#pens over swords

[brahmaninandigam]

And when the bleeding stops, and the cuts get healed, the scars become a story of Bravery. Of how they've survived the cruelty of the Swords. 

So I decided. To pierce hearts with Words.  Wounds, invisible. Healing, Impossible!!

[genericpuff]

vent post

[inumbrapugnabimus-maybe]

here! Have a sketch of sun :D

[ink-the-artist]

Centaur

[akira-seeya]

oh yeah spontaneous shadoodle from over the weekend

[always-a-joyful-note]

The thing about ORV that makes it so compelling is that they really took "the pen is mightier than the sword" seriously. Which is concerning because YJH kills a LOT of people with that sword and Han Sooyoung is the wielder of the pen....

[artistic-potato-goblin]

Linktober Shadow 2024: Day 11 - Demise

[deleetrix]

Traitor!

[breitzbachbea]

Will my heart stop pounding?

The dark of the staircase, no light in the terraced house's corridor, all doors closed as he left them. Outside, he could hear Colin drive off.

"I'm sorry you have to do this," he had told him, embarassed, as he sat on the backseat. "You have better things to do."

"Oh, it's no bother," he had told him, Antrim accent thick. "I'll gladly keep you safe."

Keep him safe while he fooled around. Aye, that's all this was. Fooling around. Feeling alive. Make the seconds left on this earth actually precious.

It was burnt into his mind, Michele lascivous among the sheets, on his side, so deliberately covering his lower half while he showed off his chest. Sweaty and ruffled from their frotting, shifting, bodies never close enough to satisfy the ache.

A shudder ran through him. Thank God, Soph was in Armagh.

"I'm going to be cold here," Michele said. "Wither like the trees outside."

"It's not September yet," Harry had replied while he buckled his belt.

Only the rustle of sheets. "I am gonna miss you."

"Only for a few hours," Harry found himself reassuring what had to be described as his lover.

"Already too much. I'll lie here in the morning and still remember your body next to me, only to find a cold and empty spot." All said in a tone that did not betray true, deep sadness. All a ploy to get him out of his clothes again and under the covers. A Siren call.

"I don't want to cause trouble, that's all, Michele." He did walk over to the bed again, crawled onto it to kiss the man. And by god, what a kiss, what a sweet experience to have the other linger on his lips, suck in the bottom one, taste him with the tip of his tongue and oh so gently release him. "Your hotel's too fancy for that."

Michele made a sound of disbelief at that, something between a purr and a tut as he ran his fingers through Harry's hair, oh so slowly and deliberate. "You don't care for trouble to get what you want, Signor O'Connel."

"Aye, I do a bit," he lied. "I've also got other stuff to do tomorrow before our meeting. You know that, Darling."

"I do." Michele breathed against his lips, Harry's heart pounded in his ears. But Michele only sighed and Harry swallowed, able to rip himself away. Only then Michele said: "One last kiss goodnight, per piacere, carinu."

Could not deny him that. Of course not. Head tilted, their lips matched perfectly, as he pushed his tongue into Michele's mouth to let it linger, let it flick against the other's, let it be some all too temporary unity.

Finally off the bed and almost at the door, he heard: "Buonanotte, Beddu. Sogni d'Oro. Dream of me."

Harry was weak in his knees as he leant against his front door, eyelashes fluttering and heart hammering worse against his ribcage than a rival during a Hurling match.

Michele huddled into the sheets, the dull golden eyes half-open, deep and perfectly tanned skin glowing against the white sheets. The curve of his body underneath them, outline of flesh and bone, soft skin, a beautiful soft, giving, round arse, those supple thighs, the waist he just wanted to lay hands on --

He sucked in air through his nose and tried to ground himself, deep and irregular breaths through his mouth. God, when was the last time he'd been so alive? The last time someone had been so burnt into his mind's eye? Hannah, perhaps, but he had not once allowed himself to indulge in that. Forbidden, wrong, pointless it had felt.

He stumbled up the stairs and clung to the railing. Doing shit, his hole. He hoped he would catch any sleep at all, his bed so empty and cold. It was the end of August.

[kiss-anon]

Life update/why crocheted plush clone pictures have temporarily stopped for a while.

For anyone that doesn’t know, back in November my family had a sudden loss of my uncle and now I’m helping my dad with emptying, fixing, cleaning, and going through the house he lived in, which my grandparents lived in for many years before they also passed not so long ago. The house needs a lot of work, I can’t even begin to describe it. We put in a lot of work up until late January/February then had to stop for various reasons. I had some time for myself, so I made the plush clones.

Now, we’re back to working on the house. It’s… overwhelming to say the least. Every room and even the yard is also very overwhelming on their own. Think along the lines if neglected hoarder house with multiples of big furniture items. The majority of the work is up to me and my dad. Also, for anyone that doesn’t know, I compete in a weightlifting sport, and I have a competition next month that I’m trying to train for at the same time.

So I will unfortunately not be able to make many more plush clones and take pictures of them consistently. I’ll do my best to post some, I enjoy making things for them and sharing that with you all! I shall be lurking, though!

Thanks for reading this far!

Pen and Sword, my dears!

Love,

💋 anon

[saintofanything]

a power play.........truly do not know how to feel about this one

[hearty-an0n]

card spread for the game: page of swords, knight of pentacles, nine of cups (reversed)

[betrayingcrown]

/ the barnabas brainrot is real and its so so bad

[modawg]

guys i know we all talk abt how sally would react to percy’s tattoo but like

what abt his scars from tartarus😟

like could you imagine the last time you see your son yk he’s got some cuts and scars but he doesn’t wear a shirt when he’s swimming maybe he wears a muscle tee on occasion maybe sometimes on hot summer days when the AC doesn’t work he doesn’t really wear a shirt at all bc he’s at home with his family and he’s a teenager who gives af

then he’s gone for like 7ish months and when he gets back suddenly everything’s different he’s always covered up never really wanting to show off and you don’t really understand until he’s sleeping on the couch and his shirts a little disheveled so you walk over to fix him up and put a blanket on him and maybe take a pic bc that’s your son and you notice smth pinky and puffy on his skin so you lift it up a little further and he has claw marks stab marks deep cuts everywhere

up until this point you leave everything up to him what he wants to tell you when he wants to tell you or even if he ever will tell you

he wakes up screaming having trouble breathing he sobs into your arms when you go to his room and even when he falls asleep at the dining room table while attempting to study he wakes up holding the closest pen to him like a sword

7 months of his life blipped away and this is how he comes back :( like that’s so sad

added angst

[blindmagdalena]

Night Terrors

1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic. gif credit.

It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.

Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful. 

Tonight is not most nights.

The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him. "John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him. "Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!" "John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John." His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that “Homelander” doesn’t. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.

You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm. 

God knows he's suffered enough. With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain he’s endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be. Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, décor, the life you’ve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isn’t a lab. It isn’t an incinerator. It's home. "Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. It’s agony to wait, but you don’t touch him before he’s ready. You fist the bedsheets, you don’t stop talking. I’m here. I’m right here. I love you. You’re safe. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.

The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if it’s your own. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken. You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would. "You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much." He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. “I could feel it,” he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. “It hurt. Every second of it, and they just–they all just watched.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where it’s damp with sweat and your own tears. “You’re safe now,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isn’t enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.

His grip on you tightens. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap you in half.

That scare you? He’d asked you once. How easily I could break you?”

No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to. It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care. 

You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word. Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this. "Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of." He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. It’s that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.

Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.

His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, it’s something he has to bleed for every time. He’s perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable. 

If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.

Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever." You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. You’ll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be tainted–destroyed–by your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that he’ll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and he’ll be able to forgive himself for the human way his god’s heart bleeds. "I know. I know that.” You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. “I love you, too. Every part of you."

Even the parts you hate. Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while he’s holding you. Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, you’d open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.

"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful. "Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense. To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there. 

Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.

You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.

[breitzbachbea]

"In my new world, there'll be a place for you," Arthur tells him while he holds his hand, a warm and comforting smile on his face with a glint of hope in his eyes.

"Oh, Arthur," François says and takes his hand between his, a knowing smile on his face and the blue eyes overshadowed by a tired sadness. "Why can't you make a place for me in this one?"