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Ohio isn’t exactly the tornado alley of the Midwest. I’ve been through so many dinky false-alarm funnel clouds that I don’t even bother going into the basement. One day global warming is going to twist up a screwdriver so bad it’s going to fling my tiny ass into the atmosphere and I’m still going to be planning that night’s dinner when my lungs turn into vanilla pods.
no you kin characters. i kin(dnap) characters.
when everyone starts calling for me i only pick up for you
MY FUCKING BELOVED COGCHAMP HAS RETURNED FROM THE WARRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
i’d like to present to u....... my religion
Ok, I lied about my art settling into a style. It’s still all over the place :’D
Joined a shiz-ton of zines this year and realized that I can’t put them here b/c of contracts, so finding something for the last three months was a bit tricky QwQ
This year was pretty much dedicated to BNHA hahaha
when the person you like doesn’t realize how gREaT ThEY ArE
I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have a Tumblr. Hopefully he never sees thissss
Here’s thing #1 of Taco and Corn, a stupid webcomic about random things that happen to me which I hope to do when I have no other things to do
Enjoy!
The Song Of The Cliffs- chapter nine
Wilford grabbed the bottle from the grass, taking a large gulp from the bottle, feeling as fire scorched down his throat. A way to get rid of the body, a way out, a way out of everything. Stumbling through the tall grass of the cliffside, he turned and looked down at the sleepy little village. Why, oh why, would they want to build their houses there, not overlooking the mighty sea? Falling, maybe, worry of falling down down down onto the rocky beach, bones and houses withering into sand and salty whisky that burns with the waves.
Wilford drank again, stumbling to the wrecked ship, far down the cliffside. Oh, that happy skeleton, the only way down that didn't involve cut palms and aching arms, a metal hull with torn open pieces like a broken ribcage waiting for another heart. The bottle was less than half full. He jumped onto the deck of the ruined boat, grip on the bottle tight. He didn't have anywhere to put it, since he left his bag at the bar, right? Yes, that's where he left it, leaving a kiss on Edgar's cheek as well as he staggered through the door with Host, ignoring how the pathetic barman seemed to tear up at the tiny gesture.
What was in the bottle? Whisky, something stronger? Liquid fire burning through his brain? Wilford giggled, grabbing onto the handrail as he went into the underbelly of the ship, noticing a speck of white in the dark hall. Unsure of his own balance, he didn't bend down to pick it up, only looked at it. It was a playing card, a four of hearts. Four hearts for the broken-open rib cage. One for Mark, one for Bim, one for Host, one left over, one for whoever had the highest price, one for the next to die, but who would win that auction? Execution. Auction. Wilford laughed again. He wasn't making sense, nothing was except for the fiery whiskey on its way down his gullet, which he took another drink of.
Wow. Wow! This shit is strong! Stronger than when he spent a night at Mark’s old mansion, a night of whisky and wine and poker, teaching themselves how to dance and fucking his butler when the night got late and the alcohol ran dry, talking and talking, drinking more, Mark crying over the war and leaning on him… unpleasant things. Bad to dwell on, or he’ll end up crying again. Not in the dead ship. Not for Mark. He picked up the playing card. Tearing it to tiny shreds, he scattered it on the ship floor like rice at a wedding, like dirt onto a grave.
Soon, there was a pile of rocks, collapsed in on itself. Wilford passes it without a second thought, ignoring the copper scented memories that pulled at him. How was it that he drank to forget, but always remembered? He grabbed the neck of the bottle so tightly he thought it would break. He had to push on. The hole in the hull seemed to glow with the moonlight pouring through it, and Wilford stumbled onto the beach, sand in his shoes even after one step. He could see the corpse of the Host laying on one of the rocks, coat wrapped around him like a burial shroud.
The high tide would wash away the blood, but not the body. Wouldn't it? Wilford would have to do that by hand. Host was always scared of the ocean, it was a shame it would be his grave, in a way. Only in a way, though. When they were serving together, Host said time and time again that he hoped their boat wouldn't sink, sink like all the other ships that had been reported as having sunk. At least Host didn't drown. He was always scared of drowning, choking on water and blood as he slipped into the oblivion.
Soon, Wilford was staring down at his corpse. His back was bent at an unnatural angle, so was his neck. There was blood staining all of his face and his coat like water running over a river bank, flooding everything. Good, that would work. He grabbed the body by the ankles and pulled, pulled with all his might, dragging him off of the rocks, down onto the sand, down close to where the mighty sea frothed. It was hard to do with only one hand, but letting go of the whiskey sounded like a bad idea.
Ankle deep in the salt of the ocean, the cold water was the only thing that felt real. Everything else felt oddly far away, like he was reading everything out of a book, everything happening to some tragically heroic character. Dragging him through the sand, blood trailing behind Host and staining his coat and the beach. Wilford drank more of the whiskey before the corpse was in the water, starting to bob with the waves and dye the sea red. Wilford waited. Let the body go, memories and thoughts still clinging to him as it peacefully floated off into the distance.
Host was yanked underwater by an unseen thing, water churning and boiling red with blood, scraps of fabric that once was the trench coat he held so dearly being tossed about, the water still frothing and reddening in a brilliant color Wilford hadn't seen since the war, since Mark, since the soldier under the rubble, rocks breaking and snapping bone like a dam caving under the force of water. Wilford drank more whiskey as the frothing subsided, a shadow streaking under the water, nearing the shore. He sunk down to his knees, the waves splashing idly against him, as if they weren't aware what was happening, like it was another normal day, another normal corpse eaten by another normal siren.
Wilford moved into the waves, until he was up to his waist in the water, bottle still in hand. He drank again. It tasted like salt. The shadow got closer, and Wilford couldn't help but feel comforted as a clawed hand grabbed onto his arm, a heavy tail in his lap. Dark’s entire front was stained red with blood, probably from the chunk of meat he was still chewing on, tearing away at it with razor sharp teeth. Wilford drank.
“Dear artist.” Dark purred, voice like honey.
“My siren.” He drunkenly slurred.
Dark raised his eyebrows at that, chewing and swallowing the final bit of meat before wiping off his front, great tail flicking.
“Who ever said I was yours?”
“I just did.”
Dark leaned in closer, Wilford could smell iron on his breath and see glints of moonlight in his eyes. Dark’s hair was still pulled into its lovely braid, all Wilford wanted to do was undo it, see how the inky strands would frame his face, the moonlight accenting his muscular body, built from years of swimming, scales like roses and miniature lakes, shards from the night sky itself reaching all the way down to his strong tail that flicked with the waves in all of its shadowy glory. He was still smaller than Wilford by a good amount, but all that muscle and the scales just wanted to make Wilford reach a hand up, caress the gills that shuddered against gray skin, flushed cheeks and kiss blood-stained lips-
“I'm drunk, Dark. Have mercy on me.” Wilford begged.
Dark looked at the bottle in Wilford's hand, taking it from his lose grip and considering it only for a second before taking a large drink from it, Wilford focusing on the lovely sirens throat and how pretty his lips looked wrapped sinfully around the neck of the bottle. His mouth would taste like blood and whiskey. Host’s blood. Wilford shuddered, but he didn't know why. Was it because of the streaks of blood down the sirens chest, the bits of flesh caught in its pearly fangs, or was it because of the siren’s perfection?
Dark finished drinking, Wilford taking the bottle and examining it, eyebrows shooting up.
“You drank it all! The hell!”
Dark licked his soft looking lips. It was silent for a bit, Wilford resting his hands on the sand behind him, ignoring how his arms and pants were absolutely soaked with water. The waves pushed at them. Wilford moved his hands to where skin turned to the scales of Dark’s tail, listening as Dark sucked in a sharp breath, tried to brush it off as a cough, claws brushing up against Wilford's hands.
“I haven't had anything to drink in a long, long time, not until the start of that war. Those sunken ships didn't have anything good on them, nothing as good as this. Your friend, the… cowboy, is that the word?” Dark looked quizzically at Wilford.
“He's not a cowboy. He owns the bar I got this from. I could get you more, if you want.”
Dark raised an eyebrow, shifting slightly in Wilford's lap.
“Really? Giving alcohol to something that can easily kill you? Me, the vicious siren? Goodness, is there a brain in that pretty little head of yours?”
Wilford huffed as the siren ran his claws through his hair, scratching his scalp ever so slightly. It didn't hurt that much, but it sent shivers down his spine.
“Well, I have a brain, you do too- how different are humans from sirens?”
Darks face went blank.
“Not at all, besides the scales. Same skin, albeit mine is a bit… discolored, same hair, same brains, hearts, every little bit. Except for the tail.”
“Except for the tail,” Wilford echoed. “Does it ever get boring, just swimming about? I mean, the ocean is giant, but just swimming?”
Dark had the funniest look on his face.
“What about walking? I barely remember walking, but I remember it being boring, tiring, foot to ground, foot to ground, over and over again. Swimming is much more efficient, much faster. Especially without feet.”
Wilford drank from the bottle again, thinking of the time when he and Host snuck from their barracks and swam in a near frozen lake, still wearing their helmets just in case there was enemy fire. It was when Host still had his eyes, but after he stopped wanting to be called Author. That whole year felt like some weird in-between period, like the time it takes to have a pot of water boil, waiting and waiting.
“What would ya’ know about feet?”
“I used to have them,” Dark sounded far away, as if he was talking underwater, “I used to walk around the town and dodge carriages as I ran through the streets. It is 1924- is it not? 1924. I know the war is over, the ocean isn't flooded with bodies. I can feel another one brewing. I remember the war, the smell of blood drawing me to the shore like I'm being pulled. Before that, when I had just become what I am, I tried eating a sailor alive. I was so young, so stupid. I didn't even try to drown him, I was so hungry….”
Wilford wanted to ask him to slow down, but the siren kept talking.
“The war seemed to cling to me. It ran their hands on my scales. It's always going to be wars, always men fighting over and over again. Guns, tanks, mines, torpedos. It makes sense to have a soldier as mine, to know such a brave man… I used to be a coward. A coward that died with my humanity. Oh, Wilford, you remind me of what I was, the warmth of the land. Never, never have I felt so warm, so human like.”
“Dark-” Wilford felt his heart melt at Darks flowery words.
The siren smirked with sharp, fanged teeth that shone like… something shiny. Wilford let go of the bottle, hearing it splash in the ocean. He brought his hand up to Dark’s face, caressing his cheek with his thumb. He could feel his heart banging in his chest as the siren leaned into the touch, wondering how it's only been two days, only two days since the ship. Dark’s face was right in front of his, eyes dark and speckled with silver.
“My soldier, I am your muse.”
With that, the siren leaned in impossibly closer, and Wilford shut his eyes as their lips met. Dark’s lips were as soft as they looked as they moved against his, Wilford tilting his head to deepen the kiss. Almost immediately, he felt Dark’s fangs lightly scratch his lips, a feeling that Wilford could get drunk on much easier than the whiskey. Wilford moved his hands from Dark’s face, resting them on his chest as the siren grabbed his hips, still trying to pull him closer, his claws digging into his skin. The taste was a blur of whiskey and the slightest tinge of blood on his lips, something salty like the cold ocean, a taste that Wilford drank up as he kissed him, kissed him with his whole heart. Dark was leaning fully on him, and soon they were under the water, Wilford not breaking the kiss even as he was fully soaked with cold, salty water. He wrapped his legs around Dark’s tail as the siren broke the kiss, smiling at him.
Wilford opened his mouth to try to say something, but started choking on the ocean water, tapping Dark’s shoulder to get him to let him up. He shot up out of the water and sucked in a lungful of air, Dark looking smugly at him.
“I hope you don't kiss and tell.”
Wilford smiled, leaning in close for another kiss.
“Wouldn't dream of it, darling.”
Their lips touched again, Wilford leaning into the siren’s chest and passionately returning the kiss, the sea wrapped around both of them in soft waves, as soft as Dark’s lips on his. The moon was nearly full and beautiful, as beautiful as the two lovers kissing.
