handy-dandy-monster-candy

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Mrtyu, Revived

I'm not back. I might not ever be "back". But I'm still here.

—

“Mrtyu,” you say, and my head snaps up. Never have you spoken to me so clearly, and never have you looked into my eyes with that look upon your face. The way that your tired eyes crease is enchanting, as is the curve of your smile.

“What is it?” I ask, and you laugh at my breathless excitement, emotion stirring beneath my flower-studded ribs.

“I’m tired of you,” you say, and it will never, ever hurt me—I am not welcome company at the best of times, and this I know to be true.

You, however… You.

“Tell me why,” I beseech you, and I gather my dark robes and perch at the edge of your hospital bed, the room silent but for the whir of the pump keeping you alive. You shift the weight of your starched white blanket—still warm from the heating cupboard—so that it covers my nearest knee. The cold does not bother me, but the gesture buoys my heart regardless.

“How long has it been?” you ask me, and you turn your hand over so that your palm is facing the dimmed overhead lights, and I immediately take the chance to touch your fingertips, and then the inside of your wrist, where your pulse beats soft and slow.

“Twenty years, give or take,” I answer promptly, and I do not have a tongue to bite, but I do not add, “It hasn’t been nearly long enough.”

You smile as though you hear it anyway.

“Will it hurt, do you think?” you ask me, and I can only shrug, briefly exposing the gleam of my clavicles.

“You know I can’t answer that,” I murmur, and your smile tips wryly.

“I suppose you’re here to stay,” you muse, and I nod, curious as to where this is going.

You never disappoint.

“That’s settled, then,” you say, and you hit the call button for the nurse, a soft spark of something in the darkness of your eyes.

“What are you doing?” I ask as you sit up, and you shrug as we hear the soft squeak of non-slip shoes approaching on linoleum floors.

“Living,” you say, and I laugh.

#death #death tw #angel of death #Mrtyu #My work

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

hey, just wanted to ask are you okay?

Not at all, but thank you for asking! I probably won't be writing in the foreseeable future, if at all. Lots of health stuff under the cut. Thank you to everyone who keeps liking my stories. I see you, and I appreciate you.

So I got a feeding tube in January, and I had to rehome my cats because of it. That's been a little rough on me. But then I got migraines every single day for the past seven months or so, and I'm finally scheduled to get Botox for them. I've also been formally diagnosed with autonomic neuropathy, which is basically an umbrella term for widespread nerve dysfunction in the areas of my body that do things that you do without thinking, like digesting and temperature regulation and not fainting when you stand up. My pseudotumour is also getting worse again, so they're probably gonna wanna run some life-threatening (for me, because I have EDS) tests on me again to determine how bad it's gotten so they can treat it and stop it from making me go blind. I've decided to go back to therapy because of all of this health stuff being incredibly overwhelming, and I'm just trying to make the best of it and survive, one day at a time.

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

How you doing?

ohhhhh honey we strugglin’

#thanks for asking though!!! #my health is......... [insert screeching static] #i don't know if or when i'll write again #Answers and asks

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

ngl seeing so much more discourse abt writers asking for reblogs & feedback is making me feel some type of way. “if you write for free, why do you expect anything in return?” oh ok, if you want constantly updated & constantly renewed free entertainment without doing anything, why do you expect other humans with lives, feelings & responsibilities to provide it for you? it’s a two-way street, & objectively y’all’s lane is so much more comfortable & gratifying.

all you have to do as a consumer in exchange for an all you can eat buffet of content is to just. reblog & leave a couple comments abt what you thought. bare minimum critical thinking & effort. why are we arguing. just hit reblog & add 2 sentences. i promise you the 10k word fic you just read for free took 100x more time & effort. if that’s not an exchange readers wanna participate in anymore bc you think it’s taking advantage of your precious time & effort, then pay for access to authors’ content :) it’s that simple.

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

🌹 a flower for everyone not feeling their best today

#a big smooch to all you dandies out there #I for one am in excruciating pain and have been for almost 48 hours #I hope you're having a good day #if not I hope it gets better #because you deserve love and good things #yes even and especially love from yourself

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Me: Fucking bone me. Take me right here.

The Orc trader staring wide-eyed at me: Ma’am this is a farmer’s market.

#did I stutter sir

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

#👀😰

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

No Content November

The goal of NCN is to show what would happen if everyone stopped creating free content. Your dash would be empty. No art. No fics. No comics.

The idea is that for the whole month of November, creators of all kinds (artists, writers, etc) don’t post any sort of content, this to create a simulation of what happens to posts when you only like them instead of rebloging them, the art/fics/comics/ don’t get circulated, and eventually there’s nothing to see and enjoy.

Every content creator has experienced the unbalance between Likes and Reblogs. Likes look nice, but Reblogs give exposure, which results in even more people finding your work.

Reblogs help creators grow, and be encouraged, which means even more content than before!

What can you do to help as a non creator (and creator)? During November support your favorite content creators by Rebloging, Commenting or sending an Ask!

Even a short “Nice work! Love it” is great to cheer up and encourage the content creators whom work you enjoy.

(You are also encouraged to do this the whole year!)

The long term goal is to one day, make Reblogs as abundant as Likes, plus with this small but very meaningful support, we could all end up enjoying even more content than before! 

And if you are not a creator but the content you enjoy has ever made you happy, helped you in some way, even to just brighten your day a little bit, please, consider giving those creators your support! It will be very appreciated.

FAQ bellow the “Read More”

Keep reading

#Oh hey I might do this #NCN #No content November #we are literally starving for interaction from our readers #likes are like views on AO3 #they're nice but they mean nothing in the long run #it doesn't tell us what you liked what you want more of #it doesn't tell us in words that you love us for our efforts #because--speaking as a multiple-disabled writer--is IS effort #if all you do is add a work to your likes and don't reblog #it feels like we're holding a concert to an empty hall full of paper dolls #you're not really there #and it's just as devastating in the long run as it sounds

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

My babes, we need you help.

But before I ask for your help, let me clear something up. Copyright is copyright. The second you put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) YOU own the words you type. They are your words. Emails are protected. Tweets are protected. No one has a right to your words just because they are free somewhere on the internet.

I copyright my published work with the library of Congress so that if I have to get into a legal kerfuffle with another author, I'm protected... But that's not a step the rest of you need to take (unless you're publishing professionally, and then I would highly suggest it.) But copyright is copyright... And plagiarism is plagiarism.

An Amazon author has evidently plagiarized our friend @momolady and I'm asking those of you with some sleuthy skills to do some cross-checking to see if the rest of this author's body of work is duping any of our other Tumblr authors here. Momo's very extensive masterlist, Ghosti's, Coco, etc.

A word to the wise though: If you download and read on KU, this person is being paid. Utilize samples and the "look inside" where you can.

I have shaved my master list down considerably, as most of you already know, and this will probably be the final nail in that coffin, so you can probably expect all of my work that was not commissioned to disappear from this platform. I will rehost it elsewhere.

#Jesus christ #This is sickening #Do I even keep writing??? #Fuck #My stomach is in knots #plagiarism

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

when the new tumblr update that shows the notes separately goes live on the entire site, all artists on here are gonna simultaneously receive a massive blow of psychic and physical damage since now it’ll be plain to see the ratio on their artworks has always been 1500 likes to 3 reblogs 

#my weakness and what I've been struggling with lately... #sigh

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Thank you so much, @welcome-to-hell-mah-dudes​ ! Lmao the “orcflesh blanket” is a metaphor for Primrose being draped all over him in his sleep. Primrose is definitely a limpet!

#Answers and asks #Primrose #aaaaaaaaaaaaaaa I'm so happy people still like my stories #honestly it was touch and go for a while there #I didn't know if I should bother writing again #I don't mean to sound ungrateful I know plenty of you sent very sweet messages concerned for my health #It's just discouraging when m/f pairing writers get so much interaction and feedback on their stories and us queers are just jfdhsjkg #I'm lucky if I get a single reblog with a tiny comment in the tags sometimes and while I do love the likes the interaction is what I crave #Sorry to vent in the tags this isn't aimed at anyone in particular I'm just happy I got a comment!!!

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

#Not my work #HOLYKDFHSLJKSGD

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

ENAN TAKE ME I would be good for this sultry mfer too hell I would leave all the doors open and found my own solitary nudist colony if it meant this man would rail me WELL DONE AS ALWAYS MY DARLING!!!

Enan - M Selkie x F Human (Reader) // NSFW - Kinktober

The pictures do not belong to me. I only created the mood board. Do not repost my work anywhere.

Content: NSFW/Lemon: described plus-size reader, mutual pining, consensual (slight) voyeurism, masturbation, only one bed trope, light embraces (hugging), flirting, endearments “sweet girl,” “good girl,” “sweetheart,” and “my love,” breeding kink, praise kink + general dirty talk, fingering (receiving), orgasms (+ no protection), light kissing, allusions to more

Kinks: breeding, praise, voyeurism, mutual masturbation

Notes: this story was part of my mini kinktober commissions, for @feral-ella-flynn <3 I hope you love it!

Word Count: 2800 Minimum of 500 words, I say, writing nearly 3k.

Masterlist // My Ko-Fi

Nearly every weekend, Enan left your small town for the beach house he shared with his family, his time passed bundled in his pelt deep in the sea. It had always been a private escape and one you watched him leave for unaccompanied – waving him off each time just as alone, your friends less bothered by his common disappearance. Even only being gone two, sometimes three nights, you missed him.

He never stayed longer than a weekend, so news that the coming week would pass entirely in his absence brought an ache to your chest. Especially with his family unable to meet him on this occasion, and when the invitation came whispered on an evening out with your friends, it was the butterflies light in your chest that accepted without hesitation. The chance to spend time only with Enan was a dream, sweetened by his promise to finally let you see his pelt.

You wished he had told you that there was one bed for the both of you.

Keep reading

#Everyone who's anyone needs to be following my dear sweet Kim right now immediately #She writes the most achingly tender lovers and I want each and every one of them to snap me in half #Not my work

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Achilles, part one

Rating: SFW Pairing: Male Gargoyle x Male Reader Warnings: Big big huge warnings for suicidal ideation and attempted suicide. Literally in the beginning of the story, which is why it’s all going to be beneath a cut. This story is going to have D/s tones, pain play, and a very possessive lover. There’s also alcohol and drinking.

This story absolutely possessed me and I couldn’t stop writing until all of this huge chapter was out. Enjoy!

xxx

Up here, the church bells sound distant and hollow, and yet I can feel each toll in the soles of my bare feet. The city lights are hazy, and all her many sounds are muffled by the blood rushing in my ears. I’ve left my wallet and shoes to weigh down the note I’ve left for my sister, and I take a pull from the bottle of whisky I’ve brought up to dull my senses and make things a little easier. I splurged on a good bottle, so I allow myself one last wash of regret that I’d never enjoy another one.

I’m no stranger to regret. My life is going up in smoke around me, and so here I am, drinking booze and sitting at the edge of the roof of my former place of employment. At least I would give those fuckers one hell of a smear to have to clean up off the concrete below. Bastards.

I finish my whisky and toss the bottle over my shoulder behind me, rolling up my sleeves and sniffling in the wind that whips up around me and dries out my eyes. I close them and heave a sigh, loosening my white-knuckled grip on the building beneath me. My last act on earth isn’t graceful, and I don’t swan dive so much as I shimmy my ass off the edge and plunge into the open air feet first, but by now, I’m too drunk to care. My body sings with adrenaline, and for an instant, I feel like I’m flying.

When I next open my eyes, my head is throbbing and my body is sore, but I’m alive. I groan and roll over onto my side, vision swimming and stomach revolting until I retch and let all the whisky come back up. When I’m done, I roll away from my mess and onto my back, blinking blearily up at the sky above me and sighing deeply. Figures I couldn’t even kill myself right.

Something isn’t sitting right with me, but then several things click all at once. Firstly, I shouldn’t have survived a 30 story drop with nothing more than aches and an upset tummy. Secondly, the night sky is ablaze with stars, with none of the light pollution I’m so used to in the city, and that’s when I notice that there are no buildings rising up around me to choke out the sky.

Lastly, I realise I’m not alone.

I scramble to sit up when I feel the weight of someone’s gaze on me, nearly putting my hand in my sick. I catch myself at the last second and manage to avoid it, and that’s when I notice that I’ve been lying on soft, plush grass instead of pavement. I look around me as best I can in the dark that surrounds me, and I have to admit that it takes me an embarrassingly long time to see the gleam of eyes in the shadows. When I see them, I freeze, feeling myself growing more sober by the second. Whatever it is, it shifts and begins to come closer, stepping into the weak moonlight that I’m sitting in.

I jolt with shock, belching with the act and tasting bile and whisky.

What stands towering above me is a creature straight out of my wildest dreams or nightmares, easily eight feet tall and with dark, pupil-less eyes. He has skin the colour of sand that’s stretched taut over his spectacular musculature, clawed hands and feet, and a tail that lashes behind him. Two jagged horns curve up and away from his head, ending in lethal-looking tips that could gore a man as easily as any bull. As I watch him, slack-jawed and starry-eyed, large, leathery wings as wide across as a small plane stretch out to block the moonlight, leaving me breathless with awe.

“Holy shit,” I breathe. “I’m gonna die after all.”

He cocks his head at me and smirks, the expression cutting across his chiseled features wickedly. When he approaches, I do my best not to shrink away. Death is on the itinerary tonight either way, and beggars can’t be choosers.

“So eager to perish?” he asks, his voice a bassy boom like thunder overhead.

I blink. I hadn’t been expecting him to be able to speak. Rude of me, I guess. “I was kind of in the middle of it, before you interrupted,” I say, and I cheer internally when I only fumble my words once. Take that, whisky.

He stalks closer to me, tucking his wings back in against his shoulders and considering me. “Why?”

Why? It was a question I’d entertained, myself.

First, I allowed myself to get married to my job instead of my partner, until he grew sick of my excuses and left me at the proverbial altar to our lives with little more than a word of farewell, a discarded ring, and a roiling in my gut that nothing could quell. Then, in the next month, I threw myself into my work until I was up to my eyeballs in paperwork every day, only to find out that my department had been part of a huge money laundering scheme, and as one of the chief accountants of the company, I was going to be the scapegoat. The prospect of years in the slammer with no future, no partner, and very little contact with my estranged family other than the odd call with my sister left me the broken man I now am.

I tell him so, and I try not to let my emotions get the better of me, but the whisky makes it hard. By the end of my miserable tale, I find myself staring up at the moon in an attempt to keep from crying, but it doesn’t work; I can feel tears burning in my eyes, and I can taste them on my tongue when I speak. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. One last cry.

I startle when I feel cool, rough fingers cupping my face and lowering my head, making me look into his dark, unsettling eyes. There is no sympathy in them, only a cool sort of calculation as he measures me against some mysterious yardstick of qualifications.

“If I left you now, would you do it again?”

I frown, trying to pull my head out of his grasp, but his hold is strong, and I’m very drunk. “Yeah,” I say, sniffling and scowling up at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

“No,” he says, and he smiles. It isn’t a welcoming expression, and his teeth are long and sharp. I feel a thrill of fear race up my spine from my stomach on up, but I grit my teeth against it. No matter what, I want to die with some sort of dignity, and curling up on myself in the face of his malice is not it.

“What’d you do, snatch me out of the air like Superman?”

His smile drops, nictitating membranes flickering over his eyes. “Yes,” he says, one claw digging into my chin hard enough that I might bruise, if I survive him. “Are you not afraid of me?”

I snort. “Buddy, if I was afraid of what you could do to me, I wouldn’t have tossed myself off that building.”

He laughs then, and it sounds like a rockslide. “Then you are no coward. Live.”

I scowl at him, and this time I push his hand away, struggling to my feet and getting in his personal space when he stands. “Fuck you,” I spit, shoving at his chest. “You think that just because you intervened, everything is gonna magically fix itself? Huh? You think that just because you stuck your fucking nose in someone else’s business, there’s going to be some mystical pivotal point in their life and it’s all gonna change? Go fuck yourself, you horny piece of shit!”

“‘Horny’?” he echos, brows flying up with shock. He doesn’t budge when I shove him again; if anything, he looks bewildered.

“You heard me,” I snarl. “If you’re just gonna save me and go, thinking yourself some kind of enigmatic superhero, you can go ahead and fucking leave. Don’t waste my time or yours.”

He cocks his head as though seeing me with new eyes. “So you would kill yourself regardless. That makes your life forfeit.” He takes hold of the front of my jacket, and I hear the fabric protest against such rough treatment. “I will do with it, then, whatever I please.”

“What?” I blurt, but that’s all the warning I get before he snatches me up against him and takes off with one great flap of his wings.

I can’t help it. I scream. I scream louder and longer than I’ve ever screamed in my life, and then I scream some more. Then I must pass out, because the next thing I know, we’re landing on the balcony of some huge building, and my captor is striding into the room adjacent and through another door to finally set me down on tiles that are so cold that I yip with shock.

Lights come on—dim, almost atmospheric—to reveal a sprawling bathroom, and as I struggle to take in my surroundings of porcelain and gold, my captor bends to stop up the truly massive claw foot tub and turn on the tap. “Strip,” he orders, turning towards me again.

“Excuse me?” I splutter, stepping away from him as he advances. “Where the fuck have you taken me? Where am I?”

“You are in my home in New Asidonia,” he says, entirely nonplussed, where I feel as ruffled as a flustered chicken.

“New where? Is that even a country?”

He shrugs, dismissing my question with an elegant wave of his long, clawed fingers. “I use magic to travel between our realms. You are very fortunate that I came upon you when I did. Of all the little cities you humans have created, I decided upon yours for my morning flight.”

“Oh, well, thanks,” I snap, reaching up to rub between my eyes; I am going to have one hell of a headache. I squawk when he takes hold of my arm and tugs me closer, struggling briefly against the steel-corded muscles of his arms. I go stock still as he tears my jacket and shirt clean off my chest, mouth gaping like a hooked carp’s. “You shit! That hurt, and this suit was expensive!”

“You will not be needing it,” he says, and when I struggle and flail against him as he tries to wrestle off my trousers, he gives up and plucks me off my feet with an exasperated sigh, dropping me gracelessly in the half-full tub with a mighty splash.

I lurch out of the water sputtering, trousers tangled around my legs along with my underwear as I clutch at the edge of the tub, coughing and gasping for air. “What—“ I cough, wheezing and looking up at him with wide, horrified eyes. “—the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You smell strongly of alcohol,” he says, moving away to a set of shelves full of crystal bottles, small tubes, and squat little jars. He opens this and that, sniffing at the contents delicately and replacing things time and again. I take the opportunity to squirm out of my trousers and underwear, wringing them out for lack of something to do before I toss them out of the tub along with the rest of what’s left of my clothing. I feel vulnerable here, now that I’m in his domain, and so I tuck my legs up against my chest, watching him warily as he approaches the tub with a few items in hand.

Under my watchful eye, he pours some clear oil into the water and sprinkles in a liberal amount of bath salts, and I begin to smell citrus and something floral tickling my nose. “What is it?” I ask, curious despite my disquiet.

“Orange-infused bathing salts and oil of gardenia,” he replies without inflection, turning away from me to take the items back to their designated places on the shelves.

“Strange combination,” I murmur, reaching out to turn off the tap before the tub has a chance to overflow.

Not that it makes a difference, since it overflows the moment that he steps into the tub behind me.

I make an entirely undignified noise of alarm, but before I can scramble away and out of the tub, he scoops me up onto his lap with all the ease of a mother orangutan dragging her errant young out of a tree. I’m breathless by the time he manages to get me to settle down, my body flushed from exertion, drink, and the heat of the water. I scowl up at him, but he merely cups his hand in the water and starts to trickle it over my head, over and over again, and I realise with a start that he’s bathing me.

“This is the weirdest fucking thing that’s ever happened to me,” I whisper, unsettled, but I don’t move away. Up close, he’s almost handsome, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had a man pull me onto his lap. I can’t deny that I’ve been craving touch more than ever this last month, and though he’s been anything but gentle since we’ve met, I find myself melting as he runs his claws through my hair.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, easing me against his chest and stroking my back with his big, strong hands.

I’m just drunk enough that I relax under his attention, feeling myself go limp in the cradle of his arms. “I don’t even know your name,” I mumble, feeling petulant about my situation but doing nothing to remedy it.

“Achilles,” he quietly replies, and I test the name on my tongue, finding that it fits my mouth like a key to something I’m too tired to examine. So, instead, I sleep.

I wake with a pounding behind my eyes. I groan and burrow under the covers of the large, comfortable bed I’m snuggled into, though I screech and almost flail off of it entirely when I bump into a body beside me. Achilles’ arm extends like a whip and he grabs hold of my wrist, hauling me against him before I tumble over the edge. I sag in something between resignation and relief when my memory comes back to me, and then I wince.

“Oh, gods, my head,” I whimper, pressing my face against Achilles’ chest. I jolt when I feel his hand come up to settle on the crown of my head, and then I make a noise of protest when he shifts beneath me to get up. I’m slightly mollified when he tucks me back into bed in the pocket of warmth left behind by his body, but even then, I have to reach up to drape my arm over my eyes.

“That should be enough to put you off of drink,” he says as he leaves the room, and I scowl after him.

“Asshole,” I mutter, rolling over to get away from the light that floods in through the huge windows that make up the wall facing the morning sun. Achilles had said something about ‘traveling between realms’ the night before, so I can’t even be sure that the sun is rising in the east like it does back home.

I can’t be sure how long it is before he comes back, but when he does, it’s with a tray in his hands, which he sets over my lap when I sit up. On said tray is an arrangement of both cold and hot foods from sweet sticky bread to steaming eggs, though the latter have an alarmingly pink yolk. “What is this?” I ask, picking up the fork he’s provided and poking at the eggs until the yolks run.

“Breakfast,” says Achilles, his tail moving forward to reveal a teapot curled securely in its grasp. He pours a strong, herbal concoction into a cup beside a glass of water, then sets the teapot down on the bedside table. “That will help with the pain that you are experiencing. Drink. Eat.”

“I’m not a dog,” I grumble, though my stomach gurgles needily as the smells permeate the room.

Achilles snorts his amusement and steps away to the double doors of the balcony, throwing them open and letting in birdsong and more of that accursed sunlight. He stretches his wings out and over his head along with his arms, and I can’t help but let my eyes wander along his long, muscular form in the light of day. He’s definitely more handsome than I gave him credit for in the moonlight, with a strong jaw and bright, dark eyes.

Before I know it, Achilles is taking off from the balcony, disappearing into the sky above… wherever we are.

I look away from the place he’d been and take a wary sip of the brew he’s given me, and I find myself relaxing as I drink. It’s not bad, but it does have a bit of a grassy aftertaste; a little sugar would fix it right up, but Achilles didn’t provide me with any, so I settle for dunking the sweet bread in and hoping for the best. As I eat, I find that I’m ravenously hungry, and I surprise myself by finishing off the entirety of the contents of the breakfast tray. Just as I’m stuffing the last piece of toast into my mouth, Achilles returns, landing on the balcony with nary a sound.

“Good flight?” I ask, wiping my mouth with the napkin provided—cloth, and embroidered so delicately at the edges that I feel bad about wiping my crumby gunk on it.

Achilles looks at me as though surprised by my question, pausing to consider as he draws in his wings. “Yes,” he says after a moment, “but I did not wish to dally for long.”

I arch a brow at him. “Worried I’ll break something?”

“Yourself,” he replies, and I bristle.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I snipe, pushing the tray off of my lap with a clatter of crockery. “I’ll try not to throw myself down a flight of stairs or do a somersault off the balcony for five fucking minutes while you get in your morning calisthenics.”

“See that you do not,” Achilles equably replies, and I grind my teeth.

Bastard.

Suddenly, he approaches me on the bed, and I can’t help but draw away and pull the covers up against my chest like a maiden on her wedding night. “What?” I ask, but he merely plucks me out from under the covers as though I weigh nothing more than a kitten, hoisting me up beneath my arms so that we’re on eye level. “Hey!” I meep, struggling and trying to kick at his stomach. It’s about as effective as kicking a concrete barrier, and I hiss as I flinch away from him, toes aching.

He snorts.

Bastard.

“You will dress and join me in the library,” he announces, hoiking me up against his hip and carrying me across the expansive, richly decorated bedroom towards what turns out to be a walk-in closet. For all of the space inside of it, there are only a few items on the hangers and shelves, mostly bedding and towels.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re tall as shit and I’m human-sized, so I don’t think any of your clothes will fit me,” I grunt, though I can’t help but be curious. What kind of clothing would a creature shaped like Achilles wear?

“This home used to belong to a tiefling lord,” Achilles tells me, setting me down on the floor with a dismissive gesture. “Something suitable will doubtless present itself here.”

I’m not sure I hear him right. “Wh—a tiefling? Like, Dungeons and Dragons type of tiefling?”

Achilles shrugs. “Yes. New Asidonia is generally where we thoughtforms gather, after being birthed by enough passion and collective belief. We leave your realm when we are strong enough, coming and going as we please, usually in disguise.”

“Wait, you mean tieflings are wandering around in the human world, in disguise?”

“Yes,” says Achilles, and apparently decides that I’ve had enough time standing around dawdling, and so he plucks an exquisitely blue tunic off of one of the hangers and pulls it over my head.

I splutter against fabric in my mouth, hauling in a breath when my face is free. “What else is wandering around out there? What are you?”

“I am a gargoyle,” Achilles tells me, pushing my arms through the respective holes as though I were little more than a doll.

I know my eyes are bulging. I can’t help it; my whole world has been turned on its head. I don’t even have it in me to complain about his manhandling. “Aren’t gargoyles supposed to—I don’t know—be asleep during the day? Turn to stone or something?”

“Only when we are very young, and then it is not so much sleep as it is a state of hibernation. Gargoyles have no need for sleep.”

I go still, cogs turning in my head as I watch him pick out a suitable pair of trousers. “So you were awake all last night? All the time I was asleep, you were just lying there like a creep?”

Achilles gives me a strange look. “Is that so off-putting?”

“Yeah, actually. I’d rather my bedmate be asleep if we’re not—“ Oh, well, now I’ve just gone and put my foot in my mouth. I feel heat creeping up into my face when Achilles smirks, and I narrow my eyes at the gargoyle with a scowl so thunderous it borders on pouting. “Don’t.”

“Would you rather I have done something else last night whilst we were in bed?” he asks, lifting one of my legs so suddenly that I nearly pitch backwards.

I cling to his horns to keep myself from falling on my ass, gritting my teeth as some of the jagged points dig into my palms. “I said, ‘don’t’.”

Achilles chuckles and helps me into the trousers he’s picked out for me. “I would never have touched you in that manner while you were under the influence of alcohol.”

“Oh, so chivalry isn’t dead,” I grumble, releasing his horns when I have my feet underneath me again. “As if anything could happen. Last I looked, you don’t have anything going on downstairs.”

Achilles meets my eyes, lifting a sardonic brow. “My phallus is sheathed.”

“Oh my fuck,” I gasp, choking on a gurgle of something like laughter. “Please don’t call it a phallus. That is the least sexy thing you could refer to it as.”

“As opposed to?” he prompts, and once again, I find myself hoisted up into his arms and carried out of the room.

“I can walk, you know,” I grouse, though I have to admit—at least privately—that it feels good to be carried around like a newlywed over the threshold.

“Answer my question.”

I jerk my head up to look at him, shocked. “What? You can’t be serious. You’ve never heard of ways to refer to your own anatomy?”

“I have,” says Achilles, sweeping into an enormous room decorated floor to ceiling in sturdy, dark bookshelves and plush, comfortable-looking armchairs. “I would like to know what you prefer to hear.”

My face flames, but this whole situation isn’t getting any less weird, so I throw my inhibitions to the wind. “‘Cock’, I guess. Or ‘dick’. Hell, I’ll even accept ‘prick’ if I’m turned on enough. Anything but ‘phallus’.”

“Duly noted,” Achilles rumbles, carefully depositing me in an armchair and leaving me to peruse the stacks nearby. I’m not content to be toted around like a toddler, so I get up and start to look around as well, though I quickly realise that there isn’t much that I can actually read.

“What language is this?” I ask as I pull a volume from the shelves, and Achilles looks across the room at me curiously.

“I believe that’s post-modern Atlantean,” he says from where he’s leafing through a book, flicking carefully through its yellowed pages.

“At—Okay, now I know you’re shitting me. Atlantis exists?”

“Existed,” Achilles reveals, gesturing towards a desk at the far end of the room with a graceful sweep of his wing. “There are enchanted spectacles in the desk drawer, though they are too small for my nose. I suspect they will fit yours perfectly.”

“Enchanted to do what?” I ask, though I can’t help but approach the desk as my curiosity overcomes me. When I open the desk drawer, there is indeed a small pince-nez situated amongst other office trappings like quills and jars of coloured ink.

“It will allow you to read whatever you wish,” says Achilles, looking back at the book in his hands. “I am afraid I have not seen fit to have its enchantments appraised.”

“Huh,” I say, warily easing the pince-nez before my eyes and looking down at the cover of the book I’d picked up. I’m startled but not entirely surprised to find that I can read the letters now, though there’s an odd shimmer to them if I focus too hard. “The Secret Life of Oispentals. Weird. Thanks.”

“You are most welcome,” Achilles rumbles, making his way over to the biggest armchair and settling in with an odd shuffling of his wings.

“Did you have that chair custom made?” I ask, curling up in the armchair closest to my own size. There are others around the room of varying sizes, and I wonder at their disparities.

“If I had, I would have requested notches for my wings,” Achilles points out, looking up and around the room as though sharing my thoughts. “The lord who lived here hosted guests of many sizes and races. Perhaps this seat was crafted for an orc or a minotaur.”

By now, I take those tidbits in stride. “Will I ever get to meet these other races, or am I going to be kept secluded in this castle for the rest of my life?”

My words startle a laugh out of Achilles, warm and rich with amusement. “This is hardly a castle. It is a manor—one on a very large estate, at that—but it is no castle.”

I wave my hand dismissively. “Whatever. My question stands. What do you plan to do with me?”

The book in Achilles’ hand snaps shut. He stands and places the tome on the seat of his chair, and then he’s advancing on me again, stalking towards me like he is a large predator and I’m little more than a rabbit caught in a snare. My mouth goes dry as he rests his hands on the armrests of my chair, leaning in so that we’re eye to eye.

“I plan to keep you,” he quietly replies, voice little more than a sibilant purr that makes me shiver where I sit. “All of you, all to myself, for the rest of time. I will feed you, keep you warm in the bed we share, and when you are ready to take me, I will breed you like the whore that I know that you are.”

I should be angry. I should be outraged at his insinuations, raising my voice and pushing him out of my personal space. I should be running for the hills.

Instead, I find myself going limp beneath his heated gaze, my heart hammering in my heaving chest. I feel dizzy with the sudden desire that washes over me, and I have to swallow before I can make myself look away, submissive in the face of his prowess. This time, when he turns my head to face him, his touch is firm and almost brutal, and I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat.

“Is that understood?”

I nod.

He squeezes my jaw until I whimper. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” I choke out, book falling from my fingers as I reach up to take hold of his wrist in a silent plea for mercy.

“‘Yes’ what?” he rumbles, and his nictitating membranes flicker once over his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” I breathe, and he eases his hold. In the next instant, his lips are crushing mine in a kiss that’s just as much punishment as it is reward, but before I can make myself do more than scramble at his chest, he draws away.

Achilles picks up his book as he makes his way out of the room, looking back over his shoulder at me as I struggle to catch my breath. “You are free to do as you wish for the remainder of the day,” he says from the doorway, and then he’s gone, leaving me flushed and wanting in the middle of the library.

Bastard.

#exophilia #mlm exophilia #gay exophilia #gargoyle #gargoyles #monster romance #male monster x reader #Achilles #Bastard (affectionate) #My work

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Damhan and Altan, part two

Rating: SFW Pairing: Male Wereshark x Trans Male Werebear x Male reader

Had to go back and edit the first one because--surprise!--there’s polyamory. Who knew? Not me!

xxx

My legs weren’t broken, and that was about the extent of the good news. It meant that we didn’t need to figure out the logistics of me moving around when I got out of the hospital, since a wheelchair would hurt and crutches would have been a nightmare. Still, I had three broken ribs and a couple hairline fractures to my spine, so I walked out of the place like I was Frankenstein’s monster from a black and white movie.

Damhan was there at the front of the hospital when I came out, straddling a motorcycle and gesturing for me to get on. I hesitated for a variety of reasons, not least of which because my body felt like I’d been abused like bongos in a Donkey Kong soundtrack; a ride on a motorbike did not seem appealing at the moment. For another, I barely knew the man except for the few days I’d been an inpatient in the hospital, where he’d done nothing but make a nuisance of himself to the staff by demanding better treatment for me and going back and forth between visiting me and his bear friend in jail.

Still, it was a free ride, and it would probably be easier to puke over the side of a motorcycle than it would be to throw up in a taxi. I hauled myself onto the bike behind Damhan, wincing all the while, and then mumbled my address to the wereshark I’d be trusting with my life. To be fair, he made sure I wore a helmet and hauled my arms around his torso, so I was relatively sure I’d at least die copping a good feel of the muscles that damn near shredded his shirt. The ride home was uneventful, but I was so dizzy on the cocktail of antibiotics, pain medication, and the antivenin regimen keeping me from turning into a were that I mostly kept my eyes shut and my face tucked in against Damhan’s shoulder.

“Hey.”

I twitched my head up from where I’d been burrowed, squinting at the contrast in light between my hiding place and the world at large. I hadn’t noticed that we’d stopped until Damhan’s voice rumbled its way into my head like distant thunder, coaxing me from his shoulder to see that he’d turned his head to look back at me.

“You okay?” Damhan asked, voice as gentle as when I first heard it through the daze of my post-surgery drugs, and I felt the something inside me that liked this impossible man twitch and greedily gather more strength.

“I’m a goner,” I said, and buried my face into his shirt.

Damhan laughed—a sound both rough and smooth as melted butter—and I felt him shake his head. “You’re fine,” he replied, “just banged up and bruised, is all. You good to get off this bike, or am I gonna have to carry you?”

“We’re sorry,” I mumbled against his shoulder, “your call could not be completed as dialed. Please hang up and try your call agai—oh, shit!” I squeaked as I found myself being hefted from the motorcycle as though I weighed little more than a sack of potatoes, clutching at Damhan and hissing as I pulled at my bruised stitches. “Warn a guy!”

“I did,” Damhan pointed out, reaching his hand into my back pocket—the noise I made when his hand cupped my ass was incomprehensible garbage—and fishing out my house keys.

“That wasn’t a warning, that was a threat,” I groused, though I was all too happy to let myself be carried up the stairs to my apartment rather than have to navigate them myself. Damhan laughed and set me down in front of my door as delicate as a teacup, watching me slide my key into the lock and twist.

“Damn,” said Damhan as he stepped inside behind me, lifting his brows. “You live like this?”

“Oh, shut up,” I muttered, kicking an empty pizza box back into the pile by the door and making my way to my kitchen to open my fridge. There was probably something sentient in the takeout container I peered into, and I probably shouldn’t have any beers until I was off my meds, so I was stuck with nursing a juice box and thumbing through my takeaway menus for something appetising.

“You trying to grow shrooms under your couch?” Damhan asked, taking a tour of my apartment and poking at things with something between morbid curiosity, wonder, and probably a little fear. “I was in the hospital,” I snapped, picking up my phone and scrolling through my contacts before I settled on my favourite Thai place. A good helping of tom yum goong would either kill or cure me, so I was determined to phone one in. “For like a week,” Damhan scoffed, then jumped as something small and furry squeaked and scurried out from under a cardboard box he’d prodded with his boot. Damhan laughed again at my shocked expression, and it wasn’t a pleasant one. “Oh, hell no. You’re not stayin’ in this dump eatin’ gods know what when you’re recoverin’ from a godsdamn werebear attack. Pack your shit. We’re leavin’.”

“What?” I meeped. “I’m not going anywhere!” I was mistaken. My apologies to the audience.

Damhan’s place was almost uncannily suited to him, exposed brickwork lending an oldschool sort of charm to the apartment while the pipes running naked along the ceiling and walls boasted hanging plants and star-shaped fairy lights that softened the rough edges. Damhan himself was in his element the moment that he stepped into the apartment, and in no time at all I’d been bundled up on his comfy, squashy couch while he made me something to eat in his kitchen.

He whistled and sang as he worked, voice a beautiful, almost rasping baritone that trickled into bass with all the grace of a cat. I couldn’t have matched him if I tried, but I enjoyed watching him dance and shimmy through his kitchen as he chopped and fried, and it seemed like no time at all before he was being presented with a steaming bowl of beef and veggie stir fry on rice. I looked up at Damhan incredulously as I thanked him, and he flashed a sharp-toothed grin at me.

“What?” he prompted, sitting down beside me with his own helping. “Didn’t think I could cook?”

“No, I just… Well, yeah,” I admitted, though I was interrupted from embarrassing myself further when there was a knock at the door.

Damhan’s head jerked up and his eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring as though scenting the air around him. “Aw, hell,” he muttered, setting his plate down on the coffee table and getting up from the couch where he’d settled beside me. As I watched, he slipped something out of one of his pockets and flicked it open to reveal a wicked-looking blade, heading for the door. He looked through the peephole and swore under his breath, undoing the locks and wrenching his door open hard enough that I heard a tiny squeak of fright from the other side, not unlike the mouse that Damhan had nearly stepped on back at my place.

“What the fuck gave you the idea that this would be okay?” Damhan snapped at the person outside the door, and I struggled onto my feet in order to get a better view.

What I saw was a bunch of flowers with legs that squirmed uncomfortably in place, and as I watched, I heard a very small voice say, “I-I didn’t get to visit him in hospital, so I—”

“—thought that you’d come visit him at my place?” Damhan sighed and put his knife away, scraping a hand through his auburn hair to push it away from his face. “That’s not why I texted you, Altan.”

“I-I know,” the one called Altan said, the flowers quivering slightly in their grasp. I realised that the little thing was shaking hard enough to make them rustle, and I felt my stomach twist.

“Hey, Damhan, lighten up,” I called, wincing as I shambled on over. “What’s going on?”

Damhan looked at me like I was about to bite his face off, then grimaced and stepped forward to take the flowers from the person standing at the door. What he revealed was a petite, curvy young thing in a sweater-dress and cable-knit socks that came up to the middle of their plump thighs, with a cute little glittery eye patch over their left eye. The right one widened at the sight of me so much that I could see it was a beautiful caramel colour almost the same colour as their skin, flecked through with green. Damhan gestured between me and the flower-person, introducing me by name.

“This is my buddy, Altan,” he huffed. “He’s the werebear who attacked you last week.”

My eyes bulged. “This tiny thing is the giant fucking bear who almost killed me?”

All at once, Altan burst into tears.

Damhan sighed and placed the big vase of flowers on the table by the door, reaching out to take hold of Altan’s elbow and gently lead him inside so that he could close the door at last. “C’mon, Al,” he rumbled, clearly uncomfortable with this display of emotion. “Don’t cry. C’mon. Nobody’s mad at you.”

“I d-didn’t mean t-to,” Altan mewed, barely being able to speak through his soft, hiccuping sobs. “I s-swear I didn’t! I was just… s-so upset with my sire, and I never g-get angry, but the full moon was so c-close, and I-I… I don’t remember any of it! I would never have t-touched you otherwise, I give you my w-word!”

“Whoa, ho, hold on, wait a minute, gimme a second,” I stammered, holding up my hands. “Look, kid, I didn’t press charges because Damhan said you were in sicko mode, but he’s right. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I w-wanted to apologise,” said Altan, looking up at me with possibly the most effective puppy dog eye I’d ever seen in my life. He sagged under the weight of my incredulity, and I felt as though I’d punted a starving kitten into a raging river.

“Okay,” I found myself saying, wetting my lips with a nervous flicker of my tongue. “Alright. Uh. Apology accepted, I guess. Thanks for the flowers?”

Altan’s lips trembled, and he sniffled as Damhan nipped away to the kitchen. “I-I would have given them to you sooner, but…”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” I said, and even managed to smile at the young man in front of me.

Damhan came back with a napkin and took Altan’s chin in his hand, carefully wiping the tears from Altan’s cheeks and looking down into his eye. “You good?” he murmured, and Altan nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Altan whispered up at Damhan, leaning into the man’s touch as Damhan absently swept his thumb over the soft swell of Altan’s cheek; for a moment, there was such electricity in the air between them that I had to look away.

“I, uh. Should I leave?” I asked, and just like that, the tension was broken. The pair broke apart from one another, Damhan clearing his throat and Altan flushing prettily as he shied away.

“No,” said Damhan, firmly enough that I didn’t bother trying to say otherwise. “You’re my guest, and you’re stayin’. Plus, your place is a trash heap.”

“Hey,” I said, stung, but my moral high ground was a ditch, so I let it be.

Somehow, we all ended up on the couch watching some movie or another, and as Damhan slipped an arm around either of us, he looked my way, a question in his eyes.

I considered the situation.

During dinner, it had come out that the reason for Altan’s berserker state that night had been a run-in with the werebear who’d turned him—an unrepentant old bastard with a mean streak a mile wide. He’d said some truly heinous things to both Altan and Damhan, but it was the latter that had made Altan see red, and it took some serious manhandling on Damhan’s part to get the werebear where he’d been when I first stumbled onto them.

Otherwise, it seemed, Altan wouldn’t even hurt a fly. The guy had brought me flowers, for fuck’s sake, and the way he blushed when he looked me in the eye made something in my stomach flutter. It wasn’t the meet-cute that you’d expect, but he was a good guy, at the end of the day. It just sucked that we’d had to maim each other to get to that point. The way I saw it, though, we were even; he’d torn me up to hell and back, and he would always be missing an eye because of me. It wasn’t ideal, but it was what it was.

So I nodded at Damhan; whatever was happening, I wanted it to happen, and I wasn’t about to back out now.

Damhan grinned at me in the dimness and leaned in to kiss me hard enough that he left me breathless, sharp teeth nibbling delicately at my lip. “Knew I liked you,” he whispered, drawing Altan onto his lap in one fluid motion that left the man squeaking with surprise.

Altan turned a rosy pink under our combined scrutiny, squirming on his perch on Damhan’s thighs and lowering his gaze. As I watched, Damhan lifted the man’s chin with one crooked finger and leaned in to kiss him soundly, until Altan’s dainty hands clutched at Damhan’s shirt and tugged for mercy. I heard the sharp intake of breath from Altan as Damhan dropped a casual hand on his thigh, squeezing gently.

“You don’t mind?” Altan asked me, anxiously setting his hand on Damhan’s as though ready to pull it off if I so much as breathed at them wrong.

I grinned. “Nope. Though I’ll have to ask you both to lighten up on the friskiness until I’m ready to join you…”

Damhan snorted, his other hand—large and warm and sure—sliding onto my thigh as well. “Deal,” he said, and kissed me again.

#exophilia #gay exophilia #wereshark #werebear #male reader #monster romance #trans monster #Damhan #Altan #Altansarnai #My work #One day I'll stop posting to the wrong fucking blog but it is not this day #polyamorous romance

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

I'd love to see the other were boyfriend who can play with a big fish like Damhan.

The answer likely will and won't surprise you!

#answers and asks

[handy-dandy-monster-candy]

Damhan’s story is going in the direction of possibly being polyamorous. Should I continue and give the MC two were boyfriends???

#Say something human #girl help I was writing and my characters decided they liked each other