I'm Very Queer, My Writing Is Very Queer, And If You Don't Support The LGBTQIA Community Then Stay Off

I'm very queer, my writing is very queer, and if you don't support the LGBTQIA community then stay off my page, please and thank you :)

Please Reblog is Your Blog is Safe for Non-Binary People.

If my mutuals can’t rb this then we can’t be mutuals

I’m noticing an increase in new fic writers on AO3 who…uh…mayy not know how to format their fics correctly..so here is a quick and VERY important tip

Using a random fic of mine as example..

The left example: ✅✅✅

The right example: ❌❌❌

Idk how many times I’ve read a good fic summary and been so excited to read before clicking on it and being met with an ugly wall of text. When I see a huge text brick with zero full line breaks my eyes blur and I just siiiigh bc either I click out immediately or I grin and bear it…it’s insufferable!

If a new character speaks, you need a line break. If you notice a paragraph is becoming too large, go ahead and make a line break and/or maybe reconfigure the paragraph to flow better. I’m not a pro writer or even a huge fic writer but…please…ty…

Where

You two hold me tight, hands clasped and it feels right.

Your strength unwavering, your kindness unending

Your loyalty, your gentle hands, with the callouses that don't catch and the claws that never left a mark.

Tell me, how can I not love it all?

You two teach me, to defend and protect and just be.

Your guidance calming, your wisdom all knowing

Your strong hands in mine, your kisses on my crown, the warmth so sweet an ache.

Tell me, how can I not love it all.

But I see your smiles and gestures, I see the emotions behind your eyes.

I see the gems that adorn you,

Ears, fingers, hearts.

I see this immortal love, what warriors and gods and men could never break. Is there a place for me here, in this ode to devotion, this worship of love?

It is an ache in me, for I know I have no place.

I cannot set foot on this holy ground, bringing blasphemy and ruin in my wake.

I would never forgive myself.

I stay in my role, I stay by your sides, but I can't help but wonder;

And I ask, with tears in my eyes

One day, will I be left behind?

I Met Him in a Dream (Poem)

I met him in a dream, long ago if I remember

He was bigger, he was taller,

But his face was just too real.

I'm waking up, it's just a dream

Before I go, he says

"Hey, it's me."

I met him in a dream again, I remember it this time

His hair is short, his chest is flat

But his voice sounds a lot like mine.

Before I woke I'm calling out,

So he said,

"Hey, it's me."

I met him in the mirror, for the first time in forever

His chest's not flat, his hair's too long

But his eyes are just like mine.

I'm seeing myself for the first time ever, so I'll look with everything I've got.

And hey, it's me.

Love from Eden

Tell me, love, can you feel it?

Can you hear how my heart calls for you?

Do you dream with my name on your lips

As I do for you?

I crave for the touch of your skin,

Feel it bruise beneath my fingertips.

I yearn for your words and crass tongue,

Hear them bleed me dry.

Do you feel it, love, how I long for you?

This desire like a fungus, it festers like rot

But I can't escape these chains you've wrapped around my heart.

Tell me simple, love, can you feel me yearn?

I hunger for your presence, and the shadows of your silhouette

I call out for your words, your passion violent red.

Can you see me, love, how I cry for you?

This love is not a paradise, for it is not green or lush, it spreads like a cancer and it's taken hold of me

But I know you'll never stay, love, so I'll hide this beast away

You'll never know its teeth, or the disease that burns below

I do this all for you, love, but I'll never let you go.

Sunlight and Fire

Silva was born into a world of colors, shades and hues so numerous he couldn’t count them all, varied and beautiful. But strangely, the color of the sun, of gold and flowers and so many other things, has grown with him. 

His cradle was green leaves and soft grass, new eyes taking in the veins beneath the verdant surfaces. The sky overhead was grey, pale silver light passing through the clouds while crystal rain fell in droplets upon his face. Lightning, yellow and stark against such a uniform background, crackled with energy and set trees alight in orange fire. Silva, newly birthed from the Mother into the storm, watched the lightning and felt fear.

As he grew, tended to and nursed by dryads and river spirits, his forest cradle grew dense and lush in the coming spring. Vernal danced through the spaces between branches, sang songs with the coming of new life, the plants budding and blooming in riotous colors. Pink, purple, white, red, green, blue, all coiled together along vines and branches and stems that bent whenever Silva passed by. The nature spirit coaxed the young god to join in his merriment, and daisies grew around Silva’s feet wherever he tread. 

The god grew older still, the trees swaying to bow as he moved between them. Autumnal cast the leaves in warm hues of red, orange, and yellow, an ombre that reminded Silva so vividly of fire and magma flowing beneath the earth. Lightning struck, storm winds toppled the forests and flooded the rivers as war began. The forest was alight in yellow flames and lightning, and his once lush home became a grey mountain, bubbling and belching molten rock high into the atmosphere with his rage.

When the fighting was over—for now, the promise hissed—there was rebuilding to be done, as the remaining dryads mourned their fallen kin and the river spirits snuffed the last fires. Silva gathered them all, his nature bound brethren, at the foot of that grey mountain, dried black as ash fell like snow around them. The forest he regrew, the grass and trees growing thicker and twining around him, swaying toward their god, was darker than before, evergreen and deadly with roots to trap and vines to ensnare. Solstice swept over the land, and the flowers that bloomed there seemed to glow white while their thorns flashed amber in the dim light, spreading around the base of the mountain like a protective shield. In many ways, it was.

The city Silva built, heeding the pleas of frightened mortals, became golden, as the new residents painted their houses in colors of brown and red and orange and oddly, yellow. Yellow flowers mimicking those at the base of the mountain, and golden murals in the shape of Oro’s horns took shape along walls and roofs, the solstice casting everything in bright sunlight. Silva was almost blinded as he walked through the city, once small and humble, now resplendent and full of life. 

When there was time, in rare stretches of peace, Silva would trace the patterns on Oro’s back, glowing with white-hot gold beneath dark stone skin. His friend would say nothing, would only wait his turn until Silva was finished, and then the vines that made up the god’s hair would be tended to, stone skin on stone skin as they curled together, powerful yet frightened.

Solaris’ hair is as yellow as the sunflowers she creates to adorn the grounds, tending to the flowers that turn their heads toward the sun. Silva changes their colors, from a lemon hue to blue or purple, all for Solaris to throw her head back and laugh, flaxen hair blooming as she lets the world know of her joy. Silva would dance with her in the square to make more flowers bloom, and the daisies from before made a triumphant return.

Ophel’s eyes shine sallow in the low evening light as they sing in the entrance’s antechamber. They sing of victory, of peace, of tales so old Silva remembers them dearly, all reflected in the color of the spirit’s gaze. The spirit sang of betrayal, of heartache, and of a god who saved them, and all Silva could do was beg that the spirit not thank him. He has done many things, impossible things, but he did not wish to be thanked for saving a life. He has taken far too many.

Winter descends on the mountaintop, the snow dusting the tops of trees and casting everything in a somber silver. Secretly, or perhaps only cautiously, Silva finds winter to be his favorite season. With his yearly visitor, Silva may admit that he has a bias. Hiemal does not wear yellow, preferring blues and greys that suit his pale visage more, but his blue mingles so nicely with the colors of Silva’s wardrobe. He dons a golden robe this time, and the god expects the blues and yellows of their clothes to meld into green, to bloom into snowdrops and winterberry and crocus as snow settles on the windowsill. Instead, they tangle but never mix, the gods a bit too in their cups and sprawled over cushions on the floor, laughing and touching and kissing through the haze as the lanterns cast the room in warm light. 

Of all colors that Silva has seen, of all colors his flowers take on and the many shades of gems hidden beneath the rock, he always finds himself partial to the color of sunlight and fire.