#I’m being slightly hyperbolic but I don’t care

[tiny-cloud-of-flowers]

is there truly any better feeling than sending your friends pictures of their F/Os when they least expect it

[brokenmenswhore]

helloooo do u think u could do a poly marauders smut where they all get jealous and punish reader 😁

absolutely i do

punish | poly!marauders

pairing: poly!marauders x fem!reader (james, remus, & sirius)

warnings: choking, rough sex (MDNI 18+), smut, spanking, triple penetration (including anal)

────── ☾ ──────

“You’re joking. I mean, you have to be joking, right?”

You toyed with your fingers, watching your hand movements in an effort to keep your head down and avoid eye contact as your legs began to shake, your feet reaching the floor as you sat on the edge of your bed. “I’m sorry, it just felt like something I should tell you-“

“It felt like something you should tell us? Fucking hell, angel, you can’t be agreeing to dates with other guys when you’re with us.”

You sighed, protesting, “but it’s not a date! He just needs help studying, I just thought it would be weird if I didn’t tell you.”

“If it’s something you have to sit us down and tell us about, doesn’t that set off a red flag?” James asked calmly, trying to level with you.

“I mean, not always,” you admitted, “I kinda have to do this with Sirius every time I even breathe the same air as a boy.”

Sirius was pacing back and forth in front of your bed, but he stopped when you spoke his name, turning toward you. “Do not act all innocent with me, you know you lead them on.”

“I don’t!” you protested.

Sirius was frustrated, his nostrils flaring as he gripped your jaw, forcing your head upward and your eyes to look at him.

“Look me in the eyes and try to tell me you didn’t say yes to him, knowing we would have an issue with it.”

“I-“

“That’s what I thought,” Sirius spat, “you knew how we would react, yet you agreed to it anyway.”

“You don’t control my decisions.”

You knew what you were doing by talking back to Sirius. He knew you made your own choices, but the truth was, you made this choice because you knew it would piss your boyfriends off. When they were jealous, they were mean.

Sirius tightened his grip. “What did you just say to me?”

“Take it easy, Sirius,” Remus said, approaching you two, “she’s clearly doing it to get a rise out of you.”

Sirius stared into your eyes. “Are you?”

Instead of responding, you couldn’t help but let out a small giggle, which was the wrong thing to do.

Sirius pulled you to a stand by your jaw, spinning you around and pushing your front down, folding you onto the mattress.

“Something funny?” Sirius asked, and you shook your head no, your breath taken away by the haste of his action.

Remus leaned over the other side of the bed, his chin resting against the mattress, his face level with your own. “I tried to stick up for you, but unfortunately I think you’re going to miss your date.”

“It’s not a d-“

Before you could finish your retort, Sirius connected his palm with the flesh of your ass, causing your body to jolt slightly forward.

You gasped at the sudden pain, and Remus stuck his lower lip out, hyperbolically pouting. “Poor baby, did that hurt? Maybe you shouldn’t agree to dates with other guys.”

You sighed. “But I told you it-“

Sirius hit you again, harder this time. You nearly squeaked at the surprise of the feeling.

“Just stop talking, baby,” James said. He was standing somewhere behind you, near Sirius, but you couldn’t see him. He was always the nicest to you, and his brain felt bad when you were being punished, as much as his cock disagreed.

Sirius flipped your skirt up and pulled your underwear down your legs, exposing you from behind to your boyfriends.

“James, care to take over?” Sirius asked, backing away from your body.

James smiled, dropping to his knees, his face level with your core. You couldn’t see what was happening, but you knew it was James from the way he slowly darted out his tongue, tasting between your folds as his hands came to hold your waist, keeping you in place.

James was by far the most skilled with his tongue, so the boys elected that he would be best equipped to work you up properly.

You rested the side of your head against the sheets, whining softly as James began to taste you, swirling his tongue around your bud and sucking on your clit.

It was difficult for you to stay quiet, especially with James between your legs. The more he worked you up, the louder he became.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

“Shut up,” Remus demanded.

You couldn’t help but continue to moan and whine as James flicked your bud, causing your legs to shake slightly as he grabbed your ass, pressing his face even closer into your cunt.

“I said shut up,” Remus warned, “bad girls don’t get to make noise.”

“I’m not a bad girl,” you protested.

Remus gave you a wide-eyed stare. “You really wanna be punished today, huh?”

You only squealed in response when James’s tongue began to move faster and faster, trying to coax you to climax.

Remus bent down next to you and clasped a hand over your mouth, shutting you up since you wouldn’t do so yourself.

Your moans were muffled under his hand, which only worked James up more. He wanted to watch you struggle, and he wanted to make you moan so loud that it wouldn’t matter if Remus’s hand was covering your mouth or not.

You gripped the sheets, trying to steady yourself. Sirius, who was suddenly behind you, lifted one of your legs until it was bent on the bed, giving James even easier access to your core. You were even more on display for the boys with your skirt forcibly pushed up around your waist.

You were whining freely underneath Remus’s hand, your orgasm threatening to crash over you at any moment. Just when you began to squirm from the near overstimulation, James pulled away, bending his body identically over yours and moving his hand to insert a finger into your core.

You tried to press your forehead into the sheets, but Remus’s grip on your mouth was too tight. As James began to ruthlessly move his finger in and out of you, his unoccupied hand pressed the side of your head into the mattress.

“You wanna come?” he whispered into your ear, and you did your best to nod your head, but it was nearly impossible.

Just as you began to squeeze around James’s finger, he pulled completely away from you, leaving your core feeling empty and your body cold due to his body no longer against yours.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, the empty feeling causing you to wiggle your ass in an attempt to get one of the boys to give you the attention you now craved.

“Flip.”

Remus’s voice was strict, your body reacting to his instruction as you stood and turned over, laying back down on the bed. Finally facing upward, you could see what was going on.

Remus stood between your legs and pulled you toward the edge of the bed. You leaned yourself up on your elbows, but Sirius was way ahead of you, gripping your wrists and pinning your arms on either side of your head.

Remus pulled down his pants, lining the tip of his cock up with your entrance.

“Gotta remind you who you belong to, hm?” Remus said, slowly pushing the head of his cock into you.

He quickly pulled it back out, teasing your entrance as Sirius held your wrists down, watching you squirm and writhe in need and anticipation.

“Actually, I don’t know,” Remus said, continuing to tease you, “seems you might have already forgotten who’s you are.”

You furiously shook your head no, trying to demonstrate that you hadn’t forgotten you were theirs. You were so desperate to feel Remus inside of you, that you would have done anything to get him to fuck you already.

“Tell us you’re ours,” Sirius demanded, his face next to yours as he stood on the opposite side of the bed, still holding your wrists.

“I am, I’m yours-“

“So then you shouldn’t have agreed to date another guy,” James said, cutting you off.

The moment James’s sentence finished, Remus slammed his entire length into you, causing your body to hit forward.

You cried out, and Sirius dropped your wrists, instead opting to cover your mouth with one hand and your neck with the other.

Remus began to snap his hips in and out, not giving you an adjustment period before he began to ruthlessly fuck you. You didn’t dare move the positioning of your arms, keeping them up as you gripped the sheets beside your head.

You tried to moan and whine, but Sirius had a firm grip on your throat and was using the hand over your mouth to press your head deeper and deeper into the mattress.

Tears threatened to spill from the intensity, which was involuntary, but was also Sirius’s favorite thing.

“Aweh, poor baby, you gonna cry?” Sirius mocked.

You couldn’t help the slight hiccups that came as you cried, which only egged Sirius on more. “You don’t wanna be punished anymore, hm? Then maybe you shouldn’t be saying yes to other guys like a filthy fucking whore.”

You tried to nod your head in protest that no, you were not a filthy fucking whore, and you didn’t say yes to other guys, but you could barely move.

Remus was gripping your hips with no remorse, nearly bruising the skin from the pressure. He leaned over you, adding onto Sirius’s words as he whispered in your ear with each thrust, “filthy. Fucking. Whore.”

You were trying to catch your breath from your cries, but you could only take deep breaths through your nose. The boys were amused watching you struggle, and Remus was fucking you hard, consumed with his own pleasure and hellbent on denying you yours.

Your walls began to clench around Remus, and he immediately pulled out, bending over to steady himself. He had denied himself an orgasm in order to prevent yours. Still, he backed away from you, no intent to finish himself off when you were right there.

Sirius let go of your mouth and neck, but only to shift positions with the boys. You took the opportunity to immediately cry, “please, Rem, please, I need it-“

“Sh,” James took over, “I’m sorry, bunny, but this is a punishment, and you know what that means, don’t you?”

You sniffled, “I don’t get to come until all of you do.”

“Good girl,” James said, “stand up for a second for me, yeah?”

You stood, your legs shaking as James laid down on the mattress and patted his lower stomach. You crawled back onto the bed, swinging one leg over his waist to straddle him.

He was already unclothed, and Sirius was the same, appearing behind you as he knelt on the bed between James’s legs.

You looked between the two boys in confusion before your eyes widened in realization.

“Siri, I can’t-“

Sirius could tell you were nervous, so he dropped the intense wall for a brief moment to ask you for your consent.

Despite your tears, you nodded yes, wanting to please them but also aware that you could absolutely handle it.

“Up,” James tapped the side of your thigh, prompting you to raise your hips. He gave himself a few lazy strokes before lining himself up with your entrance. You slowly sank down onto his length, sighing in appreciation at the feeling of being filled again.

When you were all the way down, James pulled your body against his, holding you tightly as he stilled inside of you.

Sirius had already lubricated his cock in preparation, bending down to bite the flesh of your ass before lining his tip up with your other hole.

James held you tightly as Sirius pushed just his tip inside, a long gasp leaving your lips at the sudden intrusion.

You buried your face into the crook of James’s neck as Sirius slowly inserted himself into your ass. If you let out a particularly high squeak, Sirius stilled for a moment, but otherwise he moved as slow as he possibly could until his entire length was inside of you.

James lifted his head off the bed to peek at where your three bodies connected, bridged through you, and you took the opportunity to grab the back of James’s head, desperate for anything other than the mattress to ground yourself on.

You stayed in your position, heavy breathing as you adjusted to both boys, Sirius grabbing your hips and James’s arms remaining wrapped around your torso.

“Tell us when we can move, doll,” Sirius said, his composure faltering.

You gave it a few minutes, allowing the pain to subside as your hole stretched, before telling the boys, “I’m okay.”

James and Sirius exchanged a look, and James smiled wide as he slowly pushed his hips upward, stimulating your cunt. You moaned from the sudden movement, holding James close to you as he loosened his grip around your body, shifting and holding the sides of your torso as he moved, trying his hardest to keep you from bouncing. He was afraid of hurting you due to Sirius, but it was hard to hold back when you were on top of him with two cocks inside of you.

James set a steady pace, not nearly as rough as Remus, but not slow either. After a few minutes of adjusting to James, Sirius tightened his grip on your hips in warning.

You inhaled a sharp breath in anticipation right before Sirius slowly pulled a tiny bit out, pushing back in to test the waters. You nearly collapsed even more onto James’s body, but Sirius’s grip kept your hips tilted upward.

Sirius began to move in and out slowly, cautious of just how far back he pulled out with each stroke. It hurt like hell for a moment before the pain subsided, and all you could feel was pleasure twice over.

“Fuckin’ hell,” James moaned, throwing his head back against the pillows as both he and Sirius worked you up.

They tried to stay in a rhythm, one pushing in while the other pulled out, but quickly became too engrossed in the act to worry about the other one’s pacing.

You were still crying softly, whining and whimpering at a much higher pitch than you usually did.

Sirius smacked your ass, causing you to throw your head back and moan. He took the opportunity to grip your hair, keeping your head in position. At the new angle, James could see your face clearly, and he couldn’t look away.

“Who do you belong to?” Sirius asked.

You nearly choked trying to speak. “You.”

Sirius balled your hair up into a ponytail, signaling James to take over the hold. James grabbed your hair, pulling until your head was turned to look at where Sirius connected his body with yours.

Your holes were so tight around both boys that they both knew they wouldn’t last long.

“Looks so fuckin’ good,” James said, “you like it when Sirius and I fuck you at the same time?”

You only moaned in response, but that wasn’t good enough. Sirius spanked you again, and you looked him dead in his eyes, swallowing your pride and embarrassment and saying, “I love it when you fuck me at the same time.”

Sirius groaned at your words, especially the sight of you speaking them while looking him in the eyes, and he subsequently picked up the pace.

There was a sudden tap on your jaw, and you cocked your head upward to see Remus kneeling in front of you, lazily stroking his cock in front of your face.

“You wanna be a good girl?” he asked you.

You nodded your head yes, and before he could even instruct you to open your mouth, you stuck your tongue out, ready for him.

He gave you a smile in return before he pushed his cock past your lips. You struggled to move your head, your body rocking in all directions from the two boys already inside of you, and Remus noticed instantly.

“Sh, sh, keep your head still, that’s it, good girl,” Remus spoke, gently holding the back of your head as he began to thrust his hips forward into your mouth.

Every few hits, his cock grazed the back of your throat, causing you to gag a moan. The sound and sight drove Sirius over the edge, and his thrusts became harder and sharper.

James didn’t calm down as Sirius became more intense, and Remus didn’t care about either of them.

Sirius hit a final few thrusts before he pulled out of you, spilling his seed onto your ass and hips, watching as it dripped down the curves of your body.

Remus was the second to come, so worked up from earlier that he knew he would be done for within minutes, and he was right. His come shot to the back of your throat, and you swallowed the entire load, sticking your tongue out to show him you had done so.

You dropped your head in a desperate attempt to relax as James continued to thrust up into you. You were fighting with everything you were to keep from coming, and you desperately needed James to release so you could, but he was arguably being the meanest of them all.

Every time he would feel himself approaching his climax, he would force himself to slow down. He was greedy, and now that Remus and Sirius were done, he had you all to himself. He knew you were fucked out, but he also knew you hadn’t come yet, and wanted to savor the journey.

“Jamie, please-“ you cried.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he whispered in your ear.

“I’m yours, I’m all of yours-“

“No no, baby, tell me you’re mine.”

You moved to hold yourself up on either side of James’s head, looking down at him as you spoke softly so that only he could hear, “I’m yours, James, all yours.”

Your words were enough for him.

He came inside of you, his leg muscles spasming as he hit deep within your cervix.

He came down from his high inside of you, pulling out and lifting you upward, his hands on your hips as he shifted you to lay down on the bed.

You rested your back against the sheets, looking at your three boyfriends, nervous and expectant.

“I don’t know, do you think you deserve to come?” Sirius asked.

You furiously nodded your head yes, the aching between your legs growing. You were tired, but you were desperate.

“I just don’t know-“

“Please,” you begged.

“Sirius, c’mon,” James bargained, running his fingers through his hair, “she did great. Just let her come already.”

Sirius looked to Remus, who was way ahead of him.

Remus took his position between your legs, gently spreading them apart as you whimpered.

“Sh, you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you responded, “I’m alright.”

“You ready for me?”

“Please,” you breathed out.

Remus slowly inserted himself into you, your back arching up off the bed from the overstimulation.

For the first time the whole time you’d been getting punished, Remus leaned down and kissed you. You nearly choked on tears from the happiness and relief that came from the feeling of his lips on yours. While you enjoyed the roughness and punishment, it was nice to be grounded back to safety and intimacy.

Remus continued to kiss you as he fucked you, never moving too fast for fear that he may hurt you. You were overstimulated and edged enough that within few minutes, you came hard around Remus, never breaking the kiss as you whined into his mouth.

Remus didn’t pull away as your legs shook rapidly. You rested them flush against the mattress, and Remus slowly pulled out of you, giving you one final kiss before rolling off of you.

You caught your breath, unable and unwilling to move from your position from pure exhaustion.

“Gonna get you cleaned up and then we’ll all relax together, okay?” Sirius cooed, wiping the sweat-soaked hair away from your face.

“Thank you,” you said as he gently maneuvered a washcloth between your legs.

When you were cleaned up, James lifted you off the bed, and Remus pulled the sheets down before James placed you back down, pulling the sheets up over you and shifting into bed next to you. Remus joined you on the other side.

“Fuck you guys, where am I supposed to go?”

You shifted slight forward, and Sirius took the hint, climbing over everyone to seat himself directly behind you. You rested back against his chest, exhaustion consuming your body as you fell into a sleep that meant you would most certainly miss your “date.”

[phregnancy]

Sometimes I read bottom Dan fic from a few years ago and I'm like "who are these people?" lol. It's like people totally disregarded Phil's personality in order for him to fit the stereotypical mold they'd cast him in. It was the same for Dan tbh. Lbr the only reason why people thought Dan was the bottom is bc he's younger and more outwardly feminine than Phil. The idea that bottom= submissive and top= dominate is flawed anyway, but also...Dan is not submissive. He's quite bossy and controlling. In the past, I'd even say he could be domineering. I don't see their dynamic as even being Dom/sub tbh. It's more of a playful power struggle. Except Dan fights by asserting dominance and Phil fights by being cute and whining until Dan gives in or being an absolute menace and annoying Dan into submission lmao

rewriting this for the third time because my app keeps refreshing </3 but i agree with alllll of this. putting it under a cut because i got way off course and went on a tangent lol

someone recently said that they can tell who of us have been actively engaged in diverse irl queer communities (clubs, bars, sports leagues, activism groups, etc) vs who of us haven’t and i’ve been thinking about that a lot in regards to this. obviously nothing wrong with not engaging with your irl queer communities, some people don’t have access or don’t feel comfortable or simply don’t want to and all of that is fine - but you do have to work harder to unlearn a lot of heteronormative concepts like these and you have to familiarize yourself with queer culture and history (outside of social media). people’s outward presentations of masculinity and femininity have nothing to do with their sexual preferences, and dan has shared that exact sentiment in so many words (wondering if people think he’s a bottom because he’s slightly more feminine, and then discouraging that narrative as a whole). i also think there was a lot of hyperbolizing with their masculine and feminine presentations, because for a long time dan really was not that feminine and phil really was not that masculine. they were both emo nerd boys who played video games and drank too much soda. even now with personas like sister daniel, that really is not the height of femininity in queer culture or drag culture.

i think there’s also something to be said about people’s lack of familiarity with queer culture showing in people’s thoughts on them being in an open relationship and also 2009 bottom dan.

i don’t particularly care about the open relationship discourse one way or another, but a lot of mlm relationships are open. there are studies and statistics on this, gay men are the most comfortable and open to open relationships. if they hooked up with people when dan was touring or even just someone every now and then, it wouldn’t be as shocking as some people make it out to be. i also think there’s a problem with people conflating open relationships with polyamory, and those two things are often very different. people in open relationships tend to be committed to each other, but will sometimes want to have noncommittal sex with other people. polyamory is having multiple committed relationships (romantic or sexual). clingy phil and possessive dan having noncommittal sex with other people wouldn’t change that they’re still clingy x possessive. and if you’re actively engaged in irl queer communities vs online echo chambers you’ll learn this.

i’m getting way off course here lol but then in regards to people thinking 2009 dan was bottoming as a default, that’s been a pet peeve of mine since forever because it shows a lack of familiarity with mlm relationships. it’s extremely unlikely that dan’s first gay sexual experiences were being on the receiving end of anal sex, that takes time to get used to (with yourself and with a partner) and often isn’t most men’s first gay sexual position. they also weren’t together long enough until phil got his first apartment to have dan be familiar enough with anal to take phil’s dick every time he visited. i know everyone thinks little twink dan taking phil’s big dick is so hot, but big dicks can be painful and are something you work yourselves towards. and y’know, who knows what actually went on in that bedroom so much cherry everywhere, but i do think we should dispel some of these beliefs that again are playing into heteronormativity (little feminine dan taking big masculine emo phil)

dan has always been bossy and controlling and he was quite confident with the people he was comfortable around (phil + other youtubers + his audience) and then grew to be a confident person in general. i see them as a real brat x brat relationship with them being bratty in different ways (bossy/teasing vs whiney/pushing buttons).

here’s my last thing (thanks for reading this novel if you made it this far) - there is a difference between knowing all of this, and still just preferring bottom sub dan x top dom phil because you think it’s hot, vs believing there’s no other dynamics that could exist because of heteronormative stereotypes that you are actively playing into. like what you like and have fun! but please work on educating yourself and unlearning heteronormativity. sorry for the spiel!

[tempest-of-the-pearl]

— ‘it’s a pleasure to be working with you. to keep this simple, i am miss natazha s. forte, just call me miss forte if you’d rather not call me by my first.’ — a detective in 1918, whose narrative is full of intricate and rather complicated threads. care to entertain one another? | semi-selective, multi-fandom

[ introductory post; rules; about muse + mod; fandoms muse is in — aforementioned sections under rules cut. ]

. . .

RULES ! | set by the muse’s companion: hyperbole / card / async

— do not rush or pressure me into replying: this is a hobby for me that i will not treat as a job. i also have a life and somebody controlling my internet connection, and that will complicate my timing for our threads. if you fail to comply with this, i will put our threads on an indefinite pause until you let up and reread the guidelines i’ve placed.

— the person running this blog is a minor (15-18): if we don’t know eachother before this blog or any of my other roleplay blogs [ @relentless-researcher / @pyretic-shots / @glimmering-chances ] (i.e. being friends on discord, mutuals on tumblr prior to any side blog creation, et. cetera.), then i implore you to not flirt or be sexual with me—even as a joke—if we are only roleplay partners. flirting with the muse in-character is fine, and i don’t mind mod simping for muse n’ vice versa—but i am both taken, and it’s illegal if a predator just so happens to prey on me. if you attempt to do so, i will block you and continue to take any further action to discourage you from any further interaction with any of my blogs.

— respect any boundaries i’ve set: this goes both ways. respecting eachother is common courtesy. if you fail to comply with this, i will put our thread on an indefinite pause until you let up and reread the guidelines i’ve placed.

— do not abuse anonymous to send unnecessary hate: do i have to elaborate? if you fail to comply with this, i will not fuel your fire. i will not respond, and i will delete what you’ve sent.

. . .

“miss forte? that 30-something russian detective? she isn’t exactly the most easiest woman to get along with, especially after the events of 1914 until now. she was eccentric, slightly temperamental, and was also rather adamant on being respected despite the women’s status during her era—the 1910s. she was charming however—talented and gorgeous, so her demands on being treated equally were fulfilled in different ways.” “what she looked like? ah, you challenge me with my poor memory, listener—but she stood tall and proud, with pearlescent blonde hair, a hauntingly pale, porcelain-like complexion, and memorable eyes of ocean blue whenever there was a storm that happened above. i remember her always boldly going against the stylistic rules and standards they’ve held, yet she obeyed with the late 1800s. perhaps it was nostalgia—perhaps it was grief.” “she had a family once, most of them have disappeared however. don’t press me for any more information on that note.” — your friend from afar.

. . .

aww, learning more about little ol’ me? well . . .

hi !! — i go by three primary names: hyperbole, card, and async! he/they/heirs is very preferred for my pronouns :3 . . . i’m a minor, as stated in the rules—taken by my lovely wife too<3 i’m mostly opening these roleplay blogs as a way to pass time and be more insane about the characters i create with an audience, so you can most likely expect accidental posts on the wrong blog (woops), silly interactions, in-fandom posting, n more ~~~ soooo; lets have a toast to our potential companionship!!! 🥂

. . .

— fandoms that the muse will participate in + the original universe she was made for + muse’s tags f;; Reverse: 1999 / Genshin Impact / Honkai: Star Rail / Pyun Pyun Heart Throbbing Endless Love Bakery (how lengthy-) / Keeper Of The Lost Cities / Stardew Valley / Kimetsu No Yaiba—Demon Slayer. og;; the mansion. tags;; — fortissimo. (in-character / rp) // — side job: crack! (in-character joke posts) // — the pairing of a tragedy with her darling. (pairings between my muse and yours) // — card hacks into forte’s account (mod posts)

[notallsandmen]

Trope Game

Thanks to @orionsangel86 for tagging me ❤️

Rules: How much do these tropes affect your decision to click on a fic?

* -10 -> very dissuaded

* 0 - don't care either way

* 10 -> very enticed

* nope -> if it's a hard no and you'd never click on a fic with that tag or or you even have the tag blocked or you'd insta click out of the fic if it wasn't tagged

Bonus points for explaining the rating and whether it's conditional.

Age gap: 0 ( -10 — +5)

This is one I’m torn on.

I am a lot more squicked out by characters dating between developmental brackets — a first year college student dating a senior highschool student, a uni lecturer dating a uni student, an immortal character dating a mortal etc — than the age gap itself. That being said, I won’t read fics if one of both of the characters are under 20. Period. Nor will I generally read fics for immortal/mortal ships, because knowing that one of them will eventually be left behind makes me sad, and because of the hyperbolic Mary Sue degree needed to justify how a human mortal would ever attract a centuries-year-old character.

On the other hand — Look, I am a sucker for forbidden love, and if there is a taboo, I wanna poke it with smut fic. And I essentially have a divorced virgin kink, so I’d be lying if the age gap trope didn’t appeal to me — particularly if combined with grumpy/sunshine trope, and if the younger character takes care of the older. Give me your middle-aged hot messes learning to love again!

I think the guiding rule for me is the hypothetical question — if the younger character was the same age as the older, would they still have fallen in love? If yes, then I adore it. If no, then I hate it.

Codependency: +7

speaking as one half of an ADHD couple which only barely makes up one normally functioning adult — codependency is a) inescapable and b) hot.

Obsession/Possessiveness, jealousy: +7

I shouldn’t find this hot. But I do. Sorry. All my ships have a slightly feral possessive element to them. And a touch of jealousy which is only rooted in insecurity (ie, not actual suspicion/blaming/shaming/controlling behaviour) provides great hurt/comfort fodder

Opposites (grumpy/sunshine etc): +10

The grumpy/sunshine dynamic is my catnip — I will never be normal about this. And I love physical contrasts/differences, too.

Enemies to lovers, Enemies with benefits: +7

I love this, but only when done well, and when the enemy-dynamic is grounded in miscommunication/different personalities clashing/different coping mechanisms. It shouldn’t be actual hate-fucking, or negging/bullying escalating to sex.

Friends with benefits: -8

I’m an irredeemable romantic when it comes to fic reading, so unless there is an eventual romantic relationship in sight, I’m not interested.

Sex to feelings: +9

Pining-while-fucking is a gold star trope. I am particularly fond of the ”Grumpy cynical slut corrupted by romantic and reduced to a flustered blushing hot mess” trope. (TMI — This is how I got together with my partner. I am the grumpy slut.)

Fake dating/relationship: +6

I enjoy it, as long as it does not require so much suspension of disbelief as to veer into ”Too Forced Proximity” territory.

Friends to lovers: +8

I love it in M/M fic, bi-awakening fics etc. But since I have many platonic relationships with male friends, I tend to get squicked out by M/F pairings, especially if I can detect even a whiff of friendzone bitterness etc.

Found Family: +10.

I will loudly sob over these and return to them again and again. Yes, I have attachment issues, and no, I will not look too closely at that.

Hurt/Comfort: +8

I mean, if no one is crying, I won’t be able to relate to these characters at all.

Love Triangle: NOPE.

Never. Only Ride or Die pairings for me, otherwise I will get jealous and insecure on behalf of the characters. The same goes for too much ”will they/won’t they”, uneven emotional investment etc

Poly, open relationships: NOPE

To be clear, I don’t want to reduce polyamory to a fic trope or imply that poly relationships are not as committed as monogamous relationships. Personally, I am just too insecure to cope with anything other than monogamy, and the same goes for fic.

Mistaken/hidden identity: -7

I will just be stressed out until the reveal, and then I have rushed through the story and not enjoyed it.

Monsterfucking: +7

A lonely sad creature finding someone who thinks that they are beautiful and desirable and worthy of love — how can I not be obsessed? — No, I don’t think that says anything about me

Pregnancy: -9

I am happily childfree and do not need to experience it in fic either.

Second Chance: + 2

It all depends on the Hurt/comfort ratio —how bitterly the relationship ended the first time, how much angst until reconciliation, etc.

Slowburn: +8.

Sexually and emotionally edge me for +100K, please.

Soulmates: 0 (Meh)

Hellooo confirmation bias. I don’t really like the magical soulmate (born with soul markings etc) trope, and I find the real-world notion of soulmates too unrealistic to be enjoyable (especially because it often comes with spiritual/religious connotations).

Tagging @academicblorbo , @beatnikfreakiswriting , @ml-nolan , @chaosheadspace , @beholdme , @reallyintoscience , @valeriianz

[iriswritesstuff]

Reimagining Masculinity by Ocean Vuong

“No homo,” says the boy, barely visible in the room’s fading light, as he cradles my foot in his palms. He is kneeling before me—this 6’2” JV basketball second stringer—as I sit on his bed, my feet hovering above the shag. His head is bent so that the swirl in his crown shows, the sweat in the follicles catching the autumn dusk through the window. Anything is possible, we think, with the body. But not always with language. “No homo,” he says again before wrapping the ace bandage once, twice, three times around my busted ankle, the phrase’s purpose now clear to me: a password, an incantation, a get-out-of-jail-free card, for touch. For two boys to come this close to each other in a realm ruled by the nebulous yet narrow laws of American masculinity, we needed magic.

No homo. The words free him to hold my foot with the care and gentleness of a nurse, for I had sprained my ankle half an hour earlier playing manhunt in the McIntosh orchard. We ran, our bodies silver in the quickening dark, teenagers playing at war.

The boy—let’s call him K—had helped me up, my arm slung across his shoulder as I limped toward his house, which sat just across the orchard. The war is still going on around us, the other boys’ voices breaking through the brambles, and the larger war, the one in Afghanistan (for it is 2005), amplified what was at stake in the outer world, beyond the feeble sunset of childhood.

No homo.

I look away, as if it isn’t an ankle, but roadkill, in his hands. I scan the room instead, the walls lined with baseball trophies catching the streetlight outside, which has just flickered on. Do I find him handsome? Yes. Does it matter? No.

“You’re really good at hiding,” he said to my foot, and though he meant at manhunt, he might as well have been talking about manhood. For isn’t that, too, a place I have hid both in and from at once?

*

I was never comfortable being male—being a he—because all my life being a man was inextricable from hegemonic masculinity. Everywhere I looked, he-ness was akin to an aggression that felt fraudulent in me—or worse, in the blue collar New England towns I grew up in, self-destructive. Masculinity, or what we have allowed it to be in America, is often realized through violence. Here, we celebrate our boys, who in turn celebrate one another, through the lexicon of conquest:

You killed it, buddy. Knock ‘em dead, big guy. You went into that game guns blazing. You crushed it at the talent show. It was a blow out. No, it was a massacre. My son’s a beast. He totally blew them away. He’s a lady killer. Did you bag her? Yeah, I fucked her brains out. That girl’s a grenade. I’d still bang her. I’d smash it. Let’s spit roast her. She’s the bomb. She’s blowing up. I’m dead serious.

To some extent, these are only metaphors, hyperbolic figures of speech—nothing else. But there are, to my mind, strong roots between these phrases and this country’s violent past. From the Founding Fathers to Manifest Destiny, America’s self-identity was fashioned out of the myth of the self-made revolutionary turned explorer and founder of a new, immaculate world of possible colonization. The avatar of the pioneer, the courageous and stoic seeker, ignores and erases the Native American genocide that made such a persona possible. The American paradox of hegemonic masculinity is also a paradox of identity. Because American life was founded on death, it had to make death a kind of praxis, it had to celebrate it. And because death was considered progress, its metaphors soon became the very measurement of life, of the growth of boys. You fucking killed it.

*

Years later, in another life, before giving a reading, the organizer asked me for my preferred pronouns. I never knew I had a choice. “He/him” I said, after a pause, suddenly unsure. But I felt a door had opened—if only slightly—and through it I had glimpsed a path I had not known existed. There was a way out.

But what if I don’t want to leave this room yet, but just make it bigger? Pronouns like they/them are, to my trans friends and family, a refuge—a destination secured through flight and self-agency. They/them pronouns allow an interface where one can quickly code oneself as nonnormative, in the hopes of bypassing the pain and awkwardness of explanation or the labor of legibility when simply existing can be exhausting. Would I, by changing pronouns, appropriate myself into a space others need in order to survive?

As a war refugee, I know how vital a foothold as small as a word can be. And since as a cis-presenting male, I don’t need to flee he-ness in order to be seen as myself, I will stay here. Can the walls of masculinity, set up so long ago through decrees of death and conquest, be breached, broken, recast—even healed? I am, in other words, invested in troubling he-ness. I want to complicate, expand, and change it by being inside it. And I am here for the very reasons why I feel, on bad days, I should leave it altogether: that I don’t recognize myself within its dominant ranks—but I believe it can grow to hold me better. Perhaps one day, masculinity might become so myriad, so malleable, it no longer needs a fixed border to recognize itself. It might not need to be itself at all. I wonder if that, too, is the queering of a space? I wonder if boys can ever bandage each other’s feet, in friendship, without a password—with only passage, between each other, without shame.

No homo, K reminds me, as he bites off the medical tape, rubs the length of my swollen ankle. He slides my white Vans back on—but not before carefully loosening the shoelaces, making room for my new damage. No homo, he had said. But all I heard, all I still hear, is No human. How can we not ask masculinity to change when, within it, we have become so wounded?

“You’ll be fine,” he says—with a tenderness so rare it felt stolen from a place far inside him. I reach for his hand.

He pulls me up, turns to leave the room. “Kill the lights,” he says over his shoulder.

And I kill them.

I make it so dark we could be anything, even more than what we were born into. We could be human.

[pyode-luar-ke]

carnation | part iii | poly!yautja x reader

A/N: here it is: the prodigal Birth Scene. turn back now if you’re uncomfy w the themes and topics at hand, and please please please mind the content warnings!

this chapter is actually the shortest bc it was actually combined with part ii at first, but i split them due to the aforementioned warning. part iv will be out eventually, i don’t have much of it outlined, so i’m still deciding what to do with it.

summary: the big day.

word count: 3,206

content: 18+, fem!afab!reader, polyamorous relationship (F/M/M/M/M/M), reverse harem, pregnant!reader, pregnancy, labor, graphic birth descriptions, delivery, breastfeeding, newborn yautja pup!!

← part ii part iv (finale) →

—

You reach 12 months. It’s exhausting, but it’s finally happened. An entire year of pregnancy. It’s surreal.

It feels like your body has reached its limit. Your belly is crowded, full and taut, a large dome of pup and flesh that hangs low. It forces you to hunch slightly, and when you stand or walk you have to support the stretchmark-laden underside with your hand. It often astounds you at how heavy the girth of your middle is, how you feel your pup shift and press against your hands when you rub it.

The same can be said of your breasts. They hadn’t grown too much in the remaining month or so, but they certainly got heavier. Even the “milking sessions” (God, the term makes you feel like a cow) every other day, it did nothing to relieve the ache in your shoulders and back your drooping tits caused.

You promised yourself that once you give birth to this pup, you’re treating yourself and laying on your stomach. It’s been too long, and your back has earned the reward.

Overall, you feel so big and heavy and full that you’re tired all the time and sleep constantly, but in sharp contrast you’ve begun to go through huge nesting stretches. Instinct screams at you to prep for the upcoming arrival, and you get so restless that you’re equal parts exhausted and energetic.

Sometimes, you’re so antsy and fidgety that you arrange then rearrange your pups nest over and over again. Like your mates’ beds, the “crib” is really just a dip in the ground padded by furs and downy feathers. Although the one for your pup is much smaller, only able to hold the newborn that’ll sleep there, curled up. Pups, almost like kittens, will squeeze themselves in tiny spaces for the first year or so until they inevitably co-sleep with their bearer, much like humans do.

It’s hard to get sleep on the days when nesting becomes your main priority— because you just have to make your pup’s space perfect— that your mates have to bribe you to their beds. Usually it involves some level of seduction and a promise of sex (of course, very careful sex by now), but sometimes they’re able to guide you away, forcing you to succumb to your sleepiness.

—

“Come now, little mate.” Th’chi purrs, grabbing you by your forearms. You sigh, forcing yourself to drop the furs in your hands. He’d been trying to pry you away from your pup’s nest for hours now, beckoning you to go to sleep. The luar-ke had risen from the horizon, glowing proudly at the peak of the sky.

“I know, I just...” You try to argue, weakly gesturing at the unfinished, disheveled mess that you’re attempting to make into a nest, “It needs to be perfect, Th’chi.”

You know deep down that you’re being fairly illogical, the nesting drive is hyperbolizing the state of the tiny bed of furs, but it’s hard to remind yourself of that. Your pup needs a nest, it isn’t finished, and you’re becoming upset. Th’chi scents your rising distress and whickers.

“The furs are some of the finest, I should know because I took their beast’s th’syra.” He states, nuzzling your cheek with his mandibles. You make a whining groan in your throat, gesturing at the nest again. Before you can protest with the same excuse he and all your other mates have heard near daily now, Th’chi swoops you up into his arms.

“Th’chi! You bastard! Put me down!” You shout, smacking him on his brawny chest and shoulders as he transports you bridal style to his yurt. He only clicks in amusement, playfully snapping at your hands with his mandibles if they get too close. It has you gasping and laughing, pinching his tresses in retaliation.

He growls when you do, narrowing his bright yellow eyes at you as his pupils eclipse them. You smirk knowingly in his arms, gliding a gentle hand up and down his chest. His quad-heartbeat thrums beneath your palm. You wink. His grip on you tightens possessively.

When Th’chi finally sets you down in his bed, he’s already begun emitting his dia-shui, to which you gladly accept his advances.

It’s a long night.

—

A week later, it wakes you up.

Your abdomen tenses, a tightness that pulls the breath from your lungs and has your eyes snapping open. Any remnant of sleep vanishes from you in an instant. The tight feeling intensifies, turning painful, and you can’t prevent the soft Oh! from escaping you.

Laying beside you, Bhu’kei wakes to your startled gasp. Immediately, his eyes dart to you, how you’ve sat up in bed, how you grip your belly. He can see your abdominal muscles work, your womb distorted as it flexes to expel the pup inside it. The wide-eyed, pained look on your face tells him everything else. Sweat perspires at your brow, already your body is anticipating what’s to come.

“Mate.” Bhu’kei states firm, pulling your attention from the white hot pain to him. You whimper, panting, turning your attention to him. The contraction ceases, receding like the tide. It leaves you tingling and throbbing. You swallow.

“I think it’s time.” You whisper a hoarse reply, and like clockwork or coincidental magic, wetness gushes from your core, soaking your thighs and blanket in warm, semi-clear liquid. Then another contraction thunders through your hips and you yelp.

Bhu’kei roars to alert the others.

—

You shriek into Ap-tui’s chest, sweat rolling down your temples, dripping at your chin. Your wet eyebrows cinch tight together, tears form at the corners of your squeezed-shut eyes. Another brutal, merciless contraction squeezes at your abdomen, your uterus forcing the mass of your pup down— down against your taut cervix.

At the brief interlude of the contraction waning, you manage to gulp in air before another seizes you— Stronger, longer than the last. You wail in crescendo, your lower core ignited; Stabbing flames. You push.

Your cunt bulges, vulva swollen and burning, the crown of your newborn beginning to emerge from your slit. You can feel the squirming mass of your pup slip down. It’s excruciating. His head threatens at the cradle of your sex.

A scream tears at your overexerted throat, tears rolling down your hot face. Bawling, you press your cheek as flush as possible to Ap-tui’s abdomen, like being close to him will give him the strength he possesses. Strength you need, strength that is so so hard to upkeep, and you exhaust yourself, pushing subsiding.

You’d been deadlocked in active labor for six hours now. Contractions had started three before that. It’s become more and more difficult since.

“Keep going.” Faintly, you hear Bhu’kei encourage, and it manages to jumpstart you into the next contraction. Groaning loudly, you heave and push with all your might, the burning of your sex a motivator to get. This. Pup. Out.

Your hands grip Ap-tui’s biceps like there’s no tomorrow, so tight you’re sure you must be splitting his mahogany hide with your nails. If you are, he pays it no heed, only purring and occasionally clicking out a reassurance. He holds you in position— a low squat optimal for delivery, bearing most of your weight for you— and his steady presence is necessary.

A large paw comes to rest on the low of your trembling back, and you recognize it to be Ta’kaa’s. The weight of his heavy palm is centering. You cling to his warmth. 

It’s hardly enough to dispel any of the pain, but he’s so important to you. They all are.

All around you— screaming and squatting on a pile of old furs strewn about the floor, pushing out a bowling ball from your womb— your mates stand in support, chittering and rumbling amongst themselves. Sometimes Van’chaa will pace or Bhu’kei will run a scan or Th’chi will offer you words of encouragement. They are all hyperaware, antsy and restless on their feet. Ap-tui is the only one completely still, he is your rock.

But they’re all there. That in itself is transcendent. 

Yautja males do not linger during the gestation of their pups. Yautja males do not stick around for the births of their pups. Females do not allow them to. They evolve to mate, then move on. Yet here are your mates, aiding you with delivery, having waited the whole time.

They wait and watch their oomani-di win her Chiva.

The pup has dropped lower, his head a firm and foreign object breaching the opening of your core. He’s so large, and it feels like birthing him is splitting you in two. You push with the unforgiving contraction, attempting to make allies with it, and screaming into Ap-tui’s belly. The pup shifts, and its the strangest sensation of your vagina being stretched to the limit and the pup exiting your womb.

“Little sain’ja.”

One of your mates purrs, you’re too focused on the feeling of the head passing your labia to make out who.

“Strong little mate.”

Another one of your Yautja says, and still you’re unable to name who it was because now the pup becomes snagged on it’s shoulders. You freely start bawling harder, shaking. He’s stuck. You can’t push him out. He’s just too big. You’re too weak.

“Go, mate! Push!” 

“I— ugnh— I c-can’t— Oohhh.” You whimper, and you’re so overwhelmed and delirious with pain that you start to wish your mother was here. She’d be able to help you and relieve your pain. She’d know what to do and say with her nimble hands and comforting voice.

A small part of you even wishes Ni’ja were here too. She’d knock some sense into you.

“It hurts.” You choke, and the paw on your back presses down, firm. You focus on it. Ap-tui’s skin is hot and he rumbles with purrs. They’re calming.

“You have passed the head. Only a few more pushes for the body.” It’s Bhu’kei that speaks, you’re lucid enough now to recognize his timbre, and you shake your head. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t...

Another contraction. This time slow and long and rolling through your lower half as steady as a wildfire. With the pain, you push until your thighs quiver— all that you can do. You push until your knuckles go white against Ap-tui’s scales, until you feel the distinct burn of the pup’s shoulders exiting your labia. The white-hot pain has you screaming, choking.

Another push, and you pass the shoulders. Another, the body.

And suddenly— so suddenly— it’s over. 

You look down. Your vision is blurry and your head throbs. 

Between your knees, upon the furs Bhu’kei and Th-chi had laid out for your childbed, lies a tiny Yautja.

—

It’s as if time has simply stopped. All you can focus on is the tiny Yautja you’d birthed.

The robust, masculine cheers of the Yautja males go entirely unheard by you. With heaving breaths and tremendous effort, you let go of Ap-tui and shakily sit back on your bottom. Your core burns, but the squirming pup between your legs, still connected to you by the umbilical cord, causes you to forget the pain completely.

You reach for your pup. You recognize he is male. His skin is hot to the touch and soft. Covered in amniotic fluid and blood, it’s hard to tell but you’re able to see he has the same coloring as his sire: Mahogany. When you lift him, he is heavy and healthy. All you can see, hear, and feel is the wailing newborn pup you’d brought into the world. 

His piercing wails sound almost bird-like, like a metallic-esque twang that warbles in his tiny throat and gummy jaws. Nubs of tuskless mandibles sporadically open and close around his tiny pink mouth. A small tongue sits inside. His eyes are squeezed shut, not to open for at least another few days. Tiny paws search the air, desperate and needing.

He needs you. He wants you. Your pup squirms in your arms, and he is yours. 

It’s like you can’t breathe. The love and adoration you feel suffocates you.

“Hi.” You blubber, your voice choked in your throat. Your pup wails and warbles, his tiny body presses against the soft flesh of your bare chest. His face turns towards your breast, and immediately his tiny mouth begins to make sucking noises. Tears roll profusely down your face. He knows you’re his mother, and he wishes to nurse.

“Let me help you.” Ap-tui stabilizes you into a more comfortable seated position, while Bhu’kei delicately moves you so that he’s able to reach your pup. You nearly protest and pull your pup back flush against your chest, but Ta’kaa rubs his paw in circles on your spine.

“I need to cut the umbilical cord.” Bhu’kei says, and you’re starting to come back to your senses and nod. You meet his eyes and smile, offering Bhu’kei the pup. He takes him in his hands as if you’ve bestowed him something holy, and while the pup wails in distress at being parted from your breast, he doesn’t panic. The cord is cut, and your pup returns swiftly to your arms. 

“He wishes to suckle. He searches for your teat.” Van’chaa rumbles beside you, having crouched down to be closer. He purrs in content and stares at the pup in amazement. Ta’kaa is at his side, one hand still rubbing your back, and looking much the same.

In the cacophony of birthing and celebration, your racing thoughts about how exactly you’d breastfeed your pup comes to mind. As you guide his searching, tiny pink mouth to one of your nipples, you adjust to lift your breast.

Before he had been born, you worried over how you’d be able to feed him with his mandibles in the way, but it seems all those concerns were all for naught. Your pup's jowls spread wide, then press flat against the skin of your breast. His mouth is immensely hot, almost furnace-like. And then, he latches, and your entire world changes.

Your suckling starts feverishly at your left breast, not necessarily tugging at your nipple, but definitely working it. It is the strangest feeling ever. He makes little content noises that sound incredibly human, and it takes everything in you to not burst into tears again, lest you disrupt your nursing pup.

You opt to kiss the sloped crown of his head, and he grunts. You kiss his working jaws, and he grunts once more, a tiny paw pressing against your chin. You kiss him again, and he purrs.

“Look at him.” You murmur, your soft voice almost overshadowed by the loud purring of all your mates. Ap-tui and Bhu’kei begin to clean your body with wet rags, wiping away blood, sweat, tears. They are especially careful of your throbbing sex. The pain is nowhere near as great as it had been during birth, but you can tell you’re going to be feeling it for a while.

You just hope you didn’t tear.

“He’s perfect. He’s perfect.” You recite like a mantra, kissing your pup worshipfully over and over again. In front of you, Ap-tui clicks with pride. He had done well. His seed both worked and the pup meets your satisfaction. There is no possibility of abandonment.

“What should we name him?” You ask, marveling at how much the pup consumes despite just being born. Ni’ja hadn’t been lying when she said that he’d be nursing from the very beginning.

“That is your decision.” Van’chaa rumbles, clicking to Bhu’kei when he notices you grimace in pain. Nursing your son had been distracting you fully from the smaller, lingering contractions that signaled your placenta passing. It hurt like reopening a scab, sharp and brief. With some more reassurances, you barely have to push for the afterbirth to leave you.

—

The pup nurses for another hour before finally drinking his fill and falling asleep at your breast. It takes a few tries to detach his suction from your nipple, but when you finally do, Ap-tui takes the pup in his hands so you can dress yourself. You’d been naked for the entirety of labor and delivery, nearly ten hours, and as much as you adore your net body suit, you seek out your flowy cotton dress.

The feeling of fabric is comforting and reminds you of home, of Earth. The melancholy you feel for your planet doesn’t strike that often, but having just given birth to your Yautja son on an alien planet... Your mind is a bit frazzled.

And so the dress helps. Sleep probably will too. 

You take the pup back from Ap-tui— who’d been crouched and watching like a hawk the little thing sleep, as if he’d suddenly wake and bolt— and place him in his crib of furs and downy feathers. Even though you’re exhausted and only want to pass out (on your stomach), it’s surprisingly hard to place him down and to... leave him.

Ta’kaa has to remind you that your bed is only feet away. The pup sleeps soundly, and five Yautja hunters will protect you both. You hesitantly agree.

Now, in your bed, your mates fighting for space around you, you sigh into the furs beneath you. Your body throbs, not too badly thanks to the medicine Bhu’kei gave you, and the inkiness of sleep creeps at your vision. You lazily look to your pup, who’s only an arm length away from you.

He sleeps curled up into a tight ball, tiny mandible nubs closed and his eyes shut tight (as they will be). His chest rises with soft breaths, and if you really focus you’re able to hear tiny purrs come from him. 

“Well,” You pause to yawn, “I want to give him a Yautja name. Something strong.”

Your mates whicker in happiness. Admittedly, they had been bracing for you to give the pup some weird, too ooman name. Thankfully, you seem to share their fondness of good, normal Yautja names. Which isn’t to say that they think your name is weird or abnormal— Yours is special to them, of course.

They take turns nuzzling you and caressing you with their paws, each one murmuring their thanks. The yurt is alight in soft whickering and purrs.

“Khu’eon.” Ap-tui offers the name when it pops to existence in his mind, dipping his head in reverence to you. Males never get to name the pups they sire, so he knows he’s walking on unknown ground. If he were to encroach so brazenly on a Yautja female’s right, Ap-tui would be slaughtered.

But you are not a Yautja female. You are an oomani-di and his lifemate. He is your male as much as you are his female. He and his brothers and cousins are your equals. When you smile over at him— your eyes exhausted and your face still hot and wet with tears— he knows that you’ve approved this choice as well.

“Khu-eon it is.”

The males erupt into another round of victorious roars and slamming the fists to their chests. A new hunter has been brought into the world, named, and will be trained to be an apex warrior like his sires.

Khu-eon startles awake and begins to wail.

—

yautja translations

Chiva →  the trial of which a Youngblood Yautja is Blooded should they succeed in killing a kiande amedha (Xenomorph) dia-shui → musk, specifically that of a male luar-ke → moon ooman / oomani-di → human / human female sain’ja → warrior th’syra → skull/s

—

taglist

@coffee-love-alltheabove, @floralfi, @yautja-mistress, @that-teen2003, @boogeysmoth, @soryuwifeyxx 

(if you want to join the taglist for this series, just leave a comment or dm me, and i’ll add you to the list. hope you all enjoyed it!)

[hamliet]

Hello! I have a question about the Brothers Karamazov if you're interested! I just reread the book and loved it as always, but I the one thing I can never figure out is what is the deal with Ivan and Smerdyakov's relationship?? I can't tell if Smerdyakov genuinely liked him or just used him? Anyways love all your head canons and fanfics, thanks for reading my ask!

You can always talk Dostoyevsky to me!

So I think it is ambiguous on the surface, but if you dig into both of their characters the answer becomes clearer.

Considering the novel's basic tenet of "Ivan is always wrong" (I'm hyperbolizing and being slightly facetious) and that Ivan POV is closer to being about "use," I'm inclined to argue Smerdyakov really did like Ivan, but because Ivan is Ivan and Russian society is Russian society, that care turned to resentment. 

See, Pavel was Ivan’s youngest brother, and yet was never acknowledged as a Karamazov, even though it was obvious that he was Fyodor’s son. Even though he lived with them, he was raised by the servants who beat him (while Grigory also basically raised Fyodor’s other three sons for the times they weren’t off with other relatives, I doubt he was abusive like he was to Pavel). Pavel wasn’t afforded the education or opportunities Mitya, Ivan, or Alyosha were. There’s a class aspect here, too, of course--Pavel is a servant.

The closest anyone in their entire family ever came to acknowledging Pavel was Ivan having those conversations about philosophy with Pavel. Pavel wanted a brother, even if he wouldn’t acknowledge it to himself, and Ivan wanted a pupil. That’s the tragedy--Ivan didn’t get what Pavel was really after, and maybe was incapable of acknowledging to himself. 

Furthermore, these conversations are the closest Pavel gets to separating himself from his birth reality. His mother was intellectually disabled, and Pavel is also looked down upon intellectually-speaking--but the reality is, as we find out, Pavel is actually acutely intelligent. 

When Pavel kills Fyodor, I think it’s pretty clearly out of resentment and anger for the way his father not only brought him into existence (raping his intellectually disabled mother), but treating him as a servant and giving him his patronymic Fyodorovitch, but not his surname. That’s insulting enough as is, but to make it worse, Pavel’s last name is made up and cruel: Smerdyakov, meaning the stinking one, meaning that people are always seeing Pavel as scum from the streets, as dirty, as unintelligent. 

I see no reason in the novel not to think that Pavel’s framing of Dmitri and manipulation of Ivan is motivated by anything different than his motivation for killing Fyodor: it’s resentment, and fundamentally, it’s about loneliness. Lest I seem like I’m being too soft on Pavel, I’m actually drawing this sympathetic portrayal from the novel’s most righteous character, the character who embodied the novel’s themes: Father Zosima. Pavel in the end commits suicide, but here’s how Zosima says we ought to view suicides: 

But woe to those who have slain themselves on earth, woe to the suicides! I believe that there can be none more miserable than they. They tell us that it is a sin to pray for them and outwardly the Church, as it were, renounces them, but in my secret heart I believe that we may pray even for them. Love can never be an offence to Christ. For such as those I have prayed inwardly all my life, I confess it, fathers and teachers, and even now I pray for them every day.

Zosima continues on to associate suicide with a deep sense of isolation, of feeling cut off from society and from God. Check and check: Pavel is cut off from society because of his origins, his name, and is even cut off from his family while existing in the same house (if that’s not a metaphor for society ignoring the hurting, the ones they inflicted pain on, while they’re physically present in society I don’t know what is). He is also cut off from God because of his birth origins (being the product of an exceedingly cruel and sinful act; Dostoyevsky has a particular condemnation for rapists, likely stemming from a documented experience he had as a child). 

But to feel isolated, one has to want to connect. To feel lonely, one has to want someone to care. That’s Pavel. 

For Ivan’s part... for all Ivan’s intelligence, he lacks basic empathy rooted in reality. He likes empathy in theory, but he neglects active love (another key point of Father Zosima’s, as seen in this conversation with Mrs. Khokhakov during which she describes her own loneliness and isolation: 

“Oh, how unhappy I am! I stand and look about me and see that scarcely any one else cares; no one troubles his head about it, and I’m the only one who can’t stand it. It’s deadly—deadly!”

“No doubt. But there’s no proving it, though you can be convinced of it.”

“How?”

“By the experience of active love. Strive to love your neighbor actively and indefatigably. In as far as you advance in love you will grow surer of the reality of God and of the immortality of your soul... active love is a harsh and fearful thing compared with the love in dreams. Love in dreams thirsts for immediate action, quickly performed, and with everyone watching. Indeed, it will go as far as the giving even of one's life, provided it does not take long but is soon over, as on stage, and everyone is looking on and praising. Whereas active love is labor and persistence, and for some people, perhaps, a whole science.”

Ivan claims to reject God and all sorts of things based on the empathy he feels for children who have been wronged, but he does not actually put that empathy into active practice with a literal abused child who is his actual blood brother sitting right in front of him. This is incredibly tragic, and it’s why Pavel uses Ivan’s theory to justify his murder of Fyodor. He does so by basically stating that he’s the tool in Ivan’s hand, carrying out his ideas. 

In his death, and in his confession to Ivan, Pavel achieves two things: firstly, he offers Ivan a chance to offer him approval, and secondly, he proves Ivan wrong, showing Ivan how flawed he was and how useless his theories are if they achieve nothing but death and ruin for Ivan’s loved ones (and for the entire family that rejected Pavel). It’s paradoxical, for sure, but it’s Dostoyevsky, so would it be anything else? 

[mangoofthesea]

For the prompt - zukka, ATLA, something hurt comfort with zuko being the hurt one?

hello! I'm so so sorry this took so long, my free time drastically decreased this week suddenly. But it's finally here because I loved this prompt and was super excited to write it, and I was finally able to! Yay! And I really enjoyed it, I always forget how much I love writing for these two.

anyway, without further ado here's the ficlet that turned into more of a short fic oops

--

The infirmary is quiet as Sokka enters, looking around with sharp movements trying to find dark hair, pale skin, and a burn scar. Thanks to it being the royal palace infirmary, it wasn’t too difficult though, not with there only being one bed with a patient in. One clad in the elegant reds and golds deserving of the ruler of a nation. If a little rumpled.

“Zuko!” Sokka shouts over the low buzz of sound from the rest of the room's occupants - all seeming to be bodyguards or doctors.

Zuko looks up sharply, and his expression seems to shift through a couple different emotions before settling on a sheepish smile that has Sokka's fear shifting to anger.

He stalks over to Zuko's bedside, as he goes watching Zuko attempt to sit straighter and wince as he does, hand going to his side.

"Sokka, hi." Zuko says, smiling with a slight wince. "How was your journey?"

"Don't do that!" Zuko frowns.

"Don't do what?"

"Don't act like you don't have a fucking stab wound!" Zuko's eyes dart away briefly then come back to Sokka, expression reverting to placating and that same innocent expression he saw him try to use to calm down his uncle after he sustained his lightning injury.

"It's fine, Sokka, really. Don’t worry about it. They caught the attacker, and even if they hadn’t his skill was stealth, not combat. It was no trouble for me subduing him.”

Sokka purses his lips, looking down at his boyfriend and takes a deep breath that is supposed to be calming but only serves to give him a moment to be more annoyed when he sees Zuko’s eyes follow the rise and fall of his chest. Biting the inside of his cheek, he folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes.

“I’m not mad I’m not mad I’m not mad,” he repeats to himself under his breath. Why is he exclusively friends with noble idiots?

Well, noble idiots and Toph.

He opens his eyes to find wide gold eyes looking at him, and a soft smile pulling at the rough edge of burnt skin.

“Zuko, getting stabbed is not a ‘this is fine’ kind of thing!”

Well he tried.

“But I am-”

“Shut up. Shut up right now. If you say you’re fine I’m breaking up with you and getting on another boat back to the south pole, ambassadorial duties be damned.”

Sokka has no intention of fulfilling that threat, but when Zuko’s eyes drop to the edge of his robes pooling on the bed he’s sat on, suddenly unsure, Sokka regrets even making it hyperbolically. The bed is solid when he sits on it beside Zuko, sighing again as he tries to corral the wave of fear and anger that he’s feeling so as to not keep aiming it at his boyfriend as much as he wants to chew him out for not being more careful.

“Zuko, I’m sorry. Just…”

Zuko looks up, and he looks so like a sad polarbear puppy Sokka immediately regrets ever saying anything. Even with the storm of feelings he still has swirling in his chest, he’s taken aback by how beautiful Zuko looks. His hair is loose around his face for once, something Sokka normally only sees late at night when he gets changed out of his official robes and removes the hair piece from his hair. Right now, he’s in a state of undress normally reserved for sparring as well, soft slightly billowing red trousers and no shirt under the robe that has now fallen open, revealing the bandages underneath.

In the face of it all, Sokka can’t help but be struck by the fact he could have lost his boyfriend today. His boyfriend who he hasn’t seen in four months before he had walked into the infirmary a few moments ago..

“Fuck I missed you,” Sokka says, voice breaking on the last word as he darts forward suddenly to wrap his arms around Zuko’s shoulders. He hears Zuko hiss a breath out quietly indicating his pain and Sokka curses and tries to pull back, but Zuko doesn’t allow it. Before he can pull back more than an inch, Zuko’s arms are around his back, clutching onto his travelling clothes tightly and burying his face in Sokka’s shoulder. In response, Sokka holds him tighter.

“You really scared me, firelily. I got here and they said you were in the infirmary. That there had been an attack.”

“It was a couple hours ago,” Zuko replies quietly, voice half muffled by his shoulder. “I had hoped I’d be able to be walking around when you arrived. I didn’t want to worry you.”

Sokka scoffs, but doesn’t let go. No matter how weird it feels to be talking to the wall behind Zuko’s head, the feeling of him, safe and so warm and in his arms, it doesn’t feel weird at all.

“Yeah, well. I’m gonna worry, okay. I love you, of course I’m going to worry, even if you’re claiming you’re fine. Which you absolutely fucking aren’t.” He cinches his arms tighter around the muscular shoulders and turns his face into Zuko’s hair.

Zuko meanwhile, has gone still in a way that is quickly worrying Sokka.

“Zuko, are you okay?” he says, trying to hide the tremor in his tone. What if the dagger had been poisoned? What if it was slow acting and now Zuko was going to die because Sokka hadn’t been here to stop this happening? What if-

“You love me?”

Sokka blinks and sits back frowning, finally detangling himself from the hug. Zuko does the same, but keeps a hold of the side of Sokka’s tunic in the same way Sokka keeps a hold of the sleeve of Zuko’s robe.

“What? Zuko, of course I love you?”

Zuko bites the inside of his lip and his eyes begin to water. Sokka panics.

“Wait wait! No, hey, I’m sorry, don’t cry I mean-”

He cuts himself off when Zuko laughs.

“No, Sokk, it’s fine, fuck. I-” he stops, and swallows. “You’ve never said you love me before.” Sokka frowns.

“Huh? What, no, I’m sure I have.” He must have? He’s sure. All he’s been able to think of for the last few months is how much he loves Zuko and can’t wait to see him again and-

Oh fuck.

Zuko had left him to process, looking on with an amused watery smile, quietly waiting for him to respond.

“That was the first time I said I loved you.” Zuko smiles and nods.

“Yeah. It was. I love you too though.”

Then Sokka finds himself reacting and he totally understands Zuko’s now. The words feel like a warm soft blanket being wrapped around his heart, and it's like he can’t breathe from how much he adores this amazing man in front of him.

They come together suddenly, but when their lips land it's soft. Tender and gentle, imbued with all the affection that has been swarming in his chest from every letter, every moment of distance where he couldn’t wake up to the sunlight streaming over gorgeous pale skin and shining black hair resting on silk sheets.

The kiss only lasts a few moments, then they pull back and this time it’s Sokka who tucks his face into the crook of Zuko’s neck, clutching the back of his robe tightly and Zuko responding in kind.

“You’re still not off the hook for getting stabbed,” Sokka eventually says, muffled by Zuko’s shoulder. He feels the responding chuckle reverberate and holds on tighter, uncaring any more if the grip is too much for Zuko to deal with yet. If it is, he’ll apologise later.

They have time.

[raggaraddy]

Idk of I/someone else has already asked this but how would the yanderes react to having a mute s/o

Mute

A/N: Hi Hi. Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy it! 💜💜💜

Trigger warning: Yandere themes, violence, abuse, unhealthy relationships, blood drinking, descriptions of medical care.

Line: Mini-Rap Line (Namjoon, Yoongi, Hoseok, Jimin)

Alpha! Namjoon

"How long are you going to keep this up?" Namjoon asks, trying to mask the genuine irritation in his voice.

It's been 8 days and you haven't said a word to him. Now, if you weren't talking at all that would be one thing, but you were specifically not talking to him, and would talk to other people with no problem. Trying to make it as pointedly obvious as possible that you were avoiding him and him alone.

The blatant disrespect of this was driving him mad. But he had never set a rule that directly stated that you have to talk to him or reply to him, and he knew that you would only fight it further if he instituted the edict now.

For you though, you were having the time of your life making him suffer. It was rare for you to have so much control between the two of you, and you were abusing it to the fullest. Especially given the reason this all started.

A week ago you were whining because he wouldn't let you go to the town fair without him. An unreasonable decision he made. Because as you tried to point out, you were going to be surrounded by the pack anyhow, and the excuse he gave for not going was a very unnecessary border run that anyone else could do in his place. While he wants to deny it, you know the real cause for his refusal though. It's because you sounded too excited about seeing your new friend at the fate and he was jealous. Even though she was another girl, for whom you had no romantic feelings, he was still jealous. And petty. You could see it in the way he mentioned her name or his face when you spoke about her.

But even with all that, it was his injustice that really made you snap. The exact words he said to you as you tried to reason your point, were; If you're going pout I don't want to hear another word from you. Basically, he told you to shut up just because he couldn't come up with any valid rebuttals and he didn't want to lose. So fine, if he wanted to be a dick, you were going to simply take his own instruction and hyperbolize it.

And his frustration was worth every moment of silence.

While he was hoping not to further blow this out of proportion, Namjoon was trying to break your silence by being strict towards all your other undesirable behaviour. Disciplining you for each and every rule you broke. Hoping to wear you down, or at the very least provoke you into another argument so that he could claim victory.

He was giving you time outs, taking away your electronics, making you hold quarters to the wall, refusing you junk food and sweets, making you stay by his side the entire day and so on. Fully running through all of his most infuriating and childish punishments. But no matter what he did, you remained defiant. And he was at the end of his rope.

Sitting in the kitchen, you were talking with the Gamma and two other wolves during a patrol break. As Namjoon was putting lunch together, you were happily observing his clenched jaw. However, the aggravation their Alpha was exuding was putting the wolves on edge and they were trying to include him in any way they could. Asking his opinion on topics as trivial as shoes, in the hopes to offset the irreverence you were showing.

When they asked him which of two brands he prefered, you interrupted, sick of their transparent attempts.

"No one cares what he has to say." You snip turning your back to him. For the first time in days, you were referring to him, and all the attitude you had stored up was pouring out in those words. You didn't take a second to think about what you were really saying though.

With an almighty crash, Namjoon smacks his hand into the benchtop, catching the side of the plate causing it to shatter. All three wolves and you jump. Quickly the words replay in your head as you see their wide-eyed gawking. Then the realization hits, you were safe being underspokenly disrespectful, but being outrightly so... he had rules set about that, and now you'd just given him the right to punish you in the way he had been itching to.

Grabbing your arm before you can protest he drags you upstairs to your shared bedroom. With weak shoves and refusals, you stay determined not to utter a single word. But as Namjoon pulls onto the bed, dragging you over his lap, as he lifts up your dress and tears down your underwear, you recognise that it's not time to play anymore.

Ignoring your shouts, your foul language, and eventually your cries for him to stop, he holds you down and smacks your ass raw. After about 20 minutes and once he's reduced you to tears, he finally lets up.

"Apologize," he demands. Still crying, you're too out of breath to reply at once, and that pause costs you. His hand comes down on your bruised ass again making you scream. Your cries turning into whimpered hiccuped apologies as you cling to the tear-soaked duvet.

Satisfied with your change in attitude, Namjoon at last stops. Not letting you run away like you want though, instead he has you straddle his lap, his legs carefully spread so your bruised butt doesn't have to sit on anything.

"Do you understand why I did that Y/n?" He asks softly pulling you into his chest. His hand running over your back.

You know why he did it, but you're too bitter to answer him and can only muster a grunt.

"Still not speaking to me, huh?" He smiles knowing he has already won whether you wanted to admit it or not, "Because if you're going to continue being disrespectful, I don't care if your ass is still glowing, I will bring you back up here."

You can only grunt again. Hating him, while you nevertheless cuddle in closer not wanting him to stop comforting you. He chuckles feeling your energy. Fiddling with your clothes and hair to realign and neaten them.

"Beautiful," he purrs in your ear, "If it really means that much to you, I will have someone cover me this Friday so I can take you to the fair." He consigns, kissing your forehead. You finally look up to him, head tilted and mouth slightly open. "Do you want that?"

Looking down and away, you're pouting a little but you push the word out. "Yes,"

"Okay, I will. But you have to be on your best behaviour from now until then." Namjoon winks.

You lost, but you still got what you wanted in the end. So maybe you can chalk this up to a draw. And at the very least you've found a way to get what you want in the future. So maybe that can be considered a win.

Assassin! Yoongi

Because of your disrespectful outburst, Yoongi had told you that you were not allowed to speak until he says. So far you were 4 weeks into your 5 week deadline.

Initially, it was an unyielding torment to have to be silent. A few times you had slipped up and spoken. Each and every time, Yoongi was quick to respond. He would lock you downstairs for as many days as words you spoke. Luckily, the most you said at one time was 5 words. And he still fed you while you were down there. So while it was horrible, it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been.

Steadily though, you found it became easier. While you weren't allowed to speak, you still needed to be able to communicate with Yoongi, so he allowed you to nod and shake your head, and smile. It was restrictive, but strangely enough, you found it becoming comfortable. Because you couldn't speak Yoongi expected less from you. You didn't have to search for words when he spoke to you in an attempt to make him happy and overall, it made your interactions less stressful.

With you not speaking, he was speaking less also. So for the past few days, you have been enjoying a wordless dialogue that you and Yoongi were having. And at this point, you were feeling more relaxed and not missing talking at all.

Although waking up this morning you came downstairs to a horrible sight, that made you wish you could scream.

Yoongi was collapsed on the floor. Stretched out on the kitchen tiles in a puddle of his own blood. Covered in bruises and cuts. His torn up T-shirt soaked in blood.

3 nights ago he had left for a job. With the ease between the two of you, Yoongi didn't lock you up when he left, although he didn't downrightly state that as the reason. He must have come home sometime last night, but clearly, you didn't hear him.

Rushing to his side, you're looking down his unconscious battered form with no idea what to do. This is nothing you know how to deal with.

With how long you have been without speaking it feels wrong, unnatural even when you think about doing it now. And you can't bring yourself to release a single word. So you do what you can to try and get his attention, and to wake him up. You shove him, clap over his head. Lastly and desperately smacking his face a few times, sighing in relief as it pulls him back to consciousness.

Groaning, his eyes look to be spinning from light-headedness. Stiffly he tries to get himself upright against the wall. Seeing his intent you help him. Pulling him, you slip a little in the puddle of blood. Your hands and feet are already covered in it. Your limbs trembling as you hold your hands away from your body. Looking down at him with pleading eyes, waiting for him to tell you what to do.

"Medic kit," he breathes, each puff heavy and wheezed.

You nod, spreading a trail of blood through the house to his bedroom. Collecting the duffle bag in his closet that is filled with a surgeries worth of supplies and running back downstairs, you drop the bag at his side, unzipping it for him.

While you were gone he's torn his ripped shirt off. Among the cuts and scars that already litter his pale chest, he has a deep long cut that runs diagonally down his torso. It looks like basic first aid was already applied, blood-drenched gauze stuck on the worst and deepest parts of it.

"I'm gonna talk you through this," he pants, with a struggled smirk, "Maybe wash your hands first, cause if I die of infection, I'll be pissed." His playful banter feels so out of place, not just for the scene but for him. Although, you're not going to question how he wants to deal with a life-threatening injury, and the ridiculousness of you being the one that needs to help him. If he wants to joke to cope, fine.

Nodding and wide-eyed through the whole run-down, it takes everything you have, but you stay calm and stop yourself from crying.

Thankfully time has seemed to stop the bleeding. As you remove the bandages the lacerations have somewhat clotted. Going step by step, you follow Yoongi's every word. First, you clean the area with a bucket of water and a cloth. Then apply an antibiotic ointment, that smells really gross. Washing your hands once again, you lower beside him, and realize you've only just gotten to the worst of it.

While the bleeding has stopped the cuts above his belly button and his hip are deep enough, the fat is exposed.

"You gonna be able to do this?" Yoongi asks as you hold the needle and thread with a tremble in your hands that is painfully obvious.

You nod, taking a deep breath. But even after 3 more of them, your exhales are still coming out shaky. You are in desperate need to calm down and your sure he can't get mad at you in this circumstance, so you're going to try what you've seen on T.V. Standing, you rummage through the cupboards and pull down a bottle of whisky from the top shelf. Watching Yoongi closely as you open the cork, giving him the chance to stop you. But he doesn't so you gulp down a few mouthfuls, shivering as the taste flows down your chest.

You're not sure if it helped your hands, but you feel a little better. So that's enough.

Returning to his side, slowly Yoongi talks you through suturing the openings. A traumatic experience you hope to never repeat. The sensation of the needing pushing through the layers of skin will surely never leave your head though.

During the stitching, you were surprised that Yoongi didn't flinch or react in any way. You're unsure if it was because the area was numb or because he was restraining himself to not freak you out. But in any case, you were grateful.

After everything and nearly 2 hours, you finally move onto bandaging.

Both of you are now able to slump back, thoroughly exhausted. For the longest time after the final step, neither of you move. You're still horrified, leaning against the wall looking over the armature medical aid you've given Yoongi's chest. Almost feeling a sense of pride through the unrelenting urge to vomit.

"You know," Yoongi grunts, shuffling back, lifting only his head to rest against the same wall. "If you wanna finish early and talk now, I think you've earned it." He chortles dryly, with a straight line smile.

Wiping the sweat from your forehead with the back of your wrist, you laugh uncomfortably. Honestly, after this, you'll be happy to have the next week without speaking.

Vampire! Hoseok

You couldn't take much more of this.

It was endless and he was ruthless.

Night after night Hoseok was coming to you. Drinking from you, hurting you in so many ways, and leaving you. If you were lucky, he'd remember to feed you his blood before he left. If not, he'd let you remain broken, making you suffer through the day.

With everything that you had to endure, you were tired of being tired. Exhausted of being exhausted. Scared and sad all the time, and hating a life from which you had no means of escape. But even with all of this, you were still holding out hope that there had to be some way to lessen your suffering. You had to believe that if you wanted to keep your sanity. You just had to figure out what he wanted.

So far you had seen no depth to him. All you had learnt was that he enjoyed your misery too much. It was like a game to him. Every sound you made, every cry, every time you begged or screamed at him, or fought him, it would only encourage him. He was trying to coax a reaction, to draw out your fear. And with no other form of control, you wanted to see what would happen if you took that away from him.

You theorized that if you did he would get more vicious, but then he would get bored. Best case scenario; he would let you go. Worst case; he would kill you. And somewhere in the middle; he would keep you only for your blood. But any of these were better than the hell you were living in now.

So partly with a plan in mind, and partly out of sheer exhausted terror, you stopped speaking. It was going to be impossible to stop all sounds. There was no way you could stop yourself from screaming or crying or reacting, but you could control the words that came out of your mouth.

And for over 2 weeks now, you haven't uttered a single word.

With the sun high in the sky and being ready to sleep, you come back to your room, jolting as you open the door. Seeing Hoseok sitting on the bed.

In an unnatural flash, he's behind you, goosebumps prickling on the back of your neck. Grabbing a chunk of your hair he jerks and twists you, moving you to face him. His other hand comes up pressing his fingers into your cheeks harshly enough to make your mouth open. Keeping your jaw spread, he moves and tugs your head inspecting inside at all angles.

"Hmm, I was just checking if I cut your tongue out and forgot. But it's there." he uses his hold on your face to throw you back. Crashing you to the floor. "So you're choosing not to speak to me." He chuckles eerily.

As soon as you hit the floor, you scramble to your feet. Struggling to do so with an injured leg, but knowing it's safer to not let yourself remain on the ground or he'll most likely stomp on you.

You croak quickly silence yourself, forcing yourself to not speak and maintain your desperate strategy. Bracing yourself instead like you're facing a wild animal.

He marches forward, grabbing the arm you hold out. You'd rather he break your limbs than your organs. But he uses the arm to yank you forward, his right fist hooking broadly, your head snapping to the side, blood flying from your mouth. "Still not going to speak baby?" He yanks you back, hitting you in the exact same way. And a third time, your mouth gushing blood inside and out. "Are you trying to hurt my feelings?" He laughs switching his target, this time aiming at your torso. Each time dragging you back into place so he can properly hit you again.

Smacking the back of his hand into your head, he lets your fly into the floor this time. Clicking his tongue as he squats, hovering over you. "Baby, it's not as fun when you're not begging me to stop," he says icily. "Maybe I'm not hurting you enough."

Finally, he's giving you the assurance that you were right. Which means just like you thought, he's threatening to become more vicious. So you can endure that, or you can try something extra and see what happens when you outrightly give him everything he already takes.

Gently and so very carefully you lift your arm to his chest, gradually and painfully getting yourself onto your knees. Watching you do so with such difficulty and while you're trying to maintain eye contact with him, Hoseok is too amused to interrupt you.

With the taste of blood flowing from your mouth, you lean in nervously, expecting at any moment to have your body broken in two. Your heart thumps enough to hurt as you lightly kiss him. Leaving a stamp of your blood on his lips. Too scared to even blink as you monitor him. With a curious expression in his eye, he licks lips clean, a trace of a smile raising the corners of his mouth.

Not receiving a negative reaction you continue. Hoisting yourself up again you begin to kiss him slowly, your tongue flicking his lips encouraging him to open his mouth. Deepening the kiss the moment he does. Kissing your blood between the two of you.

Your hands are shaking, your legs are trembling, and you feel sick with fear, but he seems to be stable. And it seems to be working. As tenderly as you kiss him, he is kissing you back the same.

After several minutes and as the pain of holding yourself up gets to be too much, you lower down, terrified that any movement could evoke a change in his response. Keeping your eyes fixed on him, you tie your hair back into a messy bun.

The smirk on Hoseok's face is fully grown as he watches you with complete intrigue. You've never been the one to initiate anything and he is beguiled by your actions.

Coming back to the same height you don't return to kissing him, instead you press your chest to his, clinging one hand into his shirt to keep you balanced, and the other wrapping around his neck to bring his mouth down to your shoulder. It's a wordless invitation that he accepts eagerly, sinking his fangs into the slope of your neck. Too sore and tired to cry out, you can only pant through the bite.

As he drinks, your hands drop and his tighten around you to keep you up. But the second he's done, he releases you and lets you fall to the carpet.

Your eyes open as you hear the bedroom door. However, you see Hoseok stall. Pursing his lips while looking over his shoulder at you. To your surprise, he turns back and in a delicate manner you did not think possible from him, he lifts you up, carrying you to your bed.

Tilting your head up, he presses his lips to yours and your first thought is one of dread. Assuming that he's not finished and he only came back to have sex with you, thinking how much it's going to hurt in your condition.

Pushing his tongue into your mouth you can feel right away that the blood pouring into your mouth is not yours but his. His tongue lapping yours, feeding you his blood the same way you did to him. Healing you in a way he never has before.

Steadily you can feel all your cuts and breaks startling to heal. Clarity returning to your sight and your breath again flowing easily. As your energy returns you begin to reciprocate the kiss. Both out of a feeling of success and clinging on to the taste of his blood, which has come to trigger a feeling of relief within you. Having attached the flavour with the sensation of having your pain taken away.

Abruptly, Hoseok pulls away, getting up without another word or look. Leaving you alone, laying in shock.

It was a reaction unlike any you had expected, but for the very first time, he was damn near humane. So you would have to try that again and see if lightning strikes twice.

Playboy! Jimin

"Ta-da" Jimin bursts into the bedroom with a small black paper bag in his hand and a massive smile on his face. He jumps on the corner of the bed snatching the remote from you and turning the tv off with a click over his shoulder. "Look, Angel." He hands it over, putting the gift in your lap.

Looking down at it, you sigh internally, leaning back you choose to pointedly ignore it. Resting your head against the headboard, you close your eyes.

Lifting the bag by the handles Jimin swings it between his fingers over your head trying to place it in your eye line. "Look, your favourite." He shakes the brand in your face, the joy in his eyes gently fading into guilt.

For 5 days now, you had been stuck in bed. During an argument about your job, Jimin was once again trying to convince you to quit. His points were the same as always. That you didn't need a job because he could pay for you. That you lived with him, and he would buy you heaven and earth. He meant it in a sweet romantic way, but you couldn't help but take it in a 1910 housewife kind of way. You knew that mostly the reason he wanted you out of work was that he was very greedy with you and hated you being around other people. He didn't like that you weren't there to keep him company and entertain him at all times.

Honestly, those 8 hours out of the house, even though you were down to 3 days a week, were so revitalizing. Jimin could be a lot of work. And he was getting more and more controlling about who you saw and when you could see them. Apart from work, it had been 3 months since he last let you go out or see any of your friends by yourself. And you were fighting to hold onto this last little bit of freedom.

However, you will admit in the attempt at making your point solid, you said something incredibly stupid. He said he paid for everything, and you said you needed your own money in case you ever wanted to leave him. And he took that about as well as you'd expect.

"Come on, this isn't fair." Jimin pouts. "I said I'm sorry."

What really wasn't fair was that he hit you, kicked you, and screamed at you. Demanding you apologize and promise to never leave him. But you were coughing up blood, too dazed to even comprehend his words at the time. And when you didn't answer he growled you can't leave if you can't walk as he threw you down the stairs.

It's only by a miracle that you weren't injured as permanently as he intended, but still, he had done plenty of harm. Your ribs and stomach were black and purple. Your face was cut up with your lips split and your jaw swollen. Your arm and hip were also deeply bruised and sore. But with all of this, you truly have no idea the full extent of the damage because Jimin refuses to let you go to the hospital.

So, due to your injuries and your own principles, you hadn't spoken to Jimin since you woke up.

The first day he was remorseful and apologetic. He pleaded and begged for you to forgive him. He tried to hold you and love you and take care of you, but despite the pain and the fact that you really couldn't take care of yourself, you refused him at every turn. On the second day, he was already becoming annoyed that you wouldn't let him near you and kept ignoring him, and on the third day, he yelled at you for being difficult, trying to put the blame for his reaction on you. Yesterday, when he saw that gaslighting you wasn't getting him what he wanted, he went back to being sweet and doting, having had better luck with guilting you in the past.

This means today when his presents don't earn him your forgiveness, he should be right on track to getting pissy again.

He pulls a small box out of the bag, flicking it open. "Ta-da," he smiles. Only to be met once more with your active avoidance. "Look," he whines holding the ring box up but your eyes are closed. "Y/n look!" He barks.

You're not going to, though. He always does this. Buys you something to resolve his guilt. And if for even a moment you express gratitude or pleasure in it, he takes it as complete forgiveness. Then when you haven't actually absolved him, he accuses you of being difficult or a spoiled bitch. Even ignoring him you know he's going to make a problem of that too, but at least this way he will have to keep suffering in his shame.

During the last few days, you've been thinking hard about why you're with Jimin. For a moment, you even thought about packing your things in the middle of the night and leaving him. Moving back in with your old housemate, returning to full-time work and picking up your life where you left it. But thinking that, even with everything bad Jimin can do, it hurt your heart.

He's yours. And out of all of the people in the world, you're his.

Really there weren't too many times that he freaked. And he only did it because he loved you too much, or because you said something cruel like you did this time. No, most of the time he was so sweet. He listened to you, and he really cared about everything you had to say. Even the smallest problems he wanted to help with. He was normally so kind and gentle and he treated you like a princess.

No matter how hard you looked you would never find anyone who treated you like Jimin did.

So even when he lost his temper, you knew you just needed to hold out, because soon everything would return to regular.

This time he just overdid it. And that's why you were punishing him by not speaking to him. Because you knew it was important to stand up for yourself.

There's a flurry of sudden movement and a hefty bang across the room. Your eyes jumping open, Jimin has thrown the ring and the box into the wall. His frustration exploding in a rampage as he attacks your makeup table. Sweeping everything off it, stomping on anything fragile that hits the floor. Throwing the table over he hurls it into the wall, finishing it off by booting his shoe into the mirror over and over until it cracks.

Turning back to you, his hands curled up by his side, it's unnervingly apparent that he is fighting to restrain himself. Even now, as you lay in bed broken, in his rage he is still considering hitting you again.

But you're pretty sure he won't.

Jimin has just never been good at dealing with consequences and he is worse at dealing with the guilt that comes because of his actions. Without you pardoning him, he's going mental. Which is good, because that means he's learning.

"Whatever," he yells, "just fucking forget it." Barging out of the room he slams the door ferociously behind him.

He may be acting harsh, but you know that more than likely he will be going out to replace everything he just damaged. And he'll buy you something even better than a ring to say he's sorry.

And as long as he doesn't hit you again, you'll know that he really is sorry and in a couple more days when your mouth is healed, you will be able to forgive him. Then the two of you can move on from this and it will be as perfect as it can be.

[autisticlaezel]

I truly, genuinely hate when people comment "this didn't happen" or "then everyone clapped" on tumblr posts, like

1) it genuinely doesn't matter if it's fake most of the time. Like who cares if someone tells a fake funny story about their aunt's wedding vows or tricking another kid with magnets when they were small or whatever. Why is it so important to disprove something you weren't there to see??

2) "there are too many details so therefore it's fake". Adding small details, telling mundane stories in a way that's funny is like. Classic comedic storytelling. The details are added because the details are often what makes the story funny. "my daughter stole a woman's pillow once on a bus vacation" wouldn't be a very interesting or funny thing for my dad to tell people when I was a kid, for example, but his slightly hyperbolic, dramatic and detailed version? Hilarious

3) "you can tell it's fake because op said something snarky/made a punchline" sometimes people irl are snarky and make punchlines. Sometimes the punchline is only a punchline because of the way the story is told. It's not that unrealistic

4) "you can tell it's fake because people don't just randomly check up on strangers in coffee shops or whatever after bad things happen" you must live a very sad life if you think no one cares about helping strangers

5) "it's fake because people aren't that clueless about their sexuality irl lmao" I mean I used to share a bed with a girl and hold hands with her and kiss her occasionally and be in love with her and tell her I loved her regularly when I was a teenager while being sure that she couldn't possibly like me Like That and that I wasn't really into girls anyway, and that's not an uncommon experience for wlw to have but sure

6) "schools don't work like that/parents don't call other parents directly/kids aren't allowed to leave school grounds during recess" not everyone is American and schools are different all over the world. The parents at my school usually tried to work out problems with bullying/hurtful comments etc between each other before involving the school. We were allowed to leave school grounds during recess from 7th grade and up

7) "unrealistic because no one is that unhinged" you've clearly never worked in retail

8) "that's simply too wild to have happened" sometimes wild things happen to people and sometimes they're hyperbolic when writing down stories for comedic value. That doesn't mean that it's not true at its core

Literally sometimes weird and funny and frustrating things happen when people go out and interact with other people. I've certainly had interactions that people on tumblr would think are fake. I'm sure most people have! Idk it just bothers me

[cherry-glade]

sleepy sunsets and candid confessions

pairing: tim drake x reader

summary: the two of you are finally getting to spend some time together after being apart for so long, and tim decides to bring something up to you that he’s been keeping to himself for some time.

warnings: mostly fluff with just the slightest bit of angst bc tim is a sad boy for a little while :/

w/c: 1889 words

You’re on the verge of falling asleep with your back pressed uncomfortably against the rough bark of a tree, sunlight warm on your face and shining bright behind your eyelids when you hear Tim, remnants of precious sleep evidently still clinging on for dear life to his voice, soft and raspy, slurring over the syllables of your name.

“Hey.” You look down to see Tim watching you with a tired little smile on his face, head resting in your lap. You’re glad to see his smile—Tim has yet to say anything about it, but you know that he’s been a little upset recently.

“I thought you were asleep, Timmy.”

“I was,” he confirms, closing his eyes again. “But I woke up again so that I could look at you.” He pauses to yawn, jaw cracking as his eyes squeeze tight before relaxing again. “Missed your face while I was sleeping.”

Your cheeks go warm at that and you gently flick his ear. Tim’s eyes flutter open and find yours as his smile widens, playful with a tiny hint of smugness spilling out with the flash of his teeth. It’s a good look on him, especially with that cheeky glint in his eyes, but then again, so is pretty much everything.

“Sap,” you mutter, and he shakes his head at you, the movement looking a little odd being viewed upside down.

“You love it,” he retorts through a second yawn and closes his eyes again, settling down like he’s just won an argument against you, except he actually has and you can’t say that he’s wrong, not really.

“We’re together almost all the time, Tim,” you murmur, pushing a few strands of dark hair out of his eyes. “Aren’t you at least a little tired of seeing my face all the time?”

“Never tired of seeing you, Y/N,” he confesses casually. “You’re my favourite person and the best part of my day.”

“Cool it with the compliments, Romeo,” you chuckle, twisting his hair and curling it around your fingers.

“It’s not just a compliment, it’s the truth,” Tim huffs, then pauses. “Well, I guess it is a compliment, but I’m not just trying to fill your head up with hot air. You make me happy. Happy, happy, happy...” he repeats, humming to himself.

You blink down at him, amused. “I think you need some more sleep,” you say, poking his forehead lightly, but he still frowns.

“No, I wanna stay up with you,” Tim insists, his frown deepening. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages. Or at least spent any time with you alone, just the two of us. I miss you all the time,” he sighs, and your heart cracks down the very middle.

“You saw me just yesterday, Tim,” you say softly, a little worried. He hasn’t mentioned this before, and while you agree with him, you can’t help but feel infinitely grateful for the little time you actually have been able to spend together. You’ve known from the start that you can’t always be his first priority, and that quite often, he has bigger things to care about than you.

“For like, five minutes,” Tim says, scowling now as he jerkily pulls himself out of your lap and still manages to gracefully get to his feet, jaw tense as he stares down at you. “We literally just said hi to each other and made small talk about the weather because we didn’t have time to talk about anything other than that.”

His shoulders slump, and you can vaguely see the sun just starting to set behind him, rays shining through Tim’s hair to make him look like an angel with a halo of bright light around his head. An angel who insists on carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I know that’s my fault though,” he confesses guiltily, avoiding your eyes now. “Me being a vigilante doesn’t really make it easy for us to see each other, and I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry that I’m being a bad boyfriend. You deserve better from me.”

You stare at him for a moment, wide-eyed and speechless, not able to think of what to even say. In the end, you just say his name, not even trying to hide the way his name falls effortlessly from your lips, soft and loving.

His eyes flicker up to meet yours and then dart away, unable to hold your gaze. “Tim,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper as you pat the grass next to you. “Come here,” you offer. “Sit with me.”

Tim hesitates and then folds himself back down next to you with crossed legs, close enough that your knees brush against each other. Looking up as you take his hand out of his lap to link your pinkies together, you notice that the sun has gone lower in the sky, leaving behind soft streaks of vibrant colour, light pinks and blues, fiery reds and oranges.

“You know,” you start, voice breaking the silence you’d both fallen into. “Whenever I get to watch the sun setting, I’m reminded of you.” Tim turns to look at you with a raised eyebrow, patiently waiting for an explanation, and you just smile at him.

“Remember our first date?” You ask, and Tim grimaces, an embarrassed flush crawling up his neck.

“The one that I was really late for so we had to completely replan it? Yeah, I remember that.” You can tell by the snark in his voice that he’s still clearly kicking himself for it, but that’s not what you want at all.

“Tim, that’s not what I meant and you know it,” you reprimand, and he gives you an apologetic smile which doesn’t reach his eyes. You sigh and take both of his hands into yours, lifting them to your mouth to press gentle kisses to his scarred knuckles and then leaving them to rest underneath your chin.

“You were late to our date in the morning, but we both wanted to finally go on a date so badly that we just went out in the evening and sat together in the park, eating ice-cream. Remember?” Tim nods, his smile becoming a little more real at the reminder of what was basically the beginning of your relationship.

“I... dropped my ice-cream because I was tired enough to be on the verge of falling asleep, and you shared yours with me. And we watched the sun set together. That was nice,” he says softly, untangling his fingers from yours so that he can curl his hand over your lower thigh instead, thumb rubbing slow circles over your knee.

“It was,” you agree. “It was really nice because that evening, I looked at you, and the sun was hitting you just right.” Tim grins bashfully, eyes crinkling. “It made your eyes all twinkly and somehow even bluer, and you looked back at me with this really dopey smile, and I thought, all the way back then, that I could seriously fall in love with you. And I did.”

Tim gives you the same dopey smile he’d given you back then, and it still makes your heart flutter. “You did. And so did I,” he says, touching his fingers to your cheek, lingering on the curve of your jaw.

“Exactly,” you tell him. “So now, whenever I see a sunset, I think of that. Of you. And you know, the sun sets every day, so I think of you a lot,” you say nonchalantly, shrugging.

“Even when we don’t see each other for a while, you’re still in here,” you continue to explain, resting one hand on top of his chest, right above the steady beat of his heart. “And up here,” you say, tapping his temple with your other hand. “And I’m sure the same goes for you.”

The way that his face softens tells you all you need to know. You don’t hold your arms out for a hug, but you keep your body language open and inviting, waiting for Tim to move first. And sure enough, he shuffles over and curls into you, resting his chin on top of your head as you lift your arms to pull him in close enough that every inch of your bodies are touching.

“You’re right,” Tim speaks up after a few minutes of comfortable silence, voice slightly muffled, but you can feel his lips moving against your skin, warm and curving into a smile. “I’m sorry for being an idiot and not talking to you about this sooner.”

“You aren’t an idiot, Timmy,” you say, lifting your head from his shoulder to look him in the eye and put emphasis on your words. The sun shines on, warm and bright where it touches you. “You just needed a reminder not to be so hard on yourself, that’s all. We all do sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Tim says softly, gaze fixed upon yours, something soft and undoubtedly gooey in his blue eyes. “You know me so well.”

“Of course I do. I’m in love with you,” you reply simply, tilting your head.

“Thank you,” he replies, and you give him a look, confused. “For being you. And for loving me,” he clarifies. “I know that being with me isn’t exactly easy.”

“That’s where you’re absolutely, totally wrong,” you respond, touching his nose with your finger and smiling when it wrinkles and his eyes cross as he tries to look at it. “You don’t need to thank me for something I don’t even have to try to do.”

Tim watches you with widening eyes, lips parted. He might be shocked by what you’ve said but you’ve known this to be true for so long, as true as the sky is blue, that it’s only fair he does too.

“Loving you is—well, it’s practically as easy as breathing. And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that, so don’t even think about it,” you rush to cut him off as he opens his mouth, and his cheeks turn a delightful shade of pink.

Tim leans forward to kiss your forehead and then huffs out a laugh against your skin, his breath cool and smelling vaguely of coffee and mint-flavoured chewing gum, the staples of his diet. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

Liar. Tim never fails to point out hyperboles in people’s speech, with that smug little shine to his eyes.

“Loving me is as easy as breathing though, huh?” He sounds amused and pleased at the same time, a terrible combination for sure. “Who’s the real sap in this relationship, huh?”

“Still you,” you fire back, and Tim chuckles, fond and exasperated. You’re still smiling at him and your legs have gone numb from sitting down for so long, but nothing can make you look away from the playful grin on Tim’s face, bright and infectious.

“If you say so,” Tim sighs, sitting back to watch the sun finish setting with you as the sky begins to darken and the first stars are about to appear, but you both know that you’re just as hopelessly gone for this boy as he is for you, and time spent apart won’t change that, because it really is true, at least in your case, that absence only makes the heart grow fonder.

[hesgunnalovethis]

Not That Bad

Leonard McCoy x Reader

Summary: You have the severity of your injuries in a twist sending Leonard McCoy’s blood pressure through the roof

TW: injury descriptions and strong language 

ft. bestie Jim Kirk <333

Masterlist!

Word Count: 1737

“Yes. No. I understand Mr Spock. Cuttings on your desk in 40 minutes. Got it.” You closed your comm and checked your watch. 

 You’d spent 16 hours Planetside and after a complication that had landed most crew in the MedBay, you agreed to help out botany to complete the mission report. Really you didn’t have a clue what you were doing but you concluded it couldn’t be that hard. 

 Cross referencing the plants in front of you to the list on your PADD, you picked up the plier looking utensil and began clipping the stems from the root. 

 “Maybe I should transfer to science.” You muttered to yourself after you’d successfully pressed the first few cuttings into their sample bags. 

Taking the next stem between your fingers you picked up the pliers and cut through the green and your fingertip, simultaneously. Blood shot upwards from your finger. You scoffed at the inconvenience. 

 You grabbed the first aid kit and examined the content that your Chief Medical Officer boyfriend had once talked you through and began to wish you’d listened. 

 Failing to remember anything, you wrapped a plaster around the top of your finger and watched it turn from white to red almost immediately. You tried layering another on top which bled through just as fast. After a failed third layer you took yourself from the lab and started towards the MedBay. 

 You stopped for a moment scouring your brain for which corridors to take. It had been so long since you’d actually journeyed to the MedBay by choice. You’d been utilising your doctor shared quarters. 

 Arriving at the desk you checked your watch again. 20 minutes before Spock was expecting you. You began to panic and turned to the receptionist. 

 “Could you ask Doctor McCoy to see me? It’s pretty urgent.” You said, grabbing a bundle of tissues from the display to contain the droplets falling from your finger. 

 The receptionist did as you asked and you heard Leonard through the comm.

 “On the bridge?” He asked. 

 “No, Sir. Here in the MedBay.” The receptionist in front of you responded. 

 “In the Med-“ You heard a fuss beginning through the comm and then a room number you were to be assigned. 

 No sooner had you arrived, a half scrubbed in Leonard burst through the door desperately searching for what heinous emergency had beckoned you to his MedBay. 

 “Are you being serious right now!?” Leonard asked ripping off the last of his scrub uniform. 

 “Always good to see you too, Lee.” You responded, smiling. 

 Sighing softly he shot you an apologetic look and planted a kiss on your cheek. 

 “Hi, darlin’” He whispered letting down his doctor guard and allowing his southern drawl back in. He began to look you over again, “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” 

 You lifted your hand removing the tissue to reveal your slightly bloodied finger. Leonard took a step back rubbing his temples. 

 “Y/N, darlin’. PUT A PLASTER ON IT?!”

 “I tried that! It keeps bleeding though!” You whined. 

 “There are people DYING in here, Y/N.” 

 “Oh go on, please. I have lab work due in 15 minutes and I can’t work with this bleeding all over the samples!” 

 Leonard sighed and moved to the other side of the room to collect the dermal regenerator. Taking your hand in his he kissed the cut before placing it under the machine.

 He caught your eyes with his. “I left a 6 hour surgery for this.” 

 - 

 The next day you took your healed finger with you on your next mission where your team successfully released several hostages and transported their authoritative grasp to Enterprise Security.  

 “All clear, Jim.” You said to your comm after clearing the last room on your final check. 

 “Received. Take the turbolift to the bridge and let’s get out of here.” 

 Stepping into the foreign tube you found it very similar to Starfleet’s and got it moving towards the bridge. You began to hear Jim’s voice on the other side before the lift stumbled to a halt. 

 “Um, Jim?” You shouted through the metal. 

 “Great.” Jim said clocking the flashing error sign on the lift. “Don’t worry Lieutenant. We’ll... pry it open.” 

 “Full proof.” You said to yourself, getting ready to pull from your side. 

 After a brief plan outline and a countdown you began to pull. A small gap opened to the side and you managed to squeeze your body through before the door clattered closed on your newly regenerated finger. 

 “Again?! Why is it always you?” You asked your finger, pulling it from the metals grip and eying the purple residue left on it. 

 “Me?” Jim asked, doubled over from the effort he’d just exerted, before being distracted by his comm, “Bones! Yes, just calling to let you know of the ZERO injuries incoming to the MedBay!”

 “Zero injuries?” You cut him off. “This is a broken bone for sure.” 

 “Oh my god.” Jim said in disgust looking at the weird purple oil all over the metal, your finger and subsequently his uniform. “Why is it that colour?!” 

 “Dammit, Jim.” You heard through the comm before Leonard hung up and Jim reconnected to the transporter room. 

 You arrived back on the transporter pad to Leonard’s eyes burning a hole in you and pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 “Broken bone?” He said walking towards you.

 “This bastard finger.” You said and Leonard took your wrist to examine it.  

 “THIS-“ He stopped abruptly and calmed himself. “This is a finger, Y/N. BARELY a bone.” He examined it further, “I’m not even convinced that’s broken?” 

 “Tell you what though, it really fucking hurts.” You petted your lip at him. 

 Slipping an arm around your waist he led you out of the transporter room and towards the MedBay. “Let’s get you patched up sweetheart, but we really have to talk about your hyperbole.” 

 -

 It was a few days before you were due to arrive at your next destination and Jim had roped you into helping with his ensign combat training. 

 “It’s basically target practice.” Jim said in conclusion to a confused looking group of redshirts. “The phasers I’ve given you won’t shoot, but will read on the side if you’ve hit your target. It’s like laser tag! You’ve all played laser tag, right?” The room was silent. “And that’s another added to the list of shore leave activities.” 

 “Captain Kirk and I will be over here as moving targets.” You started, taking over from Jim. “Try and shoot me without hitting the Captain. Got it?” 

 You and Jim moved over to the course beginning the same choreographed fight you’d been using for years. You heard the pathetic fake phaser shots over and over and were beginning to question almost all of your life choices as a deafening shot fired and struck your side. 

 “Y/N!” Jim fell to your side, “PHASERS DOWN!” He shouted to the group briefly trying to determine which one hadn’t followed his only instruction ‘Do not bring your own phaser.’ 

 There was a small commotion before you heard Jim’s voice again. “Kirk to MedBay I need a team to training room 1 immediately.” 

 You found yourself back in the same biobed you’d frequented for past 3 days consecutively and tried to keep up with the nurses’ quick conversations. 

 “Someone page McCoy now.” You heard one of them say. 

 “Not Leonard-“ You interrupted, “He’ll jus- is there anyone else?”

 “Not anyone who could patch you up like Doctor McCoy.” One of the nurses stated opening their comm. “Doctor McCoy to room 6. On the double. It’s-“ 

 “Lieutenant Y/L/N?” Leonard cut off the nurse. 

 “Yes.” She replied. 

 “For once I’m not even surprised.” 

 The nurses continued fussing around you and your biobed beeps became angrier. 

 You watched the door open and Leonard’s face turn from passiveness to urgency in a millisecond. 

 “My god!” He shouted, dropping his board and beginning to order nurses to different machines connected to your bed. 

 “Listen, Leonard it’s not THAT bad.” 

 “NOT THAT BAD?! YOU’VE BEEN SHOT?!”  Leonard flicked his eyes between you and your vitals. 

 “Yeah, but, shot in a controlled environment.” 

 “You’ve been in here with a cut and a stave, guns blazing, and now you’ve been shot it’s ‘NOT THAT BAD?!’” 

 “Granted this doesn’t look-“ You were cut off by a wave of pain that sent you wincing. 

 “Hell.” Leonard turned to his own station briefly. “You’re not gonna like this sweetheart but you can tell me all about it when you’re back in one piece.” Leonard planted a kiss on your head and a hypo in your neck, sending you into sleep. 

-

Coming back to, you heard your biobed beeping at a normal rhythm and a strong accent beside you. 

 “I don’t care what his test scores are, he shot a Lieutenant I want him gone.” 

 “Leonard.” You scolded. 

 “Darlin’” He moved to you instantly closing his comm without a word. “How are you feeling?”

 “I’m fine. Sore neck.” You said rubbing where he’d hypo’d you. His eyes were still racked with worry. “It was an accident. That’s why we train them we-“ 

 “Darlin’ if he isn’t removed from this ship the only accident will be me prescribing him with cyanid capsules instead of his iron tablets.” He looked over your vitals again before picking up his clipboard, “But you let me worry about that. You can worry about this.” He handed you a laminated sheet entitled ‘Doctor McCoy’s Guide to a Serious Injury.’ 

 You shot him an annoyed look. 

 “Just so there’s no more confusion.” He winked at you. You glanced over the ‘Serious Injury: To Be Reported’ column. 

 “I hardly think ‘A sudden cough’ is a serious injury, Leonard.” You scoffed. 

 “Oh sure. Let’s just let your DNA de-evolve into non humane codes exterminating crucial pairings.” 

 “Noted.” You said admiring the doctor’s bedside manner, “Is there a second page?” You said spotting another sheet in his hand. 

 “No. This is Jim’s copy.” Leonard replied. 

 “Of course.” 

 Leonard brushed your hair behind your ears and smoothed your forehead. “I’m glad you’re finally visiting the MedBay doll, but I would prefer if you kept your trips to mandatory immunisations and essential check-ups.” 

 “I wouldn’t hold your breath, Doctor.” You said brushing your lips against his. 

“And somehow I still wouldn’t change you for the world.” Leonard said quietly before closing the space left between you.

[shig-a-shig-ah]

happy 500!!!! u deserve sm more!!! 💗💗 how about phone sex w shig (it’s from the sfw section but i really like) “i’ve missed you” ^^

Thank you!!! <3 And, I love this request because I’ve been wanting to practice writing dirty talk, and what better way that phone sex  👀

This is another one that got long because I have no self-restraint, oops. 

The sound of your ringtone has you scrambling, flicking on the bedside lamp and fumbling to answer before the call can go to voicemail. It's the middle of the night but there's only one number your phone is set to allow through this late, and if you miss it you'll be kicking yourself for days.

"Hello?" you say breathlessly the moment you've accepted the call, and there are no words to express the overwhelming relief you feel when you hear the raspy voice on the other end of the line.

"You sound weird," Tomura says flatly on the other end, and then he must notice what time it is because it's followed by a slightly more contrite, "Oh, I guess I woke you up, huh?"

"That's okay. I'd rather talk to you." You mean it too - it's been weeks since you've heard from him beyond an occasional text to confirm he's still alive, and you doubt he'd send those if you hadn't explicitly asked. You're still not entirely sure what's keeping him away - when you'd asked, he'd muttered something alarming about fighting a giant, though you have to assume that's some sort of hyperbole or metaphor - but you know better than to question him too much about the League's activities. The less you know the better. "I've missed you," you add.

Tomura grunts in response, and then after a protracted silence says, "What would you do if I was there?"

The suggestive lilt in his voice has your cheeks heating up, but fuck, it has been a long time - far, far too long - and his words alone are enough to spark a flicker of heat between your thighs. "You really want to know?" you ask coyly, and you can hear Tomura shifting.

"You know I do. Now get to it, before the others come back from their supply run and I have to get back to this fight."

You hum, leaning back against the pillows, letting your free hand move to your breast, brushing at your nipple through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt until it starts to pucker and harden. "Well you've been working so hard, I'd want you to just lay back and let me take care of you."  

"Really?" His voice is already turning breathy, and you can just picture him waiting patiently, palming himself through the fabric of his pants. You're encouraged by the thought alone.

"I think I'd want to taste you, to start. Run my tongue all over your cock before sucking you off, feel your fingers in you hair while you fuck my mouth."

"Fuck, that's a good girl," Tomura breaths, his words accompanied by the sound of a zipper being undone, and throaty sigh. "What else?"

Your own hand drifts between your legs, heat pooling in your lower belly just from the thought of finally getting to touch him. "I don't want to finish you off that way though. I want-" a whimper interrupts your words as you start to toy with that sensitive bundle of nerves above your dampening slit "-I wanna ride you."

"Yeah?" You can hear the faint rustle of skin stroking skin now, the little gasps that escape him as he fists himself. "You want to mount yourself on my cock? Feel me stretching you open?"

"Y-yes," you plunge two fingers into yourself, trying to imagine it's him, but they're not enough. "God, I'm so wet just thinking about it." You start to move your hand faster, alternating between rubbing circles at your sensitive clit and working your fingers furiously inside. Your arousal is building embarrassingly quickly - you've gone too long with too little and just the thought alone is enough to have you hurtling rapidly towards release.

"You're always so wet, and so tight. Fuck, you feel so good." His own pants and groans are getting louder, the unmistakable slap of skin against skin as he humps into his hand, and it only worsens that heat growing in your belly.

"Tomu," you whine, "Tomu, I-I'm close, please, don't stop, I wanna...I wanna..." It's getting hard to speak, hard to think about anything other than the idea of Tomura beneath you, of his stiff member stroking that spot deep inside, the one you can't quite reach with your fingers but that he hits so well. Just the thought has you mewling, a sheen of sweat forming on your overheated skin.

"You wanna cum all over my cock?" His own voice is strained, obviously close, his breath coming in desperate, uneven gasps. "Do it. Cum for me and then I'm gonna fill you up. That's what you want right? To be my good little cum slut?"

You work frantically at your clit, the friction and the sounds of his voice, and of him stroking himself on the other end, are enough to send you over the edge, thrusting your fingers into yourself, grinding against the heel of your hand as your cunt clamps down, your whole body tensing as you ride out your release. You're faintly aware of Tomura's own lewd groans, the sound of his own movements growing faster and faster.

"That's my girl," he pants, and you can picture the look on his face, his teeth sinking into his lower lip and his eyes fluttering closed as he hurtles towards his own release. "Fuck, you take me so well, I'm gonna, g-gonna-" His words are cut off by long, strangled groan and the rapid staccato of his hand as he strokes himself through his orgasm, and then there's another long silence.

"Fuck," he says, once his breathing has leveled off some, "yeah, I've missed you too."

[gentlemancrow]

Ohh prompts! Maybe 21 and some shippy JonTim?

OK I know I agonized about this one but NO REALLY THANK YOU IT WAS GREAT <3! It was a GREAT exercise for writing in so many ways for me! Also I know the prompt "Maybe you should sit down" sort of implies getting bad news or something more than what popped into my brain, but this is what popped IMMEDIATELY into my brain so I went with it 83 Also again this is my first JonTim so be gentle with me uwu! Honestly it's my first time writing Tim in general for longer than one sentence so there's that too jfhlsajf XT Anyway enjoy!

Jon would have infinitely preferred to think of his bungled little excursion as a calculated risk that the whims of capricious probability had simply decided he had lost on that particular doomed occasion. What it truly was, however, was an infinitely predictable culmination of skipping his physio stretches for three mornings in a row, deciding a quick jaunt into the stacks to hunt for a statement to cross reference with the one he had been working on all morning did not, in fact, require the aid of his cane, and several cups of black tea on an empty stomach with their resultant caffeine jitters that had left him splayed and wobbling like a newborn fawn with one hand anchoring him in a vice grip to the handle of a file drawer. His bad leg ached in that special way it did that he knew all too well could be catastrophic if he moved it even slightly wrong, and set him back significantly on his physio progress. That oft repeated foible would also attract the ire and derision of literally every single person who knew him, never mind the physical therapists at the clinic, and he was very much not prepared to deal with that on top of everything else.

Lucky for him he wasn’t even supposed to be back at the institute in the first place, so no one would be looking for him, and he was reasonably assured that he would have plenty of time to figure out how to escape unscathed, or at least enough to hide a suspicious limp for a day or two. Unlucky for him, probability it seemed, also liked to double down.

“Alright there, boss man?”

Tim’s jovial voice echoed through the file cabinets like the worst song on the juke at the pub out of all of the hundreds of better selections just as Jon was preparing to gingerly move his spasmodic leg. He sighed and closed his eyes bitterly.

“Oh, yes, just fine, just dangling precariously from this file cabinet to try out a new stretch, it’s called the ‘mind your own business’,” he growled.

Tim chuckled, the echoes of it raising pinprick hackles of irritation on the back of Jon’s neck as he emerged from the shadows, hands on his hips and wry, crooked grin on his scarred face.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“And pray tell where, Timothy?” Jon snapped in a low growl.

Tim made a low whistle.

“Yikes! Busting out the -othy today? You must be in a bad way.”

“You think so? Whatever gave you that brilliant idea?” Jon drawled, rolling his eyes, “Are you going to stand there gawking and making me feel even more like an invalid or are you going to deign to render me aid?”

“I think I can spare a moment, just for you,” came the predictably smug retort, “What exactly would you like me to do?”

“I just need to sit a moment and massage it out, so fetching a chair from somewhere ought to suffice.”

Tim pondered the request as he strolled to Jon’s side, chewing his lower lip pensively.

“Well, I could do that for you, but seeing as you’re not actually supposed to be here yet I am a little concerned that dragging a chair randomly down to the archives would attract… unwanted attention? You know Martin would have a conniption.”

Sighing heavily, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

“Good point.”

“How about my lap then?” Tim continued without missing a beat.

Jon choked on his own tongue as the tips of his ears burned like cinders.

“TIM! Is this really, truly, and honestly the appropriate moment to be… making a pass at me?”

Unfazed, Tim pressed a dramatic hand over his heart.

“Jon, I’m wounded! Ordinarily I’d be deeply offended you’d think my flirting skills so inelegant and crass, but I was actually being sincere this time.”

A dark brow slid skeptically, pointedly up Jon’s forehead.

“Beg pardon, but how could that possibly have ever, in any situation, been construed as sincere?”

“Well, we’ve determined a chair is too risky, the floor isn’t going to do you any favors, and I know you won’t let me carry you back to your office, so I won’t even bother to ask, so where does that leave us, hmmm? Plus, if you recall, I had much the same physio you did, I know the massages and the stretches, I can have you patched up and out of here in no time,” Tim elaborated, counting off on his fingers.

Jon hated it when anyone other than him was making the most sense in the conversation, and he gnashed his teeth and growled his begrudging acquiescence.

“…Fine.”

“Brilliant. Alright to touch?” Tim asked brightly, hands hovering a respectful few inches from Jon’s hand and shoulders.

Eyes narrowing to smoldering brown slits, the last embers of a dying fire, Jon made him wait a few moments for the wordless nod of approval.

“Okay, just taking your hand there, my other hand’s got your other arm, and easy does it…”

With surprising finesse and gentleness, Tim took Jon’s hand and eased him onto the ground with him and into his lap, taking great care to keep his seized-up leg straight and comfortable. Jon melded against his assistant, looping his arms loosely around Tim’s waist while he tipped his head against his shoulder and let his twisted-up bones and sinew go slack against the radiantly warm aegis of him. His shirt was screamingly loud and his hair was freshly pink and he always smelled crisp and free and wild, like a sea breeze on a sun-soaked twilight. Jon liked the way he smelled, and the self-assured posture of his broad shoulders and the heartening solidness of a body meant to be shirtless as often as possible holding him so secure in the humming powerlines of his care. Just to be touched was a visceral melody of nerve endings and synapses, to be touched by him was a blinding symphony of electric light and sound perfectly in tune to the aria of his core where so few dared to go.

“Not so awful right?” Tim teased, squeezing his affected knee with care.

“Get on with it, Stoker,” Jon murmured languidly into the crook of his neck.

“Ohoh, last name now. I’m on real thin ice, aren’t I?” he chortled in reply, pads of his fingers feeling out the ridge of a patella and skating down his calf.

Jon winced, opening one eye to glance guiltily up at the ever-chipper mien of Tim.

“I-“ he stuttered, his protest melting into a sigh, “No, you’re not. I’m sorry. You’re being helpful and I’m being an ass.”

“Mmm, that’s a smidge hyperbolic. You’re being snappish because you got caught being naughty, and you’re in pain, and you also got caught being in pain, which is probably the worst offense out of all of them.”

“I suppose…” Jon conceded, closing his eye and letting his body go slack again.

“Okay to roll your cuff up? Or would you prefer trouser leg down?”

“You can roll it up, I don’t mind.”

Tim promptly, neatly, folded the cuff of Jon’s trousers up only to just above the knee, baring the cratered mares of his leg. His fingers felt them out, felt the places where the worms bored holes in him that had forgotten which way to mend and pulled and tugged in a confused riot of fibrous muscle and scar tissue, and rolled through them with slow, deliberate tenderness. Jon hissed softly in pain, but Tim’s fingers knew the weft and trail of his muscles, and he squeezed and massaged and tilled them with expert care. Unhurriedly, painstakingly, Jon’s knee unlocked, and it bowed gratefully outward with the sigh of relief into a Hawaiian print collar.

“You’re allowed to hurt you know,” Tim whispered at length, fingers just stroking idly now.

“Everyone’s allowed to hurt,” Jon replied automatically, “It’s only that those of us who can bear it have the duty to do so for those who can’t.”

Tim chewed his lip in the wake of that, weighing his feelings against his words carefully.

“And what god decides who is who?”

Only silence from the clinging, boneless and wounded creature in his lap.

“I’m just saying. I was right there with you, the same thing happened to me, so maybe share a little of this one, hmm?” he tried again, nudging at Jon’s temple with the tip of his nose, letting the silvered chestnut hairs tickle.

The strings of Jon’s body wound taut again around Tim’s fingers still tracing blind patterns on his shin, and he glanced up, daring to ensnare his irises only for a moment.

“I’ll try.”

A soft, breathless laugh whisked past Tim’s lips as he shook his head fondly.

“I guess that’s the best I’m going to get out of the high and mighty head archivist,” he huffed, “But I’ll take it. Now, where can I kiss it all better for you?”

It took Jon a full cycle of pouting, scowling, and digging vengeful fingers into Tim’s back before he could conjure an answer.

“Forehead, please.”

“You got it.”

Jon ducked his head to receive Tim’s lips pressed against his creased brow, and while he knew he bore a burden too great to be carried away with velvet kisses and frank words, for a moment at least he could feel just a bit lighter.

[johannstutt413]

(requested by calligomiles; continuing from this)

“Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!” Ptilopsis’ head peered into Olivia’s room as her alarm sounded. “Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!”

“I’m awake, I’m awake.” Not that she particularly felt it, but she was getting out of bed nonetheless.

Tilly giggled to herself. “Ifrit already left for class. She ate all of her breakfast, including the seconds she requested.”

“Impressive.” The drowsier Liberi had found her glasses and now much less blind began to dress for the lab. “Thank you for taking care of her. If I can find the time to learn to cook, I should.”

“Dr. Silence already works so hard to save the world, though. Ptilopsis has no objection to supporting her in that endeavor however necessary.” Although admittedly, it was an element of her daily calculation.

Silence shrugged on her topcoat before hugging the mid-number-crunching analyst. “I’ll be helping Iffy with her project tonight. Saria said she might come by for a bit as well to pitch in, but I won’t be upset if you go home with her.”

“Understood.” Mostly. “Firewall temporarily disabled. I’ve noticed the two of you talk more with each passing day, but this is the first I’m hearing of you allowing Saria to see Ifrit.”

“Her project is more focused on the skeletal system than anything else, and I think Saria’s substantially more familiar with that field of anatomy than I am...Besides, she’s proven herself with how she treats you.”

Ptilopsis blushed. “Oh.”

“I know it’s taken me some time to admit it,” the doctor continued, following her beloved to their waiting breakfast, “but after all the time she spent working for and with Iffy, it’s not fair for me to keep them separated. She did what she thought was best, and regardless of whether I agreed with or agree now with her decisions, they were made with good intentions. Sorry to start the morning like this.”

“It’s fine. Ptilopsis is glad you continue growing as a person.” She hadn’t declared that she’d re-erected her firewall, but it was clear from context.

They ate breakfast after transitioning to talking about their business for the day - patients with scheduled visits, the other Medics on rotation for their shift, their usual morning briefing - but before they left for the office, Olivia pulled her close for another hug. “Thank you. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“‘This?’” Tilly temporarily halted her work protocols. “In what context?”

“Raising Ifrit, attending to Rhodes Island’s Infected, researching Oripathy, deploying on missions...You make my life possible.” She managed to catch herself before crying properly, but a stray tear rolled down her face and onto the analyst’s jacket.

The other Liberi twittered sweetly in her ear. “The same is true for me.”

“It is?...Thank you.” A brief collapsing of the little space between them, a kiss that lasted either seconds or years, and Rhine Labs’ former Oripathy expert was ready to start the day. Work went as expected through lunch, with patients and care plans and the occasional accolade or scolding of some Operator or another. When the Liberi lovers came back from the cafeteria, however, a familiar Vouivre was waiting for them.

“Good afternoon.” Saria was in business mode. “The Doctor needs me to deploy for a mission; I need a pre-deployment exam.”

Silence nodded. “Ptilopsis can take care of you.”

“...If it’s all the same, can we all talk in the exam room in private?”

“Hmm.” The doctor glanced at Tilly, who was rebooting quickly after a momentary blue screen, before nodding. “If you prefer.”

The trio took the nearest open room, and as the analyst performed the exam, the Vouivre got down to business. “I made notes for Ifrit’s presentation, but since I won’t be there to help, I sent them to both of your inboxes. There’s more than enough information for her to ace her assignment.”

“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll be happy to tell you how she did when you come back.” There was no question that she’d be coming back, after all.

“...Which brings me to my other point.” She sighed, taking a moment to collect herself. “When I come back, I’d like to have a full discussion, all parties involved, about setting a schedule for me to spend time with Iffy.”

Silence lived up to her codename as Ptilopsis carried on dutifully with her task, doing her best to ignore the conversation and focus on procedure. “I...I think that’s a good idea.”

“You do?” Saria’s heart rate, as measured by the device her examiner was using to measure it, betrayed her surprise.

“Yes.” Olivia made sure she didn’t respond with the other phrase that came to mind. “I isolated her from you, and the rest of the world, out of a hyperbolized sense of danger. Not that there weren’t genuine concerns for her well-being, but in keeping her under lock and key like I was, there’s a possibility I did more harm than the good I intended. I’m not the only person in her life who’s made rash decisions out of good intentions, and it’s hypocritical of me to keep pretending that my mistakes are justified when others weren’t.”

The Defender sighed. “So it’s still a mistake, then.”

“I think so...but I’m learning to admit when I might be wrong.”

“I see.” This’d turned out better than she’d thought it would. “Tilly?”

The Liberi took a breath before shifting her attention. “Yes?”

“When I said ‘all parties,’ that includes you.” The Vouivre looked her directly in the eye.

“Understood.” Ptilopsis shut down her defenses for a moment. “Why?”

That was a rare question to hear from her; the analyst was much more a ‘how’ and ‘when’ sort of person. “Because you’re part of her family, too. You deserve a say.”

“But I don’t have any concrete opinion on the matter. I’m happy you’ll be able to spend time with her, but the specifics are up to you and Olivia.” It was a good thing she was essentially done with her examination; this was going to eat up most of her processing power, she could already tell.

“Tilly,” Silence interjected, “it does affect you, though. You’re very careful with how you spend your time, and Saria and Iffy spending more time together will affect your calculations.”

She nodded. “It will.”

“So if we set a schedule that makes it harder for you to make those calculations, that’s not fair to you. We know how hard it is for you-”

“No. You don’t.” The analyst looked each of them in the eye in turn. “But that’s okay.”

The room around Olivia and Saria disappeared from their awareness as Ptilopsis reactivated her defenses and continued her work. It wasn’t until she finished that the Vouivre had any kind of follow-up, which was lifting her off her feet in a tight embrace. “I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for-”

“Oh, cut the bullshit, there definitely is.” The Defender set her down but kept her arms around her. “Every time we get into a fight or try to reconcile, we disrupt your life at a deep emotional level, and even if it’s better for us to try and get along, you get dragged along behind us in the process. We know your condition, but we don’t how it feels - you’re the only one who does. That doesn’t mean you have a right to lash out, but you do have the right to speak up, and we want to hear you.”

Tilly couldn’t keep walls up in the face of that. “Ptil...I know that, love.”

“Then take my apology for springing this on you in the middle of the week.” She held the Liberi’s gaze even as her vision started to blur.

“O-okay.” The analyst sighed before wrapping her arms behind Saria’s neck and pulling down slightly for a kiss. “You’re forgiven.”

The Vouivre let her go. “Thank you.”

“You are too, dear,” Ptilopsis continued, addressing Silence as she walked over to hug her as well.

“Thank you...and I’m sorry.” The doctor squeezed her like she had that morning. “We never explicitly said we would stop making these kinds of changes, but we did imply it a few weeks ago.”

The other Liberi shook her head. “Data changes, people change, and life goes on. Ptilo...I want you both to be your best, your happiest, and if that means chaos, then- Firewall engaging, overriding, halting process- then so be it. I need to be better, too. I’m sorry you had to hear the Other Voice.”

“You’ve held it at bay for years,” Saria noted, walking over to hug her from the opposite side. “That can’t be easy, especially with everything that’s happened.”

Olivia nodded. “Certainly not...I believe the Doctor is expecting you, Saria?”

“Unfortunately. I should probably be on time for the shuttle.” As she let go of Tilly, her hand accidentally touched Silence’s. The doctor said nothing. The Defender said nothing.

Ptilopsis made a note to record that in her diary that evening.