#Men crying

[slurt2]

[k1d-stfu]

I still think that we need more men crying and begging for help.

[beanmom]

Please reblog for reach!

[xoxohannas-world]

blondie the man that you are

[thegnomelord]

Devotion in Steel

How They Worship You After The Hunt: Dottore, Childe, Zhongli.

So this is based off This idea I had about a cyberpunk reader in a cult!Sagau genshin, so this is just me testing the waters. I spent wayyy too much time on this one lol but this brainrot is still going strong.

CW: Suggestive themes, cult/yandere characters, reader is GN, mentioned gore for Zhongli part. First time writing Yandere's so tell me how it goes lol.

Dottore: Silent Curiosity

He does not worship you openly; he doesn't sing hymns about your mercy or your cruelty, nor does he press his face into the ground whenever you pass, like certain archons wishing for redemption. His worship is quiet. To the unworthy, the way he touches you — with clinically cold hands, examining every gear, and bolt, and piston with the same calculating gaze reserved for one of his machines — may as well be the highest form of sacrilege. Who is he to act as if you are just another of his toys? Who is he to not even say a single word to you? Who is he to touch and pull on your mechanical components like some urchin child toying with an object they do not realize is precious? But they can't do anything, because You do not see it their way. You do not stop or punish him, you encourage him; it isn't rare to find you two alone, him on his knees with your arm held in his hands, silently watching the moving mechanisms beneath your plating as you explain the intricacies of your mechanical form to him in that synthetic voice of yours that makes his bones tremble. His touch is clinical, precise, but it is by no means cold; His worship is conveyed through his actions. With reverence he cleans the dirt and grime from the seams in your armor, happy to stay on his knees for hours, days even, so long as not a single speck of dirt is left to mar your perfect body. With piety he polishes every gear, with admiration he oils every piston, worshiping even the smallest piece in your body like it is a holy relic. To Dottore, being able to see technology millennia ahead of his own and learn of knowledge yet undiscovered would have been bliss. But to feel it beneath his fingers? To feel it in his bones as that artificial voice of yours reveals the world's secrets? Heaven.

Tartaglia: Eager Veneration

Once, Tartaglia had only known of you from the stories his parents had told him; of a loving creator, a place of safety and solace in this harsh world. Later, when he fell into the Abyss, Skirk told him new stories of you, passed down to her by the denizens of the Abyss — ones his parents wouldn't have dared to utter lest they tempt Celestia to punish them for heresy. So when you descended, full of harsh edges and your body geared for battle, he embraced you as you were. He would have loved you regardless of your appearance, but something about the mechanical version of you made sense to him; Children resemble their parents after all, why should you have appeared like the demure little thing the tapestries depicted you as when Teyvat could be harsh, and cruel, and cold? He remembered his parents teachings, tried to be respectful like the other acolytes, on their knees, with their heads pressed to the ground. He would have done so happily, would have kneeled before you until he was nothing but bones, would have slaughtered countries in your name... yet the abyss gnawed on his bones, needing your attention like a babe needed a parent. So when you showed him favor? When you offered him to touch the divine metal of your cybernetic body? He couldn't stop himself. Anxiety tempered his eagerness, he did not seek more than what you offered him, yet his hands still glided over your skin and metal with the same energy as the little gears beneath your outer shell. Trembling fingers traced old dents and scratches that ripperdocs had neglected to fix, words of absolute devotion leaving his lips as he put his head to your chest, listening to the tik tik tik of mechanical organs beneath your chassis. But your weapons enchanted him the most. It reminded him so much of the Foul Legacy hiding under his skin; the promise of danger and death lurking beneath the surface, ready to be used as soon as a threat appeared — a similarity between you two that no one else could claim. He could spend days simply kissing and lavishing the seams in the armor, feeling where fake skin transitioned into metal which hid your weaponry from the world. Though you never allowed him more than a look, he yearned to touch them, to kiss the sharp blades, to feel his bones bend under your mechanical strength, to feel the monowire burn through his skin... Please, won't you let him? He survived the Abyss, he promises that he's tough, he can handle the pain... just this once, let him worship you, all of you, please?

Zhongli: Desperate Absolution

Zhongli is afraid; to touch, to breathe, to even exist near you. How can he not be, when he is the reason for your missing parts? Your aching joints? When he was the one who harmed you, who tainted your holy body with his hate and prejudice? When he was so prideful as to forsake his creator because they did not fit his own imagination? When the truth was revealed, the real impostor laying dead and your mechanical frame speckled with drops of your golden blood, he understood he was in no place to anything but bow and pray your fury would be swift and merciful, though he did not deserve it. Yet even as he knelt before you, head bowed so low it was flush with the ground and eyes shut tight, not daring to even glance at your metallic feet, a part of him still yearned for a chance at redemption; to earn back the chance to worship you, to earn your forgiveness through devotion. He would do anything for it; Kiss and lick the dirt off your mechanical feet, be at your beck and call till the end of time... If you wished to regain your lost parts — he would scour the far reaches of Teyvat until he found all the metal pieces you had lost, and those that were permanently damaged? He would carve his bones into shape, until they fit... If you told him to forfeit his flesh like you had done — he would claw at his skin until not a single scrap of meat hangs off his bones. He would happily wander the earth as a skeleton, grafting pieces of old Khaenri'ahn technology to himself until he resembled you, just so you could inflict the same wounds he had done to you... Yet you did no such thing. Even as his thoughts gained a voice, escaping his mouth through muffled whimpers, all you did was watch him, your mechanical gaze racking over his shivering form as he tried to stop his hiccupping cries. Truly pathetic. Then your fingers found his chin, gripping him in a bruising as you raised his head to look at you. Your mechanical eyes reflected in the tears running down his cheeks, the metal joints in your fingers nipping at his skin. His eyes met your cold gaze, and he wondered what you will ask of him — His eyes? His tongue? His arms? The impostor would have demanded all that and more... He would give it in a heartbeat. But please, find it in your cold heart to forgive him.

[nonbinary-thot]

Okay okay, this has been rotting my brain all fuckin' day. He's so needy I need him :(

Virgin Choso! Is so needy and whiny it's almost impossible not to wanna tease him !! They way he whines when your hands haven't even touched his cock, but literally his mid thigh.

Virgin Choso! Bucking his hips into your sweet hand, head thrown back and salty, fat tears running down his cheeks. It's so cute, you just have to lean up and lick the tears off his black strip on his face.

Virgin Choso! His eyes rolling to the back of his head when he's so close and it's only been half a minute. The poor baby is so touch starved, it's almost comical.

When Virgin Choso! Finally cum, its thick, thick ropes of cum that cover your hand in that creamy pretty white color. You lift your hand to lick it, keeping eye contact with him, and he's instantly hard again, whining and crying for you to fuck him this time !! He just needs it so bad :(

Virgin Choso! Who's instantly sobbing as you tried to calm his aching cries when you pushed a finger into his tight,tiny little hole. He wanted this, why is he crying? But God is he such a pretty crier. The rounds of his eyes turning a brighter red than they already were, his lashes clumped with tears that hit the light in the room almost perfectly.

Virgin Choso! Who's cumming the second your push your cock in his hole. He couldn't help it, it just felt so good :( his cock has a mind of its own.

a/n help me, this isn't proof read. REPOST ARE APPRECIATED !!! I LOVE YOU GUYS, ITS CURRENTLY 2AM LOL

[zanazirafanfic]

💞 post-nightmare cuddles with charthur pls -- dealer's choice on who has the nightmare

I loved writing this prompt, you wonderful, beautiful anon, you! I chose Charles as my "lucky" recipient this time, since one of my upcoming Whumpcember fics is a Charthur fic revolving around Arthur's nightmares.

CW: temporary major character death, semi-graphic description of a corpse (both in the context of a dream)

Whoever you are, I hope you enjoy it! (And keep those requests coming! I'm down to just 1 in my inbox right now!)

~RDR~

When Charles stirred awake in the middle of the night, it was with an immediate sense that something was horribly wrong. For a few seconds he just lay there, blinking groggily while his eyes adjusted to the dark and trying to figure out what the hell could possibly be amiss. Had he had a nightmare, maybe? One he'd already forgotten? There was no noise from outside, no indication that a coyote might have gotten into the horses' corral or a fox was in the hen house. It was just him and Arthur, lying asleep together in the quiet of their - 

Wait. The quiet.

Arthur was never this quiet. Even at rest, there was a rough, wheezing rasp to his breath that had never quite left, despite it having been years since he recovered from the TB. It was a permanent fixture in their lives now, a constant, familiar kind of background noise neither of them really noticed anymore.

And he couldn't hear it.

Charles bolted upright, as wide awake now as if he'd been dunked in an ice bath, and turned over to get a better look at his husband.

"Arthur," he said softly. The man didn't so much as twitch, and Charles's heart began to race. "Arthur, wake up," he said, louder, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. "Arthur."

Arthur didn't answer, didn't move. Even through the fabric of his woolen union suit, the arm beneath Charles's palm was unnaturally cold.

"No... no, no, no -" he whispered as dark, oily tendrils of dread began clawing their way up the inside of his chest. "Arthur, no..."

It couldn't be. Arthur was doing so well, it had been two whole years since his last bad flare-up. They had dinner plans with the Marstons tomorrow, they were going on a hunting trip with Hamish in the Grizzlies next week, for God's sake! He was better, he was fine! It couldn't - He couldn't -

Charles reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed, if only to confirm what he already knew. Even then, he still wasn't prepared for the sight that greeted him.

Arthur's skin was ashen, lifeless, and gray. His face was frozen in what almost looked like a scream, mouth gaping, features tense. Blood trickled out of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth, thick globs of it crusted and congealing in his beard. His eyes, which had already begun to go cloudy, were wide and scared, fixed straight ahead on something only he could see now. His right hand was extended, lying in the center of the bed like he'd been trying to reach for something.

When he realized what that "something" was, Charles had to fight back the urge to vomit. While he'd been sleeping peacefully, blissfully unaware, Arthur had been using his last breaths to try to reach for him, to tell him he needed him. His husband had been dying right beside him, gasping for air and choking on his own blood, and Charles hadn't even heard him. He wasn't there for Arthur, the single most important time he should have been.

Arthur Morgan was dead. He'd died alone, afraid, and it was all Charles's fault.

A raw, keening wail escaped his throat as he gathered Arthur's limp body in his arms, cradling him to his chest and rocking them back and forth. "Oh, Arthur..." he sobbed, clutching him impossibly tighter, as if he could force some of his own warmth and life back into the other man by doing so. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry..."

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to those cold, blue lips -

- and then suddenly found himself holding onto nothing, as Arthur dissolved into a cloud of smoke and vanished before his eyes.

Charles woke with a start to find himself soaked in a cold sweat, his chest heaving with panicked gasps and his heart thundering in his ears. His face was cold, damp with the tracks of still-drying tears, and he had to blink to clear more of them from his vision before he could make out more than black, shadowy blurs all around him. He was in their bedroom, lying in bed beside Arthur, just like always. The man in question was stretched out beside him, nestled underneath about three-quarters of their shared quilt and snoring softly.

A dream. It was just a dream. 

Knowing that did little to chase the chill from his blood, though. It had all felt too real, too final. He'd had some variation of this old nightmare many times over the past few years, but it never got any less terrifying no matter how many times he saw it. If anything, it only ever seemed to get more vivid. A quiet sob escaped the confines of his chest before he could stifle it, and he clamped a hand over his mouth, hoping it hadn't been loud enough to wake Arthur up.

No such luck. Arthur was an incredibly heavy sleeper - twenty years spent napping out in the open with a couple dozen other people would do that to a man. But even the slightest noise that was out of the ordinary and he'd be wide awake in an instant, alert and ready for danger. Unfortunately for Charles, "crying husband" definitely fell into that category. As soon as the sound left his lips, Arthur's snores abruptly stopped, and Charles tensed from head to toe.

God damn it.

"Mmh...? Charlie? Y'okay?" he murmured, turning halfway around to look at him. Charles must have looked a sight, because he couldn't even try to answer before Arthur rolled the rest of the way over, blinking the fog of sleep from his eyes and laying his hand on his shoulder. "Hey, 's goin' on? What's wrong?"

"I-I... I was... You -" he stammered, before blowing a harsh, frustrated huff of air through his nose and shaking his head. I can't. That was another awful thing about these dreams; they always seemed to steal his ability to speak properly for a while after. It was humiliating, and made him feel like a child, but whenever this happened he just couldn't make the words come no matter how hard he tried.

"It's okay, you're alright," Arthur murmured, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tight against his chest. "Ain't in no hurry here. Just give yourself a second."

One of his hands gently cupped the back of Charles's head and guided it onto his chest, right above his heart. While he fought to pull himself back together, reassured by the sound of that strong, steady drumbeat beneath his ear, Arthur's fingers worked their way lazily through his hair, scratching his scalp and carefully untangling any knots that had formed while he slept.

Every few seconds, the older man would draw in a deliberately slow breath - slightly wheezy, as it always would be, but still deep, unwavering, alive - and then let it out, before starting the pattern all over again. He didn't speak, just continued that rhythmic, even breathing, silently encouraging Charles to follow along with him. They lay that way for a long time, curled up in each other's arms while they just breathed. Arthur never rushed him, or tried to ask him questions; they'd been through this enough times over the years to know it would only make things worse.

After what felt like hours, but was probably fifteen minutes at most, Charles finally let out an exhausted sigh and slumped against Arthur's chest, feeling as weak and boneless as a jellyfish. "Sorry, Arthur. Didn't mean to wake you," he mumbled guiltily.

"Charles," Arthur sighed. "You never gotta apologize, you know that. Just... are you okay? "

"Yeah," Charles sniffed, wiping his eyes. His entire face felt swollen and puffy, and it was hard to breathe through his nose. Fantastic. "Just a nightmare. Same one it usually is."

Arthur nodded and hummed, a low rumble that vibrated through his chest beneath Charles's ear. "I figured as much." Arthur's lungs weren't the only things left scarred by his long illness, and they both knew it. "But you gotta know I'd never do that to you, darlin'. After everything we've been through, all the things you put yourself through for me, you think I could ever just up 'n leave without even tellin' you goodbye?"

Charles chuckled, a watery, fragile thing. "You'd better not, you bastard. Or I swear I'll find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you again."

"And it would be well deserved," Arthur said with a smile. He wrapped his arms tighter around Charles's back, shifting both of their weight until the younger man was lying fully on top of him like a very warm, very heavy blanket. "But it ain't gonna happen, I promise you."

"I know," Charles whispered, turning to press his lips against Arthur's - no longer cold, like they had been in the dream, but warm and soft and perfect. "I love you."

"Love you too, sweetheart." He pulled the quilt over them both, smirking when he realized Charles had once again let him steal the vast majority of it while they slept, and brought his hand back up so he could comb his fingers through the long, silky waves of raven hair. "Go back to sleep. Still a few hours 'til morning, yet."

"You still gonna be here when I wake up?" Charles teased, knowing full well that Arthur was now completely pinned until he decided to move off.

Arthur smiled, pressing a kiss to Charles's temple, and then whispered into his ear, "Always."

[1whump-dump1]

Anthropoid (2016)

[deliciouskeys]

I find it simultaneously endearing and mildly harrowing how readily Homelander cries when someone he considers close betrays/abandons him. Even though he’d laser most of the betrayers in the face, given the chance. Madelyn end of s1. Ryan end of s2. Maeve and Noir in s3. Ryan visiting Butcher in s4. ATrain in s4. Highly likely Ryan again in s4e8.

[yuckcuy]

batman audio adventures twoface is something else. like yes bbg have a bad trip due to penguin. cry bc ur coin is gone. beg bc you’re stuck on a flagpole. love that shit.

[dommedahlia]

want a boy who starts sobbing, tells me to wait and tries to crawl away from me just after seeing the strap-on im gonna be using on him tonight even tho i spent the last 15 minutes prepping him

[thewhumpcaretaker]

❧ 𝔽𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕃𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕒 𝕄𝕒𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕊𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕝

Michael Corleone x Reader (gender neutral), 700 words

In the wake of Fredo's death, with his wife gone and his family in shambles, Michael reluctantly talks to you about what he has lost.

TW: grief, hurt/no-comfort adjacent (reader tries to comfort him but somewhat fails)

Image Source

The leaves are moving over the grounds of Michael Corleone’s home. An unseen force of northern wind hurries them away, where they will tumble over the wooden dock, and then into the lake. The master of the house sits watching them, and watching nothing. He’s not even smoking his cigarette.

Fredo Corleone is dead.

“Michael.” His name is an address, a well-worn and star-studded thing. It isn’t like other people’s names, it isn’t like other words. It has become a title. But a man still lives inside it.

He doesn’t look at you.

“Will you tell me what you’re thinking about?”

It confuses him that you’re addressing the man and not the title. He has forgotten how to answer as a man. He clears his throat. “No.”

You stay silent until the no becomes a yes.

“My father’s birthday in 1941. We were all gathered, all of the brothers and Connie too. They bought this big…this big cake, and we were all talking about the Bombing of Pearl Harbor, the soldiers there... And Sonny told me something I’ll never forget, he said: ‘They’re saps because they risk their lives for strangers. Your country ain’t your blood, you remember that.’ And that’s when I told ‘em I enlisted in the marines.”

“How’d they take it?”

“Just got too quiet. Sonny even tried to knock some sense into me but he got held back. And then they all filed out and there I was.”

Another silence that you spend not saying the wrong thing until he speaks again. “The only one who said a kind word to me was Fredo. Too stupid to know any better.”

"You wanted to follow your own path. I get it. It's not like you knew where it would lead."

He twitches, a fraction of a movement, like he’s responding to something internal that’s so unpleasant he has to physically shy away from it. He looks so old.

You say the one thing that has to be said: “I’m sorry about Fredo.”

He flicks at his cigarette so hard you think it’s going to break in half. You know exactly what happened, of course. It’s obvious to anyone who knows the intricacies of the situation. His own damn kids will know. “That’s rich. Apologizing to the devil for the fall of man.”

And now you’re out of words. You can’t exactly say it’s not his fault. The best you can do is, “I’m sorry things turned out this way.”

Finally, he looks at you, and it’s with those too-wide eyes, that look that proves he’s held a gun before. Suddenly he’s yelling. “SORRY FOR WHAT!? Sorry I lost everything? Sorry I RUINED everything?”

“Yes.” That shuts him up. Your frankness – that’s the one thing you have that can disarm him when all else fails. “You’re a good man. You love your family, and that has never changed. It’s a tragedy, how things got torn apart. I want to do something for you. I want to make this hurt less.”

“Well, you can’t.”

“I know. You need your family. And I’m…not. But this isn't about me. I'm just somebody.” You were never really a part of that circle. Not like Kay, and even then, even for her, even before she did everything wrong…she wasn’t enough. She didn’t pull him back.

Still. Doesn’t it mean something, that somebody sits beside him now? Anyone at all. He puts his head in his hands. Maybe if you hadn’t been here, he wouldn’t have bothered to do that. Maybe he would have just kept staring at those leaves until the sun went down, or until there was work to be done.

Instead, his head is resting in his hands, and there is a hand on his shoulder, too. “You’re not alone, Michael.” He can’t take it. He’s sobbing, because he is alone in every way that matters. You do not matter to him. So be it.

So be it if you cannot help him. You will die trying. So be it if you’re not enough to stop the pain. You live to make sure that someone, anyone, sees him.

You do not matter to him. But he leans into you anyway.

[eiqgot]

Not me crying harder than waterfalls when Lilia cries. I lost it. I was bawling for a good 30min.

Sebek is so sexy with his hair like this!

And finally.... THE APPEARANCE OF IDIA!! so exciting! Trying not to reveal too many spoilers though.

[sun-ni-day]

shimmer in diamonds

of his eyes

boy is so beautiful

when he cries

[trash-magics-blog]

The best thing a man can do is cry.

[princesssarisa]

I love those rare productions of The Magic Flute that let either Tamino or Papageno cry over Pamina's heartbreak in the short scene that follows "Ach, ich fühl's." Fortunately, we have a few filmed productions which fill that need.

For Tamino, there's the two productions directed by Göran Järvefelt: the 1986 staging from the Sydney Opera House and the 1989 staging from the Drottningholm Court Theatre. Both productions have Tamino – Gran Wilson in Sydney, Stefan Dahlberg at Drottningholm – collapse as soon as Pamina leaves, and lie on the floor sobbing uncontrollably as Papageno drunkenly tries to comfort him.

(The Ingmar Bergman film also has Tamino cover his face with his hands in anguish after Pamina's aria, although it's not clear if he's actually crying or not. His heavy breathing sounds as if he is, though.)

Then there's Jean-Pierre Ponnelle's 1982 Salzburg Festival production. Christian Boesch's Papageno delivers his boasting about having kept silent in front of Pamina – which in other performances seems clueless and unfeeling, which is probably why it's often cut – with a shaky, forced cheerfulness that fails to hide his sadness. Then he finally breaks down and sobs as he indulges in more wine and tries to get Tamino to join him in drinking.

It's hard to say which version I like better.

Papageno crying in this scene is obviously less "out of character," since he's always more vulnerable than Tamino, and it is touching to give such poignant moments to a comic character now and then. (It reminds me of Rizzo the Rat crying after "When Love Is Gone" in The Muppet Christmas Carol – except with more alcohol involved.) Besides, it's more in keeping with the warm rapport he shared with Pamina in Act I to have him be distraught by her pain rather than callous about it.

But if I had to choose, I think I slightly prefer seeing Tamino cry. In Act II he becomes such a stern, stoic paragon of courage and Masonic values, in contrast to the ardent, naïve, impetuous young man he was in Act I. In some performances, he almost loses his humanity and becomes hard to like anymore. It's gratifying to see his "manly and composed" veneer finally break, and be reminded that he does still have feelings, that he's truly distraught to be forced to let his beloved Pamina suffer, and that at heart, he's still a young boy trapped in a grueling, overwhelming situation.

I love both stagings, though, and I'm glad they both exist.

@leporellian, @deathdecayglitter