#mourn’s genders

[mourningmogaicrew]

Catnightic

A xenogender and subset of catgender related to cats, the night, stars, and constellations. It is a neutral in nature (NIN) gender.

Femcatnightic: a feminine-in-nature (FIN) subset of catnightic.

Mascatnightic: a masculine-in-nature (MIN) subset of catnightic.

Flag IDs in alt text.

Originally made: I made the flags in the middle of 2022 as a catgender counterpart to my pupnightic terms. But I’ve been thinking of (and people have been asking about) a cat version of pupnightic since 2021.

[future-supertuna]

this is very in-text but i love that zoro gets attuned to kiku from the get-go not only because of this sword wielder code that he's followed through all extremes of the practice, from brook to kin'emon -- recognizing and respecting all masters -- but because her existence is the solid evidence, the living proof that kuina was wrong

[starkrebellion]

they're not a real core four until they've ALL kissed each other.... we're starting to run a little out of time for it to happen but I bet the writers are just saving it for the grand finale!!

[skelebellie]

young mournwatch!rook: dad i threw up

vorgoth: I WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE A FATHER

[ashenwilting]

Solaceseemsquotic: A quotegender related to the following poem, “Little solace comes to those who grieve, when thoughts keep drifting, as walls keeps shifting, and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.”

For Blorbosquared 3, day 9. The prompt was, "A term related to your blorbo's source."

Taglist: @radiomogai, @mousesquared, @quotegender

[innocet]

Cis people don’t respect non-binary people who are “androgynous” more than “feminine” or “masculine” presenting non-binary people. They just don’t want you to be non-binary. There is no perfectly androgynous version of yourself who will suddenly be always gendered correctly. Wear the fucking skirt

[augustsgrass]

a lost boyhood

by anna haifisch // via pinterest // via pinterest // via pinterest // via pinterest // via pinterest // hey cowboy, silas denver melvin @sweatermuppet // mama, my chemical romance // via pinterest // ivy, frank ocean // a hymn to childhood, li-young lee // via pintrest // recklessly, danez smith // young royals, s1 ep5 // unknown

[snowshinobi]

nothing gets me like a character with overt flower symbolism ESPECIALLY self-inflicted

[hyydrang3a]

I'm trying to actually improve at art at the moment so I'm going to force myself to draw at least once a week (never gonna happen😭) I thought I'd draw silly Gunpowder Tim because I love him 😍

Idk if I'm super happy with the results but if you asked me a year ago to draw a man with a beard I wouldn't have been able to do it so I must have improved somewhere along the way 👍

[mourningmogaicrew]

Voidchoric

A combination of gendervoid and kenochoric. A gender that is related to kenopsia and also feels empty, void-like, or like a dark abyss. It feels like there is a void where your kenochoric gender "should" be.

Nullchoric (Kenonull)

A combination of gendernull and kenochoric. A gender that is related to kenopsia and also undefinable/unable to be labeled as a certain gender, empty, or inexplicable.

Related: kenovoid- being kenochoric in a way aligned to a genderless/gendervoid gender.

Flag IDs in alt text! The flags and symbols are combos of the kenochoric flag/symbol and the gendervoid and gendernull ones.

[zaewriteshere]

I'll be here for You

AO3 Link Cypher never liked spring.

Actually, it was a lie.

He stopped liking spring after their deaths. 

The flowers blooming, transforming forests into a myriad of colours, always gave him a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Nora used to love this time of year, especially in northern countries, where the four seasons existed.

She always loved the sight, and liked to make flower crowns for everyone in the family. 

He had to admit, he missed those moments. “Missed” here, being an understatement.

He longed for what he had lost.

“Amir ?” Said a voice that he immediately recognised as being yours.

How could he forget ?

You were nothing but a lighthouse, illuminating the way to better himself, to heal.

“Yes nour ayni ?” He replied, turning to you. 

You looked like you’ve just woken up, and to be fair, it probably was the case. Cypher was an early riser, contrary to you, which is why he was surprised to see you awake when the sun was barely out.

Did Amir wake you up when he got out of bed ? Apparently, he didn’t need to ask the question, since you read right through him.

“You woke me up because I heard you sob in your sleep. I was watching over you, and I might’ve dozed off or something, because when I opened my eyes again, you weren’t there.” You sleepily explained, some yawns cutting you off here and there.

Coming to the table in the common area, you sat down next to him, taking his hand into yours. Squeezing gently, he watched your expression change from drowsy to worried. 

Actually, it was already worried, but the tiredness melted away, as if the concern you expressed to him was stronger than exhaustion.

It warmed his bleeding heart, just a bit.

“What’s wrong, love ?” You asked oh so kindly, worry bleeding into your words.

It took him a while to muster the strength to explain.

Or even say what he needed from you.

But you waited, ever so patient, always so loving, for his answer.

“It’s… It’s their anniversary.” Cypher finally blurted out, after who knows how long, holding back a sob.

He tried to blink the tears away, before feeling a soft hand on his face, rubbing his cheekbone. 

He knew that warmth was yours, and he leaned into it, oh so needy, so desperate for your comfort.

“How can I help you ?” You wondered, your tone soft and reassuring. 

He just needed you to be with him. To not go on that mission today, to stay with him where he knew you’d be safe and sound. 

But he couldn’t trust his words.

So instead, he freed his hands and pulled you in for an awkward hug, since you were both sitting. Understanding the unspoken request, you shifted position so you were sitting on his lap and cuddling him. Putting his face in the crook of your neck, Amir took deep breaths to try and calm himself down. You rubbed his messy hair in a soothing manner, whispering sweet nothings and reassurances into his ear.

He thought he had his feelings under control, then you simply said : 

“It’s okay love, you can cry. I’ll be here for you.”

And he sobbed uncontrollably as soon as the last word escaped your mouth. 

He didn’t know for how long he cried, just that he needed it.

Your presence and reassuring touch was enough for him to feel safe to be vulnerable, even in an open area like the living room. He clinged onto you, as if letting go would make you disappear.

In his mind, it was the case.

He mumbled a demand between two sobs.

You probably didn’t understand, at the non committal answer that Amir received. Trying to calm his crying for more than a couple of seconds, he finally said after a while : 

“Nour ayni… Please don’t go on that mission today,” He managed to say, his nails digging into his palm as he pulled you in even closer.

“Okay” you answered after a short moment. He breathed out a shaky sigh of relief.

And you stayed there, cuddling each other, waiting for Cypher to calm down.

When his breath returned to an even pace, you tried to move away while saying that you’ll prepare some tea for the both of you. Out of instinct, he tightened his grasp for a quick instant. 

Realising what he was doing, he immediately let you go and apologised softly.

“Do you want to accompany me into the kitchen, love ?” You asked gently, extending a hand to him.

He nodded, taking the offered hand as he stood up.

As he watched you prepare the tea – he noticed it was his favourite – he stood near you, your shoulders almost touching, observing you like a hawk. You seemed unbothered by the intensity of his glance, doing the task at hand with great expertise and concentration.

He did teach you how to properly brew tea, after all.

It did make him smile, ever so slightly, to see his partner do so well in a field that was important to him. 

After a while, you finished the two cups and you turned in his direction, presenting one of the drinks to him. 

Taking it into his hand, he watched you lovingly smile at him.

“I hope you like it, love” you expressed. 

Of course he will.

You made it, and that alone made this tea the best beverage he could possibly have.

Making your way back into the living space, you sat down like you previously did.

Taking a sip of the warm drink, he sighed in contentment.

“Thank you, nour ayni” Amir said, looking at you and trying to just show how much he loved you with just a glance.

It seemed to work, or at least you got the message, since you gently kissed him on his forehead, temple, cheek, corner of his mouth and finally, right on his lips. Each kiss was loving, gentle and caring, and he almost melted to the touch.

“I’ll be here for you, always, my love.”

In this moment, it was Cypher’s only truth.

For @kltira <3

[arlertdarling]

❥ WRONG PLACE, RIGHT TIME — levi ackerman x gn!reader, swearing, death, loss, mourning, modern au, angst, hurt/comfort, maybe slightly ooc levi, this is kinda sad but it has a good ending i prommy<3 PLS read the warnings and enjoy!

The columbarium looks even more miserable than usual, soaked in rain and grey under the clouded daylight. You’re standing in front of it, one hand tightly gripping your umbrella, the other gripping your late spouse’s favourite flowers even tighter. You’re wondering if it ever gets easier and holding back hysterical laughter at the same time. Of course it had to be raining on the day of the month that you’re visiting their urn, like a scene from some depressing drama.

You always knew that death is a part of life, the conclusion we’ve all had pre-written for us since the opening paragraph. And you knew it was hard. You’ve had distant relatives pass, and felt some of the weight that comes with grief and accepting death; you’ve seen and been told your fair share of how loss changes people, both temporarily and permanently. But it’s clearer now more than ever that knowing something is not the same as being prepared for it. You knew it was hard, but no amount of knowledge could ever make you understand just how hard it really was.

You know now though. When someone dies, they freeze in place and time, into a forever still-life image of what was and will never be again; a catalogue of memories that lasts for as long as you can remember them. They become a concept, an imaginary something whose existence can only be proven by what they left behind in the physical world. A name — and the anecdotes and personality traits others think of when you say it. Preserved in your mind like a pocket of air in ice, they’ll stay; never moving forward, only back to the moments and memories that make up what’s left of them.

You’ve had the same moments and memories playing on loop for weeks. Not really on purpose, they’re just kind of there. There when you wake up, when you check the fridge with an empty belly and no appetite, when you decide to put off showering for another day, when you’re alone, when you’re with friends, when you’re trying to sleep away the feelings in your chest. You feel as ghostly as the images of them that flash behind your eyes, comforting yet haunting all the same.

Wet footsteps pull you out of your thoughts. There’s sweat between your fingers where they’re still clinging to the plastic-wrapped bouquet. You tilt your head in the direction of the footsteps. A man stops some feet away from you, face concealed under his umbrella and one hand tucked into the pocket of his dress pants. If he notices your presence or stare, he doesn’t show it.

You’ve been coming here every few weeks, and every time without fail, this man is here too. At first, you thought he was a stalker, but he never approached you or stood closer than three feet, let alone looked at you, so that feeling was short-lived. He asked you for a light once, but other than that, you’ve never interacted.

You often wonder which one he is there for, who the person was, what his relationship was to them — but you never bother to entertain that thought for more than a few seconds. He never brings anything with him either, aside from the occasional lighter and cigarette packet, and tends to stay longer than you. You’re only really here to soothe a healing wound and replace the flowers once they start drooping. The ones from last month droop more than normal under the weight of their wet petals, and you hope that the heavy rainfall won’t do more harm than good to the fresh bouquet you just put up.

A month later, the sky has just a few clouds dotted across it. The weather has been hectic, so as you’re approaching the columbarium, you’re curious to see how the flowers have been holding up. Before that though, you notice him first, standing in that specific spot that’s all his own by now. He’s dressed in the usual: a long-sleeved shirt, a blazer and matching trousers, all well-ironed and spotless, and a pair of polished Oxfords. You’ve always imagined him as a lawyer or office-worker of some kind; he certainly looks the part, especially with his tired face and perfect posture. There’s so much you don’t know about him, you can’t help pondering over things like what he eats for breakfast or if he has any pets or allergies, and imagining him in scenarios like typing away on a computer at a tidy desk or yelling ‘Objection, hearsay!’ across a courtroom. You’ll never know if any of those things exist beyond your imagination, and you have no way of knowing for certain either, but you like to think about it from time to time.

Two months after that, you notice he’s had a haircut. You can never tell when his undercut starts to get thicker, but once it’s trimmed, it becomes so obvious that it was overgrown before. It’s clear that it’s done professionally, and that he must be particular about his hair in general, if the perfectly combed middle-part and licks of gel are anything to go by. He looks good, you think, but as with most thoughts about him, you drop it before anything else can follow. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he lights the cigarette between his lips, then pockets the lighter and takes in a drag. His form is slanted and controlled in an effortless kind of way. He looks good, even in your peripheral vision.

The following month, you’re switching out the flowers with a different kind than normal since your florist didn’t have your usual. You think it’s the first time he ever looks at you, at least with any sort of interest in his eyes. It seems like a trick of the light at first, the way his silver eyes dart away when you glance at him. In fact, you’re still not really sure it actually happened, but you like to think it did, if it means he’s at all as curious about you as you are about him.

Three months later is the one year anniversary of your spouse’s death. For once, you’re not on your own; their family and close friends hover near their niche, paying their respects and exchanging embraces. You’re off to one side, not feeling particularly talkative or social, which is no surprise given the occasion. He arrives as he always does, but stands further away than usual, and with a more guarded expression. You wonder if the number of people intimidates him or makes him uncomfortable, or if there’s just something on his mind. After a short while, everyone starts to head off for the memorial service. You’re the last to take your leave, looking over your shoulder at him and hoping for a second of eye contact that never comes.

The month after that, he is nowhere to be found. You don’t think much of it initially — he’s never late but sometimes you’re earlier than he is — but he never arrives. You stay embarrassingly longer than you normally would to see if he shows up. He doesn’t, and you chalk it up to some minor thing, like a change of plans or a visit cut short. It isn’t until two months later, when he still doesn’t show, that you start to worry. You’re not sure what exactly you’re worried about, or if it’s something to even worry about in the first place. You start to visit every week and convince yourself that the only reason for it is that you’re just missing your lover more these days.

The relief you feel when you see him four weeks later is monumental. You’re practically buzzing as you walk up to him and you don’t even know you’re smiling until you feel your mouth corners drop at the sight of him. He’s always had faint shadows under his eyes, but you’ve never seen them this dark before, and his gaze is so heavy that it’s akin to a dead man’s. You wonder how much sleep he’s had, if any, and if it has anything to do with why he hasn’t visited these last few months. You wonder and you wonder but none of it leaves the confines of your mind. You’re just strangers, after all; two strangers who regularly see each other, but strangers nonetheless. All you can do is sigh, the joy of seeing him subsiding, and go to switch out the flowers.

“You’re later than usual today,” he says so quietly that you almost think it’s just a voice on the wind that you hallucinated in your desperation to speak to him. You stare at him, waiting for any sign that his low, hoarse words weren’t just a figment of your imagination. He just stares back at you, one eyebrow arched and his eyes expectant.

“Um, yeah,” you say, slowly, just in case you imagined the look on his face too. “I missed my bus so…” You trail off, tempted to smile at the fact that you’re actually, finally speaking to him. The swarm of unanswered questions that you’ve been trying to avoid suddenly floods you all at once. “It’s been a while since I last saw you here,” you say on impulse, but nothing else makes it past your lips. Lingers of why is that? and where have you been? and are you doing okay? die on your tongue.

He sighs. “Shit happens, I guess,” he mutters. His tone is void of all emotion, apart from maybe the exhaustion of someone who has been carrying too much for too long. You’re not sure what to say, about to opt for a hum of agreement when he speaks again. “I just needed some time away. Got two of these to take care of now, after all.”

You swallow nervously, trying to think of how, if at all, you should respond. How could he say that so casually? Like a comment on the weather or an arbitrary greeting? Your stomach hollows at the thought alone. Two urns; two whole people. That’s two names, two different faces and personalities, two lifetimes full of memories and smiles and tears, two amounts of habits and mannerisms, two lists of likes and dislikes and hobbies and pet peeves, of favourite films and colours and animals. That’s two whole people that he knew and he’s standing here like he hasn’t lost them both.

“Spare me,” he says, the flame of his lighter dancing over the tip of his cigarette. “My mother died when I was just a kid, so I don’t remember her. And that old bastard’s lived long enough, if you ask me. It was about time he kicked the bucket.” He tucks his lighter away and exhales some smoke, staring at the cigarette between his fingers. “Besides, it gets pretty tiring hearing the same shit the second time around, let alone the first.” His lips purse as he breathes in and pulls out the cigarette again, along with a slow trail of smoke. His eyes are on you as he says, “You, of all people, should know what I mean.”

Your gaze gravitates toward the flowers beside your partner’s urn. He’s right. It’s comforting the first few times — the condolences, the ‘sorry for your loss’s, the sympathetic glances — but after a while, it loses its warm touch. It starts to feel like an awkward finger, prodding at a bruise to point it out, even though you know it’s there, and all you wish is for it to heal already.

“Levi,” he says next, and all you can do is look back at him, puzzled.

“What?”

“My name,” he says through another trail of slithering smoke. “It’s Levi.”

You smile at this break in character, this rare show of warmth. You might not really know this Levi guy, but you get the impression that he doesn’t do things like this — whatever ‘this’ is — very often.

“I’m (Name),” you say, and that’s all it takes for the rest to pour out. “It’s good to officially meet you, by the way. I know we’ve technically known each other for over a year now but, also not, I guess…” You chuckle awkwardly. “Since this is the first time we’ve properly spoken to each other and… I don’t know. I suppose it’s just nice, is what I’m trying to say? If that makes any sense?”

Levi just takes another drag of his cigarette and for a second you think this is it — you’ve fucked it up by being weird, you could not have made it more obvious how deprived you were of human interaction if you tried — but then he turns to face you. You get a good look at his eyes, almost appearing sunken in by the dark shade of purple under them, and the dips in the hollows of his cheeks that make themselves known in the change of lighting. Then you spot the creases in his suit and shirt, his loose, ungelled hair, the scuff marks on his shoes. And that’s when you think: who am I kidding? This is a man who is mourning a second person before he could understand how to mourn the first. He is just as deprived and sad and lonely as you are; if anyone is to understand you, it’s him.

“The feeling is mutual,” he says. Then he smiles, faint and fatigued, and it feels like a shift. Right then, you feel your heart nudge forward. For the first time since your partner’s death, you feel really, truly present; like all this time you’ve been on autopilot with your consciousness trapped in the memories of your lost love, stuck in moments long gone. You know the deceased are chained to who they were, unmoving and silent and still, but somehow you’ve only now realised that you don’t have to be. You’re allowed to move on.

So you decide to take the leap. “Do you…” you start, and figure it’s too late to go back now. “Do you want to go get a coffee or something?”

Levi lowers his head as if thinking. “Well, I’m more of a tea guy myself,” he says before dropping his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it. He smiles again, and your heart nudges forward some more. “But sure. Let’s go get coffee. Or something.”

After that, the rest is history.

Sometimes you wonder if he ever would have spoken to you at all, if not for you being late because of that bus, or if the entanglement of your lives was inevitable from the beginning; pre-written since the opening paragraph. You were two lost people whose paths happened to cross — and maybe it was the wrong place, but God, was it the right time.

[hunting-for-sport]

i try not to get too lost in headcanons/fanon shit bc i dislike coming across as wildly disconnected from whatever media im actually talking about but i'll admit i constantly have to remind myself malia tate and isaac lahey were not a lesbian and a gay man respectively in the actual canon of teen wolf im sorry you can pry those cringefail asshole gays from my cold dead hands

[sweetsilver-if]

I'm already obsessed with Mourning. The urge to worship him is strong.

They certainly aren't going to stop you if you choose to do so

[ratatatastic]

hers his and them type beat

[prompt-of-the-day]

Dialogue: #050

"I've done terrible things, I've hurt people, and I took no pleasure in doing it.

But if needed be, I would do it again, and again, and again. As many times as I had to, for the sake of my loved ones, for the safety of everything I hold dear.

So choose wisely if you wish to cross me, because I won't shed a tear while taking you down, no matter what we once were."