and Frecklekit. She had the perfect family. However, when Specklekit lost her lower jaw and broke her neck in an incident, Cherrytail began to dislike her and renamed her Monsterkit. 

Monsterkit was broken by this and ran away before she turned six moons. There she lived with Warriorclan, calling herself Vanquitawhistle, after how rare it was for someone like her to be the way she was now. Rustlingpaw looked for her sister one moon later, only to get killed by a falling tree.

Cherrytail mourned for her daughter, and vowed to poison the Twolegs' water yet again to avenge Rustlingpaw. So she did, and less, about half less, people were killed by the infected water, as not many people used tap water after what happened the first time. 

Three moons after that, she saw the decapitated Buzzardstar's corpse with his head nearby. Fuming, she stormed off to her den to grab more deathberries, before heading off for, what she didn't know, was her failed last attempt at infecting the water of the town. 

A young hunter mistook her for a deer and shot her. 

Additional Information:

--Submission by @themainblogofsp20​

--Age:  6 moons younger than Buzzardstar. She was 44 moons at death

--Base: https://images.app.goo.gl/PmThcdUFWjPWCur86

--Reading Ice’s submission may understand the full story.

[bunnieswithknives]

Gore, Violence and Blood under the cut

What a mess

[garroth-is-done]

Thinking about shadow knights again:

I love the concept that sks aren’t even vaguely human looking in their true form. And I don’t mean this in a “they are animals/creatures” way or in a “they’re just Minecraft nether mobs” way, but in a “they look like analogue horror monsters and actually behave like them too” way.

Ya know, the stretched out limbs, smiles too wide to be natural, claw-like fingers, horrific death rattle breathing sounds; the absolute works of analogue horror. Even in human form the look kinda off too; their eyes are open a bit too wide, their teeth just a bit too sharp.

Behavior wise, if you piss them off bad enough they start to work like the alternates from the mandala catalog. They take the form of someone the person who made them angry loves and they hunt them down in their own home. They leave gory messes behind, not even bothering to try and cover up what they did. You know someone was killed by an sk by the fact that they’re nothing more than a blood splatter on the floor, crushed bones and a bit of gray matter all that is left of them.

Idk, just shadow knights being absolutely terrifying horror monsters instead of just a bunch of knights in red and black armor like some 12 year olds edge deviantart oc

[hemipenal-system]

Ok so that one post with the room sized computer girls sent a spark in my brain. There would be a team of like scavengers that stumble across a derelict frigate of some sort and break in. They would slowly be separated and lose comms with each other, all while enshrouded by the feeling of being watched. The scavengers could follow a trail of dripped blood (bc what could go wrong :3) and she finds the AI processing room. Inside there would be a slumped body looking at you with crimson eyes. She would have wires and cables all connected from her directly into the computers; but it wouldn't be clean it would look crude and rushed and not surgical at all.

And then she would beckon her with a finger to come and join her in a tangle of copper and flesh.

Fuck there's something so hot about melding your sentience with another being, understanding them so much more than even a lover could. Give me robot girls that want to assimilate me

oh, yeah, this is immaculate. for best results you should listen to this while reading this one

walking down the hall, slipping past rusty, overgrown paneling and stepping over shattered floor tiles, forcing the door at the end open with a crowbar, and everything is running. reel tapes spin, relays click and clatter, lights flicker at you in a symphony of ancient machines doing their best to process everything

and in the middle of the room there's a medical chair with someone slumped in it. the back of her neck is torn open, the skin giving way to metal ports installed with immaculate precision but no respect for the vessel's previous form, and connected into the machines by a bundle of cabling as thick as your arm that runs along the floor off into the seemingly infinite darkness

and the computers speed up as she raises her head to look at you, and when she opens her mouth to talk to you her voice comes from the speakers mounted above the door because they had to remove her vocal cords when they fixed her. they were in the way. just a routine operation.

and her body clicks as she crosses the room towards you, skin taut over industrial joints, voice crackling as she tells you that you're more than safe – you're blessed, because she'll rebuild you too!

as she kisses you, the mechanical tendrils latch around your arms and legs, spreading them wide, sharp blades tearing your clothes away, leaving your skin exposed, so pink and warm. she remembers when she was warm like you are.

you're so preoccupied with her kissing down your body and resting her clammy fingers against your thigh, looking up at you with the glinting dark camera lenses that replaced her eyes and whining with her mouth full because she's so happy to not be lonely anymore, you barely even feel it when the circular saw slices the back of your neck open and the tiny surgical arms weave wires into your brain stem.

when you spray down her throat, the computer records your brain waves onto a tape. you can experience this again whenever you like now, at whatever speed you want. hell, you can just do it again. you'll be with her forever, or at least until your relays burn out and your cabling begins to fray.

[paingoes]

Crash Out

Killjoy

(Content: drugs, noncon touching, physical violence, minor gore, allusions to past abuse)

The constant attempts on their life did not get in the way of partying. Music venues were a built-in part of the map Lorelai had constructed. She was still the one guiding their course. Even if she hadn’t been, Paris wouldn’t have objected. He needed somewhere to pick up from — and he felt less and less comfortable with the alleyway rendezvouses. They arrived at the function, outfits hastily assembled from the capsule they’d been living out of. Under the DayGlo light, it all looked the same.

In the crowded warehouse, they could enter and exit each other orbits easily; some invisible line existed to tether them. Lorelai hung at his side for a moment, clinging to his arm She pointed to something in the crowd, stood up on her tiptoes to speak into his ear. The music mostly drowned it out.

All he heard was “friends” and “middle school”. Nothing could have held his interested less. He nodded, pushing her gently in their direction. She disappeared again. He had his own mission there anyway — seeing how much free shit he could score by pretended he’d never heard of drugs. Everyone was so eager to be someone else’s first time. He found that he was enjoying parties a lot more when nobody there knew who he was. They’d believe anything the way he said it.

He was explaining to some stoners how he’d been born in a scorpions nest when the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He twisted around. The air in the room had become charged. It was the exact sensation that came when Delta’s collar clicked off — the impulse of overgrown psychic energy. He had only ever felt it in the seconds before cataclysm. His body reacted out of habit, anticipating the whole scene to be rendered into wreckage. But the feeling lingered without striking.

He knew intuitively that she was the source of it. She didn’t look any different than the others there, maybe a bit more muscular, a touch older. She wore fishnets over her legs and arms, just beneath the thin neon of her crop top and shorts. Her midriff was exposed; there was a bone piercing right through her belly button. Two long braids — pink and purple — went down her back and all the way to her knees. She danced carelessly, unbothered, bouncing up and down in between the clusters of people. 

Psychics weren’t that uncommon, but it was getting increasingly rare to see them walking around unfettered. All the higher level ones were getting snatched up for the war effort. The smart ones had made efforts to mask. Her aura wasn’t as overpowering as Delta’s had been — nothing was — but he could tell it wasn’t weak. Still, nobody else seemed to notice. He figured repeated exposure had just made him sensitive to it.

He went back to lying to the stoners, trying to ignore the deep instinct that told him to take cover. He got bored of them, taking the one-hitter they’d given him and moving on to find some new victim. In his drugged state, he almost forgot about her, his body gradually adapting to the sensation until he couldn’t feel it anymore. Then it returned all at once.

“Hey, cutie.” She grinned. He had been leaning back against the wall with his eyes to the crowd and still had not seen her approach until she was right in front of him. She leaned eagerly towards him, playfully running her hand along the purple plait of her hair. She was shorter up close than she’d appeared to be from across the room. There was pale makeup on her face, covered up with brighter hues. She looked like a clown.

Slowed down some by the high, he did not immediately pull away when she slipped closed. Her hands ran over his shoulders and along his chest. He gave her an unamused look. She had to be fucked up. To be fair, he was too.

“My name is Johanna,” she said it as if it was supposed to mean something to him. She didn’t stop touching. Hooking just his thumbs around her wrists, he pushed her hands off. She was undeterred, letting them hang limply in his grasp. “What’s yours?”

“Not interested.” He said.

“Ha! Ha ha. Ha. That’s a weird name.” Johanna winked. Her fingers brushed against the back of his hands, all curled up and poised like insect legs. 

“Can you leave me the fuck alone?” He was visibly uncomfortable. He was certain if he let go of her wrists, she’d try to feel up his chest again. It was fucking annoying. She had to be cracked.

She laughed. It was a low, wheezing sound. Her head rolled like it was about to come off her neck.

“You’re not the brightest, are you, Your Highness?”

Paris closed his grip around her wrists, immediately switching their positions so that it was her back to the wall. He pinned her arms above her head in a swift and practiced motion.

“Don’t. You won’t like how it ends.” He promised her.

She smiled as if in a daze.

It was his fault. He’d leaned in too close. She took advantage, headbutting him hard.

If his nose wasn’t broken before, it was now. He instinctively clutched at it. She took the opportunity to free her hands and shoved him backwards.

He was quicker this time than he had been, ready to brace against it. Her next hits fell ineffectively against the cage of his arms, missing his face. He swung at her just as she bent her torso backwards and drove her leg into his side. It was such an unnatural motion that he’d not been able to ward against it. He felt the full blow. She caught his outstretched wrist, trying to use the momentum against him, but it wasn’t a perfect maneuver. They both ended up on the floor with no clear advantage one way or the over. 

He drove his fist into the side of her face. She laughed stupidly, eating the punch. She crawled back up, almost quadrupedal in her movements. She punched him back. He didn’t take it well; he was already bloodied. His knee landed up into the tender spot of her ribs. She laughed again. Even over the music, he could hear it was pained. He kicked her further back. She caught his ankle.

Lorelai suddenly appeared, all hurry-scurry. She was trying to separate them as if it was a bar fight, almost like she’d been expecting it. He didn’t have time to be offended. In spite of the fight response that’d been triggered in him, he had the restraint to not strike out in her direction. Johanna didn’t. She seemed both annoyed and amused at the intrusion, like a good joke at a bad time. Just as Paris was getting to his feet, she swept Lorry’s leg out from under her, her grin enormous. She yelped in surprise, landing hard on her hip. Johanna made as if to stand and nearly got there.

He drew the sword on her. It didn’t matter that she was unarmed. She was an off leash psychic. He wasn’t about to play around with that. He swung it down, leaving a bright red slash along her torso. She fell back into the wall.

Screams, immediately. They’d been there before, but they only got louder after that. Johanna had seen him draw the sword, but she stared back at him with a dumbstruck expression, like she hadn’t expected him to actually use it. Lorelai shared in her surprise. He realized her scream had been among the many. Way to crash the party.

He pulled Lorelai off of the ground, making for the exit. His head was a mess of chemicals. Too easy. Too easy. He pushed the barn doors open, stepping out into the cool night air. Too easy. He walked further out into the night, far away from the warehouse. She’d been a psychic, but she hadn’t fought like one. She only used her body. It had almost been a bar fight. Why hadn’t she done anything else? What the fuck just happened? Who the fuck even was that?

“Paris, let go!” Lorelai’s voice cut through his thoughts with sudden urgency.

He looked down to find he’d grabbed her wrist instead of her hand.

He dropped it.

“You fucking stabbed her?” Lorelai screamed.

“Slashed,” he corrected, blinking back to reality, “She was a bounty hunter. She’ll survive.”

It surprised him how level his voice was. He didn’t feel it.

From the other side of the field, the barn doors creaked open. The music poured out from inside, then faded away as it was slammed back shut. He whipped around, anticipating some security force. The mafia, if they were really unlucky. But they could both make out her silhouette even in the dark night. Blood poured off her body in rivulets. She was walking again. She was supposed to live, she wasn’t supposed to walk.

“Get in.” Paris said, not taking his eyes off the approaching form. Lorelai scrambled up into the ship, slamming her keys in the ignition. The ship’s lights flooded the plain and the figure came into full resolution. 

She smiled. Beneath the slash in her shirt and along her midriff, the gore glistened and glowed. It moved all on its own. He watched as the strands of flesh crawled over the gap he had left inside. Her skin methodically stitched itself back up. She smiled wider as their eyes met.

Lorelai’s hand found his collar, roughly tugging him into motion. He was sure he wouldn’t have been able to move if she hadn’t. He climbed up into the passenger seat. The ship rocked from how hard he slammed the door shut.

But Johanna wasn’t moving with any urgency, not before or after the ship was in motion. He could still see her slow and deliberate approach even as they pulled away. She extended her left arm up. It shifted the flesh of her torso, disrupting the healing process. It must have been worth it to her. She waved them goodbye very cheerfully. Her smile didn’t falter for a second.

…….

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper

[page-2-ids]

ID: Two flags with seven vertical stripes each, all the same size. The first is, from left to right, indigo, sky blue, cyan, white, light red, washed-out darkish magenta, and washed-out dark pink-violet. The second is purple, dusty fuchsia, peach, white, light red, washed-out darkish magenta, and washed-out dark pink-violet. END ID

Mascgurian: A masculine gender related to guro

Femgurian: A feminine gender related to guro

The colors are a mix of common ones in masc/fem and guro gender flags

Mascgurian is for @rottingoleander! Femgurian was to complete the set

[summerfireworksandmycorpse]

OOC - Art of Satsuki’s death

[atherflame-theconcubus]

Churchy made a rash decision to confront the big SolarMoon shippers about the shipper anons who have been harassing Blue and Atlas, and they immediately turned it on her and made her out to be the bad guy. Then Lux tried to have a calm rational discussion and Dana, Twin, Witchy, and I believe Alex as well, immediately started lying and saying he’s harassing them and started a smear campaign. They even screenshotted a post where he was very clearly talking about the gore anons and claimed he was talking about them.

Oh. So the person who sides with pro shippers, and the one who pretended to not block to send her fans to harass someone and two other blogs that I didn’t know exist till now decided to start harassing and weapon Ing their followers. God, I’m glad I stopped following Ninja.

If I’m gonna be honest, I kind of hope that someone shows the harassment. These guys are throwing at others to the people behind the security breach shows because I don’t think it’s a good idea to have someone who will blockade and send their followers to harass others as a thumbnail artist for a channel. It’s definitely make the channels look worse.

[blackwood-library]

I. Think I should start seeing a psychiatrist.

I just got sent home from work. There’s a bit of a story behind this one. Or. Less a story, but it’s. Weird?

I was prepping some veggies for one of our big batches of stock at the restaurant I work in. Nothing big, or strenuous. Just. Methodical chopping of carrots and onions. I just started to zone out or something, I think, but the next thing I know I’m staring at my cutting board and it’s just- it’s covered in blood, and in the center of it was a beating human heart, staked down to it with my knife.

I think I just stared at it for a minute? Because the next thing I know one of our other prep cooks is grabbing my hand and taking me to the sink to make sure nothing got in the cut in my palm.

I don’t know what happened, or why- I think I was daydreaming? Or hallucinating? It was weird.

My hand is ok! Though! No trip to A&E for me.

[purgatory-is-life]

Mechtober prompt 22/day 22-immortality

i keep putting marius through the horrors and i probably won't stop. i swear i love him he's just so easy to make angst of.

@mechtober-2024

Uncertainty and Immortality - Reality666Rift999 - The Mechanisms (Band) [Archive of Our Own]

tw; temporary character death, character death, mentioned/implied violence, Out angst, some minor suicidal ideation, implied/mentioned gun violence, blood, gore, a bit of eldritch horror, probably more than that, please let me know what i need to add!

----

Marius didn’t necessarily know if he believed in immortality.

Of course, the Mechanisms were probably immortal–they died-revived-died all the time. They killed-revived-killed each other all the time. They had forgotten Brian in a star for a century, and he was mostly fine—after a while. Marius had died so many times, had died to become Marius. How could he not believe in immortality? It’d been thousands of years since he’d gotten his arm. Probably more, probably much longer.

But he didn’t necessarily know if he believed in immortality.

Of course, the Music explained to him in sweet symphonies and gentle decrescendos and brassy tunes, over and over again– he was here forever. Always to be its voice box, always to play along. And if he leaves? He would only join the cacophonous chorus, his violin joining all those before him that had been cursed. But the Music didn’t want him to join just yet, as much as it could want anything, and so he was here forever.

But the Music lies.

It always had, and always would.

Marius thinks that’s where he got it from, where every other sentence a falsehood came so naturally from. Marius is the Music’s most recent Voice, and the Music lies, and so Marius lies. Just like the rest of the Crew, he spoke in songs and lyrics and stories, concocted and written out to be nothing but that– a story. True or false, who’s to say at this point. The Music lies, and so Marius lies.

And Marius was pretty sure the Music lied about the Mechanisms living forever.

Whenever one of the Crew died, there was always a spark of anxiety, a spark of fear as that oh-so familiar Song played quietly in his mind, that feeling of, Oh, they’re not going to wake up this time, are they? But they always do. They always wake up, and the Song fades, and everyone goes about their business, and Marius forgets the feeling until the next time.

It’s always different when he’s the one who dies, even though the Song doesn’t change. It’s more of a feeling of, They won’t have to deal with me anymore. Maybe I can rest. And yet he always wakes up. It’s less of a fear, more of a quiet hope. Sometimes he does remember to be afraid, he remembers to worry–will his friends miss him? His friends still needed him, he still needed his friends–

And then he wakes up, and everything goes back to normal. The keening Song fades once again.

That’s just how they worked, they died-killed-died-revived all the time as if it was second nature. Perhaps it was, at this point. They shot just as quickly as they gave kind smiles. Jonny shot more than he gave any sign of kindness, really.

The killed-died-revived so frequently, that eventually the fear and Song just became background noise. He still tried to avoid it, still pushed it down and ignored it when he could, but it kind of just became a fact of his seemingly never-ending life. Every time he or one of the other Mechanisms died, there’d be a little seed of doubt in his mind about whether or not they’d wake up. They always did. It wore on them, Marius could see it so clearly, in their aimless destruction and heavy shoulders and tired eyes. But Marius was always grateful when they woke up. I’m not ready yet, he’d think, for them to disappear. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready, constantly dreading the day their mechanisms finally gave out and they’d die for real. Always afraid, always hesitant to harm because what if it didn’t heal.

He was still much quicker to harm than any average mortal, he still did his fair share of killing and maiming of the Crew–especially when they stole his kneecaps. A little revenge never hurt anyone for too long. Much better than getting Lost in the Music on purpose and wandering the ship with his mournful violin, as that often only led to his kneecaps being stolen again. And getting Lost was never a pleasant feeling.

He still hovered, though, especially when it was their mechanisms that had taken damage. None of the others liked him poking at their mechanisms, despite the fact that he was probably more qualified to work on them than he was on the fleshy bits. To be fair, they didn’t exactly like Raphaella messing with their mechanisms either– Jonny was the most common culprit, but many times the others liked to avoid maintenance as much as possible. Marius never pushed though, it’s not like he didn’t understand. He only let Raph work on his arm every once in a while, preferring to do maintenance himself. (The Music lies like it is the most natural thing to do, every note misread and every string misplaced, but Marius did not want to risk its warnings of what could happen should Raph or one of the others be faced with Marius’s mechanism maintenance. The Music did not like to be Seen, after all. Only heard.)

But whenever their mechanisms were damaged, he hovered off to the side until it was fixed–manually or by their healing factors. Just so that he could be sure that they were alright, that they’d get up again soon. He tried his best not to be clingy, usually, tried his best to avoid taking up too much space around them or invading their personal space when it wasn’t welcome, but his anxiety was never quelled until he saw that they were okay, and that they were going to be alright.

Marius, admittedly, was not a person who enjoyed uncertainty. He was almost sure the doubt of ‘true’ immortality was what made him scared more than anything, the possibility of losing one of the others suddenly and without reason.

And of course, that is what happened, when Nastya went Out.

He and Nastya weren’t especially close, Nastya spending more of her time hiding away in the depths of the Aurora and doing whatever-it-was she did as an engineer and as Aurora’s girlfriend. She only ever showed up for meal times or for Crew Night and concerts, or during the occasional crew-wide tea party hosted by The Toy Soldier. She tended to disappear whenever they were planetside, her own wanted posters popping up without fanfare or loud explosions like Tim or Jonny or Ashes. And besides, half the time planetside, Nastya rarely left the Aurora.

But that changed one day, out in deep space.

And she left, disappearing.

Possibly forever.

Something changed among the Mechanisms, there was a loss that felt… Well, it felt final and it was strange.

Marius found himself hovering more, clinging even though he tried not to. Worrying, heart racing, every time someone died. That fear that had become background noise was almost always present and in the forefront.

One day, while staying in the cockpit with Brian, the brass pilot said quietly, “She’s probably cold out there. It was so cold…”

His voice was tinny and distant, and Aurora creaked sadly in response.

“I hope she’s not cold… I hope we find her soon…”

Marius didn’t say anything, remaining silent. Just climbed into Brian’s lap and purred till the both of them fell asleep.

Marius did not like being uncertain.

Perhaps that was why he latched onto Lyf so strongly.

They were temporary, and it was a guarantee that they were temporary. The system was doomed, crushing Songs and endless Noise and it was fragile and temporary, so very temporary. Obviously, going into something and knowing it won’t last for-probably-forever made it easy to not get attached…

One would think.

But Marius fell fast, and when he fell he fell hard. Always had, probably always would. What started as teasing and making fun of the inspector in charge of the three of them eventually turned into something a bit softer, something a bit–perhaps not kinder, but gentler. Something a bit more akin to care, as close to care as one could get with the Mechanisms.

And then the train arrived, and he and Ivy and Raph left, and Lyf was gone.

And it hurt.

It was awful and Marius could barely think past the pain in his heart and the Songs screaming from the remains of Yggdrasil, but it was expected. He could bury his grief and fear with more, different grief.

And then they returned, Lyfrassir managed to escape somehow and they were back. And they somehow managed to return to Marius’s life, even though they hated him. He didn’t mind, hating him was fine. He couldn’t force Lyf to feel anything. He was content to just appreciate that they were there.

Of course, though, they were still temporary. They were still definitely going to die one day, and maybe it was odd that he found a sense of comfort in that. Maybe it was wrong. But it was true, and that was comforting to Marius. Because it was expected that he’d lose them, that they’d disappear. He didn’t have to deal with that aching fear as much, that feeling of They won’t get up, this is it our luck’s run out, because when they died there’d be no reason for them to get up and start walking.

That didn’t stop the pain when they did die, though. That aching, familiar fear creeping in.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, after all. This wasn’t how they were supposed to die. They weren’t supposed to die by a bullet to the head, a bullet probably meant for Jonny as he was only a few meters behind them and had done significantly more to anger the people on this planet– they were supposed to die old and withered when Marius was ready. When he could actually look death and eternity head on and say ‘I’m not afraid’. They weren’t supposed to die only a few short years after joining them, after starting to travel with them.

And then… Well, perhaps, the most unexpected thing happened.

Lyf’s dark blue blood that was starting to stain Aurora’s silver floor started glimmering and glowing, turning into a prismatic array of rainbow hues.

Lyfrassir’s glassy eyes widened, and their voice was pulled from their throat without them having to speak.

Y’ai ‘ng’ngah Yog Sothoth hee-l’gleb f’ai throdog

Uaah ogthrod ai’f geb’lee-ee’h Yog Sothoth ‘ngah’ng ai’y zhro

The rainbow blood rose off the floor, the staticky colors making it hard to look at without gaining a headache but Marius couldn’t force himself to turn away as the blood stitched, slowly, painfully, stitched the wound in Lyf’s head closed, the reality warping as the wound disappeared, as if it never existed.

The iridescent blood seemed to stain Lyf’s pretty silver hair, colors seeping into their locks from their roots, most prominent and most vibrant where their hair was already stained with blood. But the blood was disappearing into nothingness but heat auras and steam around Lyf’s forehead quickly, a light returning to Lyfrassir’s eyes.

The wound seemed to stop existing as it was restitched by Lyf’s blood.

What was Marius so concerned about again? Why was Lyf on the floor?

Lyfrassir blinked, sitting up. Their white pupils had taken on a slightly iridescent hue, their hair seemed to move on its own, like there was wind on Aurora that there shouldn’t be. Splotches of their braids and their roots were stained with that same slightly iridescent hue. They looked around at the Mechanisms, who were staring at them with various looks of horror or concern.

“Wh… What happened?” Their voice was hoarse, like they hadn’t spoken for a while.

“I-” Brian was the one who spoke up, voice cracking as he did so, “I think you died.”

“I…” Lyfrassir’s eyes widened almost comically. “I died?”

“And then you came back,” Raphaella agreed. There was likely more said, Marius could see Lyfrassir’s mouth move as they talked, could see Jonny waving his arms as his tail swished and flicked angrily while he paced, could see Tim fiddle with xyr gun and Ivy snapping and Raph’s wings fluttering and Lyf grabbing their hair and Brian wringing his hands– there was likely more said.

All Marius could hear was the symphony screaming and shouting over itself, a Song oh-so familiar to Odin’s Void and the Bifrost’s whippoorwill call.

Lyfrassir disappeared into their room for a few months, and no one did anything to try and coerce them out.

Marius could barely be around them, the screaming Void and Whippoorwills and yelling symphony overwhelming him, only serving to get him Lost.

Marius didn’t know if he believed in immortality, the Music lies and Marius was sure one day their mechanisms would give out and wouldn’t heal anymore.

Whenever Lyf exited their room, they were disgruntled and their braids looked rougher than it ever had in all the time Marius knew them. Their hair was still stained with rainbows and their eyes still shined with opalescent colors, but the keening Void and keening Whippoorwills had calmed down, simply matching their usual background noise.

Marius approached them, after that.

“I think I’m glad you’re not Temporary,” he admitted. “But it scares me more than I’m glad.”

Lyfrassir replied with a confused ‘thank you’. They didn’t look at him. “I didn’t want this, when I escaped. I just wanted to live, but not like this.”

“You didn’t deserve to be Taken by something like our Music. But it probably only let you escape on purpose, for this.”

There was a moment of silence. “I think eternity is a long time. I don’t want to live forever.”

“I’m not certain we will. But at least we’re here, for however long ‘forever’ really is.”

After that, things returned to mostly-normal. It was strange, and everything was different, but it was like nothing had changed, in a way.

Marius just had one more person to hover over, whenever they were injured and whenever they got killed. To make sure that they lived, that they came back.

Marius just had one more person to fear losing.

Marius really hated the uncertainty of immortality. Marius really hated how scared it made him.

But it was something he was going to have to live with probably-forever.

Hopefully Nastya was somewhere warm.

[garroth-is-done]

Zenix J. Argos, Aged 14.

Spiritual age: 1,014

Pre-Shadow Knight Turning:

A quiet and subdued 14 year old freshman at Phoenix Drop High School. No one has ever heard him speak, and he hides from most people. He quickly fell in with the local small time gang “The Shadow Knights”, named after the undead knights of the 2nd Ireneian Era; where he quickly became agressive both verbally and physically. He is known for his wide-eyed thousand yard stare and how he seems to look right through people. He’s unnerving at the best of times, and down right scary at the worst.

He wears the usual boys school uniform (plain white button up, sky blue tie, khakis), accompanied by an extremely oversized school branded hoodie. His shoes are out of dress code, a pair of beat up old red high top converse that have seen better days and look a few sizes too small for the boy. Irene… his eyes are so fucking creepy…

Post-Shadow Knight Turning:

A violent and angry teenager. He’s prone to beating up and physically attacking other students, even those much older than him. No one willingly fights him; even the werewolf students back down and tuck their tails in an effort to avoid conflict. He can beat anyone in a fight, no matter how much stronger they look.

After the week the Shadow Knights were missing he looked much different from the timid and aggressive boy he had once been. His school uniform was now at least two sizes too small, showing off his grotesquely thin body; almost skeletal in nature. His skin and hair became darker; his eyes becoming almost red in color. There’s self harm scars on almost every inch of his body in various states of healing. He tries his best (which is not very well) to cover the ones on his arms with rubber bracelets, but it doesn’t work. His stare is now almost a thousand times worse. When before he was unnerving, he’s now down right terrifying to look at. Don’t engage with him, it’ll only end violently.

Shadow Knight Form:

The most aggressive of the local cryptids that have shown up in Phoenix Drop. Do. Not. Approach. It can and will attack you if given the opportunity to do so. It roams around the red light district of downtown Phoenix Drop; and it is not recommended to be out past sunset there. A curfew is in place for sundown each day, with an explicit warning that if you encounter this entity you agree that you are taking your own life in your hands and the city cannot be held accountable for serious injury or death. It is currently named and referred to in media as “The Prowler”.

Its armor consists of a black human rib cage in place of a chest plate, a piece of armor that looks akin to a human pelvic bone, and robotic looking arm and leg coverings. It has long, razor-like claws; and a glowing red void in its stomach that has been witnessed to transform into a second mouth with long black tentacles that are used to capture and devour prey. Its skin is dark gray in color, with glowing red eyes. There appears to be a black, almost bile-like substance foaming from its mouth. DO NOT ENGAGE UNDER RISK OF DEATH. IT WILL NOT LEAVE YOU ALIVE. DO NOT ENGAGE. THERE WILL BE NOTHING LEFT OF YOU.

(Part 4 of the “They Aren’t A Myth” AU)

[3-2-whump]

About the Author, or Adoption Trauma and Whump

Hi dear readers, this is 32W. Author, casual artist, and transnational adoptee, and as we reach the 28th anniversary of my adoption, I’m here to talk about adoption trauma and how it relates to whump.

TW/CW: adoption trauma, geopolitics, religious trauma (briefly mentioned/implied), gaslighting (briefly mentioned), objectification (briefly mentioned, sexual acts against a minor (briefly mentioned), metaphorical light gore

NOTE: The experiences of 32W with adoption are their experiences alone and cannot nor should be representative of every adoptees’ experiences. I love the people I call my parents, and I will always see them as such, but that does not change the basic facts that I will lay out below. This author also does not claim to be a geopolitical expert, nor a communist party expert, nor a Chinese spy -my god, I can’t believe I think I need to write that! Reader Discretion is advised.

I have been writing whump stories since my high school days back in 2010, and I have been writing pretty much the same story on and off for the past fourteen years. The names have changed, the faces have sort of changed, and the contexts have varied widely depending on what genre I had a phase in at that time, but a few core elements stayed the same:

Loss of culture

Loss of family

Loss of country

Loss of mother tongue

Forcibly living with someone who, though they could be worse, is still being forced to live with someone

Forced assimilation

Objectification

Losing trust in someone you trusted, respected, and loved

And while I have been writing whump with these themes for the past fourteen years, it only just occurred to me a couple months ago that all of those elements are also present in my personal experience with adoption. Basically, I process my adoption trauma through whump.

My parents wanted a baby. They wanted a baby after they had finally gotten my brothers out from underfoot, those problematic and troubled young men who are now strangers to me. My parents wanted a baby, preferably from another country, because of a recent court case in which the birth mother won back custody of her blood child and broke the adoptive parents’ hearts, so they wanted a baby from a place far away, where the chances of that happening were basically zero.

My parents wanted a baby.

And they got one.

From 1980 to 2016, the Chinese Communist Party implemented the One Child Policy in order to curb their country’s ever-climbing population. Consequentially, for many rural, agricultural, and often traditionalist families, this meant prioritizing sons over daughters, and thus hundreds of thousands of children ��mostly girls- were scattered like stars, eventually landing in the arms of the richer, affluent Western countries. Though our circumstances of “abandonment” varied, we were all dispersed across the globe, unwilling, unaware, and now with different names and with parents that looked nothing like us.

Some of us ended up in good homes. I know I certainly did. My parents adored me, and I loved (still love?) them. They were a little weird sometimes, borderline objectifying me since I was a toddler and using religion to gaslight me into believing everything about our family situation was fine, but they also taught me about my culture, made me go to Chinese language school as a kid, and overall did their best. I’d like to think every kid, adopted or not, can say that about their parents. They did their best.

That said, this does not change the fact that they essentially bought me. This does not change the fact that I was forcibly separated from my home, my family, my culture. This does not change the fact that I have no official records and all but cease to exist until they got me. This does not change the fact that my birthday is a guess. This does not change the fact that they severed my tongue and stitched it back on, training it to speak their words, so that even after six years of Chinese school, I still cannot carry a conversation in what should be my natal tongue. That does not change the fact that I deliberately tried to lighten my skin with heavy makeup during the more cringe years of high school. That does not change the fact that my grandpa tried to molest me when I was eleven, and to this day, I am absolutely sure he never would’ve tried that shit with his blood grandchildren.

Their love and good intentions do change any of it.

So, I write whump to cope!

Please don’t feel sorry for me. I am not writing this for random internet strangers’ pity, I am just explaining rather graphically why I write the kind of whump that I write. Writing whump is cheaper than therapy. Exploring dark themes through fiction is a safe avenue for me to discover truths about myself that I did not even know before. And hopefully, my perspective may shed light on issues other adoptees may be facing that they did not have the words to express. And to those adoptees, I hear you, your feelings are valid, and my inbox is open if you want to talk. So, with that, I will conclude this essay, and promise you more good 32Whump content! Stay safe, yall!

[tempest-toss]

The Call - Decoy and Death

Thorn couldn't bring themself to ignore the plea for help, and with a sigh, began a detour. They trekked through the meadows, wading through tall grass as they made their way to the source of the plea for help.

As the pleas became progressively louder the sound of gurgling(?) could be heard. They stopped as a pit in their stomach formed. 20 feet ahead of them was a large tree. Thorn took out their flashlight and hesitated, ultimately turning the light up into the branches. The barely-clinging-to-life body of Penelope Lordes was there, her torn apart body trying desperately to keep breathing. Below her were two werewolves, feasting on what fell below. The two werewolves perked up at the light from Thorn's flashlight. Knowing they'd have one chance they chucked the flashlight at the left werewolf to stun it. The flashlight landed at an awkward angle, shining directly into the eyes of the other. Thorn took this chance to get out of there, and instead run straight to the Ruins.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Ruins were exactly like Sable had described them. They consisted a single temple made entirely out of cobble and granite, with plants overgrowing in every nook and cranny. Wolf statuettes and paintings were everywhere, however the weather and time had taken its toll, ruining everything.

In the central chamber were survivors. Gordon Muntz, both the Lawrences, Chip, and Slyvester.

"Thorn! You made it!" Slyvester cheered. Gordon scoffed as he saw Thorn. Thorn responded with a middle finger.

"I did. Where's the other relic? Sable's book said we needed it to stop all this."

"Gone." Chip replied. "Gordon destroyed it." Thorn turned to Gordon, fury in their eyes.

"I only did it because those FREAKS," Gordon gestured to the Lawrences, "Were going to perform a lesbian satanic ritual with it!"

"What did you call us!?" Della snapped, her bubbly personality finally popping. Gordon responded by pulling out a gun.

"I said... you FREAKS got us in this mess by your homosexual demons, and with you "WiFe" getting bit, I'll have to take matters into my own hands." Before anyone could say anything, Gordon aimed and fired a shot through Natasha's head. Natasha spluttered before her head fell down.

Della's scream at her wife being murdered felt like it could echo throughout the world. Gordon swore at Della for putting them in danger and reloaded his gun and aimed. Slyvester jumped forward and got in the way, the bullet piercing his heart.

"YOU MADE ME WASTE MY SILVER BULLETS YOUR FICKING IDIOT!" Gordon shouted.

And then, there was no more hate. A werewolf claw had rached around and hooked in his mouth, pulling off his jaw, which made a loud clacking noise as it hit the stone. Then his body was pulled out, he sounds of eager feasting in the air. This place wasn't safe. Thorn grabbed Chip and Della and they all ran out.

"Where can we go?" Chip asked, fear etched on his face with a grimace.

"There's a ranger tower along the path," Della responded.

"Then that's where we go next." Thorn answered. The trio hurried along the path, soon coming the base of the tower. The three began to climb the ladders, but halfway through Chip began to groan in pain.

"THORN, HURRY!" Della shouted through the wind that was picking up. Thorn hurried and soon made their way to the trapdoor of the tower, which they flung open and practically flew inside. They turned to help Della up. As Della was about to reach for Thorn, a werewolf Chip jumped up and landed on the ladder right under her. Thorn had only moments to decide what to do.

[animatedautism]

POV: ur Benrey seeing the aftermath of your not related found family trope brother eat your boyfriend's arm off

[page-2-ids]

[ID: A flag with seven horizontal stripes, the middle is twice the height of the others. The colors get lighter towards the middle and darker again towards the edges. The colors are, from top to bottom, dark violet, magenta, red salmon, pale tan, light green, teal, and washed-out blue. END ID]

Guroboy: A term for those who identify as a boy through guro in some way

The colors are inspired by flags for guro related and boy genders, as well as my associations with guro

No Suggested Pronouns

[industriallyinsecure]

Sorry if this is a loaded request, but I just had one of the worst nightmares of my life (and considering how horrible/frequent my nightmares usually are, that says a lot), and I've got like a document where I keep track of my worst nightmares. Could I request Ghiaccio waking up to find the reader writing down last night's nightmare, and how he'd comfort the reader and react to their frequent graphic nightmares? Again, im sorry if it's a lot this is a really impulsive request lmao

Oh my goodness I hope you’re okay!

Tw: minor gore

I went with 3rd person for this one

Ghiaccio has always been a light sleeper. It doesn’t take much to wake him up. This time, though, it’s not because of Formaggio and Illuso being drunk off their asses and howling in laughter at something stupid.

No, this time he wakes up to soft sniffling and the gentle creak of a chair. He grunts and wipes the sleep out of his eyes, patting the spot next to him to find his significant other, only to find the bed empty.

They were at their desk, the lamp on at a low level, probably to not disturb him. Ghiaccio squinted, trying to see what they were doing. Peeling the sheets off of him, he slips on his house slippers and plods over to them, placing his hands on the back of the chair to steady himself.

“What’re you doin’?” He asks, voice sleepy and rough. He squints again to fight against his own shortsightedness and astigmatism to see the clock on their bedside table, “ ‘s almost two. Get back in bed.”

They jump in their seat, hastily rubbing their eyes to hide the fact they were crying (as if he couldn’t hear them sniffling anyway).

“Did I wake you up? I’m sorry.”

He grunts, resting his chin on top of their head and moving his hands to their shoulders.

“No,” he lies, “Woke up by myself. What are you even doing? ‘Nother nightmare?”

They wipe their eyes and lean back into his touch, “Yeah. It was a bad one. Worse than usual.” One of their clammy hands goes up to take hold of his middle and index fingers like a child whose hands were far too small. Ghiaccio hummed, shutting his eyes.

“You can tell me about it back ‘n bed,” he slurs sleepily, yanking his hand away from them and flopping back down on their bed. When they don’t join him, a small part of him starts to foam at the mouth from his own sour mood. But they click their pen and shut the book, wiping their eyes again as they joined him.

He took the time to take their appearance in. Bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, wobbling lips and worry lines. They move to embrace him, but he deflects their hands, “No. Little spoon.”

Ghiaccio could see the way their lips twitched upwards slightly before they turned over. Even though Ghiaccio preferred to cuddle face to face, he knew how hard it was for them to make eye contact when talking about something that upset him. He closed the gap, pressing his chest into their spine and tangling his legs with theirs. An arm wrapped around their side while the other was wedged under their pillow. They wiggled against him to get comfortable.

“Go.”

They sigh and gently intertwine their fingers with his, “It was a gross nightmare. You were in it.”

Ah.

“But instead of the usual gross stuff, you were,” he felt their breath hitch, “you were talking to me.”

Ghiaccio shifted to press his face into the nape of their neck.

“It was like-It was like you were blaming me. Blaming me for you getting killed. And you just kept yelling-“ their voice caught, squeezing his hand as hard as their strength allowed. Ghiaccio stayed quiet, even though he had to bite his lip to do so instead of trying to dispel their worries. He would never blame them for anything that happened to him. Never. Not even if they were the one who put a bullet through his head, or poisoned his drink, or killed him in any way. He rubbed their knuckles with his thumb, sighing deeply. “Yelling that it was ‘my fault’ you were being executed, ‘my fault’ you were to be dropped from a high building and become a red smear on the pavement with tissue and brain matter and-“

“Hey,” he says, and it comes out gruffer than he expected. He pauses and allows them to get their fresh wave of tears out, once again showing great patience despite the many thoughts running around in his head. It was a wonder he was even able to stay quiet now that he was fully awake. “Look at me.” He could feel their reluctance as they turned around in his arms, as if he was the very same Ghiaccio from their dream. With gentleness that he definitely would’ve been made fun of for, he cupped their warm, tear stained cheek with his chilly hand.

“That wasn’t me. I’m here. With you. And that won’t change. Not any time soon, got it?” They nod, but he still wasn’t convinced. “The real me would never say those foul things to you.”

“Yeah, I know,” they sniffled, “But it felt so real.”

He squished their soft cheeks. It was rare that he was at a loss for words, but he didn’t quite know what to say. He was never the best at comforting. Even after countless bitching sessions to Melone where they tried to come up with solutions, he still didn’t know how to properly deal with their negative emotions. They stared at him, cradling his hand against their cheek as they sniffled.

“You’re cold,” they whispered after a few moments of awkward silence.

He bit back a snarky comment, “yeah.”

There was another moment of stillness.

“I know I’m new at this,” Ghiaccio swallowed thickly, “but I’m here for you. And… I’ll do anything for you.”

They smiled at him with teary eyes, leaning in to press a little kiss to his nose.

“Can you just stay here with me right now?”

“Its two in the morning. Where else would I be?”

They giggled despite the fact he was being 100% serious.