#resurgam

[drakiandh]

hi! it’s the person who used to manage bug-decal-kissing :]. i was scrounging on ao3 for ultrakill works last night and you have no idea how delightfully surprised i was to see your name pop up!! i binged all of resurgam last night (instead of doing new years stuff :(；ﾞﾟ'ωﾟ'):) and it was amazing thank you so much for writing it !!!!!

Oh ma gawd hello! I absolutely loved your reviews on Seraphyllic (got all of them on screenshots and grin at them regularly) and I'm so glad you managed to find Resurgam! Quite a step up, huh? The quality has gotten so much better. Least I'm in the right places!

Also I wish your poor head all Tylenol it needs and a thousand cups of water upon ye! (⁠ﾉ⁠◕⁠ヮ⁠◕⁠)⁠ﾉ⁠*⁠.⁠✧

Happy new year!!

[physicsgoblin]

From Jane Eyre, chapter 9, by Charlotte Bronte

[yellowroseanddreamstorm]

Working on assets for Trauma Team. This was one the big ones I had to tackle. Very happy with the results. 

[arinewman7]

Resurgam

Sophie Green

2021

[1introvertedsage]

'Arcturus' is His Other Name

'Arcturus is his other name- I'd rather call him 'Star'. It's very mean of Science To go and interfere!

I slew a worm the other day- A 'Savant' passing by Murmured 'Resurgam'-'Centipede'! 'Oh Lord-how frail are we'!

I pull a flower from the woods- A monster with a glass Computes the stamens in a breath- And has her in a 'class'!

Whereas I took the Butterfly Aforetime in my hat- He sites erect in "Cabinets'- The Clover bells forgot.

What once was 'Heaven' Is 'Zenith' now- Where I proposed to go When Time's brief masquerade was done Is mapped and charted too.

What if the poles should frisk about And stand upon their heads! I hope I'm ready for 'the worst'- Whatever prank betides!

Perhaps the 'Kingdom of Heaven's' changed- I hope the 'Children' there Wont be 'new fashioned' when I come- And laugh at me-and stare-

I hope the Father in the skies Will lift his girl- Old fashioned-naught-everything- Over the stile of 'Pearl.'

~Emily Dickinson~

[stillresolved]

@wellfell / continued from here!

HIS ROOMMATE'S HOUSE PARTIES DO HAVE ITS PERKS. Not that he actually has a problem with them, considering that it was one of Raphael's non-negotiables and there isn't anything that Lam's noise-canceling headphones can't handle. But well, seeing Akina in-person has never been an issue of planning so much as an issue of luck. In the unspoken game of cat-and-mouse, asking her to meet in person over text has always yields cryptic answers that say neither yes or no...something that Lam no longer has the patience to try to read the lines between. And Lam has always found that his chances have always been better when they're in group settings...

Besides, they get plenty of alone time no matter how big, how inclusive the group ends up being. This time the reason being wine getting spilled on her white shirt and well, he's not about to let her go about the rest of night with one. Thank goodness his apartment comes with in-unit laundry, even if that jacks up the price of rent. At the point, nothing could soil his mood.

Well, nothing except for MATT, who is technically the reason Akina is at the house party to begin with, but still, something ugly curdles in his stomach and in a recess Lam would loathe to admit its existence to, he vaguely wonders if Matt is the reason her text messages have been giving more mixed signals than ever.

( If that boy with his baby blues, was, well could Lam even blame her? Unlike with Lam, Akina's friendship with Matt is simple. Not at all riddled with unspoken history and guilt. )

"What do you need to ask him?" Lam says finally, turning away from her. His excuse is needing to drink water from the cup conveniently placed on his nightstand. "He's probably out with the others. Your bra's in the wash with your shirt. The wine stained it too, remember?" He takes a sip of the water; it does little to alleviate the headache he feels coming on. He checks the time too. "...You know if you wanted to stay over, you could. I'll sleep on the couch."

[the--morning--room]

RESURGAM (Arthur Harrow x F! Reader) Chapter 15: A cold, solitary girl again

"That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, 'the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.'" -Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14

AO3

I don't know if you're aware of this, reader, but the human body is quite poorly made. The temperature in the desert that night was not nearly low enough to freeze one to death, but it was enough to harden the Thorn's joints until she could no longer move her fingers to wipe the sand from her eyes and mouth. Her breaths came painfully and haltingly, and once her knees failed her she knew she had no choice but to rest. She clutched the thin, whitish hairs of the jackal and let it lead her, half-crawling like a primordial beast, to the relative safety of a cliffside, where she sandwiched herself between the chilled, sandy rock and the jackal's body.

"Thank you," she told it, and patted its slimy head.

There was a faint silver line along the edge of the horizon. The coming dawn, or the distant Cairo skyline? Either way, why was the light growing so quickly?

The whiteness expanded until it enveloped the sky, erased the desert and the jackal, and the Thorn knew nothing but white.

She'd been here a while, she thought. Of course, she'd just gotten there, but she knew that place, didn't she? The columns, the checkered floor. The information desk, where a "Tomb Buster" poster sat upright in a swivel chair. The gift shop with its window full of ushabtis, standing like a tiny army. And of course, the art. Stacks of prone statues, safely mummified in protective wrapping.

Everything was white and silent.

"...And here we have—oh, you! Yes, you. I'm supposed to come and find you. Hellooo..." The friendly Scottish voice cut through the quiet, and an arm was waved in front of her face. That tattoo looked so familiar. She turned to him.

"Billy!" The relief nearly knocked her over. She threw her arms around him, and was met with a sickening squelch.

"Oof. Sorry, love. This happens," Billy said, red-faced, as his stomach fell open and spilled its slimy contents onto the pristine floor. The two visitors he'd been leading, a crocodile and a hippo, exchanged annoyed glances before turning and walking away. Both wore tutus and oversized pointe shoes.

"Can I, um...get someone for you?" the Thorn asked awkwardly. "A doctor, maybe?"

"'S fine. Just something I have to get used to," Billy replied, gathering up his intestines. "Reading room's back that way," he jerked his head, "through the armory, then take a left."

She followed his pointing finger, wove through the suits of armor and past one massive, silvery-gray getup made of material resembling a mummy's wrappings. It was holding a sign: "Reading room this way," then the Thorn's name and an arrow.

Thoroughly creeped out, she followed the arrow. What other choice did she have?

A rush of book-smell swept over her as she crossed through the doorway. It was a wide, cylindrical room lined with shelves of books and a staircase that spiraled endlessly into a ceiling of clouds. Despite the seemingly infinite shelf space, the floor was crammed with stacks of even more books. For once in her life, however, the Thorn had no interest in books. She could only stare in astonishment at the man in front of her.

He said her name, smiling through his beard. "We meet in person at last!"

Indeed, she had never seen his face outside of a computer screen. She knew him, though. The beard, the glasses, the smile that radiated both kindness and intelligence, and that fuchsia scarf he was never seen without. She remembered the first time she'd seen him, years ago, presenting a paper to a livestreamed conference. He had been wearing a simple blue suit, and the bright, cheerful color of his scarf was a welcome contrast to the general stuffiness of the event.

The last time they'd spoken was over email. He'd sent a letter of recommendation to Lowood, he wished her luck and promised to meet her in person the next summer. That never happened, of course. Dr. El-Faouly was dead before summer.

He was dead, and yet there he was now, standing before her. In order for this meeting to be real, one of them must have traveled between worlds. The Thorn knew which of them it was more likely to be.

"Is this the Duat?" she asked.

"You figured it out much more quickly than I did. But, of course, I am actually dead. Well, fully dead. There might be a difference in the way one's consciousness reacts to the change if—"

"Wait, I'm not 'fully' dead? What does that mean?"

He pursed his lips sadly. "Your hands."

She looked down to see her fingers flickering. Invisible—then not. Gone—and back again. She blinked, and in that tiny fraction of a second she felt a shock of excruciating cold, her body crying out with hunger and thirst, her heart wailing its brokenness, and sand everywhere. There was even sand in her throat—had she tried to eat it?

"Your body is unconscious," Dr. El-Faouly explained. "Your only hope now is to be rescued, but I'm afraid at this point it would take a—"

"—Deus ex machina." She blinked again, and heard the roaring of the desert wind. Her fingers were frozen.

"Yes."

She let out a hopeless laugh laced with tears. "I think the gods might be a little busy right now," she said. "I'm probably the least of their worries, especially since..." Her voice caught." Since I helped...I helped Arthur..." She broke down.

He looked at her with weary eyes. He said her name, lifted a hand to her shoulder—it passed through. She felt no comforting touch, only cold and wind and sand and hunger.

"Come," he said, and two plump chairs appeared nearby.

They sat. The Thorn pulled her flickering knees into her chest, sobbing into them.

"It's peaceful here," Dr. El-Faouly said. "You're in a good place. Don't cry."

"My scales are unbalanced," she said through a curtain of messy tears. "I won't be staying here."

"Who told you your scales lack balance?"

"Well, Ammit."

"And you know better than to take Ammit's word as law, don't you?" He laughed scoffingly. "For goodness sake, the Ennead doesn't even regard her as a proper goddess."

The Thorn's lips quivered with a sudden, familiar need to defend her goddess. No—not her goddess, not anymore. "Praise revoked" and all that. She looked down at her flickering forearm (the flickers were fewer and further between now). Bare.

"The goddess Taweret weighs hearts on the scales of Anubis," Dr. El-Faouly explained. "Ammit has no say in deciding the fates of the deceased." He smiled. "Your heart is safe."

"Even without Ammit, I don't think my scales are going to balance," the Thorn confessed.

"Why do you think that?"

She dragged a hand across her face, and it came away slick with tears. Her flesh was completely solid now. "Like I said, I helped Arthur. I found the scarab for him, I protected him from Marc and Khonshu. And," she heaved a wretched, shuddering sob, "to be honest, I don't regret any of it. I don't regret loving him, no matter what I did for him, what I let him do..." She covered her face, drowning in shame.

He looked thoughtfully at her. "Do you regret leaving him?"

She nodded, sobbing violently.

"Even after he betrayed you so terribly?"

She paused to try and breathe, disgusted by the feeling of so many sticky tears racing down her hot cheeks.

"You didn't want to be Ammit's avatar, did you?" he pressed.

She sniffed. "Of course not."

"Well, that was Arthur's plan for you. Do you think he would ever change his mind, regardless of how artfully you may have argued against him?"

"Never," she admitted, wiping her eyes.

"Then what exactly do you regret?" he asked kindly. "Sparing yourself from a fate you would have hated?"

"I could have handled it," she said sullenly.

"Really? You could have handled committing murders in the name of a deity whose cause you don't believe in? You could have handled living under her abuse?"

"I could have sucked it up," she said after a stubborn pause.

"You have done more than enough 'sucking up' in your life," he frowned. "No more. You deserve to be treated well, to make your own choices and live your own life."

"What about love? I deserve that too, right?"

"Of course you deserve love, but not if it comes at the cost of your freedom."

Freedom. What was it she'd said to Arthur about freedom? "I have a free, independent brain." She pictured herself as a bird triumphantly escaping its cage, soaring out into the bluest of skies only to find itself promptly shot down. Would that little bird miss the safety of its cage as it plummeted to its death?

"Will he be okay?" she asked. "If he really loves me like he said he does, and he finds out I died while leaving him..." Her eyes were drowning all over again.

Dr. El-Faouly reached out and took her hands. Her flesh was solid now, no more flickers. "You are not responsible for his feelings toward you."

"He was always trying to protect me," she said. "He's going to think he failed."

"It's not your responsibility," he repeated, gripping her hands. "He's a grown man; he can take care of himself."

"But what if he..."

"He will grieve, he will recover, and he will move on. And you will do the same."

"I can't." She shook her head at the wall of books, unable to look her mentor in the eye. "I can't."

"I said the same thing when I arrived here, knowing I was leaving my loved ones behind. I worried so much for my daughter, thinking she would never be able to move on. But of course, she did. She had to."

"You don't know Arthur. He's," she interrupted herself with a high, panicked laugh, "he's a professional sufferer. He never gets over anything. He needs—"

"He needs a kind of help that you were never equipped to give him. Either he gets that help, or he doesn't; either way, it has nothing to do with you. You renounced his love. He is no longer yours to worry about."

She was remembering the nights she spent pulling shards of glass from Arthur's shredded skin, and how each shard would leave a sickening deluge of blood and pus in its wake. That's what Dr. El-Faouly's words had done to her heart—not that she herself hadn't caused the wound. She had left Arthur behind. She had rejected his goddess and broken off their engagement.

He would never have abandoned her. She would have only had to stay by his side, loyal and silent, and let him make her Ammit's personal killing machine. In return, he would have loved her, cared for her, kept her company for the rest of his life. A few million sinners' blood on her hands, in exchange for a lifetime of romantic bliss...if that wasn't a fair trade, what was?

No. No, she would have hated it. It would have been hell, serving Ammit, and living with Arthur would have been even worse. Didn't his goddess always bring out the worst in him? Ammit would have been a plague on their marriage. The most loving, sincere religious fanatic is still a fanatic, and even his most passionate kisses would never have been able to love the sticky sheen of guilt off her heart.

She bent her body into a pathetic curve and let out a long, slow wail into her knees. Waves of hot sand beat at her dying body. She could feel the brightness of the sun behind her closed eyes. There were voices, two of them, arguing above her.

"What if I hurt her?"

"Steven, look at her. You carrying her to the car isn't going to damage her any more than the desert already has."

"I just don't know, she looks so frail..."

An exasperated sigh. "Fine, let Marc do it then."

"No! Wait! I can do it, just let me—"

Her hands were disappearing, blinking away before her eyes. "I'm going back," she said. "No, I don't want to. No, stop," she cried in a panic, unsure of who or what she was pleading with. "Let me stay here, I want to stay here!"

"It looks as though your body has other plans," Dr. El-Faouly said. "We'll see each other again someday. Say hello to my little scarab for me."

"Your what?"

He smiled. "She's right next to you. Tell her—"

She blinked, and was alive.

The first things she knew were yellowness and hot air, then a sliver of morning creeping in through a pair of thick curtains. There was just enough light for her to note that nearly everything in the room was broken, and the various pieces of things had been scattered across a loveseat in the corner. Someone had apparently begun cleaning up, but never finished the job. A cracked mirror across from the bed showed the Thorn that she was in a white bed, and wearing white clothes: A man's T-shirt and baggy shorts. Her hair felt clean, and smelled like an unfamiliar shampoo. Nearby, another woman sat cross-legged on top of the bedside table. She was balancing a laptop precariously on her knees, and seemed either unwilling or unable to look at the Thorn. The light from the computer screen exaggerated the pronounced circles under her eyes.

"Morning," said Layla.

"Little scarab." The words slipped from the Thorn's mouth so unexpectedly that she almost felt as if the words weren't her own.

Layla slammed her laptop shut with a ferocity that left the cracked mirror vibrating like a cowering animal. Her face was stony. "If one of you people," she growled, spitting out the word people as if it were a deadly curse, "ever calls me that again..." Wet bullets of grief shone in her eyes.

"I'm sorry," the Thorn said reflexively. "I don't know why I—"

"Just stop." Layla shook her head and put a frustrated hand to her face. She took a single loud, tremulous breath, lingering on it as if considering making it a sob. She stood up suddenly, nearly knocking the small table to the ground, crossed the room in a few staggers, and flung the thick curtains wide to reveal a stunning panopticon of Cairo, pyramids and all.

"Wow," the Thorn breathed.

Layla paused in front of the window, her back to the Thorn. "Yeah," she agreed, apparently with some reluctance.

"Thank you for, uh," she could think of no less awkward a way to put it, "saving m—"

"Thank Marc," Layla said curtly. "And Steven. One of them, can't remember which, but he saw you in the sand when we went back to get some stuff we left in that car."

"Are they here?"

"No." She moved away from the window, started to sit on the sofa only to note the mess covering its cushions, and sank down to the floor instead. "No, we're...we're kind of taking a break."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Layla's face was shifting oddly. Sometimes the shadow of a beard, the glint of a pair of studious glasses, and the shout of fuchsia-colored fabric around her neck would appear, just for a glimmer of a fraction of a second. It seemed to the Thorn that she had yet to entirely leave the Duat—or maybe the Duat wasn't ready to let go of her. Or, it could simply be the ghost of Dr. El-Faouly materializing around his daughter. Of course, she could also have been hallucinating. Even I'm not certain what the truth was.

"Well," said Layla, "don't you want to know what happened?"

A clump of dread had been growing in the Thorn's stomach, anticipating this subject. Clearly, Layla and Marc had survived Ammit's wrath. That fact didn't bode well for Arthur.

"I don't know," she said.

"He's alive," said Layla. "Does that help?"

A tear slipped down the Thorn's cheek and hovered saltily on her upper lip.

"You were supposed to be Ammit's avatar, weren't you? Is that why you left?"

Avoiding Layla's gaze, she nodded.

Layla mirrored her nod, an infuriating knowledge in the way she pursed her lips. "Yeah," she said, "I saw that one coming."

"You did?"

She shrugged. "I always thought something about you and him together didn't really add up. It seemed wrong. And this explains it."

"What do you mean? Are you saying you don't believe he could love me?"

"No. Well, maybe. I find it hard to believe he could love at all."

"And what gives you the right to make that judgment?" the Thorn retorted wildly, her voice climbing in pitch. "Who do you think you are, saying something like that about another person's relationship? As if yours is so perfect."

Immediately she felt herself tense and recoil, shocked by her own cruelty. Layla, however, only hardened her jaw. A deadly silence followed.

"I guess that's fair," Layla said. "But I do know what it's like to be lied to."

The Thorn, of course, wasn't sure what Layla was referring to—but she nodded anyway, wary of opening her mouth for fear she might let loose another needless barb of cruelty.

"I had to hear the truth from Harrow before Marc had the balls to tell me himself. How fucked up is that? To have to learn something like that from the man who shot my husband?"

The Thorn swallowed. "The man who what?"

Layla closed her eyes. "It was so loud," she said, "and the echo...and the blood on his white clothes..." She was shaking.

"He shot Marc?" the Thorn heard herself say. "Arthur did?" His name had never felt less pleasant in her mouth.

Layla nodded, swallowing a sob. "I wanted to kill him."

"He would have killed you first."

She let out a short, mirthless laugh. "Yeah. For sure."

From there, she told the whole story, up to and including the battle between the three avatars in Cairo.

"Stop," the Thorn said suddenly.

"Really? Now?" Layla had reached the point in the story where, sutured to the side of an overturned van by one of Marc's crescent darts, she watched Arthur approach Marc's prone body while Ammit and your humble narrator tangled in combat on the horizon.

"I don't want to hear any more." Tears were dripping from her chin and staining the white sheets between her legs. "Not yet." Never, she thought.

"Suit yourself," Layla said with a tired shrug. "You probably want some food or something, right?"

The Thorn shook her head. Her stomach cried out pathetically, earning an unamused look from Layla.

"I'm getting you some food," she said. "After all that's happened, it would be really stupid if you died of hunger now."

She left, and the Thorn let her body descend into convulsive sobbing—but not before crossing the room to yank the curtains shut. The pyramids would not be a witness to her suffering.

[devinheirofhera]

DEVIN PRAYS TO MOTHER HERA

RESURGAM.  RESURGAM.  I  shall  arise.  Devin  sits  in  their  room,  lights  off  crossed  legs  on  the  floor.  Ice  blue  eyes  were  shut  as  they  mutter  the  phrase  in  Latin  over  and  over  again.  Time  has  passed  but  they  are  not  aware  or  care  how  long  it  takes.  They  were  dressed  in  all  white,  the  only  color  on  them  is  those  light  blue  eyes  that  were  shut  as  they  continued  to  chant  and  the  flowers  of  lilies  and  lotus  were  weaved  in  their  hair.  They  had  no  idea  if  this  would  work,  if  they  could  contact  her  at  all  but  they  had  to  try. 

RESURGAM.  RESURGAM.  

Every  morning  Devin  has  woken  up  these  past  few  weeks  wondering  if  this  was  a  mistake,  if  they  were  not  the  ones  that  should  have  been  chosen  from  her  children.  They  weren’t  good  at  these  quest  things  and  every  one  of  them  has  sent  them  to  the  medical  clinic  in  near  death.  Why  were  they  here?  Why  were  they  chosen  when  everyone  else  here  at  the  island  seemed  to  have  a  better  grasp  on  their  abilities  and  power  that  flows  through  them.  All  Devin  can  do  it  seems  is  pass  out  STDs  and  even  then  it’s  barely  successful…  So  they  meditate.  They  pray  to  Hera  in  an  attempt  to  find  if  they  do  belong  here  or  if  they  should  go  back  to  the  mortal  world  and  back  to  serving  cheating  men  divorce  papers. 

 RESURGAM.  RESURGAM.  

Mother,  I  am  here.  Please  answer  my  prayer.  Please  tell  me  if  I  belong  here.  Please  tell  me  that  I  am  not  a  mistake. 

[stillresolved]

wenzhe. → “That’s the worst catchphrase I’ve ever heard.” Is Lamon exaggerating here? Well that’s a good question, even for him- frankly, he’s heard a lot of stupid shit over the years, some of which he really would prefer to keep in the dark recesses of his subconscious. “Don’t do it, you’re gonna waste your drink-”

But of course it’s too late and when does Wenzhe actually listen to reason? Lamon rubs his temple, a frequent victim in such instances. “Just so you know, I’m not helping you clean that up if it goes over.”

OPEN STARTER | Xú Wénzhé

"If there's one thing that has always been and always will be true about me," Wenzhe continues. There's a stutter in his speech as he drags his straw out of his boba, frowning at the pearl-shaped hump stuck at the other end. How the hell had he sucked so hard...

"Is that I will fuck around. And I will find out," after a moment of deliberating, Wenzhe puts the straw to his lips and blows through it with the force of a wind god... directly into the half full plastic cup in his other hand.

[a-hoe-for-dark-academia]

Resurgam:

‘I shall rise again’

(Latin)

[wyrmyblog]

Hey everyone! I thought I would share the love a little by making a post reccing some of my favourite GO fics. In no particular order:

The Other Arrangement; or How the Angel Got so Hungry by burnttongueontea

This is a canon-verse fic in which Aziraphale has had an eating disorder for thousands of years, and moving in with Crowley after the events of s1 makes it worse. The fic tells the story of his struggles over time, as well as how Crowley helps him to recover in the present day. it's very psychologically realistic, sweet and satisfying.

Blood of the Lamb (and other sacrifices) by PeniG

I am really weak for human AU's and I love a good outsider POV. This amazing fic alternates between both! one half of the fic is a lovely historical human AU set in the early 20th century, and the other half is a murder mystery told in the style of a golden age detective novel (specifically as fanfic of the Miss Silver novels by Patricia Wentworth).

Resurgam by HolRose

This fic has all the set-dressings I normally love, being a historical human AU, but more importantly it has wonderful characterization for Aziraphale. As our POV character, it is a pleasure to live inside his head for a little while. His gentle dignity, warmth, and slightly world-weary, self-deprecating humour make him a top-tier Aziraphale, in my professional opinion.

The End of an Era by Balder12

the Cold War spy subtext was incredibly strong in the book, and it's something i missed in the TV show adaptation. Though many authors (including myself) have had a go at a spy AU, this one, with its pervasive sense of gloom and meditation upon how spying wastes a person's life, has always been my favourite.

Shifting Heaven and Earth by BuggreAlleThis

This is, in my opinion, the best fic in the fandom. I mean, I haven't read them all. but I'm deeply skeptical that anyone else has managed to write something this good. Not only is the fic filled to the brim with the level of historical, material, and philosophical detail that truly makes the characters believable as angels, not only is the plot tight, compelling, and satisfying, not only is the premise extremely interesting, not only is the prose consistently gorgeous, but the characterization is absolutely phenomenal. BuggreAlleThis manages to write an AU Crowley who is extremely different from canon and who undergoes a massive character arc, all while seeming to still be "him". And Aziraphale in this fic is everything that an Aziraphale should be. He is sweet and excitable, yet worn-down by his long, difficult life. Riven with inner conflicts, warmly loving of all God's creatures, incisively intelligent, passionately spiritual, well-read and knowledgeable, and at his core, deeply human.

[the-once-and-future-love]

The Witching Hour: Spooky BBC Merlin Fic Recs

A Modern Pygmalion by supercalvin

A Warlock's Blood by Lullabylily

Ain't No Grave (Can Hold Me) by Val_Creative

All the Dead Are Here by Footloose

all our dead, unfinished selves by schweet_heart

An Ox on the Tongue by seapotato

and with my opened mouth i join the singing light by intothefirewego

Death is Only the Beginning by Val_Creative

Deliquesce by BeautifulFiction

Dying to Return by StormDancer

Feeding Grounds by N16  [gen]

From Darkness Comes Light by beren

From The Ashes by RandomSlasher

Gibraltar May Tumble by shes_gone

Grave Mistake by kickflaw

Haunted Ride by Sage_Owl

How It Will Be by Trojie. 

Hunter's Blood by Shadecat

I'll Be Your Fire (The Dragon Dream Remix) by claudine

In It For The Thrill by TheCourtSorcerer

Into the Dark by kriadydragon

i will always pick you up by daffodilprince

It Will Have Blood by kayura_sanada

London Tower by significantowl

Mating Call by orphan_account

My Breath In Your Lungs by Zaharya

Quickening Days by Fahye

Resurgam by La_Temperanza

Seeds of Darkness by N16 [gen]

The Devil's Table by kriadydragon [gen]

The Beast of Winter by linaerys

The Fallen by ArtemisPendragon

The Kingcraft of Arthur Pendragon by SauraUnderscore

The Maze of Malus by beckybrit

The Tomb by kriadydragon [gen]

The Washerwoman by schweet_heart

You Can Be King Again by asuralucier

[thefloatingcube]

Resurgam

[yellowroseanddreamstorm]

Doctober Entry 3! XD And again I am late. My IPad died midway yesterday while working on this and I needed sleep. But either way, here it is!

The prompt is "Flowers"!

Resurgam came to mind, especially the lovely garden they have that Hank helps take care of. So, we get some bonding time for CR and Hank! Hank thought the fresh air could do him some good outside the jail cell. CR is a bit uneasy since he's never really done all that much gardening but he's doing his best.

Not sure if I'll make today's prompt but we shall see.

For now, hope you enjoy!

[grundoonmgnx]

Glyn Philpot, Resurgam, 1929

[drakiandh]

'Tis official! I am going to start making ULTRAKILL content on this blog. Sorry to all my PWish peeps, it's time for carnage robot and wimpy angel. I've already got a few artworks of Gabe in the works, and practising V1.

Content will be soon! But for now, I shall start with...

The official Resurgam fic cover! Yep, surprise surprise, I've already started writing. Already got 11 chaps and 30,000 words dedicated to these peeps, my biggest work since Seraphyllic.

I love making covers for my works, and this one is a remake of an older cover from when I first made Resurgam, nearly 8 months ago or so. I'm pleased with the results! This matches much more with what I've got planned than the old.

Here's the old one. I know this cover style isn't for everyone, but I had a lot of fun, and that's all that matters! Fun fact, the "ULTRAKILL" text's font is Gabriel Sans! In Canva, at least. I find it funny that I didn't notice a font shared a name with the Angel until after I finished.