#tw mentioned blood

[azureandcrimson]

White Fur.

When Macaque and Wukong we're back in the Brotherhood. I HC that Macaque had white fur. Then most/half of his fur got turned Black from the shadow corruption. But. When the fight happened, and Macaque was close to dying. Black was spreading through his fur, yes, but the white parts of his fur wasn't white. It was red. Soaked in blood. So. I HC that when Macaque got resurrected and put the glamours on to hide his white fur, eye scar and six ears. Before he did that. He had scrubbed his white fur for hours. (He still does this) Trying to get all of the blood out of it, and when Macaque is stressed. He feels like he still has the blood in his fur and that it's still stuck to him. + With the enhanced hearing and the feeling of the blood still in his fur bringing back horrible memories = Sensory overload and/or Panic Attack. :3

[mysticstarlightduck]

(Long) Excerpt from The Last Wrath:

@lassiesandiego @lyutenw @rickie-the-storyteller @writernopal 

This scene belongs to my current medieval dark fantasy WIP - The Last Wrath. The characters in the scene are brothers, Zephyr & Jamie, one of which has been cursed and now grapples with what it might mean to their lives.

“[...] “What’s happening to me?” Zephyr whispered, a sound trapped between disbelief and a sob, holding one trembling hand in front of his eyes as he watched the bleeding cuts on his fist heal - and pitch black tendrils, glimmering in a dead grey hue, spread from within, pulsing from his arm towards his hand like rotten, dead blood. He could feel the magic in his blood, and it wasn’t his, it wasn’t right. It hurt like searing fire, but only at first, before everything turned numb. 

In front of him the shattered mirror, bloodstained, stood like a condemning monument. Only, Zephyr didn’t remember doing this. He didn’t even remember coming here. He watched, in terror, as even the blood on the shards of clear glass turned from normal red to black as tar. Zephyr couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Like there was an invisible barrier that kept him in place. Even his thoughts seemed like whispers in a hurricane, they seemed like someone else’s. It felt like he wasn’t here, but even worse, it felt like he wasn’t himself. Not anymore. 

Everything was as if underwater, blurred, distant and suffocating. And he was the one drowning in it. Frozen, he was an spectator to the strange flashes that crossed his mind. He saw a kingdom besieged, a familiar one. The smell of the world burning around him assaulted his nose, and he heard the distant clash of swords that haunted his dreams every night. He saw the day they were betrayed, felt the blood gushing out of his wound like it once had, as a blade ripped through his side. The blade that would have killed his brother otherwise. In the mirror, a familiar face stared at him, accusation and disdain written in his eyes behind a strands of white and black hair, an otherwise handsome face destroyed by hatred. 

Zephyr’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to step back, but his feet were locked in place. The young man in the mirror smiled, and Zephyr swore he could hear his laugh. The same laugh as that day, so many winters ago, when death had been so close to them, as the figure suddenly started to morph … into himself. The darkness in his blood pulsed stronger, colder, as it called to him. Zephyr heard a bloodcurdling, horrifying familiar scream as his doppelganger laughed. The image twisted, and he saw his little brother lying dead on the ground. He couldn’t breath.

Before he could  lose himself any further, a pair of arms wrapped around his chest, holding him as if someone dragging him from the bottom of an icy lake would, and awakening back to reality.  A gentle, familiar voice was calling out to him, but he couldn’t yet hear the words.

He saw himself back in his room, a floor filled with toppled books and the welcoming sounds of the early morning wind. Home, he was still home. Kneeling on the floor, he barely realized his throat was raw from screaming. The black tendrils in his hands dissipated slowly, until only his pale skin remained. In front of him, a figure knelt between him and the shattered mirror, shielding him from its sight. Kind brown eyes, ridden with worry and guilt, met his.

“Jamie” Zephyr wept in a weak, hoarse sound, his arms shaking as he lunged into his brother’s arms, desperately clinging onto his shirt, because he was alive. His brother was still alive and they were safe, they were home. He wasn’t a monster, at least not yet. Jamie didn’t say anything, allowing the older boy to hold on as tightly as he needed to as he gently returned his embrace. Tears fell unbidden from Zephyr’s eyes and into the younger’s tunic, as his hands dug panickedly into his back, as if he might disappear at any moment “Jamie, I’m losing myself. I - I saw you die, I can’t… I couldn’t protect you. I’m becoming a monster.”

The words were desperate, a strained line of thought panickedly strung together. Jamie held him tighter to his chest, before pulling away and getting the older boy to calm down. He placed his hands on Zephyr’s shoulders.

“Listen to me. You’re the best man I’ve ever met, you’re not going to lose yourself like this. We’ will find a cure.” Jamie said, every word spoken with utter sincerity as he willed the other to meet his eyes, like Zephyr had done so many times when the roles were reversed “I will make things right, and everything will be fine like it used to be.”

Zephyr scoffed gently, tired irritation seeping into his voice.

“You don’t know that. I could be dangerous and I wouldn’t even know how to stop before the worst already happened”

Jamie sighed, noticing how Zephyr’s eyes flitted between him and the broken mirror behind them. He hated how that day had made Zephyr hate himself so much and how uncertain it had made him. 

“Yes, I do know. You would never hurt me, not even if that guy or his magic tried to force you to, I know you wouldn’t let that happen. You’re my older brother, I will never be afraid of you. [...] ” 

[luminarai]

hey, hi, I was just on the former bird app and came across this info from a brand new study and now I cannot stop screaming internally??? what the actual fuckkkk

theres' an article from the guardian here and here is the actual study:

[rockingbytheseaside]

Hi! I wanted to say I absolutely adore your art and headcannons! I wanted to ask if you would be interested in making a headcannon for our lovely harbingers where there is someone trying to sabotage their relationship with the reader like for example the person is saying that the reader is cheating or is saying mean things about the harbingers and that they have ,,proof" it is if course a lie. Don't force yourself to do anything you don't want to tho!

(Absolutely genius idea! Sorry to keep you waiting! I’m a slow writer…)

✦ When others try to sabotage your relationship with them

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Childe

(tw: general mentions of violence and blood. sfw) 

Being intimate with a powerful Fatui Harbinger provides the illusory dream of having riches, power, and status. Some watch you with hushed murmurs as you accompany your beloved with linked arms, looking all elegant beside him. Perhaps some people cannot comprehend how such a ruthless Fatuus can even court someone like you. Others simply cannot comprehend that status and money is not a key factor in your relationship.

✧ To crossfire with Pierro is to go against every single Fatui Harbinger. The Director is known far and wide as a man of cold words and power beyond the seven nations. All valuable intel and actions are reported to him first and foremost, as even the top Harbingers bow before him. You, on the other hand, were not meant to bow before him. The Jester shall never let you lower your head, because it is he who shall stoop to worship you. 

However recently, a certain rumor reached his ears. His spies related to him info that certain Fatui soldiers, some lowly commoners at the bottom of the ranks, are spreading uncouth jabs about you and Pierro. Intel states that these fools think you infiltrated the Fatui and The Director’s inner circle by some intimate provocation and seduction; that you’re in it for the money and status.

Pierro’s gloved hands gripped the papers. Nevertheless, his expression is placid as always. 

Thus, the culprit now sat in Pierro’s office, trembling as the room oozed with murderous silence. The Jester never raised his voice, nor did he question the man who “joked” about you. The fellow kept spitting apologies, begging for mercy. He knew it was futile to lie or waste the Director's patience.

And the Jester? It took everything in his power not to get his gloved hands bloodied. To hear someone accuse you - his most cherished, as a shallow harlot? Consequences shall be faced. Calming his boiling turmoil, Pierro continued to conduct himself professionally:

He made sure the man and his entire generation met their oblivion. 

With the recruitment of his best spies, he ascertained that the culprit’s disappearance was not felt by a single soul, his entire family gone, and all traces of spread rumors eradicated. Above all, it was orchestrated so that you would remain unaware that anyone dared to tarnish your reputation.

You carried on with your life, blissfully unaware and undisturbed. Even now, you came in knocking on his office, asking: “Long day at work, honey? I can bring you some tea or coffee if you want.”

The Jester's smile returned, throwing away some crumbled documents into the trash can - “A tea break would be excellent, my divine.”

If it’s blood that needs to be spilled to protect you and his private affairs, then Pierro won’t think twice. 

✧ For Il Capitano, the way of the blade speaks more for its wielder than words. If you wish to prove your stance, you better be prepared to face the First Fatui Harbinger, as his might will test you in a relentless duel of strength. So what do you think happened when Capitano overheard someone calling you “weak”? That his beloved does not deserve an ounce of his attention, because you are a meek being compared to the Harbinger? 

His hand instantly found its place on the hilt of his claymore. He left no room for negotiation or doubt. He marched straight towards the culprit, unsheathed his weapon, and pointed the sharp point of his blade straight at the person.

“If you are so confident to spit such insolence about them, then you must be equally confident with your strength. Let your blade speak.”

The poor fool tried to defend himself with excuses. But his mocking meant nothing to the Captain’s weapon. Before you know it, there is an ongoing duel initiated by Il Capitano. The witnesses know that whoever is on the receiving end of his wrath has no chance of surviving. Not when a single swing of his weapon causes craters on the ground.

The man was about to collapse, accepting his violent demise. But just as Capitano was about to unleash his final lesson, your voice rang out amongst the crowd.

“Hey! Cease this commotion at once!” - you stepped up, your expression stern as you stood in front of your beloved. In a rare moment of vulnerability, the Captain’s already stoic body language shifted. His claymore was sheathed back to its place.

“My beloved, you shouldn’t have seen this…”

“And yet I did. It would’ve reached my ears anyway. What did I say about temperamental duels, Capitano? Morons are not worth it.” 

“He called you weak. I cannot allow it.”

For a minute, Capitano kept his head hung low in reverence. You stood with your arms on your hips, scolding him. Was it not for your intervention, that person who vocally mocked you would’ve been lying dead now. Instead, you spared the offender, and the man was allowed to flee in humiliation. 

The conflict was eradicated, and Capitano's imposing demeanor showed he didn't regret his actions. Considering how even Capitano bowed to your words, the accuser realized - you are not weak. Because if there was one person who made the First Harbinger go motionless then it was you. 

✧ Today was a good day for Il Dottore, but you weren't sure why. He was a tad clingy, his steps laced with a sense of giddiness. Giving you extra squeezes while hugging, smothering you with longer kisses on the cheek. Even as you sat idly in his lab, you watched him as he worked on some paperwork with a grin.

Thus you questioned him, lazily strolling around his lab and observing the countless tools or vials. But he waved off his excitement, tapping his pencil over some papers - “Nothing of major importance, but I did have something interesting happen recently.”

You raised an eyebrow, beckoning him to continue.

“An idiot made a pathetic attempt at spreading rumors about us.” - You stopped in your tracks, going still as you held some miscellaneous container with what seemed to be tissue samples. The Harbinger continued: “Some fool spoke behind your back; stating that anyone who is close with a heretical scholar is bound to be equally insane. They thought that if their words didn't reach you, then it's of no consequence.”

Your expression fell somber with each word Dottore spoke. He said it with such profound avidity, that his voice demonstrated threatening intent behind them. So he continued. “But you know me, dear. Nothing goes past me. Vile nicknames are nothing new to me. My work is not for the faint of heart, and those pesky cretins enjoy concealing their fear with profane titles. And they can call me whatever they want. However, I won't allow them to call you names. Not because of my work.”

You averted your gaze sadly onto the samples of veins and organs in vials. You pretended to inspect them, but your sorrow was more prominent. You suspected Dottore already did something, hence his unusual giddiness today. Thus, you inquired in a soft whisper - “So… what did you do?”

“I handled it, naturally.”

“...You did? What happened? To the person who said such things, I mean.”

“What happened? Dear, you're holding them in your hands right now.” - Il Dottore beamed, pointing at the vials of organs you held. 

✧ Today, Scaramouche was eerily silent. You were accompanying him during one of his work expeditions, aiding him with certain formalities regarding his Fatui subordinates. The 6th had soldiers working under him, and although he did not care for their training, he did not tolerate any incompetent weaklings.

Therefore, you decided to lend a hand. You helped conduct a training program for his underlings, making sure all standards were met. It’s not the first time you did so, since The Puppeteer often placed you as the second in command whenever he was absent. And the Fatui soldiers did not conceal their thrill - it’s like you were their favorite substitute teacher who was more cheerful and forgiving than their superior.

Either way, Scaramouche saw that the mission was going smoothly. But soon, lightning would strike. A certain Fatuus, an agent in training, was getting too charmful with you. It was during the usual training assigned by you, and this person was focusing more on his conversation with you than his training:

Telling you how you are a remarkably skilled person. How it’s a marvel to see someone so delightful as you working alongside the Balladeer. How you shouldn’t waste your time with someone as aggravating as Lord Harbinger Scaramouche. He’s even leaning closer towards you.

You smiled uncomfortably, your attempts at polite disagreement did not work with this agent. Yet now you felt the static in the air, and that’s when you realized - Your beloved heard all of it.

On this usual, unassuming morning, Scaramouche walked silently and struck a man with lightning. All eyes turned towards the commotion as you stood behind the Harbinger. His fists were clenched, sparks of electro crackling from them.

He may have been silent the whole day, but don’t mistake his silence for impassivity.

“Next time, know your place,” - he seethed, standing over the person who endeavored to sweet talk you. He permitted his subordinates too much leeway, now they dare charm you with empty flirts. Scaramouche would’ve stomped that man’s head if he wanted, but he wouldn’t create such a grotesque scene in your presence. Instead, he turned away, held your hand, and pulled you away.

He gave you a day off, his mind already conjuring plans to deal with his underlings later. At least he scoffed out an apology. Not for what he did; he does not lament that. Just a small ‘sorry’ for giving you a quick fright. The lightning strike was very loud, after all. 

✧ Pantalone often gets invited to luxurious meetings or extravagant galas. Any party that is attended by the richest man in Teyvat is a guarantee to make high-society elites turn heads. However, considering your prolonged relationship with your darling Pantalone, you know he secretly despises these social gatherings. Therefore, he takes you with him. Dressed in your finest, Pantalone proudly shows you off to the pompous aristocrats.

People would watch enviously, thinking to themselves: The Regrator’s sweetheart, spoiled by his riches. Your attire is as glorious as his expensive suit. His arm is tenderly linked with yours, always offering you his hand like a true gentleman whenever you two walk. Even as he conversed with various business partners, he always had to make sure his hand was around your waist or your hand.

This dotting behavior made certain ladies of Snezhnaya jealous. They could see you were not a noble-born, nor were you used to the attention during such gatherings. You just timidly accompanied him, and Pantalone kept rambling about you and your benign achievements. Childish, really. You’re probably someone who just ran after and clung to the Harbinger until he relented to keep you. Therefore, a group of ladies initiated the conversation: 

“It’s a pleasure to meet a man such as yourself, Lord Harbinger.” and “Why, a man of your status is probably seeking some interesting company. Oh? You are with someone? My, my, I did not notice them.” or “Surely you desire connections worthy of your status, sir.”

Pantalone had mastered the art of courteous smiling, yet even his act was about to crack. He noticed the way these ladies tried to stand too close to him, pretend you were not in the picture, or even passively mock you. Their insolence stenches, and noticing your silent discomfort caused his heart to sting. But he had a plan.

“Why yes, you are right,” - Pantalone smiled with his charming looks “I do value my time, and it’s important to not waste it on shallow conversationalists. Oh, but it’s such a shame that the people in front of us are just that. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Pantalone turned to you, his arms encircling your waist while speaking such backhanded comments with triumphant smiles. The ladies’ smiles fell instantly, and you tried everything to avert your gaze. “Um, Pantalone? Maybe we shouldn’t-”

“Shouldn’t bore ourselves with such lowly individuals? Hmm, I agree. There isn’t much to do here anyway, only the greedy will seek something in this superficial gathering. Oh well, let’s go so I can take you to dance, dear.” - Pantalone concluded in his usual enamoring tone “Ladies, if you would excuse yourself.”

In this world, the 9th of the Fatui Harbinger doesn’t excuse himself - others do. Therefore, he took you away, scoffing and checking up on you with hushed whispers. Pantalone was offended. Why do they assume it was you who desperately sought out the rich Harbinger? Little do they know it was Pantalone who used to run and seek your attention just to be yours. Honestly, they’re discrediting his neediness for you. 

✧ Should anyone meddle with Tartaglia’s personal life, they are picking up a brawl. Someone dares to flirt with you? His fists are ready. Someone said something unwelcoming about you? Anything in the vicinity can be used as a weapon. Someone endangers his relationship? Their life is now in danger.

Of course, you’re the one who consistently yanked him out of these fights. Usually, it’s nothing serious, as when you scold your boyfriend for such reckless behavior it ends with his heartfelt words and apologetic chuckles. He finds solace in embracing you from behind, gently enfolding his arms around your shoulders, reassuring himself that all is well.

However, Tartagia is still a Harbinger. Away from home, he’d personally search for intel on the culprit who dares to offend your relationship. Names, records, locations, anything to keep tabs on those who think they can drag his family into bloodshedding matters. Tracking is of no issue, after all, when he was still a young rookie, training as a Fatui agent was just the first step.

Once he determines the offender, he’ll pay a discreet visit to them. And this time, without you dragging him away from fights, there is no place for mercy or jests.

At night, Childe returned home, cheerful as the sight of you getting ready for bed welcomes him. Yet in the dim lights, you’d gasp and approach him with concern, catching traces of smeared blood on his face or hands.

Ajax would just smile; he didn’t need to explain. Instead, he would quietly approach you from behind and envelop his arms around your shoulders in quiet stillness.

[hankandmonty]

“Remember when we died?” Is such a raw line. Happy D20 eve

I forgot I had a rain version thank you for coming to my Ted Talk

[somerandomdudelmao]

Part 1!

..of an episode that reveals that if something looks like a space horror and sounds like a space horror, maybe it is a space horror.

Who would've guessed?~

Previous Next

Masterpost

[smiisevenwhyplus]

the fact that these are minutes apart is KILLING me

[amelia-yap]

internal screeching

[azureandcrimson]

Scar.

This is probably an obvious train of thought for some people but I wanted to share a theory on how he got the scar because I've always been curious how or was it just a battle. When the Samadhi Fire was first made. Of course. We see Redson. But I was wondering. How did Redson get that scar on his cheek? I have a theory, it might be correct. We see the scar is very prominent on his right cheek.

And when he was a child, he very obviously wouldn't have it. But after the Samadhi Fire he does.

He punches his right cheek. Really hard, as we can see, then does it one more time. It's possible that Redson himself caused that scar. The reason it wouldn't be bleeding after is because the fire had litterly burnt the blood away. Also because it's a 'kids show'.

[undercovercannibal]

+

THE BOYS 4.04 “Wisdom of the Ages”

[bamsara]

Befuddled sparring match. No weapons and no curses, but claws, teeth and horns don't count tho

[ra3kiv]

few recent commissions i made!!

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

Continuation to This Post :]

------

It was always so strange to hear adults argue.

Grown up fights never seemed quite the same as the trivial spats her and Dipper sometimes had. They were similar in some aspects, yes; Adults and children weren't as different as people liked to think. Mabel had seen adults verbally lash at one another with vicious words just as low hanging and petty as the ones she'd sometimes see kids the same age as her use. Adults arguing was essentially just a louder, angrier version of children fights.

And yet, there was somehow... more to it. Grown up arguments always seemed to weigh so much heavier in the air, and for so much longer than she'd ever thought possible.

Sometimes, the weight would leave quick and early, practically gone by the next morning. However, occasionally, the weight would stay; and grow heavier, and heavier over the years. Until it came to a point when the weight was nothing but a choking, stifling presence that seemed to fill every room in the house and buzz deafeningly in your ears like an unpleasant static that made your head pound.

Then, one day, the pressure would burst with a loud yell, a slam, and a bang, and start building up all over again. It was a cycle Mabel was much familiar with.

Her Grunkle Ford's "Mystery Shack" didn't have that air.

The shack's air smelled like burnt out candles and cheap discount Halloween fake blood, with a hint of real blood underneath the stinging scent of old wood and aged parchment. It wasn't necessarily a very nice air, certainly not in any way the fresh, crisp, clean air of the streets of Piedmont, but it smelled more like home than she'd ever felt back in California. It just smelled like... Grunkle Ford.

She liked her Grunkle Ford. He was super weird; with an even weirder Uncle as his roommate. He checked her and Dipper's arms and legs every morning "just in case someone broke in at night to steal a sample of their bloods"; he despised overly sweet foods (baffling, truly); and he had exactly 27 locks installed on the front and back door respectively that he could unlock all in under a minute with his really fast extra fingers. He reminded her a little of Dipper on some occasions, no matter how much the latter liked to deny the similarities (although, bar the demonic obssession).

However, last night, the air suddenly grew heavy.

Grunkle Ford had a fight.

Mabel hadn't heard it, and she hadn't seen it, but she knew there had been one. She was an expert recognizing the signs; she could always tell.

When she had awoken that late morning, the stuffy summer air had taken an even more sour note than usual, and had become a touch heavier than it should have been. Either that meant Grunkle Ford had just recently finished up a ritual, or a particularly rowdy argument had taken place; and Mabel knew that Grunkle Ford only performed his rituals between 2 to 4 AM, when he thought the twins were well asleep.

It was strange, to feel that same heavy air push down upon her temples and pound that same painful rhythm of a mounting headache as it used to do so often back when Mabel was in California. It had already happened a few times at the shack, but this one felt... heavier, than usual. She didn't think she would have to encounter the discomforting weight again this summer, away from her parents. Yet here she was. Aching.

She knew Gunkle Ford and Uncle Bill fought and bantered. With Bill being a permanent resident trapped within her Grunkle's mind, she couldn't imagine how they wouldn't. She didn't think even she could keep her cool if she had Uncle Bill as her brain roommate 24/7.

In any case, their interactions in front of the twins were mostly a mixture of exasperated resignation, or irritated tolerance, mostly from Grunkle Ford. Their occasional volleying exchanges of vitriol doused insults and words were short lived, and brief most of the time, especially when in front of the kids. They were nothing like the long, loud ones that could go on for hours back at her house in Piedmont.

Even so, there were some times when Mabel would see Grunkle Ford late in the evening, red faced and tight fisted, stomping down to the basement and disappearing into his lab there with a deafening slam of the rickety wooden door. She recognized that slam. He didn't want the twins to hear the argument.

Even if they could hear anything, what little they could glean always seemed to be only side of the argument, with Grunkle Ford yelling curses at Uncle Bill inside his head. She always did wonder what happened inside Grunkle Ford's head. Although, she wasn't sure if she wanted to know the answer. She couldn't imagine the state of the mind of someone who sometimes forgot to eat or sleep for almost a full week until someone reminded him.

The entire day passed with that same, tense air choking the atmosphere. Dipper had dragged Mabel and himself to some adventure in the forest, but it seemed to her that he was just trying to find excuses to stay out of the shack for the time being. Even he seemed to feel the unnerving heaviness of the air.

That night, underneath her sheets, Mabel pulled out the worn and well used wooden art mannequins Dipper and Grunkle Ford seemed to keen on using to summon Bill rather than their own shadows. With her trusty golden glitter pen (that she knew Uncle Bill loved despite what he claimed), she gently drew a closed eye upon the blank wooden face of the little model.

The eye opened, and she spoke:

[2kiran]

something about logan howlett patching your shoulder up, his calloused hands surprisingly gentle as they stitch your wound close. he’s looming over you, eyes fixated entirely on your form. in a haze of pain, your hand reaches out to curl around his hip and roughly squeeze with a low groan, unintentionally tugging him closer to your seated position.

“you okay, bub?”

“yeah...”

there’s something about it that makes his cock throb; how your reflex is grabbing onto him, how your voice is hoarse, and fucking hell, the smell and sight of you bleeding like that... he’s never letting anyone else fix you up. and oh, he wants you to squeeze something else.

[mythtakens]

favorite Buck and Christopher scenes (requested by anon)

[onlytiktoks]