You can call me Moth, they/he, transmasc, Canadian, 40, AuDHD disaster, fic writer, digital artist
Header from ghoulodont
Minors dni pretty please, but you can follow my art blog if you want @midnight-moth-draws
Arcane side blog @starry-eyed-moth
Do not repost my art, or I will hex you! (I mean repost to other sites, reblogging is encouraged.)
COMMISSION INFO HERE - Closed
AO3 is here
My tags are … in the tags
Currently writing/drawing romance and filth in the Ghost fandom. Asks are open - for fic requests art requests or whatever you feel like dropping in my ask box.
Info about what I will not write below the cut.
The list of what I won’t write is much shorter than what I will and it includes: hitting or spanking aka impact play, reader insert or y/n, forced fem (feminization is fine with me but not forced for humiliation sake, it makes me uncomfortable), I haven’t written much at all about papas, and it would probably be a struggle.
If you aren’t sure, please ask. There’s no judgment and maybe if I can’t fulfill your request someone else can, and if I can recommend someone I will.
I am accepting drawing prompts but much like writing I am trying to be selective and for the same reason. People have asked about commissions and yes I am open to it, and I will make a com sheet but I’m not quite ready.
Papa Nihil likes his decaf (probably at least 6 hours old) barely above room temperature with enough milk and artificial sweetener to mellow the burned-cigarette bitterness. The defacing of the mug is a mystery, but he just KNOWS it was Copia.
Primo takes his double shot of single origin espresso in a custom porcelain and silver cup. He savors the crema from the top then dunks each of the three sugar cubes in one at a time with his silver spoon. Call it a ritual.
Secundo prefers you warm the giant steel mug with boiling water before adding his preferred central American coffee, freshly ground of course. And when he’s sipped it down, he’ll drizzle in the stout espresso shot. Do NOT talk to him unless that shot glass is empty.
Terzo’s coffee is fire and ice, just like him. He’ll settle for artisan vanilla bean gelato if that’s all you have, but the smoky finish of bourbon vanilla is a perfect compliment to the sweet espresso. The flashy, jingly spoon was a gift to himself after Nihil bent his old favorite spoon trying to pry open a jar of pickles.
Copia likes things super sweet, but also a little spicy. His cinnamon mocha always looks so picture perfect in the “I Love Rats” diner mug. The cinnamon stick is a tasty way to stir the chocolate and Seester always keeps him stocked on spicy cinnamon heart candies for the top.
Rain drops a plastic shopping bag on the dressing room table, between Dewdrop and the expansive vanity mirror in front of him. A frame of frosted light bulbs illuminates it from every direction.
They charge money for these bags, not very much but enough that he considered — briefly — carrying his purchases out of the store in his hands. He decided the bag felt integral to the experience. Now it feels a little silly. There’s not much inside, and the wispy gray handles rise above its contents like smoke.
Dew raises one eyebrow. “What? You bought weird snacks again?” He leans forward in his chair, reaches toward the bag—
Rain stops him with a hand on his shoulder. The reconfiguration of inertia causes the entire chair to tip back, gently giving way via some fancy internal mechanism fit for fancy furniture in a fancy arena dressing room.
Dew’s incredulous glare in response to what by all means was a minor slight isn’t a surprise. He’s been irritable lately, the past two weeks, reactive — understandably so. Healing is taking a lot out of him, and any energy he has left is immediately spent, overspent, on performing a concert every day or two.
He seems to have turned a corner, at least physically. He’s up and about more, walking to catering, things like that. Marginally less pain, and the swelling is starting — just barely — to go down. Rain has done his reading, though. Broken bones take weeks to fully repair, for temporary cartilage cells to ossify; it takes months for things to get back to normal. A relative lack of inflammation is not the green light Dew wants it to be.
Rain removes his hand. The chair bounces back upright, hitting its maximal angle with a clunk.
“Not snacks, I guess,” Dew grouses.
Rain did indeed buy snacks, normal ones, but he has other plans first.
“In order to heal you need to rest,” he says.
“How have I not been resting? All I do is sit around.” Dew makes a vague gesture at their surroundings, a space in which he’s more or less confined for the next several hours.
Rain rolls images of him sulking and fidgeting around in his mind. “Well, yes, I mean—” He thinks of him leaning off a couch to reach a bottle of water, which falls to the floor. “You’ve been sitting but you haven’t been resting.”
“What do you want me to do?”
Rain reaches into the bag and pulls out a flat, heat-sealed foil rectangle. “We’re doing this.”
Dew narrows his eyes at the item presented to him. “What is it.”
“Face mask.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not going to help.”
“It feels nice. It’s hydrating.”
“I’m not a water ghoul anymore,” Dew bites.
Rain looks up from the foil packet, now haphazardly torn at a diagonal that starts at the perforated open-here notch and wanders down toward the belly of the packet where the mask lies. His fingers are damp with serum — hyaluronic acid, glycerin, slippery things. He rubs them together. “I don’t think it’s the time or place for fire right now.”
Dew huffs. A muscle in his jaw flexes. “Fine.”
Rain pulls the mask out of the packet. Dew glares daggers into him as he struggles to pick apart the seams of what, under the weight of his scrutiny, feels like a densely folded wet napkin. What he finally unfurls is a white circle, spanned by perpendicular creases from its time entombed, with neat, machine-cut openings to accommodate two eyes, a nose, and a mouth.
As he brings it to Dew’s face, Dew shrinks back, just a little.
“Hold still.” If he had a free hand, Rain would hold him still himself. The best he can requisition are a few free fingers, the ones not holding the mask, ring and pinky on each side, lightly pressed to his temples as he drapes bottom of the mask on his chin, then aligns the eye holes over his eyes.
“Eugh,” Dew complains. “It’s cold.”
“It’s soothing.”
To his credit, Dew does hold still while Rain carefully tugs at the edges of the annoyingly self-adhesive sheet that, in reality, is not the shape of a face. Something flat never had a chance to fit a nose, cheekbones, a jaw, despite the carefully engineered notches and cutouts — a known limitation of the form. Still, he pokes at it with gentle fingers until it’s as centered and optimal as it can be.
“Okay, done.” He stands up from a leaned-over position that had become, in the midst of his focus, intimately close, zoomed in.
Dew turns and looks in the mirror, stiff in the way one might be when they have something balanced on their head. He gives himself a restricted, blank-faced scowl.
“This is stupid. I feel stupid.”
“No, here, look, I have one too.” Rain quickly grabs the other packet and tears it open, even more obliquely than the first.
The mask slides wetly into his hand. He shakes it out with much less care than was afforded to the previous one and places it haphazardly over his own face. Then he sits in his own chair.
“Okay,” he says. “Now we’re not going to do anything for thirty minutes.”
Dew doesn’t even protest at this point. He sighs and closes his eyes.
Rain pulls his phone from his pocket and lifts it up to eye level so that he can type “relaxation music” into the search bar without looking down and disturbing the fragile surface tension adhering the mask to his face. He considers, then scrolls past, a guided mediation — too much — and taps a two hour long track with an album cover featuring river-worn rocks and deep green foliage.
Dew opens one eye halfway as the tranquil soundscape of low-pitched bells and flowing water fills the room.
“Relax,” Rain instructs, firm, at odds with his choice of musical accompaniment.
Dew closes his eyes.
Rain doesn’t. He keeps watching Dew to make sure he’s cooperating.
He does look peaceful, hands folded in his lap, big boot elevated on a small ottoman scrounged from another room backstage. Maybe it’s working.
Only a fraction of the way into their thirty minutes, a knock sounds on the door, three energetic taps.
Dew’s eyes snap open.
Almost immediately, the door swings ajar and Aurora spills into the room. “Hey, do you guys have—”
Dew, without delay, sits up in his chair and turns it around until his back is to the door. Unfortunately for him, every mirror in the room reflects his image right back to the beaming smile spreading across Aurora’s face, to her eyes radiant with the serendipity of witnessing something very unusual and very secret.
“Oh! Wait, this is so cute!” She looks from Dew to Rain and back again. “Can I paint your nails? I have black, and a glitter top coat— Or white, to match your guitar! Hold on—”
Then she’s gone as quickly as she came.
Dew starts trying to stand up, both hands on the arm rests of the chair, injured leg kicked out in front of him so as not to put weight on it, then seems to think better of it.
“Quick, lock the door,” he hisses in an urgent, shouting kind of whisper, like if Aurora hears him she’ll come running back.
Rain doesn’t have to think twice about it. It’s a win to him: Dew is still sitting down, and the mask is still on.
most of my art endeavors have been cross stitch for gifts as of late. I did make the pattern for one of them yay. and technically the little strawberry one is only one part of 4. and one drawing - a sleep token piece for crookedhourglass’s birthday.
Post 5 art pieces you’re proud of and tag friends :3
@ghoulodont @orion-ghoul @bloodfin @endopyre @karmicbias if you wanna
I guess I was in a writing mood today. Why not the second prompt? Why not write 8500 words instead of the intented 1000. Thanks again to @forlorn-crows this is already so much fun
Tags: Kinda hurt/comfort, established relationships, references to established dom/sub dynamic but nothing nsfw, Mountain has a bad day, Zephyr makes it better, idiots in love
EVERYONE SAY HAPPY BIRTHDAY @forlorn-crows RN!!!!!! Ilysm bestie, knowing you has been so wonderful and I hope today is amazing because you deserve it, 1000 kissies for crow
Read on ao3 or below the cut
Thrown carelessly by the whims of the cold autumn breeze, the door to the greenhouse squeaks and whines on rusted hinges. The wind drifts in like an uninvited guest. Invades his space and creeps up his spine slowly, from the base of his tail to the notch beneath his skull. Vertebrae by vertebrae until he involuntarily shudders. Mountain’s body shakes, the half repaired pot held together in his hand loses a small shard where the glue hasn't yet dried, and his tail twitches in annoyance.
Mountain hunches further over the workbench as he blinks forcefully. His vision struggles to focus and he does his best to fight it. To persist through the burning in his eyes, through the ache in his back, through every innately human limitation his vessel presented. Exhaustion, fatigue…It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, the concept of being adjacent to mortal. Beneath him. He would sneer if he had the energy to spare but Mountain doesn't because he has nothing to lend his frustration as he exchanges one shard of broken pottery for another when the former does not fill the space. He heaves a sigh through his nose and promptly regrets the action, the smell of glue fills his nostrils and his stomach turns.
He reels back for a breath of untainted air and tries not to gag. More pieces of clay fall from their place in his reckless movement. His tail kinks up behind him.
He drags both hands through his hair as his gaze sweeps across the greenhouse. He unintentionally tears through the tangles with a frustrated warble as he takes in the disrepair.
Bags of soil turned over or cut clean open, earthy innards spilling out onto the cement alongside jagged shards of broken terracotta and displaced plants. Victims of unwarranted brutality, innocent casualties uprooted and ripped from the comfort of their dirt beds with little regard for the delicacy of their root systems. Mountain’s stomach sinks as he stares at the plants strewn over the floor. There’s no vibration, no steady hum of life radiating from them. A silence that makes him feel vaguely sick. Unsalvageable, the realization sits like lead. Many of these plants predate him and his care, laid carefully by older hands that nowadays rarely reacquaint themselves with the inside of these glass walls.
His greenhouse, the one place he could control, lies before him in a state of carnage. Torn apart by vengeful siblings, driven by spite and pride alike. Siblings that could not take no for an answer, siblings that felt entitled to the fruits of his labor, siblings that had turned his greenhouse upside-down and made off with his cannabis plants on the way out - not even just taking his weed, taking the whole damn thing, pot and all.
Mountain had spent hours trying to undo the damage. The morning sun had streaked slowly across the sky above, and he worked on. Daylight shifted and changed at the edge of his awareness. Golden light tinged orange until day finally bled into night, and he worked on.
Every moment of labor is harder than the one before it. He feels it in his muscles, his tendons, his nerves and the pain only leaves him spiraling further towards hopelessness. He wipes his eyes on the back of his arm. Denies himself that final step towards despair. He won’t cry, he won’t. Mountain swallows the lump in his throat and shakily reaches for the puzzle of shattered clay left on his workbench.
The creaking door and the howl of the wind masks soft footsteps moving across the concrete behind him. The gentle tut of concern is what registers above the white noise. His ears perk up but he doesn’t turn from his work, not until a hand laid itself between his shoulder blades. His own began to tremble that much more.
“Mountain…”
Zephyr‘s voice makes his chest tight. Light like a whisper, steady as the ground beneath his feet despite just how much it feels like the world could crack apart and swallow him whole.
“Is this where you’ve been?”
“M’fine…” He responds automatically. Mechanically. His words sound as empty as they taste. The fingers against his back twitch in response, gives away their worry before he can turn to them and find it settled on their face. “Not done working.”
“And you won’t be done for quite a while at this rate.” Zephyr frowns, he knows the sound of it. “You’ve done enough for one day, Mountain.”
“I’m not done yet.” Mountain repeats, quieter. Telling himself more than them, it needs to be done. He has to be the one to do it.
”It can wait.”
”It can’t.”
Their palm follows the curve of his spine to the small of his back. Delicate and fluid, a flower petal carried on a lazy river's current. The ceramic in Mountains hand does not click seamlessly back into place, rough edges audibly scraping rougher seams. Just another shard among the mess but the starting of a signature, split by the break, makes it priceless. Only a ghoul like Earth could sign something so small and clean, never a tremor nor twitch when a brush was in his hand.
Mountain holds his breath and thumbs over the letters. Thinking. Zephyr says nothing until Mountain voluntarily sets it down among the rest. He finally lets the inhale go. It escapes ragged and weary. Only empty handed does he turn to look at them, defeated. The furrow of his brow is harsh, etched deep, Zephyr’s lips turn down that much more. He holds his hands out silently like an offering. Surrender. Pleading for guidance, to be taken far from this disaster, anything to shrug off the guilt crushing him.
”I’m sorry.” He croaks, throat tight. The words have to force their way out, fight to be heard. “I-I don’t know what to do.”
”You don't have to know.” Zephyr takes his offering carefully, fingers threading between his. Second nature to hold him, to reassure, to be the grounding force he needs. “Not right now, love.” They squeeze and his shoulders lower, only a fraction of the way. “It can wait.”
Mountain bites the inside of his cheek, it isn’t suggestion. Telling, setting expectations.
“…It can wait.” He concedes.
”Very good, pet.” They hum, pleased from the sound of their tune to the curl of their smile.
Relinquishing control is done in a silent, well practiced, exchange. Zephyr tilts their head and he bows his in response, eyes meeting briefly as they pass. He heels to an unspoken command when their fingers slip from his. His heart, to its credit, does not sink at the loss of contact. Stutters, but does not fall. Mountain brings his hand to his chest instead of reaching for them again. Curls his fingers into starched fabric and forces himself to breathe. In and out. His mind fixes on the repetition as he trails behind them. They do not pause, no second glance to ensure he follows, Zephyr knows he's no more than two steps behind, as loyal and obedient as their own shadow.
The halls of the abbey have long since been vacated by the time Zephyr leads him back towards the ghouls wing, the weary souls of the clergy already tucked in for the night. He envies the thought, the idea of sleeping so easily. His expression turns downwards, knowing the siblings that destroyed his sanctuary were among them, peaceful. Rest is undeserved, for both him and them. Mountain begins to scowl but where anger should burn, embers do no more than glow. Barely enough to put off any real heat. Mountain’s expression smooths itself out, though his features turn ever so slightly downwards.
Mountain keeps his eyes trained on the floor as they walk, watching Zephyr’s tail swish behind them. A gentle to and fro, feathers lazily dusting the tile. Another easy thing to focus on all the way back to the air ghoul’s quarters.
He crosses the threshold and slinks inside, shoes dragging against the carpet as he moves. His path diverts towards the bed but Zephyr reappears in front of him before he can make it much further. Mountain stops. Sways on his feet. Zephyr cups his jaw with a sigh, something about it sounds so much more tired than they let on.
“I won’t have you dragging that mess any further.” Their gaze flicks down and over him, his follows to the dirtied front of his uniform. Now in proper lighting, not just the glow of dull fading lightbulbs he’d been putting off replacing in the greenhouse for a few weeks, he can see the extent of his own damage. “You’re filthy, pet.”
“…Sorry.” Mountain manages after a drawn out pause.
Their thumb strokes lightly across his cheek.
”Shower, then you can rest.” They tell him. Simple, direct, without the burden of decision and yet Mountain still wrestles with the instruction. Enough so that he opens his mouth. Protest at the tip of his tongue, ready to tell them no, he doesn’t want to, but he hesitates to actually defy instruction. When no sound comes out of him, Zephyr repeats themself, leaving no room for decision.
Instead of opposition, his more vulnerable, selfish wants make themselves known.
“Come with me…?” Mountain asks and almost immediately bites his tongue when he hears himself. Needy, meek. Far from himself and closer to a nervous kit. He almost turns and walks himself to the bathroom before they can answer and the embarrassment of sounding so desperate can really dawn on him.
But Zephyr smiles, always endeared to him, even in such moments.
“I’ll be there shortly.”
Stepping into the bathroom feels like stepping into another plane of existence, it only carries his mind further from the reality of his tired, aching body. Mountain’s vessel feels tight, stretched across his demonic form like a second skin that doesn’t quite fit. He scratches at the line of his throat as he cranes his neck, glowering at his own reflection like a dog catching sight of itself in the mirror for the first time. It doesn’t look like him, doesn’t feel like him.
Angry red welts begin to raise under the lines his claws repeatedly rake across his skin.
His claws — He notices the dirt caked under them and jerks his hand away.
Mountain turns the shower on, turns it to a little shy of boiling, and begins to unbutton his tunic while the water slowly starts to heat. The fabric slips from his shoulders and pools on the tile around his feet. He barely feels lighter, his bones and his burdens each a thousand pounds on their own. A few layers of fabric don’t make much difference on that end, but Mountain can admit to feeling far less strangled by the confines of existence. A little less caged in but not quite free.
He steps under the spray and inhales through his teeth as the heat crashes over him, an overwhelming wave that he instinctively starts to flinch from. Mountain fights the natural urge to retreat from the burning water, he sets his jaw and braces his hands against the linoleum, shoulders heaving as he forces himself to keep breathing through the pain cascading down his back — Different to the ache caused by hours of uninterrupted labor still present in his spine, sharp and vivid as opposed to low and dull, equally persistent but just enough to distract him. He screws his eyes shut. It isn’t pleasant, pain hardly ever is, but it’s something new for him to latch onto.
The bathroom is filled with steam by the time the door opens and closes with a soft click, a thick fog having taken over when he opens his eyes again.
It could have been seconds or hours under the scalding water, his skin feels raw either way.
Knowing better than to carelessly step into a shower after a few too many incidents with a certain fire ghoul, Zephyr is smart enough to test the water before joining him. They also flinch from the heat with a displeased noise and reach for the faucet. The water goes from burning to a more tolerable level of hot in seconds flat. Mountain shudders and presses himself closer to the wall when they slip into the narrow space with him. Their hands feel icy when they come to rest on his bare chest.
“Did you intend to steam yourself like broccoli before I came in?” Zephyr teases.
”Thought you liked broccoli.” He mumbles as they move to push their fingers through his now sopping hair, mindful of the snags when they push it back and away from his face.
“But I prefer my Mountain, and I prefer him uncooked.”
Mountain laughs, shallowly.
When their hand comes to rest on the back of his neck, he allows himself to be pulled down to their height. Zephyr kisses the space between his eyebrows then the bridge of his nose, and rests their foreheads together, their arms come to drape over his shoulders and in turn his hands find their waist.
They stand in silence, basking in all the warmth contained in the shower stall certainly not meant to fit two ghouls. Zephyr holds him until his rigid edges soften, until the tension melts, until Mountain lets them in. Then they hold him a moment longer, maybe for his sake, maybe for theirs, Mountain can’t say. Not that it matters.
He sighs, shuffles slightly, and tucks his face into their neck. His breath is hot and humid as he exhales against their damp skin.
“I’m so tired, Zeph…” Mountain rasps and feels them nod in understanding. “I just couldn’t leave it like that.” He swallows, honesty a lump in his throat. “If Ivy saw the greenhouse like that—If Earth saw it like that—They’d hate me for it.”
”Mountain,” Zephyr says his name sternly and his ears pin back. “Ivy isn’t capable of hate, and Earth would never blame this on you. He knows you love every leaf and root in that garden.”
“How do I fix this?”
”Slowly.” They stand him up and wipe the water from his eyes. If they asked him, he’d tell them it was simply the shower, but that would not explain away the red tinging his eyes. But Zephyr knows when not to pry, he knows they won’t, that this wasn’t the time for such inquiries. “You’ll fix it as it comes. What is it the humans say? Rome was not built in an evening?”
”In a day.”
“Hm?”
”Rome wasn’t built in a day, the thing the humans say.”
”Ah—“ They nod again and turn towards the rack on the wall behind them where they lather up a wash cloth with a bar of soap before facing him again. “Hands.” Zephyr instructs and he silently holds them out where they start the delicate process of scrubbing away dirt and dried blood from his skin, mindful of the dozens of little cuts over his fingers. “Always clever, pet. Sharper than this old hen on a good day.”
“Humans say such strange things…” He says absently.
“Humans are such strange creatures.” The air ghoul agrees and turns his hands palm up to check for further surface level wounds. Thankfully they were confined to his fingers.
They work upwards from there; moving to his wrists, up his forearms, traveling all the way to his broad and solid shoulders, washing away his woes. He watches the suds drip from his body and run between their feet to swirl around the drain. Mountain feels heavier by the bubble, not in a weary sense, simply tired. Eager for the rest they promised in exchange for this, he assumes it was part of their plan.
“Don’t fall asleep on me here.” They hum, breaking the quiet lull his mind was drifting away on. “I can’t carry you back to our nest, you know.”
”I know.” Mountain watches them wring the excess water from the cloth and hang it back on the rack. “Am I dirt free enough for your standards?”
”I would dare to say yes, you might be.”
The faucet is turned off and the chill begins to creep in the instant the curtain is drawn back, like it was waiting for the chance. His tail flicks and sprays a few droplets of water outside of the confines of the shower. Zephyr steps out of the stall and onto the soft carpet first and he follows into the waiting embrace of cotton. They drag the towel across his body and even take care to squeeze the excess water from his hair, thorough from toe to tip. Mountain takes the towel from their hands and drapes it around their shoulders. He’s far from meticulous, he wishes he could be, but his brain and his body refuse to communicate on the same frequency. He does what he can and they chirp happily nonetheless.
Mountain felt a mixed sort of haze entering his skull as Zephyr pulls him from the bathroom back towards the bed, content yet disconnected. His brain sinks into the feeling when his body sinks into their thoughtfully laid nest. Every blanket is picked with intent, and every quilt folded with purpose. It smells strongly of linen and ozone, peppermint and smoke somewhere distant. He breathes it in as Zephyr slips into the space beside him. He rolls into them, and they were waiting for him. Zephyr pulls him close, brings his head to their chest, and coos softly when he so clearly keens at their touch.
The anxiety is not gone, the hurt and the anger that he harbors only waits on the side lines. It will return to him, but not for a good long while. Not while he is wrapped in Zephyr’s embrace. His eyes droop, his bones have clearly been replaced by lead, but his heart feels full. Light with relief, not burdened by the crushing responsibility of the task ahead.
when you see an artist you followed make an absolutely henious and pathetic attempt at defending their participation in the HP fandom and have the nerve to call people who are concerned childish? It’s childish to center your enjoyment over a media franchise that actively funds the destruction of trans people. Supporting JKR is not a neutral action. Using her IP makes people interested in her work which in turn popularizes it and funds it. Not being able to give up some bullshit half assed trash garbage poorly written books is childish. And the excuse that you’re supporting the artists who worked on the film or show is weak fucking bullshit as is the “artists” who agreed to sell their souls to that fucking cunt for a few dollars. But anyways.
