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sweet-honey-tears · 4 months

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Blanket Fort

Shinso x Gn!Reader

Hello everyone! Hope everyone is well! This was a request for some Shinso Fluff. I hope you like it! 🤍

Aizawa was gone, week week-long mission he begrudgingly accepted. More so against his will than anything, as it was the week of Eri's birthday. To say he was angry, would be an understatement. You were half sure hero society was about to revolt at the fact the commission took Aizawa away from Eri during her birthday week. Even Hawks seemed pissed, stopping by on Tuesday to drop off a present for Eri. You spoke to him shyly, the young civilian talking to a top Pro-Hero. “Thank Dove,” a nickname he called all fans, “ Still can’t behave they pulled the old man away from his daughter.” His voice teetered on venomous before he snapped back. “But hey, Eris got you and little Azawia, so I’ll know you make it great!” Damn straight you would.

The house was void minus the cats, Eri, Shinso, and yourself. The no-so-adopted third child who for a small moment, everyone thought was another addition to the family. In actuality, you were Shinso’s (Girl Friend, boyfriend, significant other) Though to Eri, you were big (Brother, Siter, Sibiling)

3am. Shinso phone rang, your pretty photo popping up. Shinso, as you knew, was awake, wide awake. But why where you?

“Baby why are you-”

“I HAVE AN IDEA!”

It was your idea to do the blanketfort. You had planned it before Aizawa had even left for the mission. Even ended up even planning the day with Aizawa. Which Shinso found both adorable and hilarious. Coming home from practice to see you at the counter, Aizawa leaning over the other side. Both of your faces in pure concentration as you talked about what to do for the fort alone- not the whole week itself.

Stuffies, blankets, fairy lights, pillows and what ever else where shoved into you bags. The zippers struggling to keep the stuffed animals from bursting. When Shinso opened the door for you, you where breathing heavily, arms full of bags stuffed with material.

Eri jumped up and down the moment you brought up at idea. Shinso smirked at your bad acting, saying the idea just came to you. You both where half sure Eri almost squeezed you to death when you started to talk about what else you all could do.

The Fort itself was the biggest challenge to set up. A drying rack, TV, and couch where the best bases to create a large enough Fort for the three of you. Stuffed animals surrounded the edges of the fort, and layers of blankets and bed mats covered the carpet in the living room, adding a much-needed cushion. Fairy lights hung inside like glistening vines and soft music played in the background.

Shinso and you self made sure to take photos, as many as your phones could hold. The large files sent to Aizawa, would barely responded, but you both knew he was happy.

Around 2 hours later, the blanket Fort, dinner, and Pjs done and you all rested in the rather large Fort. Shinso rested by your side, scrolling through his phone on bordem. Eri was thankfully fast asleep, her little area of the fort darker with only the twinkle of fairy lights to show her sleeping face. Shinso’s eyes caught the slight smiles on his little sister's face. Her arms wrapped tightly around one of the many stuffed animals you brought or bought for this occasion. His heart swelled, he was lucky for you. Lucky you loved everyone in the family so much, lucky that you loved Eri arguably more than him.

Shinso knew he and Aizawa wouldn't have been able to do this. They were stupidly busy, tired, and bogged with hero duties. In Aizawa’s casework, and his own being homework, patrols, and training.

“Shinso” you had whispered, causing him to snap out of his trance. “Your phone” you slightly giggled. Shinso looked down. In his distracted state, his thumb had been placed on the ‘f’ key. Typing out a long line of ‘fff’ as a comment on a video. Quickly canceling it, he let out a sigh.

“Got distracted” you laughed slightly, pushing yourself farther into him, yawning slightly. It was 1 am, and to his surprise, he was tired. “Tired kit?”

“Yeah… think I may call it” you yawn. Scooting down to lie down. He followed you, and quickly, almost garingly, pulled you close to him. Barely giving you time to move your arms around your boyfriend, lest they be trapped.

”I love you.” Your face softened, relaxing at the realization everything was okay. His arm brought you closer to him. “I love you so much.” He kissed the space available to him, an area of your clothed shoulder.

“I love you too Shin” he huffed, his chest tightening a little. He pulled away slightly, staring at you for a slight moment. As if ensuring you were telling the truth. You were, it didn’t take him long to conclude that. He leaned in to kiss your lips softly. Pulling away for only a moment before continuing. His hand slid to your hair, playing with the strands softly. Words weren’t needed, you both already knew everything he wanted to say. You scootched yourself under him, face nestled into the area of his neck and shoulder. Your legs weaving together to get unbelievably closer. “I love you so much, Shin.” Your face felt warm, and happiness almost caused wetness to prick your eyes. Shinso kissed the top of your head, pressing his lips to your temple.

“I love you too kitten, so much.” He squeezed you again, letting you both fall into a peaceful, gentle silence as you dozed off.

@waytotiredforthis

@bookcluberror

#bnha headcannons #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha writing #hitoshi shinso x reader #shinsou headcanons #shinsou x reader #shinso hitoshi #shinso x reader #shinso fluff #hitoshi shinso x y/n #gender neutral y/n #🪴request/ questions🪴

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dirty-bosmer · 9 months

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Forgotten: Treacle

Here with my first and probably only @tes-summer-fest contribution of the year. I've been pretty busy this summer, but I'm happy to have participated at least once :)

Written for @atypicalacademic, who inspired me to continue Scar-Tail's story past his canon quest line. You were so right. He deserves happiness 🥲

summary: Scar-Tail, the wind calls, and the Hist remembers even if you refuse to. On the night you breached your shell, the Shadow blotted out the sky. It was to be your shroud for all your days, first to last, a gift you’ve disgracefully abandoned, and though you may run, the cold loving embrace of fate forever skitters in your wake.

Stop for only a breath. Look down, find it bloody, here, returned to you, blackened flesh under its claws, scrabbling at your heels.

warnings: non-graphic mentions of death and dissolution

Ao3 link: here

Scar-Tail doesn’t speak his name anymore, not even in his native tongue. He wonders, if enough time passes, will he ever forget its rhythm or will it quake within him always like a second bloodbeat? Some days he feels it trapped behind his teeth— the sibilant shape of it, the phantom weight of it, the gathering swell in the hollow pocket of his throat. The Hist still speaks it in his sleep where formless figures call him by the name his brother called him, and even in dreams the name is doused in venom. Even in dreams, the only ones who speak it want him dead.

The knife that sleeps beneath his pillow isn’t there when he reaches, but he feels it like the ghost itch of an amputated limb. His magelight flares. The looming darkness in the corner is revealed as merely shadow. Still he sleeps with the candle burning, for even shadow he is hesitant to trust these days as he was one once not very long ago, remembers that the darkness wears a sinuous smile, and he knows where it hides its teeth.

Two days, and he’s on the road again, a stranger bound to Nirn by a will and only a will. Rootless, unmoored, his body has become a foreign thing— spines ground down as the face sculptor recommended and belly fattened on unfamiliar foods. In Bruma, he discovered a taste for mead, and he likes it too much. The sweet amber color, the heady wave of its warmth. ‘Like drinking liquid sun,’ he told the barkeep, and it earned a laugh and another round on the house. These days he gets drunk on the smallest kindnesses. These days, he no longer feels like something trapped inside a jar.

If Ocheeva could see him like this, she’d recoil, wouldn’t recognize him. If Ocheeva could see him like this—

Citrine eyes in a face of jade scales. The memory sears sharp, but one day the fleshwork will heal the brand. He scratches at it, picks at it like an old scab, and strews the roadsides in eggshell and pale, stringy yolk as he births himself from the detritus of the life clinging to his heels.

Every new city demands that he is less of his past self, so he chokes it down and rolls new names on his tongue, hoping to forget the bitter taste of the Hist— Maheelus. Tanaka. Vetra-Mahei. Sings-in-Silver— but the sap runs through him like iron through a vein, and though Scar-Tail is fading, if the wind asked his name, what could he tell her? What could he offer if only breath?

—

Wake up one morning and find yourself dissolved beside the shadow left behind when Magnus pulled all darkness from the sky. When you leave the bed, you leave your old body too, a ghost peeled out from the pool that once was your lungs, and you wrangle its waters down a new stream, shape its banks to hold a new life. Touch the mirror. Touch your bare-faced spirit. Ask if it’s the same at the root now that you’ve stripped its branches clean. Become a new shape. Wear a new face that strangers wave to in the streets without fear, for you are a Saxhleel made of grafts. Look, all rough burls sanded down. Every scale is now smooth to the touch.

Yet the Hist still reads your scars, the ones you thought the magic had healed over, knows you bleed black sap when cut open. You are ku-vastei, cannot be gentled, will never be talcum soft, and when the Hist sees the man you’ve stuffed your soul inside of, it knows his smile required so many knives to be carved.

—

Salt crusts on his scales as the sea mist dries. “Haul,” the shipmaster says, and Scar-Tail does. He’s been in this town too long but the pay is good and the work is hard, and he’s come to find comfort in the foreign smell of human sweat. In the evening, his shift over, he wanders Taneth’s harbors for the breeze. There, Abrim finds him, always does. He guides Scar-Tail down to the taverns where the rest of his crew sits drinking away their gold, and Scar-Tail follows, drawn to his side like some heat-seeking whelp. Inside, he sits facing the door.

The torchlight throws dizzy shapes on the wall. The tavern churns, and all around him is a froth of people as thick as the head on his ale. He won’t feel the buzz until the fourth beer if he feels it at all, but even without it, he’s content here. Here in the briny stew of the seaport with the salt smell and the raucous laughter, the human heat wrapped around his shoulder. Willing himself to weightlessness, he lets Abrim rock him side to side in the rhythm of shanties he never had the chance to learn the words of. Even when he tries, the melodies don't fit in his mouth, but Abrim’s smile is reassuring. Abrim is gilded in the torch flame. Every part of him is a different shade of brown such that Scar-Tail needs only look at him in flickering light to feel he’s travelled all of Tamriel’s woods, seen every kind of tree there is.

—

Two weeks, and new callouses have formed on the pads of his palms. He relishes the rope burn, the way the thick braids abrade compared to the slender wires of a garrote wrapped tight around each fist. Staring at the old knots on his knuckles, he thinks, this is honest work. This is good work, and at night the only part of it that follows him to sleep is the vision of a stained shirt, gleaming skin in the sunlight, the sweat rolling off like beads of oil.

Abrim’s ship is packed and set to leave Taneth, and the next time Scar-Tail sees him, he knows it will be the last. The thought floods him with a new kind of fear. It sloshes cold in his chest, clings thick to every branch of his lungs. He thinks, this must feel like drowning.

But the evening air is dry and spiced in sunset reds. Scar-Tail breathes, regains his footing on solid land. At the taverns, Abrim is as he always is, and he is warm in color, deep in scent, rich in sea-spun stories that fill Scar-Tail with as much envy as they do wonder for the sailors and storm-weavers that long ago swam these waters. Scar-Tail wonders if the villains in these tales were star-made as he was, if their cradles were lined in rot like his nest was with razors. If born on a different day under the light of a different constellation, would they have been heroes? Would they have lived on forever in the hearts of men?

The tavern roar grows muffled at his ears as the crashing waves lull him into dream. He imagines himself a new life, resplendent in the awe of those who survive him, those who love him enough to sing his name to strangers too. In this life, his hands are bloodless. In this dream, he’s never held a knife. Could he have it one day? Can he live a small legend, erase enough of who he once was to one day hear his name spoken with full use of the tongue?

The wondering is ripe, ripe enough to overwhelm him. In the ale’s reflection, he sees the palimpsest he’s become. The pitted wound that is Scar-Tail forms a craggy mantle beneath his skin, and there is little give when he presses, the tissue tough beneath. He is still there no matter how hard he’s scraped, Scar-Tail, full of pride, a mutinous tremor through the din. Though it reaches him as only whisper, that name is wreathed in wire, and the recurved fang of its echo sinks deeper with every twist.

What will it take to strangle this voice that has stitched its dying breath inside his ears? When he hears it, he feels like a missing person, like a part of him has ceased to exist. A sickness rises inside him; he tastes himself decaying. For all the poisons he’s swallowed, now immune to, it’s the acrid tang of dissolution that sends him rushing into the night to spew his dinner into the sea.

Scar-Tail retches, turned over in a bout of vertigo. Abrim walks over and pats him on the back. “Uta-’mei, what’s wrong?” he says. “Can’t handle the drink? Come, let’s get you home.”

Scar-Tail coughs. “What did you call me?”

“I’ll explain it another night.”

“When?”

Abrim’s smile is a sliver of opal in the sandstone. “The next time,” he says, “Come on now. Stay close to me.”

And even if Scar-Tail never learns what Abrim meant, he knows that this name fits better than any he’s given himself before. He likes the feel of it, Uta-’mei, the liquor kick of it rising beneath the sour spit in his mouth, and decides that if he dies tomorrow with no one else to speak it, his ghost will scratch it into his own headstone before he completely disappears.

—

Wake up one morning and find the world you lived in gone to dust. You lay shipwrecked, bare to the bone, alone in the silver light of dawn. New flesh will have to be sculpted onto your frame, but you’ve paid someone do it before. You’ll do it again. This time, even your shadow has left you. ‘Good riddance,’ you say. You will have to remake that too.

The sand of your past life clings to your soles, chafes between every toe. You count the grains knowing it will be the last time its coarse edges erode you. Soon, you will bathe in cleaner waters, be free of it, be glistening, yolk-filled and new. Now that you’re here, and he’s gone—

No, now that he’s here, and you’re gone—

Scar-Tail, the wind calls, and the Hist remembers even if you refuse to. On the night you breached your shell, the Shadow blotted out the sky. It was to be your shroud for all your days, first to last, a gift you’ve disgracefully abandoned and though you run, the cold loving embrace of fate forever skitters in your wake.

Stop for only a breath. Look down, find it bloody, here, returned to you, blackened flesh under its claws, scrabbling at your heels.

Sweet child, the wind calls, have no fear. This shade was to preserve you from the blinding harshness of the day that will turn your eyes to water in your skull. Sweet child, look at you, so lost now. Look, curled up, all fetal, how your own reflection cows you. This shade was to serve you as much as you were to serve the god who wove it, and even with your claws clipped and your teeth hidden behind hand-carved grinning lips, your bones retain their shape, always will until you break them. Raise a hand. Press it to the foamy shoreline to obscure the rippling image beneath. Find each finger whittled to such a sharp point that your touch will forever bear the risk of drawing blood.

—

The shop windows taunt him from his periphery, but he will pass one hundred more if that’s what it takes to prove his presence. His footfalls are heavy, yet he persists, learns how to walk again, how to exert his body upon the world if only to feel it press up against his feet.

But it is enough to be above ground, free to float like a loosed leaf, released from the mire he was hatched into. The wind tugs on the knobs that are left of his spines, and if Scar-Tail lives, it is not in name but in this ever-changing shape, this new boundary layer surrounding each limb. And he chooses to live here. Here where the sun bakes the earth and the water pulls all moisture from his lips. Here, tasting the salt in the air, the sunshine golden-sweet, like mead. Drunk on its light, he chokes, spills past the brim, and when he laughs it’s because the first breath he ever took was smothered in darkness; all light he’d drank before had been drawn in through gasps.

One hand in the ocean, the water moves freely through his fingers. He couldn’t divert it, couldn’t destroy it if he tried. To his reflection, he offers the jagged slash of his smile, and he doesn’t care what gnarled image stares back. He says, “Name me. Call me by the sigh that leaves your lips when I’m within you. I shred myself apart to stand before you here, reborn, and did I tell you how it hurt, to push air out of these new lungs?”

The sun sets over the Abecean, bleeds a burnt orange that reminds him of the light that lived in Teinaava’s eyes when they were young. It is by some secret alchemy that a longing still brews for the brother who asked for his heart ripped clean from his chest. Yet he still feels it, yes, love for the brother who believes him now dead, who believes Scar-Tail had been the one to betray him. He will feel it always, he thinks. It’s the gift he’s given himself, to love unbidden, to love when no one wants it, to thirst for life in great bursts that swell within him like sap bubbling out of a wounded tree.

He cannot quell it, not even if he tried. It will ooze from him in the next life too.

Tomorrow, he will travel north to meet Abrim in Sentinel, or maybe he will cross the deserts and find another town to welcome him home, but when he leaves Taneth, he will shed his last skin, and he considers the last person to speak his name was a woman who had been hired to kill him. When she offered up his heart, what did his brother feel in return? Joy to have fed him back to the soil? Relief to return him to the root?

He hopes so.

#Scar Tail #the elder scrolls oblivion #tes fanfic #dark brotherhood #tesblr #I wrote most of this in the rainforest with @dumpsterhipster #wrote the rest on the plane home :D #treacle

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knottedskein · 6 months

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El Paso.

My parents lovingly doted on me in Spanish. I unknowingly babbled nonsense aligned to no particular world. My boundless coos came from the safety of my nest. Maybe it was too soon to tell which way I would sway. I was just a baby. Una bebesita. Were my cries in English? ¿Soñaba en español? Did I want to play with a ball or ¿jugar con una pelota? Was my favorite color rosa mexicano or did I ask to surround myself with Barbie pink? Did I go by Débbie or Debbie? Did mami and papi anticipate that I would lose my way? And did they know I would find my own path?

Miami.

Here la historia begins. My thoughts became tangible and solidified. My sentences brincando between dos mundos. I want leche. I want a muñeca. ¡Quiero candy! Dos padres very confundidos by my melange of Spanglish. They tried to make sentido of my words. There was no order to a lenguaje unconstrained by reglas. Mama y papa tried to teach me how to contar. So I counted to mis papas: one, dos, three, four, cinco, seis, seven.....

San Antonio.

¡En esta casa hablamos español! I learned to navigate the awkward Spanish words with the twist of my rigid tongue. Mi pobre boca felt thick with palabras and ideas that had no release. My fragmented Spanish no longer glittered the floor in broken shards. Instead, it was precariously pieced together—held tightly with anglicized thoughts. I tried to make the palabras come out, but it only chipped away at something that was already broken. My parents would come to lament the choice I had made. In this house, I spoke English.

Puebla.

Mi vocabulario se alimento con cultura. Estuve intoxicada con los colores y sonidos. Mis palabras se volvieron miel. Sacarina. Dorada y viscosa. Vivía en un paraíso mexicano mientras conservé mi inglés con solo mis pensamientos. La miel atrapó mis pensamientos como ámbar y preservó mi ingenuidad. Mi inglés se mantuvo inmaculado con mi juventud. Mientras, mi español pudo madurar y explorar este nuevo terreno. Pero este néctar empalagoso no logró saciar las gargantas de los demás. Les ofrecí miel, cuando nada más quisieron la pureza del agua. I wanted nothing more than to offer the very nectar that had sanded the callouses off my tongue. Yet, their fangs drained the sweetness from my fragile veins. Their forked tongues stabbed sibilant snarls into my sensitive ears. Their talons tore at my paper-thin skin while I stretched my arms out in surrender. I begged for mercy, but I was met with their vitriol. Their venom spat across my face and the acid was left to blister my delicate flesh. My Spanish offended them. So, they left me branded with gleaming rosa scars. La gringa.

Farmington.

Chillicothe.

Selma.

I clenched my hands around mis palabras like the flawless diamantes I chiseled from mi tierra sagrada. No puedo dejar que escuchen mi español. They wouldn’t hear my Spanish. Pero los diamantes dug their resentment into my flesh with their sharp points. I held a precious hidden treasure in my palms that I feared would be ripped from my clutches by overzealous thieves. I wanted nothing more than to wash off the sangre that dripped from my pierced fingers. I wanted to thrash and scream— ¡Mira! ¡Mira como brillan! ¡Mira que preciosos y radiantes son! But when I finally spread my fingers out wide for the world to see, they only saw the blackest coal glistening with the redness of my fear. They snatched black diamonds and set my mundo ablaze. From the glowing embers, they branded my skin anew. The wetback.

San Antonio. Again.

Again. There were others like me, but were they like me? Were the manuals to their lives written in English or ¿escrito en español? Do they prefer flour tortillas or ¿prefieren tortillas de maiz? Did they have to climb up to the stage and prove to the world, that like, ¡No, en serio! ¡Te lo juro! Soy Mexicana! ¿O les arrancaban el micrófono de las manos a pesar de gritar, “No, I swear! I’m American!”? I was no longer alone. We were alone together. Our existence and identities became a performance; a dance for no one that particularly cared. "Watch the amazing acrobatics! See how we jump between two worlds!" Uno que nos rechazó por haber nacido en el mundo equivocado and one that unwelcomed us for being born with a different language caged behind our teeth. They tried to mark us out in the open, but our skins held no more room for new scars. Instead, they abandon like the waste they deemed us. We were left ignored and unworthy of recognition. We became expendable. Unseemly. Incongruous. Nothing. Nada.

Here and now.

My skin is no longer tattooed with scars with which I was branded. It has thickened and matured. It’s the leather of an ancient tome that was bestowed secret knowledge of two powerful realms. It’s the bark of a wizened gnarled oak that straddles the old and new worlds. I am steady in my journey and I am sure of my path. Tengo mi voz y mis susurros will tear down brick walls erected by the deplorable. Tengo mi voz y mis gritos will demand for all dreamers to have their dreams realized. Tengo mi voz y anunciaré al mundo que I know who I am and am not. I am too white. I am not dark enough. I am not white enough. Soy descolorida. I am nothing. Soy nada. I am a wetback. Soy una gringa. I am something. Soy todo. I am the longing for Spanish to kiss me with their honeyed lips. Soy la boca que fue moldeada con la fuerza y dureza de inglés. I am Latinx y soy latine. I am mexicana. Soy American. I am both. Soy dos almas encerradas en un cuerpo. I am the amalgamation of the ancient and modern. Soy las tradiciones pasadas por mis papás and I am the resister of their outdated ways. Soy Mexican-American. I am mexicana-americana. I’m me. Soy yo. Me.

#mexican american #bicultural #my poetry #free verse #poetry #latinx #latinesource #latina #mexicana #americana #chicana #neurodivergent #audhd #autism #actually adhd #adhd

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winxanity-ii · 19 hours

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⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 17 Chapter 17 | primal protection⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

When you finally regained consciousness, a wave of disorientation washed over you. You blinked, trying to focus in the dim light. You were alone, sprawled on what felt like rough concrete.

The air hung thick and heavy, a metallic tang stinging your nostrils. The distant rumble of something far below made your balance a bit unsteady. Your gaze swept the environment, taking in the barren landscape. Molten rock glowed faintly in the distance, casting an eerie red light across the desolate terrain. The heat, almost suffocating, pressed down on you.

Suddenly, the faint memory of Thirteen's voice, muffled and distorted, flickered back—about the "training zones." Ah, that's where you were.

For a fleeting moment, a strange comfort settled over you. The heat, the barrenness—it stirred something deep within, a forgotten memory from your past life.

Images flashed across your mind—ruling over realms of fire and brimstone, wielding terrifying power alongside your sisters, the other three Horsemen: Yoru—the War Devil, Fami—the Famine Devil, and Death with her chilling touch.

The nostalgic memory was shattered by a whoop that echoed through the desolate landscape. You snapped your head to the left, spotting a hulking figure emerge from the shadows. His head was a grotesque parody of a hammer, molten metal replacing flesh and bone. A cruel grin split his face, revealing rows of jagged, brown teeth.

"Well, well, well," he boomed, his voice a gravelly rasp, "look what we stumbled upon. Seems the League scattered more than just heroes." His eyes, two glowing embers recessed deep within his metallic skull, narrowed as they scanned you up and down.

Another figure emerged beside him, a wiry woman with forearms that looked like they were carved from obsidian. Black spikes, razor-sharp and glistening in the dim red light, ran along her arms from wrist to elbow. "Looks like a new toy for us to play with. How generous," she sneered, her voice a sibilant hiss.

The two villains cautiously circled you, sizing you up like a predator stalking its prey.

"Ya' don't look so hot," the hammer-headed villain chuckled, a sound like rocks grinding together. "Make sense. Unless you're some kind of fiery chick, you're toast in this zone."

The spiked-arm villain snorted. "She don't look like much, probably just a useless tag-along," she scoffed. "Maybe we can use her as bait to draw out the real fighters and have some fun."

You met their approach with a measured tilt of your head, a single eyebrow raised in silent challenge.

The heat seemed to intensify around you, the air crackling with unspoken power. These weren't worthy adversaries, but a small spark of amusement flickered within you.

Perhaps this little game would be a good way to pass the time until a more interesting challenge presented itself?

The hammer-headed villain, emboldened by your apparent lack of resistance, lumbered closer. He reached out, a massive metal hand engulfing your chin in a vice-like grip. He cackled, the sound echoing through the desolate landscape. "Hahaha! Well aren't we lucky? Got us a sassy one! Maybe Shigaraki wouldn't mind if I took her back to base as a little... pet project instead of killing her off now?"

Your eyes narrowed at his audacity, his words like a slap in the face. Your irises narrowed to pinpoints, a predator glinting within their depths. Your nostrils flared, releasing a hiss of raw power.

"Pet?" The word dripped from your lips, laced with venom. A sneer twisted your features, chilling the already scorching air. "You dare put your filthy hands on me and dream of a future where I am your inferior? Don't make me laugh. If anything, your place is beneath me. Where you belong." The amusement you'd felt earlier vanished, replaced by a cold, simmering fury.

The villain seemed momentarily taken aback by your sudden shift. But that hesitation was fleeting, replaced by a cruel amusement that twisted his already grotesque features.

A backhand swung across your face before you could react. The impact sent a jolt of pain through you, splitting your bottom lip and filling your mouth with the metallic tang of blood.

You hung your head, hiding the inferno building in your eyes as a primal rage began to boil within you, threatening to erupt and incinerate everything in sight. The villain, mistaking your posture for submission, seized your chin once more, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Oh yeah," he cackled, a sound that scratched against your already frayed nerves. "We'll have some fun back at base. Just look at those eyes." He leaned in closer, savoring the fear he thought he saw flickering on your face.

Just as you were about to unleash your wrath, a foreign sound cut through the air—a powerful explosion followed by a furious shout.

"Get your hands fucking off of her!" The shout was a primal roar, laced with a fury so potent that it sent shivers down your spine.

You looked up in time to see a blur of blond hair and crimson eyes. Bakugo had arrived, his entire form radiating a barely contained rage. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were now wild and feral, fixated on the villain who dared to touch you.

Without a moment's hesitation, Bakugo launched himself forward. A massive explosion erupted from his gauntlets, propelling him like a rocket towards the hammer-headed villain. The villain, caught off guard by the sudden attack, was sent flying backwards with a surprised yelp, the force of the blast sending him sprawling across the rocky ground.

You stared at Bakugo, he looked like a man possessed, his rage a tangible presence in the scorching air.

With the hammer-headed villain on the ground, unconscious, the spiked woman rushed to his side, her eyes blazing with fury. "You'll pay for this!" she snarled, her voice laced with venom.

"Quit your yapping and fight me, you overgrown pincushion!" Bakugo barked as he ignited his gauntlets, explosions crackling around his fingertips.

The villain's face contorted in a snarl and with a scream, she lunged at him—her forearms extended, the razor-sharp spikes glinting menacingly in the dim red light. "I'll kill you!"

For a tense few moments, they became a blur of motion. Bakugo, fueled by rage and his explosive quirk, managed to hold his own against her relentless attacks. He dodged and weaved, countering her strikes with well-placed blasts. The air grew thick with the smell of burnt caramel and sweat.

But the spiked woman, despite her smaller stature, was surprisingly agile. She pressed her attack, eventually finding an opening. With a swift maneuver, she managed to trip Bakugo, sending him crashing onto his back. He grunted in pain, momentarily stunned.

Just as the spiked woman raised her arm, prepared to deliver a finishing blow, a crimson blur slammed into her side. Kirishima, with his entire body hardened into his unbreakable form, had arrived in the nick of time. The force of the impact sent the spiked woman flying several feet away.

She tumbled through the air, narrowly missing a molten rock wall, only to be caught by the hammer-headed villain who had regained consciousness. He groaned, rubbing his head with a metallic clang.

Bakugo, still on the ground but slowly regaining his bearings, let out a scoff. "You haven't had enough, huh, Hammer-Head?" he sneered at the hammer-headed villain.

The villain, his eyes burning with renewed anger, let out a guttural growl. "Games over, brats," he roared. With the spiked woman back on her feet, the two villains charged forward, a formidable duo fueled by vengeance.

Bakugo propelled himself forward once again, explosions erupting from his gauntlets. Kirishima followed close behind, a determined glint in his eyes.

The scorching air crackled with anticipation as the fight was about to reach its climax.

You, on the other hand, found yourself strangely unfazed by the impending brawl. Instead, you settled onto the edge of a nearby rock, a safe distance from the unfolding battle. Crossing your legs, you rested your chin on your hand, humming a soft tune under your breath, a stark contrast to the chaos before you.

The clash was a brutal ballet of explosions and hardened steel. Kirishima managed to deliver a powerful blow to the spiked woman, sending her sprawling unconscious onto the rocky ground.

Bakugo continued to hold his own with the hammer-headed villain, who, emboldened by the earlier fight, seemed to have shed his daze-inducing fury and replaced it with a condescending smirk instead.

"Heh, what a waste," he rumbled, his voice a metallic rasp. "You, with all that power, wasting it in this pathetic excuse for heroism." He circled Bakugo, his massive hammer glinting in the dim light. "Join us, kid. With us, you could be something truly great."

Bakugo scoffed. "You think I need your lectures, you oversized scrap heap?" He ignited his gauntlets once more, explosions crackling around his fingertips. "The only greatness I need is your ass destroyed!" he roared, lunging forward with renewed ferocity.

Seeing his words fail to sway Bakugo, the villain shifted his focus. "Once I flatten you and your little red buddy, I'm taking little Miss sweet thing over there back to the base," he boomed, gesturing toward you, "I'm sure the League will have a lot of fun breaking a fiery filly like her."

Bakugo froze mid-stride, his crimson eyes snapping towards you. In that split second, he saw the fresh bruise blooming on your cheek, the split lip that stained your face. The raw fury that had simmered down moments ago reignited with an explosive intensity.

A primal growl ripped from Bakugo's throat, his entire form trembling with rage. Before anyone could react, he was a blur of blond hair and fury. Explosions erupted with a deafening roar as he launched a relentless assault on the villain. Bakugo's attacks were brutal, fueled by a white-hot rage that seemed to consume him entirely.

Kirishima, ever the voice of reason, watched in growing concern. "Whoa, BakugBro! Chill, dude, he's already down!" he shouted, rushing forward to intervene.

But Bakugo was a force of nature at that moment. He rained blow after blow on the already defeated villain, the ground trembling with each detonation. Specks of blood misted the air around them, some landing hot against Bakugo's cheek. Just as Bakugo, his eyes blazing with a feral intensity, raised his hand for another explosion, Kirishima managed to grab his arm.

"That's enough, man!" Kirishima yelled, his voice strained. He forced Bakugo's arm down, the explosions subsiding with a final hiss. The hammer-headed villain lay sprawled unconscious in a crater of his own making.

Bakugo, his chest heaving and his eyes blazing with a feral intensity, slowly turned towards Kirishima. For a tense moment, their gazes locked, a silent battle of wills transpiring between them.

Finally, with a ragged breath, Bakugo seemed to regain some semblance of control. He ripped his arm free from Kirishima's grasp and stalked towards you, his expression unreadable.

When Bakugo reached you, he said nothing but held out his arms. Gently lowering yourself into his strong arms, you were deposited back onto the rocky ground.

Standing beside him, you allowed your eyes to take in the scene of destruction. The once desolate landscape was now marred by craters and scorch marks, a testament to the ferocious battle that had just transpired. Humming a low tune, a habit that surfaced whenever you were deep in thought, you turned towards the edge of the volcanic zone, the exit beckoning.

Without a word, you began to walk, Bakugo following close behind.

"Hey, wait up!" Kirishima called out before jogging over, catching up to you and Bakugo. "What a fight! Especially you, BakugBro. Even if you did went a little wild there for a second, it was super manly." He grinned, nudging Bakugo playfully.

Bakugo, still fuming but clearly regaining his composure, mumbled a grumbled response under his breath. "Yeah, yeah.. Whatever ya' say Shitty-Hair"

As the three of you navigated back towards the central plaza of USJ, you allowed your thoughts to drift over Bakugo's actions.

A slow smile played on your lips.

It seemed the instinct to protect you, once solely present when you held direct control over someone, had evolved.

Back on the playground in your youth, his fury had ignited when you were challenged by his ex-playmates. But here, the mere suggestion of you being taken had triggered a similar, albeit more controlled, outburst.

A fascinating development. Perhaps frequent exposure, like a well-trained pet, had instilled within Bakugo a possessiveness you hadn't anticipated. The thought sent a soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest.

"What's so funny?" Kirishima asked, his voice laced with curiosity as he glanced over at you.

You shook your head, the playful glint in your eyes a secret held solely between you and the volcanic landscape. "Nothing," you replied, your voice light and carefree. "Just enjoying the scenery."

The walk back was filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated only by the occasional rumble from the depths of the earth and the rhythmic crunch of boots on rock. As you emerged from the scorching zone, the sight of the familiar plaza filled your eyes. There, in the distance, you spotted the rest of Class 1-A, a jumble of concerned faces huddled together, seemingly relatively unharmed.

But just beyond them, you saw it.

Aizawa, Class-1A's ever stoic and capable teacher, lay crumpled on the ground, his face contorted in pain. His head was propped at an unnatural angle, a sickening scene made all the more horrifying by the figure looming over him.

It was the monstruous creature from earlier with the exposed brain.

There, the creature held Aizawa's head in a vice-like grip, and with a sickening crack, slammed Aizawa's head against the unforgiving ground once more.

Even from where you were, you cold hear the horrified screams from the students below, their faces etched with terror.

Kirishima didn't hesitate, immediately rushing down the plaza towards the horrifying scene, determined to protect his friends and teacher. Bakugo followed after him with a quick "Stay safe" to you over his shoulder.

A slow smile played on your lips, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding below. This turn of events was unexpected, yet undeniably thrilling. With a glint of amusement in your eyes returning, you took a single step forward, ready to play your part in this unfolding drama.

The heroes, the villains, the fear, the chaos—it all fueled a dark anticipation within you.

***AHHHH! Someone trade places with me i dont wanna live my life 😩 y'all so much shit just happened to me frfr. not only did I just unexpectedly become an aunt, but i have to move out my dorm, as well as complete 3 assignment papers and also take an Anatomy and Physiology exam 💀💀💀💀 AJSBHWKDS i'm tweaking y'all. anyways, i'm not gonna lie, i lowkey don't wanna write out the next scene 😭😭😭 we'll see, either i do it, or imma do a sort of time skip and do a small summary of what went down 💀 aslo, sorry for not updating these last few days, as you can see a bit ealier in this note i'm in fact not okay ❤️❤️❤️ but fr see y'all soon and thanks for the love 🥹

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lichfucker · 1 month

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well. I'd like to hear more about brain damage in d minor and. obviously. silvermiranda revenge sex fic. obviously.

I just talked about brain damage in d minor in the last post so I'm just gonna skip straight to the silvermiranda revenge sex fic lmao

I simply think the most evil thing the writers of black sails ever did was decide that miranda should have ten years of absolutely atrocious sex and then die. she deserves better dick than the g-ddamn pastor.

originally this was going to be a scene in to cross running water, my massive vampire!flint au, but it made more sense as its own thing. it takes place shortly before the end of s1, after flint and miranda have their fight in 107. she's pissed at flint and wants to get back at him and correctly deduces that the most upsetting thing she could do to him would be to fuck his little thief. so she does! because I'm a feminist.

I've only written like 500 words of this fic—for a long time I was considering it "the fic I promised myself I would never write," because at that point I had never written smut before— so below the cut is literally the entirety of this fic as it currently exists:

James never comes when he and Miranda lie together. There’s no blame to be had for it, no resentment, no shame; it’s an understanding they’d come to long ago. He takes care of her, and then he takes care of himself. Most times she offers to finger him, and on occasion he accepts. He certainly enjoys it—she’d not offer if he didn’t—but still it isn’t quite what he needs to get there. Thomas always used to speak of the journey superseding the destination, when it came to sex: an orgasm is lovely, but it’s hardly the only thing that can be accomplished in the act. “They do call it ‘making love,’” he would say, “and love can be found at any point along the way, not merely at the climax.”

So James never comes. Miranda never expects he will.

But he did, recently. James came with three of Miranda’s fingers inside of him, his fist around his cock, a sibilant hiss on his lips.

She’d asked him, afterwards, what he had been thinking about, her curiosity piqued, but he’d simply gone silent. At first she took it to mean that he’d been thinking of Thomas, and that the matter was too tender to withstand her lighthearted teasing, or perhaps that he’d sought to spare her the grief of giving voice to the empty space where once had stood the pillar that kept them stable. And yet it gnawed at her, benignly—Miranda knows the difference between James’ grief and his shame. The two are so entwined that most people cannot discern them, cannot see them at all behind the illusory rage crafted by their combined silhouette, but Miranda knows the difference. She likely knows it better than he does, himself.

She would have been content to keep the theory to herself, to hold onto it until such a time as it could withstand some teasing, until it could draw a flush onto his freckled cheeks rather than venom onto his tongue. She would have held it like a precious thing, a thing to be kept warm and safe until he were ready to care for it himself. She would have sheltered it.

And then James read her fucking letter. And then he besmirched and derided her, condemned her for the crime of wanting anything beyond this vapid, stagnant life. She deserves better than to have sat here for ten years going putrid in the Caribbean heat, and she deserves better than to sit here for ten more, and he had the gall to paint her villainous for it. So this suspicion of hers that the small writhing s trying so valiantly to force its way out through his gritted teeth may have been the aborted beginnings of a name, this suspicion which she had intended to cradle gently in her palms… well, now she intends to grip it the way he would the hilt of a sword: white-knuckled and deliberate. She would have had fun good-naturedly needling him with it. Now she is going to have a very different sort of fun.

#laufire #thanks lau #bluh bluh #I am not making a tag for this fic I refuse #sdflksd

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q-ueen-potato · 10 months

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So, I made a real introduction to Hobie's sibilings here.

For the ones that doesn't know what I am talking, Is canon in the 'main' earth that Hobie Brown is the youngest of nine kids, so I decided to make his sibilings in his earth(Spider Punk earth).

The pictures are all from pinterest just so you all can have a idea of the vibe of each one.

- Frederick "Fritz" Brown

Age: 35 years old

Former teacher, got arrested for the second time for "indoctrination" and being against the government. Responsible brother, helped raise his sibilings when his father left. He is wise but not boring, he will speak his mind with no fear.

Most of the times feels responsible for his younger sibilings since he had to be almost a father to them.

-Agnes "Nessie" Brown

Age: 32 years old.

Vintage queen, like 99% of her wardrobe are his mom's former clothes. She is literally the favorite sibiling of all of them. Social activist, she is currently working to get in the politics to try change the fascist state.

Traveled the whole world, got a shot once(Her siblings has no idea) and has a adopted son that is a refugee from a communist country.

-Gilbert "Bert" Brown

Age:30 years old.

70% style, 30% chaos and 100% whore. Bert was the one that introduced Hobie to punk culture, he owns a pup where Hobie usually play.

Has twins daughters but rarely see them because their mother hates him. Made a tattoo at 14. He supports his sibiling on anything they do and is always ready to help. Gave an flat in the same building as his to Hobie so they could have drinking nights(and he could keep an eye in his brother)

-Theodore "Tod" Brown

Age: 27 years old. Younger twin

At age 17 he and his sister run away with the circus. They do stunts and other acts. He is always changing the color of his hair but most of the time is pink. Sends random pictures at the group chat.

He and Hobie once got in a fight and they broke each other's arms...the fight was about the last slice of cake....that Leo ate in the end.

-Lucile "Lulu" Brown

Age:27 years old. older twin.

Works at the circus with her brother, also handle the circus finances. She is responsible for sending random song lyrics or memes tk the group chat.

Once she knocked out a man with a metal chair, she wears heels to everything since she is small and hates it. Had a funny laugh

-Abraham "Abe" Brown

Age: 24 years old

He is a vigilant named Black Tiger, he had worked at the side of Spider-man more than once(the two not knowing their identities). Martial arts master, he was a Prodigy since childhood and had teached the move that made Hobie broke Tod's arm.

Had left the group chat like 3 times now but is always put back. Lives with his mom to protect her.

Leopold "Leo" Brown

Age:22 years old.

Artist boy, sells his art at the street and was arrested 5 times because it. Has a scar for being beaten by the police. He is positive all the time. He still lives with his mom and knows Hobie is spider man since he was biten.

He is tall just like Hobie, and loves hearing his brother play his guitar, he loves movies and collect and restore rare and old dolls like Barbies.

-Florence "Florrie" Brown

Age:21.

Fun fact, she was born on the same day as Leo being conceived 3 months after Leo was born. She is the fun sister and the reason why they had to move two times(she isn't allowed to the kitchen). When she was 14 and Hobie 12, she piercied his ears. She and Hobie are the closest of the siblings and she was the one that came up with the nickname 'Baby Punk'

She is a cop not by choice, since she was infected by Venom becoming Captain Venom working alongside Officer Venom and the Venom Army.

#Youngest of Nine AU #Hobie Brown #spider punk #ITSV #ATSV

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valtiels-darkness · 10 months

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.:Of Bloody Oaths and Stolen Souls:. An ItaOro AU

So, this is a little ficlet inspired by the Writer's Prompt: “This person sold their soul to you fair and square,” said the incredulous angel to the demon. “Why are you petitioning for them to enter heaven?” “Because after everything they did with what I gave them, they deserve to.”

Please forgive any mistakes. This was sort of a flow of consciousness. Itachi is around 19-22 year's old.

TW: Blood and dub-con (considering the context)

I SHOULD be writing on my massive fic for an ATLA challenge I am in... but you know how that goes!

Look, I know the pic is from the Demon Slayer end credits... Leave me alone xD

The serpent coiled round the trunk, deep in the dark of the forest and night. The scales, so white they glowed with a shimmer of lavender. Itachi's breath hitched, his sharingan whirring to life, red bled into black as the serpent's head languid in its movements, made it's way to face him. Eyes as gold as the sun and nearly just as old, peered down at him, with little curiosity. Tongue flicking out, smell-tasting the young man's fear and determination alike. "What do I owe the pleasure of an Uchiha in my domain?" Came the sibilant whisper. Both raspy and silky.

Resolve fully tempered like the steel of his blade, Itachi stepped forward and leveled the snake a flinty stare. There was no more time. He hoped beyond all hope that this was, indeed, the one they called 'The Liege of Serpents'. "I wish for an audience with you…" His deep voice sounded far more put together than he truly felt. He watched, fascinated as the large serpent's pupils thinned to a barely there slit, showing flecks of luminescent lavender, before they blew out once more, to the point that Itachi saw himself reflected within the deep black.

"And…" the serpent's head lowered even further until it was leveled with the Uchiha's. The tips of the forked tongue nearly whisper against his chin. Secretly impressed that the young man did not flinch. "What is it that you want, boy?" The hiss was amiable, with a deceptively soft undertone that made Itachi tense imperceptibly. All the legends that he had stumbled upon in his frantic search for this being, ended the same way. An eternal soul in exchange for power. It was the only way though… His clan… the village. His younger brother.He took a deep, stabilizing breath and lifted his chin a fraction. "As you well know, the Otsutsuki have descended upon Hi no Kuni and lay siege upon the lands and people." He began, unwavering "I wish to protect my people-" He was cut off by a sharp hiss, fangs so sharp, flashed before his eyes. They dripped venom and Itachi felt the cold prickle of fear descend along his spine. He swallowed, willing to keep hold of his impassive composure.

"You wish for power?" The serpent chuckled, it's coils writhing along the rough bark. "An Uchiha asking for more power?" Another raspy laugh and Itachi couldn't help the indignation that began to rise, jaw clenching and eyes narrowing. He was running out of time! The sound of scale scraping along bark drew his attention back to the serpent. Or rather, where the serpent had just been. Even with the sharingan activated, he missed the serpent's movements entirely.

This was pointless, he was foolish, thinking he could come here and petition the serpent trickster. Itachi took a step back, hands fisted against his uniform and grit his teeth. He'll take his leave then. He couldn't afford to not fight any longer. His self-imposed fool's errand was a bust, but just as he began to turn to take his leave, a cool sensation brushed along his exposed neck that he distantly registered as fingers, gliding delicately towards his front. "Impatient and precocious one, aren't you?" Suddenly, he felt a solid presence press up against his back, those hands splayed upon his chest as warm breath tickled his ear. "You do know the price which I ask?" All the Uchiha could do was nod, catching glimpses of impossibly white skin and talon sharp nails.

"Very well. Face me and give me your name." With that, the serpent-being stepped away. When they did, Itachi slowly turned around, not before his eyes whirled further into the mangekyo. He would take no chances, that is for sure.The sight that greeted him was… not what he expected, for the most part at least. Before him stood an equally unnerving and eerily beautiful man. Hair, long and heavy and black as spilled ink, cascaded over a pearlescent shoulder, the strands rested against mid thigh. For all of the serpent's androgynous appearance, there was no denying that he was a man. Or at the very least, he was, for now. Itachi swallowed and took a deep breath, eyes rising to meet purple lined gold. "Uchiha Itachi." It was gritted out, low and strained. His throat and mouth dry as he watched the otherworldly man's lips quirk into a fanged smirk.

The serpent hummed in what Itachi could consider as delight and then swiftly took the short distance between them. Moving swift with a near boneless grace, until Itachi had those arms wrapped around his stiff shoulders once more and felt those impossibly sharp fangs puncture the skin of his neck. He flinched and his hands came up to automatically grip the serpent's waist, nails digging in. The Uchiha just stared off into the blackness of the woods as the serpent chuckled, lapping up the blood, stepping even closer. Deceptively frail body pressed flush to his own.

Itachi couldn't help but dig his nails further into the man's skin, hands flexing and eyes whirring frantically. He really hoped that this was all worth it, in the end. Finally, the serpent moved away from his neck, gold serpentine eyes searched his, blood smeared along those pale lips, dripping down one corner as they smirked. They stood frozen until the man leaned up and sealed those bloody, plush lips against his own, forcing a wicked tongue between his lips. He tasted his own blood, a coppery, metallic tang.

#naruto #Itachi #orochimaru #ItaOro #Itachi x Orochimaru

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cliffdivingsblog · 1 year

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I am contemplating doing something really wild for Day 7 of Haladrielweek Wild Card. (no worries I am also cooking up some other stuff)

A Melkor/Varda parallel to Haladriel ...

Yeah or no, folks?

“How long has he known?”

The sibilant hiss that greets Varda is as threatening as the wildly twisting shadows keeping most of the room shrouded in impenetrable darkness. She has not announced herself, aware her presence has been noted the moment she drew closer, perhaps the moment she decided to come here.

“Since the beginning.” She does not let the heavy adversity in the air, the icy coldness that bites into her skin with every step towards the pulsing heart of darkness in the center of the room, deter her. But then she never has.

“I keep no secrets from my husband.”

A groan echoes through the space, something hovering between disbelief and anger, the shadows giving way for a single instance, letting in the silvery light of the stars, allowing her one glimpse of his face, pale features contorted in misery, dark eyes alight with impotent fury.

“And you want me to believe he is fine with it?”

The Lady of Light halts on the threshold to the writhing mass of shadows, the smokey tendrils grasping for the tips of her silvery slippers nearly teasingly, her pale dress fluttering in a sudden breeze.

“He loves us both.” Varda’s voice is calm, measured, a melodious counterpoint to Melkor’s anguished rasp. She does not try to breach the shadows though, neither with her magic nor her presence, knowing all too well to go behind his defenses uninvited will likely prompt a vicious backslash. “He does not begrudge us any comfort we may find with each other … or any pleasure.”

Melkor’s face emerges out of the darkness like one of Ulmo’s great sea creatures breaking the ocean’s surface, full lips twitching in denial, his face as hauntingly foreboding as it is beautiful. “No one is that selfless,” he spits venomously.

“You are not,” Varda retorts with sharp precision, noting the way her words make him flinch in satisfaction. It never fails to amaze her that her judgment has the power to affect him.

“I am not.” There is both awe and apprehension on his face at the way she can so easily acknowledge the darkness in her own heart, even if her voice is not more than a soft whisper, traveling on the thin shards of starlight that have begun to pierce the shadows in a nearly imperceptible but relentless barrage.

“No, you are not.” The shadows part for her willingly now, the hand reaching for her, brushing back a lock of her long, copper hair, shockingly tender and warm. “Is that why you have come here? Because you are as selfish as me?”

No one in Eru Ilúvater’s creation is as selfish as you, Varda could answer. But her lip trembles underneath the gentle touch of his fingertip, a disconcertingly mortal weakness weighing down her limbs, her heartbeat quickening.

It stutters in shock when his hand buries in her hair violently next, her power flaring up in answer, meeting his, sparks flaring up around them, cutting through the darkness and his flesh. It does not even make him pause as he tilts up her face forcefully, dragging her closer. “No,” Melkor rasps, fury a barely constrained tempest in his fathomless eyes. “He sent you here. To keep me under control, to keep me leashed.”

#haladrielweek #wips #wild card #varda x melkor #varda #melkor #light and darkness

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rabiesram · 2 years

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more shamura hcs.

Rubs my hands together

-Shamura loves soft stuff. They'll rub their face in fluffy stuff like blankets to calm down.

-They have poisonous venom bc i said so

-Loves being the biggest sibiling! Their younger sibilings could crawl all over them and tug at their fur and they'll still smile

-The best choice for someone to read you a bedtime story

-Wanders a lot post-injury. Follows critters around if unsupervised

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dirty-bosmer · 10 months

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First Lines!

Rules: Post the first line/paragraph of your current WIPS

I was tagged by @thana-topsy and @thequeenofthewinter thank you friends 💕

I'm a bit late on this one and know a lot of you have already been tagged so I'll try not to be super annoying and blow up everyone's notifications (or maybe I will 😈). Tagging @atypicalacademic @nuwanders @elavoria @skyrim-forever @dumpsterhipster @gilgamish @viss-and-pinegar @expended-sleeper @nientedenada @sylvienerevarine @druidx @snowberry-crostata

Here's a random little bit inspired by a Tes Fest prompt. It's about Scar-Tail, the Shadowscale Teinaava asks you to kill in Oblivion. He has a little cameo in the Illusionist and I must thank @atypicalacademic for the insp <3

Scar-Tail doesn’t speak his name anymore, not even in his native tongue. He wonders, if enough time passes, will he ever forget its rhythm or will it quake within him always like a second bloodbeat? Somedays he feels it trapped behind his teeth— the sibilant shape of it, the phantom weight of it, the gathering swell in the hollow pocket of his throat. It still speaks to him in sleep where formless figures call him by the name his brother called him, and even in dreams the name is doused in venom. Even in dreams, the only ones who speak it want him dead.

Slither and Writhe Chapter 3

It wasn’t the first time Sylawen had run from home nor was it the farthest she’d gone. She'd taken the morning coach from Skingrad to Bravil (much to the carriage-driver's surprise) precisely because the town was only half a days’ ride, and more importantly because it was the last place her parents would think to search for her. After all, no woman of her breeding would be caught dead in such a cesspit. Her childhood tutors had told her as much. "No one travels to Bravil unless they’re looking to catch helljoint or find themselves robbed blind," they'd warned, and on day two of her holiday, Sylawen had proven this to be a matter of empirical truth.

#tag games #slither and writhe #btw I don't actually agree with Bravil slander. I love Bravil. Love a swamp town. Love the mire and the murk #sonny writes

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kaatiba · 1 year

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legends of mourra - nano excerpt no.2

↳ A Muslim-themed fantasy featuring a boy abducted by the djinn and the determined mother, lovelorn kinsman, gentle warrior, female Ranger, and scarred outcast hoping to rescue him.

❝ Meanwhile, the boy is watching with curiosity as a shadow detaches itself from the greater shadow of one of the bushes of the garden and winds its way towards him, revealing itself to be a long, thin snake, all black.

He knows to be careful of snakes. He knows to ask them politely to leave, if he comes upon one, and if they do not then to remove himself from the vicinity carefully and quickly, because snakes are fast and often venomous but also disinclined to attack him if he poses no threat to them. He knows when he is older he will be allowed to dispose of a snake himself, if he must, but otherwise to have an adult do that for him, because he promised his mother he would, and promises are important to keep.

So he doesn’t get closer to the snake, but as it stops a while away from him, he doesn’t back away from it either, simply watches to see what it will do. It raises its head. It looks at him. And then it speaks.

You are wearing something around your neck, it says, in a sibilant voice that he hears in his head, rather than with his ears. What is it?

He startles a little, retreating half a step. Animals don’t speak to you, unless they are not animals, or unless you are very special. He doesn’t think he’s very special, and a speaking snake…

He has heard stories like this before.

“Are you a djinn?” he asks.❞

lofm excerpts: pre nano / 1 /

general taglist (open!): @lockejhaven

lofm taglist (open!): @muddshadow, @hyba

#lofm.wip #kaatiba's nano 22 updates #nano 22 #nanowrimo 2022 #nano excerpt #my darling qusaiy who i am about to traumatise very badly #he is five years old btw :]#muslim writeblr #muslim writer

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thefandomcassandra · 1 year

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Broken Bridge (1/?): Every Night

They say that grief is a wrecking ball. That grief takes the breath out of your lungs and the strength out of your limbs and the will to live out of your very soul. In that moment, a large piece of Helmut Fullbear dies. With the passing of Bob Zanotto, the only light in Helmut’s life goes out.

(Razputin Aquato enters the mind of Helmut Fullbear to help him process his grief and to get his assistance in helping stop the return of Maligula. It doesn't hurt that his husband isn't...dead, per se. The hard part is convincing him of that fact.)

Helmut knows how this goes. It replays in his dreams every night. He's memorized every line down to the stage directions, the well worn script a hell of his own making.

After all: the man who let his husband die doesn't deserve restful sleep.

The uninhabited Grulovian tundra they chose as their battlefield—as much as they might try and delude themselves, they were going to engage Maligula in combat, might as well call a spade a spade—is frosted. What little flora is there crunches beneath their boots as they close the distance with the person who had once been their friend. Even the dirt is solid. The wind, bitter and dry, shrieks, a portent to what is to come.

The setting for this sordid tale is evocative of its ending. A tragedy encased in ice. Impeccable set design. An emotive score.

(Bob always hated tragedies. Helmut hates them now more than ever before.)

Everything about her is different. From how she holds herself to the way the water whips around her—no longer a partner in crime, but a beast that needed to be leashed before it could do anything other than bite the hand that feeds—there isn't a trace of their Lucrecia to be seen. Sharp and cloaked in fine furs, the malignant Maligula is a far cry from the threadbare but beloved Lucrecia they'd last seen. Instead, the Minister of War, the Lapdog for the Maliks, the Deluge of Grulovia, Maligula stands opposite them, her teeth bared in a derisive sneer.

"So," she hisses, each word as sibilant as she can make them, her accent choking and fetid where it once was endearing and honey-thick, "at last you've come to clean up the mess you made?"

Helmut doesn't have to look at Ford to know that these words are meant more for him than anyone else. They all cared for Lucrecia—loved her in their own ways—but Ford...

(This broke him in a more literal way than anyone could have imagined.)

"We don't want to hurt you, Lucy!" Ford tries, foolishly, to appeal to her humanity.

(Wasn't he aware she wasn't human any more? Wasn't he aware that Lucrecia was gone at that point? He read their mail. He knew what she said. He knew the venomous tongues the Maliks possessed and he let her go anyway? If Ford hadn't been so weak—if Ford hadn't been so in love that he couldn't stop her from becoming a monster—then Bob wouldn't have—!)

"Oh," Maligula coos, simpering and fake, "that's where we differ, you and I. While you may not want to hurt me, I certainly have no qualms about hurting you!" With that and a wave of her hand, she condenses the water in the air and summons her snakes.

The time for talking should be over then.

(But he knows it isn't. It never is. And he has a part to play.)

Read the Rest on AO3

#psychonauts #psychonauts 2 #jarswap au #broken bridge #the sheepy writes fic #crossposting this from ao3 because im not shadowbanned #anyway ch2 is done too hence this #psychonauts 2 spoilers #psychonauts spoilers

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willowstreetstories · 2 years

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Erotic Things there is no self just rapture By Rajiv Mohabir

The texture of wet clay on a throwing wheel

The blue of an eastern bluebird when spring crashes on the heels of winter

Keats’s negative capability has the potential *

Mistaking your lover for someone else when he turns his back

Exotic sounds like exotic. But not when people call me this * The erotic makes sense when we think of jouissance and how that means there is no self just rapture. When I say jouissance, I like the eroticism of it being in French with that final nasal and sibilant. Doesn’t this sound like how a romance novelist would write it—and to me my own auto-colonial reading is not erotic, of French that is. Of English and Spanish too—they sound like colonial coercion, and that’s not erotic. *

The pharmakon: how snake venom poisons, how the antidote distills from that very venom

The space of indeterminacy *

Dark-skinned men in short shirts and shorts, men with bubble butts and thick thighs *

“Another important way in which the erotic connection functions is the open and fearless underlining of my capacity for joy.” —Audre Lorde *

Queers and not fitting in one envelope or one’s shorts

But maybe eros is exotic, and by this, I mean the very textural gesture of the word, what it points to, what we hide in clothes or words *

The texture of language

The linguistic texture of Bhojpuri, Creolese, and English brush up together—living their taboos together—through the act of emergence despite repression

Secret languages that we speak to each other in *

The lips when they bite strawberries, how they envelop the red

Swollen strawberry guava. The smell as they rot on the ground—like wine. I remember tramping through a sprawling forest path at Kuli‘ou‘ou Ridge where the forest floor practiced its winemaking. The entire climb was perfumed and that was erotic, the emerald of the mountain, the cloud cover like fog and the turning of sugar into liquor.

Rajiv Mohabir is the author of Cutlish (Four Way Books 2021, finalist for the 2022 National Book Critics Circle Award, longlisted for the 2022 PEN/Voelcker Award for Poetry), The Cowherd’s Son (Tupelo Press 2017, winner of the 2015 Kundiman Prize; Eric Hoffer Honorable Mention 2018), and The Taxidermist’s Cut (Four Way Books 2016, winner of the Four Way Books Intro to Poetry Prize, finalist for the Lambda Literary Award for Gay Poetry in 2017), and translator of I Even Regret Night: Holi Songs of Demerara (1916) (Kaya Press 2019) which received a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant Award and the 2020 Harold Morton Landon Translation Award from the Academy of American Poets.

His essays can be found in places like Asian American Writers Workshop’s The Margins, Bamboo Ridge Journal, Moko Magazine, Cherry Tree, Kweli, and others, and has been a “Notable Essay” in Best American Essays 2018. His memoir Antiman (Restless Books 2021, finalist for the PEN Open Book Award, and the 2022 Publishing Triangle Randy Shilts Award and the Lambda Literary Award for Gay Memoir), received the 2019 Restless Books Prize for New Immigrant Writing. Currently he is an assistant professor of poetry in the MFA program at Emerson College and the translations editor at Waxwing Journal.

#rajiv mohabir #poetry #zuihitsu

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textribe · 3 months

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Plural of Mongoose: Clearing the Confusion

The plural of mongoose has been a subject of confusion for many people. Mongooses are small carnivorous mammals found in Africa, southern Europe, and Asia. They have short legs, sharp claws, and usually brownish or grayish fur. They feed on small animals like insects, birds, snakes, and rodents. The term "mongoose" can refer to a single animal or multiple animals. When referring to more than one mongoose, the plural form can be either "mongooses" or, less commonly, "mongeese. The term "mongeese" is considered an alternative plural in many dictionaries. However, "mongooses" is the more widely used and accepted plural form. The Singular and Plural of Mongoose Singular: MongoosePlural: Mongooses The correct plural form of mongoose is mongooses. This formation follows the standard English practice of adding an -es to the end of nouns that end in a sibilant sound like -se, -sh, -ch, -x, or -z. Understanding Mongoose Definition of Mongoose A mongoose is a small carnivorous mammal belonging to the family Herpestidae. These animals are known for their elongated bodies, small rounded ears, and a keen sense of smell. They are primarily found in Africa, but some species are also native to southern Asia and the Iberian Peninsula. Usage of Mongoose The term mongoose is used to refer to any member of this family of mammals. They are often noted for their quick reflexes and agility, as well as their ability to combat venomous snakes. Use of Mongoose in Sentences - Observational: "A mongoose was spotted darting across the savannah, likely in search of its next meal." - Folklore: "In many cultures, the mongoose is revered for its ability to fight and kill snakes." - Zoological: "The zoo's new exhibit features several species of mongooses, each adapted to different environments." - Comparative: "Unlike the slower movements of the tortoise, the mongoose is quick and nimble." - Metaphorical: "In the corporate world, he is considered the mongoose to his competitors' snakes, always outmaneuvering them." Common Mistakes and Confusions - Incorrect Plural: A common mistake is to use "mongeese" as the plural form. This error likely arises from an incorrect analogy with words like "goose" and "geese. - Misidentification: Confusing mongooses with similar-looking animals, such as weasels or ferrets, is another common error. - Generalization: Assuming all mongooses have the same characteristics or behavior can lead to misunderstandings about this diverse group of animals. Commonly Asked Questions - Q: Why is the plural not 'mongeese'?A: Unlike 'goose' which changes to 'geese', mongoose does not follow the Old English pattern of vowel change for plurals. It follows the more regular pattern of adding -es. - Q: Can mongoose be used as both singular and plural?A: No, mongoose is singular, and the correct plural is mongooses. Conclusion Understanding the correct plural form of mongoose – mongooses – is more than just a linguistic curiosity; it reflects the broader intricacies of the English language. The term's usage in various contexts, from scientific discussions to folklore, highlights its relevance and the importance of using its correct plural form. By embracing the linguistic diversity and complexity of words like mongoose, we enrich our understanding of language and the world around us. FAQ What is the plural form of mongoose? The plural form of mongoose can be either "mongooses" or, less commonly, "mongeese". What do mongooses eat? Mongooses are carnivorous mammals that feed on small animals like insects, birds, snakes, and rodents. Where are mongooses found? Mongooses are found in Africa, southern Europe, and Asia. Are mongooses social animals? Yes, mongooses are typically social animals and often live in groups called "mongroups". Can mongooses coexist with other wildlife? Yes, mongooses can coexist with other wildlife such as monkeys and birds in certain environments. Read the full article

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