#writing;

[mosskissed]

i think mydei would love kids, but would never have any himself between the state of amphoreus and his immortality.

he's very hands-on with the children in okhema as a result — those left orphaned by the black tide or whose parents are alive but busy, working hard to provide for their kids and community. they all love him, no matter where they hail from originally.

he makes time to play with them as much as he can when he isn't tied up in his role; from hide-and-seek and chasing to tea parties and dolls, whatever they tug on his hand to come join.

he's on his way back to you one day when he passes a crying boy, maybe 7 years old, not far from your home. he's sniffling on the ground, hugging his knee to his chest after he must've fallen and grazed it.

mydei pulls him back to his feet when the boy tells him between sobs that his friends all ran off and left him, scowling in the direction the boy points at.

mydei takes him to your home to clean his knee, sitting him on the step at your front door so he can hear if his parents or friends come looking for him while mydei asks you for a damp washcloth. he doesn't coddle the kid while he cleans him up, but he tells him in a gruff voice that it's alright to cry as long as he makes sure to get up and keep going afterwards.

you fall a little bit more in love with him each time you're shown this side of him.

they bring him gifts sometimes — deep red pomegranates that the most agile had to scale trees for; crude drawings carved into stone of them holding his hand, sometimes with you by his side holding the other; a clumsily crocheted heart made from an outgrown shirt, unravelled just to recycle the yarn for him.

he keeps everything that's given to him, and he can place every child's face to each gift. your home is overflowing with symbols of okhema's appreciation of your lover, an ode to his heart and what he chooses to do with it.

sometimes, a kid goes missing.

the walls of okhema are a challenge as much as they are a shield in the eyes of the brash youth, with the children so well-protected that they can forget just how real the threat is at times. some sneak out on dares to prove their bravery — others distraught, looking for their home, their parents.

they save as many as they can, but it's never enough.

the face of every child lost haunts mydei as he stands in his home, surrounded by the tokens of their implicit trust in him.

then, it's your turn.

there isn't anything you can say that will ease the burden he feels, the permanent weight he drags behind himself — but you can give him a shoulder to rest on, a hand to drag him back up when he stumbles. you can cradle his head to your chest when he drops to his knees, his legs no longer stable enough to keep him upright. you can run your hands through his hair as his arms wind tight around you, as if he's afraid of losing you next.

you can mask your rage at a world with titan's so cruel. you can whisper your prayers for a better tomorrow.

[bloodstainedlamb]

reckoning and repentance (1064 words) by bloodstainedlamb Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Hannibal (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter Characters: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter

Hannibal never apologized for that ear tube. Will doesn't directly ask him to, but still finds a way to make him do it.

[ntaras]

Father.

spoilers for the newest mk game

i’m very upset at the way they treated bi-han as a one note villain, and hate how they made out his father to be a good man. so, here’s a fic aka some anti sub-zero father propaganda.

the fic is centered around bi-han's relationship with his father

warnings for abuse, implied murder of an infant, and implied death during childbirth

if you see any typos don’t mention it to save me from embarrassment please

word count: 2.5k +

1. Sister

There’s a hand on Bi-Han’s throat. It’s not choking him, but it could if it wanted to. He could thrash and flail in the hand’s grip, but every time he whips his head in order to get away, the grip tightens. It’s mocking him, telling him how his last breath is in its palms. Eventually, Bi-Han learned it would never kill him. It would just make fun of him. It wasn’t any better for him.

But he’s lucky, isn’t he? The very hand that could kill him, also protecting him from death. Evidence of its power to take away life lies in the corpse of Bi-Han’s mother. He can’t see her, and he can’t feel her hands anymore. Even if the hand of his father left an awful pit deep in Bi-Han’s soul, his mother could show her son her hands, and that warmth exists even in the coldest parts.

The hand clasps his shoulder, cold skin- bitter.

“Oh, my son, what will we tell your brother?”

Bitter. Bi-Han hates bitterness. Not the taste, but what he is. It’s a taste too close to the hand around his neck. It’s a taste possessing him, a black tar attacking his soul.

“Bi-Han, did you hear me?”

Hear? What did Bi-Han hear? Just hours ago, when he walked towards the room where he heard his mother screaming and abruptly fell silent, he heard more crying. Though as loud as the screams his mother let out, they were still smaller. He was ushered out by two men standing guard by the door. He didn’t hear the crying again.

But he’s lucky, isn’t he?

“Your mother’s gone, and a sister- you would have had a little sister.”

The very hand that could kill him, also protecting him from death. Lucky, blessed boy, to not be a daughter.

“She’s not dead,” Bi-Han whispered.

“Bi-Han-”

He shoved his father’s hand off his shoulder. “She’s not dead!”

“She is dead- both of them. You mother and sister-”

“I heard her crying!”

Though many of the Lin Kuei men knew the Grandmaster for far longer than Bi-Han had been alive, they didn’t grow up with that man as a father. Bi-Han could see how his eyes held the contempt, scorn, disgust, and hate he had hidden away. They were eyes that watched Bi-Han like he was an animal, and his father the hunter. Though his father never took the shot to kill him, he would graze him enough for blood to spill.

His father’s eyes unveiled themself to Bi-Han.

“Who? No one was crying. Your sister was already dead before she could take her first breath.”

“She’s still alive! I heard her-”

The way his father struck him did sting, but it didn’t hurt. Even if blood began coating his tongue, it’s not as bad as the bitterness.

His father gripped both of his shoulders, dragging Bi-Han close to him and unable to escape his hold. Bi-Han kept his face turned away, looking down at the floor. He could feel the tears forming, and he couldn’t face his father with those tears on display.

“No one is crying except you, Bi-Han.”

Bi-Han’s lips wobbled, the question begging to be released from his mouth.

How’d he do it?

2. Tomas

There’s no love in Bi-Han’s father. He can laugh like any other man, his smiles are like any other man, but kindness doesn’t come from simulated laughs and smiles.

But he loves to feign kindness.

Even if killing Tomas’s family was an accident, sparing him from that same fate wasn’t an accident. Taking in a new son wasn’t an accident. Giving him the tools to be a useful son wasn’t an accident.

Tomas was allowed to keep his mother’s knife- he didn’t want anything else from the bodies of his dead family. The Grandmaster had removed the knife from the mother’s hand, grabbed the knife’s sheath, and handed the bloodstained weapon to Tomas.

Night came, and when Tomas fell asleep, Bi-Han snuck into his room and took the knife. For hours, he washed away the blood from the silver metal and cleaned the sheath. Bi-Han couldn’t wash away the blood that still stained Tomas’s fingers without waking him up.

As Tomas became his and Kuai Liang’s brother, Bi-Han couldn’t bring himself to call Tomas his brother. He was sure he didn’t care much for him, the cleaning of the knife was simply because his father didn’t clean it. It was a good deed that no one knew about- so it didn’t matter if Bi-Han did it.

Besides, Tomas was sure Bi-Han hated him. Bi-Han yelled at him once during a sparring session. Tomas clumsily slipped on the mat, and almost stabbed Bi-Han in the arm. Bi-Han screamed the word “idiot” so loudly, it echoed through the halls of the temple. The eleven year old ran away embarrassed, and Bi-Han was scolded by his father, that a future Grandmaster of the Lin Kuei has to keep his cool, even if others are being idiots.

Bi-Han’s way to his room was past Tomas’s room, but hearing his name leave Tomas’s lips, Bi-Han paused and listened to what was being said about him.

“Why doesn’t Bi-Han like me? I’ve been here for a year and all he does is call me stupid.”

“Bi-Han calls me stupid sometimes.”

Of course, Kuai Liang and Tomas quickly became close. Kuai Liang inherited all the kindness of his mother, the bitterness unable to possess him.

“But Bi-Han means it when he calls me that.”

“He also means it when he calls me that.”

“But you’re his brother! I’m not anything to him.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“What?”

“I think if Bi-Han really hated you, he wouldn’t have let you have the last egg roll yesterday.”

The moment he heard the two giggling, he made his presence known. “Can the two of you shut up? I want to go to sleep.”

Kuai Liang and Tomas sheepishly glanced at their older brother, Kuai Liang trying to stifle his giggles behind his hand, and Tomas completely red in the face. Bi-Han was ready to continue his way to his room, but once again stopped himself when he noticed Tomas staring at him. He locked eyes with the boy, who quickly looked down to the ground. Despite just laughing with Kuai Liang about Bi-Han, once Tomas met Bi-Han’s eyes for the first time since almost harming him, the tears began to slowly work their way down his face.

Had it been Bi-Han’s choice, Tomas wouldn’t be his brother. Instead, Tomas would still be running around in the woods with his family. He’d still have his mother to teach him how to track animals, how to stitch his own clothes, and she’d be the one to give him her knife.

Would it have been a mercy to kill Tomas also, to die in the embrace of his mother, rather than grow up to be another weapon for the man who claims the name “father?”

Bi-Han swallows his bitterness, and forces himself to find his mother’s kindness. “It was only a scratch. It won’t even scar me.”

He leaves before he can see how Tomas reacts.

Bi-Han almost wants to turn around and march towards his father’s room. In that split second of vulnerability, he yearned for his father to convey that same feeling. It’d never happen, it’s a farfetched fantasy.

But the question once again begged to be released into the open.

How’d he do it?

3. Kuai Liang

Kuai Liang is ignorant to his father’s truth. The truth being that all the fondness he has for Kuai Liang isn’t because he loves him. In fact, Kuai Liang is the son that doesn’t matter. It’s Bi-Han that matters. As his father once told Bi-Han, it’s why he’s so harsh with his darling eldest son. Because his claim to the Lin Kuei matters. 

The bloody noses, the scars, and the occasional broken bones Kuai Liang received weren’t ever by his father. It was always by Bi-Han whenever they’d train together- almost pitted against each other by their father. As Kuai Liang would be ushered to the infirmary, eager to heal so he can continue training, his father would approach Bi-Han and chastise him for being “too harsh” with his little brother. 

He doesn’t care if Bi-Han’s being too harsh with Kuai Liang, just as long as he doesn't kill him. 

Bi-Han isn’t scared of hurting Kuai Liang, but he fears his father’s hand hovering around his younger brother’s neck. The gentlest push could snap Kuai Liang’s neck, and then maybe Bi-Han would also die alongside him. Maybe he’d become something worse. 

Of course his father is aware that the reason he has such a hold on Bi-Han is because of Kuai Liang, and eventually even because of Tomas. Bi-Han is the only one who lives knowing the capabilities of their father’s violence, the other two boys blessed with being the youngest. 

What is it like to be ignorant? As Kuai Liang inherited their mother’s goodness, Bi-Han inherited her knowledge of the truth. She lived a life aware of the terror that was her husband, and was unable to save her children from him. Would Bi-Han be able to save his brothers? What would his mother think of him if he failed? 

If she became angry with him, that would be fine. She could lock him out the gates of Heaven if it meant she could embrace Kuai Liang again. Bi-Han would enter hell, and become trapped with his father for eternity, but hopefully he would become the one to torture his father. 

He’s never felt the urge to torture his father as much as he did right now. 

It’s been ten years since his mother died, today is the “anniversary” of her death. His father always held a dinner in memory of his wife’s and daughter’s untimely demise. Everyone had retired to bed after eating, leaving only Bi-Han and his father facing each other on the opposite sides of the table. 

They watched each other in silence as the servants cleaned the table as fast as they could, wanting to escape the awful tension in the air. 

As quickly as they finished cleaning, they left the room. 

“I was disappointed with the food this year. In all honesty, my appetite was ruined when the rice arrived late. How does plain, white rice arrive late?”

Bi-Han doesn’t respond. His father continues. 

“Though it seems you also agree. You barely had anything, but then again, you never eat whenever this day arrives.” 

Bi-Han doesn’t respond. His father sighs. 

“I waited for everyone else to leave because you clearly have something to say, so what is it? Spit it out, son.” 

Bi-Han still doesn’t respond. His father rolls his eyes. 

“Even Kuai Liang doesn’t throw a tantrum about this- and you’ve been throwing one for the last ten years. Once a year, you decide to throw this little scene with me. He was eight and practically still glued to that woman’s hip, and yet you’re the one still acting like a child.”

“Don’t.”

His father raised an eyebrow at the one-word response Bi-Han gave him. “What? I could at least understand Kuai Liang if he acted the way you’re acting right now, but you don’t have an excuse. Besides, what if Kuai Liang or Tomas were to die? If you behaved like this, that would simply be embarrassing.” 

Bi-Han digs his nails into his palm, his shoulders tensing up. This only urges his father to continue antagonizing his son. 

“You are aware that either of them could possibly die? I thought you would have come to peace with that considering our profession. Do you remember your uncle, my own younger brother? Did you see me weep when his body was delivered to me? No, you didn’t. Even if Kuai Liang’s body was delivered to me, I wouldn’t-” 

“I’ll kill you someday.” 

His father almost misses what he said, the words almost hiding themselves from him. But he heard them, and intrigued, his eyes began to gleam with a wicked glint. 

“Will you now?” 

Bi-Han still can’t look at that man in the eyes, but his body urges the words out of him anyways.

“The day will come when you’re begging me to save you- when you’re finally at my mercy. And I won’t give you any.”

His father laughs- the most genuine laugh Bi-Han has heard come out of him. If he was Kuai Liang, he would be grinning at the old man’s bellowing laugh.

“I’ll look forward to that day, Bi-Han.” 

His father leaves Bi-Han alone at the dinner table. Bi-Han’s throat is dry, sweat pooling at his forehead. That wasn’t torture, that was amusement for his father. It was a circus show his father watched for free. And despite it all, Bi-Han still couldn’t ask the question he’s kept in him for the last ten years. 

How’d he do it?

4. Bi-Han

His father is dying. 

Bi-Han doesn’t care how his father is dying, he only cares about the fact that he is dying. 

The snow has never looked as white as it did with his father’s blood dyeing it. The woods have never been as quiet as it did with his father’s labored breathing. The cold has never touched Bi-Han as much as it did now, with the bitterness leaving his father and the desperation sinking in. 

A hand reached out towards Bi-Han, struggling to keep itself supported it collapsed back onto the snow. 

“He-help me, son.” 

Bi-Han remembers this spot in the woods as the same place Kuai Liang and Tomas began throwing snowballs at him, and in response, Bi-Han kicked the unfinished snowman they built. The woods, at the very least, can offer Bi-Han the memories of fonder parts of his childhood. 

“Bi-Han, please.”

The woods can offer melancholic memories also. If he went further into the woods, he would stumble upon the trees Kuai Liang and Tomas planted- gravestones for the family Tomas lost. Though it’s not as sorrowful as it sounds, as it was the same spot Tomas hugged him for the first time. 

 “I need you to help me, Bi-Han, please.” 

If Bi-Han went even further into the woods, he would stumble upon a cave where a bear and her family took shelter in. The first time he saw the mother bear and her cubs, he rushed back home to show Kuai Liang. For hours, they watched the mother catching fish in the river next to the cave, and the cubs annoying each other. They didn’t return back to the temple until the sun began to set. Those bears probably don’t live there anymore, but a new family has probably moved in. 

“Son!”

How’d he do it?

There’s a hand on their throat. 

How’d he do it?

It doesn’t take much to snap their neck.

How’d he do it? 

There’s no blood to spill, so he won’t have to look at himself in the red mirror. 

How’d he do it?

No guilt. No relief. 

No guilt. No relief.

No guilt. No relief.

All love. 

Bi-Han’s a liar. He doesn’t get a chance to kill his father. He watches his father, instead. He watches his father choke on his own begging and pleading for his eldest son’s love. 

It’s all love. 

It’s how Bi-Han did it- all love. 

The woods have never been more alive, as Bi-Han finally looked his father in his dead, unblinking eyes, and cried.

[meatcute]

OMEN/JUN♡it/he/her☆2000

mixed(ch+white) ° able-bodied ° tme trans bisexual

hi im omen & i love you! i think art and animals of all kinds are the best things in the world. i live in the usa, and i like to make art digitally, play pokemon, listen to music and hang out with my friends. i am autistic and so its challenging for me to make and maintain friendships, but with that in mind feel free to talk to me!

i do not follow minors. i cant control what you do but id strongly prefer minors dont follow me; this blog has sexual & drug related contents. interacting with posts/sending asks is ok, just keep it sfw.

this blog is pro palestine 🇵🇸 above all i support those who are black, indigenous, disabled, jewish, muslim, transfem, fat, sex workers, women, children, & all who are systemically undermined, oppressed and vulnerable to violence.

blacklist #nws if you dont want to see nsfw content. do not send me asks for donations, dm me instead. terfs & zionists are not welcome. pro shippers, pro ed, and transmisandry truthers are not welcome. i am not interested in white lgbt discourse.

[obscurushydrae]

Alphabet City, New York, Early 2005

“Hey! Mickey! Open up!” a voice called, banging upon the door of 4W. He used his flesh and bone hand-- otherwise the big stone hand might have taken the whole door and part of the walls given how shoddy the place was.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming!” a voice hollered on the other side. The jangling of locks unlocking was quickly followed by the door swinging open.

“Hellboy!” exclaimed the apartment's owner, Mick, in a thick Bronx accent, arms--paws-- wide in greeting. Mick was six foot rat with a keen eye for things. After a bit of misunderstanding a few years back where he stole Hellboy’s prized pistol, Mick became a some-time supplier, informant, and consultant to the BPRD.

“Come to see the new stock? I’ve got on my hands a copy of—”

“Not today.” the half demon rumbled. “Kiddo’s been missing for almost a week now, wondering if your guys might've seen her.”

Mick’s expression were limited due to his rat features, but he shifted to an equal concern. Mick’s apartment was only a few short blocks from the Aster residence. Hellboy would occasional pay for the occasional eye-- usually when he was off on a job, or when his younger sister hit puberty and suddenly decided to just slip out her window disappear on a whim-- much to everyone’s chagrin. Honestly Mick never met the kid face to face, but even he had grown to have certain fondness for her. A fuzzy guardian angel she new knew existed.

“Come in, come in.” Mick gestured to his apartment, floor to ceiling filled with things, some of it subjectively junk, some subjectively treasure. He remembered a story his sister once told him about a par of brothers who lived in Harlem. They hoarded so much, and died because of it. Or something like that.

“Ey! Denny! You seen Kiddo recently?” Denny was one of Mick’s “front facing people” humans who conducted Mick’s business in his stead. Somehow, a six foot tall talking rat didn’t exactly endear people. Denny was a bit more greyer, more clean since their first meeting.

“Sorry boss, but I think Hal spotted her not too long ago. Getting into a big black car?”

Mick turned is face to Hellboy, whiskers twitching.

“That was Father’s funeral.” Hellboy explained. “She went missing the afternoon after, according to Frankie.”

“Ah, My condolences, to the both of yous.” Mick replied, “Never met him but your old man was one of my best customers!”

There was unprompted moment of silence for the late Professor. Denny broke the silence.

“Benny should be back later…” He pointed out. “He’s out in Brooklyn. Lotta places to go underground there.”

Mick nodded thoughtfully, agreeing.

“Y’gotta cell phone, big guy?”

The flip phone was tiny even in his non-stone hand, but had been how he occasionally kept up with the Asters, and a few select others. After trading numbers, he thanked them and slipped Mick few bills for their troubles. While not the result he was hoping for, at least he had feelers out. He figured he’d walk back over to Frankie and Ava’s to check in. Nothing had changed, and he tried to not get upset at the agents delegated by Manning. Well, almost all of them.

Rook had been Kar’s liaison when she lived in headquarters full time. In reality, Rook was more or less a nanny to keep her out of the nasty stuff (not that it had stopped her from attempting it). If there was someone who could get her, it was Rook.

“Whaddya think?” Hellboy asked, taking a smoke break outside the apartment.

“Worst game of hide-and-seek we’ve played so far.” Rook teased, a nod to his days as her liaison. “It’s gonna be hard. You know how she is. If she doesn’t want to be found, she’s not gonna be found.”

Hellboy scowled at the thought. She wasn’t a kid; and this wasn’t a game. But he got it. Kar had a habit of going to ground in some part of headquarters, only appearing when she was well and ready to return to the world. A habit she seemed to keep. Normally he’d agree, and just wait it out, let her come around on her own terms, but something about it didn’t sit well in his gut. A few days, sure, but it was almost a full week.

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“You don’t think—” Neither man wanted to finish the sentence.

“I try not to.” Hellboy answered, the unfinished line left unsaid. “The morgues haven’t anyone matching her-- I’m trying to stay hopeful.”

He couldn’t go back to Fairfield. Hellboy decided to join the vigil with Frankie and Ava. The comfortably sized three bedroom apartment was covered with reminders. Photographs of events, birthdays, gatherings. One in particular caught his eye. A little twelve year old Kar, tallit and yarmulke, surrounded on one side Frankie, Ava, and Ava’s parents, on the other was him, Abe, Liz, and their father, all grinning brightly. Another more recently-- they all went to dinner to celebrate her graduation from NYU.

“You mind if I look through her things one more time?” With their permission, he excused himself to Kar’s bedroom.

It was slightly smaller than her bedroom at Fairfield; but decorated similarly. The juxtaposition of Carl Sagan quotes and punk band posters, a few plastic stars and objet d’art hung from the ceiling, her aluminum bat sitting by the door. Action figures held up books on physics, engineering, history, a few comic books here and there. The bight red barrel of her robot puppet sitting above her desk. Nothing seemed out of array. A soldering iron, magnifying glass, and few tools, her brush kit wrapped in its canvas bag, a few fossil teeth. Her silver and opal magen david. The one she rarely took off.

No note. He phone was dead; left in her backpack purse decorated with the weird, green little dog guy she was fond of. The clothes she wore to the funeral hung from the chair, the bed was unmade, like she changed and went out for fresh air and decided not to come back.

He sat down onto her bed, groaning under her weight, the little plush Godzilla falling to the side of his thigh. It was dinky little toy she won a few years back. One of their last time going to Coney Island together.

He couldn’t do it. He just lost his lost his father-- he almost lost Liz in Russia. He couldn’t even bear the blow losing Kar. He numb, and furious-- Manning should have told him, he should have had one quick chance to find her before they left.

Mr. Zwicky, the rotund tuxedo cat who made his home in her bedroom window, oozed himself from his perch with a stretch, and meowed. Hellboy loved cats, and Mr. Zwicky was no exception. The cat meowed, and launched his bulk onto his lap without further ceremony.

“Hey there, Zwicky.” He caressed the cat’s head. His hand was large enough to cover even the cat’s large bulk. The low rumble of a purr gave him some comfort. He’d been around the family enough times that the cat saw him as just another lap, another source of attention (and sometimes food).

“If only you could talk, huh?” He mused, petting the cat further. The only witness they had so far, and he was just your average house cat. They fell in as much of a comfortable silence as someone could in his situation. Still a mess of emotions, but it was awfully hard to go through it with a twenty-odd pound cat in your lap.

At least, until the buzz from his cell phone broke him from his brooding. Apparently some of the rats in Brooklyn had some promising leads...

[theotherseapancakes]

that too but like if you manage to post it, personally, if someone leaves a comment. any kind. then i feel it was worthwhile.

@ fic authors what do you personally consider a successful fic? What’s the bar?

[ross-hollander]

I assure you: somebody, somewhere, is on the exact same wavelength as you are.

[tenderwatches]

sometimes you need dialogue tags and don't want to use the same four

[elexuscal]

"what did students do before chatgpt?" well one time i forgot i had a history essay due at my 10am class the morning of so over the course of my 30 minute bus ride to school i awkwardly used by backpack as a desk, sped wrote the essay, and got an A on it.

six months later i re-read the essay prior to the final exam, went 'ohhhh yeah i remember this', got a question on that topic, and aced it.

point being that actually doing the work is how you learn the material and internalize it. ChatGPT can give you a short cut but it won't build you the the muscles.

[faaun]

WHEN ON PERIOD:

do not crash out

your feelings are NOT valid

do not send that text

don't kill yourself. lock in

do not act on negative emotions until at least 2 days have elapsed

[melodicwriter]

[mosskissed]

600 words, sae x fem!reader, mdni. cockwarming, finger sucking, choking mention

plagued by visions of cockwarming sae... you're sat in his lap, one of his arms wrapped tightly around your waist to keep you from squirming. he's resting his chin on your shoulder, wholly focused on the match playing on the tv and seemingly unbothered by the fact that he's currently buried balls deep inside you.

it's unbearable to be stuffed full of him but completely ignored.

when you cave and reach down to play with your clit he tuts, grabbing your hand and squeezing it in his own before pointedly setting it down for you on your thigh. you know better than to try it again — it's enough to drive you to tears of frustration though, and now you're left whining and begging him to just fuck you already.

he strokes your hair like you're a fussy pet, shushing you. "i know it's hard, but i want you to sit still for just a bit longer until the game's done. want my help? need me to take your mind off that needy cunt?"

you nod desperately, balling your hands into fists while you try to do as he says and just sit still and keep him warm.

he's quick to act then, trailing a hand up your front and pinching a nipple meanly between his fingers, laughing quietly at the way you whimper and arch your back away from the sting. he doesn't linger for long, thankfully, moving higher until he's tracing your lower lip with his index and middle fingers.

you take the hint and open your mouth for him, sticking your tongue out for him the way you know he likes. he rubs the pads of his fingers over your tongue, pushing down on it to pin it against your chin and let your drool pool at the tip; he gathers the mess on his fingertips before finally slipping them between your lips for you to suck on. his length twitches inside you with interest at the way you instantly hollow your cheeks around the digits and you can't help the quiet whimper that escapes you at the feeling.

he leaves you be like that for a few minutes, sucking mindlessly until you start trying to roll your hips again, making aborted movements as you try to fuck yourself even with him pinning you. he starts to move his fingers then as a distraction, pulling out until just the tips are trapped between your greedy lips before pushing them back in deep enough to make you gag.

the first time you write it off as an accident, but when he makes you gag for the second time you can tell it’s on purpose even without feeling the low, almost sadistic laugh that rumbles through his chest. you turn your head to try and shoot him a reproachful glare but he just raises an eyebrow, still smirking.

it's hard for him to take you seriously when you're blinking back tears, the sight only making him want to see you cry harder; how far can he push you tonight?

but then he's thinking... you clamped down on him like a vice both times he made you gag — practically strangled his dick, really. was it from the temporary lack of air?

would it feel better if he choked you? could he make himself come just from the way you’ll massage his cock while he does it?

only one way for him to find out, he supposes. good thing his match is finishing up.

[bloodstainedlamb]

Hold my throat to remind me what I am (6305 words) by bloodstainedlamb Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: Hannibal (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter

Will ends up at Hannibal's house instead of his own. He's not sure how that happened.

Hannibal lets him in to offer assistance.

[ntaras]

here’s a snippet from a mk1 era fic i’m writing including my oc luna that i am proud of anyways enjoy

She knows she’s bleeding but it’s easy to ignore it. It isn’t like the empty taste of iron that fills her body when she can feel her lungs burning- the taste she had to take and take and wipe away only to spread it further. 

The skin she bit into was soft around her nails, and she licked the blood away and tasted nothing. The blood was small and couldn’t be smeared inside her bones and it damaged nothing. It was nothing. It was just skin she bit into and chewed at and she sank into the place called nothing. 

It wasn't even warm blood, but it wasn’t cold either. 

“Stop that.”

She thinks that’s the first time she got mad at him. The skin of her finger still in her mouth she glared at for just a second. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to bludgeon him. She wanted more, and sucked at the bead of blood that came from the skin she gnawed at. 

He didn’t flinch at her glare. As quickly as it came, it went away, and she released her hand from her teeth.

She began picking at her skin, pinching it between her nails and ripping it off. She still felt his stare, but he didn’t say anything. He let her salivate at the dead skin. He let her want without giving.

[mouthtapedguy]

lions are very mean and like jellyfish