#'they had fat hands with only two stubby fingers'

[guardian-of-da-gay]

Imagine echidnas getting the orc treatment.  Like they’re semi-mythical creatures who went down in history for being greedy and violent and they’re supposedly extinct so who’s going to get offended if they’re represented in cartoons and children’s storybooks as these oafish, ugly creatures terrorizing the Inherently Good People before being rightfully destroyed?

[trickster-jpeg]

Cracked At The Line In The Air, I feel safe.

Summary: Steven accidentally breaks his childhood teddy and it triggers a meltdown.

Warnings: Steven hits himself as a stim during his meltdown. Not sure of that warrants a warning but just in case.

Word Count: 1607 It's On AO3 -> Here

A/N: 'Ricitos' is just a term of endearment (usually for a partner, up to you how you interpret it) that means curly hair/small curls.

It’s broken. It’s broken. Oh my god, it’s broken.

Steven was laying in bed. It was the middle of the night and he was just settling down to sleep. It had been a good day. Nothing bad had happened, he’d been rather at ease, enjoying going about his day with minimal interference. He’d rolled over to lay down on his side and seen his childhood teddy tipped over, having fallen onto the floor. It was a fuzzy small elephant called Nellie. The stuffing distributed unevenly and one of the ears slightly worse for wear than the other due to constant chewing as a child, but it was still whole. It had small black beads for eyes, a stubby little trunk, and two tiny white mounds either side of its face for tusks. Not wanting her to be lonely, because he still had a tendency to anthropomorphize things, he went to pick her up and place her back on her spot on the bed.

Despite having had it for decades, it was still in relatively solid condition. He’d put effort into maintaining its state and was rather chuffed with himself at having had her for so long with minimal incidents. Which is why it was all the more heartbreaking when one of the seams on its neck had stuck out and gotten caught in the floorboards. He had no idea how, but it did, and when he grabbed her to pull her upwards it started to tug. Something he had realised far too late to stop it from happening.

The seam had stayed wedged firmly in the crack and as soon as the force of pulling the toy was applied, it started to unravel. In an instant, the body started to separate from the head, the old stuffing starting to tip and pile out onto the floor beneath itself. The stitches snapped as the neck stayed stuck to the ground, disconnecting from the main body and tugging a front arm off along with it.

His brain stopped dead in its tracks, physically incapable of processing what had just happened. It was almost as if time had slowed as Steven watched the events unfold in absolute horror. He froze instantly, eyes bulging as his mouth hung open with shock. A tremble immediately started to zap through his hand as his fingers loosened from a firm clasp around the worn but soft body of the toy, to a lax and limp claw that was just barely holding it. It was only as it tumbled out of his grip to lay with the rest of itself, surrounded by the stuffing that was once inside, that Steven lunged at the broken object, his heart pounding out of his chest as he frantically tried to gather all of the pieces together in his arms.

“No. No, no, no, no- NO- NO!”

His lungs constricted as his breathing instantly got caught, fractured breaths intermingling with the rising nausea and swirled around like the ocean in a storm. Broken sounding words flooded from his mouth as he stuttered to get them out in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the crushing pressure growing like a lump in his throat. They got muddled and stuck, his tongue getting in the way as he tried to stammer anything new, but was unable to get them out in a way that felt right. His mouth quickly flooded with the crimson metallic taste of blood as he bit down on his cheek, his jaw crunching down in a moment of shock as he tried to process what just happened.

Fat globules of tears poured down his face as he desperately willed the pieces to form back together, to undo it all and fix itself. His breaths heaved as he continued to work himself up, bawling harder and harder as he grasped the pieces impossibly closer to him. The sudden heartbreak was painful, physically painful and even more so psychologically. He felt the disparaging familiarity of dissociation grip him, his brain disconnecting from his body as he started to heave strangled sobs, whimpering pleas for the elephant to be okay. For his Nellie to be all better again.

He couldn’t lose her, she’d been there for him since he was a kid. She was the only thing that could calm him down when things got too bad, something not even his headmates could fully manage to do. Meltdowns, flashbacks, nightmares, panic attacks. Even just giving him something to cry into when a character he liked in a film died, or just something to fall asleep with when he needed to. He didn’t care that people might see it as childish, after everything the system had been through when they were supposed to have been a child, he thought they should almost be owed it to make up for lost time. But Nellie was something from his childhood. Their childhood. Which is why it was all the more painful that she was now broken apart and torn in his arms.

Gradually, he felt his body begin to rock back and forwards, his breathing trying to match the motions frantically at the sudden awareness he really wasn’t breathing right. How could he have been so careless? How stupid could he have been to just destroy one of his most treasured items? One of the only truly, wholly good things they had from their parents, from their little brother, and he’d gone and broken it. Bringing the main body of the teddy to his face, he pressed it against his skin and started to muffle his cries, the pain steadily shifting into a burning anger. Anger that he could blame no one for but himself.

His brows furrowed in irritation as a swelling burning flashed in his chest, his grip tightened around the material painfully as the rage towards himself grew. The feeling began to burst through his limbs as he clenched his jaw almost painfully, grinding his teeth in annoyance as tears kept trickling down his face. Through huffed breaths, a guttural rumble rose in his oesophagus and tore up his throat in a furious roar.

“FUCK! HOW COULD I BE SO FUCKING STUPID? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? FUCKING STUPID- USELESS- WORTHLESS FUCKING- FUCK-”

In an instant, he raised his arms up with fists balled and started to bash them against the side of his head. The motion was repetitive and a bit painful, but soothing in a way. He carried on letting random, frustrated words and whines fumble out of his lips as his body took over. Tears and snot dripped down his face as he continued to hit his temples, sobbing in bitterness as a crash of self-hatred pooled in his chest. Briefly, he thought he heard someone speaking to him but he couldn’t figure out what they were saying.

There was a new resistance in his arms, something that pulled them back and made them feel not quite right. That made him almost struggle to do the thing that was soothing him. That was helping. Made it feel like it wasn’t helping. Like it was almost worse. He didn’t like it, it felt restraining. So instead moved them away and sat on his hands, trying to mitigate the uncomfortable feeling that stopped them with pressure. Continued to rock back and forth, to make the noises that climbed up his throat.

“Steven. It’s going to be okay. We can fix it. It’s alright.”

He shook his head disparagingly at the words, too overwhelmed to be able to form anything comprehensible. His legs bounced rhythmically as he tried to convey what he wanted to say, tried desperately to grasp at words and throw them out in a way that made sense. That helped him explain that it wasn’t alright and that it couldn’t be fixed. That he couldn’t fix it and it was too late for anything to be saved. But in some way he felt as though the speaker understood his thoughts regardless of whether or not they were spoken, and the gravelled voice spoke again. Accompanied by someone else.

“It might not feel like it, but this’ll pass and we can stitch her up. She’ll be fine, it was an accident, Steven. You’re not stupid or useless, it was a mistake.”

“He’s right, ricitos. We can fix our fluffy friend. Maybe even get her some new stuffing and fill it out properly again.”

As the voices spoke, they projected feelings of warmth. There was a contrast between their comfort and the gradual dimming of the burning that had been exploding in his chest. Whatever it was, it was nice. It was kind. Caring. And they said they could fix it. They could fix Nellie. He just needed to try and calm down so that they could. Gently, he felt himself move off of sitting on his hands. Felt them start to lift and snake up to wrap around him and hold him in a way that felt good. That felt safe. Protected. It felt like he could just let go.

He didn’t want to feel this way anymore. Didn’t want to feel any of it. And somehow he knew they would be able to help him stop feeling that way. They’d be able to fix it for him, they could fix Nellie. Stop him from causing more damage to their belongings and their body. He didn’t mean for it to happen, he never meant to hurt them, never meant to hurt himself. But he just couldn’t help it. So, that’s what he did. He let the pair take his place, and went into the back.

[wcrriorhearts]

Her limbs were stiff when Ser Criston helped her down from his horse, eyes burning from unshed tears and the wind that had whipped around them as they rode. Small fingers flexed and balled into fists to chase away the numbness in them as she stood beside the horse, gently digging them into its fur. Her heart felt like an unbearable weight in her chest, dragging her towards the ground and unsteady legs barely kept her upright. Everything she had ever known lay behind them, everyone she ever loved dead in the ground. The girl's fingers tightened around a tuft of fur, a shaky breath drawn into aching lungs. She wanted to run back home, to find her mother in their sitting room with an embroidery needle in hand, her twin brother playing at her feet with his wooden toys. Hell, she even wanted to hear her father tell drunk stories from in the presence of his guards, laughing at his own jokes. But they were all gone and Jaehaera couldn't understand why she wasn't. She should have been. There was no sense anymore in being...here.

While Cole busied himself with the small amount of luggage they had hastily packed before their departure, which had mostly been an escape, Jaehaera stared at the small house they would inhabit. She had never lived in a house this tiny before, but it mattered not. Nothing did. He had taken her with him out of the goodness of his heart, but she wished he hadn't. Perhaps her aunt, the evil Queen, would have had her executed as well. At least then she could have been with her family. Her fingertips brushed over the fabric of her dress, intricate embroideries made by her mother of moths and little butterflies. She had always done this for her children, embellished their clothes and blankets. Never had Jaehaera imagined it would be all she would have left of her one day. Not now, when she was only a child.

Her hand finally let go of the horse, already missing her poor fat little pony Malice, whom they had left behind. Her stubby little legs wouldn't have been able to keep up, but Jaehaera worried what would happen to her. Perhaps her cousin Aegon would take care of her. The two children had only briefly met after Rhaenyra took the capital, but he had seemed a kind and quiet boy.

@kingmaketh liked for a starter from Haera <3

[skywarpie]

Snow Day

literally just Copia and his daughters in the snow. That’s it. Just that.

1,101k words

Enjoy.

The snow had started earlier the previous night. What were light flurries had soon turned to fat snowflakes that quickly accumulated into several inches (then maybe a foot?). He wasn’t entirely sure how much there was, just that there was a lot. 

Copia had known it was only a matter of time before his two young daughters awoke and came bursting through his office door. They were at that age where everything was something new to learn about. It was honestly refreshing to be around, compared to the common everyday life of the ministry. He smiles as he signs off on a paper, remembering the first time he had introduced his eldest to his many pet rats. She had talked for hours about how they should spruce up their cages to make them feel like they’re royalty. About what foods she planned to steal from the kitchens to give to them as treats. Where she planned to take them on adventures with her. Any other person would no doubt become exhausted after having to listen to this for hours, but not Copia. The whole while she spoke he had worn the goofiest grin, happy to have someone be as enthusiastic about his rats as himself.

As if on cue, two small figures shove the door open and make their way inside. “Papa! Papa!” Athaliah, the elder of the two rushes forward to fling herself at Copia. “Nevicare! Nevicare!” Her small form is practically vibrating as she clasps to his frilled sleeve.

“Si.” Copia laughs as he lays his pen down near his inkwell and scoops her up to sit on his lap. “A lot of snow by the looks of it.” He smooths a piece of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. 

“Sn-ow.” Accalia, the youngest, toddles in after having been abandoned by her sister in the doorway.

Copia reaches out his free arm as she stumbles forward, snatching her before she can fall. He maneuvers both of them so there’s a child on each knee (Satan forbid one have an inch more than the other. He’d learned that the hard way.). “Si, snow.” Accalia, unlike her sister, had yet to properly grasp a hold on either English or Italian. 

“Outside. Outside. Possiamo uscire?!” The eldest yanks particularly hard on his sleeve. “I want to go outside!”

Accalia, oblivious to her sister’s demands, busies herself trying to stick a stubby finger in the inkwell. Copia twirls his chair ever so slightly so it’s out of reach. He really doesn’t feel like cleaning up ink today. “Go outside? No.” He jests as he tries to hide his smile. “I don’t think you want to go outside.” 

“Si! I do! I do!” She wraps her tiny arms around his neck, pulling herself as close as possible to him. “Please Papa. Please.” Her small hands grasp his face to make him look at her, her expression one of an abused puppy. Accalia settles for gnawing on Copia’s pen.

“Well,” he gently pulls the pen from her grip, placing it further up the desk. It earns him an angry wail. “I’m afraid I have too much work.” He mocks, sticking his bottom lip out. “Sister Imperator is trying to kill your Papa with paperwork!” Copia adds in a dramatic voice, bringing a hand to his forehead in mock exasperation. 

“Papa.” She groans, clearly not finding it funny. Which is a shame because Copia thinks it’s one of his best performances. Everyone’s a critic. 

A sharp tug on his scarf grabs his attention. “Ai!” She shoots him an apologetic look but also somehow one of irritation at the same time. “Alright. Alright. I guess I can take a quick break.” He smiles, keeping up the charade. “I would hate to disappoint Il mio bambine!” An excited squeal is his own response.

—---

After what felt like an eternity, and probably very much was close to an hour if he’s being honest, Copia and his daughters finally make their way outside. It’s not entirely his fault though. Copia just wants to ensure that both are bundled up correctly and won’t get sick. He’d hate himself if he let that happen.

Both of his much larger hands hold onto the smaller ones to ensure that there’s no mishaps and falls. 

Excited squeals fill the air around him as Athaliah breaks free and runs forward into the deep snow. “Fa freddo!” She giggles, wasting no time grabbing a handful of the snow. 

Copia grins as he hoists Accalia up onto his hip. Unlike her sister, the snow seems to not be a hit with her. He can’t really blame her. The cold isn’t really his friend either. They keep this up for several minutes before eventually he places the younger back on the ground so he can properly show them both how to make a snowball. 

The two of them then spend the next while trying to make snowballs of their own and to be frank, they’re all terrible. They wouldn’t last for a single throw, but Copia doesn’t really care. They’re having fun and enjoying each other. That’s all that really matters.

Eventually he rounds the two of them up and herds them inside. He gains some resistance from Accalia who seems to have suddenly grown to love the snow. But none from her sister who’s clearly tired herself out. 

The trio make their way back inside and Copia ensures that each child is out of wet clothes and in nice dry ones. Only once he’s sure they’re taken care of does he peel off his own wet clothes and settle for his favorite track suit. 

Once everyone is taken care of, he brings in two mugs of hot chocolate (ensuring that they aren’t hot enough to burn but warm enough to serve their purpose). Copia settles himself on the couch, Athaliah leaning against his left side, covered in the largest blanket Copia thinks he’s ever seen, as she sips at her own mug. Accalia sits on his lap while he gently tries to offer assistance with their shared mug. It doesn’t go as planned. He still ends up covered in hot chocolate but he doesn’t care.

They sit like this for a while before he notices Athaliah has fallen asleep against his arm. Copia slips the mug from her hand, placing it on the end table along with his own mug that had been placed over there long since the youngest drifted to sleep. He positions himself so he has an arm around each child and sighs contentedly. I should miss work more often. 

---

Nevicare - snow

Possiamo uscire - can we go outside?

Il mio bambine! - My babies!

[mungo-grubb]

Nathan’s Sweet European Vacation Part III

[Male Weight Gain, Muscle Growth, Cum Inflation, Milking, etc. Strong M/M Themes with graphic nudity. 18+ Viewers available on Patreon….]

Gareth continued to stand in the doorway of the kitchen and looking rather amused with himself.

“Hello stud, need a hand?”

The relief of seeing Gareth immediately disappeared, and a frightened Nathan began to panic.

Nathan’s body began to jiggle as he tried to flail his arms to call for help.

“My, oh my!”, said Gareth. “Someone was a little greedy.” Closing the door behind him, he slowly walked into the kitchen.

“I do not know what happened, I just remember trying a few doughnuts, and then everything went kind of foggy.” Nathan pleaded through his chubby cheeks, “Help me, please do something, please!”

The burly baker continued walking up closer to Nathan, admiring the specimen. He slowly reached out and pressed his finger into Nathan’s belly. He watched as it sank deeper into the skin until it reached his knuckles. His skin was cool, soft, and doughy to the touch and gradually bounced back as he retreated his finger. As Gareth adjusted his crotch, he thought to himself, “So many fun possibilities.”

As he reached Nathan’s face, Gareth peered into Nathan’s eyes and whispered, “Hungry, big boy?”

With that, Gareth turned and disappeared from Nathan’s line of sight.

“What! No....Look at me! You must help me!” cried Nathan. 

 From off to the side, Nathen heard, “But I am helping you” in the baker’s soft calm voice.

“What…How…MmmmmMmmm.” Nathan was cut off by a piping bag being shoved between his lips.   

Nathan’s taste buds resumed their dance of ecstasy. As he sucked on the nozzle, the smell, taste, and texture clouded his senses. He was happy again and letting his cares float away with every gulp.

“See, that helped – you are much calmer.”

Satisfied, Gareth began to walk around Nathan’s body observing every inch of it. The arms had lost all definition. A wide fat tube seamlessly connected from his back to his stubby little fingers. Only slight curves in his skin distinguished his palm, forearm, and upper arm before it merged with the back. His legs were not much different except for their thickness. Once muscular powerhouses, now they dangle practically immobile. They just lay against the curvature of the belly, the weight causing a small indentation.

Meanwhile on the other side, Nathan moaned as he felt different parts of his body get poked and prodded. But Gareth simply ignored the boy and continued with his inspection by picking up the fallen chair and bringing it up to Nathan’s rear. Stepping up on the stool, Gareth could see "All" of Nathan. Squarely centered to him were two large pale domes that hung spread apart, each mound had a slight wobble. The baker reached out his hand, giving the left cheek a firm slap! He watched as it caused a Jello-like ripple effect. The agitation spread over to the curved back and down Nathan’s sides. Although not painful, it caused Nathan to yelp.

Hopping off the chair, he took a moment to stand back and marveled once more at Nathan’s voluptuous backside. 

Gareth, pleased with his inspection, continued to walk around the blown-up athlete keeping one hand touching Nathan’s belly. He could feel the skin slightly pulsating as it expanded a little further. As he reached Nathan’s face, Gareth peered into Nathan’s eyes again and whispered, “Let’s have some more fun, shall we?”

< To Be Continued >

[the-trickster-exe]

Cracked At The Line In The Air, I feel safe. || Whumptober: Day 5

Fandom/Characters: Moon Knight. Steven Grant, Marc Spector, Jake Lockley.

Summary: Steven's childhood teddy breaks and it triggers a meltdown.

Warnings: Steven hits himself as a stim during his meltdown. Want sure of this warrants a warning but just in case.

Word Count: 1607

A/N: Jake calls Steven ‘ricitos’ which is basically a term of endearment (for a partner, take that as you will) that basically just means curly hair/small curls.

AO3:

It’s broken. It’s broken. Oh my god, it’s broken.

Steven was laying in bed. It was the middle of the night and he was just settling down to sleep. It had been a good day. Nothing bad had happened, he’d been rather at ease, enjoying going about his day with minimal interference. He’d rolled over to lay down on his side and seen his childhood teddy tipped over, having fallen onto the floor. It was a fuzzy small elephant called Nellie. The stuffing distributed unevenly and one of the ears slightly worse for wear than the other due to constant chewing as a child, but it was still whole. It had small black beads for eyes, a stubby little trunk, and two tiny white mounds either side of its face for tusks. Not wanting her to be lonely, because he still had a tendency to anthropomorphize things, he went to pick her up and place her back on her spot on the bed.

Despite having had it for decades, it was still in relatively solid condition. He’d put effort into maintaining its state and was rather chuffed with himself at having had her for so long with minimal incidents. Which is why it was all the more heartbreaking when one of the seams on its neck had stuck out and gotten caught in the floorboards. He had no idea how, but it did, and when he grabbed her to pull her upwards it started to tug. Something he had realised far too late to stop it from happening.

The seam had stayed wedged firmly in the crack and as soon as the force of pulling the toy was applied, it started to unravel. In an instant, the body started to separate from the head, the old stuffing starting to tip and pile out onto the floor beneath itself. The stitches snapped as the neck stayed stuck to the ground, disconnecting from the main body and tugging a front arm off along with it.

His brain stopped dead in its tracks, physically incapable of processing what had just happened. It was almost as if time had slowed as Steven watched the events unfold in absolute horror. He froze instantly, eyes bulging as his mouth hung open with shock. A tremble immediately started to zap through his hand as his fingers loosened from a firm clasp around the worn but soft body of the toy, to a lax and limp claw that was just barely holding it. It was only as it tumbled out of his grip to lay with the rest of itself, surrounded by the stuffing that was once inside, that Steven lunged at the broken object, his heart pounding out of his chest as he frantically tried to gather all of the pieces together in his arms.

“No. No, no, no, no- NO- NO!”

His lungs constricted as his breathing instantly got caught, fractured breaths intermingling with the rising nausea and swirled around like the ocean in a storm. Broken sounding words flooded from his mouth as he stuttered to get them out in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the crushing pressure growing like a lump in his throat. They got muddled and stuck, his tongue getting in the way as he tried to stammer anything new, but was unable to get them out in a way that felt right. His mouth quickly flooded with the crimson metallic taste of blood as he bit down on his cheek, his jaw crunching down in a moment of shock as he tried to process what just happened.

Fat globules of tears poured down his face as he desperately willed the pieces to form back together, to undo it all and fix itself. His breaths heaved as he continued to work himself up, bawling harder and harder as he grasped the pieces impossibly closer to him. The sudden heartbreak was painful, physically painful and even more so psychologically. He felt the disparaging familiarity of dissociation grip him, his brain disconnecting from his body as he started to heave strangled sobs, whimpering pleas for the elephant to be okay. For his Nellie to be all better again.

He couldn’t lose her, she’d been there for him since he was a kid. She was the only thing that could calm him down when things got too bad, something not even his headmates could fully manage to do. Meltdowns, flashbacks, nightmares, panic attacks. Even just giving him something to cry into when a character he liked in a film died, or just something to fall asleep with when he needed to. He didn’t care that people might see it as childish, after everything the system had been through when they were supposed to have been a child, he thought they should almost be owed it to make up for lost time. But Nellie was something from his childhood. Their childhood. Which is why it was all the more painful that she was now broken apart and torn in his arms.

Gradually, he felt his body begin to rock back and forwards, his breathing trying to match the motions frantically at the sudden awareness he really wasn’t breathing right. How could he have been so careless? How stupid could he have been to just destroy one of his most treasured items? One of the only truly, wholly good things they had from their parents, from their little brother, and he’d gone and broken it. Bringing the main body of the teddy to his face, he pressed it against his skin and started to muffle his cries, the pain steadily shifting into a burning anger. Anger that he could blame no one for but himself.

His brows furrowed in irritation as a swelling burning flashed in his chest, his grip tightened around the material painfully as the rage towards himself grew. The feeling began to burst through his limbs as he clenched his jaw almost painfully, grinding his teeth in annoyance as tears kept trickling down his face. Through huffed breaths, a guttural rumble rose in his oesophagus and tore up his throat in a furious roar.

“FUCK! HOW COULD I BE SO FUCKING STUPID? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? FUCKING STUPID- USELESS- WORTHLESS FUCKING- FUCK-”

In an instant, he raised his arms up with fists balled and started to bash them against the side of his head. The motion was repetitive and a bit painful, but soothing in a way. He carried on letting random, frustrated words and whines fumble out of his lips as his body took over. Tears and snot dripped down his face as he continued to hit his temples, sobbing in bitterness as a crash of self-hatred pooled in his chest. Briefly, he thought he heard someone speaking to him but he couldn’t figure out what they were saying.

There was a new resistance in his arms, something that pulled them back and made them feel not quite right. That made him almost struggle to do the thing that was soothing him. That was helping. Made it feel like it wasn’t helping. Like it was almost worse. He didn’t like it, it felt restraining. So instead moved them away and sat on his hands, trying to mitigate the uncomfortable feeling that stopped them with pressure. Continued to rock back and forth, to make the noises that climbed up his throat.

“Steven. It’s going to be okay. We can fix it. It’s alright.”

He shook his head disparagingly at the words, too overwhelmed to be able to form anything comprehensible. His legs bounced rhythmically as he tried to convey what he wanted to say, tried desperately to grasp at words and throw them out in a way that made sense. That helped him explain that it wasn’t alright and that it couldn’t be fixed. That he couldn’t fix it and it was too late for anything to be saved. But in some way he felt as though the speaker understood his thoughts regardless of whether or not they were spoken, and the gravelled voice spoke again. Accompanied by someone else.

“It might not feel like it, but this’ll pass and we can stitch her up. She’ll be fine, it was an accident, Steven. You’re not stupid or useless, it was a mistake.”

“He’s right, ricitos. We can fix our fluffy friend. Maybe even get her some new stuffing and fill it out properly again.”

As the voices spoke, they projected feelings of warmth. There was a contrast between their comfort and the gradual dimming of the burning that had been exploding in his chest. Whatever it was, it was nice. It was kind. Caring. And they said they could fix it. They could fix Nellie. He just needed to try and calm down so that they could. Gently, he felt himself move off of sitting on his hands. Felt them start to lift and snake up to wrap around him and hold him in a way that felt good. That felt safe. Protected. It felt like he could just let go.

He didn’t want to feel this way anymore. Didn’t want to feel any of it. And somehow he knew they would be able to help him stop feeling that way. They’d be able to fix it for him, they could fix Nellie. Stop him from causing more damage to their belongings and their body. He didn’t mean for it to happen, he never meant to hurt them, never meant to hurt himself. But he just couldn’t help it. So, that’s what he did. He let the pair take his place, and went into the back.

[whitchygaythem]

prey works at some drink/soda place and is overworked so they ask the very chill barista on their break to shrink them down so they can take a rest inside their tummy.

I tried, hope you like it :)

Nikki thought she liked chaos. She moved out of her sleepy little town to New York, one of the most predator dense cities in America. As a prey, it was not the best idea. And she thought she knew what chaos was. 

Then Nikki got a job at a cafe. 

At first it was just for the benefits. If she wanted to live in the apartments above the "Starlight Cafe" then she would have to work as a waitress there.

 It was a pretty good deal, and after a year, Nikki had made friends with the other staff. However, after a year of customer service, she didn't want chaos anymore. She found out that she could shrink, and it was triggered by stress. Really great for living in a city where randos want to eat you. Even dealing with run of the mill customers could make her shrink down to 3 feet. Like all the old people who can't read the menu, old people who want HER to change the decor in the cafe, toddlers trying to water the plants with their grape sodas and the boys who only go there to harass her and her co-workers. 

Currently, she was working with a crotchety old man who wanted Nikki to change the wallpaper.

"It's too bright! All that blue hurts my eyes!"

Nikki hung her head and apologized robotically. He came in every week to complain, order a cupcake, and leave. He rolled his baggy eyes at her and returned to his menu.

"Waitress! Excuse me?" A middle aged woman with a kid snapped her stubby fingers at Nikki as she shuffled over, a few inches shorter than before.

"Do you know that your Sunshine Shimmer donuts have artificial colors in the icing!?" 

"Well ma'am, I'm not the chef but-"

"You do know that stuff is terrible for you right? It's super fake and tears up your body." The woman looked Nikki up and down, scoffing quietly.

"It's like your hair! Everyone knows you aren't a real blonde" she huffed. "Who are you trying to impress?" Nikki glanced at the clock. So close to closing time…

"-nd that outfit! It's like your asking to be eaten!" 

Nikki laughed a bit to herself as the woman continued on her rant.

"Do we have a problem here?" Nikki felt a warm familiar hand on her shoulder. Her roommate, Daria towered over her and the woman, faintly glaring down at her, before smiling wide, showing off her fangs. The woman gasped and pressed a fat hand to her chest before grabbing her purse and grubby child before hurrying out of the door. The old man looks behind at Nikki and Daria, and shuffles out the door. As Daria walks over to the window to click off the "Open" sign,

" Nikki, are you ok?"

Nikki laughs, brushing stray hair from her face.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine! Why do you ask?"

Daria turns, her hard girl act falling away to reveal a look of genuine concern.

"You're almost a whole foot shorter. And you haven't shrunk down all week, Nikki."

Nikki scoffs, leaning on a table, trying to act nonchalant.

"What, it'll be fine if I don't shrink down for awhile, I'm just a little tired"

Daria sighs and holds Nikki's elbows in her hands and looks at Nikki knowingly. Nikki deflates in Daria's hands, letting her head fall forward onto Daria's chest. She sticks her arms out and Daria hugs her and laughs.

"Do you want me to carry you home?"

Nikki mumbles a yes and Daria shifts so that Nikki is sitting on one arm and she has another arm on Nikki's back. 

Once they get into their apartment, one of the larger, pred oriented rooms, Daria sets Nikki down on the counter. Nikki closed her eyes and exhaled, relaxing her body and shrinking down to about two feet tall. She opened her eyes to see Daria, much MUCH bigger than before, grinning down at her. Nikki beams back and slips down onto Daria's outstretched hand. Daria swoops in and kicks a long line up Nikki's face, before stuffing her body into her mouth, leaving Nikki's legs free. Daria swallowed quickly, licking and tasting as Nikki slid into her stomach. As her feet slip down into her throat, Daria traced her descent, trailing a finger down her neck. As Nikki's full weight landed in her core, Daria sighed and flopped face first onto the couch, eliciting squirms and noises from Nikki. 

"Shhhhh… no worrying,  I'm making you take a break, just… do whatever you do in there" Nikki gave one last burst of movement before settling. Daria flipped over onto her back and ran a gentle hand over her distended midsection. She closed her eyes and smiled to herself. She finally got her best friend to take a break.

[nikethestatue]

Depth of Your Eyes

Extreme Fluff.

Domestic fluff. Babies!

Elriel Month - Day 24

“Why do you hate me?” lamented the feared and exalted Shadowsinger of the Night Court.

Feared and admired, worshipped for his immense Illyrian power, for his stealth and strength, he, the great and mysterious spy master, the male who made enemies tremble and flee, and females swoon, failed utterly and completely at this one task—having his chunky newborn son open his eyes for him.

When his son was born, the first thing that shocked everyone—parents and healer and midwife—was his very impressive size. How the delicate, slender, elegant Elain even managed to bear him—without much difficulty too—was a mystery.

But the Cauldron loved Elain and strove to make Elain happy. It gave Elain an almost painless labour, though it was lengthy and uncomfortable nevertheless, and while Azriel was out of his mind with worry and trepidation, not knowing whether the baby’s wings would cause damage or even more serious issues, Elain was serene and happy.

The nightmare that was Nyx’s birth was still fresh in Aziel’s mind—the blood, the gore, Nyx’s tiny lifeless body in Mor’s arms, and Feyre, with a horrific gaping slash across her abdomen, bleeding out, Death hovering just above her. Therefore, Azriel dreaded Elain’s labour. For ten months he was a wreck. He was too happy, too elated, too content, too joyful in his life, and there bound to be repercussions for all that bliss.

The baby was conceived momentarily. “Let’s make a baby,” Azriel proposed a little drunkenly to the giggling and smiling Elain. They were enjoying a glorious sunset on the sea, in a tiny town with whitewashed buildings and blue roofs, in the Summer Court. It was far from Adriata, far from visitors and everyone else and they indulged in endless white sand beaches, fresh seafood and lots of local wine, swimming in the azure waters of the sea and enough lovemaking to leave them both sore and hoarse. “Now?” Elain kissed him. He shrugged, “why not now?”

And it happened—‘now’. When they returned from their holiday, she found out that she was expecting their baby.

Azriel couldn’t lie, but he was feeling rather smug.

“What the fuck kind of seed you got, brother?” muttered Cassian. “You just knocked her up in a day?”

Azriel only shrugged innocently.

As if this was to be expected. Of course he’d impregnate her in a day! But it wasn’t at all what he thought would happen—he thought that as with all Fae, this would be a lengthy process full of false starts, crushed hopes and nerves. But the Cauldron loved Elain and wanted to make her happy.

Now, he was holding his chunky son in his arms. Calm and peaceful, the baby took after his parents in temperament. He was mellow and not fussy, docile and good-natured. His appetite was monstrous though. He ate and ate and ate. At his already great size, Azriel muttered ‘you are going to be Cassian’s size by the time you are three’. And because he ate so much, he was rather plump, to put it kindly, which meant that his hamster-like cheeks obscured his eyes. At three weeks, their baby mostly slept and ate, so periods of play and interaction were minimal—hence, Azriel’s failure to actually see the colour of his son’s eyes.

Elain claimed that the eyes were hazel. Nesta insisted that they were ‘Archeron’ eyes. Cassian’s assessment was ‘I think brown. Like dirt’. Amren went with ‘I don’t know, I didn’t look closely’. Yet they all claimed that they’d seen his eyes.

Azriel was seated on top of the covers in their bed, propped against the cushioned headboard. His wing curled around Elain, who was sleeping next to him, pressed to his side, her arm thrown over his stomach. Their son, sturdy and large, almost the size of Azriel’s forearm now, was sucking noisily, eating like he hasn’t been fed in a week. He was fed less than three hours ago.

The bottle—a new invention from Dawn—wasn’t widely used just yet, but Azriel loved it. At first, Elain was reluctant to utilize it, preferring to breastfeed at all times, but then…well, then she came to accept how convenient this bottle invention was. Especially because Azriel was a nocturnal creature and had no issues with staying up or waking in the middle of the night. And with their gluttonous son demanding food all the time, she was still able to function and rest and sleep, since he didn’t really care which way he was getting his food, as long as he was getting it.

Azriel was looking down at the delicious bundle in his arms, and thought that his baby would end up looking very much like him, if he wasn’t so chubby. Right now, he was all round and soft and filled with folds that others wanted to bite and pinch.

Cassian, in fact, did bite his nephew’s little fat wrist, and Elain caught them, warning that Cassian wouldn’t be allowed to feed him if it happened again. “but it didn’t even hurt!” he defended himself feebly. “Just a little nibble…He is such a fatty!”

“No. Biting.” ordered Elain. “Or you’ll be off bottle duty!”

That was a serious threat that Cassian took to heart, because he absolutely adored feeding the baby with the bottle. He and Nesta were enthralled with him, quietly arguing and fighting about whose turn it was to feed him next. Elain and Azriel frequently overheard ‘you did it last time!” “no, but he likes me more…” “gods above, he does not like you more! He clearly prefers me!” “he was crying with you!” “yes, that’s because you made him cry!”

“We only have two choices,” said Azriel with a sigh, watching Cassian coo and babble to the baby one day, rocking him and singing him all kinds of bawdy Illyrian songs. “We either forbid them entry into the house,” at that, Elain frowned. “Or, we just let them be and simply assume that our son’s first word will be ‘fuck’.”

Adhering to the Illyrian tradition of not naming a child until he was one month old, the baby remained nameless. Well, Elain and Azriel knew what he would be called, but speculation ran rampant.

Elain had officially asked Cassian and Nesta to be the baby’s Guardians, a very important and respected position in the Illyrian society. It would fall on Cassian to start teaching his nephew how to fly—and when Elain formally requested for him to become the Guardian, Cassian shyly teared up.

“Yes, Petal, of course,” he nodded nervously, with aching sincerity, “it would be an honour. Are you sure?” Cassian still worried, “are you sure you don’t want to ask Rhys?”

Elain embraced the General gently and lovingly, and whispered, “I’ve never been more sure of anything, Cass. Only you. I’d only trust him with you and Nesta.”

It was Elain’s right as the mother to select the Guardians for her child, so while Azriel suspected who her choice would be, he waited for the official announcement along with everyone else. Eventually, the Guardian would present their son with his first sword, and begin teaching him to fight.

“Well, I want my baby to have the best,” said Elain, kissing Nesta’s flushed cheek. “Who is better than the Commander General of the Night Court armies and the Valkyrie herself? Will you two do us the honour of accepting him into your Guardianship?”

“Yes!” both of them almost yelled their acceptance.

Now, Nesta and Cassian was preparing something grandiose for the Naming Ceremony.

But first things first.

“Hey lovie, why don’t you look at me?” murmured Azriel, rocking his son gently against his chest. At first, the baby leapt towards his nipple, received nothing from it and gave an angry squeak of disappointment.

“Sorry, my friend, at this point, I think you should already know where the good stuff comes from,” said Azriel, as he offered the bottle. “I know, I know, not the same, but close enough. Believe me, I tried it straight from the delicious source and I agree, it is much better,”

“Stop being gross,” moaned Elain, and slapped his stomach.

He laughed.

“I am not being gross. Just honest. If I can suck on your titties,”

“Oh, gods, yes, I know. You’d rather suck on my titties than a bottle. I’ve heard this before,”

“And I stand by my opinion. So does my son. He has good taste. Now, go back to sleep.”

Elain ran a sleepy hand over the edge of his wing and turned around, pressing her lush ass into his thigh.

He drew his knuckles over her cheek and she reached for his fingers with her lips, kissing them, before tumbling back into her slumber.

Gods, he loved her.

The baby didn’t like all this jostling around him, and grabbed Azriel’s hand with his stubby fat fingers, steadying him and the bottle.

“Sorry,” Azriel murmured and looked down, stroking his baby’s soft brown curl that jutted out proudly on top of his head. “Mama is such a beauty…we can’t forget her either, even with you. I love you both very much.”

The baby nodded sagely, as if agreeing with his father. Yes, indeed, his mother was gorgeous and beautiful and very nice, and required his father’s attention. It was very understandable.

But this male, this father of his—he liked him very much as well. He was very kind and he fed him and changed him, and sang songs with him, and played with him, and…well, he loved him.

Azriel was smiling softly to himself, watching the baby, and then, suddenly, his son opened his eyes and grinned at him. Grinned a huge toothless smile—his very first one. He never smiled for anyone before, but this was it.

This was for his father.

This male, who’s waited for him for a long, long time, hoping against hope that one night, he’d have him in his arms and receive this huge, satisfied smile, which was meant only for him. An undeniable, glorious reward for centuries of suffering and sadness. He grabbed his father’s scarred finger in his fist and blinked at him with the depth of his Archeron eyes.

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

HASO, “Dye and Diversity.”

Hope you guys enjoy the story today 

Yeb stared.

She tilted her head this way and then that, and then continued to stare on the other side.

A soft sigh, “My eyes are up here.”

Yeb looked up to where the human was staring at her ascance his head slightly tilted.

“What?”

“Sorry dumb joke.”

He pulled to a stop, and the strange wheeled chair below him pulled to a halt.

She stared some more, “That is so strange! It looks so fun!”

Her interjection seemed to surprise him, and he glanced down  at the chair, “Um, I suppose I’ve never thought about it. It’s kinda fun sometimes. I don’t use it much.”

Yeb waddled behind the chair and clambered up on two little pegs she saw jutting  out from behind, “Why not?”

“Well usually I can walk, and it is generally frowned upon to use a wheelchair if you don’t need one.” 

Yeb felt a rush of wind as he pushed the chair forward, and they began to roll slowly down the ramp, “Well why not?”

He laughed and shook his head, his earlier sour demeanor lost behind grim amusement. A few of the others came to join them as they rolled downward and off the platform. Yeb lifted her eyes  wide-eyed in shock as she stared at her strange and unusual surroundings, and the massive interior docking bay of the space station…. To think! An entire city built in space! Looking around she could see ships of many sizes and designs, and other unfathomable and strange creatures hurrying this way and that.

A thought came to her, “Why aren’t you using the arm sticks?”

“Arm sticks…. Oh the crutches?”

“Yeah.”

“My arms are sore from using them, and plus the wheelchair seems safer on the station. I'll Be less likely to trip and get hurt.”

“Oh ok!.”

It still surprised her to no end that the human had even managed to survive without a leg. At first she thought he might have been born with that deformity. On her planet, while it was possible to survive with an issue like that it was not very common at all. She could think of only one Tricar she had seen live to adulthood in such a condition. There were always complications, plus, while Tricar were semi-social they tended to live only in mating groups and abandon their pups at a very young age. 

If you couldn’t survive to adulthood in the cold metal mazes  of her planet than that was a personal problem.

She climbed up higher onto the back of the human’s wheeled chair to get a better look. She wobbled dangerously in her excitement, her hands and feet not exactly built for climbing with her stubby fingers and large flat feet.

With wide eyed excitement she looked all around them marveling at the diversity of lifeforms. There were so many of them!

She pointed to one, eyes wide, “What alien is that!”

The human turned his head to look then frowned “What do you mean?”

“That one right there!”

He frowned and looked again then laughed, “Oh well Yeb, that is a very tall human.”

“Oh, she frowned.” It sure didn’t look like any of the other humans she had seen, sure it was the same general shape, but it just looked so different that she couldn’t have been sure. But she supposed now she could see the resemblance. Like a stretched human.

“How about that one!”

The human continued to smile, “That is a human with a lot of fat, Yeb.”

“Oh….  what is that?”

“Er, like blubber but not really.”

That translated better and her ears flipped back over her head in mild understanding, “Oh, I get it, so those humans must be from cold climates, and that’s why they have insulation?”

“Not exactly.”

Her head turned and she pointed to another group, “Are all of those humans too!”

“Yes all of those are humans.”

“So pretty!” She exclaimed, they came in such interesting and new color combinations, ice white to stone ebony. Granted they all looked human, but the diversity in them was so astonishing that it was hard to believe they could all be the same species. As a biologist herself she might have assumed that maybe they were under the same classification, like fish, and how fish all sort of looked the same but that didn’t mean they were in the same biological category.

“Are they all the same subspecies?” she wondered.

“Yes.”

“Really? But they all look so different!” on her planet while they did tend to be diverse in height, their fur was generally always the same color, a grey white.

“There used to be other subspecies of humans a long time ago, but then they slowly started to die out. At the end it was only the Homo Sapiens and the Homo Neanderthalensis. Both of them coexisted for a while and even interbred but then the Neanderthal died out leaving only the Homo Sapiens with some Neanderthal DNA in certain cases,so we are all that's left, and our diverse lifestyles have given us different adaptational traits despite being the same species.”

She stared at him enthralled by this strange revelation about humans.

“For instance, in the middling areas towards the equator, things are a lot warmer and the light of the star hits the Earth directly, so humans kept their original dark skin color as protection against UV rays which can cause DNA mutations leading to cancer. A lot of times humans towards the equator tend to be taller and leaner which helps them to not overheat.”

“Your planet has a climate that diverse?”

“Yes, we can be as cold as your planet, or more than twice as hot.”

She stared wide eyed and shuddered at the thought.

“In fact, where I grew up we had seasonal changes in temperature. In the summer it was about thirty degrees hotter than the comfortable level I keep on the ship, and in the winter it could plunge to temperatures well around your home world.”

“How does anything survive in a climate so varied?”

“With air conditioning and heaters.” he said smiling, “Anyway, humans slowly began to move north, and as they did the rays of the sun couldn’t cut so easily through the atmosphere, as they were angled. That meant less UV light actually making it to earth. Problem is, humans need the sun to create certain vitamins used in the body. Darker skin helped to block the sun's rays when they become too much, but when there is less sun it isn’t so easy, and so humans developed lighter skin tones that were more vulnerable to sun damage but more easily allowed for the creation of those vitamins. In addition humans in higher climates tend to be shorter and stockier to conserve heat.”

“So…. you can tell where a human comes from?”

“You can tell where their ancestors come from.”

“So your family is from a cold climate?”

He smiled, bright white teeth showing the light above, “Yep, my ancestry stretches back to Russia, Norway, and other assorted parts of north eastern europe, but my family has lived far away from those places or the past few thousand years.” He smiled, “And yes, I can trace my lineage that far back. We’ve had pretty good record keeping for the past few thousand years considering we have internet databases stretching back about that far, and massive archives.”

“Wow/” She muttered quietly, “And I don’t even know who my mother was.”

The human raised an eyebrow at her, but by that time she had already transitioned to looking and pointing at something or someone else. She loved looking at the humans, they were so diverse and strange, and there was always something new to see. Sometimes it was their clothes sometimes it was their skin, sometimes it was their hair,

Sunny, the big blue Drev, placed a hand on the human’s shoulder in a quick gesture, “I am going to go look for the parts, I’ll get back to you in a minute ok?”

“Cool, bring me a working leg when you do.”

“She snorted but nodded and walked off,while he and the others continued onward.”

Yeb lifted her head in wide eyed wonder watching as they passed down a dark hallway from the docking bay, and then out, into an absolutely massive room. It was so large they might as well have been outside, a huge curving room in the shape of a doughnut that went around for miles and miles in either direction. Much of the ceiling above the mwas covered in some sort of see through glass structure giving her a view of space outside,and the rest of the expansive station highlighted by thousands of stars and hundreds more blinking lights.

Voices echoed and warbled all around them as hundreds and thousands of people filtered through the station like slow moving ice water. The room was so large that they had even built structures on the inside, which rose up many stories into the air glittering with colorful neon lights. She saw hundreds of aliens slipping in and out of these buildings and passing overhead on catwalks high in the air, talking, chatting and walking together.

It was all so alien and she was so excited.

She almost fell off the back of the chair as her unfit feet and hands slipped off a climbing surface. A hand steadied her from behind, “Don’t get too excited.”

She was pleased to find after that that the humans were very interested in bringing her around and showing her all of the new things. WIth her ability to eat a wide variety of food, she even got to try and taste some of their more strange concoctions, both excited and repulsed by some of them.

They walked past another shop whose brightly glowing lights attracted her like a moth to a flame and she backpedaled. Sounds pulsed and throbbed around inside her head and brightly colored pictures decorated the walls. On the inside, she watched in wide eyed fascination as one human sat patiently arm exposed, as another inked a pattern onto their skin with a whirring machine. The colors they used fluoresed under the strange blue light above.

A hand on her shoulder, “that is probably a human tradition you don’t want to experience.”

“What?”

“Tattoos, injecting ink directly into your dermal layer through use of tiny needles.”

She cringed a bit, “Why?”

“Because you can get cool pictures.”

There was a hum from beside her as one of the other humans walked up, “Maybe not the tattoo, but…” She trailed off and pointed to the other side of the room where humans were sitting in chairs leaning back as other humans painted strange chemicals on their fur. One of them stood up, and when she did, her hair was long and blue.

Yeb stared, “You change your fur color!”

“Yeah all the time.”

Adam rolled up behind them, “I don’t know if that's a good idea, we don’t know what kind of chemicals….”

“Well there is only one way to find out.”

They turned to look at her, “Want to dye some of your fur a cool color?”

She was so excited all she could manage was a squeak. The thought was so strange and exciting. There was only one fur color on her planet, to think that she could just go and change it!

Why hadn’t her people thought of this!

“YES!”

Her enthusiasm seemed to surprise them, but with smiles they were very encouraging and walked in with her as one of the humans came to greet them, “What can we do for you.”

Maverick patted Yeb on the shoulder, “Our alien friend here would like to go a different color.”

The human looked down and started with a frown, “Er…. what…. What are you. You don’t look like any Tesraki I’ve ever seen.”

“That's because she’s not. A new species, just coming into the galactic community. Anyway what do you say?”

The human paused then shrugged, “Long as you sign a waiver saying that we aren't responsible for any allergic reactions or damage to the hair of an unknown species, then sure.”

They glanced at Yeb, and she waved it off, “Let's do it!”

It was probably a horrible idea to have a team of humans not exactly known for their good life choices cheering on a naive Tricar as she chose bright neon green which was supposed to be at its brightest on the top of her hair and fade down slowly to the furn on her back.

The humans were excited all around, and she drew a small crowd as they began the process.

She probably should have been more concerned not sure what the chemicals would do to her, but nothing ventured nothing gained: that was a human expression she had learned just a few minutes ago, and she really liked it.

Warm water ran through her fur, and then a strange sticky paste was applied to it. Shehad to sit around and wait for a little bit as the color set, and then sit around some more as they washed the residual color out. When they were finally finished, she was turned to face the mirror, and her eyes went wide again.

Her grey white fur, against the bright neon green!. She turned back and forth watching the light glitter over the bright color.

“Wow.”

“Wow.”

“Wat have we done.”

“I love it!” She exclaimed, leaping out of her seat to look at herself more readily in the mirror.

She watched as Adam leaned over in his seat and passed his arm over some sort of device.

Se assumed he was paying for it and was quite pleased walking out of the shop with her new fur enjoying the eyes on her as she passed.

It wasn’t long before some of their other companions returned. Sunny turning to look at Adam with a frown, “What did you do.”

He raised his hands, “Oh come on, its harmless, na look at how happy she is. Come on.”

Sunny rolled her eyes..

“Spirits give me strength.”

Yeb capered around the group, rubbing her paws through her newly colored fur. It didn’t feel any different, but she sure FELT different.

She was sure she was going to really enjoy all these strange human things.

Then again.

She had really only experienced the good things.

It would remain to be seen if she was going to be able to handle the darker side of humanity. 

[megalony]

Bonds between us

I know I haven’t been posting much lately but I’ve finally been inspired and found the time to write this new Murderer! Ben Hardy series I am hoping to be working on. I hope you will all like it, feedback is always lovely to have.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem @butlegendsneverdie @langdonzvoid @jennyggggrrr @rogmeddows @radiob-l-a-hblah @rogertaylorsbitontheside @chlobo6 @rogertaylors-lipgloss @sj-thefan @omgitsearly @luckytrashgooprebel @scarsout @deaky-with-a-c @killer-queen-ofrhye @bluutac @vousmemanqueez @jonesyaddiction @ambi-and-sunflowers @milanosaurus @httpfandxms @saint-hardy @7-seas-of-fat-bottomed-girls @mrsalwayswritex @rogerina-owns-me @hellsdragon @im-an-adult-ish @crazylittlethingg @allauraleigh @onceuponadetectivedemigod​

Murderer! Ben masterlist

Summary: There are two sides to Ben, the dark side when he is at work, and the surprisingly loving side when he is with his family. But both Ben’s sides are tested when (Y/n) goes into early labour and their baby is premature.

(I’ve imagined this series being set in the late 60s/ early 70s)

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's daddy, I told you he's home!" The squealing voice of the little girl caught the attention of the five men who were just approaching the front door to the vast home. The three year old didn't seem to understand how to regulate her voice yet meaning that she was practically shouting as if she wanted the whole neighbourhood to know her dad was coming home.

When the grey front door slowly swung open, Ben took two steps inside before he quickly shrugged off the large velvety black overcoat he wore day in and day out. The daily routine he went through had become second nature he no longer had to think about.

His hands automatically went to the holsters that clung to his shoulders but instead of removing the straps, he removed the two guns he always carried on his person. His wrists rotated and his hands moved behind his back, dropping the guns into the hands of one of his men who was walking in behind him. As soon as his hands were free, Ben's arms moved out in front of him to pick up his little girl who was unevenly running on short stubby legs to get to him.

None of the kids knew Ben carried guns on him and that was how it needed to stay. The moment Ben stepped into his home or even the moment he pulled in the drive, the guns were hidden away out of sight and reach.

When Ben stepped over the threshold of his home, he changed from the man everyone feared to the family man everyone adored. And the workers who went back with him changed from the fearing men who did as they were told to close friends of the family who were always there as friends, rather than workers to be bossed around.

"Hey there, princess. Miss me?" Ben pressed his curving lips to the side of Lilah's head, brushing her hazel brown hair behind her ear, noticing how thin it seemed compared to when he brushed his fingers through the boys' hair.

"I miss you! I told Beck it was you but he not believe me."

"That's because I'm early, where's your mum princess? I need to talk to her and make sure she's okay."

Ben bounced his only girl on his hip, brushing his crooked nose against her cheek to tickle her and make her squeal. He remembered when Lilah first started to speak properly, she would trace his nose and ask why it 'was bent.' The little girl didn't understand that Ben's nose was slightly bumpy and crooked because the bone had been broken far too many times when fighting and it had healed at a bad angle. Not that it messed up the look of his features in any way, it was only visible when up close but it fascinated Lilah.

"Kitchen, Theo and James are up in playroom." Lilah pointed in the right direction before she leaned her head against Ben, making a noise and a fuss of kissing his cheek. Knowing that when she did that, Ben would copy her and lavish her with kisses.

"Daddy, you're back, and you brought uncle Joey." The excited tone to Beckett's voice made Ben's lips curl up at the corners and he reached his free hand out to ruffle the familiar dirty blond hair that matched his own.

"Princess, go with Beck and stay with uncle Joe for me so I can have a word with your mum please."

A whine left Lilah's lips but she complied when Ben kissed her temple and set her down to her feet. He waited until she took Joe's hand and the two kids dragged him to go and find their brothers before Ben carried on to the kitchen. He knew without looking that Gwilym would be following him to see (Y/n) whereas the other two of his workers were simply here for added precaution and protection. Ben liked protection when he was home after a particularly bad day at work or when business was in full swing just in case they were being watched or followed. He couldn't afford for anything to happen to his family.

Ben would have been at work for a lot longer today but (Y/n) had called asking if there was any way he could come home because she wasn't well. And she never called when he was at work so Ben knew she must be rather under the weather to call and ask for him to come home.

He could do nothing but do as his wife requested. She was seven months pregnant and Ben didn't want to leave her home alone with four children to look after when she wasn't well, it would hardly be fair of him to do that.

"Hey doll... everything okay there?"

When Ben stepped into the rather large kitchen it didn't take him long to set his sights on his wife but when he saw her, he couldn't help how the panic spread through his system. (Y/n) had her forearms leaning on one of the counters near to the sink with her lower back arched out but it was the way she was breathing heavy and the pained look on her face that set alarm bells off in Ben's head. She had been in a bit of discomfort this morning but she had seemed well in herself and didn't look or seem ill or else he wouldn't have left in the first place.

Ben glided over the polished tiled floor to get to (Y/n), resting a hand on her lower back which he began rubbing soothing circles onto whilst his other hand rested on the counter to steady himself. He leaned his head down to try and get a better look at (Y/n) before she tilted her head to look up at him.

"I- I'm getting t-twitches... and I've been sick a lot..." (Y/n) lifted her eyes to lock with Ben's, seeing her silent message conveying into his eyes immediately when his own eyes narrowed and his lip curled up in distaste.

"Right... well let's get you sat down doll and if you start to get worse Gwil can ring the doctor and we can get you checked out. Joe's got the kids for now anyway." Ben's tone was concerning and loving and his calm demeanour made (Y/n) feel better already but she could see the look behind his eyes. The defensive, dismissive look that showed he wanted to ignore what she had told him and say that this was something else which they both were sure it just had to be.

When (Y/n) went into labour it always started as twinging pain in her lower back or her stomach and through most of their four labours (Y/n) had thrown up quite a lot or felt some kind of indigestion. She was hoping and praying this was not the start of labour because they were far too early and there had been no other signs or warnings of labour before now. (Y/n) had done nothing that would push her into labour this early and there was no reason for it.

But even if this was just her coming down with a sickness bug, she needed Ben here regardless so he could help her and help look after the kids.

(Y/n) let Ben ease her weight into his arms so he could straighten her up and try to guide her but the moment she took one step away from the sink a small but desperate murmuring noise escaped her lips. Her body hunched back over and her head almost hit the bottom of the sink as she threw up what little she had left in her stomach.

She felt Ben's arms shifting to circle around her waist, his hand smoothing over her lower stomach to try and settle the baby when he felt them moving too. He pressed his chest up to her back before he kissed the top of her head to try and calm her down because he could feel the way (Y/n) was trembling and whining, she never took well to being sick.

"Alright doll just try and breathe for me, shh, you're okay." He whispered quietly against (Y/n)'s hair when she started to moan, shaking her head as she pulled back from the sink.

He could hear how laboured her breaths were which showed she was still unsure if she was going to throw up again or not and she looked like holding her head up was too hard of a task as if her head weighed too much to lift. But before Ben even managed to say two more words, his arms tightened and went stiff around (Y/n) when one of her hands clamped around his and the other braced on the edge of the counter.

A sharp cry escaped (Y/n)'s lips as her head fell down so she was staring at her feet, her body pushing back into Ben's chest like she wanted him to hold her tighter and reassure her that she wasn't going to fall or become hurt.

"Doll- doll what's wrong?!" Ben's chin pressed down against (Y/n)'s shoulder so he could turn his head and look at her but the fright in her eyes was more than he could bear to look at. She kept pushing back into his chest like she wanted to mould against him or make him hold her tighter like she was going to fall or break but he didn't know why.

A huffed breath escaped his lips when he could do nothing but go down on his knees, slowly and cautiously easing (Y/n) down with him when all her weight fell onto him and she had no energy to keep herself upright. But the moment they were both down on the kitchen floor, (Y/n)'s hands went to cradle her stomach as a cry erupted from her lips.

"Gwil call the fucking doctor now!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Turning her head to the left, (Y/n) buried her face in Ben's chest, smothering a sob in his shirt as she wished this would end soon. All four of them had been here for near enough twenty four hours now and it was beginning to get to a point where it felt too much for (Y/n).

Her skin was blotched red and dotted with sweat, her body was burning up like she was sitting on a coal fire and she could feel nothing below the waist. Anna had stacked up pillows behind her to try and alleviate the pain in her lower back that had been hurting for so long now that it was beginning to turn numb.

Anna had also gathered some sheets and towels, spreading them on the bed ready and there was a bowl of warm water and a cloth on the table for if the doctor needed them. Although with (Y/n) burning a rather high temperature a jug of ice cold water had been brought in to try and cool down her burning skin. Everyone in the house was grateful that the doctor had arrived so swiftly and seemed to have the situation completely under control.

It had come as a great shock and a terrible worry for everyone when the doctor arrived after (Y/n) collapsed, only to tell them that she was going into early labour. (Y/n) had gone through labour four times already but none of those times had been premature, she had either gone into labour the week of her due date or a week late.

Ben's mother Anna knew what a grave business it was to have a baby this premature and she knew that it wasn't a good sign for (Y/n) or the baby. She was already burning a high fever and had had a small bleed earlier, if any complications arose during this stressful labour (Y/n) could deteriorate or have a haemorrhage that could endanger her health. Not to mention how badly the baby was going to be affected by being born this early.

Ben pressed his free hand to (Y/n)'s neck, kissing the top of her head repeatedly to try and calm her down because he could do little else but provide support.

(Y/n) tightened her hand around his own as she moved so she was leaning back against the pillows instead of Ben, wishing she could sink and disappear into the feathered pillows. She could feel Anna dabbing at her neck and forehead with the ice cold water she had just retrieved from the bathroom but as soothing as it felt, it made (Y/n) feel like she was going into shock. She tried to scream but it came out rather defeated from the lack of energy and the searing pain.

"H-how much longer?" There was such a pleading tone to (Y/n)'s voice as she looked over at the doctor sitting by her knees.

He had been her doctor since before she had married Ben and he was the one to deliver all four of their children. Any complication that arose, he took care of and he was so kind and compassionate as well as skilled and he always knew what to do. It was calming to (Y/n) that he was here right now when it was clear that this wasn't going to go smoothly.

"Not much longer, (Y/n). The head will be born soon." His voice was calming and his expression was nothing but concerning as he looked level-headed and in control. But it was Ben who could see the fear behind the elder man's eyes. He could see the panic about the situation and the fear that if this went wrong, he would be the doctor who would have to sign a death certificate. He did not want to be the one to declare Ben's child dead, not when he knew what kind of a man Ben was.

Ben was a killer, he was a mobster in the doctor's eyes. He made people suffer, he had men who were loyal to him both because they respected him but majorly because they feared what he would do to them if they weren't. He played on fear and loved to punish people who annoyed, hurt, or went against him. The rings on his fingers were forever polished and cleaned because of the amount of blood that got splattered onto them, half of the tattoos on his body were symbols or death counts and he gained most of his money from going against the law.

But despite all of this, there was some part of Doctor Lloyd that had a slither of respect for Ben.

Maybe it was because he had seen how Ben was when he was around (Y/n). He treated her like she was the only good person in the world, the only person he ever wanted to see or talk to or who was worth anything to him. Whatever was troubling (Y/n) troubled Ben, whatever she was happy or excited about made him happy. Her happiness was what he strived for and the love he had for her was the only kind of love he had, no one else could bring out the good in him like she could.

Their four children were no exception either. Ben may sometimes be harsh with or around them, but they were loved and respected and brought up in a loving environment contrary to the kind of life Ben led. He loved his family, they were the one thing that meant everything to Ben and the one thing he held dear to him. And for that, Lloyd held respect for Ben.

He didn't want to see (Y/n) heartbroken beyond repair from losing a child and he did not want to find out how Ben would react to a loss like this.

No one knew exactly how long (Y/n) would be in labour for, the moment the doctor arrived and confirmed that there was nothing that could be done to prevent this, panic spread through the house. Ben was admittedly one of the many people who thought that since this was a very early and complicated labour, and the added fact that this was their fifth child, it would be quick. But they had been cooped up in this room for a day, none of them having eaten, slept, washed or changed in that time. All of them were too preoccupied in trying to alleviate the pain and terror (Y/n) was feeling.

Ben had barely gotten back from being out with his men when (Y/n) had suddenly collapsed in pain. He had called his mum to come and help and most of his men had left whereas his close workers had stayed to help with the kids and in case they could help with anything. Joe and Gwilym were Ben's closest friends as well as working under him, they were uncles to the kids so it was only natural that they would stay and look after them so Anna could help (Y/n) and the doctor. 

But now they were getting very close to having their baby in their arms and Ben didn't want this moment to arrive. As long as their baby was still in the womb they had more of a chance and a hope of them being alive and okay. If they were born this early, it was unlikely they were going to survive.

"Come on now (Y/n), another push for me."

(Y/n) did as asked, pressing her chin into her chest as she snapped her eyes closed, trying to ignore the pain that was consuming her but it didn't work very well. She wanted this to be over, she wanted their baby to be delivered right now or for this to wait another two months so everything would be alright.

(Y/n) jolted at the sudden feeling of the cold wash cloth pressing against her thighs but the cold temperature against her skin did feel nice.

"Another sheet." The doctor's voice was stern and ordering compared to his usual calm and caring demeanour, giving away that now his nerves were getting the better of him.

This man had delivered countless babies, dealt with many surgeries and complications and illnesses during his time as a doctor. He had sadly dealt with babies and even the mothers dying during childbirth, but this time it felt different. There was fear tugging at his heart this time, he felt as if something horrifying would take place if the child or even (Y/n) were to die, especially whilst their lives were placed into his hands. It was as if he had been given something so precious and he knew if he broke it, Ben would break him in return. He was the best doctor there was for this situation and he was the only doctor the couple wanted but that was terrifying for the man of sixty. He didn't want to see (Y/n), a lovely young woman he had known for some time, go through the grief of losing her baby or worse still, die herself.

Narrowing his eyes, Ben dared himself to lean forwards to look at what was making the doctor's defences go up but his breath caught in his throat when he realised why another sheet was needed. The one beneath (Y/n)'s legs was stained with blood.

The doctor briefly locked eyes with Ben before he focused back on the task at hand. He scrunched up the bloodied sheet and threw it on the floor with the used towels and flannels before he and Anna made quick work of placing the clean sheet beneath (Y/n)'s lower half. The amount of blood (Y/n) had shed onto the sheet was not a good sign that this was going smoothly like they were all praying.

Ben kept his eyes on the cream coloured sheet that had been placed beneath (Y/n)'s lower half, his nostrils flaring as he locked his jaw at seeing how quickly blood seemed to soak into it.

"I need some hot water bottles prepared."

At the doctor's command, Anna left the room to find one of Ben's workers who could make themselves useful by getting what the doctor required. There were four of Ben's men in the house, Joe and Gwilym were here to be with the kids and the other two were here for added help and security.

"Ben..."

"Shh, it's alright love. You'll be fine." Ben hushed, pressing his lips to her forehead as he brushed a few strands of hair behind her ear. She interlocked their hands together as her other hand pressed to her stomach, wishing the pain would go away. She could hear the firmness in Ben's tone that implied he was going to ensure she would be perfectly fine and although (Y/n) knew Ben couldn't make sure that happened, the determination in his voice soothed one of her many nerves.

"Push again for me, the head's almost born."

Ben hooked his arm around (Y/n)'s waist to help her sit up, his other hand still interlocked with her own. He moved her so she was leaning against his chest as (Y/n) both moaned and screamed at the agony that was tearing through her muscles. Letting out a sharp breath, (Y/n) closed her eyes as she buried her face into Ben's neck, feeling him muttering praise against the top of her head.

"Okay, the head's born."

With a deep breath, the doctor leaned across the bed and grabbed one of the towels resting near to Ben, but when their eyes locked panic spread through Ben's nerves at seeing the blood drenching the doctor's hands.

(Y/n) started to push again on the next contraction like the doctor had advised but she felt like she was becoming lightheaded. Ben kept his hand entwined with hers but moved his arms so they were wrapped around her waist, holding her to his chest. A scream that couldn't be heard in (Y/n)'s ears left her lips as her body convulsed on the last push that seemed to make such a weight drop from her previously heavy stomach and relieved a weight on her lower back.

The doctor nodded at Ben, a silent signal that the baby was born.

With a deep breath, he rested the tiny, wrinkled baby onto the blanket on his lap, watching the tiny being curl up like it was trying to pretend to still be in the womb. He rubbed his hand up and down the newborn's back, keeping the towel tightly round the tiny newborn to make sure they didn't get a chill into their weak system.

"You have another boy." The doctor looked between the restless couple, one of whom was losing all the colour in her features as she was cradled by her other half.

"Is he...?" Ben couldn't find it in himself to say the question that had been plaguing him since the moment (Y/n) felt the first pain of labour. Their baby could have been stillborn, have any number of complications or illnesses from being this early or worst of all, could die as soon as the first breath entered their lungs. Ben didn't know which was worse.

He had three boys and one girl and somehow he just knew this baby was going to be a boy to make sure that his little girl stayed his one and only princess. Ben loved having boys, he loved little versions of him running around the place but his Lilah was his little girl that he doted on. But it didn't matter to him that he had won the bet he and (Y/n) had over the gender of their fifth child. He cared whether their youngest child was okay and if they were going to survive. They had never lost or come close to losing any of their babies and Ben did not want to start now.

"He's breathing, but very shallow... I'm afraid there is very little I can do for him. Time will give tell his fate."

The doctor made quick work of cutting the umbilical cord before he pressed his stethoscope to the newborn's chest, listening to his frail but beating heart. Very little in the ways of medicine could be done for a baby that was born early, opiates wouldn't do much but quieten the baby down and make the newborn less likely to feed which isn't what they needed. Any medicine would be too strong for such a frail baby, especially one who was only just born. Steroids may help him develop but there was no telling what it would do to his system when he was already do weak and frail. Hospital wouldn't be able to do anything but put him in a warm incubator to regulate his temperature and watch to see if the baby would survive or become too weak to continue fighting.

When there was a timid knock at the door, Anna was quick to retrieve the hot water bottles from one of Ben's workers before shooing him away from the room. Not wanting him to catch a glimpse of the couple or their newborn in peril.

"Right, the hot water bottles need to be placed around (Y/n)'s abdomen to help stem the bleeding. And one should be wrapped in a towel and placed against the baby's back. Take him and keep him warm, do not leave him for a second, he must be watched over, these first few hours are crucial."

Anna busied herself setting the hot water bottles against (Y/n)'s stomach, dotting one either side of her lower stomach and one under her lower back. The heat should help soothe her skin even though she was running a fever and it was hoped to help stem the bleeding.

But just as Anna was about to move and take the newborn from the doctor's waiting arms, she stopped in fright when Ben's hand held her shoulder to stop her.

"I'll take him."

Ben's voice was so stern but it was frightening to hear the way his voice cracked as he spoke. He wanted his boy, he wanted his baby in his arms to make sure he was okay and so he could look after him properly and personally. Ben loved his mother, despite their differences she was like (Y/n) in the sense that she knew exactly what he got up to but she paid no mind to it. She treated him normally like he was a simple family man and just like he was her son, she was here to love and help him and his family. But right now, Ben wanted to be the one to hold his baby boy for his first few hours and to watch over him in case he didn't make it.

Each time that Ben had held his children for the first time, the pride, love and overwhelming emotion that swarmed his usually black heart always made him breathless and teary. But it was how delicate, breakable and deathly sick his baby boy was that was making Ben want to cry. If he settled his baby boy down in a cot for even a minute, he could easily pass away without their knowledge. For the next few days or even weeks, the newborn was going to have to be closely watched and monitored, if he even managed to survive more than a few hours.

The hot water bottle pressed against the blanket was burning against Ben's left arm but he barely felt the heat, all he could feel was how weightless his son was in his arms. Theo had been a big baby weighing just over eight pounds, then they had James who was seven pounds eight ounces. Beckett was six pounds five ounces and Lilah was exactly six pounds. But all of them had been a loving weight in Ben's arms, unlike the baby he was holding now who could barely be more than four pounds if he was lucky. His head was small and his body was wrinkled and trembling. His hand could barely wrap around Ben's index finger.

The newborn was grey in colour with fluids and a substantial amount of blood coating his fresh but very delicate skin. Ben rested his youngest child in the crook of his arm, making sure he was supported and stable before he dared to dab at the newborn's skin with a warm, damp cloth. He knew to be careful, not wanting to brush his skin too hard and remove any of the delicate and needed layers, but he wanted to clean the blood and fluids from his baby.

It sounded as if his boy was trying to cry but all that came out was a cough that cackled like there was static in his lungs. But all that mattered to Ben was that he was alive and he was trying to stay that way, showing them he had a voice no matter how fragile it was.

Ben's eyes diverted from his baby to his wife when a quiet moan left (Y/n)'s lips and he realised it was because the doctor had given her an injection in her lower stomach.

The sheet beneath (Y/n) was yet again changed, meaning two sheets and God knows how many towels were now going to be burned with how blood-stained they were. That was nothing new to the family with Ben's line of work and what he got up to. Ben could see (Y/n) was still bleeding but it didn't look as substantial as it had been a few minutes earlier.

His wife had turned as pale and bleak as the damp cream ceiling above them, her eyes were half-lidded, swollen and red. Her lips were cracked and her breathing was going from erratic to shallow more times than Ben dared to think about. But she looked more at ease and she was no longer in tremendous pain. Anna and doctor Lloyd helped to ease (Y/n) so she was laying down rather than sitting up and they made sure she was wrapped up in blankets and the hot water bottles were soothing her scorching skin.

When Ben locked eyes with the doctor, he kept his tiny newborn resting in his arms and carefully got to his feet, moving over so he was standing near to the door to have a word with the doctor.

"I gave (Y/n) something that will stop the bleeding but she's lost a lot of blood, she needs plenty of fluids and any food you can manage to get down her. If her fever burns any higher or she suddenly goes cold and into shock then call me straight away. Other than that, she needs rest and to be taken care of which I know you will do."

"And my boy?" Ben gently moved his arms to motion to the newborn he was cradling.

"Ben, I- I don't think he will make it to morning, his lungs aren't developed enough and it's making breathing a struggle. If he makes it through the night then I'll assess him tomorrow and we can talk about further steps. I'm so sorry.."

Lloyd could see that his words had brought out the darker, defensive side of Ben that arose when his family were threatened. His upper lip curled in disgust and the way his emerald eyes darkened made Lloyd shrink before the taller man. Ben gave off a very worrying aura but right now with his nose crinkled, his lips snarling like a rabid dog and his shoulders hunched, the only thing making the doctor feel safe was the baby in Ben's arms that looked very out of place.

"I know you have to prepare people for the worst, but I don't want my son talked about as if he's a lost cause already. He's here in my arms and he's breathing so he is your patient and you have a duty to care for him now, not tomorrow or the next day. What can I do?"

Ben's son was breathing, his heart was beating and he was curling up into the warmth Ben was providing. He wasn't dead nor was he really dying, at least not yet, so Ben wanted to talk as if his son had the best chance of survival. He wanted to know what he could do to help, even if it was just something small or seemingly insignificant.

"Keep him warm, if his breathing sounds croaky then rub his back to keep his lungs going. If he makes it more than a few hours then a first feed will give you a good chance, don't leave him unattended even if he's sleeping always hold him. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, unless you call me before then."

Ben nodded, turning his back when Anna moved to show the doctor out and thank him for all the help and support he had provided over the past day.

All Ben cared about now was the baby he was cradling in his arms who was breathing and whimpering into Ben's lower chest. The newborn was no longer trembling and his breathing was a little more even and paced, if still croaky and a bit forced. He was alive and he was settling in Ben's arms, he wasn't in pain or slipping away or already dead and that was all Ben could wish for right now and it was more than enough for him.

With a tired sigh, Ben eased himself down into the chair next to the window that allowed him to be within the sight of the moon but still close to (Y/n)'s side in case she needed anything and just so he could keep a watch over her.

He brushed his finger over his son's cheek, wishing that his touch would somehow bring colour to the flesh and that he could soothe his boy and hope he knew who was holding him.

"You're our fourth boy, you know. I've got an army of boys and one little princess to spoil and look after. We've had four babies and not lost any of them, I'll die first before losing any of my kids. You'll be okay."

[remmushound]

Toddler Mutant Ninja Turtles, chapter 3: Babies, Babies, Babies! @digitl-art-monstr @selfindulgenz @scentedcandlecryptid

Michelangelo could only watch as his brothers were swallowed by the blue light, and once it faded, they were gone with nothing but their piles of clothes left to remain.

“NO!” Michelangelo sucked in a sharp breath, the tears immediate and heavy.

“You have twenty-four hours…” Jellybean was gone, like a phantom in the night, but her voice still echoed.

Michelangelo took a quick glance around and, when he was sure she was gone, he sprinted over to where his brothers had once been and fell to his knees before Raphael’s clothes. He scooped up the red mask and held it in his shaky hands.

“Nooo! She melted them!” Michelangelo wailed, starting to scoop up more and more of the clothes. “Don't worry, I’ll put you back together! I just need to find three turtle-shaped gelatin molds.”

Michelangelo gasped and his tears started to dry at movement under Raphael’s pants. He picked up the shorts and tossed them aside without care to reveal something extraordinary.

“R... Raphie…?”

The snapping turtle, small compared to Michelangelo but massive as far as babies went, rubbed his eyes at the sudden light. His shell was the size of a large basketball and, in fact, he was even shaped like one. A fat, stubby-legged toddler with a tiny snaggle tooth poking out over his lips and no thoughts behind his beady black eyes.

“What in the world…?” Michelangelo frowned, and then his attention snapped toward the other two piles of clothes as he heard happy giggles almost drowned out by loud, wailing cries. “OH!”

Michelangelo hurried over and pulled apart the purple pile to reveal a soft and naked, big-headed softshell wailing at the top of his lungs.

“Oh! Oh oh oh!” Michelangelo scooped up the hatchling and cradled the baby to his chest before going to the blue pile and pulling out a laughter slider wiggling around like an excited worm. “Oh! Babies!”

He held the laughing Leonardo and crying Donatello securely to his chest, giving gentle shushing noises as he turned back to the basketball-shaped Raphael. The baby was gone.

“What? Where’d he go?!” Michelangelo snapped to attention at the sound of a loud crunch. “Oh Raph don’t eat that!”

Michelangelo ran toward the biggest baby, having to put the twins on the ground so he could wedge his fingers in Raphael’s mouth to pry it open and clean it out. Then he lifted Raphael away from the gram cracker castle he had started to eat. Raphael stared blankly before his mind could process what had happened. Then he started to cry.

“Oh! No, don’t cry baby Raph! Ohhh shh shh shh shh…” He had to use both arms to hold the surprisingly heavy Raphael in a cradle, rocking him back and forth while humming a song trying to sooth him. “It’s okay…”

Michelangelo’s eyes ventured downward. Donatello was still there, looking sad and confused as he rubbed almost constantly at his eyes, crying intermittently. There was a distinct absence of a particular red eared slider.

“Leo?” Michelangelo felt his heart drop to his stomach, but it didn't take long to locate the mutant toddling away, half-way up a flight of stairs and on the move toward a particularly shiny display case at the top. “No!”

Michelangelo, heaving Raphael along with him, ran as fast as he could. Leonardo used the steps to lift himself to his feet, giving a victorious laugh before his balance was lost and he fell backward. Michelangelo dove to catch him, landing hard on the stairs in the process. The slider fit perfectly in Michelangelo’s hand. Michelangelo sighed and pulled Leonardo into the crook of his left elbow; when Leonardo realized the fall hadn’t hurt one bit, he started to laugh again.

“Aw…” Michelangelo smiled despite how hard he was panting, “You’re such a giggle baby aren’t you? Oh… but why are you babies?”

Donatello’s crying started up again. Michelangelo groaned and walked back over to the lonely softshell, scooping Donatello up with his foot. Donatello looked incredibly confused, but stayed still and cooperative as he was tossed gently into the air and into Michelangelo’s right arm.

“It’s okay, I’m here…” Michelangelo cooed, rubbing his beak against Donatello’s. “It’s okay, don’t cry.”

Donatello was hiccupping now, wiping the tears from his cheeks, but he was calmer now. He pressed his beak to Michelangelo’s cheek and gave a hissing cluck before nosing his way against Michelangelo’s neck for further comfort.

~~~

“Ahh…” Splinter was more than happy to stretch out, his chair leaning on its back legs with the shift of his weight. When he sat back up, the chair snapped back into its normal position. There was nothing like relaxing after a night of doing nothing. His ear twitched as his cheese phone rang out suddenly, disturbing his favorite commercial. He grabbed the phone with his tail and lifted it to his ear while only partially-listening.

He couldn’t get a word in before the voice of his youngest son started to flood in. Panicked words, flying out of Michelangelo’s mouth faster than Splinter could keep up; jellyfish, dice, babies, brothers. Most of it was pure, unintelligible babble, but after a moment of listening to the nonsense, it started to make some semblance of sense to the old rat.

“Calm down.” Splinter advised his son, “Call April and Casey, and come wait for them in the lair.”

Splinter hung up the phone before Michelangelo could respond to his advice. The old rat took a slow, deep breath and then immediately shot up, scrambling to fill a bag with blankets and food and drinks as he rushed to leave as quickly as possible. He didn't pack much, he didn't want to risk wasting any more time, and he tossed the bag and himself into the turtle tank.

“I’m not going through that again!” Splinter said to himself as he pulled his fat body onto the driver's seat and started the tank. “Never again!”

[bibliocratic]

Been thinking about Martin being sad about/hating the way he looks bc he looks like his dad, and he tries to talk to Jon abt it, but he's Too Vague so Jon thinks he's worried that Jon doesn't like that he's fat and consequently comforts him about the wrong thing

This took so long, anon, sorry!

Because of the subject matter, there are content warnings in the tags

The first time Martin sees his own face, limp-eyed, flat and drained in the feeble straining light of the bathroom, he starts shaking. A stretching in his chest, like he's swallowed a swelling balloon that is pushing all the air out of him, bunging up his lungs and throat and mouth. That's how Jon finds him, tears sprung to his eyes as he sucks in scant and skittish breathes, his fingers clenching the lip of the sink and wondering why he can't be stronger than all this.  

After that, Martin takes to avoiding mirrors while he's in the safehouse.

It's not hard. He's had lots of practise recently. The Lonely had displayed many double-edged poisons in its folds disguised as furtive blessings. His reflection had been one of them. Martin had counted it as a grateful novelty, to walk past glass shop fronts and the over-stark bathroom mirrors in the staff toilets and see the refusal of light to grant his image returned to him. Even his exile to the seafront, the rock-pools vacant of crawling life or stubborn salt-encrusted fronds of lichen, had shown him only the eddy of tide, the ripples that his steps barely disturbed in the landscape.

It had been a kindness of sorts, to take his image from him. The mirror had never shown Martin anything but things he hadn't cared to see, his own neurosis writ large and backwards.

The morning is not unusual. The birds had woken him, piping shrill even through the double glazing, and Jon, still dozy and drooling his words into his pillow, had cursed and moaned indignant at the vocal wildlife. Martin had dropped back off for another twenty or so minutes, a smirk raising the sleep-dry corners of his lips, waking up when the bed creaked and Jon had stood and stretched and made all sorts of horrendous cracking noises like some sort of human castanet.

This morning though, Jon is in the bathroom, shaving, and making a worrying racket doing so, and Martin is still in that sort of headachy realm of not quite awake yet, where he still gathering the components than make him functional as he shuffles around in his boxers and waits for the shower to be free. Martin's not sure why today, but he finds himself opening the wardrobe. Inside, on the back of the left-hand side door, there's a full length mirror, pocked a little with age and smeared with dust.

Martin's not sure why he feels strong enough today to look.

The thing he expects to see first: his hair shorn down, just shy of a buzz cut. Martin's been doing it himself for years, every month or so hunching over the sink and bathroom mirror in his old flat in Stockwell and uniformly mowing his hair down to a prickly ginger fuzz.

His mum never liked his hair when he grew it out. Snapped and sniped about how long it was getting whenever it started to bend in a curl,  encroaching over his ears, and he'd not always had the money or time to go into town and go to the barber's. When he got his first job, scrimping aside the little he'd left over at the end of the month, he'd bought clippers from the nearest Boots, attached the first guard he'd picked up and ran it over his scalp until the up-scrub was spiky and even. The first time was a bit of a hack-job, lopsided and uneven, but he's improved his technique with time. The method and cut was cheap and basic and he wasn't fond of the way it made his ears look stuck out, but it was one less thing he had to worry about, one less thing his mum could disapprove of.

His hair now hangs, uninspired, slightly greasy and knotted over his ears. Shaggy-dog over his forehead until he swipes it back, a small curl down to the nape of his neck.

He looks like his dad. Sees the man he barely knew staring back, the image lost that Elias had so viciously returned. Studies his snubnose struck centre, a wide jaw that rounds out his face, ruddy cheeks with sparse and spotting freckles. Some of the hairs of his eyebrows are starting to grey. His eyes seem suspicious, washed out, unhappy. He wonders if this is what Jon sees, a man whose closed-off expression does not appear to trust the world nor its motives.

The sort of man who might just up and leave if the going gets tough.

Jon pads into the room, though Martin doesn't turn round.  He puts all his weight on the front of his feet, always has; even in the Archives, Martin could place Jon's footsteps next to Sasha's sturdier stride, Tim's faster tread.

Jon plants his face against Martin's back, grumbles through a good morning. He's smooth jawed again, his skin baking from the shower, his hair not quite towelled off properly, still dripping.

“Lookin' handsome,” Jon mumbles, throwing out a hand to gesture at the mirror, at the twin men standing awkward and self-conscious opposite each other.

Martin observes at his own hands cast back at him through the mirror. His thick arms, the round and pasty pale of them. He has big hands, he thinks to himself. Broad, weathered palms, the skin cracking dry, short and stubby fingers. Hair starts to grow sparse on the back of his hand close to his wrist and only gets thicker and denser up his arms. Jon slumped standing immediately behind him isn't visible in the reflection; Martin's body takes up too much room, wide and solid, even when he wants to secrete himself smaller. He's tall, like Dad was, he guesses, though he stoops and hunches in his shoulders to try and negate it. Martin thinks he looks like the sort of man that plays rugby and drinks too much. When he's walking home, trudging through the residential streets between the tube station and his flat, people passing him sometimes scrunch their body in away from him, and every time that hurts. In the dark, without his stumbling words and over-eager expression and his clumsiness, something about him looks like it could turn nasty, and Martin doesn't know how to take that.

He went drinking with Tim and Sasha once in Lambeth.  They'd had four or five and Sasha had bought them obnoxiously coloured and overpriced cocktails before dragging Tim over to the pool table, Martin sitting out to the side amiably, sipping his sugar-heavy drink and tapping his feet to the music someone put on the jukebox. Two men came over ten minutes later, drunker than them, arguing that they'd been there first, and Sasha had been fired up enough to snap back. It had looked like a scrap brewing, so Martin had put his drink down and stood up, anxiously ready and willing to urge Tim and Sasha away just to keep the peace. The two had looked at him, eyes roving up before they held up their hands, backing off, saying they'd come back when they'd finish.

“No bother, ey, big lad?” they'd slurred at Martin. “Didn't mean anything by it.”

Sasha had beamed as they left, and called Martin a lucky charm. He hadn't felt very lucky. He'd felt sick at the reminder.  

The problem as he sees it, is that everything about him is big.

Inside: too big heart and too raw-open soul. A great vast reservoir where he keeps every bubbling expression of fear and grief and rage that he's never expressed with his body.

Outside: big stocky arms, an over-hanging stomach matched with a tall spine and the sort of footsteps that announce his arrival well before he enters a room.

Martin's dad never hit his mum. He assumes that's something Elias would have glibly enjoyed sharing.  But sometimes he'd stood too close when they'd been fighting, looming, deliberately crowding in her space, and she'd noticed how much taller he was, how much stronger. She'd thought she saw something mean and nasty in his eyes, the way he clenched his fists that meant he wanted to.

She'd imagined she saw that look in her son sometimes too.

Martin worries about that. Worries what other poisoned legacies his dad left him with.

“Mart'n?” Jon says. He's encircled his arms as far as he can around him, though they don't link up, scratching his nails through the hair on his chest. His hands long-boned but smaller, slighter.

Jon is not a small man nor a tall one, average in appearance in most ways if not for the scars, if not for the way the composite of his image makes Martin's heart something stronger in his chest. But Martin is bigger than him when they lie together, Jon's side of the bed made less by default, shunting him further over to the corners. Martin is stronger than him, because Martin has lifted him bodily to hear Jon's laughing protestations as Martin manhandled him onto the sofa and kissed the veins down his throat, the blush risen in his cheeks.

And Martin's angrier than he used to be. Or angrier than he used to admit to being. His mood pinballing from flat to frustrated as everything the Lonely dulled ploughs back into him, all of Martin's mechanisms, the checks-and-balances he built within himself gone ruinous. Martin can be so angry these days, and he doesn't know how to deal with it.

Martin doesn't like the way that worry fizzes under his tongue.

“My dad had big hands,” he says out of nowhere. “He wore some rings, I think, and he had to get them resized to fit his fingers.”

“You making plans to get us rings already?”

Jon's joke is shy and nudging, but Martin doesn't feel like raising the corners of his mouth in a smile.

Martin moves a hand to squeeze the flesh that bunches around his upper arms, pats his stomach.

“I've definitely got his belly,” he says. “His arms. Prob'ly end up with his hair to boot, he was receding a bit.”

Jon's hands stroke palm down over what stomach he can reach.

“I like your stomach,” he says, and it's not that Martin doesn't believe him, because he's getting better at not doubting people, at allowing himself to trust they might like something about him. It's that that wasn't the point.

“Hmm,” Martin says noncommittally, and glances at his own hands again. Square chewed nails and the small bumps of veins.

“You don't look happy,” Jon says.

“What? No, I mean, it – it's fine, it's...”

“Do you... not like looking in the mirror?”

Martin sighs.

“Not particularly.”

“Because you have a problem with how you look?”

“You don't have to spell it out like that, Jon.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're a – my therapist or something. I don't want to – to be questioned o-or psychoanalysed about it. I just, no – I don't like looking at myself. That's all.”

Jon's arms don't unhook from around him. Martin exhales and feels the frustration like sediment build up.

“I look exactly like my dad,” Martin says finally, bitterly.

“You don't,” Jon replies quietly, into the meat of Martin's shoulder.

“You can't know that,” Martin says, although the words are empty of meaning and they both know it. Jon both can and does, whether he means to or not.

Feeling his Adam's apple bob, he continues: “Elias, he showed me. When I was – er, when we needed him distracted.”

Jon's arms clench around him.

“Elias showed you what he wanted you to see,” he says after a careful moment.

Martin shakes his head, because he saw what he'd known already, what his mum had seen, the trickle of memory gushing torrential. That he has his dad's big fingers, big hands and big anger, and he is frightened of what sort of a man that makes him.

“I could....” Jon's fingers flex and skate over the skin where Martin's stretch marks root down to his hips. “I could look? If you wanted? Tell you if Elias was... if what he showed you was true.”

Martin thinks about it, but Jon feels the silence of his refusal and presses his nose against the freckled handful of skin where Martin's shoulder blades are.

“I'll tell you what I see then?”

“See see, you mean?”

“No. Normal seeing. With my own two eyeballs.”

“I am being blessed with the originals today, what a gift.”

Jon headbutts him with his forehead, and the small laugh and a 'Jon!' is pushed out of him as a scarred palm is held up near his face, an eyelid opening in the skin to leer at Martin.

“Put your bloody Pan's Labyrinth eyeball away,” Martin grouches, and he can feel Jon grinning mischievous as the disconcerting eyeball winks before being sunk closed back into the skin.

“Better?”

“I am never going to get used to that.”

Jon makes a noise of agreement. He unplasters himself from Martin's back, and takes a tugging hold of his wrist.

“Look at me?”

Martin lets himself be turned round. Weak-willed, soft-spined to the last wherever Jon is concerned.

Jon looking up at him now, fringed with damp locks seaweeding down his face. Martin brushes them back out of the way, and Jon captures his hand, meshes their fingers together slowly and precisely.

“Tell me?” he asks quietly. “What you've been thinking about? And I'll tell you what I see.”

“My hands,” Martin says after a moment and Jon nods and hums and holds Martin's captured palm in front of him.

“Bigger than mine,” Jon says, demonstrating, holding the two of them as imperfect reflections of each other.  “You've got short nails because you bite them. The cold's making the skin dry, but they're soft, usually. Sturdy. Even when – even when we were leaving the Lonely, I knew once you took my hand we wouldn't get separated.”

“My – er, my arms,” Martin says after a while, prodding with his free hand at the loose flesh at the undersides of his arms. “Well, my bingo wings.”

Jon frowns, reaches up to encircle his grip around them.

“You've got muscle under there,” he says. “You can lift me, no trouble. The first time you did, I, um, couldn't help but hope you'd do it again.”

Martin finds it in himself to meet Jon's gaze.

“Yeah?” he says, pleased.

Jon is starting to blotch with blush, but he carries on, fingers stroking Martin's upper arms.

“Even if you weren't strong,” he says. “You've got – your, um. Freckles. There's no pattern to them, of course, but I like seeing if I can find one anyway.”

“You're a big softie,” Martin chides roughly, dry-mouthed and watery eyed.

Jon doesn't deny it.

“What else?” he asks delicately.

“I'm – I'm heavy,” Martin says, the words shrivelling quiet on his tongue. “I-I don't mind – I'm not ashamed of being, you know, not the smallest guy, I've never had a-a problem with it, not exactly, but I-I'm bigger than you. I'm stronger than you and I take up more room and, my dad, I look so much like him s-s-so what if – ”

He trails off. Swallowing. Unable to finish.

Jon's arms embrace him and he allows himself to be bent down, the angle uncomfortable and Jon on tip-toe, his face mushed into the side of Jon's throat.

Jon rubs at the broad expanse of his back.

“You'd never hurt me,” Jon says, fiercely. “Whether you look like your father or not. You're not him, Martin. I can't, I know I can't convince you, but it doesn't matter if you've got his arms or his eyes or his hair. He's never been where you've been, or done what you've managed. I bet he doesn't – doesn't write poetry, or whistle the Archer's theme tune, or I dunno, is completely useless at catching things.” Martin gives a wet attempt at a laugh. Jon's hands move comfortingly up and down.

“You're not your dad,” Jon continues after a moment. “You aren't responsible for the man he was, or the man your mother thought she saw in you. That's not – it's not your burden to carry. Fuck whatever shadows Elias showed you. You're not him. It's – I can't make you like what you see in the mirror, but when I look at you, I don't see any of the things you're scared of.”

“You can really just, know all that, huh,” Martin says after a minute, lifting up his head, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

“I don't need to,” Jon replies.

Martin's hugs are crushing and enveloping but Jon clings back as tightly.

Martin pulls back after a minute, wiping his eyes again though he knows they've gone red and puffy, already feeling the crimping heat of self-consciousness in his chest. Jon leans back in to kiss him, first his lips, and then his cheek, quick and affirming, as he trails his fingers through his hair.

“You'll be wanting this cut soon,” Jon says, although he seems disappointed at the thought, combing his fingers through the tangle self-indulgently.

“I might try growing it out.” Martin tests the water of the idea, and Jon looks approving at this, nods and hums and runs his fingers through again.

It's been a long time since his hair was longer. Martin thinks he might suit it.

“What would you say to a beard?” Martin follows up,  just to see Jon try to valiantly quash his dissatisfaction and keep a neutral expression. He almost succeeds.

“If you... If you think it best,” Jon manages stiffly. 

Martin's laugh is a free and booming thing in his chest.

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

"It's Alive" (Mad scientist Viggo and lab creation Krogan)

A/N: This is an introduction to this au. Krogan is a human that is created in an artificial womb with animal traits. Namely, he has a tail, and long, elven ears, as well as claws. Viggo, however, is an influential scientist who recently lost his wife and child in a car accident, which leads to him going down a mad path to create his own child artificially.

Viggo stared at the (for now) small creature- infant- the genetically modified infant he had created- mostly from scratch, only using the egg and sperm of two random people he’d chosen… based on looks alone, maybe, however he didn’t care. His creation was beautiful. 

The small thing twitched and curled in the artificial womb he’d crafted; large enough for a fully grown man, if not larger. A stubby, chubby tail, thick with baby fat, curled around its- his… he’d found the child’s gender quite early on in the study. The study of life. 

He smiled gently, running his fingers across the smooth glass of the tube. Those chubby hands curled in on themselves. The infant had a soft, round little face, with dark olive skin, and tiny rosebud lips in a soft shade of red. 

He then pulled his hand away from the glass, as the baby twitched again. He dearly hoped this flourish of life wasn’t yet another failure. This iteration was the longest he’d been able to keep the tiny being alive, and he desperately hoped the little thing could make it.

_____________ 

He’d named the now four-year old Krogan. The little thing had made it a whole nine months in the accelerated growth of the pod. Maybe… maybe he could pull him out now, but he wanted to see his child to fruition. He wanted to see this being he’d created into his adulthood. 

_____________ 

Sixteen. This was when he should stop. Viggo quickly jotted down a few notes, staring calmly at the dark haired young man who elegantly curled into the tube. 

He was a little bigger than Viggo had been expecting, and as such, the tube was not entirely large enough for his dark-haired self, those tight curls that floated around the boy’s head in an almost ethereal halo.

Almost.

Viggo rubbed his fingers along the buttons on the control panel of the tank. He then finally pressed the button on the panel that allowed the boy to wake up. 

And he did.

[mushroom-cartel--writing]

begrudging (love-)blindness

Summary: You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

Relationship(s): Gojo Satoru & Reader, Gojo Satoru/Reader

Note(s):

Here’s the link to read this on AO3! (You know the drill, extra tags, different notes, the format I intended, etc.)

Personally, I think this is hot garbage in terms of structure and pacing (it’s loosely all strung together is what I’m saying, but I just needed to get it off my chest before I wrote anything else. Yet... I guess I had fun? Yeah. I did!

There's spoilers from the manga mixed with headcanon.

I still hate spacing and formatting on Tumblr, it sucks. Please, please, please, this is for your own good, click the AO3 link, this fic is such an eyesore on this platform.

|||

There’s a tug at your chest, sending you hurtling backwards and into something hard. A wall. Tiles. Smooth.

The heavens and the earth view one another through a layer of haze of light at night.

There are thousands of people gathering, their footsteps thundering echoes in your ears. Their chatter is a constant hum in the air. It stinks of sweat.

(“The train will be arriving soon. Please stand behind the yellow line—”)

You sigh.

“Dammit, Satoru! A little warning would be nice,” you hiss to the man. You hear him whisper something back but his voice is swallowed up by the crowds and then he, too, is consumed.

You feel him wander farther away from you; not left with much choice, you follow him. And down, down, down you go.

You pause when there’s an invisible wall blocking your path of his own making. “Hey!!” you shout, starting to scream expletives at him from the top of his lungs and he doesn’t look back.

A few seconds pass. The people, these poor, clueless civilians who just want to go home for the night are like sardines in a can, their bodies pushing and shoving. For space. For air. Requiring neither, you phase through the wall and the remaining levels to catch up to him, the thoughts going through your head solely focused on figuring out why he has let you out. He wouldn’t do something like this without warning you beforehand.

Why now? What now?

You pull out from the shadowed cracks of the feeble curtain set up along the fifth floor underground, suddenly feeling a heaviness you hardly ever experience. You run a cursory swipe over his teeth; the blood in the air is fresh, there are more civilians down here than up above, more sardine-ing (their presence is fading away, the above platforms’ panicked din becomes extinguished, it’s ghastly quiet, a moment frozen in time), but no Satoru. Not physically.

He loves you, you know. (You don’t understand though… Why?)

It’s a burden, draining you of what vigour is left in your soul, barely just clinging on to this plane itself.

His love is a curse in itself, really.

"I don't want you to see me hurt," he had said often, back when you were children, oblivious to the power of those words until you got older.

What they meant.

What they did—to him and you.

Still as the wind, you stand together, hands brushing up against each other's, your fingers infected with poison where his is not; the calloused skin and scars shared between you weaving a tale for the ages that will never be told.

You’re both nineteen at heart but certainly not in spirit.

You lean against him, completely unseen, waiting for him to flick his finger back.

Waiting for him to obliterate the first person he thought he could trust outside.

He doesn’t. You disappear for another time, expectant.

His love is a burden and you're not sure where you would be without it.

If he hadn't looked your way, would you be the same person you are today?

It's frightening, these thoughts of yours, but he usually chases them off when he senses them bubbling to the surface. (You want him to be annoyed.) A casual grin and stance, a flick of his wrist, a rush of wind by your side, then the phantom pressure is gone, yes, gone, however—it's never banished completely. It never can be.

You don't remember the colour of his eyes but there's a memory of you claiming they looked like marbles, buried somewhere (somehow), in the back of your mind. Like the marbles you'd smash glass bottles to obtain, their fizzy contents only drained seconds beforehand; stubby, sticky, small fingers sorting through the shards, squashing ants in the process.

Those very same fingers, now, haven't changed a bit, save for the chipped nails and whatnot duress they’ve sustained throughout his life.

You use them to push the blindfold up to his forehead, taking in the surrounding sights.

Why now? The fact that you can feel them, his fingers and everything else—that’s a bad sign. A very bad sign.

You breathe, inflating the faux lungs.

Finally, you see it. The reason why you’re walking and talking and fully corporeal.

You gulp at the living corpse, its stitches wonky and fresh. Cerebrospinal fluid spills from its face in fat droplets and lands upon the clothes of a dead man. Disgusting.

“So I was right in the end,” you say, more for yourself than anyone else. “You’re not Suguru.”

(Satoru owes you a thousand yen. You told him to burn the body immediately. Or, you know, the usual. But what’d he do instead? He went and passed it off to a third party! Man, why’d that old hag have to kick the bucket so soon… If she was still around she’d probably kick Satoru’s dumb ass for trying to be decent.)

“How are you free?” Not-Suguru asks.

The real Suguru wouldn’t ask about your appearance. He would make a comment about how the temperature has dropped and burrow into his collar. He wouldn’t question things.

The real Suguru never acknowledged you, but he knew there was something in the corner of his eye that took the image of his friend and laughed alongside them when they pulled their antics during missions.

The real Suguru is gone.

Who the hell knows where Shouko is.

Yeah. A little warning would have been nice. Real fucking nice.

There’s a cube with a dozen eyes between the two of you, the crater on the ground betrays its unassuming weight. Satoru’s muted presence, a shrunken pearl of light, emanates from the cube.

Not-Suguru follows your line of sight to it.

Giving him an answer would be a waste of your time.

You can’t, they say.

Young master, please, don’t go there, implores the servants and guards.

The elders, his grandmother especially, tell him not to enter the storehouse tucked away in the garden behind an avenue of camellia trees because that’s something they’ll discuss when he’s older.

He doesn’t listen to them, the curiosity of a three-year-old child cannot be satisfied by mere words. (“Let this be known,” the gardener says in his defense, one cold summer’s day. It is raining outside. His grandmother shoots the only person in the compound that doesn’t treat him like a blind fool with a withering glare. He does not see them again until—)

What’s in the storehouse?

A library of cursed objects? Spiritual remnants, artefacts, texts, poisons, weapons?

Maybe the mummified corpse of an ancestor whom they keep around to ward off evil?

Perhaps a curse, frozen in time forevermore?

Maybe it’s nothing and the adults are all in on some kind of elaborate hoax, he figures. Mm, yeah. Sounds about right. No one else knows about the storehouse.

It’s old and earthen. Wild plants curl the walls to one side and splotches of moss grow on the tiled roof. Where the sun hits least is pristine. Clean. He wonders if that’s where the wards are placed, out of sight, out of mind.

Oh.

Standing in the entrance of the open door with bare feet, at the threshold of the aged structure, fulfilling his desire, he learns why they wanted him to remain ignorant.

It’s a child. (A human…? This whole situation is off.) A kid his age. He can’t tell whether or not they’re older or younger. They might be a bit taller, though.

No, he wants to shout, this can’t be it! He stomps his foot. That’s cliché! Boring, boring, boring! Again, he strikes the ground. Ugh, whatever—

A sigh escapes the emaciated figure sitting in the darkness, hunched over themself against the wall of the bare storehouse.

“Ah, my f̶̥̍r̵̝͐̏i̷̳end,” they start, softly. “M̶̹̦͒y̸͍̮̋̚ f̸͉̓̋r̴͇̦̕ǐ̴̦͇e̵̫͠n̷̢͉̅̓ḍ̸̅, my very dear, old friend. You have returned.

“My e̷̳̭̿y̶͈͂e̷͔̭̎͘s̴̭̄̊, have you come to give them back? Ask for several others?

“I have waited for you, as promised. Come. Closer. Please. I do not know how long has passed since I last gazed upon your visage. Do not be afraid.

“I no longer lust for flesh as fervently as before, I will not ask of y̸͖͔̒o̵̳̍u̵͍̘̓ ą̴͕̈́n̵̫̓d̸̛̳͛ y̵̻͑̎o̵̖̥͒͌ų̴͋̐r̵̦̩̓s a sacrifice to please me.”

Their voice is garbled, the resemblance to a broken radio off-pitch jarring his reaction time, a music box opened underwater gurgling, ghosts beat to the rhythm of the blood in his ears and titter buried mysteries.

In the corner of his eyes distant stars burn, galaxies explode to life and die repeatedly, the vast cosmos is shredded apart. Universes are swallowed whole. The plane he stands upon bends to the will of the one whose gifts he uses carelessly to play the role of a deity and dictate the balance of the world.

People have said [they] reflect the very heavens.

His faith wanes.

.

a trio of ragtag orphans,

escapees, survivors and starved,

on the verge of being

no better than beasts,

happen upon a traveller taking respite from the winding roads.

a foreigner no doubt

they guess from the strange hued garb;

rest, everyone around these parts,

they know comes not

easy to scum, scoundrels, sinners and

deceivers alike.

.

.

.

mad ones, rushing to death

—without protection i must add—

oh my darling children, you are!

consume my flesh,

defend those unseeing,

purge the blight

and you shall witness

my return before long, indeed?!

.

They do not move and neither does he.

What he assumes to be their head tilts ever so to the side, gauging him, this fool of a boy trespassing on their domain. This part of the garden, the little boy realises too late, is theirs.

This, the storehouse and now him.

(—the gardener finds him sprawled out on his back come dusk. They help him to his feet and dust him off, the sparkle in his eyes an unusual occurrence; they ask their precious young master what happened and he points them in the direction of the doors sealed shut.

“I took a peek inside,” he lies. Children are supposed to do that, right?

“And what did you find?”

“Nothing.” The gardener knows he’s a bad liar.

“Good. Now come.” They lead him away from the path of the camellias. “Lady Mitsue has been beside herself over you, mister.”

His grandmother hasn’t. She probably knows what he has done and will instruct him to feed the council what they want to hear. My son was too soft, she asserts before and after every meeting with those windbags.

You have to do better.

And his father is dead, so only time will tell who’s right.)

He starts having weird dreams (memories?) several days later.

Trying to ignore them doesn’t work.

Every waking moment is subject to gore.

He has to resist the urge to scratch his own eyes out while he trains.

In the world beneath his eyelids, there are shadowy figures claiming it best he is blinded and locked away and fed what no other soul could hope to consume without issue. And just as they force open his jaw—every night, every time—he wakes up.

Satoru doesn’t know what to make of it. Doesn’t know what to make of you.

One day, he dreams of years of living without sunlight causing you to screw your not-eyes shut and look away upon the opening of a door into your domain. When you recover, you turn to the door, the emotion of curiosity tugging for your attention out of the myriad of beings you’ve eaten.

Standing at the threshold, ethereal, desperate and short of breath, is a young man. In his arms is a woman, his wife, you presume. They’re stark shades of white, binary stars of a celestial system long dead.

You smile, recognising them in an instant. “Ah, my old friends, children of my children’s children a dozen times over, tell me, what is it you wish for?”

“My wife and our child,” says the man, “please, I beg of you, save them!”

Oh? A healing? It’s been quite some time since that was last requested of you.

You skitter to the pair’s side and shut the door gently behind them, ushering them further in.

You click your not-tongue at the woman’s state, wondering why no one thought to come to you earlier. If they did, the price they’d have to pay would be much less than what you’re about to tell the man. Humans are such prideful creatures, Satoru knows this, but he can’t help but feel tense as you instruct the man to lay the woman down and state your cost.

First, he opens his mouth. Then it shuts. Opens. Shuts. The man regards his dear wife with something Satoru has never seen before in the eyes of those around him.

His reply?

“I accept—”

A harsh smack to the head disrupts the memory; he looks up, unsurprised to meet his grandmother’s gaze, wrinkled eyes so very much like his own piercing his soul.

“Being distracted in the middle of a fight is unbecoming of you, boy,” she says. “What seems to be the matter?”

He can’t tell her.

He stays silent.

“Satoru.” She raises her hand, fingers crossed, indicating the void’s opening. “We Gojou pride ourselves on our ability to adapt. That is why, in fact, I say my son was too soft. He could not accept that he would lose my daughter-in-law and the child she carried in her womb to common illness. He could not accept that it was impossible to cheat death. He could not accept the position he was placed in. And for that, he died and of the aforementioned two, only you lived. Do you understand?”

No. He doesn’t want to understand.

What is adaptation if they’ve yet to rid themselves of and bow down to your constant presence? Is that not their most fatal flaw?

You eat them.

One life in exchange for another; you told his father it was the only way.

You were given the corpse of his mother a hundred days after his birth by the elders.

Every Gojou after death, you grind their bones between your teeth and their flesh rots at the bottom of your belly. Their soulful essence fights for dominance against the forces of the innumerable curses the clans feeds you—the hate, the sentiment, the sheer bursts of techniques and mighty powers clashing, click, click, click—you embody and absorb the aftermath of each childish scuffle, playing the bored jailer adjudicator. Corpses, tools, objects, energy and flesh. It’s how you’ve lived for so long without light or human thought to taint you: the jujutsu world’s dirty little secret, waste disposal.

You are, to him, unquestionably, terrifyingly lovely.

He loves you for that one reason.

A means to an end, forever.

(The boy, a few days shy of his fourth birthday and inauguration, does not know what love is. He thinks he does, having read the definition in a dictionary in order to familiarise you with modern speech, but love is not a word to be thrown around lightly the way he does.)

“I do,” he lies again, this time, to himself. “I understand everything.”

His sight is black.

He pushes back against the current, against instinct telling him to relinquish control and reaches forward for the dream that he was ripped from.

Your true form towers over his mother’s prone form, dripping ichor and the fluid of loose entrails all over. His father stays seated even when you lift an arm to draw blood, the man facing you without a trace of fear.

“I accept—but on the condition that my child receives your protection.”

“My p̶̹̽r̴̽ͅo̵̠͐ť̷̬e̶̺̊c̶̻̒t̷̙͑i̵̮̓o̶̱n̷̖͂?” Do they not teach the younger generations what that entails?

“Yes. My ancestors wrote that you were a benevolent being in a past life. That you were a kind-hearted human who accidentally drank poison before being found and buried alive, condemned and reviled, forcing you to become what you are now. Does that still not hold true?” His father’s face is hopeful.

It doesn’t. But who are you to tell him that? That ‘benevolent being’ never existed in the first place. You’ve always been this.

The vivisepulture part was true, but the beginning? Debatable. Your memories of ‘being human’ are foggy; you’re not sure if they’re real or someone else’s. Satoru’s is the clearest thus far because you abide within him. And he’s young, there’s little to garner.

What other nonsense has been made truth in the time you have withdrawn from the world?

He wants to go down that rabbit hole.

You grab the cube and run, warping reality in your wake.

You are many things.

Alive, you are first; secondly a parent, a teacher and a friend; cursed thrice times over; quarter something-something or rather by this point; and last, your hollowness complements the damned hallowed.

You are Gojou Satoru but not.

His skin peels off in delicate scales from the speed you’re going.

The first and last time you puppeteer his body, Satoru invokes his father’s contract with you for the second time in his life.

Like the first occurrence, it happens by accident.

(The first occurrence is a stain on your memory.

Mitsue looked her grandson in the eye and tasked him with a futile quest, one that would decide the future headship of their clan. You personally thought such practices outdated but you held his tongue and grit his teeth, faking laughter for the audience they had.

She reminded you too much of your youngest, both in the way she cobbled herself together and how she suspended time long enough to catch a glimpse of you hunched beside him, flickering in and out of her void domain with the ease of a toddler climbing free of their crib.

Beautiful and deadly.

He nearly died.)

He is unaware of the finer details, but where his consciousness ends at getting a scalpel to head, it rouses again with him standing before the man who has the blood of Satoru’s friends on his hands and left him to bleed out undecapitated.

On a high from escaping Izanami’s clutches, he sprouts math and whatever nonsense off the top of his head and ragdolls up, down, across and through the air.

He feels like a being higher than the gods. Doesn’t mean he is, though.

He’s barely in control.

Violent swashes of red and blue fill the sky. He sees beyond his opponent rising from the earth the heavens condemning his breaching unto their space.

“Hey, stranger, did you know purple was her favourite colour?”

“Whose?”

|

“Satoru.”

“Hm?”

“You are Satoru, right?”

“Yessssss?”

“You… you’ve got a bit of…” Suguru gestures vaguely around the lower half of his face.

“Oh.” You rub the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb and see it come back tinged pink. The drying drool on his sleeves is used to rub the rest of the blood away. “Thanks.”

“Have you found her?”

“Amanai? Her body?” Suguru flinches. Your gaze is drawn to the cultists clapping. “Yeah, I did. Sorry.”

“What are you apologising for?”

“I don’t know,” Satoru says. “I feel like killing these people. Should we?”

“Why?”

“I’m still h̸͓̟͐u̴̦͗n̴͇͈̅͛g̵͔̒̕ŗ̴͕͂͘y̸͚͍͘͘.” Two wasn’t even a snack.

“I’m angry that we failed too. But we can’t do anything now, it’s out of our hands.”

|

Several days later finds him back at the entrance of the storehouse, none the worse for wear.

In the shadow of the building grows a lone weed.

“It’s changed.”

“Of course it has.”

“Will I end up like them?”

“Yes.”

[the-awkward-outlaw]

Red Dead Secret Santa

Howdy @mileycyprus-hill​ I’m your secret Santa this year! I hope you like my gift to you! 

Masterlist

Read on AO3

Arthur sits astride his horse, his fingers aching from the cold. He shaked his hand a little, trying to fend off the ever-pressing chill. Even inside these rabbit-fur gloves, the low temperature bites his skin. Not only that, but his toes are chilled, his nose, his neck and ears. The one thing that keeps him warm is the thought of coming home to you and his two children. 

You’ve been Arthur’s anchor for many years now. Even before the gang fell apart, you were his rock. His best decision was to marry you, and his two favorite days were when his children were born. However, despite having a proper home now where you can live a quiet, peaceful, and most of all safe life, Arthur still has his wandering spirit. He definitely doesn’t stay away for as long of periods as when he was just a gang member. Usually he’s only out a couple of days. 

He’d left three days ago to go “hunting with John”. Or that’s what he told you and the kids. In reality, he’d taken a trip down to Blackwater to do some last minute Christmas shopping. He wanted something special for all three of you, and luckily Blackwater, being the large port for trade that it was, provided just that. After he’d done some shopping, he’d continued wandering to hunt for game, mostly as an excuse to you for being gone so long. 

The wind blows hard again, picking up a cloud of the freshly fallen snow and nearly taking his hat. His hand steadies it, securing it back onto his head and keeping him warm. Oh what he wouldn’t give to be in his warm home with the most important things to him. The steady mare beneath him snorts, seeming just as miserable as him. He pats her neck. “Almost home, girl.”

Around him, the iconic sharp mountains south of Valentine appear out of the fog. They’re covered in a beautiful blanket of snow, thanks to the major winter storm that had come through the night before. He looks up at the darkening sky, feeling even colder at the sight of the thick clouds. 

After another hour of riding, Arthur finally reaches the fork in the trail that will lead him home. Just as the snow begins drifting down in fat flakes again, he sees the lights of his cabin. His heart lifts at the sight, thinking about your face. 

When his mare’s in her stall with some food and a blanket on, he heads to the cabin with the gifts tucked away inside the furs in his arms. The moment he opens the door, he hears a squeal. Smiling, he drops his load on the floor and bends down to pick his five year old daughter up. 

“Papa!” she huffs in his face. She pokes his red nose. “Cold, papa.” 

“Yep, I’m cold, darlin’.” 

“I get a blanket, papa,” she says and he puts her down, chuckling as her short legs carry her off. His eyes immediately find you. His entire body warms at the sight of you coming over to him to greet him with a kiss. He returns it enthusiastically, loving the feeling of you in his arms again, right where you belong. 

“Where’s my boah?” he asks gently when you pull away. 

As though on queue, the two year old comes toddling out. He’s carrying his stuffed horse, his eyes the same color as yours nearly hidden under his mop of dirty blond hair. “Pa!” he hollers at seeing Arthur. Once again, he bends down to pick up his son. 

“Hey son. You been good for your mama?”

“Oh I don’t know about that,” you tease, patting Arthur’s back as you go over to the stove to pull dinner off. 

Smiling, Arthur puts his son down and then takes off his winter gear before helping you pull out the dishes. 

“Mm, smells so good, darlin’,” he says, looking at the meal before him. He’s just glad he got home in enough time to eat with his family. “So, how was our little girl?”

You sigh a bit. Your daughter has always been a daddy’s girl and when Arthur leaves, she can be a downright nightmare. She pouts a lot, but the likelihood of her throwing a tantrum multiplies by ten. “She’s… well, you know how she is.” 

Arthur smiles and decides to go and find her. After all, wasn’t she getting him a blanket? He goes to her room that she shares with her brother and finds her laying in bed on her favorite blanket. She instantly grins when she sees him and he knows she’s been waiting for him to come fetch her. 

“Come on, baby. You gonna come eat?”

“I have a blanket, papa.” 

He chuckles and picks her up, her blanket still clutched to her. She instantly lays her head on his chest. He loves how cuddly she is with him. He remembers briefly how when she was about a year old, she’d gotten sick. Both you and him were so scared she’d die, and Arthur spent many nights with her tucked against his chest as he sat in a rocking chair by the fire, trying to keep her alive. Ever since then, she’d been his biggest fan. 

When he walks out with her in his arms, you smile again and the four of you sit down to eat. Arthur silently says a thank you to whomever might be listening that he got home tonight. After all, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. He wouldn’t miss spending it with his family for anything in the world. 

The next day is spent in some chaos. You and Arthur always clean the house from top to bottom during the day of Christmas Eve, hampered by your two kids. Although your daughter tries to help, she’s only five. Plus it’s Christmas, which means she’s more hyper than if you’d let her drink some of your morning coffee. Her brother isn’t much better, and being two he’s as destructive as a tornado. However, you and Arthur manage to keep them mostly in check. It’s still a relief when night comes and you can finally sit down to eat dinner. 

Arthur always catches a wild turkey for Christmas Eve dinner and this year is no exception. If Arthur prides himself on anything, it’s his ability to take care of his family. He sometimes regrets not giving the same attention to Eliza and Isaac when they were alive, but he’s grown a lot since they died. When the gang fell apart, it really shook his world but when you stuck by his side he knew he’d die for you. 

Arthur sits down at the table, sighing as he prepares to carve the turkey. You’ve done your best to create a beautiful dinner; Arthur grabs your hand and tells you it looks wonderful (although he’s sure the potatoes have a little more garlic than needed). Luckily your kids are sitting relatively quiet, although it’s clear they’re jittery. 

After stuffing yourselves, Arthur does what he’s done every year since you began your family and sits down in his chair. His daughter immediately crawls into his lap, a book in her hand. 

“Papa, here’s the book,” she says, handing it to him and then curling into him. He chuckles and opens the book. He reads this every year on Christmas Eve after dinner. You sit in another chair with your son on your lap. He’s clutching his stuffed horse again, but he’s got his wooden cowboy that Arthur made him for Christmas last year. As Arthur begins to read, your son plays with his toys, thankfully quietly. 

You love listening to Arthur read, how the words come alive with his deep tones. You love watching him even more right now with his daughter tucked against him. He’s been such a blessing as a husband. Never have you had to worry about how ends would meet, about food being on the table, about your children’s safety and it’s because of his efforts. 

When Arthur finishes reading, he closes the book and his daughter yawns. “Hey, why you goin’ to sleep? We ain’t done yet, baby. Ya need your Eve gift.” 

Immediately she perks up and hops off his lap. “Papa! Go get it!” 

He chuckles and stands up, and so do you. He kisses you briefly before heading outside into the darkness. It’s traditional for your kids every year to get new pajamas and a new story book before bedtime. 

After a few minutes, he comes back in with two packages, similarly sized. Your daughter immediately squeals with excitement, but your son runs over and grabs his leg. “Pa! Up, up!” He gestures for Arthur to pick him up. 

“A’right, gimme a second, boah. Ya gotta open your present first.” 

He hands the kids their gifts and they immediately rip into them. His daughter giggles when she sees the pretty little night dress of her favorite color, while the boy inspects his new boy’s union suit. He’s young enough to not really understand the tradition yet, so he’s a little disappointed. However, he sees the children’s book and gets excited. Although he can’t read yet, he loves stories. 

After the kids have opened their present, Arthur puts his arm around you. “A’right kids. Who can get dressed in their new pajamas first?” 

Your daughter stands up, giggling madly. “Me! Me!” She books it into her arm, closely followed by her brother, although his stubby legs greatly hamper his speed. 

When the kids are in their room getting dressed, Arthur grabs your shoulders and turns you to face him. He bends down and kisses you deeply. His behavior tells you that, if the kids were already in bed, he’d be laying you down near the fire and making sweet love to you. It’s all you want as well, but too soon the kids’ door opens and your daughter comes bustling out in her new PJ’s, followed by her pouting brother. It’s obvious who finished dressing first. 

Arthur rewards both of them, telling them how good they are. He then tells them it's time to read one of their stories for bed and that the sooner they go to sleep, the sooner they get presents. You follow them all into the kids’ room and watch as Arthur sits down on your son’s bed. His daughter, as always, crawls into his lap as he reads one of their new books. It’s expected when he finishes, they both argue to him to read the other one. If it hadn’t been Christmas Eve, he probably would’ve said no, but tonight’s different. 

By the time he’s done reading, both kids are drifting off. He stands up and lays his daughter in bed, pulls the covers over her and kisses her head. After, he does the same for his son. When he’s done, you go in and say your good nights and give kisses as well. 

After both kids are put down, you and Arthur clean up the house and then lay out the kids’ presents for the morning. Without a doubt, your daughter will come out of her room in the middle of the night to gaze at them to make sure they’ve shown up. You don’t mind though, she never opens them until morning when you and Arthur have woken. 

When everything’s done, Arthur pulls you into a one-armed hug and gives you a squeeze. “Come on, beautiful. We got a long day tomorrow.” 

With a yawn, you nod and let him guide you to your bedroom. Once there, you begin pulling out your nightgown to change. Arthur’s hands are suddenly on you and he’s kissing your shoulder from behind. 

“You ain’t gonna need that now, darlin’. I’m gonna keep you warm all night.” 

Sighing, you let Arthur slip your clothes off and begin touching you. With surprising speed and strength, he picks you up and tosses you onto the bed. Giggling, you watch him crawl over your naked body. With a wicked grin, you can tell exactly what he’s going to do.

“Can I give you my gift early?” he says, but he doesn’t wait for you to respond. Sighing in the pleasure of his touches and kisses, you know it’s going to be a long night. 

[queenmuzz]

Ooo time to break some hearts. Can you maybe do 37 Angst with an insecure reader saying that to Nero? And 31 fluff cause I need some fluff after my angst... I fully admit that I am a baby who can't handle angst without a happy ending

“Lie to me. I don’t care what you say, just lie to me. Make me feel okay again.”

“I’m never going to leave you. I promise.”

(Note: First time I’ve ever written Nero x Reader, as I love the canon couple.  Nothing against people who like Nero x Reader, there’s a sad lack of content.  In this case, just pretend you’ve taken Kyrie’s place in the DMC timeline)

In hindsight, having a full-sized mirror in your bedroom had been a mistake.  Going to the mall today had been a mistake, seeing that beautiful green dress in the store window was a mistake, and asking the saleswoman if you could try it on was a mistake.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart” she had said in sympathy, “We only carry that dress in our regular adult sizes, not our plus sizes.”

But your biggest mistake was to insist on trying it on, and watching her hesitate before finally sighing in resignation as she led you and the dress into the dressing room.  

You stood there,  topless in the cool air, inane music playing over the speakers, looking at your body in the mirror, and began to have second thoughts.  But why make a half a mistake when the full one was right there, still hanging off the hanger?

So, you attempted to put it on, and then did a spin.  Maybe it was the harsh light, but the dress didn’t look good on you half as well as it did on the mannequin.  

You stepped out of the dressing room, eager to get a second opinion, and came face to face with the saleslady, who could barely conceal the embarrassment you should have been feeling.

“I… don’t think that size works for you,” she apologised, before attempting to salvage the situation, “On Tuesday, we get our new shipments, there might be more plus size versions of the dress, I can give you a call when they arrive!” You declined the offer with a stuttered voice, and then ripped pulled off the dress, put back on your regular frumpy, bulky, potato sack like hoodie, and made a quick exit, swearing you could hear the tittering of the the saleswoman gossiping about you to her coworker.

And now, you stood there, in your bra and panties, forcing yourself to look at your body.  The droopy wings on your arms, your protruding tummy, lumpy butt, and flabby thighs.  You were a disgusting sack of flesh, and you were a fool to not realize it.  Why anyone, especially your boyfriend, wanted to do anything with you, was unexplainable.  

The pudgy, stubby fingers clenched into a fist, and you were prepared to destroy the damn mirror, no matter how much it would hurt.

“Hey babe, got back from my job, you WOULDN’T believe what my uncle got us into, let’s just say I’m never going to look at a balloon animal the same way again.  We-”

When did Nero show up?  You hadn’t heard him come in, maybe his father had created a portal for him directly into your house.  (He had done that once, while you and Nero were… getting busy, and Nero had ripped his father a new one.  Apparently Fortuna had way more swear words than you thought.)

“You okay?” he asked, immediately sensing your distress.  How could he not? How could he not notice he was dating a fat slobby whale impersonating a woman?

“Why do you even like me, knowing how I look?” you said, trying to remain as calm as possible.  You didn’t want to scare him off with an emotional breakdown.  “Why do you even stay with me?”

“Babe…”

You cut him off, even now, you couldn’t handle the truth, coward that you were.

“Lie to me. I don’t care what you say, just lie to me. Make me feel okay again.”

You waited for him to compose a lie, to think about how to phrase it, but you hadn’t expected strong warm arms around you.  You looked back at the mirror, surprised at how tightly he held you.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered in your ear, “and I love every part of you,” his hand stroked your cheek, “From your beautiful face,” his hand drifted down to your bosom, “to your soft, tender body,” lower still, to places that stirred sensations in you, “all the way to your toes.  I love each and every part of you. And you know what?”

“What?” you asked brokenly, his words, even if they were false, still had an effect.

“None of what I said was a lie, you are the most beautiful woman I know, and what’s even more amazing,” his hand went back up to your breast, but not in a sexual way, “your heart.  Remember back when I was attacked in the garage, had my arm ripped away? I was all depressed in the hospital, thinking I would just be a burden to you, that you deserved somebody better, somebody whole.  But you never left, always supported me, even after I went on a nearly suicidal rampage to kick that guy’s ass.”

“And in the end, kicked your dad’s ass” you giggled between sniffles.

“Yeah...but that’s not the point.  The point is, at my lowest part of my life, you never left me.  So…”

He gave you a kiss, and in the reflection you saw not your flabby self, but a beautiful young couple, full of hope and love.  And not a single mistake between the two of them

“I’m never going to leave you. I promise.”