#except for the dizziness and brain fog | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

Visit Blog

Explore Tumblr blogs with no restrictions, modern design and the best experience.

Fun Fact

70% of Tumblr users say the Dashboard is their favorite place to spend time online.

#except for the dizziness and brain fog

merakiui · 1 year

Note

hi hi!! Thank you so much for doing this event!! TwT can I get sweet lollipops (abo friends with benefits to eventually lovers!!) with candy hearts (accidental knotting/pregnancy?) for our lovely alpha Floyd?

I hope I got that right! 💜

floyd leech x (gender neutral) reader cw: nsfw, abo/omegaverse, knotting, friends with benefits, omega!reader, alpha!floyd, heats note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

i. “this is just a one-time thing, okay?”

Celebrations at the Mostro Lounge are always extravagant events, luring in crowds so large the premises might resemble that of an overpacked sardine tin if it weren’t for Azul’s careful foresight. To avoid any unsavory issues, tonight’s celebration—a birthday party for a staff member—is strictly limited to Octavinelle residents and those working tonight’s shift, save for the exception that the birthday celebrant was permitted to invite friends from other dorms.

The lounge reflects this upbeat occasion, decorated in banners and streamers, confetti, and seashell-shaped light strands—all in pastel purples, blues, yellows, and pinks, colors resembling the shiny, waterlogged treasures found deep within the Coral Sea. There’s a buffet table that’s situated in the center of the room with snacks and desserts of all kinds, piled humorously high on silver platters that have not yet fallen over due to some special enchantment. Partygoers are scattered all throughout the lounge, some filling plates for themselves and others chatting around booths and in front of the massive aquarium, its aquatic illumination casting everything in cerulean hues.

You stand behind the bar drying and arranging crystal champagne flutes, a task so monotonous you’re lucky to listen in on nearby conversations to keep your brain perfectly sane. There are plenty of cloying smells that fill the lounge like helium inside a balloon, far more distracting than the scents of pastries and fruity, fizzy beverages. Your nose wrinkles at the distinctness of every alpha, omega, and beta in this room, some so robust you can practically taste them as they fog your brain with an unshakable haze.

Standing beside you, Azul works to mix and pour drinks, keeping up with each order in timely, flawless fashion. The clinking of glass and metal shakers brings you back to the present.

“You seem to be wearing quite the pensive look. A Madol for your thoughts?” Azul remarks without looking from the floor laid out before the both of you, his eyes scanning each and every partygoer, tallying them within his mind like they’re prey he’s preparing to net in one fell swoop.

You swallow a thick, awkward laugh, shaking your head to rid yourself of the cotton that’s been stuffed into your ears. Even the music spilling out of the speakers in loud, wild notes—courtesy of the birthday playlist assembled by the birthday boy and his friends—is muffled beyond comprehension, coming to you in a distant echo. You rub your shoe against the hardwood floor; it’s got a heartbeat, but that could just be because of the pounding music.

“(Name)?”

“Right. Thoughts. Madol. Yes,” you say with great haste, smacking your lips in a way that makes you look as if you’ve just tasted the air. And you are, technically, with every inhale and exhale. Amongst the many pheromones tinging the room, the ones that radiate from the alphas smell the most enticing. You blink through a sudden, all-consuming dizzy spell, head spinning. “I’m not thinking...about anything.”

Azul peers at you from his peripheral. “If you feel unwell, you’re welcome to take your break. I can handle things from here.”

“I’ll be fine...” You wipe sweat from your brow and tug at your collar. “Are you hot? It feels really hot in here.”

His brows knit together for a mere moment before a knowing glint flashes in his perceptive blues. It dawns on you, when he takes the glass from your trembling hands and sets it on the counter, that you are not as fine as you were a few moments ago. And both of you seem to have arrived at the same reason for why that might be.

“From one omega to another,” he murmurs, yet his voice sounds much clearer in this moment, “I suggest you take the rest of the night off before it catches up to you.”

You debate the suggestion, which is actually more of an order veiled within soft syllables, and you’re ready to insist you can power through it when your knees almost give out altogether when a particularly strong smell hits you. You slam your hands down upon the counter to keep your balance.

“This better not come out of my pay,” you mutter through grit teeth.

Azul barks out a laugh. “Why, I would never! We’re of the same sub-gender, after all. Naturally, we have to look out for one another.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it only makes you dizzier. You’ve done your best to ignore it so far, but now it’s impossible to not feel the slick that’s dampening your undergarments and rolling down your thighs in thick rivulets.

“Shall I send a beta to accompany you on your way back?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Azul looks like he wants to argue you on that, but instead he turns away to resume his current task. “Then I wish you a pleasant evening. Be safe.”

Pleasant, you think with bitter resentment. As if any of this is ever pleasant.

Luckily, the booming music and the absurd amount of scents within the lounge all but drowns yours out, allowing you to slip through the exit to follow the path that leads to Octavinelle's shadowed halls. The sprawling ocean looks much darker through the glass, as if it’s simply a liquid outer space or an endless abyss. Either one sounds equally terrifying. You stop your stagger-walk to lean against the cool surface, hoping to regain your sense of awareness. Shutting your eyes only makes you even more tipsy, so you press your forehead to the glass and exhale slowly.

It takes a moment for the world to stop tilting, but once it does you peel yourself away from the glass and continue to stumble onwards. In hindsight, you shouldn’t have decided to test fate when your calendar detailed your approaching heat, but that’s the least of your worries now. Not much can be done when it’s already upon you. Although you really wish it would have chosen to inconvenience you tomorrow when you weren’t set to work at the lounge.

The music is but a mere hum now, so distant it almost isn’t there, but you immediately forget about it when your shoe catches on something at the end of the hall, which sends you tumbling forwards. You land on frigid, unforgiving tiles with a harsh smack, and though the pain trickles through you it isn’t enough to distract you from the soothing scent of fresh rainfall. You blink through tears, forcing yourself to sit up, and find yourself staring into the face of Floyd Leech.

And he’s staring right back.

“F-Floyd? Didn’t you...” You inhale a deep breath, a poor move on your part because his smell encapsulates you entirely, and it almost knocks you over. “Kitchen shift... Azul put you on...food duty or...something.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” he mutters, looking bored and irritated all at once, as if your sudden arrival has disturbed his brooding in the dark. “Whatcha doin’ here? Thought you had a shift.”

You open your mouth to respond, but even that is too much for you; and so you slap your hands over your mouth, fixing him with a weak glare. Floyd’s never known just how strong his scent is, but you’ve always been able to differentiate it from the other staff members’ scents at the lounge because of how unmistakably Floyd it is. Unlike Jade, who dutifully wears scent blockers, Floyd could care less about the precautions most take to avoid any scent-related problems from cropping up. Sometimes you wish he was more like Jade, but then Jade never has any notable scent about him and that unnerves you more than the overwhelming nature of Floyd’s.

Floyd flashes his sharp teeth at you in a mocking grin. “Shrimpy looks so funny. Smells funny, too.”

You intend to put more vitriol into your glare, but his playful chuckle has you suppressing a needy, little whine. Your knuckles grow sore from how forcefully you’re clamping your hands over your mouth. If you don’t get back to Ramshackle soon, you’ll be a mess of sweat, pheromones, and slick and then that might draw unwanted attention. You attempt to stand, only to fail miserably when you sway on unsteady feet, and so you lower yourself onto your knees, glancing at Floyd’s colorful sneakers.

A breath shudders through you. The smell of rain and morning dew hangs heavy like cigarette smoke in the air. You can’t believe you’re about to verbalize your innermost desires, if they weren’t already blindingly apparent, but you can’t hold back any longer.

“Can you—” you swallow your inhibitions, far past the point of shame— “Can you help me?”

Floyd follows the length of his outstretched legs to look at you hunched over in front of him, your hands placed firmly on the floor to keep yourself from falling over.

His mismatched eyes hold mischief, but his face is neutral when he replies with: “Mmh... I guess. What do ya want help with?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” you snap, and he tilts his head at you like you’re a bewildering curiosity. His acquiescence is all you really needed to hear, though, because you’re already shedding your uniform suit jacket in a breathless hurry. “Please don’t get smart right now. I just need—” You’re not sure what you need specifically, but you do know you need relief. And he’s the only alpha within reach. “I just need you to help.”

“Okaaay,” he drawls lazily, waiting there with his back against the glass. His figure is framed in the bright luminescence from the jellyfish swarming in the great depths beyond, and you crawl over his long legs and into his lap. He peers at you, amusement twinkling in his gaze. “Shrimpy’s so funny tonight!”

You admire him through the lenses unique to a heat. It’s more akin to a drunken stupor—the kind of phenomenon that makes strangers look ten times more appealing than they normally do if you’re sober—and every rugged, dangerous edge that composes Floyd suddenly seems so perfect and safe. Your fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket, and you yank him towards you, your lips mere centimeters from his. There’s no indication that he feels the same spark as you, but in this moment there doesn’t need to be any life-changing sparks. As long as he’s agreed to help you, you’ll take his assistance and nothing more.

“Floyd.”

“Shrimpy.”

“Can you...” You wiggle your hips, impatiently fumbling to shrug out of the straps of your high-waisted suspender trousers. You’re not very successful in this endeavor, so you give up with a frustrated huff. “Please touch me. D-Down there...”

“Sure thing,” he says with a nonchalance that’s frighteningly alarming.

You were certain that an omega in heat made it difficult for most alphas to focus, let alone properly function, when there were so many tempting smells and sounds coming from them. But then Floyd isn’t like most alphas. Floyd is uniquely Floyd in every possible way. He doesn’t conform to the typical standards applied to other alphas. But it does sting a little to think that, with how undoubtedly cloying your pheromones must be, he isn’t affected in the slightest. He’s not even hard, which feels like a chip in your omega pride, but you’re too frantic with lust to dwell on it.

Floyd's rough hands grab your waist and he lifts you up slightly, pressing you flush against his chest so that he can yank your trousers down for easier access. The fabric bunches halfway at your knees, but that hardly matters in the moment. You’re certain the wet spot would have been noticeable if it weren’t for the dim lighting in the hall, and you’re secretly grateful for the lack of brightness.

“T-This is just a one-time thing, okay?”

“Whatever you say.”

You’re not sure why he sounds so disinterested, but you don’t care enough to ask. And when he slides your soaked underwear to the side so that he can thrust two slender fingers up inside your dripping hole, you slump against him, gripping his shoulders like he’s the only one who can keep you afloat amidst the turbulent sea you’ve found yourself in. With your face buried in the crook of his neck, where his scent glands are so close and produce the headiest scent you’ve ever come to know, you cum with a strangled, gasping cry, slick clinging to your thighs in translucent, stringy ribbons. Floyd doesn’t say anything, continuing to curl his fingers inside tight, wet, gummy walls, which leaves you shuddering and sobbing with ecstasy.

You lick at his neck, pressing lingering kisses to every available inch, breathing in his scent as if it’s your oxygen. Your teeth prick the surface of his skin, but before you can bite down he’s grabbing your chin with his free hand and smashing his mouth against yours in a sloppy, aggressive kiss. Your teeth click against his, and his tongue flicks past your lips, searching for yours. You meet him halfway, kissing back as fervently as you roll your hips against his hand, taking a third and a fourth finger in one thrust. He’s worked you open with delightful movements, scissoring you as roughly as he kisses, and when you break away to gulp down mouthfuls of air Floyd licks his lips clean of saliva—your saliva.

You’re not sure if it was possible for you to get wetter, but you do and you reach your second—or perhaps it’s your third—climax with a squeal.

“You can put it in. Please put it in,” you mumble, mind fuzzy with one single thought: If you aren’t fucked sore and senseless right now, you might never recover from this heat. “Please, Flo... Floyd, put it in...” You palm at his crotch, satisfied that there’s now a stiffness straining against his trousers, and you reach up to slide his suit jacket off his broad shoulders. “I need it. I’ll cover your shifts for a week—no, two weeks—three weeks! Anything you want—just need you inside me...”

Floyd hums his consideration. “Don’t wanna,” he eventually says, cutting off your whiny protests with another expert curl of his fingers. “S’too much work.”

That seems to sober you a little, and though your entire body is flushed with warmth there’s an odd coldness that seeps through. You lose track of how many times you cum, but at some point you must have slipped into unconsciousness from the exhaustion of it all. When you wake, the sun’s just barely peeking over the horizon, and you’re lying in your work clothes in your room at Ramshackle Dorm. You feel and smell so filthy, covered in slick and sweat that has dried sticky on your skin, but the worst of your heat has abated for now. You know this isn’t the last of it—that there’s more to come in the next few days and that you’ll just feel so foggy-headed until the true instinctual lust hits and you’re leaking through your undergarments like a broken faucet.

Groggily, you sit up, rubbing the crust from your eyes, only to flop back down.

Bath can wait, you think, yawning. It’s way too early for that.

You feel something bunched underneath you, and for a moment you think it’s Floyd. Though you’re not sure why he immediately pops into your mind, you’re given your answer when you pull the suit jacket out from beneath you. It smells pleasantly of a rainy morning, musky and earthy, a pleasant petrichor that could only belong to Floyd.

ii. “you smell like shrimpy. ain’t that good enough?”

Floyd is an elusive force. He appears and disappears whenever he feels like it—almost like a playful poltergeist haunting a house. If he wants you to find him, you’ll find him. Today, it’s not Floyd you find when you venture through the courtyard in search of him, but rather Jade. You suppose he’s better than no one, and if you look at him from the wrong angle he becomes Floyd. So this is the best you can do in this moment. Perhaps it’s convenient you don’t have to face Floyd because you haven’t even rehearsed what you’ll say to him—if you even want to say anything to him about that night.

“I’d like to return Floyd’s jacket,” you tell him in your best professional tone, offering it to him alongside a packaged pastry.

Jade gazes at your outstretched hands. “The pastry as well?”

“Please don’t be a smart-ass.”

He hides his sharp smile behind a gloved fist. “Is there a reason you’re in possession of Floyd’s jacket?” As if to be even more irritating than he already is, he adds, “And Floyd’s pastry?”

You avoid his stare, distracting yourself with the sight of your scuffed shoes. “N-No reason in particular...”

But Jade is not the type to drop a subject he’s found interest in, which leaves him thoroughly invested in this not-so-mysterious mystery. “No reason at all?” he presses, brows raising. “If I recall, Floyd’s been left without a jacket for a week. This is merely speculation—take it with a grain of salt—but you must have been indisposed for a few days to deal with...‘personal matters,’ as Azul had called it, hence why we didn’t see you at the lounge. Is it correct to assume you may have been burdened with a certain biological inconvenience?”

“Not true! He lent it to me. Yeah, lent it to me. That’s all there is to it.”

“And the pastry?”

“Oh my—Jade, please just take your brother’s jacket. You’re killing me here.”

“On the contrary, I haven’t yet twisted the knife deep enough.”

You groan, deflating before him like a boneless fish. “You already know why I have his jacket. Don’t make this difficult.”

He chuckles; you don’t see what’s so hilarious about this situation. “Well, I was made aware of specific details, yes. What was it you had told Floyd? Ah, right. You would cover his shifts for three weeks if he—”

“Ahaa, Shrimpy, there you are!” Before you can listen to the rest of what was going to be a highly flustering sentence, Floyd crashes into you from behind, wrapping his arms around you, while you nearly topple over from the impact. Thankfully, he steadies you with strong arms. “I was lookin’ all over for you!”

“What a coincidence. So was I.” You squirm in his grasp, holding his jacket and the pastry up for his viewing pleasure. “For you.”

“So that’s where it was! Thanks, Shrimpy! Didja take good care of it for me?”

You stare at him. Did he seriously forget where his own jacket was?

“I don’t know what flavors you like, but I got this custard bread for you.”

“Huh? What for? It’s not my birthday.” The arm curled around your waist tightens its crushing grip, persuading you to admit your reasoning before he squeezes and your guts spill out through cracked bone. “It’s not even a holiday. What gives?”

“It’s for your help that night. A thank you from me to you.”

He snatches both from you, draping his jacket over his shoulder, and inspects the packaging. “Hey, this looks yummy. Thanks, Shrimpy!” He digs something out of his pocket, takes your hand, spreads your fingers, and drops it in your palm. “I also got a little somethin’ for ya.”

It’s a golden canine tooth, most likely one that came from a beastman. There’s still some blood and gum sticking to it.

“Um. Thanks?” You choke down the urge to shiver.

Floyd giggles, looking quite satisfied with himself.

Jade stares at it, unsurprised. “May I ask where you acquired this tooth?”

Floyd shrugs, releasing you from his smothering hug. “Asked some guy where Shrimpy was and he kept dodgin’ the question. Had to pull the answer right from his mouth.”

“I see.”

You stuff the tooth into your pocket, wiping your palm against the fabric of your blazer, and grin awkwardly. “I appreciate the...gift.”

You’ve never traded a pastry for a tooth before. But, hey, there are firsts for everything, right?

“You like it?! I can get more for Shrimpy! Which ones do you like best? Gold? Silver?”

“No, that’s okay. One is enough.”

One is too much, actually...

Floyd hums his contentment, the scent of rain rolling off of him in happy waves. You inhale as subtly as you can. He smells good—perhaps much better now that you’ve toed the line of intimacy with him—however emotionless it may have been—and have had an entire week to familiarize yourself with his scent. It settles your frazzled nerves, allowing you a small fraction of confidence...that immediately shrivels when you recall how he’d called your scent funny.

“Do I...” You shrug your anxieties off, forcing the question out from the confines of your dry throat. “Do I smell bad?”

Floyd looks through you rather than at you. “Never said that.”

“You didn’t say I smelled good either.” You cross your arms over your chest. “For the record, I think you smell good.”

That prompts a tiny laugh from Jade. “As riveting as your human courting techniques are, I’m afraid I must be on my way. I wish you a pleasant afternoon, (Name). Floyd, I’ll see you at dinner.”

“‘Kaaay.”

You’ve never been more glad to see him and his troublesome smirk go, and you curse him six ways from Sunday with each step he takes, until it’s just you and Floyd standing in the center of the sparsely populated courtyard.

Floyd unwraps the pastry without much decorum, taking an obnoxious chomp from it while he waits for you. Crumbs stick to his face and gather on his uniform like sugar snowfall.

“So I do smell bad.”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Shrimpy,” he says around a mouthful of pastry. “You smell like Shrimpy. Ain’t that good enough?”

What in the world does ‘shrimpy’ even smell like?

You tilt your head back and forth, unsure of what to truly say. “I... Floyd, your scent really helped me. Like, a lot. And I know you probably don’t think it did, but your jacket made things way more tolerable than they usually are.”

He’s licking his fingers clean now, nodding along to what you’re saying with bright, eager eyes.

You steel yourself with it’s now or never. “My budget has been low lately, so I haven’t been able to afford suppressants for the next few months. And between attending classes, working at the lounge, and keeping Ramshackle in good shape, I can’t lose a week’s time because of my heats. So... So what I’m trying to say—what I’m trying to get at here... I guess what I really want—can we make this not a one-time thing, but a monthly thing instead? If you helped me, you could cut my heats down to just two or three days. I can buy you more pastries if you want, or I can cover your shifts. Please just help me out again. I’ll do anything.”

It feels useless and pathetic to beg, especially since you know how mercurial he can be, so sometimes it’s as though you’re speaking to an immovable wall. In fact, you might have better luck going to Azul or Jade if you really wanted—

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” He grins. “Why not? Sounds fun.”

“So it doesn’t sound like ‘too much work’?”

“Nah. Shrimpy’s fun.” He crumples the empty packaging and stuffs it in his pocket. “And fun things aren’t work.”

“All right... If you say so.”

You aren’t going to push it any further, lest you risk annoying him and losing this chance.

iii. “most importantly, we’re just friends and nothing more.”

It’s raining today. Normally, watching gloomy weather unfold fosters unrest within you. But this time Floyd’s with you, lying sprawled in a cramped alcove in the library, all lanky limbs outstretched, while you flip through a textbook in search of anything that might give you more insight into how to cure heats or, at the very least, halt them in a way that doesn’t require expensive medicines. Floyd’s scrolling on his phone, a lollipop between his lips. He’d caught your scent on the wind and had gravitated towards it, and you’d smelled him the minute he stepped into the hallway to follow you into the library. You let him accompany you because there’s no shaking Floyd once he’s made up his mind.

With the lack of sunlight, the lighting in the library is dimmer than usual. It’s peacefully comfortable despite the rain-spattered windowpanes and the cloudy sky beyond ancient, dusty confines. You peer at Floyd from where you sit. He’s looking through an online shoe catalogue.

“Do you like shoes?”

“They’re cool,” he replies without missing a beat. “And the surface’s got lotsa cool designs and styles.”

Briefly, you glance at your worn pair in hopes that looking long enough will give you an idea for what to say next. It doesn’t work as intended, but Floyd doesn’t seem keen to continue chatting with you, his attention focused squarely on his phone screen. You return to the task at hand, skimming a few chapters on alpha and omega biology, information on betas, and even an in-depth analysis on heat and rut nuances. Nothing tells you of the panacea needed to rid yourself of your heats.

Defeated, you shut the textbook with a sigh. Floyd’s looking at you now, his phone swiftly pocketed. You slump in your seat. He smiles lopsidedly when he knows you’re watching him.

“All good?”

You nod, but your words contradict that. “I can’t find a cure for heats and it’s a little frustrating.”

“Why do you wanna cure ‘em? You got me for that, don’tcha?”

“Yeah. But… Actually, since you’re here, can we go over a few rules? My next heat isn’t scheduled until next month, but I’d like to set some boundaries before we do anything.”

Floyd pulls the lollipop stick from his mouth and twists it into a knot. “Lay ‘em on me.”

You nod, push the textbook away from you, and scoot your chair closer to the alcove. “You can’t bite.” You point at your neck. “Anywhere else is fine, but here is off limits.”

Floyd mirrors your actions, tapping the area where his glands reside with a hum. “I won’t bite.” His smile says otherwise, but you take him for his word.

“And no knotting.”

“No knotting.”

“No breeding either.”

“No breeding.”

“And… And no kissing.”

“No kissing. Gotcha.”

“You’re being surprisingly agreeable about this.”

Floyd shrugs. “It’s what Shrimpy wants.”

“Right. Okay. Well.” You wring your hands together. “Most importantly, we’re just friends and nothing more.”

“Just friends,” he parrots. “Nothing more.”

“Cool.” You nod to yourself, but it does nothing to dispel the awkwardness. “Awesome. Cool...”

Floyd pops up from the alcove seat like a reanimated corpse springing from a grave. He grabs your hand and tugs you up from your chair, all boisterous energy and laughter despite the vicious shushes you receive from nearby students.

“Let’s go swimming!”

You have no idea where this came from, but you allow yourself to be tugged from the library, abandoning the pile of textbooks you’d been perusing for nearly an hour. And though your spirits had been dampened considerably by the information, or rather lack thereof, you seem to forget about it while you watch Floyd splash freely around in the Octavinelle pool, swimming laps with such smooth precision. You dip your bare feet in the chilled water, entertaining him with a game of fetch, tossing a diving ring each time he brings it back to you.

And within no time your frown has lifted into a genuine smile.

Later, during your shift, Jade brushes past you. “Floyd has been in such a pleasant mood today,” he remarks, nodding towards his brother, who’s currently balancing trays as he happily skips from table to table, a whistle in his voice. “I wonder if something exciting has happened. Do share. I so dislike being left out of the loop.”

Knowing Jade and his affinity for omniscience, you suspect he’s already within the loop. And it’s not as if you could lie to him; he’d find out eventually when Floyd starts smelling more like you and you start smelling more like Floyd. So it’s best to be honest about it, even if it is a little uncomfortable admitting such a thing to Jade.

“Floyd’s going to help me with my heats.”

“Is that so? How kind of him. You have my most sincerest blessings.” Jade holds a hand over his heart. “Take good care of Floyd now. He can be rather sensitive, though he doesn’t seem it.”

“We’re not getting married, Jade.”

He smiles innocently. Your gazes are drawn to Floyd as he approaches with empty trays. He catches your eye and grins broadly, waving in a manner so ecstatic you’d think he’s just meeting you again for the first time in years.

“I wouldn’t be so certain about a hypothetical that has yet to be proven.”

“Then, hypothetically, I marry into the Leech family. What then?”

“I believe that would make us in-laws, no?”

“Right. And, hypothetically, my dear in-law goes missing and is never found again because he can’t keep his annoying mouth shut. What then?”

“You would have quite the crime on your hands. I don’t think the sea would show you much mercy.”

Floyd’s hands clap down upon your shoulders at that moment. “Whatcha talkin’ about?”

Jade’s grin sharpens into something predatory when he looks at Floyd, who’s resting his chin on top of your head. “We were merely discussing how we might dispose of the other should (Name) marry into the family.”

“Ooh! Shrimpy’s marryin’ Jade, huh?”

You and Jade answer in unison, though your responses are very contrasting.

“That can be arranged.”

“Absolutely not!”

Floyd pinches your cheek, cooing playfully. “I wouldn’t mind it. That means I’d get to see Shrimpy all the time.”

“Although, as honored as I am to consider a future with (Name), I believe Floyd would be a much better fit for you.”

“Huh? Why me?” Floyd looks at you more closely, inspecting you with narrowed eyes, and then he barks out a high laugh. “No way, Jade. You hafta like someone if you wanna marry ‘em.”

You twist out of Floyd’s arms. “And we all have to work if we don’t want Azul on our cases!” With a huff, you snatch the trays from under Floyd’s arm and stomp off towards the kitchen, listening to the twins’ laughter as you go.

iv. “shrimpy’s rule: no knotting.”

In the days leading up to your heat, Floyd is a leech, not just in surname but in the literal sense. He’s almost always hanging around you. From working the same hours at the lounge to accompanying you to and from classes to meeting you at Ramshackle first thing in the morning, he is your shadow. It almost feels like he’s attached to you by some invisible thread and can only go so far before he’s drawn back in by way of magnetic force. You thought it was weird, but then Floyd has always been weird and so this sort of behavior isn’t uncharacteristic. Rather, it makes perfect sense for him to stick to you like a barnacle. Why, you might ask? The simple answer is that he’s found entertainment in you and isn’t going to give up until he grows bored.

But the complex answer comes to you days before your scheduled heat, when Ace had none-too-subtly pointed out that you smell. He didn’t say you smelled funny, which had been a little soothing, but even Deuce had echoed his sentiment. You didn’t smell like yourself, they had told you. So you asked what you smelled like and without missing a beat they replied: “Like rain.”

You had laughed and then paused to consider what felt like an absurdity and then laughed again. Floyd isn’t your alpha and you’re not his omega. There shouldn’t be any reason for him to scent you. You shrug off Ace’s teasing and Deuce’s genuine curiosity in favor of focusing on your lunch. Lunch, you’ve decided, is much tastier than whatever confusion you were previously feasting on.

Unlike last month’s heat, you’re ready for this one. You wake and attend classes as you normally would, only feeling the faintest itch of what’s to come, but by your final class you’re woozy, struggling to stay centered while the lecture goes in one ear and out the other in a string of mushed syllables. You’re not completely gone when you shuffle out of class, ignoring the whispers that are thrown around, and you only truly perk up when a familiar smell hits you head-on.

Floyd leans against the wall, a casual smile pulling his lips apart. “My dorm or yours?”

“Yours,” you blurt, only to shake your head hastily. “No... No, not yours. Mine is better.”

He giggles and tilts his head at you. “Okaaay!”

Floyd hardly has any time to shut the door and drop your belongings on the sofa before you’re grabbing at him, clinging like a koala, and he gathers you in his arms and covers the distance to your bedroom. You’re quickly losing yourself to instinctual lust, shedding your articles of clothing as easily as you whimper his name. Floyd’s grinning as he follows your example, his eyes tracking your every movement. You flop onto your bed after you’ve discarded your rumpled uniform, skin hot and sticky with sweat and slick. Floyd’s pheromones fill the room at once, and you reach for him when he crawls on top of you, caging you between sturdy, muscled arms.

“Shrimpy smells funny again.”

“Knock it off, will you?” you spit, but the irritation doesn’t last long when you get another whiff of him and you throw your head back with an impatient sigh. “I don’t smell funny... Ace and Deuce didn’t think I smelled funny.”

“Yeah?” he prompts, palming your drenched hole, sliding two fingers past rings of wet muscle.

You shift underneath him, hissing out a breathy moan through grit teeth. “They said...” Another gasp. “They said I smelled like—” Your hands grip the sheets when he adds a third finger, lazily working you open with dexterous digits. “Like ra—aah—rain.”

“Musta been rainin’ that day.”

“N-No, you were... Your smell. You smell like—mmh. Like the rain.”

You don’t miss his tongue as it darts out to wet his lips. The lewd squelching of his fingers pumping in and out of you permeates the air, replacing any words he might have wanted to say. You shut your eyes with a blissful hum. Perhaps if you weren’t already so deep in your heat you might be able to sift through your thoughts with more coherence. But then, if you weren’t so deep in your heat, you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place, and so you probably wouldn’t get this far with your curiosity.

“Were you... Hah... Were you scenting me? I couldn’t tell because...”

Because your scent’s already so familiar.

Floyd doesn’t answer, but he does withdraw his hand and you whine low in your throat. Your displeasure is short-lived, though, for rough hands spread your thighs next, and before you know it he’s between your legs, licking a stripe up your slick-coated entrance. By instinct, you attempt to shut your legs, wanting to lock him there forever, but his hands keep you spread wide for him, and so you rest your ankles upon his shoulders while he continues to lick and nip, his razored teeth just barely scraping skin.

Suddenly, pressing him for answers doesn’t seem like your main priority when a long, thick tongue pushes its way into you at the next moment. He hums his enjoyment, and the vibrations ripple through you like waves in a pond. It’s much better than anything you could have accomplished with just your fingers alone, and you can’t stop the noisy mewls that fall freely from your lips, breathy and pitched in a way that foretells approaching orgasm. With the way his fingertips burrow into the pudge of your thighs to the way his tongue sloppily works in and out of you, the warmth in your stomach builds to an insurmountable level, and it isn’t long until you’re tipping over the edge. You dig your fingers into teal locks, pressing him firmly against your crotch, and cum with a strangled shout.

Floyd withdraws, his face glistening with your slick, and you shudder at both the sight of him and the faint ache of emptiness. He swipes a stray droplet from his cheek and samples it with a slow lick. You almost cum again, heat kindling within you once more.

“Ahaaa,” he exhales giddily, pupils blown so wide they eclipse his irises. “Shrimpy’s like a fountain today!”

You lessen your grip on his hair, chest heaving as you come down from your high, and tug him back onto the bed, hurrying to swap the positions before he can grab hold of you. You fumble with his still-hardening dick, coating your fingers with your slick and attempting to pump it with awkward, inexperienced strokes. Floyd supports himself on his elbows, eyeing you as you lean down to take the head of his cock in your mouth.

He hisses out a laugh. “Shrimpy’s not very good at this, huh?”

You want to snap at him, but all you can manage is a disgruntled scoff. You’ve entertained scenes like this in your dreams, in which you were skilled in all areas of sex, but now that you’re actually leaning over him, giving it your best effort to fit half of him in your mouth, you realize your dreams painted an ideal version of you that is not applicable to the real-world you. And that dents your pride a little. At least you can blame your sloppiness on your heat, which has you rushing through the motions in your impatience. Miraculously, your mouth manages to work some magic because his cock stiffens completely, curving up at an angle that you’re certain will hit the deepest spots within you.

You pull off of him with a wet pop and he giggles, reaching to pinch your cheek. Swatting at his hand, you crawl over him, straddling him, and brace your hands upon his chest. Floyd watches you, his arms folded behind his head, as he lies back and allows you to do the work. Your fingers wrap around the base of his cock, holding it steady while you align the soft, fleshy head with your hole. For a tense minute, you stare at the way the tip’s kissing your slit, oozing pre-cum. Had you been less omega-brained, you might have fretted over whether something so big would even fit, but right now all you need is to be completely filled to the brim.

Floyd unfolds his arms and rests his hands on your hips, seeming both amused and endeared to witness the emotions that shift on your face. Your eyes flick to his mismatched ones.

“Please...” You shiver, your hands closing around his larger ones. “Please, Floyd...”

You think that might have tempted him, for you’re hit with a stronger wave of his pheromones, but the thought is knocked out of your head when he lowers you onto his cock in a way that is uncharacteristically gentle. Your nails dig into his hands as slick, gummy walls swallow inch after thick inch. He’s concentrating on the way you stretch around him, groaning through clenched teeth, and he’s not even halfway in when you cum with a desperate wail. Floyd smirks up at you and, with his nails poking your hips, slams you down in one swift motion, spearing you entirely on his cock. You cry out your relief in delighted gasps.

“I-It’s inside...” you mumble, awestruck, as you press a hand to your stomach in an attempt to feel him. “It really—haah... Really fit...”

“‘Course it did,” he says pridefully. “I knew Shrimpy could do it.”

“Shrimpy only did it because of how wet—ah!” You nearly collapse when he thrusts up suddenly, the tip of his cock hitting a sensitive spot that sends pleasurable shockwaves rattling through you. You fix him with a weak scowl, but he isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at your hand intertwined with his while the other remains on your waist, keeping you steady. You loosen your grip for a moment before curling your fingers with a confidence only fostered by your heat. “C-Can I hold it?”

“S’not goin’ anywhere.”

You stick your tongue out at him and he laughs; and soon you’re starting to smile.

Swallowing your own heat-drunk giggles, you lift your hips slowly and ease back down onto him, shuddering at the way he fills you so completely. You do this a few more times while Floyd gleefully observes, and it isn’t long before you’re settling into a satisfying pace. He guides you up and down, watching you come undone with each steady roll of your hips. You’re a mess above him, fucking yourself silly while he meets you halfway with an occasional rough thrust, and you hold his hand so tightly you think you might tear it from his wrist. Floyd’s groans and grunts are music to your ears, spurring you onwards in your endeavors. You’re certain it’s just a byproduct of the heat, but he looks so enchanting beneath you, squeezing your hip and then reaching up to twist one of your perky nipples between his fingertips.

“Feels good?”

“So good,” you pant, breaths hot and wet. You’re overcome with the urge to pull him up and into your arms so that you can be even closer, but you’re too focused on feeling him deeper and so you never act on the temptation. “R-Really—mmph! Really good!”

He traces patterns into your stomach, giggling breathlessly. “I can tell. Shrimpy’s squeezin’ me soooo much.”

Neither of you seem to realize the base of his cock has swelled a considerable amount, but it’s brought to your attention the next time you slam your hips down and you’re stopped by his knot. You peer at it with lidded, glassy eyes and your omega instincts flare wildly, all messy bundles of nerves fraying at the idea that that could be inside you—that it should be inside you—locking you and Floyd together. You raise your hips, inches sliding out of you gradually, and you prepare yourself to take him—knot and all—when Floyd’s hand breaks from out of your hold to grab your waist, stopping your swift descent.

“Nuh-uh,” he chides, and you growl at him, almost animalistic with anger. “Shrimpy’s rule: No knotting.”

“This is—aah... Mmh... This is different. A t-trial run. This time...doesn’t count.”

“Hee hee. Shrimpy’s gonna regret it later.”

You squirm in his hold, begging him to keep moving through whimpers and whines, and he complies with a playful whistle.

“Please. Just once. Just once and then—”

“Mm, nope,” he says, popping the ‘P.’

“Floooyd...”

“Shrimpyyy.”

You sigh a sad, little sound that has Floyd’s eyes softening. His knuckle pets your cheek, oddly fond.

“S’just the heat talking,” he reminds you, and you lean into his warm, welcoming hand. “See? Shrimpy’s just followin’ instincts.”

He slides you off of him and your hole clenches uselessly around nothing. Within seconds, he’s flipped you so that you’re lying on your back and he’s above you. His teeth flash at you, sharp and bright, wild and untamed. You sandwich his face between your palms, adoring the way nasally laughter ripples through him. You’re glad he isn’t a mirror because if he was he might reflect an expression you don’t wish to confront at this very moment.

Floyd’s positioned himself and in one speedy thrust that nearly knocks the air from your lungs he slots himself inside, only this time you feel the overwhelming stretch of his knot as it fills you entirely, and you howl with ecstasy, linking your arms around his neck to bring him closer to your throat. Floyd moans lowly, resting his arm above your head and biting into the muscle so hard thin ribbons of blood streak from the punctures. Your chest is heaving, heart pounding out an erratic, heat-driven rhythm, and you cum around his thick knot with a strangled sob, tears running down your cheeks.

Within just a few more tight thrusts, Floyd’s emptied his creamy load inside, and you don’t have the sobriety to consider the weight of broken rules—rules that you had specifically put in place. You listen to his soft pants as he pulls away from his arm, saliva and blood stringing from his lips, and he licks it away with a swipe of his tongue. When he attempts to slide out, your face twists in discomfort.

“Hurts...”

“Aw. I’m sorry, Shrimpy,” he coos, adjusting your position so that he’s lying on his back and you’re resting on top of his chest, his knot still buried within you. His hand rests upon the small of your back, and he gives you a pleased, toothy grin. “Feel better now?”

“A little. Thank you,” you whisper, laying your head over his heart while the extremities of your heat ebb away, satisfied now that you’ve been properly filled and knotted by an alpha. His heart beats a steady thrum: buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum. The sweet scent of rain encases the both of you, easing you into a sleepy spell. You peer at the bite mark on his forearm and frown. “You bit yourself?”

“Didn’t wanna bite your neck.”

“Oh.” Your eyes flick to his, but he’s avoiding your stare, his cheeks tinged the faintest pink while he gazes at the ceiling. It’s a rare sight to see the Floyd Leech flustered and withdrawn; you wonder what’s the cause of this sudden shift in character. “You could’ve bitten anywhere else. I...wouldn’t have minded.”

“Didn’t wanna hurt you.”

“Oh.”

He’s looking at you now, the color on his cheeks fading, and a bashful smile plays at his lips. “Didn’t mean to break your rule.”

You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, petting him gently. “It’s fine. We’ll figure it out once we’re unstuck.”

His chest rumbles with laughter. “Whatcha wanna talk about ‘til then?”

“Um... Well, what’s a good stuck-together conversation topic?”

Floyd hums thoughtfully. “You like shiny stuff?”

You blink at him. “Yeah. Why?”

“Just askin,’” he says, but his eyes flash with mischief. He leans in until his nose is touching yours. “Cuz I like shiny stuff, and Shrimpy’s glowin’ right now.”

Your face warms considerably and you push him away with an embarrassed groan. His giggles are muffled in your palm. “Not when we’re stuck together...”

v. “rather, ‘honey rain’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

You’re in the process of discussing spring weather with Azul when Floyd rushes up to you, takes your hand, gently spreads your fingers open as if they’re petals, and drops something onto your palm. You expect another tooth or a stone or a crumpled flower—all items he’s been gifting you at random over the course of a few months; what you don’t expect is an eel keychain. Perhaps you should have, though. You’ve learned to expect the unexpected with Floyd.

“What’s this?”

“For you!”

“An eel...for me?”

He nods and holds up a shrimp keychain. Your face warms when the implication becomes clear.

“It’s cute. Thanks. I’ll keep it safe.”

Floyd beams at you and presses his lips to your cheek in a fleeting smooch. Just as quick as he had come, he’s retreating, skipping off in delight, his laughter echoing down the halls while he ignores your flustered shout. You know he wants you to pursue him, but you’re too embarrassed to give chase. Instead, you scrub at your cheek with a huff. He’s always kissing your cheeks and sometimes even your lips. You enjoy it too much to remind him of all the rules the both of you have since broken. They mean nothing now.

“You certainly smell pleased,” Azul remarks with a sly smirk.

“It’s better than smelling funny.”

“Floyd still hasn’t told you what you smell like?”

“No! And it’s really annoying!” You peer at the tiny plush eel in your hands, its beady eyes and stitched smile taunting you. “It’s always ‘Shrimpy smells funny’ and never ‘Shrimpy smells like something that isn’t funny.’”

“I can assure you your scent is not at all humorous. It’s actually quite pleasant.”

“Are you just saying that to be nice, or are you saying that to be nice?”

Azul shakes his head in amusement. “Can’t I compliment a fellow omega and, most importantly, a friend?”

“Can’t you admit the truth?”

“Details, details.” He waves the dig away dismissively. “It’s no wonder Floyd fancies you so. He adores sweet things.”

“Oh, do I smell sweet then? Like candy? Or maybe like a pastry?”

“You smell like floral honey.”

“Huh. That’s...definitely not a funny scent.”

“Not at all. Rather, ‘honey rain’ has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

You wonder if you should object. You wonder if you should try to claim that you and Floyd are still friends despite the evolution of your arrangement. Neither of you have admitted it, but it’s obvious you’ve stepped over the boundary of ‘just friends’ and have entered new territory—territory that’s so very akin to lovers.

But you only smile covertly. “Yeah, it does,” you mumble, tracing your finger over the eel’s tilted head. “It really does.”

#tw: abo #tw: omegaverse #tw: knotting #n/sfw #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #floyd leech x reader #floyd x reader #lunar love hotel 2023 #fluffy floyd hours #since the type of writing wasn't specified i decided to write a oneshot :D

1K notes · View notes

hey-august · 2 months

Note

Stumbled across your work and I’m OBSESSED!!! I was wondering if you could do a prompt where it’s a mix of 18 where buggy’s jealous of one of the crew mates or someone random flirting with his partner (gn if you can) and his partner is kinda unaware? Buggy then takes his partner away from the situation, maybe throwing them over his shoulder. When they’re in private, things start to get steamy and he keeps talking about how his partner is his and only his etc. his partner realizes finally and acts a bit bratty, resulting in 4 where he says “I’m gonna fucking ruin you” and then proceeds to screw their brains out? I got mega buggy brain rot lmaooo no rush tho!

Thanks anon!! I had to restart this like 3 times and then it got waaay out of hand. I hope you enjoy!

Prompts: “I don’t like people touching what’s mine.” “I’m going to fucking ruin you." Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, buggy x GN!reader, oral m receiving, penetrative sex, some degradation, jealous buggy doesn't know how to deal with his feelings except through possessive sex Word count: ~1.3k

Your cheery laugh echoed in Buggy’s head, bouncing in the tunnel that narrowed his vision. He could only focus on the things he didn’t want to see. The hand pressed against the small of your back. A touch that moved upwards to stop on your shoulder. A squeeze. The thumb rubbing against your bare skin. The charming smile you reciprocated with your own sweet smile. Not the faux polite grin you use to deflect unwanted attention, but a glowing smile. Genuine. Innocent.

When you returned from running errands, Buggy expected you to come back with purchases. He didn’t expect you to come back with a leech who looked like they wanted nothing more than to put their filthy fucking lips on you. Buggy knew better than anyone how you taste and feel against his mouth and he easily recognized that hunger reflected in the unwelcome visitor’s shit-colored eyes.

“Buggy, that was rude!” you exclaimed as you were dragged below deck, leaving the guest behind.

Hearing you explain how they were “so nice” to help you carry everything was the spark that lit the embers sitting in his stomach. In a flurry of activity, Buggy quickly dispersed the items you bought to his crew to deal with, and pulled you out of the lech’s hands. Behind your back, the pirate also dismissed the slimeball with a floating middle finger.

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine,” Buggy muttered.

You struggled with being both pushed and pulled by the arm hooked around your back. Tripping over your own feet, you stumbled into your guide, who hoisted you up and kept marching through the ship without breaking pace.

“He was just helping me! That damn rum you like was heavy, Buggy. I couldn’t carry it all by myself.” Your explanation was breathy from the exasperation ballooning in your chest and from being handled like a sack of potatoes. “I even got fried dough for us to share,” you quietly said to yourself.

The excitement from earlier had dimmed, clouded by the fog in your head. Maybe you could’ve carried everything, but you were afraid of breaking the glass bottles. Plus, you could hardly see around the box. Not only was it helpful to have someone carry the extra bags, they also helped keep you steady and the expensive drinks safe. What was so wrong with that?

The thoughts were jostled out of place when Buggy dropped you onto a soft surface - the bed you two shared. Hands nudged you to move as he crawled on top to join you and began pressing kisses all over your face. Across your cheeks, your nose, your lips, then moving down your neck. The attention was overwhelming. Intoxicating. He always had that effect on you.

You tried to halt the onslaught, but failed. Pulling back didn’t work, since he was already maneuvering you into place on the bed. Placing hands on him didn’t do anything except add to the dizziness in your head. You could feel the heat emanating off his body, the flex of muscles as he advanced, the need he had, a need only you could alleviate.

“Bug- what are-” Anything you tried to say was interrupted by your own heavy breathing or his lips pressed to yours.

“-missed you. Don’t like it when you’re not with me,” Buggy whined against you. The taste of his desperation poured down your throat, burning like gasoline down to your heated core.

Running out of exposed skin to touch, Buggy moved quickly to undress you. A favor you returned, spurred on by his desire. You wasted no time in revealing a part of him that was begging for attention - red-faced and weeping for your touch.

The mattress sank slightly as Buggy kneeled upright and the uneven terrain pitched you closer to his throbbing member. You swiped your tongue along the slick precum smeared on the head of his cock, earning a satisfied groan from the pirate. He rested a hand on your head and followed your pace, dragging his hot firm length along your sensitive lips and swirling tongue.

“Fuuuck, this mouth was made for me.” “You’re doing s-so good. So good for me.” “Let me hear those sounds.” “What a dirty fucking mouth you have and it’s all f-fucking mine.”

Filth poured from Buggy in between grunts of pleasure. Just like his mouth, his hands couldn’t stop moving - running through your hair, caressing your cheeks, thumbing your bottom lip - each movement following a trail of lust. Your indulgent moans were getting breathier, closer to gasps for oxygen. Buggy pulled back, providing respite for you to catch your breath. He smeared the drool from the corner of your puffy lips, prompting you to open your mouth and stick out your tongue for more.

“You’re so fucking needy… You like the taste of my fat cock? Does it make you feel good to suck me off?” A finger under your chin tilted your face upwards.

“Ah-hah,” you responded, with a slight nod.

“And you’re all mine, right? I make you feel good because you belong to me…say it.” Buggy grabbed your jaw and held you in place, his eyes locked on yours. The fire lighting his eyes was different than usual. There were the flames of lust and desire, but also something hotter and more dangerous.

“A-are you jealous?” You stayed in his grasp and questioned his hold. A question that caused the inferno in his body to surge. A question answered by the grip on your jaw increasing. You pulled away. “Seriously? Buggy, nothing happened. I can’t believe you’re so worked up about it.” Although you were trying to douse the flames, the dismissive tone dripping from your voice had the opposite effect.

Buggy followed your retreat. His hardened gaze, still locked onto you, pushed you back until you were laying against the pillows at the head of the bed.

“I don’t like people touching my things.” The repeated sentiment was emphasized by his hands groping your thighs and pressing your legs apart. “I’m going to fucking ruin you.”

Buggy spat on the head of his heavy erection and lined it up with your entrance. His chest heaved with the ravenous need threatening to explode. Once more, his eyes seeked out yours with a look overcome with passion, jealousy, and the smallest ember of fear.

“I’m all yours,” you whispered.

The assurance, which carried just above his restrained huffs, was all he needed to follow through on his promise. Slamming into you, Buggy began fucking with a brutal and relentless tempo. A pace your body accepted as his cock fit perfectly into you. His hips pistoned into yours, powered by heat and steam and following the tracks to a rapidly approaching destination. A lone hand slipped between your bodies, the fingers playing your body just as they know how.

“S-say my name.” Buggy’s hot breath was on your neck as he rested his head next to yours. Unable to keep himself upright, he succumbed to the weight of his yearning.

“Buggy, please…wanna -aahh- wanna come,” you whined, pressing your face against his head and hair.

“Keep going…” The tightness in his throat constricted the words into a delicious whine.

You repeated his name, first panting it into his ear, before crying out louder and stuttering as your coil twisted and strained before snapping. Falling apart under the pirate, you tried to keep speaking, but the incoherent babbling was silenced with a heavy kiss.

Buggy pushed himself up, taking a moment to drink in your blissful sweat-coated body writhing under him. The remnants of your orgasm had you squeezing against his cock, drawing him closer to the edge. Feeling himself tip over the precipice, Buggy pulled out and jerked his slick cock above you.

A strangled groan accompanied his release. Hot cum fell on your stomach, with a few spurts reaching your chest. Buggy pumped until you were covered in him. The last few dribbles that clung tight to his aching head were rubbed onto your thigh. He wanted to be sure that you were decorated with every drop. That there was no question who you belonged to.

(prompt list)

#buggy smut #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy the clown #buggy x you #x reader #buggy op #opla buggy #one piece buggy #buggy the clown smut #one piece smut #buggy x gender neutral reader #gender neutral reader #hey-august buggy prompts

104 notes · View notes

whumpsoda · 1 month

Text

Neglected - Malak & Adrastus

WOHEO Masterlist

Hopefully I’ll get to more early Malak stuff soon. Have this for now!

cw: neglect, pet whump, starvation, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, vampire whumper

———————————————————————

Malak followed along with an intense fascination at the screen, visuals of a colorful program dancing around in the reflection of his eyes. From an outsider his mind would have appeared eerily vacant, yet there was no one around to make that observation.

He was alone.

Sitting far too close to the screen he was, so close that it filled his line of vision entirely and sucked him in completely. His teeth were gripped to the collar of his plush sweater, absentmindedly gnawing over each tiny thread of yarn. A trickle of drool slipped over the fabric, adding to the pool of moisture that dribbled from his mouth and was sucked by the cloth.

Whatever he was watching, he really didn’t know nor did he have the mind to care, seemed to run on a never ending loop. It was blissful to watch over and over again, mindlessly filling his head and keeping him blankly entertained. He was so captivated in fact, that he could ignore the screams of his body in favor of brainless satisfaction.

But it hurt.

He hurt.

The pain was distant but still heavily noticeable, irritatingly interrupting his focus. He was hungry, so hungry, his stomach shriveling up and calling for him to satiate the hunger. Every so often his belly would twist and groan, his hands gripping weakly at his own plump flesh in a feeble attempt to rid the noise. His head pounded along with it, sickly beating on him to do something.

He could ignore it. He would much rather continue the pattern of letting his mind wander away, head empty except from growing fog that filled the space where his brain should’ve been.

Unfortunately, while his eyes and ears were captivated by the program, his nose was not.

He could not ignore the stench of his own unwashed body, hair and skin sticky with ruminating sweat. Curls stuck to his flesh, frizzy and coated with grease. Malak had no sense of how long he’d been without being bathed or fed, just a couple of the tasks he could no longer do himself, and seemingly the neglect was catching up with him.

Even if truly he had no want to, Malak pulled his fixed gaze away from the captivating TV, ignoring the suffocating urge to look back. Surely if he did there was no chance he could get away from it.

He followed the sound of his master’s clicking heels, their faint, evergrowing music, and the taps of expensive pallets and brushes to their countertop, all the way into their bathroom. Malak stumbled in on all fours, drowsily leaning against the doorframe to keep himself upright.

Adrastus came soon into view as he inched further into the room. They leaned over their sink with a stick of expensive mascara in hand, eyes opened wide to carefully apply to their lashes. Their hair was elegantly done, and a luxurious, well fitting dress was fixed over their body. They looked gorgeous. Of course, Malak always thought they did. He was especially fond of the vibrant red color meticulously put on their lips, that reminded him of the blood they so craved.

He got a little dizzy just thinking about it.

They must’ve heard the clink of his leash as he took another step, whipping their eyes around in the mirrors reflection to find him. “Oh, hello, dear!” They called, as they brushed through their eyelashes once more.

Finally reaching his master, his impossibly heavy hands and knees threatening to give out, Malak plopped back onto his ankles, seated into a kneeling position. He whined, a grating sound as he began stroking his head up and around their leg, curls tickling their skin.

“What might you be doing in here?” They questioned, just about finished up. Their tone was uninterested, far more preoccupied with their looks than the health of their thrall. “I thought I left you with the television on.”

Malak nodded against their calf, groaning sickly in agreement. “That’s right, isn’t it? Why would you leave your spot? I could’ve sworn I put on your favorite.”

He wailed, boisterous and from the depths of his chest, causing them to jump and drop their makeup. He’d never made that sound before. He didn’t know he could.

“Darling, is something bothering you?”

Lips downturned, he nodded.

“Let me just finish getting ready and I’ll check on you, okay? I bet you’re just upset you’re not watching TV anymore, huh?” What? That wasn’t it. He needed help. “And who’s fault is that? Go back to the living room and I’ll be right with you.”

No, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Malak needed them right then! He couldn’t wait any longer. He cried out for them again, banging to the tile with burly yet exhausted fists.

“Oh, dear, come on now, don’t make such a fuss.” The vampire gifted him a few soft, weighted pats to the head. Each heavy press was bouncing the thoughts out from his brain, leaving him confused and cotton headed.

He needed… he…

What was he doing again? There was something missing, swiftly stolen from his mind. Something he could have sworn was just there. Maybe.

Malak’s stomach growled, loud and strained, reaching all the way up to his caving throat. He groaned along with the noise, expression twisting in need and pain.

“Hur… hurrrght! Hurt! Hurts!” He wailed, tugging feebly to their dress, pitifully trying to regain their attention. His voice came out strange and grated, rippling at the back of his throat.

“Hey!” They snapped, swatting him off. “Malak, you’re going to rip my dress!” He recoiled at the raise of their voice, almost tumbling onto his back from his lack of balance.

Rarely ever did they call him by his actual name. It was always the cute pet names, the ones that made his belly swirl with flattered pleasure. He’d upset them.

Shrinking back, his sludgy tone quieted to a whisper. “Hurt… hur… hurtsss…”

After a quiet moment their playful composure returned. They giggled at him, their condescending, pitying smile only making Malak feel worse. “Silly boy. You’re hurting because you came crawling in here, all dumb and confused, and not watching your show!” They cooed, cupping his chin.

Malak could only let another croaking cry pour from his lips, clawing feebly again at his master’s sleeve. That just wasn’t it! Why wouldn’t they listen to him? Why couldn’t he make it make sense?

Their face softened a bit as he fussed. “Come along, pumpkin. I’ll make it all better, okay?” Their fingers trailed down the leash from his throat to the floor, clutching the end as they lifted back to their feet.

“Nngh!” Malak groaned in befuddled frustration as his master yanked him forward in the direction of the living room, pulling the opposite way and in return being choked by his thick collar.

“Come, dear. Follow.” The said flatly.

He knew he had to listen, he knew he did, to obediently follow their every command with no questions asked, but he just couldn’t. He dreadfully ached and wailer for help, even at the expense of their disapproval.

Eventually Malak relented, giving in to the jerk of the leash and crawling with knobby knees that knocked the wood all the way back to his pile of plush pillows. Adrastus gestured to the tussled spot, looking just the way he left it.

“Here, darling, you’ll feel so much better by the television.” As he turned away, back to presumably beg for aid once again, they forcibly turned his face back to the television until the urge dissipated.

Were they petting him? The delightful sensation was dissipating, pushed to a distance from his awareness by the increasing softening of his brain, turning it to a sticky mess of mush in his head.

“Master is busy, alright dear? I can’t give you my full attention all the time. There’s only one of me, you know.” He nodded along as they spoke, gradually digesting and agreeing with their words. Was he moving his head? Or was it them? “Watch just one more episode for Master, okay? And then I’ll give you the best little bubble bath.”

Another episode… couldn’t hurt. He did enjoy the TV. Maybe it would make him feel better. And he wanted a bubble bath! Only good boys got those, so of course he had to do what they said. Surely his master knew what was right, they always told him so. It always seemed to succeed in distracting him from all the silly worries that plagued him.

Nimble fingers soothed his unwashed skin, ever so gently nudging him further toward the screen. “Good boy.” They tenderly purred, letting a swirl of pleasantries prance about his body.

He’d be just fine. Just one more episode, and his master would return to shower him with well deserved care and affection. Because he was a good boy.

Just one more episode.

Right?

———————————————————————

Taglist- @softvampirewhump @iys-cloud @battyfantasy @xx-adam-xx

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

#we only have each other #whump #whump writing #my writing #Malak oc #Adrastus oc #Pet whump #pet whumpee #conditioned whumpee #brainwashing #hypnosis #hypnotized whumpee #brainwashed whumpee #whumpblr #thrall whumpee #vampire whump #vampire #vampire whumper

33 notes · View notes

bodhranwriting · 11 months

Text

Nostos and the Filigree Lantern: Prologue

by Bodhrán M.

The earth opened up on a Tuesday just before noon.

By the time the sun had set, there was only one soul left in the village and this time the darkness was merely an absence of stars.

Eventually, moonlight filtered through the warped slats of the water cask, silver strings stitching a fence between him and the inevitable truth. Moving his hand took an age. Every muscle in his arm seemed to work as a separate entity, unfolding joint by joint like links in a chain, until his twitching fingers touched the first fragile beam of light.

He half-expected it to hurt – some distant part of his mind told him he was being ridiculous – but the skin didn’t blister or peel or even pucker. Instead, he turned his hand this way and that, staring at the old scars in a new, paler light.

The only word in his head was moonmelt.

It meant the kind of light which only happened right in the middle of the month, just before spring turned to summer. It was the kind of light you only got when the days were stretching, but before the insects and the damp heat flattened the evening. A night with moonmelt meant eating outside for the first time that year, huddled around a communal fire with shared drowsiness from planting and quiet, contagious hope for those shoots to grow.

Moonmelt meant a future waiting to happen.

Nostos didn’t know how long he stayed like that, bathing his fingers in the silver threads, before some semblance of sense filtered through the fog in his brain.

Inhaling sharply, he dragged his hand back to his side and began to pat himself down as best he could in the confined space. His questing fingers found nothing worse than a few bruises on his shoulder and ribs, a graze on his left palm, and a small lump near his temple just above his hairline. It smarted as he gently probed it, leaving a heartbeat of dizziness in its wake, but he didn’t think it’d caused unconsciousness.

In fact, he wasn’t certain he’d blacked out at all. Despite a conspicuous lack of memories from the moment the sun came back to now, Nostos hesitantly put the loss of time down to what his grandmother had called heart-shock. It wasn’t unheard of for miners who had survived explosions to experience it: their bodies put their minds somewhere else while they piloted themselves.

And the best way to haul yourself out of that state, Nostos remembered, was to start making the brain work.

Deliberately, Nostos looked around. His eyelids fluttered as he let each blink become a painting of its own, filing them away separately in his mind’s eye.

He was curled up in a wooden water butt, knocked over onto its side. A shallow pool of cold, brackish-smelling rainfall was soaking into his breeches under his hip. The lid had come off when it’d been struck – by who or what he didn’t know – and he could see the reflections of stars in the spill just beyond the rim. Rough splinters caught in his curls as he tried to move, beads of blood blossoming wetly on his skull. The cask rocked with his movements, causing his crawl to become twice as difficult as it should have been.

He didn’t understand why he hadn’t been discovered.

Maybe he still would.

The world was silent as he cautiously clawed his way out and onto the rough paving stone of the alleyway, but one look let him know that this silence existed outside of his own perspective. Not for the first time, he thanked and cursed the Gods for his deafness. If he’d had to hear the screams – if, of course, they had screamed – he’d probably now be mad.

Unless he was mad already. Crouching in a familiar street beside unfamiliar ruins felt like it should be a kind of madness in itself. The twisted, perforated houses couldn’t be the same sturdy homes he’d passed every single day of his life. The world couldn’t have gone dark like that except in a fevered nightmare…

Stop.

The sharpness of his own thoughts surprised him but that was enough to focus on.

Panicking is how you die, they said. What do you do when you get lost? Find water. Find food. Find shelter. It doesn’t matter that you’re in your own home, you are lost. What do you do?

Find people.

Maybe you’re not the only one.

Relief struck him like lightning. Nostos staggered, barely catching himself on the rough stone of Widow Lemmas’ house. The night air burned as it cycled rapidly though his lungs as his legs began to move by themselves. The remains of a vase cracked under his shoe, an orange shard ricocheting off a wall as he broke into a sprint.

Nostos ran. He pelted up the main street – lungs burning, dust and smoke rasping in his throat – kicking open doors as he passed. He yanked open windows, crawled under the shattered remnants of tables and beds, and hammered on chicken coops. He hauled himself up trees, ripped apart bushes, and vaulted fences. He even tried to call out, cupping his hands about his mouth like his brother had when shouting to his friends, but he couldn’t make the words come.

He stumbled to a stop by the little temple on the crown of the hill, coughing and dry heaving. The doors had been ripped off, the great metal halves flung halfway down the road with gouges a quarter-inch into the protective runes. His heart thudded so hard against his chest, it felt like the inside of his breastbone was bruising.

Nausea roiling in his stomach, Nostos staggered into the building. Seizing the thick, silver-knotted rope, he sank to the ground and dragging the bell into motion.

He wrenched it until his muscles screamed, watching as it swung wildly back and forth. A single, solitary pigeon exploded out of a hole in the roof.

Someone would come now. Someone would hear it and they’d come.

Please someone had to come!

It wasn’t until he collapsed, gasping, onto his back that he realised that his hands were bleeding.

Nostos lay there, gaze fixed immovably on the brass-coloured alarm, waiting.

The bell slowed, brass edges gleaming in the moonlight, and ponderously came to a stop.

It was only then that Nostos gave in to his fears and cried.

#Nostos and the Filigree Lantern #fantasy #dark fantasy #deaf #writing #writeblr

123 notes · View notes

thebibliosphere · 1 year

Note

oh my GOD . oh my god. okay thank u so much this is game changing info this is sounding Very Relevant i also have adhd and joint hypermobility as well as ibs/sibo and everything gets worse around my period..... damn . also the nasal spray is vasoactive intestinal peptide (they call it VIP for short)

Oh good! I’m glad. So one little thing: SIBO has been linked to mast cell dysregulation in the gut which can cause wider systemic issues. Some people find significant relief in resolving their SIBO. If you don’t already have a licensed dietician or GI doctor, I’d highly recommend finding one and going after the SIBO.

IBS has also recently been linked to milder forms of mast cell dysregulation as well so, that's neat from a science aspect.

And yeah. I had a hunch you were going to say that. While I’m sure taking VIP has helped some people feel better, it didn't do anything for me except make me feel dizzy and headachey.

I get better results from taking otc flonase because it helps decrease histamine inflammation, which also helps with exhaustion and brain fog. Also adding electrolytes into my water does what the CIRS doctor told me the VIP would do. It certainly never helped my gut motility but that’s the EDS, and no amount of nasal VIP was going to help with that.

Best of luck!

#chronic health tag

119 notes · View notes

hellish-hyperfixation · 9 months

Text

rainy days | seo changbin x male reader

genre: hurt/comfort (is that even a genre?)

Sometimes, rain fell from the skies and you didn't have an umbrella or a roof over your head to protect yourself from it. And sometimes, that rain led to a flood that consumed your very being. Luckily, Changbin is there to help you remember how to swim.

requested

word count: 1.2k

warnings: mentions of self harm, vivid description of a panic attack

a/n: i am back! and will hopefully be able to finish the final request and make all the changes i want to by tonight. this fic was entirely based on my own experiences, so it may not be accurate or relatable for everyone, but i hope you can enjoy nonetheless.

reblogs and comments are always appreciated:)

Life is… Not always fun, to say the least. Whether it’s a single big event ruining your life like a plane crashing into the middle of the road, or a collection of small problems overwhelming you like a house with a hole in the roof filling up until the family inside of it drowns, life gets tough. Today is no exception.

It started like any other day. Wake up, morning routine, and a seemingly endless list of responsibilities ready to be fulfilled and disposed of. Only, it wasn’t like any other day. From the second you woke up, it was going awry. Being late for work, thus yelled at by your boss; getting the wrong order, but not wanting to inconvenience the employees; it started to rain when you hadn’t brought your umbrella, making you and your clothes get soaked; among other slight inconveniences that felt larger and more irritating the more they built up.

The roof was blown off by a hurricane by this point, and the only reason water hadn’t spilt over the side was because you weren’t home yet.

But the moment you got home, they flooded, and they flooded hard.

You threw off your shoes and slumped down on the floor, warm tears already streaming down your face as a stark contrast to your now cold cheeks. Your clothes stuck to you like a second skin, and you wanted for nothing more than to grow claws and rip them to shreds. Any bare skin that showed stung and felt overworked by the rain that pelted down on it, and no matter how much you wiped it just wouldn’t dry.

You sat there on the floor in front of the front door, pulling your legs to your chest and burying your face into your knees. At some point — you couldn’t tell when — your lungs began working overtime to fill your brain with oxygen that was never enough, and your throat let out sobs and whines and shudders in an attempt to rid your heart of its massive burden. Your head blamed your lungs for not working hard enough because it felt cloudy and foggy and not a single coherent thought was going through your mind because the only thing left in there was dizzy, dizzy, dizzy and the occasional throb, throb, throb that pounded against your skull like a semi truck with tires made of oil.

You were drowning — your entire body submerged in thick, murky water, with weights pulling you down at your ankles and wrists. Oxygen was a privilege, one you apparently didn’t earn. Your fingers clawed at your arms, digging into them tightly enough to leave moon-shaped crevices in the skin — some even going as far as leaving tiny droplets of blood that made the water even muddier. You didn’t know how long you sat there, overstimulated and stressed and wishing it would all just end already—

“–be! Baby, come back to me. C’mon, deep breaths now. We practiced this, remember? In, 2, 3, out, 2, 3”

Your boyfriend. He came home. He’s home. And so are you.

You followed his instructions, taking slow breaths as prompted, and slowly but surely you managed to clear parts of the fog in your mind. He sat with you on the floor, hands grasping yours and squeezing in time with the breaths.

“Can you tell me what day it is for me?”

You have to think for a moment, wading through the murky swamp of information to get to the day of the week, then you relay the information to him. You look up to meet his face, and a relieved smile graces his lips. Your heart aches at having created the need for such an expression in the first place, but it also sings with joy at knowing he’s there for you even at these low points.

“How are you feeling?”

You sniffle and let out a wet laugh, nodding.

“Like shit. But better. Thanks, Binnie.”

He smiles in response to match your attempt at one.

“Good. That’s good. Up for taking a nice bath?”

You shake your head this time, suddenly feeling aware of the stickiness on your skin again.

“I think I’ve had enough water on my body for today. I’ll just have a quick rinse.” You slowly stand, and Changbin helps you up with strong, steady arms. “Could you get some dry clothes ready for me?” You ask, somewhat timid at needing more help. The radiant smile on his face washes it away. How could someone be so willing to be there with you every step of the way? Asking for nothing in return?

“Anything for my man,” Changbin teases, and you chuckle despite yourself.

“Cuddles in the bedroom after?” And you know before you even ask that the answer is a definite yes.

________

After your quick shower, you change into the clothes that Changbin left for you on the bathroom sink, and feel every muscle in your body melt at how comforting it is. It’s one of his oversized hoodies, which means it consumes you whole with your boyfriend being so much more buff than yourself, one of your best boxers, and a pair of your favorite sweatpants. They were all warm, meaning they must’ve been fresh out of the dryer.

When you get to the bedroom, you’re met with Changbin already laying in bed, tapping away at a laptop. Soft music played from one of the speakers on his desk, wrapping the room in a comforting blanket. He looks up at you as you enter, greeting you with a slight grin.

“Feeling better?” He shuts his laptop and places it on the bedside table. All of his attention was on you, and he made sure you knew it. You only nod in response and flop onto the bed, arms wrapping around his torso. The sleeves of your hoodie rolled up at the action, revealing parts of your arm to him. He placed a gentle hand on it, pushing the clothes even more up to reveal more skin and let tender fingers skim along its surface. Your fingernails must’ve left their little moons behind.

One glance solidified your suspicions. Scattered across your skin at random intervals were bits of skin peeling off. Looking closely, one could see healed scars showing pain from the past. You looked away.

“I’m sorry…” You whispered, clutching on to Changbin just a little tighter. “I know I said I’d stop, it’s just—” You sniffled, feeling tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

“I know, baby. It’s okay. You did what you had to.” Changbin wrapped his arms around your shoulders, giving a tight squeeze. He then leaned down to leave a silent kiss on your head.

You laid there for a moment, allowing the warmth from Changbin’s body and his hoodie to give your body the much needed relaxation. You closed your eyes, listening to his soft breathing and the music playing in the background. Comfort. Warmth. Love. Safety. The storm was over, and you could sit in peace knowing that you survived. There would be more to come in the future, but you knew that Changbin would be there for you every step of the way of this arduous journey.

#seo changbin x male reader #stray kids x male reader #x male reader #kpop x male reader #tw: self harm #tw: anxiety attack #tw: panic attack

24 notes · View notes

gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot · 9 months

Text

Chapter 10: The Heist - Sapere aude (Dare to know)

Warnings: None except my pitiful attempt at Scottish slang, if someone wants to correct it or yell at me, be my guest

https://archiveofourown.org/works/47442772

Masterlist

Part 1: The dare (you’re here)

Part 2: The theft

Part 3: The aftermath

‘‘I hate you’’ Riot groaned with her head in her hands, hunched over the table. ‘‘Why, Johnny? Why did you think this was a good idea? And why did I go along with it?’’

‘‘Dinnae keek at me’’ Soap slurred, looking sadly at his empty glass before grabbing the bottle and pouring the orange liquid that was left in it. Most of it went in the glass at least.

‘‘What?’’ She raised her head to look at him, regretting it almost instantly when the stupid lights of the mess hall made her eyes crawl back into her skull. Or that’s how it felt.

‘‘Dinnae… ack… don’t look at me, ye bought th’ Irn Bru…’’

‘‘I bought the Irn Bru, you didn’t have to mix it with vodka!’’ Riot hissed, and that was even a worse idea than opening her eyes. Thank God it was early for dinner and the mess hall was mostly empty, and they had chosen for obvious reasons the table that was the furthest from other people.

Why they chose to drink in the mess hall in first place was beyond her.

‘‘Bit ye drank it!’’ He pouted, shaking the empty bottle he had used to mix the drinks right under her nose, and she leaned back, repulsed by the smell.

‘‘Stop fucking… fu… mierda (shit)… Deja de gritar, cojones (Stop shouting, damnit)’’ She grunted, looking around sneakily. ‘‘If Price catches us I’m going to murder you myself before he can’’

‘‘Aww ah knew ye loved me’’ Soap smiled broadly, grabbing her hands and shaking them enthusiastically. ‘‘Ye wid murdurr me sae ah wouldn’t suffer…’’

‘‘¿Qué?’’ Riot blinked, staring at him with her mouth open. Most of the time, in normal circumstances, her brain could comprehend or at least try to make out what the fuck Johnny was saying when the thickest of his accent hit. But with her mind and his tongue fogged by the goddamned mix of vodka and Irn Bru that seemed unlikely to happen. She hadn’t even realized that her English was gone to shit and her own accent was stronger than normal.

‘‘What?’’ Soap stared back, with the empty glass in his hand, and after trying to drink the emptiness, glared at it as if it was his worst enemy.

She shook her head, and groaned when that was even a worse idea than hissing.

‘‘We are so dead if Price catches us’’ Why, oh why did she think she’d do a nice thing for Johnny when she saw a case of Irn Bru at the supermarket in base. Why the fuck did he have two half pints of vodka hidden in his room. Why were the fucking lights so strong in that bloody room.

Why the fuck did she agree it wouldn’t hurt to have a little drink before dinner, for the good old times.

‘‘If we hae tae be caught, let it be th' Lt’’ Soap slurred again, with a shit-eating grin that froze her heart but did nothing to sober her up. ‘‘He might fancy a swig’’

‘‘Nonononononononononono’’ Riot started shaking her head and stopped abruptly with the sudden dizziness, but kept saying ‘no’ over and over again. The mere idea of Ghost catching them drunk was… fucking hell. She’d die for real. ‘‘Do NOT fucking summon him, I swear to God I’ll murder you’’

‘‘Aww…’’ He giggled, hunching over until he rested his forehead on the cold surface of the table. After a second, he giggled again, turning his head and peeked at her. ‘‘Truth or dare’’

‘‘We’re certainly not playing truth or dare while half drunk in the mess hall, Johnny’’

‘‘Truth or daaaareeee…’’ Soap insisted with a sing-song voice and puppy eyes, and Riot sighed.

‘‘Dare’’ She regretted it the second she said the word, seeing Soap’s mischievous eyes. ‘‘No! Wait! Truth!’’

‘‘Ye cannae change yer choice, lassie’’ He laughed, sitting up again and interlacing his fingers. ‘‘Rules, ya know’’

‘‘Fuck you’’ She groaned, leaning back in her chair and looking at the ceiling. Maybe if she looked at the lights long enough she’d pass out or maybe, if she was lucky, she’d die already. ‘‘What the fuck do you want me to do’’

‘‘A'm waantin' ye tae dae a heist’’ Soap slurred happily, nodding his head up and down.

‘‘English, MacTAVISH’’ Riot hissed, the last part loud enough to make a private that was coming in the mess hall look at them briefly before continuing their path.

‘‘Ah, bugger… I want you to steal something’’

‘‘I am not stealing Price’s cigars’’ She shook her head, slowly this time, still looking at the ceiling.

‘‘Nah… Ghost’s t-shirt or a hoodie. That’s yer prize’’

Riot didn’t move for a while, and Soap started to think she had fallen asleep when she slowly sat upright and crossed her arms, looking at him with a frown.

‘‘Say that again’’

‘‘Ah dare ye tae steal Ghost’s t-shirt or hoodie by tomorrow’s tea’’ Soap smiled again, satisfied with himself and his absolutely fabulous idea. She was still staring at him, her left eye slightly twitching.

‘‘You can’t be serious’’ Riot shook her head in disbelief. ‘‘What if I refuse? This is ridiculous’’

‘‘Awww come on… just a wee theft’’ His lopsided smile was infectious, tempting, and so fucking wrong.

‘‘This is stupid’’ She smiled against her will. It was stupid, and reckless, and exciting.

‘‘We hae dane worse things, lassie’’ Soap sniggered.

‘‘True’’ Riot nodded solemnly. ‘‘What do I get in exchange?’’

‘‘Yer paperwork done for a month’’ He offered his hand, just as solemnly and still with the stupid grin, trying not to laugh. ‘‘Ye’ll dae mines if ye fail. Deal?’’

‘‘Deal’’ She giggled and shook his hand firmly, sealing the deal.

‘‘What’s the deal?’’ Ghost’s grave voice rumbled right behind them making them both yelp and stare at the enormous lieutenant with wide eyes. He was holding a cup of coffee and a stack of paperwork. ‘‘Do I want to know?’’

‘‘Yes!’’ Soap smiled widely, grabbing the empty bottle and chucking it behind him.

‘‘No!’’ Riot blurted out desperately, her right knee jumping up and down wildly under the table, tempted to kick Soap’s shin until she broke his fucking bones. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

Ghost was still staring at them, obviously not buying it, but in the end, he decided that no, he didn’t want to know.

‘‘Figured as much’’ He shrugged, and looked down at Riot. ‘‘Later?’’

‘‘Yes’’ She smiled, nodding, maybe a bit too much. Oh God, she needed to sober up and quick.

Ghost hummed while nodding and left, ignoring the sight of Soap sprawling over the surface of the table to look at Riot more closely.

‘‘Lateeeerrr…? What does that ‘later’ meeeaaaan?’’

‘‘Coffee’’ She grunted, swatting his hands away when his grin widened. ‘‘I love you like a brother, Johnny, but I swear to God that if you mock me for this I will absolutely, mercilessly, throttle you to death’’

‘‘Mock ye? ah wouldn't dae that!’’ He shook his head excessively and she groaned, just dizzy at the sight. ‘‘Dinnae forget th’ prize, lassie’’

Riot groaned again, burying her head on her crossed arms over the surface of the table.

What did she just got herself into?

21 notes · View notes

aamalaaa · 2 years

Text

Fluffing Pillows 🔞

| idol Taehyung! x reader

| genre: romance, smutt with no plot without smutt? look idk ok

| warnings: kissing, making out, swearing, wet hair taehyung (!!!!)

| word count: 1k.

| a/n: this was born from another hilarious game of MASH and has not plot, just fantasies lmao

I hope you enjoy!

When you accepted this job as a housekeeper in a beautiful condo situated at the heart of Tokyo, you couldn’t possibly consider it would turn out this way. You’ve been keeping to yourself, trying to be as invisible as you possibly could.

The first time you’d seen the mysterious, gorgeous man for whom you work for while you were cleaning the kitchen one morning, the air was knocked out of your lungs. He looked absolutely adorable with his white shirt, grey sweatpants and tousled dark chocolate hair.

His gaze lingered on you, he seemed shocked. You quietly muttered something along the lines of “good morning”, immediately feeling insecure in the presence of the enchanting man.

Since then, every time you came over and the man was present, he would cast glances your way, most of them lingered a little too long and you always felt self conscious. He’d chat with you, asking about your life, telling you about his plans for the day.

When he’d pass behind you to go grab something from the cupboard while you were in the kitchen, he’d always lay a light touch at the small of your back, letting you know he was there. You’d shudder every-time, the touch sending millions of subtle electric shocks all over your body, heat prickling at the pit of your stomach without exception.

You were very aware that your “friendship”, if you could call it that, was bordering on unprofessional and you tried your best to avoid him whenever you came over. But it seemed like the man was very intent on conversing with you, making your job almost impossible. You couldn’t even recall how many times you wished those long, slender fingers would brush against your collarbones, arms, stomach and then lower and lower…

You snap back to reality, away from the dangerous daydream you’d found yourself being caught in more times than you’d care to admit. You were currently making Taehyung’s bed while he was in the shower. You knew because when you got into his apartment you first heard the sound of water and then, the man’s low baritone voice singing a song you didn’t recognize. You froze on the spot, your imagination going absolutely wild despite your unrelenting efforts to stay sane. Except, how could you ever stay sane when you were frequently in the man’s vicinity?

You sigh and fluff the bed’s pillows. You knew you would have to drop the job soon, getting in any kind of “situationship” with this man could be very detrimental to your sanity. It couldn’t possibly go on like this, one day you’d cross a line you shouldn’t, and you were his employee. You just, couldn’t.

With a grunt you drop the pillow you were fluffing, swivel and storm towards the bedroom door, your mind is a whole mess. All because of Kim Taehyung. Why’d he HAVE to be so goddamn irresistible?

Before you can even realize what’s happening, you bump into something hot and wet. You freeze, your hands are on a VERY firm chest. You slowly gulp and look up, only to meet a pair of dark, obsidian orbs staring at you. You notice his expression going from confused to dark, you shudder and your whole body starts trembling.

“Y/N?” he whispers/asks in a low, barely perceptible voice. You’re still standing half an inch away from the man, hands on his chest. Through your brain fog, you register fingers grazing the small of your back. Your breath hitches in your throat, you feel dizzy.

“W-what a-are you..?” You barely manage to get the words out, stuttering along the way.

You notice from your peripheral vision his right hand coming to rest on your jawline, barely caressing it. But it’s enough to send your senses into overload.

“Shhh” he brings his thumb to the corner of your lips, teasing it. You stare at him, wide eyed. How is this happening? Your brain cannot even begin to comprehend anything that’s going on, too busy staring into a dark gaze that’s lingering on your body, your waist, your breasts, your neck. Your mind turns to mush, you close your eyes and let a out a wobbly sigh, leaning into the man’s touch.

He puts a little pressure on your jawline with his thumb, index resting on the side of your cheek, your very very heated cheek, lifting your head towards his. Your eyes snap open, he’s staring at you, eyes peering into yours, looking for the answer to a question that hasn’t been uttered yet. But you know.. you know.

“Can I..?” he looks at you intently, you shiver and nod, heart going a thousand miles a minute.

You see him leaning towards your mouth, your eyes close once again, the view before you too dizzying to keep them open. Then you feel it, soft pillowy lips tentatively pressing against yours. You can’t help the whimper that escapes you, swallowed whole by Taehyung’s mouth. Your lips start moving in tandem, you feel his hand gripping your waist, your back arching into his strong touch. Your right hand comes up to lightly grip his wet hair while your left one cradles the side of his face.

Your whole body feels alight, extremities tingling, fire consuming you whole. You can’t think, can’t breathe. You feel your stomach twisting, arousal coursing through you, your body responding to something else, something you can’t explain, with no way to stop it. Teeth lightly biting your swollen bottom lip, tongue gliding against your mouth asking for more. You eagerly oblige.

You barely notice how or when your back hits the wall, too enthralled by the man that had been plaguing your wildest fantasies and his hand, slowly slipping under your shirt and up your ribcage, leaving a hot fiery aftertouch wherever his hand trails.

He breaks the kiss off, lips barely an inch away from each other’s, both breathless.

“God, I’ve wanted this for so long…” He breathes out, sending shivers down your spine. You look deep into his half-shut eyes, heartbeat thundering in your chest and at that moment, you decide you’ll deal with the consequences of your actions later, not now. Right now, your brain can’t process shit.

“Yeah?” you reply, mouth curving into a smirk.

“Show me how much”

#taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #taehyung fic #taehyung drabble #taehyung x you #bts fic #bts x you #bts x reader #bts drabble

69 notes · View notes

crimeronan · 1 year

Text

doctor's appt went well today ✌️ she's not comfortable prescribing prednisone long term except as a last resort due to that being kind of The Nuclear Option but she DID prescribe me a much stronger daily maintenance inhaler + rescue inhaler & tell me that we can do intermittent prednisone courses if the inflammation progresses to disabling levels again, and that we'e reevaluate once i've consulted with the rheumatologist. everything was reasonably discussed and i'm hopeful that the inhaler will help with the brain fog/dizziness/fatigue enough to tide me over til i see the rheum.

#then the rheumatologist will do antibody testing to confirm if i've got lupus / vasculitis / both and figure out a maintenance treatment #that's effective while hopefully less risky than prednisone.#it's not a cure and i was HOPING for maintenance prednisone but i definitely understand wanting to try other stuff first & am okay w that.#autoimmune tag #also my mom came with which was nice.

26 notes · View notes

vergak · 2 years

Text

Genuinely how did it take them 22 years to diagnose me with POTS im 4'11 I weigh REDACTED everytime I stand up I get dizzy and lightheaded I have constant brain fog my feet and hands turn bright purple/red I sweat a ton I'm super heat sensitive I'm fatigued I was already diagnosed with just regular ass tachycardia I have consistently very low blood pressure my skin gets covered in red patches when I exert myself I crave sodium rich foods I literally have every single POTS symptom except for fainting I don't faint. How did it take this long. Literally my new cardiologist looked at me and was like okay this situation is pretty obvious.

57 notes · View notes

moderndaycassandra · 7 months

Text

This Post Contains Lesbians Doing Lesbian Things

I step out of my shower, sopping wet, and reach for a towel. I gently dry myself off as the fog gently fades away off my mirror. The condensation slowly lifts, revealing the bottom of my mirror in full clarity and I see only my thighs in it. Significantly larger than last time, I quickly swipe the measuring tape off my desk and measure the circumference. Twenty-two inches, not very impressive but still a major improvement. With giddy excitement, I throw on my panties and the closest tank top then rush out to the kitchen, still soaking wet. My girlfriend is laying out ingredients for dinner, making sure we have what we need, when she catches me out of the corner of my eye. She sets down a bottle of spice and turns to face me.

"Hey you, what's up?"

Without saying anything, I turn to show off my thigh and tense the muscles. She walks up to me, and gently places a finger on my thigh before gently tracing my muscle up the leg, getting tantalizingly close to my crotch. I feel my heartbeat quicken as my cheeks flush. Her gaze lazily moves up my body and lingers on my breasts for just long enough to notice before continuing to make eye contact. No words are spoken, yet we have an entire conversation with just our eyes.

Your exercise is paying off. I bet you're excited.

Yes!

You deserve a reward for your hard work, beautiful.

Please! I bite my lip as the anticipation and excitement becomes too much to bear. Whatever she wants to do, I'm hers.

Her hand reaches up my thigh and over my panties where she begins to caress my genitals. With her other hand, she gently pushes me backwards against the wall, then plants it firmly on my tummy. Her fingertips slowly tease up my side, tickling my waist ever so gently as she gets to my breasts and cups one. Grasping and groping, she places a single finger on my nipple and begins to draw circles around my areola. My mind catches fire as I become overwhelmed with pleasure, deeply inhaling her aroma. She moves her hand from my breast around to my back where she holds me tight and closes in for a kiss. By this point, I can hardly control my own body as she takes the lead, giving me the sloppiest, most passionate make out of my life. She manages to take both my wrists in her hand and holds them behind me, pinning me in place. After a while, not nearly long enough, she breaks the kiss and stares me in the eyes.

"There will be more later." She winks, gives my ass a squeeze, then releases her grip and goes to wash her hands before resuming what she was doing like nothing had happened.

It only lasted a minute, maybe two, but it was nowhere near long enough. I felt dizzy as my brain tries to reboot, standing there against the wall. I can't think of anything except her, and can only fantasize about what she meant. I don't even know how long I stood there before I finally snapped back to reality. Still only wearing displaced panties and a now-wrinkled tank top, I gather enough thought to go back into my room and dry off properly.

#lesbian #pride #wlw #wlw nsft #lgbtqia #bottomposting #hornyposting #transgender #mtf trans #femme4butch #sapphic #sapphic nsft

4 notes · View notes

docholligay · 2 years

Note

Tracer, “I heard you scream. Nightmares again?”

I think I'm actually pleased with this!! Thank you for all of your patience. 2800ish words.

A high, metallic clang of an instrument being set down on a tray. Moira didn’t take much care with her tools, and it was aggravating. She glanced over to her left, the carelessly dropped scissors askew, launching itself into the forceps next to it, which were tumbling over the syringe, which still had a used needle in it. Pharah had half a mind to pick herself up off the table and straighten things, but she didn’t even see a sharps container in the room.

Also, there was the overwhelming dizziness and pain, but none of that distracted her from the fact that there should be a sharps container.

Her shoulder reminded her rudely of its presence, and the fact that several new sensors had been bored into it, while others had been removed with an efficiency that Pharah felt certain did not fit medical standards. She took a deep, slow breath and closed her eyes, trying to keep herself from crying out. She wasn’t about to give the satisfaction of her agony to a woman who couldn’t even manage to keep her sutures organized by size.

“Awake. Lovely.”

Pharah turned her head to the voice, the tall, lanky redhead sharp as knife and bone leaning over Tracer a few feet from her. She smiled as Tracer blinked hazily, rolling over on her side, catching her breath after she did so. Moira’s low laugh covered the room like fog as she pushed at Tracer’s shoulder, flopping her back onto her back and twisting one of the wires embedded in her flesh. Her body responded with a violent twitch, but Tracer said nothing, only bit her lip.

Three days. It was the third day. It was likely early afternoon. Pharah had been trying to keep track of these things, depending on Moira’s torture schedule to keep the calendar in her mind. She called it experimentation, but people could call things whatever they wanted, and it didn’t change the facts of what it was. It was meant to hurt them. Particularly Pharah, who Moira found so uninteresting that she nearly let Reaper put a bullet in her head and send the body to the door of Overwatch headquarters. Her bionic arm was Winston’s technology, which she’d seen before, and though it was excellent work, she conceded, especially for a monkey--that was the first time Tracer had let out a cascade of creatively worded insults, some of which actually seemed to bother Moira, let it never be said that Tracer did not have a unique set of talents--McCree had similar work done, and it was only an improvement on that model. Pharah was not a talker, and was uninteresting, and there was little need for her.

It was Reaper who had suggested that more could be done with her. That if she wouldn’t break for her own sake, she might for Tracer’s.

It echoed through Pharah’s mind now, the look Tracer had shot her, the growl of her voice.

“Whatever she does to me, you shut up.”

It was the first time Pharah had simply taken a direct order from her equivalent officer.

“I am impressed, you know,” Moira brought Pharah back to the present moment, “never thought I’d say that, sure. But you, you can take so much for such a little thing. You should have died by now. All the others I’ve tried to make have, but not you. Like taking out a brain stem,” She stroked Tracer’s hair with her long fingernails and ran them down to the back of her head, “And still breathing. Exceptional. I’ll be sure to send a letter to your family.”

Tracer twisted and bit at her hand, but she was too slow, and Moira yanked it back, still smiling. She gave a small yank at the wire in the back of Tracer’s head, and her whole body spasmed violently.

“Stop.” She hadn’t realized she’d said anything until she heard her own voice bounce off the walls.

Three days. Tracer was strong. She was resilient. Pharah was continually satisfied and even a little pleased at Tracer’s determination and inner will. Not quite satisfied enough to overlook the state of her desk, but her tenacity and ability to bear up were unparalleled. No one else could have survived these three days, and she would make sure to tell Tracer so when they had been rescued.

But even Tracer had her limits, and last night she had confessed to Pharah that she was meeting them. For the first time, lying against Pharah’s shoulder, the one that wasn’t hamburger, she expressed calmly that she expected to die here. So rescue needed to hurry itself along. Dva would need to be taught how to assemble a party more quickly, when they were saved.

The clicking of boots on tile brought her eyes back up to Moira standing over her.

“Oh, you want me to stop, do you now?” She shook her head and tutted. “Did no one ever teach you to say please?”

Moira reached toward the dial by the table, but a thump interrupted her, and both she and Pharah turned their attention. Tracer had whirled up onto her stomach, her hair sticking out at every angle, huffing painfully, one eye bright red with blood.

“You lazy fucking cow.” Tracer balled her fists and took a deep breath. “No, not lazy, right? Stupid. That’s why you’ve ‘ad to bang off with Ang’s work since she was a teenager, greatest Irish scientist, fuck, not so long as little Seamus is faffing about with a bicarb soda volcano, which at least ‘e made ‘imself.”

Moira sighed, but there was a twitch of irritation at her eyebrow.

“Lena. Don’t.” Pharah tried to catch her eye, tried to make her stop, but her voice was too weak from the pain and exhaustion, and Tracer was too much the terrier, nipping at Moira bit by bit, ignoring every ounce of wisdom or any pang of suffering.

“Bloody thief, is all you are.”

Moira looked over at her. “I am a better doctor, a greater scientist, than superstitious little Zeigler could ever dream. She is limited.”

Tracer barked out a laugh, and Pharah felt the overwhelming urge to launch across the roof and slap a hand over her mouth, if only she could move.

“Right, love, and I’m in Burke’s. Go ahead, pull the other one.”

Moira took a step toward Tracer, and Pharah willed every ounce of strength through her body.

“Leave her alone!”

It wasn’t much, but it was a shout of some kind, and Moira’s head whirled back around toward Pharah. But Tracer, strong, determined, terrier Tracer, was having none of it.

“Fuck off, Fareeha, this is between me and Moira, it is.”

“Oh, don’t you worry now, my little Cockney sparrow. You will die, soon enough.”

“Oh sure!” Tracer chuffed and gave a chuckle. “You want me to ask Ang to do it for you? At least send you ‘er notes? For old times’ sake?”

Moira prickled and strode toward her.

Pharah wanted to yell out at Tracer to shut her mouth for once in her miserable, irritating life, that she was doing too well and was too weak for this, that they had to bide their time and wait for rescue, and if she needed to beg, she should beg. What about Emily? She wanted to shout. You can’t widow her before you’ve married her. Stop going for the soft spots, stop aggravating her so well, stop trying to be funny and clever and making her the butt of the joke. Stop--

Screaming. Tracer was screaming. Screaming like Pharah had never heard, like it was being ripped out of her throat, screaming so loud that it was filling the room, all the air going out of it, suffocating her as everything was replaced by that scream--

“Fareeha.”

--and it went on and on, broken only by an occasional sob, scream and sob like a cruel Morse code, a message for Pharah to bring home--

“Fareeha.”

--when she delivered what would certainly be Tracer’s body back to her family, back to Emily, all of them looking at Pharah and knowing that she had failed to protect her, that she had let Tracer die screaming--

“Come on, love.”

--the scream kept going, even as Tracer’s voice was growing husky, and a thought came like a prayer came like a curse came like a plea. Please die please die please die please die please die please--

“Fareeha!” Someone was shaking her, and her eyes opened to find herself staring into the bright brown eyes of the human being she had so recently wished death upon.

“I?” The words mixed up in Pharah’s head, and she looked around. A hotel room?

“We’re in Munich.” Tracer spoke gently, her hand on Pharah’s forearm as she sat at the edge of the bed. “We’re ‘ere to meet with Zaryanova and her crew, right? It’s October 11th. Deep breath, Fareeha, it’s all right, love, just in an ‘otel room in Munich. Worst thing that can ‘appen ‘ere is bad German food.”

Pharah blinked in the dim light of the lamp. “You’re English.”

Tracer shrugged and nodded. “I mean, yeah, as long as we’re grounding you with facts, I am. Born in London. In a tube station, actually, thought of course it wasn’t quite that at the time and--”

“I mean it as, what can you say about food?” Pharah felt the color come back to her face as she slowed her breathing.

Tracer giggled. “All right, noted comedienne, pick on the Brits, what the ‘ell, we’re easy targets.” She stopped and gave a little smile. “Eard you scream. Nightmares again?”

Pharah gave a noncommittal shake of her head. “Nothing.”

“Right, I know when I,” she placed a hand on her chest, “am screaming, sweating through the sheets, and crying in me sleep, it’s generally just out of boredom.”

“I am not--” she wiped at her face, and felt the saltwater there. “Hm.”

“Hm indeed.” Tracer got up off the edge of the bed and walked over to the covered window, peeking out from the curtains at the rainy fall night. “Not to make an insane suggestion, love, as I am so very likely to do, but ‘ave you ever considered talking to someone?”

“I apologize for waking you.”

“So that’s a no, then,” she turned away from the window, “and why? For what? Ain’t no medal for best nightmare ‘aver, love, and if there was, little children would be beating you out, as they’re much more creative than some memory of an Irish prat trying to pull the wings off us like flies. God, I’m so bloody ‘appy I shot her in the ‘ead. Proper chuffed.”

“Come sit.” Pharah felt at the shoulder where she attached her arm, and how it still ached, more than a year later.

Tracer, for once, did as she was told and came to sit at the end of the bed, looking at Pharah expectantly.

“I--” She took a deep breath. “This is--is hard, for me. I am not the sort of person, who, who speaks of these things. It is not done. When you are an Amari.”

“Would you like to be an Oxton, then?” She grinned. “Always up for a new applicant. And we never stop talking, to ‘ear the RAF tell it. Fareeha Oxton ‘as a lovely ring to it. Probably ‘ave to get a pilot’s license though, don’t know if you’re up for the bother. Might as well be a Zeigler, then. You ever think about ‘ow your name, and Ang’s, make it A to Zed? I sometimes think about that--”

“Lena.” She stared, silent.

“Right, right, sorry.”

“No, that was--strangely comforting.” She sighed. “You remember how we were taken, how Moira…had us?”

“Try not to,” Tracer tossed up her hands, “but I do ‘ave some recollection of the event, yeah.”

“It weighs on me. I never imagined myself the type. I have never been the type.” With each beat, she nodded her head, as if punctuating the sentence, staring at the paisley whorls of the comforter, “I lost my arm, and it was difficult. But the memory of the event itself never…jarred me. I have fought in many combat missions. I have remained even, and calm. But this--this weighs on me.”

She stopped, running her hand across the comforter for a few moments.

Tracer drew her legs up onto the bed and crossed them. “We was tortured for three days, Fareeha. I’s in a coma for three more after that. I think you’re allowed a bit of weight.”

“It…embarrasses me. I have woken Angela. I heard a baby cry, in the store, and my heart began to race. Someone dropped their keys on the metal table in the security line, and I suddenly--I could not take one breath.” She shook her head. “I have become like a frightened child.I plan my day, trying to avoid things that make me think of it. But sometimes they are so different. What happens one day, does not, the next. It humiliates me. I am--I am afraid, all this time later. Moira is dead. Reaper is dead. No one can harm me. And still.” She looked up at Tracer and drew her shoulders back. “I have told no one this. I have hidden it.”

“I ‘ate to tell you, I ‘ave noticed. Takes one to know one, all that.”

“You survived despite everything. You can carry that you lived, when Moira wanted you dead. You can say you came back. You fought for London, even. You recovered in body and mind, and I was hurt less, and I am screaming in a,” she waved her hand, “Hilton in Munich.”

“S’an ‘oliday Inn, love,” Tracer was lying back on the foot of the bed now, staring at the ceiling and ruffling her hair, “You think we ‘ave ‘ilton money?”

Pharah smiled, barely. “I wanted to tell you. I have wanted to tell you.”

Tracer let out a long sigh. “Fareeha--I--God, it isn’t easy, is it? To let someone know you’re a bit worse off than they thought? I…you see…” she shook her head and sat back up with a quick single motion. “What I mean to say is, can’t ‘ave been easy for you to tell me. Thank you for trusting me. Please talk to someone.”

Pharah’s eyes shot directly into Tracer’s. “What do you think this is?”

“Please talk to someone who ‘as gotten a degree in talking to people. PTSD is really treatable, love, and even if there’s always an edge of it, and sometimes there is, it can be much easier--”

Pharah laid back on the pillow. “I would not necessarily say I have PTSD.”

Tracer rolled her eyes. “You know what? Doesn’t actually matter. Call it whatever you like, call it “Post Roughness Amari Toughness” or something, but there are things that can ‘elp. I’ve been trying to ‘elp you, but you have to, you know, sort of engage with the fact that there’s a problem.”

Pharah laid on the bed, tugging at the neck of her shirt and smoothing her hair.

“I won’t tell no one, Fareeha. It’ll be just me that knows. You can go on pretending nothing bloody ‘appened to you, nothing affected you, because you’re Fareeha Bleeding Amari. Secret’s safe with me. Give you the number to me therapist, even. No one ‘as to know.”

“Thank you.”

Quiet reigned, only the little sounds of the bed as Tracer rocked and bounced slightly. After a few moments, she rose to her feet and nodded.

“Come if you need me.” She turned to walk back through the adjoining door to her room, and Pharah rolled on her side.

“Tracer.” She stopped and looked back at Pharah. “I apologize.”

“Oh, this?” Tracer smiled and her shoulders twitched up happily, “Nothing at all love! Done it for me a time or two, right? That’s what friends is about, innit? And you ARE me friend, whether you like it or not, so best just be accepting it, after all this time.”

“I apologize,” she swallowed, “for failing you. I let you,” she felt a tingle in her eyes, and took a breath, “I did not protect you. I let her--hurt you. Badly, I know, though you recovered well.”

“Debatable, innit? To hear me family tell it.” Tracer walked back toward the bed. “Though Parvati says I’ve always been this daft” She sat down next to Pharah. “Never asked you to, love. Never expected you to. Not your job.”

“I am--supposed to--” she bit the inside of her cheek, “I am the commander. Everyone is my--my duty.”

“Love,” Tracer cupped her face, and Pharah looked up, a tear traitorously breaking away, “as I’ve been saying for years, you don’t outrank me. Someday you will remember that.”

Tracer wrapped her arms tightly around Pharah, holding her fast in a refusal to let her feel anything else. Pharah curled her arm around Tracer’s back, and buried her face in her shoulder, simply letting herself accept the comfort like the tiny child she felt.

Tomorrow, the rain would freeze, but tonight, it was simply too warm.

#HON HON HON #doc writes #birthday writing 22

29 notes · View notes

sylasthegrim · 8 months

Note

If this is like a dumb or unwanted question feel free to ignore this bc I know it’s unsolicited but I saw your health update and it made me think of if you’ve ever been tested for or suspected of having pots? If you haven’t heard of it, it’s a heart condition that can cause episodes of tachycardia when you move to an upright position and can flare up bc of stress/diet/exercise. the symptoms can include stuff like fatigue, brain fog, migraines, dizziness, etc.. Definitely not trying to freak you out or diagnose you, but just a few of the things you said sounded a bit familiar so it might be something to ask your doctor about. Idk if you have a smart watch or a blood pressure cuff (whatever can check your pulse) but if you do think pots sounds like you then it might be good to just monitor your pulse regularly especially when you’re experiencing any symptoms so you can note that and show your dr

Hi there. I don't mind the question, thank you for taking the time.

It doesn't seem like it's POTS - I don't fit all the symptoms. So far we're looking at an inner ear problem, cervical spine problem or neurological issue. Basically, everywhere in my head and neck 🙃

I do wear a fitness watch that monitors my heart rate - except from that one event, my heart rate/blood pressure are fine.

#ask box #health update #chronic illness

2 notes · View notes

marsdenlee · 9 months

Text

Synopsis: The voices return. tw: auditory hallucinations, self harm, psychosis

Not much was known about the mysterious occurrence in town which had caused a temporary lapse of powers and abilities for the supernatural population and an enhancement of ability for the humans and while it had been a massive inconvenience for the siren, there was one distinct feature which had made the invasiveness of his side effects worthwhile: the voices had stopped. Mars could tolerate the intense fatigue and brain fog he'd felt the last few months with as much disgruntled grace as he could muster because at the end of the day he wasn't plagued by an onslaught of auditory hallucinations screaming at him in his head. It made everything just a bit more bearable. He would take sleepless nights -- he was used to it by now -- he would take feelings of vertigo, he would take sensations of nausea if it meant he did not need to deliver a soul to the water in order to make the voices stop.

It had been months, long but wonderous months of peace and quiet. The secondary cell phone that Mars utilized for his secret contact at the hospital had long since gone without use, battery died and left forgotten in the bottom of a random drawer in the apartment. Sometimes when he could not sleep he wondered if he would ever need it again and as the weeks drew on into more months that thought featured less and less in his thoughts until they were gone entirely. He no longer thought about it, comfortable now with his new reality, growing content with the way life was now. He would wake late in the day, receive a special kiss from his much too perfect partner who would often bring him breakfast in bed to save him the trouble of exerting too much energy and getting out. He would spend time with their little family, soak for long hours in the water to hydrate and on the good days Mars would attempt an outing, either with Ryden or with a friend. It wasn't ideal and he hated the loss of agency he had because something as simple as walking down the street was enough to render him breathless and dizzy but it was tolerable. He could live like this. He'd began to believe that this was possible to manage.

Then he woke up and his throat wasn't immediately dry. He got out of bed and he didn't need to steady himself from a sudden feeling of dizziness at moving too quickly. He'd thought nothing much of it, just another good day except as the day went on he found from others that it wasn't just him feeling the effects of a good day, it was everyone, everyone who had once been weakened by the mysterious mist had been restored. No one seemed to know what happened, or rather there were rumors, countless rumors and none yet seemed to ring with truth but the fact of the matter was supernatural beings had their powers and abilities restored and humans had lost all their enhancements. It seemed as if things had returned to normal and Mars had forgotten the voices.

A hushed whisper of a voice called his name. He'd been in the grocery store when he heard it, turned his head around to look for the source of the person who had called him but there was no one in the aisle. An old lady pushing her shopping trolley ambled slowly past the aisle entrance. Must be nothing he concluded and carried on with his shopping. With the return of his strength, Mars was no longer bed-bound and was eager to get out and perform all the menial tasks and chores he'd been unable to do previously and he wanted to make a special dinner for Ryden to thank him for everything he'd done for him. Maria Elena had been dropped off at a babysitter so the two men could have some precious time alone.

The voices came back as an avalanche.

Mars was putting a carton of oatmilk into the fridge when the dam was released. The screams of agonized voices howled at him from inside his mind with such intensity his vision tunneled and flared. It was paralyzing, he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't function, couldn't do anything but curl into himself with his hands clawing at the sides of his ears in a vain attempt at trying to dig the voices out to make them stop. His face was wet, his knees were wet, he'd dropped the milk, was on the floor in a puddle of milk and tears that streamed from his eyes, blood dripped from the ragged scratches at the side of his face caused by blunted nails, mouth held open in a silent scream because he would not dare to make any actual noise to make it all worse and all the while the voices blared and wailed and rolled over each other like a devilish opera with no indication it was stopping.

They're coming. ₛᵢₗₗy ₚₐₚᵢ. Drown them.... Worthless. yₒᵤ'ᵣₑ ₙₒₜₕᵢₙg. Nothing..... Drown them. Silly. Silly...... Papi. ₜₕₑy'ᵣₑ cₒₘᵢₙg. We're coming. Murderer.... Worthless.... murderer.̶̧̤͍̺̤͋̀̋̅͊͑͛̽͋͐W̷̻̥̝̤̣̱͛ő̶̪̱̤̻̖͇͍̝ȓ̸̲̭͙̖̯͇̬͋̾͑̆̒̈́t̶̨̪̼̹̠̙̺̓̆̀͋͊̈͜ͅḩ̶̡̛̗̲̭̳̦̀̀͛̏̿̾͘l̷̻̦̖͔̼̥͔͖̱̔̔̾́̓e̷̱͔͍͇͎̫̠̞̐̈́̏s̸̬͔͖̳͑ṡ̴̢̗̰͙͔̩͈̀͛͋̒͊̚ͅ ̴̢̡̪͓̥̤͕̱̾̅͠m̶̧̢̱͈̘͍̯̈́̽͋̈̎͐̓̅̒ụ̸̖̟͚̝́ŗ̵̟̞͉̩̗̲̖̲́̈͋͌̂͘͝d̶̯̽̊̓̿́̀̈́̚ḙ̸̢̖͚̤̋͝r̸͖͉̪̼̱̪͇̳̀̿̉ẻ̴͈̗̥͝͝r̶̢̢̨̡̭͚̣͇̉̉̌͑͊͐̆̍̍. He'll leave you.

His phone went off in his pocket and Marsden cried, the piercing ringing echoed in the sore places of his brain. He fumbled for it, fingers slipping against the smooth case, fingers slick with milk and blood, the device fell into the puddle and he could no longer locate it, vision too blurred and far gone he couldn't see beyond the reach of his arms, fumbled blindly in the screaming chaos until finally his fingers brushed against the side of the device and it slid, he grabbed it and in an attempt to silence it for good smashed it against the floor, once, twice and then again but it didn't seem to stop, he could still hear it, the ringing, the screaming, the crying. He grasped at the broken shattered pieces of the phone, oblivious to the metal and glass that cut into his palm, mixing into the spilled milk sending spirals of pink outward.

Make it stop. Make it stop. He needed to make it stop but he couldn't do anything but rock back and forth in a curled up fetal position. He couldn't even breathe. His lungs halted in his hollow chest with the silence of his exhaled cries. It felt like hours of agony, of screams piercing relentlessly in his mind that he couldn't stop until it reached a breaking point and all he could hear was a high ringing solid tone before he could finally take in a breath. The sound of his ragged inhale made him wince. He could finally open his eyes and see the result of what had just happened. Blood and milk surrounded him and soaked into his jeans. The fridge door hung half open, spilling out cool air. His hand throbbed from the gaping gashes of the broken phone he'd mutilated against the kitchen tile. His head pulsed at the temples from the raw scratches he'd inflicted on himself. The voices had stopped but he was for the moment too scared to move, afraid that anything he might do would bring them back but he needed to move. He couldn't let himself be found like this. He couldn't let Ryden know. If Ryden found out...

.....ɘvɒɘ| ||'ɘH.....He'll leave....

Slowly, Marsden began to move because he had to. The phone was garbage, he'd buy a new one. The milk and blood could be cleaned up. The fridge door shut. The wounds self-inflicted could be healed with a soak in water. Everything could be made right again. Except the voices didn't really stop.

They just got quieter.

#drabble #auditory hallucinations tw #psychosis tw #self harm tw

5 notes · View notes

Last Seen Blogs

sauvechouris

Nothing to see here

fittersitter

kmscb

MANiacal Odyssee

adkreativeforum

AD Kreative Forum

hybinger