#This was so soft and comforting to read

[shidouryusm]

Sel, this is probably my first time commenting like that but I CANNOT HELP IT GONNA REBLOG IT AGAIN WITH ALL THESE COMMENTS NOW

firstly, girl the on the point characterisation! The way you added the small details on how the reader has little adjustments in his passenger seat and the fact that Megumi never changes it‼️‼️‼️

The comfort of the scenario with night rain and drives just reminded me of that “Strangers” by Kenya Grace, im gonna imagine this is reader’s favourite song and it’s Megumis favourite too now secretly as he and the reader silently but intently listen to the song with the soft rain falling.

The little gestures Megumi did of tapping his fingers- it was little but never unnoticed and added to the character perfectly. And THE SWEATER SCENE?! God dayumn megumi furizzguro — impressing me like dat✋🏼

Im not lying idek what more to add because my appreciations are so jumbled from how cute this is. I can only conclude - I LOVE THIS ☹️😭😭😭

₊˚⊹｡ make this drive last ‘til the end of this song | fushiguro megumi

wc: 1.2k summary: you wish this traffic jam would last a bit longer.  contains: f!reader in mind, college!megumi, pre-relationship stuff! mostly centered around having a crush!, yuuji and nobara are here! a/n: i think megumi loves to listen to music!! stargazing by the neighbourhood reminds me of him, and the song that inspired this is pretty by col3trane & mahalia! (reminds me so much of him too)!! may or not be inspired by very personal feelings/thoughts!!; for mi luv @soumies

It’s always just you and Megumi on the drive back home. 

For the last stretch of it, at least.

You like to think you’re friends, being in the same friend circle for the good part of the year. And if there’s anything you’ve learned from your crazy group of four, it’s that Megumi always ends up being the designated driver for everything—road trips, lunch breaks, late night food runs, and parties. Especially parties. 

Someone has to stay sober when Yuuji’s always too eager to drink anything that’s handed to him. 

You also live nearest to Megumi (coincidentally), just a few streets down from the building that houses his unit. This means you’re always picked up first and dropped off last, consequently making his passenger seat yours (indefinitely). 

The seat is practically adjusted to you by now, backrest pulled back a bit and the seat itself brought forward slightly. Because you get cold easily, the air vents on your side are always pushed up, allowing only a small slip of air to flow through. 

You notice that it never changes—all these adjustments, so it’s either people don’t mind or maybe no one else has been sitting there after all. 

(You don’t know how to feel when a part of you, maybe just a teensy, tiny bit, hopes it’s the latter). 

As tough as it is to get through the impossibly high and extremely fortified walls one (1) Fushiguro Megumi has set around himself, you think you’ve found your way in, slipping yourself into the space between his passenger door and sitting right beside him on the extremely well-kept leather of his carseat. 

(He’s particular when it comes to cleaning). 

It was awkward at first. Of course, it was. When two introverts are alone in a car for a 30-minute drive back from a college party, they aren’t bound to become immediate best friends. But you try to talk a little, ask a harmless question or two, comment on the music he plays—the safe things to say.

And you get closer that way. 

Megumi doesn’t clear his throat anymore when it gets too quiet, already used to the comfortable silence between you. You give each other small updates on what you both did earlier that day, and what you plan to do the next, for the weekend, and the following week, even. And you try hard not to think about it too much, but when he throws a little laugh your way when you talk about the haircut you did yourself in seventh grade, you think you feel an extra thump against your ribcage. 

Another thing you learn is that Megumi loves music; there’s always some obscure, low-beat song that he’s tapping to when you get in. You discover more of his taste through the playlists he plays, and you like it—

(—maybe him a little bit more than the music, though). 

.

The traffic is unmoving today, endless red dots flashing along every lane for the past 40-minutes you’ve been on this road—there’s a steady patter of rain on the windshield, wipers automatically going back and forth as he gives you full control of the music. 

You’d just dropped off Yuuji when you took a detour to avoid some flooded area, and now you’re stuck in a terrible traffic jam this late at night, with cars barely moving inch-by-inch a few minutes at a time. Megumi doesn’t give any indication that he’s bothered except for the slight sigh he makes when he leans back on his seat after pulling up the handbrake.

And you think, with your music playing over the comfortable silence you’ve built, being in his passenger seat one too many times—this feels nice. 

Any other day and you’d hate traffic as much as the next person, but not right now. 

There’s movement far ahead and Megumi prepares to shift gears, accelerating the car only to stop again after a few minutes of getting far. You look over to find him tapping on the steering wheel, one hand on his thigh, relaxed as red glows on his face from the stoplight. 

You feel calm, content even, if you’re really thinking. Now you know why some people have a thing for night drives in the rain. 

Megumi’s eyelashes are long, pretty, stretching on for miles—and you wonder if this drive with him can extend to the length of them, if you can stay in this traffic jam a little longer just to be in this moment with him. 

“Sorry, are you cold?” Megumi asks, interrupting your stare.

He probably thinks that’s the reason you’re staring, if his fingers hovering over the aircondition controls says anything. Heat rises to your cheeks. 

You shake your head, “No, it’s okay. Just spaced out, sorry.” 

“I have a sweater at the back, if you need.” he motions, arm already out reaching for it. 

It’s summer right now, that’s why you insisted on keeping the AC on full blast; you don’t want him to suffer from the heat just because you’re cold. So you’re a bit curious, because really, Megumi has no reason to keep a sweater in his car for this weather, heck, he didn’t even wear one to the party tonight.

You don’t want to assume anything but—

“Brought it for when you get cold,” 

He says it plainly, so casually as if he doesn’t know that it echoes in the pitter-patter of your heartbeat. If you’re being completely rational, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but he hands you the gray sweater over the console so simply as if to say: of course, this is for you, who else would I bring it for? 

As if you shouldn’t even wonder anymore. 

The gesture endears you so much you can’t help but take it. 

“Thanks,” you smile sheepishly, and he nods, the corners of his lips curling slightly as he looks back to the road. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt to put the sweater on, and think, this is a very bad idea because all you smell now is his detergent, that fresh, clean scent that he walks around with condensed into oversized cotton—oversized cotton that is now engulfing you completely. 

You sigh, buckling your seatbelt again as the car moves forward. 

The traffic is clearing up now, Megumi making fewer stops as he drives along the main road. You give it maybe 8? 7? minutes until you arrive home. You’re proud of yourself tonight, flutter-feelings aside, because you think you picked the perfect music for the drive. 

Megumi can never hide his distate for anything—songs included; when he doesn’t like something, he squints his right eye just a little bit, an involuntary reaction you think. You’ve caught it a few times before (usually when it’s Yuuji’s music playing), but his face has been relaxed this entire night, fingers tapping to whatever tune you put on. 

When you arrive in front of your apartment building, your playlist shuffles to your favorite song. Megumi knows because you never shut up about it, asking for it to be played every single time on the drive back home. And when he turns to you, you look almost sad, fixing your things as you prepare to get off. There’s that cute, small pout that he notices you always try to hide when you want to say something but don’t. 

So as you’re about to unbuckle your seatbelt, Megumi shifts the gear to drive and says—

“Maybe after this song.”

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[chimerafeathers]

you know what i think Mirabelle deserves to get a little fucked up freaky in how she processes learning about Siffrin’s loops post-canon. for fun. as a treat

thinking about this line in particular and stretching out the implications like taffy

this is a more romanticized, cutesy facet of her interests but she’s still framing Siffrin’s situation through storytelling. so like. What If.

i mean. this woman loves horror and gore and monsters and horrible things happening to innocent people. IN FICTION. in fiction!!! obviously!!!! and it’s beyond terrible that something even remotely close to any of that happened to her real friend in real life!!

BUT.

maybe. maybe sometimes, if the conditions are right, she gets a little too wrapped up in her imagination about the bloody, awful poetry of it all. maybe Siffrin tells a joke that's a little too dark and gory for anyone else, borderline or full-on Concerning, but she latches onto it without thinking about the Implications and plays along with increasing gruesomeness because FINALLYYYYY someone will play with her in the Horror Space (like Isabeau does in the romance space!!) and then. OOPS. the implications!!!! and she has to recalibrate out of Fun With Fiction mode into Oh No, My Friend Underwent A Horrifying Ordeal mode.

but being able to joke about things, even the awful things, is...kind of comforting, to Siffrin. makes them feel less like they're being babied and pitied and more like what happened was something...normal, almost? something that doesn't have to feel like the end of the world all over again every time it's mentioned, at least. so he tries to reassure her, and Odile and Isabeau have to go “actually can you PLEASE not joke about dying horribly it’s freaking us out and also might not be the Best for you? mentally???”

maybe Mirabelle will get a little Too Into trying to weave meaning and symbolism into the scant details that Siffrin gradually reveals, like she’s trying to finish the orange poem all over again, or eagerly meddling with the romantic reunion of the two actual people in the House with undelivered bonding earrings, writing their story for them without their input.

it’s easier to justify the tragedy of it all when it has a purpose, isn’t it? finding the beauty in the darkness, the love powerful enough to end the world. romanticizing the horrors until her friend can talk about them without shutting down.

and she feels guilty about hearing something and immediately thinking “ohhhhhhh this is JUST like Blorbo From My Novels,” because she should treat Siffrin’s situation with the gravity and care he deserves!! they’re a real person, not a character who exists for entertainment, to represent the ~themes~ of some story.

but if she admits as much…maybe Siffrin is safe to admit that he had started seeing the rest of them as actors, endlessly reciting their lines. maybe that’s just how people process things sometimes, grasping for metaphors when unfiltered reality gets to be too much. maybe it’s okay to talk about that part of it all, too.

[sonseulsoleil]

Ghosts don't sleep. They don't even really get tired. At least, not tired in the way sleep would fix. When Charles first dies, he attempts to sleep, but he never can manage it. No matter how many nights he tries. Eventually he gives up.

But he never gives up asking Edwin to read to him at night. Edwin's voice as he reads is warm and steady. Comforting, even. Charles may be dead at sixteen, but he isn't alone. He thinks his best chance at falling asleep is if Edwin is there to read him a bedtime story.

It's probably silly. But Edwin doesn't seem to mind.

Edwin reads him mostly detective stories at first. Sherlock Holmes, anything by Agatha Christie, Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys, of course—which is where they get the idea for the agency in the first place. But Edwin loves books of all sorts, so it isn't long before he's branching out into other genres.

Usually it's old books. Books from before Edwin was even alive. Books Charles would've avoid reading in school. Pride and Prejudice. Frankenstein. Jane Eyre. Oliver Twist. Somehow hearing them in Edwin's voice makes them much more tolerable.

And some are fun. Treasure Island is one Charles finds himself requesting over and over again. He always liked pirates. Lord of the Rings is another favorite, although maybe Charles is just excited that Edwin finally found a book that was published after he died.

Niko introduces Edwin to much newer literature. Teen romance novels with bright covers and cutesy, wordplay titles. Edwin even reads some of the books about boys kissing boys. An adorable, pink blush creeps across his cheeks every time still, but he's getting more comfortable.

Ghosts don't sleep, or even get tired. But Charles thinks he almost gets drowsy sometimes, late at night, when their living friends are sleeping, and he is curled safely and comfortably into Edwin, listening to him read.

[pamrak]

"I'm here for you." "Thank you."

Fahlada & Earn THE SECRET OF US | Ep7

[alackofghosts]

vierapril day 22 - flower

[soundleer]

no thoughts, only thems 💚💙

[clumsypuppy]

doodles of my fav sillies

anton belongs to @poicyss

[xxlady-lunaxx]

sanemi’s hands are gentle. unnaturally tender despite his rough fingers and scarred palms. he washes obanai’s back with the warmth of the soft flames of fire. obanai thinks this is what it must feel like to be cared for. he’s involuntarily relaxing into sanemi’s touch, eyes fluttering closed before he realizes.

the sloshing of water is quiet, sanemi brings a soaked towel to obanai’s limbs and scrubs the blood away. he’s careful with the new wounds, patting them clean and washing them till the water stops turning pink. he moves to obanai’s hair, having him tip his head back as he cards his fingers through the locks, getting the water through. he massages his scalp in a way that has obanai leaning into his hands, chasing the comfort until sanemi pulls away.

shampoo is throughly soaked in, then another bucket of water washes it out. it was heated beforehand, warm against obanai’s cool skin, fighting back the sharp chill of the air. he hums something of approval, keeping his head tilted back until sanemi has wiped any excess shampoo from obanai’s forehead and made sure there was nothing getting in his eyes.

then it’s sanemi’s turn and they switch places, obanai rearranging his towel on his waist. sanemi sits patiently as obanai’s less practiced, clumsy scrubbing takes place on his shoulders and back. he’s almost guiding obanai through it, lifting his arm so obanai can lather it with soap. his hands run down the scarred skin, feeling almost reverently over until the suds are washed away. sanemi washes his own hair as obanai pours the shampoo in, and they make quick work of the short, white mess of his head.

he laughs, mostly pained, when soap makes its way into his eyes and obanai apologetically dumps water over his face, retrieving a spare, dry towel to rub the soap and water out. the buckets are put away and their towels are set aside as they dip into the tub, the water not as warm as it was before. still, it’s nice, and they’re quiet in the little room. steam, trapped in the closed windows, keep the temperature gentle and keep them from freezing as they soak in the rare peace time they have.

it’s usually hard to imagine people like sanemi or obanai would enjoy something like this. but right now, they seem perfectly in place, expressions slack with contentment as they sink till the water is up to their shoulders and the tension has seeped away with the soap from earlier.

[stimmyneko]

Marc Spector board ^w^

Requests are open!!

🌌 ☕️ 🌙 . 🌌 ☕️ 🌙 . 🌌 ☕️ 🌙 . 🌌

[insert-clever-username-1133]

GUESS WHO JUST FINISHED SUNRISE ON THE REAPING

DHSHDSKDSKDNENSNRBSKBRSJRBSHFNSBRMSBEJENFJRNHDKEBSJRNS

[popiplant]

me when i fuck it we ball

[lilfriezatyrant]

Deer Nighttime Peace 🌙🌟

Several weeks have passed since you landed in hell. Although you wanted to understand the real reason why you ended up in such a place at all, although you are still human and cannot remember whether you actually died... this mental quest is becoming more and more forgotten with each passing hour.

The more time you spend with one of the strongest regents, the less important this thought becomes.

Alastor, he was the being who gave you refuge in this hotel.

Your safe haven. Protected from the other demons outside the building.

Your protection is also maintained by a pact made by the elegant scarlet demon in deer form.

"If you continue to entertain me well, you will stand in my favor."

Actually a very fragile offer, at least for your part in this convenant. After all, it also means that if you no longer bring him that certain amusement, there's no place for you here anymore.

But would that really be the case? After all, the other demons here, who are also guests and hosts have grown so fond of you and they seem to like you too!

Even the tall grumpy black owl cat, who shunned you at first, secretly enjoys your frequent little caresses on his ears. A cat's purr, however quiet it may be, still sends out vibrations that you can clearly feel under the palm of your hand.

There is almost never an evening when you don't end the day with Alastor. Whether it's just with a cup of tea or one or more glasses of whiskey before you are led back to your room by his shadow or, if the tiredness or the alcohol effect has been too great, even personally by him.

On this night, however, it should be an unusual event...

Your hand grips more of the pillow you are lying on, while your other hand grips a soft surface...it feels even softer than the pillow...you clutch the outline a little tighter...it feels furry. Yet you don't exert any great force, as if you want to feel every detail, every hair.

You sleepily open one eye and only now realize that there is some weight on your chest. You just can't make anything out in the darkness.

Perhaps you were half asleep when you brought the little radio back to bed that Alastor gave you as a gift?

But...the device doesn't feel so fluffy. No, not at all. It should feel metallic, hard and a bit warm...right? Only the warmth of the fur shares a commonality with the little vintage medium...

As you carefully slide your petite hand over it, you now feel something of a hard material and it emanates coolness in contrast to the previous texture. You feel your way upwards and the material ends in a sharp point, but even in your sleepiness you remain careful not to hurt yourself.

Suddenly your eyes widen as you hear a noise. A strange noise, it sounded like a hoot of an owl...? Why would there be a forest dweller here when you're in your room in a hotel? Right In the middle of hell?

But your confusion is now turning into fear. Panic, to be precise, because right in front of you huge, monstrous eyes glowing in an eerie red flickering. The ebony pupils amidst the bright red, deformed into dials that rotate clockwise every second.

Your hand instinctively loosens and although you want to sit up, startled, you are prevented from doing so by the weight on your body.

"Waking up so early?" bright yellow teeth glare out of the darkness. A hellish, distorted grin so unholy, that reaches up to the two scarlet saucers.

"Unusual for you, little doe."

Your heartbeat, which you could still hear pounding so clearly in your body, vibrates along with the static radio sound lacing the voice.

Your own voice almost catches in your throat as you try to name the now familiar creature that caused you such panic before.

"Al-Alastor...!"

The eldritch eyes now swing counterclockwise and return to normal size, his chin perched now right on your collarbone, his eyes, still seeming so huge now due to the lack of distance, focusing only on you.

"Yes, why! Did you expect someone else?" The voice seems amused and cheerful, and you can even hear the audience laughing in the background. It's an amplification that he likes to use to make fun of something, which even you notice after a short time.

And yet... as close as the radio demon is to you right now, he has never been so close to you.

Your face blushes more and you only give a non-verbal, slight shake of your head in response. Right now you are completely overwhelmed as to what is actually going on...is this just a dream?

You slowly look around yourself in the darkness to avoid the demon's hypnotic gaze and the faint sounds of animals and the leaves blowing in the wind through the trees...you must be in his room. In the personal realm of this overlord.

"Your heartbeat...what a harmonious rhythm it makes...lovely." He props his cheek with one hand while he briefly tugs playfully at your pajama with the index finger of his other hand before tapping the spot above your heart in unison.

In response, you only let out an embarrassed giggle and you recognize the outline of Alastor better now that your eyes have adjusted to the darkness and your surroundings and he is indeed actually lying on top of you with his weight.

It doesn't feel oppressive, but it's still impossible to get away from him.

The question is...do you even want to?

"You should go back to sleep, my dear. After all, you have to get up very early in the morning to listen to my first broadcast, don't you?" His asking is more of a rhetorical question, since you take it for granted. You've never missed one of his broadcasts before.

His finger continues to tap gently to the sound of your pounding heart, but slower and calmer. In a way, you feel safe with him, this...protective gentleman. Whenever you have left the hotel, he has always been with you and nothing has ever happened to you...even his shadow seems to feel comfortable in your presence and strokes now your hair for a brief moment.

"Hmm..." the radio demon seems to muse, stopping the contact of his finger and rubbing his chin instead, before finally resting his head fully on your chest again.

"I could create a melody based on your delicious heart beat, what do you think?" his voice sounds static, with a recognizable, smug undertone.

Your face remains red, but with a slight, very sincere smile.

"That would be very flattering, Mr. Alastor."

The noble patron morphs his grin into a much wider and crooked one. He seems more than delighted with the answer, nestling his head more against the pajama, now listening with one ear to your once again uncontrolled tune of your heart.

"Then it's a done deal! Very good!" The cheerful echo in his voice is clearly audible, but his next sentence makes you now puzzled.

"You may continue, you know?." He purrs these words and they sound honest. Unfiltered. They are not in the usual voice that sounds through a radio.

But what does he mean...?

Before you could ask your question, a cool breath grips your palm and Alastor's shadowy image directs your hand to his head.

It is the first touch you have experienced with him, which he allows and tolerates. At that precise moment, time stands still for you and every quiet ambient noise is completely muted.

It was his ears and hair that you felt in your sleepy state. His inconspicuous antlers that you felt towards... the warmth and closeness emanated from him...

You silently thank the shadow with a smile before you start stroking its very soft texture again. Your ministrations remain delicate and almost reverent, as you don't want to ruffle any of his hair. Your eyes slowly close and you can hear a very soft static purring sound that goes through your body like a gentle wave.

It feels so real, it can't be a dream.

[forwhump]

a/n: ;-; I feel a little silly introducing myself on a writing post but I feel sillier just starting to post my writing w/out any sort of introduction at all, so hi ! I’m Tina ! I’ve semi recently gotten introduced to the whump community because the content I create has been whump the whole time I just didn’t know it & thought I was alone in it !

now that I realize I’m not, I figured I might as well start posting my blurbs somewhere ! I don’t know if it qualifies as conventional whump, but is there such thing as conventional whump ? so what the hell

I put my two favourite oc’s through the horrors so often I have so much whump content w them & it’s just going to waste in my google docs & my notes app ! I’m chronically shy about posting my work online but I figured somebody out there might see this & maybe even like it so what’s the harm in sharing !

if you do see this & maybe even like it, yay ! I’m so glad ! thank you for even reading it <3

tw/cw for aftermath implied rape, mentions of being gutted

Wren has always been beautiful.

Silas had always thought so. Even at Wren’s worst, even when it wasn’t wholly appropriate to think. Silas had thought so since that very first day, since he was dragged into this place clawing and biting, since Wren had looked up at him from his place in the common room and smiled at Silas, sympathetic, as he was dragged into hell.

It was striking, even then, even disoriented and scared and confused. Wren was a bright spot, a glimmer of light in a bland, grey prisonscape. He’s beautiful like no other person Silas has ever seen, beautiful in a way reserved for the sunrise and the moon, so beautiful it actually gives him an eerie, kind of inhuman quality, even now, even still.

Wren has always been beautiful and Wren is beautiful still. But this —

There is nothing beautiful about this.

It’s ugly. It hurts something low in Silas’ chest.

It’s a film strip that’s been double exposed. Wren’s always been beautiful, and so particular about his hair; Wren has fairytale hair. It’s impossibly long, fairytale long, and the colour of snow, kinda, but he’s always so particular about it, he takes such good care of it, something that’s only his, something that belonged to him before this place, something they let him keep, and his hair always shimmers, perfect, iridescent. Silas has always found it kind of hypnotizing. Wren’s always so careful about how he braids it.

His hair is a mess. It had been pulled up into a ponytail with a piece of pink ribbon that’s gotten mostly lost in the tangles of his hair. Loose strands stick to his face, his throat, his waist, the insides of his thighs with tears, spit, sweat, semen, blood. He’s wearing some demeaning little pleated skirt, the same pale pink as the ribbon, and it’s short, it’s so short, and there’s so much visible skin that Silas can see almost every bruise, big and purple and splotchy and broken, like road rash. He can see all the blood tracked down the insides of his bruised thighs. He can see handprints. Tooth prints.

How is this happening? How did it get to this?

“Wren,” he hears himself say.

“Leave me alone.” His voice is the flattest Silas has ever heard it. He doesn’t lift his face from the carpet.

“Wren.” He doesn’t know what he’s gonna say. What can he say? He reaches a hand out, almost instinctive.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Wren —“

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Wren snaps, almost screams, and he finally lifts his head as he flinches away.

Most of the left side of his face is that same broken, road rash bruise. His mouth is swollen. His eyes, from crying. He doesn’t have hickeys, but proper, scabbing bite marks, bruising his jaw and his throat.

So much bruising. So much blood.

Silas knows what to do.

He struggles with that, sometimes.

Wren was allowed to keep his hair; Silas was, as well. It’s all Silas got to keep.

No part of Silas is the same as it was when he got here; no organ, no arterie. Silas isn’t human anymore, Silas is a weapon, but he tries, oh my god, he fuckin’ tries, if nothing else he tries, and he’s getting better, he thinks. He just struggles sometimes with human emotions, with feelings, thoughts, with what to do, what to say.

He knows now, though. What to do.

No part of Silas is really human anymore, but most of him is all still attached. His left leg, however, isn’t, and the replacement he’d been given, as a massive, inhuman superfreak, is heavy and deadly and fuckin’ uncomfortable. It pinches. Silas hates it almost more than anything. Unless he absolutely has to wear it, he gets around in his chair. It’s how he gets back to his room, where, without even a groan of displeasure, he makes quick work of his superfreak prosthetic.

On his own, he stands. Onto his chair, he piles one of his crewnecks, a favourite of Wren’s because of how cartoonishly large it fits him. Silas piles his comforter on top. From Wren’s room, he grabs his hairbrush and a pair of his joggers. Their clothing is the same dull grey as everything else in hell — prison grey, Silas thinks of it.

He limps his chair back to the common room. He folds the sweatshirt and joggers over the back, brush hooked in one hand as he holds open the blanket. “Okay,” he says. “Come.���

Wren’s head is down again. He’s right where they dumped him, a pile on the common room floor. “Leave me alone, Silas.”

Silas frowns. “No,” he says. “Come. I won’t touch.”

Slowly, Wren lifts his head. He blinks up at Silas with huge, wet eyes. “What?” He says, less sharp but a bit more broken. “What are you doing?”

Silas shakes the blanket at him. “Come.”

He isn’t expecting the way Wren’s face crumples, or the way he sobs. Softly, he says, “Wren?”

Wren turns his face away, but when he sobs, he sobs, “Silas.”

Folding the blanket and the brush back onto his chair, Silas limps around it to slowly, awkwardly maneuver himself onto the carpet next to Wren. Within reaching distance, but he’s careful not to touch.

Wren doesn’t lift his face and sobs into the carpet.

Slowly, Silas lies down, on his back next to him. He reaches out, he doesn’t touch, but he invites, and without looking at him Wren shifts into his arms and sobs into Silas’ shoulder.

Silas covers his back with a massive, gentle hand and lets him cry.

He cries for a long time.

Eventually, his sobs soften to sniffles and the hitching of his back slows under Silas’ hand. He says, into Silas’ grey sweatshirt, “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“Why?” Silas asks.

Wren’s chest hitches. His voice cracks when he says, “I’m disgusting.”

He frowns. “You’re not disgusting.”

Wren hiccups out a sob.

“Wren,” Silas says, “you’ve held my organs inside my body for me. This is nothing.”

He sobs again.

Silas thumbs slowly across his back, over the stiff, ripped material of his shirt. “Let me take care of you this time, Wren,” he says. “Please.”

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me,” he says softly.

“I don’t,” Silas says. “I want to.”

Wren’s small fist curls into Silas’ crewneck. Into his chest, he whispers, “they really hurt me, Silas.”

“I’ll take care of them,” Silas promises. He already knows how he’ll do it. It won’t be slow but it will be painful. “Let me take care of you first.”

Wren doesn’t answer him, but he nods into Silas’ shoulder.

Softly, Silas asks, “can I pick you up?”

He nods again.

Gratefully, gently, Silas lifts Wren into his arms and from there, into his chair. He pulls the grey blanket around his shoulders and Wren sinks into it gratefully.

The bathroom is cold, and the water doesn’t get hot, but it gets warm, so Silas runs it warm before he limps across the bathroom to gather an armful of towels. He held Wren to his feet, and leaves the towels in his place.

“You don’t have to do this,” Wren says softly.

“So?” Silas says.

He blinks up at him, a bit taken aback.

Supporting most of Wren’s weight, Silas says, “do you want my help getting undressed or do you want me not to touch you?”

Wren blinks up at him again, sniffling. “Would you help me?” He asks, so soft he’d barely spoken.

“I’ll do anything you ask me to,” Silas answers.

Wren makes a soft sound, and Silas is careful not to touch any of the bruises as he bumbles through small buttons and zippers with huge hands. He helps Wren out of his ruined skirt and into the lukewarm water. Silas doesn’t undress, but he follows him in, letting Wren lean hard against him as he lathers a washcloth he hands to him before getting to work untangling his hair.

It’s a careful few hours of effort, because Wren has so much hair and it’s so matted, caked with blood, grime, semen.

Silas is meticulous. He brushes it out. Washes it. He isn’t a great braider yet, but June had been teaching him the basics, and he can struggle his way through a sloppy French braid. He tugs the elastic out of his own hair to tie it off, and once he’s done, Wren turns to look up at him and he’s crying again.

“Wren?” He says.

And Wren surges forward, pushing his face into the hollow of Silas’ sternum, arms tight around his waist.

“Thank you,” he whispers into his wet sweatshirt.

Silas cradles the back of his head with one hand. “It’s okay,” he says.

In truth, he would die for Wren in a heartbeat. This is nothing.

[andreai04]

"But I think you're emotionally compromised right now."

That was... that was so completely not true. Stupid humans. Sure, I'd had an emotional breakdown with the whole evisceration thing, but I was fine now, despite the drop in performance reliability. Absolutely fine. And I had to kill the rest of the Targets in the extremely painful ways I'd been visualizing…. I said, "I am not. You're emotionally compromised."

(I know, but at the time it seemed like a relevant comeback.)

This was incredibly weird and awkward. "I don't want to not see you again."

She took a moment to sort out my verbs. "I don't want to not see you again, either."

[caregivingchrysalises]

it’s okay if being small doesn’t look like having something to do or someone to do it with my love~ you don’t have to have an activity or plan for when you’re small sweetheart. being small doesn’t have a schedule or a time limit dearest dewdrop, many precious little bugs are small for as short a fluttering as a few minutes to longer flutters such as hours and days! it’s okay if your small age changes while in headspace, nothing has to stay the same if it doesn’t make your heart happy honey. you don’t ever have to be afraid of telling papa how small you’re feeling, you’re safe to change your mind and speak from the heart sweetheart. papa will do everything ze can to make the chrysalis comfy and cozy for zer darling, thank you for trusting me to look after you love!

~ 🦋

[bagels-and-cream-cheese333]

Me when men can like girly stuff and they aren’t femmified just for not being 100% manly>>>>