#partial platonic / partial romantic

[undercover-horn-blog]

A has a cold that lingers. They've been ill for what feels like weeks at this point. The initial sympathy from those around them has tipped into irritation. The bless yous have turned into shut ups. Friends and colleagues go "you're annoying, you know" when they cough or sneeze, and they're only partly joking.

Everybody is so over it. Except for B. B is as sympathetic as they were when A first came down with this. B still asks "How are you feeling today?" in a concerned tone, blesses them very sweetly, offers tea and tissues... B will always care.

[rhythmwriterrr]

🚦Traffliclight Trio Shenanigans

Fandom : LEGO Monkie Kid Characters : Red Son, MK, Mei

➥ CW/TW : Implied Spicynoodles/Implied Dragonfruit/Implied Chimera(?)

Hidden Enjoyment ? ➠ Red Son dealing with two people who people on the 'hero's side' isn't usually like him. He doesn't show it much but he can't help find hidden enjoyment in their presence. It's somewhat a comforting feeling. When Mei teases him for being a hero though, he disagrees but tolerates it for them.

Texting !! ➠ Mei and MK having Red Son in a group chat with them is somewhat entertaining. Doing stims and Red Son is often confused about it, so they both have to explain it to him in a way he can understand. In which, he does understand it and after sometime he starts to do it as well. To add on, Red Son probably does some proper form of texting, using full words and sentences. MK and Mei however, probably started texting with both semi-full sentences, shortcuts and tag tones. After some time though, they quickly understood each other even if the text is full of key smashing.

Physical Affection !! ➠ MK and Mei hug and have that good buddy buddy affection they aren't afraid to do in public. Red Son occasionally does the arm touches with both of them and small acts of affection, but doesn't do it often in public. In worry of what his parents or other people would think of the Demon Bull King's son. In private though, MK and Mei assure him that it's okay to show physical affection. He likes the reassuring affection, he doesn't ask for it of the other two, but discreetly asks for it if he's desperate enough.

Warmth !! ➠ In cold weather, MK likes to huddle up between Mei and Red Son. Both having Pyrokinesis, they aren't affected much to the cold. Well Mei at least- because it wasn't too long ago that she had Pyrokinesis.

Partners in Crime !? ➠ Red Son holding both MK and Mei's hands like, "This is my boyfriend. This is my girlfriend."

Protection !!! ➠ These three are considerably protective over each other. Being able to react quickly and take action, no matter the threat. Or if something startles them. Like, a bug. To add on, Red Son is probably the one to consider protecting the other two the most because he is an Demon born with Immortality. Often trying his best to remind the other two that they are mortals, who unfortunately who can succumb to sickness, injuries and death... While MK isn't and does not have Invincibility like he use to, he and Mei are both mortals still with powerful abilities with skills they would still need to learn more in the future.

Combat !! ➠ The trio is noticeably experienced in combat in and with their own skillsets. They all have speed... Red Son probably having the most experience, he is skilled in close combat usually using just his fists to throw calculated hits and punches, and often dodging if he's able to. He also uses his pyrokinesis to aid himself in close combat. MK is able to use his Golden Staff for close combat, and sometimes long ranged combat(via controlling the size of it.) When he did not have his Golden Staff, he is able to do close combat to an extent. Even wrestling if it counts. Mei has her swordsmanship, being any to wield the Dragon Blade at ease. Making her a skilled sword fighter. She also possesses the abilities of Dracokinesis and Pyrokinesis, being able to use draconic energy and control fire to her will. TLDR !! - If they are coordinated enough, they should be able to fight alongside together. Hopefully in sync enough their abilities aren't able to collide with one another.

[transexualizeyourself]

T4t is one of the most affirming things a person could do. I’ve never felt more like a boy in my whole life

[ambiguous-sanskars]

Hey y'all I'm super late to the party but I finally watched RRR and needed to write something~ This is a little canon-divergent post-whipping scene where Ram decides to visit Bheem in his jail cell and tell him everything. First shot at writing anything for this fandom, hope y'all like it!

Read on AO3

“Bheema.”

Bheem jerked awake at that voice - and then immediately regretted it. With consciousness returned the searing pain coursing through every fiber of his body. His bloodstained dhoti clung to his legs, and for some reason that made it hard to breathe. His chafed wrists had begun to heal, and the clotting blood had glued them to the ropes that bound him. He tried tentatively to move an arm and cried out in pain.

“Shh. Your left shoulder is dislocated. Don’t move,  I’ll help you.”

Ram stepped out of the shadows. Bheem struggled against his chains, trying to move away.

“No, don’t-” Ram’s voice cracked. “Bheema, please.”

Bheem froze. “What do you want?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Why?”

“They’ll kill you.”

“You- what about Malli? Why didn’t you-”

“I’ll tell you everything. Just let me untie you for a minute. It will help with the pain.”

Bheem stayed still as Ram knelt at his feet, unlocking the cuffs around his ankles. Then Ram stood and pulled out a pocket knife, using it to slowly peel the ropes away from Bheem’s wrists. Bheem choked back a whimper.

“I know, I know it hurts. I’ll be gentle. Lean on me, Bheema. Take deep breaths. You can do it.”

Bheem pressed his forehead into Ram’s shoulder, breathing through clenched teeth. 

Ram decided to distract him by telling him the truth. By the time the second rope had come off, he’d told Bheem everything - his training, his parents’ deaths, his mission, the atrocities he’d committed in the name of liberation. He explained, shamefaced, how he’d used Bheem as a pawn to get this position. He fought down a wave of nausea as he tried to justify not helping Malli sooner.

And then, when he had cut off the last bit of rope and officially run out of reasons to avoid Bheem’s gaze, he looked up.

Bheem was staring at him in horror. Ram didn’t know what else he’d expected.

“So anyway,” Ram continued. “I’m getting you and Malli out of here. I’ll have to kill the governor to do it. He doesn’t suspect me. If it stays that way,  I’ll survive and return for the weapons. If he puts two and two together…” Ram let out a shaky sigh. “God, Bheema, please say something. Anything.”

To Ram’s astonishment, Bheem got to his knees. With his uninjured hand, he clasped Ram’s feet.

“Annayya,” Bheem choked out. “I tried to kill you. Forgive me.”

“Bheema!”

“I did not understand your great purpose. I did not know what you had gone through to get here. At every step I made things harder for you, and you still came back for me. You are so merciful, Annayya, so good-”

“Enough,” Ram managed, fresh tears springing into his eyes. He took Bheem by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet, watching him wince at the injuries Ram had inflicted on him not even a full day earlier. “How can you say such things? And after what I did yesterday?” Ram tenderly brushed a hand over the lash marks on Bheem’s side, causing him to shudder. “If anyone should beg for forgiveness, it is me.”

Bheem shook his head, leaning weakly into Ram’s arms. “Annayya, I should have understood you, like I always have. I should have trusted you. Forgive me.”

Ram brought a hand up to cradle Bheem’s head, trying to steady his own breathing as Bheem sobbed quietly into his shoulder. He would get them out of this alive, Ram vowed. And when he did, he would apologize to Bheem properly. He would make sure that as long as he lived, Bheem never knew pain again.

But for now…

“Bheema,” Ram began, hating what he was about to do. “We have to relocate your shoulder, okay? Will you let me do that?”

Bheem nodded, looking at Ram with implicit trust. It made Ram sick with regret.

“Okay, here, lie down. This is going to hurt, Bheema, but you cannot cry out. There are guards out there not twenty meters from us. If they find me here, neither of us will make it out alive, understand?”

“Annayya…” Bheem whimpered, finally letting fear into his eyes in front of Ram.

Hot tears streamed down Ram’s face, but he knew what he had to do. He climbed over Bheem’s supine body, using his knee to brace Bheem’s clavicle. He positioned his right hand over the dislocated shoulder, and pressed his left hand tightly over Bheem’s mouth. He counted to three and then pushed with all this strength.

Bheem’s body spasmed under his, but Bheem did not cry out. Ram quickly clambered off Bheem and crawled on his hands and knees to a corner of the cell, retching silently. He had committed innumerable acts of torture before, but nothing had ever gotten to him like this.

Suddenly, he felt a warm hand on his cheek.

“Annayya,” Bheem said softly, turning Ram’s face towards himself. He shook his head, wiping away Ram’s tears with a gentleness of which Ram felt wholly undeserving.

Ram got to his feet, taking Bheem’s hands and walking him back to the bloodied chains and ropes. 

“Bheema, I need to tie you back up. Not properly, just enough to avoid suspicion. The ropes will be loose, and I won’t lock any of the cuffs. Tomorrow, when they come to get you, you will be able to break free easily, okay? Remember the plan. Wait until you are by the forest to escape.”

As Ram went about securing the chains, Bheem’s eyes filled with tears.

“Annayya,” he begged, unable to bury emotion with reasoning. “Annayya, don’t leave me here. Please don’t leave me.”

Ram made a wounded sound. His hands continued fastening the ropes.

“Annayya, I swear I will listen to everything you say. Have mercy, take me with you.”

“Quiet, Bheema.”

“Annayya, I’m sorry. Forgive my past transgressions. Don’t punish me by leaving me here alone. Annayya, please!”

Ram dropped the ropes in agony, gathering Bheem into his embrace. Bheem clung to Ram’s trembling frame, understanding how Malli must have felt when he left her behind. Understanding how utterly helpless Ram must be feeling now. He took a deep breath.

“Go,” Bheem whispered into Ram’s shoulder.

Ram pulled back, taking Bheem’s face in his hands. He pressed a long kiss to Bheem’s forehead. Then he stepped out of the cell and locked it.

Ram gripped the metal bars and caught Bheem’s teary gaze.

“Bheema, do you trust me?”

“Always, Annayya.”

“Then believe me when I say that this time tomorrow, you and Malli will be free.”

Ram turned to leave.

“Annayya, that is not enough.”

Ram froze.

“Promise me you will be with us.”

“Bheema-”

“Swear it. Swear it on my life.”

“Bheema!”

“Please, Annayya. I will never ask you for anything else. Just this. Just you.”

As long as he lived, Ram thought, he would never understand what he had done to deserve Bheem. He reached through the bars and placed his hand on Bheem's head. 

“I swear I will be with you. All three of us will make it out of this alive. And then, Bheema, I will see to it that suffering never touches you again.”

With that, Ram turned and disappeared into the night.

______________

@fangirlshrewt97 your writing for this fandom inspired me to try so I figured you might be interested? Please lmk if you don't want to be tagged!

[autistic-katara]

i love being in love platonically

it’s so much more comfortable and safe and easy than being in love romantically

[randomwriteronline]

This body wasn't bad. He got used to it, by all means. It worked fine. It felt disgusting and utterly parasitic at times, and there had been nights when the noises inside him had kept him up until he'd finally collapsed. But he'd managed to get through it, because that's what stone does best: it perseveres, at the cost of eroding.

He wanted it off of himself.

He wanted it off of himself as violently and horribly and urgently as he could.

Not always - not always; sometimes he forgot about it and didn't even find it weird, when he was only among Glatorian and Agori and other likely mostly organic beings. But the moment he saw a Matoran he knew, and he tried to get closer, and they backed away from him fearfully, he felt the urge to dig into his stomach a deep enough cut to just cleave the meat off of himself with the ease and precision of a bandage against a pair of scissors.

Why did they run from him? Why did they keep him at arm's length? Why did they look at him with such fright? Why did they handle him so carefully? Why did they push him off?

Because this shell was too soft to handle their familiar jagged edges and ripped at the seams the moment he tightened his grip on them?

He wanted to cut it off.

What good was it, to be here, to be with everybody, if he could not hold them?

If he could not make his knuckles boom against Onua's, if he could not have Lewa wrap tight around his chest, if he could not press his head into Gali's shoulder, if he could not hug Tahu by the waist to drag him away? If he could not get a Kohlii ball to the chest without feeling his lungs instantly caving in, if he could not be a minute around the Turaga without immediately noticing the thousands of ways with which they held themselves back around him?

What good was it, to live like this?

He'd never needed this much care because he'd always been sturdy. Now he was malleable and weak and so easy to hurt, and it made his sternum burn without a reason.

He always held them as hard as he could.

Every single time. Without fail.

Maybe at first it had been unconsciously, because he still didn't know his own frailty.

Now he held them to be hurt.

The pain was a comfort. It gave a reason as to why his chest hurt, a tangible meaning behind that overwhelming ache.

They couldn't understand, and pried him off; and each time, without fail, he let go so they could calm down, and then hugged them just a tight again until the metal was piercing the flesh.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

He was a Toa.

Pohatu listened to yet another healer's scolding as she fixed new bandages on him, words entering and leaving his ears without their meaning making it through.

He was a Toa and he needed this disgusting suit of nerves and fat and muscle and skin off of himself.

A hand swatted away his fingers while he picked at his cuts.

Kopaka never liked when he did that.

He never liked when he got hurt.

Pohatu wrapped him in a hug, because that was all he wanted to do.

Kopaka was still a little colder than most, physically. His skin was lukewarm at best, at any hour, under any circumstance: that much hadn't changed from when he'd been made of mostly metal.

Another thing that had remained the same was that hugging him didn't hurt.

Something that had changed was that sometimes, he hugged back.

Sometimes he wrapped him in his arms and reclined gently on the cot, or against the wall, letting him lay against him.

Sometimes he brushed his hair, combing through it with his fingers, and wasn't annoyed when Pohatu curled a little more in his grasp, head on his chest, and slowly fell asleep in his hold.

[blackquill-inchains]

made myself a userbox so i dont have to type my disclaimer everytime i draw my favorites

this akido lesbian and x-gender anthropologist are like a bonded pair of cats to me or moirails for those of you like me who never escaped the hell of homestuck quadrants

this userbox is free to use, with or without credit, i dont mind!

[that-was-anticlimactic]

okay so hear me out: one of ritsu’s tics is scratching. just like... imagining him scratching himself subconsciously all the time and he can’t stop even when he realizes it because it’s a compulsion. he tends to scratch his hands and knuckles and wrists a lot and it just gets worse the more stressed or anxious or overwhelmed he gets. and sometimes he doesn’t even realize it’s happening until someone points it out or mentions that he’s bleeding.

and thinking about that being a tic he’s not great at suppressing so he does his best to hide it from his family (he doesn’t care about that one at school as much because he could easily lie his way out of that one) so they don’t realize it’s a problem until one day when ritsu walks into spirits and such with blood caking and dripping from his hands (maybe during final exams or he’s in the midst of an anxiety/tic attack or maybe he’s just really overwhelmed with everything on his plate) and. y eah.

[eemoo1o-animoo]

It was an idea that I played around with in an unfinished WIP, but I’ll ponder over it again here. What if Sebastian planned to, after his contract with Ciel, try to convince Agni to make a contract with him (for seemingly mutual benefit but really it’s for Sebastian’s emotional benefit, possibly under the guise of it being for Agni)—whether that’s through protecting Soma alongside him, or Soma’s family as a means to make Soma happy, etc, perhaps even take the manor for them to move into—and in the process try to make the contract so there were several loopholes and clauses that made the goal of the contract near or entirely impossible to achieve. And, if the goal is met, then—after a while of remorse and apprehension—he’ll eventually devour his soul. And then he’ll be able to keep him close, forever.

[one-winged-dreams]

WE'RE WAKING UP FULL OF EMOTIONS TODAY, LOOKS LIKE

[rainswolfs]

.

[spring-lxcked]

evil evil man but he can't date sb who doesn't enjoy physical affection from him because he's so damn needy. he sees his partner sitting down and he either has to be in their lap or as close to them as possible. even if he falls asleep next to his partner not cuddling, they'll still wake up with him half on top of them. kisses as greetings and goodbyes and because he's bored and yes there's a 43.25% chance he'll try to turn it into a makeout even if they're busy with something. partner is like "you're distracting me" and he's literally rubbing his face against theirs like "no i'm not." and he'll start this shit in the pre-dating """Platonic""" phase too if the person will let him and he likes them enough.

[imakemywings]

Per tags on the ship salt post I’m not bothering to call out specifically: People acting like a romantic interpretation of a noncanon ship is the ONLY valid take on that relationship really IS the rub of it. The idea that these characters could only POSSIBLY care about each other this much because they feel romantically about each other--that no platonic relationship could possibly be that strong--is such a depressing take to me. Obviously characters who care a lot about each other lend themselves well to an exploration of “what if they were in love? what if they wanted to bang?” because a strong platonic relationship can form an excellent base for building a romance. But the insistence that it cannot be platonic--that the author must have intended romantic undertones--or even that the author didn’t realize they were writing a love story--to me just echoes society’s obsession with romantic love and the elevation of it above platonic love, as if we’ve never had siblings or friends we’d die for. And I really don’t vibe with that.

[pinkfey]

the one and only time i did the “i’m in unrequited gay love w my best friend” stereotype was with secondary characters in an original story i began as a kid and looking back i think i was just projecting

[monstrsball]

Oisuga or iwaoi?

... oisuga <3

[charliemwrites]

Soooo a while ago I introduced a “rabid reader.” A reader character with a (non-sexual) body count and a nasty temper.

Anyway, I started thinking about her - and the discord does what it does - and realized that Pathetic Stalker Konig would be a great pairing for her.

So, CW for light stalking, violence, and slightly mean reader

You have a stalker.

He’s… not a very good one.

For one, you know he’s there. Have known since pretty much the beginning. He’s a big fucking Austrian that covers himself head to toe. Not even in subtle colors, but in primarily black. Maybe at night he’d stand a chance, but he follows you in broad daylight too. So, there’s that.

Then there’s the fact that you’re not really bothered by him. What’s there to be bothered by? He keeps his distance, doesn’t interfere with your life. Even when he finally does work up the courage to enter your home, he puts things back where he found them. So, again, not a big deal.

You keep waiting for the escalation. For gifts or letters or some obvious sign of his presence that even the most oblivious person couldn’t ignore. But none comes. Partially, you figure, because you’ve shown no interest in anyone. You have friends, yes, but those are so obviously platonic that even your stalker doesn’t seem jealous. And the few times someone else has made a pass at you, a quick and merciless shutdown follows. Your lack of romantic intentions for anyone seems to be coming him semi-level.

You wonder if this is how religious people feel, that vague sense of being watched. Though you don’t think your stalker is judging you. Be a hell of a thing if he did.

Then one day, things change.

You have this new coworker, Brandon.

Your other coworkers already seem to like him. They say he’s funny and charming and handsome, that he’s such a great fit for the team. You have no particular opinion because most people just aren’t interesting to you, and Brandon is Most People incarnate.

But Brandon seems to have an interest in you. Which, really, is such a poor choice.

He keeps ending up in the break room at the same time as you. Or passing by your desk for a quick question, only to try to lengthen the conversation with the casual chat. Makes a point of saying hello to you in the mornings and walking down with you in the afternoon.

You’re not annoyed yet, not really. It’s a change in your routine, but you’ve been told those are good, so fine. He’s about as bearable as anyone else (besides the rare few you call friend) so you don’t think anything of it. Even when your coworker giggles that he was asking after your romantic life, you tolerate him.

A few months later is the annual office party, a celebration of… something. It seems different every time. Record profits, company anniversary, CEO’s birthday… it doesn’t matter, really. Free food, socialization. It’s something to do.

You go, of course. As ambivalent as you are towards the majority of your coworkers, they do seem to quite like you, and insist that you come.

So you go. You plaster on that mild, practiced smile while they chat and joke, contributing readily when prompted. At the end of the meal, you’re wheedled into going out for more casual celebration. Again, you agree.

Brandon comes along.

And somewhere, throughout the night, Brandon thinks it’s okay to start touching you. An accidental brush here and there is fine, unavoidable really. You’re not opposed to touch as a rule.

But then the occasional bumps and grazes become more frequent, consistent. Purposeful. A hand on your arm, then your shoulder, then your back. When you step away, he somehow ends up right back by your side. So you resort to telling him not to touch you so casually. He scoffs, already past a healthy buzz, and dismisses you as being “uptight” because you’re still treating it as a “work thing.” That you just need some more drinks in you and everything will be fine.

You can feel it bubbling up in you, that inky rage. Maybe something flickers across your face because your coworkers are quick to divert his attention. Smart.

But twenty minutes later you’ve had your fill of socializing. The bar is too loud, people are getting too drunk, and you don’t like the looks you’re getting from more than just Brandon.

You say your goodbyes while he’s in the restroom and leave.

You’ve only just made it to your car when you hear quick footsteps, turn just in time for Brandon to catch up. It’s all just noise to you now, his tense laughter that you left at the worst time, that you’re mean for not waiting. That he wants to walk you to your car like always.

He tries to curl an arm around your waist. It takes restraint you don’t usually employ not to break it. To just step away and repeat (fuck you hate repeating yourself) that you don’t want to be touched.

And then he makes the fatal mistake of just not fucking listening. Of insisting. Of doing what he wants anyway.

So you break his hand. And while he’s still screaming in pain, you notice the shadowy flicker of your stalker ducking out of view.

It’ll stay your secret, you figure, and go home. Expect that to be the end of it.

Until you hear glass break when you’re just about to go to bed. You step out of your room, shoes on and knife in hand, to a fuck-off sized Austrian strangling Brandon. Oh, and stabbing him with a large piece of the lamp someone seems to have broken.

There’s water all over the floor because it started raining an hour ago. It’s mixing with the blood, diluting it pink on your floor. You retrieve a towel from the kitchen to mop it up before it reaches the rug.

All at once, things go quiet. Your stalker is kneeling over a still, dead-eyed Brandon, breathing hard. But his eyes keep flicking to you and then away, shoulders slumped and head ducked.

“You’ve made a mess. Clean up.”

Your stalker jumps into action. Seems to already know where all the housekeeping supplies are. In the meantime, you go digging through your closet for clothes. Can’t find any, so you settle for getting the washer and dryer ready. Order yourself a new lamp online.

By the time you’re done, the body is gone, the floors are clean and dry, and your stalker is fidgeting in the living room.

“Strip.”

He startles. Stares. You arch your eyebrows. Wait him out. But then he does as he’s told. Peeling off cold, wet layers with mechanical precision, until he’s got a damp pile at his bare feet. You give his mask an unimpressed look. That comes off too with an audible gulp.

You don’t really get attractiveness, as a physical quality. You understand proportions and features, and recognize that this man has some pleasing, if atypical, ones. Even with the scar.

“Good.” He shivers. “Now shower.”

He nods, ducks past you to the bathroom - again without having to be told where to find it. You gather up the clothes and toss them in the machine with a little extra detergent.

Walk into the bathroom and ignore the way he tries to cover himself, flushing tomato red from head to toe.

“Your name.”

“Konig.”

You narrow your eyes, but don’t press.

“Are you military?”

He’s built like it. Thick with useful strength, not aesthetic muscle. And he’s scarred all over. Some new, some old, all earned through violence and suffering.

“Military contractor,” he says. Then, quieter, “please don’t stare.”

Your eyes snap up to his. He can’t even hold it for longer than a second before dropping his gaze. You cross your arms.

“You’ve been watching me for 7 months, 2 weeks, and 3 days. Put your fucking hands down.”

He twitches, but drops his hands to his sides. His cock - and it is, you acknowledge, very impressive - is filling out slowly but steadily. You consider it for a moment while he fidgets beneath the steaming spray.

“If you fuck me, will you be satisfied?” you ask.

Like touching, you’re not against fucking by default. It’s just one of those things you don’t think about often because you’re not especially interesting in most cases.

This - Konig - is not most cases.

But konig’s eyes dart up guiltily before he shakes his head. Surprised, you tilt your head.

“Do you want to fuck me?”

He nods so hard the back of his skull bumps into the shower head.

You hum. Stand there and watch him while he awkwardly shuffles until the washer buzzes.

“Finish showering, get your clothes from the dryer, then sleep on the couch,” you say. He swallows again and nods. “You can get blankets if you’re cold. Be here in the morning.”

With that, you turn to switch his clothes over. Then head off to bed, wondering if you’ll see him come sunrise.