Warning: Contains acceptance and appreciation of slight weight gain.
A pudgelove/wg prompt - Charles is totally unashamed of having a soft rounded belly, Erik is totally turned on by it but really awkward about expressing it. Maybe Charles teases him about his awkwardness, before reassuring Erik that it’s fine and he loves the attention Erik pays to his belly. Bonus: On valentines/b-day etc. Charles (before he’s reassured Erik) overeats and ends up with a really distended belly and Erik is beside himself with desire but totally awkward about it. I love your fic!
Erik Lehnsherr was never particularly skilled at expressing his feelings.
Author’s note: Happy Christmas! I apologise for how ridiculous and cheesy this fic is, but I think we could all do with some happy, corny fic right now!
Merlin rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet, his warm breath billowing around him in the sharp, cold air as he waited at the bus stop down the road from Camelot College.
Trigger warning: self-harm, suicide.
(Sorry for any typing errors, I am somewhat drunk.)
“Just because you’ve done something, doesn’t mean you have to keep on doing it,” he whispers, and kisses her wrist. It is then she realises that she loves him, then she decides that she is going to stop. She wouldn’t hurt him, and to hurt herself is to hurt him. It is that simple for her, now that love has touched her.
Thank you so so much! I’m very flattered by this message, I’m so glad that you found my writing that emotional and thank you for telling me! I love you, anon :)
The first and the last
He’s broad and dark-haired and has a Scottish accent, and despite all the things he used to say about Scotland, Bond does love a Scottish accent. Even more so when that Scottish accent belongs to a beautiful man saying that he would like to see more of him. Bond replies that he hopes he will.
Winter was baring its teeth— it hadn’t yet bitten, but Basil Hallward could feel the threat of frost in the cold Autumn air. He pushed his hands down further into his pockets, pressing his fingertips against the worn lining of his old pea coat. Lord Henry Wotton was flitting about him in his usual manner, perfectly warm in a handsome greatcoat, leather gloves and some grotesque, absurd scarf that had once been a living creature.
”With all due respect, Lord Wotton,” the young artist ventured, “You’re a daft bugger to come out in the cold at this time to feed the blasted ducks.”
”Tongue, Mr Hallward,” Wotton reprimanded amusedly, leaning over the fence at the pond’s edge, his mouth moving slightly as he counted the ducks across the water’s surface, “Pass me the bread.”
”Waste of good bread, too,” Hallward muttered, pursing his lips as he handed Wotton the small, freshly baked loaf.
”Don’t worry, I’ll see to it that you’re well fed today,” Henry teased, flirting shamelessly in his body language and his tone. Basil rolled his eyes in annoyance, but his countenance softened slightly. There was something irresistible about the young Wotton, in his fluffy attempt at a pointed beard, his ludicrous epigrams, his bright, mischievous eyes and his nimble fingers as they casually held, as they often did, a cigarette. Basil was, alas, enraptured with this fool, which is why he took such pains to try to irritate and insult him.
”You shall not,” Basil retorted, his skinny body shivering under his few layers. At that, Harry turned around worth a grin, broke off a corner of the bread, and held it out against the other man’s lips.
”Quack,” he said, smirking, and Basil was unsure if this was a feeble attempt at imitate the ducks, or a command that he himself do so. Basil scowled.
”Wha—” he began, but could not finish his sentence, as no sooner had he opened his mouth than Harry had popped the piece of bread into it. Basil spluttered, and would have spat it out, only he was very hungry. He had been required to buy some new editions for his classes, and it had meant he’d gone without food for a day or two. But he wouldn’t tell Harry this unless it was absolutely necessary— he didn’t want the toff’s handouts. He chewed slowly, savouring it, and fixed Harry with a look of irritation before swallowing.
”You needed that,” Harry said quietly.
”Harry, don’t—” Basil groaned, but sure enough Harry was frogmarching him over to the nearest bench, pushing him down onto his backside and then sitting so close that they were practically in one another’s laps. Basil coloured furiously.
”When did you last eat?” Harry pouted. He looked like a petulant child, and Basil was angered that he thought it any of his business.
”About half a minute ago,” he answered with just the hint of a sneer.
”Don’t try to be smarmy, Basil, it doesn’t suit you,” Harry snapped “When did you last eat a meal?”
”… Tuesday. Breakfast time,” Hallward admittedly hesitantly.
”Good God, man, it’s Thursday morning!” Harry barked.
”I’m aware of that, Harry. I’ve been aware of that since you dragged me out of my bed at an ungodly hour to feed the ducks.”
”Sod the ducks—”
”I believe that violates at least two English laws.”
”Be quiet. Blast the ducks, I’m going to feed you.”
Basil prickled, his blush deepening.
”I will not see you go hungry,” Harry insisted, looking right into Basil’s face, his expression seeming earnest, “You shan’t want for anything if I have my way.”
”Why must everything… be about you…” Basil struggled uncomfortably, painfully conscious of his hunger now it had been pointed out, and shutting his eyes in mortification as his stomach rumbled loudly. Harry smiled, the smile reaching up to his eyes, and kissed the tip of Basil’s nose quickly.
”Here,” he said, breaking off more of the bread and holding it up to Basil’s mouth. He took it reluctantly, finding that plain bread tastes its best when one is very hungry. He took the next piece more eagerly, the next ravenously, then the last with an unexpected breathy moan of pleasure. The next thing that he knew, he was leaning against Harry’s shoulder, whilst the other man rubbed at his near-empty, abruptly-awakened stomach, Harry’s hands beneath Basil’s coat but above his pullover. Basil was surprised at how pleasant the sensation was.
”Come now,” Wotton said eventually, “I am taking you to breakfast, and you will eat your fill. Forget your pride— I beg you this one indulgence. I will not buy you anything else you do not want if you allow me to see to it that you are well fed.”
Basil sighed, and knew that this was a battle that he had lost. He nosed Harry’s earlobe, and then lifted his head again.
”All right. I accept, if I must.”
Harry grinned wickedly.
”I shall have you as plump as a partridge before we leave Oxford.”
”Nonsense,” Basil scoffed fondly, allowing himself to be lead away from the pond.
Basil looks sadly at the boy lying across from him on the bed, languidly smoking a cigarette, naked but for the white sheet. Harry gazes back quizically.
“What are you staring at, Hallward?”
“I’m wondering why you’re still here.”
“And why should I not be?”
“The beautiful boys always leave in the morning. The sensible ones never even stayed the night before.”
Trigger warning: suicide.
It is not a suicide pact. The dead man cannot die again, he can only make a promise to stay close whilst the other comes to join him in the afterlife. They say suicide is a sin; but they say the same of sodomy, so Henry is already as damned as they come.
He would say that being able to see and even speak to Basil’s ghost was maddening, did he not suspect he has already gone mad. Basil’s presence is at first half-there, confusing and frightening. But the painter pushes through, and the night that he sees clearly Basil sitting at the end of his bed, Harry isn’t scared.
After that, Basil doesn’t leave. He is constantly by Harry’s side, talking to him, discussing things with him as they had in the past, when Basil was still alive. He is white and cold as marble and splattered with blood, but he looks so real, so alive, that Harry knows it can’t be some sickening dream.
Harry is alone. His friends are dead. His daughter despises him. He is horribly scarred- though Basil does tenderly stroke and kiss the burn- and weakened by age and the horror of what he has witnessed in the attic, and he’s just so tired. He decides that it is time. He decides he is going to die.
Basil speaks to him with soft words and kind assurances, determining that Harry is sure this was what he wants. He says he is going to guide him through to the other world. Harry hadn’t used to truly believe in such nonsense, but now, he is able to believe anything. He puts his affairs in order, and then leaves the house one last time in life, to visit the apothecary. He returns with the laudanum and ascends to his bedroom, where Basil waits at the door, holding out a hand.
He sits on the bed, takes the overdose, and then lies back. Basil holds him close through the respiratory failure, and Harry knows he can feel the other man’s grip, knows it is real, but clings like he thinks it will be snatched away. Harry falls asleep in Basil’s arms, as he had always known he was meant to.
In the morning, they find him alone on top of the covers, dead. Around his shoulders is draped a yellow scarf, stained deep red and brown with long-spilt blood.
Blow Away The Ash- Part Seven
Pairings: Sokka/Zuko, Azula/Zuko
Warnings: self hatred, self harm, incest, sexual abuse, rape, victim arousal, eating disorders, miscarriage, sex.
Summary: Every night, Zuko cries in his sleep. Sokka, who shares his tent, attempts to ignore it, but eventually he cannot, so he wakes Zuko to comfort him. Zuko tells Sokka all about what happened to him when he was young, and Sokka yearns to help him to heal.
Blow Away The Ash
A few weeks pass without incident.