#but these growing pains HURT

[peargreen-jellybean]

too fuckin long, so sorry about that, but enjoy a 3k word count poolverine hurt/comfort ficlet from the prompt idea i posted

my writing skills suck a bit and i wrote this on my phone but i did my best. enjoy

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Logan’s woken up in alleyways, face down, with clothes torn from a brawl he instigated and the glass bottles he’d fallen onto. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, he wakes up slumped over a table in the back of a bar because the owner was too afraid to tell him to leave.

Afraid of his claws or just his name.

The buzz of alcohol never stays long, even with high proof liquor, but the tiredness of a fucked up life still lingers for awhile more after several bottles of booze.

So waking up exhausted isn’t new. It's about the only way he’s woken up for a long time.

And that’s what Logan expects, slowly coming back to consciousness.

Exhaustion. Some hard surface. Hopefully most of his clothes intact.

One eye begrudgingly cracks open.

Yup, definitely a little fucked up. His joints ache deep into the bone and his head is cotton-y.

But… Nothing feels hard or sharp beneath him. In fact, he feels… comfortable.

Huh.

Turning just a bit, he finds his face buried in softness. It smells lived in; skin, spilled food, a hint of… gunpowder? And, after a moment, he hears the soft sound of music- too quiet to be bar music but not muffled enough to be from a building he isn’t inside of.

Huh.

“Mmm.” Using his forearms, Logan props himself up just enough to leave the softness and get a look around him.

Not an alley. Not a bar. Not even a cheap, seedy motel.

A house- er, an apartment more likely. And he’s sprawled, a moment ago face down, on top of an old couch with a blanket over him and pillow under him. Neither the couch nor the general space is all that large, he’s practically spilling off the furniture, but everything feels warm and lived in. Home-y, if a little messy.

There isn’t anyone else here- the living room, a good guess- but noises, once he registers them, coming from an adjacent room says he isn’t alone. The soft music seems to filter through from there as well.

Logan flips himself over, a bit too groggy to be elegant about it, and rubs the sleep from his eyes. The feel of gritty grime on his face, more than he usually gets after a night drowning in alcohol, confuses him.

And then-

His head slumps back into the pillow and he groans. “Fucking hell.”

The TVA. The Time Ripper. The Void.

The red spandex-ed asshole who stole him from his timeline.

… Who, after everything, took him home, here, introduced him to his blind roommate- Althea, if he recalls- and offered him a place to stay and sleep for a while. And, vaguely remembering being too tired to shower, who also gave Logan some clothes to sleep in.

Groaning, only half heartedly after remembering the comforts offered and taken, Logan pulls back the blanket and, likey for the first time, actually checks to see what he’s wearing.

A gray, “I eat cement” T-shirt and blue, rubber duck shorts.

Yeah, that seems about right.

He huffs, but sits up to get his elbows onto his knees and scrub more of the sleep away from his face. Instant regret again. Both he and Wade- battle worn and disgusting- had forgone a shower in favor of just near instantly passing out. He is fucking gross; dirt, blood, and god knows what else covering him in a disgusting layer.

Logan feels a pang of shame for getting onto their couch with this much dirt and sweat coating him- maybe he can wash the blanket and pillowcase as an apology- but a clattering from the room with the music recatches his attention. The volume of whatever song is playing- a woman singing, pleasantly raspy- increases afterward.

Too interested to ignore whatever’s going on, Logan gets up to stand- with only a small groan, thank you- and, after a quick, satisfying stretch, slowly pads over to the doorway. Nothing outright sounds or feels dangerous, but from his experience and especially after the past few days, the need for caution can’t be shaken.

He must still not be fully awake, because the smell hits him only a few creeping steps from the doorway; pepper, eggs, something a bit burnt.

Food.

God, he didn’t realize how hungry he was until now. Even the burning smell is appetizing.

Popping his head in, the sight inside startles him awake completely.

With “I <3 hot dads” shorts, a red apron, and fucking crocs on his feet, Wade shifts around in front of the kitchen counter, swaying to the song he has playing from a radio somewhere. The place is a complete mess of egg shells and plates, but the table has a, rather large, plate of scrambled eggs, another plate of half burnt toast, and an assortment of other breakfast items. The smell of coffee also hangs in the air. And for the first time, maybe since knowing the man- and when he wasn’t unconscious- Wade is happily content not saying a word. He simply turns a toaster, with a fucking butter knife stuck into it, this way and that, and shakes it like he wants information from it.

It’s jarringly warm, and domestic.

Logan is again thrown for a moment.

When was the last time he woke up to clean clothes- even though he himself is gross as hell- the softness of a pillow, to the smell and sight of another person cooking breakfast in a kitchen?

Ever?

That sounds pathetically sad and incorrect, but in the doorway, watching it happen in real time, Logan feels lost and a bit raw.

Lucky for him though, Wade is still an annoying fuck and pulls him from his thoughts.

Like he sensed the presence of the other man half lingering in the doorway, Wade looks back at him and smiles wide. All bright teeth. No mask.

“Well, good morning Peanut! Did ya sleep well? I don't know about you but I think being torn apart and put back together finally got rid of the knot in my back. God, I slept like Al after she goes through waaay too many little baggies.” He motions over to the table with his chin. “I made some eggs and toast if you want. A true triumphant heroes’ breakfast! Hopefully you like them both a bit overdone. And there’s a pot of coffee over there.” He gestures to a machine on the counter now. “You can literally just drink from the pot if you want. Caffeine does not work on me, funnily enough. We don’t have creamer but there’s milk in the fridge and sugar next to the coffee maker…”

Wade goes on to babble about everything and nothing and, while Logan cannot count the number of times he’s wanted to stab the man for not shutting up, he can’t find the want to be actually irritated.

Not in the face of food, and coffee, and just… comfort.

Speaking of…

Logan clears the lump in his throat. “Thanks.” It’s all he can think to say, but he means it, even with the rough rumble of his morning voice.

Which Wade seems to find fascinating.

“Holy shit! How the fuck does your voice get even deeper? God, you would make a killing as a erotic audio book reader. Millions probably.” Wade flashes a flirtatious look before he turns back to the toaster and continues to mumble to himself, or perhaps the broken machine.

Logan huffs, but the call of coffee is stronger than his need for a comeback. The whole pot is grabbed per the offer, the sugar too, and now standing in front of the table he finds himself hesitating. No spots are occupied and nothing says ‘preferred seat’, but Logan can’t help but pause. ‘Make yourself at home’ feels like the unsaid, unfamiliar offer he can’t accept as easily as the coffee.

It feels too easy- another pathetic thought- and he can’t help but feel like he isn’t awake yet, and the reality of a cold, pavement bed will greet him if he gets too comfortable…

“Stupid fucking piece of metal crap!” Wade hisses, followed by the sound of the knife stabbing into the toaster.

Nope, probably not a dream. Logan is not a creative enough person to come up with something like this.

God, so just… sit, you fucking moron.

Picking a chair facing away from the toaster killer, Logan sets the coffee pot down- on a mat he also picked up, he isn’t an asshole- and settles in.

He feels awkward, like a kid at his first sleepover, but the eggs are there in front of him and his stomach is starting to growl. Awkwardness can wait until after a few bites, at least. There’s a lack of something important on the table though. After a quick glance around the plates and cups, and not finding anything, he looks over to Wade who seems to be completely brawling with the toaster now.

Wincing at the sight, and before he can rethink his decision, Logan clears the remaining sleep from his throat and uses that to draw the other man’s attention.

“Do uh, do you got a fork or somethin’?”

“Ah fuck, that’s what I forgot!” Wade sets, or slams really, the toaster down and moves over to a drawer, then rooting through it. “Didn’t run the dishwasher either and all the good forks are in it. Fuck…” He mumbles something else too, but lets out a triumphant ‘ha!’ when he pulls out two forks, one a little more bent than the other.

He skips, almost, over to Logan and presents the utensils. “Here you go Peanut, pick your favorite!”

Grabbing the more bent fork, Logan nods a silent thanks and begins slowly transferring eggs from the larger plate to one of the smaller, empty ones. Wade, satisfied with the choice, simply sets the other fork onto the table and goes back to the counter, and that damn toaster.

But before brawling again, he calls back, “Help yourself to as much as you want Babygirl! You deserve it for all your sexy hero work!”

Logan huffs again but grabs one of the toaster’s victims, once he’s gotten a fair amount of egg, and takes a bite of the slightly over cooked toast and just… enjoys.

The moment is pretty… nice.

Warm food. Morning sun from the window- god, he doesn’t even know that time it is. Wade isn’t quiet, hardly ever is, but he’s not overly inane or loud right now.

It’s all… good.

So… What does it?

An old memory, like deja vu, from another place and time with other people? The still lingering, ghostly sensation of his own body shredding and healing, just below his skin? Wade grumbling at the counter over the broken toaster, like a strange picture of domestic living?

It could be anything, everything.

But all he knows is that it’s twisting into something else. Something darker, and sharper, and cold.

Logan starts to tremble in his seat and the fork in his hand damn near snaps in his grip. The bite of food in his mouth tastes like blood- no, it is blood. He’s bitten into his tongue. His heart is racing, and something is tight in his chest, too tight and still tightening. Crushing.

Air isn’t breathable. His lungs won’t let it in.

Whatever stupid song is playing now is muffled by a white hot pulsing between his ears.

… He knows this.

Panic.

This is panic.

Of all the times to break, after days of one problem after another, pain after pain, this is when it happens? Now? While he’s sitting in Wade fucking Wilson’s kitchen, wearing his worn-soft clothes and eating at his table and listening to some soft song on the radio?

Yes, it is.

Pathetic.

Fucking pathetic.

He can’t focus anywhere anymore- it’s too much, too overwhelming, too fucking stupid to reason with- and burning nausea is creeping up his throat.

He’s spiraling. He’s breaking. And he can’t find the fight to beat himself out of it.

Perhaps that’s the reason he doesn’t hear the increasingly desperate ‘Logan?’s behind him or the quick footsteps moving towards the table.

He does startle, however, at a sudden touch to the side of his skull, making him gasp.

His claws gouge the surface of the table and knock over a half-filled water cup but, remarkably, they don’t thrust into the sudden presence pressing to his side.

It takes a good minute to process the situation, much slower than it usually takes him. But he feels the warmth of another person and the pressure of a hand on his head and his head is bent at an odd angle-

Wade, his mind breathes. This is his scent- gunpowder, spandex, and his own strange, unique smell. The touch to the back of his skull is his hand and the press to his cheek is the exposed skin below his shirt.

He’s cuddling him.

Uh-

And because it’s what he does best, Logan rages.

“The fuck are you doing?!” Logan snaps, and he yanks his head back from the other man’s grasp. Or, at least, he tries to.

“Eeeasy Peanut,” Wade hushes, not relinquishing Logan’s head. It's easy to forget the teasing, ridiculous man is incredibly strong. The battle lasts all of two seconds, and Wade’s stubbornness takes the victory. Logan’s cheek presses back to his hip and stays there under the weight of his hand.

“Easy, easy, easy…” Wade mumbles. He hesitates, only for a moment. “Vanessa did this… when shit got really bad.”

He’s quiet. He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. The meaning and weight of the softly spoken words are enough.

There’s a growl starting to rumble in his chest and while he wants to fight against Wade harder- he doesn’t need sentimental crap or, god forbid, pity- Logan takes a breath just long enough to pause here in the moment, and let’s himself feel.

Wade’s hand is cradling his skull and his fingers are threaded through his hair. The weight of them is firm, but not crushing. No, they’re gentle. And they press his cheek and temple into Wade’s side, where the dip of his waist is. Even at the odd angle his neck is bent to, the shape of the dip fits to his face near perfectly and, if obliged to stay here, he would be comfortable. Wade’s body heat- much like his own, running high due to constant cellular regeneration- seeps into him. Into his skin, and then his flesh, and then his bones, settling deep into his chest.

All of it, it… helps.

The revelation startles Logan.

The weight and solidness of Wade is grounding; constant, steady pressure. His warmth slowly relaxes the painful tightness behind Logan’s ribs. Even his smell- showered now, likely before he started cooking, still strange but not unbearable- settles his mind just because it’s there.

Wade… is anchoring him.

Maybe he really should fight this harder, or be annoyed at the coddling, or pissed just because he’s being handled at all, but Logan can’t keep a grip on any of the feelings. He can’t stop the calm that pulls him in and brings him down. It’s so- He’s feels so-

…

… When was the last time he was held?

Not fucked by nameless faces, or hanging on to another person for dear life, or punch near through the stomach- Held.

Was it before- God does it hurt.

… Was it before, when he had his fellow mutant friends and family? Before that?

After?… Definitely not.

Warmth, gentleness, nothing of the kind was what he deserved afterwards. He could never reward himself with something he never showed, and no one offered it to him regardless.

Logan shudders, his breath likely teasing Wade’s skin but, if the other man feels it, he blissfully leaves the fact be.

Wade- warm, solid, annoying as hell Wade- who breaks his train of thought, unaware of it. “Better right? When Vanessa first did this, waaay back in the storyline, I fucking melted like a kid’s ice cream. It’s like the guilty, trauma victim’s morphine.” He pauses, and there’s a grin to his words now. “I also ate her out that first time, but we can wait to do that until the second mental breakdown session, Babygirl.”

Yup. There it is. Asshole.

But Logan just, non-committedly hums, although it's more of a grumble. Yeah, Wade will probably be insufferable after this, smug and a whole new level of too comfortable touching him, but right now, right here, he’s calming.

He’s- something Logan can’t quite name. Or at least, he’s unwilling to.

Call Logan weak, call him pathetic- because he truthfully is, just below the storm in his skin- and like hell does he actually deserve this, but he’s gonna savor it for as long as he possibly can.

Seconds pass, or maybe hours, and the gentle massage of Wade’s fingertips to his scalp continues during it before his hand slides away from Logan’s hair onto his shoulder.

The loss of that contact against his head is disappointing-a private thought- but when Wade shifts like he’s about to move away the disappointment quickly morphs into panic.

He isn’t ready to let go.

He isn’t ready for Wade to leave.

With pure, unthinking action, Logan latches onto the fabric of Wade’s shorts just below the hip he isn’t leaning against. He fists the material into a ball, like he’s afraid the other man will just disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

Like he really is going to wake up, and be alone again with only the memory of coffee and warmth.

Embarrassment quickly reddens his face once he understands what he’s done but, instead of releasing Wade, Logan turns his face into his hip to hide. Clenching his eyes shut for extra precaution.

Weak. Pathetic.

Wade is quiet, his hand hovering above Logan’s shoulder after it was started off but, just as Logan is about to relinquish his hold of the man- he can't bear the unnerving stillness of him- Wade surprises him again.

Quick but gentle, Wade cups the back of Logan’s head and neck, turns ever so slightly to the side, and presses Logan’s forehead to the cushion of his stomach. And just lets the other man stay against him, as he rubs his head and shoulders.

Logan cries a small sound he’s never heard himself make before- something wounded, and relieved, and ragged- but he can’t be bothered to care. Not right now. He releases his death hold on Wade’s shorts and wraps his arms around the other man’s thighs, as flush against him as he can be in their current positions. His hold might be too tight, edging on painful most likely, but Wade doesn’t complain. Doesn’t do anything except this… hold him.

Thank you, thank you, thank you…

“Of course, big guy. Whatever you need.”

Ah, he said that out loud.

… He’ll care about that later. Logan will be pissed, and embarrassed, and in denial at some point, but it’ll all be later. When Wade isn’t cradling him or murmuring soft words. When he isn’t cooking warm food or listening to music on the radio.

When he isn’t making him feel like, for the first time in a long time, he’s allowed to have kindness.

Fucking… Wade.

[s0fter-sin]

vampire bats share mouthfuls of blood to other bats they’re close to if they weren’t able to feed and now i need old vampire!ghost sharing a bloody kiss with fledgling!soap, giving him mouthfuls of blood bc his fresh fangs are too sensitive to bite with

it’s been so long since he was turned that ghost’s forgotten the deep ache that comes with growing fangs and he almost worries when johnny goes to bite into the meal he’s brought him only to whimper and pull back; only the slightest pinpricks of a bite left in the man’s neck, barely enough to bring blood to the surface

it’s only when johnny whines and massages at his gums that ghost realises his oversight; crooning at his sweet mate in reassurance. he’s not upset that he couldn’t feed, at the unintentional rejection of his offering. he’ll make the pain stop

ghost pulls the man to his mouth and sinks in his fangs, sucking in a heavy mouthful and drops the now paralysed prey back to his feet; his throat steadily gushing with blood and spilling over his body

he cups johnny’s face, looking into his eyes, teary with pain and hunger, and purses his lips to carefully drip the blood into his mouth. the pain immediately vanishes from his eyes, replaced with pure bliss as he opens his mouth wide; curling his tongue to catch every drop. ghost presses his mouth to his in a hungry, blood-filled kiss; tongues twining together as they share the taste

johnny sucks the last of it from his lips and ghost guides him down to lap at the prey’s neck; licking up the blood he was too weak to draw himself. he’s ravenous with it, his whole face covered in red as he licks up the spill and suckles at ghost’s bite

ghost’s filled with an overwhelming pride at having provided for his mate in an even deeper way than just hunting for him. he spilled the blood johnny’s drinking; fed him in the most intimate way their kind knows and he’ll do it a hundred times over for his love

[somecunttookmyurl]

Hey, you recently mentioned somewhere about how growing pains aren't really a thing the way we think of them in the tags about a post about taking kids' pain seriously. And i've been sitting on that ever since, as someone who had severe 'growing pains' growing up that'd take me out for days but was told to stick it out. Thing is, they never went away and despite hitting 30 soon I regularly google something like 'growing pain in 20s' with some regularity.

I've finally bit the bullet, done the doctor marathon, ended up at a rheumathologist and was like 'idk i've had pain my entire life i was told it was normal'. (Didn't go over well, but how could it have.) Despite him then noting hypermobility he's adamant hsd or heds aren't worth looking into. And now i'm sat here like. Well, was it ever growing pains?

Could you talk more about what you meant with the growing pains? My mind is not letting it go

'growing pains' is something doctors say to dismiss pain in teens and children a lot.

the fact is, yes, some children get pains that are temporary and ultimately harmless and not at all related to growing in fact we don't know why it happens

the other fact is it tends to be limited to the ages of approximately 3 to 11, yet doctors use it to dismiss pain in teenagers - who still do a lot of growing often very quickly (especially boys).

it affects mostly if not exclusively the legs (notably calves and shins) and worsens following physical activity. yet doctors will often use it to handwave away any and all musculoskeletal pain

so yes there is a type of pain children (but not really teens) can experience in their lower legs. but not a) the rest of the body b) long-lasting c) bad all the time and d) it has nothing to do with actually growing

and frankly given we "don't know" why it happens at all i'd bet decent money there actually is a cause for whatever pain happened even if it was temporary. like doing the three-legged race wrong.

edit: sorry skipped over the hypermobile part. for some people (i hate them personally) hypermobility is not painful. for most people it IS. this is for the simple fact that your ligaments and tendons (connective tissue) are too stretchy so they aren't holding your joints in place as well as they should. so you know what has to pick up your slack? your larger muscles. you know what is built for movement and not 24-7 activation to keep you assembled? your muscles. they're doing something they're not supposed to have to do, and they're doing it all the time and they are fucking tired. unfortunately (i have hypermobile EDS and didnt get diagnosed until i was 28) there is no "cure" for this. the only treatments are stabilisation - physical therapy to try and build up the smaller stabilising muscles and support garments or things like k-tape to take the load off the bigger muscles by providing external support. also massage and heat to relieve the tension and tiredness.

[feral-ballad]

Victoria Chang, from The Trees Witness Everything; “Garden”

[Text ID: “Something is growing. / Plath said growing hurts at first, / but when does the hurting stop?”]

[luxaofhesperides]

"I see you, and I love you" + hurt/comfort ; requested by @oops-i-dropped-the-galaxy!

Danny can handle being a halfa. He’s had years to get used to it, switching between dead and alive, living boy and ghost, always living in flux. He’s settled into his identity as one of the few halfas in existence, navigating the living world and the Infinite Realms with ease after years of practice.

What he can’t handle is becoming an Ancient.

Apparently, while most Ancients are born into the role, ruling over their domain, some can grow into it. It’s rare, practically unheard of, but not impossible.

Danny is growing into the Ancient of Stars, changed from the inside out by his love of space. 

He would be happy if it didn’t hurt so much.

Danny can’t sleep at night anymore. When the stars are out, he can hear them singing, each windchime voice echoing through his ears. Though he can’t see them from beneath Gotham’s cloud cover, he can feel them shining brightly far above him. 

He lays in bed with Duke, curled up in his side, trying to muffle his whimpers as his bones creak and hollow, his soul growing too large for his body to handle. He is space contained in a human body. It wants to be free, to stretch from its suffocating confines and fill every dark space with cold light. His skin feels too tight and his teeth ache. 

All Danny can do is clench his jaw, wrap his arms around his stomach as tightly as he can, and try to weather through the pain of changing.

The agony of it comes in waves. He doesn’t know how long it takes until it recedes enough for him to feel like he can breathe again, trying to suck air in as his lungs are crushed by his ribcage. Slowly, Danny pushes himself up, taking care not to wake Duke, and stumbles out of bed. His throat is dry and feels as if its been scraped raw by sandpaper, and all he wants is water.

He gets halfway down the hall when the next wave hits.

Danny collapses, gasping for breath, and can only watch through tear-filled eyes as his fingers go dark, the same black as deep space. His body shifts, bones cracking and muscles stretching like taffy, and suddenly he’s big larger than life a galaxy a black hole there is darkness everywhere it is alive it is full of stars the stars are singing the stars are singing the stars are si

“Danny? Hey, sweetheart, are you okay?”

That’s Duke’s voice. He’d recognize it anywhere, even from miles away, even when he’s sure he doesn’t have ears anymore. It takes all his effort to pull himself back to Earth, back into their apartment, blinking up at Duke as the stars in his eyes fade away. 

Duke kneels before him, concern clear on his face, gentle hands reaching out to hold Danny steady. The feel of his warmth grounds him, keeps him more securely in his body. The pull of space is still there, tugging at him, trying to pull him out of humanity and into the form of an Ancient, but Danny can resist it so long as Duke keeps him tethered to the ground.

“It hurts,” he croaks, shivering.

“Shh, I know, baby. How can I help? What do you need?”

Danny leans forward, burying his face in Duke’s chest as tears slip out of his eyes. “It hurts,” he says again, voice shaking. “I keep changing and growing and my entire body is being torn apart and—” he gasps, cutting himself off. “I keep disappearing. I don’t want to disappear. I want to stay here but it takes me away and then I’m too big and no one can see me and I’m alone—”

“You’re not alone, Danny,” Duke says, holding him tightly as if his arms will be enough to keep Danny from breaking out of his own body, ridding himself of a mortal vessel, his only remaining tie to this world. “I see you, and I love you. Even if you have to change and go far away to be happy, I’ll find a way to follow you there, okay? I’m with you for as long as you want me.”

“I don’t want to hurt so much,” Danny whimpers, black fingers speckled with stardust clawing at Duke’s arms. 

“Just breathe through it, sweetheart, you can do it. Let it pass through you. I got you, okay? Just let the pain pass and you’ll be fine.”

He wants to snap at Duke that it’s not fine, that the pain will be forever, it’ll linger in every one of his joints, that he can’t just stop fighting it because it’ll hurt even worse then. But his jaws are aching, his teeth sharpening, and there’s a black hole in his throat that he refuses to let loose. He lets out another pained whine, shivering, and in his chest a star is formed, burning bright and angry.

“Breathe, Danny, breathe,” Duke soothes, rubbing a hand up and down Danny’s back.

It’s habit to relax into his touch. They’ve spent so many nights working through night terrors and injuries, comforting each other through gentle touches. The pain eases a bit, and Danny sighs, frost on his breath. 

“There we go, sweetheart, that’s it. You’re doing just fine.”

Another tear slips down his face, but the ache in his entire body as his growing ghost form tries to escape begins to fade. 

He’s spent so many nights in pain, waiting for the sun to rise to muffle the singing of the stars. If he can get any relief, he’ll take it, even if it means losing his human form.

Danny stops fighting. His resistance to this change falls away. There’s a moment where the pain disappears entirely, the world going still, but before he can let out a relieved sigh, the change hits him like an asteroid, sudden and instant and inevitable.

A cry is ripped from his throat, but it doesn’t sound like him. It echoes, deep and inhuman, and suddenly Danny is every dark space surrounding the stars, the arms of every galaxy, suns burning bright and dying, supernova, cold and ice and the slow drifting of planets in orbit. His body grows, expands, no longer a ghost but an Ancient, body curling into itself to stay within the walls of the too small apartment, large hands cupped around Duke to keep him safe. 

He can feel the cold of space. Orbits dance in his mind. Meteorites and asteroids drift without pattern across his chest. Danny can see everything with too many eyes, and he can cup planets in his palms, so much larger than possibility. His chest opens and expands and his body can curl around Earth and keep it safe. 

He feels settled in this new body, senses stretched in every direction and the universe is so much lovelier than he could have ever experienced it in a halfa’s body. 

Danny, Ancient of the Stars, hums and the universe shivers, singing back to him.

The pain is gone completely. He wonders why he resisted so hard; this is what he’s meant to be. He’s never felt so right before.

“Danny?”

Duke’s voice is small, but only because he is small when compared to Danny in his Ancient form. 

Duke, he tries to say but his vocal chords have changed. Instead of words, a deep hum erupts from his throat, similar to the purr of a particularly large cat. 

“Hey, sweetheart. Feeling better?”

Danny nods, pulling himself back together to feel his body more keenly, no longer stretched across the universe, cradling every star in his reach. Duke reaches a hand up and Danny reaches back, folding himself back into his body. His human eyes return and he realizes the apartment is completely covered in darkness with stars sparkling all around them. It recedes as he fits himself back into his body, the black on his fingers fading away until his hand is indistinguishable from a normal human’s. 

He takes hold of Duke’s hand and tries to stand. His legs are weak and unsteady and he falls onto Duke, who catches him with ease and sweeps him up into a princess carry. 

“There you are, honey,” Duke says, voice warm and relieved. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I feel a lot better.”

“Good. Do you need anything? Hot chocolate, heating pad, sleep?”

Danny thinks for a moment, then says, “Hot chocolate.”

“You got it. Let me just set you on the couch and I’ll have it out in a minute.”

He carefully sets Danny onto the couch, then tucks the blanket they keep folded over the back around him. Once he’s satisfied Danny is comfortable, Duke heads to the kitchen, flicking on the light as he does. 

Danny sinks into the couch cushions, carefully moving all his fingers and toes to make sure they’re fine. He’s a little sore, as if all his bones where put through the ringer, but it doesn’t feel any different from when he has a particularly rough training day. 

What’s more important that his physical body is the fact that he can feel his core, settled deep in his chest. It’s no longer the cold of ice, but it burns coldness, a white star embodying his soul, a changed core to reflect his transformation into an Ancient. 

A baby Ancient, technically. He still has some growing to do, but the rest should be easier and, hopefully, less painful.

He closes his eyes and begins to drift off when he hears Duke return. It takes some effort to open his eyes, and his smiles softly and sleepily when he sees Duke set down two steaming mugs of hot chocolate on the coffee table.

“Love you,” he mumbles, freeing a hand from the blanket to try to pull Duke down to join him.

Duke goes to him easily, sitting next to him and pulling Danny in to cuddle against him. It’s been so long since he last felt so comfortable at night, not writhing in pain and biting through his lip to keep quiet, that he can’t help but sink into it. A purr starts up in his chest, and Duke startles.

“Sweetheart, are you purring?”

Danny flushes and tries to hide his face. The purr doesn’t stop. He’s always been able to purr after becoming a halfa, though purr is just an easier way to describe it. It’s less of his vocal chords vibrating and more of his core rumbling in contentment. Usually, it’s unnoticeable, barely able to be felt let alone heard. Apparently, becoming an Ancient and therefore a much stronger ghost means his purrs are also stronger and louder.

“You’re so cute,” Duke says, pressing a kiss against Danny’s forehead. “Drink your hot chocolate, and then we can go back to sleep.”

He makes grabby hands at his mug, and Duke laughs and picks it up for him.

“Love you,” Danny repeats, voice less muffled.

“Love you, too,” Duke says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’m glad you were there to help me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“It’s a good thing you’ll never have to find out. I’ve got you, sweetheart, always.”

Believing him is the easiest thing Danny has ever done. If Duke says he’ll be there for, then he will. 

Always, always, always.

. . .

[send me ghostlights prompts!]

[lunarkittenn]

I rarely take pictures anymore. It’s like I just don’t want to remember any moment from this part of my life lol

[solargeist]

It hurt in the beginning, but it hurt much MUCH more later on. You aren't even really aware that things are happening to you. They are subtle like that. After all, They have had the chance to prefect this process down to almost the second of becoming like Them.

Unfortunately, the perfected method is very painful. You feel it in your bones. Just a dull ache that makes you think of growing pains as a child. Something that once was easy to do; no longer works for how your body is structured (like climbing a tree or how when you used to cry, it would always be with tears that made your face too hot).

The shift from bones to being in your muscles would seemingly happen over night. Tendons feeling too rubbery and bendable and cartilage always became brittle. The nosebleeds became normal, and you are reassured that it is normal. (After all, it is to them.)

Eventually, it buzzes under your skin. Sometimes it feels like a phone vibrating under anywhere that might have blood, but then others it's impossible not to think of their being insects just under the first layer. (There are no bugs in the End. You know that. At least, you haven't seen any Endermites...) You hear it in your ear drums. Your teeth rattle ever so slightly in a way that makes your jaw hurt. The perpetual motion makes stomachs easier to upset and falling asleep almost impossible.

But eventually, after sitting too long in discomfort, you find out the meaning of these sorenesses. It is so much easier to mold something if it has been made pliable. They desire to bend, to snap, to stretch you as far as you'll go and then go farther.

Watchers are massive things in their fullness. Large and hulking creatures that can blot out the sun at their full hight. But one simply does get to being that size naturally. No, they had to be pulled up; spines and fingers being elongated, arms and legs extending out, and smiles made even wider to show more teeth.

The smile is why Grian doesn't ever bother having one shown. He hates to remember hooks pulling at his cheeks.

-Phantom

The way you go from DMing me to put him in a microwave, to this, is always fascinating, really, a littol gift to me 🫶

I think the Watcher holds his hair back when he’s sick, or gently rubs his back when he’s sore, even though it’s their fault he’s like this!!

[emry-stars-art]

Thoughts on prince Riko’s “perfect court” before anyone escaped Evermore ( @thefoxesraven pls remind me if it was you with the branding vs tagging idea on that insta live)

@snazzy-jas-z-is-a-fan-of came up with SO MUCH of the possible politics and family ties of this au, it was incredible to watch and I think I finally understand enough to post about it 😂 there’s a balance of power between the two branches of Evermore royalty, which balance is shifting slowly to the Moriyamas and by the end of the story belongs solely to them with Ichirou as king. I’ll try to explain it in a different post if there’s interest

(And lest we go a day without Abram angst: he does in fact get his brand and more, when he’s taken back to Evermore and Riko takes the chance to reclaim his property ‘like he should have done to begin with’.)

[freakurodani]

biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig stretch

[codacheetah]

It's deeply important to me that Loop kind of sucks

[beldaroot]

seeing is believing: a resolution to yakumo's grief

one: yakumo states he's cursed and expresses his desire of wanting to see sanada, even as a ghost.

two: yatora's aoj piece is called "beyond the line of sight" and it is a triad painting of yakumo, hacchan, and momo's backs with an empty space left for sanada.

three: momo ends the chapter with the idea that children are the only ones able to see god.

at first i thought these were all separate moments, but they actually are all connected and provide the perfect conclusion to this arc. we can now understand why momo called yakumo a "brat" several chapters ago; yakumo acts like a child over sanada's death because he thought of her like a god and wanted to keep seeing her. he's been "seeing" her as a figment of his imagination, but even that version of sanada has become warped and untrue to the real, previously living sanada. and because he's cursed - either by not being in god's favor or simply because he's growing up (aka moving on) - he's lost the ability to see sanada anymore. she is now, like yatora states in his piece, beyond the line of sight.

by maturing and accepting the death of sanada and her human status, he can no longer see her. but like yotasuke told him last chapter, he can keep the grief he has over sanada with him forever. the next time yakumo and sanada see each other, it will be in death. it is only then that they can finally fulfill their past dream of having a joint exhibition of their art. and while their art is being displayed to be seen by others and can "leave a lasting impression on [their] hearts, for better or worse," they themselves will not be seen and therefore, are free from any worldly burdens :')

[goldensunset]

‘n has been separated from people since he was young. he was brought up with pokémon… pokémon that were betrayed, mistreated, and hurt by bad people… ghetsis deliberately brought only these poor pokémon closer to n. n was touched by their plight, and started pursuing his ideals, thinking only of pokémon. n’s heart is pure and innocent. but there is nothing more beautiful and terrifying than innocence.’

[mediumtires]

Toto is in his office, the distinct sounds of sharing a space with someone dulled by heavy wood, and he’s staring at his bright screen, and somehow his throat has closed up enough for him to clear it, twice. There’s a strangely tight feeling right behind his sternum, in the middle of his chest, one that he can’t quite seem to reach.

short sequel to Growing Pains, from Toto’s POV. 2.6k

Christian has crow’s feet. On the right, it’s eleven deep lines, four of them curving upwards when he smiles, the rest fanning down, and off to the side of his face. Left, it’s seven. A few less, but still just as deep. They pull in his cheeks when he smiles.

Toto loves those lines. He was there when there were only four on the left, six on the right. Deeper though. They were even deeper back then, for some reason.

Toto was also there for the teeth. He was there when Christian started to let his stubble grow, he was there for the first grey hairs that led to a life changing haircut. He was there when Christian quietly started to size up his jeans.

He was there when Christian got appendicitis on New Year’s Eve, was there for food poising more than once, was there for broken toes and bruised fingers when they were renovating the farm. He was there when Christian’s brother got diagnosed with cancer. Was there for the party too, when he was finally cancer free.

What Toto wasn’t there for was Christian winning his first title in eight years. It’s not a secret, he knows, Christian knows. Of course they know; it’s one of the biggest hurdles they ever had to overcome, the fact that he wasn’t there for it.

He’d made his position crystal clear; December 2021, and the months after shaped by the decisions he had made. Toto had his team to worry about that night. Lewis, Valtteri, Bono, Andrew, James, everyone else. Himself. He’d had enough to worry about. He didn’t think about Christian very much that night. Not about his crow’s feet, or the ring on his left hand, or the fact that they were in big big trouble. He’d done it deliberately, knowingly. And he doesn’t regret it. Hasn’t, since, mostly because he can’t allow himself to. He’s regretted many things, the aftermath, the months of fighting. But he doesn’t regret standing up for his team that night.

Only now… Now Toto is in his office at home, behind his big desk, with the door closed, the distinct sounds of sharing a space with someone dulled by heavy wood, and he’s staring at his bright screen, and somehow his throat has closed up enough for him to clear it, twice. There’s a strangely tight feeling right behind his sternum, right in the middle of his chest, one that he can’t quite seem to reach.

There’s a video playing, one that he’s not sure he even clicked on himself, one that he really shouldn’t be watching. What he should be doing is preparing for his meeting with the Petronas people first thing tomorrow morning.

Instead, his eyes follow Christian, champagne soaked, shaky handed, teary eyed, on his way from the pit wall to the garages to the podium back to the garages. He looks—Toto can’t think of the right word for it. He can only think about the look on his face, equal parts mind shattering relief, pure joy and pure devastation, though Toto knows that part is only for him to see. And his crow’s feet. Eleven deep lines accompanying his watery smile.

He looks devastating to Toto. It’s a strange realisation because until now, Abu Dhabi has only ever been painful to think about. And it still is, in most ways. Only now that he’s looking at his husband through a screen, watching him getting celebrated, congratulated, touched by a million other people, Toto is kicking himself that he wasn’t there to see him like this when he had the chance. He never got to see this joy on Christian’s face in real life. Instead, what they did was so much worse, so much more painful.

Toto has trouble swallowing around the knot in his throat. Suddenly he has the stupid urge to put his hand to his computer screen, touch his fingertips to the bright lights and follow the soft lines of Christian’s face, sweaty and champagne wet, teary eyed and grinning so wide it must’ve hurt his cheeks. Toto wants that version of him, badly, so badly in fact, that his heart seizes in his chest, thudding hard.

Christian is in the kitchen. He’s making dinner, the dogs at his feet following his every move with big hopeful eyes. Christian doesn’t turn around when Toto comes in, his voice drowned out by the extractor fan as he says, “Dinner’ll be another few.”

Toto couldn’t care less about dinner right now. He stalks up to where Christian is watching over sizzling eggs in a pan, and a second later he’s got him pressed to the counter, licking into his mouth. Christian makes an undignified noise at the back of his throat and the spatula he was holding topples to the floor. Toto doesn’t care. His hands are on Christian’s cheeks, and he can feel his crow’s feet beneath his thumbs. He tastes salt and the tangy sweetness of cherry tomatoes.

Christian presses his palms flat to his chest and pushes. “Hey!” He tries to bring distance between them, and Toto lets him, of course he does, but he still curls himself around Christian’s body, tucks his face into his neck, kisses the leathery skin there too.

“What the fuck has gotten into you?” Christian’s arms come up around Toto’s back only reluctantly. “I’m going to burn the bloody eggs!”

“Sorry.” Toto should be letting him go. Christian has put effort into making dinner, and Toto respects that. Still, he has a hard time moving away from him.

“What’s—” Christian’s face is one big question mark. “Darling? You alright?”

Toto bends to pick the spatula up from the ground and turns away to give it a quick rinse in the sink. “Ja,” he says. “I’m fine.”

Christian’s expression is critical when he takes the spatula back. He goes back to stirring the eggs, stocky and yellow, then turns the heat down with a flick of his wrist. Toto wants to kiss him so badly. The images of Christian, victorious in Abu Dhabi won’t leave his mind. Nor his chest.

Christian turns back around and this time it’s he who pulls Toto in by the hips, presses their bodies together. He leans in and there’s a kiss to the corner of Toto’s mouth, feathery light. Toto can’t help but wrap himself around Christian again, breathing him in, relieved. “What’s going on?” Christian asks carefully, fingertips dipping beneath the waistline of Toto’s chinos. 

He feels so familiar in Toto’s arms. Toto has so many regrets right now, but he can’t possibly tell him. Not with everything they’ve been through. Not with how hard they’ve worked to come out the other side, he can’t bring it all back up again. 

“Nothing,” he murmurs into Christian’s hair. Eyes closed. He smells familiar too. Toto would recognise him anywhere by this alone, the musky notes of his cologne, a hint of leather from the wristband of his watch, undertones of sweat mixed with laundry detergent. “I just wanted to kiss my husband.”

“Come here then.” This time it’s Christian’s fingers on his jaw pulling their faces close, and then it’s gentle brushes of lips, painfully meaningful, tongues coming together in deep licks, Toto brushing the roof of Christian’s mouth, the back of his teeth, tasting everything. He wants all of it and more, and he’s so mad at himself for everything that happened in 2021. He wishes he could turn back the time, make better decisions, just a couple. Not even to win, it’s not about that. Just. For them. He should’ve done better.

Christian kisses back with the same intensity. One of his hands is on Toto’s cheek, fingertips brushing into his hair, lightly stroking his temple, his cheekbone. His stubble rubs against Toto’s top lip and Toto wants more of it, wants this forever.

 “‘m sorry.”

Christian pulls back, confused. “Mhm?”

Toto wants to kick himself. “Nothing.” He leans in again, but Christian doesn’t let him get away with it.

“What do you mean, you’re sorry? Sorry for what?”

Toto breathes around a deep sigh. He lets his forehead tip to Christian’s but keeps his eyes shut. Breathes him in. So familiar.

“It’s nothing.”

“Toto,” Christian warns.

“I was watching something. That’s all.”

“Porn?”

Toto pulls back with an offended puff of breath and when their eyes meet Christian is laughing. “Darling, it’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“I wasn’t watching porn in my office, Christian.” He’s genuinely offended Christian would think— “I— Come on.”

A grin spreads over Christian’s face, making his crow’s feet crinkle, fanning deeply up and down the sides. “Whatever you’re doing in there is fine with me, darling. No hard feelings.”

“Just—shut up,” Toto tells him even though his heart is still cracked wide open. He turns away. Walks over to the stove to stir the eggs. They look a little more brown than yellow now.

“Hey.” Christian brushes both of his palms down Toto’s back, then wraps his arms around him from behind to press a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Sorry. You’re upset. What is it?”

“It’s nothing.” Toto sighs softly.

“It’s clearly something. You ambushed me in the kitchen. Something’s up.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Toto. Darling.” Christian’s arms tighten around him, both palms pressed to the softest part of his stomach now, left and right to his navel. He tingles from the inside out.

“I was watching a video about Abu Dhabi.” He admits to it quietly, half of him hoping Christian won’t hear him over the sizzling of the pan. “I don’t even know… It just popped up, it was attached to an email. But I didn’t mean to bring it up again, I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it again.”

Christian doesn’t say anything for a few very long seconds. He holds Toto in the same manner as before, his face mushed to the planes of his back, his body warm against Toto’s, over a decade of familiarity to the touch. Then he says, “You said.”

Toto’s face scrunches up in confusion, but he doesn’t move, just keeps staring down at the pan.

“You said you were sorry,” Christian clarifies. “For watching the video, or for what happened in Abu Dhabi?”

Toto’s chest smarts, pulls into a tight hard knot. “I don’t think… Let’s not talk about it again.”

“Because you’re uncomfortable?” Christian asks. “Or because you’re afraid I haven’t forgiven you yet?”

Toto doesn’t have an answer. The only thing he knows is that the eggs are burning. Christian doesn’t let him go but now his hold feels like it could crush Toto any second.

“I know you’re sorry,” Christian goes on. “And we’re past Abu Dhabi. Things are okay, yeah?”

Toto swallows hard. “Yes.”

Christian presses another kiss to his back, soothing this time. “Good. So why are you sorry?”

“I—” Christian doesn’t let him go. “I didn’t see you.” Toto’s voice breaks on the last syllable. “That night in Abu Dhabi. I was too concerned with other things, I didn’t watch the podium, I didn’t even leave the garage. So I didn’t know what you looked like that night until just fifteen minutes ago.” Heart in his throat he adds, “And I regret that. Not being there for it. Because you looked—”

Beautiful. Proud. Relieved. Real. Heartbreakingly authentic.

“I could’ve shared that with you, that night, the win, your success, but I didn’t. And I regret that. More than anything I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I wish I—” And now he’s fucking choking up.

“Oh.” Christian moves then, unfreezes and untangles himself from Toto’s back to turn him around by the hips. “Oh, darling, no, come on.”

Toto can’t look at him, but then again, he can’t really look at anything because tears are blurring his vision.

“No, darling, no, come here.” Christian wraps him up in a hug then, pulls him in, one arm wrapped around his middle, the other around his shoulders, and he presses the side of his face to Toto’s neck. “It’s okay. We’re past that.”

Toto doesn’t say anything. It doesn't feel like they’re past it. This is the first time he has allowed himself to cry about any of this in front of Christian. It’s been months, and it doesn’t feel like they’re past it.

“I know you would’ve been there if things had been different. But it was complicated, I know that. I’m not mad.”

“I’m mad,” Toto croaks, and as he says it, he realises it’s true. “I am so mad, Christian. I’m mad I didn’t get to share any of it with you. It was such a significant moment, and I wasn’t there with you. We won’t ever get that back.”

Christian takes a moment. “Okay,” he then says quietly. “Now I understand. I get it. I’m mad too.” Toto stills. “Not at you. At the whole thing, the circumstances leading up to it. It’s no one’s fault. We knew it would be difficult to keep things separate, and in the end, we didn’t manage. That’s okay. And it’s okay to be mad about it.”

“I’m not trying to bring it all back up again, I know we’re past it. It’s in the past.” Toto curls his arms around Christian’s back and pulls him in tighter, noses the side of his face, the imprint of the lines around his eyes. “I just didn’t realise how much I missed out that night. You looked so—”

“What?” Christian probes, curious.

“Sexy,” Toto croaks and there’s a second of silence before Christian breaks out into a loud, husky cackle. 

“Are you— Toto, are crying because you didn’t get to fuck me that night?”

“Maybe.” Toto cracks a small grin and smothers it in Christian’s hair. They both know it’s more than that. But they also know there’s no way they can turn back time. What happened happened. It’s in the past.

“Oh fucking hell. You have no idea how badly I wanted you to be there that night.”

“Ja?”

“Yeah,” Christian says, and then he pulls back and looks Toto in the eyes and says, “Yes, darling. Of course I wanted you to be there with me. I wanted to—Look, I wanted to come and find you too, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. So I get it. I have regrets too.”

Toto has to pull him in again and Christian goes willingly, presses their foreheads together, noses brushing, and kisses Toto once more, deep. “I get it,” he murmurs to his lips. “But we’re okay, yeah?”

“Yes,” Toto agrees. Eyes closed. Christian smells like home. “Next time.”

“We’ll do so much better this year,” Christian agrees. “I’ll even let you spray me with champagne in front of everyone.”

Toto rolls his eyes, a small grin pulling stubbornly at the corners of his mouth. “You will let me, yes? That is very generous of you.”

“I know,” Christian agrees smugly. “You’re allowed to do it in front of everyone, too.”

“If you’re not careful, I will be doing something very different than shower you in champagne in front of everyone, darling.”

“Oh, don’t threaten me with a good time, darling.”

Toto hates him a little bit, his pleased smirk, the self-satisfaction, the green of his eyes twinkling, daring, his crow’s feet so deep, seven on the left, eleven on the right.

Toto doesn’t stand a chance. Not this season, but more importantly, not tonight either.

[not-poignant]

82/? - Underline the Black (omegaverse) - Efnisien/Gary

Title: Underline the Black Rating: Explicit Pairing: Efnisien ap Wledig/Dr Gary Konowalous Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Darkfic, Disturbing themes, Age Gap, Omegaverse, Alpha/Alpha, no Mpreg, Medical experimentation, Medical trauma, Dominance/Submission, Dystopian universe, Forced bonding, Forced relationship, Imprisonment, Nonconsensual medical procedures, PTSD, Flashbacks, Nightmares, Chronic illness, Mating cycles/Heats, Knotting, Miscommunication, Trauma recovery, Mind control, Child Abuse, Hope, Hopeful ending.

Summary: Efnisien ap Wledig is an omega born into an all-alpha family. Abandoned by his birth mother and raised by his aunt, he is subjected to a lifetime of medical experimentation and brainwashing and believes himself to be an alpha. But the experiments begin to fail, and he is abandoned yet again to an Omega Rehabilitation Facility, where the family expects he will be retrained into the ‘perfect omega’ and placed in an arranged marriage, or be eliminated if this is no longer possible.

The Facility don’t know about the experiments, and Efnisien doesn’t even know why he’s in there in the first place, since he’s an alpha…isn’t he? One thing’s for certain, he definitely doesn’t need an alpha companion, no matter what the staff at the facility seem to think.

Underline the Black - Chapter 82 - Selfies @ AO3

In which Gary takes Efnisien walking along the trail again, and they have a conversation about different things. Gary sparks off Efnisien's interest in photography and encourages him, and breaks his heart in the process thinking about all the normal experiences Efnisien never got to have growing up.

– Thanks to all the Patreon and Ream supporters for making this story possible!

The following early access extras are also currently available on the Augus & Gwyn, and Efnisien & Gary tiers at Patreon and Ream:

Underline the Red - 05 - Caleb/Faber Underline the Red - 06 - Caleb/Faber Underline the Gold - 07 - Flitmouse/Anton The Nascent Diplomat - 42 - Augus/Gwyn Constellations - 05 - Efnisien + Gwyn (post Falling Falling Stars) Constellations - 06 - Efnisien + Gwyn (post Falling Falling Stars) Constellations - 07 - Efnisien + Gwyn (post Falling Falling Stars) Underline the Blue - 13 - Nate/Janusz Underline the Blue - 14 - Nate/Janusz

Want another way to support my writing? // I have a Patreon account! // Come check out REAM! (Patreon mirror) // Buy a Ko-Fi!

[divineguts]

u ever think about how eternal sugar likely only had one pair of wings and suddenly he was growing a new set and a tail?? like did it just suddenly happen overnight or did he feel new bones and muscles forming over time?? much to ponder...!

[torgawl]

i think what hits most about nobara's backstory is everything that's left unsaid and peaks from between the lines. it's the fact you can easily infer that something was wrong without ever having clear answers on what exactly was wrong. but if you can relate to the feeling of wanting to escape a place and the alienation from everyone around you, especially when you're brought up in small communities, then you can certainly understand, if not fully then partially, nobara herself and the struggles she might have had to face all by herself for a very long time; maybe even the importance fumi and saori had in her life and the pain from having to part from them; and, perhaps the selectiveness in letting people in that she later on develops as well.