#post partum depression cw

[survivoirs]

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH DOCTOR OC: Until I make a proper bio for him. Here is Elisedd “Elis” Howell. Yes I am having fun and having him related to the Howells that adopted my OC Merrick but Elis’ main verse will be Our Flag Means Death making him a pretty distant relative lol. In Far Cry verse (Merrick’s main verse for this blog) and other modern verse they will be cousins through Merrick’s adoptive family. It’s just for fun and not too important for either’s story other than Merrick having a family who loves him being important <3 Anywho background below. NO REBLOGS.

TRIGGER WARNING SEE TAGS

Elis is comes from a well off mother and father from a town in Wales. He grew up very close to his twin sister Mari who was named after their grandmother and certainly the favorite. It was a joke between them that she could get away with murder and their parents wouldn’t bat an eye. Then again Elis would help her bury the hypothetical body of course. Their mother was loving but meek and their father a very proud man. Elis very much one to want to make him proud of him naturally but for whatever reason he struggled to ever be enough for the man up until the point in his life when he decided to study to become a doctor. A profession to be proud of certainly in his old man’s eyes. Elis had had interest in it for a while, ever since he was 14 when he got maimed by a wild animal while traveling out of country with his father on business. The doctor he was rushed to saved his life and intrigued him for years to come despite not understanding a word the man said. He still bares scars on his torso from the attack.

Even after studying to be a physician, he still was not quite the son his father wanted. He didn’t look at women. Didn’t try to court them. Didn’t envision himself getting a pretty wife to bring home to his parents. Certainly made for a desirable bachelor back home. Tall, handsome, intelligent and successful but it wasn’t for him even though people did try to set him up. His father and him never had the conversation about whether or nor Elis liked men but it was the underlying factor in the difficulties in their relationship. Mari got pregnant out of wedlock, the father bolting. She had a baby boy she named Owain. Mari suffered from post partum depression, which of course was not known as an illness at the time. Feeling she shouldn’t be a mother, she asked Elis to look after Owain in a letter and disappeared. To this day he’s not sure what happened to her. Elis naturally adopted the boy and raised him as his son, ignoring people’s assumptions that he’d probably gotten a woman pregnant and left with the child. Years later when Owain was four, a sickness spread through the town. Most of the adults were able to fight through it but the small child passed after Elis spent four days trying to keep his fever down and treat him. Feeling like a failure of a father and as a physician, Elis unfortunately turned to drinking to cope in his grief. 

Where he’d once been the family’s remaining pride and joy as the successful doctor, it got to the point Elis couldn’t hold a tool due to shakes unless he’d had a drink first. He’d more or less had become a functioning alcoholic over a few years but when it got to that point he knew he had to stop treating patients. Stuck in the same town, seeing the same faces looking at him with pity, Elis spent most of his days not sober in one of the taverns. 

He decided to move on, not wanting to be the family’s disgraced doctor son anymore and decided to travel to some of the British colonies. It was there, in another tavern where he was still being not sober every day, that he met Stede Bonnet. Or more so Stede met him because he’d accidentally gotten into the middle of a bar fight between Elis and another patron. A fight that Elis didn’t start, nor did he really partake as Stede’s face took the first punch. Elis patched the man up afterwards after he reassured him he was a doctor and afterwards Stede offered him a job on the crew he was putting together. Elis admitted he was struggling with alcoholism and that he’d stopped practicing medicine because of it. Stede, ever the one for chances and changing one’s life took him aboard anyways. Elis spent the first three days violently seasick, and the following week sick still as he forced himself to sober up. However the crew now had a doctor to take up shop in their sickbay and Elis had a chance at starting his life again.

QUICK STATS

Name: Elisedd “Elis” Howell Nickname: Doc Age: 36 DOB: 11th of october Hair Color: Brown Eye Color: Hazel Height: 6′5″ / 195.58 cm Build: Lanky and lean Sexuality: Homosexual possibly demi

#child death cw #terminal illness cw #post partum depression cw #alcoholism cw #homophobia cw

[inquisitorius-sin-bin]

OH I HAVE MORE what happens to HRH's new Force-sensitivity after Tseng is born? Especially in the context of the Path of Desire finale because if it just disappears after they've tasted all that power ooooof I need to know the consequences of that choice

Their force sensitivity is a consequence of the work of midi-chlorians building in the tissues of a force-sensitive being inside of them. I don't know if you've ever seen accurate images of a pregnancy at 6/7 weeks of development, but it is truly a tiny sac of web-like cells at that point. So when we see them, their powers are fairly weak, mostly amplified by being on a vergence-point in the cosmos, which also explains why they didn't feel very differently before landing on Exegol. As Tseng grows, so will their abilities.

Naturally, once he is parted from them, HRH will lose their newfound power.

Now, this is a sensitive subject and I won't pretend to have a full understanding of it as someone who has never undergone having a child and almost certainly never will. However, I do have close friends who have given birth and experience post-partum depression.

My understanding is that pregnancy comes with a cultural feeling of specialness, you're excited and treated a certain way and feel very physically close with your baby. At a certain point you can feel their movements and there's a knowledge that they are with you always, you are nuturing them with your own body, you are physically aware of them being there at all times.

Then, after birth, not only is this physical connection suddenly not there, you have the reality of not sleeping, having the stress of a crying baby with needs that you can't always determine, you're often no longer treated as special by those around you and often socially isolated because you have to stay home to care for your newborn.

For HRH, not only are they experiencing the feelings of elation being pregnant, it comes with the special attention they've desired from their father, as he has an interest in how it is possible for a non-force sensitive person to become force-sensitive. It comes with the feelings of power they've desperately craved their entire life. AND, not only do they feel the normal physical closeness of having a baby developing inside of them, with their newfound awareness, they have the ability to sense them on a level they haven't been able to connect with others before.

I imagine the sudden severance of that connection and that awareness to the universe around them would be incredibly jarring for anyone losing force-sensitivity, but especially someone undergoing physical and hormonal changes as well. HRH has a deeply religious devotion to the Force and I think they could deal with some of it by believing they passed that gift their son, but it would be a difficult transition for sure.

I've also understood that often, within a few months of giving birth, sometimes the hormonal changes + the loss feelings associated with PPD can drive some people to actively seek becoming pregnant AGAIN in order to re-capture that connection. Perhaps HRH would attempt something really foolish, like trying to get back in touch with the Inquisitor without getting permission to do so first. I'm sure Renson would have a heart attack.

Let's hope their guards being there as a constant comfort helps them through their difficult time.

#e&w q&a #cw ppd #cw pregnancy #cw post partum depression

[luveline]

𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐧 | 𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐨𝐧

things aren't the way you planned coming home with your newborn, but you have eddie there to lean on when things get hard (and an unlimited supply of 'munson-style' hugs). requested here. infatuated dad!eddie x mom!reader, 3k.

cw post partum recovery, reader is suffering from some symptoms of post partum depression

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

"You're sure you can manage?" Wayne asks, his voice buzzing down the line.

Eddie peers out of the kitchen into the living room quietly. You're sitting on the sofa in a shape that can't be comfortable considering your recent stitches, the baby on your thighs where you've brought them together, your hands delicately posed on either side of his head. 

"I think so," Eddie says, answering Wayne's questions with honesty. "She's feeling a little better today." 

"It's hard, Eds. You take care of her and call me if you need help, okay? I'm proud of you. Both of you." 

It catches Eddie off guard for a moment. He's done enough crying lately, clearing his throat to say, "Thanks, Wayne. Call me tomorrow." 

"You call me, I don't wanna wake anyone if you're sleeping." 

They say their goodbyes. Eddie leans against the kitchen doorway to spy on you and the baby. Babies cry more than he ever could've imagined despite the warnings, but it's quiet, too. There are moments of peacefulness like this one breaking apart the chaos. 

You're whispering something. Eddie stands very still, wishing the dishwasher would magically silence itself. He strains to hear you. 

"I love you," you say. "Sorry I'm tired, honey. I promise I'll be better. You're so beautiful." 

Eddie bites his cheeks, wondering if his family (his family!) aim to make him cry and little else tonight. He gives himself a look in the mirror magnet on the fridge framed by a We Love Michigan border, rainbows and cute elk surrounding something less pretty. His hair is frizzy but that's nothing new, greasy at the top and dry at the bottom. He scrapes it back into a scrappy bun and wipes the oil from his face with his sleeves. He's in dire need of a shower. 

Resigned, he steps out of the kitchen, new socks slippery on old linoleum before finding stability on the crush of carpet in need of a vacuuming in the living room. You look up and bless him with a smile.

You've had a bad case of the baby blues, though the midwife assured him that was normal, and not to worry unless it continued past the first few weeks. 

Well, Eddie will worry. Any depression you experience breaks his heart, no matter the cause, and no matter how temporary it may be. Just 'cos a cut might heal doesn't mean it didn't hurt when you got it. 

"How do you feel?" he asks cautiously. 

You make a face that he knows precedes a lie. "Don't worry about me." 

He sits on the arm to look down at the baby —his baby, his son— in your hold, your face moving immediately to rest on his thigh. 

"I'm okay, teddy," you say.

"How about you?" he asks the baby, taking his hand gently. 

The baby doesn't open his eyes nor answer the question, well and truly asleep. 

"Do you think Charlie was the right name?" you ask, stroking his small face lightly. 

"If we hate it, we can just call him Wayne." 

Eddie's out of this world lucky that you'd liked the name and loved him enough to name the baby after his uncle. Charlie Wayne Munson, born six pounds and two ounces, the smallest baby they saw all week in Hawkins General. 

"He looks more like a Wayne than a Charlie," you say, rubbing your cheek into Eddie's sweatpants. 

"He's so fucking beautiful," Eddie says, getting his hand behind your shoulders. He gives your back a loving rub, up and down the whole stiff length of it. "Would you relax? Or tell me what's wrong? Please?" 

"Nothing's wrong… Look how perfect he is, I'd be a freak to act like something was wrong," you say, the exhale of your words warming his leg. 

Eddie rubs his hand up with a tad more roughness until the cinch between your shoulders has flattened. 

"You're having a biological reaction," Eddie says, leaning down to press his lips to the top of your head. "Don't feel bad about feeling bad, sweetheart. This is a physical thing, that's all it is. You're not a freak for feeling wobbly." 

You relax even more, pad of your thumb swiping Charlie's smooth cheek. 

"Want me to make you feel better?" he asks.

"How?" 

"I'm not sure yet. I was thinking we'd make a list. Starting with a hug, quickly followed by something amazing to eat before Wayne wakes up." 

"Charlie," you correct with a small laugh.

"Is there a nickname for Charlie?" Eddie asks. "What are we gonna call him? Lee?"

"We'll think of something," you promise. 

Eddie isn't worried about it. He figures there's at least five years of nickname time to get one that sticks. For now, he has a list to make and things to do, and the first is making sure you're as well as you can be. He starts with the hug, pulling what you want for dinner from you one soft kiss to your temple at a time. Chicken pot pie? Ramen noodles with a fried egg on top? Sesame chicken? Triple cheeseburgers? 

You can't decide. Eddie chooses breakfast for dinner. It won't take long —he can fry the sausage, eggs, turkey bacon and toast in one pan. 

He keeps the door open to watch you, though nothing is actively wrong. You're deflated now rather than tense, petting and fawning over the baby as much as you can without waking him up.  

"Just as handsome as your dad," you say. 

It's a lovely sentiment but Charlie does not approve. He blinks awake, signified by your saccharine, "Hi, baby boy," followed by ten seconds of awe-filled cooing. Eddie's frying some bread in the pan but dinner can wait, he wants to see the baby with his eyes open again. 

By the time Eddie reaches the couch, he's crying. 

You move him carefully into a rock-a-bye hold and shush him. "It's alright," you say. 

"He sounds like you." 

"What?" you ask between shushes, hand tapping a slow and gentle rhythm into Charlie's swaddle. 

"He sounds like you when he cries," Eddie insists. 

Not your pained screams a few days ago nor your heart wrenching tears when you're feeling at your worst, but your hormonal sobbing. Like when you saw the commercial about the new 'shoplifters exposed' program on CBS that featured an old lady who stole a tangerine from the grocery store and got arrested despite her having alzheimers. She didn't mean to, Eddie, why would they make her cry like that? In fairness, it was a very upsetting commercial, but you cried for four hours, and for days afterward your eyes would well with tears and he'd know exactly what you were thinking of. 

"When you're on your period," he explains. "When you know you wouldn't usually cry." 

"You think so?" you ask. 

"I think the solution is the same, too." 

You nod your agreement. "He's hungry." 

You and Eddie feed the baby with varying levels of success. Charlie doesn't wanna latch even though it's a bottle teat, causing some confusion —is he not hungry? Is he cold? No, sweetheart, he's not cold, he's got two blankets and the thermostat's at 68 Fahrenheit. Maybe he needs a new diaper? You check. His diaper's clean. 

You're looking more and more defeated by the second. Eddie sits beside you to give your knee a reassuring squeeze. Babies are hard to look after, but he knows you'll both grow into it. You're exhausted from nine long months and a turbulent half day stint of pushing and crying and turning the bones in his hands into powder, your hormones are going crazy, and you're having a tough time. This won't be your forever feeling (though if it were to last, Eddie would stay at your side through that, too, that's not a question). 

"You know what else works when you're not feeling good?" Eddie asks, offering his arms. He isn't some muscled herculean shape, but when you hand Charlie over, his arms look strong. Capable. Holding Charlie feels just as perfect as holding you. "A Munson-style cuddle," he finishes, trying to speak to his wailing son in that same bubbly parentese you've started talking in. 

Eddie did a lot of talking to your bump while you were pregnant, but he was usually just trying to make you laugh. There were times where he'd lay with his nose against your hip and his arm under the bump, wondering about moments like this. What was the baby going to look like? What colour would his eyes be? What will it feel like to hold the baby in his arms? 

Charlie feels lighter than Eddie first prophesied. Small. He has eyes like yours rather than eyes like his and he couldn't love it more. 

Eddie takes the bottle when you offer it and sandwiches the baby to his chest. He doesn't want to condescend you, doesn't want to shoo you off, but Charlie's crying around the bottle and you look veritably miserably. 

"Do you wanna go and make sure the food isn't on the turn?" he asks. When he realised the baby wasn't going to go down easy again he put your plates on a baking sheet and put the oven on low to keep it warm. 

You hesitate. "Are you okay?" 

"I don't know. I think so, sweetheart. We're barely a room away, alright?" 

He's called you sweetheart more since the birth of your son than ever before, which is insane; Eddie's called you sweetheart likely twice a day since the day you met. That's a whole lot of sweethearts. 

With the baby's changing mood comes a change in the weather. Eddie pats his little back, a quiet thump thump thump, while rain lashes the closed windows. The baby finally decides he's hungry, and the mood turns from frenetic to ambient almost immediately. 

"You make sure you eat if you're hungry!" Eddie calls to you. 

"Are you sure?" 

"I think…" He drifts off, distracted by Charlie's long eyelashes, the way they skim under his eyes and the tiny noises he makes as he suckles. "Aw, baby," he murmurs, "good job. I knew you were hungry. You sounded just like your mom." He can't help grinning. Eddie is really talking to his kid right now, his real life baby. "You made her super emotional, but you're her whole world now. You're mine, too, obviously, but I'm cooler than this." He sighs. "No. I'm not. This is the coolest thing ever." 

"What do you think?" you ask softly. 

Eddie looks up. You're standing at the door, staring at them like they're made of sparkling diamond, every inch precious. 

"Right. I think that we're gonna have to start eating when we can. Wayne never had a baby, but he said I was bad enough as a teenager, and Steve said he's lucky if he gets to eat a hot meal some days." 

"Steve does have three," you say, frowning. "We really can't eat together anymore?" 

You ask like you're less bothered than you are. Like a gimmicky Oh, man. Eddie knows it hides a real worry, and right now he's trying to give you the world on a silver platter, so he dots a little kiss on Charlie's head and says warmly into his skin, "No, that's not true. You're going to be such a good kid, me and mom will be eating together all the time. Isn't that right?" 

Eddie looks at you with his head still tilted down. "I wanna eat together, okay? Everything's changing, but dinner doesn't have to. I just wanted you to eat 'cos you left half of your waffles at breakfast." 

"I can wait." 

"Then let's wait. You wanna come and hold him?" 

"No, he's settled. I don't wanna mess it up again." 

"You didn't," Eddie says, firm and sweet at once. "Sweetheart, come here. You didn't mess up, okay? I'm serious, come and sit with me." 

You hesitate in the way. You're still unsteady on your feet despite the few days you've had to recuperate. Though your hair is cleaner than his it certainly isn't clean, nor are the clothes you've pulled on. Eddie read up and asked around on what would be comfiest for you, debating nightgowns and silk pyjamas at length, but all you've wanted to wear is a hoodie you've had since you were a teenager and a pair of sweatpants with fraying cuffs. He loves it —you look like an adorable dork. 

Your stomach visibly churns. Eddie thinks you might chuck up, is already pulling the baby to his chest to place in the bassinet when you take a short, quiet gasp for air. 

"Sorry, I don't know why I feel so on and off. I know it's just hormones. I promise I feel happy– I feel happy–" You gesture an open palm toward him. "He's gorgeous, Eds, he's everything I wanted and so much more, I just– I just feel like crying and I don't know why," you confess, blinking to suppress tears, shifting your weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. 

Eddie detests seeing you this uneasy, and he swoops in to correct it. 

"Come here," he says again, no hands free to hold out to you. He hopes his voice is inviting enough. 

You shrink into yourself. "I'm being weird." 

"I like when you're weird. I kind of love it. I don't think we'd be in the mess if I didn't love it." 

"It's a mess?" you ask. 

"It's perfect." 

You finally smile, creeping around the bassinet and the needlessly baby proofed coffee table to sit on the edge of the couch with him. Charlie makes a sound in the back of his throat. 

"Hear that? He knows you're here," Eddie murmurs, making room for you hopefully. 

You sidle up to his thigh and lean on his arm, careful not to knock his elbow. You watch Charlie drink his bottle for as long as there's milk left, two ounces knocked back like it's nothing. 

Eddie eases the teat from Charlie's lips carefully. With care but a clumsy imprecise manoeuvre, he lays Charlie down in the bassinet. He has a lot of hair for such a small baby, enough to stroke back from his forehead, soft under Eddie's fingertips. 

"He's really, really beautiful," Eddie says quietly. 

"I know," you say, an anxious hand on your cheek. "I can't believe something as good as him could come from someone like me." 

Eddie stands between your legs, resting a loving hand at the slope of your shoulder. "Why would you ever think something like that?" he asks, his voice as soft as it's ever been, but with a smile in case you don't want to talk about it any more. 

"He's… I'm just not…" 

Eddie gives you time. You've needed it ever since you went into labour, time to piece things together.

"I really thought I was ready," you say, looking up at him with a pinch between your eyebrows.

He brings his hand up to cup your face. You don't lean into it. "Alright, I'm going to talk for a little while, 'n' I know you won't agree with everything I'm saying but I need you to know that this is how I really feel, yeah? Buckle up." Eddie bends down, unafraid of embarrassing himself because it's you. "I know you think these feelings are your fault… that this is some failing, like you're–" He drops his voice to a whisper, "Like you're being a bad mom already, but it's not the truth." 

You startle at being read so easily. "Eds," you mumble. 

"We knew this might be how you felt afterward, the midwife talked and talked about baby blues and you said–" 

"I said I couldn't understand how I'd ever feel sad once he was born," you say, looking at his neck rather than his face. 

"And that's fine, you know? You're not a bad person for thinking it would be perfect and then changing your mind." 

"But he is perfect," you say. 

Eddie rubs your cheek. "He's perfect, but this is hard. Being a new mom with your stitches and your aching tummy and all the gross fluids–" 

You laugh through a groan, pressing your eye into his hand.

He leaps to keep it going. "This isn't how you expected to feel, but that's okay. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Cry if you feel like crying and don't feel fucking guilty about it, this sucks. You had to do the world's most tumultuous campaign for the last nine months and suddenly you're standing at the start of a new one that takes up, like, a gazillion pages with half health and an equally useless companion." 

Your lips press into a thin line, but your eyes are soft and bright despite their obvious fatigue. You bracelet his wrist with your fingers and push his hand further into your cheek. 

"My dork," you murmur. 

"You understand it, don't you? Makes you an even bigger dork."

You nudge your nose into his palm. "I understand. Thank you, honey." 

Eddie's not done. "You said you don't know how something good like him could come from someone like you? I don't think bad was a possibility." 

Your second thank you is better. The first wasn't inauthentic, but this one sounds as though you genuinely believe him. Eddie bows down into a crouch to wrap his arms around you, the majority of his weight on your shoulders and avoiding your sore lower region, and the entirety of his love pressed to your cheek, a long, mindless kiss. 

"I love you," you say. 

Eddie tucks his head against yours, ignoring his protesting knees. "I love you, too." 

Your food turns to dry mulch by the time you remember it in the oven. You're too distracted by Eddie's hug, his offering for a shoulder massage, and the subsequent second hug that ensues, your back to his chest, dozing in the sanctuary of his arms. Munson-style cuddles are his expertise.

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

thank you for reading!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson scenario #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson fic #eddie munson fanfiction #dad!eddie munson #dad!eddie munson x reader #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things x reader #stranger things 4

[echo-bleu]

Disability pride request? Two characters of your choice hanging out, maybe one using two forearm crutches and one using two canes. They can be friends or partners - I just generally love seeing disabled characters interactng with one another!

How about three disabled characters?

Once upon a time @camille-lachenille sent me a prompt about Míriel having Ehler-Danlos Syndrome. I had already sketched a disabled Celegorm with EDS in mind and, thinking about how it's genetic, had an epiphany about Celebrimbor (and the meaning of his name) and I drew him as well. So I wrote a fic about all three of them dealing with chronic pain, but I still hadn't drawn Míriel. That oversight is now fixed!

They have more in common than just chronic illness xD.

This is still titled "The EDS gang" in my files, I'm going to stick to it. Set sometime in Fourth Age Valinor, when most things are good again...

Disabled Tolkien characters series

(Feel free to send me more disability prompts! I love drawing them.)

More ramblings about disability aids that devolved into bullet-point headcanons under the cut. ID and transcription at the end, but they're also in alt text.

[CW: this is all fairly light but discussion of death and trauma and you know, everything that comes with these three.]

I do not know how to make comics. I'm sure that's very obvious but, you know, learning new things and all that. One thing I learned was that my usual style of rendering does not work with it as well so I rendered them entirely twice.

It was meant to be day 21 and 22 of my October challenge, because surely I can draw and colour a full page in a day (spoilers: no). In the end it was a combined 15 hours of work over 3 and a half days because I made it as complicated as I possibly could 😭 Still, I had fun and learned a lot.

Note: Ehlers-Danlos syndrome is a connective tissue disorder, affecting basically how your cells are glued together. There are a lot of different symptoms (and different types of EDS) but a frequent one is joint pain and hypermobility, and it's at least partly inherited.

Míriel:

Red was Míriel's colour first. She's not into gaudy things and rarely wears vivid colours, but almost always something red. She barely wears any jewellery since reembodiment, mostly for sensory reason (She is very autistic. That's something she gave Fëanor, Curufin, Caranthir, Ambarussa and Celebrimbor, at least.)

She died of post-partum (and general) depression and energy depletion from childbirth or something, but the chronic illness that was taking all of her energy and keeping her from her craft certainly didn't help.

Also pregnancy was horribly rough on her, partly because EDS can be affected by hormonal changes.

She's actually been better since reembodiment, because she has better accommodations (Finwë did his best but he was very lost) and also a Vala on hand who makes her very good painkilling tea.

She wears knitted compression gloves that she designed to help with hand pains.

Her wheelchair is of Noldor make, but I'm sure Celebrimbor will have suggestions for improving it.

The tapestry that she is weaving is actually this painting of Finrod that I did a while ago. I figure that she's representing calmer, nicer things now that she doesn't have to weave her grandchildren's downfall and deaths.

Celegorm:

He was in a relationship with Oromë before the Exile. After his reembodiment, it took them a while by they talked it out and forgave each other. Oromë doesn't quite get elves, but he's really supportive.

He has a pair of wolf-head canes carved by Nerdanel. He alternatively uses both, just one and sometimes none depending on activity/pain level.

He wears bandages as compression garments because this is a world without elastane. His leggings have reinforced knees for support.

He's always heard about Míriel having the same thing as he does from Finwë, and he knew that when he started showing symptoms, Fëanor was terrified that he'd fade too. So for a long time, Míriel's story was kind of hanging above his head.

That's why it takes him a while to go seek her out after he's reembodied. Celebrimbor understands why it's important to him and he pushed him to it a little bit, so Celegorm dragged him along.

They're going to get along great. Míriel is both the quintessential grandmother and also she has a twisted sense of humour that Celegorm will just love.

Celebrimbor:

Celegorm was always his favourite uncle, and they became very close when Celebrimbor started having symptoms in the early years in Exile, and Celegorm stayed with Curufin in Himlad for him.

It took Celebrimbor a while to forgive him after Returning (not as long as Curufin but still) but they've gone back to being really close.

He was really unlucky with reembodiment: while he wasn't reborn with the physical aspect of his torture, the memory of pain and the trauma made his chronic pain a lot worse than it was before, and he can no longer walk unaided.

He designed the silver ring and wrist splints back in Eregion with Narvi's help, and ended up literally living up to his name (which means "silver fist/grasping hand").

Paradoxically these were a great motivation for him to work through his trauma and go back to the forge, because he couldn't find a silversmith in Valinor who could make good enough ones for him, even with all of his sketches and specifications.

A lot of his work since reembodiment has been designing and making disability aids for people.

He uses platform crutches to spare his hands as much as possible. He invented and designed them, of course, as well as the KAFO brace that he wears here. He's also a part-time wheelchair user.

He is still wearing dwarven beads in his hair. He obviously didn't bring anything back from Middle-Earth but he asked Gimli to make them for him in remembrance of Narvi. His tunic is also dwarven-inspired.

He is pretty chill about Sauron here. I don't know if there was a redemption (I have feelings about @chthonion's The Harrowing and @mynameisjessejk's Otter Mayhem) or if he's just been through enough elf-therapy to be able to joke about it. Celegorm's sense of humour is just Like That.

Celegorm and Celebrimbor are about to try Vairë's special painkilling tea for the first time 👀

Between all of them they should really open a disability aids shop or something. They just might! Míriel doesn't really ever leave Vairë's house but I think Celegorm and Celebrimbor will keep visiting her a lot, and eventually all of the grandkids will as well.

Image description and transcriptions:

Two digital comic book pages.

Image 1: The first case takes the whole width, showing two pairs of feet with each two canes/crutches on a tiled floor, with a speech bubble saying "Do you think she'll want to see us?"

The second line has two cases in 2/3 and 1/3 format. The first shows two hands in red fingerless gloves working on a tapestry on a loom. The second shows part of a light-skinned face in profile, with curly white hair. Three speech bubbles say "My love?" "Um?" "There are people here asking for you."

The bottom part has one case off-center showing the same hand undoing the brake of a wheelchair, with a speech bubble saying "Your grandson and your great-grandson." above and one saying "I'll be right here." below. Then a full-length off-case portrait of Miríel, a light-skinned elf with shoulder-length curly white sitting in a wheelchair and pushing herself. She's wearing a pale pink embroidered dress with red accents, red fingerless gloves and elbow pad and brown boots and smiling.

Image 2: A single large case shows two elves standing in a room with a tiled floor, with a large door and two tables behind them. There are thread spools on one table and a tea set on the other. One elf, Celebrimbor, is brown-skinned and slightly chubby, with long black hair in a braided bun, wearing a red tunic and dark green pants. He is leaning on two decorated platform combo crutches made of wood and metal, with a KAFO brace on his leg. He wears finger and hand silver splints. The other elf, Celegorm, is pale and has long white hair in a high ponytail with small braids, he has tattoos on his neck and arms and he wears bandages on his shoulders, elbows and wrist. He wears a green tunic, leggings and wrap-around gaiters. He is leaning on a cane and holding up another cane, pointing at the first elf. Both canes have handles carved in the shape of wolf heads.

The speech bubbles are arranged around and below them, giving this dialogue, with the speakers distinguished by the shape of the bubble (the parts in parentheses are smaller text in the bubbles):

Celegorm: "My lady, my name is Tyelkormo, and this is my nephew Tyelpë." Miríel: "I know who you are, my wonderful children. Come sit." Celebrimbor: "That would be nice, thank you." Miríel: "Vairë, my love, would you make us some tea?" Celebrimbor: "My lady!" Celegorm: "A Vala who can make tea! (I could never get Oromë to do it.)" Miríel: "It was a long domestication process." Vairë (off screen): "Hey!" Celebrimbor: "Instant hot water! That’s nice. (I wonder if I could replicate that.)" Miríel: "She makes wonderful hot water bottles." Celegorm: "Oromë just uses his hands as hot pads." Celebrimbor: "Ew, I didn’t need to know that." Celegorm: "What? Just because your Maia burns everything he touches–" Celebrimbor: "Shut up." Miríel: "You must both tell me everything about yourself. And your partners!"

#miriel #celegorm #celebrimbor #tyelkormo #tyelpe #valinor #house of finwe #silmarillion #tolkien #silm #silm art #tolkien fanart #eds #ehlers danlos syndrome #disabled tolkien characters #disabled characters #beautiful art #echo's drawings #digital art #lotr #this took me soooo long please give it love #echo's october 2023

[noritoshiikamo]

reassurance [kamisato ayato x reader]

a part of manipulative!ayato series

cw reader is going through insecurity phase, post partum depression post pregnancy, brief mention of needle against skin, penetrative sex, lactation, female receiving, male receiving, spanking, spitting, light body worshipping, reader and ayato both tried to manipulate and rile each other up (failed successfully)

a/n yes this is the last part yes i tried to make ayato a little sweeter but i failed lol yes its not that long i want to retire /j hdjdjsjsj no more longer fics ill probably go for shorter now feel free to hmu would love to hear any ideas we can discuss on side *wink wink*

taglist— @cheolinn @duskamethyst @crashed-wing @cl-0-vr @shadowarchon @tezzy-lovez @ninefuckingoneone @rifran @somemydayy @ryumishou @kokoirne

you’ve changed.

it was just something you had noticed even without staring at the large mirror in the washroom. you felt different. you had never felt like this, you are not the type to get hung over of changes because you adapt a lot. your entire life consist of running away and adapt so you won’t appear to be interesting. hiding behind the title of shrine maiden worked. you blend into the crowd, stay out of trouble by keeping your words and works true and get paid. but shrine maiden was your old life. it wasn’t your shield anymore.

being lady of the commissioner felt like someone had stripped you naked and put you on display.

you carried his name, his family legacy, his child- you centered your existence around him. you felt insecure. your tilted your head, staring at your bare body in front of the foggy mirror. for the first time in your life, you were afraid of your reflection. your shaky fingers ran along the healed scar over your stomach. everyone said you were a strong mother- a warrior. giving birth to a healthy baby girl was like seeing a someone broke a vase and left it for you to clean. you had to pick yourself up and get your shit together. you didn’t understand the cheering as the loud cry of the baby echoed the estate. you felt tired, disgusting but he didn’t left you. you swore you had broken his bones with your grip, with your own cry. when the baby cried, they cheered but when you cried earlier, they told you to man it up and push. and when you failed, you feared the look the healers threw you.

while others tend for the baby, you spend a quiet seconds consoled by him as the needle sew your torn pieces together. you won’t lie that his word went in one ear and out of the other until he told you he loved you.

“w-what?” you asked, as he peppered your skin with kisses.

“i love you and thank you for going through this.”

you couldn’t believe your own mind. listening to the words escaping the commissioner’s mouth. a soft scoff escaped your lips. you felt appreciated despite all the ironic outcome. but it disappeared once the baby reached his arms. unexpectedly, he held the baby silently, tears brimming his eyes and to your own surprise, you did too. you made that with him. even out of a marriage that started out of seed of spite, you made something grew out of love.

but you still lost yourself.

between taking care of a small growing child, the needy father and his family, you felt naked again. the warm bubble burst when you kept being left alone, fending the quiet night holding a child threatening to burst into piercing cries the moment you set her down. you were exhausted. you couldn’t count the night falling asleep on the floor beside the baby crib, alone and waking up on the bed, alone. you rather go through another 20 hours of labour than admit that you miss him. but silence was louder than words anyway, he knew what you think. his love language evolved as you grew. for the time he couldn’t be with you, he made up as best as his could, his way.

it started small. a glass of water on the nightstand to greet you in the morning. warm bath just enough for you ready to step in the morning. baby changed, showered and dressed and ready for you to breastfeed. until your duty was no longer to serve the clan but to devote your entire time for the child’s growth. but how long could it last until you’re an empty shell of your previous life.

the time you wished you could bother him just to drop off a cup of tea became a hassle as the housekeeper ushered you back to your room as the child screamed for attention. you barely had dinner together. you lost the time you had with him to his own child. and now people won’t stop talking.

they’ve changed.

you winced at the words. you know it even without people pointing out. you did change. you cut your hair in a more manageable way, easier for you to manage and away from your curious child’s grip. you put on a little weight as your fingers gripped the excess skin. you looked tired, eye bags accentuated and longed the feeing of the heavy blade in your hand while you stared into his eyes determined to beat him up to his own game. you tried to shake the insecure thoughts out of your mind, startled by the opening and shut of the door. you sat in silence, waiting for a loud cry and such or the pestering yell from the housekeeper for leaving your child alone too long. your breasts ached. maybe the child is hungry, you thought to yourself as you felt the nectar threatening to leak off your bud. the silence was deafening. you hated it. your feet pitter pattered on the floor and before you could slide the door opened, you were greeted by a figure.

“the baby-” you instinctively muttered.

“what baby?” ayato asked back.

you rolled your eyes and pushed your way out and rushed to the crib. your spine chilled. your lips moved but words choked in your throat as you stared at the empty crib. you turned and ran against a cold hard wall, into his chest. he chuckled. “breath, i asked the housekeeper to take her for the night. she’s still sleeping,” your husband reassured, soft hushes while carefully brushing away the stray hair off your face. your shoulder hunched in relief as you lost your balance, his arms quick to hold your weight up. you muttered something out of relief, thanking the archon or some sort as he rocked you against his chest. “my lady,” he chuckled, “since when you are a believer?”

“shut up, ayato.”

he tilted his head that was inching closer and closer to yours, “make me.”

something ignited in you when your lips touched. your mind scrambled to think of the moment that matched and it brought you to the night he took you to the firework festival. it was from far, your growing body inching closer to your due date weren’t meant for long travel so you settled by the ledge of the estate. you remembered the moment so fondly because you didn’t remember the fireworks going on the back but the feeling of his lips pressed against you in the quiet, empty estate. you didn’t dare to look him in the eyes, buried your face in the crook of his neck. “i thought you were busy.”

“you need me. no one is important right now.”

the words echoed in your head. your fingers grabbed the corner of his shirt as he shrugged the jacket off his shoulder. the armory clanked on the floor. “should i ask why is my wife running out of the bathroom bare naked or should i wait for a bit?” he whispered naughtily into your ears. your face warmed up as you suddenly felt so aware of his arms wrapping around your bare waist. “shut up,” you whispered below your breath, but loud enough for him to catch. you stayed in each other arms, something you hadn’t done in a while. you counted the rate of his heartbeat with the palm pressed against his chest. “you’ll catch a cold. i don’t want you to be sick,” he tried again, fingers bare rubbing circles on your back.

“make me warm then.”

his chuckles echoes in your ears. being bold isn’t something he was surprised anymore, but it felt good in his heart to know that he was still needed. you knew, you could feel his heart skipped a beat. “well, i could never say no now that you are served on a pretty silver plate.” he kissed you again, slowly backing away. your feet followed as he led you to your bed. his kiss never broke off, ayato was getting good at this. the undressing was quick. even after months of no intimacy, it was like your brain had been doing this for days. the undoing of his vest and belt and pants came so naturally to you. it felt good when his bare chest rested against your mounds, his toned arm wrapped around your waist with his hand gently holding your neck as he lowered you down on the soft bed.

kamisato ayato had learned how to be soft.

because coming to someone so hard-headed like you with such a hard approach was like fighting fire with fire, immune. to tame a beast takes time and effort, taming you was his biggest achievement. lips mould to his own, the sound you made when he touched you was like a reward worth waiting for. he deserved this and you deserve it. “you know how insane it was,” he panted against your lips, eyes wild as he took his time to take your face in, “i spend months, day and night waiting to touch and kiss you again. i’m selfish. i want this child but i don’t want to share you.”

you smiled, hands cupping his cheeks, “you talk too much.”

“too much?”

you nodded as your hands moved to his shoulder, gently pushing him further down, “way too much.” he took your invitation, venturing down south; not without getting a quick taste of your hard buds. your face warmed up, mouth quick to mutter an apology. but he didn’t stop, even with a slight drip of the pale milk on the corner of his lips he continued his assault on your tits. he found it sweet, like you. the more his tongue swirled around the bud, the more you felt wetter. both on your mound and your core.

your moan echoed the room, as his hips pressed harder against your core. you felt impatient and he could sense it as his lips planted kisses down your belly to the small mound. he was like a child in candy store, eyes glistening in excitement. “c’mere,” he whispered, pulling you closer to the edge as he knelt on the floor. he didn’t take his time, fingers spreading your slit apart, tongue straight on your clit. your body jolted in pleasure, held down by his arms around your thighs. it moved in a random pattern then to a circle; his pointed tongue pressed against your swelling clit as your moans echoed the room.

“i forgot how fucking good you taste, my wife,” he slurred, haze in lust as his thumb replaced his tongue and it went lower. your back arched in pleasure, fingers fisting the sheet underneath. you could feel his tongue, swirling around your throbbing hole, teasing with a little jab in and out slurping loudly as the sweet fluid that kept on gushing out. you stuttered his name, room echoed only with his sloppy noise and your choked up moans. you felt dizzy; spit dribbling down the edge of your lips with your eyes rolled up. he was tongue fucking your cunt with his thumb pressing hard but pleasureful circles on your clit.

you opened your mouth, not a moan but a question.

his tongue stopped. his hair was a mess as he looked up. reality hit you like a brick as you propped yourself up on your elbows, brain raking for an explanation. stringy saliva mess connected his lips and chin to your aching cunt. you looked down on him, unsure if your words had ruined the moment.

would you still love me if i’ve changed too much?

you swallowed the lump in the back of your throat, the hot sweaty moments put past as you suddenly felt that heaviness weighing on your chest. he rested his cheek against your calf, breath tickling as he planted a kiss on your skin, “now why would my love ever think of such odd question?” ayato wondered, fingers lightly brushing against your inner thighs, “is that what has been bothering you?” he planted more kiss. “you think a little skin here and there, your hair or the fact that our child is latched to your breasts more than i’ve ever did is going to change the amount of love i had for you?” his brows jolted as his hands hooked underneath your legs pushing you backward on the bed. you gasped, as he pinned your legs downward, carefully not to hurt your body. his eyes curled into a smile so soft but his lips reflected otherwise. his breath hovered over your aching cunt again. your eyes met briefly.

“it would never.”

you threw your head backward, spine slowly arched as his hoarse tongue ran a long swipe along your folds up to your clit. it was getting harder to control the noise you were making, thighs begging to close on his head, unable to take the constant assault of his tongue pushing you closer and closer to edge but he kept it apart. you will not deny him of this pleasure. the tensed knot in your belly snapped in a second as you gnawed down your fist, muffling your scream from breaking the silence of the night. this is what you’ve been missing. the thigh trembling, cunt numbing from waves of pleasure that he won’t stop assaulting until he got every single drop of your sweet, sweet mess on his tongue. whatever ayato wants, he will get it.

still high from your orgasm, you could feel his lips peppering your sweaty skin with his kisses, mouthing along of how a good wife you were, sending more chills down your spine. his words were drowsy, sending your head spinning. it felt like an out of body experience, watching as he covered every inch of your skin with his kisses. “ayato, lay down,” you muttered, holding him by the chest. his brows shot up in confusion, cock already aligned against your cunt. “why?” he asked nervously.

“that’s not a request, it’s an order,” you muttered, a half of smile plastered on your face.

shrugging, despite a look of protest visible on his face, he followed your request. as you sat between his legs, you couldn’t help to how lucky you were. he rested against the bed post, wandering what was your next move. you could hear his sharp intake of breath as your fingers danced along the inside of his legs. his muscles tensed the closer you were to his crotch. he watched your intensely, clouded with excitement and curiosity. his cock rested against his belly, hard and warm and the moment your cold hand wrapped around the length, it twitched. not that you had any reference, he was your first and to his words, your last. you never had a moment to marvel on his, fingers running curiously along the bumps of vein as more pre cum started to drip along the length. you gave more strokes, eyes glued, head tilted in fascination. running your thumb along the slit, you couldn’t help but wondered how all of it fit.

bending down, you pressed a kiss on the tip, tongue lapping lazily on the slit.

“y/n,” he warned, disliking the idea of being teased.

you looked up, head slightly tilted on the side, no regrets in your mind, “beggars don’t get to choose, they get what they get.” the light roll of his eyes meant something to you. you knew the line at heart, it was his lessons; your punishments. your tongue moved again, slowly around the head before pulling back with a gentle pop. he stared mouth agape, cheeks flushing as strings of fluid connected you to his cock.

you weren’t punishing him. you were just learning about him better.

when you kissed his cock, his body twitched. when you looked up to him hazy, he flushed.

so when you took his entire length down your throat, it was excited to see how his hips bucked upward. you never heard such colourful words escaped melodiously out of his lips, hand quick to grab the base of your neck. “s-slow down,” he chuckled nervously, yet his action spoke the opposite. you held down well, pulling out with your tongue swirling along the length but never enough to pull out. you hummed and bopped, sucking on the tip and making sure that his tip hit the back of your throat every time. it made your cunt squirming, aching when you could taste him.

pulling out for a breather, your hands took the position, making sure that his cock was constantly occupied and ready for you. every stroke made the man swallowed faster, breath hitching when your hand sped up. you caught a glance of him; head back, eyes half opened holding back moans out of his throat. you leaned kissing his neck, jaw until you were looking in his eyes planting kisses on his lips.

“do me a favour?” you mewled.

he was almost breathless, “whatever you want.”

“fuck my throat please?” you batted your eyes, pleading with your eyes always work. he could never say no that, excitedly pushing your head down. you grew to like it, looking up with your glistening eyes as he kept a steady thrust in your mouth. his deep muttering of fucks echoed with the squelching of your throat throughout the room. you kept your fingers tight against his thighs. gagging sound was all he could hear from you, letting out moans of pleasure as a praise. “that’s my good girl, keep it wise.” he knew your limit, he trained you for this. you were so obedient, it made him obsessed. his cock twitched even more when tears started spilling down your cheeks.

“fuck, baby spread your legs a bit. i want to see you touch yourself.”

you did happily. you were more than wet, you could barely rub your clit. your moans only provide more stimulation to his cock every time it hit the back of your throat. it was a blurred sense of reality. both of you couldn’t take it anymore. “fuck, fuck, i’ll fucking cum if you keep doing that, c’mere,” ayato gasped, pulling you off. it was the sense of urgency as you kissed each other, climbing on his laps. his shaky hands welcomed you, while you scrambled to align yourself. you drank of each other’s gazes, swallowing the moans as you sank yourself down on him. you were breathing heavy, it was months ago when you had him deep. even with the amount of wetness you were, adjusting to his length took some time. he peppered kisses all over your face, shushing you, a hand on your waist gripping tight, “slow down, you’ll hurt yourself,” he warned, holding your face, teasing your lips with kisses. you shook your head lightly, his warning fell on deaf ears because all you wanted was all of him in you.

“i want you now.”

he grinned, “i know you do, but if i break you again, i will have to go back to fucking my hand and it’s not that much fun.”

his finger brushed against your cheeks, “go slowly, you’re so fucking tight i can fucking cum right now.” your thigh trembled. you chose to play the teasing game and it was eating you alive. you are aching for the fullness, desperate to be fucked blissed out of your mind. you deserved his entire attention. “for someone who spend the entire marriage begging me to slow down, you surely look disappointed right now,” he teased, biting lightly on your pouting lips, “so desperate for me to fuck your little cunt huh?” you rolled your eyes.

“ayato, your little lessons bore me, are you gonna keep teasing me or are you going to fuck me?”

he was taken aback by your brashness, a small proud smile etched on the corner of his lips. “keep running your mouth like that, i’ll keep you high and dry, my lady,” he warned playfully, jolting his hip upward like a tease with his grip on your jaws left it aching. you obeyed his silent request, cunt pulsing excitedly as he spitted in you, patting your cheek proudly like an obedient dog when you swallowed. he took his sweet time teasing you that you didn’t realise you had him whole all along. you could feel his pelvic against your bundle of nerve, a little wiggle was enough to make your body tingled. “there we go, you need to be a little patient. we do have all night you know?” his hands roamed lower, excited to see the familiar bulge in your tummy where his cock sat. you continued to rock your hips, hands against his chest, grinding against his bone. his hands against the hips helped, occasionally landing a playful hit against the fleshy side. the fullness you crave was aching, you wanted to move.

“please can i move?”

he grinned, rubbing your thighs, “always so eager to please, of course you can,” he leaned forward, warm breath brushing your ear, “but you’ll cum when i say you can.”

he always need some control—as if looking down on you with both hands against the back of his head, leering on your body wasn’t enough. your fingers dug deep against his abs as you moved your hips. as long as you are moving, you were in control. ah the false control you knew but chose to ignore. it felt so lewd to look at him as you selfishly chase for your high, milking him of his own. his tongue licking his lips hungrily as his gaze glued to your bouncing tits. every time you whined and lids moved to close, he clicked his tongue. your cheeks grew warmer.

“keep your eyes on me, y/n-chan.”

your lips trembled, choking on your words only managed to let out a chortled whine. you forced your gaze on him, earning yourself a pretty proud smile. he was red all over, beads of sweat coated his skin and lips apart with every deep thrust you could hear his own whine. his hand moved to brace himself against the headboard, knuckles whiter than the sheet. your body pressed against each other as his lips found its way back to your tits. swirling around the bud, lapping and grazing his fangs against it eliciting more of the sweet, sweet nectar. his fingers dug deep against your back deeper as you lower down as if to push himself deeper, leaving crescent marks and bruising your cervix. he pant, switching from one breast to another. you ran your hand through his luscious lock, eyes crossed path again. knowing all the signs, you pushed his head back, pinning him against the board by the shoulder.

“nu’uh, you’ll cum when i tell you to.”

his laughter echoed the room, “we don’t play that game here.”

you squinted your eyes, shaking your head, “no, we play it fair and square and you are about to cum.”

“so? you think one cum will get me done, baby, i can go all fucking night. i’ll get the second right back in you.” his threats send shivers down your spine but you weren’t about to bow down. he married for your stubbornness, he paid the price. despite the banter, your hips continued to move, pooling more of your mixed arousal down to his thighs. you could feel his body tensing underneath you, your tightened walls started to feel a little too much for his cock. you were doing him a favour by pulling out the moment he could taste the release. the red angry tip now resting against your belly outside. you tried to shove his disappointment down with a kiss, unable to hide your little smile against his lips.

oh, he will play your game.

you thought he thought he won with his hand against your head pushing against the bed with your ass propped up. your giggles didn’t last long the moment he slipped inside you so easily. his pounding were merciless. you bit your tongue, hissing into the bed as he continued to land more spanking against your cheeks until it was sore. you didn’t dare to speak, knowing this is all on you, the one who started it. the stinging pain and his cock rearranging your inside intertwined in such a pleasureful way; all you could muster out of your throat was his name in repeat. like a prayer, like a beggar begging for more. “you could’ve say that you want me to fuck you like a whore, i would’ve bend you over from the start,” his fingers weaved along your hairs yanking your head upward, “since when is my sweet little wife is a big fucking tease?”

you were little fucked in head, he made you like this. you love the time he would make love to you, but a little fucking is nothing compared to that. you craved his harshness.

“does it hurt baby?” he cooed, mocking your weak whimpers with each words emphasized by his cock hitting your sweet spot, “want me to stop? just say the word.”

you shook your head, “h-harder,” you mewled, gripping on the sheet. the hell you’re giving up this opportunity. the different position was a bliss, you could feel his cock against your gummy walls raking, every thrust up to your throat knocking breath out of your lung. every time he pushed your lower back, he hit different little sweet spot you didn’t even know you like. your squeals and curses were his praises. his hand made his home against your throat, pulling you up against his chest. your muffled moans echoed louder around the room as his lips latched against your neck, the other found your throbbing clit. “f-fuck fuck, m’gonna cum,” you cried, clawing on his wrist. he disapprovingly hummed, biting harder against your skin until iron overwhelmed his taste buds. “you can hold it, that’s least you could do after denying mine,” he locked your neck, moving on to where your pulse pounded heavily, lapping the skin above it hungrily.

you were drunk in pleasure, seeing stars in your eyes as his pace grew faster. he didn’t even stop when you were squirting, dripping down the thighs, the resistance made it more fun for him to fuck through. thanks to his hand around your throat, you would’ve slammed your face down. he constantly reminded you that you asked for it, that you can take it. his thumb circled harder against your clit, enjoying the pulsating walls around his cock. you fought to close your thighs together, overwhelmed by the pleasure. your trembling thighs were just a warning that you were closing to the limit. yanking your head backward, he kissed you ferociously. “s’close, does my lady want cum on my cock?” he cooed, happy to see your little nods with tears down your face. you looked so pretty when you cry, but he had to do it. with a pouty lips and a weak apology, you gagged on his heavy fingers on your tongue. he wasn’t planning to wake everyone up this late.

you liked it anyway, he could feel you sucking on the digits.

he focused on his thrusts and palming on your leaking chest. rolling on your hardened buds with his two fingers, you trashed weakly against his arms. he hushed you, reassured you that he would take care of everything. you were getting sore, from his unfaltering thrusts and his skin slapping against your sore ass. your teeth clamping against his fingers didn’t hurt at all, he was high on pleasure and adrenaline. “that’s it, give me all that, lemme see you cum on my cock,” he kissed the back of your ear, another one of your weak spot. your fingers dug into his arms, the knot in your belly tensing and threatening to snap any seconds. you got all blurry, seeing stars; probably tasting some as you rest you head back against his. your words were incoherent slurs of pleas when his free hand moved back to your clit. it didn’t take any longer for your second orgasm to finally hit you like a wave. your head spun in pleasure. he showered you with praise, slapping lightly against your aching cunt. your body jolted, the oversensitiveness from the second orgasm you had for months after giving birth was catching up on you.

ayato wasn’t unfazed, fucking through your orgasm, ignoring your weak whimpers to chase his own high. the pain of your teeth against his skin was apart of his high, listening to his words and whines mixing making more nonsensical noise which was ignored, thrusting desperately into your oversensitive cunt. he was getting rougher and desperate as he rocked you and the bed underneath.

the walls hadn’t heard the loud sloppy sound of his cock jackhammering your cunt in a long time and he couldn’t hold his loud mouth as he felt it coming. the high he was denied was so close he could feel it at the tip of his tongue. a couple more thrusts and he unloaded himself in you, painting the inside full of his cum. he groused and tensed, his own body shaking in pleasure. he was more surprised that he could last longer than you, hips still moving slowly halting into a stop when he was sure he had filled you up of his entirety. filling you up full of his cum was the highlight of his day, something he could never get tired off. maybe this one will stick again, he smiled against your skin. your jaw ached as his fingers left you, replacing with the softest kiss he could muster at the moment. “are you okay?” he asked, brushing away beads of sweat on your forehead, kissing it lightly. you nodded weakly and he spend a few seconds assessing you, laying you down on the cleaner side of the bed. the room was quieter other than the sound of two lovers trying to catch their breath.

he didn’t understand where did the insecurity came from nor did he care but if reassurance was all you need, he would shower it as you needed. he kissed every inch of your skin until all was on your face was a smile. exhaustion left as you found yourself trapped with your legs apart and he was ready to take you again for a second round. holding the base, he scooped the leaking cum. he berated you for being wasteful. you heard it again, those three little words as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. his entrance was a little more smoother and you rolled your eyes in pleasure as he filled you up once more. you asked the same question again. he laughed, kissing your cheeks as he looked down into your glossy, lustful eyes. you couldn’t really focus, not that it mattered if you were listening or not. his words were like a promise; sealed by every thrust against your cervix.

“if i have to fuck you for the whole night just to prove that there’s no one in this world that could replace my scheming little wife, i would. in a heartbeat, in every single universe, the whole tevyat will know who’s name you’ll be screaming. you belong to me.”

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[tropes-and-tales]

Fairy Godmother

December 18:  Gifts/Fluffy - Single parent (Santiago Garcia x F!reader)

(From the winter prompts found here)

CW:  Angst; mutual pining; idiots in love; the same sorta plot to an earlier piece I did

Word Count:  2146

AN:  Requested by anon!

The doorbell rings twenty minutes sooner than Santiago expected, which shouldn’t surprise him:  you always show up early.

Sophie answers the door.  His daughter has no concept of time (he’d been trying to explain when you’d arrive, but finally got exasperated and settled on ‘soon’).  She’s been hovering by the front door for hours, hopping around like a bunny high on sugar, and when the doorbell finally chimes, Soph lets out an ear-piercing shriek.

“She’s here!” she screams, and she’s opening the door without checking out the window, but of course it’s you.  Twenty minutes early.  Like always.

And like always the first five minutes of your arrival is just you and Sophie—hugging each other, you twirling her around, the two of you exclaiming over each other.  Santi is just an afterthought.

Still, when you finally turn to him and give him that soft smile…when you walk over to him and hug him, when you murmur that he looks good…he doesn’t feel like an afterthought at all.  He feels, for a bright moment, like he’s the center of your world.

-----

He’s only known you for about as long as Soph’s been alive, so five years.  When Santi’s girlfriend, Julia, got pregnant, she had chosen you to be the godmother.  Best friends from college, she said, and the best woman for the job.

Santi can’t deny that fact, five years later.

None of it went down the way he thought.  He had a ring ready to go, ready to propose after Julia gave birth to Sophie.  When she started disappearing for days at a time, Santi had thought it post-partum depression.  

You had helped so much in those first months—him trying to juggle a newborn and a wayward girlfriend.  You took leave from work, crashed on his couch.  Took the night shifts when Sophie was colicky so he could sleep.  Listened to Santi rant about the situation.  Listened with grace and understanding, even though he was ranting about your best friend.

Julia returned only to disappear again.  When she was home, she barely even looked at Sophie, preferred to hand her off to you or him.  She disappeared for good—moved out west, took up with a new man—when Sophie was six months old, and you helped him then too.

“I love Julie like a sister,” you had told him.  “But she’s always been like this.  Flighty.  Unreliable.  She ghosts on everyone and everything.”

“Even her own daughter?”  His voice had cracked on the last word, the weight of the situation pressing down on him until he felt like he’d be bowed underneath the burden for the rest of his life.

“Even her own daughter,” you agreed.  “I thought she might change once she gave birth but…I guess people can’t really change who they are.”

“Look.”  You reached out, put your hand on his shoulder, peered at him earnestly.  “You can do this, Santiago.  You have people who can help.  The guys.  Me.”

You were right.  He was able to do it.  He is doing it.  He does it every day:  parents his daughter as best he can, and given how happy and healthy Sophie seems, he guesses he’s doing okay.

-----

You stuck around for a long while, but when Sophie turned four and started in preschool, you backed off.  Took a job that had you traveling all the time.  It had come out of nowhere, and the sudden loss of you felt like a punch to the gut after so many years of having you there…

“Thought you had a handle on things now,” you had told him at the time.  “Don’t need me hanging around anymore.”

He had tried to tell you then—of course he needs you.  He knows he’d be in a far different place—darker, sadder—if it hadn’t been for you.  

But you stay in touch, as much for your goddaughter as for him.  You call, you send colorful letters for him to read to Sophie.  You send souvenirs from your travels around the world—usually for his daughter but sometimes for him too.

And now you’re here for the holidays.  He had asked if you wanted to come and was surprised when you accepted.  He had been a flurry of activity to get the house extra-clean, extra-decorated.  He wanted to make it magical for both Sophie and you, because by then—five years after the fact and for no other reason than because he loves you, even if in secret—he thought of you as his.

He wants to make it magical for his girls.

-----

It takes two hours longer than usual to get Sophie to bed that night because there’s double the excitement:  it’s Christmas Eve and you’re here for the week.  You do the bedtime duties and read her a book, and then a second and a third until Santi uses his stern voice and tells his daughter that Santa won’t stop at their house if she’s not asleep.

-----

“Want a beer?” he asks, and you say you do.  He hooks a few from the fridge, hands yours to you.  Cracks the cap on his and takes a sip.

“The place looks wonderful, Santi.”  You gesture to the tree, the swags of pine festooned on the mantle.  The lights, the stockings, including the one he got for you.  “Really good work.”

“Thanks.”

“Need any help with anything?”

He nods, fixes you with a grin.  “Wanna help me put the presents under the tree?”

-----

He didn’t go overboard.  Or at least, he tried not to.  He’s mindful that Soph, as an only child to a single father, is at high risk of being spoiled.  So he took her wish list for Santa and halved it.  It doesn’t hurt a child to want things, he guesses.

“Jesus,” you say, your voice laced with awe as he carries in another box of wrapped gifts.  “Did you leave any for the other kids?”

He sets the box down on the floor where you’re settled, trying to rearrange the pile of presents he’s already brought out.  He joins you on the floor.  

“That’s the last of it.”  A beat.  “Is it that bad?”

You reach for your beer and take a drink.  “I mean, she’s one little girl…”

“Okay, but some of this is from my mom.  The guys each sent a gift…”  He tries not to sound defensive and realizes he’s failing.

“I already put my gift under there.”  You point to a large present wrapped in silvery paper near the back.  “It’s a stuffed dog.  Extremely fluffy.”

“She’ll love it.”

“And your gift is there too.”  You point in the same direction, to a flat box wrapped in the same silvery paper.

“Not a stuffed dog?”

You smile.  “It is not.”

He turns to the box of gifts, starts placing them under the tree.  He doesn’t look at you when he says, “you just being here is gift enough.”

You take a gift from his hand, place it carefully on top of another.  “Fatherhood’s turned you sappy,” you tease.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m serious too.  I’m the one who should be thanking you.  For inviting me.  For letting me crash during the holidays.”

He rolls his eyes, turns to face you.  “Are you serious?  You never need an invitation to come here.”

You reach out, pluck another gift from the box, but you toy with the edge of the wrapping paper, tracing your thumbnail over the seam.  “I guess.”

It’s been a strange evening.  You were chatty, playful with Soph over dinner and during bedtime, but you seem different with him.  Subdued.  Formal, almost.  

As if you hadn’t seen him cry from exhaustion and worry.  As if you hadn’t pulled him from the edge of a nervous breakdown years ago.

“What’s going on?” he asks, gentle.  “Have you been away so long that we’re strangers now?”

“…no.”

“Then what’s up?”

You don’t say anything for a long while.  You turn the wrapped gift over and over in your hands, fiddling with it.  Before Sophie, Santi would have lost his patience, would have snapped and asked you to stop stalling.  Now that he’s a parent of a young child, though, his patience is boundless.  

“A year’s a long time,” is all you offer at first.

He takes the gift out of your hands, sets it under the tree.  “Not that long.”

There’s another long stretch of quiet before you say, “I didn’t want to step on any toes, I guess.”

“Whose toes?”

You inhale, push the words out quick.  “If you were seeing someone.  Their toes.”

Santi laughs at the idea of him seeing someone.  He has no time whatsoever.  His job, taking care of Soph…he’s lucky he has time to breathe.  And anyway, you’re the only person he wants to see, and you’re here now, so—

His laughter hits you wrong because you push your shoulders up near your ears and mumble something he can’t make out.

“I’m not seeing anyone.  Hell, I don’t have time for that.  Or the desire for it.”  He takes the laughter out of his voice, and he lays a hand on your arm.  Waits until you glance at him before he asks, “why would you think that?”

A shrug.  “Tom said something.”

It surprises Santi.  “When did you talk to Tom?”

“Before I left.  Before I took the job.”

“Wait…what?”  He had no idea you talked to Tom all the way back then.  He reaches back and finds no memory at all of you talking to Tom, though he can find plenty of you talking with the other guys, with Frankie and the Miller brothers…

Another shrug, so terse it’s more like a twitch of your shoulders.  “Sophie’s fourth birthday.  Tom made a joke that didn’t really sound like a joke, once I thought about it.”

He feels his stomach drop to the floor.  “What did he say?” he asks, and he keeps his voice low, level, even though he can already guess.  Tom is a champion asshole.  

“I don’t…it’s fine, Santi.”

He squeezes your arm lightly.  “What did he say?”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Another squeeze to your arm, reassuring.  “Oh, spare me.  You’ve seen me bawling my eyes out because I was melting down.  Hell, remember when I had the flu and food poisoning that time?  We’re past anything being embarrassing.”

You pull your arm away, glance at him, then turn away.  “He insinuated that I was just hanging around to step into Julie’s shoes.  Joked and said I was lazy, trying to get a ready-made family.”

“Shit.  I mean…shit.”  It makes sense now, far too late:  why you suddenly pivoted away from him and Sophie, took that job that kept you away from him.  Why you are so unlike yourself now, no longer comfortable with him.  

“I wasn’t, you know.”  Without a present in your hands, you twist your hands in your lap, bend your head to study your nails.  “Trying to take over for her.”

“Oh, sweetheart.”  Santi can hear the misery in your tone.  The defensiveness.  He knows how rough Tom’s version of joking can be, and he realizes too late that the damned idiot sent you on a spiral that sent you away from them.  Kept them away from them.  From him.  Kept the dumb joke festering in you, even a year later.

He scooches over to you, puts an arm around your shoulders.  You resist him for a second, then sigh and lean your head against him.  He rests his chin in your head, and he takes in a deep breath of the scent of you.  A green, earthy scent like the outdoors after a rain shower.

“You could never take over for her,” he says quietly.  “She walked out on us.  You stayed here and took care of us.  Why would you take over when you’ve already done so much more?”

“I guess.”

“I know.  And Tom’s a dick.”

“He does give off especially dickish vibes.”

He chuckles, holds you tighter to him.  He’s angry at Tom, but he can deal with that later.  He’s angry at the lost time, that you never said anything to him.  That you obviously have your own feelings that you’re dealing with, and he wonders at how closely they hew to his own feelings.

He brings up none of that now.  He can try to tease it out tomorrow, after Sophie has unwrapped her gifts and collapsed in a post-morning nap on the couch.  Or maybe tomorrow evening, the two of you can have some of his famous laced eggnog and talk.  Maybe he can plumb the depths of unspoken things between you and the resultant year apart.

“Glad you’re here now,” he murmurs.  “Christmas wouldn’t be the same without you.”

You burrow your head against him a little more.  “I’m glad I’m here too.”

#Santiago Garcia #santiago garcia imagine #santiago garcia x reader #Triple Frontier #tropes-and-tales #winter prompts 2022

[batrogers]

I'm glad you picked up this game because oh gosh so many appealing choices! Can. Can I ask about two of them. XD Cuz LU Ravioli Interrupted definitely sounds fun but I'm also curious about some of your personal/general stuff. Like Rabbit Bio Piece?

Oooo two fun ones. Of course you can ask for two!

LU RavioLi Interrupted is one I need to restart, because it's barely a fragment but it absolutely is meant to be a Spicy making-out fic, and maybe PWP if it works out (although the "interrupted" obviously implied it wasn't going to actually get anywhere, bo both boys dismay.) Mostly, it was my intention to write really cute Ravio/Legend ship fic and it's definitely still on my roster, I just probably won't continue that one.

The Rabbit Bio Piece is a That Broken Promise fic. I have a few "Bio pieces" done, like Chief's Coming Home and Skyloft's Where Demons Have Gone Before. I actually have a set of them linked in the main series if you check on AO3, and (try to) link them all in their bios in my pinned post here, although I'm behind on keeping up with that. I do intend to have one for everyone and I actually am done all but Rabbits so far!

I've had some trouble with his. I know roughly what I want to write, but it's uh, extremely dark in directions I don't normally write. I'll include a snippet from the fic (It's technically complete) under a cut, but the gist is that Rabbit had an abusive marriage after LttP that ended with him suffering severe post-partum depression. The trip to Labrynna and the start of Oracle of Ages was part of him trying to move on and recover. So...

As much as I write dark fics, the really dark reality of how abusive long-term relationships go isn't one I explore often and I'm having some struggles making it work as a one-shot that feels satisfying!

Nevertheless, snippet under the cut. CW for abusive partner, and flashbacks/PTSD from combat.

They had a large courtyard; across it was his in-law's rooms, opposite their own. Link thought nothing of it. He exhaled slowly and passed his short sword between each hand, adjusting to the now unfamiliar weight on his arms. It had been too much to pick up a sword again for so long. Too close to the pain.

He waited, as if expecting the memories to sneak up on him, then brushed it off. This was a conversation he’d had with his uncle, while he tried to talk him out of the marriage: that the memories would fade, but still be unpredictable. That the pain was normal.

(Link hadn’t asked him if he remembered dying. He hadn’t asked him if he’d heard, or asked, or spoken to the other guards, in case any of them remembered it, either. He didn’t dare. He knew, and Zelda knew, and that was bad enough.)

The drills came back without much conscious thought. He’d done them since he was seven, and he could practically do them in his sleep. He was so focused, he didn’t notice anyone coming into the courtyard – didn’t think to stop, because he’d grown up a knight.

What idiot would step into his space?

His husband grabbed his wrist mid-swing and wrenched the sword from his hand.

“What are you thinking?” he snarled. “You said you were done with this!”

Link jerked back and punched him in the ribs, hard enough his husband let go, then spun and slapped him, open-handed across the face. Link staggered and saw his sword and only barely didn’t lunge for it. His heart was pounding in his chest and for a moment, all he could think of was the next sequence:

Seize the sword. Stay low, spin. Cut across the left side waist. Hemorrhage from the liver, or severe gut damage. He'd need a fairy or potion, or he’d be dead.

He swallowed, frozen, long enough the man grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face him again. “Talk to me. Tell me you won’t do that again. Look at you, you look ill!”

He felt ill. Link struggled to find his voice, and all he could manage was, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. Please, don’t startle me like that. I could’ve hurt you.”

“I’m just looking out for you.”

He pulled Link into his arms, and Link melted there as he wished for the shakes to stop. He was right. If he hadn’t been playing with swords again, he never would’ve thought of killing him.

#asked and answered #my writing #Ravio #TBP Rabbit #short fiction

[melanielocke]

Cw: death in childbirth, mental health issues

I'm seeing theories about Sona dying and Thomastair raising the baby popping up again and I want to remind everyone that dumping a baby on a 19 year old with untreated c-ptsd who just lost both his parents is a very bad idea.

A newborn baby is a lot of responsibility, you hardly get any sleep. In 1903 there would have been the added difficulty of formula not being as good yet as it was nowadays, so if Sona isn't there to breastfeed there would be a risk of starvation on the supplements available at the time.

Having a baby is generally not great for people's mental health, which is why post partum depression is a thing, and it's not just due to hormones from the birthing parent, non birthing parents can also develop mental health issues simply from the huge change and sudden responsibility and I don't think Alastair could handle this by himself right now, certainly not when he's also grieving both his parents.

If Sona were to die, the best solution would be for Wessa or maybe Sophideon or Risa to take care of the baby at least for the time being but I'm really hoping Sona will be okay and raise the baby herself.

#Alastair Carstairs #Thomas Lightwood #Sona Carstairs #Chain of Thorns #Chain of Thorns theories

[strangerqueerthings]

Dear Billy

A letter from Billy's mother. Whether it gets to him is unknown, but there are some things that need to be said.

Also on AO3

CW for abuse, implied sexual abuse, medication control

Dear Billy,

I don’t even know if this will reach you. The divorce lawyer promised he would get it to you when you turned eighteen, and Neil couldn’t hold it from you, but I don’t put much faith in men anymore. All I can do is hope that somehow, you get this letter, and that you will hopefully understand why I did what I did, and that it was all to protect us both.

I don’t want you to think less of me, or especially yourself, but you were an unexpected gift.

I hadn’t planned on having children. Not with Neil, at least. I was starting to see the harder side of him, starting to notice how he tried to tighten his grip on every aspect of my life. This included my birth control. I don’t know how he did it, to tell you the truth. There’s so many ways he could have done it- antibiotics in my food, grapefruit juice in my drink, replacing my pills with placebos. All I know is, despite taking my medication every day, I found myself pregnant with you.

I was terrified, but I was also delighted. I was terrified because I didn’t know what was in store for me. I was young- barely eighteen myself- and pregnant by a boyfriend who was starting to scare me.

I should have run. I should have left, should have had you on my own. It would have been hard, but we would have been safe. I didn’t, because I was young and scared, and Neil made me believe that I couldn’t survive on my own- I hadn’t even been able to manage my birth control, how could I take care of a child by myself?

That’s what he had me believing, anyway. I believed him. Believed I would end up losing you to the state, or that we’d live in squalor, and that you’d resent me for raising you without a father. So I married him, because I believed I had no other choice.

He was fine, almost normal, almost kind, until after you were born. It was hard. He expected me to resume all my wifely duties shortly after I took you home from the hospital. He berated me when I didn’t do the housework in a timely manner, yelled at me if I spent too long feeding you, screamed at me if I didn’t get you to stop crying.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I had Postpartum Depression. I hadn’t been allowed to recover on my own time, hadn’t been allowed to feed you long enough, or properly, and it all affected my hormones, and I was miserable.

I fought through it for you. I took the screaming, the yelling, and everything else I can’t put to paper. I was able to weather it, because I would look at your face, and it made the fight to survive worth it.

I was going to run away with you. I saw Neil raise a hand to you, and I’d had enough. I would let him hurt me, but not you. Not you, my son.

I don’t know what Neil told you about why I left, or who I left with, but I can imagine that he told you I was a whore, that I left for another man. I promise you, it was not the case.

The “other man,” Neil was so worried about was a friend who was trying to help me run away- with you. He’d been a friend since childhood, and he was helping me get a divorce lawyer, helping me save money, to plan our escape. He was helping me document all the instances of abuse, so I could keep the court from taking Neil’s side.

In the end, it didn’t matter. Neil forced my hand that night, and while you slept, Neil called the police on me, and said I was unstable. My post-partum depression was brought up, and a record of mental instability was established against me. When Neil added in the suspected infidelity, my lawyer told me that if Neil fought hard enough for custody, he’d win. He said that fighting would only keep Neil longer in my life, and expose you to all the things he had done to me, for I would be forced to talk about them.

I didn’t want you to have to be dragged through that, for the other children to know you had a broken home, or worse, that your mother was crazy.

I’d rather you resent me for leaving, than have the burden of knowing what Neil did to me, what he did to drive me away- because I didn’t want you to feel any sort of guilt over not being able to protect me, because that was not your job. It was mine, and I failed you in that.

I genuinely thought it would be better for you if I stayed out of your life until Neil was no longer able to intervene, to make things worse. He had made veiled threats when I first brought up visitation rights, and I couldn’t put you through that.

I am so sorry, my son. I am so sorry that I believed Neil’s lies, that I let him think I couldn’t raise you on my own. I am so sorry that I wasn’t able to be in your life.

I am not sorry, however, for having had you. You are the single best thing I have ever done in my life.

I will never forget your smile on the beach, how proud you were- and how proud I was- of that seven foot wave you effortlessly surfed on. I will never forget your messy hair and mumbly voice in the early morning when I got you out of bed for school. I will always remember the first time your tiny fingers wrapped around mine.

Your first word was Mama, and I will forever remember how you looked me in the eyes with delight as you said it, over and over, waving your little arms as you asked to be picked up.

You were always the best thing in my life, and I can only hope you don’t hate me, Billy. I loved you so much, and I still do. I just wish I knew what kind of person you are now. I wish I could have seen your graduation. I wish I could have embarrassed you with a million Polaroids of you and your date for prom. I wish I could have helped you apply for college.

I can only hope this letter finds you, and that in time, you and I can find one another again. I want so much to make everything up to you.

I want to be there for whenever you get married, if you do find love. I want to be there if you make or find a new family of your own. I want to support you through the harder moments, and celebrate your successes. Now that you’re eighteen, we have that option again, and I hope that we can try again.

Just know that I never stopped loving you, Billy. Know that you will always be my son, and even if you can’t forgive me, I will always have a place for you- both in my home and my heart.

I love you, Billy.

-Delilah.

#Billy Hargrove #Billy Hargrove's mother #abuse cw #Neil Hargrove cw #sqt drabble #slightly spite-fueled writing

[lunarscaled]

so i stop writing paragraphs of text in Turbo's DMs I'm gonna unload info here re: Lyric + children / child birth cw for pregnancy, gender dysphoria, body dysmorphia, discussions of post-partum, etc

Lyric is actually very good with kids despite what they think. Lyric's assumption that they are not a good influence around children and a poor caretaker is directly from their own struggle and lack of energy to care for themselves; their biggest concern is they wouldn't be able to maintain a standard of care that a child deserves, especially since their life has been particularly rocky. That doesn't mean they're mean to children or push them away or anything---Lyric tries to be very levelheaded around kids and give them room to make mistakes and learn. They weren't normally offered that as a child, so they try to give it now. They're very compassionate especially for children clearly struggling; they are empathetic to ones who have lost family or parents and try to support them. Garret, Abel, and the Circus were a large makeshift family of people who often had estranged or lost family members, and they put value in forming family out of the people who cared for them and not people related by blood, so that ideal is also instilled in Lyric.

when it comes to HAVING children, I've discussed before how 1) egg laying Dragons in Lyric's lore have low fertility rates as a species whole, which is why they started crossbreeding in the first place 2) Lyric is obviously young and wouldn't ever seriously consider children until they're older.

As far as Lyric getting pregnant is concerned, it is hard for them, statistically. They personally aren't bothered by that, but it's possible a partner may be; it also doesn't mean they're 100% guaranteed to NOT get pregnant, so using protection is still very important. If / When Lyric gets pregnant, as long as it is any period outside of their Nesting ( a two week period in late November / December when their species would be preparing courting couples and laying eggs ), it's basically a standard human pregnancy.

Lyric's symptoms are very heavy, though, especially symptoms like nausea and fatigue. They're much more depressed and emotional, which is compounded by their deep-set unease and disgust with the physical changes of their body that naturally happen when someone is pregnant. They hate being unable to do anything or lift anything; they feel worse the less they can do. They hate people wanting to touch their belly or talking about pregnancy glows or discussing the birth or how their tastebuds are all fucked up and some things smell awful and taste awful now. They don't like the baby kicking. when Lyric does have the baby, they have severe postpartum depression. Realistically, Lyric would be unable to care for their child for as long as the first year. They would rely HEAVILY on the Guild and its members ( who would willingly do so. Garrett and Abel have helped with plenty of kids before ) as well as their partner, because otherwise they couldn't keep it. Lyric is likely to self-harm, either by injuring themselves or by doing things like refusing to eat or care for their body. They cry a lot. They isolate a lot. They feel deeply dysphoric in their own body in a way they didn't before, and it takes a long time before they can calm down and approach even their own child safely.

If Lyric becomes pregnant while Nesting, rather than a standard human pregnancy, after about a month and a half they'll lay an egg! It will be roughly the same size as a child, and it's not any less painful or hard to do, but the majority of the child's growth is in the egg and outside of their body. Lyric will spend roughly until mid Spring incubating and nesting with the egg ( possibly two eggs! ), and because the baby will hatch in a state able to consume solid food, Lyric's body does not go through standard human pregnancy changes. That makes the whole ordeal infinitely easier on them, because they do not experience the gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia human pregnancy causes them; they're still able to work and do things normally when they are taking breaks from their nest, they do not rely on a partner after the hatchling is born (as Lyric's species is only together for the incubation period.) An eggnant Lyric will require a number of dietary restrictions to support their body, like a lot of calcium from cuttle bone, and meats and organs that support the necessary chemicals to properly grow the egg and the fetus. They'll need fresh supplies of snow and ice to maintain the temperature of their nest and routinely add and remove old and fresh snow from it. They spend a lot of time guarding their space as they would from predators who eat eggs or other dragons. Their body may express more draconic features in this period to make caring and laying their egg easier, but likely will return to normal after a year.

Having a kid is still insanely scary for them, and Lyric doubts their general ability to be a good parent, but re: methods of conception it is infinitely easier for them to have an egg than have a baby. they're still not aiming to be a milf though---Lyric would likely only ever have 2 children maximum in their whole life. They find child care to be stressful and only consider it at the interest of a partner. ( do not listen to the Nesting behavior, it is instinct and not the truth. no matter how cute and breedable they are, they will beat your ass later. )

#* ooc. #* headcanon. #pregnancy cw #body dysmorphia cw #gender dysphoria cw #trans pregnancy cw #self harm mention

[veryferaldistributions]

CW: These posts will talk a lot about mpreg, as that is almost exclusively what I write about. There will be nothing sexual or kink or NSFW about the posts, nothing in the realm of fetishization, but I thought I’d give a general warning to those who try to avoid the topic at all costs.

1. How did you first get into writing fanfic, and what was the first fandom you wrote for? What do you think it was about that fandom that pulled you in?

So, the first thing I ever wrote and posted long-term was an original novel (teen mpreg fic, awful stuff, I was 14 when I started), and I never really wanted to do something that wasn’t 100% mine because I was worried I’d write the characters badly. Or that I’d mess it up somehow. Or I’d do something too weird and I’d get hate. (I had a LOT of anxiety, btw!)

But then when I was about 16 or 17 (halfway through writing my novel), that’s when the show “Fish Hooks” started coming out. I remember to this day, my friend and I had been watching “Phineas & Ferb,” and it rolled over into “Fish Hooks” and we just watched the intro and I suddenly say “wait, was that a pregnant seahorse character?” So we ended up watching the whole thing.

And I became completely obsessed with the character Mr. Baldwin, because I’d never seen a reoccurring male character who was pregnant throughout the full run of the show.

And he wasn’t in the show nearly enough for my liking. And what little there was of him, I was like “pff, I could write him better than THIS!�� (Spoiler alert: I could not.) And, what really quelled my anxieties, I could write about a male character that was already pregnant in the canon, so no one could get mad at me! 🤣

So that’s why I started “9 Weeks,” to be kind of this alternate origin-story for this side character. I gave him a love interest, gave him a first name (Dan, after his voice actor Dana Snyder), cut out a lot of his interactions with his students, and tapped into this (weirdly) dark backstory that the show had just barely hinted at. It dealt with unwanted pregnancy, discussions of abortion, extra-marital affairs, post-partum depression, being a foster kid, and romantic relationship issues. (Did I mention this show was for CHILDREN? I made it VERY depressing!)

I also used LOT of OCs. (Most of which ranged from “unremarkable” to “completely pointless.”) I ended up writing about 24 chapters before finally unofficially abandoning it (To this day, I still have no freaking clue how to end it. So it remains unfinished.)

Lemme tell you, going back to this and reading it now…

It has not aged well. At all. Not as bad as my first novel, but hoo doggy!

#30 days of fanfic #mpreg #writing #fanfiction #fanfic #fish hooks #seahorse mpreg

[gaps-between-stories]

Fic Preview

Here's a sneak peek at an excerpt from an upcoming installment of my Sweet Nothings series, a verse with so so many babies!

CW: Post-Partum Depression, Post-Partum Anxiety, Perinatal OCD, References to (anxieties around) harming children

"Simple as that?"

Ed eased Stede’s furrowed brow with his thumb, gently tracing down his nose in a movement Stede had seen him do hundreds of times on their children, his touch soothing them to sleep and gently waking them and Stede wanted to shatter at the devotion of it all.

"Simple as that,” he affirmed, tapping Stede’s nose with his thumb. “Anything else?" Ed murmured, his eyes searching Stede’s as he continued to caress Stede’s face. 

That clawing was still there, steadily retreating from the light of Ed’s guiding beacon, but it refused to die completely. It waited, lurking, swirling low in Stede’s gut, swelling when Ed repeated the earlier gesture, his thumb trekking its well-worn path down the bridge of Stede’s nose. 

He didn’t deserve such care. Ed’s tenderness was wasted on someone like Stede, and Ed was about to realize how absolutely fucked up Stede was and be so repulsed that he never touched Stede like that again and Stede would deserve that because he defiled beautiful things. 

“I – I’m scared I’m going to hurt her, Edward,” Stede nearly whispered, the words acrid on his tongue. He felt dirty just saying them, horrified that he was even capable of thinking those words right now. He felt awful – he was awful. He had to be. Because not awful people don’t sit there thinking about hurting their babies, right?

And Edward just looked at him, brow knit together as his big (god they were beautiful) amber eyes seemed to stare straight into Stede’s soul. 

Stede braced himself for Ed’s reaction, for the disgust Ed must feel towards him – he was about to lose everything – Ed was going to leave him and take their children and he would be right to do so because Stede was horrible and he didn’t deserve any of them and – 

“How, love?” was Ed’s gentle response, his fingers brushing the hair away from Stede’s face so delicately, like Stede was a precious thing. And Stede wanted to shatter at the touch. 

“How do you think you’re going to hurt her?” 

“I’m – I feel bad things, Edward, when I’m with her, alone. I can’t protect her from the bad things and she’s going to get hurt because I couldn’t protect her. I’m a bad thing and she shouldn’t be with me.”

#ofmd #ofmd fanfic #stede bonnet #gentlebeard #blackbonnet #ofmd edward teach #my writing #wip #ofmd au

[ihatetheinternetandeveryoneonit]

since you asked; 🍧, 🌙, 👑, ❤️, and💧 for enid and czitrin!

Thanks!

Sorry their backstories involve some Morrowind and Daggerfall-era lore.

cw: pregnancy losses, mental health issues

Czitrin:

🍧 Czitrin carries a lot of belongings from her childhood, but the most significant one is a necklace with a powerful enchantment that her father made. However, the enchantment, powerful as it is, is ultimately useless now as it is used to detect Dwemer. He gave it to her in case she got lost in the corpusarium so she could always find him. It has not activated since his death 200 years ago.

🌙 Czitrin's greatest wish is to find a way to restore the Dwemer race and culture. It has been her life's mission ever since she sat with her father telling her stories of their people, and it only intensified after Red Mountain erupted and he died as they were unable to evacuate him. Czitrin feels this intense responsibility and will literally do anything to achieve it. When she takes the risk of reading an elder scroll only for it to tell her that it's impossible, she betrays the team to Hermaus Mora so she can learn how to zero-sum all of Nirn just like the Dwemer did thousands of years ago.

👑 Czitrin wishes to be remembered as the mother of the second golden age of the Dwemer race. But to the rest of the world, she goes by the alias of "Madam Anat" of the Telvanni.

💓 Sofia gets Czitrin's heart racing, much to her chagrin. Romance, especially with another woman, is a huge distraction from her mission of restoring her near-extinct race.

💧 Czitrin has struggled with infertility, and has had a string of pregnancy losses. Part of her "mission" is to physically bring more Dwemer children into the world, but her corpus-made body can't handle it. For all her many faults, Czitrin would be a very loving and devoted mother. She has had many encounters with random men (seeking "strong specimens" in particular, including an awkward attempt with Kaidan), and sex is an unpleasant chore. She truly likes women instead, but ignores her attractions as a "distraction" from her goals.

Enid:

🍧 A bit boring, but Enid is very minimalist and doesn't have any sentimental items. She doesn't like to be reminded of her upbringing on the isle of Betony.

🌙 Enid has given up on dreams and feels incredibly unworthy. She would tell you she wishes for liquor and joins the team in hopes that she has a chance to stock up on her favorite brew (Dwynnian whiskey), but deep down her greatest wish is to make peace with her preteen son and for him to live a safe and peaceful life. Unfortunately for her, he's the dragonborn, and a troublemaker.

👑 Enid would be happy to fade into obscurity, but she wouldn't mind anonymously publishing her findings on mysticism and especially alteration. She has been able to replicate a couple spells previously lost to time, such as slowfall and feather. The Synod would probably suppress it if she did, though.

💓 Kaidan gets Enid's heart racing, much to her chagrin. She goes full tsundere just to be sure, but is pretty certain that he has no interest in a washed-up single mother mage. Romance has brought her nothing but pain and distrust, and she's reluctant to even form friendships. A much more acceptable way to get her heart racing is a good smut novel--Thief of Virtue being her favorite.

💧 Enid gave birth to Rufus at 19 years old in Windhelm after dropping out of the College of Winterhold and marrying Ulfic Stormcloak. Through the course of their marriage, the growing post-war xenophobia in Skyrim--Windhelm in particular--led Ulfric to grow cold toward his young Breton bride and she was shunned away to an empty wing of the palace shortly after giving birth. Fending for herself and suffering under what the isle of Betony called "Mara's curse" (or what we would call Post-Partum Depression), Enid eventually went mad and begged the servants to take her baby. She was accused of trying to kill Rufus and banished from the hold. Ever since then, she has lived on a tiny island on Lake Ilinalta, feeling hollow and self-loathing, until Lucien and Sofia discover her and drag her along for adventure.

#enidposting #czitrinposting #asks #skyrim ocs

[karenwilson]

Are you okay? No.

#911 #911edit #maddiebuckleyedit #jlhedit #maddie buckley #jennifer love hewitt #911 spoilers #mygifs #* #maddieandchimney #madneyfiles #dailymaddiebuckley #i need maddie to be okay #post partum depression cw

[agenderhyde]

nancy needs to have as many kids as possible and..... after only one (while pregnant with her second), she’s got post-partum depression

#cloudy rambles #cloudy plays sims #landgraab100baby #nancy landgraab #vivienne landgraab #too tired to update my sideblog atm #post partum depression cw