#500 words meme

[trek-tracks]

DearTheodosiaMeme.Kirk.jpg

[firstelevens]

and 22 for sambucky, perhaps?? 🍯

22. don't say yes

It is, technically speaking, Sam’s fault that he ends up where he does. Usually, there’s a little more nuance, but this time around, it’s completely on him.

His mother had been fond of saying that eavesdroppers were bound to hear things they didn’t like, and little Sam had only had to test this theory a few times before deciding that she was right. The lesson had worn off at some point, though, as high school and college came and went, and as keeping your ear to the ground made all the difference as a soldier and later as a superhero.

But Sam doesn’t mean to eavesdrop on Bucky. Not really, anyway. 

He pulls up to Bucky’s newly-purchased cottage and goes around back to drop off Sarah’s spare wheelbarrow. All afternoon at the docks yesterday, Bucky had been making noises about working on the garden at the new place, setting up a vegetable patch and hauling around some of the bricks left behind by the last owners to make up a little retaining wall.

When Sam had asked just how much experience Bucky had with growing vegetables, he’d mentioned that his Ma had kept a victory garden during the war, and then gone quiet until the boys burst in and demanded his attention. Bucky had gone back home not long after, and Sam had figured that the wheelbarrow and the extra gardening tools he’d pulled from the shed might be some kind of peace offering.

He sets the trowels and gardening gloves on the back porch and leaves the wheelbarrow nearby. It’s more habit than anything else that has him stopping to examine the boards and the porch railing, checking for rot or cracks. Sam doesn’t even realize that Bucky’s bedroom window is open, not until his voice carries out of it and into the yard.

“I promise I’ll be back soon,” he’s saying. “It’s just a quick errand.”

Sam furrows his eyebrows. He’d maybe expected Bucky to be on the phone, but it sounds like he’s talking to someone who’s there with him.

“The hardware store is close,” says Bucky, and the warmth in his voice is unmistakeable, “and the nursery’s not that far, either. I’ll be an hour, tops.”

He tries not to, but Sam can’t help but strain his hearing, trying to catch the reply from whoever is up there with Bucky. He can’t make out any words, but that doesn’t make him feel better. It’s 8 AM on a Saturday; whoever it is could easily just be tired.

It’s far too easy a leap from that particular conclusion to just why someone might be at Bucky’s house in the morning and too tired to really speak. Sam feels queasy all of a sudden.

Bucky had turned down an invitation to have dinner with them last night, and he’d left the docks in the late afternoon instead of hanging out like he usually did. Sam had assumed that he was going back to work on the house while it was still light out, but maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe Bucky had gone into town, or to a bar somewhere. Maybe Bucky had brought someone home with him, and that someone had stayed the night.

Sam is just trying to convince himself that there’s a perfectly platonic, rational explanation to all this when he hears Bucky’s voice again.

“Baby,” Bucky says, somewhere between affectionate and chiding. “Sam’s gonna be here any second; you know I can’t just leave him hanging.”

That’s not how you talk to a one night stand, Sam realizes, with a sinking feeling. That’s how you talk to someone who’s been around for a little while, and who plans to stay that way.

Had he missed the signs somewhere? Had he misread all those conversations that he’d thought were moments with Bucky, even when they’d been on their own separate world-saving missions? All the text messages and the scraps of time they’d caught together in New York or DC or here in Delacroix?

Bucky shyly admitting that he’d put an offer in on a house in town had seemed like a confirmation of something, like establishing solid ground for them to take those first steps together. Now, though–now Sam can’t help but wonder if that solid ground isn’t his to tread, if Delacroix was the choice not because it’s Sam’s home but because it’s someone else’s.

“You’ve got to give me my shirt back, Sweets; I can’t go out without it,” comes Bucky’s voice again, and this time, Sam makes himself step back, intent on hustling back to the truck and booking it out of here before Bucky realizes he was there at all.

He’s already drawing up an excuse in his head, trying to strike the right balance of a reasonable last second cancelation and nothing that’ll worry Bucky too much, but the extra distraction proves to be the last thing he needs. Sam runs right into the wheelbarrow, which falls against the nearby stack of bricks with an extra-loud clang, reverberating outwards like a bell.

“Fuck,” Sam murmurs, and has just enough time to right the wheelbarrow before Bucky is calling out the window.

“Sam, is that you?” Sam doesn’t say yes at first, still trying to salvage his escape plan, and Bucky calls out again. “Sam? Are you there?”

It’s only latent self-preservation instincts that remind him it’s probably a bad idea to make the former Winter Soldier think that there’s someone skulking around his property uninvited, and he finally makes himself answer.

“Yeah,” Sam calls back. “It’s me, sorry.”

There’s no response for a moment, and then the door to the back porch opens. Bucky is smoothing down his t-shirt like he just pulled it on, and Sam’s stomach lurches just a little.

“Hey,” Bucky is saying, “sorry I’m late; I just got caught up with- wait, what’s that?”

It takes Sam a beat to realize where he’s pointing, distracted as he is by Bucky’s ruffled hair and the pillowmarks on his face. Even as part of him grapples with what he’s just learned, he can’t help but feel happy that Bucky seems to have slept through the night.

“It’s a wheelbarrow,” he finally manages to say, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world. Sam clears his throat, but it does nothing to ease the sudden tightness he feels there. “Thought you might need one, for your garden and all. Plus, uh- we had some spare trowels and stuff at the house. No sense in buying new ones if you don’t need them.”

Bucky looks as surprised as he always does when he’s on the receiving end of a gesture like this, but he thanks Sam warmly. “If I supply coffee and snacks, d’you think Captain America might throw in his help along with the wheelbarrow?” he asks, grinning. 

Sam smiles in spite of himself. “Maybe, but it better be some fancy coffee.”

“I think I can make that happen,” says Bucky, nodding. “You about ready to head out? Is there anything we need to take with us to the hardware store?”

“About that,” says Sam, trying to keep his breathing even, “I was thinking maybe it would be better if we rescheduled? I, uh- I know weekends can be busy, and maybe there’s stuff that needs your attention, so we can-”

“Sam, this is the stuff that needs my attention,” Bucky says. His eyebrows furrow after a second, and realization crosses his face. “Oh, wait, do you have something you need to do? Is the motor still giving you guys trouble on the boat? Because we can just head over there instead; the hardware store can wait, but Sarah can’t miss that afternoon charter.”

It would make for a good excuse, but the boat is just fine, and if Sam said otherwise, Bucky would insist on coming along to help. “It’s not that,” Sam says. “Sarah’s all set for the charter. I just didn’t want to take you away from anything important, or pressing, or, I don’t know, more enjoyable than a trip to the hardware store and the nursery. You know Hank and Lottie are going to want ten minutes of gossip for every ten minutes of shopping.”

“I’m counting on it,” Bucky says, giving Sam a slightly odd look. “I want to hear what the deal is with that new couple who just bought the flower shop.”

Sam shrugs. “Just want you to remember that it might take a while, that’s all.”

Bucky waves a hand. “I have time,” he says. “Might even be able to squeeze in a trip to the coffee place so I can put a down payment on your help with the garden.”

That, weirdly, is the final straw for Sam. He may be quietly jealous of this unknown person who’s loath to let Bucky out of bed in the mornings, but they deserve some consideration, at least. If Sam’s partner was going to spend the day gallivanting around after promising to be home as soon as possible, he’d want to know.

Just as Sam opens his mouth to finally address the elephant in the room, Bucky is continuing on, as oblivious as ever. “Let me just grab my shoes,” he’s saying. “And then we can head out.”

He turns and opens the backdoor again, but just before Bucky can step inside, they’re met with the loudest, most plaintive meow that Sam has ever heard. It’s followed by a few more: short, sharp mews of complaint, very clearly addressed at the person deemed responsible.

For a second, Sam’s brain processes ‘there is a cat in Bucky’s house and it’s mad at him’ to mean that a stray cat got in through an open window and found that it couldn’t get out. Then he looks back at Bucky and finds him sitting in the doorway, now cradling a tiny white kitten in his left arm.

The cat is mewling loudly at him, with more force than such a small animal should have, and Bucky…Bucky is nodding along to the complaints, murmuring comforting nonsense back. 

“I know, I know, you told me not to go,” he says, gently petting the cat. “Sorry, baby. I should’ve taken you with me, huh?”

There’s one last meow in response, softer than the others, before the cat curls up in Bucky’s arms.

Sam, still astonished, glances from the upstairs bedroom window to Bucky and the cat and back again.

Sorry, baby, Bucky had said. You told me not to go.

“Wait, you were talking to your cat?” asks Sam.

Bucky frowns, looking confused. “That’s what this animal is called, yes. And I’m currently talking to her, so…yes to that, too?”

“No, I mean earlier,” says Sam, before he can stop himself. He feels his eyes go a little wide.

“Earlier when?”

“Uh, nothing. Never mind. Are you gonna introduce me to your cat, or what?”

But Bucky’s persistence is one of his best and most annoying qualities. “Earlier when, Sam?”

With the same consideration that he gives to a particularly risky throw of the shield, Sam makes himself answer. “Just when I got here. A few minutes ago, that’s all.”

“You heard me talking?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. “Your window was open and I was bringing the wheelbarrow around. I heard you saying you’d be home soon, and calling someone pet names, and I made an assumption. I guessed wrong, that’s all.”

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “So you were eavesdropping, then?”

“I was doing a favor for my friend and bringing him a wheelbarrow that’s almost as ancient as he is,” says Sam, his voice dry. “Not my fault you project like you’re on Broadway and aiming for the cheap seats.”

That gets a snort of amusement, at least. Sam steps onto the porch and takes a seat beside Bucky, holding out his hand for the cat to sniff.

“Sam, this is Alpine,” Bucky says. “Alpine, this is Sam.”

Alpine seems to deem Sam trustworthy enough, because she settles back down in Bucky’s arms and doesn’t tense when Sam runs a gentle finger along her back.

“How long have you had her?” asks Sam. “How’d I miss this cat hair on your extensively black wardrobe?”

“Two weeks,” says Bucky, “and I now own about a dozen lint rollers.”

“That’ll do it, I guess.” Sam laughs quietly. “You know the boys are going to want to meet her as soon as possible, right?”

“Sarah asked me to pick them up from school on Monday; I thought I might bring them by to see her then.”

Sam hums in acknowledgment and wonders if he’ll ever get used to the way Bucky has neatly folded himself into their lives. 

He doesn’t get a chance to ponder it for very long, though, because then he feels eyes on him, a vibranium shoulder pressed into his own.

He has about two seconds to brace himself before Bucky asks, “So if you heard me talking to Alpine and didn’t realize I was talking to a cat, who did you think I was talking to?”

It’s been a long time since Sam acted or felt like a teenager, and he’s not proud to say that he defaults to a classic 16 year old response: shrugs a shoulder and says, “I don’t know,” as nonchalantly as he can,

It does not work.

“Sam,” says Bucky. “Seriously, it’s Saturday morning. Who would be at my house at 8 AM on a Saturday?”

Sam shrugs again, but this time he makes himself answer, even if he can’t take his eyes off his lap. “Someone who fell asleep here, maybe.”

“Fell asleep here? What does that even-”

“Buck, I know the aw-shucks routine was a real hit in the forties, but you don’t need to go around pretending not to know what sex is now.” Sam means for it to sound light, but the words feel sharp as he says them.

“That’s not what I was trying to do,” says Bucky, and Sam might be imagining it, but there’s something careful in his voice now. “I just didn’t think of it.”

“Right,” says Sam, flat. “Of course not.”

Because only someone with a definitely-more-than-a-crush on their friend and superhero partner would hear three sentences through an open window and immediately assume that they had a romantic rival. Normal people with normal feelings about their friend and superhero partner wouldn’t be fazed.

Part of Sam is searching for an exit strategy again, trying to figure out the best way to wriggle out of this so he can contend with the embarrassment in peace for a while before things go back to normal. He would break out an excuse to get going, except that Bucky is still talking.

“I’m not saying it wouldn’t have come to mind before,” he’s saying, and Sam wants very badly for this conversation to end so he can be swallowed by the earth. “I just, um- I haven’t thought about entertaining people that way in a while, because there’s someone I’m interested in.”

It’s a medical miracle, Sam thinks, that he can feel like someone has punched him in the stomach and yet his curiosity still manages to seize control of his mouth and ask questions. “You sure you don’t have that backwards? It feels like the sort of thing that would be on your mind more, not less.”

He feels Bucky shrug beside him. “We’re taking it slow, I think.”

“Oh?” asks Sam, suddenly beset by chaste visions of Bucky sharing a milkshake with someone at the retro themed diner in Chalmette.

“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Not even any real dates or anything yet.”

Blessedly, the diner and the milkshake disappear. “No dates at all?” asks Sam, because apparently he likes pressing on bruises.

“No dates,” echoes Bucky. “But errands, sometimes.”

Sam furrows his eyebrows, finally turning to look at Bucky. “Errands?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, errands. Like, grocery store runs, or gardening,” he says, and it seems like the corners of his mouth are turning up. “Or even trips down to the hardware store and the nursery.”

Sam blinks. “Wait, what?”

There’s clearly a grin on Bucky’s face now. “I mean, I’m assuming that the hardware store doesn’t count as a date, because if it were a real date, I’d be getting flowers instead of a wheelbarrow.”

There’s a rushing in Sam’s ears as he processes Bucky’s words. For a moment, he can’t seem to make his mouth work. When he finally does, his voice is embarrassingly creaky, like he hasn’t spoken in days. “Next time,” he croaks. “Next time, it’s flowers, I promise.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, his smile widening. “Next time, then.”

“Okay,” echoes Sam. “It’s a date.”

[i-am-beckyu]

Writing for me atm be like this:

and this

and also this

Oh and can't forget this!

Yeah writing has been going great recently......

[nihils-trolls]

Send me 📝+ a character and I'll write a mini-drabble for them!

[ariadne-mouse]

(hi! augentrust from main) for the fic writer ask meme -- any from 9, 27, or 30 that you're interested in

best of luck with writing today!

Hiya! *spiderman pointing meme* 😂

9. how long did it take you to write the last fic you posted?

The last fic I posted (the kitchen sink) is a WIP so technically I can't put an end on that yet! The one before that was a mile high, a short little 500 word comedy bit that took me maybe a couple hours between writing and editing.

27. your favorite part of the writing process

hmmm maybe when it's actually finished? 😂 no but probably when I finally get in a groove with a scene and the words actually flow instead of hunting and pecking and reworking every sentence. Ideating is fun and the most low-pressure part of writing but when it's actually turning itself into words is the best.

30. share a fic you're especially proud of

Since we were chatting about Caleb and the impact of Ikithon's trial, I'll give a plug for a man by any other face, which is part polymorph shenanigans as the Luxon intended, but includes a potential look at Caleb's emotional aftermath of the trial and what he may have faced there, especially his own role in wrongdoings, and how he handles that. I am proud of this fic for several reasons but largely because it stayed in the "80% done" stage for an infuriatingly long amount of time and editing was a bitch. Nevertheless, I persisted, etc.

Thanks for the ask, friend, and sending you Fortune's Favor for your own writing!

[void-botanist]

NaNo 23 goals

I'm officially setting my goals for NaNoWriMo this year as follows:

15k: I win!

35k: I win but more

50k: unbelievable. no one has ever won this hard before

[nateslehky]

For the kiss prompt, no. 38!!! for 829

38.…because they’re running out of time.

"Cale, cm'here."

The quiet mumble brushes the edge of Cale's barely awake mind, soft but insistent, coaxing him to consciousness.

"Mhmmm," grumbles Cale.

A weight falls across his back, followed by fingers digging gently into his side, pulling him close. Nate nuzzles into the crook of his neck, his breath warm against Cale's skin as he asks, "Are you awake?"

"No," says Cale groggily, his voice muffled by his pillow.

His dream had been good. It had involved him and Nate, he knows for sure. All the best ones do.

He remembers the warmth of the sun against their skin, Nate's burned a cherry red from its too hot touch. He remembers the creak of wood as they swung on the porch swing at Cale's childhood home. He remembers the feeling of contentment, time stretching before them and behind them, practically infinite.

The taste of coffee still lingers on his tongue and Nate's laugh still echoes in his ear and the breeze still tickles his neck, if he could just fall back asleep--

"I have to leave soon," admits Nate quietly against his collarbone.

"What?" asks Cale, his eyes shooting open, suddenly wide awake. He turns his head until his gaze finds the familiar blue of Nate's irises, feeling himself settle just a little bit, even as his heart continues to beat rapidly in his chest. "What time is it?"

He tries to sit up, reaching for his glasses and scrambling for his phone, but Nate tightens his grip around his side until he settles back down.

"Almost eight," says Nate. "I need to leave by eight thirty."

He doesn't need to say the second half. Cale knew that. Knows that.

He always knows when Nate has to leave.

Cale frowns and gives a little shake of his head. "We were supposed to wake up at six," he says. "I remember setting the alarm. We were supposed to have breakfast, I bought--"

He quiets as Nate reaches a hand between them, the soft pad of his thumb smoothing the crease between his brow. His hand falls to Cale's cheek, cradling Cale's jaw as he leans forward.

The touch of his lips is featherlight, but the weight of the emotions behind it feels heavy.

When Nate pulls back just slightly, his lips still ghosting Cale's, Cale closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath, but his whole body trembles with it. This never gets any easier.

He presses forward, deepening the kiss to prevent himself from asking Nate to stay. He can't do that. He wouldn't do that.

But still, his fingers twist into Nate's shirt as though his feeble grip will be enough to keep him here, in his bed and at his side, for just a little while longer.

"We were supposed to have more time," he says quietly, his throat clogged with too many emotions to name.

"I know," says Nate. What else is there to say? "I know."

[trash-and-trash-accessories]

tw: suicide, suicidal ideation

not being able to talk to anyone when I feel suicidal - because I could be literally swatted (police wellness check) or involuntarily hospitalized which would ruin my life - is actually a nightmare. Like I would love to just talk to a professional and be able to tell them "I would like very much to die and I could absolutely make that happen" would help my mental health so much but I literally can't do that. Because of the carceral mental health system. And I can't talk to my friends about it because just saying that to your friend who you love can be deeply traumatic for that friend.

Of course I would want my friends to tell me and I would never ever call in a wellness check but I can't trust other people not to do that. Being mentally ill in the US is an absolute nightmare.

[yharnam-is-a-fuck]

[queenharumiura]

‘ comforting ‘    for my muse’s reaction to yours gently wiping their tears away after they’ve been caught crying (From Gokudera as for which verse of ours, you pick)

Taken from meme: [x] ||Accepting|| @whiskeysmulti Note: I chose to go for something with the verse with @signorinavongola's version of them because-- yes. Heh Gotta give that verse some attention to. =w=

-

Haru was crying alone in a room, her attention focused on the item in her hands. A lot of her life had changed when she made the choice to affiliate with the Vongola and leave the life of a regular civilian behind her. Well, it wasn’t like she’d fully committed to it outwardly, considering she’d remained in Japan.

It would’ve been met with a lot of opposition if she tried to become too intimately involved with the Mafia’s activities. If she got too involved, then what was stopping Kyoko from doing the same? Haru remembers mentally rolling her eyes every time that was brought up by a certain older brother Guardian. Well, it’s not like she didn’t understand. Haru could resolve most of their reservations by stating that she could at least act like a civilian outwardly and be something like a liaison based in Japan. Nothing too ‘dangerous’.

Well, that is until they started cleaning some dirty parts of the underground world and found some children in need of a safe place, and that’s when Haru realized this was her calling. She took the children under the wing. Sure, she understood that it could be dangerous, and it would be a lot of work, but she was okay with that.

What was harder for her to get used to was the fact that she had to withdraw away from some others like her friends and family in order to keep them safe from the eyes of anyone with bad intentions towards the survivors of the mafia’s atrocities.

Every couple of months, she’d get delivered a couple handfuls of letters that her parents wrote for her, and she’d always go into a room by herself to read them over and cry. She missed seeing her parents, but she didn’t want any harm to come to them. It was hard, and it was a sacrifice she didn’t foresee having to make, but, she had to make peace with it.

She had resolved to not cut her ties with her childhood best friend, and she wanted to be a source of support for her. Her courageous friends who were trying to do something big and important in the mafia world. She was doing her part with helping the displaced children heal their hearts and find their place in the world that was cruel to them from such a young age. She wanted to allow them to explore their options and find a way to do something good with their lives, to realize there was a lot they could aspire to be… not simply continue the cycle of pain and hatred by getting revenge.

Gently tracing her fingers over the familiar handwriting of her mother’s, she let silent tears fall from her cheeks.

She hadn’t noticed that someone had entered the room after having knocked a few times. She was too focused on the letters to notice she had company until she felt someone’s hand wiping her tears. “!!”

Flinching backwards, she almost swings at the perpetrator until she recognizes the familiar silver hair. Once she does, she closes the letter in her hands. The letters her parents wrote were for her eyes only. “Oh-- Gokudera, when did you get here? Haru’s sorry, she must not have heard you come in.” She sets the letters aside to finish reading them later. She’s not going to address the fact she’d been caught crying.

Plastering her classic smile on her face, “Did you say hello to all the kids already? They love it when you visit, Uncle ‘Grumpy’ they call you in secret, sometimes.” She giggles. “How about you tell me how everyone’s been in Italy?”

[the-capt0r-system]

Pluralkit has been great for organizing our thoughts and determining who was/is who when, can't believe we've been doing this in Tumblr DMs for years now but 95% of the time with images and other people's posts sent to each other instead of actual dialogue lol

Also last night one of our mutuals on TikTok called us "Amy" when we joined her live and it "kind of sounded right," yesterday's system arrangement is remembering, even though that's maybe the first time someone's said that to us. Our display name is just the full name of the main character in one of the books from the obscure Christian series we liked as a kid/A still likes and we forgot her name for like maybe a decade due to losing our copy of this book lol but still apparently past versions of us are like "hm yes this is familiar"...before we were even into fandom we wrote fanfiction about Amy and invented a character named Emily similar to her and wrote her into the universe

[firstelevens]

last line challenge

tagged by @ankahikoibaat

rules: in a new post, share the last line you wrote and tag as many people as there are words (or as many as you feel like).

It never occurred to him that he could start a feud with Captain America, because Cap is a literal superhero who rubs elbows with kings and gods, and Bucky is a third grade teacher whose most exciting achievement this month was getting glitter off of his favorite leather jacket.

Look. I know I already have a teachers AU, but in THIS teacher AU, only one of them is a teacher and the other is Captain America so technically I've done something new.

no-pressure tagging @sesamestreep @philtstone @sambambucky @abarbaricyalp

[sae-mian]

❛ just relax and let me take care of you. ❜

For the writing prompts, for whomever comes to mind. <3

aaaa thank you!!! now i have to figure out how i want to actually.. format these...

TIMELINE: ballad WHEN: patch 5.5 WHO: nira'sae/g'raha SUMMARY: a moment after they returned from paglth'an sporting some fresh injuries.

┈┈┈┈┈❀┈┈┈┈┈

They thought they'd done pretty well, all things considered.

It was their first real taste of combat outside of sparring since they'd recovered from their... incident, at the tower. The Scions had done everything they could to ensure they were prepared - geared them, lectured them, subjected them to hours of training - but the world wouldn't wait forever.

Fandaniel didn't seem eager to wait at all.

But no amount of preparation could make up for almost a decade of missing experience. So... they took a few hits.

It was nothing major, by their standards. The "Lunar Ifrit" had been mean as all Hell, but, they were sure they'd fought worse before. An errant swipe had come out lower and faster than they expected, catching them across the thigh - shaken for just a moment too long, they stumbled, and one swipe cascaded into two, giving them a matching gash across their hip and abdomen.

All of which had led them here, to the room they'd been given in the Hourglass, getting ready to dress down and address the damage. They could very well have done more on the journey over - but as they'd told Alisaie - keeping Arenvald stable was the priority, at the time. They should have known better than to think she'd let that slide.

There was a knock at the door.

Hurriedly grabbing a robe to throw on, shirtless as they now were, they braced themself for a renewed lecture.

"Uh- come in?"

It wasn't their little Elezen friend that opened the door, however.

Instead, G'raha Tia made his way through the threshold, looking about as pleased as Alisaie had been.

"Nira'sae." he greeted, sounding far more stern than they were used to.

They wrapped the robe a little tighter.

"H-hi-- um. Is everything alright?"

"It was brought to my attention that you didn't return entirely unscathed."

Ah. She'd ratted them out.

He was before them, now. Arms folded with the manner of one scolding a child.

"Well, no, b-but..."

"Let me see."

"I-it's okay-- I'll deal with it."

"Nira'sae."

For someone that had just fought through a veritable legion of tempered Imperials, and bested some new amalgamation of Primal, they found they really had no backbone at all.

They slowly untied and shrugged off the robe, letting it hang from their elbows. It was blood-stained, now. Oops.

G'raha's face immediately softened into gentle concern. He stepped closer, leaning in to get a better look - it took all their resolve not to take a step back in turn, cheeks starting to colour.

They stared pointedly at the wall until he tutted, straightening.

"Sit down. I'll handle this."

It wasn't a question. He was already taking off his gloves. They opened their mouth to argue, but he cut them off.

"Oh, and take those off."

He was gesturing to their pants. Without the robe, the tear in them was fairly obvious. Their ears pinned back, a mild sense of panic and anticipation mixing in the pit of their stomach.

"I don't-- you don't have to, I can--"

"No, but I'd like to."

"B-but--"

His hand found one of theirs.

"Honestly, Nira..." his voice was quieter now - chiding but gentle, "...just relax, and let me take care of you. Okay?"

Their heart was racing in their chest, all nerves and butterflies, but when he squeezed their hand...

They found themselves nodding anyway.

[distortedclouds]

[lambergeier]

i told myself that if i posted two fics i could do the meme again, and i posted two fics, so: would anyone like some dvd commentary

[lifeonthemurdersim]

HAPPY FUCKING HALLOWEEN!

I'm not sure I'll have many takers on this but to finish off GoreKinktober I want to play a game...

🕸Send me TRICK and a character/characters/ship and I'll write a gorey short piece!

OR

🕸Send me TREAT and a character/characters/ship and I'll write a smutty short piece!

Due to the content and because this is a MDNI account, 18+ askers and characters only please! If you want to add an additional prompt/theme then that would be great as it gives me more to work from!

People are welcome to reblog and do the same!