#it's fiiiiine i'll just go to bed. or whatever

[jackiebrackettt]

the anxiety is startng to kick in lol can someone tell my body i don't care about uni results anymore eye roll emoji

#it's fiiiiine i'll just go to bed. or whatever #sleep it off

[bearlee-giggling]

Pain Relief- Shane × Everett (oc)

just a cute little self indulgent stardew drabble bc i have no self control :) i put myself into a fluffy lee mood at 10:30 pm on a school night lmao

context: everett has some chronic pain issues with his back and shoulders

~~

Shane would have done absolutely anything for Everett when he was in pain. Bothering Harvey in the middle of the night, baking cookies at 5 in the morning, whatever he wanted. However, today Everett was feeling a tad bit clingy, and craved physical comfort over anything else.

"Love," Shane whispered, sitting up in bed as Everett groaned in annoyance. "I need to go make sure the animals have enough food. I'll be right back, I promise."

Everett whined, grabbing Shane's arm as tightly as he could with the throbbing pain shooting through his body. "Nooooo, stay with meeeee~"

Shane chuckled at his particularly needy partner. "How about, you let me go, and then when I get back, I'll give you a massage. Deal?"

Everett sighed and flopped back down onto the bed. "Fiiiiine."

"Alright, I'll just be a few minutes, I promise."

True to his word, Shane returned not even 5 minutes later, sitting back onto the bed and gently pulling Everett upright. "You gotta sit up if you wanna massage, my love."

"Mmmm fine," Everett slowly pulled himself upright, positioning himself in front of Shane.

Shane placed his hands gently onto Everett's shoulders, rubbing gentle circles into the muscle. "Does this feel alright?" Shane nearly whispered, hoping to feel the tense muscles relax.

"It hurts further down today, in the middle."

Shane moved his hands down to his boyfriend's sides, tapping his thumbs in the spaces in between Everett's spine and the backs of his ribs. "Right here?"

Everett hummed softly in approval, melting into the touch as Shane continued tracing gentle yet firm circles into the skin.

As Shane's hands slowly migrated towards the backs of his partner's ribs, Everett's breath hitched. "Waihait-"

Shane hummed in response, still repeating the pattern of circles on the sensitive skin, only partially oblivious to what he was doing. "What's the matter? I thought you wanted a massage~"

"Buhut you're tickling mehe!"

Shane struggled to keep his smug grin from reaching his voice. "Oh, am I?"

"Yehehes!"

"Are you sure? If I was tickling you, I think it would feel something like this," Shane switched from tracing circles to rapidly spidering up and down Everett's ribs, relishing in the surprised giggles suddenly erupting from his partner.

"Nohoho!" Everett squealed and fell backwards into Shane's lap, finding himself face to face with the lovestruck look that had overtaken Shane's features

"Hehe~ Is Evie feeling better?" Shane chuckled at Everett, ruffling his hair as he listened to the residual giggles spilling out of his partner's mouth.

"Yehehes," Everett slowly sat himself up and faced his boyfriend. "How unfortunate for you~"

"Huh? WAIT-"

Everett grinned wickedly, using lightning quick reflexes to pin Shane to the bed before the larger man could even think of running away. "Wahahait- you don't have to-! EverEHEHETT-"

Laughter truly is the best medicine.

#auggie's ocs #everett tag #stardew tickles #tickle fic

[luwupercal]

Writing Prompt: Fulgrim remembers an event he experienced with his dearest brother Ferrus, many years after Istvan IV

took some liberties with the word “remembers” and “event”, and also with the spirit of the prompt, hope you dont mind lol

@ anyone seeing this, feel free to send me writing prompts whenever! just clarify what they are, understand that me taking liberties is non-negotiable and stick around for at least a month, since i write so slow lol

"I want... fruit."

"Fruit," the daemon leaning sleazily by his doorway repeats, unimpressed. "That's it, fruit?"

"A specific fruit," Fulgrim elaborates. He flicks his tail.

"And nothing else?"

"Maybe later," the Daemon Primarch dismisses them. "I'm sure I'll get in the mood for a romp with you lot, later. But for now, I'm hungry, I haven't had fresh fruit in a while. Thus, the fruit."

The daemon sighs, and their entire body recoils in itself, shifting immaterial. "Any particular fruit?" they ask him. "Grapes, strawberries, pomegranates? Bananas?" They raise their nonexistent eyebrows. "Tomatoes."

"No, no, no, none of that..." Fulgrim pouts and lifts himself up, sitting a bit more properly. The handcuffs he's wearing on one wrist rattle with movement. "There was one specific— oh, damn it all, just bring me a little bit of everything."

"It won't fit in the room. Come outside," the daemon argues. Fulgrim throws his head back and grooooans, but slides off the bed and rises to full height.

"Fine. Fiiiiine. Stay here." Fulgrim slithers up and around the daemon, who doesn't hesitate to slap his behind as they slither into the room. Fulgrim shakes his head at how childish they are and heads out through the halls of Slaanesh's palace — until he can find somewhere he can acquire fruit from. 

Even for his superhuman, now-daemonic senses, it's tough to navigate these spaces. The palace's walls swirl onto themselves, nonsensical twists and turns throughout. Fulgrim knows how to navigate it, but it's a honed skill. Entire troupes of beings engaging in plentifully athletic activities can be consensually peeked at through doorways and curtains and windows; the distant smells of a thousand species' best fluids waft through the air, which is otherwise heavy with a perfume that seems to shift notes when perceived, turning from wooden to floral and back again several times by the time Fulgrim reaches a dining room. He slides on inside.

Inside the dining hall, there is always food. It's pristine and delicious, cooked to perfection. Perfectionist, shapeless daemons scurry back and forth through the air, bringing food and drink back and forth from an elsewhere not quite reachable. Tables are full, overstuffed with plentifulness, including fruit — but as Fulgrim glances over it, he can't see the specific fruit he's craving.

Dammit.

He roams the tables, poking and prodding at the offered dishes. It was quite distinctive, he remembers. Where the fuck had he tasted it first? He doesn't remember, but it was a long time ago. He pulls a silver dish-cover off a plate and the steaming smell of a very not-to-his-taste-ly—spiced dish hits his face. Fulgrim scrunches his nose and puts the dish-cover back down, and happens to glance at himself in its distorted reflection. His eyeliner is runny and smudged. He'll reapply it later.

Fulgrim huffs with annoyance and shakes his hands; the cuffs at his wrists jingle. Fine. He'll have something else. He grabs a plate and picks and chooses the finest-looking fruit from a baker's dozen of assorted fountains, letting his gut feeling guide his hand; he circles around the room, feeling increasingly hungry, but crafting something with decision. What flavor profile it is, he's not sure, he muses while momentarily distracted by a bright blue fresco, ever-shifting, on one of the room's walls; he's going with what feels right. Maybe a recreation. Whatever it is, it's nobody's business. He begins feeling increasingly annoyed with himself as he continues cherry-picking (hah!) the best from the serving trays; he feels like a fly, buzzing around sugar.

After a few moments, his plate's full. He could just eat the food here, but it's noisy and bright, and he's stayed up all night; he'd much rather do it in bed. Fulgrim sways back through the palace, his tail's tip back and forthing silently, and finally returns to his bedroom. He stands by the doorway to glance at the daemon, who's returned and made themselves at home on the chaise lounge by the foot of his bed with a blunt; and the realization that their positions have been mirrored is an odd one.

He doesn't bother alerting the daemon of his presence, just slips back to his bed and curls up on it, careful not to drop the silvery plate. The daemon snaps their fingers a few times, half-distractedly trying to generate a small flame to light up. Fulgrim ignores them as he snuggles under the covers and finally, finally picks up a few cubes of delicious fruit-meat to put in his mouth.

He chews and frowns. "Hmmm," he says, and then again, louder — "Hmmmmmmm."

The daemon at the foot of his bed sighs. They turn around. "What."

"This," and Fulgrim picks up a few assorted pieces of fruit, holds them up so his lover can see. "Reminds me of something, but I don't know what."

"Huh." The daemon stretches forward, grabs a fruit cube with two fingers. They put it in their mouth and chew thoughtfully. "S' good," they offer, uselessly, and Fulgrim groans and leans against the headboard. They tut at his pout. 

"I know it's good," Fulgrim articulates through gritted teeth. "I don't know what else it is."

"It's a berry."

"I know it's a berry! That's not what I— nevermind." As Fulgrim complains, the daemon finally lights their blunt; once he's done ranting, they take a long drag.

"Don't let the past haunt you," the daemon muses. "We've been telling you that. There's nothing worth keeping in it. Here," and they hand him the blunt. "Relax a little, will you?"

"I know, I know," Fulgrim grumbles, and he accepts the blunt. He takes a long drag from it and passes it back. "Do you want more?" and he shakes the little tray. 

A bright red fruit cube falls onto the sheets, staining them pink. The daemon stretches forward and picks it up just to fling it at Fulgrim, soliciting a friendly smack on the back of their amorphous head from the daemon Primarch; the handcuffs on Fulgrim's wrist rattle rhythmically as he does so.

Ten thousand years ago, Ferrus Manus is sitting at the edge of a cliff, waiting for someone.

The sun's setting on the far-off planet, red and pink clouds dotting over the sun. Several moons dot the sky. Far down below, there's desert, endless dunes of iron-rich red sand. Ferrus glances at it momentarily, wondering what, if anything, stood there. He'll ask his brother; he was in charge of this half of the planet, not Ferrus. The wind kicks up the dust. The Mechanicum will like the material, he thinks; he'll see if he can snag some, if this sand's chemical composition is as interesting as he'd overheard, or if it was exaggerated hearsay. It's a dry, arid kind of hot in this desert, so unlike his homeworld that it's a little off-putting. The foreign sun's last few rays tint everything purple and red, and he watches the sun go down with disinterest.

"Did I keep you waiting too long?"

Ferrus turns around.

Fulgrim's there, carrying a mechanical box. A refrigeration box. Ferrus doesn't say anything, just pats the ground by his side, and Fulgrim hurries to his side. He kneels, elegantly folding his legs away to sit onto the ground proper, and begins fidgeting with the box.

"I've brought something special," he mentions, looking through the box's locking mechanisms. 

Ferrus could open it for him easily, but he just lifts an inquisitive eyebrow and doesn't say anything. Fulgrim scoffs at his disbelief, and finally, he unlocks the box and opens it. Ferrus peers inside; in the box, there are two singular, perfect fruits, looking somewhat like pomegranates.

"What's that?"

"A fruit native to this world," Fulgrim preens, faux-nonchalantly. "The last two of its kind, to be exact. The disgusting, primitive lifeforms that inhabited this continent took to their grave the secrets of how to grow them. But I'm sure the Imperium will figure it out soon enough," he adds. And if they don't, it's just one species of fruit. One last gravestone defiled. Nothing out of the ordinary. Whether either of them phrases it quite like this in their heads, though, it's unknown.

Ferrus picks up one of the fruits. "How do you eat it?"

"You have to split it in half, like this," Fulgrim instructs him, and with his thumb and two fingers holding up his own fruit like a crab's pincer, he applies pressure. Through a natural faultline, the fruit splits in half, revealing under its kiwi-like exterior a bright, meaty-red interior. "And then you just carve the flesh out with your fingers and eat it, I figure."

Ferrus opens his own fruit, almost dropping half; he catches it with his other hand just in time. "Tricky little thing," he muses.

"Not unlike the beings that bred it," Fulgrim snarks back. "Nuisances. Let me tell you how messy this campaign was..."

They chatter with each other for some time, until the sun sets and the moon rises high into the sky, and Ferrus Manus never thinks of that fruit again.

#words #ask #ask-a-scheming-sorcerer