#At least their modern version... should I tag

[marmartea]

Aperitivo queens 🍹💅

[zph]

EXPLORING THE 5 SENSES WITH SCARAMOUCHE. gn!reader | fluff

synopsis. a glimpse into your relationship with scaramouche through the 5 senses (touch, smell, hearing, taste, sight). series of ficlets.

content. suggestive in some parts (i.e. vague descriptions of making out) but mostly sfw, incredible amount of fluff, non-sexual intimacy, sillies in love, kissing, established relationship + pre-relationship for the last section (i.e. taste), scara is painting your bare back, nahida & scara have a family dynamic, brief mention of eimiko and scara son hc, modern au. not proofread.

a/n. happy (very belated) valentines’ day! wanted to explore scara in the late stages of a relationship + pre-relationship; more playfulness & more comfortable with himself. each section isn’t the same length but that's okay. enjoy :)

word count. 4.3k

masterlist

What does SCARAMOUCHE loving you look like in each of the 5 senses?

He can count a few specific times:

—

i. Sight. | PICTURES

Scaramouche has been acting strangely this entire week.

After being recruited (forced) into a photography club by a few of his classmates and the new club member, Nahida (under the name of “discovering more enrichment activities!”), His behavior had since shown an almost subtle but unexpected shift in attitude:

Click!

Case in point: You look towards your boyfriend with a camera in hand, and a small smile etched on his face. It was meant to be a shopping date, just an excuse to wander outside and practically drag your boyfriend around to window shop for overly expensive items—some unreasonable, some even Scaramouche couldn’t help but tug your hand away to distance yourself from getting it. (“Why is that plushie $60?” “It is vintage.” “No, it is just hideous,” he scoffed.)

He was awfully distracted, it seemed, of you and whatever sights you came across. Sure, he was acting like his usual- ‘pretends to have no interest in it but secretly lets you drag him around because he likes being around you’-Scaramouche way, but his mind looked like it drifted elsewhere, like he was there but a softer version took its place and persisted even as he tried to lull it away.

For instance, at one point, you smiled at him, holding up some ugly plush you found in the clearance aisle (“it’s you,” you had told him. “ha, in your dreams.”) and there it is. Scaramouche hadn’t needed to say anything. But you could tell. The moment his mind wandered off again, you simply let it.

Click! And he was back once more.

Conclusion? This camera was the main culprit to his new-found shift in demeanor.

So curiously, you wrap your arms around his waist, looking over his shoulder in an attempt to uncover what he has been hiding away. You blow into his ear, low and enough to get him to freeze. “So, what’s gotten your attention hm?”

Before your eyes could begin to make out the photo, he immediately tucked away the camera and right out of your view. “Posting on my story,” he gave you a look. The kind of look that told you tells of trouble only he could possibly think of. “What about it?”

You raise your eyebrow. Okay, now that was suspicious. “You hardly post on your account.”

“What? What is so wrong with that?” he gave you his best innocent stare, a head tilt, and a sweet smile along with it. “Here I thought you wanted me to post more.”

“Well, yeah you should post more,” you mutter, thinking back to times where people accused you on tagging a side account because your boyfriend’s feed looks like a damn bot than a person. “But! I’m just saying that you are acting really funny, you know,” you point to him; his face only widens in mischief.

“That’s too bad, I think I’m hilarious.”

“Right. Sure.” You chuckle before directing your focus on finding warmth in the fabric of his sweater. Comfy. “Whatever it is. At least take good pictures, yeah? Heard the photography club might set up a display somewhere in the city.”

“Who told you that?”

“Nahida,” you pinch his waist playfully at his bluff, already half-way melted into his shoulder. It is warm, you think. You mumble into his shoulder, “What was the theme about anyway?”

You don’t take notice of the cheeky look in his eye as he stares at your relaxed form or the way his hand reaches for the camera once more, flicking up and facing towards your face.

You hear a snicker.

Click!

You snap your head up. Huh? But before you could ask, you feel his body freeing away from your arms, his warmth along with it. Instinctively, you reach out towards him. “What are you..?“

Unfortunately, Scaramouche was already taking off, putting some distance between you as he ran along with the camera in hand, sticking out his tongue as he did so.

You shook your head in disbelief. “Hey, wait!”

And off he went, his back practically fading further away. You stood, a bit stunned, before laughing. He can be so cute sometimes.

And with a chuckle, you chased after him.

—

[Nahida🍀]

Nahida🍀: Picture-taking is more fun than I expected! Did you take any photos yet? (*^ω^*)

Scara👾: I did. But my model is being uncooperative right now

Nahida🍀: What does that even mean?? Could I see?

Scara👾: Do you really want to know?

Nahida🍀: Why are you acting so suspicious (*_*)

Scara👾: :p.

—

When Scaramouche feels around the wooden shelf, his outstretched arm searching around, he finds himself wiping off the dust of a particular box.

He reaches out to uncover the top, already filled with photographs—each a selection of nature, the exhibitions he has been on, Nahida and her unbridled curiosity for everything, and finally, ones of you.

If he was being frank, he didn’t hold much interest in photography—well, until now. Not until Nahida brought up how “it would do him good to save memories that he wanted to memorialize for his viewing pleasure!” Not until a camera was halfway shoved into his hands with the errand of: “Make sure to take as many pictures as you can! We are counting on you!” (Nahida’s words, not his).

He stared down at the camera. Memories, huh?

Sure, Scaramouche was no stranger to painful grievances of the past, ones where he had learned to confront, ones where he bore and accepted. And if he had to guess, these photos were essentially Nahida’s way of suggesting that he seek out and capture new memories to remember by. Not to overlook what has already been done, but to celebrate a future anew.

Hah, or maybe to do her bidding, he isn’t quite sure yet.

And the worst part? Truthfully, he didn’t hate the idea entirely; in fact, he was sure Nahida knew that clearly, especially with the way she so persistently tasked him with it in the first place.

So, he sighed, but nevertheless, obliged.

And soon enough, he started to toy with the camera and became accustomed to its settings.

Maybe he would take some on his morning walks, of the sunrise he is usually accompanied by, or of the birds that somehow make their home on his shoulder. Or if he was feeling more like a prick, maybe he would take an unexpected photo of his coworkers mid-action, clearly unprepared for the camera. The kind where they are halfway blinking, blurry, and their face contorted unsightly—you know, for his amusement, for his viewing pleasure. Definitely not because they decided once again to make him deal with a customer handing $100 for an $8 item right after he clocked in.

And yet, none of them prepared him for the first time he got a picture with you.

Click!

“Hold sit, why don’t you?”

It began with one photo, something mundane and candid. You were visiting his family home for the holidays; his mother had always pestered him to bring you over each year, and this time around, he agreed.

(“Can’t wait to see you and your partner! Btw, don’t be alarmed when Yae steals them for a few minutes☺️….”

“Are you threatening me?”)

You were lying down with your phone in hand—in his childhood bed, no less—laughing about some show you recently got hooked onto. Sprawled over and relaxing like you owned the place (and maybe you did), you looked like the peace he hadn’t realize he was greedy for. Sure, there wasn’t anything spectacular about his photography skills or the pose you were seated in, and yet, the more he stared at the picture, he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. Not yet, at least.

“So, do I look good?” Your head was tilted up, way too relaxed, way too domestic. For fucks sake, the fact that you were in his bed didn’t help either.

He couldn’t help but look away.

Warmth. It was the odd sense of warmth in his chest that made him hesitate. It was new. It was a welcome feeling. It was—Huh. He never thought photography could be so… frustratingly domestic.

“Can I see?”

“Absolutely not,” he held the photograph tightly.

So soon, more and more popped into this box. He had grown attached to it, more than he would like to admit.

You stretched over your desk, head pressed down on your laptop? Click. (You looked silly, sue him.)

Your face squished with his side-by-side? Click. (You told him it was a trend on TikTok and dragged him into it. It took a lot of convincing—in the form of kisses.)

You sitting right on the pavement at the side of the 7-11 store, munching on your late-night snacks because you told him you were craving food and slushies at 3:00 in the morning? Click.

(Bonus, he also got to take another picture where both of your tongues were purple. Ha, don’t ask how that happened.)

Surely, who could blame him for using this camera to its full potential? When this box is already filled with images, who could blame him when he is already running out of film the next day? Not Nahida, of course. In fact, she was his biggest supporter.

Digging out another picture from his pocket, he flips over the newest addition: You embracing his waist, head on his shoulder, looking as relaxed as you have ever been.

That stupid warmth erupts in his chest once more. It was the type of warmth that didn’t burn, the one where it didn’t spark painful memories; instead, it was sweet. It was persistent. And he also finds he doesn’t hate it.

And maybe this time, he wants to keep it a moment longer. He sets it as his wallpaper, just hidden away from public view, but not from his eyes.

At least there is something to look forward to whenever he is awake at god, who knows what time, missing your warmth.

—

private account @/zushi2938849484 posted!

[attach photo]

@/zushi2938849484: Caught this one. I’ll be honest, it is kind of cute when they try to be clingy. Just don’t tell them that, though.

@/nahidasgarden: So this is what you have been doing! 💖

@/nahidasgarden: Also, why am I the only follower here? ^_^;;;;

Reply from @/zushi2938849484: Because you are oomf

—

i. Smell. | COOKING.

Saturday. 8:34 am.

“You are so clingy today,” Scaramouche grumbles as he leans back into your arms. The comfort of his pjs cushions your weight as your head buries into his shoulder, almost melting into it. The sizzling of the pot lulls down a bit as you feel him reach to turn down the stove.

“Can you blame me?” With your nose pressed so close against the exposed skin, you can make out how he smelled of fresh laundry; the kind where it wasn’t too overbearing, something familiar. You missed this, you think.

No, you corrected: you missed him.

And you could tell, he missed you too. Especially because you could smell the barest hint of your body spray on his clothes. A sign of comfort for him (one that he doesn’t say out loud), but also a pride for you.

“…You smell different.” You begin, the edges of your lips rising.

“Are you saying I smell bad?”

“Well-“ You give him a look.

He quickly huffs, almost scooting out of your arms as he takes the majority of the warmth with him. “If you can’t handle it, I should just enjoy this dinner all by myself-“

“Wait—No, I’m kidding. It smells good.” You chuckle, tucking him closer and pressing one quick kiss on his jaw in apology. You could almost feel the subtle fond eye-roll he gives you. “Aaand of course, you smell nice. It is just…” You bury your face once more. “It smells suspiciously similar to mine.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” He retorts, rather nonchalantly, despite how much of his body language—advertising his gaze away from yours in the act, the slightest lift of eyebrow in smug satisfaction—says otherwise.

So what if he did? What will you even do about it? It tells you.

Nothing, you smiled. Nothing at all.

The sizzle of the pot protests in response to your banter, drawing his attention from you and back to the dinner you were supposed to have later tonight.

While the dinner itself was nothing too fancy or pungent, it was Scaramouche’s go-to comfort food. Scaramouche had an eye for things that were easy to make and felt like home. Sentimentality and all, you found it rather endearing.

You watch as he shifts, stirring the pot.

The aroma was inviting, much like the way you nearly ease yourself into his shoulder, surrounded by the comfort of food and his warmth. The latter nulls you to a near-perfect ease, mixed with the breath he huffs out at your clinginess.

Again, can he blame you?

“So, what are you making?”

A simple question.

One that you already knew the answer to. But you seldom mention it, not while you were already busy pressing your lips against his nape as you waited for his answer.

You hear a hitch.

“What are you..?” Then a breath of laughter. He shifts, carefully placing down the lid. “Why don’t you guess hm?” He doesn’t move anywhere, but you can practically feel the snarkiness radiating off of him. “You have three tries. Extra points if you manage to get the name right.”

You hummed. Good, he was indulging you.

Your kisses got bolder as you shifted from along his nape, then slowly to the exposed part of his shoulder, as courtesy of his loose clothing practically hanging off of him. Your first guess: “Ice cream?”

“Are you acting dumb on purpose?” He scoffed, the sound a little too restrained. Maybe he would make some excuse about how your heat was pressing against him despite how hot the kitchen was. Overheating via body heat was a real concern. But you knew better—knew him better. “2 more tries.” He whispers.

Chuckling a simple “Sure,” you press on.

On the second try, your hand gently encloses around his, spoon still in his hand.

Watching his eyes flit down to your interwoven fingers wrapped in his, you can’t help but laugh at how his curiosity spreads across his expression. What are you doing? His gaze spoke.

He didn’t have to wonder for too long, however.

Not when you suddenly lifted his hand, bringing the spoon to his lower lip.

His eyes haven’t shifted from yours, not one bit, even while his lips slowly parted to make room for the spoon. Delight sparks your stomach as you watch his mouth seal around it, willingly and almost challengingly.

You stilled. This was a beautiful sight.

The morning looked right on him, bathed in the warm golden light. Sun-kissed practically. It highlighted many of his features: the curve of his nose scrunching just enough, the red eyeliner he dutifully wears, and the softness, tense softness that was his gaze. He wasn’t too fazed by your admiration; in fact, he was practically glowing in your attention.

“So, not sweet.” You grinned, pointing out the fact that his face would have scrunched in disgust had the food been anything too sweet. “Ramen?” You breathed in.

You are further reminded of the body spray that surrounds his body; it is practically coming off his wrist.

As if it were instinctive, your lips found their way to his hands, down to his wrist, confirming your suspicions: he sprayed this a few times. It was stronger here. A testimony to how much he wanted to be reminded of you.

“Hah, one last try.” This time, he shook his head. Chilled fingers reached your face as he slowly brought it up to his. Impatience in his movements. “Do you want a hint or something?”

The way both of your breaths now mingling in with each other spoke of many things, despite no words being out from your lips. It was sort of like a genie’s wish. You wouldn’t dare to waste this last and final moment.

And so, you wished. You wished with how your hands eagerly pull him closer, wished with how he smells like home, the scent urging you to say something.

“Yes.” Just as quickly as you spoke, you felt his lips pressed against yours.

Everything was enveloping around you; everything that makes up him was engulfing your senses. The shampoo that he insists on using (if you had to pinpoint it, it smells like nature? You weren’t too sure), the fresh scent of laundry (It reminded you that you were living with him. Successfully and contently emerged with his life, tasks like laundry included), and finally….

Finally, the smell of tea—his favorite. It was a classic move from him: to share something of himself with you. You remember how he offered it once when you were sick, muttering out about a kid he once babysat was in a similar condition and found a liking to this recipe. It drew a familiar warmth in your chest; the heat of the tea mixed in with his laughter.

You twisted your head up at him, pulling away and wiping the remaining bits of tea off your lips. You smile. “Shimi Chazuke.”

—

…

He exhaled, prying you off with a pointed look. “Could you…”

You immediately nod, like the love-sick fool you are.

He offered you a gesture to the tea, then leaned in as if he was going in for another kiss. Instead, he snickers as you open your eyes: “…do the dishes?”

You laugh.

Well, how could you say no?

—

i Hearing. | PHONE CALLS

Ding!

Ding!

Ding-

[1:34 AM] You rub your eyes as you sneak a quick look at your phone. Who the hell is calling at this hour?

‘Kuni🤍’ bold on the screen brightens up your face.

Kuni🤍: Call me

Maybe you will make an exception for him.

You: Did something happen

Like clockwork and the sanity of a deep, lovesick partner, your finger immediately hit the call.

“Hello?”

You hear breathing from the other side, then a low rasp, wry in his tone. “Good morning Sleepy head.”

“Scara, it is 1 in the morning. Something up?” And you knew something was bothering him if he was awake at this hour.

There was a pause before shuffling emerged from your speaker: he was adjusting his chair.

“Finishing this thesis. Wanted someone to bother.”

His voice had an unmistakable thickness, evident in the exhaustion that had struck his body and made its way to his throat.

“Wanna talk about it?”

He sighs, the noise so soft that you had to crane your phone closer just to hear. You expected his typical lectures—ones ranging from the gossip of his coworkers’ drama, peer reviews of essays that he describes as ‘nonsensical’, and random history lessons—he sometimes liked to teach you quite a few of them too.

In fact, you became privy to many aspects of his life; a privilege from being in a relationship with him, you suppose. It surprised you how much he liked to talk, despite being no fan of chatty people or mindless conversations. It was endearing, to say the least.

So, it surprised you even more when none of that reached your ears. Instead, he mutters simply, not his usual snark:

“I didn’t see you today.” I missed you.

…

You had to do a double-take just to check if you heard that correctly. Yet there was no other comment besides the slight hitch in his voice, followed by the sound of computer keys clicking and more scuffling from the other side of the line.

“I missed you, too.” You finally admit, chuckling as if you were in on a secret between you two. “Sorry, I was kept busy the entire day. You alright?”

He doesn’t give you much of anything. Instead, you just hear more shuffling. “You weren’t there to bother me. No morning texts….” Then he scoffs, more to himself. “What am I saying? Whatever, I….tried finding you in your usual spot. That corner of the cafe you apparently like so much. Did you suddenly disappear or something?” He finally laughs, after a pause, trying to keep his voice light. “….Just tell me about your day. Anything. What kept your attention so long?”

You blinked, but you complied with his demand. After all, your boyfriend wasn’t one to admit it so openly, especially not at break of dawn either. That must’ve nagged at him all day, huh? Cute, you thought, if hearing your voice again would ease his irritation, how could you say no?

It was easy to fall into listing your schedule—anything about the errands you had today, your classes, mornings—anything you could list off the top of your head.

(“Ah, so that’s why they told me someone had already ordered some food under my name. It was you huh?”

“You said you didn’t have time to pick up breakfast,” he says it like it is the easiest thing in the world. “…What? Don’t coo at me like that.”)

He responds to a few little laughs and scoffs here and there towards some of your commentary, but seldom cuts in, satisfied simply with listening. Slowly, the side comments die into mumbles, an effort to respond but not quite lucid enough to be comprehensible.

“You know, you should go to sleep.”

He mumbles. “No.” It was longer than usual, like his mind tried to catch up and convince itself it wasn’t tired.

But then you hear it. A soft puff erupts into the microphone.

“Scaramouche?” You wait a few more seconds to confirm your suspicions. Another puff.

He was sleeping.

“You really are adorable, you know.” You whisper. You couldn’t help the smile that spread on your lips. Did he really call you because he couldn’t sleep? You knew he liked his alone time, but it was nice to know at least he wanted you to accompany him in some sort of way. “Goodnight, Scara.”

—

The following day, another ding emerged from your phone; another notification from Scara:

Kuni🤍: Thank you

[Kuni🤍sent a photo]

You: Good morning, beautiful!

You: Dude, how did you even take a picture of me sleeping on call

Kuni🤍: :p

—

i. Touch. | SKIN TO SKIN

“Pftt, relax.”

“I’m trying to.“ The brush presses against your back, the soft edges leaving a cool chill over your skin. “But your brush-“ you shiver as he puts another coat of body paint. “-is cold.”

With the brush strokes along your spine, you feel his breath fanning along with the hum of his voice.

“A little cold can’t hurt, right? Don’t tell me that bothers you?” He knows exactly what he is doing, especially with the way his legs are slotted around your waist, laughing as if he doesn’t realize how much of an effect he has. “I’m almost done, hold on.”

You lay still, your arms folded under you as you steadied your breathing. “Once I do this to you, then you’ll see how damn cold it is,” it comes out more breathless than a sly retort. You hear the echoes of a poorly hidden snicker, his finger playfully tapping your shoulder.

“Sure. Maybe I should make this as slow as possible, just for you.” The smile in his voice becomes more evident as he mercilessly presses more of the brush.

“How incredibly nice, Scara.” You huff.

Now, the bristles run downwards—more deliberately this time, clearly relishing in the trust you hold for him and also teasing you in the process as you remain pliant under his touch.

“Didn’t you ask for this? I thought you would be more enthusiastic about me being up here.”

Clearly, you had meant to be more enthusiastic about this. You’ve seen it online on a forum somewhere: Intimacy in the form of body painting, along with someone whom you trust the most. It was a brilliant idea, you decided.

You remember bringing it up to him late at night, arms sprawled across his waist and his head resting on your shoulder. You shifted a little and inched your phone towards him.

He was cute, his eyes squinting at the screen, furrowing his brows as he tried to make out the picture. “Couple body painting?” he mutters, then, with the simple turn of his head, more interested in getting his sleep, he yawns out. “Do what you want.”

It didn’t take that long to convince him, you suppose. With a chuckle, you tucked him closer with a blanket, the latter of which takes it with a simple nudge in your direction. Cheers bloomed in your mind: First step of the mission! You got his approval! Or well, sort of.

The next day, you both went out for a store run.

See, store runs with him were a daily occurrence. Scaramouche was your perfect partner for groceries. In every run, he always kept a list, something with beautiful calligraphy inscribed in his notes on the margins, that told you how much you might need for the week: detergent, water, along with the indulgent snacks you both enjoyed.

With supplies stocked up in the cart and his attention fixed on the list he made, you made a quick detour to the art supply section.

You gripped a tube of neon, glow-in-the-dark body paint, mischievousness no doubt rolled off of you in waves. The thought that you were able to not only admire him but create art on his skin was pleasant.

So, when you finally got back to the cart, you were met with an eyebrow raise and a shake of his head.

“Where did you go?”

“To get these.”

He didn’t seem as invested in the idea as you were, more focused on finishing this shopping trip and finally relaxing at home.

But it didn’t take long before he was.

—

“You are having way too much fun with this, you know?”

In truth, you may have overestimated Scaramouche’s potential for teasing. Once he realizes how much power he has over you, it becomes clear: he was the one to take it and run with it tenfold.

“Of course, I am.” Quick to respond, he leans in more closely, the tickling of his nose against your skin.

The rest of the room was dimmed, and the lack of seeing what he was doing was catching up to you, more aware of what you felt instead. Once the sense of sight is gone, the rest of your senses are heightened dramatically. Every twitch he makes, every laugh that escapes him, you are anticipating his next move and trying to figure out what the hell he is thinking.

And unfortunately, with the quick hitch of his breath sending down shivers through your spine, the rest of your body jolts along with it. He snickers in response, his breath ever so present on your skin.

Fuck.

Then, just when you least expect it. You feel a touch of warmth pressing against your back—

His lips.

You feel how he trails down, chilled fingers pressing against your back while his lips warm up and swallow each laugh that vibrates along your body.

It was no doubt cheeky, and it was agonizingly long.

And you were indulging in every single bit of it.

“Now, stay still.” His lips curled up against your shoulder, letting go with a quick pop.

You huff lightly. “Of course, of course, your Highness.”

You will get him back for this. But for now, you were humming along as he took his fill of all your reactions, lingering and kneading; a canvas in his hands and art marking his affections.

Yeah, you will definitely get him back.

—

i. Taste. | VALENTINE’S DAY CHOCOLATE.

You think you have found your favorite taste.

Unhurriedly, you cradle the heart-shaped packaging to your lips, popping it into your mouth as you let the contents melt away. Chocolate spreads on your tongue, and the bitterness fills your taste buds.

You almost want to gasp at the shock, if it wasn’t for the way Scaramouche’s hand locks with yours, savoring your warmth just as you try to savor the treat. It was new, but it was not unwelcome.

You tug at his hand. It feels soft somehow, well taken care of. His slender fingers easily intertwine around yours, tightening slightly as you move along, almost guiding you closer.

And what was worse? It feels almost needy the way he inches impossibly closer. You feel his arms wrapping around your neck, tracing along your skin as if he were afraid you would let go.

You try to grip your senses, trying to remember what had happened before this.

—

The memory of your best friend sitting beside you, engulfed with bags hanging off his arms, notes littered around, chocolate-covered treats, and small plushies of all species, packed loosely with bows—All were forwarded lovingly to him from his peers.

You remember laughing at him, stealing one of his chocolate bars from the bags, and chewing along the sides.

“Too bad you don’t like sweets, these are really good,” you mumbled.

And you swore his eyes followed the movement. Pausing for a quick fleeting moment before a flash of mischief struck his face.

The last bits of his rant had already dissolved at the tip of his tongue. The absurd amount of confession letters, gifts of flowers at his workplace, and more importantly, the handbags given by classmates on his campus, now situated on your arms, turned from points of irritation to something else entirely.

“Come here.” He leaned in.

You remember him sticking his tongue out, the last of his irritation melting away. Then, as the sheets shriveled, he proceeded to quickly steal the bag of chocolate from your fingers.

“—Hey, wait!”

You recall laughing, you recall him laughing. Echoes of giggles are reflected in the way you chase after him, tugging at his shirt to snatch it rightfully back until you both are a heaping mess on the floor, legs tangled and breaths so close.

You remember having a good look at his appearance. The smudge of his eyeliner—the crimson that is usually lining his eyes now smeared just a bit and a similar red brightening his cheeks as he laughed—something only you were akin to—tugging at his lips.

At that moment, you couldn’t help but think that he was beautiful. Unfathomably so.

And a part of you wondered, dangerously: What would it be like to smudge the red on his lips?

You remember the slow, heavy breaths you took, hands pinned right against his head, and the slow realization that you might want just to kiss your long-time friend. You weren’t meant to be this close. Especially not in an uncompromising position like this.

Peering down at him, your brain dizzying as you met his eyes, staring up at you: the last fit of his laughter dying down as he also came to the same conclusion.

A snort escaped him.

“Hey,” you breathed.

And you couldn’t help but trace the way his lips looked. Red looked good on him; happiness, even if cheeky, looked good on him.

“What are you going to do now?” he whispers. There was a hint of uncertainty mixed with his usual sarcasm.

You remember stalling, weighing down the options to pass it off as a joke, something to keep as a memory as you mourn what could have been.

Or take your chances. The fact that he wasn’t pushing you off spoke more than you could imagine. Maybe, for a brief moment, he was anticipating the same, watching your move just as you have been doing to him.

You breathed out, hoping to give him a way out should you have read him wrong. “Look, if you are uncomfortable, you can just push me off-“

Red was the look that flashed when he looked away, clearly frustrated that you aren’t reading his mind or body language, cutting you off with a swift, “I never said that.”

“So…” You couldn’t help but lean closer, your resolve waning once his eyes captured yours, the same electricity igniting in his gaze, challenging you.

“What does it look like I want?” His gaze was pulling you down with him as his voice dropped to a whisper, vulnerable. Like the obvious choice is right in front of you, and yet, he waits, becoming more and more impatient with your hesitation.

You feel like melting.

The touches started slow, a blend of teasing that you were used to and other charted untouched territory as his hands lifted to meet your cheek, a new gentleness in his grip like a question waiting to be answered.

You nudge, closing the gap, answering tentatively.

The cards were long forgotten, the gifts were the least of your concerns—and yet, words were not enough to describe the feeling of your heart pounding against your chest.

Melting.

He tasted like familiarity: The shared mix of dark chocolate.

Though he claims to hate the sensation of sticky treats, the overt sweetness was too much on his gums; each time you pulled away, he chased after your lips once again. Like a rush forced upon him, now an addict chasing his fix. And he glares when you halt his pursuit, tugging him back to finally look at his appearance.

Bitterness was the taste he was familiar with.

But with the way his hair ruffled a mess, lips swollen, shirt disheveled, and eyes practically dripping with intensity, you couldn’t help but think that it left a sweet aftertaste after all. Nothing overbearing but enough to be memorable.

“…You taste like chocolate.” He breathed out.

Your chest swelled. He doesn’t seem to mind the flavor. Your finger nudged another chocolate against his lips, slowly returning to the warm press of his kiss as if starved once again. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Scaramouche.”

You found your favorite taste, and you would be a fool not to savor it. 

[prettycalla]

|| lesson learned ||

Pairing: Johnny Storm/Reader

Summary: You make the mistake of letting Johnny borrow your phone. You really should have closed your tabs.

Word count: 3k

Tags and warnings: Established relationship, smut with very little plot (oral sex), Johnny’s a menace (affectionate), modern!Johnny if the film’s set before now (I know it’s 60s-inspired, at least), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N. 18+!! Minors, please do not interact!!

(It’s been a very long time since I’ve written for Marvel, and I know the film isn’t out yet and I’m working with very little with regards to this version of Johnny, but my partner and friends have given me some amazing ideas and I couldn’t wait to give writing him a go! Please be kind - my fic’s just pixels on a screen, after all.)

Johnny Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It’s not often you get time together like this. To be domestic, as Johnny calls it. You used to cling to it every chance you got, scared that this time would be the last. It’s hard not to worry when your boyfriend’s a literal superhero.

It had taken you a while to admit it to him, and now he makes sure he sets aside time wherever he can, for the two of you to just exist in each other’s company.

It’s nice.

Of course, it’d be a lot nicer if Johnny would shut up for five minutes.

You’re curled up on the couch together, with Johnny taking up most of the room as usual, and you tucked comfortably between his legs with your head resting against his chest. He’s watching a movie while you read a book, his arms draped loosely around your waist.

So far, he’s spent more time arguing with the TV than he has actually watching it.

“That song was ‘87,” you hear him mutter to himself. “This movie was what, ‘83?”

You roll your eyes. It’s not the first time Johnny’s had an argument like this with himself, and you know it won’t be the last.

You feel him move suddenly behind you, and you tighten your grip on your book before it ends up on the floor.

“Do you mind?” you ask, mildly annoyed. “What are you doing?”

He stops wriggling around.

“Right. Phone’s on the charge,” he says.” Can I borrow yours? This is gonna drive me crazy.”

You dig your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it and passing it to him without thinking, hoping it’ll keep him quiet long enough so you can actually focus on your book. It’s getting to a really good part, and you’re invested now.

He presses a quick kiss to your cheek as a thank you, settling himself back against the couch cushions again.

Finally. Some peace and quiet.

You’re about to turn the page, when you hear it. A low laugh from behind you.

“Well?” you ask absentmindedly. “Were you right?”

He laughs again, and you feel it rumble in his chest against your back.

“Huh? Oh, no, I, uh, I got distracted for a sec,” he says, and you don’t like how he says that.

It’s too casual, almost teasing - the tone he uses when he knows something you don’t.

You’re about to ask why, when he reaches over your shoulder, holding the phone out in front of you.

Your eyes widen.

You’d forgotten to close your last tab.

You immediately scramble to grab the phone from his hand, but he’s too fast, pulling his arm back out of your reach.

“Johnny! Give me back my phone!” you insist.

Your face feels like it’s on fire right now, and you try to turn around to face him. He moves his legs so they're now on top of yours, trapping you in place. The best you can do now is blindly reach behind you and hope for the best.

“It was a joke, okay? A friend sent it to me, thinking it’d be funny-“ you try to explain, still struggling.

Johnny laughs again, grabbing one of your wrists before you end up accidentally breaking his nose in your panic.

You collapse against him in momentary defeat, very aware of how breathless you now are.

“A friend sent you this, huh?” he asks, his tone suspiciously light. “I have to say, they’ve got good taste. If that’s true. But uh, I don’t think it is.

You can feel your heart hammering wildly against your ribcage.

“Nah, see, there’s another tab open right next to it,” he continues.

Can the floor just open up and swallow you already?

“And there’s my name, and- Wow, that’s a lot of results,” he says with a whistle. “Oh, there’s a filter system, that’s clever. And you can choose what content you want. I see. Very organised.”

You hear him mock-gasp.

“Baby,” he practically purrs in your ear. “I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

Your mouth’s gone dry. You can’t remember what damn tags you’d picked. You’d been reading it last night before bed.

It had started out of curiosity, really it had. It's not exactly lost on you how popular Johnny is - you’ve seen some of the fan mail he receives on a daily basis. And you're more than aware of the comments about him online. So, one thing led to another, and here you were, looking at Johnny Storm fanfiction. You had fully intended to just read one or two, see how bad they were, then send them to Johnny as a joke. Not that his ego really needs any more stroking, but you knew he’d get a kick out of it.

But here’s the problem - they were good. Too good, actually. And before you knew it, an hour had passed, and you were still reading. You were hooked. There was no way you could tell him now.

Not without admitting how they made you feel. How they were putting ideas into your head.

“Johnny,” you start slowly, wincing at how unsteady your voice sounds. “Just give me back my phone.”

“Why should I?” he asks. “I’m thoroughly enjoying myself right now.”

You let out a frustrated huff, gently knocking your head back against his chest.

“Oh, right, where are my manners?” he says, as he dramatically clears his throat. "Johnny looked at you from across the room, blue eyes alight - ha, very clever - with an emotion you couldn’t quite place-"

With an embarrassed yelp, you make another attempt to wrestle your phone back from him.

“Honey, come on, it was a joke,” you tell him. “It’s not that big a deal-“

You’re floundering. It’s a weak lie, and he knows it.

“You think I’m stupid, doll?” he asks, his voice low.

Oh, he knows, alright.

You feel your stomach flip and you give up, letting yourself drop into his hold.

“If there’s something you want…” he starts, one hand gently tracing patterns against your hip.

You suck in a breath.

“…you just gotta ask,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

That hand starts wandering lower, and you’re in trouble.

“But if you’d rather get off on this…” he says lightly, “…Well then, I’ll just leave you to it.”

He drops the phone in your lap, nudging you forward to climb out from behind you. You immediately clutch at his forearms without even thinking.

Oh, you’re in so much trouble.

“Johnny, wait,” you say softly. “It’s just-“

“Yeah?” he prompts.

He sits back down.

“I’m listening.”

You sigh, your eyes squeezed shut.

“Can we?” you whisper, mortified.

Johnny leans closer to you.

“Sorry, doll, what was that?” he asks, his tone patronising.

He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met. But you can’t help but love him anyway.

"Can we...Can we try one of the...things I read?" you ask, struggling through every single word.

Johnny reaches for your phone again, and you don't bother to try and stop him. The damage has been done. Or so you think, at least.

"Sure, baby, we can do whatever you'd like," he replies sweetly.

Too sweetly.

"In fact, why don't we go through your browser history and see which one you liked best, huh?" he suggests, and when you turn to look at him, he's grinning at you like a goddamn shark.

You manage to wrench the phone from his grasp, but this time, he doesn't put up much of a fight.

"We don't have to do that," you reply, a little too quickly, if Johnny's widening smile is any indication. "We can just..."

You sigh heavily.

Fuck it. No going back now.

You point your phone in his direction, making sure he can at least read the tags and summary. You don't need him trying to give you the audiobook version again.

"This one," you mutter, looking everywhere but at him.

Johnny takes a minute, before turning his attention back to you.

"Where have you been hiding this side of yourself, huh?" he asks.

He's sliding off the couch and onto the floor before you even have a chance to think of an answer. Your breath catches in your throat at just the sight of him as he is right now, on his knees in front of you.

You rarely get to see him like this. It's not that he doesn't take care of your needs, of course he does. It's just that he's usually a whirlwind of "I gotta have you, and I gotta have you now", especially after one of his ever-frequent life-or-death situations. It's not often that the two of you are able to take it slow like this.

He hooks his hands around your knees, dragging you towards him until you're slumped against the cushions. You gasp at the sudden movement, and he laughs, giving you a little squeeze as he does.

"No more thinking, okay?" he asks.

He knows you too well at this point. You sometimes wonder if he also has the ability to read minds and he just conveniently forgot to tell you about it. Honestly, you wouldn't be surprised.

Still, as much as you loathe to admit it, he's right. A little break from thinking would be good for you, and you decide to tell him as much - in a way he'll understand.

"Why don't you make me?" you ask in turn, raising an eyebrow as you tilt your head to one side.

His eyes widen at that, as if wondering where this confidence is coming from. You're wondering that yourself.

Not one to back down from a challenge, Johnny moves closer, hands gently pushing your knees apart to allow him better access. You just had to wear a skirt today of all days, you think to yourself.

You bring a hand up to your face, immediately self-conscious at just the thought of him seeing you like this before he's even done anything. He's quick off the mark, grabbing your wrist and pulling it away.

"Nuh-uh," he says gently. "No hiding, okay? Wanna see you."

You manage a little nod, and that seems to be enough to satisfy him. He lets go of you, refocusing his attention. His hands slide up along your thighs, calloused fingers scratching lightly at your skin.

He's hardly touched you, and yet already you can feel that fluttering feeling growing in the pit of your stomach. A little shiver runs through you, and Johnny catches your eye with a lop-sided smile.

"I haven't even started with you yet," he teases, tracing delicate little lines along your innermost thighs.

It's a sensitive stretch of skin, and you involuntarily tell him as much, squirming under his hands.

He laughs then, soft and low, in the way that always makes a rush of warmth run through you.

"Y'know, if it's too much, I can just..." he starts, trailing off as he slowly drags his hands away.

Without even thinking, you instinctively reach for him, grabbing his hands and pulling them back.

"Wow, didn't realise you were that desperate for me," he says under his breath, trying to bite back another laugh.

You could kick him. You really could.

But then his hands are back on you, and all thoughts of violence are quickly pushed to the side - for now, at least.

His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, giving them a quick little tug that leaves you jolting against him.

"As pretty as these are, they're kinda in my way," he says, his fingers pulling ever so slightly. "Up."

You lift your hips up a little, giving him enough room to pull them down over your legs, before he tosses them carelessly on the floor behind him.

"Good girl," he murmurs.

You don't think you can take much more of his teasing at this rate, and he's barely even touched you.

Thankfully, you both seem to be on the same page on that one, because he certainly doesn't waste any time in getting to work. He slides his hands under your thighs, before he leans in and drags his tongue in one slow, long motion against you.

The shaky moan that erupts from you is downright obscene, and you've never been more grateful for the fact that you don't have neighbours.

He does it again, his breath hot against you, blunt nails scratching at your thighs, and it takes everything in you not to squeeze your legs around him to keep him there. Not that he'll be moving anytime soon, from the looks of it. He seems like he's thoroughly enjoying turning you into a quivering mess.

The problem with Johnny is that he might be confident, but it's not for nothing. You hate to admit it, but he's fucking good at this.

You drag your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly. He groans against you, and you let your head fall back against the cushions with a shaky sigh. He's very quickly found his rhythm, and it's only now you realise that your legs are trembling.

You can feel yourself beginning to unravel, and if he keeps this up, it won't be long until you're falling apart at his touch.

He pulls back suddenly, and automatically, you're trying to drag him back. You were very happy with where he was, thank you very much. He moves out of your reach, standing up.

"Wha- Where are you going?" you ask.

You'll deny the whine in your voice until your dying day.

"Don't get me wrong, this is good...but I think it could be better," he replies cryptically.

Before you can question him, he's hauling you to your feet. You yelp, trying to tug your skirt down to cover yourself. Johnny all but throws himself down on the couch in your place, beckoning you with a wave of his hand.

"C'mere, I'm not done with you yet," he murmurs with a sly smile.

You feel your thighs clench at that. You move to sit yourself in his lap, when he shakes his head.

"You're a little too far down, doll," he says.

"What are you- Oh," you say in a rush of air, as it dawns on you.

It's not like you haven't thought about doing this before, it's just it seems so intimate that you've always felt too nervous to even suggest it. And now you don't have to.

"You're always saying you'd love to shut me up, so here's your chance," he says lowly.

How can he say things like that and still look so smug?

"You know, you're right," you reply, with a sudden little surge of confidence. "It would be nice to get five minutes of peace and quiet."

"That's the spirit," he says, smiling up at you as he lightly slaps your thighs.

Slowly, you lower yourself down, until you can feel his breath against you. Your legs are already trembling badly, but Johnny's hands are quick to hold you steady, warm and strong against the backs of your thighs. He pulls you down closer, and you brace yourself. You feel yourself lurch forward as his tongue presses against you, and you hear him laugh softly.

Bastard.

You lower yourself down a little further, and that finally shuts him up. You fist one hand in his hair, the other holding onto the back of the couch for dear life. It's not long before he's picking up where he so rudely left you stranded before, and you're not sure how much more of this you can take. He feels so good against you, and he knows exactly how to take you apart, piece by piece. It's not fair.

You try to tell him as much, to warn him, but all that does is encourage him to redouble his efforts. His tongue is going to be the death of you.

"Johnny-" is all you manage to grit out, before he's pushing you right over the edge, and it takes every last bit of strength you have to not let yourself drop down on him entirely.

You desperately cling to the couch cushions as he coaxes every last bit from you, your hips grinding against his tongue as you ride out your orgasm.

You're exhausted by the time he's done. If there's one thing you know about Johnny, it's that he's thorough. He doesn't like to half-ass anything.

You slap lightly at his hands to make him stop. You know he'll have you there all night otherwise, and it's starting to edge into too much. He lets go of you, and you awkwardly shuffle down to the other end of the couch, suddenly very self-conscious.

Johnny props himself up on his elbows, his face so smug as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well? What d'you think?" he asks. "Was I better than your little story?"

In spite of the state he's left you in, you can't help but roll your eyes fondly.

"I don't wanna give you the satisfaction of admitting it, but...yeah, you were," you reply, pretending as though you're uninterested.

Johnny smiles widely at that, so self-assured.

And well-earned, you think to yourself.

"And uh, my little bit of improv?" he asks. "How was that?"

You lightly kick at his leg.

"Yes, you were amazing, best I've ever had," you reply in a deadpan tone, but you're smiling. "Are you happy now?"

"Oh, very much so," he replies, his gaze wandering.

Before you even register what he's doing, your phone somehow ends up in his hands again.

"Come on, aren't you done with this already?" you ask incredulously.

Johnny shakes his head.

"Not quite," he replies, clearly engrossed in scrolling. "Maybe I wanna find one where you return the favour."

Your eyes widen. He's an absolute menace.

You manage to pull yourself upright, taking your phone and sliding it out of the way.

"I think I can figure out how to return the favour without needing to be prompted, thank you," you tell him, leaning in close to him to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

And by the time you're finished with him, he's very much in agreement with you.

Taglist: @iitsmandii @glassbxttless @getaapologist @fandom-princess-forevermore @keaganz @keeryhours @robinbuckleywife @samslvrgirl

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[rosemaryentombed]

October 20th - October 26th, 2025

Monday, October 20th - Alternate First Meeting // Villain AU

Tuesday, October 21st - Pretend Relationship // Teasing

Wednesday, October 22nd - Genderbending // Costume Swap

Thursday, October 23rd - Domesticity // Vanilla

Friday, October 24th - Space // Underwater

Saturday, October 25th - Halloween Costumes // Date Night

Sunday, October 26th - Monster & Monster Hunter // Wedding

Purpose?

Continuing to celebrate the BartKon Renaissance in the modern era. Since the ship has historically been a rarepair since its conception in the 1990's, this fanweek acts as both a way to celebrate the BartKon narrative in DC Comics, as well as engage new fans in our small yet mighty collective.

Why should we participate in this?

Because you like BartKon. Because you saw fanfiction and fanart and shitposts, and decided you wanted to see what's poppin' in the BartKonosphere. All creators are welcome. Our romcom lovers, the darkfic connoisseurs, and of course, our smut specialists.

So how does it work?

The release date for fanworks is from Monday, the 20th of October through Sunday, the 26th of October, 2025. 

You have over four months to write, draw, and create fanworks. On top of fanfiction and fanart, we also encourage meta, essays, ship manifestos, playlists, and poetry.

Please be courteous and treat each other with respect when engaging with fanworks and their creators. If you misbehave, I will be cursing you with gastrointestinal issues and toothaches for the rest of your life.

BartKon of ANY comic book universe is acceptable. If you want to spend the entire fanweek exploring Luthor-El and Bart because you love horrific love, then be my guest! If you want a crazed version of Bart to kidnap Kon from Gemworld, go for it! Let that imagination run WILD!!!

Both safe and not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell tropes are welcome. Just make sure that you post any Mature content on a landing page that doesn't restrict Mature content (like AO3). I don’t want anyone getting their blog banned. We cannot defeat our capitalist overlords, but we can definitely work around them.

This fanweek will not have a dedicated blog. These prompts are free for anyone to use. Because it is a non-traditional, non-monetized, and free-to-opt-in casual event, there will be no mods but moi, no advertising of paid services, and no ratings or participant restrictions. I will open a collection on AO3 in October for anyone who wants their work collated for this event.

In order to ensure that both creators and the audience are making informed decisions about what they engage with, all creators are encouraged to include triggers and any other squick warnings. 

Please utilize the read-more function for fanworks that are longer than 250 words. We're tryna read yer stories, not get spammed with a wall of text. Please Be Courteous.

And last but not least - if you are engaging with any of the fanworks, reblog, reblog, reblog! Share the work with your followers. Comment on fics! Send all the love to the creators for crafting their masterpieces!!

What can I contribute?

Fanart (standalones, comic strips, etc.), fanfiction (one-shots, multichapter, etc.), fanmixes, gifsets, graphics, meme collections, fanvids, ship essays and meta, songifics, playlists, poetry, whatever your heart desires! Go wild!!!

Can I create/write not-safe-for-tunglr dot hell content?

Yes!!! All creators are encouraged to include triggers warnings, sub-genre specifications, and other warnings in their posts. I will not discourage you from writing your 16k Bart Goes Insane Over Kon fic, but please... Be Courteous and tag your fanworks appropriately so people can make an informed decision about what they're comfortable with engaging with.

What does (X) prompt mean?

Each day has two prompts!! You can either pick a prompt OR you can combine prompts in different ways. I challenge you to let your imagination run wild!

To reiterate, mainstream canon, Elsewords, and AU content is all acceptable! Creativity is key! Have fun!!!

Can I crackship/multiship/harem/OT3/polyam the characters?

No. It's literally BartKon Week. There's like six active fans left on this bitch of an earth. Don't do this to me :'<

Does this have a tag?

During release week, use the general “bartkon” and "konbart" tags to share your work with the wider BartKon fandom on tunglr. You can use whatever other tags you fancy. The best way to share, however, is to directly @ me so that I may reblog it.

I didn’t read a damn thing before this, Ava.

TL;DR: Over four months until the fanweek!!! For all fanwork creators out there, now’s the time to start thinking about what prompts you want to utilize for your creations. There are no creative restrictions, but I do ask that you follow these posting tips:

All fanfiction should be under a read-more.  

Not-safe-for-tunglr fanwork should be LINKED to whatever landing site the content is being hosted on (Twitter, AO3, etc). This includes both fanfiction and fanart. I don’t want your blog getting flagged bc tunglr hates gay people.

Provide content warnings for all triggers, squicks, and sub-genres. Please list content warnings on your work but do not be discouraged in sharing your work. If a fancop gets on your ass, block them. If they keep bothering you, tell them their mom's a hoe.

You can participate as much as you want!! Maybe you only wanna create for one day? Cool! Maybe you’re an overachieving corporate clown insomniac like myself, and wanna create for every day of the week? Go for it!!! 

The most important thing is to have fun :)

Closing Remarks

Like all my other events I host, this event, too, is entirely selfish. I've loved BartKon since I was a child when I was first introduced to it in the form of Bart/Clark on Smallville. Although I only recently came back to reading DC's mainline comics, BartKon still holds a special place in my heart even after all these years, and the few who still create and engage in their fanworks inspired me to host a little something-something for our small community.

Take your time, look through the prompts, and get your creative juices flowing! I will be sending out reminders until the go-live date.

For the people who showed interest during the initial interest check, I hope you're able to participate. To the people who hate me, your mom's a hoe. Thank you.

[fairyysoup]

the devil i know

chapter eight: back in hell at least it's comfortable

(repost)

fic tag | fic playlist | fic masterlist

pairing(s): crossroads demon!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: Rabbit Season Duck Season ft. your demon boyfriend who doesn't want you to google him.

cw: explicit, smut, monsterfucking (no monstery stuff comes up but he is still a demon), blowjob, ball play, facial, making a deal with a demon (eddie's version), lover's spat but in the most hilarious way don't worry, sacrificial computer killed by fire, death mention, trauma, bullying mention, inspired by american and european folklore, sacrilegious themes, horror, witch!reader, reader is 21+ in modern day, eddie is immortal, sex pact, marking, possessive behavior, animal death, trauma, reader is ostracized by her very religious hometown, dark comedy, dead dove: do not eat

please check masterlist and individual parts for content warnings before reading. this fic contains dark themes. your media consumption is your own responsibility.

ALL OF MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

So. You’ve been at war with Eddie for two days now. 

It started as a joke. You got curious– you didn’t really mean anything by it. Maybe you knew you were poking a hornet's nest, but you don’t recall him giving you any specific instructions not to. And what were the odds that this demon, in his wisdom, gave you his real, full name in a moment of crisis? What were the odds that you would actually find something about him?

You googled the name Eddie Munson. 

At first, you did it on your phone, in bed, and your google search was limited to your IP address location. You got a ping for an Eddie Munson from one town over, who apparently bombed a car or something a few years back. The articles were bleak and didn’t include a lot of information. But otherwise, nothing from around Eastwick. 

Then you widened your search parameters. Demons are supernatural, paranormal beings, right? Eddie said he used to be human, so you figured you should treat it like trying to find a ghost. And you didn’t know how old Eddie was– he could have lived at any point, from the last 60 years to the last 6,000 years. Although, for some reason you had a hard time picturing him living in 4,000 BCE. 

You searched Eddie Munson folklore. 

What are you doing? 

You jumped at the sound of Eddie’s voice in your ear, locking your phone and throwing it across the bed. “Uhhh, nothing?”

Riiiight. 

“What’re you– did I call you again?”

Yeah. You do it a lot, you know. 

“Sorry, didn’t mean to.”

Mm. Go to sleep, sweetheart. 

And you heard nothing about it. Until the next morning, when you unlocked your phone again and saw Eddie Munson folklore had brought up a few strange results. 

Eddie Munson Serial Killer

Eddie Munson Satanic Panic

Eddie Munson Cult of Hawkins

You stared at the different search results with your morning coffee poised in the air, completely halted in place. You weighed your options, wondering what on earth you were going to find, should you click on any of them. 

Was it really him? Was this even worth the effort and the possible janky links to a Subreddit you didn’t need to be scouring through?

You clicked on Eddie Munson Serial Killer, just to see what would come up, if there was a Wikipedia article with the guy’s face that you could honestly identify as Not Your Eddie. 

And your phone died. 

You scowled, and set down your coffee so that you could try turning it on again, but all you got was a dim low battery notification. Down by your knees, Dante whined and bumped his nose against your leg to get you to pay attention to him.

“Sorry, baby,” you cooed, shoving your phone onto a charger and forgetting about it. You stooped to scratch Dante behind the ears, and kissed him on his little hellhound head. “Let’s get you some food, yeah?”

You didn’t try again until much later, when you sat down with your computer in your living room. Now it was a little bit more serious, less of a joke. Even if this ‘Eddie Munson Serial Killer’ wasn’t your Eddie Munson, you’d never heard of the guy before. And you genuinely thought you were pretty checked out on various serial killers throughout history, with your penchant for true crime podcasts.

You picked at your nails for a moment, your hands hovering over the keyboard as you weighed your options. Then, you typed the words quickly into the search bar, and hit enter.

And your fucking computer glitched, blue screened, and died.

You stared at the black screen in front of you with a feeling of exasperation that bordered on irritation. You looked up, and made eye contact with Dante, laying on your floor in a patch of sunlight. The Rottweiler gazed back at you with eyes that glowed a little bit red in the sunlight, almost knowingly.

“Eddie, what the fuck is this about?” you asked the empty air.

No answer.

“Eddie?”

Radio silence. Dante yawned and rolled onto his side. The clock in the kitchen ticked on ominously. You waited for something– Eddie’s voice in your ear, or a footstep behind you, alerting you of his presence. Nothing came.

You stared into thin air, thinking over your options. You figured you could just be looking too deeply into things. You reached forward, and tried to turn your computer back on.

The screen popped once, like there was a power surge, and then the keyboard started smoking.

“Eddie!” you screeched, flinging the computer away from your lap. Flames burst from it just as it hit the floor. Dante leapt up and barked excitedly at it. “What kind of Looney Tunes bullshit–” 

The burning computer’s screen blinked on, and from behind the crackling flames, a video started playing. Off-key, jazzy fanfare blasted from the burning speakers, sounding a bit screechy and tinny, and then Porky Pig appeared from within a red circle. 

“That’s all, folks!”

“Oh, I see.” You chuckled, slowly nodding in indignation. “This is war, you little shit.” 

So, that brings you here. The Eastwick Public Library is a tiny, one story unit in the town plaza’s main strip mall. Situated at the end of the building, it boasts a row of about fifteen bookshelves, half of which house the ‘religion’ genre, and maybe six computers. Seven, if you count the one behind the librarian’s desk.

You keep your head down as you log into one of the public access computers. It’s been ages since you set foot in the library, and you highly doubt any of your beloved neighbors would like to see you in here, looking up obscure serial killers. You can almost imagine their lack of surprise.

You type in your keyword search for a third time, and wait for the computer to spontaneously combust. It doesn’t. Instead, a few images pop up, followed by a Wikipedia article, followed by a few newspaper links. 

It’s him. It’s your Eddie. 

“Edward ‘Eddie’ Munson was an alleged American serial killer. He is the only known suspect of the Cunningham-Benson-Mckinney murders of Hawkins, Indiana in the Spring of 1986, and was presumed dead after the fatal 1986 Indiana Earthquake.”

The first image that shows up is obviously a yearbook photo– the typical blue background, a close up headshot of the grin that you know and love. The second photo is in black and white, a missing persons poster. And the third photo is yet another yearbook photo, but this time it’s a group shot. A bunch of teenage boys all lined up against a brick wall, under a banner that says Hellfire Club.

“No way,” you mutter incredulously, clicking on the photo and zooming in to find Eddie in the corner, sticking out his tongue and using his fingers to create a pair of devil horns over his head. 

The link for the photo is for a yearbook pdf from Hawkins. The title of it reads HAWKINS HIGH DUNGEONS AND DRAGONS HELLFIRE CLUB, 1985-86.

You press your lips together, feeling yourself gearing up to grin. Quietly, and with the most affectionate tone of voice you have ever used in your life, you croon, “You were in a D&D club?”

One by one, each computer along the row you sit at pops and fizzles with sparks before shorting out. You pull your hands away, giggling and watching the sparks come down the line until they reach your computer, and then it goes dead.

And so does the rest of the power in the building. 

You let out a blast of laughter, clapping your hands over your mouth while a group of teenage girls in the back corner scream bloody murder. The library has gone dark, and the cranky librarian at the front desk is simultaneously shushing the screaming girls and herding them out the door. You’re still giggling when you get up, and you have to hide the smile on your face when you duck past the librarian on your way out. 

“Don’t.” Eddie materializes in your entryway when you get back home. Melting out of the woodwork, a shadow that forms into his pouting visage. He shakes his head at the floor, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please don’t say anything, I’ll–”

“What?” you ask him, tilting your head. You bite your lip to stop yourself from giggling again; it had been so hard to stop your fit on the way home. He looks sheepishly away from you, a bright pink blush coloring his cheeks. “You’ll what, Eddie?”

He tries to look severe, but he can’t hide the smile beginning to wobble its way onto his lips. “I’ll Looney your Tunes so fucking hard–”

“You can’t Looney my Tunes motherfucker, I’ll Looney your Tunes.” You point an accusatory finger at him. “You owe me a goddamn computer!” 

You’re not actually that mad about the computer, it was a piece of shit anyways. But Eddie surprises you by producing a new one from behind his back, and holds it out to you.

You give a placated hum as you take it from him. “So. That was you, huh?”

“No, it’s not– not technically–”

“Did you think I was gonna… gonna judge you, or something?” 

Eddie doesn’t say anything in response, his eyes flicking from yours, to the computer in your hands, and back.

“You’re a demon. I made a deal with you, I sold my soul.” You screw up your face. “You’ve offered to kill someone for me like… what, three times now?”

Eddie sucks on his teeth and looks away.

“I think I’m past the point of judgment, honey.”

“It’s not that simple.” His brow furrows, and he chews on his bottom lip, stripping chapped skin from it with his teeth. “Believe me, I wouldn’t– I wouldn’t care, except that shit… the shit you read, that’s not the truth. I swear.”

“Then what is the truth?” You ask him mildly. “Were you a serial killer?”

“No.”

“But you were in a D&D club.” 

He heaves a sigh, rocking back on his heels and tilting his head up towards the ceiling. You stare at him for a moment, watching him squirm a little bit like he’s looking for a way out of the conversation. Then, he grumbles, “Yeah…”

“You are so fucking cute.” Eddie’s cheeks turn bright red, and he spins away like he’s going to walk back through your bedroom door and disappear. You leap forward and grab his arm, giggling, “Nonono, don’t go. Come back here. So you’re a nerd, it’s okay. I’m a nerd. We’re nerds of a feather.”

“Sure.” Eddie snorts loudly, pulling you into a hug. His smoke surrounds you, as comforting and warm as his embrace. He buries his face in your hair, nuzzling against the side of your head. “M’gonna give you the truth, okay? The whole truth. And you have to promise not to run away.”

“Okay, Eddie.” You sigh and close your eyes as he lifts his hand and cups the side of your face. You lean into his touch. “I’m not running. I promise.”

HAWKINS, 1984

There are a few things Eddie Munson hates in this world. He has an abundance of annoyances, yes, but only a few things that he despises more than anything else. One of them is bullies- no matter where they come from. School, law enforcement, employers, whatever. It’s something he can’t deal with, and oftentimes out of his own propensity for self preservation, he spends his time avoiding them. He’s never been a fighter. He’s never been tough enough to defend himself, but running away is usually just as effective. 

The second thing that he hates is loneliness. He likes to tell himself that, had he known that living in Hawkins would make him lonelier than anything, he’d have chosen to go live in Indianapolis with his Great Aunt Shirley instead of Uncle Wayne. But that’s not true at all– he loves Wayne, whenever he crosses paths with him.

But he’s being held back. Senior year of high school, and he’s not fucking graduating, and he doesn’t know if he can stand another year of bullshit from the assholes in town who can’t fucking stand him. 

“You’re the only student we have who isn’t attending graduation this year,” Principal Higgins had told him, with his nose endearingly turned up in disdain. “You should feel lucky that we even offered to allow you to repeat the grade, considering your… track record.”

And so, thanks to his own irresponsibility and bad habits, he’ll be subjected to more loneliness. More bullying. More of the things he hates.

Unless.

Eddie’s done stupider things. His copper item is a… fucking moscow mule cup. Old and tarnished, but properly made of copper. He’ll get a new one for Wayne at some point, but he hasn’t seen his Uncle touch it in all the years that he’s lived with him. Eddie dirties his hands as he buries it in the wet earth, where the creek that runs through the woods behind Forest Hills trailer park splits in two. Eventually they converge again, somewhere down by Lover’s Lake, but here they create a fork.

He didn’t bother casting a circle. He doesn’t even know how the fuck that’s supposed to work.

His shoes are wet. He stands in ankle deep water, and he splashes around uncomfortably. “Hey, uh. I don’t know what I’m doing, but um. I’m– I’m here to make a deal. I guess.”

“Who’s the genius who uses a river as a crossroads?” says a woman’s voice, startling Eddie out of his wits. 

Eddie jumps and loses his balance turning around in place, toppling down in the water. He looks around, hoping that he isn’t hearing things at the ripe old age of 18.

“Over here,” the voice says again, and Eddie catches a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye. When he follows it, he finds a lady waving at him, crouched down beside a tree on the outer bank of the creek. Her dark hair hangs in her face, but she has a vaguely golden aura about her that makes her stand out in the night.

When she gets a good look at him, her sarcastic smile turns into a laugh. “Well, what do you know? It’s Jim Morrison.”

Eddie frowns. “I’m not Jim Morrison.”

“Obviously,” she says blandly. “Could’a fooled me, though.” She pauses, and then looks at him curiously. “What are you doing down there?”

Eddie glances down, at where he sits up to his waist in the water. He throws his hands up in defeat. “My delicates.”

She laughs and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Yes.” He struggles up, dripping water all the way. “Y’know this is a sacred river? It was the birthplace of a love goddess or something.” He looks over at her again, and motions generally at her. “I can see the myth was true.” 

The lady giggles, standing up from her crouched position. She wears a long green skirt that brushes the ground when she walks, and a crocheted shawl over some kind of halter top-looking doohickey. He tilts his head, being reminded of an old record that migrated to the back of his collection. Woodstock, ‘69. Grace Slick of Jefferson Airplane. 

Grace Slick– or, at least, the demon who looks an awful lot like her, considering Grace Slick is definitely still alive– grins wickedly. “Oh, a charmer. Are you flirting with me?”

Eddie cracks a smile. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

The lady hums, standing directly across the water from him. “You wanted to make a deal. I’m here to make it with you, so if you don’t mind. What is it that you want?”

“How about being the greatest guitarist who ever lived?” Eddie gestures vaguely around at his general being. Ankle deep in water, soggy and probably looking very pathetic. “I figure maybe it’ll make things easier in the meantime. What does school matter to a rockstar, y’know? Maybe it’ll help me get the fuck out of town, for starters.”

The lady tilts her head. “And you’re not Jim Morrison, huh?”

“Was Jim Morrison a guitarist?” He rocks on his feet, nearly losing his balance again as he splashes around a bit. He plods awkwardly across the water, shoes squelching and pocket chains jingling. “What do I have to do, huh? Beg on my hands and knees? I’m already out here, soaking wet, in the middle of the night–” 

“You’ll be a guitarist,” the lady tells him, her voice a bit sterner now. She regards him closely, her dark eyes narrowed at him. “The greatest who ever was and ever will be. I can see why your petition came to me.”

“My… what?” 

“Your request for a demon to make a deal with. It came to me, because I favor musicians and performers.” Shortly, she produces a small, spiraled notepad that has a bunch of messily scrawled words on it. “I’ll give you your greatness. In return, you give me blood each full moon. A few drops on a tissue will do. Burn it in a dish on your window sill.” 

“Is that normal?” Eddie asks, “Y’know, considering you’re also getting my soul, and everything.”

“It’s what I ask of you for veneration. Each demon asks for something different. I just find it easier than asking for a sex rite.”

“Excuse me?”

“After you die, you’ll become one of us,” she continues. “A demon of the crossroads. I don’t keep your soul. But I get power for securing it.” She snatches his arm, as he reaches towards her notebook. “Is that a yes?”

Eddie blinks, flushing pink from the cold and the woman’s grip, burning his skin. Her hand is unbearably hot, almost enough for him to jerk away. “Yes.”

The woman smiles with unnervingly sharp, pointed teeth. “Good.”

It takes a second for the pain to register; when it does, the notebook in the demon’s hand is already splashed with Eddie’s blood. He gives a pained whimper as he recognizes the pain of the wound on his arm, and begins hyperventilating the longer it grows, reaching up his arm, slicing into his muscle. His body tenses up and starts to shake, her grip on his arm disturbingly strong.

When she lets go, he curses and glances down to find a new mark on his arm. A black inked tattoo of a swarm of bats.

“So… you fought the forces of evil by playing Metallica?”  

“Well, it made sense at the time.”

Teeth dug into the plush skin of your bottom lip, you suppress another giggle as you sweep your fingers through Eddie’s hair, pushing his bangs back away from his face and letting them stick up into the air as you release them. He has a tiny scar on his forehead, just shy of his hairline, which you never noticed before now. You want to kiss it.

Instead, you trace it with your fingers. Eddie’s chin rests on your stomach, his eyes dark and wanting as they gaze up at your face. He has the prettiest eyelashes you think you’ve ever seen, and he bats them at you like he means to use them for your demise.

He lays between your legs on the couch. You’d moved there naturally, with his hands coaxing you and yours pulling him like a life raft. It isn’t easy, having the contents of someone’s life– two years’ worth of it– dumped into your head all at once. When he said he was going to give you the truth, he quite literally gave it to you. Directly. Into your brain.

He gave you everything, from the time that he made his deal, all the way up to his death. You saw him forming the Hellfire Club only a few months after the deal was initially made, and watched as it evolved into a gaggle of friends that he cared for and loved. And you saw the way that he protected them until the very end, when he played the greatest rock concert ever given. 

“You were so sweet, baby,” you whisper, with a tightness in your throat that tries to constrict the flow of air from getting out. 

“Wonder what happened.” You bop him on the shoulder with your palm and watch his lips quirk up into a smirk. “Hey, I mean. You don’t sit through torture seminars in Hell without getting a little bit screwy on your way out.”

“They have seminars there?”

“Are you kidding?” Eddie snorts, his eyes lighting up briefly with a little bit of fire. “There’s a whole circle of Hell that’s just one big long TimeShares seminar. I’ve been to it. Probably the most horrible thing I had to experience before I could go off and start making deals. They use it as training.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“It is fucked up. It’s Hell, and I’m a salesman. Arthur Miller should have written something about that.”  

“So… does God exist?”

“Oh, sure. Lots of gods. My favorite one is Hades. Cool guy. He runs Hell– the Underworld. Same thing. Persephone is kind of intimidating, though. Don’t get on her bad side.” Eddie tilts his head at you. “Pretty much any mythological figure you can think of exists on some plane of the Otherworld. Think of… gods and angels as my coworkers, in different departments. Maybe I don’t like all of them, but I work with them.”

“The Otherworld is a department store?”

“Precisely.”

Your fingers fumble with the collar of his shirt and hook around the metal chain he wears around his neck. “Can I ask you a serious question?”

His eyes bore into yours. “Anything you want.”

“How many, um–” Your eyes flutter when he shifts, and your fingers dip beneath the collar of his shirt just enough to feel the burn of his skin there– “how many deals have you made?” 

“Including you,” he says, heaving a sigh that you can feel expand in his chest, “three. There was Charlotte, in ‘91, and then Adrian, in ‘99. Neither of them held up their end of the deal.”

“The… the full moon?” You can’t imagine how it could be that much of a sacrifice, being required to sleep with him once a month. You’re so pent up, so eager to do it already that the notion that someone wouldn’t seems absurd to you.

Eddie nods. “You don’t hold up your end of the deal… the contract is up. And then Hell comes to collect.”

You let that information hang in the air between you. You stare at it, the empty space over his head, as you try to process it in the silence that follows. “Quick way to an early grave?”

“Happened to me,” he mutters. “Forgot to prick my finger and rub it on a napkin during all that mess, fighting for my life. If you can believe it.”

There’s an unspoken air of heaviness in the room– the knowledge that he died far too young, protecting his friends with the talent he sold his soul to have. Far too quickly to make selling his soul even worth it in the long run. It weighs on you, pressing down on your lungs at the same time as Eddie’s weight presses in between your hips.

Your own rite looms over you, just a few days away. Something in your gut tells you that Eddie is giving you this– the honest truth– so you know what you’re in for. You promised him you wouldn’t run away. 

You sold your soul and promised that you’d meet his demands if he met yours; you never expected that it would get to this point. That you’d be lying here, with him curled between your legs, and you’d have to accept that the attraction you feel towards him isn’t just due to the terms of the deal anymore. 

You know him, now. Or, at least, you know him a fair bit better than you did.

You tilt your head, realizing something out of the blue. “You didn’t have to make my deal include the sex.”

“I never claimed to not be a pervert, sweetheart.” He flashes you a sharp grin. “I am your average horny little devil, you know.”

“And you didn’t have to mark me with your name,” you point out, with a note of curiosity in your voice. “Your demon didn’t.”

Eddie chuckles. “Yeah, but that’s ‘cause I’m disgustingly obsessed with you and need you to be all mine, so.”

Your heart flutters at that, singing along to the tune of some stupid love song you haven’t heard in a long time. You hum, holding Eddie’s face in your hands. His eyes flick down to your lips, and then back up to meet your gaze. 

“I still think you’re sweet,” you tell him earnestly.

“You think I’m sweet?” He parrots, his hand sliding up the curve of your thigh and over your hip, his fingers curling into the hem of your shirt. He looks incredulous, like he doesn’t really believe you.

“I mean, sweet like a feral dog I have on a leash who’s out for everyone’s blood except mine. Y’know.”

He grins wickedly, a deadly twinkle in his eye as he shifts further down, his head lowering toward where your shirt bunches up around your waist, exposing a sliver of your stomach. You shudder as his hot breath hits your skin. “Is this sweet?” 

Eddie presses a lingering kiss onto the soft skin just above your navel. You sigh, your fingers sliding through his hair and gripping at the roots, and he pauses. His breath hitches in his throat at the feeling of your hands in his hair, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he hovers there, with his lips pressed softly to your stomach.

He puffs out his cheeks and blows a raspberry.

“Eddie!” you squeal, trying to get away from him as he cackles, holding you hostage to his assault. You kick your legs and manage to squirm until you throw the both of you off of the couch, rolling with him onto the floor. 

Dante gets up from his spot at the end of the couch and disappears through the wall like an apparition. He tends to disappear off into the aether at random times, only to reappear later, whenever he’s hungry or if you call him. You guess that life as a hellhound is busy work. Or, maybe he’s just sick of you and Eddie being revoltingly touchy-feely in front of him.

“I take it back! I take it back, you little fuck–” 

“Can’t take it back!” He rolls with you gripping onto your kicking legs until you come to a stop beside the coffee table, straddling his hips. You sit back on your heels to glare down at him, but he’s still chuckling. His eyes twinkle in the low light of your living room. “No takesies-backsies.”

This position is… too familiar. It’s intimate– it’s like you’re two normal lovers on an autumn afternoon, kicking around and doing stupid shit and just enjoying each other’s company. 

Something is changing. No matter how sexually charged the relationship has been until now, something feels different. It’s in the way he looks up at you like you hung the moon. It’s in the way you lean forward and trace his lower lip with the tip of your finger, humming to yourself all the while.

Eddie stares directly into your eyes as he slowly opens his mouth and takes your finger between his teeth, his lips curving up into a mischievous smile. 

“No,” you sing at him, soft but stern like he’s a misbehaving pet. “Open.” 

He blinks, and releases your finger with a curious expression. You lean further down, nearly nudging your nose with his as your fingertip strokes gently down his extended tongue, his hot breath coming out gift wrapped with a sigh. Eddie snakes his arms around your waist as you replace your finger with your own tongue, sealing your mouth against his.

Handsy. You guess that’s what you can call him– you haven’t kissed him like this before, soft and sensual and unrushed. While his tongue works against yours in a way that has your mind reeling, his hands wander down to cup your ass and squeeze, until you squeak against his mouth and lurch against his touch. 

The thing about this is… well. You’re not entirely sure where you stand with him anymore. Is he your patron demon? Is he your boyfriend? Infernal demon boyfriend with a sweet streak that only you get to see? 

Every nerve in your body is on fire, and he’s seemingly happy to drive you crazy while you try your best not to grind down onto him. It’s all a little bit too much for you to process right now– with the way things are going, you’re wondering if you’re set for life. Who the fuck is going to compare to a demon, now that you have one? What human person will ever match up? 

“I think you’ve ruined me for everyone else,” you whisper conspiratorially, letting your lips drag against his.

“Tell you a secret?” Eddie’s voice is warm in the back of his throat. He peers at you through his lashes, eyes heavy-lidded and twinkling with the barest flicker of a flame in his deep brown irises. “That was my plan all along.”

“You monster.”  

“You got me all figured out.” He snickers once, dimples indenting rosy cheeks that are much too pretty to belong to a demon, but you’re starting to suspend your disbelief. Eddie’s laughter dies in his chest when your mouth attaches to his neck; a hollow noise takes its place, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows it down.

Hands hiking his t-shirt up over his stomach, you’re inching your way down his body like you have a plan, and Eddie’s frozen beneath you like he’s trying to figure out what it is. It takes him just a couple seconds, until your tongue connects with the trail of hair running down his stomach, and then he smirks knowingly.

“Oh, I see,” he hums, his eyebrows raising as you lick your way down toward his belt. “You’re a keen little thing, aren’t you? Don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Shut up, Eddie.” It doesn’t come out as sharp as you intend for it to, because your hands are fiddling with his belt. You pull it free from his jeans and fling it over the coffee table with more force than necessary.

“Buy my silence,” he mutters sarcastically with a shit-eating grin. A playful glimmer sparkles in his eye as you curl your fingers into his waistband and tear at them, but he doesn’t move to help you at all. “Nine ninety-nine a month, with tax. Quick, before the rates go up.”  

You’re shaking your head, shooting him a caustic glare as your mouth finds the soft skin just beneath his waistline. You just want to get his pants off however you can– if you have to rip them off of him, so be it. 

“Oop– ten ninety-nine a month. Better think fast, baby.”

You yank them down his hips, just low enough that you can nuzzle and lick into the thick patch of hair over his groin. You breathe in the scent of his skin, lingering just beneath all his usual smoke. Warmth and salt, as though he’s real and not just the corporeal manifestation of a spirit. 

“...E-eleven– ninety-ni– hmm.” Eddie’s giddy voice dies as a purr in his throat, his head rocking back against the floor. He gasps when drool rolls off of your parted lips, wetting the skin of his hip just before you suck a hickey there. He squirms. “Fuck it. You get it for free.”

“Just wanna suck you off,” you whisper, a little more slack jawed and unhinged than you were before. You suck in a deep breath and lave your tongue over the base of his cock, as it peeks out over the waist of his jeans. “Wanna taste you everywhere, baby.”

“Christ– M’not gonna stop you. Go ahead, take what you want, sweetheart.” 

Eddie hisses through his teeth, his hips jumping when you lift his cock out of his pants. Warmth settles in the pit of your stomach, pulsing between your legs when you wrap your fingers around it. It’s so much better than in your dream– it’s thicker, massive, the vein along the bottom pulsing in your hand. 

You spit onto it, mixing your saliva with the bead of precum gathered on the head. “You’re so fucking beautiful, Eddie.”

He gasps, kicks his hips up into your fist. “Y–you’re so fucki– hhng–”

You shush him, and look up as you trail your tongue along his shaft, feeling him twitch against you. Mouthing kisses along it, wet and soft, you suck just a bit with each one to watch his chest leap with his breath. “I wanna take you to pieces.”

“Shit–” Eddie lifts his head to gaze down at you, eyes glassy, lips red and parted as he pants. “You’re gorgeous. Oh, honey…”

Eddie moans when you slide his head into your mouth, letting your tongue glide gently over his slit. His hand flies down, tangling into your hair, the metal of his rings digging into your scalp.

You open your mouth and take him in as far as he’ll go, until he hits the back of your throat and you choke. 

“Such a good fucking girl for me,” Eddie breathes, his hand on the back of your head grounding you like an anchor. “Just look at you, baby. So fuckin’ perfect, god.”  

Actually, you feel like a mess, with spit dribbling down your chin and eyes watering when he hits the back of your throat. Sniffling from the tears and the lack of air, gagging on his cock. Drunk on sin and the taste of his flesh.

You imagine that’s probably what he considers perfection, though.

He stiffens when you swallow around him, your hands wrapping around his hips in an attempt to hold him down. Eddie makes a soft sound in his throat– something you might mistake as submissive, if his hand in your hair weren’t pushing you harder down onto his cock, forcing you to gag on him. The tightening of your throat around him is enough to make him twitch in your mouth. 

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck–”  

Lips dripping saliva, your throat flexes just before you pull off with a wet gasping noise that makes Eddie curse and tighten his fist in your hair. You can’t be coy, can’t pretend like you aren’t fucking wrecked; you’re a mess of spit and tears, the salt of his precum on your tongue and in the back of your throat. 

Dipping your head, you nuzzle down to suck at his balls. Slick lips latching onto soft skin, suckling just enough to make him howl and buck his hips up against your hold. You lap at him with your tongue, hearing his moan crackle in his throat with a prideful grin. 

You gaze up at him with glassy eyes when he reaches down with one big hand to fist his swollen cock. Rings glint in the light and catch on his skin with a sharp edge, contrasting your light touch on his balls, making him flex his hips up into his own hand. 

You’re mesmerized, watching his hand work in front of your face, with your spit and his fluids spilling over his knuckles. It kicks up a sticky, wet sound that makes something deep in your gut flutter.

“Open your mouth,” Eddie grits out, in such a commanding tone that you don’t even think to question him. You just do.

The muscles of his stomach tightens when he cums, his breath hitching on the inhale. Ropes of white spurt from his tip while he groans so loud it could rattle the ceiling. Some of it gets in your mouth, but most gets on your face– large drops on your cheeks, clinging to your lips and your chin. You moan when you lick the excess from your lips before you swallow, your eyes fluttering shut. 

“Fuckin– filthy little girl, aren’t you?” Eddie murmurs, and reaches forward to snatch your face with his wet fingers. His rings dig into your messy cheeks, smearing his cum across your skin. 

You gasp, your eyes flying open to meet his, as he grins evilly down at you. It makes you shudder, a moan caught in your throat. Your face burns. The mark on your wrist throbs in the shape of his name.

“Yeah, sweetheart. My dirty girl, all covered in my cum like that.” His thumb pets your cheek, sticky on your skin as he plays with it. “What a pretty fuckin’ painting.”

You whine as he pulls you upwards, clambering over his body. Your cunt throbs between your legs, and it turns worse when he yanks you toward his face. 

Eddie’s tongue drags up your cheek, licking his cum off of your face. It makes the blood rush beneath your skin, makes your body heat up with just how filthy it all truly is. He hums low, licking your mouth and letting the tip of his tongue catch on your teeth, leaving your skin wet and stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Hm,” he grunts after a moment, tilting his head as he looks at you. Your cheeks are pinched between his fingers, your lips puckered in a way that you’re sure isn’t very sexy, but he doesn’t seem deterred by it. Eddie cracks a grin and says, “No, I don’t think I’m very sweet. Tastes more umami.”

“Oh my god.” You bark a laugh, ripping your face away from his grip so you can roll off of him. 

Eddie snatches you before you can get away, pulling you down so that he can playfully bite at your cheek, giggling along with you. “No, don’t go baby, I gotta clean you up–”

“You’re obnoxious,” you cackle at him, letting him roll with you across the floor, feeling a sort of obsessive delight consume your voice. 

He smushes his face against yours, and you can feel his teeth as he grins, scraping your skin. There’s an undertone to your thoughts as he does, which makes your heart pound in your chest when you acknowledge it for what it is.

You love him. You love him. You love him.

[hivemuthur]

The Game of Teaching Body - Ch. 4.

viktorxfemale!reader mature! (for now, I will mark later chapters as explicit when the time comes)

AU university, AU modern era, slow burn, frenemies to lovers, teasing, pinning, banter, eventual romance and therefore smut, Viktor is simultaneously a menace and needs a hug, TA Viktor

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.3. | Ch.5. | Ch.6. | Ch.7. | Ch.8. | Ch.9. | Ch.10. | Ch.11. | Ch.12.

word count: 5,4K

tag: #the game of teaching body

summary: Plot thickens! From now on, I will be dipping more into Viktor's POV from time to time. Anyways, there is a party, and you know what happens at parties.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

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“One fucking evening this entire month we have free, and we have to do this,” Sue scoffed, emptying the lab bin into a giant rubbish bag. It was your turn for weekend prep, and unfortunately, there was no malicious intent behind it—the schedule spoke the truth. It just happened to land on the Friday Mel had invited you to a theatre department party.

“Which one do you want? Washing the glassware or laundry?” you asked, your mind elsewhere for the past week. Not that you needed a reminder of the night of your performance, but people greeting you with “Aaron Burr, sir” more often than you wished for certainly didn’t help you forget.

“I’m sorry, is there really not one offended bone in your body? This is gross,” Sue hissed, grimacing at the chewing gum she had to scrape from underneath the workbench.

You shrugged, offering her an apologetic glance. “I think my soul fled my body a long time ago, Sue. Also—if we do this fast, we’ll only be fashionably late.”

Sue grunted in defeat. “Fine. But! Can we at least have a little fun with it?” She dramatically pulled a small speaker out of her handbag and started the Hamilton soundtrack.

You responded with an exaggerated eye roll and a sigh, but you didn’t stop her.

At first, you were determined to focus on the task and finish as quickly as possible. But by the third song, your resolve wavered. Soon enough, you were screaming your lungs out while furiously washing beakers, joined by Sue, who was waving lab coats theatrically before hanging them out to dry.

You were so absorbed in your performance that you didn’t notice Jayce peeking through the little window in the TA’s office.

“Uh… do you think they know we’re here?” Jayce whispered into the quiet space of their tiny room, as if you and Sue could somehow hear him over the clamour you were making.

“I doubt it,” Viktor replied with a subtle smile, not lifting his eyes from the notes he and Jayce were preparing.

“Well, should we tell them?” Jayce asked, glancing at his partner, but he couldn’t suppress a giggle. When their eyes met, they both burst into laughter, snorting at the chaotic spectacle unfolding in front of them—you and Sue wreaking havoc with what had to be the worst version of Hamilton the world had ever seen.

“Definitely not,” Viktor said, shaking his head as he rose from behind the desk. He stepped up to the window beside Jayce, stealing a brief, inquisitive look at the scene before him.

Jayce shot him a questioning glance, an incredulous smile playing on his lips. “Viktor, you’re evil,” he whispered loudly, his tone equal parts amused and scandalized. When Viktor didn’t reply, Jayce hesitated before adding, a little shyly, “Should we… record this?”

“Definitely yes,” Viktor said without missing a beat, nodding a few too many times. An evil smirk spread across his face, his sharp features illuminated with mischief.

Jayce laughed quietly, pulling out his phone. They leaned closer to the window, trying to stifle their giggles as they recorded your exaggerated tap dances and overly dramatic singing. You belted out all the roles at once, seamlessly switching from one caricatured voice to another. Sue, meanwhile, danced around you, waving lab coats like pompoms in a cheerleader’s routine.

“Viktor, we kind of need to leave, though,” Jayce whispered, glancing at the clock on the wall. His expression grew worried. “I promised Mel we wouldn’t be late.”

“Well, we can’t leave now, can we?” Viktor replied, still peeking through the small glass window, the smile never leaving his face. “They would eat us alive if they knew we were here.”

Jayce groaned softly, torn between his promise to Mel and his unwillingness to interrupt the chaos before him.

“Besides,” Viktor added, nudging Jayce lightly with his elbow, “I think this… experience might come in handy one day.”

Jayce turned to him, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “What are you planning in that evil head of yours?”

“Ah, nothing too harmful,” Viktor said with an innocent shrug, though his amused tone betrayed him.

You and Sue carried on with your impromptu performance, finishing triumphantly with the last song of the first act. You spun theatrically, slapping the autoclave door shut with a loud clang, while Sue hefted a giant rubbish bag—now roughly the size of an adult human—over her shoulder with an exaggerated grunt.

Still laughing and singing, you exited the room, your voices and footsteps echoing loudly through the corridors.

Viktor let out a satisfied hum as the sound faded. “Well,” he murmured, stepping back from the window, “that was thoroughly entertaining.”

Jayce shook his head, pocketing his phone. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” Viktor said with a grin, “it’s your phone that now has the priceless recording on it.”

***

The party was already in full swing when Sue and you arrived. The soft buzz of laughter and conversation drifted out through the open doors of one of the theatre department's scene rooms, spilling into the dimly lit hallway. Inside, strings of fairy lights crisscrossed the ceiling, casting a warm, golden glow over the modest but well-decorated space. Students from various years and departments milled about, sipping drinks from mismatched glasses and occasionally breaking into animated conversations. The party felt exclusive but relaxed, an invite-only gathering of the social and the curious.

“Okay, this is cute,” Sue said, surveying the scene as she adjusted the strap of her bag.

“Yeah,” you replied absently, your eyes scanning the room. You didn’t exactly feel like you belonged among the artsy crowd, but Sue’s excitement was contagious enough to keep you from bolting. Also, Alice was going to be there.

Before you could venture further, a familiar figure waved at you. Mel. She was stationed near a small bar set up at the far end of the room, looking as effortlessly glamorous as ever in a sleek black dress. Her smile was wide as she approached, holding a glass of wine.

“You made it!” Mel greeted, pulling both of you into a quick hug. “Sue, Y/N—I was starting to think you’d bailed.”

“Not a chance,” Sue said with a grin. “Though you can thank lab duty for making us late.”

You chuckled lightly. “Yeah, but we brought the energy of ‘cleaning under duress.’”

Mel raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to know. Just grab a drink, mingle, and enjoy yourselves. Theatre kids know how to party.”

Before long, another commotion near the entrance caught your attention. Viktor and Jayce had arrived. Viktor looked sharp as ever in his typical understated style, though there was a slight flush to his cheeks, as if the cold night air had left its mark. Jayce, on the other hand, was already waving enthusiastically to familiar faces.

“Speak of the devils,” Mel said with a smirk, watching the pair approach.

Sue elbowed you. “You think they followed us here?”

You snorted. “What, and crash an artsy party? Highly unlikely.”

As Viktor and Jayce joined your group, you couldn’t help but notice how both men exchanged glances and smothered giggles.

“What?” you finally asked, narrowing your eyes.

“Nothing,” Jayce said, failing spectacularly at looking innocent. His grin widened as he glanced at Viktor, who was suspiciously quiet but equally amused.

“Seriously,” Sue added, crossing her arms. “What’s so funny?”

Viktor tilted his head, the barest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh, nothing of importance.”

You and Sue exchanged confused looks but decided to drop it, instead dispersing into the party. Sue quickly made a beeline for the bar, striking up a conversation with Alice and a couple of theatre students. You, however, drifted aimlessly for a while, chatting briefly with a few familiar faces.

It wasn’t long before you spotted Ambrose. He was leaning casually against a wall, his drink in hand, wearing the same easy confidence he’d had when you first met. The warmth in his eyes made it slightly worse. You had completely forgotten about him.

“Y/N!” he called, weaving through the crowd toward you. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

“Hey, Ambrose,” you replied, keeping your tone polite but guarded.

“So,” he said, a small grin playing on his lips, “you never reached out. I thought we had a connection at that party.” He looked at you expectantly, making your stomach twist.

You shifted uncomfortably, your grip tightening slightly on your glass. “Yeah, sorry about that. Things got busy; you know how it is.” You scolded yourself for how weak your response was. You’d once gotten this kind of response from a boy, and it had hurt you deeply. Now, you suddenly understood why people didn’t bother taking that extra step to soften the blow.

Ambrose’s smile faltered for a moment before he recovered. “Sure. Maybe next time, then?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your tone dismissive but still polite.

As soon as Ambrose turned his attention elsewhere, you exhaled deeply, needing a moment to yourself. You were hoping to find Hale, but before that could happen, you slipped away from the main party area and into the adjoining dressing rooms. The lights above the vanities cast a softer, more diffused glow, and the quiet felt like a balm. You scrambled up to sit on top of one of the vanities, stealing a quick glance at your own reflection before turning away from it, letting your gaze wander across the room. Your mind raced, jumping from Ambrose to Sue and her new girlfriend—and, reluctantly, to Viktor. He looked nice today, but the glances you caught from him were, at the very least, unnerving.

“Ah, there you are,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

You turned, startled, to see Viktor leaning casually against the frame. His posture betrayed the alcohol in his system, a slight sway giving him away. His cheeks were flushed, the top buttons of his shirt undone, and—your gaze caught on a detail that immediately soured your mood—a faint lipstick stain marked his cheek.

You raised an eyebrow, a wry smile creeping onto your lips. “Well, well. Someone’s been busy.” The words felt bitter on your tongue, and you forced a smile to stop yourself from hopping off the table and walking out. What was this reaction?

Viktor blinked, momentarily confused, before following your gesture to his cheek. His hand flew to the spot, his fingers brushing the stain as realization dawned. “It’s nothing,” he said dismissively, though the redness in his face deepened.

Your tone was light, but Viktor caught the stiffness in your smile, the way your eyes darted briefly to his cheek and then away. Was it bothering you? The idea made his heart lurch in a way he wasn’t ready to unpack. He didn’t think of himself as someone who inspired jealousy—especially not from you. Yet, the way you teased him now, your words just a shade too sharp to be entirely playful, sent a quiet thrill through him.

“Oh, sure. Just your typical party accessory,” you teased, though you couldn’t entirely mask the twinge of hurt you felt. Your stomach twisted itself into an even tighter knot as the fake smile glued itself painfully to your face.

Viktor stepped closer, his usual sharpness softened by the haze of alcohol. As he leaned in, he couldn’t help but notice how the soft light cast shadows on your face, emphasizing the curve of your lips. Lips he had stolen too many glances at tonight. How many times had he caught himself doing it now? Five? Six? More? It didn’t matter. The alcohol had stripped away the discipline that normally kept his thoughts in line.

“You seem… preoccupied,” he noted, his voice steady despite the warmth in his chest and the growing fog in his thoughts. He took a few wobbly steps toward you, his cane resting inches away from your knees, which dangled from the vanity table.

You quirked an eyebrow, leaning back and crossing your arms. “Do I? Maybe I’m just wondering if you’re collecting lipstick prints as a hobby now.”

The smirk that tugged at Viktor’s lips was faint but maddeningly confident. He could feel your gaze flicker to the stain again. Did it bother you that much? Your discomfort struck a chord in him—half guilt, half triumph. It was petty, but knowing you cared, even in this small way, sent an odd sense of satisfaction curling in his chest.

“Jealous, are we?” he asked, his tone teasing but quieter now, his accent rolling heavier as the alcohol loosened him further.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Please. I’m just concerned about your… hygiene standards.” You waved your hand around him dismissively.

He chuckled, low and warm, the sound lingering between you. His eyes darted back to your lips before he caught himself. He shouldn’t be doing this—thinking like this. Somehow, whatever this was between you had already gone beyond the possibility of remaining casual. But the distance between you felt too small, the air too charged.

“I’ll have you know it was entirely unsolicited,” he said, his smirk growing despite the twinge of nervousness fluttering in his chest.

“Mm-hmm,” you replied, narrowing your eyes playfully. “And yet, you didn’t wipe it off.”

“Perhaps I forgot,” Viktor said, leaning in slightly, his voice dropping lower. “Or perhaps it’s a memento.”

Your laugh was light, but Viktor swore he saw a flicker of something else in your expression. Were you embarrassed? Amused? Hurt? He couldn’t tell, and it frustrated him more than he cared to admit.

You shook your head, fighting back a smile. “You’re impossible.” You let your head drop for a second, seeking a brief reprieve from your forced expressions, from his eyes on you. The wine burned in your stomach, and your fingers clutched the edge of the table a bit too tightly.

You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, willing your thoughts to steady. Viktor’s chuckle echoed faintly in your ears. You didn’t register the moment his hands moved to your ribs, pulling you in as he collided with your lips in a clumsy kiss. Instinctively, you spread your knees to let him closer, and he immediately obliged. One hand slid to cradle your waist, while the other kept your face close to his by your neck, his grip tight—on the border of pain.

He was hot beneath your lips, his body uncertain, his mouth greedy as if he expected you to push him away. You felt his urgency, and as your palms travelled to his hips to pull him closer, he took the invitation instantly. When your soft body pressed against his chest, he couldn’t hold back a groan that reverberated down your throat. You gave in to the kiss completely, tangling your fingers into his hair as he held you tightly, his grip on your neck unrelenting.

He wanted the kiss to be rough, rushed, and meaningless. No, he didn’t want the kiss to happen. But as it unfolded, he wanted it more and more, finding himself melting under your touch, gentle and welcoming, as if you wanted it just as much as he did. The jealousy in your eyes made him want to reassure you that the lipstick stain was nothing—just a clumsy, patronising kiss from Mel for finally accepting her invitation to something. His thoughts clattered drunkenly in his head as he poured himself into you, your body rocking underneath him, his trousers tightening, your scent assaulting his senses.

He almost told you how he had wanted to kiss you instead of handing you the phone back in his office, or during the cigarette you shared, how he had taken it from you to place his lips where yours had been seconds ago, how much you pissed him off in class, and how he had no idea what to do about it. Instead, he groaned painfully at the pressure between his legs and muttered only, “Wait,” as he pushed himself away from you.

Viktor's breath was heavy, and his chest rose and fell rapidly with the frantic rhythm of his heart. He felt the warmth of your body still pressed against his, the softness of your touch still lingering on his skin, and yet the moment he pulled back, a cold weight settled in the pit of his stomach. His hands were still trembling slightly, a mixture of desire and something darker, something unsure, gnawing at him.

You looked up at him, confusion clouding your expression. “What’s wrong?”

His mouth went dry. He didn’t have an answer—didn’t know how to explain what was happening inside him and that it was ugly. His mind was a chaotic mess of tangled thoughts that all fought each other, hurting his brain. He had kissed you, wanted you, he felt you, and the feeling was stupid, it was silly, and it was great. But now, in the aftermath, the thrill of the kiss was quickly replaced by the terror of his own compulsion.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, too quickly, trying to mask the truth. “I just… sorry, I got carried away.”

Your brow furrowed as you looked at him, almost searching for some kind of explanation. “Um, did I make you feel like I mind?”

“No,” he answered sharply, a little too sharp. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes flickered away from yours. He could still taste you on his lips, the feeling of your hands on his skin, and it made his heart beat harder, faster, but also painfully. He could feel the weight of his own indecision.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, but the rush of emotions made him feel dizzy. The pull to kiss you again was so strong, but so was the part of him that was terrified of what that meant. You made him feel amazing, and he scowled internally.

“Just don’t think much of it,” he said finally, his voice lower now, trying to make it sound casual, though it only made the moment heavier, dragging him lower and lower. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at you, seeing you still there, still waiting for some kind of explanation. The disappointment flickered in your eyes, and it made him want to reach for you again, to erase the distance he had just created. But fear held him back. He wasn’t used to this—wasn’t used to feeling this… exposed.

Viktor ran a hand through his hair, avoiding your gaze. “I shouldn’t have—” He stopped himself, unsure of what to say next, unsure of how to make sense of what was happening inside him. “Forget it, I’m... drunk,” he muttered, almost to himself, trying to regain some semblance of control.

But the damage was done. The warmth that had enveloped you both now felt like a distant memory, replaced by an awkward silence that felt too heavy to bear.

You felt so many things at once. In the span of mere minutes, Viktor had managed to make you realise not only that Hale was right, but that you could accept it—and worse, that you wanted it. But you worked faster than Viktor. In the ten seconds it took for him to pull back and mumble his apologies, you had already played out five different scenarios of how this could end.

You were ready to pick the one where you confronted him immediately, demanded an explanation, but then Hale’s words came back to you: You were a king. And you bowed to no one.

So, you pushed your anger and hurt aside.

Sliding off the table with practised ease, you cleared your throat and left the room with a steady, measured pace, not sparing him a single glance. Back at the party, you slipped effortlessly into your role. You danced with Hale, smiled, and joked with Jayce. You had a heartwarming chat with Mel, kissed Sue goodnight as your friend fled the party with Alice, and laughed at things that, later, you wouldn’t remember.

And then, when you finally returned to your empty room, when the music and the laughter faded into silence—you cried your eyes out.

***

Sue abandoned you for the entire weekend. You didn’t mind—you completely understood the flutters of new love—but being left alone with your thoughts proved disastrous. Your ambitious plans to study for two days straight fell apart under the weight of anger, hurt, and disbelief swirling inside you. Instead of being productive, you did absolutely nothing.

You spent hours pacing up and down your room, practising scathing speeches you imagined delivering to Viktor, each one sharper and more damning than the last.

By the time Sunday evening rolled around, you decided you couldn’t stay cooped up any longer. You snuck into the lab, determined to practise the tedious exercises you’d be running through in class the next day. You were at the awkward stage of university where most students had a vague sense of the direction they wanted to take, but still had to slog through the general science classes to check them off the list.

You slouched over the lab bench, your notes scattered haphazardly under the dim overhead light. You hadn’t even bothered to change properly, opting for sweatpants pulled over your pyjama bottoms and a baggy hoodie that was far too warm for the room. Your hair was tied back messily, strands clinging to your face as you worked through a particularly mind-numbing formula. You scribbled furiously, the dull scratch of your pen filling the otherwise silent space.

When you finally set your pen down, stretching your arms above your head, the sound of the door creaking open startled you. You turned to see Viktor stepping in, his gait uneven, the weight clearly favouring his good leg. His usually composed figure looked gaunt and worn, exhaustion etched into his features.

He stopped when he saw you, his expression briefly flickering with something unreadable before he schooled it into indifference. “I didn’t expect anyone to be here this late,” he said, his voice calm but with a hint of weariness.

You said nothing, your gaze dropping back to your notes as if he hadn’t spoken at all. You ignored him entirely, scribbling a note in the margin of your paper.

Viktor’s lips twitched—whether in irritation or amusement, you couldn’t tell. He crossed the room slowly, setting his cane down carefully with each step. When he leaned against a bench across from you, the faint bruise on his lower lip caught the light, and your stomach twisted.

“I’ve decided not to trust Mel with invitations anymore,” Viktor said, a dry humour lacing his words. He gestured vaguely, his eyes skimming over the room rather than meeting yours. “After that party, I woke up feeling dreadful and can barely remember a thing from the evening.”

You froze mid-scribble. You set your pen down slowly, your head lifting to meet his gaze, your expression icy. “Tell me, Viktor,” you said, your tone sharper than broken glass. “Does Jayce breach some kind of university ethos by being friendly with us, or was it a conscious choice for you to become a wanker?”

Viktor blinked, visibly taken aback, though he quickly masked it. He leaned on his cane, a faint smirk tugging at his lips despite your venomous tone. “Do you ever take prisoners?” he asked, his voice low and measured, though his eyes searched your face as though trying to unravel your fury.

“Never, it’s not in my nature,” you replied coldly, your gaze burning into his. “Especially not when someone can’t handle their shit and decides to take it out on me.”

Your words struck like a lash. Viktor’s smirk faltered, his posture stiffening. He stared at you for a moment, his tired features betraying a flicker of something raw—shame, frustration, or perhaps a mix of both. “Is it in your nature to be cruel?” he asked softly, his voice almost too quiet to hear.

He knew you were painfully right. He had completely lost control that night, panicked, and given you no chance to reconcile. He had made the decision for you. But he already knew what your decision would have been, surely. So why were you so angry?

Viktor’s hand tightened around the back of the chair he leaned on, his knuckles turning white. The room was oppressively quiet, so quiet he could hear the gears shifting in his head. You still hadn’t answered him, your jaw set tightly as if refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Nothing to say?” he asked, his voice quieter now but edged with frustration. “It’s unlike you to hold back, Y/N.”

Your head jerked up at that, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m learning restraint.”

Your tone cut sharper than he expected, another small jab that landed too close to home. Viktor drew in a breath and forced himself to stay calm. He wasn’t sure whether he wanted to close the gap between you or leave before this conversation spiralled even further out of control.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, almost to himself. He sounded tired, even to his own ears. “You won’t even try to understand—”

“Understand what?” you snapped, your voice rising suddenly. “That you can’t handle it? That you’d rather pretend nothing happened than admit you actually wanted it? Even though you walk around with a fucking bruise on your mouth that I left there?”

Your words hit him like a slap. Viktor stiffened, his brow furrowing as he looked away, searching for some invisible anchor to steady himself. Of course, he remembered everything. He had spent around half an hour staring at himself in the mirror on Saturday morning, ghosting his fingers over the bruise.

“You’re wrong,” he said finally, though the words came out slower, more hesitant than he intended.

“Am I?” you stepped closer, your arms crossed over your chest as though shielding yourself from him. “Then explain it to me, Viktor. Why did you do it?”

The question caught him off guard, your voice cracking just slightly at the end, and he hated how it made his chest tighten. He opened his mouth to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth was too dangerous and too stupid simultaneously.

He shifted, leaning against the table, his head tilting as if to dismiss the gravity of your question. “Do what?” he asked, feigning ignorance.

Your expression darkened. “The kiss,” you said slowly, enunciating each syllable as though daring him to dodge the question again. “Why did you kiss me, Viktor?”

He hesitated, the silence stretching between you like a chasm. His lips parted, a dozen half-truths swirling in his mind before he finally settled on the one that felt safest.

“Because I was drunk,” he said, the words coming out more clipped than he’d intended. “It was a mistake. I let myself get… carried away.”

Your eyes flickered, just for a moment, and he forced himself to look at you, even though guilt burned behind his ribs. “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea,” he added, his voice softening.

You stared at him, your jaw tightening as if physically holding back your reaction. For a moment, he thought you might yell at him, hurl something cutting and sharp his way. But you didn’t.

Instead, you shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Right. Of course. A mistake.” Your voice wavered, just enough for him to catch it, though you quickly composed yourself.

“Y/N—” he started, but you cut him off with a raised hand.

“Don’t,” you said, stepping back from him. “Just don’t. You don’t want to give me the wrong idea? Fine. Message received.”

Your words were laced with venom, but there was something fragile beneath them. You turned away from him, picking up your bag from the desk and slinging it over your shoulder. Viktor watched you, his stomach twisting as you headed for the door.

You paused just before leaving, your hand resting on the frame. “You know,” you said without looking back, “you’re not as good at lying as you think you are.” And with that, you were gone.

The door clicked shut, leaving Viktor alone in the silence of the room. He exhaled shakily, his hand running through his hair as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it. And yet, deep down, he knew he’d only made things worse.

[marsprincess889]

Ok so I'm back to bringing you guys' attention to what's going on in my country.

I don't have the heart to tell it all in detail. In truth we're all so familiar with it that talking about it seems comical. But to keep you up to date, there have been massive protests in Tbilisi, Georgia since late November.

On 26th of October of this year, the Georgian Dream party falsifies yet another election and on the 26th of november elects themselves as the ruling party again, despite EU, most of the other nations and all the other parties recognizing the elections as illegitimate. Recently they chose their new president, who was basically the only option. The photo of the literal bulletin from the parliament leaked.

People demand another election, a fair one. Peaceful protests soon turned into police beating up the protestors, even teens and women. They're still using water cannons mixed with pepper spray, in December btw. You can look up the videos, even on here.

The main thing that is painful to me and my generation in all of this is the fact that this is a completely new, modern and different version of the same damn fight. Right now I'm thinking of young men and even women and others who were severely beaten up, about people struggling to make ends meet who have their loved ones in such situations, young people trying to build their future who see less and less hope every day in their homeland but are desparately trying to hold on to the last tiny bit of it, maybe even goimg to protests in that state. Today I heard two girls around my age talking. "We gotta get out of here right?..." "yeah... but who are we leaving it to?" "The country?..."

Being free and sovereign in your homeland should not be an uphill battle or a luxury.

We have been fighting against Russian influence for centuries. For those who don't know, even when the repression isn't obvious, they still attack bit by bit(killing or kidnapping our citizens near the occupated borders??????), often with an old and tried tactic: trying to erase our culture and history, and with it our spirit and identity. And with all the other horrors, this is a huge insult.

My heart sinks everytime I read a random comment on a map or other type of video saying "Georgia is not Europe", "but Georgia is Asia". Not that there's anything wrong with Asia, but those statements mean something different and much deeper than an average foreigner suspects. Georgia never ever was "not Europe" to me. This isn't even about joining EU immediately as much as it is about us voicing our own wishes, opinions and truth as the vast majority of our country.

One thing I want to say to people who are far away from this is this: please do not fall for propaganda. And by that I mean Russian propaganda. If you just try to keep it clean while posting about us or checking sources while reading about us and calling out misinformation, it is going to mean a lot.

I tried to not write about this cause let's be honest, what can I do here?

I hope this will do at least something.

I do have followers so, I'm also asking them🤍🤍🤍 even those who just know me from astrology. Please consider reading and reblogging. 🤍🤍

reblogging(esp with tags) is still support.

Edit, additional info that you should probably know: Georgian Dream is a pro-russian government, they just banned wearing masks and goggles(those protect you from pepper spray by the way). If you walk by the parliament in Tbilisi your eyes and skin will almost definitely start to "burn" and you'll most likely start coughing.

There have been phone numbers calling and cursing at/insulting/threatening citizens, even pre-teens, believe it or not. And since the government passed "the russian law" earlier this year, we are most likely being tracked😐

Here is my post from this spring, written in an angry and tired state.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiebingo.

Climb You Like a (Christmas) Tree

12 Days of Christmas Prompt: Santa | Word Count: 2806 | Rating: E | CW: Monsterfucking | POV: Steve | Tags: Modern AU, Steve "Santa Claus" Harrington, Krampus Eddie Munson, Size Difference, Banter, Fluff and Smut, Is It Still Monsterfucking If They're Both Kind of Monsters?

This follows: Same Time Next Year?

Also here on ao3.

The same artist that did Krampus did a version of Santa and that had to be what I based Steve off. I wasn't even going to do Steve as Santa, but that made it a necessity. It honestly worked out nicely that I had both Krampus and Santa as bingo prompts.

"I'm getting fat," Steve says, looking in the mirror. None of his clothes fit. His pants won't even close enough to button anymore. Hell, he swears he's fucking getting taller. He can't get taller. He went through puberty a long, long time ago. 

"You're not fat," Eddie says, sharpening his claws in a way that hurts Steve's ears.

"Stop that," he snaps.

"Oh, your hearing is expanding, too?" Eddie asks.

"What about my hearing?" Steve demands, putting his hands on his hips.

"You're changing. Ahead of schedule. This usually takes longer. Immortality lasts a while, you know. Forever."

Eddie snaps his fingers, and suddenly he has a pair of red velvet pants in his hand. He tosses them to Steve. There are two big, solid gold jingle bells right in front.

"Very funny," Steve says, but he puts them on, because at least they fit.

In his hands they looked way too long, but now that they're on his body, they seem to be hitting him right where they should. 

He's fucking taller. 

"Am I seriously getting taller?!" Steve demands, but not really believing it. Because there's no way. He always wanted to be taller, but not like this. This had better not be some sort of delayed wish granting situation.

"By the day, I can hear your bones growing," Eddie says with glee, making a horrible creaking noise. "Music to my ears."

"Stop that," Steve says, it's like nails on a chalkboard, which Eddie would definitely be scratching his claws against if he had a chalkboard handy.

Steve can't believe this, though. Taller? He cannot be getting taller. Eddie never told him he was gonna Hulk Out to be Santa. Eddie didn't tell him a lot of things.

"You're Saint Nick," Eddie says, "that comes with height. And girth. Lots of girth. Everywhere."

Steve whips his head around, and Eddie is smiling, flicking his long tongue in and out of his mouth, like a menace.

Like a goddamn demon. 

And Steve's incredibly fond of him. 

Eddie's changing, too. His vocabulary is growing as fast as Steve's waistline. He's becoming more and more human under that Krampus skinsuit. 

"Well, you seem more human," Steve accuses, trying to dig at him a little bit in return.

Eddie's unbothered by that, apparently, "Well, I was human, once upon a time."

"Then why with all the gruff?" Steve asks. Eddie was barely grinding out single syllable words when they first met.

"Disuse," Eddie says, stroking his long goatee with his knobby fingers, "I didn't like the last Nick. We didn't see eye-to-eye, so I had no reason to speak to him for centuries."

"But me?" Steve asks.

"You I like," Eddie says, and Steve smiles, then frowns, as he looks back at himself in the mirror. He didn't know he was signing up to look like Santa Claus. 

"How big am I gonna get?" Steve asks, and he's a little scared of the answer.

"Big enough for me to climb you like a tree," Eddie says, and Steve isn't sure if he's joking or not.

He'd better be joking.

He wasn't joking.

Steve barely recognizes himself anymore. He feels like himself on the inside, but on the outside? He's definitely changed. 

Without making a single adjustment on his own, he's suddenly built like a brick shithouse. 

Solid muscle over an exaggeratedly large frame. He's not fat. Not really. But he's built as if the biggest NFL O-lineman, met the tallest NBA player, and then had a long-haired, long-bearded baby. All of it, white as the driven snow.

"Did the last Santa look like this?" Steve asks.

"Hell no. He was a feeble old man. Think a fat Dumbledore," Eddie says, and then adds. "The first one."

"You said I wasn't fat!" Steve argues.

"You aren't, he was. Use those big ears and listen," Eddie banters. He's funny. Evil, certainly. But funny. 

Then Steve thinks about what he'd actually said:

"You watch movies?!" Steve squawks, and he can't imagine the Krampus he met in the woods sitting in front of a television set. "Do you have HBO? Netflix?"

"Shut up," Eddie laughs, "it's a long time between Christmases."

Steve smiles.

"So, he looked like that, and I look like this?"

Eddie grins wickedly, "It's certainly been an improvement."

Steve's not the only one changing. 

"Dingus, look at my hair!" Robin yells, and Steve doesn't have to look to know exactly what's happened.

He turns and faces the music.

Oh. It's not that bad. In fact, it's pretty.

She hasn't grown, upward or outward, thank god, or he'd never hear the end of that, but her hair is now a sleek, white bob. 

"Wow, you're beautiful," he says, because she is. She isn't like any Mrs. Claus he's ever seen before. She's not old, or dowdy, in the slightest. 

"Be serious," she says, hands on her hips.

"I am," he says. "I really am."

"Steve," she says, as she runs her hand over her new hair, but she's smiling. Just a little. 

Good. She should. 

Walking over, he towers over her now, but he wraps her up in a hug, his huge biceps swallowing her around the shoulders, "Thanks for agreeing to spend forever with me."

"And me," comes the snarky voice, seemingly appearing behind Steve out of thin air, and Robin groans.

"You're not a selling point, you're literal hellspawn," Robin banters at Eddie, laying her cheek against Steve's soft, white Henley. He's Santa. But modern. So, it kind of makes sense that she'd be a modern Mrs. Claus, too.

Eddie and Robin might bicker, but he knows they like one another. They're both just jealous. He has the magic to know who's naughty, who's nice, and that doesn't exclude either of them. Eddie is naughty by nature, but that doesn't extend to what he feels for Steve, or Robin, because she's a beloved extension of Steve.

Steve doesn't tell either of them he knows all this, and just lets them continue to act like they aren't friends. 

It's easier that way, and more fun. 

"What in the fuck are you wearing?" Steve asks, taking in Eddie's current appearance.

"Tsk, tsk, Santa shouldn't use naughty language like that. Might get himself on a list for a spanking," Eddie says, from under some sort of pelt. 

"Did you skin a reindeer?" Steve asks, "That better not be Rudolph. He gets picked on enough."

"Because they never let him join in any reindeer games?" Eddie asks, then laughs like the demon he is from under his fur cloak.

Steve puts his hands on his hips. That's not an answer.

"Baby, it's cold outside, and I'm meant for a warmer climate," Eddie says, pointing downward. 

Steve grins, just a little. He knows it was a sacrifice — and not the kind Eddie likes — to spend the year in the North Pole instead of in the underworld. But, Eddie wants to be with him, and Steve needs to be here.

It's a compromise. And Steve thinks more humans should be capable of making those, too, if even Krampus can do it.

"I like it, it looks warm," Steve says, but he really does hope it's not one of the reindeer. At least not one of the main nine. Maybe someone from the backup squad could be sacrificed for Eddie's warmth. Maybe. 

Eddie's been a good sport. Well, he's been a sport. Steve needed to learn the ropes, and wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of spending most of the year in hell, either. So, Eddie's here. 

Unfortunately, the elves hate that Eddie's decided to call the North Pole home. They call him Belsnickel behind his back, and it just makes Steve laugh and think of Dwight Schrute. He wonders if Eddie's seen The Office, or if he's just more of a fantasy film kind of creature.

"It's not a reindeer, calm your tits. Your big, burly tits."

Steve gives him a pretend disapproving look, because if he lets him run wild, they all suffer.

But, that's something at least. Steve won't ask any further questions. It is what it is, and it isn't what it isn't, and Steve's moral compass isn't exactly pointing towards true north these days, despite their current location.

Another day in Santa's workshop behind them, with the sign counting down the days to Christmas flipping lower, Steve lays in his big sleigh bed. It's a bit on the nose, with red, satin sheets, but it's sturdy, so he doesn't mind. 

Plus, Eddie's in it.

The first time they did this, Eddie towered over Steve. Now, the tables have turned as Eddie slides up Steve's solid belly, tightening his thighs down against Steve's bare skin.

The fur on them tickles, just a little. Eddie isn't a man, at least not all man, but he's so expressive that Steve sometimes forgets that. 

Now, rutting against his belly, he seems more animal-like.

Steve wraps his large hand around Eddie's cock, and grins wickedly, "Not so big now."

Eddie bares his teeth, sharp points that are all bark, no bite, at least when it comes to Steve.

Steve laughs, "Easy, tiger."

Eddie grabs a hold of his tail, and runs the tuft of hair on the end against Steve's ribs, making Steve twist with laughter, "Okay, okay, uncle!"

Appeased, Eddie lets it go, and gently scratches his claws down Steve's chest. It feels good. Really, really good. 

Steve rolls Eddie's heavy balls in his large palm. He doesn't know where they go. He should look like a squirrel with his nuts always prominently on display, but somehow doesn't. Must be magic. Or, they just retract into his body like his cock does when not in use.

Steve doesn't know. He should ask. He's sure Eddie would give him an explicit demonstration. 

Eddie grinds against Steve's rounded middle, and Steve can't believe this is life. He just went for a run. Now he's Santa Claus and Eddie is his demon companion. Light and dark, good and evil. 

Steve strokes him with a careful fist. 

He's cautious in a way he never had to be until recently. Eddie'd probably enjoy a little pain, but Steve is still getting used to all the changes his physical body has gone through. His hand feels like it's the size of a dinner plate. That might be an exaggeration. But he feels like that. 

Everything he touches feels smaller these days, and he thinks he looks like Shaq always looks holding a can of pop with everything he touches. Including Eddie.

Steve wonders if he's still the monsterfucker or if he's unwittingly became the monsterfuckee. 

He'll ask Robin. 

But Steve knows he still looks like a man, just a scaled-up version, so he'll keep his monsterfucker title. Eddie can be a Santafucker, if that jingles his bells. 

"Oh Satan, split me wide, send me to hell," Eddie says, and Steve laughs. There's dirty talk, and then there's…that. But he gets the sentiment. Everything grew with him proportionally, and that means his already above average dick is still impressive against his large frame. Eddie's bouncing up and down, working himself open on it, and if it wasn't obvious before, it's obvious now, that they aren't mere mortals anymore. 

"You've got it wrong. That's a synonym. I'm Santa not Satan," Steve banters.

Eddie groans, annoyed, "It's an anagram, not a synonym. No. Wait. Santa and Satan do mean the same thing, currently. Carry on."

Steve grins. Eddie talks and talks, but Steve has his number, and presses up into him in just the right way. Eddie howls as he comes all over Steve's belly. Still fisting his deep red cock, thumb pressing against every ridge, still chasing more, and he doesn't give up until he comes again, adding to the mess. 

Only then does Steve let go, coming inside him.

"Hot damn," Eddie says, stretching, arms above his head. 

Then he smiles down at Steve, wickedly. 

"Roll over, my tongue has places to be." 

And Steve's not gonna argue with that. 

Steve thinks Eddie is part demon, part goat. He never tells the truth, though, so he can't be sure. But laying against the red satin sheets, asleep, long hair fanned out, he's beautiful as far as Steve's concerned. He got lucky. Most probably wouldn't say getting fucked in the woods by a monster, and then being chosen to become his immortal companion, would be a win. 

Steve isn't most people. He wasn't before, and he definitely isn't now.

"What?" Eddie asks groggily.

"I see you when you're sleeping," Steve teases. 

"I'm glad your eyes still work, grandpa," Eddie banters back. 

Steve laughs. Yeah, he needs glasses now. And, yeah, his hair has gone long and white. But he's happy. Jolly, even.

He pulls up his velvet pants, the ones with the bells, and straps on his thick leather suspenders.

"Sleep, hellspawn. I have a workshop to run," Steve says, and Eddie closes his eyes again.

The elves are happy to see him, and even happier to not see Eddie at his side. They'll warm up to him. It's inevitable. 

Robin is giving directions, keeping the whole operation running, and he smiles at her.

"About time, old man," she says, and starts giving him the rundown of today's schedule. What they're making, how many, and what's already on the docket for tomorrow. It's a well-oiled machine here in Santa's workshop, he's just the figurehead.

But he still goes around, visiting each station, chatting with the elves that are the backbone of the place. 

When he goes back to his bedroom, Eddie is hunkered down in the corner near the fireplace chattering in a language Steve doesn't speak, probably communing with his minions. 

He finishes up, and Steve has settled near the window. The snow outside always makes everything look so bright. 

"Here, think fast," Steve says, and Eddie looks up just in time to catch the orange. Then he joins him at the table.

Eddie slides a claw through the thick skin, starting to peel it easily. Then he offers segments to Steve, and they share it sitting around the little table. They must look funny together. Steve, an oversized Santa, and Eddie, a still oversized, just less so, demon goatman. Eating an orange. At the North Pole.

Steve has a pile of letters to Santa to answer, and he slides half of them to Eddie, "Be nice. I'll know if you're naughty."

"What if they're naughty?"

"Then their letter isn't in this pile. You know that."

Eddie grumbles, but he'll do it, because Steve asked. Robin will double-check Eddie's work to make sure he didn't go off-script. It's happened before.

"I don't know why you insist on putting an orange in every kid's stocking," Eddie complains, but he keeps eating, so he's kind of answering his own question.

He picks up the pen, and it looks funny in his knobby fingers.

"It's tradition," Steve says. There was a handbook, and Steve read it. Then Robin read it, and made sure he understood it. 

There are different ways he can change things up, if he so chooses, but the oranges in the stockings don't seem to be optional.

"Sixty-nine days till Christmas," Steve says. 

"I'll get my paddling rod shined up." 

"I thought we talked about that," Steve says, a raised eyebrow. 

Eddie bares his teeth. 

Steve chuckles. 

"Maybe Santa will bring me a new one, then, if he's so selfish that he wants mine all to himself." 

"Maybe he will," Steve answers. "You'll just have to wait and see. Maybe write Santa a letter and ask real nice." 

Eddie glowers. 

"Or you could ask the elves." 

Eddie narrows his eyes, but not before they flash red. 

Steve pulls his sack closer, the one he still doesn't understand the bottomless magic on. It's like Hermione's bag, with the undetectable extension charm. 

He reaches in and pulls out something, squeezed in his fist. He turns his hand over, and opens it, offering it to Eddie.

It's a lump of coal. 

Eddie laughs, picks it up and puts it in his mouth, chewing. 

"My favorite," he says through blackened teeth. 

He's something else. 

But then Steve pulls out a brand new birchwood rod. It's carved, and has red ruby on the end of the handle. 

He hands it over, and Eddie smiles. 

"I guess I was a good boy this year." 

Steve laughs, "You were something, for sure." 

"Can I try it on you?" Eddie asks, a glint in his eye. 

"No, that is the whole point!" 

Eddie weighs it in his hand, and meets Steve's eyes, "Maybe there could be a third rod." 

Steve shakes his head, but he's already moving towards the bed, his hands working his belt, the bells on his pants jingling all the way as they hit the ground. 

You can see my updated cards and all my filled bingo prompts right here.

If you want to sign up for a future bingo event or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiebingo and follow along with the fun! 🎅

Notes: I knew so very little about Krampus, that this became a rabbit hole. Man, I had fun, though. As soon as I saw he was a companion to St. Nick, it basically wrote itself.

When I wanted the elves to have a nickname for him, and googled "nicknames for Krampus" and saw that Belsnickel was one, so that had to happen. Like, there's a reference Steve will get, and be tickled by.

[hotcoldboyssummer]

Hot Cold Boys Summer Fest Info!

Here's some basic info about what's going on with this thing. More in-depth FAQ to come + will be releasing prompts in the following days leading up to June! Really excited to have you all with us!

What is this?

A two month, SFW Terror fandom fest! Nine weeks from June to July featuring a weekly theme with little mini prompts and mini activities in between. Prompts will be summer related and a mix of Victorian-applicable and stuff for AUs (Modern AU specifically) + a week for pride!!!!! Mini activities will include such fun stuff as filling out ship charts, putting stickers on your favorite guy, throwing a powerpoint together on why you really like this specific thing in the show, maybe even irl arts and crafts, etc.

What about the zine?

At the end of this 9 week period, a form will go out where you can submit one or two of your pieces you created for the fest. This INCLUDES anything that isn't a fic or an artwork. Some restrictions may apply (more info on this to come. restrictions will involve word count, maybe artwork size, maybe number of pages you can submit, etc.). ANY PIECE SUBMITTED THROUGH THE FORM WILL BE ACCEPTED! (with rules ofc like it must be sfw) After the submissions close, a digital zine will be put together and hosted for FREE DOWNLOAD on itch.io.

How do I participate?

Give us a follow! We'll be posting the prompts for the event at the beginning and then re-posting each week's theme and prompts every Friday! Then all you need to do is create whatever you desire fitting that prompt (or not! do whatever you want forever) and post it with the tag #hotcoldboyssummer25 + maybe the theme's specific hashtag (for example #hcbs25 week 1 or something of the sorts. this is just coz i think it would be fun to be able to look at each week separately). We'll try to reblog it here! You can also post fics and art to our Ao3 collection which I will have set up and linked when the main FAQ / Rules come out.

Are there any restrictions? Can I do [insert AU here]? Can I do [insert ship here]? Etc?

Absolutely no restrictions except for the following: must be SFW! Should be summery (because that's the zine's theme after all), and for this event we prefer sillies and fluff over angst but you can do whatever you want forever (the appeal of angst is massive and i am guilty of this sin (not writing fluff)). You don't even have to post anything anywhere! You don't have to follow prompts! You can do prompts out of order. You can only do one prompt. You can do no prompts. You can just pick one theme and do that the entire time. No limits!!!! Just make sure you're SFW!

You can also do any ships you want, crossovers with other media (though we ask that at least one Terror is involved), any AU you want, etc!

But I really want to do NSFW!!!

Keep an eye out, we're gonna' try and figure out how to offer an 18+ only after dark version as well!! (TWO ZINES WITH UNLIMITTED SUBMISSIONS YOU MUST BE CRAZY - well you see. you see. this is an act of hubris i may not survive (saying that jokingly)).

When will this be released?

Hopefully by the end of September, even better if earlier / sometime in August!

Other Things to Note:

I—main mod Aubrey—do NOT know what my schedule for the summer looks like! I'm still looking for a job which may end up being full time which I will HAVE to do because I have to pay for school. On the topic of school, I'll be starting the fall semester sometime in late August! I also do not know what that schedule will look like at all. Furthermore, July is artfight month, and I love to participate every year! I'd love love love to get this zine running and really provide a good experience for ya'll (the fandom as a whole), but note that my summer may be absolutely packed. Finally, I'm on Pacific Standard Time and I currently have a terrible sleep schedule. Posts may not be made at times when you're online, so I'd suggest checking in every now and then.

Final note, if you could please reblog for reach, that would be awesome; I'd love to have as many people in the fandom as possible!

That's all! Glad to have you all join us!

[nerdieforpedro]

Front Covers and WIPs

Thank you to amazing @saradika for gifting us all these cool Penguin Classic Book Cover Templates 😘

I was tagged by @604to647 and @morallyinept and their front covers are amazing so here we go!

Most of the series are on Tumblr but one or two might be on AO3 (I’m still trying to figure out what designs I might use for them. 👀)

Presenting: (With my brand of humor 😘)

The above fics are linked here: 🤣

Sard’ika Sessions / AO3 - Din Djarin x fem reader

Only Parts of You Mr. Morales / AO3 - Frankie Morales x fem OC

The Lake Between Us / AO3 - Ezra x fem OC

Honey and Sugarplum (AO3 only) Jack Daniels x fem OC

Fire and Fury / AO3 - Pero Tovar x fem OC

Weddings 101 with Dieter / AO3 - Dieter Bravo x Maya fem OC

This is the Neighborhood Din / AO3 - Din Djarin (modern version and Grogu is human) x fem OC

Green Shop of Memories (AO3 only) Marcus Moreno x fem. OC

Come live with me Angel / AO3 - Benny Miller x fem. OC

Front Office Adjunct (AO3 only) Dave York x fem. OC

I’m combining this with WIP Wednesday since I haven’t done one for a while:

“Now that’s a lie sweetheart and you know it.” His voice is low and makes her laugh. She highly doubts this, she had no idea that things would turn out this way so quickly. Before she can offer a rebuttal, Benny grabs her wrist and kisses the inside of it. “You’ve had me since we sang ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and I wouldn’t let go of your hand. I haven’t let go of you since Angel.”

From chapter four (I’m working on it) of “Come live with me Angel” with Benny Miller and Diana (OC)

Also this:

Rolling his eyes as he watches some older woman in a yellow track suit walking a poodle and eyeing him like he doesn’t belong, he flips her the bird as she stomps away, “Nope. I did give the finger to this old woman looking at me like I’m a round peg in a square in my own damn neighborhood. She’s one of those that would calm the cops for dumb shit.” He pauses a beat, “You finished reading? Anything you wanna ask?” The older woman yells some obscenities while her dog barks at its owner’s behavior. Dieter pays no mind and starts circling the tree he’s standing next to, trying to work off some of his anxiety. “First impression at least, give me something Aisha. Any direction you might be heading with it.”

From chapter six of “A Safe Place for Us” with Dieter and Aisha. Because I can’t help but make things serious as of recently. I need more whimsy. 🥸

Last one, kinda long but, it’s me I’m long winded 🤣:

“I enjoy many a meal. A real man ain’t picky darlin’. However, I know a good brunch place that has good food and good drinks. Think we might make an afternoon of it?”

”Asking for so much of my time already? You think you’ll keep me interested that long?”

”Sugarplum, I think the real question ya should be askin’ yourself,” Jack had the nerve to move his hand from her shoulder to her hip, squeezing it and whistling when he felt how supple her flesh was as he jiggle it, “Are you going to let me dine on a particular meal I’m looking for?” A second kiss was placed on her cheek and he was pulling back his hand, but Maeve placed it back.

”I might. You’ll need to work me into it like you said Jack. Mind if we talk more first?”

This one is from Honey and Sugarplum with Jack Daniels and a fem OC. Their banter in chapter one makes me giggle no matter how many times I read it. I’m going to get it on Tumblr one day. 👀

NPT: @megamindsecretlair @soft-persephone @soft-girl-musings @lotusbxtch @magpiepills

@syd-djarin @sin-djarin @avastrasposts @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @maggiemayhemnj

@jolapeno @goodwithcheese @secretelephanttattoo @bitchwitch1981 @burntheedges

@kilamonster @fhatbhabiee @inept-the-magnificent @yopossum @yourcoolauntie

@din-cognito @djarins-cyare @alltheglitterandtheroar @for-a-longlongtime @musings-of-a-rose

@tinytinymenace @trulybetty @iamskyereads @schnarfer @baronessvonglitter

@professionalpromqueen @pedroshotwifey @murder-wife @sunshinehaze1 @rosecentaur1916

@chaithetics @perotovar @grogusmum @gwendibleywrites

[finishwhatyoustarted-event]

Tools Tuesday - Tagging - March 18

This Tools Tuesday is all about tagging, for when you’re ready to post your finished work on Archive of Our Own or any other site that uses tags! AO3, as the most popular fic posting site, will be the focus.

To begin: what are tags? And why do we use them?

Tags are keywords used to describe a fic or post. They can serve a variety of functions, but at their core they tell a viewer what to expect when they click in. On some sites (like Tumblr), they are at the bottom of the post or in the body of the post (like bsky). On AO3, they are the third thing seen, after title and author.

As seen in this handy infographic from SummerofSpock on tumblr, tags on A03 fall into 5 rough categories: Canon, Format, Tone, Relationship, Theme.

[full image ID in ALT text. Infographic titled “Tags are Tricky…a quick and dirty guide” with tag example lists in the categories of Canon, Format, Tone, Relationship, Theme. Each box is a different pink, in a gradient. End ID.]

source: https://summerofspock.tumblr.com/post/698388759652319232/mostlyinthemorning-i-kind-of-suck-at-tagging-so

Not every fic might use every category, and there are certainly tags that overlap categories. There’s also what I consider a 6th category, which is Author Commentary (no beta we die like xx, character needs a hug, why did i do that much research for a single paragraph, etc).

All of that aside, why should you use tags?

They help readers find and enjoy your fic! The two main uses of tags when searching is Seeking and Avoidance.

Seeking is when a reader really wants to read a particular thing, like they want fix-its only or just Modern AUs. Once they narrow it down to fandom, these are the tags they’ll type into the search bar. If your work isn’t properly tagged, it won’t show up, even if it’s the epitome of a Coffee Shop AU and that’s the term they search. Generously tag so readers can find you!

Avoidance is excluding a fic from consideration due to a particular theme or topic. Maybe their pet just died, so any mention of Animal Death is out. Maybe they are really tired of a particular ship, or are narrowing down for a rarepair. On AO3, there’s a section in the filter bar for excluding tags (see below, boxed in blue). Readers can eliminate what they don’t want to see, which is wonderful! They can select exactly what they want; not every fic is for every reader. Generously tag, so readers can be selective!

[ID: the Archive of Our Own filter bar Exclude section. End ID.]

Still unsure how to tag your work? Or stuck on other aspects, like ratings and warnings? The Fanfic Author’s Guide to Metatext (As Used on Ao3) by Eiiri is an incredible, in-depth explanation of everything contained within the metatext (tags+warnings) block on an AO3 fic. I — this event’s mod — use this text as part of my determining for rating guidelines, and I have found it extremely helpful for tagging my own works. View in full on tumblr and AO3 at these links

full text in post:

AO3 version, from which you can download as a pdf, epub, or other format:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/30986561/chapters/76535018

Additionally, this event requires certain tags be honored and present as needed, primarily common content warnings or hot topics. See the rules post for more information. These tags at least need to be present in any promo post that are applicable, though tagging the fic itself is always good practice. After all, tags are like the ingredient label of a fic.

Still not sure what to tag and want more inspiration? This post from @/insanitysilver has great links to further help, as well as an example of a tagged fake fic!

~

Have a question not answered above? Is there something important I missed? Want to see a post about tagging for Tumblr, Twitter, or another site specifically? Start a discussion in the replies and reblogs! Thanks for participating, and good luck with your wip!

-

Tools Tuesday is a weekly part of the Finish What You Started event where I share various resources I have found to help everyone complete their WIP. Have a resource you want to share? Send it in a message and I’ll take a look!

[pix-writes]

Thank you so much for answering my question! You always give very thorough and thoughtful answers 🥹🥹 If you don't mind me asking, can I ask the same question about friendships (possible lovers later, just like with Stanley) but with Ford? Thank you so much again, I really love reading your analysis 🥹🙌🏻✨️!!

Aw thank you! ☺️

(answer under cut)

I think I've gone over a little bit about how Ford would be in the beginning of a friendship/relationship in this post. Mainly talking about how his flaws/past wound would hinder him forming relationships, generally.

Though I did mention that I think Ford would be easy to bond with, in terms of connecting over something intellectual or nerdy. If you're someone who is game to tag along on research or adventures and can lend a hand figuratively/physically, then your friendship will start to grow, as quality time is the best way to get to know him (he may be a hero/adventurer, but he's truly an introvert with introvert hobbies). Shared interests are something that seems very important to Ford, having been starved of a lot of affection and deeper connections in the past, especially since he found making friends in school/college; so as long as you share a few passions, he'll open up to you fairly quickly.

However, it will take him more time to form a romantic connection and for him to act on it, it will be very slow burn because firstly, he simply doesn't move fast in a relationship, or at least not as fast as modern dating seems to be, and second of all because he has a little insecurity over whether you're interested in him or not/should be interested in him. It takes Ford a little bit to be convinced you won't get your head turned by someone more 'suitable' in his mind. This is also in part to the trauma from Bill's manipulation and torture, whilst you may have only connected after bill was erased, it still brings up trust issues in him and he needs to feel he could trust a partner - as well as work through anxiety about putting you in potential danger (will be quite protective over you as a partner as a result of this).

Kindness will go a long way in securing his opinion of you as someone trustworthy, not only to him but Ford seeing you be kind to his family, your other friends, even to strangers or just plain altruistic in actions not just in words, means that he can trust that he has evidence to back up what he thinks of you and not fall into a similar trap like he did with bill.

Also will admire you for any show of bravery or doing what is right (especially if it's in a situation where it's against the odds, whether it's something dire or a situation where it would be easy to give into social pressures). He appreciates when people say what they mean and are direct with him, as he'll be the same with them (I'm neurodivergent and I hc Ford is too, so this may be specific to being ND, as it's confusing when neurotypical people talk in circles to me!)

Friendship with Ford would include:

watching nerdy TV/films together, whilst I think Ford has only passingly known of/shown interest in world events even before the portal incident, he still managed to have some semblance of interests/life outside of his research, it may arguably not have been a lot, but considering his interest in dnd (including the intergalactic versions) and how he wanted to drop everything to play it with dipper in that one episode, he is definitely interested in catching up on all the nerdy TV/films he's missed out on, cue watching LOTR, star wars, star trek etc. However his gaps in world events comes up as well at the most random of times, he didn't really ask much on what he's missed out in world news (it's not relevant to his work or so he thinks), which can be both hilarious and sad, as as his friend you have to catch him up or remind him (e.g. 'no sixer, the soviet union doesn't exist any more, remember?' 'oh yeah, there was a war in Afghanistan... What do you mean how did it start?!')

playing board games/video games, like I said above Ford is a long time player of ttrpgs and so you will be persuaded into playing some version of a DND campaign if you're not already into it. Ford's excellent at teaching the mechanics and actually pretty good at roleplay and DMing, he can't do many voices but his storytelling is masterful (he is an author after all, even if he wasn't writing fiction and has lots of past practice from college). Dives straight into 5e, learns it quickly and creates his own homebrew version in no time at all! If you introduce him to the concept of dnd shows, he becomes a critter for sure! Essek and Percy are his favourite characters in Critical Role. Hums the theme song sometimes when he's working in the lab. Dipper gets him into Minecraft and you together construct a large home base and underground lab in the game. A lot of these games can take a long time, definitely have stayed up till 3 or 4 am on a campaign more than once.

research in the lab together or out in the field and debating with Ford about all sorts of topics, including your current research projects and both of your hypotheses. You might not have the same skill set as him but he values a different perspective from his own, you help balance out his hyperfocus. Is protective of you if something might be dangerous, will want him to be the one that gets hit/hurt if anyone has to, though both of you have had to patch up the other.

Getting into debates: Ford loves a mental challenge, he doesn;t realise its good for him (consciously/not until post-weirdmageddon) but having someone who isn't afraid to challenge him or speak their mind with him helps to keep him grounded and for him to really pause and think about his theories/morals. It doesn't have to be too deep though, perhaps you simply disagree on something, this will turn into a full debate, but despite some thinking you're arguing, its more of a passionate conversation, you're both having fun. Plus its even more fun when Ford ends up agreeing with you (its rare but it boosts your ego when it does happen)

related to the adventures a little: expect Ford to praise you/your efforts, (reminds me a bit like the 9th doctor or Sherlock) will just be doing something or figuring out a code or puzzle he'll exclaim "fascinating!" Or brilliant/fantastic/excellent/good, sometimes he's not aware he's saying these hushed phrases! Or he'll follow it up with questions, eyes lit up from being energised in his work, like "fascinating! How did you reach that conclusion?" 🤓

catching him up on technology, he finds it difficult compared to the high tech stuff from other universes but I like to hc he would get over it eventually, he's not the most adept in terms of keeping up with internet culture but is when it comes to tinkering with technology and experimenting/improving it. Still likes to call people instead of text and will have regular phone calls with you if you or him are away from each other.l, eases his worries about you (he's protective and still has nightmares from time to time so he likes to hear your voice so he knows you're ok).

Spending quieter moments together, even if its just stargazing on the stan o war whilst stan fishes, if you're close friends, I can imagine Ford would like hugs, holding hands and on the odd occaision napping cuddled up together (platonically) - the naps happened by accident at first, however its nice and your adventures are exhausting sometimes, so you now get the weighted blanket for you to both lie under for an hour or two (Mabel definitely has a picture of you asleep on her phone because its adorable).

Ford hasn't driven for 30 yrs (well not a regular old car anyway) so you've definitely had to drive him places/collect him before because his attempts at driving are almost as reckless as Stan is behind the wheel 😬 on a boat though? He's the most trustworthy captain 🫡 meticulous on the safety checks, will boss you and stan about a little on what to do, but you know it's for good reason... most of the time

[steddieas-shegoes]

116. “you wrote me a song?” any rating! 💕💕💕

I really thought you'd go with something so obviously smutty just based off of you breaking my brain so often, but this is such a soft prompt. I made it sweet and also a little smutty (barely) 💖

Rated M | tags: modern au, rockstar eddie, making out, light frottage, fade to black sex

🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶🎶

Eddie being holed up in his music room for hours is normal.

That's what Steve's telling himself, at least.

But ever since the boys had been back from their tour, Eddie had been...weird.

It wasn't necessarily bad, at least not at first, but the last few days had seen Eddie being unusually quiet and withdrawn, his mind clearly elsewhere while they ate breakfast together before he disappeared for most of the day. He would appear again by dinner, usually tired, and always a bit snappy, like he didn't want to be around anyone.

Steve recognized it, but didn't quite place it until today.

He was working on a song.

Eddie was like this the last time a song wouldn't translate from his head to the instruments or the paper.

It didn't make it easier to deal with feeling so alone in their home, especially not when he'd spent a lot of the last four months alone while he was on tour.

"That's it," he said to himself as he stood up from the couch.

He walked to Eddie's music room and knocked on the door, three knocks, pause, two knocks, just like always.

Their version of 'I'm checking on you, I'm worried, let me in.'

Eddie opened the door, dark circles under his eyes.

"Break time," Steve said, grabbing Eddie's hand and pulling him from the room, ignoring the sputtering protests.

"Stevie, no. I gotta-"

"No you don't. You can come with me for a bit."

"No. You don't understand, I-"

"No, you don't understand." Steve stopped and turned to look at him, hands on his hips. "I've been mostly alone for months and I thought having you back would mean I have you back. But you've been closing yourself into that room for days now and I miss you. I miss you."

Eddie's face falls, Steve's hands fall, and they both fall into each other.

Eddie's arms are wrapping around his waist as Steve lets out a sob.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart, I didn't mean to make you miss me," Eddie whispered into his ear, kissing his temple, his jaw, his cheek. "I'm right here, love. I'm sorry."

Steve nodded, accepting the apologies, the kisses, the love he was being given. He wasn't ashamed about needing it, not anymore. Eddie made sure he never felt like he couldn't ask for the attention he wanted.

"What's got you so stressed in there?" Steve finally asked, voice muffled against Eddie's shoulder.

"C'mon, I should probably just show you," Eddie pulled away, tugging Steve back towards the music room.

Once inside, Steve was led to the couch and given a peck on the lips.

Eddie sat down at his keyboard and cracked his knuckles.

"I've been working on something since we were on tour, but I thought the reason I couldn't get further was because of my environment. But I've been home for days and it's not getting better. Every time I think I'm onto something, I lose it or it doesn't come out right or it doesn't fit with the rest," Eddie explained, gesturing wildly.

Steve watched with wide eyes. He always loved watching Eddie's passion flow through his limbs the same way it flowed through his words. It was one of the things that made him fall in love with him.

"Show me what you've got so far, then," Steve gestured for him to start playing.

Eddie wasn't one to hold back, but he hesitated now.

It only lasted a moment though, his fingers starting to flow over the keyboard and his voice starting to sing.

It was beautiful, and nothing like what Steve had expected, nothing like what Corroded Coffin normally performed.

The words were romantic, hidden behind a yearning, something Steve hadn't heard Eddie write since before they were together.

And then he sang a line that would've knocked Steve to his knees if he'd been standing.

"It's with a curse I leave you, it's with a curse I love you I can't find my way back to you tonight"

Steve immediately flashed back to one night in the middle of the tour, when Eddie had called him right after a show, something he only did when the show didn't go as well as he hoped.

He'd complained about the storms delaying their start time nearly an hour, and how Gareth was offbeat for half of a song, and how the fans didn't seem as into it as usual. And when he went to hang up, he said "I wish I could find my way back to you tonight."

Steve had been almost asleep by that point, but the sung line sparked the memory.

Steve stood and walked over to Eddie, cupping his face in his hands and swiping his thumbs across his cheeks.

"You found your way back to me now, though, baby. You always do," he said.

Eddie pulled his hands from the keyboard and pulled Steve down into his lap.

"I needed you then. I started writing this that night. Sorry it's not finished yet."

"You...you wrote this for me?" Steve asked, realizing now that there was a reason why he used that line.

Steve wasn't stupid, but sometimes he was a little slow.

"Yeah, sweetheart. I know you miss me when I'm gone, but you have no idea how much I miss you."

Steve knew, or thought he knew, that Eddie missed him. They talked every night before shows, and texted on Steve's lunch breaks and when he got off of work. But it always felt like Eddie got to stay busy enough not to think about missing him as much.

But this tour had been the first time Steve couldn't take much time off of work, only being able to attend a handful of shows throughout.

Normally, he spent more than half the tour with him.

Steve kissed him, hard.

Eddie grunted, surprised at the sudden intensity of Steve's lips on his, but didn't pull away. His hands gripped Steve's hips, leaving bruises as a reminder that Steve wouldn't actually need.

Eddie would be home with him for months now, enjoying the holidays together, visiting their friends and family as time allowed. He wouldn't have to leave for another tour until their next album was released the following year.

They had time.

But Steve's lips acted as if they only had tonight, his stomach already fluttering with need and anticipation of having those needs fulfilled.

Because Eddie would. Eddie always would.

He may not always be there, he may have to miss him, but he always got what he needed in the end.

The kissing turned messy, lips wet and spit on the corners of their mouths, desperate to keep sharing and tasting each other.

"Want you," Steve panted, bucking his hips forward so that his hard length finally got friction against Eddie's. "Please."

"Here?" Eddie asked, breathless.

"Anywhere, everywhere, doesn't matter."

"Oh my god. That's perfect!" Eddie pulled away, turning to the notepad on the sheet music stand.

Steve smacked his arm.

"I swear, Munson, if you don't focus on my extremely hard dick soon-"

"You're anywhere, everywhere But not here, not tonight"

Steve melted.

"That's good, Eds. It's really good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Steve kissed his forehead, smiling into it as he felt Eddie's shoulders relax. "Now, will you please fuck me on this bench?"

Eddie laughed and bit his shoulder.

"If you insist."

[lonewolfel]

So as a fan of Epic and of Greek Mythology I have noticed that the tension and the hate between the two groups boil down to pretty much two things. I would like to say that these are my own thoughts on this. I am by no mean an expert nor do I claim to be. Please do not crucify me.

1. The adaptations and reimaginings are different than the source material

This one is pretty self explanatory. Some Greek Mythology fans take issue with the fact the adaptations are different than the source material. They see these are spreading misinformation about the myths which is a fair point. It can also be taken as cultural eraser for Greeks. (I am not Greek and will not weigh upon this I don't even let myself weigh in on Mexican American/Latinx issues despite being one.) There is also the feeling that these adaptations are cash grabs using Greek culture. (This is a valid issue. I do think it is a little more complicated than that and it ignores a larger systematic issue where this is just one symptom of, but that is another rant.)

Fans of those adaptations may try to read the original myths and plays but find issues with the original due to the changes made in the adaptations. This is also a fair point. Someone interested in the love story between Patroclus and Achilles wont be interested in their undefined relationship along with aspects of Ancient Greek culture that the average person doesn't know about. Events and characterization are often changed in order to fit modern ideas and story trends (I have another long rant about that but I will keep it to myself) or even creator's ideas.

2. The fans

Greek Mythology fans are annoyed by adaptations fans entering their spaces. This is a valid gripe. If you tag The Odyssey you should be at least mentioning The Odyssey not just be talking about Epic. There is also the issue of the fans treating media like Epic, The Song of Achilles, and Percy Jackson as actually sources of Greek Mythology instead of adaptations with changes. These fans then spread misinformation about Greek Mythology. They also tend to ignore people trying to correct their mistakes or start fights over it.

These are valid issues but it all focuses on the issue of Death of an Author. Do we blame the creators of the work for the fan's behavior in fandom and non-fandom spaces? Does Jorge Riverra Herrans telling his fans to read The Odyssey absolve him of his fans taking Epic as the information on Greek Mythology Odysseus? Do we criticizes Madeline Miller for her novels spreading incorrect information on Greek Mythology because of her Classics degree? Is the Percy Jackson series free of blame for its Greek Mythology misconseption because it takes place in the modern day? There is no correct answer only people's opinions. Some think regardless of the creator and their intentions they should be held responsible others say that they shouldn't or some even is a mixture of yes and no.

Fans of Greek Mythology also tend to be hostile. They can bully and criticizes people from anything like liking a character to just reading the wrong translation. This makes others hesitant to enter the fandom or even be willing to hear those fans out if they feel like regardless of what they say or do they wont be welcomed. Now obviously I am not saying that every Greek Mythology fan is like that but enough are that people like me are hesitant to enter the community.

There is also the issue of elitism within the Greek Mythology fandom. To outsiders it may seem like this fandom is locked behind a paywall. Translations of the text often aren't cheap and while this has slowly been vanishing due to online free versions there is still some aspects of it remaining. Capitalism teaches people that free things are often free because of their low quality making people extremely skeptical of the free translations. These free translations can often be old or just plain difficult to read making it harder for people to actually read them and understand them. There is also the issue that many Greek Mythology fans have decided which are good translations and which are bad meaning that if you have one of those bad translations you may be hesitant to even engage in the fandom out of fear of being ridiculed and being made to feel stupid. There is also the issue for at least Homers work the texts are long which to people who have little free time is unappealing and difficult to get through. I bought The Iliad last October I think and between being a full time student and working full time I am still not even a fourth of the way through it; I am not saying that long novels or texts aren't good I enjoy them but merely pointing out that for some people the texts don't feel like actual viable options add that onto the dwindling attention span and reading comprehension.

This is not me trying to shame any fandoms or people this is just me pointing out observations that I have made in regard to the fandom spaces and the concern about the other. Feel free to disagree with me I may be projecting or giving certain voices more or less attention than they really appear within fandom spaces. I also don't offer solutions as much as I would love for the fandoms to just exist in their own little bubble away from the other fandoms I just can not see that happen.

Anyways thanks for reading and please don't kill me.

[nysus-temple]

I saw you mention this twice this week and so I was wondering...what's the thing with Virgil's name being misspelled about?

I never heard of this in class so I'm assuming it has to do with the English version of his name SPECIFICALLY, right? I'm kinda curious

Oh this might get long.

I actually LOVE to talk about this silly little thing !! I had to search for a lot of stuff regarding it back when I had to do an university work about Virgil (and I've never been the same ever since).

A quick clarification first: yes, I only speak for the English, Spanish and "Latin" versions only. I'm not sure how he's called in Italian nowadays. Virgilio, perhaps (that's Spanish).

The whole thing about the name being misspelled is, well, we all know he was called Vergilius in Latin, even if now we refer to him as Virgil and Virgilio respectively, when the actual transcription should have been Vergil and Vergilio, at least if we follow the rules. The reason most languages nowadays keep that <i> in his name instead of an <e> is due to his name having been written as Virgilius instead of Vergilius for quite a LONG while.

At the end of 1484, Angelo Poliziano traveled to Rome for the first time as a member of a Florentine delegation. During that trip, Poliziano had time to look through ancient codices in the Vatican Library. Thanks to that, he had found that Virgil's name was, in fact, Vergilius, not Virgilius, as all the copyists and authors had kept calling him. And well, all the modern research agrees with him nowadays, the name of the mantuan poet has an <e>, not an <i>. It's not certain why Virgilius was the name used instead for so long, BUT we know that by the 5th and 6th centuries this was already the predominant spelling.

And you know to where those centuries belong to? The Middle Ages !! Bear with me, most of the shenanigans regarding poets such as Virgil have to do with that.

Virgilius was associated etymologically with both virgo and virga. It was more metaphorically than an accurate etymology, though. Why do I say this? Well, turns out that back during the Middle Ages, Virgil's Eclogue IV was read as a prediction of the coming of Christ (virgo) and "magic wand" (virga) due to a tradition that made Virgil some sort sorcerer capable of prophesying the birth of Christ.

This is, obviously, not a fact. But given the topic of the Eclogue IV, of course we were going to use that as an excuse to talk about the coming of Christ. (I wonder why the Eclogue II has been ignored for so long, hm).

There's also the traditions of the biographers stating that Virgil had a nickname, parthenias, due to his apparent timid character. And uh, why we do know he didn't like the public gazes much, I'm not so sure if we can take all these biographies as a fact. So take this last bit with a grain of salt.

(Before Poliziano wrote his work explaining why Virgilius was wrong, we DO have one or two examples of the name Vergilius being used instead, but those are odd cases I did not look into.)

You can see how in English this has already been starting to change. People will call the poet either Virgil or Vergil, since both are equally accepted.

My case? While Vergil sounds better, closer to Latin, I use Virgil instead in order to avoid the mantuan poet being confused with *checks notes* the half-demon with family issues. Believe me the DMC fanbase has found some posts of mine in which I tagged the poet as Vergil instead of Virgil, and the misunderstandings were hilarious.

Hilarious, yet understandable. Searching "vergil" shows you the character. If you specify "vergil, poet" it will correct you to "virgil".

In Spanish? Well, if you say Vergilio instead of Virgilio, everyone will give you a side eye. And while, both are accepted like in English, submiting academic work in which he's not being called Virgilio can end up in a bad mark.

I tried that, and the response from my professor was "I don't know, he has always been called like that, I suppose. Vergilio just sounds wrong, correct it."

[hobbitwrangler]

Research rabbit-hole tag game

Rules: As writers, we all end up researching random things for our writing. Share the latest thing you've researched for your fic and tell us something you learned!

Thank you @from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras for tagging me! I am finally working on a fic again so have something to share for this tag :)

At the minute I'm working on a, well it's not quite an eothiriel fic, but it's eothiriel-adjacent, sponsored by eothiriel if you will, featuring a minor Rohirrim character and an even more minor Gondorian character. It's involved me doing a fair bit of research into Saxon marriages - from a property and inheritance oriented standpoint because I'm romantic that way.

In early Christian Europe there were two methods used at this time for calculating how closely related people were to check they could get married. There was the Greek method, secundum Graecos, (which was considered more scriptural) which counted the number of generations removed from a specific ancestor for one partner, while the Roman method, secundum Romanos, adds together the number of generations for both partners.

According to the judgements of Archbishop Theodore of Canterbury, 'a girl of sixteen has power over her own body.' Meaning that if her father wants to force her into marriage he has to do it before then. Wheee.

A bride would inherit half of her husband's property if she didn't give him a child and the whole thing if they had at least one. Get your coin, ladies.

I discovered a poem from this time period called The Wife's Lament, which portray's themes which are actually referenced in this fic, like the issue of being isolated from family and the community she's grown up in, in a new family environment which is lonely and potentially hostile. I managed to find a version translated into modern English, which was a really interesting read. If anything this is just reassuring to know that I'm tackling this from the right emotional angle.

Apparently wedding rings were originally a Roman engagement custom, which appears to have later become a thing in Saxon Christian marriages at least to an extent.

I am also currently losing my mind over what the rules should be regarding Gondorian women wearing veils or not. Pray for me.

tagging @emyn-arnens @scyllas-revenge @thebitchkingofangmar and anyone else who'd like to do this!