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jar0fhoney · 5 months ago

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PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 (NSFW) - PART 4 - PART 5 (NSFW) - PART 6 - PART 7 (NSFW) - PART 8 (NSFW)

You started having the dream again. The disembodied eyes of your father floating in a black void. Just the eyes. Nothing else.

And for hours- and it really felt like hours- they would just stare at you. The eyes never moved, or blinked, or did anything other than hang in the air. But there was a terrible sense of dread when you looked into them. You couldn’t force yourself to look away.

And so that was why you had been losing sleep. You didn’t tell your mother that though. When she asked what troubled you, you made up some excuse to quell her worry. You could never tell her the truth; the truth that there was some piece of you left which never recovered. But guilt nearly destroyed your mother, and you couldn’t bear to let it fester in her any longer.

On Sunday you spread all of the ingredients the orc man gave you across your table. He didn’t even tell you the measurements. Your mother glanced down at you as she made her way to the root cellar. She stopped in her tracks, “By the Gods, are you making golden eggs?” You cocked your head at her questioningly. “Where did you find turmeric all the way out here?” She grabbed a pinch of it, “And so much of it too!”

“Uh-“ Your mother had a sparkle in her eyes that you hadn’t seen for a few years. She chuckled to herself, “Years ago. Many many years ago. There was a very nice orc family who lived just down the path. The wife taught me this recipe.”

Orc family? This was the first you have heard of an orc family. “You never told me you had orc friends Ma!” You jeered at her. She smiled warmly. “You hadn’t been born yet, of course you wouldn’t have remembered. Your elder sister loved playing with the little orc girl.” She reached for a jar from the cupboard and began concocting the mixture. When she was done the eggs swirled around in the vibrant yellow brine.

There was still turmeric left over, and your mother was so excited to show you how it could even be an excellent clothing dye. She took one of your more drab frocks got to work.

You weren’t used to feeling pretty. Sure, you knew you weren’t ugly by any stretch of the imagination. But to feel pretty? Beautiful even? It had been years.

But today, on regular Monday, you felt radiant. Your mother actually gasped when you stepped out of your room. You looked like a dream in the yellow shade your mother had dyed the fabric. She insisted on arranging your hair specially to go with the dress. “It’s just another Monday, Ma. Any more primping and I’ll be over-dressed.” The older woman sighed, kissing you on the forehead, “Fine go along now… before I start braiding daisies in your hair.” You giggled and practically skipped out the front door. Tucked in your basket was the jar of golden eggs.

The town square was nearly vacant, save for a few other shopkeepers opening up for the day. And then you saw the trio of orc men sharpening their arrows and adjusting the tension of their great longbows. You reckoned they were just about to leave for a hunt. Curse the Gods for your lingering gaze, but you made direct eye contact with one of them. You made direct eye contact with him. The orc you had bloodied and bruised the previous week.

Something (probably a lack of self-preservation) compelled you to start walking towards the bunch. If your mother could make peace with orcs, why couldn’t you? “But this isn’t a peaceful family with children, they’re trained killers, y/n…” You thought to yourself. The little muscle inside your chest was puttering away as you got closer. The two other hunting mates had started to notice your approach now. Your orc acquaintance had sort of a surprised yet dumb look on his face as you stopped before him.

”You didn’t write me a recipe, but you can thank my mother for knowing how to prepare these.” You extended the jar to him. His friends were snickering to themselves, and the orc just sat there staring at the contents of the jar. One of his buddies guffawed and whacked a big hand onto his back, “This simpleton can’t read to save his life… won’t be getting any recipes from him!”

You also held out the two silver pieces he had given you, and dropped them into his open palm. “And I can’t take these. Not after I injured you. Can we consider ourselves even now?”

“Khargaad, you didn’t tell us this was who the scuffle was with.” The other orc friend chuckled, “And look at that, not a scratch on her. Guess she won.”

Khargaad. Was that his name? Or was it a word in their mother tongue? He shot a venomous look to his friends, and with that they backed away leaving the two of you alone. “These look… like they’re supposed to,” He said in a tone of mild surprise. “Your mother… She knows other orcs?”

Was he trying to make conversation with you? “Um- Yes! Yes, it was a long while ago. They lived down the road from my family. It was before I was born, but they got along well from what I hear,” you replied. There was a deeply awkward pause before he glanced quickly at your dress. “Oh!” You gasped, “my mother taught me about this as well. The yellow stuff you gave me is an excellent clothing dye.”

“Yes, I know.” His tone was a little gruff. You felt foolish for telling him what he probably already knew. “Your name is Khargaad?” You blurted out. A hint of color rose to his cheeks, “Yup. Khargaad. And- um- what may I call you?”

”y/n,” you replied with a nervous smile. Silence hung over the both of you for a second. “Well, I’ll be on my way.” He said, turning on his heel to join his hunting mates. “Stay safe out there!” You responded. Your inner-self cringed, that reply was probably too familiar. He glanced back at you one more time before jogging to catch his friends.

The next day Milo found you sweeping outside the shop. “Why were you talking to those orcs?” He spat at you. You didn’t look up at him, “Just customers.” This technically wasn’t untrue.

”You don’t have orc customers”

”Says who. You?” You snorted at him, pushing the dust from the cobblestones onto his shiny leather boots. He yanked the broom from your grasp, “Why are you wearing that?” He hissed. You glared at him, wrenching the broom back from his grasp. “It’s none of your fucking business-“

“Let me buy you new dresses, y/n. You look like an orc.” You straightened a bit. “What do you mean?” Milo rolled his eyes. “It’s turmeric. They often dye their clothes with turmeric. It looks ridiculous if you ask me…” He trailed off. You were tired of this conversation, leaving him standing in the street. He didn’t bother to follow you inside.

The rest of the day was uneventful. You spent the last hour hammering some boards over the window still shattered from your target practice.

You didn’t notice Karghaad watching you across the square.

Thank you to everyone’s sweet comments, and to those who wanted a part 2 😘

@kennedyabraxas123 @allthecraftandthings @sunndust @blushycadaver @whyiamadegenerate @beaniebaneenie @reads-stuff-quietly

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soullessdianthus · 2 years ago

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𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐦 𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐜 | 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞!𝐌𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐎'𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐚

THIS IS RE-POSTED

Author's note: Can be read as a continuation to this, but can be a stand alone. Enjoy. <3

Warnings: biting, smut (aphordisiac, arousal eating?, riding Miguel yeehaw, dubcon)

Word count: 1.6k

━ No? ━ He repeatedly said into the nape of your neck. His lips still nibbling the skin, placing a gentle kiss. One of Miguel’s hands was squeezing your hip, holding you tight against his front, while the other freezed beneath your short’s waistband.

━ Not now. I have to finish cooking dinner. ━ You firmly stated, wanting to regain some autonomy back.

━ Dinner can wait, querida.

━ No. ━ You repeated and for a second it seemed you won that argument. With slightly narrowed brows you kept stirring in the pot, waiting for Miguel to back off.

After his hand retraced from the biker shorts you were wearing, he moved higher along your sternum and let out a hum. His murmur vibrated closely to your neck, making it tingle.

And then, unexpectedly, Miguel squeezed your frame even harder in his grasp, pulling you closer, before he sank his fangs into your neck. The sharp and sudden feeling of piercing through your thin skin made you gasp.

You dropped the wooden spoon on the counter as the warmth spreaded through your system really fast. What surprised you the most was that the scar he left, didn’t even hurt. At all.

━ Whatthe- Did you just bite me? ━ Miguel instantly took a step back, his hands returning to stick to his sides. Rapidly you touched the bitten skin, checking if there was some blood. You were surprised when there was no red gore over your fingertips.

He watched your confusion with a wide grin painted over his square face for a moment. Both of you were quick to return to your previous activities as nothing more seemed to happen (for now) - Miguel sat back at the sofa, while you continued cooking.

A few minutes passed and there was some funny sensation, slowly building up inside of you. You couldn’t define it yet, but you could tell something was wrong.

It didn’t click with you when you sat across Miguel at the dining table and you rubbed your thighs together constantly. Neither when he held you by your arms to press a tender kiss over your forehead and your chest began to hurt each time he brushed over you.

He hadn’t brought up the topic of your make out session again, after you scolded him off in the kitchen. O’Hara seemed to act too calm in your opinion, minding his own business. You could tell he tried to be sneaky by peeking at you from time to time, when you puttered around the “house”. You worked hard that evening trying to ignore the funny feeling between your legs.

And as the hours passed it got only worse. You could feel the enhanced beating of your heart, pumping loudly and fast and the agitated work of the salivary glands.

By the time you were going to bed that night, your panties were soaked. But before you got time to change them to clean ones, Miguel pulled you into the bedroom you shared, telling it’s past the bedtime.

He helped you get beneath the bedding, before resting comfortably beside you. His every touch, every nudge over your flesh was a torture - a inflaming, burning sensation spreaded through your body. You almost whined once, but gladly managed to suppress that humiliating sound.

But when all the lights were turned off and there was nothing but the sound of a peaceful night, the pain your body experienced became unbearable.

The soaked panties clung tight against your inflamed skin, wetness becoming cold and irritating your pussy even more.

Every, even the slightest shift of your body enhanced the very primitive need to grind over something, to ease the need between your thighs. For the last time that night you tried to steady yourself, to slow down the breathing and the beating of your heart. Incompetently.

━ Miguel? ━ You asked with a broken voice, almost whining. But the man slept peacefully, at least it seemed like that. Miguel had enhanced senses, you could swear to God, he heard you clearly. And if not, then he surely could smell you.

It was all because of him. By that time, you were more than positive that your unbearable arousal was his doing, that he had done something vile to you.

You threw away the sheet covering you and the brunette, before climbing over his lap.

━ Miguel, please. ━ You sobbed pathetically, your hips grinding gently against his gray sweatpants just to make the pulsating pain in your crotch go away. The man finally let out a loud groan.

━ Mierda~ ━ he finally said as you teased him so delightfully. Both of his hands rubbed the exposed skin of your thighs, up and down. Slowly. ━ What are you doing?

━ Please, it just ━ you inhaled sharply, when he started to shift beneath you, bumping into your needy cunt ━ it hurts so much, Miguel.

━ See, how it ache, when you make me wait? Hm? ━ He said visibly satisfied with your discomfort, his brown eyes glued to your whimpering form straddling him. Miguel smirked, exposing his fangs as he dipped one of his hands between your folds. ━ Fuck, you’re soaked.

He retracted his palm to his mouth and licked off your juices just to have a taste.

━ Sweet, cariño. Your blood does not taste as good as this. Does it hurt? ━ Miguel sounded almost like he felt bad for making you like this. But in reality he didn’t, you knew that perfectly well.

You nodded quickly to his question, trying to show him how much you wanted the torture to go away. He smirked again and a sharp talon appeared on his pointing finger. He quickly cut your underwear off with the help of it.

━ Then go on, suit yourself. ━ Miguel could feel your pulsating cunt dripping over his sweats, before you managed to slid them down his toned thighs. Then, he helped you to remove the nightgown you slept in and finally placed his big hands over your hips, guiding you to start.

He had you exactly where he wanted to - on top of him, naked and needy. Fucking hell, you were desperate by now.

You stroked his length a few times just to make sure, he’s entirely ready. But to be honest, you didn’t have to do much - he was thinking about it since dinner. Miguel was waiting patiently as he always does. Usually.

You leaned slightly over his broad torso and positioned his cock at your entrance. You bit down on your lower lip, when you slowly sank down. No matter how horny or prepared you were, the stretch was always a bit painful. So you took a minute to relax with him already buried inside of you.

━ Look at you ━ his fingertips caressed the curves of your hips as you breathed heavily on top of him, your shoulders shaking. ━ So eager.

The thought of that tickling discomfort going away made you more optimistic and you started to sway your hips. Just the feeling of the fullness inside of you, made your mouth water.

Miguel squeezed your hips and guided you into the right way to ride him. You slowly began whimpering, when his cock rubbed something inside of your fluttering walls.

Slowly you became a whining mess, chasing after the sweet release. Your pubic mound and his crotch was covered in your sticky, cold arousal, making a mess.

There was a feeling of disgust within you. A feeling of repulsion towards yourself, because you enjoyed riding him so much. Whatever was in his venom, made you focus on the glorious feeling of him stuffing your cunt and reaching your orgasm. There was no other thought on your mind.

Miguel kept staring at you, savoring the sight in front of him. Your pretty eyes half-closed, lips plump and mouth slightly opened. You rested your hand over his strong arms as you bounced on his swollen shaft. Your perky breasts moving vividly along within the rhythm.

It wasn’t long enough before he started groaning too. Miguel O’Hara was fucking delighted with his girl.

━ Yeah, that’s it, good girl ━ O’Hara praised you, licking his own lips, when you clenched around him few times. He could tell you were close. ━ Dios mío~.

By that time you were a moaning mess, only his arms keeping you still in vertical position. Your legs began to feel wobbly, but the divine feeling rutting in your lower abdomen was just too good to abandon.

Soon after, you shortened your breaths and something inside of your belly bursted - warmth spreading up along the spine, blinding you with pleasure, your pussy squeezing Miguel’s shaft mercilessly.

Brunette digged his fingers into your hips so hard, that it certainly would leave bruises. He tried keeping his cool, resisting the urge to fill you to the brim right then. Miguel watched as the pleasure twisted your face, making your brows bent downwards and a few shameful moans escaped your lips.

Your spine arched and for a moment you saw stars, but when you began steading after your sweet high, Miguel smoothly and quickly tossed you beneath him on the bed.

He was already pressing his body on top of yours - legs wide open, resting on both sides of his hips, chest to chest.

You stared at him with glossy eyes wide open, waiting for an answer. When he noticed how clueless you were, Miguel laughed.

━ What? Didn’t think we would end now, didn’t you? I haven't finished yet.

Tag list: @kellhems @alicefallsintotherabbithole @bigmood-myman @freader (let me know if anyone wants to be added to the list for Miguel)

#yandere miguel o’hara x reader #yandere miguel o'hara #yandere #miguel o'hara #miguel ohara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel ohara x reader #spider man 2099 #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse #reader insert #smut #reposted

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hotluncheddie · 3 months ago

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For @steddie-spooktober day 1 prompt : rain

rating: G | cw: none | tags: autistic eddie munson, sensory seeking

🌧️🌧️🌧️🌧️

Eddie once told steve that he loved to wait for the first big rain of the fall.

Not just the first rainy day. But the first Big Rain. Where it rained for a couple of days, really soaked in deep, made everything muddy and sodden and damp to its core. If there was a flash of lightning and thunder that was even better.

Steve didn’t get it. He hated being wet and knew how much Eddie hated being cold. But he liked to hear about it just the same.

And liked it even more, the first time he got to see it.

Steve was on the sofa of the new Munson trailer, relaxing away the tension headache that had started building over his shift. Happy listening to Eddie pluck away at his acoustic. He’s been blinking sleepily and watching where Eddie sits cross legged on the floor, rocking gently side to side as he plays, his hair swinging and brushing his cheeks to the melody.

The sound of the rain was a steady beat for Eddie to play too, the beating of it on the roof reminded Steve of camping as a kid, before his dad moved up the company and didn’t have time for weekend trips or watching his son grow up.

And then the rain slows, putters out into a barely there thing, pulling Steve from him memory.

And it’s then, that Eddie comes alive.

He gasps softly, standing and leaning his guitar against the recliner, peaking behind the curtains.

And then he’s heading for the front door, leaving it open so Steve can just see him through the mesh of the screen, the chilly autumn air making his toes curl up in his socks.

Steve stands from the sofa slowly, watching as Eddie takes his socks off one by one, balling them up and dropping them on the dry of the little wooden porch.

Steve makes it through to the other side of the screen just as Eddie reaches the bottom most step, toes pale and feet bony in the misty bluish light of the grey clouded sky.

Steve had almost mustered the courage to say something, maybe reach out and brush his fingers against Eddie’s shoulder to break the moment, when Eddie jumps.

Jumps and lands square in the middle of a patch of mud, thick and brown and gooey with clogged up rainwater.

Steve freezes.

Eddie lifts his shoulders up to his ears, fists clenched and back ridged.

He squeals.

Steve’s never heard him make that noise before.

Eddie’s toes are wriggling in the mud, squishing and squelching it under his feet. He turns around slowly, arms swaying up and down, shoulders still clamped up by his ears.

His smile is blinding.

‘Good?’ Steve asks.

Eddie nods, eyes twinkling. ‘Big rain.’ He supplies.

Steve smiles back.

🌧️🌧️🌧️🌧️

I’m treating this very low stakes and want to keep everything short. Idk if I’ll do every day but I might try - so sorry if it gets annoying lmk if u don’t want to be tagged :)

Tag list: @scoops-aboy86 @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @pearynice @marvel-ous-m

@thecatkingsthrone @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor

#is it Octobers second?#yes but I wrote this yesterday and fell asleep #but shhhh shhhhhhhhhhhh #hotlunch #steddie #steve x eddie #autistic eddie munson #steddie spooktober #<3 #drabbles #steddiespooktober

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dsudis · 2 months ago

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Dreamling Bingo Fill: What Remains

Square/Prompt: D2, "Scars"

Title: What Remains

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dreamling

Additional Tags: Scars, Hand Injuries, Graphic Description of Wounds, Retired Dream, The Kindly Ones

Summary: Dream is content with his scars.

Dream woke to a springtime smell, bright and sharp in his nose, and opened his eyes to see that the marigolds in their windowsill pots had bloomed, orange and yellow and cheerful. The morning sun was shining on them, and Hob was already out of bed; the sounds of him puttering around the flat were faintly audible over the music that was always playing if Hob had no one to talk to.

He didn't recognize the music, though he knew that if he listened long enough, the name would come to him. It was something up-tempo and cheerful; Hob knew, too, that spring was here. Spring, and Sunday, which meant a changing of bandages.

Dream lay on his back and raised his right hand into the light, studying it in the glow of the sun. The scars that made up nearly the whole inner surface of his index finger and thumb had faded from red to a vibrant pink which he found he rather liked. Yesterday he and Hob had wandered about some botanical garden or other, looking for a flower to match the color, debating happily over fuchsias versus azaleas until they found that stand of calla lilies that were absolutely inarguably perfect.

The scar also trailed downward from his hand nearly to his elbow, with a few jagged branches curling around his forearm. These, too, had healed to sturdy scars; it was only the palm of his hand where a waterproof tan bandage still obscured the wound.

It might not be a wound any longer. Today was Sunday; today he would find out.

He lowered his right hand a bit, and raised his left to meet it, trying, as he often did, to recreate what he remembered of his last moments as—whatever he had been, before he became a human being whose identification bore the name Morris LeReve, which Hob found delightful and Dream found as good as any other name. He had no right to the one he could no longer even speak—not Dream, though Dream was the nearest approximation in English, the one Hob had latched onto after hearing his sister say it.

His sister had been beside him, before it happened. They had sat side by side in some desolate place, and she had been sad, and angry, and resigned.

He had only been tired, so tired that he could feel nothing else through it, smothering under the weight of what he had been, back then. He had not been able to feel sadness, or fear, or anything, but he had known that he was about to die. He had known how it would happen: he would take his sister's hand.

He had not known that when he took her hand, there would be a great flash of light, like lightning striking from the tip of her finger to his palm. He had not known that dying would make a hole in him, letting loose all of him that was too much, too heavy to bear, too vast to be held in a form that looked like his.

It had torn free of him in that instant, in that great flash of light, and gone away to someone else who could, thus far, bear it better. And he had been left with this form, and this ragged hole in himself, and—

He smiled, dropping his two hands to rest on his chest, and remembered how it had been, the beginning of his life as he knew it.

There was the flash of light, and the impossibly vast something rushing away from him, or he from it—for he was no longer in that desolate place when he could see again. He had blinked the afterimages from his eyes, had still heard the echoes of the explosion in his ears. He had been leaning against something, just barely sheltered from the torrential downpour that had arrived along with him.

He had looked down and seen his hand, his arm—raw from fingertip to elbow, torn open to reveal wet red insides. He had seen the blood vessels of his wrist pulsing nakedly among the shreds of muscle, miraculously unbroken but horrifically vulnerable. He had not known where or what he was, but he had known that he was hurt, even if he could not exactly feel any pain; he had begun to keen, a high helpless wordless sound, for he had not known what words he could possibly use in that moment.

Then the door had opened, and he had barely begun to fall through it before someone was kneeling beside him. All at once strong arms were cradling him, and he had looked up into a face he knew just as Hob said, "My friend, my friend, what has become of you?"

"My friend," he echoed back, his head lolling against Hob's shoulder as he realized he knew what these words meant, and how they applied to this man. Hob had been worried for him, the last time they met. "My friend, my friend—" and then the words came to him and he answered Hob's question. "Death became of me. I became this. Here."

"Not a bit dead," Hob had said. "Too warm and chatty to be dead," and then he hoisted Dream up and carried him inside.

He had bandaged Dream's arm, asking again and again if it hurt, but it didn't; eventually he had conceded that there didn't seem to be enough left of the ruined places to have nerves to hurt with, and he attended to other concerns instead.

It was only days later that Hob had suggested seeing a doctor about it, but Dream had refused. That had been after Dream had remembered where the townhouse was, and realized that the key in the pocket of his jeans opened its door, and discovered the cards and papers neatly arranged on the table which made him not only the discarded shell of an unfathomable being, but also a human being and citizen of the United Kingdom named Morris LeReve.

Hob called him Morrie sometimes; Dream faithfully pretended to be mildly annoyed by it, so that Hob would continue to find it funny and thus continue to call him by it, just now and again. Hob would stop, if he were actually upset by it, and if he knew that Dream actually liked it, he would scrupulously call Dream by that name and no other, but Dream liked the ordinary name his sister and Hob called him by well enough. He liked Morrie being a thing Hob said just sometimes, half jokingly.

Hob always listened when Dream was definite about something, as he had been about the fact that his hand and arm would heal in their own time. Hob had done all he could to help without forcing Dream to change his mind: he had bought a variety of salves for the wounds, and yards of gauze and tape to shroud them in, and he carefully examined and cleaned and re-anointed the whole length of the broken places. First each day, then every other day, and then every three, every five, as the bandages grew smaller and more and more scar tissue could be exposed to air and light. Every day, whether bandages were to be changed or not, Hob rubbed in a cream to soften the scars, and helped him to flex his fingers and hand and wrist, to keep them mobile.

Now the marigolds Hob had planted to make his own salve from were blooming, and they might never be needed for anything other than their bright lovely colors.

There was only one way to find out. Dream got out of bed and then spent a few moments carefully tidying the coverlet and putting the pillows neatly in place.

It was one of the things he had never needed to do in his old life, one of the thousand things Hob had taught him to do with his own hands now that he was human. He could use his right hand nearly as well as the left now, even if his index finger and thumb could not bend on their own or grip; it was mainly a matter of smoothing things into place, and that his right hand could do well enough.

When he was finished he stood for a moment, admiring his work, and then he pulled on a t-shirt and went looking for Hob.

Dream found him promptly; Hob was in the kitchen, studying something on his phone. All the things for bandage changing were set out on the table, along with a steaming mug of tea and a jar of honey.

Hob looked up with a smile as soon as Dream walked in. "What would you like to do for breakfast today? Full—" Dream kissed him before he could offer a Full English, something Dream had declined every morning of his existence thus far. Hob thought he was wearing Dream down; Dream was sure he could train Hob out of it sooner or later.

"Poached eggs," Dream announced, sitting down beside his mug of tea and opening the jar of honey, noticing as he did that it was easy now, just like making up the bed. He spooned the honey out left-handed, until the rich sweet scent of it drowned out the tannic smell of the tea, and added, "I'm going to get them right this time. I watched more videos."

"Ought to move somewhere with beehives," Hob murmured. "Or stop bothering with the tea bags."

"Every man has a right to make his tea the way he likes," Dream informed him primly; it had been Hob himself who told him so.

He smiled when Dream defended himself, and didn't make any more objections, nor offer to put the lid back on the jar for him. Dream could do it just fine, and did, once he had had a sip of his wonderfully sweet tea.

Then he offered his scarred hand to Hob, his palm turned up to display the bandage.

"Right, let's do this," Hob said, and ceremoniously applied sanitizer to his hands while Dream peeled the bandage back.

It didn't hurt to pull it off; it didn't feel like anything, except maybe a faint tugging sensation. Everything the bandage stuck to was scarred.

He gasped a little at the sight of what the bandage had covered, but Hob made a calmly approving noise. "We did think it might be this week," he said, and ran gentle fingers down along the angry red spots that had been the last raw places when he put the bandage on—and now were scars, closed up and shiny-smooth. "Look at you go, you living creature. Look at you heal."

Dream smiled, feeling oddly shy at the warm, proud look in Hob's eyes. He hadn't really done anything, except to go on living all these weeks, and eating and sleeping and letting Hob look after his injuries—and learning things, and dancing, and laughing, and discovering all the ways his human body liked to be kissed and touched, and comparing them with all the ways Hob's body liked to be kissed and touched...

He had done a lot of things, actually. He had lived; he had healed. And now the last of the wound left behind by what he had been before was closed, and all that was left was one great scar.

And him, a person who liked his tea very sweet and was going to successfully poach some eggs today while Hob made toast. Here he was: living on, scars and all.

----

[This fic is also on AO3!]

#dreamling #the sandman #fic #scars #dreamling bingo 2024 #dreamling bingo

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teddy06writes · 3 months ago

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Whumptober Day 11 - Boromir

Boromir x gn!reader

Prompt: Chronic Pain

Trigger Warnings: None

Summary: The first day of a cold spell causes your pain to flare up, but you're determined to grit your teeth through the pain. Boromir however, is determined to get you to rest. Set post Ring War, Boromir surviving, obviously.

{Reader's pain is based on my own joint pain issues}

You could tell before you had even finished getting ready that it wasn't going to be a great day.

The cool morning air filtered through the open windows into your quarters, along with the bright, early light. Beside you, your husbands place in bed was already growing cold.

With a small groan, you dragged yourself from bed, stiffness heavy in your limbs. The morning chill pooled in your skin, settling in an ache in your knees and hip.

You could hear your husband in the other room, puttering around, presumably making breakfast.

Stretching, and trying to work the stiffness out of your limbs, you began to get ready for the day. The dull ache in your legs seemed to drag you down, slowing your movements as you eventually headed out into the main room.

"Good morning, darling," Boromir greeted you with a kiss on the cheek as you passed, "You sleep well?"

You hummed, sitting down at the table, "Mhhhm. You were up early."

"Just restless, I suppose. All this cold, the preparations for the Harvest Festival..." He shrugged, smiling as he set two plates on the table, "It has been a long time since we could put our sights on simple pleasures like these."

You found his smile infectious, and you took his hand across the table, "I know. Good times are here again."

Boromir squeezed your hand before digging into his plate, "It's quite cold today, will you be alright?"

"I am a bit stiff," You admitted, not quite meeting his eye, "But, I should be fine. Just need to keep moving."

He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

Your response was clipped enough for him to drop it, and to his credit, he did.

Throughout the day though, as you drifted in and out of meetings, and met again in the square to continue panning with Aragorn and Faramir, Boromir watched wearily as your movements grew stiffer and you worked harder to keep the pain off your face.

You could get away with fooling others into thinking that everything was fine, but not Boromir. He saw the slight clenching of your jaw every other step, the unevenness in your stride.

At least he had the sense to wait until the others were out of ear shot to ask, "Are you sure you'll be alright, darling?"

You couldn't help but let out a huff, "I'm fine."

Again, he raised a critical eyebrow, "Is that why you're limping around after Faramir?"

"I can't just ignore my duties, love. It's fine." You said it with such conviction that you almost believed it yourself. The truth was that every step felt like fire, and you knew that the busy day was only making it worse. Still, you had things that needed to be done, and projects to oversee.

You turned, hurrying after Faramir, ignoring your concerned husband, and the pain ficking up in your knee with every step.

Boromir only sighed, turning to return to work.

By the time you returned home, later that evening, you swore you couldn't take another step, lowering yourself painfully into an armchair.

Boromir, who had returned before you, quietly closed the book he'd been leafing through, hazarding, "Are you alright, my love?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, turning to look at him slowly, finally admitting, "I may have overdone it. By Eru, it feels like I've been walking on glass."

It sounded as if it had been painful even to say the words out loud, and your strained tone tugged at Boromir's heart. He stood, making his way to your side, "I know, darling, I know."

You looked up at him, "I'm sorry for the way I was acting, please forgive me."

"Already forgiven," He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your hair, "I drew you a hot bath, if a soak would help?"

You smiled gratefully, "Thank you, love. I don't know if I..."

You trailed off, glancing down at your legs, and then off toward the bathroom, the usually short trip seeming to stretch out before you.

Boromir chuckled, easily scooping you up into his arms, "Not a problem."

#teddy06 writes #teddy06 #teddy 06 #teddy06writes #teddy06 attempts a writing event #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings x gn!reader #lotr x reader #lotr x gn!reader #boromir x reader #boromir x gn!reader

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 6 months ago

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Bittersweet 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Part of the Sweet and Spicy AU

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your startup business catches the eye of a powerful rival.

Character: Loki Laufeyson

Please comment and reblog if it’s not too much. I always love getting to chat about these stories and hearing all your ideas! You all are wonderful and loved.

It’s baking day. Your kitchen is stolid with the heat of the oven and the treats cooling on the counter. Your apartment has been converted into a pseudo chocolate factory; though you wouldn’t claim Wonka’s glory. You are certain to keep to food-safe standards however and so your morning began with sanitization, another two hours on top of a long day.

It’s a few weeks out to the next show; a local festival that hosts all sorts of local shops, though the biggest attraction are the musical acts. Even so, you’re hustling as best as you can. You spent a portion of the baking show profit to get a kiosk in the mall for the holiday weekend. It’s a big deal, you expect a crowd and now you have an idea of how much you’ll need to bring.

You sigh as you tally up what you have so far. You’ll be in the kitchen all week at this rate and you don’t think even then you’ll meet your set quota. You’ll still do well but you can’t help the echo of that man’s words. You’re hitting a wall on your own.

And you’re running low on red cacao. You frown at the slack canvas bag. That’s another trip to the bulk seller down by the freeway but that’s so far out, it’ll eat at least an hour and a half off your day.

He’s right. That pompous snakish man is right. You can’t keep up with the demand.

No, you can. You’ll bake into the night if you have to. It’ll be cooler then, anyhow. You inventory your cupboards as the oven radiate with heat. You have a list. Tomorrow you can get to that but for now, you’ll start packaging the chocolates in the fridge.

You count out the truffles and fudge squares precisely. Each one in a sleeve or a box. You’ll add all the little details later; a ribbon, a bow, a seal. You yawn at the repetition but aren’t bored by it. Having your own business isn’t exactly dull, if anything it’s tantalizingly stressful.

Your tablet dings as the baking show you keep on stream quiets for the notification. The woman’s voice returns to full volume as you approach to check the icon in the margin. It’s from your online shop front. Between the physical work, you can’t forget about the healthy tide of orders coming in virtually.

It adds to the weight on your shoulders. You slump and drag down the notification bar. It’s large order and before you can skim each item, another notification sweeps in. You tap the inquiry so that the message opens.

The inquiry is labeled with the same order number that just came up. You squint. ‘...requires in-person to order address...’ You don’t do that. It isn’t an option but the customer’s tone comes of insistent even over text. They promise a gratuity and underline that they did pay for the expedited option.

That’s the first position you’re hiring when you can make the space. A customer service representative because you hate this. You go back to review the full order. It’s a lot; a lot of baking and a lot of money.

You’ll have to make it work yet there’s this needling voice in the back of your head, slithering and sharp, you can’t keep this up forever.

🍫

Surely, it’s the wrong address.

You idle in your large SUV, the nearly two-decade old model puttering between the sleek modern cars the fill the spaces outside the luxurious storefront. You gulp as you peer up at the moniker. You recognise the brand and the logo.

Black Snake. It’s some sort of trick. You should have been suspicious.

The chocolatier isn’t unknown to you beyond your encounter with its owner. While the headquarters are nestled right at the heart of your city, there are locations across the country and even a few international. The local start-up boomed onto the front page and you can’t say it had nothing to do with your own come up. You offer a more affordable option with the same premium taste.

You suppose he doesn’t like the competition. You wouldn’t either but you put yourself out there against the Black Snake monopoly knowing you would be trudging uphill. You get out and try not to think too much.

You unlock the hatch and take out the large box stamped with your business name; Sweet Nothings. You approach the front door, trying to see through the tinted windows that form the front wall, and it opens before you can reach it. Shoot, he’s expecting you.

“Ah, right on time,” Loki greets as he checks his watch. “I see you’ve no branding on your vehicle.”

You try not to cringe. He has an eye for detail. You bite down on your smile.

“Hello again,” you try to act like his foreboding hasn’t haunted you for a week, “I have everything in here--”

“I didn’t see a reselling clause on your terms of service,” he proclaims smugly, “these should be popular.”

“Ah,” you hesitate as he steps out of the door to hold it open for you, “you’ve paid so I guess I can’t stop you.”

“Mm, and how is business then? You are quick to respond. Can’t be very hectic, then.”

You take the jab like a weathered boxer. You don’t flinch, you just keep going. You stride inside and look around. You carry the box to the empty space the counter.

“As promised, I will transfer a fee for your trouble,” he follows quickly.

“Thanks, uh, I should--” you face him as he blocks your path.

“You’ve a pop-up. This coming weekend.”

The advert is at the top of your online shop. Of course, he would know. His diligence is starting to eke you out.

“I do,” you confirm, “so I should be off.”

“Yes, you have much work to do. Tell me, how many ovens do you have going?”

Your expression falls, “you spent all this money to mock me?”

“No, I’m simply discussing business. Seeing as I am experienced, I thought I might offer some sage advice,” he flutters his long fingers.

“I appreciate that, really, but I am running a business, same as you, so if you would like to discuss that, you are more than welcome to make a proper appointment with me. Like a business person.”

He snickers at the slant in your voice, the tone that insists you’re legitimate like him.

“I didn’t see that option on the store front,” he counters.

“You have my card,” you sniff and step around him. “Feel free to let me know if you have any concerns about your order.”

“Wait--” He calls after but you’re already halfway through the door.

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #sweet and spicy #au #series #bittersweet #mcu #marvel #thor #avengers #drabble

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bigmpregnm · 4 months ago

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Don't Swim in The Seine - Part 1

This is a collaboration with MY dear @musclesaber. It's a rapid mpreg story, inspired by the latest Olympic Games. Enjoy.

[Story Collection] | [●] [Part 2🔜]

The sunlight shone into the small room in the Olympic Village. Adam blinked his eyes a few times and groaned as he stretched out his limbs. Taking in his surroundings, he saw he was lying on a man’s big chest and body. Lifting his head up, Adam saw a pec shelf in front of him rising up and down with the big bear’s breaths. Adam took a few seconds to take in the sight of his lover’s chest, scratching it and groaning again as he yawned awake.

Rolling over off of the big man, Adam slugged his way out of the bed. Standing up, he realized he was naked. What the fuck did we do last night? Adam thought. He clutched his ass as he walked over and picked up his clothes. He bent down and felt a strange firmness in his lower abdomen, making him groan as he straightened up. He looked down and noticed a slight curve on his lower abs, his hand immediately moving to caress it. As he processed the sensation, something clicked in his mind, making him realize his midsection felt bloated due to the big man’s cum. So much for those no-sex beds. The bear in the bed snored and rolled over onto his side.

Adam quietly started putting on his clothes. Tugging his tight shorts over his muscular ass. “Ooo!” Adam sharply inhaled as his ass felt sore. “Fuck, you must be big all over, Joe,” whispered Adam, glancing at the big athlete’s lower body covered by the sheets, trying to find any signs of the likely impressive manhood. He pulled his tight athletic shirt over his pecs and 6-pack abs, feeling it stretch more over his lower middle as he tiptoed towards the door. “Sleep tight, Joe. I’ll see you later,” whispered Adam as he closed the door behind him.

Out in the hall, Adam quickly walked back over to his room. His steps were careful due to the soreness in his ass and hips. At 24 years old, he embodied the pinnacle of physical fitness. Standing at 6’3”, Adam was a towering figure, his broad shoulders and powerful frame immediately demanding attention. His chest was broad and solid, his pecs well-defined and firm, a result of the intense upper-body workouts expected in an expert breaststroke competitor. Below his chest, his abdomen was a masterpiece of muscle. His six-pack abs looked carved into his torso, each muscle sharply defined. His well-developed obliques added to the impressive perfection of his frame.

Adam’s biceps and triceps were thick and muscular, the kind of arms that could effortlessly propel him through the water at impressive speeds. His legs, just like the rest of his body, were thick and muscular, with quads and calves that were strong and defined. His thighs were powerful, yet not overly bulgy, a balance that gave him both speed and endurance in the water.

Adam’s facial features could only be described as strikingly handsome, with a square jawline and high cheekbones that drew most people’s attention. People gasped at his cute, handsome face wherever he went. His reddish-blonde hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, caught the early sunlight, giving it a warm, golden hue. The color contrasted sharply with his deep blue eyes. A cute, warm smile adorned his face as he approached his room, already thinking of going back to Joe later today.

Entering his room, he slammed the door behind him and saw his friend and bunkmate, James, stretching. The tall 6’6” swimmer let out a sigh of relief when he saw Adam walking in. “There you are man! I thought you were gonna miss warm-ups.” James was dressed in nothing but a robe and his speedo.

“Sorry, sorry, long night. One of the American shot putters won gold and was buying everyone beers at the pub,” said Adam as he started changing into his gear.

“That and a late-night rendezvous at his apartment in the village makes for an even longer night. We gotta go, big guy!” Adam struggled to shove his legs into the speedo as James stood there with his goggles in hand. Pulling on his tracksuit, Adam hopped his way over to the door.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” Adam ran out the door after James, and they jumped on a shuttle headed towards the river with many of the other swimmers.

“I’m excited to swim in the Olympics, but really in this river? I’m worried about getting sick swimming in it. The Seine isn’t exactly the cleanest river,” said James as they rode the shuttle.

“Eh, I think it’ll be fine. I’ve swum in worse. Also, they’ve been cleaning it nonstop since they announced the games were gonna be here,” Adam replied with a cocky tone in his voice that made James grunt in disagreement.

“Yeah, but didn’t you see the reports? The women were getting sick yesterday after their races. I don’t wanna get in there and possibly get E-Coli when I get out,” James added. “The water doesn’t look…sanitary.”

“Calm down, ya pansy. It’s fine. It’s just water. Maybe we’ll get superpowers like in the movies! Wouldn’t it be fun to become a fish boy? You won’t care what water you swim in cause you can breathe underwater.” Adam seemed less worried about the dangers of the waters and James’ face looked disgusted as they arrived at the river.

“You have fun with that, chum.” The pair looked at the mucky waters of the Seine River. Adam didn’t wait for his teammate and stripped off his hoodie and track pants, revealing his toned swimmer’s physique. His abs were well-defined, and his muscles honed from years of rigorous training. He jumped into the water without a second thought; splashing his friend in the process.

“Come on in, James. The water’s fine.” Adam laid back in the water and started kicking away from the shore with his abs, pecs, and head floating above the water. The water was cool against his skin, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the morning sun.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that, mate.” James hesitantly put one foot in the water and then another. Slowly submerging his whole body in the water. “God, this is going to be terrible to swim in.”

“Don’t be such a wanker. It’s fine. Totally normal.” As Adam fully dunked his head in the water, he groaned a bit as the water got into his system. Unbeknownst to him, Adam’s body was going through an odd transformation. The cum from the massive track star he’d been with the night before made contact with the water. A strange sensation began to settle in his lower abdomen—a bloated, heavy feeling that he couldn’t quite place

Coming up to breathe, Adam groaned again and shook his head in the water. “You good bud?” asked James as Adam gasped for air.

“Yeah, yeah. Just a cold pocket right here,” said Adam as he put his hand to his midsection, his abs slightly bulged out in front of him. He remembered the bloated look on his lower abs earlier, so he ignored this new feeling, but the sensation persisted.

“Come on lads! Let’s go! Let’s go! You guys need to get warmed up!” yelled their coach.

“Yes, coach!” replied the swimmers. They all started swimming from one side of the river to the other as Adam started to feel strange. He shoved the feeling away and kept warming up. With every stroke he took, he felt his stomach bowing out under the water. It was as if something was shifting inside him, moving and settling in a way that was unfamiliar to him. But he was too focused on his swimming to pay much attention to it.

His lower abdomen began to swell, and his abs disappeared as he kept swimming in the water. His midsection growing out like a balloon inflating underneath the water. The change was subtle at first—a slight rounding, a softening of the skin—but it quickly accelerated, his stomach expanding with each passing second. His belly quickly grew from being nonexistent to looking like he had a large meal to bulging out below him like he’d swallowed a volleyball. Yet Adam was focused on warming up and nothing more.

Adam’s powerful strokes began to falter as the bloated sensation became impossible to ignore. He felt a tightness in his skin, a growing pressure in his lower abdomen that made it difficult to move as fluidly as before. He frowned, slowing his pace as he tried to understand what was happening to him. His belly continued to swell, the taut skin stretching as it grew larger and larger. However, he never noticed what was really happening until he was getting out of the water after practice.

“What the hell?” exclaimed James as Adam hopped out of the water.

“What?” James, the coach, the other swimmers, and numerous spectators stared at the swimming star in shock, looking at his belly.

Adam looked down, and his mouth dropped open. Jutting out in front of him instead of abs was a belly the size of a basketball. “What the fuck is this?!?”Adam’s heart raced as he placed a trembling hand on his belly, feeling the firmness of the swelling. His skin felt tight and itchy, stretched thin over the rapidly expanding mass. Adam’s breath grew shallow as he tried to process the scene.

“What did you do, Adam?” asked James through gritted teeth. Adam’s belly looked bulbous, swollen like a ball that had been inflated too much.

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything! You saw me! I got in the river with abs and left with thi-“ Adam cut his words short as he put his hand to his mouth and his cheeks puffed out. “Bbfff oh no,” he muttered as he shoved his way past the team. His big belly sticking out in front of him and bouncing with every step.

“Adam, where are you going?” asked James as his teammate ran towards a building. Not paying attention to anyone, Adam immediately found a bathroom and started vomiting into the toilet, throwing up his entire breakfast and dinner in the process. The nausea was overwhelming, his entire body trembling as he heaved into the porcelain. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he gasped for breath, his vision blurred as he struggled to regain control of his body.

James entered the bathroom, concern evident on his face. “Man, we need to get you to a doctor. This isn’t normal.”

“No, no. We have the competition in a few minutes. I’m not letting this belly stop me from winning a medal.” choked out Adam between heaves. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his face flushed and sweaty. The nausea had slightly subsided, but his stomach still felt tight and uncomfortable. The weight of his swollen belly pressed down on him. “Just give me… a few minutes to… feel better.”

James nodded, running away while Adam struggled to steady himself. He struggled to his feet, one hand steadied against the wall for support. The extra weight of his belly made even standing up a challenge, making him groan as he felt his lower back strain under the unfamiliar burden. Then, James returned with Adam’s bag. “Here, put these on. Coach says we should get going if you insist on not going to the hospital.

Adam ignored James’ comment about the hospital, focusing on the competition ahead. He splashed water on his face, washing his mouth and trying to forget about the nausea. Adam struggled out of his wet swimsuit, his swollen belly making it difficult to bend over or move as gracefully as he used to. He was so entranced by the struggles of this strange situation that he didn’t mind James staring at him all along, observing everything in his naked form.

He pulled on the sweatpants, but the waistband struggled to accommodate his expanded belly, forcing him to leave it below the swell, right above his manhood. Adam winced as he finally managed to get the pants on, the waistband cutting into his lower abdomen as it struggled to contain the new girth of his waist. The shirt wasn’t much better. What should have been a loose, comfortable fit was not tight and restrictive, the fabric clinging to the contours of his swollen abdomen. The hem barely reached the top of his sweatpants, making Adam tug at the shirt, trying to make it cover more, but it was no use—it was simply too small to accommodate his new size.

“This is ridiculous,” Adam muttered, frustration creeping into his voice as he looked at himself in the mirror. Even with the clothes on, he realized his whole body seemed different. His pecs were fuller, almost as if they had started to grow along with his belly. His thighs, once lean and muscular, now seemed thicker, more rounded, stretching the fabric of his sweatpants.

“Adam, we gotta go if we don’t want to miss the race,” James said, placing his hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Sure,” Adam responded with a nod, taking a deep breath before coming out of the bathroom with James. Gathered around the bathroom waiting for him were paparazzi with flashing cameras pointed at the swimmers as they walked out of the bathroom.

“Adam! Adam! Can you say anything about your recent weight gain and how it will affect you during the race?” asked a reporter.

“Do you discourage other athletes from swimming in the Seine for the duration of the games?”

“Are you going to bow out and allow your teammates to have a more fit competitor for the event?” Adam fought his way through the crowd of cameras as he held his stomach. He hadn’t realized it before in his rushed state to the toilet, but he couldn’t properly walk and was forced to waddle thanks to his gravid belly.

“Out of his way! We have to get to the race!” yelled James as some security came over and pulled the paparazzi back. Adam groaned as he felt another wave of discomfort wash over him and his belly. He grabbed onto James’ shoulder and hunched over in pain while they walked away towards the event. Each step was a challenge. His belly, now an undeniable presence, swayed with each step, pulling at his lower back and making it difficult to maintain his usual stride.

“James, something is wrong. I don’t know what’s happening.” Adam started sweating and panting as James wrapped his arm around him. The strange tightness in his abdomen had intensified, becoming a constant, almost oppressive pressure that seemed to grow stronger with each passing minute.

“No shit, but you don’t wanna go to the hospital.” James lugged Adam away towards the massive swimming pools but failed to look down at his friend going through another transformation. Adam’s discomfort was becoming unbearable, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving forward. They had to get to the competition.

Adam shut his eyes tight as his belly swelled out an inch in every direction again. His skin tightened with each step he took as he inflated bigger and bigger like a balloon. His body lost more of its toned, athletic muscles as his defined muscles became clouded with fat. This was especially true for his pecs. While he had gotten a slightly puffier chest when he first grew his belly, now they seemed to sprout out of him like two fluffy pillows, the fabric of his shirt tightening as his chest swelled. However, these two pillows were being weighed down heavily as Adam’s nipples, usually small and flat against his skin, became erect and pointed directly at the ground, also becoming more sensitive.

Adam shifted uncomfortably, trying to adjust the collar of his shirt, but it was no use. His chest was growing too quickly, the once loose t-shirt now straining across the expanding flesh. He could feel his pecs becoming rounder and heavier, each step causing them to bounce slightly against the fabric. The tightness in his shirt was becoming unbearable, the material pulling taut over his chest, the seams creaking with the strain.

As his pecs grew over his belly, Adam felt the pressure in his abdomen intensify, the bloated sensation growing more pronounced as his belly began to swell in all directions. The once small, basketball-sized bump was expanding rapidly, pushing outward and upward, the skin stretched to its limits. The lower hem of his shirt, which had already been struggling to cover his growing belly, was now riding up, exposing the pale, taut skin of his abdomen as it swelled larger and larger.

The growth was relentless. Adam could feel his belly expanding, the pressure inside him becoming almost unbearable as his abdomen grew rounder, fuller. It was no longer just a bump—it was a massive, beach ball-sized dome that jutted out in front of him, pulling at his lower back and making it impossible to stand up straight. He could hardly walk with the huge orb growing in front of him. Stretch marks formed on the side of his body as he continued to grow. He could almost hear his skin stretching as he tried to hide the discomfort from James to avoid the hospital topic again.

James, still unaware of the full extent of Adam’s transformation, tightened his grip, helping him stay upright as they walked. “Just a little farther,” James encouraged him, his focus on the pool ahead.

A new sensation hit Adam when he felt a cool touch on his upper thigh. He couldn’t see it, but his perfect bubble butt was becoming round and wide. Adam had always had a nice perky ass, but now his cheeks were growing fat and wobbly as the lower halves of them bulged inside his sweatpants, which strained to contain the increasing mass. Adam’s hips, once lean and narrow, were beginning to thicken, the muscles expanding to accommodate the added weight. He could feel his thighs thickening as well, the once smooth and defined muscles becoming softer, more rounded. The seams of his sweats, already under strain from his expanding belly, were beginning to creak ominously, the fabric pulled tight across his growing hips, butt, and thighs.

Hobbling over to the U.K. team, Adam immediately flopped himself down onto the bench and groaned in pain as his hand rubbed his beach ball-sized belly, so big that he could barely reach the furthest point on it; the skin stretched taut and shiny. The lower hem of his shirt had ridden up completely, leaving his swollen abdomen fully exposed, the tight skin gleaming in the overhead lights, his once innie belly button on display as a full blown outie now.

“Did it get…bigger?” asked James, looking at Adam’s dome. The belly covered Adam’s entire lap as he sat on the bench, and his bulging pecs laid nicely on the round belly, pulling the fabric of his shirt taut. His nipples, now larger and more prominent, pressed against the strained fabric.

“Maybe a little,” said Adam in between pants. Before anyone could say anything, an announcer came over the loudspeaker with a message.

“Olympians, we will be beginning the men’s swimming relay in 5 minutes.” Adam stared at his belly, which looked to be as big as half his body, then started to stand. As he heaved himself up, he heard a loud ripping sound. The seam at the back of his sweatpants had finally given way, the fabric tearing around his swollen glutes. Adam grimaced, but there was nothing he could do about it now. His entire body was swollen and uncomfortable, the weight of his belly, chest, and glutes pulling at his muscles and making it nearly impossible for him to lift himself off the bench.

“We need to get you changed,” James said, his voice filled with concern. “Or you shouldn’t compete at all!”

“You heard him. Let’s go!” said Adam through some groans, ignoring James’ concerned comments as he started struggling to take his clothes off.

With James’s help, Adam began to peel off his clothes, but it was a struggle. The shirt, already too tight, clung to his swollen chest and belly, the fabric bunching up and refusing to budge. James had to gently tug it over Adam’s head, careful not to hurt him as he maneuvered the shirt over his swollen pecs. When the shirt finally came off, Adam’s chest was fully exposed, the round, heavy muscles hanging slightly lower than they had before, his nipples larger and more sensitive than ever.

Next came the sweats, which were even more of a challenge. The waistband was stretched to its limits, the elastic band digging into the soft flesh of his hips. James carefully worked the sweatpants down over Adam’s hips and thighs, the fabric straining with every movement. As the pants finally came off, Adam’s glutes were fully revealed—round, full, and straining against the seams of his underwear, which had somehow managed to stay intact despite the growth.

James handed Adam his competition swimwear, a tight-fitting suit that was meant to streamline his body in the water. But as Adam tried to pull it on, it became clear that it wasn’t going to fit the way it used to. The material, designed to cling to his body like a second skin, now struggled to contain the massive bulk of his lower body. Every movement was a challenge, the weight of his belly pulling at his back, his chest and glutes adding to the strain. But somehow, with James’s help, he managed to get the suit on, though it was far from comfortable.

“Adam, you NEED to go to the hos-“

“It’s just a bit of indigestion. Let’s go.” Adam cut James off and waddled toward the pool. Still determined to compete in the race despite his massive belly.

Adam’s gait was slow and awkward, his body swaying with each step. His belly was so large that it forced him to waddle, his hips and fat ass swaying side to side as he struggled to maintain his balance. One hand was pressed firmly against the small of his back, the added weight pulling at his spine and making it difficult to stand up straight. His chest bounced slightly with each step, a strange sensation tingling within.

“No reason to worry,” he said to himself as he felt something shifting inside his belly, making him rub his belly in small circles. He tried to stay cool and focused on the race, but the strange fluttering intensified. The only thing he failed to realize was that his indigestion was actually the first flutters of kicks from his many sons in his new womb.

...

#mpreg #mpreg story

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pekoehoneyncream · 4 months ago

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Captain John 'Bravo Six' Price Headcanons

Part One!

Words: 500~

TW: None (sfw)

Part Two

Okay! Here are the promised headcanons!

The brainrot is intense for these boys rn, so the volume of headcanons kinda got outta hand. I didn't wanna slam y'all with the full 800+ words of headcanons that I've made for Price alone, so I decided that I'll post half now and half later.

That said, Thank you all again for the Huge response my poll got, and without further ado onto the The Headcanons!

His preferred drink is Green Tea with a spoonful of honey. He loves getting to sit, relax, and slowly sip his way through a nice hot cup of tea. If he’s in a rush or just needs to wake up he drinks coffee instead.

Takes his coffee with the smallest bit of sugar and no milk. His team argues that three grains of sugar can't make any difference, but Price insists that he doesn't like coffee straight black, he needs that bit of sweetness. The team once tested him by switching out his coffee for an identical cup of straight black coffee. Price's disgusted spluttering showed them that he can indeed easily taste the difference.

Cannot just sit down and do nothing. Always needs to be doing something. This man is a category five putterer. Just goes about absently neatening up, putting things back where they belong, pulling books forward to be level with the edge of the shelf, squaring papers with the corner of the table, wiping down the surfaces, adjusting his kit so it’s settled properly. He’ll do the same to the team as well. Mindlessly untwisting straps, pulling tight buckles, zipping pouches, pulling down the rucked-up hem of Ghost’s mask, straightening Gaz’s cap, correcting a stray hair in Soap’s warhawk.

The absolute worst at remembering names, constantly asking the team what this or that person's name is. Has a little notebook full of reminders that are only useful to him, the privates and FNGs think he's marking down performance notes, but he's just desperately trying to remember that one rookie's name before they leave eyesight. “Price, this just says ‘Michaels - Red Hat’, do you expect him to always wear a red hat?” “No, but I remember the hat, then I remember the face that was wearing the hat, and that face is Michaels'.” “Price, that makes no sense.” “Give that back and get. Have you nothing better to do? Go on, get!”

Paints his nails. He got a voucher for a free spa day as a birthday present one year, it included hot-rock therapy, mud-baths, a massage, and a mani-pedi. He went into it with a ‘fuck it, when in rome’ mentality and just said yes to everything while he was there. They explained that gel-polish is hardier and longer lasting than regular polish, without being super hard to remove like acrylics, so he went with gel-polish. At the time he just got a clear polish, but these days he does it himself and wears whatever colours he wants to. Has his own polishes and his own little uv lamp and everything. He could die on a mission tomorrow, he doesn't have time for your small minded ideas about masculinity. Before he was Captain of the 141, he actually got written up by a superior, not for wearing polish, but for wearing a nail-polish colour that wasn't a colour that's in regulation.

Loves water. Yes in the staying hydrated sense, but mainly in the swimming sense. He grew up with a creek behind his house and he spent every spare moment he could splashing around in it. To this day his favourite place is the beach, or anywhere with a body of water. A swimming pool is a poor replacement in his opinion, but he'll take what he can get.

Constantly loses track of time in the shower, his personal water bill is consistently exorbitant. When he doesn't have time to spare he sets a timer, when it beeps at 5 minutes it reminds him he needs to actually start washing up, and when it goes off at 10 minutes he forces himself to get out. When he has the time he sets the timer for 30 minutes.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

If you have any thoughts on the headcanons or ideas you'd like me expand on or things you wanna squeal about or prompts you want me to write PLEASE hit me up! My ask box is open 24/7 and I'd love to hear from you!

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

#john bravo six price #captain price #price cod #price call of duty #price headcanons #john price #cod headcanons #call of duty headcanons #PekoeHoneynCream #Cod #call of duty #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick

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macrogolf12 · 3 days ago

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Unlocking the Power of Macro Golf: A New Era in Golf Performance

Macro Golf is a revolutionary approach that combines cutting-edge technology with traditional golfing techniques to elevate the performance of golfers at all levels. As the golf industry continues to innovate, Macrogolf stands at the forefront, offering golfers personalized solutions that improve their game by focusing on both physical performance and mental preparation. With its advanced systems and tailored programs, Macrogolf is transforming how golfers approach the game, from amateurs to professionals.

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The core principle of Macro Golf is the understanding that golf performance is not just about skill, but also about how the body moves and how the mind reacts to the challenges presented on the course. Macro Golf incorporates a holistic approach that includes biomechanical analysis, swing optimization, and mental conditioning. By examining a player’s unique swing mechanics, Macrogolf helps identify areas for improvement and provides custom drills designed to enhance technique.

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#macro golf #sq putter #best golf swing grip #powerstroke golf #square stroke golf #tapered golf grip #oversized putter #oversized putter grip #golf putter grip #oversized golf grip #large putter grip #golf grip size #putter grip comfort #best oversized putter grip #golf grip comparison #golf accessories #golf gloves

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bc17-writes · 8 months ago

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The Hand That Feeds - Chapter 1

Uhhh my fic got 10K+ hits on AO3 so I thought I'd post the first chapter here while I'm working on chapter 9 and some drabble like things okay cool thanks (no use of y/n)

(I also haven't used tumblr since college so if anyone has any hints, tips, tricks let me know)

Summary: You're Simon's pregnant new neighbor.

chapter specific c/w: none

Ghost is a creature of habit - most every moment of his life is structured into routines. Missions broken down to the minute, with backup plans upon backup plans. Days on base divided into blocks - trainings, briefings, meal times. Mornings and evenings in his apartment scheduled by the minute. Ghost thrives when he knows what to expect.

What he does not expect is opening the door of his Manchester apartment at zero two hundred hours to leave for his morning run, and seeing you stumble on the uneven carpet in the hallway before him. You’re half his size, dressed not dissimilarly to himself in an oversized black hoodie and joggers. The cardboard box you hold nearly flies out of your hands before he reacts, grabbing the scruff of your hoodie with one hand and steadying the box with the other.

“Christ,” he says, putting you back to rights. His voice is deep and rough with disuse. “Y’alright?”

“Yeah, sorry, thank you” you reply. “Not sure what happened.”

“Carpet’s fucked. ‘Sall uneven.” He watches you set the box down before the door of the recently vacated apartment next to his.

You pull out a lanyard from your pocket, loaded with too many keys and trinkets to keep track of, looking through them for the right one.

“It’s silver. With a square head.”

You find it almost immediately and thank him, again, opening the door and nudging the box in with your foot. You don’t lock it back.

Ghost narrows his eyes at that.

“Looks like we’re neighbors!” You give him your name and hold out a hand with a smile.

To him, it is blinding as the sun. You are resplendent, even with red, sleepy eyes and road-trip hair. You are stunning, in shapeless clothes with a few crumbs on your hoodie.

You smile at him despite his black mask and hood pulled so far over his head he knows his eyes are hidden in shadows.

He takes your hand in one of his gloved ones, and you shake it firmly, unflinchingly, the smile never leaving your face. You don’t divert your eyes, like the anonymous people he passes on his runs, or at the pub. You don’t shy away like the cashier at the little shop where he buys his tea. You don’t cower or flinch, like mothers moving their children from his view when he picks up meat at the butcher’s.

“I’m Simon.”

“Who pissed in your tea this morning, Ghost?” Captain Price asks, leaning back on the cool wall next to Ghost. “Really running the recruits through the ringer today.”

“L.T. didn’t get his tea this morning.” Soap interjects slyly from Ghost’s other side, before he can respond.

“Watch it, Johnny,” Ghost growls.

“Rolled up late, right before PT. Didn’t even have time for a ‘cuppa’”

“Soap!” Ghost snaps, not turning from the recruits.

“Late?” Price asks, incredulously.

“Wasn’t late. Got here when I was ‘sposed to.”

“Just later than every single other day.”

Ghost clenches his jaw, crossed arms tightening minutely across his chest. Soap obviously has a death wish.

Price hums in consideration and Ghost can feel the Captain’s eyes boring into him.

Simon had ended up helping you move the rest of your things from your ancient van, loading them onto a small flatbed cart so you didn’t have to bring them up the elevator one by one. He didn’t let you lift a finger. He brought them into your apartment, with your permission, and deposited them into their corresponding rooms, each mirrored from his own, just on the other side of the wall.

You’d filled the silence easily, despite the early hour and your obviously sleep-deprived state, not requiring him to speak much, and hardly asking him questions.

You’d puttered about, unboxing a few of your things, and told him a little about your job as a translator as he set up your tiny desk and computer.

You’d interjected multiple times about how he didn’t have to, how he’d helped enough, how he probably had somewhere to be considering he looked like he was on the way out already. Each time he’d say he’d be on his way if you wanted and each time you shook your head.

You’d offered him coffee and compensation, both of which he refused, counter-offering with his number and the offer to call him if you needed help with anything else. You nodded in agreement, texting him immediately with your name and apartment number.

You never asked about the mask.

He’d had enough time afterwards for a smoke and a brief shower, but not much else, abandoning his usual morning run and tea before leaving for the base.

Ghost clenches his jaw under his mask, refusing to give Price his attention.

“Come see me after lunch, Ghost.” Price says before walking away, not even waiting for a response.

“Don’t fucking try that again Soap,” Ghost growls under his breath.

Johnny just laughs.

Simon makes his way to Price’s office after lunch, closing the door behind him and leaning back on it.

“Take a seat, Simon,” Price says calmly, motioning to the plush leather chair in front of his desk.

“‘m alright, sir.”

Price sighs, shuffling the folders on his desk to the side and folding his hands atop it. “About what Soap said… Son, I don’t want you to think you need to be here any more than you have to. It’s good to have a life at home. Hobbies or- whatever you want. I trust you with my life. Have your tea at home. As long as you are where you’re supposed to be and when, I want you to enjoy your life outside of all this.”

Ghost hardly holds back a scoff at the idea - at having a home that isn’t just walls and a too soft mattress where he lays, unsleeping, glaring at the ceiling, keeping the night terrors at bay. “That all, sir?”

“That’s all. Dismissed.”

When Simon finally gets back to his apartment that night, he finds a six-pack of beer in front of his door, with a thank you note in your handwriting.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod ghost #ghost call of duty

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theamityelf · 5 months ago

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(Mini THH AU Masterlist)

When they get to the beach house, Nagito finally shows Makoto the student files. He shows him that all of the senpais used to be despair.

"Wait," Makoto interrupts. "First of all, this could be a trick!"

So Nagito calls Monokuma to verify whether it's a trick or not, and Monokuma basically says that what is written in the files is true of everyone except the traitor. Then he vanishes.

"So you understand," Nagito says grimly. He's set up Makoto's sleep space on the table in the main room and arranged the usual assortment of pillows beneath, in case he should fall. He himself is kneeling on the floor, keeping to Makoto's eye level. "You understand it now, right?"

"I understand why you were upset," Makoto says carefully, "but Nagito, this doesn't change the way I feel about any of you. We don't know what happened, and...well, if you were 'despair' in the way Monokuma means it, then why would he have you guys killing each other? You'd be on his side, right? Whatever happened, I'm sure there's an explanation. I've talked to all of you; you're not bad people!"

Nagito blinks a few times. Doesn't change the way he feels? Does he truly forgive the unthinkable so easily? His heart twists with want, with need. He could be absolved by the Ultimate Hope, could pour himself into service and be washed of his filth. But the very desire to accept this naive kindness, this undeserved grace, just fills him with more self-hatred. For someone like him to take advantage of Makoto's generous soul, his misguided desire to give everyone the benefit of the doubt.

He forces a laugh past the bile in his throat. "I see. You just don't understand yet! I'll do my best to explain. You see, those who give themselves to despair have no value in and of themselves. This was never about us. It was about you. Your class, but especially you. The Ultimate Hope. My classmates, as it turns out, were just as disappointing and disposable as I am."

"Nagito, the people who died in this game weren't disposable! And neither are you!"

The tight smile falls from Nagito's face. "You still...I'm sorry, I failed to explain myself. That's not good. You need to understand the situation you're in. How your innate kindness, your wonderful self, makes you every bit as unsafe as your tiny size."

"We've been safe with them all this ti-...Hey!"

Nagito has scooped Makoto into one hand, while his other hand steadies him, tidies his hair with a forefinger. "Safe?" he echoes. "You haven't forgotten Mikan, have you?"

Makoto...can't bring himself to answer that. The startled feeling of being suddenly grabbed, the reminder of what he went through with Mikan, and the growing despairful fervor in Nagito's eyes, focused squarely on him...He can't be afraid. Fear would just vindicate Nagito's...whatever this is.

"What she did to you," Nagito continued. "As soon as she had her memories back, she went out of her way to torture you. Don't you remember how helpless you were to stop her? So small and helpless. It took a mere illness to return her to her despairful ways, and the moment she did, she wanted nothing more than to hurt you. To tarnish you. Imagine if that was all of them. If every one of them remembered who they once were-"

"Nagito..."

"Do you understand it now? They don't care about the deaths of a few servants of despair. They don't even want the Ultimate Hope dead. They want to destroy everything that you are, to subject you to the most-"

"Nagito!"

Nagito putters to a stop. He realizes that he's shaking. He breathes deeply.

"I-If that were true," Makoto continues, "why would Monokuma let you know? Why would he give you a chance to protect me?"

"It doesn't matter what Monokuma wants. He's merely another stepping stone. What matters is who you are and who they are."

"So, you plan to just stay here forever?"

This time, his laugh doesn't sound forced...but it doesn't sound happy, either. "Oh, I don't think it would be quite fair to give the despair-soiled ex-Ultimates full reign of the island paradise and confine the Ultimate Hope to a little corner like this. Despair has no place on your islands."

"What does that-? Nagito. Listen to me. I don't want you to hurt any of your classmates. I don't want any of you to be hurt, at all!"

"Why do you keep saying that? How can you say that?" he whispers it, somewhat sharply.

"Because I care about you. Because you're my friends!"

"Your friends?" Nagito catches himself shaking again and quickly returns Makoto to the table before it can get really bad. He rests his own forehead on the edge, taking a minute to catch his breath as too much panic, bitterness, longing, despair, chase each other in circles within his chest. He is still shaking and feels ill when he finally raises his head to look at his kouhai again.

Makoto has been saying things to try to comfort Nagito, none of which have been effective if the look on Nagito's face is any indication. He looks like he's reached some kind of resolve within himself, but all of the turbulence is still there behind it.

"Hey, speaking of your friends," Nagito says, in a tone which approximates calm, "who would you say are your five favorite classmates?"

"What...kind of question is that?"

Nagito seems on the edge of saying something, but then he just shudders, and another laugh tumbles out of him. "Just curious," he says frivolously. "Hey, are you sure you're finished with your burger? There are drinks in the fridge. Can I get you anything?"

"You can't just change the subject like that!"

"Don't worry. After all the stress of the Funhouse, we should have a few hours to just process our predicament and our options. That means a good night's sleep for the Ultimate Hope."

"I can't sleep when my friend is upset."

Nagito loses his breath again. "I so appreciate your kindness. I swear on whatever parts of me are still worth anything, I will give it my all to repay you for the effort you waste caring about me."

"The only 'repayment' I want is for you to care about yourself."

"Ah, enough heavy talk. It's late."

Eventually, they both go to sleep. Nagito sleeps on the hard floor with just a blanket. He wakes early to the sound of seagulls swarming outside.

When he goes to check it out, he finds Kyoko, crouching under a seashell and warding off her avian attackers with a sewing needle.

#danganronpa #mini thh au #nagito komaeda #makoto naegi #kyoko kirigiri

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novasintheroom · 9 months ago

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024. Found

♡ Pairing - Vash x Reader

♡ Word count - 0.9k

♡ Warnings - none

♡ Description: You've both been keeping track of each other's letters.

Part of the 150 Bullets drabble series on AO3

Part 1 ---- Part 2 ---- Part 3 ---- Part 4 ---- Part 5 (you are here!)

The air sizzles with aroma and spices in the cooling night. It’s been a long first day of travel, and Vash can feel his stomach gnawing at his insides in anticipation. Can you blame him? You’re cooking one of his favorite meals, and he hasn’t had it in near a decade.

He does his best not to hover. You need space to move, and you’ve already slapped his wandering hand away from the sliced sausage twice. So, he putters around camp, unpacking essentials, sleeping bags, feeding your tomas her pellets. She’s small for her kind. She blinks gratefully at him when he offers his canteen of water for a sip.

“There you go,” he murmurs, petting her neck as she drinks. “It’s nice to have some water, huh?” He caps the canteen when she shakes her head, finished. “You’re lucky, you know? Getting to travel with her all this time…makes me a bit jealous.” He lets out a small laugh and gives her a good pat on her side.

“What are you muttering to my bird, Stampede?” You call from the fire, a curious and teasing lilt to your tone.

He smiles, finishing up and heading back. “Just wondering how she’ll taste if I cook her. You’re taking forever with dinner. Ah!” He dodges the bit of sand you kick his way. He warms at your laughter. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me.” You retort, settling back down and stirring the meat and sauce in the pan. “It’s almost done. You think after how long you’ve lived you’d have some patience.”

Vash huffs and takes a seat. It’s automatic, his hand reaching to his pocket with your folded and refolded letters in it. The firelight and cool air act like Pavlov effects on him. He pulls one out, then stops and stares at it, wondering how it got there.

You eye him from the side. “What’s that?”

He blinks and clears his throat. “Oh, just…one of your letters.” He acts like he’ll fold it away again but stops. This is weird. How does he play it off? He sees you still and feels a blush creep up his neck. “Must’ve…uh…”

A shuffling draws his attention. You’ve started rifling through your pack. He watches. In a moment, you pull out what looks to be a deep metal box, dented. It squeals when its lid opens on rusty hinges. You pull out a tied pile of letters and show it to him. Tentatively, he takes them from you. He recognizes his handwriting. It’s the letters you’ve kept yourself.

His breath leaves through his nose, and he glances up at you. “You…kept all of them?”

“Of course I did! I loved getting your letters.” Your emphatic reply almost bowls him over. He hadn’t even thought…

Suddenly, he reaches into his pockets again and drags out the letters you’ve written, piling them to his side as the papers come out. All of them are folded and refolded into small squares, trying to take up as little room as he can so he can get more. He’s careful with them; he really should have tied them together like you had, but he was always so busy and always ready to just whip one out and read it…As the letters come out, his ears redden at your gasp.

“Are those…? You kept all of them?” Your eyes shine with something he can’t name.

He pauses and gives you a shy look. “I…really loved getting your letters, too.”

You reach out and take one, gently unfolding it. The paper is worn and torn, the ink faded from weathering what the Humanoid Typhoon goes through daily. Your eyes scan over it, jumping here and there. You laugh at the end. “I always had to take so long to come up with a joke at the end of each one. I’m not gifted in corny jokes like you are.”

Vash snorts and unfolds another letter of yours. “I’m gifted, what can I say,” he mumbles. His eyes can’t read the words in front of him. They’re too drawn to the woman sitting just a few feet away. He watches your expression as you read your letters again, one by one, laughing and remembering what you’ve written. His own lips quirk up. “Hey,” he says, and waits for you to look up, “Where do pirates get their hooks? Secondhand stores.” He drums a beat on his lap and ends with a ‘tss.’

You groan and roll your eyes. “Boo, get off the stage.” You sidle up closer though, reaching for one of his letters and opening it up. “You remember this one? ‘What do you call a sad cup of coffee?’”

“Depresso!” He laughs and grabs at one of your letters, eagerly opening it and looking at the bottom for your joke. “Which is faster, hot or cold?”

You hum for a moment, eyes squinting. “I can’t remember this one. What is it?”

“Hot, because you can catch a cold.”

“Ha! That’s a good one.”

So it goes for the hour and into the night, both of you opening each other’s letters again like new presents and telling bad jokes over dinner. And maybe your fingers brush when you reach for the papers, maybe they linger just a little longer than needed. One thing is for certain – there will be no need for letters again, not while you two are together. Not when you’ve been found again.

#trigun #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #tristamp #writing #vash x reader #vash the stampede x reader #reader insert #self insert #nova writes #trigun x reader #150 bullets

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ms-m-astrologer · 3 months ago

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Transiting Sun enters Scorpio

Tuesday, October 22 - Thursday, November 21, 2024

Scorpio the Scorpion*:

• Water (emotional and soul - feeling, nurturing, hidden, sensitive)

• Yin (gravity - ingoing, receptive, intuitive, right-brained)

• Fixed (stabilizing security - concentrating, consolidating, focused, persevering, stubborn)

• Interpersonal (social - focused on others

• "I transform"

• Ruler - Mars (traditional), Pluto and the rest of the TNOs (modern); exalted - Uranus

• Color: deepest blue, so dark you can barely tell it’s blue and not black

*Gleaned almost completely from the book Astrology for Yourself by Bloch and George; the rulerships and color are my own theory/belief.)

===***+++***===

Not a pleasant, smooth, and tranquil transit - after all, it’s Scorpio! Bring on the drama and the feels.

And after all the drama and feels of Libra season, we’re all due for some self-analysis and introspective soul-searching. We may not always be comfortable with what we discover, but that’s part of the Scorpio process - becoming comfortable with the darker issues.

Try not to isolate yourself during this time. Scorpio tends to brood, and really needs others’ perspectives to keep it in line.

Allow a day or so on either side of these aspects:

Sunday, October 27 - Monday, October 28:

Sun/Scorpio inconjunct North Node/Aries, semi-sextile South Node/Libra, 4°57’

Sun/Scorpio (5°42’) sesquiquad Jupiter Rx/Gemini (20°42’)

And we’re off to a somewhat uncomfortable start. Perhaps we took on more than we can do? Asking for help is allowed!

Friday, November 1, 12:47 UT - New Moon, 9°35’ Scorpio. Xx

Monday, November 4:

Sun/Scorpio (12°26’) sesquiquad Neptune Rx/Pisces (27°26’)

Sun/Scorpio trine Saturn Rx/Pisces, 12°47’

Election Eve in the US. Don’t believe the Neptunian hype - the media wants ratings and revenue, and will do whatever it takes (including obfuscate or outright lie) to acquire them. Thank goodness for that steadying Saturn trine!

Sunday, November 10 - Monday, November 11:

Sun/Scorpio (19°12’) sesquiquad North Node/Aries (4°12’), semi-square South Node/Libra (4°12’)

Sun/Scorpio inconjunct Jupiter Rx/Gemini, 19°33’

Sun/Scorpio inconjunct Chiron Rx/Aries, 19°59’

And we return to biting off more than we can chew, except this time our health is involved. We have to be honest about our capabilities - and willing to “let go and let God/dess” when necessary.

Wednesday, November 13 - Sun/Scorpio sextile Ceres/Capricorn, 22°13’. Very domestic. We can find solace in our “families.” Maybe some holiday planning happens. We’re happy to putter. Take Grandma out for lunch!

Friday, November 15 - Saturday, November 16:

Full Moon, 24°01’ Taurus (21:28 UT)

Sun/Scorpio semi-sextile Pallas/Sagittarius, 24°09’

Sun/Scorpio (24°16’) semi-sextile Vesta/Libra (9°16’)

Sun/Scorpio inconjunct Eris Rx/Aries, 24°39’

Sun/Scorpio opposite Uranus Rx/Taurus, 25°14’

Disruptions and eruptions during this Full Moon! It’s weird energy. Something illumined that’s really surprising and extreme - while the inconjumct and oppositon are crackling around us, we’re using those semi-sextiles to try to figure out what to do.

Monday, November 18 - Sun/Scorpio trine Neptune Rx/Pisces, 27°13’. A nice way to finish Scorpio Season. If there are things we need to let go of, this energy helps with that. Spiritual vibes of forgiving and of being forgiven.

———————————

Venmo Mary_Brack

PayPal MaryVBrack

Thank you!

#Astrology #Transiting Sun enters Scorpio #Ms M astrologer

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kittyball23 · 1 year ago

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Effort (a Trolls fanfic)

Summary: Viva knows what she is about to do is risky, but she just HAS to make the effort, if it means seeing them again…

A/N: Taking place before TBT; Viva did mention that she thought many times about leaving, so this was one of those times (also, incoming Cliva 💚💛)

__________________________________________

Night had fallen upon Putt Putt Village.

Per the usual proceedings in the town, nightfall meant the curfew was up and enforced. No Troll, young or old, was allowed to be out and about once the sun set. It was sensible, common knowledge, really. For nightfall was a time in which dangerous creatures would lurk about, hidden by the shadows, watching, waiting, listening intently for any unlucky soul who may sweep along their path and end up falling prey to their malicious whims. And no Troll wanted to take that chance when those dangerous creatures were… Bergens.

Even in thought, the awful word sent a shudder down the Putt Putters' spines, and made a scream just barely hold back within their throats. For good reason, too. Nobody wanted to be caught and eaten, suffering an awful fate having their bones crunched underneath the monsters' teeth, and their hopes flushed away in the similar manner that they would be once they were passed from the hideous creature's stomach. In short, the curfew was critical, and thankfully, every Troll was well aware of it. Especially Viva, Putt Putt Village's Queen herself. It would be impossible for her not to know the rule, given that she herself had been the one to write it. She knew curfew meant getting indoors, locking the windows and doors tight and turning the lights out. She knew it meant no one was to go wandering around the village, and definitely not without a chaperone. She knew it meant letting anything extracurricular be saved for the following day, and that safety was the highest priority. So, she also knew that she was breaking the very rule she made.

The Putt Putt Queen had impressively mastered the art of stealth, tucking herself with her hair to camouflage as one of the golf balls. She was silent but fast, swerving her way through the main square, past her people's varying residences, and farther still from the settlement. It was only when she had reached the town’s borders in which she finally came to a stop, unrolling herself and standing to her full height (made even taller-looking with the great stack of wild, golden hair atop her head). Viva beheld the gate that was there, sturdy and firmly in place. It would be crazy to unlatch the padlock that kept it closed, separating the harsh, cruel dark world that lay beyond from their sanctuary. Viva took a deep breath. Well then… call me crazy! Viva leapt up to the lock, undoing it with ease, and hopped back down to the ground. She let out a breath and smiled to herself. Whew! Easy peasy!

Next, the Queen grabbed the edge of the gate and tugged. It was rusty and old, as Putt Putt Village had not been inhabited by its original Bergen residents for ages, and gave an unpleasant crrreeeaaak as she pried it open. The sound didn't last long though. Viva didn't need to open the gate all that much, since Trolls were not too big. She could easily slide by the crack of space she'd made. Viva gave herself a quiet little high-five. Yes! Nailed it! Now, it was time for the most critical step in her plan.

Viva, feeling optimistic, readied herself to step forward, lifting one warmered leg up high and putting on a face of pure determination. Yes! she thought to herself, feeling giddy. Why, with what awaited her at the end of this, she wouldn't even need to give herself a high-five or a thumbs up. And just thinking about it made her heart soar!

Alrighty, here we go!

Viva chinned up. Here she went, bravely into the outside world, full of unknown threats, full of malice and evil, and wrought with towering creatures who'd caused her to be left in this predicament in the first place. There she went anyway, leaving her people behind, leaving her one home in which nothing bad had happened to her, leaving her sanctuary, her place of protection to go off somewhere where she wouldn’t be protected, where she'd be vulnerable, where she could be captured and eaten alive at any given moment and without warning.

Yes… here I go!

Her foot went down, but she was stunned to find that instead of propelling her forward, she had taken a step backwards. Actually, more like ten steps backwards, on wobbly legs that were trembling violently alongside the rest of her body. She'd hardly noticed, however. Her focus was fixated on the world beyond the gate, and Viva was unable to turn away. It was dark and dank, full of forest and mystery and things that she could in truth care less to know about. A black hole ready to devour her…

NO!

Viva shook her head, battling her nerve-wracking thoughts with persistence. She did want to know about that world, if it meant finding them. And the Putt Putt Queen would be darned if she, trained in battle and quick-witted, wouldn't be able to set her worries aside and finish what she'd started.

It's just one night, she assured herself. It won't take me long. I'm sure it's not THAT far. It only seemed far because I was little. But I'm NOT little anymore. I'm a grown woman! And I'm GONNA do this! I have to… She's out there, not in here, where it's safe. She's out THERE where it's… it's…

Despite the words being in her head, she still failed to get them out, as though the physical constricting of her throat was preventing it. A loud sound filled her ears, rhythmic, and it was incredulously difficult for her to tell whether it was the pounding of her own heart, or the horrible, ominous footsteps of a Bergen coming right towards her, licking its chops in anticipation of tasting pink Troll flesh. Or perhaps it already got a taste of pink Troll flesh.

Beads of sweat formed upon the Putt Putt Queen’s forehead. She can't be dead. She CAN'T! Viva refused to believe it. It was NOT so! And she was going to prove it, if it was the last thing she did! She willed her body to relax, her feet to move forward, her knees to bend… but it didn't work. Her mind was stuck, paralyzed, unable to comply with any of the commands she issued to her body. The sounds grew louder, more pronounced, more frightening. Viva felt her breathing get shallow. Her head began to spin, the dark visions around her a blur. Her eyes were fixed firmly on the gate. She needed to get out. NOW!

I can do this! I can do this! I can -

"Viva!"

A voice rang out across the night air, making Viva jerk her whole body. Her eyes snapped wide, a gasp escaping her lips, and a horrid vision of the way the dirt and rock had collapsed in front of her - blocking her off from the father and sister she longed to see again - flashing before her eyes. And she couldn't take anymore.

Her legs buckled under her and her vision went black.

__________________________________________

Clay wrung out the cold towelette in his hands, water droplets dripping into the sink with a few silent plinks. Silently he moved through his dwelling, past rooms filled with stacks of pending paperwork and beelining it to the couch. Pity filled him at the golden-curled Troll who was strewn there, limp, nearly looking lifeless.

He prevented himself from shuddering. It was something frightening to see her like this. Putt Putt Village’s Queen had never looked so weakened as she did at that moment. The pink in her skin was pale in its hue, her mouth slightly slack. Carefully he bent down next to her, brushing away some of the strands from her face so that he could properly apply the compress to her forehead, previously warm with sweat.

Viva knows better, Clay thought. So what was she doing out there?

As though it were in reply, his eye suddenly caught sight of something peeking out among Viva's wild hair. He raised an eyebrow and, in curiosity, pulled it out. Turned out it was a scrapbook, only a few pages long. The front of it depicted Viva, notable for her pink skin and golden hair. The other two figurines were another pink Troll who looked quite similar to her, only with dark, magenta hair. The other was an orange Troll with the same dark magenta hair. He flipped through a couple of pages, and suddenly understood once he saw the trio depicted doing all sorts of activities, from bad dances to candy necklaces.

This is her family...

She'd told him once, hurriedly, of the events that took place that Trollstice. The escape that divided her from the rest of the group, from her father and her sister, and had turned Putt Putt Village into what it was today - a town of survivors who lived in seclusion, away from the threats of those dreadful Bergens.

Clay shook his head and shut the book. On one hand, her act was foolish. Why would she, Queen of their town, do such a risky thing and leave them high and dry, putting herself in the path of danger at the same time? On the other hand...

At least she's making an effort.

He couldn’t say the same for himself.

It’d been years since he’d seen his brothers, and thus far he’d been content in not having them be a part of his daily life. But still, he couldn’t help but wonder…

How big IS Baby Branch? His youngest bro probably wouldn’t even be recognizable at this point.

Did Floyd get his solo career kicking? Even before the band had broken up, he could remember the magenta-haired Troll longing to compose his own music one day.

What’s going on with Spruce? He wished he knew. Spruce wasn’t just a brother, but a close friend, and he only hoped that wherever he was that he was doing well.

And then there’s John Dory… Clay frowned. Did he really care about him? I mean, he can’t STILL be the same old ‘perfect-perfect-perfect’ionist that he was back then… could he? Years had changed Clay from being the Fun Boy of the group.

But before he could reason whether or not his oldest brother had changed, he suddenly heard stirring beside him. Viva twitched, her expression contorting to one of worry, her eyebrows furrowing.

“No… no, no!” she began exclaiming in her unconsciousness, her limbs coming to life and starting to thrash. “Dad, I’m still here! Please don’t leave me!”

Clay winced, alarmed, “Hey now! Easy, Veevs!" he tried calling at her.

But Viva continued to writhe.

"Don't LEAVE ME!"

"Viva, wake up!”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a rough shake. The Putt Putt Queen's eyes flew open, and she let out a startled cry.

"Viva!" Clay said loudly, "It's okay! You're alright! There's nothing to be afraid of."

For a moment, she was bewildered, not really looking at him. He could tell she was still lost in whatever she'd seen in her nightmare. But then...

"Oh, Clay!" She burst into tears, shooting her arms around his neck and squeezing him tight against her. Clay froze in his spot for a moment, shocked. Viva wasn't like this at all. This was not the chipper, happy go-lucky girl he'd befriended and saw on a day-to-day basis, the one who lived right up to her vivacious namesake. This was a broken Troll, one who was trying desperately hard to put the pain of the past behind her but couldn't, and was crying hysterically because of it. Clay's heart broke just listening to her sobs.

Gently he returned her embrace, rubbing his hand up and down her back and trying his best to soothe her. "It's all right, girl. Nothing to be afraid of. You're still here. I'm still here. We're good, yeah? Everything's fine, you're safe." His voice wavered at the end, betraying the depth of his emotions. He didn’t want to show Viva the extent of his feelings towards her. This was not the right moment.

Still sniffling, her head buried in the crook of his neck, Viva nodded slowly. Slowly, her sobs calmed into hiccupy sniffles, until they finally began to die out. It took a while, but Viva eventually leaned back, wiped her cheeks, the makeup around her eyes slightly smeared, and her breaths ragged. Reddened eyes looked into his ocean blue.

"I'm sorry, Clay," she whispered.

Shaking his head, Clay replied softly. "Nah, no need to apologize. Bad dream, right? We all get 'em."

Viva didn't respond. She was looking down, thinking. "You'll never leave me, right? I-I mean... Putt Putt Village," she amended, hiding a blush, and glancing back up at him hesitantly.

Clay didn't know how much that question would affect him until he really started to consider the answer. That was a big promise. How was he to know what would happen in the future? No, he didn't exactly foresee leaving the village... but at the same time, who knew what curveballs life would bring? He could certainly say that if his teen-self had been told he’d become one of the leaders of a clan of survivalists, he probably wouldn’t have believed it. But for now...

"Hey, you can't co-run a place without the 'co' part of it now, can you?" he joked. He reached over and tapped his elbow with her, making her giggle.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." Realizing she was still clutching him close, Viva blushed and quickly released him, sitting up on the couch and rubbing her arm shyly. She peered around suddenly, with a curious look. Clay watched her, a little confused, until he realized that she had had yet to enter his home. "Oh, wow... so this is where you live?" she asked.

He nodded. “Yeah. Didn’t think anyone else would want the admin building, so kinda claimed it. It’s not so bad for me, but… I’m sure it’s kinda boring for others.”

Viva was still looking around as he was talking, taking everything in. The place was much bigger than it looked from the outside. The stony gray walls, the muted green carpet, the dull color scheme. No pictures. Hardly any furniture aside from the couch, a table, and a desk stacked with bills and other finances. It suddenly hit Clay just how very plain and sparsely decorated it all was.

“Okay, not kinda boring… too boring,” Clay took it upon himself to correct.

“No,” Viva said, putting a hand up. “I like it.” She looked around again as if to be sure, and grinned. “Yeah… I really do! Seems like you got it all down-packed and organized, dont’cha?”

Clay shrugged. “Well, yeah I guess…”

“Not like me, that’s for sure. I have candy stashed all over my home. Half the time I can’t even remember where I hid it!” Viva giggled. But then she stopped. Thinking of her home brought another thought in mind. She hated to feel imposing, but the thought of going back out, even if it was just in their village, was making that pit in her stomach return. “Hey, um, Clay? Would it be, um, okay if I… stayed here? Just for tonight? I just, I…” Her hands began to shake and tears pooled in her eyes. This was a silly thing. Clay had other business to attend to than to be dealing with her and her petty fears. This was ridiculous!

But to Clay, it wasn’t. “Make yourself at home,” he said without hesitation. She needed the sense of safety, and if sleeping over for one night was what it would take to get her back to feeling like herself, then so be it. “You can take my bed if you want… without me in it, of course,” Clay said, fumbling in his words. “O-or you can take the couch, but, I know it’s not the most comfortable, so, um… but it’s whatever you wanna do! Whatever makes ya clever,” he finished, trying to sound cool but feeling embarrassed by his babbling.

To his relief, Viva smiled back at him, charmed by his sweet offer. “Thank you,” she said gratefully, standing up and stretching her legs.

“Uh, yep, of course,” he agreed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck, and trying not to let her gorgeous smile get to him too much.

"Hey," she said, taking out a string from her hair with one hand and some candy beads with the other. "Wanna make some necklaces in the meantime?" She shook them out at him and grinned slyly. "Or do you want me to braid your hair?"

Clay chuckled and took the first option, sidling up next to her. "Candy necklaces will be good.”

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