#it's quite sore and it bled... SO much

[naomiknight-17]

I fucked up

That'll teach me to listen to spooky podcasts while I do chores

[rax-writes]

↬ when night falls

Tywin Lannister x Reader

intended to be a sequel to the morning after, but it's not necessary that you read it prior to this

Warnings: Smut, MDNI, 18+ ONLY ⇆ P in V sex, unprotected sex, creampie, age gap, nipple play, bit of breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, pregnant!reader

The journey from Winterfell to King's Landing took considerably longer than necessary, given the Queen's insistence that she travel in that godsforsaken carriage of hers. As such, five weeks after your marriage to Tywin Lannister, you were spending one final night in a lavish red and gold tent alongside your lord husband.

For the entirety of the journey, the two of you spent the entire day apart – your horse trotting behind your father and King Robert, and Tywin a short distance behind, alongside Ser Jamie. Occasionally, Arya would pester you into allowing her to sit in front of you on the saddle, as you quietly conversed with her and taught her how to control the horse. But, aside from that, you were alone with your thoughts all day, every day.

The nights, however, were spent in the arms of your lord husband.

The two of you quite quickly developed a very… peculiar dynamic. You had quickly learned and adapted to the way the fearsome Tywin Lannister operates – preferring you speak concisely and directly, vehemently uninterested in anything otherwise. Additionally, there was a degree of mutual respect, as well as a vaguely guarded openness to one another – but certainly no love, or any semblance of romantic feelings at all. In truth, you assumed there never would be.

But gods was there lust.

On your end, it was your first and only experience with sex, and it was undeniably good, so you were eager for it. On his end… you couldn't be sure. It could be that the man was pent up from years as a bachelor, but it would be safe to assume he had simply sent for a whore when the mood struck him. A more likely reason would be his pursuit of an heir, but surely he wouldn't have needed to fill your cunt nightly to achieve that goal. No, you were almost certain that he was simply enjoying fucking you – just as much as you were enjoying fucking him.

When Tywin entered the tent, you were sitting on the edge of the cot, toying with the goblet in your hands, already undressed to your shift. He met your eyes as he entered, but said nothing, that unreadable (but somehow always leaning toward annoyed) expression on his face. He silently began taking off his boots, then removed his sword and placed it beside the cot. He was in the middle of pouring wine into his goblet when you found the courage to ask your question.

"Will you stop bedding me when I become pregnant?"

Tywin said nothing, setting the pitcher down and turning to face you as he took a sip of his wine. He wore that calm, calculating expression as he stared at you – but you could swear there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. The golden goblet made a faint clank as he set it down before speaking.

"Do you ask because you wish for me to stop? Or because you wish for me to continue?"

"I wish for you to continue."

"Then I shall continue," Tywin stated, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Good," you replied, then added, "Because I am."

"You are what?"

"Pregnant."

The smile dropped and Tywin's eyebrows raised, making his forehead crinkle.

"Already?" he inquired dryly, surprised. Then, incredulous, he asked, "How do you know?"

It was a fair question. You had never been pregnant before, so perhaps you were mistaking soreness and fatigue from travel as signs of pregnancy. But no. You knew.

"I should have bled three weeks ago, but I have not. My breasts are extremely tender, and certain smells make my stomach turn."

Tywin nodded, then stated, "I do not doubt that you are right, but we will have a Maester provide his confirmation and look you over when we arrive in King's Landing. In the meantime, is there anything you need?"

A faint but wicked smile spread across your face, and you stood from the bed, setting the goblet down as you slowly made your way over to him. The metal of his armor was cold beneath your fingers as you idly ran your hands over his chest, before toying with the belt around his hips, looking up at him through your lashes.

"You," was your simple answer. But both of you knew that it wasn't meant in a romantic, sweet sort of way.

Tywin's hand reached up to cradle your face, somewhat harshly, hooking his thumb under your jaw to tilt your head up and kiss you. It was lustful and full of desire, accompanied by the scratch of his beard upon the delicate skin of your face.

When he pulled away, Tywin smiled quite faintly, then hummed lowly and said, "Well, what sort of man would I be to deny his pregnant lady wife her wish?"

The old lion made quick work of removing his armor and smallclothes, and relieving you of the thin linen shift you wore, before guiding you to the luxurious cot. Tywin continued to kiss you, eventually trailing kisses down your neck, until he reached your chest, unexpectedly taking one of your breasts into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it.

The sensation nearly made you shout, opting to take in a sharp breath instead as your back arched off the blankets. Eyes squeezed shut, you heard a low chuckle, and looked down to see a set of very amused, crystalline eyes staring up at you.

"Hm, I see you were not exaggerating about the sensitivity."

Electing to ignore him, you let your head fall back onto the pillow. However, it seemed he did not intend to grant you any reprieve, moving to the other breast and doing the same thing – prompting you to dig your nails into his shoulders and bite your lip to avoid crying out. Unfortunately, that made matters worse, as Tywin let out a low groan with his lips still wrapped around your nipple, earning a loud, pitiful whine from you.

Seemingly enjoying himself, Tywin began peppering your chest with gentle bites, which he soothed with his tongue afterwards, sure to become small little bruises by morning. Breathy moans and sighs of pleasure filled the tent, as he then resumed his ministrations on the hardened peaks of your breasts before snaking one hand down to toy with your clit, expertly rubbing it in small, steady circles. Astoundingly fast, your release washed over you, soaking his hand as you moaned and writhed beneath the Warden of the West – who only chuckled darkly at your quick climax.

Noticing that the continued kisses and licks upon your breasts began to make you twitch, Tywin captured your lips in a brief, rough kiss, before rolling onto his back. He then pulled you into his lap, with a strength one wouldn’t assume the older man to still possess – which was, admittedly, arousing. Your mind was still foggy from the orgasm, and your movements were not unlike a rag doll, eyes half-lidded and jaw slack, moving somewhat limply as you allowed him to maneuver you. He gripped his hard, leaking cock in one hand, then reached behind you to urge you forward with a flat palm on the small of your back.

A hiss through gritted teeth escaped Tywin, and you gasped lightly, head thrown back and hands flat on his chest. Although you’d already lost count of how many times he’d taken you, it still felt more incredible than anything you’d ever experienced. A passing thought reminded you of the fact that he seemed to share the sentiment, always hissing or groaning when he first sheathed himself inside you.

Tywin’s grip moved to your hips, prompting you to begin rocking them against his own, keeping your pace steady. However, he made no move to halt you when you eventually began to move faster, leaning back to rest your hands on his thighs as you fucked yourself on his long, thick cock. The sound of it alone would have made a Septa drop dead – a symphony composed of wet skin upon skin and gruff grunts intermingling with breathy moans.

He reached up to grasp and knead your breasts in his rough, calloused hands – but he then surprised you, his hands drifting lower, until they rested flat against your lower stomach. You thought perhaps he was focusing on the movement of your hips, but then his thumbs began to stroke across the soft skin of your belly.

At first, it seemed very sweet and sentimental. You thought that perhaps he was basking in the joy of another child being on the way – until you felt the way his cock throbbed, deep inside of you, as he stared intently at your belly. Immediately, you came to the realization that it must be arousing for a man to have successfully fucked a babe into his wife – stroking their ego and their pride to have done their husbandly duty, as well as show everyone that you belong to them.

Truth be told, you were surprised to learn that it aroused you just as much.

Tywin groaned as you clenched around him, and when his eyes flicked up to meet yours, it felt as though he knew you had been thinking the very same thing he was.

That seemed to ignite something within your husband, and in the blink of an eye, Tywin flipped you onto your back and began driving into your soaked cunt with a newfound ferocity. You bit down on your knuckle to keep quiet, but Tywin pinned both of your wrists down, his arms on either side of your head. The act did not last much longer beyond that point, both parties having already been too near the precipice of climax, and the pair of you met your releases in unison.

Tywin rolled off of you, breathing heavily, a light layer of sweat covering his chest, along with the small patches of silver hair. You allowed yourself a few moments of recovery, before moving to leave the cot in order to extinguish the candles, as well as tidy yourself up. However, Tywin grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Where are you going?”

“The candles –”

“Can wait,” Tywin interrupted, voice sounding unbothered as always, albeit with a hint of fatigue. He exhaled slowly, as he gently pulled you back down to lay upon the cot beside him. “One of the guards outside can see to the candles in a moment. You are carrying my heir, so you are to rest. As much as is feasible, from now until the babe is born. And if anyone questions it, they are to discuss it with me.”

Anyone possessing the sense the gods gave a mule knows “discussing” something with Tywin Lannister was just the opposite – it was not to be addressed at all, because what Tywin Lannister says, goes. A fact which made you smile softly.

“As my lord husband commands,” you replied, a hint of sarcasm in your tone, but you did exactly as he bade you, pulling some of the blankets over you and nestling into the pillows. You were already yawning by the time Tywin called for a guard, who extinguished the candles, and bathed the room in darkness as you drifted into a deep, contented sleep.

[dronebiscuitbat]

Oil is Thicker Then Blood (Part 36)

“There you two idiots are!” V opened her door with a clumsily kicking, screaming toddler held in one arm and one of her hands held over her audio receptors.

“S-sorry V.” N apologized as he took his daughter from her arms and into his, Tera gripped the fur on his jacket as tightly as her little hands could as she continued to scream, even if it was now muffled into his coat.

“Just don't ever come to me for something like this again…” She replied, looking like she'd been driven up a wall and down again.

“Thank you so much.” N thanked her, voice betraying just how grateful he was.

“Yeah yeah, whatever…”

She closed the door in their face with an aggravated flick of her tail, the couple looked at each other, sheepish and a little tired from the day they'd had. Uzi touched Tera's back as the toddler sniffled, still clinging to N like he would dissappear if she didn't.

“We're here Jellybean, don't cry.” Uzi hummed, rubbing a comforting circle in her back while N supported her weight with his arms.

“Mama… Papa…” Tera sniffled out, unsteadily trying to hold onto N, stammering as the use of her mouth was unfamiliar. Followed by several sniffly trills.

N felt his entire being tense into a tight coil of adoration, his eyelights becoming wide and watery as he took in the moment, his grip on her tightened, and he pet the back of her head gently.

“It's alright, Mama and Papa are here now…” He forced out through his own emotional episode, seconds away from tearing up himself.

“Come on, let's get her home.” Uzi put a hand on his back, a tired smile on her face as she looked up at him, leading him through the winding halls to their apartment door.

Tera continued to whine, trill, and sniffle into his coat, for someone who just got use of their limbs her grip was surprisingly strong. But she had largely stopped crying as he continued to hold her.

“Shhh… it's okay, you're okay. Papa's got you.” He hummed into her audio receptors, along with any other soft comfort he could think of, Tera slowly calmed down, until she was purring and not quite gripping him so hard.

Uzi opened the front door for him as he carried Tera inside, by then she had fallen into sleep mode, lightly drooling as she rested, curled up against N.

“She must have been crying awhile… poor girl.”

“How long was I gone?” Uzi asked, guilt clear on her visor.

“Only a few hours, she was already looking upset when I handed her to V though, I think she knew something was wrong…”

Uzi felt herself try to relax, she hadn't gone feral, or killed anyone, or hurt her family, she'd just… passed out-and grew spines, and yeah that was concerning, what if she ended up growing horns or…a bunch of eyes on her head like N and V had, that would probably be much harder to hide.

She felt her head, she had bled. How much of her insides were organic? Was she flesh in synthetic skin, or had it been a fluke, something that happened because she'd been in the process of changing? Did she want to find out?

“Here.” She was handed her sleeping daughter, who then rested on her chest, head leaning up against her core, Tera seemed to relax further, nuzzling up into it's warmth and being soothed by the sound.

Uzi sighed, a small smile breaking through her worry, although it still settled inside her like a heavy weight around her core, it didn't help that her head was still tender, and everything felt just a little sore.

“Thought you might wanna hold her, it usually makes you a little happier.” N said softly, eyelights betraying every single emotion he was feeling.

“Mmhm.”

N came around her and scooped her up in his arms bridal style, making her yelp in surprise, he took his usual path, winding around the couch to their bedroom where he laid her down gently, as if Uzi herself was a child in need of tucking in.

“Caretaker program.” She teased, holding Tera tightly to her, while laughing, slightly amused.

“Mmm’Shush.” N blushed and looked away, a little embarrassed he was being called out.

“What? It makes you a good dad.”

“I'm hoping it makes me a good boyfriend too?” He replied, a small smirk on his face that didn't quite suit him.

“You're the best. But don't ever try to get me to say it again.” She laughed, but something told him she'd say it as many times as he'd need to hear it, if he asked.

“Awww, you're a sweetheart.”

“Gross.” She gagged.

“Honey.” His voice got sweeter.

“Stop.” Now she was forceful, but probably because she was trying to act tough in the face of her wild blush and smile that went all the way across her face.

“Biscuit, lovely, darling, My precious angel of darkness.” He continued, making her scrunch up in a ball of feels until she paused for a moment and uncoiled.

“Kinda digging that last one.”

“Thought you might.”

Uzi rolled over while he changed into a loose t-shirt, it was a dark purple and hung off him a little far, and then he flopped onto the bed, causing the whole mattress to try to fling her off due to his weight.

When she moved back to looks at him, he was looking back at her, head resting on his arm as he propped himself up.

“You should go change too. I can take her for a bit.”

“But I'm comfortable…” She pouted, completely unseriusly.

“You can be more comfortable.”

“Agh, fine.” Screw him and his stupid amaking caretaker programming

She gently handed Tera to him, despite her seemingly wanting to stay there by the way she grumbled sleepily after she was removed.

At least, until the moment she felt N's ambient warmth and relaxed again, N purred, and Tera purred right back into him in her sleep.

Uzi pulled off her beanie and hoodie before stretching, her wings and tail joining in the action, coming up before flapping around her, the gaskets in her fingers hissed as she put them up above her head.

She looked back at N, who was still looking at her, although now he was blushing, his eyelights hollow after he realized he'd been caught staring.

“Aren't you supposed to be turned around?” She poked, smiling a little but also flustered out of her mind.

“I-I, sorry… I just, you're beautiful and I wanna see you.” He admitted, eyes going half lidded and voice falling into something so soft she almost melted on the spot.

“N!”

Holy shit, since when had he gotten so bold as to just… say that? And to kiss her like he did earlier? He'd been too nervous before, had he hit his head or something?

Well no, he was still… himself. Being tender and sweet, just now… more foreward.

He laughed nervously, finally actually turning **away so that he wouldn't be staring, Uzi grumbled as she pulled her black skull pajamas over her head, blush painted on her face.

“Sorry, am I being too… uh, much?” He asked, nerves seemingly back to question what exactly he thought he was doing.

“N-no. Just… surprising me a little bit.”

She slipped back into bed slowly, although now a bit more nervous than she was before, as soon as she laid down, he pulled her close, although she hissed as his hand found her back, apparently where here spines had grown in was tender.

“Are you hurt?” N leaned back, Tera resting in the crook of one of his arms while he held her with the other, although pulling back as soon as he heard her hiss.

“No! Just… sensitive, I think where the spines came in. My wings did the same thing when they came in.”

“Hmm”

He sat up, holding Tera in his lap while thanking whatever deity was most probable that she was such a heavy sleeper. And made the motion for Uzi to turn to lay on her stomach.

“Uh… sure but, what are you doing?” She questioned, she didn't expect the tired scoff that escaped his mouth, although it was clear he wasn't actually upset in any way.

“Just trust me.”

“Okay.”

She did as she was told, and then gasped as N lifted up her shirt with very little warning, exposing her back to the open air.

“Hey! Warning!” She shouted at him, having half a mind to swat him away.

He just giggled in response, before she heard him gasp and her face fell and went violet again, she didn't have to guess what he was looking at.

Her scars.

“Wh-what are?” He stammered out as she felt a finger touch one of the two blackened, jagged scars running down her back, a stark contrast to the pearly whit of the rest of her chassis.

She laughed dryly, “My wings… it… it wasn't a smooth process when they uh, came in.”

Searing, itching, a buildup of pressure as she was on her hands and knees, holding her aching, hungry stomach, her tail had come in first, that had been painful and it was now thrashing wildly behind her, but it was nothing compared to what she felt now.

Pain fueled tears pricked in her visor as another choked groan and sob escaped her throat, her teeth gritted together so hard she was surprised they hadn't cracked.

Another wave of pain, another whimper into the otherwise empty cabin, the casing around her back groaned as something moved within it, pushing, shoving, making room for itself that she simply didn't have.

Then her casing began to crack like an egg, parts of her casing chipping off from damage from the inside, oil pooled from the wounds although the coolant was so hot it was boiling, adding burns to the list of painful sensations.

She screamed, eyes squeezing shut as something forced it's way out of her back, she felt as if she was being split in two, she wondered if this is what dying felt like. She wanted to peel open her own casing, help whatever wanted to get out of her get out, surely that couldn't hurt any worse.

And then, the wings were free, exploding out of her back and sending bits of her casing rocketing away, they were covered in her own oil, dripping off and joining the rest of the boiling oil on the floor, she sucked in a shuddering breath as the wings flapped on their own, each one sending breif flashes of pain through her.

And that had been where she'd lost control.

“Why didn't…these scars should've healed by now.” He sounded starstruck, and also sad, his gaze was fixed on them, as they made deep groves in her back.

“I don't think their ever going away… I spent a week trying to get them to heal but all that happened was… that.”

He touched the other scar, running a finger down it which made her squirm in discomfort, it didn't hurt, but it certainly wasn't a pleasant feeling.

“Do they still hurt?” He asked a little urgently, he didn't want to hurt her, that was the opposite of what he would ever want.

“No… Just sensitive.” She clarified, trying to relax again but finding it hard not to be flustered.

This was intimate… again. And while she didn't exactly mind she could only imagine how many more moments like this would follow from here.

“I-I didn't know.”

“I never mentioned it.”

He sighed as he slowly covered her back up, looking at the wall in favor of anything else.

“Hey.” Uzi's voice cut through the silence.

“Mmm?”

“I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry, not because I didn't trust you.” She continued, lightly holding onto his shoulder.

“It's my job to worry.” He replied, turning to look into her eyelights, she smiled back sadly.

“It wasn't back then.”

“It was always my job to worry.” He cupped her cheek before kissing her sweetly again, making her eyes flutter closed. It only lasted a second, but like all their kisses, the warmth that it caused lingered.

There was a moments silence, before N spoke up again.

“I think your scars are just a beautiful as the rest of you.”

“Oh my robo-god, you're gonna make me blow a fuse! Stop!”

“Oh, but I mean it!”

“N! No more compliments!”

“Aww, okay my dear Uzi.”

“Or pet names! Keep your sap to yourself!”

They laughed together before, like all the times before, they fell asleep in each other's arms, Tera finally where she wanted to be all day, cuddled in between them.

Next ->

[ruskaroma]

do you ever just think about how constantine is just so.. big.

like that white shirt she’s wearing? that’s literally his clothes and it’s fucking HUGE on her.

he is just so big and tall and huge. he towers over you so much, teases you about it so much. he is mean.

and his height isn’t the only thing that’s huge on him !! no !! never. there’s more !!

his cock is fucking huge. i’m talking about humongous. fat. hefty. HULK-LIKE. don’t care how cringy that sounded, but when i tell you his dick is huge, his dick is HUGE.

you couldn’t even take the half of it when you first had sex. john had the mere head in and you were begging him to stop and trying to push him away. but of course, even that didn’t stop him from forcing his cock into your tight little cunt.

you screamed. scratched his back with your nails until it bled as his balls slammed against your ass. you felt so fucking full and it hurt.

oh, it fucking hurt so bad you were shaking. your poor little pussy abused and stretched to her limit :( but too fucking bad constantine is enjoying every single second of it.

“i could fuck this tight little pussy all day, bun. mold it for my cock, make you my pretty cocksleeve who knows nothing but to cry and beg.” he whispered harshly, fucking you harder, not giving you time to adjust. you were sobbing hysterically, body shaking, pussy already sore and red. “so fucking dumb, can’t even form basic words out of your pretty mouth. is my cock too big for you, bun? is that it? your mind so full of my cock that you can’t think straight?”

you could only sniffle loudly, shaking your head, wanting it all to stop, but really, your cunt is just asking for it. constantine could see the outline of his cock on your stomach, so fucking big and huge, and it’s stretching you so much.

“look at that, bun. look how your god is just ruining your insides,” john sneered, wrapping a large hand around your throat but not quite squeezing yet. “who’s your god, pretty little bun? who do you serve again?”

“y-you.. m-my god,” you sobbed, gripping his wrist tightly as you felt your pussy clenching around his fat cock. “god, please, s-stop – i feel s-so full – i feel so full, y-you’re too big –”

“we’re barely even halfway through the night, bun. your god has so many things planned out for his little bunny, so be a good girl and fucking take my cock because this is the closest thing you’ll ever have of blessing.”

[newbornwhumperfly]

in defense of lightening...

so, uh, i love when whumpees think they deserve to suffer and it's even more fun when whumpers think so too! 😈😈😈🥺🥺🥺 here's a silly little snippet of Morja suffering at the hands of Jorah "Self Righteous is my Middle Name" Cuthbert 😩

written for the @whumpmasinjuly prompt - day 3: "____ deserved it" - because it's glorious and delicious and fitting for my blorbos 💖

title insp. by this hanif abdurraqib quote - “in defense of lightening, there is always a darkness asking to be split open.”

~

Annoyingly, the asset is limping. 

The rec room on this stiflingly small base is stupid-small and doesn’t leave much room for hiding in corners, but Morja seems to be doing his best to stay out of everyone’s way, at least. Small blessings. But he hasn’t left the rest of present company alone, lingering by the water cooler and taking infuriating little sips of a paper cup. 

Short journeys, quiet shuffling steps, from the cooler to the corner. Cooler to corner. Jorah’s jaw tics. The soft drag of the tip of his shoe across the floor. Lift, absence of pressure, drag, tiptoe, mouse-step, take more water, scurry away. Fuck, can’t he just take the whole industrial jug at this point and leave well enough alone? 

Like a mosquito buzzing near his ear and never quite landing, Jorah just can’t ignore it. He’s lost a second round of Battleship to Pfeffer, inducing one of the guy’s booming chuckles in the wake of slipped curses. He doubts anyone else has noticed - it’s not exactly obvious. Whether the asset isn’t feeling very sulky today or else he’s too chicken-shit to fish for sympathy while Jorah is in the room, Morja is behaving himself. 

It’s not like anyone can see it either. It’s not like anyone knows why the little creep is dragging his heels around. But if the twinge of soreness in Jorah’s arm is anything to go by, Morja’s soles have gotta be smarting in the hours since last night. In the cool shadow of the corner, he leans against a wall to spare his stance.

His soles were that pre-bruise red, that deep shade right before purple Jorah knows well by eye, the welts in perfect straight lines over the arch of his thick skin. Jorah has to work for the break in the skin. Had to stop before it bled, before the lines broke altogether, even though a scream, hard to draw out as blood, broke in muffled echo through the rag between the asset’s teeth. Jorah is patient, he’s not some fucking brute who doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows when to stop. 

Knows when to reel back, gloved hand gripping the black metal ruler firmly. It’s shimmering ricochet gleams in the low-wattage, unstained by its task. God, Jorah admires military hardware. Even tools as simple as this have many uses, such as drawing out beads of sweat from the asset’s screwed-up face, rolling down into his dark hair, in making the skin of his knuckles bleach white with clenching, making those bare feet quiver and dance to the beat of Jorah’s tune, unable to fake. 

The way those thickly callused toes flinch in their tight bonds can’t be faked. 

It's different than the spasm drawn out by the jolt of electricity across his feet. Jorah's baton can always cause that. Getting the skin tender, blistered. But some days, you've gotta hit something. And the response - the jerk, the whine at the tail end of a trailing yelp, the harsh drag of breath through the nostrils - feels practiced in a way that doesn't at all discourage the conversation.

That’s the beauty of physical pain. It might not “work” for traditional interrogation but it sure does tell you a lot of other shit. Jorah checks the bonds over, the tight security of zip-ties over cloth, no grooves, no marks, good work. He watches a bead of sweat roll down the back of the asset’s calf, catching on dark hairs, a path down to land on one of the welts that match the feet. Watching the clench of his thigh when the stinging salt likely hurts like a motherfucker in the stripes across the backs of this thighs. 

Pain is a language everyone speaks fluently. The perfect fucking teacher. The highest grade in understanding. 

There’s a purpose to the shit he’s going to Morja. Mindless beating accomplishes nothing much - not unless you’ve got a lot of free reign to work with. And here, Jorah simply doesn’t, not with soft-touch attitude of everyone at hand. No. Until Claudia or Cobi or especially Brax - Captain Hutchins - sees the value of it, Jorah’s work has to stay discrete, even-handed, subtle. 

Unfortunately for this guy, he gives Jorah a lot of room to work with. 

“Never knew you beefed it so bad at Battleship, J-Man, wanna switch to Go-Fish?” 

Jorah blinks, shaking away the fucking mosquito buzz around his ear, snorts, flicks a little plastic boat at Cobi’s arm and it bounces off the skin. 

“Owwwww.” Cobi whines, his big dumb face wrinkling up as he flicks the boat back. Sticks his tongue out. “Sore loser.” 

“Grab you a soda and we’ll call it even.” Jorah drawls, drawing cheerful agreement from his friend as he stands, stalks to the nearby little fridge. Drawing out the cold cans in hand, he catches a you, uh, a fan of Go Fish, buddy, it’s cool if you join us, right, Jorah? 

Oh. Right. He’s still fucking there, huh?

Jorah straightens, glancing out of the corner of his eye, catching the asset, catching Morja, stock-still. Cobi’s head tilts back, yellow curled and shaggy, dog-like, beaming in the man’s direction like a spotlight. 

Morja’s stillness is broken by the flicker of his eyes, dark, narrowed, from Cobi to Jorah. Blink. Widen. Blank. Creepy. 

Jorah’s fingertips crack the tab of his soda, the sharp pop snapping through the air, a hiss of cool air, and Jorah’s mouth pulls up at the corners. 

Morja’s throat jumps in a swallow and those black blank eyes blink once-twice. Sways side to side on tiptoe. This close, Jorah hears a small squelch at the sway. Oh. Interesting. Putting cold water in his shoes, huh? Jorah’s eyes flick down to his feet, up again, close-lipped, and Morja blinks faster. 

“Yeah, man.” Jorah says. “You wanna sit down with me and Cobi?”

It’s almost boring the way Morja’s eyes widen. The way he lowers his weight down to rest on his swollen soles to spare his thighs the strain. It’s a little funny though. Like a dog trying its hardest not to look at you when it threw up behind the couch. 

Flick to Cobi. Back to Jorah. Back again. 

“I-“

Almost on cue, Cobi cuts in with a musical you don’t HAVE to, of course, only if you wanna. Jorah can always count on Cobi not to ruffle any feathers. And at that, Morja’s body unfreezes, doing his little at-attention routine, shoulders drawing back like a flinch of its own. 

“Thank you, sir, I have work to do.”

Right answer, Asset. 

“Hey.” Jorah shrugs. “If you have work to do, you should do it.”

There it is, that dumb fucking tilt of the head, like he doesn’t get it. Like he doesn’t know what’s expected of him. Has to be told fucking everything - what to eat, how to kneel, when to talk, where to shit, probably. Jorah’s mouth pulls at the corners again, his teeth grit and bare. Read the room. 

That sends the asset scurrying off, click-swallow-blink, the paper cup tumbling out of his hand into the garbage, squelch squelch squelch, and that awkward thorn-in-foot limp when he retreats, dragging one foot after another. 

Jorah’s body relaxes all at once, shoulders dropping down, rolling his neck. Fuck, corralling people in line is hard work. Whatever, a sheepdog is thankless sometimes. Still. It’s a nice thought that this idiot runs off with his tail between his legs, with wet shoes and a dry tongue, unable to sit or stand. 

Setting the sodas on the table with a wide grin, Jorah lounges back for the first time, guard settled, plucking a new little ship between his fingers. 

“Fuck Go-Fish, bro, I’m stretched and hydrated now, your fleets gonna sink.”

Cobi’s face beams and then frowns a little, glancing back towards the exit, the crinkle in his face making Jorah’s stomach sour again. “Man…I hope Morja didn’t feel left out. I don’t want him to be lonely.”

Jorah flicks another ship at Cobi, drawing another sqwuak. His shoulders are down flat now, hackles soothed. The mosquito has fucked off and the room is cool and calm again.

“Aw, big softie. Get your head in the game or I’m gonna sink your battleship. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

He deserves it. 

~ 

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @whump-tr0pes @haro-whumps @whumpthisway

@whumping-every-day @stoic-whumpee @whumpzone @straight-to-the-pain @redwingedwhump

@wolfeyedwitch @suspicious-whumping-egg @liliability @whumpster-draganies @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight

@tears-and-lilies @whump-me-all-night-long @scoundrelwithboba

I hope you enjoyed this little snippet cause i was so so excited to write something new again!! 🥰🥰🥰 have a very merry @whumpmasinjuly 💖

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

[greensimp]

Hey, a friend of mine linked your glasses fanfic with Gyutaro.

I'm wondering if you could do a fanfic with Gyutaro with a AFAB who has body image issues? I don't really like my body that much, feeling like aspects of it are Frankensteined together with my skin having a couple of blemishes and feeling its not the best or "clearest". Doesn't help when my father makes a lot of comments about me being too thin and should eat more, yet being thin is something a lot of girls want.

Sorry if it got a lil personal, but someone who's also near-sighted, that fanfic made me a lil happy to read it knowing my younger self would have liked that.

I definitely feel you, as someone littered with eczema sores and practically snowing from the scalp with psoriasis. I think Gyutaro would be the most understanding of all our insecurities (and let’s be honest he could probably one-up everyone on here)

I’ll try to be as vague as possible with any identifiers for the reader other than they’re AFAB. This includes any specific insecurities such as being over/underweight, skin issues, height, breast size, etc. (if I get requested to do a specific one like I did the near-sighted reader, I will do it tho)

Canon!Gyutaro x Insecure!AFAB!Reader

He’d see you picking yourself apart in the mirror one night, a strange sense of deja-vu washing over him.

He doesn’t remember, since his memories are repressed, but he’d do a similar song and dance with his reflection in a puddle or lake when he was a human. At least, until he discovered he had a talent for fighting and intimidating people. Before his sister became the epicenter of his life.

He’d become angry for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

You’d tried hard not to let Gyutaro see you this upset or down about your body, but this night in particular he hadn’t announced his arrival at your house like he usually did. In fact, he had wanted to surprise you with your favorite snack and the Kimono you had been looking at in the stores but could never afford. (Let’s just say he “borrowed it without permission”)

“What’re ya doing?” He’d growl at you, making you jump to cover yourself with your blanket and stare at him with a tear-stained face.

Normally the sight of you crying would have him rushing to comfort you, but something was different this time.

Repressed feelings of inadequacy and shame were scratching at the recesses of his memories, tugging at his chest like chains.

The feeling of being a pathetic worm with no one to love him and no one to love.

He hated it, and he’d hate to see it in your eyes.

It was like a disease.

And the cold truth was that it didn’t stop with him.

“I-I um-“ You’d be stumbling for words, mortified that he’d seen your naked body for the first time like this. You’d be trying too hard not to burst into tears to see the nasty scowl he’d be giving you.

“You what? You were just looking at yourself like that for fun? Huh?!”

Your breath would hitch at his harsh tone. Was he upset with you? What had you done?

“What do you mean?!” You’d cry out, but that would only make him angrier. To him, you’re hiding from the problem. You’ve been hiding a part of yourself you shouldn’t have.

You’re being pathetic. Just like he used to be.

“Disgraceful! Disgraceful!”

He’d bring his hand up to his face and scratch it till he bled, leaving you more confused. You’d never seen him so distressed and this self-destructive. It was like seeing you triggered some sort of traumatic response from within himself.

You just stare as your beautiful demon boyfriend shreds his skin to pieces, only for it to immediately heal as if it never happened.

He wouldn’t know to figure it out himself, but he would feel like he failed you. That’s why he’s so angry. He’s not mad at you. He’s projecting his feelings onto you. He thought he made you feel beautiful and loved as he never had. He thought you knew that.

But you’d catch on. At least, you’d recognize that he was about to break down.

Out of sheer love and affection for your sweet upper moon, you’d jump from your blankets and run to him, gripping his arms to stop his assault on himself.

You’d just stand there, in the nude, no longer caring about how your body looked to him. All you would want was for him to stop.

When he’d finally catch your determined stare with his own, frantic eyes, he’d falter and begin to shake.

It would be evident that he was on the verge of crying by how glossy his eyes would get.

You’d bring your hands up to his face to cup his cheeks and he’d gently grip your wrists.

“Why?” He’d croak out.

You wouldn’t exactly know what he was asking about.

I would be a question of multiple answers, though.

Why would you think you’re not worthy for him when he looks how he does?

Why would you think he wouldn’t love how you look?

How could you have such little faith in him?

You wouldn’t know how to respond, but you’d feel a twinge of guilt all the same.

You’d bring your hands back to yourself, hugging your body and trying not to cry yourself.

“Don’t hide. Please.”

He’d pry your arms from over your breasts and place his hands on your sides, crouching a bit to touch his forehead to yours.

You’d sniffle, maybe struggle a bit, but he’d just snake his arms around your waist and hold you tight.

“M’sorry I yelled at you. M’so sorry.”

His voice wobbled enough to the point where you could struggle anymore. You just let him hold you and show you how much he appreciates you through his gestures of rubbing your back and playing with your hair.

Every stroke, every touch was as if he were saying “let me love you how you love me.”

And yes, he would think you were beautiful. He wouldn’t understand how you’d think he was, considering how unfortunate he looks compared to conventional beauty standards.

He’d want you to know how much he loves your body every day from this moment onward.

He’d never let you forget that you have one of the most powerful demons on the planet admiring you from the shadows. He’d be there, even if you couldn’t see him.

And that demon’s name is Gyutaro.

[miserymerci]

Fluffy February Day 7: Recovery - Some Assembly Required

@ // fluffyfebruary

Fandom: Lego Monkie Kid

Characters: MK and Sun Wukong, Sunburst duo

(Father-son, mentor-apprentice relationship, sick Sun Wukong)

Summary: Set during “The Emperor’s Wrath”, after Azure’s defeat but before the beach scene. In the wake of their win, the Monkie Kids are free to drag their sore bodies home for some much-deserved rest. For Wukong, it takes the form of sleep. For MK, it takes the form of something else entirely.

Sun Wukong needed to eat because he got hungry, groom because he got fleas, and sleep because he got tired. Though age would never kill him, his body still lived ; he bled and he breathed and, yeah , he did scramble together a nest with leaves and stray cloth and fall face-first into a deep slumber right after the battle.

At the time, everyone else had had the same idea. Everyone went home to tend wounds and sleep the aches away.

So Sun Wukong slept. And he slept. And slept.

Eventually, someone shook him awake.

They were saying something. Though it was muffled to Wukong, it was a kind, familiar thing that did nothing but warm him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he wanted to ask MK, but the sun was too bright in his now-destroyed not-cavern, and he shut his eyes firmly. Blindly, he lifted one lazy hand up, made an ushering motion, and let it drop down to his side.

Wukong heard MK settle somewhere close by. In the next moment, he drifted back to a dreamless slumber.

The next time Wukong woke up, it was of his own accord. He blinked up at the starry sky on a day he did not yet know the name of (and was not yet eager to find out). Part of him hoped that not too many days had passed yet. He wanted to sleep for much longer, and he wanted to do so without worrying if his new friends had succumbed to their own age.

But Wukong reached out in the dark and found MK’s shoulder, and he shut his eyes once more.

“–fficient way of teaching multiplication.”

Wukong blinked. The sky stretched with orange and pink colors, like a watercolor painting that was only halfway through drying.

“No … don’t think … the way I learned it. Wait, where did the twenty come from? That’s not– there’s no ‘two’ anywhere in this equation.”

“Kid,” said Wukong, “ what are you doing?”

The sky was eclipsed by MK’s not-moon and not-sun face.

“Monkey King!” he said, all smiles and nervous energy. “Are you okay?”

“I’d like to go back to sleep,” he said.

“Yeah,” said MK, “but maybe eat something first?”

Wukong looked past MK toward one of his monkeys, who kindly offered him a peach that didn’t look quite ripe yet.

“Thanks bud,” he said. He reached over as far as he could (not very far) and patted the monkey on the head. With a slow movement, he took the peach and let it rest in MK’s hands instead, “but I’m not very hungry right now. Another time?”

Something passed through MK’s face: some sort of disappointment, maybe surprise, but most definitely something that gnawed at Wukong’s insides.

“Okay,” said MK. He sat back on his heels and looked down at the peach.

On one chilly night, Wukong found himself snuggled up in a fuzzy blanket with an armful of kid.

A little star– no, a little reading light– glowed in the darkness. A pencil glided across paper, strokes careful and lazy all at once, as if the lines were in sync with how MK breathed or blinked or smiled. They were easy like that. Practiced– natural, even. Like it was the easiest thing in the world right now.

“How are you drawing like that?” whispered Wukong.

The head that was nested on his arm tilted up.

“It’s not very comfortable,” he admitted, smilingly. He sniffled, tried to wiggle into a less spine-breaking position, and titled the sketchbook for Wukong to see.

“You’re drawing me,” said Wukong. He scanned the page filled with those easy lines. “I look awesome. And cheeky.”

MK tucked the notebook face-down into his chest and stared at Wukong. It was like a child caught with something they shouldn’t have– not shyness, but shame. MK didn’t say anything, but Wukong stared right back and smiled.

“Not very awesome and cheeky now, am I?” asked Wukong, trying to read his thoughts.

“You still are ,” argued MK, “just taking a break.”

“A long break. I’m exhausted, bud. I feel like a ping pong ball– or, well– the ones with the strings. You know?”

“Tennis?”

“What– no. It’s like… the ones that come back.”

“Boomerang!”

“Stop guessing. Go away.”

MK snorted, and even though Wukong didn’t mean what he had said, MK unstuck himself from his mentor’s side and sat up.

“I got you water,” said MK, twisting around. He shoved away a pillow that wasn’t there before and then ruffled around in a pool of blankets. “I’m not sure if you’ve got thirst immortality or something, but I figured: ‘hey, wouldn’t hurt. Water’s great. It’s for everyone.’ Nothing can go wrong with water– except for drowning. But you can’t do that, so… drink?”

Wukong blinked drowsily.

“It’s only been a week,” said MK once Wukong took the bottle. At Wukong’s look he added: “since the battle. If you wanted to know.”

Wukong swallowed. He had wondered, but now that he knew, he admitted that it definitely wasn’t as long as he thought. Maybe he could sleep for another ten weeks. That would do it.

He took another long drink of water. The coolness of it soothed the burning in his throat and brought some consciousness back to his body.

“Where is everyone?” he asked.

“Asleep,” said MK, quickly as if he had been waiting to say something. “Not asleep-asleep– but mostly asleep. Pigsy hasn’t opened up the shop since, Tang’s never even left his apartment, Sandy hasn’t invited me to any yoga sessions, and Mei’s phone is either on silent or she’s sleeping through all of the alarms– she’s a deep sleeper. It’s just… quiet. Everyone’s taking a breather, but it’s quiet .”

“It’s for the best, kiddo. It’s not like we went strolling in a flower field. We need this.”

MK tsked and turned his head off to the side.

“I know, I know. It’s not like I’m judging. Trouble’s been clear from Megapolis, I have time to kick back, and nobody’s being killed. It’s great. I really love it. I do!”

“MK…” said Wukong.

MK tapped his palms against his knees and faced Wukong again.

“I have food,” he said, “in my backpack. Oh , and snacks ! Fruit, even…! If you’re hungry.”

Wukong frowned. In the dark, the only light that graced them was the stars and moon above and that little reading light clipped to the sketchbook. It fuzzed across MK’s face and illuminated something that Wukong desperately wanted to understand.

“Yeah, I’ll eat something,” he said, not actually having any appetite, “what did you get?”

For the first time in a week, Wukong sat up. There wasn’t a dramatic moment of clarity or any call to action, and he didn’t stretch as if he had just had the greatest sleep of his life. (Because really, it was more on the same level as blacking out into nothingness and then waking up somewhere else in the span of one second).

Wukong sat up and huddled the blanket around himself like an old lady. Only when he was halfway into the custard bun he had picked from MK’s snack hoard and five pages into MK’s sketchbook did he say anything.

“I need to rest more,” said Wukong, opting to continue staring at MK’s little drawing of Mo. Mo was a little less out of practice than the drawings of Monkey King– the lines a little scratchier, a little heavier. He felt MK shift beside him. “I don’t feel too hot, bud. Maybe it’ll be another week or two until I’m– we’re– ready again.”

“I get it,” said MK. His tone rang with something kind like water yet mournful like rain. “Do you need anything, Monkey King?”

Wukong frowned.

There was plenty for them to explore. MK’s new identity, for one. Who gave Azure the Scroll of Memory, for another. Neither of those things would go away any time soon. One of the two, at least, Wukong didn’t mind to help explore.

“Time,” said Wukong, finally. “To rest my body and my mind. Do you need anything, bud?”

MK’s brows pinched. It was a funny thing that was comforting to know would never change. MK reached over across his lap and clicked the little reading light off, allowing the night to consume him.

“Not really,” he said. Wukong could hear him zip up his bag and reposition his blanket.

Wukong blinked against the darkness, the cogs trying to turn in his head.

“Well… what is it?” he asked.

“What?” said MK somewhere in the dark.

“You said ‘not really’, which implies there’s something , just a little bit of it. Consider myself a curious monkey.”

“It’s just… a thing you say. It’s modern, so you’re probably too old to know that.”

MK laughed, and Wukong tried to humor him with a smile that he couldn’t see.

“Uhh, disrespectful much? I’m more modern than you think,” said Wukong. It was harder to read MK now that the light had turned off. Still, MK huffed with what Wukong thought might have been another laugh. “You know you can stay, right? If you want.”

A shuffle, but nothing else. Maybe it was MK’s way of accepting it; just as quietly, blending into the cool tone of the night. Wukong didn’t really know. Yet, MK stayed where he was, sitting by Wukong’s side in the dead of a cold night– maybe watching him, maybe watching their surroundings, maybe watching nothing at all.

Wukong shut his eyes. His tail, in his body’s stillness, continued to coil this way and that against the soft blanket. For a moment, they were quiet. The wind hummed through Flower Fruit Mountain and whispered a lulling tune to aching muscles and buzzing heads. Those who listened too closely let their conscious lilt up and up with the wind.

Wukong felt the warm, fuzzy embrace of sleep grabbing hold of his shoulders.

“Really?” said MK, minutes later.

“…Hnn?”

“I can stay?”

Something lazy came out of Wukong’s mouth: not really a yes, but not really a no– because MK couldn’t speak tired monkey fluently yet, and Wukong wasn’t in any condition to be able to clarify.

On that seventh night, Wukong continued to sleep.

On the Eighth day, Wukong woke up to no MK. The blanket he had used was folded neatly some distance away and was being occupied by a trio of sleepy monkeys and one backpack.

Later that night, his kid was here again.

“You’re late,” Wukong tried to joke even as his vision fuzzed. It warbled and shook until he could see MK looking down at him. MK’s focused lines between his eyebrows ceased, and he pulled back what looked like a rag from Wukong’s forehead.

“I am?” asked MK, either genuinely worried or horrendously distracted.

Wukong blinked at him, frowned, and then saw black.

“It was a joke,” said Wukong a few hours later to absolutely nothing.

.

.

.

“…What?” came a quiet response.

“ Oh thank you Buddha– where are you, bud?”

That little reading light clicked on, and Wukong carefully tilted his head off to the side where MK was rubbing at his eyes. The boy– the poor thing– looked like he had just been rattled from his own slumber.

“What?” MK echoed.

“…Do you have any water?”

MK blinked very slowly. Wukong imagined a little loading icon spinning just above his head. He turned and zipped open his bag. Quickly, Wukong found himself with a water bottle in his hands.

“Thank you,” he said and took a drink.

Wukong watched MK from the corner of his eye. His successor sat quietly beside him, eyes closed and breathing steady. They were both underneath the stars again. In all honesty, Wukong thought it fit MK the best: the stars.

But MK was silent now. He opened his eyes, and they made eye contact within the dark.

“Are you okay?” croaked Wukong.

MK smiled at him and shrugged.

“I’m sorry I was gone earlier. I was with Pigsy— he’s starting to feel better. I made him some noodles and helped him with some utility bills that he missed last week. Tang was there too. But then I got a call back from Mei, and I stopped at the gas station for some snacks and pads, dropped them off, tried checking on Sandy… but he’s trying this new meditation thing and I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“Sounds like a busy day,” said Wukong, passing back the water.

MK shrugged again. Maybe it was out of Wukong’s own exhaustion, but MK looked like Wukong had been dragged off a cliff with the way he was looking at him.

“It was,” said MK.

Wukong heard the clacking of plastic against plastic, and he quickly opened his eyes (when had they closed?) to see MK pouring some orange serum into a little cap.

“What’s that?”

“Um,” said MK, peering at the stuff, “medicine.”

“…For you?”

MK looked away from it and blinked over at Wukong. Heis face was carefully blank, like he was trying to be innocent, but something was stopping him from doing so completely.

“It’s for you, Monkey King,” he said. “You have a fever.”

“I do not ,” said Wukong immediately, shooting up to sit. His head spun with the movement and he found himself back down on the ground not even a moment later.

“You definitely do,” said MK.

MK scooted closer to his dizzy mentor and offered him the medicine cap.

“I know you’re a stone monkey, but I think you should give it a chance. Before you pass out again– that was a little scary. Try not to do that next time.”

“I’ll be sure to give you a heads up the next time I do,” said Wukong, trying to be sarcastic but sounding way too confused to really drive home his point. “But I’m not going to drink that.”

MK frowned, clutched the medicine tighter, and accepted the challenge.

For the first two days, Wukong was stubbornly set on not being sick.

MK, the sweet kid he was, never gave up on him (not like he ever had before). He came every day or night, dawn or dusk, with medicine and cool water and food .

“Pigsy helped me make this one,” said MK on the second day. “It’s a vegetable broth.”

“Is Pigsy bothered that you’re here?” Wukong had asked, sipping the soup. The flavors were warm and hearty, but were easy on his tongue; and easy on his stomach. MK had gone on a long tangent about the foods that Pigsy had allowed him to eat when he was sick. Wukong had taken a mental note for potential later use.

“Not really. Shop’s only taking pick-up orders right now, so I’m off duty,” said MK.

“That’s not what I meant.”

MK paused in his sketching and looked over at Wukong. The gleam in his eyes twinkled and he frowned, nose scrunching in concentration.

“…Don’t you need rest, MK?”

The boy’s mouth formed into a quiet ‘oh’ and shook his head. His eyes darted to his lap. There, he began to pick at his nails, but there wasn’t much to pick in the first place.

“He doesn’t mind,” said MK, eventually, but struggled to elaborate. He released a breath and shrugged. “And I don’t mind either.”

There was the sound of water dribbling. In Wukong’s now-quiet haze, MK returned to cooling down his fever with his wet rag.

The three days after that was much better, in Wukong’s opinion.

He slept less, could move more, and finally— finally — he could stop drinking that rancid medicine. (It said it was ‘cherry’ flavored. Wukong almost had the desire to contact his lawyer for the first time in two decades just to sue whoever lied about that ).

Most importantly, MK was a lot happier about it, too.

“Feeling cheeky, yet?” his successor asked with an innocent tilt of his head. His smile, however, told a different tale.

“Almost,” said Wukong, taking the last bite of a peach. “I might be a bit out of practice.”

“That’s okay— I’m up for anything. Give me anything . I mean, I’ve been doing some practices with Macaque here and there but—!”

Wukong spun his head to him and blinked.

MK grinned and then said, “—bbbbuut huh? What? What did..? Ahem . Crazy, I don’t remember what came out of my mouth. Brussel sprouts?”

“Ah— no thanks bud,” Wukong was sick of kale, brussel sprouts, and bok choy right now. “We can do anything you’d like. I’m sure I’ll be up for it tomorrow.”

Wukong watched the way MK perked up.

“You really think so?” asked MK, mid-chew, sounding more like: ‘phu philly phink pho?’

“Let’s be honest, kiddo,” said Wukong. He took a deep breath, stepped over to MK, and then sat down in front of him on his knees. “You’ve spent this entire time looking after all of us— this entire time looking after me . That… shouldn’t have been your job in the first place. It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” said MK, even though Wukong could tell he struck some sort of nerve in the kid. His voice warbled and his eyes had gone big and vulnerable.

Wukong squinted his eyes, trying to really look over MK under the bright light of the sun. The bright, clear clarity of day exposed MK in a way that the night could not. MK belonged most with the stars in the sky. While being out in the sun was out of his nature, it helped Wukong, and the gears in his head finally clicked and whirled to life.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said, reaching out and grabbing MK’s arm.

MK stared widely back. The tips of his mouth threatened to quiver down, and those worried lines began to form again between his brows.

“Well,” said MK with a weak laugh, “I’d hope not.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Wukong.

“Hahah… seriously, Monkey King—.”

“I’m not going.”

“I know that—.”

“I’m here for you. We all are,” MK paused at that, so Wukong carefully continued, “so thank you for taking care of us when we needed it. Let me help you.”

“But,” choked MK, “I don’t need help with anything . It’s why I’m here helping you, and helping Pigsy, and Tang, and Mei and Sandy…”

MK trailed off, gaze dropping down to the floor. Even the stone below was bright and glowy with sunlight.

Wukong leaned forward. His other arm, recovered almost to full strength, curled around MK’s back and pulled him into a tight hug.

“How do you want to recover, bud?” he asked.

MK shifted in the embrace and buried his face into Wukong’s shoulder. His hands, callused by battles, settled at Wukong’s shoulder blades.

“With time,” said MK, “when it passes with you guys.”

Wukong swallowed. Okay, that was a little heartbreaking. MK had wanted support and friendship and love throughout the past two weeks; something that had been, honestly, difficult to give recently. Now, however, Wukong held him closer.

"I'm sorry, bud," he said, but then realized that he may have said that too many times over the past few months, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Thank you for holding through. How about, after we're all a-okay again, we go have a nice day on the beach. All of us."

MK snorted against his shoulder.

"All of us?" MK asked quietly, cheekily.

"Ugh," said Wukong. "except him."

MK's next laugh was muffled, but Wukong could already see his kid's next scheme brewing.

A few days later, watching Macaque slink up beside him, Wukong wasn't completely happy knowing his hunch had been correct.

[thatoneluckybee]

Tips for Writing Characters with Trichotillomania

- Someone with trichotillomania (hair-pulling disorder!)

I’m really glad that people are starting to realize that BFRBs actually exist! And with that, I’m happy that this means it’s not JUST me headcanoning characters to have BFRBS or CREATING characters with BFRBs. HOWEVER. With this, it is important that these disorders are represented well. I have trichotillomania myself, so here’s a list of things that I look for in characters and when making my own, and tips for accurately portraying a BFRB!

This is focusing on trichotillomania as I have it. I might make some on other BFRBs but I’ll have to do a lot of research and talk to people or read accounts of people WITH the specific BFRB. (I pull my hair and bite my nails, so I cannot about other BFRBs I don’t have off the top of my head.)

What IS a BFRB?

BFRB stands for “body-focused repetitive behavior.” BFRBs are a group of disorders listed in the DSM-5 under “Obsessive-Compulsive and RELATED Disorders.” BFRBs are NOT OCD. They are closely related, but are DIFFERENT things! A BFRB is defined by bfrb.org as a “repetitive self-grooming behavior…that can lead to physical damage to the body and have been met with multiple attempts to stop or decrease the behavior” and WebMD as “intense urges…that can cause damage.” (A BFRB is NOT the same as self-harm!!!!) In short, a BFRB is a behavior or habit that hurts you and is nearly impossible to stop or control. The easiest way I’ve found to describe it is like pressure. Next time you have an itch, try not to scratch it. It’s difficult! It feels like a pressure building up. Now, imagine that “itch” is really the INTENSE urge to pull out your hair, pick at your skin, bite at your lips, and the like. THAT is a BFRB.

What about Trichotillomania (or Trich)?

There are two main types of hair-pulling: FOCUSED and AUTOMATIC. Oftentimes, people’s trich does not neatly fit into one category. One trichster can engage in both (like me!) or it could depend on the location of the hair on your body. Focused means you are AWARE that you are pulling when you pull. AUTOMATIC means you are NOT AWARE that you are pulling.

Secondly, trichotillomania DOES NOT DISCRIMINATE. People can pull from ANYWHERE and EVERYWHERE. Oftentimes people who mention trichotillomania only consider pulling from your scalp. But we, as human beings, are mammals. There is hair everywhere. Other common places include eyebrows, eyelashes, the pubic region, underarms, arms, and legs. But if there is hair at ALL, trichotillomania can cause you to pull it. Some people have specific locations they pull from, and not EVERYONE pulls from EVERYWHERE! (For example, my scalp was never an issue until this past year, and I have had this BFRB for several years. It began with my lashes, then progressed to my legs and brows. I pretty much have trich for everywhere now. Yay.)

ONTO THE TIPS

For many, trich can be a self-soothing behavior. If a character has trichotillomania, they may gravitate towards their hair when they are startled or under stress, even if they are not pulling. An example of this could be a character running their fingers through their hair when anxious, or running their fingers over their eyebrows when frustrated.

A BFRB is not something to be ashamed of. However, there is a LOT of stigma around them. Many trichsters WILL attempt to hide their BFRB from people, especially strangers. Even the most kind-hearted, honest cinnamon roll may lie to a loved one about why their hair is thinning or why their arms are sore. Some common ways of this are wearing hats or styling one’s hair a certain way, wearing pants and long sleeves, or avoid hairdressers and doctors.

IT HURTS. There is often PHYSICAL PAIN that accompanies trichotillomania! What inspired me to write this post was quite literally me being grumpy because I was having to hold a towel to my arm because I dug too deep trying to get an ingrown hair and it bled more than expected. Pulling, especially if it’s from sensitive areas of your body like your nose, pubic region, fingers, feet, eyelashes, etc. where there are many nerves, can HURT. There will likely be red, bumpy skin. There may be blood. There may be scars.

There is going to be hair everywhere and yes it is annoying and no it’s not stopping anytime soon. Vacuums will clog. You will get hair stuck to the soles of your feet when you take off your socks. It’s gonna be everywhere.

Some people will chew on or eat the hair. This is known as trichophagia. I do not know much about trichophagia as I do not have it myself. However, I DO know that people with this can experience issues like stomachaches, indigestion, and the like. That’s okay. That’s normal.

You cannot love someone’s trichotillomania away. Please, please, please do not do this. You can help someone if they want it, you can love them, you can try, BUT THIS IS A DISORDER. It is NOT a choice. It is not something a character needs to “try more” with. I see a lot of posts under the trichotillomania tag here on Tumblr that are excerpts of fics. 99% of the time, it’s Person A forcibly stopping Person B from pulling and begging them to stop “for them.” I am not saying there is something inherently malicious about these! But someone cannot just stop “for you.” I’m sorry. It’s still a disorder. Please avoid the “stop for me!” trope if possible, or at the very least avoid this being the “cure-all” for a character’s BFRB.

These disorders are so widely misunderstood and underrepresented. There is a lot of misinformation. Please do not shy away from creating characters with a BFRB, in fact I highly encourage it! But pleasepleaseplease do some research beforehand and listen to people with these disorders. Good luck!

[undiscovered-horizon]

Hi! Can I request a morpheus x reader where Dream reads to his s/o until she falls asleep, cause he knows she loves his voice and since she's been away from the dreaming for awhile, he misses her? Thank you

I had so much fun writing this, thank you!!🌺The poem is "Rondel of Merciless Beauty" by Geoffrey Chaucer

[Sandman-inspired playlist] || [MASTERLIST] || 🫀REQUESTS ARE OPEN🫀

In some sense, he is being held hostage. With your head on his chest and an arm around his torso, there is no way Morpheus could simply slip away like an autumn leaf drifting on the cold breeze. Of course, those details would be important if there was even a speck of will in him to get away from this entanglement of limbs. That, however, remains inexistent. For the first time in his exceptionally long life, he is enjoying confinement.

Of course, he noticed you have been gone from Dreaming for quite a while. He tends to keep a little too much to himself to openly admit that he misses you or, perhaps, he's being very human in his fear of love turning bitter and sour like a mouthful of old blood. But Morpheus is a king of dreams, not hearts, and that means his affections shall flourish whether he wants them to or not like a defiant vine of wildflowers. 'What could be keeping you up at night?', he wondered and so he embarked on a journey to the Waking World only to find you lying restlessly in your bed. 'You need to rest', he kept saying as though part of him naively hoped you'd finally read between the lines of his half-truths and fulfil his desperate yearning for your company. But even if you did have such power, it wouldn't change much - you would still find it quite impossible to fall asleep. All of those little things, trembling hearts and unspoken confessions, brought you to this flustering moment of intimacy as Morpheus is reading a volume of poetry to you:

Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.

His voice is low, somewhat strict-sounding in its huskiness but it doesn't deplete the romanticism of the words he's reading, quite the contrary - they appear all the more raw and sincere. A brighter voice speaking of devotion, praising the love that brought the man to his knees, might appear a little too honeyed to be considered completely inconspicuous. Arsenic, after all, is said to taste sweet.

Morpheus was also once serene - up until the moment he met you. Ever since there seemed to be a ghost haunting his thoughts, a strange sensation that got a hold of him and refuses to let go. Whenever he leaves his thoughts unattended, they quickly take on your shape as though that was their natural state. From a man serene, Morpheus became a man tormented in the sweetest way a mind could be imprisoned like a planet that keeps circling the same sun, running along its unchanged orbit.

With your head lying on his chest, you can feel his voice rumbling underneath his ribs mere seconds before he reads another few words as though those borrowed confessions of world-shattering love do not come from a silver-coated tongue but Dream's very viscera or a dark depth of his old soul that he is yet to uncover; perhaps he is pouring his own yearning into words that do not belong to him. Maybe this is why people love poetry so much - they see their own reflection and hear their own voice between words their hands did not write. Morpheus reads on:

Only your word will heal the injury To my hurt heart, while yet the wound is clean - Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene.

What a wonderful thought it truly is: that one word from you, a mere sigh perhaps, can mend wounds hiding behind his collected demeanour; scars that haven't bled in a long time but were still sore to the touch. And if it was true, if your blessing could seal the festering tears behind his ribs, would you not become part of him until the end of time? Would his heartbeat not echo with yours? Would he not taste you on his tongue with every word he speaks?

Morpheus bends his neck to look at your calm expression. He was a creature of no true shape, the lord of dreams as well as nightmares, the only entity to ever know the horrors and marvels of human thoughts - but he was also home; a beast of sharp teeth that chooses to lick instead of bite. A decision to be vulnerable, is this courage?

"Don't stop," you whisper in a barely audible, tired voice. And he dares not:

Upon my word, I tell you faithfully Through life and after death you are my queen; For with my death the whole truth shall be seen. Your two great eyes will slay me suddenly; Their beauty shakes me who was once serene; Straight through my heart the wound is quick and keen.

Your breaths are shallow and rhythmic - you're finally asleep, there's no doubt about that. Morpheus closes the volume and puts it away. His other hand firmly grabs your shoulder, ready to gently push your body off him and let you sleep, but the weight of your head on his chest and the way your arm tightly embraces him makes Morpheus strangely reluctant to take any action. This intimacy, serenity... it feels like a memory of a carefree summer day; an afternoon of lush, red strawberries eaten in the shade of a big tree and washed down with cold, sour lemonade - a memory of a summer that will never happen again, a day in July painted in the most luscious colours of nostalgia and child laughter. Perhaps, he could stay like this for a minute or two...

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Post-Surgery Day 12

CW: medical stuff.

I hate this binder so much.

- My back is covered in acne in the precise shape of my binder. It's gross and sore. I've purchased some cotton shirts to wear between my skin and the binder, which was a solution from r/ftm.

- The top of my chest and under my arms are raw. My partner and I traced this problem to the remaining glue from the surgery wrap thing that I had to wear for the first week. Normal showers do not remove this shit... We had to use the "sticky stuff remover" we use on electronics and plastics to remove those shitty sticky labels shops put on them.

- Incisions are healing well. One bled a tiny bit while I was removing tape, but otherwise, nice and clean. I also did not experience a plummet in blood pressure this time...

- One nipple bled. I panicked briefly because of all the fear that the fucking things are just gonna drop off. But it's ok. Apparently they can do that for up to three weeks after? And there is also evidence of fully healed nip under there.

- I'm moving more. Or trying to. But I still can't lift, reach, dance. I never realised how mobile I am as a person usually... I thought I was a potato.

- The bloating and swelling is way, way down and my dysmorphia is under control. It'll only be fully quiet again once I'm back in the gym... 1st March, c'moooon.

I'm generally quite uncomfortable in the binder, but I know it's not forever, and I know it's important to maintain the masculinisation of my chest this early on. But fucking hell is it keeping me at the brink of sensory overload. I'm gonna treat myself to a few hours without it every evening, I think. Just to breathe.

[voraciousvore]

The Half-Blood Giant (33/51)

***Contains soft, safe, willing vore***

Chapter 33: Unrequited Love

Hunter dreamed about Hannah during the night. He was floating in the night sky, amongst stars and cosmic dust, with sweet little Hannah cradled against his chest. He brought her up to his face and gave her a small kiss. His heart sang when she reciprocated, her tiny lips contacting his own upper lip. He nuzzled and nibbled her until he found himself caressing her with his tongue. She tasted as lovely as she smelled, almost like a wild blueberry. He licked her all over like a lollipop until he couldn’t resist pulling her entirely into his mouth. He rolled her around on his tongue, feeling every curve of her body and savoring her flavor as she soaked in his saliva. She was perfectly willing as she rubbed herself against his tongue and ran her petite hands along his teeth, gums, and palate, exploring every inch of his mouth from the inside. His senses—taste, smell, feel—were highly stimulated, overflowing with luxurious pleasure. When she was ready, and his stomach begged for relief, he finally swallowed her whole. He dissolved into sensual bliss as her tiny body slid down his throat and settled into his stomach. For once, he didn’t feel so unwanted, so empty inside. He was wonderfully full, in both body and soul. 

Alas, the lovely feeling was not destined to last. Hunter woke up famished and sore. The juxtaposition between his self-indulgent, voluptuous fantasy of a dream and abhorrent reality left him cranky and bitter. He stretched out the kinks in his muscles and went to put on his uniform. He had grown again, several more feet. His ankles and wrists stuck out from cuffs too short to cover them properly, and the green fabric was stretched taut across his chest, belly, and waist. He adjusted the uncomfortable outfit as best he could and prepared for his day. 

He could barely tolerate his hunger as he trudged to the cafeteria. His dream was still fresh in his mind. He observed the tiny humans riding their bikes with obsessive focus. With some disquiet, he recalled his father engaging in the same exact behavior when he visited the school. He understood now, all too well. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to hold himself back indefinitely without cracking under the pressure. It was unnatural for him to deny himself his rightful prey.  

The giants of this realm really were quite different from him, in appearance and behavior. They didn’t seem to suffer from the same intense cravings that he did, as far as he could tell. He felt too large and awkward, with everyone so much shorter and less brawny than him, as he piled up his tray with breakfast foods, particularly meat. More and more, the other students avoided him.  

Hunter caught a glimpse of Hannah and Hector in the human section. He considered, briefly, coming over to say hi, but discarded the idea immediately. He would terrify the other humans, and he had a hunch that Hannah would not be too happy to see him, based on her behavior the prior day. As he watched Hector wrap his arm around her waist and pull her in close, a new emotion bled into his heart, dark and brutal. He was jealous. He wanted to be the one to hold Hannah, not Hector. 

He couldn’t ignore his budding feelings any longer. He was forced to acknowledge the unsavory truth: He was falling for a human. He supposed it made sense, since he was part human, that these emotions would arise in him, but he was still disgusted with himself. He was just as bad as his father, but Chester had no excuse as a pure-blooded giant. Hunter, yet again, found himself cursing his tainted bloodline. To have feelings for a human was despicable and unforgivable. 

He attempted to crush those feelings into dust as he angrily munched on his chicken and waffles, and then went to class, but he couldn’t get Hannah out of his mind. She was his first crush, and his fresh new infatuation burned bright as a star for her. Hunter had never experienced romantic love before, in his social isolation, nor the pain of unrequited love. He had not yet learned how to temper or restrain his newfound passion. He was underdeveloped in the department of emotional control, and Hannah was going to destroy him in his weakness, through no fault of her own. The developmental delay made his love all the more poignant, enhancing the inevitable suffering that would follow. 

Hunter groaned internally when he saw Principal Henderson enter the class and make his way toward him. “Hunter, I need to see you in my office again,” he informed the unruly giant teenager. With a huff, Hunter got up to follow him to his office. Both giants remained silent the whole way. Milton noted that Hunter was now at least five feet taller than him, and it had only been a day. He wondered, with significant concern, how much more the boy would grow, when he was already having so many behavioral issues. Having an oversized troubled kid at a mixed school was a recipe for disaster. 

Hunter sat down in Milton’s office, hunching over in his chair. The principal settled in on the other side of the desk and rubbed his temples with a sigh. “I’m sure you know why you’re here.” Hunter crossed his arms defensively and averted his eyes, but didn’t reply. Despite his dramatic increase in size, he felt small and shameful before the principal. 

“I’ll relate to you what I was told, but I want to hear your side of the story,” Milton continued. “The PE teacher and your fellow students claim that you refused to participate, injured another student, and then ditched class.” As Milton related these accusations, Hunter sank lower in his chair but kept his mouth stubbornly sealed, refusing to talk or meet his eyes. Milton sighed at his silence and gave him a mildly exasperated look. 

“Hunter. I want to know what you were thinking. What really happened? What was your reasoning?” His tone was gentle and sympathetic. Hunter finally glanced up. 

“I didn’t know how to play,” he mumbled. “It wasn’t like I was trying to cause trouble. But… I’ve never played any sports before. Where I’m from… I couldn’t.” 

Milton raised his eyebrows, then slowly nodded with understanding. “I see.” 

“And… the coach yelled at me, accused me of lying. And then all the students were berating me. I got upset. So I lost my temper and threw the ball at one of the students. When I realized that I had hurt him… I didn’t know what to do. I was overwhelmed. So I ran away.” Hunter hung his head. 

Milton processed this information, rubbing his chin. “I think I understand.” He sighed. “Now, Hunter. I still have to discipline you, so you’re going to have detention after school today.” Hunter didn’t react much to the news; he expected as much. “I know you were distressed in the moment. I can see how that was a difficult situation for you to be in. Yet, you can’t respond with violence. You need to learn to control your temper. Do you agree?” 

There was a pause. “Yeah, I guess,” Hunter conceded begrudgingly. He had to admit that the principal had a point and was being fair to him. 

“I’ll talk with the PE teacher and explain the situation to him. I don’t think he realized your… unique situation. Perhaps that will help.” Hunter shrugged dismissively. 

“As for you, Hunter… you have a responsibility to control yourself. If you find yourself in a situation where you are distressed or angry, or you want to hurt someone and you’re struggling to contain yourself, I want you to physically remove yourself from that situation. Come straight to me, or another adult if you don’t feel comfortable. My door is always open for you, okay?” 

“Okay,” Hunter parroted back. He looked down and picked at his sleeve, trying and failing to pull it down over his wrist. “I need new uniforms,” he remarked absently. 

“I’ll order you more,” Milton promised. “Today is Friday, so you probably won’t get them until Monday. Do you have any other concerns for me?” 

Hunter couldn’t think of anything else in the moment, so Milton dismissed him. By the time he returned to class, the period was almost over. The bell summoned him to his next class. He felt hollow inside as he walked the halls, trying to ignore the usual stares and glares and whispers. Already, his capacious belly had torn through his breakfast, and that all-too-familiar gnawing hunger was back, nipping at his innards. His mood decayed rapidly and he entered his next class with a scowl. 

He hardly made it through to lunch, since he struggled to focus when he was so hungry. He ate as much as he possibly could during the break, yet the nutrients still didn’t feel like enough. His body was like a sponge that soaked up every last drop of nourishment it came in contact with. As he demolished his plate, his sensitive nose picked up Hannah’s distinctive blueberry scent from the other side of the cafeteria, along with Hector’s more hardy scent, almost like a rich gravy. He spied the couple sitting at one of the tiny tables with their friends. He imagined grabbing the entire table and shaking it over his open mouth, dropping all the humans inside and gulping them down with a single satisfying flex of his throat. He’d save Hannah for last, perhaps. He’d eat up all her friends first, then drop her in his pocket and keep her until he was hungry again. Maybe play with her a little bit first, tease her, just for fun before he gobbled her up. 

Hunter absently rubbed his hand over his belly as he thought about what it would feel like to have living humans squirming around inside him. The gesture reminded him of his father, when he had his mother in his stomach. He was always caressing his belly so tenderly with her within, lovingly, as if the act of eating her was a form of physical intimacy. Hunter had not considered consuming humans in that way, but now he wondered, with his preoccupation with Hannah, if he could somehow make her a willing participant. With his magic, he could probably find a way to keep her alive inside him. The thought excited him, awakened his flesh far more than he anticipated. He wanted her more than anything. 

Hunter left the lunchroom to go to class. “Hey! Hunter! Over here!” a little male voice squeaked. He turned around to see a teeny speck waving at him from the floor. Hunter forgot that he shared his last class of today’s rotation with Hector. 

“Oh, it’s you.” He reached down and picked up the human teen, bike and backpack and all, and carried him in his hand. 

“Sorry I didn’t come over to say hi during breakfast or lunch,” Hector apologized. “But, uh… Hannah is deathly afraid of you. I’m not sure what’s gotten into her, considering she was willing to have lunch with you yesterday.” He shrugged. 

Hunter ruminated over his statement. Clearly, Hannah hadn’t told Hector about their meeting behind the dorm. Was she embarrassed about it? He could only speculate on the matter. “Do you think she’ll ever warm up to me?” 

“I’m working on it,” Hector answered with a friendly smile. “I think there’s hope! She just needs to become acclimated.” Hunter nodded in agreement. He regarded Hector, sitting fearlessly in his hand, oblivious to the dark rage flowing through him. The poison of jealousy still pumped through his veins when he imagined Hector hugging Hannah, holding her, kissing her, loving her… he hated every second of it. Almost enough to want to close his hand around the boy and squeeze the life out of him. 

Perhaps he could use Hector to get closer to her. Maybe, once she got to know his more gentle side, she’d grow more comfortable around him, to where she might even reciprocate his feelings. There was a chance. He just needed to play nice with Hector. With that goal in mind, he stuck his free hand in his pocket and fished out Hector’s baseball cap. 

“I forgot, I’ve had your hat since, ya know, that whole thing with the fountain,” Hunter said, handing it to Hector. 

“Aw, thanks buddy! I was wondering what happened to that!” Hector replied as he slapped the hat back on his head, pushing down his curly locks. He glowed with a genuine smile, and Hunter felt the smallest drop of regret for his manipulative thoughts. He entered the classroom and dropped off Hector on the human platform, then sat down at an adjacent giant desk. As the lesson began, he kept surreptitiously glancing down at Hector. A strange cocktail of emotions was swirling around inside him: jealousy, rage, anxiety, mixed with fondness and hope. Hunter was inclined to negative feelings, however, and before long his rage at the world was boiling over as usual. He’d find a way to win Hannah over—even if he had to steamroll everything and everyone to get there. 

Chapter 34

Chapter 1

[sorcererinthestars]

A Quiet Reassurance - Leverage OT3 (if you squint) aka, I wanted an Eliot focused fic for the quiet days WC: 854

It wasn't just that it was raining.

It was a mixture of those dark, cold days when the weather is just on the warm side of freezing but the atmospheric pressure is off, leaving you kind of feeling unbalanced. When the world feels heavier, the ground feels a bit closer, like you're being crushed by some force you hardly feel exists.

That's the day when Eliot's bones ache; the wounds his body has taken over the years get to remind him that he's not invincible. The ache that goes so far deep its almost one with him, a heat in some way that goes all the way down to his toes.

He hurts. Over his life, he's fought. He's bled, he's been beaten with every weapon known to man. He's been clubbed, slapped, punched, kicked. He's had his bones broken, he's been knocked down over and over again and always manages to haul himself back up, finish the fight, protect those who need protecting - no matter what side of the fight he was on. He was always able to keep going.

But mornings like this? Every scar, every phantom pain flares back up to haunt him, to the point where he doesn't even think he can haul himself out of bed to get to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee (or god, a beer) and hunch over the table like he's aged sixty years. It's hard not to curse the weather - a fucking bullet can't stop him, can't bring him down, but a stiff breeze and a change in pressure can lay him out harder than any knife.

He rolls over painfully, staring at the ceiling, and tries to do what he's learned helps. To - painfully! - tense each muscle to their breaking point before releasing it, that rush of endorphins enough to make him groan with the pain and intense pleasure of it. It's a personal ritual, one every fighter like him has to learn to go through. The aches were going to be there forever, even after he fucking finally quits and leaves this whole life behind.

His shoulders and back are the worst of it. He's used to doing this alone, rolling his shoulders and painfully clawing himself to a sitting position, grunting as the simple movement is almost too much, pain blooming from sleeping in one position too long.

Finally, he lets out a string of curses as he rolls his shoulder and the pain of an old bullet wound sends white hot heat rolling down his arms and his chest, the joint having seized and the movement tugs on all the wrong nerves. Gritting his teeth and riding the pain, he almost misses a soft hand on his shoulder.

Because... that's right.

He wasn't alone this time.

This time, there was another set of hands to gently, wordlessly, knead the pain out of his shoulders. A soft pair of thumbs carefully working through the knots of scar tissue that bound up across his skin. Painstakingly rubbing the pain and then the numbness out, leaving such sweet relief that he almost cries with it, head slumping down.

He doesn't even turn his head to look and see who's hands it is. He knows them enough by now; can tell just by the slightest touch. The ache remains in every part of his body, but the warmth that ignites in his stomach helps soothe it. The hands lay him back down, not letting him take advantage of some of the easing pain and head towards the kitchen for breakfast (as if nothing ever happened).

No, the hands seem to say. You're in pain and we're going to remedy this, you and I. Stay put, we'll work through this together.

So he lays back, on his stomach this time, as a warm body straddles him ever so lightly, hovering above as the talented hands take the time to work out every kink, every bit of soreness the weather brings on, up and down his arms, across his sensitive shoulders, down his back - riddled with scars, remnants of another time - and across his hips. Then even lower, his thighs, his calves, even his ankles. No part of him was spared from weapons over his rough life, and so the hands work every piece of it out.

He is left, twenty minutes or twenty hours later, a puddle. The pain is gone - for now, never forever, but for now, peace. The air seems warmer, almost, despite no one turning up the heat. The hands leave and they could almost groan, wanting them to return. But instead they're replaced by a soft kiss between the shoulder blades.

A promise, almost. You're not alone anymore. You don't have to face it alone anymore.

The hands slide off and the bed shifts as a warm body slides off and pads towards the door, slipping off to start the morning.

And he - alone again, but with the knowledge of love just one room away - closes his eyes and sleeps again. This time with a body free of pain and full of warmth.

Peace at last.

[beannary]

Hey first name Bean last name Nary it would be really super cool and awesome and fun and funky and fresh if you maybe wanted to possibly give us some more delicious TOA content pretty please with a cherry on top? Love you <3<3<3

OK this wip is called Once Upon a Time in Camelot and 100% i took that title from The Mechanisms

I don't know why I wrote this and i have not reread it since writing it so I have no idea how good it is but here you go!

Once upon a time there was a mother and a father. Now of course, they were not always a mother and a father. No, that development was a rather new one. But though they had only become a mother and a father not but a day ago, both were wholly ready to embrace their new identities. 

Though this story starts with a mother and a father, it is not them who we’ll be following. Not that their own tales are uninteresting, far from it. In fact, pages upon pages could be written on their heroic tales and adventures. But were this story to follow them from this point forward, well, then it would be a tragically short story. And so for that reason, and many others, our story today will follow the life of their son and how he met his best friend. Though, the best friend will not arrive for a good many years, so we’ll just put a pin in that and come back to it later. 

The boy, with emerald green eyes from his father, and raven black hair from his mother, was named Hisirdoux Casperan. In terms of appearance he was nothing but ordinary, just another peasant boy among hundreds in Camelot. But beneath the surface looked something completely and utterly extraordinary. 

You see, young Hisirdoux had been blessed with the gift of magic, the innate ability to create wonderful feats of nature out of his very fingertips. And though many people in Camelot treated his gift more like a curse, Hisirdoux’s parents encouraged his magic to bloom and grow. 

When Hisirdoux would clumsily copy his mother as she sang old, ancestral songs that have been long forgotten in time, glowing wisps of blue would spark from his fingertips to form the stories he sang of. When his fingers blistered and bled from one too many lute playing lessons with his father, and when his small arms grew too sore to hold the old instrument up, the strings would light up with a soft blue, and the music would continue for hours more. 

Unfortunately, Hisirdoux’s calm and peaceful life could not continue forever, for on the sixth eve of his birth arrived plague and famine. Though the family was rich in love, they were poor in coin and could not afford the luxuries that were required to survive such a disaster. Not a week went by before his parents fell ill, and not three days later he watched helplessly as they withered away. 

Digging a grave is difficult, and digging two graves is even more so. But with the entire town ill and bedridden, there was no one but him to complete his parents' burial. The graves were much too shallow, not that Hisirdoux knew that, and within a month’s time the bodies will be uncovered and ravaged by insects and animals alike. But for better or for worse, Hisirdoux will not be staying long enough in his home village to witness such desecration. As without the protection of his parents, and with his magical abilities being no secret, it did not take long for the village people to act upon old prejudices and exile him from his home. 

With nothing but his father’s lute on his back, Hisirdoux, at the ripe old age of six, set off into the world alone. 

Surviving on the road is no easy feat, but Hisirdoux, quick to adapt as he is, found himself falling into the rules of the road like a duck to water. He traveled village to village peddling for coin with his lute and his songs. And when the more honest method of work failed to fill his belly, well, Hisirdoux found he had quite the talent for thievery and scams. 

He spends just under a year living this life of independence and adventure before he met the dragon. 

Their lifelong companionship began on an ordinary sunny day. Hisirdoux had been spending the past week in a rather large town close by to the local lord’s mansion. As he absentmindedly chewed on bits of a stolen loaf of bread, he happened to notice a stray cat. It looked oh so small and hungry, so Hisirdoux broke off a piece of his bread and fed it to the cat. Who knew such a small act of kindness could result in a lifetime of friendship?

With Archibald the cat-dragon by his side, Hisirdoux flourished and thrived. He learned to read and write in modern draconic, and was schooled on the ins-and-outs of magical society and etiquette, but most importantly, Hisridoux had a family. 

While this is by no means the end of Hisirdoux’s story, it is a happy place to conclude our tale today. I could go on to regale you all on all of Hisridoux and Archibald’s adventures, from their time under the guardianship of the great Merlin Ambrosius, to their courageous and deadly fight against the Arcane Order, but those tales will have to wait for another night. 

And so until their next adventure begins, Hisirdoxu and Archibald will live happily ever after.

The End.

[deada55]

(WIP) To Absent Friends

for kloktober day 30 and 31: HALLOWEEN!!! and creator's choice.

synopsis: Ten-year-old William Murderface goes out with Stella for Halloween (Incomplete work.)

tw/cws: none yet

The sun went down orange past the trees of the trailer park behind the misty gusts of wind. The leaves, too wet to flutter, piled up around puddles and slicked up the sparse gravel and gray, sandy dirt that wound through the lots. Groups of parents and little kids sojourned through the misery with as much jubilance as possible. Little princesses holding their dresses up like Cinderella and little superheroes and animals splashed in the shallower puddles.

“William, quit moping! I’m taking you trick-or-treating in just a minute, dammit!”

“Aw, Grandma! I wasn’t!” The knot in his stomach tightened as he pulled his red sweatshirt down and his red sweatpants up over and over, alternating between the two. Neither of them fit right, but they were the only red things he had that made sense to wear with the plastic devil horns Stella had picked up from the grocery store. His fork was a barbeque fork spray-painted red… that was his favorite part, because he was allowed to do it himself, but the paint was already chipping off the thin sides.

He faced the window at an angle, away from the decorative mirror in the corner to his right. His shirt kept riding up, but this time he let his lower be cold. To his left, Stella turned Thunderbolt on his side and brushed the sores on his shoulderblades with iodine with a spare oral sponge.

“Pull your damn shirt down. Don’t leave your fat meat out like that, it’s not polite.”

William reached behind himself and shoved it down.

“Don’t get an attitude with me or I won’t take you nowhere!”

When some kids he recognized from school appeared walking up the road towards his trailer, he ducked away from the window and started towards the bathroom.

“William, wait. Dump the urinal while you’re at it.”

“Jesus Christ…”

He bent down to get the full urinal from under the bed and Stella smacked him on the back of the neck. “Don’t be nasty like that when I ask you to do something! When I ask you to help out, you do it. Don’t run your mouth, you hear me?!”

“Yes ma’am.”

“You need to go back to speech class… Remind me to talk to your principal about that. Go dump that out and do whatever you gotta do.”

He came back with a rinsed urinal and set it back under the bed. Thankfully, his classmates had gone by, and the only people he could see through the window was a girl, her father, and their pit bull with grease paint on his face and body to make him look like a skeleton… at least his front half.

When it was time to leave, Stella slung her heavy, rattling purse over her shoulder and grabbed her cane. Without a word, William unlocked the door and made his way out, holding the outer door so Stella could back down the rickety aluminum stairs without scratching herself on its the sharp corners of the door’s trim. When she was out, she handed him her keys and he ran back up to lock it, and then they went to the car.

Her car was an old Oldsmobile that bled coolant when it was parked downhill. Stella lit a cigarette as they went down the road and the smell slowly steeped into the air in the crumbling, beige cab until it was hot and smoky, not only musty with dry rot. He laid his head against the window though the vibrations made him carsick. His Halloween pillowcase was empty and smooth in his lap napkin at a church banquet. The rusty trailer park became dusty town, the dusty town became the moldy suburb, and the moldy suburb became grassy fields and tracks of land where loggers had cleared the forest naked. The hills faded into black dunes between piney graveyards, full of stumps in place of headstones. Stars poked through the sky. Back at the park, little kids were probably no longer traipsing through the neighborhoods. It was the time for the kids in scary costumes to run amok. Going with Grandma was better than getting a bucket of creek water poured over him, and better than sitting at home. At least Grandma’s friends had candy.

When they got to Denise’s stuffy pink cottage, Stella made him ring her sun-faded doorbell. A little dog barked and howled at the other side of the door. Stella moved off the front step with William and back at the sidewalk so she could lean more comfortably on her cane without teetering backwards. The dog carried on and on.

Denise wore a nursing jacket and an embroidered floral sweatshirt on top of some purple sweatpants and cotton slippers. A spot of canned chili stained her knee.

“Say it,” Stella prodded his heel with the shoe of her cane.

“Trick or Treat?”

“I think you’re too old for that.”

“Denise-“

“Oh, Stella! Hi! I knew you were coming by, but I didn’t remember when.”

“This is my grandson, William.”

“Okay,” Denise glanced at him then held the door open for Stella. William stepped aside and followed her in through the house. Nothing was particularly clean. Dusty candles and overflowing ashtrays lined her hall table, coffee table, dining table, corner tables… The pictures and paintings on the cream wallpaper were bordered by an orange, fumey stain.  The dog’s puppy pads were tucked behind or under almost every piece of furniture and well-decorated with waste. The scratched pink-and-green camelback sofas were reasonably clean, and Denise sat in an impression surrounded by tissues, catalogs, toffee wrappers, generic pill bottles, and Chapstick, with Stella catty-corner on the other sofa, and William on Stella’s other side, by a stack of dingy newspapers.

They talked for a long time. The wedding clock on top of her TV cabinet was stuck somewhere around 3:00 from what William could see. He sat there with his hands on his pillowcase and his pillowcase in his lap, shirt riding up and pants inching down. The longer he looked at the carpet, the hairier it got. Shed fur built around the legs of the sofa like spiderwebs.

His grandmother and Denise began the talking waltz of trying to leave, but Denise was clearly cutting it shorter than usual by the suddenness Stella was compelled to stand. Her knees popped loud enough for William to hear as she picked up her fallen cane and handed it to her… and Denise was already opening her front door! Of course, the plastic outer door wasn’t open yet, so all the wind could do was shake it against its frame.

When they got back into the car, Stella grumbled to herself, burped, and looked into her rearview mirror at William while she shifted out of park.

“That was nice, wasn’t it? What candy did she give you?”

“Nothin’.”

She stopped the car right there and sat quiet. Then, she dug a hand into her purse and pulled out a couple strawberry jelly-filled hard candies.

“Here, sweetheart.”

[set-phasers-to-whump]

glass

prompt: glass shard

whumpee: gereon rath

fandom: babylon berlin

hello here's a little fic for today :) it's gereon/charlotte, perhaps sometime during or very soon after s4. hope you like!

Gereon holds his own in the fight for several minutes, out of sheer determination if nothing else. But he can’t last forever, not against a man much larger and much more trained in fighting than himself. 

As he starts to tire out, his opponent only seems to grow more powerful. His punches hit with more force and Gereon is finding it harder and harder to hit back. 

They’re getting steadily closer to a wall, and Gereon thinks maybe he can use this to his advantage. Push the other man into the bricks, stun him. 

Instead, he’s suddenly grabbed by the collar and pulled forwards, and then his head is being forced through a closed window. 

The heavy impact of his skull with glass and wood, the sound of shattering, the immediate throbbing pain, the blood trickling down his face, the feeling of glass shards embedded into his skin - all of this combines into one sensation, oppressive and deadening. 

He’s pulled backwards, chin scraping on jagged edges, and then he hits the floor with force. He can only lie there and watch as his attacker walks away. 

He lies flat on his back on the cold ground for quite some time, breathing heavily. His head hurts. His face and neck are sticky with blood and his skin is stinging from the cuts. 

He needs to get out of here. 

He staggers to his feet, horribly lightheaded and for a second on the edge of unconsciousness. He waits, standing stock-still, until the feeling fades. 

His journey home is slow and painful. He’s exhausted and achy from the fight, in addition to the pain in his head and on his face. He wants nothing more than to sleep. 

Of course, he cannot exactly sleep with a face full of glass. He opens the door to his apartment and resigns himself to an eternity spent pulling shards from his skin. 

His apartment is not empty. For the most brief of moments, he freezes by the door, afraid of an intruder, but then he hears Charlotte’s voice and relaxes. 

“Hi, Gereon!”

She emerges from the bedroom smiling, but her face quickly falls and she hurries to his side. 

“What happened?”

Gereon shrugs. “There was a fight. I lost.”

“With what? A window?”

“More or less.”

“Come here.”

He follows her into the bedroom and sits on the bed when she tells him to. She produces a pair of tweezers from somewhere - he’s pretty sure they aren’t his - and then sits beside him, gently touching his chin so that he turns to face her. 

She pulls the glass shards away one by one, placing them into a bowl. They’re tiny, but each one stings terribly when she pulls it free from his skin. 

When the job is finally finished, Charlotte wipes the blood off of his face and then tugs a comb through his hair, dislodging still more pieces of glass. Some of them fall onto the bed, and afterwards they both spend quite a long time making sure they gather up all the loose bits. 

This done, Gereon strips off his torn and dirty suit and discards it into the corner, to be dealt with in the morning. He scarcely even looks down at himself, already painfully aware of the bruises that must be forming. 

Charlotte does look, though. He feels her gaze on him, almost overwhelming in its intensity. 

“Does it hurt very much?” she asks, as they both slip beneath the covers. 

“It’s not so bad,” he replies. Yes, the cuts still sting and his whole body is sore and his head is throbbing insistently, but it could have been worse. He could have bled a lot more. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Charlotte whispers against his shoulder. She’s curled herself around him quite protectively, her hands cool against the ache in his chest. “Even if it wasn’t so bad.”

“Thank you,” Gereon whispers in return. “For being here.”

He can feel her smile as she presses a kiss to the back of his neck. 

“You’re welcome.” 

thanks for reading!! hope you have a good evening or whenever <3

[dreaming-for-an-escape]

Blood and Thorns drabble. This is just part of the morning after Maeve’s and Robb’s wedding. The actual scene in the story will be much longer but I’m excited to share this with you all :)

“You’re not in any pain?” Robb asked worriedly.

Maeve could feel the spot of where she bled on the bed but it did nothing to make her cringe. Instead it was a reminder of how amazing she felt last night, albeit how odd and slightly discomforting it had been at first. Now she only felt the aftermath of her wedding night, and it wasn’t entirely painful.

“I feel sore but my mother told me that was to be expected.” Maeve shared, and right away wanted to hide under the covers. However she fought against her shyness, keeping eye contact with her new husband. Gods, his blue eyes were beautiful. She had stared at them all throughout last night. “But I am not in any pain, so please do not fret.”

Robb took a deep breath of relief before asking his next question. “But did you enjoy what happened between us?”

His question was asked so gently Maeve felt like doing twirls. She stuck with nodding her head, giggling under her breath. “I did quite a lot, husband.”

Robb’s heart fluttered, his blue eyes soft as ever while looking at her. “That makes me happy to hear, wife.”

Maeve’s heart skipped a beat hearing him call her that. She perfectly remembered him calling her that during a certain moment of passion. She bit her bottom lip. “That thing you did last night...”

“I did a lot of things last night.” Robb smiled, caressing her cheek. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Maeve leaned into his hand despite her blushing. “The thing you did with your mouth.” She lowered her voice, as if she thought someone would hear them. How silly to think so since she certainly hadn’t been too careful about being quiet last night.

“Ah, that.” Robb laughed lightly, more self-conscious. He kept his hand on her cheek while his face began to feel warmer.

Maeve moved to sit up against the headboard. She began fidgeting with the fur blanket covering her. “You’ve done that before?” She inquired, trying not to frown.

Robb followed her move, his bare chest for her to view. “No.” He was quick to let her know. She was his one and only. There would be no one else.  “I’ve never done that.” He blissfully admitted, heart still longing for her. “Last night was a night of firsts for me as well.”

Maeve was astonished to hear that. “But you were exceptional.” She blurted, face turning redder after realizing what left her mouth. “I mean, it seemed like you knew what you were doing.” She sheepishly added, her shyness finally getting to her. She nervously rubbed at her nose.

Robb found the action and her rambling to be endearing. “I’ve heard many conversations over the years.” Conversations mainly from Theon. He chuckled faintly. “Don’t be mistaken, men also like to talk. But I mainly based it off your reactions, so I thank you for that. Otherwise I wouldn’t have known I was doing it right.”  

Maeve’s face was probably red as a strawberry but that didn’t stop Robb from leaning over and kissing her gently on the lips.